Sam's bleary awareness slowly burbled back to the surface of a sea of pain and discomfort. His crusty eyes blinked into focus, and an infuriating grin hovered somewhere in the middle of it. He groaned.

"You did this," he wheezed. "On purpose."

"Sammy-boy, ye wound me! I'll put me hand up to a lot of things, but this sort of play ain't my particular flavor, believe me."

Sam's gaze slowly focused to see Arcie had been virtually nailed to the opposite wall of their simple, clean stone prison cell. A suit of leather, manacles, chains and restraints bound the Kin from chin to ankle, with thick padded mitts tied tightly around his hands. Arcie's plentiful rolls of pudge stuck out from gaps in the leather and metal like rising bread dough attempting to escape a potbelly stove. It was not a sight to inspire much confidence, even though Arcie gave him a friendly wave with his toes.

"It suits you," Sam snarled.

"Custom-made," Arcie boasted. "The Captain's been savin' it special for me." He wriggled slightly, and frowned. "And well done them, fair play; this'll take more than a sneeze to solve." He'd tried puffing himself up like a bullfrog when they were strapping it on him, to make it looser later, but the bastards had tickled his bare feet until he'd deflated in cursing giggles. He'd have gladly taken the traditional punch in the guts instead.

Sam twisted his pounding head on his aching neck and checked his own bonds-- simple, effective, standard steel chains hung him from the wall at wrists and ankles. They'd left him his breeches, out of decency, and he wished they'd given Arcie the same courtesy.

Footsteps sounded, coming closer, and both criminals fell into uneasy silence as keys jingled, a lock clanked, and the door opened.

Captain Oarf stepped into the room, with a greasy, self-satisfied expression as he saw Arcie still trussed like a roasting piglet. "Comfy, little fellow?" Arcie hated the term, as any Kin would, but he only rolled his eyes.

Sam got a colder glare of contempt. "Two of my men almost died because of you," Oarf said, but he sounded not angry, just disappointed.

"My professional apologies," Sam growled. "Have them schedule a rematch at the earliest convenience and I'll finish the job."

Despite his bravado, he felt like absolute boiled-over sewage, and was rather hoping Oarf would knock him mercifully unconscious again.

"Now, none of that," said a voice, noble and musical, warm with benevolence and cool with a distant grace. Oarf moved aside deferentially and Arcie and Sam stared in shock.

Supreme Archmage Mizzamir, the last of the High Elves, the last remaining original Hero, stepped into the dim room like the sun rising in an outhouse.

He was tall, and fair as Elves cannot help but be, his face showing little sign of his great age but for a sadness around his large sea-green eyes. Long fine hair in strands of silver and gold flowed down the shoulders of his snow-white robes, rich with matching embroidery. Layers of magical pendants formed a jeweled breastplate, and further gems and talismans glinted from wrists and fingers. He carried with him a staff, made of spiralled ivory set with a tall crystal hourglass.

Arcie tried to calculate the value of the Archmage's ensemble, and ran out of numbers. Sam tried to match the Hero's gaze but felt himself slump helplessly, too weak and sickened.

"I won't take your damn Pardon," Sam groaned. "You can just kill me. I'm square with Azal. Go ahead."

"Unnecessary," Mizzamir said briskly. The aloof line of his brow showed not a trace of hesitation or remorse. "The terms of the Pardon are contingent upon your willing surrender and submission, and you are well past that point."

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Sam flinched as Mizzamir extended the staff towards him, and gave him a tap on the sternum. It didn't hurt, but the hourglass chimed like a flicked wineglass, and the bottom bulb quickly filled with something like black smoke or fine dust, shot through with a red flickering like the heart of a dying star.

"Observe; your essence resonates with shadows and darkness," Mizzamir said, his tone patient but weary. "Full of Evil and Wrath-- oh, and a touch of Pride as well. Interesting."

The Archmage raised one fine eyebrow as he held the hourglass staff up like a test-tube. The impression of Sam's aura slowly faded away.

"He might be, but I ain't!" Arcie protested. "I'm just a Kin! I'm as innocent as--"

Mizzamir turned briskly and gave him a poke with the staff as well, and the staff once again clouded-- dirty charcoal, with a swirl of rusty orange and green, like swamp water.

"Yours is a darkness of selfishness and banal cruelty, but no less evil," Mizzamir said, tapping the staff to clear it as he shook his head. "Greed and Gluttony. Tsk. I was rather expecting you last few hold-outs to be more interesting."

"I had tae steal to survive!" snarled Arcie. "Cunnin' an' tricks be yer only path when yer the size of a soddin' mailbox, no fancy magic nor pointy ears to swing on!"

Mizzamir broke in dismissively with a wave of his hand. "Societal influences, unfortunate circumstances, genetic defects, celestial misalignment at birth - whatever excuses you may have, they are of no consequence. Fear not; your salvation is at hand." He gave them a quick patronizing smile, like a butler gently scraping a frozen orphan off the back porch.

Sam and Arcie traded quick looks; they were not at all sure they wanted the Archmage's help. And being told to fear not, somehow only underlined the fact that they were afraid in the first place.

"With the Staff of Dichotomy, I shall cleanse the shadow from your spirits, bringing you to righteousness and societal harmony." Mizzamir tapped the ivory staff meaningfully.

"What, like them others?" Arcie snapped, as realization dawned. "Pardon, me arse! Ye've been magicking folks! Haitchel, fer one! Made him think he's a guard!"

"No," Mizzamir corrected, "A charm or enchantment would be morally wrong; a violation of consent."

"Does this look like consent?" Sam growled, but Mizzamir didn't look around at him.

"But once I use the staff to draw out and destroy the evil within you, you'll find good behavior comes naturally. Your friend may not remember his past, but why should he want to?"

"Orbs! Ye left him blank as a pithed frog, no wonder he's only fit fer the Watch now!"

"He's alive and he has a new chance at life," Mizzamir replied dismissively. "And your folk only live for such a short time anyway. It's for the best, really," he added kindly.

"For the greater Good," Oarf put in, smugly, and Mizzamir gave a slight smile.

"You'll probably even thank me," the Archmage said reassuringly. "Most do. It's quite touching."

"Ye canna wipe away a man's freedom, his own mind tae make up as he chooses, and call yerself some type of Hero!" Arcie protested, thrashing in his bonds, making the leather creak and fart under the strain. "Yer no better than a--"

Oarf stepped closer to him to tighten a few of the straps judiciously, and Arcie snarled on, keeping the guard's attention on his face, as his toes nimbly went after the ring of keys on Oarf's belt. "Pox-soddled pillock pumping pus-puking-"

Mizzamir responded to Arcie's defiance by firmly declaring, "You are laboring under the false assumption that this is an infringement of your free will. It is not. It is a release, a freeing from the bonds of sin that shackle you."

"Maybe we ain't angels ourselves, but we knew the game and chose our side, an' if ye want us dead, fair enough, but this be no way to salve yer soul, nor ours! Sam, lad, back me up here--Sam!"

But Sam was slumped again, cold dread and defeat pouring through him like falling into an icy well.

He wanted to fight, wanted to struggle, but there was nothing left to work with, only pain and loss and despair, as he realized his fate was sealed and whatever soul he had would soon be crushed within Mizzamir's magic. He even trembled a bit, but it was from nausea, not fear. It was over, he had failed, and brought only shame to his line and his teachers.

And yet, if the process could somehow cure his hangover, it might almost be worth it. Or failing that, he could at least puke all over Mizzamir's white robes if he got the chance.

Arcie had fallen back into profanity, and he had quite the vocabulary, although most of it was in slang so convoluted that even he wasn't entirely sure of what he was saying. But it flowed out of him like a waterfall. It was not the first time he'd tried to talk for his life, but it was the first time he already knew it wasn't going to work.

"Yer a right royal fustilarian, ain't ye, Mizzy? A bloomin' nolliebrained crottle with yer pajizzle and yer gabby-wobbly soul scrubber! See you, ye prancing prannock! Stick yer fancy dildonger where ye think the sun shines from!"

"Oh do hush, little m... miniature miscreant," Mizzamir said in mild annoyance, and Arcie spluttered as the Archmage turned to Sam. "Don't fret so. It will all be over soon."

He extended the staff towards Sam, and began to concentrate as he stepped closer. Golden light bloomed and swirled around him, spiralling up the staff, lighting up the gems, the radience slowly growing as tendrils of light reached out towards the slumped and silent assassin.