thecapitol | devoted to neurosis.

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devoted to neurosis. | open.

Who| Alistair Theirin / You!
What| Fear finally sets in Alistair's head; taking it no longer, he does what he does best to block away the noise -- train.
Where| The training area!
When| Day after / a couple of days after Stark's crowning.
Warnings/Notes| Violence, mentions of alcohol consumption, possible Dragon Age Origins spoilers depending on Alistair's dialogue, mentions of PTSD.

There could be swords, but don't bet your luck on it, sweetheart.

There could be a happy ending, but you're more than likely to die. That's why these aren't called the Survival Games. They're called the Hunger Games. Eat or be eaten. Get your ass in there and train.

He was never sure who it was talking to him. Duncan, maybe? It never sounded like Duncan. Nevertheless, he moves with the strength that the Maker had blessed him with, gripping one of these training swords (surprisingly, a well-made blade, but nothing like the Oathkeeper he wielded back in Ferelden) firmly in his hand. Sweat drips from his hair, staining it a darker shade than it was when dry, onto his body, muscles aching and quaking with the strenuous exercise.

He pauses in his swing for a moment, staring down the poor dummy that was the object of his wrath and frustration. The tip of the blade is placed against the floor with a mechanical tap, and warm breath cascades over his lips, pausing to catch himself. The calling of the Darkspawn was a bard's sweet song in comparison to these nightmares, these flashbacks. Hearing that Tabris was missing, being run into hiding by the Wardens, the massacre of Ostagar... all these suppressed memories and fears rush forward like white water after a dam's destruction.

His tongue darts out to wet dried lips; his teeth bite down on the sides of his tongue to wet dry pallet. Fatigue sets into the man's form, but he doesn't stop the training. He's endured worse, he's become worse. The Maker watches over him and guides hi--

Alistair's inner monologue is interrupted by the metallic slicing of the door behind him, signaling someone else's entrance into the room he currently inhabited. Instincts kick in without his permission, and he takes a battle-ready stance, again forgetting that he is not on the battlefield of Ferelden, but instead in a cushioned and secluded room dedicated to the training of all the Tributes. There would be others. However, the ex-Templar's mind doesn't connect the two dots, and he doesn't break from his stance.

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Cullen arrives perhaps a little later than he usually does, today. But that's really the only difference in his routine. It's been the same all his months at Skyhold, at Haven before, and before that, in Kirkwall. A routine drilled into him from the time he was thirteen. Don't ever stop training.

His situation may have changed - at Skyhold, he found himself at a desk as often as not, at the war table rather than in the field, but that's no excuse to let himself go. And it's no excuse here, either.

The morning exercise is for waking up - for clearing away the cobwebs of sleep, the last vestiges of the dark terrors that inhabit his mind at night, for stretching tense muscles and limbering up in preparation for a long day of being bent over reports and sparring with green recruits - or, here, in preparation for another day of being paraded about like a zoo animal. He's used to being one of the first, if not the first here in the mornings, but it's no particular surprise to see someone else before him. What makes it uncanny, however, is the stance Alistair takes. He knows the man trained as a Templar, but seeing it is something else, in this place of all places. Another Templar. Or, well, almost.

"You can always tell, when someone's missing a shield," he says conversationally as he walks in - clearly not afraid of attack. "Even being aware of it, I still leave my left side open far too much."

"Maker's breath, Cullen." He remembers the man's name from their previous conversation -- a fellow Templar (er, kind of.) was someone that Alistair did not want to see on the opposing team. A familiar face causes Alistair to lower his blade, tip of the metal resting lightly against the floor.

"Is it that apparent?" He chuckles, looking off to the side, almost embarrassed that he's seen through by the other. "Back when I ran alongside Tabris, I swung around this large kite shield. Of course, I suppose they took it from me when I was taken."

Albeit he doesn't inform the other that he did, in fact, wield Duncan's shield in memoriam of the deceased Warden-Commander, but the expression on his face should indicate that there was a connection between him and the kite shield. Digressing, Alistair sighs, stretching out his back as he walks to the left of the room, crinkling his nose at the popping he elicited from his back.

"I wasn't aware that other people trained so early. I figured most everyone else would be sleeping still."

"Perhaps I've been spending too much time lately training new recruits," Cullen says easily. "Back home, that is. A few months of it and you'd be seeking out every minor flaw in another man's stance, too."

He moves easily to the weapon rack, choosing a sword he's used before - it has decent balance, and enough heft to make him really work for his swings. He gives it a test, with the ease of someone long-practiced and disciplined.

"I like to get an early start. Old habits," he says, lifting a shoulder carefully. Which is true, as far as it goes. It's also true that he doesn't sleep well, on the whole, and prefers to do something productive rather than lie in bed staring at the ceiling - or disturbing Adella's rest, as the case may be. Just because he's insomniac doesn't mean she should suffer for it.

"I have gotten quite rustic in my stance, I'll admit," the Grey Warden chuckles, shaking his head in embarrassment of himself, "Perhaps it's too long since I've slit Darkspawn throat. How I miss battle, though don't tell Tabris. She'll throw a fit."

A chuckle glimpses his lips as he takes a white towel to his face. Blonde hair is disheveled and unkempt; high cheeks are tainted scarlet. "Perhaps you'd like to spar, then, if we're allowed to. All these new rules and managements are tough on a tired man's brain. You look like you know your way around that blade."

"Battle is simple," Cullen says by way of commiserating. "Politics are complicated."

He almost smiles at Alistair's words. He looks like it, eh? "I'm always willing to spar. If you're not already too tired, of course." A playful sort of jab - he's pretty confident in his abilities, and he actually is curious to test Alistair's skills.

"Me, tired." A forced chuckle is pulled from Alistair's throat as he wiped his lips, gripping the hilt of his blade once more.

"Let's get on with this, then. It's been forever since I've had an actual battle; I doubt you'll disappoint." Albeit the Warden's voice had a bit of a joking tone, he was, in fact, a bit worried that his playful cockiness was striking the wrong nerve in the blonde Templar.

"I'm joking." He reassures the other, shaking his head. "But yes, to duel!"

"I hope you won't," Cullen says in return, his lips twitching again, pulling at the scar there. "I'm not joking in the slightest."

Well, he probably is. But that's neither here nor there, as he raises his sword and falls into a familiar defensive stance. He knows they're of an age, but Alistair seems somehow a little younger - lighter - freer from care. Well, moreso than he would've expected from a hero of the Fifth Blight.

Still, that doesn't say anything one way or the other for the man's skill with a blade.

His blade is lifted once more, the man taking his stereotypical Templar stance-- something that many travellers had commented on in his journeys with the Hero of Ferelden and her entourage, and something he had to lie to disprove.

Jaw sets, blue eyes locking in on the other. Alistair had to think for a moment -- mind you, the lad wasn't a complete idiot; he lacked common sense sometimes, but never in the heat of battle -- to counterbalance for the lack of kite shield donning his left arm. Ankle bends, and the man charges forward, free arm tucked against himself and powerful sword arm bringing the training blade down on the blonde from above.

Edited 2015-04-13 13:22 (UTC)

Cullen counters with relative ease - it's an attack he could see coming from a mile away, frankly, and the blades clash together in one of the most familiar sounds this place can offer.

He takes a step back, away from Alistair, a defensive move rather than offensive. His first thought is, in fact, he's already a bit tired, if he presses the attack he may wear out and leave himself open.

He wants to gauge the other man's stamina before doing anything too rash. Caution is his friend.

Countered, damn it. He's gotten lazy, hiding away in those caves.

He steps back, ankles shoulder-width apart. Shield arm is tense; sword arm is even more so. Piercing blues scan the other for a moment (so, Alistair decides, Cullen prefers to take the defensive?) before straightening his back and rolling his neck.

Rock back, he can hear Duncan's demanding voice, and press forward!

Instead of repeating the overhead attack he had tried moments ago, his arm is low, bringing his arm up for an uppercut attack.

Dress him in silk and velvet, put him in a ballroom with an orchestra and Cullen barely knows which foot to put in front of the other. This, on the other hand, is the sort of dancing he knows well. The music is that of blades clashing together, labored breathing. The steps are wide swings of the arm, a quick turn here, blade up to meet the other. He falls into it easily, his concentration narrowing to his opponent.

He reacts to the move, and the blades crash together before Cullen sidesteps, his own blade swinging low, aiming to knock Alistair's legs from under him - or at least throw him off-balance enough to gain the upper hand.

Both hands grip practice blade, swinging low to clash blade with blade, the awkward positioning causing the Warden to, indeed, stumble a bit before stepping back, feeling naked and vulnerable without his blade.

The ex-Templar realizes Cullen's tactics well, however, and he is well aware that Cullen could easily grab the upper hand here. However, he would not let himself live it down (and neither would Tabris, Maker bless and damn her soul consequently) if he was to lose this fight.

Alistair regains his footing, taking his eyes off of Cullen for a split second-- but a split second is all the other needs, isn't it?

Edited 2015-04-22 13:13 (UTC)

It really is all Cullen needs - he doesn't wait for Alistair to regain his footing, merely presses his advantage, encroaching on the other man's space and raining blows down on him with the blade, a quick flurry of them to keep him off-balance.

"Maker's breath--"

Alistair's back hits the ground with a thud, eliciting a grunt from the man as he's taken aback by Cullen's skill with a blade. His own blade goes up to protect himself from the dulled metal of the practice sword.

"Alright, alright. I concede. You can-- would you STOP that?!"

Edited 2015-04-27 12:58 (UTC)

It's - satisfying, in a way - he knows vaguely that Alistair is of an age with him, and they had very similar training. It's nice to know he's still got an edge even after months spent effectively as a paper pusher, behind a desk. Well, excepting the battles at Haven and Adamant, he supposes.

He stops when the other man is down, breathing heavily, dropping his own sword and offering a hand to help him back to his feet. "Good fight," he says, a smug smile he can't quite keep down crossing his face.

He was an earlier riser than her, and when he left the bed, she'd simply rolled over with a groan. But guilt eventually nagged her out of bed, and down to the training room, knowing that she would have to keep in shape, if she was to be able to get as far as she had in her first arena. And it was a way to get rid of her aggression, built up more and more, every time she got pissed off at the situation surrounding her.

She puts her hands up as he wheels around to face her, a smile dancing across her lips.

"You know I prefer fighting you without weapons, but if you would insist, I would not refuse." She informed him primly, sounding as solemn as a chantry sister, though her eyes danced with mischief. "You're too tense, you know that, dear? We're not in the arena yet, you needed wave your sword at everyone who stumbles in." It was easy for Tabris--She seemed to have little trouble compartmentalizing such situations. As long as her anger didn't get the better of her, she was pretty easy going, outside of battle. A time for everything--Though she wouldn't turn down a fight if she felt the time should be made.

"I've always been on edge, dear." Face pales, causing the man to lower his blade; it had not been the first time he had raised a blade to her out of fear and paranoia. Free hand goes to his shoulder, rubbing out a knot formed by the rigorous training. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to..."

"Good morning, at least," Albeit he would normally be the first to take her into his arms and kiss her good morning, the Warden is a bit embarrassed at his near-mistake, so he turns away from her to set the blade back on the rack, grabbing a towel and patting his face dry with it.

"Did you sleep well?"

"I know," She replied, still calm, still smiling. The first time had been startling, but now she knew he meant no ill--there was a great deal of strife in his life, that made him so on edge. She just aimed to take some of it away. And when his back was turned, she held herself to that, padding over, and first putting her hands on his waist, and giving his back a kiss, before reaching up, pressing her fingers into tense muscles in his shoulders.

"I slept very well. I think it's impossible to do otherwise, when you're there. They don't seem to mind us visiting each other too much--I think as long as we don't make a fuss, it should be fine." She spoke casually, fingers digging in little circles. She didn't speak the whole truth, and Alistair knew it. The nightmares that came with being a warden haunted both of them--though it had lessened considerably, being in a world where the archdemon didn't actually exist. It was a welcome relief, for a woman who had grown used to her dreams being haunted with darkspawn, just as her life was.

"What about yourself? Did you sleep well?"

Her hands hit his shoulders, beginning to knead away the stress of the night prior, causing his eyes to close slowly, gently, and his head to fall ever-so-slightly forward. While Tabris was in fact no Spirit Healer, she was the next best thing, and, to a degree, Alistair prefers her touch over that of a Health Poultice. He was a glutton for punishment like that.

"Perhaps they like it," he muses, "They like knowing that in a month or so, they intend to rip apart two people who share a bond that is on par with the Maker's blessing." The idea sends rage through him, wanting to personally tear the throats of these Gamemakers and feed them to a Mabari. Now that was an idea.

"Either way," he turns to face her, leaning against the rack that held blades and hammers, daggers and ropes, "I did sleep better than I thought I was going to."

Alistair doesn't smile at her; he looks damn near exhausted at the moment, no energy left in his mortal shell to do so. Instead, he looks off to the side, as if he doesn't want to grimace at her. "The nightmares are still here, in this world. I was hoping, that maybe they'd take that aspect of us away, too." The Warden shakes his head, blonde hair becoming windswept to the left, drenched in sweat as he does so.

"I suppose we're not that damned lucky."

"We'll stick together in the arena, alright? I've been talking to the Inquisition. They'll ally with us. I think Commander Cullen wants all of us to stick together, but the more people that come from Thedas, the harder that's going to be. Their group was already large before I got there...And large groups attract attention." She muses to him quietly. Thoughts she hasn't told Cullen yet, nor anyone else. Thoughts saved for only her partner, in marriage, in fighting, and everything else.

"They can't break us apart, Alistair. They can try, but we're bonded together in something they can never understand.

When he turns, she relocates her hands to his own, running her fingers over the rough callouses, tracing lines of wear and tear. Perfect hands, that hers fit into, so perfectly.

"I think, after what we've been through, that nightmares will plague us for the rest of our lives. The things we've seen and done, they'll follow us through whatever world we're in. But the ones that are of...the taint in our blood. That's quieter here, at least. Maybe we're even free from...from the Calling. I prey to the Maker we are, because there's nothing I can do for either of us here." The elven woman grips his hands now, staring down at them, eyes alight with frustration. She's never been this helpless in her life. Even when she had been captured by human nobles, rebellion had meant nothing but her own death. Here, with Alistair...She couldn't let him die. No matter what.

And she knew that he would handle her death just as poorly. In binding her life to his, it had become more, somehow. Her life was no longer hers to throw away as she would. And yet, the idea of their lives belonging to neither of them, but the Capitol, ground on her in the worst way.

But together, they had overcome so much. They were an unbreakable force. She stared at their hands, fingers interlocked tightly. They were a wall, they were a force, they were a bond. One that would not break down so easily.

He's silent for a long while, the blonde listening to his darling's voice. He closes his eyes, nodding and listening to the sound of her quiet tones, remembering every time they had calmed him out his fury and his fear during their adventures in Thedas. Large, rough, and calloused hands rub against themselves, warming them up before he steps forward, looping his arms under hers, burying his face into her shoulder.

"I've had one nightmare," he whispers to her, kissing her temple gently, lovingly. "And that is the day I watched you die. That scene from the screens played over and over in my mind, your scream-- the fact that I was here and you were there drove me to worse insanity than anything the Darkspawn could throw at me. The Blight is but child's play to the thought of losing you."

Alistair tightens his arms around her, fingers tangling in her short hair. It had been long, the Warden thought, far too long since he held her in this way. Every night at their camp, shielded by the tent and from the gazes of the Antivan assassin, the apostate mage, the pariah Qunari... it was all so different here, and oh, how he missed that so much.

"I had promised you," he whispered (although he wasn't quite sure why he was whispering; the two of them were the only ones in the room, and there was plenty of space to speak), pulling away from her only slightly enough to take her hands in his. Pressing her hands to his lips, he closes his eyes, bright blues meeting dark browns. "I had promised you time and time again-- the rose, the kiss, the holding, even that damned winter bit... with every word I spoke, Tabris. With every word I spoke, I promised my undying loyalty and love to you. And that does not change here."

"With every blade they give me, every shield I use, no matter what the weapon or the armor or the environment, I will protect you as I have for the last few years." A small smile graces his lips, pressing them to her forehead.

"I've had the honor of falling in love with the most beautiful woman in all of Thedas, and I do not intend to have her taken from me. Ever again. Do you understand me, my love?"

His arms around her is one of her favorite feelings, drawing her against him. She gives a soft, happy little sigh, pressing her face into his neck, fingers playing with his own hair. She pauses, as he speaks, closing her eyes as he reveals the source of his nightmares, and his grip tightens. Of course, she'd had no idea Alistair was watching, but if she had...Maker's breath. Maybe she would've tried to contain her anger. Tried to survive, so he wouldn't have to see.

Now she'd have to live with the knowledge that her actions had hurt him, disturbed an already restless sleep. Her arms grip him, just as tight as he held her. She wished...everything would just go away. The world and all of its responsibilities could disappear and nothing would be left but the two of them, together like this.

She knew that wouldn't happen, and that reality would have to be faced, but Tabris is pretty damn sure she, and Alistair, deserve a bit of a fucking reprieve.

She just stares at him as he continues to speak, reaffirming his feelings. And she just smiles, expression so openly, blissfully in love, and it'd probably be embarrassing if there were anyone else around. But for now, all her street cred as an angry little snarker is gone, because all she can do is stare at him, utterly taken by this warrior, who was so different from anything she expected, and so perfect because of it.

She closes her eyes as he kisses her on the forehead, squeezing his hands with hers, and bringing them up, so she can kiss them in turn.

"I understand that I am the luckiest woman in Thedas, and anywhere else, to have you for a husband. And I understand, and I promise you the same. You are...the most wonderful man I have ever met, and I'll never stop being amazed, even if we live to be old and grey, that you want to be with me, as much as I want to be with you. And I'll protect that bond we have, and I'll protect you, with everything I have, just like you're protecting me." She gazed up at him softly, pressing his hand to her cheek.

"Some day, we will die, and our bodies will be burned, and our ash will cover the earth, and that land will still feel the love that I have for you, because it will never die, and anyone who walks it will feel something in the ground, because two people who were in love were there." She paused. She'd forgotten about the Maker. Again. "And then the two of us will be together with Him, just like we are, here." Nailed it.

"And I would choose that death, over letting anyone take me away from you."

He takes her hand in his, intertwining his fingers with hers. A smile that lit up brighter than the sun coated his expression as he listens to her words. He nestles his cheek against her hand, closing his eyes and luxuriating in her touch. His lips grace the inside of her palm, and he stands there, silently. For only a moment.

Their moment.

"You stole the words from me, my dear." He smiles, pulling away from her and crinkling his nose at her. "Are you sure you're not a rogue?" A chuckle is pulled from the Warden's lips, and he looks around.

"You always seem to give me more energy than I know what to do with. Are you aware of that?"

"I've been fooling you all this time, my dear. As soon as you turn away, I pull out a bow and arrows. I'm surprised you haven't noticed yet." She told him primly, a smile tugging at her lips. Well, she had used a bow and arrow in the arena. She kind of preferred crossbows. Most power in the punch. And Tabris was all about the punch.

She grins at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and giving him a wry smile. "I've gotten the idea. I can offer some ideas for spending it. We can train together here. Or train together upstairs." She pressed her lips on his, trying to hide the Cheshire Cat grin growing on her lips. Desire never quite died out, even after ten years. If anything, it grew.

"Maker's breath. As long as I have you, I can do anything, Alistair."

He holds her gently against him, smiling as she kisses him. "And likewise, my dear. Come now, come on. Spar with me. It's been far too long since I've gotten the absolute hell beaten out of me by a beautiful lady."

He sways them left and right, laughing softly as he flashes back to when they were younger, dancing gently at their wedding-- he was in his nicest attire, and she... oh, Maker, she was in the finest silks that Anora could help provide. (It was the least she could do, she claimed when Alistair began to protest, for the two of them helping her take back what was rightfully hers.) He blushes softly, grinning.

"What do you say?"

Edited 2015-04-27 12:54 (UTC)

She laughed as he sways, face pressed into his chest. What a goofball, but she went along with it, giggling like they were years younger and years lighter in their burdens. Her hands rest idly on his shoulders as they move around, eyes crinkling in amusement even as the laughter dies down. He's always good at that, keeping her smiling, and laughing.

"Are you sure? I'd be willing to go a round or two if you were up for it, Alistair." How long had it been since they last sparred? A decent amount of time, for sure. "You promise you won't cheat by distracting me? We may have to put something over your face." She grinned at him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"I'm not sure if I'll be able to risk hurting something so beautiful."

"Who, me?" He chuckles softly, "No, never. The last person who said they wanted to put a bag over my face was Morrigan, and well-- we know how that ended up."

Cracked jokes about dark humor, dark past. Perhaps out of place, but...

Alistair steps away from her, jerking his head lightly to the rack in which there were a couple of practice swords and hammers, a bow on top. The training room, he had found, was outfitted with enough weapons to suit a diverse cast of warriors. However, he had noted that in this world, there were rarely any mages. While the ex-Templar didn't mind, he did in fact note it bizarre. Was magic not prominent in this world?

"I would say the same about hurting you, but then again. I doubt I'll be able to land a hit on you. And besides, didn't you say you enjoyed looking at men with battle scars?"

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