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The throne room was full this afternoon. A particularly hard winter coupled with all the recent political unrest led to plenty of business to bring before the King. Gemma had purposely come late, and hung back in the hallway, hoping to put off her own audience until most of the courtiers had cleared out. A few who recognized the short woman, out of her customary plate mail, tried to defer until she had her turn. By rights the head of the Wardens should have been heard as soon as she arrived. Gemma waved them all ahead, pretending to be waiting for some last-minute messenger. Alistair was not going to like what she had to say.
When her impatience outweighed her dread, Gemma swept into the room, shoulders back, head high. Even though she should be used to the way things had to be, the sight of Alistair still hit her like a ton of bricks. Resplendent in his brother’s shining mail, the reluctant king sat slumped in the throne, his perfect chin resting on gauntleted fist. His eyes showed only a spark of that fire Gemma had seen in them the day the two of them had recovered that golden mail, which he now wore undoubtedly as a reminder of his heavy duties. He stirred when Gemma entered the room, seemingly both more energized and more unhappy. His jaw clenched in that stubborn set Gemma had once found simultaneously endearing and frustrating. Now it only meant that he was pushing her ever farther out of his heart.
The Warden Commander inclined her head in deference to her sovereign and took a place by the wall, not willing to interrupt the minor noble currently pleading his case for tax relief. Alistair’s burning gaze on Gemma implied the man had completely lost his king’s attention, however. He finished up nervously and Alistair curtly waved him in the direction of the steward, not even bothering to issue a ruling.
“And what news from the Warden Commander?” Alistair’s voice rained out over the room. Gemma had not expected his temper to be so foul already. Could someone have gotten here before her? Once the deed had been done, Gemma had taken great pains to return quickly to court and take full ownership of her actions. Trying not to let her apprehension show, the little woman strode quickly to the center of the room. She kneeled just below the dais.
“Your Majesty. I have only just returned from the Deep Road entrance at Crevatte.” She paused for a deep breath, steeling herself to rise and meet his gaze. As always, she wanted to run into his arms; knowing she was about to anger him only made the urge stronger. “It is my duty to inform you that the shaft has been destroyed completely, and the way is now completely impassible.” She forced her chin to remain steady, her eyes fixed on his.
Anger clouded her former lover’s face. “And what,“ he bit out tersely, “was the cause of the collapse?” Alistair had been planning to use the newly-discovered entrance to establish a new trading route with the dwarves of Orzhammar, and to encourage recovery of lost cities in the wake of the Archdemon’s defeat.
Gemma drew herself up even straighter. “I was, your Grace.” The plan would have been an insane risk to the surface world in her opinion, and the bulk of the danger would be faced by her Wardens, as always. Alistair seemed to think that just because he missed the rough life, all the Grey Wardens must desire to go charging into pointless danger.
Alistair drew a shaky breath before speaking next, eyes darker than Gemma had ever seen them. “And what were your orders, Warden Commander?” he asked, voice dripping with that icy formality that cut Gemma’s heart to the core.
“You requested that the Wardens clear the area and prepare the way for safe civilian travel,” she began just as formally, then broke into a rush of heated words. “An impossible task, and you know it. We haven’t even come close to understanding Darkspawn habits and migrations, and cannot assume that—“
“Silence!” Alistair the King thundered, coming to his feet in his rage. “The Warden Commander has disobeyed a direct order,” he proclaimed to the watching court without ever taking his flashing eyes from Gemma’s face, “sabotaged a royal decree beyond repair, and presumes to instruct the King on a closed matter. This insubordination will not go unpunished.” Did Gemma detect a hint of satisfaction at their reversal of roles, after all the times she had discarded his own advice in their travels? Something new passed across his face, a dark emotion she had never seen before. “A public whipping has been customary under these circumstances.”
Finally Gemma broke her stalwart resolve, as open shock spread across her face. She expected Alistair’s rage, talk of demotion or exile that would never materialize, but public humiliation? Never did she think the consequences of her betrayal would be taken out of her flesh. “Alistair…” she began in a pleading cry, but he ceased to look at her as his steward caught his attention.
“I can have the square prepared for tomorrow morning, your Grace, though it is a bit unusual for a woman—“
“No, “ Alistair cut in, voice betraying barely controlled emotion. “I will do it. Here and now.” He looked down at Gemma as his hands went for his belt. All of the rage, pain, and frustration at the chasm circumstance had opened between them seemed to be pouring out of him now, and it appeared he was going to take it all out on the woman he had been trying so hard not to love.
“Y-your Grace,” the steward tried to protest, but was cut off again by the King’s deep rage.
“Leave us, all of you,” he bellowed, pulling his belt free with one hand as he clamped the other gauntlet down on Gemma’s shoulder, twisting her back to him and forcing her to her knees on the dais. Then he froze, breathing frantically, as the courtiers reluctantly filed out of the room.
Gemma had time to curse her decision to wear a thin, ladylike gown rather than her usual heavy plate, which would have at least made this insane plan of Alistair’s more difficult. She stared at the floor with bulging eyes, too paralyzed by her own conflicting emotions to react. The white hot bitterness of his rejection of her the day she killed Logain rose up and almost choked her with her love and longing. It was because of this reaction in both of them that she had been avoiding His Majesty since the Archdemon’s death, when the dark business of both the impending marriage and the deal with Morrigan had destroyed all happiness and comfort between them. And still there was not a night that she did not ache for him, or curse his arrogant, racist way of looking right through her at official events. Part of her could not believe she let him put her on her knees in front of his precious human court. But another, utterly surprising part was whispering that she deserved this, and had perhaps behaved so badly to create just such a situation.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the boom of the great doors closing. Now the only sound was Alistair’s heavy breathing, the only sensation the coldness of the floor and the weight of his hand still pressed to her shoulder. Without speaking, he bent her lower and then removed his hand, steady and deliberate. She heard the creak of his mail as his arm swung back, then the first blow stung between her shoulders. She gasped, but did not cry out. The sting was moderate and bearable, to a seasoned combat veteran with a childhood full of physical punishment. Still, she felt her cheeks flush and burn as the humiliation of being beaten like an unruly child began to set in.
She expected the severity of his blows to increase when she gave so little reaction. She had seen Alistair sever limbs in a single blow with his sword. His pressure remained steady however, though the blows became more frequent in an almost hypnotic rhythm. Then he began to speak. “You act as if nothing had changed. You think that you can listen to your heart, make up your own rules, and everything will be ok?” The blows continued to fall, preventing her from answering him. The pain was just sharp enough to curb her wit. She realized she wanted to remain silent, eager for any chance to look behind the icy mask he had created after his coronation. “It doesn’t work that way,” he barked through gritted teeth. “You think you can strut around here, put yourself in my path, day in and day out, with that perfect ass,” his next strike fell lower, on the offending appendage. “Reminding me of all- the- things- I- can’t- have,” he continued, accentuating each word with a harder blow.
A moan escaped her lips finally, and she leaned forward further in a reflexive attempt to escape the pain, now on her hands and knees. From Alistair’s perspective, however, all she did was tempt him, further exposing the swell of her buttocks through the clinging dress. “Bad enough when you come fresh from the field,” he continued, further battering her luscious behind. “Smelling of freedom, glowing with triumph, with that intoxicating scent…” he cut off his rhythm with an abrupt hand on her ass, “but now you mince in here in this gown,” his hand began to move, “with just this tiny barrier between your skin and the world…” The contrast between the burning pain of a moment ago and the firm yet gentle stroking he was now administering felt amazing. Gemma’s anger and outrage leaked away under a wave of passion. Her entire backside felt as sensitive as that space between her legs… a moan of another kind leaked out, though she had been trying so hard to be still.
Alistair’s hand stopped. His breathing became loud again, as Gemma tried to make hers quieter. As well as she knew him, she knew that anything she did to try and sway his mind often backfired. After a moment, she felt his hand raise, then came crashing down on the fleshy part of her ass in a powerful backhand. Thank the Maker this was his ungauntleted hand. “Still trying to tempt me,” –whack- “when I’ve made it perfectly clear” –whack- “how things have to be.” –whack- “ The Kingdom is more important than either of our desires,” he concluded bitterly, collapsing over her body in a position they once favored on happier nights. Gemma was jolted by the feeling of his erection pressed against the cleft of her ass. He had always been so gentle, honorable… now he was beating her and getting off on it?
He seemed to have stopped his bitter monologue. Without speaking another word, he slid his hand down the side of her thigh, fingers bunching the fabric of her silk gown, drawing her skirt up as his erection pulsed against her. Again she was afraid to move. Warm electric sensations shivered over half her body, all her nerve endings at full attention, hoping and straining that the next sensation would be pleasure and not pain… This was not like Alistair at all, and yet after all they had been through she craved nothing more. She wanted him to take her, with all the pent-up fury and longing that she had been living with too.
The dress continued to slide up her leg, until Alistair moved back from her and the sensation of cool air let her know that he had her fully exposed. After the heat of the past few minutes, his continued silence felt cold, distant. She desperately wanted to turn and try to fathom his thoughts, but somehow knew that would be forbidden. A thrill of nervous anticipation ran through her as she heard the rustling of his garments being rearranged. He really was going to do it, she gulped to herself. He had never done other than make love to her; this was something entirely different. She could not help but flinch as he touched her again, fingers going directly for her opening. He made a low noise when he encountered her wetness there, and without further warning pressed his manhood against her. There was a sharp moment of mingled pleasure and pain as his shaft forced her open further, then it was all white-hot passion as he buried himself inside her.
The pleasure hit her harder than it ever had on their slow, careful nights together on the road. Alistair was no longer the gentle, inexperienced boy wanting only to give her pleasure. Now he was taking his, pumping savagely in and out with little evident regard for her experience. But what an experience it was! Gemma had no idea such… abuse could make her feel so completely immolated with desire. On her hands and knees, back arched, every muscle working just to keep herself from being pushed across the floor, trying desperately to position her hips in any angle that might increase the surging joy he was making her feel.
Alistair’s breath was ragged, barely holding back the animalistic growls rumbling in his throat. Who knows what court members might be listening at the door. One knee was on the floor, the other braced up to give him more balance and power for his frantic thrusts. His hands gripped her hips, fingers curling possessively around her waist, shoving her body down onto his.
Gemma couldn’t help but begin to moan, dropping to her forearms on the cold marble as she felt her orgasm build. In camp they had plenty of practice making love silently, but now she was holding her breath and making little strangled noises in attempts to stay quiet. She was equally concerned that someone might open the door and catch her in such a shameful state beneath the King. His next thrust hit her just right and she couldn’t help but groan quite audibly. Alistair leaned over her, moving one hand to the back of her head and shoving her cheek to the stone floor. His other hand kept her hips high, and the resulting depth of his thrusts made stars explode behind her eyes. He railed into her, speed increasing with his gasping breath. Gemma felt she might die from the wave of pleasure that seemed never to crest, only rising higher and higher. Alistair drew himself almost out and then slammed in deeply, and that broke the wave finally, her orgasm crashing down and drawing a scream from her lips, quickly stifled as Alistair clamped his large hand over her mouth. His rhythm sped even more as he drove himself to his own climax, seemingly mindless of whether she needed to breath under his grasping hand or whether her neck might snap under the contorted position he had forced her into. Perhaps he wanted to break her with his passion, she thought idly as her consciousness drifted through the final moments of her orgasm.
With one last savage thrust Alistair released his own pleasure, driving her down to her belly as he collapsed on top of her. His hand on her mouth relaxed and he breathed several deep gasps into the back of her neck. She savored the moment, imagining some kind of intimacy in the way that he clung to her now, gathering his wits together again. She had almost steeled herself to speak when he stirred and stood. Gemma raised her upper body and turned to him, unconsciously pulling her skirt back down over her hips as she did.
Alistair was standing with his back to her, head straight, hands closing up his breeches deliberately. Her emotions stirred violently, but she had no idea what to say. What was between them now? She shakily drew her legs beneath her and rose to her feet. She saw his body flinch as he heard her move. She raised a hand to touch him, paused and let it fall. The wall between them was re-forming. “Alistair…” she tried, surprised by how small her voice sounded.
She thought she saw him cringe, then he straightened into his new air of command. “You are dismissed, Warden Commander.” He tried hard to sound haughty and cold, but Gemma could feel how much he was hurting underneath.
This wasn’t over.