WARNING: This is a Darkfic. This story contains imprisonment, torture/violence, rape/non-con, despair, psychological abuse, and major character death. If you have a problem reading about any of these subjects and/or if these are triggering for you, for your own sake, please do not read ahead.


Alistair awoke with a stabbing headache. He was slumped against a cold, filthy stone wall, and he felt manacles and chains binding his wrists and ankles. Dressed only in his smallclothes, the chill of the air and stone seeped easily into his bones, and he shivered violently. Wherever he was, it was dimly lit, and it took some time for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. Stone walls and iron bars surrounded him on all sides. A small, tattered blanket and a bucket with which to relieve himself were the only other things in his cell. Once his teeth started chattering loudly, he gathered the dirty scrap of cloth awkwardly around himself, trying not to think about what vermin might be infesting it, but it did little to keep out the cold.

For hours, he waited for someone to come, to take him off to a chopping block to be executed. He tested his manacles and chains, looking for weak spots in the metal, but they were thick and well-forged. He wriggled his wrists, trying to slip out of the metal, but it only resulted in broken, raw skin. He pulled and pushed on all the bars of his cell, and felt around the stones on the floor and walls in hopes something might come loose. All to no avail. And though he had no way of keeping time, the hours wore on into what must have been well over a day at least, until Alistair began to wonder if they weren't going to bother with a proper execution at all, and merely starve him to death instead. No one came past his cell, and the only sounds that broke the oppressive silence were the far-off screams of tortured prisoners.

After what must have been two or three days in that cell, he woke to footsteps coming down the hall. Alistair got to his feet shakily, the days of cold, hunger, and dehydration leaving him weaker than he could ever remember being in his life. He leaned against the wall, struggling with the effort to remain upright.

The cell door swung open slowly, and two people strode in – one guard and a blond woman. Anora.

Alistair tried to lunge at her, but he only managed to stumble forward and land on his knees. "You…" he croaked in a voice barely above a whisper, his parched throat feeling like it was full of sand.

Anora gave a short nod to the guard, who filled a mug with water from a bucket he carried with him. The guard held the mug out to him. Alistair snatched it and greedily gulped down its contents. He held out the mug for more, but the guard only took it from him.

Alistair glared up at the queen with burning hatred. "Why am I still here?" he asked through clenched teeth, his voice still hoarse, his throat still unbearably dry.

"I never really had any intention of killing you, Alistair," Anora answered mildly. "A childish ruse, perhaps, but a necessary one all the same."

He frowned in confusion. "Why?"

"I would think that to be obvious." Anora gave a mirthless smile. "You are a Grey Warden, and as much as I want you out of the way, I also do not wish to jeopardize Ferelden's safety during a Blight."

"Fat lot of good I'll do to protect against the Blight, wasting away in a cell."

She shrugged. "Perhaps. Still, you may be of some use in that regard, and I will not throw away a potential resource."

"Potential resource?" Alistair repeated in disgust. "I am not some tool to be used as you see fit."

"That's all you ever were to me, Alistair," she said, shaking her head. She paused, as if appraising him. "I intend to make use of your royal blood as well."

"What do you mean?" he asked suspiciously, wisps of fear settling in his spine.

"I do not wish to take on another husband, but an heir will be necessary for the future of the country. An heir with Theirin blood will ensure that my place on the throne is not challenged again."

"That's insane!" Alistair exclaimed, feeling physically sick at what she was suggesting. "You want me to have sex with you?"

"That is typically how one creates an heir, yes."

He shuddered. "That's never going to happen."

Anora shrugged again. "You say that now. But given enough time, you might even begin to see me as desirable." She smirked. "Even the strongest wills can be broken, Alistair, and yours was never very strong to begin with."

Alistair shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. "But if everybody thinks I'm dead, they'll never believe that your child has royal blood. It won't work."

"That's another reason to keep you alive, I suppose. I'll simply clean you up and show you to the nobles. If they question why you are still alive, I will say that I decided to spare you instead and kept you close by to watch for signs of treason. Which isn't a lie, exactly."

The wisps of fear in his spine had exploded into utter horror at the life she was suggesting for him. "You're sick," he spat at her. Or he would have, if he still had any spit.

"It's either this or execution," she said blandly, as if talking about the weather. "You do not wish to live?"

"No, not like this. I'd rather die than live like this."

"Unfortunately, it isn't up to you." She turned back towards the door. "In the meantime, I'll leave you to the whims of my guards. They do get quite bored while they're on duty, and need some diversion to pass the time."

They shut the door behind them, leaving behind the water bucket and a lump of bread. As soon as Alistair could no longer hear their footsteps in the hall, he lunged at the food and water, tearing into the bread hungrily, washing it down with gulps of water. He felt pitiful and pathetic, and the knowledge that this was only the start of the degradation he'd have to face filled him with despair. He tried desperately to push it away, to hold on to some hope of escape. But though he wracked his brain to come up with an idea of how to escape, he could think of nothing that would work. He had no strength, and all his friends thought he was already dead. No one would come to save him.