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.
The next several days were more of the same. Each morning, Alistair was roused from his sleep and chained to the bed. Anora would enter and disrobe, then proceed straight to him in a business-like manner with few words of banter exchanged between them. Usually, her hands would go straight to his flaccid member, stroking and massaging gently as Alistair tried desperately not to let his body respond to the wonderful sensations. It never took long, however, for him to reach a full erection, and she would lower herself onto him without delay and ride him. Most times, she would not dismount until after he had come within her twice, his too-eager cock so willing to action after a few minutes rest.
"Grey Warden stamina has not been exaggerated," Anora said in a pleased tone, panting a little from their exertions. It had been well over a week since Alistair was brought there from his dungeon cell, and – as always – Anora lay down beside him with her legs curled to her chest after they had finished.
Despite himself, Alistair looked at her curiously. "What in the Maker's name are you doing?"
"The midwives I spoke to said staying like this for a few moments after intercourse might aid in conception," Anora explained in an irritated tone.
"You look ridiculous," he told her. "And this coming from a naked man chained to a bed."
"Come now, Alistair," she said with her head turned back towards the ceiling. "Conceiving a child with you will take some time, surely. We might as well be civil."
"We can be civil when you and your guards stop… violating me for your own gain and amusement," he snapped.
Anora gave a condescending laugh. "Don't pretend you didn't enjoy what we just did. You were yelling so loudly, they likely heard you in the lowest levels of the basement."
Alistair refused to look at her, his face feeling red hot with shame.
"I wonder, did you make those sounds when coupling with that Dalish mongrel of yours?"
Alistair whirled his head around to face her, his eyes piercing and dark with fury. "Don't you dare speak about her that way! You'd be lucky if you could be a quarter of the woman she is!"
Anora smirked and pushed herself off the bed. "Was," she said simply as she walked to her discarded robe and pulled it over her shoulders.
"What?" Alistair snarled.
"'The woman she was,'" she corrected again. The demure expression on her face did little to mask the sadistic glee in her eyes.
"What… what do you mean by that?"
Anora watched him as she tied the belt around her robe. "You didn't think your Warden actually survived ending the Blight, did you?"
Alistair stared at her, his brain refusing to comprehend what she was telling him.
"Have you never wondered," Anora continued, "why it must be a Grey Warden to kill the archdemon? I know little of the details, but something about the taint within you allows you to slay not only the body of the dragon, but the soul as well. At the cost of the Warden who gave the killing blow."
"No…" Alistair murmured, his throat closing around the words. "You're… You're lying."
She chuckled. "Why would I make up such a thing?"
Hot tears pooled in his eyes. "Please, no… Please… Just tell me you're lying."
Anora merely sighed and walked to the door. "I will see you again in a few days, Alistair, after I have consulted with my midwives. Perhaps we can try other positions that will be better for conception."
Alistair barely heard her. "Please…" He cried freely now, not caring if she or the guards saw him breaking. "Oh, please, Maker! No…"
The guards came and unchained him from the bed. They all but carried him from the room and threw him back into the storage closet with the window and tiny cot. Alistair lay there on the floor where he landed, curling his shackled legs in towards his chest, his mind swimming with the last, final image of Tangi. Chestnut hair, tied back with wisps framing her slender face. Terrified eyes, shining with love and tears.
In the four months of his incarceration, he had wanted to die many times, would have preferred it to the daily agonies of his imprisonment. This new torture – the knowing he would truly never see his Tangi again – felt like death, felt like dying. For what was left of life, if there was nothing left to live for?
o.O.o
Anora had Alistair brought back into the bedchamber a few days later, but found herself leaving frustrated. Alistair, consumed with grief, could not bring himself to arousal, despite some level of teasing on the queen's part. This continued during the next few attempts over the following week such that Anora's patience had obviously grown thin.
"What use are you to me, then?" she snapped at him one morning, tying her robe around her as she headed for the door.
Alistair lay on the bed and didn't look at her. Despite the fact that they no longer chained him to the bed, he hadn't struggled. Or moved much at all from where the guards had placed him.
Anora waited a moment at the doorway to see if he would answer. When he said nothing, she flounced from the room with a huff. After a moment, the guards dragged him to his feet once more and threw him into his room.
A new basket of food sat beside the door. Alistair stared at it, not feeling the hunger gnawing at his insides. He'd barely eaten since Anora told him that Tangi had died, even though good food was almost always available. Each bite he had taken tasted like nothing at all. Even the cheese did nothing to awaken an appetite within him. Instead of eating, he curled up onto the cot and stared at the walls until he fell into a dreamless sleep.
It was nighttime when the guards pulled him from the cot and dragged him roughly into the bedchamber. They tossed him onto the bed and shut the door behind them as they left. Alistair blinked up at the bed's canopy, mildly surprised to be taken there again so soon, but not caring why. The room was dimly lit by only a few flickering candles.
Someone entered. A small-framed woman, lithe and slender, who stepped hesitantly into the room. Anora came in after her, and shut the door behind them. Rather than approaching the bed, Anora sat down at the writing desk and watched.
Alistair paid the other woman no heed at first, but something familiar caught his eye. The woman – an elf, it would appear – wore her hair in a tight ponytail at the back of her head, with light wisps framing her face. The candlelight danced across her, obscuring her features, but he glimpsed a flash of chestnut and gold. He gasped. "T-Tangi?"
The elf did not answer, but rather lowered herself before him. Alistair stared at her, propping himself up to try to make out her face in the dim light. He could see nothing but a slim nose and high cheekbones, but he was becoming increasingly aware of the thin, gauzy material clinging to the cream-colored skin of her pert breasts and round hips. He swallowed, feeling suddenly warm in the face and… other places. "It… it can't be," he murmured.
Some part of him knew that was true – that even if Tangerine were alive, she wouldn't be there in Fort Drakon with him. But everything else within him was so consumed with desperation, he allowed himself to believe the lie. He watched, captivated, as the elf gently took his rising cock and massaged it, before placing her lips tentatively against its tip.
Alistair gave a loud groan. The need within him soared from non-existent to nearly all-encompassing. He wanted to embrace her, kiss her, run his hands all over her, plunge into her sweet folds again and again until the two of them were utterly spent. Yet he left his hands extended above his head, afraid to touch her or even look too closely at her now, knowing that one small difference could shatter the illusion. For a few glorious moments, he was with his love again, and he would do nothing to spoil that feeling.
He moaned her name again and again, half-uttered murmurings of love and devotion spilling from his lips. He was near delirious with rapture, and he struggled for some modicum of control, so he could hold on to the lie and the fleeting joy it brought him. The elf made no sound, save for the delightfully wet noises of her warm mouth sucking and stroking his throbbing erection. Each time he glanced at her, he allowed himself to see Tangi's head bobbing between his legs, her pointed ears tickling the insides of his thighs. "Oh, Maker…" he moaned in a half-crazed whisper. "Thank you for her… thank you…"
The pressure was building rapidly now, and Alistair found it increasingly difficult to maintain control over himself. The strength of his desire for her was too great, and the feeling of being with her again too overwhelming for him to last much longer. Before he could reach his climax, however, the elf was wrenched from him entirely. A moment of cold air against his wet skin made Alistair's eyes shoot open. Suddenly, Anora was on top of him, and his cock was enveloped again, this time deep within her folds. He was too close to the edge to make himself stop as she rode him roughly, her insides squeezing and milking him. He gave a hoarse yell as he spurted his seed into her, immediately filled with loathing. Loathing for himself or for her, he was not sure. And as he caught sight of the elf sitting at the floor by his feet, he felt keenly that it was both, for it was quite clear now that this elf – a serving girl or another prisoner, perhaps – was merely a pale shadow of his Tangerine.
Anora smiled at him triumphantly from above him, but said nothing as she dismounted and lay on the bed with her legs curled to her chest.
Alistair gave her a look of disgust and got to his feet shakily. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the elf woman still seated on the floor. He shuffled to the door. "Let me out," he called to the guards.
"I knew I could bring you to your senses, Alistair," Anora called from the bed.
Alistair turned on the spot to glare at her. "You defile her memory!"
The queen sat up and pulled her robe on. "I did nothing. You defiled her perfectly well on your own," she said, gesturing to the elf.
A surge of rage came over him and he lunged at her with his shackled hands raised to strike her. Anora yelped and pulled the elf woman up to shield herself from the coming blow. Alistair stopped himself at the look of terrified resignation on the elf's candlelit face. He dropped his hands and fell to the floor, suddenly exhausted.
"Guards!" Anora called. "Take him away!"
The soldiers entered instantly, and hauled Alistair back to the storage closet. He sat on the floor for several moments, unmoving, trying – without success – not to think about what had just happened.
He would have fucked that girl senseless if given more time, without any regard for her. He would have let the illusion of Tangerine consume him… No. It had consumed him and he would have ridden it out to its fullest if Anora had not interrupted. He could have stopped it. His hands, though shackled, had not been fastened to the bed. Shame overwhelmed him. But, even moreso, he was overcome with such blinding hatred for Anora. Hatred for locking him away and torturing him. For raping and degrading him. For keeping him from standing beside Tangi in her final moments. It was all he had now. No hope of rescue, no dream of seeing Tangerine again. Was hatred enough to live on?
