Chapter Text
This is why, Hawke thinks, in a tiny corner of his mind still capable of coherent thought, I always bring Aveline with me into the compound. But tonight, he had wanted to let her have time with Donnic. And when he'd arrived with Isabela, she'd made herself scarce. And Varric didn't get the Qunari, and while Fenris was certainly a great help Fenris had also just essentially used him as a one night stand and Hawke still wasn't exactly speaking to him.
It had all made perfect sense when he'd arrived, as the sun was setting and the clouds were molten with that lovely open sky you only get near the ocean. He remembers now that he'd been thinking wistfully of taking Isabela up on her offer and buying her the ship himself. When he walked into the compound alone, he'd expected the whole trip to take five minutes, maybe less.
A disturbing thing had happened instead. The Arishok's usual tolerance was worn thin, and he seemed unable to do anything but irritate the mysterious man. While Hawke was willing to mouth off to just about anyone in Kirkwall, he'd always chosen his words carefully around the Arishok, sensing that maybe this was all more important than him.
Then the great big horn-headed bastard had finally demanded, in his deep, rumbling voice, "You are a saarebas, are you not?"
Hawke had not thought quickly enough; or rather, he had thought quickly, but been exasperated, and his mouth was only all too eager to say, "Yes, of course. I thought you knew that?"
"It was suspected." Impassive, terrifying, alien eyes had gleamed in the setting sun's bloody light. Hawke had felt small. The compound had suddenly felt like a prison, a prison with hundreds of guards, all of them bigger than him and just waiting for their leader to signal for him to be subdued. "You have always served your purpose quite admirably," the Arishok had continued, thoughtful. "yet you have not realized your true purpose in the Qun."
"I do not serve the Qun." Hawke had bitten his tongue at sounding so exasperated but really, it was frustrating how these people did not seem to acknowledge that some people didn't want to be told what to do. As he had searched for some relatively polite way to extricate himself from what was an increasingly awkward conversation, the Arishok's expression had gone from broodingly pensive to very still, very serious.
A predator's expression. A mountain cat about to strike. A wolf, growling. That was the look. "You will."
Lances had rained down on him then, battering his body before he could throw up any magical shielding at all; one gouged his left leg at the thigh, another had speared him through the shoulder, leaving his arm limp at his side, making it harder to cast. Before he'd had more than an inkling of the trouble he was in, poisoned arrows had followed suit, burying themselves in his back. Staggering. A world gone suddenly distant, vertigo rolling and pitching like a ship at sea. Small explosions of color as he crashed to his knees, gagging. Curious numbness up his spine, flooding him, and then he had been unable to move, drooping in the strong arms of a Qunari who pulled the arrows and lance from his body, bandaged him, and carried him away.
They didn't need to speak to know what to do; that was the terrible advantage of the Qun teachings and bizarre hive-mind lifestyle. He was unable to glean anything about why they'd just decided to capture him beyond his own status as a mage. He was carried into the back of the compound, far from where he might be seen or heard, and bound to a small wooden table with long, thick strips of leather he knew would ordinarily have been used to secure patients for dangerous surgeries. Anders had only one such table and Hawke had always made an effort to keep himself and his friends well enough that none of them needed to be laid down upon it. Most of them had issues with being trapped in one place, Hawke himself being no exception.
Words, now, floating over his head, but in that tongue he doesn't know. Hard three syllables, five rhythmic equally spaced syllables. A question, an answer. They pull the leather straps so tight he coughs, the air squeezed out of his chest. His fingers tremble where they, too, are bound to the table, itching for freedom. He wants to be able to talk, at least, to sass them for what they've done.
The paralysis is beginning to wear off, and he slurs raggedly, "If your Arishok doesn't like me, I swear I'll leave. No problem, no harm done-- he needn't have me killed. I'd really rather he didn't!"
Standing over him is a grim-faced Qunari man with a strange gentleness to his attitude. Hawke wonders numbly what role this particular individual fulfills. Slowly, he responds, ignoring Hawke's attempt at bravado and taking the rest literally. "You shall not be killed, Saarebas. Nor shall you leave."
He holds up a spool of thick, clean, un-dyed thread in one hand, a glisteningly sharp, large needle in the other. Hawke is beginning to find it difficult to keep breathing. Or no, he's breathing too hard, too fast. "Y-you're not going to do what I think you're going to do. It's hardly sporting. And I'm not even part of your Qun anyway, so you really ought to quit playing these silly games."
Instead of acting like any normal person would, the qunari man frowns, his brow bunching in huge, thoughtful wrinkles. He shakes his head slowly, threading the needle where Hawke can watch it, aching deep in his head to use magic. When he realizes that he can't, he groans in frustration.
"What've you done to my--?"
"Your magic," the qunari interrupts, his voice low and quiet but commanding of respect, of silence. Hawke is trying very hard to still the mad beating of his heart, and gulps for air. It wouldn't do to panic. He is not panicking. He will not panic. "It is suppressed by the warders who guard this place of healing, Saarebas."
Hawke squeezes his eyes shut, hissing through his teeth. "Stop calling me that."
"It is your role." The qunari nods slowly, gesturing for the warders to come forward. They place their hands on Hawke's forehead, on his wrists, on his ankles: and when they look down at him, it's as though they are sucking all the life out of him, except it's only his magic, but it's such a very large part of who he is that he chokes on it, body arcing into the tight restraint of those awful leather strips well after they've finished. It's a pain far worse than any he has ever known before. It leaves his head pounding and his mouth dry. He finds it difficult to think, let alone move.
A hand is gently tracing his jaw. Two hands: they hold his face steady, while he limply lies there. Other hands, nimble, pass the needle into his cheek, just at the corner of his mouth, before he even has time to realize the pain. The knot pulls tight, but it will not hold without backstitching. He is alarmed and confused that he can think so critically of the process that is about to be visited upon him.
Nightmare. This is just a nightmare, it's got to be. He's had nightmares like this for a while, he's dreaded the idea ever since he discovered--
The needle passes through his cheek again, doubling back and pulling tight again, re-supporting the original stitch so it won't pull through. He feels faint. His feeble protests only make the Qunari hands squeeze his face tighter, thick fingers on his cheeks, holding him still as he whimpers like a pathetic dog, clawing at what little of the table he can reach, trying to wrench his face away without even the barest hint of success.
"Hold still," the qunari with the needle commands. "This process is known as havandra'qun. It can take as few as thirty-six stitches, or as many as a hundred. How many are required depends on you, Saarebas." Those eerie, inhuman eyes narrow warningly at him, even as he tries to fight free, desperately reaches for magic that simply isn't there, exhausted and terrified. "Choose wisely."
Hawke can't stop trying to scream throughout, but he counts the stitches. When they hit thirty-seven, his hope for release is broken; forty-nine, and the pain finally dulls his terror, the raw emotion of fear wedging in his throat. In the end, it takes sixty-six stitches exactly to seal his lips to the qunari's satisfaction.
"Good," he says, turning away, and Hawke dares to let himself hope that that will be the extent of it. Instead, the qunari turns back with an over-sized collar that looks more like a yoke for a beast of burden than anything else. "Now, we must attune your collar for perfect control, saarebas. Ashaad, let him feel the magic so he may demonstrate his powers while I prepare."
All Hawke can taste is blood, blood his own blood in his mouth and tears of exhausted confusion, shock, fear are rolling down his face. He is trapped, struggling in his own mind because no matter his thoughts, he cannot share them. He is unable to resist when, sensing his reticence, the watchers bring his powers to the surface, pushing the boil of magic through him to shape the spells he already knows for cataloguing, for attuning the collar to him completely, for learning his deficiencies so they can teach him, later.
They push the collar on over his head, letting him up from the table briefly, and fit it to his body, strapping it in place with chains. It's alarmingly tight at the throat, makes his shoulders feel heavy and strained.
Then they push him back down, and the qunari who wields the needle and thread has the Ashaad hold him in place again. "Now it is time to seal your sight, saarebas," he announces with that same cool detachment he has been using since Hawke was brought to him. "Close your eyes."
There is nothing he can do at all, because this is worse than a nightmare.
He cannot even scream.