A/N:
This chapter contains some violence and torture and such, you have been warned.
I was screaming so loud that my ears were ringing, the back of her hand connected with my cheek and I couldn't hear after that. Which was just as well, I didn't want to hear the hissing and rumbling from the demons around me. Fire trailed across my chest and over my shoulder burning through so many layers of my flesh that I wondered how she would ever restore me. I chocked on the smoke and tried not to think about what my burning skin smelled like. I felt another nail fall from my hand where I had my fists clenched so hard that the nails were tearing from my fingers as they got caught on the fleshy part of my mangled palms.
I vomited as the memory of cooking skin assaulted me, a memory so intense that I struggled to remember that I wasn't there anymore. I looked at my hands, to reassure myself that everything was still there and forced myself deeper into the caverns. If I had been even mildly aware of where I was I would have been extremely thankful that no spiders or corpses appeared. I would not have survived an attack in that state.
She used her magic to enthrall me and forced me to watch as the demons tore into the gardener's slave, tearing her skin as they adopted human-like forms to take her. The act was that much worse knowing that they did it for no reason other than to hear her screams and watch her tears and blood flow freely from her. They had torn the flesh from her chest long before they finished with her. The tattered remains of her breasts rising and falling - the only sign that she was still alive. The only thing keeping her conscious was the spell cast on her with her own blood.
I tripped over a rock and cut my hand on something in the dirt as I stumbled further away from the others. I had forgotten these memories, I had pushed them down and forced myself never to contemplate them again. I convinced myself many times that it had just been a nightmare, no one could be that demented. But they could be, and they were and I would rip my eyeballs from their sockets if I really thought that would stop the memories.
There were other mages, with their own slaves. Enthralling was popular among this group. Enthralling and manifesting demons. And so the slaves were bewitched into thinking the other members of the orgy they were partaking in were also elves or humans. But they were not, they were demons and they were playing with remains that were spread around the group. When a claw scratched or tore into a person moans would be heard, these people convinced that they were enjoying what was happening to them. And yet I watched, I watched the blood, the gore, and the sex, helpless to look away.
The sun hurt my eyes when I re-emerged from the caverns and skirted around the Dalish camp. When I licked my lips I tasted the salt from my tears, and when I tried to wipe them away I only managed to spread the blood from my hand all over my face. I made way to a small stream that we had passed on the way up the mountain and delved myself into the rather menial task of wiping off my armor, clothes and cleaning my body. And for a moment I was able to convince myself that nothing happened and that I would be fine. But it took only a second for my thoughts to lapse back.
The healing was almost as painful as getting the wounds in the first place. When other mages cast healing spells they generally added magic for pain relief as well, Esperence would never be so kind. Muscle tissue stretched and forced itself back together, flesh bubbled into healthy skin where it had been burned away, broken bones moved and scraped against each other to get back to where they were supposed to be. My torn vocal cords burned as they tried to mend despite my attempts at screaming. I was finally released from where my wrists were chained to the wall and I fell to my feet before my legs collapsed and my knees cracked against the stone floor.
She grabbed me by the hair, trying to drag me to my feet, but they kept slipping in the blood and maker knows what else on the floor. Even if I had the physical strength to stand I'm not sure I would have. I may have stopped screaming and I may have been mended on the outside but inside I was trying to force flimsy walls up to protect myself from the horror around me. My mind felt just as shredded as my body was moments before. Not even her voice could make it through to me, and it took me days to register that I was back in the cell and that somebody had been force-feeding me while I hid inside myself.
I didn't remember getting back to Kirkwall, and I was surprised to find myself before the mansion. I shook my head and pushed my way through the door. Once in my room I threw off my armor and stood in just my clothes, staring at the gray stone under my feet. For many minutes I did not move, nor did I think. And then the anger crashed over me like a tidal wave.
Yelling I grabbed the leg of the chair closest to me and threw it against the wall where it splintered and fell to the floor, broken. I tore the blankets off of my bed and ripped them apart before grabbing a couple of my knives and slashing at the mattress. I held the remaining chair in the room by the back while I pounded it against the floor, small shards of the wood flying back at my face. When that chair was sufficiently destroyed as well I yelled one last time before turning to the wall and punching it, the rough concrete tearing apart the skin over my knuckles.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a couple of bottles still standing on my nightstand. Faintly I remembered Isabela leaving them behind when she had spent the night, they were mostly full bottles of some sort of whiskey or rum. I grabbed them and made my way to the courtyard where I plopped myself down at the foot of a tree and proceeded to get properly sloshed while the sunshine beat down on me.