Alistair Theirin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wardenings) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-04-02 08:59 am
wardenings) wrote in thecapitol2015-04-02 08:59 am
Entry tags:
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.
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.
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.
no subject
"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?"
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"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?"
no subject
"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."
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"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.
no subject
"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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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."
no subject
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?"