And now, mood whiplash.

Warning: Torture is not fun. Just, you know, stating the obvious.

123. No One Escapes from Fort Drakon

Finian wasn't the kind to keep his mouth shut, especially in stressful situations. If he tried, he knew he would break.

So, instead, as the first heated prod burned into his flesh, he talked.

He spoke about Denerim merchants, and babbled about dagger fighting techniques, and sang folk songs, and recited bits of the Chant, and guessed at what the different spots on the ceiling were from. Every moment they stretched him, and burned him, and cut him, and broke him, an endless string of meaningless words flowed from his tongue, so that by the time they shoved a potion down his throat to heal a round of injuries to start over, his voice was hoarse.

Then, once the interrogator (Godart-de-something-Orlesian) tired of his voice, the guards dragged him back to the cell and dropped him at Percival's feet, and Fin let himself break down just a little bit.

He was afraid. So, very afraid. Dragons, darkspawn, blood mages... those he could take. But this? He couldn't breathe in here. He couldn't think. There was only the sickening terror of walls closing in on him, and the sheer helplessness of it.

Sometimes, they took Percy away, and Fin was left to listen while things down there sizzled and creaked. But each time, Percival retreated into a rage where he couldn't feel the pain, and they never got anything out of him except a handful of growls and a few landed punches. When they dragged Percy back, the nobleman was always tight-jawed and seething, but strong and proud against their techniques.

They were getting bolder, though. And both Wardens knew that, when one of them broke, it would be Fin.

It was his... fifth? Sixth? time being dragged up out of the torture area. They'd dislocated and then reset his shoulder at some point, so that ached, and he had a fresh line of cuts down the sensitive flesh in his side. They had also discovered his old thigh wound from Ostagar, and had taken a hammer to it, turning the muscle to jelly.

Thus, when they threw him bodily into the cell, it wasn't purely acting that had Fin collapsing into a heap on the cold ground and curling into a ball. Percy, bless him, leapt at the door just as they banged it shut, the human letting out a growl.

Fin watched from the floor as Percy glared such death that the guards hurried to retreat out of sight. It sent a spark of that old warmth through him.

The elf closed his eyes and concentrated on the weight in his closed right hand. He sighed in relief. They hadn't noticed. There was hope.

"Fin? How do you feel?" Strong arms scooped him up, and Fin leaned into the warmth, letting the contact soothe his nerves. He opened his eyes, only to be caught by piercing blue.

He wished they were honey brown.

He offered his companion a shaky smile. "How long do you think we've been in here?"

Percival's mouth pressed into a thin line. "I can't say. Four days?"

"Want to get out?"

Percy's brow furrowed in confusion, and Finian grinned in earnest, presenting his closed hand. It took some help to actually unclasp his pain-stiffened fingers, but when they did, Percival smiled.

"Can't keep your fingers out of people's pockets, even here?"

"It really is something of a problem."

Gingerly, Percival took the keyring and hooked it onto his wrist. Then, he stood up, levering Fin onto his feet. After a brief fight with vertigo and an aching leg, Fin managed to stay upright.

"We'd better move quickly," the human said, "before the guard notices it's gone."

Finian nodded in agreement and followed Percival to the door. The nobleman managed to crane his arm around and get the key in the lock, and the cell door clicked open.

Fin suddenly felt like he could breathe again, and the nasty, jittery feeling he'd been fighting for days slowly ebbed. Now, they had a course of action... namely, escape.

Finian took the lead as they slipped out of the cell, his lighter footsteps silently padding through the corridors. They found an armory, and gladly suited up in the latest guard fashion, complete with helmets and basic iron weapons.

Then, they headed back out, walking past guard posts and patrols, toward Fin's best recollection of where the front door was.

Shortly after that, an alarm bell started peeling throughout the prison, and Fin could feel Percy thrumming with tension as the prison became not unlike a stirred nest of hornets. Guards hurried to and fro.

Finian wasn't sure what tipped their hand. Perhaps there was some prearranged signal for such an event. Perhaps Percy's acting needed work, or Finian was still too obviously an elf, even in armor. Maybe it was a lucky guess.

Whatever it was, there was a shout from the main corridor ahead of them, and a half dozen guards were suddenly barreling at them.

Percival planted his feet and met them with his borrowed greatsword, while Finian dove out of the way of the charge. Fin rolled back to his feet and moved behind the attackers, only to have something wrap around his neck from behind. A whip, or belt, or something... whatever it was, it yanked him backwards and into a metal-plated chest.

Fin's helmet was whipped off and his arms pinned by more hands, even as he fought to draw his daggers (he missed his spring sheathes...). He was well and truly pinned against one of the guards, and the hateful, awful interrogator appeared from his side, eyes glinting with dark amusement.

This would not end well.

One of the Godart's long hands slid to his throat, tilting his head back, and someone put a sword to it.

"Put down your sword, young Cousland, or the elf gets a second mouth six inches below the first."

Percy froze mid-swing, and one of the men he was fighting bashed him back with his shield.

The sword pressed into his throat, and Finian could feet how dull and knicked it was against his jugular. Getting his throat cut open by such a weapon would hurt.

Slowly, Percy turned to face the interrogator, his sword lowering. Fin tried to shake his head, to signal that this was obviously a bluff (like they'd kill the one who might actually talk...), but his head was being held too steady.

The greatsword clattered to the ground.

"Good. Now, the armor."

There was hesitation, and the blade moved against his neck. Fin felt a warm trickle down his collarbone.

Piece by piece, Percy removed the stolen guard armor, his jaw tight and face shuttered. He practically threw the last piece—the gorget—onto the stone.

"Good boy," Godart sneered. "Now, it is pretty clear that we have been affording you two far too much leniency. Boys, why don't you take the young lord back to his cell to cool off?"

Percival stiffened, eyes betraying concern as they flickered to Finian.

"Worried about your elf pet? Good. Let's see him pick any more pockets when I've cut off all his fingers."

That threat wasn't a bluff (he didn't need his fingers to talk), and so Fin couldn't help but jerk against his captors. One of them punched him in the gut, and he fought not to double over, since that would shove a sword into his throat.

"Take him back downstairs, boys. He's obviously up for another round."

This time, when they took him away, there was anger in the eyes of the man who would soon be holding the implements of torture. Before, they'd been focusing on coercion. Now, they'd be actually trying to hurt.

Finian did not have to pretend to be terrified