As her breath hitched in her throat, all Isobel could hear was the quiet popping of bones. The pain overwhelmed her vision. It blurred the figure stationed near her hands and sent the entire room into near darkness. Her mind was a mess of fire and barely formed words. How had this happened? She'd taken all the necessary precautions. She had Godfrey at her back along with all those soldiers. Who knew where they were now, if they were even still alive.

Even her quiet moaning had stopped by now. Her jaw was swollen so much that she was forced to breathe through her nose. Each inhalation sent another blinding pain up into her forehead. Everything smelled like blood.

The man was silent now that he knew her confession would not be coming as easily as he'd hoped. A patch of red was drying on his chin, spat from the mouth of a desperate woman. "You'll get nothing from me," she'd hissed. Her bravery was awarded with nothing more than another beating. The straps keeping her tight against the board shook as she struggled to free herself, but they did not give way. A balled fist to the jaw was all it took. Now she was mute.

Isobel shifted slightly. A scream was silenced in her throat as her entire body raged in protest. The board was splintering, and she felt slivers of wood digging into her already ravaged shoulders. She could focus on nothing but the pain. Ignoring the device strapped to her fingers led to focusing on the fire that licked her broken jaw or the throbbing that curled around the welts that spread from neck to thigh.

She was afraid to close her eyes. She was afraid that if she shut her eyes, they would never open again. Dread curled heavy and leaden in her stomach. She couldn't die here. She couldn't. She had to meet Cailan at Lake Calenhad. There was darkspawn to be fought. There was a country to save from the Blight.

These thoughts seemed so far away now. Childish, even.

"Has she spoken?"

The voice was familiar, but she could hardly hear the man as he stepped up beside the man. Each word was garbled. Her sight cleared for long enough to see his face. Dark hair, pale skin, heavy silver armor… Loghain. He continued to speak, but his voice drifted off into nothing as she fell unconscious.

"Nothing, ser," the torturer muttered. He was clearly unhappy with himself. Thirty years at Fort Drakon, and he'd only been met with this problem a handful of times. Arl Howe had insisted on the most diligent and painstakingly careful man for this prisoner. At first, he'd been hesitant. The Grey Wardens were no ordinary humans. They were something higher, something… better. Now they were so few, and he was expected to break one of them? "But I am not finished."

Loghain nodded. He looked to the Warden. She was a pathetic sight. Stripped of her armor, she was lying strapped against the board, hair matted and chest quivering as she struggled to breathe. Her skin was smeared with blood and the harsh purple and yellow of bruises old and new. She looked so different when compared to how she'd looked the night of the battle at Ostagar. Only months had passed, yet she'd aged years. But that could have been blamed on her current state.

The man to his left gave a sniff of derision. Despite the feeling of warmth spreading throughout his person at watching the last of the Cousland line fall right before him, he also felt a sharp annoyance at her resolution. "We should have expected this. The bitch never was very talkative."

"Quiet," Loghain snapped. "Leave the man to his work." His stone cold blue eyes went to the torturer, who stared at them expectantly. "He has much to do, and it appears very little time to do it in."

But Howe was not nearly satisfied with the state of things. When Loghain was satisfied by his time spent away from Fort Drakon, he would return. He would see her suffer in more ways than solely the physical.

--

"Maker, we have so many stories to tell her," Cailan mused to himself as he set himself down near the fire. There was a wistful air to him that made Alistair roll his eyes, but everyone else seemed to enjoy. Especially Arryn, who simpered and sighed when he spoke of Isobel in that tone of voice. This was a welcome diversion from her separation from Godfrey. Focusing on the good things came easily for the elf no matter what they'd seen in the Deep Roads.

Everyone's confidence was higher when leaving Orzammar. Their steps were lighter, and they even seemed to travel faster. The king was eager to get to Lake Calenhad. Their speed was born of his desperation to see Isobel again.

He bit on his lip at the thought, not even bothering to hide his smile. "She'll love you," he pointedly referred to the newest member of their humble company. The dwarf seemed uninterested at first, but there was a certain curiosity sparked within him that he kept hidden. A woman Grey Warden? Imagine that. He'd heard tales of these Wardens, but they were almost always about men.

And he'd heard much of this Isobel Cousland since first joining the king's crusade into the Deep Roads. Cailan's tongue was sent wagging more often than not, and despite his prowess in battle, when out of it he was clearly no more than a lovesick boy.

The way Oghren saw it, it was better to be led by a man who did not put on airs than a man who pretended to be strong when he was not. In his younger years, all it took was a flutter of an eyelash or a turn of a skirt to have him fumbling over himself. But this king, he was dedicated, and he could bear a sword unlike he would've expected.

While his human compatriots would be quick to judge him, Cailan found an odd companion in the dwarven berserker. He wasn't eager to drink the stout Oghren offered him, as even a fine Orlesian wine knocked him on his ass quick like, but he sat and shared stories with the dwarf as he downed any of the drink he'd brought along.

The night wore on as usual. Everyone save Oghren was thankful for the much warmer weather. For a man used to the thick stone walls and stuffy temperatures of Orzammar, even the lowlands were uncomfortably cold. Cailan was glad to be far away from the mountains, and he was more than eager to bury the icy climes of Haven deep into his memories. Thankfully the fire was enough to keep the chill from Lake Calenhad from overwhelming them.

Alistair was to keep watch. He hated keeping watch. The constant, forced alertness exhausted him, and his thoughts consistently strayed elsewhere. To Duncan, to Isobel… there was a feeling deep in his gut that he couldn't explain, a worry that he'd voiced more than once only to be silenced by Cailan.

"Damn this fog," he grumbled to himself. It was much colder away from the camp, and he could see each breath hanging before his eyes in wisps of smoke. Why couldn't they have met Isobel in Denerim? She was late. They'd expected to meet her nearly a week ago, and they'd spent the rest of that time wasting away the hours with nothing to do but listen to Cailan tell his ridiculous stories.

Bitter? Him? He scoffed at the thought.

She was a noblewoman. Of course she'd fall in love with the king and not a royal bastard. What did it matter that he was married? What did it matter that he wasn't actually king anymore, as everyone thought he was dead? Why did he even care?

"Because it might've happened," he muttered, "She was so close." Running a hand through the thicket of copper hair atop his head, Alistair could do nothing but heave a heavy sigh. He could blame the current state of his heart on many things. He could blame it on his own hesitance, or he could blame it on some flaw of hers. He could even blame it on Cailan, though he knew his own shortcomings were not by the burden of his half-brother or Isobel. It was some fault in him.

He really was a rampant fool.

Even his own nonsensical ramblings did not mask the sound of a horse approaching. The hooves beat the ground hard as it vaulted over a fallen trunk, never slowing. Alistair fell into action, sliding his sword from its sheath with the clear ring of metal against metal and moving quickly forward. The road was not far off. Bathed in moonlight hindered only by a thin canopy of trees, it was long and winding and led directly to where Cailan's party slept.

Leaping down from the hill and onto the road, Alistair rushed towards the horse. The filly was frightened, and she pulled back onto her hind legs. The man riding her cursed as he clutched onto the reins.

"Alistair! You bloody fool!" The horse settled as Alistair slowly replaced his sword to its resting place. His eyes narrowed at the rider, who removed his helmet and revealed himself to be Godfrey. His dark curls were plastered to his cheeks and forehead, and he panted as the horse did, exhaustion turning his features haggard. They'd been riding like that for some time. "I need to see Cailan. Now."

The solemnity in Godfrey's voice curled a fist around Alistair's heart. He didn't want to ask the question that was already poised on his lips. "W-why? What is the matter?" As much as he regretted the inquiry, he certainly did not wish to hear the answer he was given.

"Isobel is in trouble."

--

Days later, Isobel opened her eyes. It was a small, personal victory.

After so many hours of sleep, of hideous dreams and wandering around inside her own head, she was surprised to find that she was alone. Again. She was also surprised to find that the pain was gone from her jaw. Parting her lips to take a deep breath, she nearly choked on her tongue, which had become thick and nearly immovable.

It was when she moved a hand to touch her former wounds that she was reminded of her situation. A bright pain shot up her hands and into her wrists. They were bound, and each finger throbbed in a different way. All broken. Sudden fear tore through her. Her hands - she needed her hands. If she was to ever hold a sword again, they would need to be fixed. While she was here, they would not receive such attention.

But they'd healed her… mostly. Her shoulders ground together as she tried to shift her hands in the iron cuffs, but they did not hurt. The whipping was nothing but a sharp, excruciating memory. At the hands of such skilled healers, there was a chance she would not even scar. Why would they heal her? The answer was one easily grasped. They needed information. They needed her to tell them where to find Cailan, his weaknesses, his plans. They couldn't have her die on them, not when she was such a valuable source of information.

They'd repeat their torture as long as they had to. They'd break her. She wasn't strong enough to go through that so many times. But she couldn't tell them what she knew. She couldn't betray Cailan like that. Not only was it treason, as he was the rightful king, but her heart kept those secrets locked up, far away from her lips.

A shiver wracked her entire body, more from her own thoughts than the chill of the cell.

The silence was astounding. Knowing only the common facts about Fort Drakon, she had no idea where she was. Cells lined the walls on either side of her, but no one was moving. Perhaps they'd all been asleep as she had. Maybe some of her own men were here. With newfound energy, Isobel shifted onto her knees to get a better look at the cell beside her own. "Godfrey?" she called out. "Godfrey, are you here?"

There was a shifting sound in the cell, but no reply. Across from her, another figure shifted. No answer. "Godfrey?" Her voice was small, and it was nearly swallowed up by the quiet.

The only sound that came back to her ears was that of a heavy lock being moved aside. A sharp creak followed by the almost deafening dragging of metal against stone filled her ears. The other prisoners replied with quiet moans and more shifting in the dark. The lack of direct light kept her from seeing details of the man's face and person. He was nothing more than a shadowed figure standing in the doorway until he spoke.

"Your Godfrey is dead."

"Howe."

The man chuckled, shutting the heavy door behind him and not bothering to set the lock. "I believe congratulations are in order." He looked down at Isobel. Though half of her face was distorted by the dark red hair hanging in her eyes, he could see a cloud of revulsion form over her features. It was filled with animosity; hate. And rightly so. He held no misgivings of how he'd ruined her life. She should be thankful, though. If he hadn't had her family murdered, she'd have never become a Grey Warden and never had the opportunity to consort with the king. "Your men did not last half as long as you."

She couldn't find her words no matter how she searched for them. After all these months and countless hours spent contemplating what she'd say to him when they next crossed paths, she found nothing, neither word nor syllable. She couldn't even muster a proper glare.

Instead, she spat at him - a dark mark on his pretty scarlet tunic. A crack filled the air as he backhanded her with a force she hadn't expected. "Your nerve does you no credit, Warden." His tone was venomous. He leaned forward, yanking her chin towards him with an indelicate hand. She narrowed her eyes up at him, but he did not move. "All that Cousland pride. It's useless, really. Your father was full of it, and look what it got him."

"Better Cousland pride than Howe cowardice."

He lifted his other hand to slap her again, but thought better of it. His hand hovered in midair, a heavy threat. She didn't move. She didn't cower. Even after the whipping and the beating and the broken fingers, she was still resolute. Even with so much hate for her and her blood, he could not help but admire the ridiculous trait.

After receiving word from the torturer, he'd spent many hours thinking of how to break her. Merely the physical would not work. She had strength that he'd only encountered a handful for times before. The deaths of her mother and father, her grief over losing her home - these things were healing wounds. Months had passed since that night, and anger was the only emotion she felt over it any longer. There was only one path worth taking.

"What have you to fight for?" he asked her. "You have nothing."

Isobel tore her chin away from Howe's grasp. "I have enough." She stared up at him, trying as best she could to smother the nausea that ran over her in waves. It was fear, and she hated it. While Howe was not the strongest man in Ferelden, he had power. He certainly had more say than she did in this cell. And his hands weren't bound behind his back. "I have more to fight for than you even know."

"See, that's where you're wrong," Howe murmured quietly, a vicious smile curling on his thin lips. "I do know. Word has it that you have grown close to that brat Cailan."

Isobel clenched her jaw to keep from saying anything. Any visible reaction would only prove that he was correct. How did he know? Who had told him? Everyone at the camp seemed either in favor of their friendship or oblivious to it. Except…

"Chella has been a very valuable source of information." Howe straightened his back and turned towards the door. He paced forward a few steps then turned. He knew exactly what he was doing. Give the young woman enough time for her thoughts to fester and betray each other. When he looked to Isobel, he saw that she was watching him like a bird of prey, eyes narrowed, waiting for his next words. "He, too, gave a disappointing show. Broken sooner than even that little elf. I cannot remember her name."

When her eyes began to burn, Isobel quickly looked away from Howe. The man felt a blooming satisfaction in his chest. So this was the right plan of action after all. He was immensely pleased with himself. "You're lying."

"Why would I lie to you, child?"

Her head snapped in his direction. While he was glad to see her eyes filled with tears, he felt a sharp pain in the center of that blooming pride at the blatant hate in them. "There is no way. He should still be on his way to Lake Calenhad." Her breath caught in her throat, and she cursed herself silently. Damn her tongue. "Your men would not have the time to bring him back to Denerim."

How wrong she was, and yet she didn't realize it. He had received news that morning of someone spotting the ghost of the king riding with his men just hours before. They were on their way to Denerim, no doubt anxious to seek revenge for their untimely deaths. Gossip spread like wildfire, and before long citizens swarmed the arl of Denerim's estate with questions and shouts. For as much as they respected Loghain for his valiant efforts as King Maric's right hand, they loved their king.

Of course, holed up within Fort Drakon, safe from the king's paltry number of men, Isobel was without word. He could very well be dead. The longer they waited in silence for either of them to speak, the more she began to believe that he spoke the truth.

Loghain had left the king to die without so much as a blink of the eye. What would Howe have against doing the same? He had no connection to the young man, nothing to foster guilt within himself.

"I have a token." Howe dug his index and middle finger into the pocket at his waist. "I can hardly deny a man's dying wish, no matter that I had some hand in it." Isobel's eyes widened as she watched him draw a long, pale blue ribbon from the pocket. Without so much as another thought, he let it fall from his grasp and land on the cold stones before her knees. "Enjoy your day of leisure. You will not have such a luxury tomorrow."

When he was gone, the door closed and the lock replaced, his menacing presence no longer inhabiting the hall, Isobel's head sunk downwards. The lump of grief in her chest made it difficult to draw even breaths, and she found herself gasping for air as she struggled to remove the cuffs at her wrists. The pain was the last thing on her mind as she rattled and shook the iron shackles. Hot tears ran down her cheeks as she stared down at the ribbon. She wanted nothing more than to pick it up. The shackles did not award her the pleasure.

Frustration and heartache overtook her, and her thrashing ceased. He couldn't be dead. He'd survived the battle at Ostagar and their battles since only to be taken down by Howe? Why this man was so set on destroying everything she held dear, she hadn't the slightest idea. He was going to break her.

She could feel herself slowly falling away.