He is imprisoned in the bowels of the castle, unlike the high tower the Princess occupied. Shackled to the stone wall, the slime of lichens soaked through Eric's leather clothes, still damp from his dip in the feeding trough.
Bloody guards. It hadn't been anything besides some owed money; nothing fit to send him to the queen for. And now he was here, in some dungeon to be left to rot til whenever they saw fit to free him. It was bloody unfair.
His body was already bruised from the brawl, and the last thing he needed was chafed wrists from iron shackles and bloody knees from kneeling on the rough stones. His vision still swam from all the alcohol that coursed through his veins, making it difficult to focus on the interior of the dungeon. The door could have been a thousand miles away for all the good it did him, for despite all of his strength, there was no way the shackles would budge from the wall.
Fucking great.
He estimated it was past sunset by the time he heard anyone in the hallway outside his cell. The door opened slightly, and a tray of what might have once passed as food slid to his knees. From what he could see through the darkness that cloaked the dungeon, it looked to consist of broth or gruel, and some desiccated remains of a chicken. At least, he hoped it was chicken. He stomached what he could, not knowing when he would receive food again. The day had quickly turned even worse than anticipated, and while Eric had no quarrel with the queen, he certainly would now that she had detained him for so long.
Despite the uncomfortable position the shackles had him in, Eric could feel the pull of sleep, and likely the wounds he had sustained earlier were finally catching up with him. The darkness enveloped as he fell into an unconscious stupor, his head lolling back against the wall.
When he woke, he felt, rather than saw, a presence inside his cell. Figuring it was a guard, or vermin, who would pay him no mind, he shifted his legs, trying to squint into the dark cell to make out a shape or shadow. When it touched his leg, though, he froze, his head snapping up to peer frantically out into the cell.
"Who's there?" He called out, his voice coming out hoarse from his dehydrated throat. However, there was no reply, and the pressure on his leg remained, daring to creep up closer to him.
It was unnerving, to say the least. Had he not been hardened to the Dark Forest and the nightmares that lay within, he surely would have quaked at such an unknown being touching him. His mind, however, promised the vilest of creatures, something so dark and gruesome that it could only survive in the bowels of the castle, where prisoners came to rot and die.
Nothing had prepared him for the sight of Her.
Sarah.
His wife.
While his mind could not comprehend what he was seeing, his breath rasping through his chest, his body reacted, his eyes widening as he lunged for her, his arms barely reaching to wrap her into his embrace. His body shook as he held her, his eyes still wide as he tried to absorb what he knew could not be so. She was pliant to his embrace, allowing him to hold her as he shook with emotion, his fingers needy and eagerly stroking her back, so anxious to feel contact. To feel life.
It took all the strength he had to pull back, to look up at his beautiful - alive - wife and stare into her perfect green-wait, black?-eyes.
Perhaps it was the shadows.
Yes, it must have been the shadows.
But even as he pressed a kiss to her temple, his shackles clanking _, he could feel a seed of doubt in his mind, the one that protested her existence and presence, grow.
Maybe it wasn't the shadows. Perhaps she was some illusion. Perhaps this dungeon had been unused for so long that it to had grown wild like the Dark Forest, conjuring up images from the depths of his imagination to taunt and torture him.
But his precious wife was in his lap, and whatever train of thought he had been following ended as soon as his lips found hers, desperately claiming her lips in a frantic display of longing. This had been his sole fantasy for the past year. Why should he not enjoy it.
He was fighting a losing battle for self-control. While he did not want to hurt Sarah, the passion still had a way of blinding, and a low growl escaped from his throat. She was his, and oh, how he had longed for her.
Mourned her.
She arched into his touch, meeting his mouth for what he needed, and he took, desperation a strong pull at his fingers.
She, she was perfect.
Sarah.
But she was not his.
No, and with every added movement she made, every touch and caress of her skin, it became clear to him that this was indeed an illusion, or some other evil magic.
His Sarah did not taste of milk and blood, of decadence and decay.
This was the work of the Queen.
He shoved the woman away roughly, casting her off of him as he backed against the wall. She looked at him, docile and wounded expression in her eyes and he bared his teeth to her.
She was not his. He would not let this demon seduce him, play on his mourning heart and use his grief to blind him.
Her baleful expression twisted once she saw his denial, and he watched in horror as his lovely Sarah's face morphed into the one of the spiteful Queen.
Was this a trick or..?
No, it was far too devious.
This was the Queen, the one whom he supposedly owed allegiance, playing on his fragile emotions and grief.
It was despicable.
She smiled at him, her grin more feral than comforting. "Didn't you like seeing your precious wife again, Huntsman? Am I not generous?" She asked in a teasing manner, her clawed nails stroking his leg in a manner that might look soothing, but felt to Eric more like a predator toying with its food. He flinched away, and she drove her nails into his thigh. "Now now, why do you flinch away from me, Huntsman? Am I not more fair than your dear wife?" Her gaze was piercing, now, and he could tell that she would not take kindly to his answer.
Perhaps she had been fair, but magic corrupts, and she was living proof of the sort of evil that begins in the soul, and spreads like a cancer.
She was wretched, where his wife had been perfect. His face showed as much, even before he had replied. The Queen snarled, driving her nails deeper into his thigh, relishing when she saw the bright red blood staining her fingers.
While she could not drain him of his youth like the village girls, she could still bend him to her will.
"Tell me, Huntsman, do you wish to see your beloved wife again?" She murmured, stroking her free hand against his jawline. He hissed, recoiling from her touch only to hit his head against the hard stone of his prison wall.
She had cornered him, and now she would kill him, he was sure.
"Or perhaps my face is good enough for you after all..." She continued, her _eyes burning. He tried to look away in revulsion, but her vice grip on his chin held his gaze to her, her talons a sharp pain that burned at his thigh.
And then she was upon him, straddling his lap as her talons dragged long, bloody lines into his thigh. He hissed again at the sensation, and it was enough to give her entrance to his mouth, her lips crashing against his as he fought to push her away, the chains and her weight immobilizing him more than he would have liked. He bit down on her lip, tearing at the skin until she bled, her eyes ablaze as she took in the new injury, touching her lip lightly.
Usually, he would balk at even raising a hand against a woman.
But this was no woman.
She smiled venomously, and the effect was terrifying, the blood on her lips running down her chin and staining her teeth.
She was evil incarnate.
"Perhaps you are different, dear Huntsman. Your grief for your wife blinds you to me. But I have had many men just like you tremble at my feet without a single thought for their dead wife. You shall be the same." She said slowly, her talons tearing long lines in the leather jacket he wore , exposing his chest. Eric jerked, her sharp touch raking a path down his exposed chest.
"Do not touch me, witch," he rasped, his heartbeat racing as she continued her warpath from his chest down to his belt. She simply smiled back at him, and he knew true terror.
He had an idea what the Queen wanted, and by the gods, he would not give it to her willingly.
But she had magic, dark magic at her command, whereas his best defense lay in his strength, which was currently useless with his hands still manacled to the stone wall.
The direness of the situation has sunken in, and it sickened Eric to his core. He had sworn to never lay with another woman after his wife was taken, and to break that promise, even so unwillingly, was loathsome.
It was a betrayal to her.
She neared, her chest pressing against him as she straddled his lap. Straining his chains, he managed to twist his face from her steady grip, recoiling enough to strike her skull, his head colliding with enough force to temporarily stun him.
Oh, had he angered her.
"My dear huntsman," she began with a snarl, blood trickling slowly from her scalp. "You may fight me as much as you like. But know that every move you make against me will only lengthen this. Do you think I will be done with you quickly? Oh, no. I will draw it out for every drop of blood you have cost me."
He struggled at his chains, disgusted, fearing for what was to come. If she kept him and used him as her pet...it would be a punishment worse than death. Much worse.
"What have I done to draw your ire, then, Queen?" He spat, hoping to distract her, or at least stall his fate. She did pause, though, and he counted that as a blessing.
"We shall speak of that later," she laughed mirthlessly, her hand resting at the buckle of his belt. His breath hitched.
She pulled at the edge of her elegant dress where it is bunched at her knees, and he knew true terror.
Her lips brushed his neck, and he can feel her teeth scrape against skin; it feels more like a bite than a lover's caress. And it burns. Perhaps it is simply his mind, rejecting the sensation of her lips against his skin, but it feels as though he has been infected, a deep fever edging into his veins where blood heats his mind slows, stricken.
Maybe he is dying, and god, wouldn't that be a blessing.
But he is not dead, and he can still feel the Queen's -Ravenna's- teeth against his skin, her talons scraping and scratching until his belt is unfettered, his trousers pushed and torn until he is mostly nude before her.
He has never been happier for his cock to be soft than at this moment.
Ravenna obviously expected differently, her harsh glare expressing her irritation.
This would not do.
He would be hers, whether he liked it or not.
But oh, how she wished he'd like it.
Her hand engulfs him, and he is relieved that she chooses the hand without the talons. He suppresses a shudder at the thought.
She squeezes, and his hands fist at the pressure, willing himself not to respond to her touch. It would be the ultimate betrayal, his own body bending to her will when his mind would never waver. He tried to zone out, to put his mind in another place, but the pain of her talons digging into his ribs was not something he could ignore.
And the pain, somehow his brain trys to relate the pain to pleasure, and he can feel with a mounting horror as he stiffens in her grasp.
She smiles ferally, and he suppresses a moan as she catches him off guard, stroking him quickly, her dress riding up her thighs to expose creamy flesh.
Nonononono this could not be happening
She should not be able to cause anything but pain.
But it is not pain that fills his body anymore, and he twitches as she does not relent, drawing in shaking breath after shaking breath, and her talons dig further and further into his flesh but he cannot feel that, as she lowers herself onto him, dark gaze watching his as he bites his tongue hard enough to bleed, trying to block out the sensations.
It is not enough.
While she is a witch, an indomitable power, she is still a woman, and it is still with a woman's body that she rocks into him, taking all that he has and more.
He would cry if he had any tears left, all spent on Sarah, and he thinks, as the blood drips from his side, that maybe the crimson drops would be adequate substitute for tears, as they poured steadily onto the ground.
There are other ways to suck away someone's life, someone's youth, it would seem.
Eric can feel himself weaken the longer she rides him, and it takes all he has to hold out, trying to deny himself the release that she sought to build, praying that his body would not betray him in this, and give her that pleasure.
But his body will not give him even that, her teeth like knives against his skin, her talons sunken into the flesh of his back, and still he feels his body course with pleasure, her body still tight from disuse, and she fucks him with a kind of aggression that is hard to match in the women he pays for at the bar.
The difference is she wants this, wants him, wants him to come and release and scream for her, though he does not know why.
But then she throws back her head and cries out, screams out in pleasure and god she is screaming his name and it is just too much for him. A primal part of his body, a deep subconscious feeling reacts violently to his name crossing her lips, screamed in the throes of passion. Eric cannot stifle a groan when he comes, his body arching forward, into her, wishing to be closer if only to feel More.
And then it is over, and he knows only shame, only the pain from her fingers, and the knowledge that he has brought pleasure to the Queen, the evil woman who stole his wife from him. It chills his blood.
The Queen leaves quickly after, her leer still haughty as she walks with insurmountable self-confidence, leaving Eric chained and partially nude, bleeding and soaked with sweat.
He is a disgusting human being, he thinks, and his brain can find no reason to dispute such a claim.
Let her rot in hell, her and her damn magic.