CONTENT WARNING:

This fic is DARKFIC. It explores the characters as they might behave when they are taken to a VERY DARK PLACE. Namely, it explores who Alistair might become married to Anora with Loghain redeemed, and how that would affect the Warden who helped shape his circumstances.

It depicts acts of alcoholism, substance abuse, RAPE, coerced sex, prostitution, and MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. Content may be triggering and/or offensive to your sensibilities. If any or all of these themes disturbs you, please hit the back button on your browser now.

When had he become an abomination? Alistair wondered.

He stared into his heavy crystal glass as though the amber liquid within held answers beyond mortal ken. Immediately after breakfast was actually a bit early for him to start drinking, but that was only because he usually didn't wake until nearly noon. His days had long ago devolved into an endless and pointless cycle of waking to drink away the pain of being alive and sleeping to escape the pain of his excesses.

When had it started? After that fateful Landsmeet during the Blight, of course. He'd done everything Solona had asked of him. He'd agreed to marry Anora, agreed to become King of Ferelden, despite having never wanted such a thing. It was for the best, she'd told him, and he'd believed her, even though his heart had broken knowing it meant he couldn't spend his life with her the way he'd secretly dreamed of doing.

But it had taken him a while to discover the blessed numbing properties of spirits. He hadn't sought them after Solona recruited Loghain. No, he'd spent those final weeks of the Blight in a furious rage, but ultimately clear-headed, trying his best to be the king they needed him to be. Trying to be strong.

He'd organized the evacuation of Denerim when the darkspawn horde suddenly marched east, getting as many people out as he possibly could, while Anora traveled to Redcliffe to coordinate the war with Eamon and the army Alistair and Amell had pulled together. There would have been hundreds, if not thousands, more denizens of Denerim dead if not for his efforts.

He'd tried. Untrained and completely ignorant of what he needed to be doing, he'd tried. But when the battle had been over, the only thing anyone was sure of was that Loghain, the man who had betrayed them all, the man who had left Duncan to die, had saved them all.

Loghain was a hero and Alistair... was the king who, rumor had it, hid in the palace and did nothing.

Still, he hadn't sought refuge in drink yet. He'd closeted himself with Eamon, trying to learn the art of statecraft, only to emerge and find that his input was unwanted at best, and ridiculed by his intended wife at worst. He'd attended the unveiling of the statue Anora erected to her father. He pretended not to hear the whispers of the nobles, wondering what sort of wench Maric had begotten him upon. Peasant, they speculated, or a whore? He'd heard them stifle their titters at his clumsy manners and awkward graces, blushing miserably at each fumble, at each frustrated sigh Anora heaved as she hastened to cover his missteps. There was no doubt in anyone's mind who would be running Ferelden, they whispered when they thought he wasn't near. Certainly the cloddish bastard Maric had begotten wasn't up to the task.

But then came his wedding night. Nervous, but resolutely determined to be a good husband, he'd done his best not to disgrace his bride that day. Anora had given him nothing back, not so much as a smile. And when he'd gone to her that night, she'd slapped his hand away the moment he tried to caress her face.

"Save that for the strumpet of a mage you cavort with," she snapped irritably. "You're not here to woo me. Do your duty and get out."

He'd tried once more to hold her, when his passion was spent and all he'd wanted was not to feel alone for a moment. She'd ordered him from her chambers like he mattered no more than her maidservant.

He found a flagon of wine in his own chambers when he returned to them. He'd drunk it all that night, waking in the morning with a headache and a foul taste in his mouth, but little recollection of the lonely night he had passed.

He'd found his companion.

That was when the abomination was born, the night he married his brother's widow. Abominations were created when people were possessed by demons, after all. And so he was. Not a demon from the Fade, no, but a demon nonetheless. It entered him the night he found comfort in oblivion, the night he realized he had nothing. No friends. No comrades. No purpose, or destiny, no duty beyond getting an heir and not making a nuisance of himself.

All of it was gone. Solona had taken it all away from him, that day she recruited Loghain. Everything he lived for. The more he drank, the more her fault it became. Wine gradually gave way to stronger spirits, and those spirits whispered to him as they seared their way down his gullet, an endless litany of the injustices done to him. They catalogued her betrayals until Alistair hated her almost as much as he loved her. The world and the past took on the form of that hatred, warping until the blame rolled directly toward her. Every slight, every humiliation, every mistake that made people laugh at him made its way back to roost at her stoop. With each drink, with the numbness and oblivion it brought, these fevered thoughts of betrayal and blame became Truth, until it was only in rare, isolated moments of sobriety that he vaguely remembered the truth had once been something else entirely.

Hatred consumed his soul as surely as the spirits consumed his wits, until hatred and the spirits were all that was left.

The night after he... the night after she had her audience with him, he drank himself into a stupor and awoke from horrific nightmares that had nothing to do with darkspawn. Her tears, her agonized face, the utter desolation therein would not leave his mind. Naked and reeking of whiskey, he'd collapsed to his knees on the floor of his chambers, sobbing and sick with the knowledge of what he'd done. So loud and uncontrollable were his sobs, heaving until his chest ached, that he was certain everyone in that wing of the palace heard him. No one came to see if he was all right. Not even the most intrepid servant rapped upon his door. No one would go near him until daylight, when he was sober again.

He thought of what he'd ordered her to do, thought of her returning. Doing... what he'd done, once, in a frenzy... that was one thing. But to do it again, to intend it, to plan for it, for Andraste's sake! That was when he knew he was an abomination. Everyone's worst suppositions about him were true, and far more horrific than anyone had ever guessed. He knew he was an abomination not because he'd commanded her to return, but because he knew if she did, he'd do it all again.

He was looking forward to it.

Those few moments, being inside her, having power over her, making her hurt as much as he'd spent all these years hurting... it had felt too good. Now that he'd had it, he would never be able to give it up. He would visit upon her every humiliation he'd ever suffered, make her experience every powerless instant he had ever known. And he would revel in it.

He found himself with his sword in his hand, his father's sword which she had recovered for him at Ostagar. He'd put the point to his chest, just under his ribs. He'd put the pommel on the floor, bracing it. But his knees wouldn't buckle as he commanded them to. The instinct for self-preservation was still too strong. He couldn't make himself let his weight drop, let the force of his fall drive the sword through his heart.

So instead, he rose in time for breakfast, and had the servants bathe, shave and dress him.

When she arrived, he'd be armed with the amber liquid that had been his only friend and companion all these years.

The abomination would be waiting.

She smelled of lyrium when she arrived, and he knew she had been arming herself with magic just as he had been arming himself with liquor.

But she wore the Chasind robe as he'd commanded. Why, he wondered, had she done that, if she was so set on resisting?

"Go on, then," he said with a cruel smirk. "Attack me."

Lightning sizzled around her fingertips. "You think I won't?" she asked tightly. "Do you imagine I'll just let you rape me again?"

It was a testament to the amount he'd drunk already that he didn't even wince at her word choice.

"Let me tell you what you're going to do," he said, licking his parched lips and eying the half-empty decanter. "When I've had my pleasure and let you leave here, you're going to return to Vigil's Keep and hand over the mantle of Warden-Commander to one of your other Wardens. Then you will return to Denerim where you'll take a modest townhouse within easy distance of the palace. You're going to give up everything you've worked for... to be my mistress."

"Why in the name of Andraste would I do that?" Solona demanded, aghast.

"Are you aware that I intervened on Jowan's behalf?" Alistair asked, giving in and pouring himself another drink. "When Eamon sent him back to the Circle to face justice, I spoke for him, and as a result, he wasn't made Tranquil."

"I was aware of that," she answered, nodding. "And I was grateful, of course. But you weren't speaking to me at the time, so I never got a chance to tell you..."

"That will change." Solona blinked at him in confusion. Alistair felt a surge of arousal, his cock stiffening as he tested his newfound power. "If you don't do precisely what I've ordered you to do, I'll send a royal missive to Knight-Commander Greagoir. It will say that you confided in me that you discovered Jowan has once again been practicing blood magic. It will describe how you couldn't bear to come forward yourself, and swore me to secrecy, but that I, as King and a former templar, felt duty bound to make the truth known. I have it written already, right here in my desk. All I have to do is summon my courier to deliver it."

Tears welled in her eyes, pouring down her freckled cheeks in a rapid torrent. "Alistair. Please. Why?"

"You took everything I cared about from me, once. Why shouldn't I take everything from you?"

His stomach clenched, churning nauseously, but he did not relent. His fingertips were numb from the whiskey, his head buzzing pleasantly. And his body... his body was surging with power, with life. Having her with him, having her at his mercy... it was going to make all the rest of it worth it.

This feeling was worth destroying her for, even as it destroyed himself.

Finally, she nodded, her hair falling around her face as she bowed her head. But he wasn't finished.

"Should you decide Jowan's fate doesn't matter to you, you should also be aware that I am prepared to withdraw royal favor from the Grey Wardens of Amaranthine," he continued coldly. "You've served Anora's purposes already. She couldn't care less what happens to you now and has left it up to me. The Chantry has been itching to have a go at you, seeing as how you've conscripted several apostates. And the nobility would love nothing better than to eject you from the Landsmeet for crimes both real and imagined, and reclaim the arling for a true noble."

Her fair skin grew even more pallid, so that her freckles stood out in stark relief. "You'd punish the Wardens to make me suffer?" Again, he felt that sickening, delirious, heady surge of power. When Duncan had recruited her, she hadn't really cared about being a Warden. But somewhere along the line, in the year they had struggled against the Blight, that had changed. It mattered to her, what he was demanding she give up.

"I'd light Andraste's pyre myself to make you suffer," he said cruelly, and believed it. Even as he loathed himself for it, he knew it was true. The ability to make her suffer was all he had left in the world, the only thing that was still his.

He felt the buildup of her magic a split second before she released it. His entire body burned as lightning drove through him. He convulsed helplessly in its grasp. But then it was over, and he caught his breath before she could invoke another spell. His smite sent her flying across the room. It drove her against the edge of a heavy wooden table, and she cried out in pain and sank to the floor.

Alistair bared his teeth in something far too savage to be called a grin. It was a mockery of the smiles he used to share with her. "Perhaps I should mention that there are also certain damning documents that will be found should I happen to meet my death by any sort of magical misadventure. Documents implicating various mages in the practice of blood magic, accusing the Grey Wardens of sedition. That sort of thing."

Tossing back the last of his whiskey, he set down his glass and strode across the room to her where she huddled upon the floor, bruised and drained of mana. Never, in all the time they'd spent training together, had she been able to wear him down with magic before he could get a smite off. Not unless she was prepared to actually use a spell that would kill him. All she'd succeeded in doing was making this worse for herself.

He could have thanked her for it. It took him out of that cold, distant, calculating place where he could hear the distant shrieking of the conscience he'd once possessed. It brought him back to the roaring of his rage, to his need to tear at her, drive into her.

He looked down at her, his breath slashing between his teeth with the savagery of his lust. She was wearing the Chasind robe, the robe that had driven him to distraction in those early months of the Blight. The pale skin of her thigh practically glowed as it spanned the distance between the top of her stocking and her hip. Below the furred mantle the inner swells of her breasts heaved with fear and pain. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shining with tears. Wisps of wavy hair had escaped the simple queue she pulled it back with to cling to the tears upon her cheeks.

That was why everyone called her homely, he thought, towering over her, staring down at his prize as he rubbed his hand over the bulge in his breeches, savoring the moment, the power. She'd never worn these robes before the nobles. Instead, she wore more modest robes, like the Circle mages wore. No one else ever saw her the way Alistair had seen her those early months of the Blight, dressed like a savage, her ample bosom half-bare and her backside peeking out with each step. They'd never seen her glowing with power, never seen the hectic color on her cheeks or the fire of battle-lust in her eyes.

They saw the academic mage, the bookworm, untidy and socially awkward. They'd never seen her looking like some barbarian goddess in all her uncivilized glory.

That memory was his and his alone.

She'd worn these robes the first day they made love. Did she remember that? Did she remember how, flushed in the aftermath of battle against a gang of bandits, they'd rushed off into the trees together and torn into one another. How she hadn't even bothered to undress, but had just lifted the flap covering her loins to guide him into her. How Alistair's inexperience and uncertainty had been lost in the residual heat of battle, leaving him open to be guided by her and able to learn how to give her pleasure without being crippled by self-consciousness.

She's worn them then, and she'd wear them now. For him. Only ever for him.

He'd worshiped her, then. Now he'd make her worship him.

"Kiss my feet," he commanded, rubbing his erection harder through the heavy satin of his breeches. If he wasn't careful he was going to spill in his pants, but it felt too good to stop. "Kiss my feet and apologize to me."

Solona looked startled, and then rebellious. "Apologize to you...!" she began hotly, and he bent low and grabbed her by her hair, hauling her up to her knees as she cried out in pain.

"Yes!" he screamed in her face. "To me! Apologize for betraying me! Apologize for..." Emotion welled up in his throat for a moment, choking him. With a growl, he began to shake her by the hair near the nape of her neck, like a misbehaving dog by the scruff. He shook her until rage flowed again, drowning sorrow.

"Apologize for leaving me alone here," he finished harshly, releasing her with a thrust that sent her sprawling back to the floor.

She began to weep; soft, whimpering sobs keening up from her throat. But she crawled to him, her head hanging low to the floor as she shuffled on her hands and knees.

"I'm sorry," he barely heard her whisper as her lips touched his boots. First one, then the other. "Alistair, I'm so very sorry!"

Again, some emotion other than rage and hatred tried to rise to the surface, but he pushed it back and used his foot to thrust her away.

Down, he sank. To the floor, where he grabbed her ankles and jerked her legs apart. He buried his face between her thighs and the scent of her overwhelmed him. Maker, he'd nearly forgotten just how marvelous she smelled. He nuzzled the smallclothes covering her sex and as he did so, they began to grow damp and the smell intensified.

She wanted him. Even now, she wanted him. He thought of her words from the previous day, that there had been no-one else. Were they true? All these years, he'd imagined her with a chain of lovers parading through Vigil's Keep. That Howe fellow she'd conscripted, perhaps. Or the apostate mage. In his drunker moments, he'd even imagined her with Oghren, making bronto jokes as he rode her. But what if there hadn't been? Had she spent these years as starved for touch as he had?

He licked that growing patch of moisture on the linen cloth. Even with his senses dulled by whiskey, she tasted like the very grace of Andraste Herself.

She wanted him, and he would make her suffer for it.

He stripped away her smallclothes and used his lips, his tongue, plying her ruthlessly, until Solona squirmed and writhed and begged him for more. He used upon her the things she had taught him and even the tricks he'd picked up in the brothels, before Anora deprived him of that outlet. He thrust his thumb into her tight, wet sheath and his finger into her backside and fucked her with them in unison, hard and fast. Onward, he drove her, to the very brink, until her resistance was gone and she was begging incoherently for her release.

And then he stopped. He withdrew his fingers, wiped her slick from his face as though it were something foul. She was still blinking up at him, her dark eyes dazed and uncomprehending, when he straddled her waist and pushed the bodice of her robes down, freeing her magnificent breasts. He released his cock, hard and aching, from his breeches, but when she reached for it, he slapped her hands away.

"Do as I've commanded," he said harshly, "and maybe when you get back, I'll finish what I started here today."

Horror and shame dawned in her eyes as he spat into the deep valley of her cleavage and pushed her breasts together, thrusting between them.

"Get off me!" she snarled, but he ignored her, driving himself between those soft mounds. He pinched her nipples, watching them blanch as she cried out in pain, as she struggled beneath his weight. He felt her magic well up, and then subside. She recalled what he'd said about the things that could happen if she killed him.

He felt his release building, and oh Maker, it was better than anything he'd felt in years. Nothing like the agonized effort of finding pleasure with Anora. Nothing like the shameful rush he'd found in the brothels. It was dark and bright, glorious and filled with burning rage. He chased it, let it well up and spill over him, his seed jetting in pearly strands upon her breasts as she glared up at him in hatred.

"Lick it," he ordered, pushing her generous breast up toward her face. How he'd once loved to watch her suck her own nipples while he pleasured her! She winced, squeezing her eyes shut in shame. But she took her breast in-hand and bent her neck, tracing a string of his seed with her tongue and cleaning it off her skin.

Rising, he tucked his softened cock back into his breeches, ignoring her as she tried to make herself presentable.

"Will that be all, Your Majesty?" he heard her ask finally, and the sarcasm in her voice would have sliced a fatal wound, had it been a blade.

"It will," he said with a calm he didn't feel. Then he turned and approached her. He reached out to touch her face and she jerked away, glaring at him again. Undaunted, he took her chin in his hand, his fingers digging into the sides of her jaw, and forced a kiss upon her.

"I may not have the Wardens. I may not have a duty. I may not have a real marriage, or an heir, or a country that respects me. But I will have you."

Two more tears fell from her eyes.

"You've become a monster," she whispered.

"I've become what you made me when you left me here."

She turned and left.

He stayed there in his study, drinking slowly throughout the day. For once, he didn't feel the need to rush headlong into oblivion. He wanted to linger there, only half-numb, and savor his victory. What he had become was an abomination, yes. But at least he wouldn't be alone anymore.

Anora found him as afternoon wore into evening.

"My midwives say the timing is auspicious," she announced coldly, without preamble. "You will lie with me tonight."

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

Alistair rose from his chair, withdrawing his flaccid cock from the breeches he had never bothered to re-lace after his meeting with Solona that morning.

Anora stared at him, her beautiful, hateful face alarmed.

Smirking, he began to urinate on her skirts.

"That's the last offering you'll get from my cock," Alistair said, and turned away as she fled.