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Shades of Grey	By : myghinmin Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 3772 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age: Origins, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
Title: Shades of Grey
Story Rating: M (mature). NSFW (not safe for work) due to sexual content in chapters five, seven, and eight, and for torture in chapters eleven and twelve.
Chapter Rating: M (mature).
Chapter Warnings: Severe physical and psychological torture.
Word Count: 3364 words.
PC: Fem!Amell Warden, deceased.
Pairing: Zevran/Alistair.
Spoilers: End-game spoilers. Set post game.
Summary: She made him swear to keep Alistair on his feet until he could stand alone. Maker help him, Zevran will honor that final promise, even if it kills him.
Notes: This was a very difficult chapter to write, and I hope that it serves its purpose well within the story. As always, if you enjoy reading this story, please remember to review (constructive criticism welcome). Reviews really do cause a writer (me, at least) to update more often! Getting those reviews in my e-mail make me think about the fic more, which in turn leads to me writing more often on it.
WARNING: This chapter contains graphic description of physical and psychological TORTURE. I am not joking about or exaggerating the situation found in this chapter. If you do not wish to read this, but would like to know what happens, please scroll all the way to the bottom of the chapter. A summary has been provided there.
[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]
The elf had seemed ... different after their confrontation. No one else seemed to notice, but Alistair did. Perhaps because he was the one who had brought it up, perhaps because he knew what was weighing in so heavily on the assassin's mind. At the very least, he had a fair idea. Instead, he only watched, and he noticed too late that his grip on their favored mage had slackened.
Everything was falling apart; the spiral that started in Redcliffe was refusing to be denied. Promises whispered in black tents on the road didn't hold up so well under the daylight, and duty could not be shoved aside. He knew that Zevran disapproved of his choice, but it was as much to protect him as it was to defend her. Something had to give, and Alistair was damned if it was going to be either of them. They had already sacrificed too much.
It was the least he could do.
[[ ... Chapter 11 ..... ]]
There was a velvet blackness pressing against his eyes; it must be night. During the day, the darkness was not so absolute. There was the very faintest of light when the sun was out. Not enough to illuminate his cell, but enough to let him mark the days. He had lost count now, but the fact that he was still capable of knowing meant that he wasn't lost yet. Why he held on was drifting away from him, he couldn't keep hold of the reason, but he did know that there was something that he had to do. Someone he was supposed to help.
Not that he was in shape to help anyone at this point. His knees were aching. He sighed and gently started rubbing at them, attempting to stave off the pain for a few minutes at a time. He was folded up in a little cage, one that even sitting, his knees pressed against his chest, head ducked down, he barely fit in. He had no idea where his clothes had gone, they had been gone when he'd woken up. For that matter, he wasn't even certain how he'd been brought here.
He remembered the glass merchant, the little trinket he'd picked up and rolled in his fingers. It was a code, one that he hadn't expected to see in Denerim. In Antiva, certainly, but Ferelden? He had smiled at the old man, who had offered him a tiny glass crow. His fingers had ached to take it, to feel the details on the feathers, to roll it in his hand for a heartbeat before placing it deliberately on the left edge of the table, three-quarters of the length down away from the man. But he had politely declined, despite his longing for it. He was technically a Crow, but he had turned his back on them the moment he'd taken the contract for the Wardens.
Instead, he'd picked up the griffon, withdrew a coin and placed it on the table. His allegiance was with the Wardens, not the Crows. His previous mark had ensured that, binding him to her as securely as any purchase contract. She bought his loyalty with friendship, not coin. The merchant had inclined his head slowly, seeing the importance of the action. Then Teagan had come up, Zevran had tucked the glass griffon into his pocket, and--
Nothing.
Try as he might, no matter how many details he could remember, he could not remember how he'd been caught. They were good, whoever they were. And they were breaking him in well enough: days with no light, minimal food and water, forcing him to stay in a tiny cage, sitting in his own filth. He felt like he was going mad, and they hadn't even begun on the true torture. They clearly had him somewhere that he couldn't be heard-- they hadn't bothered with a gag-- and that scared him more than anything else. It reminded him too much of Antiva, of the slums where he'd done this himself, of where he'd been tortured before, to prove he could handle the pain.
Of course, that had only been physical torture. Racking and cutting and the like. This, this was psychological torture at its finest. He trembled a little and resumed rubbing at his knees. By the time they came for him, stretching him out over a rack would be more painful than leaving him in the cage. He was dreading it, knowing that he was going to scream the minute that they unfolded him.
The light was impossibly bright as it hit him in the face, and he reached one of his hands up to block it as the door opened, then closed. Someone was standing just inside his room, staring at him. They held a lantern, and he squinted through the light at them. He need to get a read on them, try to figure out what they actually wanted from him, but he couldn't see much since his eyes were having trouble focusing. It was the days in the dark.
His head was hurting by the time they came close enough for him to make anything out about them. It was a girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and she was studying him intently. A noise sounded from the other side of the door, and they both started. It was the first sound he had heard since his arrival, other than when they came in and brought the food and waterskin. It was always a beast of a man who did that, however, not this young girl who looked like a strong wind would blow her over. Her face was particularly mousey, with sharp features and limp locks of brown hair and a smattering of freckles over her pointed noise.
He swallowed slightly, not saying anything as she turned back to look at him again. This time, she reached through the bars of his cage to push his hair back from his face. Everything about him was filthy, grime seemed to completely cover him, and he found himself wishing that he wasn't going to die this way. It seemed terribly degrading, dying hunched over in a cage, his own waste smeared on him, feeling as though his kneecaps were about to pop off. Her finger trailed down the side of his face, following the tattoo, and then tilted his head as far as the cage would allow. He resisted the urge to snap his teeth at her, but it was difficult. Nothing in his Crow training had ever made him feel this base, this inferior.
"Well, I suppose even Wardens are mortal," she spoke softly, but her Antivan accented voice seemed over-loud in the room. Perhaps simply because he wasn't used to the sound of anything other than his own breathing.
"You think I am a Warden?" His own voice was cracking, probably from the lack of adequate water supply. He only got the little waterskin every so often, just enough to keep him alive and not delirious. They wanted his mind clear, but broken in when they started questioning him. If they thought he was a Warden, it could explain a lot. Regrettably, it confirmed his belief that he wasn't going to be getting out of this. Not alive. "That's quite rich."
One of her dark eyebrows lifted, and she withdrew her hand. She crouched beside the cage, letting the lantern sit on the floor. It was tiled, explained why it was so cool in the room. "You deny it?" Her head tilted as she studied him, and when her hair fell away from her face, he saw it: two lines trailing down the side of her face, mirroring his.
"I am no Warden," he said cooly, looking straight ahead again. She would discover that soon enough, and it would seal his fate. All he could hope for was that she would kill him quickly. It was the least of the favors that one Crow could give another, and at the same time, it was the most important. Even disgraced Crows were given a swift death once they outlived their usefulness.
"My intelligence says otherwise, Zevran. They say," she trailed one finger down his thigh. It was a calculated move, one designed to remind the prisoner of their state of undress. "They say that you command the Fereldan Wardens."
The faintest smile quirked his lips. "They are mistaken, I'm afraid."
"Really? Then why do they so desperately seek you?" He couldn't stop his eyes from flicking over toward her. She had a smile on her lips, and she moved to sit on the floor. She drew her knees up to her chest, mimicking his position but facing him. "Didn't you think they would want their leader back?"
He studied her for a full minute before he looked away again. She was lying. She had to be. None of the Wardens would be so foolish as to attract Crow attention. None of them would demand to search for him. Perhaps Luthanuel would, but Teagan would set him straight. They couldn't afford to be searching out a former assassin who wasn't even Joined.
"They do." Her smile widened into a grin, and she tilted her head down a little to peer up at him. "Why, it's even said that Maric's bastard is in the streets, calling your name. Can you believe that? You must be a great lay if you have him all in knots over your disappearance. My friend here is eager to test that theory. Do you think I should let him?" She tapped a finger against her chin, clearly entertaining the notion.
Zevran didn't answer her. He was too far gone, unable to think of a witty response, scared that if he opened his mouth something important might come tumbling out. What that important thing might be, he couldn't remember, but he wasn't going to risk it. If the Blight had taught him anything, it was that at least one other person would have gone through this for him. He could do it; he could play this game that he was so hopelessly rusty in. She laughed, and he looked at her, trying to determine what she had decided. No matter what she did decide, he knew he was in for more pain.
She leaned back and called out, "Lalo!" To his greatest disappointment, the great brute of a man heeded her voice quickly, opening the door and allowing that brilliant light to blind him again. By the time he had recovered, 'Lalo' was standing behind the slip of a girl who still sat on the floor. At least the door had been shut.
"Eduardo here is very dear to me, and he has expressed an interest in you." She reached back and patted the beast on the leg affectionately, as fondly as the Fereldans scratched their mabari. "And when I can, I allow him his interests. It makes for great fun, as you might imagine." Her hand dropped as she looked back at Zevran. "Lalo, why don't you prepare a proper room for our guest? He has a few more days that he will be staying with us."
Lalo leaned down and held out his hand. The girl gracefully pulled herself to her feet, using it as an aid, and then she turned on her heel to glance back once more. "Do not break him, Lalo. I would like to have my own fun with him later. It has been a while since I got a new playmate."
She slipped out but left the door open, the light streaming in to strike the elf in the face. This time, he was prepared for it, closing his eyes against it just long enough to brace against the brightness. Then, when that monstrous hand reached down for his cage and picked it up, he slowly opened his dark eyes, letting them adjust slowly.
It was utterly humiliating, and he almost wished he'd let the light blind him again. There were quite a few people in the hallways, most of them more than just a little interested in what was going on. No one moved to stop him though, nor did anyone look particularly surprised. Just curious. It meant that, wherever they were, this sort of thing was commonplace, which did not bode well for the elf.
He was tossed into a room, and he flinched as he hit the floor, felt the jarring impact all the way through his body. He had enough time to draw a deep breath, and then the top of his cage was opened, and that hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and forcibly pulled him from it. The elf gritted his teeth, reaching up to try to... hell, he didn't know; do something.
It hurt so much, suddenly able to stretch out, his back unbending, his legs able to move, that he clawed at the hand holding his hair. But Eduardo didn't even seem to notice the assassin's fingernails digging into that beefy hand; he just carried the elf, bare feet kicking wildly almost two feet above the ground, over to a large flat table and slammed him back, knocking the breath out of his lungs. His mouth opened-- no sound emerged-- and bright spots of light flooded his already pained eyes. Then the hand slid from his hair and caught his arms, wrapping a length of rope around them.
He struggled. Maker help him, he really did, but all it served was to earn him a slap across the face hard enough that he tasted blood. The bright lights sparked in front of his eyes, and by the time they subsided, his arms were bound in two places: just below the elbows and at the wrist. It was a default Crow restraint, designed to keep the victim from being able to use the wrist shackles as a garrote. The assassin blew out a deep breath, and then he was being stretched out, his legs in the grasp of his torturer.
He couldn't stop the scream that bubbled up, or the tears that pricked at the backs of his eyes. After being folded up for so long, he wanted to jerk his knees up, let them bend again to keep from stretching those muscles. But the hand gripping his ankle was iron, ruthlessly tying it to one end of this iron pole that was easily the width of his own shoulders. Then the other one, and then he was being pulled up by his wrists.
The ropes were looped onto a hook, and he was suspended, standing on the balls of his feet to keep his weight off of his wrists. The position forced his forehead into his elbows and made his chest tight; he had to breath deeply to keep himself calm, to keep from screaming. The weight on his legs was almost unbearable, and he really didn't know how he was able to keep himself up beyond the simple fact that if he lifted his feet, he thought that his wrists might snap from the pressure.
Then something warm and wet touched his thigh, and he jerked, trying to twist to see what exactly was happening. The giant of a man had a basin of water and multiple rags, most of which were already soaking. There was a slight steam lifting from the surface, caressing Zevran's calves lightly. He shivered, unable to stop the trembling as he was humiliated somehow further. They were going to clean him up before they started?
The elf continued to focus on his breathing, keeping the tears from the pain of standing at bay to the best of his ability. Eduardo's touch was light, almost gentle as he washed the assassin. He didn't speak, didn't do anything else. Just continued to carefully rub off all signs of the grime that had caked itself so thoroughly on his skin.
Then she came in. Her gaze raked sharply over his prone form, and she moved to perch lightly on the giant's back. He didn't seem to notice it any more than he had noticed Zevran's desperate clawing attempts earlier. She reached out and rubbed the shoulders she leaned up against lightly, studying the progress he had made.
"Well, at least we'll have you cleaned up for your presentation," she said softly, the words rolling out of her mouth one at a time, as though she were tasting them. Zevran ignored the ripple of fear that washed over him. "I mean, you're certainly not fit to be in the presence of a Bann as you are."
"A Bann?" he asked, unable to stop himself. A Fereldan had arranged this? He'd expected it to be a Crow job, to be honest. The assassin's curiosity was piqued; he couldn't help it.
"That caught your attention, did it?" She leaned forward, letting one of her hands touch her prisoner's midsection. Her eyes narrowed suddenly. "I don't really care, to be honest. The privilege of being the one to kill you is more than worth it." Here, she stood, and she withdrew a slender blade from a hidden sheathe at her belt. "See, you killed someone important to me." The tip of the blade lightly touched his stomach.
"I've killed a great many people." It was a bad idea to be so flippant; he knew that. But he also knew that his time was very limited. Sticky red fluid was beginning to trickle from where she dragged the blade upwards. It wasn't deep, just enough to draw blood; just enough to sting.
"True. But I don't care about that. I care about one you killed. A fellow Crow." Her eyes darkened and the blade pushed in just a little deeper; not enough to cause permanent damage, but enough to hurt. Zevran's breath hitched. "You killed my mentor, see." He didn't answer; couldn't answer. Not with the burning and the stinging and the blood he could feel dripping down his body. She wasn't hitting a vital organ, but damn that didn't make it hurt any less. The blade twisted, and then he was gasping as he felt it slide out of him.
His eyes eased open to watch as Lalo gently removed her from their prisoner, plucking the blade from her fingers and replacing it with a narrow riding crop. She caressed the leather for just a moment, and then she struck, leaving a bright red mark on the elf's side.
"Just you wait," she hissed between clenched teeth, landing another strike, this one on his stomach just beside the bloody wound. "You will pay for this." Another red mark lit his abdomen. "Taliesin will be avenged, no matter that I have to wait until after this ridiculous meeting."
"Neema," he whispered, and her eyes widened. Clearly, she didn't expect him to remember her. She seemed to lose it then, moving behind him and unleashing a flurry of attacks that left Zevran biting back cries, tears beginning to stream down his face.
Her anger built as she was unable to extract any sounds from him, and she continued the volley until she couldn't lift the crop any longer. It slipped from her fingers, and she was panting, her eyes flashing as she moved to leave. She didn't look back at him, just left him to her companion's ministrations, which had only stopped whenever she hit close enough to his hands that he was in her way.
Now, the giant studied him impassively, silent as Zevran himself had been. Then he leaned forward, cupping the elf's chin with his boulder-like fist. He tilted the younger man's face up, and then licked those tears away, his eyes closing as he did. Zevran was so worn, physically and mentally, he couldn't do anything, didn't care. He just wanted it to stop.
Then Lalo moved behind him, and started cleaning his back. Not even Zevran could remain silent as the giant gently washed the raw flesh, gently cleaned where strips of skin had been taken off. Eduardo got far more screams out of him than she had.
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Summary: Zevran survives an intense psychological torture only to discover that he's being kept alive by his two kidnappers (a huge man named Eduardo, who is called "Lalo," by a young girl named Neema) only until Alistair has met with the Bannorn. After that, Neema will be allowed to do whatever she wishes to Zevran, and she confesses that all she wants from him is his death, since he killed Taliesin, her mentor.
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Shades of Grey