This is a rough draft of the first chapter of what will be an explicit Duncan Alistair slash fic, where Duncan did not die at Ostagar, but was turned into a vampire. This first chapter has no sex, or even kissing, just lots of blood and screaming, so enjoy and please give me feedback so I can improve and keep writing 
The sun was lost behind the skyline of lofty, and extravagantly detailed buildings of Val Royeaux, and the Summerday celebrations continued. Crowds winded up and down the streets, drinking, laughing, and singing, a buzz of loud excitement permeating the air as strongly as the scent of flowers, alcohol, and sweat. Colorful banners, and streamers, lanterns, candles, all manner of the most gaudy decorations plastered every wall, and corner. It was so startlingly bright in the full light of the day, but as the sky darkened, it mellowed out to something more tasteful, and bearable to look at.
It was the dim light of twilight that welcomed Duncan as he strolled down the streets, keeping away from the crowds, and the festivities. While dressed in the most plain of Orlesian clothes, the older man would still stand out otherwise. He was older, perhaps in his fifties, with a swarthy complexion and dark brown hair, which he kept tied back in a short ponytail. A neat, yet thick beard obscured what must be an angular jaw, complimenting his already masculine face. His eyes were dark as well, and even in the ridiculous frivolity of even the plainest of Orlesian fashion, he did not look like a man anyone would want to mess with.
Perhaps it was also, because unlike the party-goers, the muscular paladin was not wearing a mask. But no one seemed to notice him anyway; he slid along the walls, and alleyways, like a native citizen who knew the city by heart. Everyone was too drunk to notice him, and for that, he was grateful. In years before, he would have enjoyed being a part of such festivities, but that was the past. And although he did not want to join the hunt tonight, he still wanted to get some air.
He knew his fellows were around, searching the city for the much needed meals for the rest of the house. He wasn’t in the mood for it, though Duncan was rarely in a mood for it, but he often participated, because it was his duty to help provide. The unsavory aspects of kidnapping, even if only the scum, and criminals of the city, no longer consciously bothered him. Long ago he had learned to get used to thinking in terms of ‘ends justify the means.’
Lost in thought, he strolled through the city, but even distracted by his own mind, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He kept his face neutral, though inside, his chest tightened. Someone was following him. A man, in a purple, black and white garments, heavily embroidered down his sleeves and leggings. He wore a hat, with a long white feather, and a silver mask that covered his whole face. The only feature Duncan could make out, was the man’s short, blond hair. Everything else was indistinguishable. ‘Orlesians and their masks,’ he thought with a sigh, ‘At least in the rest of the Thedas, a masked man following you can be considered suspicious behavior.’ But it –was- suspicious. Duncan tried to lose the man several times, but kept seeing him in his peripheral vision. Whoever this was, rich or not, was a problem.
Duncan took notice of the darkly clad woman that slid over to him, as he strolled into a nearby alley, trying to lose his stalker again. From behind an ornate green mask, that was patterned in the shapes of leaves, a silky voice whispered. “You have seen who is following you, yes? We could bring him in, he wouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’m sure you could handle him, but I’m not worried about your safety. He looks rich, what if he is a noble? We can’t afford to take someone who would be missed,” Duncan whispers back, not making eye contact.
A soft laughter tittered through the mask, in an almost condescending manner. “Don’t worry…. Someone has been following –him- too, ever since we noticed him. We asked around. No one knows anything about him at all. If he was important, people would recognize him.”
“Recognize a masked man?”
Another tittering laugh echoed out to mock the older man. “For a man who grew up here, you would think you would understand how we Orlesians can recognize each other, mask or no.”
Sighing, Duncan turned, starting to walk further down the embracing darkness of the alleyway, his nose wrinkling as the smell got progressively worse, as if alleys were truly the bowels of the grand city. “If he is unimportant, then do what you will with him. As long as he isn’t following me.”
The darkly clad woman nods, and even without seeing her face, the inflective of her voice indicates a frown. “Awww, you’re going back already? The fun has just started!”
Duncan doesn’t look back, but mutters, “I’ve had enough fun for today.”
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Escaping the confines of royal courts, body guards, and overly attentive servants had its drawbacks. Alistair tugged at the wrist of the tight Orlesian garments, and tried not to think about how ridiculous he must look. Embroidered leggings, bright purple puffy sleeves and this damn feathered hat. But, it was better than staying cooped up in the palace, comfortable Ferelden clothes, or not. And the Summerday celebrations were still going on, and probably planned to go on well into the night. He wanted to get out, drink, socialize, and the only way he was going to be able to do that, was by –not- looking like a Ferelden king. So he donned the clothes, a plain, yet shiny silver mask, and snuck out. Everyone thought he had retired to bed early so no one would miss him, Alistair hoped.
Everything about Val Royeaux was too much. The gaudy decorations were stifling, especially in a palace, but the young blonde man felt it was less pervasive when outside, especially at the darkening hour of twilight. The air, while not nearly as fresh as he would like, still was better, than that too clean yet stale linen smell that marked his room. He walked down the streets, hoping he looked inconspicuous, and started searching for anywhere he could buy a drink. Because while he wasn’t going to get drunk, not here anyway, he still wanted something to dull his senses.
A vendor, who looked tipsy himself, was selling mead along the street, and trying to speak as little as possible (his fake-Orlesian accent wasn’t very good) bought a bottle of the very ******-poor liquid. It tasted awful, but he preferred it over the wine. At least with this, he could guzzle it down without having to appreciate hints of oak, and spice, and a tone of despair. Or whatever other strange descriptions Orlesians had for their fancy wine, Alistair was in no mood to contemplate what he ate or drank.
Alistair chugged down a good quarter of the bottle, thankful he picked a mask that had a decent hole for the mouth. Otherwise, like some others, he would have had to lift his mask up just to drink. What these strange people did in the name of fashion. Remembering fondly the days when he was traveling with the now Warden-Commander, how Lelianna described this place, he always thought she was exaggerating. But he was wrong. This place was as opulent and hedonistic and strange as she said. Even the men were vain enough to wear make-up at times. The –men-! Alistair thanked the Maker he was born in Fereldan.
After wandering down the streets for about a half-hour, he had finished his drink, and tossed out the bottle, right into the gutter since that’s what everyone else was doing. Alistair realized he had found himself in a poorer neighborhood, when the people were dressed less and less extravagantly as before. But, compared to Fereldan dress, it was still something to see. The young man swore as he almost tripped over a drunken man, fallen over in the middle of the road, and it was about then he realized he had no idea how to get back to the palace.
Alistair looked behind himself, and then forward, peering over the night horizon in an attempt to see the palace. He frowns, furrowing his brow, which took a bit of effort since his eyebrows had become stuck to the inside of his slick mask. He couldn’t get lost, he would look utterly ridiculous and Bann Teagan would have his head. Or, he would yell at him. As respectfully as he could muster to yell at a king. He groaned, turning back, slowly trying to retrace his steps. But the more he tried, the more lost he became. Everywhere looked exactly the same. And then, when Alistair had given up, and decided to ask for directions, he froze. A look of shock and disbelief would have made everyone, drunk or no stare in his direction if not for the blessed silver that obscured his face. A man was walking down the road, an unmasked man, and he looked just like Duncan.
‘It can’t be,” Alistair thought, blinking several times, ‘Duncan is dead. Duncan is –dead-.’ He repeated this mantra in his head, but it was not enough to dissuade his eyes from seeing his former mentor, a man he had care for so much, even though he had only known him for several months. ‘It can’t be, it can’t be him…’ he kept thinking.
The man who looked like Duncan was moving out of sight, and before Alistair had time to think, he was following him, feet stepping of their own accord. He wasn’t even sure how long he had been following him when his mind finally seemed to snap out of his delirious state. Staring harder, his chest felt cold, empty, and his heart lept. His eyes weren’t lying to him. This man looked like Duncan. And he knew he had to get to the bottom of it. He started quickening his steps, determined to confront the man, even though he was drawing a blank on what he would say. ‘Hello there, are you my dead friend Duncan by any chance?’ he thought glibly. But then, Duncan’s look alike, whoever he was, was gone. Alistair had only turned his head for a moment, and now he was nowhere to be seen. He looked around, a tight feeling in his chest making his mind spin with panic. ‘He can’t be gone now, I just saw him, he was right there.’
“Psssssst.”
Alistair looked towards the noise, and saw a rather attractive, unmasked young woman standing in a nearby alleyway. She had a very sweet face, and golden curls, and was wearing a black dress and cloak. It didn’t occur to the King that such dark clothing on a festive day was out of the ordinary, the young lady looked so nice, and innocent. And why would there be any trouble? No one knew who he was, and it was a holiday of all days. So he walked towards her beckoning hand and sweet smile, right into the alleyway. The only thought of regret was that he hoped she didn’t turn out to be a prostitute, because he would hate to have to go through a very awkward turn-down.
Unfortunately, that was the least of his worries. The sun was already set completely now, so no one on the road could see into the alley, as he casually strolled in. It was about five seconds in that he realized he made a mistake. Hands had torn off his mask, and a rag was pressed into his mouth. He tried to scream, but it was muffled against the fabric, and as he reached for his dagger, a violent punch landed in his kidney’s making him topple over as the unseen figured grabbed his hands, tying them tightly behind him with coarse feeling rope. Alistair glared up at the young woman, who sauntered towards him, wetting a rag she procured from her pocket with some clear liquid. “Shhhhh….” She said, in a silky, reassuring voice. “Go to sleep little one,” she crooned, pressing the rag against his nose. Alistair gasped and sputtered, trying to lean away from the offending material, but his struggles slowed, as he breathed in the scentless gas emanating from the wet rag. Everything was going dark, and he groaned weakly as the woman’s face seemed to get farther and farther away, before he slipped into unconsciousness.
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When the young King awoke, he felt glad for the dim lighting, wherever he was. His head was throbbing, like he had the worst hangover. But as soon as he tried to move his limbs, the memories came rushing back to him in an avalanche of shock, and horror. Someone had kidnapped him.
He was in nothing but his small clothes, and all four of his limbs were tightly bound to what felt like, and looked like a table. Not that he could see much of it from his angle. He was gagged as well, a nasty tasting rag shoved in his mouth, and tied back to prevent him from speaking. Slowly, Alistair turned his head, trying to make out where he was, and he didn’t make a sound, thought he did tug as the ropes holding him down, with futile thoughts of escape.
The room was so cold, and even with the warm light of candles along the walls, everything he saw sent chills down his spine. There were no windows, and the ceiling and walls, while painted with a typical Orlesian lace and flower pattern, were stained with dark red streaks and splatters that Alistair instantly recognized as blood. The floor looked remarkably clean though, but a dull rust color still came through over the gray stone color, as if it were impossible to rub out. The pace of his heart quickened as he saw other tables. Some were bare, but from his position, near the center of the room, he could make out three other people, bound tight to tables as well. Two were asleep, but one woman, a dirty, ugly looking woman, was awake, and weeping softly as she tugged desperately, trying to break free. His heart was pounding in his chest, as a thought, a realization hit him. ‘I’ve been kidnapped by blood mages.’
He was given little time to think about this, when several people, men and women, filed into the room. Most of them looked Orlesian, though two looked, oddly enough, Chasind. All of them were dressed in the simplest, and darkest of clothes, and he recognized immediately the golden haired woman who had helped abduct him. As if sensing his gaze on her, she winked at him, with a cruel smile. A sound, like a growl, left Alistair’s throat, as a mix of anger and terror filled him.
Three of the darkly clad group, two men and the blond woman, walked up to a table, where a man was bound. All the prisoners were awake now, and Alistair could here from the choked sobs, moans and half-hearted screams, there were more than four. The young woman cleared her throat, and gestured at the room, speaking in a hauntingly cheerful voice. “We give praise and thanks to those that participated in the hunt today. They brought back a glorious selection of nourishment that will fill this house’s stomach’s for weeks to come.”
The woman who first awoke let out a scream, writhing against the table in a hopeless effort to get loose. The blond woman laughed, her curls bouncing around her head like an obscene halo. “As always, those that brought in the most dine first. Ser Etienne, and Ser Montveschel, would you do the honors?”
The two men standing on either side of her nodded, and circled around the table in front of them. On it, an older man, with greying hair and a myriad of wrinkles, was struggling weakly, moaning against the gag in his mouth. Etienne, the shorter of the two, leaned in, and pushed the victim’s head to the side, exposing his neck. Alistair’s eyes widened in horror as he saw Etienne open his mouth, his canines lengthening into long fangs. His stomach churned as he realized what the man, the creature was going to do, right before he did it.
Etienne bit down violently, the noises coming from his throat as animalistic as a dog’s. The older man screamed, and writhed, blood trickling down his neck from the deep punctures. Etienne drew his fangs out, so blood spurted across his face and chest, and down his meal’s neck, before biting down again, a hungry growl echoing across the room as he lapped up the excess blood with his tongue.
Montveschel watched solemnly for a few minutes, until the victim’s screams dissipated to futile moans and sobbing. Then he joined in on the feeding, untying one of his arms before digging his own set of fangs into his tender wrist. Another scream ripped through the man’s frail body, but it was short-lived. His voice faded away to soft, incoherent whining as the two creatures bit him over and over, sucking and lapping up his blood. Screams and sobs of terror still filled the large, cold room, as the others watched on, realizing that this was their fate. Alistair trembled, but couldn’t make a sound, his stomach turning as he felt like he wanted to vomit.
The old man was dead soon after, and the blonde woman gestured to the room. “Have your fill!” she called out, and groups of two or three filed along to other tables and unceremoniously started to feed. The room was filled with the sound of growls and groans, screams and sobbing that only escalated as more feeding begun. Alistair shivered, still in shock, though his eyes froze as he watched the blonde woman saunter up to him alone, with a wide, now fanged grin. “Now don’t you look positively delicious?”
Her hand went to his jaw, and a whimper he didn’t remember making, seeped through the fabric shoved in his mouth. She was starting to lean down, probably to bite him, when a familiar deep voice called from across the room.
“So I assume you apprehended the man stalking me, Hessabel?”
Alistair couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He just couldn’t. His mind was playing tricks on him right before the moment of his death, trying to comfort him. Duncan –couldn’t- be here. Duncan –couldn’t be alive.
Hessabel leaned back up, her hand still around Alistair’s jaw. “Duncan! You’re right on time, I saved him –just- for you. Come join me.”
‘This can’t be real, this can’t be real, this can’t be—‘
Alistair couldn’t turn his head, but his eyes strained to look towards the voice, and everything he had tried to tell himself was gone from his mind. It –was- Duncan. It was his voice, his body, his face, and he was walking –towards- him. The dark haired man hadn’t actually looked at Alistair yet, but a jolt of hope lept through the young King’s heart. Whether this was a delusion or not, he had to try, even as blood was cascading down a screaming woman’s arm in the distance. His eyes were watering, and the world felt unreal around him, hazy, and he struggled harder against his bonds, looking up at his long, supposedly dead mentor with desperation, and fear. When Duncan finally was at the table, and looked down at him, the dark, bearded man froze in shock, his mouth agape.
“Ooooo, he’s such a feisty one,” Hessabel giggles, breaking the bubble. Her nails dug into Alistair’s chin, a bead of blood forming on one of her nails. “You want to taste him fi—“
Duncan’s hand darted out while Hessabel was still speaking, pulling the woman’s hand off Alistair’s chin. His expression was unreadably stern as he spoke. “Don’t touch him.”
Hessabel looked surprised, and even some of the others feeding looked over at the commotion. She abruptly laughed, and pulled her hand away. “Being greedy, aren’t we? I did help capture him, darling, you can’t feast on him all by yourself.”
Alistair could feel the blood draining from his face as Duncan looked down at him, his expression cold, although it wasn’t directed at him. Duncan shook his head at the blonde, a brief pause before continuing. “You aren’t feeding from him. No one is killing him. Do you understand?”
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Duncan was alone, in his private chambers, sharpening his sword as he lounged on a couch. It had become a common habit, that helped him relax, and even though his sword rarely needed sharpening these days, he liked to do it at least once a week. His rooms were decorated simply, but were spacious, and lit presently only by the crackling fire from his fireplace. Pausing from his work, Duncan looked up, listening as he heard many people moving down the hall outside his door. ‘Must be time to feed soon,’ he thought idly, though he was in no hurry to get there. He had had his fill only a couple days ago, after being attacked by some petty thief. But regardless, he set his sword and whetstone down upon the table, and stood, heading into his bedroom in search of darker, more stain-resistant clothing. It was good to get a meal when you could, and he was curious to see if Hessabel had captured the man following him. Duncan knew he probably wouldn’t recognize him, but he still wanted to see who it was, and perhaps get some sort of motive out of him. He couldn’t afford to be reckless, and if he didn’t get down there before they drained the culprit, he would get no information. Hessabel was not too good at thinking.
Following a familiar path down the hallways, and following the sounds indicative of the feeding, he made his way to the forever blood-stained chamber that always smelled of copper, no matter how much scrubbing applied to the walls and floor. He opened the door, and slipped inside, noting immediately that almost everyone had begun to feed by now. Splatters and drips of fresh blood were already coating the floor, and for a brief moment, Duncan forgot why he had come down in the first place, the scent of newly spilled blood so intoxicating to his senses. The sounds of agony coming from the myriad of victims were nothing but white noise to him, he had become desensitized to it all long ago. Scanning the room, he finally saw who he was after, the golden-haired Hessabel, who seemed just about to bite into her meal, when he spoke up, stepping towards her in a brisk, but careful stride. Falling on your ass because you didn’t watch your step and didn’t see the oh-so-slippery blood was not something Duncan was going to do.
“So I assume you apprehended the man stalking me, Hessabel?”
Hessabel pulled her head away from her victim’s neck, her fangs retracting a few millimeters as she gazed back at who approached. She then grinned and giggled, quickly exclaiming, “Duncan! You’re right on time, I saved him –just- for you. Come join me.”
Duncan long ago got used to the woman’s overly cheerful nature, and even if his face betrayed no amusement, he internally chuckled. ‘I highly doubt there would be any of him left if I had not gotten here on time,’ he thought to himself. He stepped up to the table, next to Hessabel, and finally looked down at the bound man, and his mouth dropped open, yet no sound came out. ‘This can’t be…. He can’t be here, this can’t be him…’ The young man that looked up at him, with wet, pleading eyes, looked unmistakably like Alistair. As soon as they made eye contact, he started to writhe and struggle harder against his binds, and moan against the gag in his mouth, which made Hessabel giggle as she dug her nails into Alistair’s chin. “Ooooo, he’s such a feisty one she said, licking her lips. “You want to taste him fi—“
Whether this was truly Alistair or not, Duncan wasn’t sure. But he looked just like him, just like the golden-haired bastard son of Maric that he had taught so long ago. The same Alistair that was supposed to be –King- of Ferelden now. Whether or not this was him, he had to know for sure, and a pang of anger lept through him as Hessabel dug her nails into the bound man, drawing beads of blood that dripped across her fingers. Without thinking, Duncan grabbed her hand and pulled it back, his hand squeezing tight around her wrist. “Don’t touch him,” he half-growled out.
A few of the others feeding paused to look over at the two, and Hessabel looked shocked at the sudden change in Duncan. After an awkward pause, she laughed, a hint of nervousness in the cadence of her tone. She pulled her hand back, and rubbed her wrist softly with her other thumb.
“Being greedy, aren’t we? I did help capture him, darling, you can’t feast on him all by yourself.”
Duncan took a stance closer to the bound, would-be Alistair, and said more firmly, “You aren’t feeding from him. No one is killing him. Do you understand?” His eyes locked with the man below him, who looked so desperate, chest heaving up and down as he gasped and groaned at the gag in his mouth. Duncan kept his expression the same, unreadably cold, not wanting to betray any emotion. ‘I can’t tell them who I think this is. I need some other excuse, some other reason I’m protecting him.’
More of those feasting had stopped, looking over the Duncan and Hessabel with curiosity and some with amusement at the proceedings. The few Chasind that were there seemed the most interested, yet unlike the Orlesians, none of them showed anything but seriousness in their gaze. Hessabel put her hands on her hips, and frowned up at Duncan, her curls bouncing on her shoulders as her chin jut up. “You cannot just –say- that! He’s here as a meal, you can’t deprive me, us from being able to drink. Go find some other… plaything.”
Duncan did not waver, stopping Hessabel as she tried to move towards Alistair once more. “There are plenty of other meals for you here. And this one never would have been taken if he hadn’t been following me in the first place. It is my right to make a claim on him.”
Hessabel huffed, her fists balling up against her thighs. “But –I- captured him. I should have a say in this! Why do you want him anyway, what good is he to you if not a—“ She cut herself off mid-sentence, a slow grin forming across her lips as she seemed to come to a realization. “Oh I see… you want him as a pet! I should have known you were of that persuasion, you’ve always ignored me when I flirt with you….” She giggled, tapping her fingers together with a glee, but soon shook her head, and frowned up at Duncan again. “If you want a pet you can go get something else, this one is for eating.”
Now everyone in the room was staring, and Duncan had to admit he felt mortified at Hessabel’s proclamation. Not that she was entirely wrong about him, he –did- prefer the company of men to women in that fashion, but that had nothing to do with this. This was Alistair, his subordinate, someone he looked after, not someone he would ever think of….. But as ridiculous as Hessabel’s accusations were, they were the only excuse he could think of. He knew if he played along, people would believe that. ‘I have to get him out of here, by the Maker does Hessabel have to be so stubborn?’
Before Duncan could even reply, he heard a familiar voice call out from the door that made the room go silent. “Now what is all this ruckus I am hearing about? And on a feeding day no less, when you all should be relaxed?”
Duncan turned, and looked back at the unusually tall, yet lithe elf that stood in the doorway. He was an older man, appearing to be in his sixties, his long, jet-black hair stained grey at the temples. He wore all black, but his robes, his tunic, his leggings, were all decorated with embroidery, lace, silk, and pearls, making him appear as if he stepped out of the royal court himself. His face was pleasant enough to look at, though he had the most haunting of icy blue eyes that made him look menacing even when he smiled. Duncan couldn’t completely restrain the look of nervousness on his face when he looked back at him, but of course, Hessabel was the first to pipe up anyway.
“My Lord Benniarde! I am so, so sorry if we bothered you in any way at all, it’s just that Duncan here is being so selfish and trying to claim –my- meal as his pet or something.” Hessabel rambled on, as she stepped over to Benniarde, a whining tone creeping into her voice that made Duncan wince.
Benniarde did not seem fazed by the rambling, and raised one of his thin black eyebrows, walking over to the table where Alistair was bound and still trembling. “Is this true, Duncan?” he asked, his voice deep, yet as smooth as the silk ruffle that encircled his neck.
Duncan cleared his throat, and spoke as calmly as he could, trying to stay firm in his resolve, yet not disrespectful. “Hessabel’s claims on his man are unfounded, your Lordship. This man was following me earlier, and we were unsure of his intents which is why he was brought in in the first place. If he hadn’t been stalking me, Hessabel would never have thought to bring him in, because he does not fit the type we usually bring in. I respectfully ask that my right to…. possess that which may have had hostile intentions towards me not be taken away because Hessabel can’t bring herself to choose a different meal.”
“That’s not fair, it’s not like you brought him in, did you? You just want to--“
Benniarde quickly silenced Hessabel with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh calm yourself, dear. I see no reason not to grant Duncan’s request, it seems perfectly reasonable.” The Lord reached down and caressed Alistair on the cheek with his silk-gloved hand. Duncan tensed, but luckily Benniarde didn’t seem to be intent on causing any harm. “I can see why you want him, Duncan, he is rather attractive, isn’t he? A very –fine- specimen of manhood…” He trailed off, and his hand gently swept down Alistair’s exposed chest before he pulled his hand away. Duncan’s stomach churned, feeling revulsion as if his friend had just been violated, even by such a simple touch.
With another wave of his hand, he said to Hessabel, “Now go on dear, and find something else to chew on. And don’t pout too much dear, you look so ugly when you pout.”
Hessabel left the room in a huff, obviously pouting at her defeat, and Duncan couldn’t help but smirk. She –did- look quite unattractive with her face pursed up like that.
Everyone else, even the other still living victims, were silent in the room, and finally Benniarde threw his hands up with a broad smile, that should have been friendly, but felt so menacing and cold. “Now stop standing around like that, friends, you should be –enjoying- yourselves!” At that proclamation, most of the room went back to feeding, though there was some gossip-tinged whispers in the background. As for Benniarde, he lingered by the table, watching Duncan as he started to remove Alistair’s bindings.
Duncan pulled out a dagger, and carefully cut the ropes that were wound tightly around Alistair’s feet. He knew he was being watched, so he kept that same cold expression on his face, and put his hand around Alistair’s ankle once one limb was free. “Don’t move,” he said in a threatening manner, and the man did not move, a great look of fear still evident on his face. ‘If this –is- Alistair, and not just some look-alike…. What must he think of me?’ Duncan thought as he cut through the ropes on the other foot. He moved up to the bound hands, and sawed through those ropes as well, and he was grateful that Alistair didn’t try to bolt as soon as he was free.
As he was putting his arms under the blonde man, intent on carrying him out of there (he wasn’t going to remove the gag because he had no idea if the man would start saying things he shouldn’t), Benniarde spoke up, his arms crossed casually over his chest as he watched. “Aren’t you going to take a taste before you go? Surely you’re hungry as well?”
Duncan paused, and grit his teeth together. ‘Is he suspicious? Why would he want me to bite him here, in front of him, if thought I was genuine?’ Regardless of whether the Lord was suspicious or not, he would be if Duncan refused to feed on him now. He felt a pang of guilt as he looked down at Alistair. He didn’t want to cause him any pain, but if he didn’t keep this charade up….
“Good thinking, your Lordship. Better to do it here than get bloodstains on my carpet,” Duncan answered back, putting on a congenial smile. He could hear Alistair whimper, and feel him begin to shrink away from him, and even through the gag the single mouthed word Duncan was audible.
Duncan grabbed Alistair, and forced his head to the side, to make his neck accessable. The blonde man started to struggle, and he –was- strong, but not nearly as strong as Duncan who had no trouble holding him tightly with one arm locked around his waist. Long fangs became visible as he opened his mouth, his canines lengthening as he bent down, and prepared to sink them into supple flesh. There was nothing that would stop the pain, so he did it as quickly and efficiently as possible, one hard bite that made Alistair scream in agony. Duncan slowly sucked on the blood, and all the guilt in the world could not stop him from enjoying the taste, the texture, retching a growl that vibrated against Alistair’s skin. After a long moment of feeding, Duncan pulled back, his fangs retracting as he watched lines of red drip down Alistair’s neck, which he quickly licked away. He pressed his tongue against the two punctures wounds, letting his saliva seep in, which healed the marks in a short amount of time. Alistair was barely conscious now, weak from blood loss, and limp against his chest.
Benniarde wet his lips, leering at the spectacle appreciatively. After Duncan was finished he walked towards another table, with a half-dead woman lying unconscious, blood dripping from her neck. “I think its time I wet my appetite on something. Good night, Duncan.”
Duncan left the room as quickly as didn’t look suspicious, cradling the young King in his arms, heading for his chambers, his lips set in a grim line.
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