They set out for the Shrine the next day, after a healing session which magicked away the worst of the injuries without actually making either of the men feel better. As Hawke watched Amell attend to Alistair's shortened arm, his stomach churned at the evident pleasure the mage took in his friend's discomfort. Something about the way Amell's long fingers stroked the newly healed stump struck Hawke as lewd rather than comforting, and he had to look away as Amell planted a soft kiss on the newly healed flesh and gave Alistair a cruel smile. Any attempt Hawke made to draw Alistair into conversation after that fell flat, and finally, he just rode at his friend's side, trying to simply be there.

He hadn't felt so helpless since seeing the ogre slam his brother's body to the ground.

The first night of camp, as Hawke expected, Amell retired to his tent early-as the sun set, in fact-and Zevran went straight to Alistair and dragged him into the tent meant to be shared by Hawke and Alistair. From the sounds, it was clear what Zevran had wanted, and Hawke had to force himself not to storm the tent and drag Zevran off his friend. Later, after Zevran staggered out, Hawke forced himself to watch Zevran instead of running to help Alistair as a wild plan slowly formed in his mind.

As he'd expected, Zevran swaggered to where Hawke knelt by the fire, sinking his hand into Hawke's hair and pulling his head back until all Hawke saw were stars and the elf's sneer. "Such a good little Hawke," he crooned. "You didn't even try to escape."

"Would it have done much good?"

Zeran chuckled expansively, releasing Hawke so he could pat him on the head. "No. Now come for your shackling, little bird. We wouldn't want you to wander away in the night and get hurt, now, would we?"

Hawke pushed himself to his feet, keeping his face neutral as he allowed himself to be ushered back to his tent. There he found Alistair naked and lying on his side on his sleeping roll. Before Hawke got more than a glimpse of him, Zevran shoved him forward.

"Lie down," Zevran commanded, and Hawke obeyed, trying to appear meek and obedient. Once the shackles were in place and the wards keeping Hawke within the boundaries of the camp activated, Zevran again patted him on the head. "Sleep tight," he told Hawke mockingly, then left the tent, tying the tent flaps open so that the two men couldn't even pretend to have any privacy.

Hawke kept an eye on him, waiting for the elf to go to Amell's tent. He was surprised when the elf did not, and instead spread a sleeping roll across the entrance to Amell's tent instead. With a frown, Hawke considered that positioning, and the dynamic it implied. Surely they still shared a tent, if not a bedroll, didn't they?

And if not, why not?

After watching to ensure that Zevran intended to remain outside Amell's tent, Hawke forced himself to wait for the elf to fall asleep, or at least to turn away from their tent. That took a little longer, but eventually Zevran rolled onto his side away from them and mumbled sleepily in Antivan. Only then did Hawke crawl over as quietly as he could manage to lie next to Alistair.

As he pulled a blanket over the man's naked body, he felt Alistair tense. "Easy," he whispered. "It's me."

"Hawke," Alistair breathed, then blindly reached out with his single hand and pulled Hawke towards him. "I… I can't," he breathed. "I can't take much more of this."

Hawke swallowed, hearing the depth of the despair in his friend's voice. Instinctively wrapping his arms around Alistair, he simply cradled his friend tightly for a good long while as he let himself fully understand what Alistair was telling him. Finally he exhaled loudly. "I know."

"Will you… help me, if comes to that?" Alistair swallowed as his body shook. "Like you did with Anders?"

Eyes squeezing shut, Hawke felt a cold wave of rage wash over him. Not at Alistair, of course-the man was wholly innocent in all that had happened. No, his anger was solely directed at himself. "I should never have dragged you into this mess," he growled vehemently.

"I chose to go into the Fade-" Alistair began, then fell silent when Hawke's arms tightened around him.

"I was the one who pulled you into my crusade against Corypheus," Hawke insisted. "I couldn't bear to be a failure again and used you to do something about it."

"But the Wardens-"

"Fuck the Wardens. I knew you weren't corrupted. I should have taken your information and left you out of it. Or left you behind at Skyhold with Leliana before we went to Adamant or…" His voice trailed off as Alistair began to shake slightly. "What's wrong? Are you in pain?"

"Well, yes, but…" Alistair shook his head, and abruptly Hawke realized that the man was laughing, albeit weakly. "The Wardens are my life, Hawke. I would never have abandoned that investigation, never have left the Fade knowing that Nightmare could corrupt them all over again if left unchecked. Every step of this journey was my choice. I wanted redemption, to prove I wasn't a failure."

Hawke fell silent, then buried his face into Alistair' hair for a moment as he took a deep breath. "Well. When you put it that way… there's some old saying about birds of a feather, and I am a Hawke."

"Exactly." Alistair's hand reached up and sank into Hawke's hair, trembling as his fingers closed tight. "And if it comes to that choice for me, I know that I cannot live with this pain, with him. I can't. Not again."

Silence settled over them once more as Hawke forced himself to be less of a selfish bastard and actually focus solely on Alistair's needs. Eventually, he knew what the answer had to be. "Of course I'll help you, should it… should it come to that."

Alistair didn't say anything, but the tension seemed to melt out of his body at the words. "Thank you," he whispered in a broken voice, even as Hawke felt something drip onto the arm underneath Alistair's head.

"I'm your friend, Alistair," Hawke murmured, but left it at that. As Alistair wept silently, Hawke simply held him. When the man fell into slumber, Hawke tucked the blanket in nice and tight around him, then eased back to his own sleeping roll, eyes burning as he stared at the ceiling of the tent. He had to save Alistair somehow, whether from Amell or Zevran, and damn the consequences to himself. Thoughts whirled in his mind, exploring several different possibilities as to how to do that, until exhaustion overwhelmed him.

The next night, he waited until Amell had retired to his tent before enacting his nebulous plan. When Zevran moved towards Alistair, Hawke stood in the way. "Do you have a moment?" When Zevran's eyes narrowed, he hastily added, "Please, I-I beg for a moment of your time."

From the way Zevran tilted his head, Hawke had succeeded in gaining the elf's attention without angering him, and a raised eyebrow spoke of intrigue. "Is that the sound of humility I hear?"

Hawke forced himself to bow his head, letting his shoulders drop as if in defeat. "I have been thinking," he said. "Today, I mean."

"And you wish to expound upon your wisdom?" Zevran chuckled. "Very well. Your tent, then. Alistair can wait out here."

With a nod, Hawke obeyed, thankful that Alistair could remain well out of it. Leading the way inside, he stood and waited obediently next to his sleeping roll for Zevran to indicate that he should speak.

Naturally the elf refused to do so immediately. Instead he ordered Hawke to strip, then circled him so that he could trail his fingers along the lines of Hawke's muscles. "I see the Master has well and truly claimed you," he murmured as his fingers rose to trace the outline of the handprint on Hawke's chest.

Hawke fought not to react, surprised that even a light touch still hurt as much as it did. Amell had burned it into him the same day that Alistair's arm had been butchered, after all, and supposedly had healed it. Supposedly. "As is his right," he said softly.

"That it is, little bird." Zevran's fingers moved down Hawke's torso, idly following the faint scars of the whip marks he himself had left in punishment, which Amell had not erased as he had done for older scars. "You are strong to absorb such pain. Or perhaps you have learned to enjoy it, as I have."

Hawke paused a moment, seeing an opportunity. "As the Master taught you?" he ventured.

"Oh, yes." For a moment, in demeanor and expression, Zevran became little more than a servant of Amell. "He freed me from so very many misconceptions. He showed me the limitations I labored under, and lifted me into a higher awareness than I dreamt possible." Zevran's eyes fluttered closed as he shivered, and his hand pulled away from Hawke to touch his own ear.

Hawke squinted, trying to discern the significance of the motion. He'd noticed before that one of Zevran's ears had been damaged at some point, the earlobe cut away and the cartilage nocked as if with a knife, and it seemed that was the ear that Zevran fondled. "If he wishes to attain godhood, that makes sense," he ventured when Zevran didn't speak.

With a sneer, Zevran dropped his hand and opened his eyes. "You still think of him as nothing more than a poor shadow to Corypheus," he said. "He is not that. Corypheus suffers delusions of grandeur. The Master wishes to save the world, not rule it."

Hawke's shoulders tightened, then relaxed as Zevran's shift in mood didn't lead to an immediate punishment. "Forgive me, Master," he breathed. "I meant no insult."

"Then perhaps you are ready for an education," Zevran mused.

"I have no future without the Master," Hawke said, trying to sound sincere and fumbling for an example to follow. Sebastian, right. Now, how did Sebastian do it? "My struggles only show me that I cannot prevail against him. I… Please, master," he said, falling to his knees. "I wish to learn."

Zevran's eyes narrowed, and his hand suddenly shot out to grab a handful of Hawke's hair. "If I learn this is a trick," he hissed, "then all your pain before this will be but a kiss of the breeze on a calm summer day."

"N-no trick!" Hawke gasped. Servile, servile, act servile! Sweet Maker, how did Bodahn manage to put up with me for so many years? "Please, Master!"

Something must have convinced Zevran, at least enough that his face relaxed into a cocky smile. "Perhaps I believe you. Or perhaps I just want to see if you can maintain this act, if that is what it is." As Hawke opened his mouth to protest, Zevran placed a finger on his lips. "Regardless, I shall test your resolve. You have sworn to obey and serve. So. Serve me as you have before."

Hawke nodded, shoving any hesitation far away as he reached to tug open Zevran's trousers with an eagerness he hoped would convince the elf of his sincerity. "Thank you, master!"

He did his best to sate the elf's peculiar lusts, both for sexual gratification as well as for power and pain. When Zevran finally collapsed on top of him, panting for air, Hawke felt a small surge of victory despite the agony that sitting in a saddle the following day would likely cause him. "Have I pleased you, master?"

Zevran took a moment to answer. "You have done well, little bird," he murmured. "It almost reminded me of-"

When Zevran stopped speaking, Hawke tensed, bracing in anticipation of a punishment. When the elf abruptly shoved him to the side and stood, Hawke raised his hands to protect his face, peering at Zevran through the cracks in his fingers. Zevran, however, wasn't paying attention to him; instead he stared straight at Amell's tent, face a mask of confusion. In the next instant, he cursed profusely in Antivan and lashed out at Hawke, landing a solid blow which sounded a loud crack in the night air.

"Do not move," Zevran snarled, then stormed from the tent. For a heart-stopping moment he paused near where Alistair sat next to the fire, then simply kicked the Warden before continuing on to Amell's tent and going inside.

Dragging himself to his feet, Hawke staggered as quietly as he could towards the tent, hoping to overhear some of the conversation. He halted as soon as words reached his ears, surprised how clearly they carried to where he stood halfway between the tents.

"-long has it been, mi amor?" Zevran's voice quavered in a way Hawke had never heard before, and he blinked in astonishment. Is Zevran...crying?

Amell sighed heavily. "I have told you, my love, the Blight-"

"Fuck the Blight!" Zevran took a shaky breath. "I understand the taint causes difficulties, but there is nothing wrong with me, with my body. And…" Zevran fell silent for a moment. "And I miss you, mi amor."

"Are you making demands of me?" Amell asked in a quiet voice, but the threat underlying the words could be heard loud and clear.

He could almost hear Zevran shrink back from Amell, and certainly his voice went from defiant to simpering. "N-Never. I would never do that to you."

"Good. Then do not bring up such frivolities again." Amell said in a firm tone. "Now leave me. I have much to do, and I don't have time for your foolishness."

Hawke quickly returned to his tent, praying that he would reach it first. By the time Zevran had returned, he was back to lying on his sleeping roll, as close to the position Zevran had left him in as he could remember.

Zevran's movements as he clapped the chains around Hawke's limbs displayed an anger not unlike the elf's moods when the whip came out, and Hawke lay as still as he possibly could. When he was secure, Zevran grabbed the chain around Hawke's neck and jerked him up with a surprising show of strength. "Tomorrow night," he snarled. "Be ready." Then, as Hawke nodded hastily in response, Zevran hauled him into an angry kiss, one which left Hawke's lips bleeding from the savage bite which accompanied it.

Then Zevran opened his hand, dropping Hawke like a sack of potatoes as he moved to collect Alistair.

Stunned, Hawke lay limp while blood trickled from his mouth. He couldn't quite comprehend what had happened, or what would happen over the next few days, but it seemed he had set himself on a dangerous path.

In the following nights, as they traveled over land and sea to the Shrine of Dumat at a punishing speed, the group settled into a pattern: Amell retired to his tent, Alistair settled into a semi-stupor next to the fire, and Zevran took Hawke into the other tent and vented his frustrations. Those proved to be varied in their manifestation, from the blade and the blood to Hawke draining Zevran's balls dry with only his mouth. Every morning saw Hawke sore and exhausted, left to nurse a bag of potions Zevran dropped in his lap after he was tied in the saddle, but also each morning he felt closer to his goal of finding a chink in Zevran's armor, a crack in the bond between him and Amell.

Then, one night and without warning, the dynamic abruptly changed.

That night began as the others had, with Zevran 'instructing' him in the arts of learning to enjoy the pleasures of pain as Amell had once taught him. Partway through one such lecture, however, Zevran suddenly stopped and stared at Amell's tent for a few moments, then closed his eyes and bowed his head, forehead furrowing. The dagger dropped from his hand and he sagged to his knees next to Hawke, who kept himself still.

Finally Zevran looked up at Hawke, whose eyes widened as he took in the tears shining in the elf's eyes. In the next moment Zevran's hand reached up to sink into Hawke's hair, but the motion was less possessive and more desperate, pulling Hawke into a kiss which reflected the sudden change in demeanor. As the kiss deepened, Zevran's other hand fumbled at the rope holding Hawke's arms behind his back, freeing him from its grasp. Once that was done, Zevran lay back onto Hawke's sleeping roll, drawing Hawke after him with their lips still entangled in a kiss.

Unwilling to risk violence and unsure of what else he could do in the situation, Hawke wrapped his arms around Zevran and followed the elf's lead. He tried to work past the hatred and resentment he harbored towards Zevran and find a way to connect with him, to weaken him, perhaps even to change him as he himself had been changed. Whatever was running through Zevran's mind, whatever obscure need drove him, Hawke knew that this was a far better expression of it than the habits Amell had instilled in him.

Despite all that, however, Zevran still caught him by surprise when the kiss ended and the elf hissed, "Take me."

Hawke's eyes widened. "You want me to-"

"Fuck me, si." Zevran reached for his pants and retrieved a familiar vial which he pressed into Hawke's hand. "As hard and as fast as you can manage. I want to feel that again."

With a frown, Hawke glanced down at the vial of oil in his palm. "Feel what, exactly?"

"Pain." Zevran frowned, then shook his head. "No. More than that." He drew Hawke down into a searing kiss, though it felt oddly hollow considering what Hawke felt towards him. "Appassionata."

After a bit of fumbling on his part, mostly due to the unexpected nature of the request, Hawke found himself doing exactly as Zevran bid. At first the elf urged him towards roughness, slapping Hawke's face and chest and urging him for faster and harder. As time moved on, however, those demands slackened, until Zevran simply clutched the sleeping roll beneath him and moaned softly with each thrust of Hawke's hips. Forcing himself to pretend it was Anders and not Zevran, Hawke did what he could to bring the passion Zevran had claimed to desire, even as his mind whirled about the implications of what he was doing with whom.

Zevran came with a suddenness that caught Hawke by surprise and made him freeze. When his hips paused their motion, Zevran clawed his way upright and wrapped his arms around Hawke's neck. "Don't stop," Zevran hissed, rolling his hips urgently. "I want to feel you finish inside me."

Remembering what Zevran had said about the Blight causing difficulties with Amell, Hawke had to wonder when was the last time he'd felt his own lover buried deep inside him. With Zevran's face hidden but his breath hot on Hawke's neck, it was easier for Hawke to close his eyes and enter the careful internal fantasy he'd constructed. As his hips jerked and his hands tightened on Zevran's hips, even he wasn't certain if it was thought of dark blond hair in a messy queue or the memory of a dark, curled mustache which kept him hard and moaning. In the end, it didn't matter which memory helped him, as he finally found his own release with a long, muffled groan of pleasure.

Even then, however, Zevran did not pull away. As things slowly cooled and relaxed between them, Zevran's arms remained around Hawke's neck, his fingernails digging sharply into Hawke's shoulders as his hips moved in the same small circle over and over again. It was a moment of odd, perilous intimacy, and Hawke had to wonder what it all meant, and how long it would last.

"Tell me, Hawke," Zevran whispered into the skin of Hawke's neck, "who were you thinking of to manage this?"

Hawke cleared his throat. "You, of course."

Zevran's nails dug deep into Hawke's shoulders, drawing blood in a savage fashion. "Do. Not. Lie."

Struggling to recover from that unexpected bite of pain, especially considering they were still connected, Hawke finally said, "I'm… not sure."

"Ah, so more than one, then?" Zevran asked. At Hawke's nod, he murmured, "Both mages, I presume?" Zevran sighed and pulled back, staring into Hawke's eyes for a moment. "So we both thought of others not in our grasp." His hand suddenly settled around Hawke's neck and slowly squeezed, cutting off most of Hawke's air. "And if you ever tell Amell I said such a thing, I will emasculate you, fry the bits in oil, and force you to eat them. Understood?"

Hawke nodded hastily, his struggle for air less important than Zevran's anger.

"Good." With a final shake, Zevran abruptly shoved Hawke down onto his back and stood. Pressing a foot to Hawke's throat, he slowly dug in until Hawke's lungs strained for air. "You are an adequate fuck, Hawke. A pity we will reach our destination tomorrow. Who knows what you could have accomplished with your little ploy if you had more time? You might even have found that weakness you sought, or possibly even someone worth saving." Reaching down, Zevran took Hawke's clothing and cleaned himself off with them, then dropped it on top of Hawke as he stepped back. "Dress."

Knowing better than to argue or hesitate, Hawke did so despite the overwhelming smell of sex and Zevran emanating from his apparel. When he had finished, Zevran trussed him up like a nug on his bedroll, then fetched Alistair to do the same. He left them, then, walking to Amell's tent and disappearing inside-a silent but firm declaration of his continued allegiance to the man.

Hawke let his body go limp, still reeling from the encounter. There had been small bits and pieces of a Zevran outside of the context of Amell, but it was precious little and, as Zevran himself had pointed out, too little, too late. The hopelessness of their situation again settled in on Hawke, and he instinctively curled into a fetal position as the realization finally sunk in: there was no hope, no escape. He had nothing left. Not even the memory of a last, stolen kiss with Dorian could ease the crushing blow of seeing his efforts to get through to Zevran end so thoroughly in defeat.

There truly was nothing he could do, for him or for Alistair, save for perhaps a final end.

Hawke started when he felt a weight wrap around his waist, and twisted to see that Alistair had crawled over to lie behind him. "Theirin." It was all he could manage as the defeat swept over him along with a fresh bout of despair.

Alistair pressed his face into the crook of Hawke's neck for a moment before he finally spoke. "Thank you, Hawke," he murmured.

"Don't start getting sentimental on me," Hawke said, a pure reflex against something as unlikely as sincere gratitude directed towards his failure. "It didn't work, anyway. I thought…" His voice trailed away as he closed his eyes. "I thought perhaps there was still someone screaming for help inside of him."

"Someone like us?"

Hawke paused, then reached up to grasp Alistair's hand. "We're not there yet," he said quietly. "We're not what he's become. I won't let him make us like that."

"I feel like Amell's toying with us," Alistair said, tone weary. "As if any moment he could snap his fingers and take our minds away. I spent so much of the Blight in a fog I barely remember anything. I know what he can do."

Shifting awkwardly, Hawke turned until he could take Alistair's face between his hands. "He is toying with us, perhaps, but they don't call me the Champion of Kirkwall because I paint watercolors and breed nugs for the feasts in Orzammar."

As he'd hoped, the words brought a smile, however faint, to Alistair's lips. "You have a plan, then?"

"A plan? Me?" Hawke snorted, trying to feel as confident as he sounded. "I don't need a plan. All I need is an opportunity, even if I have to make it myself."

Alistair's eyes closed for a moment before he nodded. "And if not?"

"I won't let him do that to you," Hawke said fiercely. "Not while I have breath."

"Why?" Alistair asked bluntly. "Shouldn't you be saving your own skin first?"

Hawke winced and looked away. "I suppose that's what I would have done before. But now…" His eyes narrowed. "No. That won't happen now. If Corypheus is my responsibility, then ensuring that my cousin never gets his hands on the Orb is my duty. I may be an ass, but I'm a dutiful ass."

Alistair smiled again. "And insufferable. But… thank you. And not just for that. Whether you meant it or not, the last few nights I've been left alone. That's… I did not expect that from you."

"A happy coincidence," Hawke dismissed quickly.

"Not the first night, it wasn't. Was it?" With a warning shake of his head, Alistair added, "And don't deny it. Going to him that first night before he got a hold of me just made it harder on you. Made him harder on you. You did that for me. You called yourself my friend, but that...that proved it. I won't forget that, Hawke, no matter what may happen to us."

"Yes, well, don't spread any untoward rumors, will you?" Hawke muttered, unsure exactly how to respond to that. "I have a reputation to protect."

"I don't think Zevran would be interested," Alistair noted wryly, "so I think your little secret is safe with me."

Heartened by the hint of old Alistair rising to the surface, Hawke met the Warden's gaze and grew serious. "Promise me that if I tell you to jump, you'll jump," he said softly. "No matter what."

"But what if-" Alistair began, then quieted when Hawke put a hand over his mouth.

"No. Matter. What." Hawke's voice almost disappeared in the night, but he knew it was loud enough to reach Alistair's ears when, after a moment, the man nodded reluctantly. "Promise me you'll go back to Leliana and give her every kiss she deserves for putting up with you."

And again a hint of a smile touched Alistair's lips under Hawke's palm, and he nodded again.

"Good." Hawke moved his hands to Alistair's shoulders and squeezed them tightly. "Now go to sleep. I have a feeling we're going to need all our wits about us tomorrow."

"You're right. I think…" A thoughtful expression came to Alistair's face as his voice trailed away. "I think something has to go right for us at some point. Why not tomorrow?"

"That's the spirit," Hawke said encouragingly. "Take that with you into your sleep."

Alistair nodded, seeming lighter than he had since the Fade. "Yes." He took a deep breath, then pulled Hawke into a crushing one-armed embrace. "Yes. I… I can hope tonight, at least."

"You do that," Hawke said, putting every ounce of swagger he'd ever possessed into the statement. It was only after Alistair had crawled back to his sleeping roll that he fell limp once more, staring at the ceiling of his tent. Sweet Maker's ass, what am I going to do now?

He found no answer before Zevran came to rouse them for the final stretch of their journey-only hours of doubt and dread.

"This is a bit large for a shrine, isn't it?" Hawke observed, craning his neck to look up at the edifice as they paused in the archway. After a moment he turned and squinted into the brightness of the courtyard, wondering what was taking Zevran so long to return to them from his task of making sure no one would follow them.

Amell snorted in amusement as he glanced at Hawke, one eye winking with a red flare before he looked inside again. "The High Priests of the Old Gods suffered from a hubris almost unheard of in modern times," he noted. "Their shrines and temples had to be larger, stronger, better than any other building, and in Minrathous, or so the records say, they competed for money to build up the temples even more."

"Sounds like a recipe for revolution," Hawke noted sardonically.

"By whom? The gods were difficult to argue against, back then. And the High Priests were powerful men." Amell stepped beyond the sunlight and into the shadow of the entryway, peering into the darkness of the Shrine ahead. "There should be Venatori here. Quite a few of them, in fact."

"There were quite a few in that courtyard,"Hawke grunted, rolling his shoulders to settle his chains into a slightly more comfortable position. "You really should release me, you know. What if you run into more than you and Arainai can handle?"

"Unless that includes Corypheus, I will not need your assistance," Amell told him acidly. "The last time you promised to do as I bade you, nothing happened the way it should have."

"Corypheus didn't win," Hawke pointed out.

"Because of the Inquisition, not because of you." The disdain in Amell's tone made Hawke's shoulders twitch. "You never succeed at anything, cousin. Or had you forgotten?"

Hawke frowned, Amell's casual dismissal of him all too reminiscent of others in his life, particularly family. But then, Amell was family, much as Hawke was loathe to admit it. "I succeeded in failing," he blurted before he could stop himself.

Amell turned to regard him again, then held up his hand. As it slowly bloomed into a dusky red glow, the handprint on Hawke's chest started to burn, a faint, distant sensation that swelled swiftly into an agony which drove him to his knees with a loud groan before it stopped in the next instant. As he gasped for breath, Amell's hand dropped down to rest lightly on his head. "Don't work against me again, cousin," he said softly. "I would prefer your mind to be intact, but I don't need it. All I need is a vessel."

Blinking away tears of pain, Hawke nodded dully. "Understood, cousin."

"Then take it to heart," Amell grated. "I tire of your endless yearning for freedom. Accept your fate, and you will be far better off for it. You are mine, cousin, as you have been since you left Ferelden. I need you, but I can snuff out your rebellion if I so wish it. Thus far, I have not. Don't tempt fate. Obey."

At that moment, Hawke believed him, the concept of escape so far out of reach as to be laughable. His eyes moved to where Alistair leaned back against the building, hand massaging the stump of his arm, and again he felt a lance of guilt, followed swiftly by a burn of ambition. Perhaps his own fate was sealed, but that needn't apply to Alistair.

A movement caught his attention, and he turned to see Zevran approaching, a grin on his face and a good-sized coin purse in his hand. "I ran into some Venatori, and apparently one of them was either a bursar or lucky at cards," he reported to Amell as he ascended the stairs. "Sadly, his luck ran out."

"Is that what you were doing?" Amell asked in amusement.

"Once a rogue, always a thief," Zevran replied with a laugh as he tucked the jingling bag into his tunic. "Come. Let's go slaughter some more, shall we?"

Amell grinned, then slapped Zevran's ass soundly before he led the way inside. Zevran grabbed the chains to the collars around their captives' necks, dragging them after.

For the hundredth time, Hawke wondered why Amell didn't simply bespell them instead of keeping them in pain, on the edge of starvation, and half-healed. Perhaps it was more of the twisted training Amell had used on Zevran and Alistair during the Blight, to force them to bow to his whims. Perhaps it was pure malice for his own twisted enjoyment. No matter the reason, the thought plagued Hawke even as they stumbled along after Amell and Zevran into the imposing Shrine of Dumat.

Once they'd moved into the Shrine proper, the Venatori swiftly descended in a relatively impressive onslaught of magical fury, but it was not enough. For all the hatred Hawke bore towards his cousin, Amell had earned his reputation as a formidable combat mage. Each skirmish followed the same pattern: Zevran launching ahead, drawing the enemies closer one by one, then dancing away at the last second as Amell unleashed his attacks. And unleashed proved to be the correct term: his magic fell on their foes like a force of nature, encasing them in ice or engulfing them in flames. Once, Amell simply brought the roof down on their heads, then left them groaning in the rubble with no chance of escape.

The spectacle sobered Hawke immensely, and not only because of the sheer power on display. It hammered in how difficult it would be to overcome Amell, even for the Inquisition, and how slim his chances for escape remained. I don't matter, he reminded himself, and kept his eyes open for an opportunity.

Someday, Amell would make a mistake, and Hawke had to be ready.

After the third encounter, however, Hawke wondered just what propelled Amell forward. After all, Hawke had lived with a mage his entire life: first his father, then his sister, then Anders. The toll required to cast that much flamboyant magic surely must be wearing on Amell by now, but he seemed as fresh as a dawn lotus. Suspicious, Hawke stared at Amell like his own namesake, trying to catch a glimpse of the man sneaking in a bottle of lyrium, but failed to see anything but murder and mayhem. Finally, after yet another a lightning storm great enough to literally cause their foes to spontaneously catch fire, he turned to Alistair with a question for the former Templar on his lips.

And found Alistair face-down on the ground.

The question died unasked as he rushed to Alistair's side, flipping him to lie on his back as Hawke looked for some sort of explanation for the man's collapse. A quick examination found cold sweat and a constant shiver, along with a sallow hue to his skin totally at odds with the man he'd walked into the Shrine with just a short while ago. It was as if the life had been sucked out of him, but Hawke couldn't understand how.

"Theirin," he said, slapping the man's cheek lightly. "Alistair. Come on, wake up. Don't scare me like this." What in Thedas happened to him?

"Pick him up and carry him along," Amell ordered Hawke from a few feet away. "We've not found the heart of this place yet, or the answers I'm looking for."

Hawke glared at Amell, but he feared if he did not obey that Alistair would be left to rot. As he gathered his friend in his arms, Hawke glanced back towards the inviting sunlight of the door leading outside and away from the blood and horror of this place. A harsh tug on the chain around his neck snapped his attention back, and he stumbled forward until he reached Zevran's side.

"Don't even think of it," Zevran hissed. "There is no escape for you."

Giving the elf a dull stare, Hawke tried to muster up enough energy for an angry retort, but the attempt sputtered and died before he even had a chance to say it. A low moan caught his attention from ahead of them, and he turned with a frown as he sought its source.

He saw Amell standing over a fallen Venatori mage, pinning him with the end of his staff. The moan had come from the man lying on the ground, a byproduct of his attempts to escape the one towering over him. Even as the Venatori struggled, a red cloud seeped from his body and spun itself into a sinuous line of flickering energy which spiraled up Amell's staff to the red lyrium skull at its top. After a few moments, the skull emanated a red glow, one which grew stronger and stronger as the man's struggles became more and more desperate. Abruptly the skull flared with a bright red flash of light, a burst accompanied by a high-pitched scream from the captive before he suddenly collapsed into stillness. Amell's face held a smile which smacked more of coital pleasure than malice, and that alone was enough to make Hawke shift uneasily on his feet. When the base of Amell's staff moved to tug off the hood covering his victim's face, however, Hawke's stomach twisted as he beheld what lay beneath.

A corpse, ancient and shriveled, lay upon the ground. Had he not seen the man's death with his own eyes, Hawke would have assumed this was another of the undead he'd fought from time to time in areas where the Veil was thin, not a recently deceased Venatori mage.

Eyes wide, he watched as Amell reached into his tunic and tugged out his amulet, pressing it to the red lyrium skull with an expression of intense concentration. A high-pitched whine filled the room as a twisting coil of red magic emerged from the skull and worked around the amulet, and Hawke squinted as a pale light swelled from the amulet itself. Abruptly the white energy burst from the amulet and surged through the room with a rumble that gripped him to the very core. For a moment Hawke felt as if a fist had closed over him, freezing even the air in his lungs as he hung, suspended, for an indeterminate, stretched out moment. When the sensation finally passed, it left him gasping for air in its wake as he fell to his knees in an effort not to drop Alistair to the ground.

As Hawke struggled to fill his lungs, he noticed Amell smile and release the now scintillating amulet to rest upon the front of his robe. His eyes flicked up to meet Hawke's, sending a shudder down Hawke's spine when he saw how very brightly Amell's eyes glowed.

Jerking his gaze away from Amell, Hawke hovered near Alistair as Amell moved to another fallen Venatori, this one pinned beneath a portion of the roof Amell had collapsed earlier, and repeated the procedure. This time, however, the victim's face was clear to all to see-as was his transformation from alive to dead.

Hawke couldn't help himself. As the man's face shriveled and his eyes withered away, Hawke set Alistair aside so that he could heave what little remained in his guts onto the floor of the Shrine. It was one thing to know that a blood mage used blood for his magic, it was another to see Amell suck someone dry the same way a farmer drained a nug for slaughter. As he shakily reached up to wipe his mouth, his eyes glanced at Alistair, then stayed there as a terrifying thought occurred to him.

What if Amell hadn't used lyrium in the fight because he was getting his energy from somewhere else? Some one else?

Horrifying as the thought was, Hawke couldn't deny that it filled in a lot of odd little gaps. They had been under Amell's control for so long, and the man's magic was so powerful, it seemed more than plausible that the man could use them in such a manner. Moving over the Alistair, he slowly pulled the man into his lap and peeled back an eyelid, not at all surprised to find the eye rolled back. Sweet Maker. What has he done to you?

Abruptly a hand struck his head, and he unthinkingly ducked away before the chain pulled him back. "Time to get up," Zevran hissed. "We have no time for your weakness."

As Hawke struggled to his feet, Amell approached them on light feet. The red skull on his staff crackled and shimmered with energy, and Amell himself exuded an air of power unusual even for him. "Leave Alistair," he commanded Hawke. "And step back."

Hawke did as he was told, reluctant though he was to leave Alistair to Amell's machinations. His shoulders tensed as Amell settled the tip of his staff on Alistair's chest, and he unconsciously reached for where his daggers once rested on his hips. Only Zevran's hold on the chain around his throat held him back as a spark of red light caused Alistair's body to jump. When Amell turned away, however, Alistair's chest abruptly heaved, and he rolled over onto his side as a coughing fit took over. Hawke immediately knelt down and eased Alistair into a sitting position. "Easy there," he murmured, clapping Alistair on his back until the man's coughing fit eased. "Get it all out."

"Andraste's tits," Alistair swore. Whatever Amell had done had restored him completely, it seemed, save for the arm. His color was back, and he seemed even better than when they'd entered the Shrine. "What was that?"

Before Hawke could answer, Zevran shook their chains. "Get up and follow the Master," he snapped.

As they scrambled to their feet, Alistair almost fell on his face before Hawke caught him. "Thanks," he muttered as they got to their feet. "For a moment, I almost forgot about-" He waved his elbow stump aimlessly. "

Hawke hiked Alistair's whole arm over his shoulders and hooked his own hand around the man's waist. "Don't worry, I've got you." At Zevran's insistent jingling of the chains, they moved after Amell. Alistair grew more certain of his strength with every step forward, but made no move to push Hawke away.

"Thank you, Hawke," he said quietly as they approached Amell where he stood in front of a head-sized cluster of red crystals.

Daring only to squeeze Alistair's waist in response, Hawke kept his eyes on Amell as they drew closer. The man stood close to the crystals, studying them with obvious curiosity from several sides before tapping his right cheek thoughtfully. "Shaperate crystals," he mused, glancing back to Zevran. "Similar to the ones you left for the lost angel to find in Val Royeaux."

"Without your spell, amor, how could it compare?" Zevran asked, flashing a grin at Amell.

Amell chuckled softly. "Well, then. Let's see what our erstwhile host has put into this one." Passing his hand over the crystals, Amell sat back and tilted his head as a sonorous voice came from the air.

"I recited the old verses. How easily they come, even after so long a slumber. Yet still I do not feel the presence of Dumat - hear no whispers, no commands. Silence has fallen."

Hawke snarled silently. That voice he knew all too well, and his hands flexed with the need to throttle its owner. Someday. In the meantime, however, he simply sat and listened as Corypheus pontificated, remembering all too clearly that day in the Warden ruins where his failure had cost the world so dear.

His anger faded, however, as Amell shifted on his feet, a motion which left one shoulder slightly higher than the other. Hawke frowned as he studied Amell's posture, realizing something off about it, something which rang alarm bells in his head. When Amell turned to face them, Hawke felt his blood freeze in his veins. The left eye no longer glowed. Tightening his grasp around Alistair's waist, he kept a careful eye on the situation, taking his cue from the sudden wariness in Zevran's demeanor.

The monster had returned.

"It would seem the idiot Sethius left some messages for his faithful to hear," Amell-or whoever it was-sneered. "As if he ever heard Dumat in the first place. He heard only the call of his pride and no more." Its eyes, one glowing red and the other dull and seemingly lifeless, scanned the Shrine. "There are more. With me, slaves. I wish to hear more of his folly. And there will be more. He will have spread his words throughout this place as an ode to the time when Dumat's voice whispered in loud silence through these halls."

They obeyed it silently and without question, Zevran included, in an effort not to spark another rage. Hawke knew not the nature of Amell's visitor, but whatever it was, even Zervan treated it with caution or desperation, as merited. Hawke had never asked about it, and he suspected Zevran would never speak, but he'd seen what it could do to people.

He'd learned it was better to avoid its attention entirely.

So they stood in front of another crystal, where Hawke quietly took Alistair's hand and held it tightly, hoping that it helped Alistair to have a friend nearby as much as it helped him

"Awake, in a world twisted into perversion and ruin. Awake, only to discover the light of wisdom has gone black. Samson has failed. But Calpernia stands ready."

"Samson," Amell's monster mused thoughtfully. "That was the name of the former Templar we recovered for study, was it not, slave?"

"It was, Master," Zevran answered quickly. "Avernus has found him most instructive."

Amell's monster nodded. "Typical of that idiot Sethius to discard a tool after a failure, even when it may still be of use. And Samson is not our only acquisition gleaned from his servants. The fool. But then, he always did enjoy the sound of his own voice more than he enjoyed the exploration of knowledge." With a sniff of disdain, he gestured them to follow him deeper into the Shrine. "Come. There will be more to discover."

As more crystals were found, Hawke fervently prayed that one of them would somehow make the monster disappear as quietly as it came, but the words of Corypheus only seemed to amuse it.

At least, until they reached the last of the crystals.

"Did the others never return from the Black City? There is no record even of our names! We are vilified by legend. They spit on our deeds and claim we brought darkness into the world. We discovered the darkness. We claimed it as our own, let it permeate our being. If the others have not returned, they are lost. I am alone in my glory."

For a long moment after those words echoed in the expansive darkness around them, Amell's monster simply stared at the crystals and tapped the fingers of its left hand-its preferred hand-thoughtfully against its burnt cheek. Then it chuckled ever so softly, a dry creak of a sound. "So his thoughts did turn to us at least once before he twisted our absence into yet another moment for self-aggrandizement. I will thank him for that before I send him to his final rest."

Hawke's eyes widened. Us? Does it mean-? No matter how Hawke turned the words around in his head, he could not escape the certain and unmistakable implication of what Amell had said, and the realization made his blood turn to ice. Sweet Maker and breath of Andraste preserve us.

"But we have no more time for the gratification of that idiot's ego," Amell's monster continued with a shake of its head, even as Hawke struggled to deny the truth. "Come. I wish to see what so many of his servants would gladly spend their lives to protect for his glory."

And with that, it stalked towards the large double doors leading to the back of the Shrine.

Hawke and Alistair exchanged a wordless glance of terror even as Zevran jerked on their chains. They had to follow, even if they wanted to run screaming for the hills.

All I need is one opportunity, Hawke repeated in his head like a mantra. That will be enough.

It had to be.