A/N: ** Warning: This chapter contains violent and disturbing imagery and may be too intense for some readers. It is not necessary to read this chapter in order to understand future chapters**

Thank you, as always, to all those reading this. Your insights and reviews help tremendously.

A Lion Caged

"You need to remove your dress, Leonie. You don't want to wrinkle it," Montran said and although his voice was quiet, it was also implacable.

Twisting her arms behind her back, she began to struggle with the hooks. Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes, leaking slowly down her cheeks. Her fingers, stiff with fear, refused to obey her instructions.

In one fluid movement, the whip came up and cracked the floor beside her. She flinched, the noise sharp and incredibly loud in the quiet room.

"Quickly, dear," he instructed, coiling the whip again.

Her mouth dry, her fingers shaking, she managed two hooks before she felt a searing pain in her side and back as the whip wrapped around her like a lover's embrace. She bit down on her lower lip, refusing to let escape the scream that clawed at her throat.

"You must know that people will look for us Montran," she said finally and hated the pleading tone that shaded her words.

"They won't find us in time, though. That is the thing, isn't it Leonie. Time."

She finally got her dress unhooked enough that she could slide it down her hips and step out of it, leaving her in her chemise and small clothes. She shivered, not entirely from the cold. Along her side and back the tracks of the whip stung and she could feel a slight dampness along that same track, knew that the wound was weeping, just as she longed to do. Skin had been torn away where the knots of the whip had struck, burning angrily.

"Did I ever tell you how I became a Grey Warden?" Montran asked, his tone so casual that it flustered her into shaking her head.

"I am Stefan Deverat's son. Have you heard of him?"

Leonie searched desperately for the answer. The name was familiar but she couldn't find the answer, it was locked away behind the mind numbing fear.

He looked expectantly at her, an eyebrow raised. "No?"

"I have heard of him, yes. But I – I don't remember why."

The whip cracked again and this time she could not bite back the scream that reverberated off the walls. Her chemise tore, revealing the ugly welt, oozing with blood.

"Think harder, Lion."

Leonie took a deep breath and then another, steeling herself, willing her brain to start functioning. A vague recollection teased at her. Was it right? Would it matter?

"He was Empress Celene's most trusted general. He was killed in a duel."

The whip hit her again, bringing her to her knees. "It was not a duel. He was murdered by a bard, hired by the Warden Commander of Orlais at the time."

Leonie lay on the floor, trying not to whimper as the pain pulsated through her.

"And you killed the Warden Commander?"

Another crack, falling across her shoulders, snapping and biting at her flesh like a rabid dog.

"My dear, do you know nothing? I killed his son. The Warden Commander conscripted me to prevent my beheading."

The panic was rising again, out of control like a wildfire, burning at the edges of her reason.

"A beheading would have been far kinder. But I suspect the Warden Commander knew that."

He laughed then, and the sound of his laugh was so warm and friendly that she was startled into looking at him. He looked down, meeting her gaze and she saw concern in there for a blink of time. That frightened her almost more than the whip.

"My dear, you're bleeding," he said in sincere surprise and came to kneel beside her, touching her shoulder gently. He bent and she felt his lips trailing along the welt. Her stomach lurched and for a wild moment she thought she was going to be sick all over the floor.

"So beautiful," he murmured against her shoulder and she shivered as his tongue came out and lapped at the trail of blood across her shoulders. She gagged, gripping her hands in front of her, begging her stomach to keep its contents.

But in another blink, he was up, his voice hot and angry again. "That bastard! He poisoned me, leaving me to die this slow, tortuous death." He cracked the whip in anger, dust flying as the tip hit the floor with a loud snap.

"I had a future that he took away from me. I never wanted this," he said and to her horror, she heard tears in his voice and looked up again. His face was damp from his tears and his eyes were closed.

Seeing an opening she hadn't expected, Leonie propelled herself forward and lunged at him, shoving into him with all of her weight. He grabbed her arms and pulled her with him as he fell back, hitting the wash stand, sending the ewer crashing to the floor.

The blow came out of nowhere and Leonie went reeling across the room, her cheek exploding in exquisite pain. Her vision narrowed, darkened and bright shapes danced in the periphery. She was on her knees again, her breath coming in shallow pants, her pain numbing her brain.

"Still in need of taming, I see," Montran snarled, his face contorting into a mask of rage as he reached again for the whip.

Leonie grit her teeth and straightened her shoulders. She would not willingly submit. Not now, not ever. She braced herself for the piercing hot flick of the whip as it curled around her upper back, once, twice and still she would not bend to it, to him. Her scream never left the confines of her own mind.

"Look at that blood. Dear me. I think you will have to remove your chemise, dear Leonie. I need to tend to those wounds," Montran said, his voice dripping solicitously into the space between them.

Leonie flinched away from his touch as he knelt before her again, tenderly dabbing at the welling blood. He bent down and licked at it. His mind was completely unhinged now, she saw that and with it, her hope of talking her way out.

"I told you, my lovely Leonie, did I not? You would welcome my touch. And here you are, at last."

"I am not here by choice. I do not welcome your touch," she ground out, defiantly tilting her chin higher. "No matter what you do to me, Montran, I will never welcome your touch."

This time the blow was expected and she rolled with it, even as her nose began to flow. White hot pain shot through her nose, straight up to her brain. Some voice inside her urged her to submit, just submit and maybe walk away but she could not bring herself to do it. She lay panting on the dusty floor again, eyes closed against the pain and despair.

"And do you think Duncan will come to your rescue?" he asked, scornful.

Maker's breath, if only that were possible, she thought and a fresh wave of tears fought their way from behind her lids, trickling hotly down her cheeks. She could almost hear Duncan's voice encouraging her to be brave, to be that fierce lion. She could almost feel his hand, reaching out to her and she wondered briefly if her mind was coming unhinged as well.

She growled deep in her chest and pushed herself up again.

"Never," she snarled at him and reached out, raking her nails down his face, digging into the flesh. She could feel his skin under her nails. He grabbed his face, now twisted in agony and howled in fury and pain.

She was on her feet and at the door, pulling on it frantically. But the key was still in his pocket and he was laughing at her now, even as the blood flowed freely from the wounds she had inflicted. His laughter was high and shrill and completely mad. Her heart stopped. How could she fight against a madman who relished pain and longed for death?

"I thought this might happen. I had hoped, of course, that you would not fight too much. A little struggle is good, yes? But too much is just so unnecessary."

He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to the bed. Her eyes smarted from the pain and she was brought up on the tips of her toes to prevent the hair from being pulled completely out of her scalp. Her fists lashed out at him, ineffectual blows that he ignored.

He flung her down with a grunt. As she fell onto the bed he straddled her, his weight pushing her deeper into the feather mattress, giving her no purchase to attack. Her entire face hurt, waves of pain that seemed unending and dulled her senses.

He was smiling at her again, and the change in his expressions was dizzying. "You are exquisite, Leonie," he whispered and his voice was filled with tenderness and longing. There was some part of Leonie somewhere that pitied him in that instant.

Her eyes slid closed as shock began to take its toll on her. She fought against the lethargy that was pulling at her lids, her limbs.

Still straddling her, he tied her hands above her head and then to the headboard. She kicked at him, catching him once in the side of the head as he moved down to do the same with her legs. He let out a grunt of pain but continued with his task as if she were no more bothersome than a mosquito. He spread her legs wide, tying each to a bedpost. Leonie felt her will slipping away, slithering into the dark corners of her mind.

With a grin, he took out a boot knife and cut her chemise away before climbing back onto her. Her time was ebbing away and Leonie knew if she did not do something soon, she would not do anything at all.

"So is this the boot knife you would like to stab into my shallow little heart?" he mocked in a whisper against her ear.

Without warning, Leonie brought her face up to the tender flesh of his neck, where his blood pulsed and opening her mouth, she bit down on the flesh there as hard as she could. Blood seeped out, hot and thick and tangy with copper. She could almost taste the taint in it, smell it as it dripped over her. The muscles of her neck quivered with the strain but she closed her mind to everything except survival.

His voice was shrill as he grabbed her hair, trying to pull her away but she bit down harder, tenaciously clamping her jaws down, locking them onto her target. She wanted to gag on the viscous fluid and the back of her throat rebelled several times but she would not let go. The more he struggled away from her, the harder she clamped down, the action tearing his skin and exposing more neck to her teeth. She was blinded by the blood now, forcing her mind to ignore the revolting taste and texture of skin and muscle as she bore down, using every bit of her diminishing strength. She could not give in now, although every muscle, every fiber, every thought screamed to do so. Her neck and shoulders were shaking with her effort. She was relentless, stuck in some space between life and death where everything was painted red.

He shoved the knife into her shoulder. The pain was a shocking lance, splintering her vision, her resolve. She she fell back with a sharp hiss, relinquishing her hold on his neck. His blood washed over her, spurting out of him. She gagged again, her stomach roiling. She looked at him through a red curtain, her eyes stinging and burning, her breath painful.

Montran rolled off her, clutching at his neck, his eyes wide. He was on his knees beside her and he looked at her with something she thought was gratitude. A peaceful smile came to his face, his teeth slick and red from his blood. "Thank you," he whispered and collapsed on her.

She knew when he died, his breath a short sigh in her ear. She bucked and twisted and turned, trying to dislodge him but even in death he seemed determined to try and break her. After several moments she gave up trying, her mind churning around bleak thoughts, her breath coming out painfully short, woefully inadequate with his weight upon her. His dead weight and she bit back a sudden giggle that insisted on bubbling up, hysteria seeping into her pores.

She lay there for some time, wondering how soon it would be before she was dead as well. There was a temptation, alone in the room with Montran sprawled atop her, to close her eyes and await her death, to just be done with it. She wasn't sure she had any fight left in her. It was the pain in her shoulder where the boot knife was lodged that kept her grounded. If she could feel pain perhaps there was some hope, somewhere.

With the clarity born of hysteria she saw that her strength and courage did not come from some deep well within her but rather from her fear of disappointing those she loved. And no matter how much she hated disappointing them, she was bound to now.

The candles burned lower, guttering. One by one they went out. She was left alone in the dark with Montran's blood choking her and nobody knew where she was.

She screamed then, over and over until her voice was gone and then she screamed some more, harsh, rasping noises that died out because nobody was there to hear them or save her and she was too tired to try to save herself.

Thoughts turned to Duncan and she could only whisper his name, the apology thick, trapped bitterly in her throat. She never wanted to hurt him, disappoint him. He was all that she had ever wanted and the keening edge of regret was a sharp blade in her heart.

Pieces of her mind seemed to be slipping away in the bloody aftermath and she watched them wink out, wreathed in a miasma of death and despair.

When the dark chasm opened up before her, she saw a distant point of light offering peace and solace. She willingly plunged into the abyss, grateful for the small mercy.