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TW: Torture and Violence

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"Wake up."

You wake up coughing and sputtering, nose and mouth full of water and bile. Your head throbs with the implacable beating of the rhythmic pulse, overwhelming your other senses for a moment. In the next moment, pain sets in as you become aware of a multitude of cuts and burns, all of recent origin, and all inflicted in the name of punishment. As you try to catch your breath, you squint through the water running down your face at Zevran, trying to ignore just how much blood is mixed in with that water.

The elf tosses aside the bucket of water he'd used to rouse you and reaches out to grab your jaw with his hand, squeezing painfully. You instinctively struggle against the hold, but the ropes binding you to the cross frame used for your torture refuse to budge. "Wake. Up," the elf snarls. "I'm not done with you."

And then he raises the whip again.

The pounding pulse sets into your mind as you struggle to pull yourself away from Hawke's mind. The revelation that it has been Hawke all along has turned what had been tragic but distant into something far more intimate and horrifying. You cannot help but feel the heavy burden of guilt, of knowing that Hawke and Alistair have suffered as they have in part because of the sacrifice they made for you. Through sheer strength of will you erect a thin veneer between your mind and his, but you will not block him out entirely-not even for your own sanity. The thought persists that perhaps you can help him, somehow.

You owe him that much.

Hawke braces himself against the blows as best as he can before they land, striving to ignore the bursts of pain. It is getting harder, of course. The longer the punishment drags on, the angrier Zevran becomes as his victim refuses to react, sparking even harsher treatment. No mercy can be begged, and no surcease given, not even that of being knocked unconscious, but Hawke accepts each blow with a grim fatalism. In an odd way, the 'perfection' he'd received from Avernus aids him now, turning the pain and blood into a twisted sort of stamina. The main difficulty remains in trying to ignore the sound of his blood dripping onto the floor.

"How could you both have failed so badly?" Zevran demands, clearly in a frenzy himself. "Perhaps I should have left the Orlesians to you, and taken the Inquisitor for myself."

:Never:

The ferocity of that emotion catches you by surprise, a spark of warmth amidst the cold of Hawke's pain. Even in the throes of Amell's madness and control, Hawke cannot bear to think of you at their mercy-though you notice he shies away from exploring why it is so important-but the sheer power of the emotion underlying the why takes you by surprise.

On the tail-end of that emotion, a surge of self-loathing washes over Hawke, and for a moment you see through his eyes as, in his mind, he again drives his blade home in your side. It proves difficult to wade through the morass of emotions, but you see enough to understand a little better what was in his mind in that moment, to see the fear that Zevran would kill you if Hawke didn't pretend to do so first. Considering how events played out, it was the correct, if utterly ruthless, choice, and one for which you have already forgiven him. It is clear, however, that he has not forgiven himself-that, perhaps, he never will.

You only wish you could talk to Hawke about it, and about the specific feelings for you he keeps trying so desperately to deny.

:They will never have him:

"Then why didn't you?" Hawke grates between his teeth, though he already knows the answer. Even Amell wasn't completely immune to a clever tongue, and Hawke had taken deliberate advantage of that, regardless of the pain and humiliation in doing so. Through that manipulation Hawke had arranged one more opportunity to see the man who meant so much to him, despite knowing what the punishment would be when he failed the mission.

At least he has the memory of Dorian's lips against his own one last time.

The intimacy of the thought stands out in direct contrast to the brutality of the punishment, and the quiet fervency in the manner that Hawke clings to the memory renders you strangely humbled. You recall the absolute determination which Hawke showed when he spoke of ensuring Alistair's freedom, and decide to use that as your guide for you own vow, to ensure Hawke also finds it as well.

You also make another, less altruistic vow: that it would not be the last time your lips touched his, even if it is only a kiss to welcome him back from the Void.

The whip pauses its barrage in response to Hawke's question, right before Zevran's fist lashes out and lands a blow across the face which rocks him back. "I do not question the Master. Still, you are not the only one who failed."

Hawke curses silently as Zevran starts to turn away, and quickly tries to attract Zevran's attention again. "I thought you weren't done with me yet."

Zevran snorts. "Oh, don't worry, little bird. I'll return to you soon enough. But I wouldn't want to neglect my favorite, would I?"

Fighting against his bonds, Hawke watches helplessly while Zevran walks over to the other cross frame in the room, occupied by another bruised and bloodied victim. Zevran grabs a fistful of dark blond hair and yanks Alistair's head up, pressing the bottom of the whip's handle into Alistair's throat in a way Hawke recognizes all too well. As Alistair's breathing grows labored, Zevran croons, "You had one task: stand in your pretty Chevalier armor and look menacing until my deed was done. And you couldn't even do that." As Alistair's eyes roll up in his head, Zevran sneers and pulls his whip away. "Useless."

"Killing them will not absolve you, slave."

An atavistic shudder shakes Hawke's body as he looks to the doorway of the abandoned ramshackle hut Zevran had stolen for the purpose of pain, trying unsuccessfully to blink away the blood dripping down his face. Amell stands silhouetted there, the light of the setting sun granting his shadow an uneasy reddish hue accented by the aura of the red lyrium skull atop his staff. The matching glow emanating from within his hood completes the sinister image, though Hawke studiously avoids staring at the eyes as best as he can.

He dares not fall into that trap again.

Still, Amell's words alert Hawke that the monster has returned, putting him on high alert. Hawke's time in Kirkwall had been partly an education in possession, after all, and he has become well familiar over the last few weeks with the signs of warning from Amell. As his cousin steps into the room, Hawke's eyes narrow as he picks them out: one shoulder slightly higher than the other, the sonorous timbre in his voice, and the ever so subtle limp which mars his step. Finally Hawke dares a glance at the eyes, and sees his worst fear confirmed: one of them is dimmer than the other.

More than any of those, however, it is the use of the word slave which clinches the identification. Whatever twisted form of love exists between Amell and Zevran, Hawke's cousin would never call Zevran a slave, even when he treats him like one.

:Maker:

Hawke's inner revelations leave you momentarily stunned, and also puzzled. As the eldritch energy you noticed previously washes over the room, you scrutinize Amell closely, trying to discern any hint of the Fade about the man, and find nothing. Even a tenuous investigation with the Anchor finds no hint of spirit or demon about the man, yet you cannot shake the feeling that Hawke is right. The change in Amell is too stark, too sudden, to be anything but another entity.

Which begs the question: which entity?

:Maker preserve us:

Hawke sees the change in Zevran, as well, watching as the elf shifts from abused lover to fearful servant. "Master, I-"

That is all he is allowed before Amell slams the butt of his staff into the ground and points his opposite hand at Zevran. A sickly red light suddenly surrounds the elf, who shrieks in pain as the arcing energy flickers and glows around him. "Do not call me that," Amell said in a dark tone. "You are no longer worthy to call me that. The failure of these two will be punished, but their success, though anticipated, is not vital to my plans. There will be other days and other ways to acquire what I need from the Inquisitor."

Hawke's blood freezes in his veins as Amell's gaze flickers to the two bound men, then dismisses them immediately to bore into Zevran once more. "But you… You are an assassin, trained by one of the greatest guilds in Thedas, or so you claimed. You were meant to blunt the efforts of that idiot Sethius and drive all of Orlais into chaos beyond retrieval. Yet you could not even strike the first blow. I required the fall of the House de Chalons, and have nothing to show for it."

And suddenly, the realization hits you: in this context, in that specific usage, there is no denying that Amell must be referring to Corypheus by the name of Sethius. You are familiar enough with the history of the Imperium to know that Corypheus means nothing more than the Conductor, a shortening of his full title of the Conductor of the Choir of Silence, and certainly not his name. You recall Maevaris mentioning she'd tried to hunt down something to confirm or deny Corypheus' claim to be the same Conductor which helped to bring the Blights upon the world, but you'd never been able to pursue the matter yourself. Could it be that Amell had investigated and discovered the name in the Imperium archives for himself?

Yet, if that were true, why does he speak of Corypheus as if he is a peer? Or, if Hawke is right, why does the entity within Amell speak of Corypheus in such a fashion?

"Master, please," Zevran sobs, then screams and collapses to the floor as Amell's hand squeezes into a tight fist. "I did not fail with the Commander!"

Amell's fist opens slightly, giving Zevran a brief respite as he mulls that over. "You are sure he drank all of it?"

"Every drop, Master," Zevran pants. "I watched him drink it myself."

Leaving his staff with its tip embedded in the ground, Amell stalks towards the elf, reaching down with his burned left hand to haul him to his knees. "Very well. I will hold my final judgment of you in abeyance. But fail me again, and I will have no choice but to ensure your worth."

Clearly desperate, Zevran reaches up and wraps his arms around Amell's hips, clinging tightly. "Amor, please! Come back to me!"

For a moment, the two men become so still that Hawke wonders if they are somehow frozen in time. Then Amell suddenly straightens, right hand clutching at his chest where something glows brightly enough to shine through his robes. Taking a deep breath, he looks down at Zevran as the glow slowly fades. "We are running out of time," he says softly.

Zevran reaches up to touch Amell's face with his fingertips, nodding and blinking rapidly. "I know, amor."

"We have to get to the Shrine of Dumat. I need to speak to-" Amell stops, then takes a deep breath. Abruptly he pulls Zevran up into a savage kiss, and for once there is no blood on their lips when they part. "Release me."

Zevran does so hastily, scrabbling back as Amell regains his feet. With a gesture he calls his staff to him, and Hawke instinctively tenses as he sees that baleful gaze fall on him.

"So," Amell says as he moves to stand in front of Hawke. "It would seem you did not obey me, despite all your protestations of loyalty before we went to the Winter Palace." Hawke barely has time to register the shiver of magic that runs down his spine before his body locks into place so tightly that each breath is a struggle. With a little smile, Amell strokes Hawke's face, then draws his finger up to rest lightly on Hawke's forehead. "You had one directive, cousin: render the Inquisitor powerless. I spent weeks on the spell for that arrow which found the wrong target, and slaved over the dagger you were to use to bring me the mark as your trophy. Do I ask too much of you?"

You shiver, noting very clearly that, unlike Zevran, Amell doesn't mention killing you-only rendering you powerless. Somehow, all things considered, that seems far, far worse than a simple assassination. You also realize it goes a long way to explain what happened to your father.

The anger and grief swells within you, but you quickly push it down. You will deal with that when you awaken.

Hawke tries to swallow, but finds himself unable to do even that. Whatever Amell wants from him, it isn't an answer.

"From what I saw in my far-seeing before coming here, the Inquisitor is alive and well, and you return to us empty-handed." Amell's fingertip wanders down Hawke's face until it rests on his cheek. "I feel as if I've been too lenient with you, cousin. You seem to take punishment rather well after Avernus had his way with you, however, so that seems a pointless avenue to pursue. I need you whole for another task I have in mind, so that prevents other types of corrective measures. Yet I still believe there is a way to fully demonstrate that your behavior at the Winter Palace was unacceptable."

Frozen in place and suddenly terrified, Hawke only hears the distant thudding of his heart as Amell shuffles to the side, his fingers trailing a path from where they rested on Hawke's cheek down to his lower stomach, fingers curling through the short hairs they find there with a gentle touch. Considering the treatment Hawke received from Zevran earlier, even the barest touch of Amell's fingers awaken agony, and his skin crawls as Amell toys with hairs meant to be played with only by a lover.

As his fingers slowly stroke their way lower, Amell leans in close and puts his lips next to Hawke's ear. "I wish I could visit unto you the consequences of failing your duty in a suitably direct manner, but as I said, I need you whole. On the other hand..." A tendril of magic shifts the angle of Hawke's head until he is looking directly to where Alistair still hangs, tightly bound, on his cross frame.

Hawke's heart clenches and skips a beat as he sees Zevran standing next to Alistair, holding a familiar two-bladed dagger-the only thing left of Hawke's life as Champion. A cold sensation consumes him as he sees the sadistic grin on Zevran's face, and a strangled noise comes from his mouth as he struggles wildly against the spell holding him in place. In the end, however, Hawke can only watch as Zevran smirks and uses Hawke's own dagger to carefully cut a thin line across Alistair's forearm. For a moment, Zevran meets Hawke's gaze, clearly making sure that he is watching, as a half-smile comes to his lips.

Then, with a savagery Hawke knows he will not soon forget, Zevran raises the blade high over his head and slams the blade into the freshly inscribed cut, grinding down until he hits bone.

That rouses Alistair from his pain-induced stupor, making him scream and thrash against Zevran while the elf saws through the rest of his arm. The elf ignores the man's writhing and concentrates on his task with an almost gleeful expression on his face. Hawke tries to scream along with his friend, but again only a strangled noise emerges from his throat as Zevran finishes his butcher's work, then presents the severed limb to Amell with a charming smile.

"I will not fail you again," Zevran declares in a hoarse, broken voice.

The horror of the moment drives you out of Hawke's mind, the ever-present pulse booming loudly as you try to deny what just happened. You struggle to blunt the gut-wrenching, searing agony of guilt which settles into Hawke's soul as Zevran flaunts his macabre prize, and you wonder if you will ever be able to forget the insane expression on that blood flecked face, or the screams echoing off the walls.

Somehow, you don't think so.

The separation does not last for long, however, though for the first time you feel as if you are being pushed back into Hawke's mind.

Amell steps back from Hawke long enough to take the offering from Zevran. Without a change in expression, he turns and strikes his cousin full across the face with Alistair's hand. Once, twice, then another and another, each time leaving more and more blood behind. Somewhere in the middle of the beating, the spell of paralysis holding Hawke in place drops, but he doesn't even notice as the stomach-wrenching horror continues. Eventually an audible crack fills the air as Hawke's nose gives way before the onslaught, and Amell finally relents. "And that is why you do not disobey me," Amell tells Hawke in a harsh voice. "Do you understand?"

By that point, the world is a contorted, blurry mess for Hawke, and the pain of his nose only makes it harder for him to nod. He does anyway, though, afraid of what would happen to Alistair next if he doesn't. "Yes, Master," he wheezes, even though using the word leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

Of course, that might just be the blood.

"Tie off the fool's arm to slow the bleeding until I can heal him, then throw this trash away," Amell says, handing the limb back to Zevran. "Alistair still has another arm if I need to repeat the lesson, after all."

"Yes, amor," Zevran says quickly, and Hawke dimly hears the elf scurry away.

As the door closes behind Zevran, Amell smiles and strokes Hawke's cheek once more. "I do not wish to hurt you, cousin," he says softly, "but I also cannot have you fail me again. I see now that I put too much upon you, expecting a Champion to be greater than an Inquisitor. That will not happen again, I assure you. But fret not. I will make you greater." He reaches out and splays his hand across Hawke's chest, pressing hard until Hawke's limited breath is almost completely suppressed. "But remember, my little bird: birth is a painful process."

Suddenly the world is nothing but a burning pain which starts with Amell's touch and dances down through every nerve and fibre of Hawke's being. He yearns to scream, to struggle, to do anything but wait in desperation for the pain to diminish. His eyes squeeze shut as the agony grows worse and worse, until the world fades away entirely.

He floats in that darkness for a few moments, slowly becoming aware that he is not truly asleep, and he is not truly alone. In desperation he reaches out,

and you quickly grasp his hand, squeezing it tightly

and he knows that someone cares, even if he doesn't know who it is. For the moment, it is enough.

For the moment.

But that moment is all you will have as you feel a hand land on your shoulder and pull you away.

"That is enough. Wake up."

Dorian jerked awake with a violence befitting the nature of the dream he'd just endured, falling from the chair which had served as a makeshift bed onto the floor and fighting the urge to empty his stomach. Now that the emotional distance of slumber had been removed, he felt each and every torment visited upon Hawke and Alistair with a new light and a new guilt, the horror fresh as the events of the dream play in front of his mind in a swift, compressed fashion. How long he remained curled up on the floor, reeling as he attempted to process everything he'd seen, he never knew, but it seemed an eternity.

Eventually he pushed himself to his knees and settled his elbows on the bed, careful not to disturb its occupant. With a soft groan, he rested his head on his wrists, unable to comprehend the sheer evil he'd witnessed. He knew he shouldn't dwell upon it, but he found it difficult to simply push it aside when it involved those who had sacrificed themselves for the sake of the Inquisition.

When a hand gently touched his head, he started and looked up, staring at the man lying in the bed. His father had returned to sleep by the time Dorian had reached the inn after leaving the Winter Palace, but that meant he'd been able to have a long, uninterrupted talk with Maevaris. The talk had been sobering, but nothing in it had truly prepared him for the oddly blank expression on Halward's face, as devoid of emotion as Maevaris had warned him. Being told what had happened to his father hadn't prepared him in the slightest for seeing the reality of it himself.

"Are you in pain?" The tone, the words…there was not a single ounce of concern or care there. It was a factual inquiry, nothing more.

Dorian forced a smile onto his face. "No. I had a bad dream, Father. That's all. I'll be fine in a moment."

"Those can be distressing, from what I remember." Halward closed his eyes. "It is good you are awake, then."

"Yes. Yes, it is good." Pushing himself back into the chair, Dorian reached out and took Halward's hand. "How are you feeling, Father?"

"There is pain in my shoulder when I move it," Halward observed.

Dorian hesitated for a moment, then said, "Does that make you mad? That someone hurt you?"

"Should it?"

Swallowing harshly, Dorian said, "Most would be at least a bit miffed by an arrow in the shoulder, I would imagine."

"Ah." Halward's brow furrowed. "You think I should be angry."

"I-I just mean that you should feel something," Dorian murmured.

"I feel discomfort. That is something," Halward pointed out.

Logically, that was true, but only logically. "Yes. That is something." Dorian pressed his lips together for a moment. "The arrow was meant for me."

"I know. That is why I pushed you from its path," Halward said calmly. "It was the best decision."

"The most logical one," Dorian whispered. "And there was no other reason?"

Halward hesitated. "That I do not remember," he said finally, then closed his eyes and relaxed his head into his pillow. "I tire."

"Then you should sleep." Dorian put Halward's hand back on the blanket. "I will see you in the morning." He watched as his father's breathing slowed into slumber, then bowed his head. He would have preferred a return to the cold and distant Halward of his youth, or another shouting match about Dorian's refusal to marry, to...to this.

He wondered how far those feelings were from wishing his father had been killed by that arrow instead, and violently shoved the thought away.

Pushing himself to his feet, he stumbled to the door and stepped out into hallway of the inn, unable to endure the direction of that particular thought. As he closed the door to the room, he leaned his head against it and took a shuddering breath. The nightmare, and seeing his father's condition for himself, combined into a weight which threatened to drag him into a pit of despair difficult to escape. He didn't want to be alone, not after that.

He could only hope Cullen would understand.