A/N: My first Durza/Arya. Also first in the (ad): series (this is the only one in the Eragon fandom). It's a bit weird; I think I'm sado-masochistic because I absolutely love it. Takes place after she is captured by Durza, before Eragon comes to rescue her.
Disclaimer: Blither, blither, why do you think this is called fanfiction?

It was once, and it happened after his nightly inspection, long after she had stopped marking the days with the charcoal piece she found in her cell, infinitely after she had stopped hoping for rescue. It haunted her till the end of her days.

After they beat her, she was always left lying in a pool of her own blood, shirt torn at the back and half-twisted around her torso as she grit her teeth in a weak attempt to temporarily ease the flaming pain against the cold metal bars. It was, as usual, the blackest of nights, so inky and smooth she couldn't even see a sliver of moonbeam reflect off her ghostly skin. And it was day forty-six, or day two-million-three-hundred-seventeen, or day three.

Out of the darkness, somewhere far away—or perhaps eerily close by—came his footsteps, the steel on his boots clicking against the broken stones of the ground. He was coming for her, she knew. He never came to see anyone else. It was always to taunt her, hiss at her, grab her jaw and force her to look into those heated eyes of his as they beat her. Sometimes, as she lay there half-unconscious and too weak to pull her stained shirt properly back over her head, she caught his blurred, hazy image watching her, a ravaged grin snaking across his lips.

Day fifty-nine, day two…

The steps of his feet pounded in beat to her heart, which against her will sped up as he got closer—or farther away? Day six…five… Once, after he himself had 'taken pains' (as he called it) to whip her with the cat-of-nine-tails, she felt the coolness of his breastplate, the individual links of metal digging into her destroyed back as he leaned into her and inhaled the scent of her dirty hair for forever. She turned her head the other way, but she could feel his grin on the nape of her neck, his eyelashes making her involuntarily shiver.

He's here, here she thinks in panic, and the grating noise of a key in lock shrieks in her head. Day seventy… She can feign calmness in the light, but in the dark she lets her feverish heartbeats take control. She isn't afraid of getting tortured. In fact, she prefers it to… the other things. It's the other things that scare her.

And he comes in, and she wonders if he can see in the dark the way he instantly comes to her. He shoves her on her back, pins her hands to the floor, and she is thinking how it is dark, so dark she'll go crazy on day fifteen-thousand-four. Please beat me, she silently pleads, beat me instead. But no, he is a pressing weight on her chest, the devil on her shoulder and eating at her skin, crushing his lips into hers and tasting blood. It is animal savagery, and it is primal abnormality, and she feels his pointed teeth scratching her tongue so hard it makes her bleed. He won't let go, is breathing her in, and she is thinking it is day one-half, and she can't breathe. His breath, still composed in the face of death, moves him down to her neck, and he moves her hands together to pin them down with one of his, moves his other hand to tangle fingers in her hair and yank her head aside. Her neck is exposed, and she is thinking this is a fairytale tragedy her mother told her about as he pricks his teeth into her neck.

Shivering she is, blood she thinks, can feel them on his lips as he returns to her mouth, hands moving to tear her feeble dress away. She is too weak to stop him, and her flitting attempts are knocked away. His own garments—gone, and he is holding her hips now, moving her pale legs apart with one of his own.

She smells blood in the air mixing with the dark; it is day one only day one, his forehead pressed against hers, and he pushes in. It is bright now, bright lights exploding against her eyelids, and it is day zero as she struggles not to make a sound, not one. She tries to think of Faolin as he thrusts, again, tries to think of the flowers he gave her, he hurts her thrusts again, and she is rocking against him on the floor, her skin shredding against the stone. Faster…

It is wet, she doesn't want to be, carnal desires in the dank cave, it is day infinity, infinity, infinity as he finally releases with a strangled breath, and the name she screams isn't Faolin, isn't her beloved's name, but his.

It is day blank.

She can hear his smug smirk as he releases his hold on her hands, gets up, pulls on his clothing, metal-tipped boots, and leaves. His clicking-feet noise fade after a while, and she finally crawls into the far corner of the cell, hugging herself. Her ragged breathing slows after a while, and her hysterical tears eventually subside. She checks her bruises on her wrists, fingers the bite on her neck. A wave of nausea suddenly strikes her to the ground and she has the urge to vomit, tasting bile as she realizes. She realizes it is day negative one: she is scared of the other things because she wants it.

It was once, and it haunted her for the rest of her days.