Chapter Text
Kelandris stared dully at the ceiling. It was not very interesting, but that was okay. She didn't want to think – thinking meant acknowledging the fact that she was in pain. Which was not a surprise – her life consisted entirely of two kinds of agony: the bearable kind, when she was alone, and the unbearable kind, when she wasn't. (She was fairly certain that there had been a time when that wasn't the case— but it didn't really matter, anymore.) At the moment, unfortunately, she was not alone. So, Kelandris stared at the ceiling. The blocks of stone that made it up were all slightly different colors. One had an oddly-shaped stain on it – she wondered for a little while what could stain the ceiling like that, but wondering was perilously close to thinking, so she stopped. Counting was alright, though – there were precisely twenty-two stones in her field of vision. Or possibly twenty-three – she had lost track a couple times. She would have to double check – which was good, since she needed something to focus on. There were still two fingernails left on her right hand. For now, anyway. Maybe she would get to keep one (please, Maker, please) – she got to last time, and that had been worse, since she hadn't even known that healing potions could regrow fingernails—
No. Stop. She was thinking again. That was bad. She had to stop. She had to stop now.
Shuddering, Kelandris stared at the ceiling, and counted stones.
---
His Inquisitor no longer responded to his ministrations the way he liked. Anguish contemplated her glassy stare, stroking the back of her hand. Blood trickled sluggishly from the three empty nail beds. Experimentally, he gripped her ring finger in one hand and started working a claw under her nail with the other. Kelandris flinched, jerking against her manacles with a whimpering hiss of breath, but she didn't look away from the ceiling. The demon eyed her measuringly, pausing his attentions to gauge her reaction. The new pain he was causing sizzled in her mind, but it was remote, distant. In fact, he hadn't felt more than flickers of her awareness in a while – every time her focus shifted back towards him or what he was doing, she would shy away, returning to her determined tally of the ceiling stones. (There were actually twenty-four, but there was one she wouldn't be able to see unless she looked straight past him, which she was understandably reluctant to do.) It seemed he had finally reached the limits of what she could endure unaided. Though there was still one more thing left he could try...
Anguish called her name. "Look at me, beloved," he crooned imploringly, "I know you can hear me."
That earned him a dim flash of weary revulsion tinged with grief, but nothing more. Dropping her hand, the demon rose. That was that, then. He strode to the door, buoyed by a growing bubble of anticipation – it was time to set his plan into motion. He would find his subordinates and order the release of a few critical documents – just enough to set the Inquisition on his trail. After that, he would send for a mage to see to Kelandris... and then, only then, the true fun would begin. The culmination of all his efforts since he had been summoned to this plane.
It was going to be glorious.
---
There was someone else in the room. That was strange – usually when she was being tortured it was just her and— her tormentor. (Not Cullen, not Cullen, it's not him, it's not...) The newcomer stepped up to her prone form with a swish of robes. Kelandris didn't react, even when he drew a knife with a rasp of steel on leather. The stinging bite of his blade against her chest, though, was almost enough to spark a flicker of emotion – her red Templar captor had never let anyone else touch her. She wasn't sure what it meant that he was doing so now, but it couldn't possibly be good—
No, it didn't matter. She didn't care. It wasn't as if there was anything the newcomer could do that was worse than what had already—
He stepped back. The sigil he had etched into her flesh flared briefly with sanguine light, and everything snapped abruptly into horrible, chilling, perfect focus. All at once, her awareness of her injuries – what she had been fighting to push away – came rushing back. Kelandris blanched – she couldn't wrench her mind away from the pain. She had stopped paying attention to the details of her torment after a while – it was the only way to protect her mind from the horrors being wrought upon her body. But now... trapped in the grip of whatever foul magic had taken hold of her, she felt it all. Every cut, every burn, every inch of flayed skin and missing nail and broken bone— She screamed. She hadn't screamed in ages, not since she had started ignoring her torture, but there was no ignoring anything, now. Not anymore. All she could do was lay there and take it – there was no escape, nothing that would help. She was a prisoner in her own head, forced to wallow in unfiltered, unadulterated agony— She couldn't bear it. It was too much, it was more than anyone could bear—
Or rather, it would have been too much – but she had just been bound to sanity with blood magic.
Kelandris had been wrong when she thought that nothing could get worse – this was worse than anything that had come before. This was so much worse. She screamed and screamed, writhing fruitlessly. She could almost feel the comforting embrace of madness – it flitted around the edges of her consciousness, just out of reach, a promise of sweet oblivion that could never be fulfilled. Finally, she ran out of breath and slumped into stillness, shuddering and panting. Her throat ached. That was the least of her problems, but she couldn't block it out. She couldn't block anything out, now— She had never even considered facing something like this, not in her worst nightmares. How was she supposed to deal with this? Maker, how? The overwhelming cacophony of sensation would be enough to drive anyone insane, but even that was denied to her, now. There was no comfort to be had, there. But... maybe there was still one way to escape the agony. Gritting her teeth with the effort, Kelandris raised her head. A moment later, the jarring impact of her skull meeting stone blazed down her spine, ripping through her whole body. It made everything hurt fractionally worse, but it was followed by a wave of dizziness that sent darkness creeping in from the edges of her vision. Good. She did it again – more pain, as expected, but her sight dimmed even further—
Before she could slam her head back a third time, though, a hand gripped her hair, tightly. The red Templar captain had perched on the edge of the altar to which she was bound, watching her with a strange, eager light smoldering in his scarlet eyes.
"That's not going to work, love," he said. It was Cullen's voice, still, edged with the skin-crawling hum of red lyrium's corruption, but the dark undertones seemed stronger, now. Kelandris tugged against his hold – if she could just get one more hit— but the woozy fog was already clearing, the blackness in her vision receding... That unnatural clarity returned, undiminished by her efforts. She was left with only a new throbbing pain at the back of her skull, one that just served to highlight the futility of her situation. She couldn't make herself pass out, any more than she could be driven mad. Wide eyed and shaking with horror, she stared up at her captor.
"What did you do?" She whispered hoarsely. She drew a ragged breath, and then her anguished wail echoed off the walls, reverberating around the small chamber – "Sweet Maker and Blessed Andraste, what did you do?!"
The perverted remnants of her lover just looked at her as the sound of her cry faded. Looked at her and smirked, the bastard. "You were shutting me out," he explained patiently. "That wouldn't do at all – so I called in some help. Now, nothing will distract you from our remaining time together... Tell me, did you figure out how many blocks make up the ceiling?" He cocked his head, eyes crinkled as if in amusement at a private joke. It was the least funny thing Kelandris had ever heard in her life.
"Blood magic, Cullen?" The question slipped out – she knew it wasn't him. But the only thing that could have rivaled the strength of her Commander's love for her was his hatred of maleficar...
His smile fading, the red Templar captain stared intensely into her eyes. "Anything for you, Kelandris," he breathed. His free hand came up to cup her chin. The gesture was almost tender... But the razor tip of his thumb traced along her bottom lip, and she tasted blood, feeling sick. With a whimper, she squeezed her eyes shut. Not that it would make this any more bearable, but at least she wouldn't have to look at his face as he performed whatever new horrors he planned to inflict on— her train of thought stuttered to a halt. Nothing will distract you from our remaining time together...
Kelandris choked on a gasp as she realized what that statement must mean, her eyes snapping open once again to fix on her tormentor's face.
"You're going to kill me," she rasped. It was not a question. A look of pleasant surprise flitted across his twistedly familiar features.
"I should have known you would pick up on that... But yes, I am," he confirmed, nonchalantly, lips curling into a lopsided grin. "I'm going to kill you."
There was a moment of profoundly chilling silence.
"Oh, Maker," she groaned, "It won't be quick, will it." That wasn't a question, either.
"No," came the haunting reply. "And the Maker can't help you, now, Kelandris – no one can." She felt his hot breath against her face the moment before his mouth pressed to hers. His teeth sank into her lower lip, as they often did when he kissed her. She knew what was coming next and clenched her teeth, but he hardly seemed to notice as he wrenched her jaws apart, filling her mouth with the scorching, acrid taste of mingled blood and lyrium. A wracking sob bubbled up from deep within when he finally let her go. She ought to be grateful that she was going to die – she would be free of him, soon – but throughout all her torments, he had been careful not to cause any permanent damage. With enough time and enough elfroot, most of her wounds could have healed – she had had to stay whole enough that he could come back the next day and torture her again. But now... that protection, slight as it had been, was gone.
"How long?" She whimpered. She almost didn't want to hear the answer, but... she had to know what was in store. Her tormentor smiled down at her. His hand left her hair – she flinched at the sharp release of tension – and scraped down the side of her face to join the other in cupping her jaw. His grip was painfully tight. She knew that if he chose, he could crush her skull like an egg, bolstered by the terrifying strength of red lyrium – and she also knew that he wouldn't do so. That would be far too easy.
"You are the strongest woman I have ever met. I expect you will hold on for a very long time," he responded. When he leaned over her again, Kelandris thought that that was the only answer she was going to get. But then he nipped at her earlobe – his unnaturally pointed teeth shredding the delicate skin like so much tissue – and whispered a dire promise in her ear.
"Eight days."
She froze.
Eight days.
Eight. Eight days.
Horror didn't even begin to describe her reaction. Had she not been cursed with consciousness, she would have fainted. Eight days of terrible, unceasing agony – it may as well have been an eternity. And she was going to feel every minute of that pain... If there was any mercy left in this world, any at all, he would make a mistake and kill her sooner. But Kelandris had no hope left for such a thing – if she had ever had the Maker's grace, it had long since faded. If it hadn't, she would have been dead already. She would get no mercy here.
Not for eight endless days.