Unexpected Captive

The fight shouldn't have been a problem. The ragtag party of Grey Wardens and mages and assassins and halfway-crazy Orlesian bards had been through battle after battle since the crisis at Ostagar, fighting roaming darkspawn and walking skeletons and far too many opportunistic bandits. Redcliffe had been a manic struggle for survival, even with the help of the militia in the village. Even Blood Mages and abominations hadn't killed them.

The fight shouldn't have been a problem, though nobody had been foolish enough to think it would be easy to take on a few dozen knights and infantry from the King's army. Still, an ambush was an ambush, and in the last couple of months Alistair had certainly been on the recieving end of plenty of *those*.

And, really, Alistair hadn't thought that the battle was going too badly, even as he struck out with sword and shield at the oncoming enemy, and felled a man in a spray of blood. There was no time to regret killing one of his countrymen. He heard the screams of the injured, the distinctive crackling of primal magic, Sten and the mabari in full battle cry, and with the sounds of combat all around him he lunged after another man.

The man parried the blow, sending a jolt up Alistair's arm. He flung up his shield reflexively to block a strike coming in from the left and then slammed it out to knock that attacker backwards. He raised an arm and stopped the incoming blade of the man in front of him, wincing as the sword hit the sturdy mail armour, and stabbed at his opponent's stomach.

Someone caught him in the head with a club.

Alistair staggered forward with his head ringing. His sword slipped from his suddenly clumsy fingers. A shove from behind drove him forwards and someone hit him again. Rough hands latched onto his arms and dragged him further from his friends. He grasped for his sword in the bloody mud of the battlefield, but it wasn't there. A third blow to the head sent him reeling into unconsciousness.

That had been a week ago. How the battle had ended, Alistair had no idea. The rowdy soldiers had been all too happy to cart their captive back to Denerim and tell him what a prize he was -one of the last Grey Wardens, and the bastard prince to boot!

And now he was in the royal palace, the place where Arl Eamon had hoped to put him, waiting for the arrival of Teyrn Loghain. Idly, Alistair wondered just how long he would live once the regent had entered the room.

Don't think like that. Alistair pulled himself together and straightened up. Captive or no, he was a Grey Warden. He didn't have weapons and he didn't have armour, but that didn't change anything. When Loghain entered the room, Alistair would be face to face with Duncan's killer. And once that happened...the archdemon itself could not stop him from killing the man who had abandoned the Wardens at Ostagar.

He settled down, waiting.

The door creaked open an hour or so later. Alistair snapped back into battle readiness as Teyrn Logain stepped through.

The teyrn was wearing plate armour and had his sword slung over his shoulder, but Alistair didn't care. All he felt was a blinding rage at the sight of the man who had killed his mentor, killed Duncan, and had sent his men to harrass them in the months ever since that betrayal. He wanted to leap across the room and snap Loghain's neck, slam his head against the floor until his skull caved in and blood ran. But templar training ran deep and his own nature ran deeper. Alistair stayed where he was, glaring daggers at the man acros from him.

"So this is Maric's son," Loghain said, a sneer on his lips as his eyes took Alistair in. "The one Eamon wants to put on the throne. I can't say I'm any more impressed than I was by your half brother."

Alistair clenched his fists. "Is that supposed to be important?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice level.

"I was wondering what kind of puppet Eamon wanted to put on the throne," Loghain said, dark eyes glittering. "I suppose I might as well find out...boy."

He stepped forward annd swung a gauntleted fist into Alistair's side.

Alistair crumpled around the blow with a gasp of pain. Adrenaline surged through his blood, and he swung wildly at the teyrn's face. He felt the punch connect, though he wasn't sure what with, but Loghain grabbed his other wrist in a crushing grip before he could follow through, and then the teyrn's weight was pulling them both to the ground.

Loghain twisted as they landed, trapping Alistair's free arm beneath him and twisting the other one up in a painful grip over his head. Alistair tried to draw up his legs and kkich at the other man, but Loghain's weight rested on them and it was almost impossible. He twisted and bucked, but the teyrn had him trapped.

With one hand pinning Alistair's wrist to the floor, Loghain had the other free. Alistair took a punch to the stomach and grunted with pain. He twisted again, and Logain struck him across the face.

Alistair's head snapped sideways. He felt dizzy. For a few moments he lay still beneath his enemy, unable to move. He felt Loghain moving around on top of him, but he couldn't see -

Cold air. He felt cold air and stone where the cloth of his trousers had protected him from the floor, but -

Alistair looked up in shock, and recognised the look alongside the contempt in Loghain's face.

"Let's see if you're really your father's son," Loghain sneered.

Alistair braced his shoulders as best he could and slammed his forehead into the teyrn's face.

Or, at least, that was what he tried to do. Loghain twisted out of the way just in time and then shoved him down harder. Alistair tried to catch his breath for another try.

Savage, tearing pain ripped through his backside as Loghain shoved into him. Alistair arched his back away from the agony with a cry, wrenching against the mailed grip holding him down. The pain stabbed deep, tearing through him. It wasn't as painful as some injuries he'd taken, but it was unknown and brutally invasive.

Loghain grunted above him, and Alistair managed to force his eyes open. The teyrn's face was weirdly distorted, teeth bared in an almost animal snarl of hatred. Alistair stared up at him, at that mask of loathing and lust.

Then Loghain began to move, and Alistair strangled back another cry. He gritted his teeth together to keep the sounds in, but some escaped anyway, groans of pain and dismay working their way out of his throat. The sounds of flesh on flesh echoed off the stone walls.

Loghain's eyes were trained on Alistair's face, as though watching the young Warden's reaction. Alistair glared back at him, fighting to keep his face that way. He could feel himself crumpling around the edges as it went on, could feel the pain and shame growing inside him. He met Loghain's gaze defiantly, putting all his hatred of the teyrn -all the months of injustice that had only started at Ostagar -into his face.

It seemed like forever before it ended. Alistair felt a rush of heat inside him, another sting on top of the pain he already felt, and Loghain slumped slightly, breathing heavily.

Alistair tried to bite, lunging up at the teyrn's face. Once again, however, Loghain pulled back a second too soon for the attack to connect.

"You've got your father's spirit, boy, I'll give you that."

Then Loghain straightened up and left the room, leaving the broken, shaking young templar on the floor behind him.