I know, I'm really slow with these things. Sorry. But I still feel inspired by this lovely woman so I'll keep writing things from time to time. So far...this is my favorite one to write, oddly enough! Let me know what you think!

"Anora Mac Tir, formerly known as 'Anora Theirin', you have been stripped of your title as queen of Ferelden and sentenced to life in prison. Such has been deigned by the newly appointed king, King Alistair. May the Maker watch over you."

The weight of those words tumbled over her, crushing the heart that pumped ever so loudly in her chest. Already she knew what her destiny was, she heard the Warden himself say Alistair's name when asked who would succeed the throne. But hearing these words from her former advisers, chained and bound as her crimes were announced within the Ferelden Court, the severity of her sentence at last hit home.

Two soldiers grabbed her by the arm, their heavy plated armor rough against her luminescent skin. She did not fight them despite the manner in which they treated her. There was no point now, Ferelden had chosen its monarch and she must obey. The most she could do was hold her head high, proud and unwavering as she walked by the crowds that glared so vehemently at her. It seems Eamon's influence had penetrated the castle walls far deeper than she thought, turning those who at one point worshipped their queen to spit upon the very ground she walked on.

At one point her gaze met that of Alistair's, pale blue eyes meeting hazel ones as they regarded one another with hostility. Resentment towards the man who killed her father arose in her heart, urging the fallen noble to resist, to fight, to scream.

But Anora knew better. The Mac Tirs were nothing more but a fallen name, a shamed household that would be whispered in disgust for years to come. Anora had given everything to this nation, had loved the people and swore to protect them at any and all costs…but what use was it now? Her fate was sealed.

But even if it was the Theirin who won this battle, that did not mean she would show him respect. The crowds mumbled as she simply glared at the new king, refusing to show him the courtesy of bowing her head in acknowledgement to his royal title. Tension rose, thick in the air as she refused to move, their eyes engaged in a fierce battle of wills. At last she was pulled away by one of the guards, but her actions said enough: You will never be good enough to be king.

As she descended the stone steps towards the dungeons, Anora felt a slight tremor run down her spine. The blackness of the lower level spread out as far as she could see; the stench of unwashed bodies and feces hitting her senses all at once. The darkness seemed to call to her, the shadows begging her to join them in its miserable existence. Was this all the fallen queen had to look forward to? Anora gazed longingly through the windows of the great hall, the rays of sunlight spilling onto her pale face as she walked towards her doom. This was the last time she would be able to see her beautiful Ferelden sun. Ferelden, Ferelden…how deeply I loved you…

Days passed, perhaps weeks? Time did not exist here, there were no windows for her to know when the sun would rise or fall; the guards didn't speak to her no matter how many times she inquired about the outside world. She spent her hours counting the cracks that lined the walls, other times she recited poetry. But for most hours, she slept, for it was in dreams that she could find peace, albeit a temporary one.

Cailan kneeled before her, a white lily in his hands. Those sapphire eyes twinkling in the sunlight, lips twisted in that lazy half smile of his—Maker, how long has it been since she last touched his soft hair? He was quoting some terrible elven poetry he found in her father's library, butchering the words as he stuttered them out to a young Anora.

This was no mere dream, but a memory of younger years, of the days when he began wooing the soon-to-be-queen, love struck and foolish and craving. Young Anora regarded the prince with sheer boredom, rolling her eyes as he took her hand to place the delicate flower in her palm—the boy lacked even one spark of creativity in him—and wriggled free from his grasp, dropping the flower carelessly on her desk before returning to her studies.

Oh, for how long Cailan stood there, waiting to see if she were perhaps toying with him. But the girl had no interest in the trifles of love, preferring to study the ancient texts of the great Dalish wars, or perhaps memorize the war strategies of Moira, the Rebel Queen. And all the while her childhood friend stood there, dumbstruck and silent, before at last leaving her alone to her studies.

At the time she had been relieved to see him depart. Pressure for their marriage had been heavy ever since she was a child. A stubborn Anora simply wanted to live her life free from the bonds of marriage, free from the expectations to be wife first, woman second. But if she had known things would turn out this way, if she had known…

She awoke with a start, the iron bars of her cell shaking violently as one of the doors slammed shut. In the cell across from hers was a middle-aged man, no older than his mid-thirties, his head down as he breathed in and out slowly. Scars across his chest showed that he had been whipped, the raw flesh pink as little droplets of blood trickled down his skin. His straggly hair covered his eyes, she wondered if he were conscious. Anora scooted a little closer to the man, wanting to get a better look to see if he were still alive. After a moment his hand twitched, his head twisting up slowly to meet the former queen's gaze. Upon realizing whom it was that sat across from him, the peasant smiled a wide toothless grin, crawling to the edge of his cell.

"They are fighting for you, my Queen! We shout in the streets, we fight the guards, all for you." Cried the peasant, grasping the bars of his cell to be at least an inch closer to the disgraced noble. His gray eyes were lidded with a dreamy expression, ecstatic to be in the presence of his beloved monarch. He reached out from the bars towards her—a skeleton for a hand, how starved he was—drooling from madness or excitement or whatever disease of the mind plagued him. "I-I poisoned the wine. You should have seen how he choked, it was so funny…Hehe, I got them for you…My Queen, so pretty, so strong…Queen Anora forever…" He mumbled nonsense now as his body started to convulse, the musty stench of urine enveloping her as he pissed himself. Anora shrank back from the man, repulsed by his behavior. Are these the sorts who followed her? Or was he simply a fanatic? The guards rushed in to detain him, lifting his starving body and tying him with ropes. All the while he screamed "My Queen, my queen!" as he struggled to be free, eyes nearly popping out of his sockets as his gaze bore into her.

Anora laughed, the kind that one makes when they know only despair. "Queen Anora of Ferelden I am no more….I am Anora the Commoner, my empire of dirt, thieves and robbers my subjects…And now, now my royal knight is a mad man, his armor merely the skin on his bones…" She laughed again, earning curious looks from the guards. What a sad little picture for one who once grasped the throne in her hands, who was adored by the people and praised for her insight at such a young age…how the light of the Maker beamed so brightly upon her then, and how quickly she was cast into the darkness now…

And so, she dreamed and dreamed until she knew no longer where reality existed and dreams took place. At times she was with Cailan seated on the throne, other times she was with her father. Some nights she even dreamed of her mother, who died when she was young. But many a time she dreamed of darker things—her father's corpse as he lay motionless at her feet, Cailan shaking and bleeding as the dark spawn dragged him underground, her own death as she lay forgotten by the world. Those were times that she would wake up in a sweat, her hands trembling with the horror of her own mind. During those dreams she much preferred to be awake, her knees pulled to her chest as she begged for Andraste to save her from this hell.

Never did Anora consider herself the religious type—a realist, she called it. Anything that you wanted you had to make happen, and she was most certainly a woman of action. But trapped like an animal, darkness as your sole companion, loneliness that tore apart even the most fortuitous of souls—praying to a god that may or may not exist seemed to be the only choice.

But her whispered words were heard by none, or perhaps the Maker simply chose not to answer. And after a time she stopped praying. Maker or not, she would never be so foolish as to rely on some mystical force to save her ever again.

Anora no longer accepted the meals that the guards pushed into her cell, kicking away the bland mush. Her voluptuous body, once soft and desirable with its well-fed form, began to resemble the other prisoners as she continued to starve herself. Her golden hair, pale and lovely as it was, began to thin and tangle, her full lips now cracked with a lack of water. Despite the begging of the prison guards for her to eat, she showed no response, instead staring at the wall as she let her mind go far away from this miserable existence. If she must die here, then at least let her die with pride.