Reverse-Cowgirl Diplomacy

The very first thing Elissa did after the archdemon fell was to have Alistair taken to the palace and ensconced in his bedchamber under Wynne's care. Then she joined Fergus in leading the remaining army in destroying the isolated bands of darkspawn throughout the city, though without the archdemon her sensitivity to the presence of the darkspawn was somehow diminished. It was nearly two days before the city was declared secure, and Elissa and Fergus returned to the palace.

By then, the pain of her full breasts and the yearning to hold her baby was so intense she could no longer bear it. She dispatched a company of soldiers and one mage to the docks to send up the signal for the ship bearing her daughter to return to shore. Mindful of the darkspawn filth covering her skin and armor, she retired to chambers for a hasty bath, unwilling to risk exposing Ella to the corruption of the taint. Even the thought of her babe caused her hideously aching breasts to begin leaking copiously within the bindings underneath her cuirass, and the linen strips were saturated and chafing by the time her maid had peeled them from her. She donned a simple gown and wasted no time grooming, but rushed barefoot to the palace gates to await the arrival of her daughter.

Sobbing with relief, the front of her gown darkening with wet stains, she fairly snatched Ella from Hortense's arms and carried her into the palace. If any of the soldiers bringing in reports of the status of the city found it strange for her to issue commands from Alistair's throne with her bodice open and the babe at her breast, they said nothing.

She sent Alba to relieve Wynne in tending to Alistair, but not before the mage somehow managed to browbeat Elissa into agreeing to go rest herself. By then the queen had been running on rejuvenation spells for over three days, and she was shaking with exhaustion. Wearily, she accompanied Alba to Alistair's chambers and removed her gown and shift, climbing into the king's massive bed. There she lay on her side and brought Ella to the breast now situated perfectly at a level with the babe lying on the bed. She was asleep before Ella had stopped suckling.

They slept throughout the next day, only waking every few hours to pull Ella onto her chest and carefully roll to her other side so that she could nurse from the other breast. Periodically she was aware of Alba or Hortense taking the babe to change her, but she was brought quickly back and Elissa was able to rest again.

Eventually, she woke to realize Alistair was awake and pressed against her back, propped up on his elbow to peer over her shoulder at the babe that slept peacefully against her breast.

"Maker's breath, she's gorgeous," he whispered in awe, reaching out to gently run a finger along Ella's soft cheek.

Sitting up, Elissa lifted the babe and laid her upon Alistair's lap. Gently, he unwrapped Ella's swaddling and inspected her, marveling at her tiny fingers and toes, perfect down to the minuscule fingernails. Less marvelous was the moment when the coverlet over his lap became wet. Hortense was summoned to take the babe away and change her.

Elissa would have risen as well and dressed to return to overseeing the efforts to secure and repair to city, but the moment she threw back the coverlet to rise, Alba appeared and informed her that Teyrn Fergus and Arl Eamon had matters well in hand until the king and queen were released from the care of their healers. Elissa was prepared to argue the point, feeling duty-bound to return to her responsibilities, until she actually stood and found herself dizzy with hunger and a-tremble with some strange weakness she could not name a cause for. Alistair was unable to get out of bed at all.

"We haven't any knowledge of what effect the death of an archdemon has upon Grey Wardens," Wynne speculated when she was summoned to assess the problem. "It's possible some lingering effect of your link to the archdemon has weakened you. Since the order has persisted even after the end of the previous Blights, we may presume it's a temporary difficulty. For now, I would advise you continue to rest."

Thus, Elissa resigned herself to spending at least another day abed. When Hortense returned with Ella, the babe was sucking voraciously upon her tiny fist. Wynne, Alba, the wet-nurse and their steadily increasing flock of care-takers and attendants retreated to give them privacy. Propping pillows behind her, Elissa reclined and brought the babe to breast, wincing as always at that first hard pull upon her nipple.

"Ahem. Those are new," Alistair said, staring avidly at her breasts, much larger now then when he had last seen them. As he watched, thin streams began to leak from her unoccupied nipple, much to his fascination. It was only then that Elissa realized her entire torso was sticky with dried rivulets of milk that had flowed while she slept. She would need to ring for another bath soon, she thought, even as Alistair reached a finger out to capture a droplet and sample it.

"You're not going to distract me from asking how it is that we're both alive, you know," she said dryly as his eyes lit up in delight at the sweetness of her milk.

"How am I supposed to think about that with this before me?" he asked, leaning forward to cup her breast in his hand. Feeling the now-familiar tension within her breast, she opened her mouth to warn him against applying any pressure, but she was too late and Alistair spluttered in surprise, jerking back as thin, rapid jets of milk sprayed him directly in the face.

She couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped her lips as he wiped his face clean, but she quickly sobered, staring at him in wonder.

"How are we both here?" she asked earnestly, tears burning her eyes. "I'd meant to take that blow myself, and when I saw you do it—Maker, I thought the grief would kill me, knowing you were dead! I don't understand how this is possible."

Seeing her distress, Alistair gave over his fascination and lay back down beside her. He would not meet her eyes as he confessed what he had done to ensure their survival.

"You had sex. With Morrigan?" Elissa asked in amazement, too stunned even for jealousy as she lifted Ella to her shoulder and patted her back firmly.

Alistair groaned, covering his eyes. "I'd really rather forget about it, thank you," he muttered. "It wasn't the easiest thing I've ever done, nor did I behave particularly well. The only way I could function was to remind myself how very much I hate her...."

A mental image filled her mind, then, of Alistair lying miserable and awkward beneath Morrigan's cool hands as she caressed him. The witch drew back to make a scathing remark and slowly, his eyes filled with rage until he reached up and grabbed her angrily by the throat. He held her for a long, tension-filled moment, until she was on the verge of calling her power to defend herself, before pulling her cold lips to his in a brutal, furious kiss.

Elissa wasn't entirely sure if the image revolted her or not. Suddenly she had a new appreciation for what Alistair must have gone through at Fort Drakon.

"I'm sure this is all someday going to come back to haunt us," he said, closing his eyes. "Maybe it was the wrong choice. I don't know. But if I hadn't made it, we wouldn't have this moment. I would never have seen you again, never have seen our daughter...."

Elissa's throat tightened as two silent tears made their way down her face.

Alistair wasn't finished. "You know, in a way, it was actually you who saved us."

She shook her head in confusion. "I don't understand."

"If I had been the man I was before I met you, I would never have done it," he said. "I wouldn't have cared enough about what was right for me to let myself make the selfish choice, the choice to risk the unknown to be with you instead of dying."

She relaxed against the pillows as he draped an arm over her thighs and rested his head beside her bare hip. How far they had both come, from the wild, recklessly ambitious girl she had been and the shy, awkward templar afraid of his own strength and passion. She had no doubt that he was right; someday his decision to accept Morrigan's offer would come back to haunt them. But that would be many years from now, and in the meantime they had each other, their daughter, their companions, and a realm to rule.

At that moment, it seemed to be enough.

---

Alistair and Elissa's inexplicable weakness passed and they returned to their duties, focused primarily on rebuilding Denerim as the refugees began to flood back into the city, returning to the homes that were often no more than cinders and rubble. The death of the archdemon was not the end of Blight-related difficulties for Ferelden. Though there was an atmosphere of celebration throughout the city and the realm as summer cooled into autumn, Elissa knew it would not last. Unless they managed to find other sources of food, there would be a famine come the winter, for the Blight had spread too far over the Bannorn and a great deal of Ferelden's most productive acreage would fail to yield crops this season.

It would be at least another year for the land to recover from the corruption of the Blight, and so a proposal to send emissaries to Antiva and Orlais to request aid came before the Landsmeet. Mindful of the accusations that had been made against her family, Elissa did not feel it wise for her or Alistair to make the proposal, and instead she sought the aid of Arl Bryland, who—as a veteran of the Orlesian occupation—could not be accused of being a sympathizer. For all Loghain's fear-mongering about the Orlesians, when faced with the prospect of food riots and watching the people of their arlings and bannorns starve, the Landsmeet was surprisingly amenable to the plan.

Their second biggest concern was what to do about the arling of Denerim and the teyrnir of Gwaren and the power void their vacancy left in the Landsmeet. The disposition of Amarathine had been easy. They had granted it to the Grey Wardens, though there was some annoyance that once the Wardens from Orlais arrived to begin rebuilding the Fereldan order, this would effectively make an Orlesian the Arl of Amaranthine. There was some talk of Elissa taking on the role, but she didn't dare take Ella with her with news of darkspawn raids continuing in Amaranthine, and she steadfastly refused to leave her babe behind in Denerim. Thus, it would by necessity be an Orlesian overseeing the new Grey Warden stronghold. The benefit to the move, however, was that it would give the Grey Wardens a voice in the Landsmeet, even if that voice was Orlesian.

Gwaren they granted to Teagan, which thrilled Eamon (as it was a rise in power for the Guerrin clan) even though it left him scrambling for someone to run Redcliffe while he fulfilled his duties as chancellor. Secretly, Elissa hoped the move would divide Eamon's attention enough that he would be too busy to overstep himself in his role as chancellor.

This, however, left the very small bannorn of Rainesfere without a bann. Just as debate was heating up amongst Alistair’s councilors over what should be done with it—Eamon wanted to keep it in the Guerrin family or, at the very least, fold it back into Redcliffe’s holdings—word came that repair and reconstruction work on the Circle of Magi tower at Kinloch Hold was being called to a halt. The Veil was now too weak there, reported the messenger sent by First Enchanter Irving. Apprentices were having accidents, and even seasoned mages were finding it difficult to control the amount of magic they were drawing from the Fade.

Elissa had an audacious suggestion for the problem, though she saved it for the privacy of Alistair’s chambers that night.

“Commission a new tower built at Rainesfere and deed it to the mages?” he asked incredulously when she told him her idea. “Are you mad?”

“You yourself said we ought to reward their service in battle against the archdemon,” she shrugged. “You’ve always had your reservations about the way the Chantry treats mages. Why not reward them with an act of trust?”

“Because it might set a bad precedent to start our reign by provoking an Exalted March against us!” Alistair protested.

“When you chose to become king, you told me you wanted to make a difference in the lives of the lesser citizens of Ferelden, and you cannot to that without running the risk of making yourself unpopular, for the greater citizens will not like having their comfort disturbed. Still, the elves of the Alienage are not the only Fereldans living in virtual bondage.”

Alistair had no ready reply for that, and his thoughtful frown let Elissa know she had carried her point.

“Rainesfere is a minor bannorn, for all that Teagan has become a powerful voice in the Landsmeet. It has very few freeholders that look to it for protection, which means the mages would not have to keep a large number of troops, which should help placate any misgivings about the idea. They can focus on rebuilding the Circle with a degree of autonomy from the Chantry.”

“But mages are forbidden to hold titles,” Alistair argued. “Who would be the bann?”

“For matters of managing the oversight of the freeholders, let the First Enchanter appoint a seneschal, who would ideally be a non-mage to calm any reservations the freeholders might have about being under the authority of the mages,” Elissa suggested. “The Grand Cleric has a voice at the Landsmeet. Let the mages have one as well. If the nobles are concerned that a mage might use blood magic to control their will, let the seneschal act as their emissary to the Landsmeet also.”

Eamon thought they were mad, but Alistair and Elissa sent a message to Irving nonetheless, seeking his opinion on the idea. It was Irving who recommended that the plan be amended so that the templars would be kept on in place of the fighting troops most bannorns hosted for the aid and defense of their freeholders. The Knight-Commander would be appointed as the seneschal, forming a partnership between the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander of sorts. This would put the mages on more equal footing with the templars, while still keeping the templars present should they be needed. It would also provide the templars with an investment in helping the mages, rather than merely attempting to control them. In addition, it would go a long way toward soothing the qualms of the chantry and the nobility.

Thus, Rainesfere was deeded to the Circle of Magi and the mages freed from their effective imprisonment. Only the enormous popularity of Alistair following his slaying of the archdemon prevented the move from becoming a major political crisis. Finally, the matter was settled with the Landsmeet declaring that they would revisit the situation at Rainesfere on an annual basis to assess whether or not the king and queen’s trust in the mages had been misplaced. While not the vote of confidence they might have wished for, it was a reasonable compromise.

After a good deal of intense consultation and debate with it was decided that the arling of Denerim would be granted to Bann Sighard's son Oswyn—whom, Fergus assured them, was actually a very capable man despite their history of carousing together in their youth. It was presented as a token of gratitude for the service he had done the crown in attempting to investigate allegations of Loghain's desertion at Ostagar. Bann Sighard had other children who could eventually inherit Dragon's Peak, and so it worked out well. Elissa wondered if they were actually doing Oswyn a disservice, considering he would be living in the estate where he had been tortured, but the move had the benefit of winning them at least one more powerful voice in the Landsmeet and a capable administrator for Denerim.

Weeks spun into months without Elissa actually noticing. Autumn moved inexorably toward what was certain to be a brutal winter, even with the arrival of ships of grain and other foodstores from Orlais. Ella grew more beautiful with every day, managing to completely enchant Alistair, who regarded her as his own regardless of her paternity. Her Theirin heritage was unmistakable, and it was Arl Eamon himself who observed that she had Rowan Guerrin's eyes, settling—at least privately—any doubts that may have lingered in his mind about Cailan actually being Ella's father. He quickly became resigned to Alistair's choice of Elissa as his queen, and if Eamon and Elissa still occasionally clashed whenever Eamon seemed to take too much authority upon himself in his role as chancellor, he was much more willing to heed her own authority as queen, knowing she had kept the Guerrin link to the monarchy alive.

Somehow Alba made herself a permanent part of their company of attendants. Elissa wasn't entirely sure why, but the ancient mage seemed disinclined to leave court and return to wherever Wynne had found her. Even when Elissa explained that she was extremely unlikely to have another child, the midwife still insisted that her talents were best used attending the queen, and that was that. In some ways, it was pleasant to have a familiar face that would not leave. Morrigan had only been the first of her companions to depart; Sten for Seheron, Shale and Wynne for Tevinter, Oghren for Lake Calenhad, Leliana for Orlais.

Only Zevran remained. To Elissa's surprise, that had been at Alistair's request. The assassin served in an unofficial capacity as Alistair's master of spies. The nobility, so accustomed to not seeing the elves around them, were remarkably unguarded in his presence, and with Zevran's ability to conceal himself, he was able to glean many tidbits of information about who was loyal and who was not, and what plots they were hatching.

Though busier than she had ever imagined herself to be, it was also a time of relative contentment. Leery of giving the accusations Loghain had made against her any traction, she maintained a very modest court and presented as proper an image as she could manage, attempting to emulate Anora's cool and regal demeanor. With the exception of Alistair's coronation, revelries at court were kept to a minimum, as it wouldn't do to be seen being decadent or extravagant during a time of famine. What seductions and intrigues the nobles at court conducted among themselves, she could not say, for she steadfastly refused to involve herself in such games.

If she felt Alistair's concerned eyes upon her when she declined to return the Antivan ambassador's flirtations, she did not ask what troubled him.

Only when she was alone with Alistair in his bedchamber at night did she allow herself to consider that the queen she portrayed during the day had become a disguise she no longer knew how to shed. Though she welcomed his passion and returned it full measure, she knew something was missing. Everything was perfect and yet it all felt... hollow. He made love to her tenderly, carefully, as though he feared being too aggressive and she... she never sought more, never tried to find those hidden passions within him and bring them to the fore, never urged him to give his darker desires free rein. She felt Alistair's expectant gaze, as though he were waiting for her to do something, but she did not know what it was.

Only when he cautiously proposed inviting Zevran to join them some night did she begin to understand what he was waiting for.

"Have you lost your senses?" she forced herself to laugh lightly, snuggling against his chest with the sweat of passion cooling on her skin, even as she felt a cold knot of fear tighten in her chest.

"I've been, well, told that being between two men is something some women enjoy," he said awkwardly.

"Well, yes, but— We can't possibly do that, Alistair. Not now. Not without risking gossip."

"From Zevran?" Alistair lifted his head to stare at her incredulously. "If there's anyone who knows about discretion, it's him."

"No! From anyone who may be attending too closely to our habits," Elissa said, pulling away from him uncomfortably. "We don't want to confirm what—what the gossips have said about me."

"You mean Loghain," Alistair corrected tightly, his jaw hardening angrily. "We don't want to confirm what Loghain said about you."

"Yes," Elissa snapped, drawing the sheets over her breasts as though they were more substantial armor and crossing her arms. "Yes, that's precisely what I mean. Maker's blood, Alistair! He called me a whore before the entire Landsmeet."

"Yes, I heard him," Alistair said impatiently. "I also heard Bryland and Teagan, and in a way even Cailan himself, testify otherwise. I saw how the nobles looked at you that day, Elissa. You were their darling. None of them believed Loghain's claims, except perhaps a few who were devoutly loyal to him or Howe."

She shook her head in stubborn refusal. "It doesn't matter. We can't take the chance."

"Are you really afraid the nobility will believe Loghain," he asked, irritation sharpening his tone, "or are you afraid you will?"

"And what precisely is that supposed to mean?"

“Why didn’t you fuck Riordan?” Alistair demanded.

Taken aback, she stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Why didn’t you fuck Riordan?” he insisted, biting off each syllable sharply. “As far as you knew, he was going to die, and maybe you would as well. A fellow Grey Warden, going to his doom. Handsome, vaguely reminiscent of Duncan, possibly the only person at that moment in all of Denerim who understood what you were going through. Why not?”

“Are you saying I should have?”

“I’m saying that there was a time you would have without hesitation.”

“I wouldn’t do such a thing to you, Alistair. It would have been a betrayal. You’re my husband....”

“A husband who knew exactly who you were long before I married you. Once, you wouldn’t have let that stop you. You would have done it and found a way to make me understand later.”

“Perhaps, but things have changed.”

“You’ve changed.” He threw the covers back, flinging himself from the bed to pace the bedchamber, his nudity cast in golden-red glory by the fire on the massive hearth. "I've been watching you tiptoe around for months acting like you're scared of your own shadow, always cautious, always restrained. You don't take joy in things the way you used to, you don't allow yourself to feel pleasure the way you used to. And I think the idea that someone might believe Loghain is a convenient excuse for the fact that you've never stopped believing him yourself. You're afraid if you let go, if you let yourself be who you are, it will prove him right."

"He was right, Alistair."

"No. We've been over this before."

"Yes" she insisted. "He was able to make me respond because he knew me, because he knew I would feel pleasure no matter how wrong it was, no matter how badly it would hurt you, not matter how little I wanted it. And that's not the woman I want to be."

"Even if that's the woman it took to save our lives?"

"I don't understand."

"If not for you, when Morrigan had offered me the chance to save us, I would have refused out of sheer prudery," he said, moving toward her slowly. If she'd expected him to try to soothe or placate her, to be tender and conciliatory, she was wrong. His eyes glowed angrily, and his movements spoke of barely contained fury. "It's because you are who you are that we're alive. Because I learned from you, learned to stop acting as though desire was a fate worse than death, as though sex always has to be something romantic and pure and white-washed with the Chantry's seal of approval. I didn't want to feel passion with her, but that was the energy she needed for her ritual, and so I stopped holding back and let myself feel it anyway. And I never would have known how to do that if not for you."

He climbed onto the bed, crawling toward her, the line of his bare body almost predatory. Maker help her, it called to her, made her yearn to respond, to urge him to unleash that savagery. "I want that woman back," he said as he reached her, kneeling before her and clasping her face as he stared at her intently, his fingers sliding through the hair at her temples. "I want the wanton creature who could stroll into a tavern full of men smiling and take them all, the woman who used to laugh and make jokes and whisper filthy things to me while I was buried inside her. I want all of you, not just this... shadow of who you used to be."

Elissa closed her eyes and shivered, suddenly afraid. Not of Alistair, though this was the first time since Fort Drakon he'd been even a little demanding of her, but of her own response. She wanted. Dear Maker, what she wanted.... It was nothing the woman she was trying to be should want. She wanted the brutality his frustration hinted was simmering below the surface. She wanted rage and force and fury and pain. She wanted the sort of catharsis she'd had all those months ago on the journey to Ostagar with Duncan, to spend her fear and despair in some sort of ordeal that would give physical manifestation to the turmoil inside.

Before she could allow herself to accept that she wanted these things, much less give voice to those desires, Alistair sighed heavily, his frustration and tension draining from him. The hands cupping her face became gentle as he murmured, "I'm sorry, my love. I shouldn't press you like that. You'll do what you think is best for you, I'm sure. I just... I miss you. That's all. I miss you."

Pressing a kiss to her brow, he lay back down, turning his back to her, leaving her trembling with fear and arousal. His sudden yielding, his conciliation, was so completely not what she needed that she thought she might weep. Why hadn't he pushed her?

That answer, of course, she knew. He hadn't pushed because he loved her and he didn't want to frighten her. He didn't want to force her, to take away her choices and her ability to refuse as Loghain had. He had stopped because he trusted her to tell him what it was she desired, just as he had promised he would always be honest about his desires with her.

She'd not let herself truly feel desire for months. She thought if she was careful, if she didn't allow herself feel the things Loghain had used against her, she would be safe. But avoiding her desires wasn't making her feel safer. It merely made her feel as though she was treading on eggshells.

Perhaps what she needed was not less depravity, but more.

The next day she traveled to the Cousland estate in Denerim. Fergus was in Highever, though he would be returning to Denerim for the First Day celebration. His efforts at restoring their estates were finally beginning to pay off, and the Cousland manor was beginning to look like the noble dwelling it was rather than the looted and ransacked shell it had been when they had turned their attention to evicting Howe's wallowing swine. Many of their treasures had been stolen or sold; gold and silver plate, tapestries, furnishings and pieces of art. A number of the family portraits had been defiled beyond repair or outright destroyed.

She was hoping that there was one cache of treasures Howe's men hadn't discovered. She left her guards outside the door and went into her mother's bedchamber. There, behind a secret panel that opened only by exerting just the right amount of pressure on a precise spot in the wall, she found it. Drawing a deep, nervous breath she began to fill a satchel.

---

After nursing Ella a final time following supper, Elissa turned her over to Hortense and informed the nurse that she was not to be disturbed this evening except in an emergency. She also instructed Alba to come to the king’s chamber first thing upon waking, as her services might be needed.

While Alistair attended to some final affairs for the day with Eamon, Elissa went to his bedchamber and began to lay out her family's treasures. Nervous anticipation made her heart pound rapidly beneath her breast, made her palms sweat, and underneath it desire tightened things low in her body. It terrified her, that desire. Terrified her to know how badly she wanted this.

When had she started to fear her desires? She knew the answer to that, and she hated that it had never occurred to her to question it before. Loghain was dead. She and Alistair had destroyed him. She shouldn't have had to be afraid of him, and yet she was. How had she never noticed this insidious fear creeping in and taking over her life?

She heard voices in the wardrobe and knew that Alistair had returned and that his attendants were removing his armor and undressing him. She heard him dismiss the servants and then the door opened and he was there in his loose linen shirt and braies. He paused for a long moment in the open doorway as he took in Elissa, perched barefoot on the edge of the bed in a simple shift, and then the array of items upon the table. Blinking, he carefully and gently closed the door behind him.

"What's all this, then?" he asked cautiously.

"I don't want to be afraid anymore," Elissa blurted, clasping her hands together to control their shaking.

"All right." Alistair nodded slowly, his eyes guarded. "I don't think that answers my question."

Elissa swallowed hard, licked her lips, tried to force herself to speak past the knot of fear in her throat, threatening to choke her. "I want you to force me," she finally said, and Alistair jerked as though he'd received a jolt. "I want you to take me. I want you to hurt me. I want you to push me past my fear."

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, and she could see refusal in his eyes even though the condition of his braies spoke of another impulse entirely. Then he stopped himself and approached the table, inspecting the items there. There were carved phalli both wide and slender, straight and contoured, made from rare woods and even the tusks of some great rare beast from Rivain, polished to a smooth sheen. Their bases were etched and inlaid with gold in the laurel wreath device of House Cousland. There were cuffs fashioned from the finest leather, soft as butter on the inside but strong and reinforced, secured by a wide buckle and also etched with the Cousland device. Small golden nipple vises, tightened with fine-threaded screws, lay upon a length of velvet, trailing their bejeweled chains.

But where Alistair hesitated was over the small whip she had laid out, little more than a fine, braided leather cord with a knotted end, attached to a long, slightly flexible rod with a weighted handle.

"I can't." But even as he spoke the words, there was something dark and feral in his eyes, in the coiled tension of his posture, in the way his pulse jumped at the side of his neck that said he could. And eagerly.

"I need this."

"Andraste's mercy, why?"

"Loghain took something from me, Alistair," she said softly.

"I know." His voice was tight, as though he struggled for rationality and couldn't quite find it. "I was there."

"It wasn't just sex he took. Or even pleasure. He broke me down. He took my will, my power to refuse, my ability to deny everything he demanded and everything he said, until somehow his words became my truth."

"And you think my forcing you all over again is going to change that?" Alistair asked in disbelief.

"No." Elissa shook her head. "But by surrendering myself to you, I take myself back from him. And what you take from me, you'll give back."

A long, tension-fraught moment dragged out in which Elissa was certain he would refuse, certain she had asked of him something he could not bring himself to do. But then Alistair was striding across the chamber toward her, grim and determined. He reached out, grabbed for her, but she was not there, ducking away and evading his grasp.

"It will not be so easy as that, my lord," she vowed, and at some other time, playing some other game, her voice might have been teasing, taunting. Now, however, it was simply tense and angry. She realized then that she was not merely speaking to Alistair, but to the shade of a man who had died months ago. "I will not yield without a fight. Not this time."

Alistair's eyes flared and without warning he lunged for her again, sprinting after her across the chamber until she was trapped against the wall. With nowhere to go but through him, she flew at him, punching and clawing and kicking as he caught her body against his. Her fingernails left gouges on his skin that he didn't even notice. He grunted as her fist found his hard-muscled stomach, as much to her own pain as his. He barely managed to shield himself when her knee sought his more vulnerable parts. When he finally captured her wrists, she won her freedom again by slamming her head into his face, stunning him and bringing a trickle of blood to his nose.

He staggered back and the chase was on again as she once more darted across the large bedchamber, seeking projectiles to throw at him, a book, a candelabrum, an ornately carved comb. Alistair batted her missiles away almost casually and continued his advance, stripping his shirt from his sweat-beaded chest as he went. A feral gleam that lit his amber eyes promised dire recompense, and somewhere within, Elissa was appalled at how quickly the intensity of the struggle had escalated. She had not set out to hurt him, and yet she was elated she had landed so many successful blows. What little shred of reason she possessed knew she should have established a safety word, and yet....

...Safety words were for games, and this was no game. This was deadly earnest.

It was not Alistair she was fighting. She knew that as well. And she would fight until she had spent every last bit of strength in her body. She would pour into that struggle all the ferocity she had never been able to unleash upon Loghain or his men, either because she had been bound or for fear of harming her babe.

She found herself backed into a corner, breathing in great, ragged pants as he trapped her purposefully. Again, she lashed out with fists and fingernails. Warmed to the chase now, Alistair caught her wrists almost easily; gathering them in one hand while the other tore her shift down the front, spilling her breasts out. He let go of her wrists and then his mouth was upon her breast, as though it didn't matter that she clawed and pounded ineffectually at his back and pulled his hair while his mouth drew at her nipple, starting her milk flowing. It no longer sprayed and leaked as it had in those early weeks after Ella was born, but still he could draw it from her nipple easily. He drank it down, lapped at it greedily with vulgar slurping sounds as she fought to push him away. As he suckled, his hands busied themselves shredding the rest of her shift until the rags fell from her body.

A cuff to his ear dazed him and gave her room to maneuver, to renew her struggle, but she could not get past his body to make her escape. Alistair shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears and then he slammed into her, driving the breath from her as he placed his shoulder against her stomach and slung her over it, straightening to carry her across the room to the table where she had laid out her objets d'amour. Thought she kicked and yelled and squirmed, she could not manage to get out of his grasp.

From her upside down position, Elissa could see some of the items had spilled onto the floor. She did not remember slamming into the table in her struggles, but an aching bruise on her thigh told another story. She could not see what Alistair gathered, but then he turned from the table and threw Elissa onto the bed. She lay there stunned, the breath driven from her again, and he was upon her before she could recover enough to rise.

She fought and bucked and screamed as he crawled over her body to straddle her torso, but she hadn't the strength to dislodge him and escape. He grabbed one of her wrists and stretched it far up over her head upon the mattress, so that she couldn't get enough leverage to wrench it from his grasp. Though she beat at him with her other fist, he barely flinched as he fastened one of the cuffs around the wrist he held captive. She could see her blows had bruised him, her nails had drawn blood, but even such proof of the uncontrolled violence of this affair failed to daunt her. Alistair released the wrist he had cuffed and caught the other to repeat the process, and still she snarled and clawed at him like a captive animal.

She couldn't breathe as he straddled her chest to pull her arms up over her head, looping a chain that dangled from one cuff around the bedpost and fastening it to the other cuff. Thus freed of the necessity to control her arms, Alistair could turn his attention to subduing her in other ways.

He rolled off her body and moved safely beyond the reach of her feet, watching for a long moment as she kicked and writhed. She spat curses at him, and still he stared, hid eyes burning with a fury all his own as he released the drawstring on his braies and pushing them down his hips. His cock reared up before him, and he stroked himself once, twice, hard, rapid strokes that pulled back the hood of skin and revealed the deep red, swollen head.

Then, quick as a striking serpent, he was upon her, pushing her thighs up and apart with hard, bruising hands, thrusting into her. She was wet and ready, but so tense with her struggle that it hurt to stretch and that was good. She wanted the pain, that exquisite agony of being forced to accommodate his girth. Just the press of his groin against her clitoris was enough and she screamed her pleasure, shuddering and arching. If her hands had been free she would have gouged new furrows in his back, but all she could do was buck against him. Her climax loosened her, let him drive deeper, and soon Alistair had his arms hooked behind her knees, slamming his cock deep within her. She wailed with each thrust, but it didn't take long until he went still and rigid above her, coming with a long, low groan.

If he thought she would prove compliant afterward, she quickly showed him otherwise. When Alistair bent to kiss her, Elissa's teeth sank into his lip, drawing blood. He jerked back and before either of them realized what was happening, her head had rocked to the side, her cheek burning from the ringing slap. Alistair's wide, horrified eyes met hers and his mouth opened—no doubt to issue a tormented apology—but his words were cut off by a grunt as her muscles tightened around his softening cock.

"Yessss...." she hissed before he could recover himself to apologize. He studied her for a long, tense moment, and silently she willed him not to stop. Cautiously he dipped his head again to attempt to kiss her and Elissa immediately lunged up at him, trying to bite. Alistair shoved her back down and, much more deliberately, slapped her again.

If he stopped, or required her to explain herself, she'd never be able to describe the peace that descended upon her as stinging warmth spread over the side of her face. She'd never be able to make him understand. And yet he seemed to be reading what he needed to know from her reactions. This. The pain, the shock, the moment of stunned disbelief and humiliation of being slapped across the face. This was what she needed; not only to fight, not only to be overpowered, but to be beaten until she couldn't fight anymore, until submission was all that was left.

His mouth slanted down on hers then, and she allowed it, tasting the blood she had drawn from his lip. Some instinct made him draw back the instant she tensed to try to bite him again, though, and he drew back far enough to backhand her lightly. Not enough to bruise or injure, but enough to turn her head, to stun her for a second. Enough to hurt exactly the way she needed to hurt. It was almost as though she could feel those blows in her cunt, each slap generating its own surge of arousal.

Alistair's softened cock slid from her body, trailing slick seed down her thigh, and he used the opportunity to adjust his position above her, bracing himself on one arm while he kept the other available to chastise her for resisting. The fourth time, tears stung her eyes as her head snapped to the side. The fifth time a sob that owed as much to pleasure as pain rose from her throat.

After the sixth slap, she yielded, the fight gone out of her for the moment. She returned his kiss with passionate desperation, opening to his tongue, welcoming it as he used it to fuck her mouth almost rudely. She writhed against him, already on the knife-edge of release. All it would take was a bit of pressure, a mere touch....

Then his fingers were there, that same hand that had slapped her, stroking firmly across her nub and her shriek of release was swallowed by his mouth. Wave after wave of intense, unendurable pleasure brought her arching off the bed, thrusting against his body where his weight pinned her down. She jerked and strained against the chain binding her arms to the bedpost. When she came back to herself, whimpering and shaking, Alistair was kissing away tears she hadn't even known she shed, his tongue darting out to sample the salt of them.

He gave her a moment, trailing gentle kisses against her aching cheeks, licking the shell of her ear as she lay passive and still half-stunned beneath him. And then he whispered two words into her ear.

"You're mine."

"No!" she snarled, and in an instant the fight was rejoined. She kicked and flailed, growling like a rabid beast. Alistair made no attempt to subdue her, but drew back and watched her struggles, studying her as though trying to ascertain why his words had set her off again. After a moment he rose from the bed, casually, as though her thrashing efforts meant nothing to him. She managed to roll over and get her knees under her, crawling closer to the bedpost her wrists were chained to.

The buckles on the cuffs were awkwardly placed and difficult to manage with one hand. Before she could make any progress in freeing herself, Alistair was back, crawling onto the bed behind her. She spared a brief look over her shoulder to see him drop a number of the items she had retrieved from her parents' cache onto the bed. He pressed against her back, and Elissa cursed herself for turning her back to him, for now she was even less effective at fighting him.

His arms came around her, his hands groping her breasts until milk leaked from her nipples and he very deliberately ground himself against her backside. His cock was still soft, but the tell-tale twitching she felt told her that wouldn't be the case for long. She struggled to wrench away from him, but it was useless, and the way he so very leisurely thrust against her buttocks was infuriatingly smug.

"Mine," he murmured in her ear again, and Elissa jerked harder against her chain.

"No!"

His teeth nipped at the tendon joining her shoulder to her neck, just hard enough to be uncomfortable.

"Mine."

"No."

He bit her, hard, so hard she was certain he would draw blood. Her body went rigid with pain, and still he clutched her against him, not relenting until he'd dragged a cry of anguish from her lips.

"No," she gasped again before he had an opportunity to repeat his claim. He bit her again, and again, until her neck and shoulders were bruised and aching and still she denied him.

His fingers closed on her nipples, brutally hard and Elissa cried out in pain. She writhed and tried to pull away, but that only made the pain worse. But it was a good pain, a perfect pain, pain she could ride, pain she could resist. Even if she couldn't fight back, he could not defeat her doing this. It made no difference when he traded his fingers for the small vises, tightening the screws until she bit back a scream. He fastened them tighter than she might have chosen had pleasure been the goal; she'd never had a chance to teach him to use them properly, and it hurt fiercely.

But when he said it again, she thrashed her head back and forth in adamant denial. "No!"

He pulled back as the sharp pain in her nipples turned to a constant, dull, throbbing agony. She made an effort to hold still because any movement set the short, bejeweled chains attached to the clamps swinging, renewing her torment. She felt Alistair's breath at the small of her back an instant before the wet warmth of his tongue stroked down the cleft of her buttocks.

Oh, Maker.... Elissa could no longer tell how much of the wetness trickling down her thighs was his residual seed and how much was her own arousal. She tried to flex her buttocks together, push her pelvis forward, deny him access, but his large hands settled on her hips and pulled her back roughly, inexorably, until she was no longer kneeling upright but lying face down with her arms stretched above her head, her knees tucked underneath her and her ass in the air.

"Mine," he said again as his tongue found her tight rear entrance and began to stroke and probe.

"No," she whispered, shuddering in pleasure.

He took his time using his tongue on her ass. Any attempt to get away re-awakened the pain of the clamps on her nipples and so she was forced to lie there and suffer the pleasure as he pushed the globes of her ass apart and devoured her as avidly as he'd ever eaten her cunt. Alistair licked and sucked and pushed his tongue into the gradually relaxing ring, fucking her firmly with it. He squeezed her buttocks with his fingers until she was certain he would leave bruises, then nibbled gently upon them, alternating pain and pleasure.

She was trembling when he withdrew again, her breasts singing a song of agony while the rest of her was taut with desire. His hands returned to her ass, his fingers slick with oil, and without preamble he eased a finger into her, and then another soon thereafter, thrusting and pushing and massaging with the oil until the muscle stopped resisting and relaxed.

"Mine."

"No." She tensed, pushed with her knees while pulling against her chain, trying to rise, to crawl away from his probing fingers, but his other hand pushed firmly between her shoulder blades, forcing her chest back down. She yelled and shuddered with pain as her imprisoned nipples rubbed against the sheet, but still he did not relent. The struggle had tightened her around his fingers, and once again he began the process of relaxing the tense muscle.

He left her a moment, and when he came back it was with something cool and hard and covered in oil. A carved phallus. As he began to press it slowly but insistently within her, she knew he had not chosen one of the slender ones that might be easily expelled, but one which widened gradually until it was at least as large as a cock. That would be one of the contoured implements, then, that narrowed abruptly after the widest point to remain seated firmly within. This, too, she had never explained to him; he had simply determined on his own the correct tool for the job.

He fucked her with it, slowly, pulling back and advancing, giving her time to adjust before pushing it in deeper, stretching her further. By the time the widest point passed through, there was barely even a burn, just that amazing fullness that made her moan an invocation to the Maker into the bed-linens.

"Mine," he declared, pulling on the base of the phallus until the widest part began to emerge again. Elissa groaned, caught up in sensation, barely remembering to repeat her refusal before he pushed it inside once more. Again he pulled it out and pushed it back in, and again, until the widest point passed easily into her. Elissa's clawed hands formed tight fists in the linens; she was trembling and sweating with the intensity of being stretched and filled.

It was too much, and yet any attempt to resist made her ordeal worse, and that, too, was perfect.

Alistair practically slammed the phallus into her a final time. "Mine!" he growled, and she could feel against her thigh his renewed desire.

"No!" she panted.

The sound of his hand against her buttock echoed like a thundercrack in the bedchamber and Elissa howled, rearing up, trying to crawl away from that pain. A new wave of torment awoke in her nipples as she struggled, and yet she could do nothing else. Alistair dragged her back down and his hand cracked hard against her other buttock, spreading stinging pain across her skin and jolting the plug still seated in her ass.

Another blow, and another, each one drawing a scream from Elissa. Though he'd never spanked her before, he did not hesitate, did not withhold the force of his blows. No teasing game of pain and pleasure was this, but punishment for her obstinacy, for her refusal to yield to his claim of ownership.

And refuse she did, until her entire backside was burning with pain, until the muscles beneath her skin felt bruised and sore. Yet arousal was there was well, throbbing within her cunt in time to the blows. Somewhere along the way she began to weep in pain, wailing each time his hard hand and yet she still found within her the will to say "no" over and over.

At last the punishing blows ceased as she mewled and shook, her face buried in bed-linens that had grown damp with her tears. The blazing pain of of her backside somehow made the constant hard ache of her nipples less, until she had forgotten all about the vises pinching her. Only when he slid his tongue across the heated, inflamed skin of her ass and she tried to crawl away from the sensation was she reminded and she gave a sharp moan as her nipples dragged across the linens.

Alistair pulled her back down and rolled her over, creating another twist in the chain securing her cuffed wrists and drawing it tighter, giving her even less freedom to move her hands. She screamed when he teased one aching, nearly purple nipple with the tip of his tongue. When he gently tugged on the jeweled chain to one of the vises, Elissa shrieked and arched, thrashing wildly.

"Mine," he declared again.

"No," she whined as he released the chain once more. Abruptly he released the screw tightening the vise and she wailed again as all the sensation came roaring back into her nipple with the restoration of the flow of blood. When he released the second vise, she screamed.

"Mine." He drew her nipple into his mouth, and Maker all the feeling that had been diminished due to the babe nursing was back, tenfold in its intensity. It hurt and yet it was wonderful and she whimpered and moaned and pulled at the chain binding her wrists.

Milk began to flow again as Alistair took her breast in hand and squeezed as he suckled. The sharp pain that had flooded her nipples when the vises were removed was soothed to a gentle ache as Alistair drew out his attentions to her breasts, kneading and nuzzling, rubbing his stubbly chin along her soft skin until the flesh of her breasts was red and tender. He pressed leisurely kisses from her neck to her navel, and she could do nothing to stop him.

"Mine," he asserted once more, dipping his tongue into her navel and she watched in fascination as he thrust and withdrew it in a pantomime of fucking.

"No."

His fingers delved into her cunt, a tighter, snugger fit with the phallus still lodged in her rear. Her hips lifted off the bed as his palm pressed against the cushion of flesh surrounding her nub and his fingers curled firmly, seeking, seeking until he found the spot within her that made her groan and seize with pleasure.

When he withdrew his hand, his fingers were dripping wet with their mingled fluids. He wiped them nonchalantly on her face, smearing the slick liquid across her mouth where it quickly dried and grew tacky. He reached for another phallus, slender, but long and smooth and curved at the end.

The carved implement was harder than flesh, and it was a strange sensation to have it rub against the one in her ass through the barrier of tissue and muscle. But that quickly became an afterthought as that artful curve found the spot that Alistair had sought with his fingers moments before. Elissa's face contorted in a grimace at the almost unbearable feeling of needing to relieve herself. She thrashed her head and bucked her hips, a constant chorus of moans and cries rising from her lips as he began to fuck her with the phallus, hard and fast, dragging the curved end across that spot rapidly.

The bed-linens beneath her began to grow damp as it pulled a strange, watery fluid from her in spurts, and Elissa heard herself as though from a great distance, growling and moaning and wailing in unremitting pleasure. And then she was coming, with deep, hard contractions of her womb, coming with waves and surges that wracked her body and tore ragged screams from her throat. Only when Alistair stopped fucking her with the carved phallus did it finally abate, leaving her dazed and trembling, emitting soft whimpers as though in residual pain rather than pleasure. It was almost a relief when he pulled the phallus from her and laid it aside.

"Mine," he said, and still she shook her head. A strange feeling of triumph began to warm her as she realized that he could not make her yield.

"No," she whispered, feeling as though a great burden were lifting from her as she spoke the words. "Mine."

Alistair smiled then, a slow, sweet smile that erased the dark, almost angry expression on his face. Joyfully he covered her body with his and kissed her, long and lovingly. His fingers threaded through her hair as her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue darting out to seek his. There was something cleansing in that kiss, washing away her fear and shame and regrets.

She felt his cock, hard and insistent against her thigh, but she was too sensitive to be fucked again just yet, and so instead she requested, "Whip me."

"Why?" Alistair drew back, studying her face intently. But she was calm and sure, never more certain than she was in that moment.

"Because it's what I choose," she said simply.

She wasn't sure that would make sense to him; she wasn't even sure exactly why she wanted it herself, except perhaps to satisfy that part of her that regretted that she refused Loghain the final time and taken the whipping with which he had threatened her. Whether he understood or not, Alistair seemed to accept it, nodding gravely and rising from the bed.

There was no question of him forcing this upon her. This was her choice, and so rather than lying prone, she rolled over and pulled herself up to her knees, wrapping her arms around the bedpost and pressing her body against it.

She heard a sharp whistle and a snap, and realized Alistair was practicing with the whip she had laid out. It did not crack deafeningly like the one in Fort Drakon had done, for it did not have the length or speed, but she knew that, if wielded with a brutal enough hand, that thin knotted cord could slice. Indeed, when she looked over her shoulder at Alistair, he was studying a vivid red weal on his left forearm. He struck himself twice more, testing the speed and force with which the whip could be used.

"You're sure about this?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she said, sighing peacefully. Strange, she didn't feel at all frightened. She knew it would be agony and yet she did not fear it. This was the ordeal of her choosing, and she would welcome it. "Unchain me."

He did not ask again if she was certain, but uncuffed her wrists. As he worked, she noticed his erection had not flagged in the slightest and that was very interesting and would bear investigating another day, for she had not thought he would be aroused by this request.

He kissed her when he had laid the cuffs aside, tenderly, sweetly and she breathed into that kiss. Then she again wrapped her arms around the bedpost and rested her forehead against the hard, cool wood.

The first stroke of that short, thin whip to fall on her shoulder was barely enough to sting and she waited for Alistair to become more confident in what he was doing. The next stroke was harder, and the next one harder still. She hissed in discomfort, but it wasn't what she wanted, it wasn't enough.

"Harder," she urged.

The next time the lash fell, it burned, a line of heat sizzling across her skin. She flinched and gave a soft whimper, bracing herself the next time the whip whistled through the air. Soon each stripe it made across her skin was its own melody of pain, and still it wasn't enough.

"Alistair," she said between clenched teeth, "hurt me."

Again the cord on its flexible switch of a handle whistled through the air, sharper and faster this time and when it landed on her skin she shrieked like a wounded animal. It felt like she had been branded, the line of agonizing fire on her flesh unlike any pain she had ever known. Alistair gave himself over to his task, no longer holding back. Each subsequent stroke upon her shoulders and upper back burned as though acid was being poured down her skin. Her voice grew hoarse and raw from screaming and yet she did not ask him to stop.

She seized the pain, rode it, made it hers, and it was peaceful and joyous and right. Here she was safe. Here she could suffer without losing herself. Here no one would make her endure anything more than she chose to endure. It was exhilarating.

She felt herself drifting even as she screamed and writhed, clutching the bedpost desperately. She was riding the pain, but even that did little to diminish the agony, the searing stripes blazing across flesh. It was too intense for her to distance herself from it. But it was hers.

When it felt that every inch of her back from one shoulder to the other was covered in fiery weals, some of them seeping blood, Alistair began to work on her buttocks and the backs of her thighs. There the pain was different, but no less acute. She shrieked until her voice broke and refused to produce any more sound, as one red line after another appeared on her pale flesh, tears flooding down her face where she pressed it against the bedpost. Her body writhed of its own volition, but she did not relinquish her grip upon the bed nor make any attempt to escape.

Something broke inside her and she began to sob, savage spasms wracking her until she could scarcely breathe. There, there it was. This was what she needed, what she had sought, this release, this point at which suffering became a liberating sort of ecstasy. On it went, and on, until she was almost unaware of the pain of the lash, because everything else in her body ached from sobbing so hard.

Finally, the flood of emotion passed, and she was able to whisper, "Enough." She had feared she would be so breathless and weak that Alistair wouldn't hear her, but he immediately flung the whip away and pried her gripping hands off the bedpost, guiding her down onto her stomach upon the bed. She felt herself floating so far that she was skirting the edge of unconsciousness, awareness coming in vague waves as he gently eased the phallus that was lodged in her bottom free.

He brought an ewer of fresh water and clean linens to the bed and began to dab at her weals, drawing pained hisses from her even as weariness tried to drag her off into oblivion. Then he began spreading a healing poultice on the ones where the skin had broken open and soon the stinging of medicinal herbs had faded to a tingling warmth. Alistair crawled onto the bed and lay beside her, not daring to draw her into his arms.

"Thank you," she murmured tiredly. The sheets beneath her were damp and uncomfortable, but she couldn't bring herself to move just yet. Glancing at Alistair she realized his erection had still not subsided entirely, even while he tended to her wounds.

"Don't make me do that again," he said, his voice shaky and rough. At some point, he had been weeping, she realized. That was enough to bring her back from the edge of sleep.

"Why?" Elissa asked, reaching out to gently touch his half-hard cock.

"I don't want to enjoy that," he breathed, even as his body twitched with renewed interest.

"It doesn't always have to be that intense. Would something less be more comfortable for you?"

"Much more comfortable," Alistair agreed.

Elissa smiled. "Then we'll have to explore that someday, won't we?"

"It's— good to hear you talk that way again," Alistair said with a sigh.

"What way?"

"Like you used to, back when you were helping me learn all kinds of new pleasures, as though it was nothing to be afraid of."

"I'm not afraid," she murmured, pushing herself up to kiss his shoulder. Her weals stung when she moved, but she didn't care.

"Make love to me," she found herself saying impulsively.

"What, now? After all that?"

"Yes, now. Now, when I still hurt. Don't pleasure me, just fuck me."

A shudder ran through Alistair and she saw his cock begin to lengthen and harden. She rolled onto her back and watched as Alistair pushed himself up, positioning himself above her. He took his cock in hand and slowly drew back the cowl from the head, squeezing a drop of fluid from the tip on his next stroke.

She watched him caress himself as though mesmerized, her eyes fixed on his hand as he brought himself back to erection. The sheet was uncomfortable against her abraded skin, but that was its own brand of pleasure, a reminder of her ordeal. She embraced him as his body slid over hers and hooked a leg around his thighs when he pushed into her, meeting his thrust.

She didn't come again and that was perfect. She was tender and slightly sore from being fucked earlier and that was perfect, too. She watched the play of emotions and pleasure on his face as he surged into her, her hands caressing his sweaty skin, kissing salty droplets off his neck and chest as he groaned above her.

"Mine," she whispered, holding him tighter as his pace increased and he buried his face in the crook of her neck with a shout and a groan, spilling himself into her. "Mine."