thecapitol | Love of mine, some day you will die.

Entry tags:

Love of mine, some day you will die.

Who| Tabris and Shepard, Tabris and YOU.
What| Alistair's gone. Tabris copes. Kind of. Not really.
Where| Open prompts in the training center and d10 suites, closed for Shepard in some shitty club.
When| After the crowning
Warnings/Notes| Death, depression, alcohol use, drug use discussion, basically Tabris being a depressed piece of shit.

Training center - Open

It's not the first time that it's happened to someone. It happens with a strange regularity, and later on she'll wonder if the others reacted with quite such a spectacular breakdown. But it had always been others, it'd been her flipping through Celebrus and sympathetically tutting at the gossip column. But this was different, because it was her, because it was him. Because it was her husband, because it was someone she had poured so much of her love and so much of herself into that without him she felt like some hollowed out shell animated by some twisted pleasure in her own pain.

For the first day, she acts just like that--Wandering like a ghost, without a purpose or note about the world around her. Any attempts to speak with her are ignored, brushed past as she continues to walk, as if searching for something she'll never find. Eventually she winds up at the training room, because if there's anything that Tabris can do in any situation, it's hit something. She takes the heaviest sword she can find, and walks to a dummy. For a few moments, she just stares at it. But it doesn't take long for her to raise the sword, and swing it down. It's a solid connection, and the dummy swings back.

It's something. For a little bit, she settles into a soothing rhythm. The sword against the dummy, the thump of the dummy taking the impact. But she slowly starts to speed up her hits, imperceptibly at first. But once the ball gets rolling, it recklessly dashed out of control, as she poured more and more of herself into the strokes. She tried to push all of herself out, let everything inside slide down her fingers and disappear into the sword, to meet the dummy again and again.

Maker's breath, but you are beautiful. I am a lucky man. It wasn't fair. Being near you makes me crazy. But I can't imagine being without you. Not ever. He hadn't even died a Warden's death--Hadn't even sacrificed for a real cause. Have I told you that I love you? I did? Well, it won't kill you to hear it again, will it? He died in a game--a Maker-damned game for the entertainment of a city of sociopaths.

It's only a matter of time before the trained strokes become frenzied swings, rhyme and reason thrown out. Anyone who's seen her fight in the arena can recognize the fighting screams as she slips into that quiet berserker place where she steps back and lets the rage take over. It's been a while since she's let control go so thoroughly, and she empties herself into that rage, slashing at the dummy with a wild abandon. But without being able to tap into the actual powers that she had gotten in Thedas with her rages, the strain is too much to take for long. She sinks to the ground, breathing heavily, and all the fight in her vanishes.

She's left staring at the unfortunate and utterly massacred dummy.

Club - Shepard

It's only a matter of time, really, before copious amounts of alcohol is chosen to deal with the problem. She has no idea what club or bar or whatever this is, she just knows that it serves alcohol and that passes her high standards. She didn't even need to worry about buying it--Capitolites love a good tragedy, and her romance with Alistair is vastly more interesting to them with him dead. She isn't a very good guest, quietly staring out as they hurl questions at her, but they shove shots and mixes and everything the club serves into her hands, and she drinks everything they give her. They tut and shake their heads and make appropriately apologetic faces--Just like she'd done when it happened to other people.

She doesn't even feel happy, feel anything from the alcohol, and it's not long before they're handing her other things.

None of this is going to help, and she knows that. She's not an idiot. And Maker knew that she's done enough drinking to know that none of this is going to make anything better. But that's okay. She doesn't want to feel better. She wants to feel worse. She wants to hurt herself, feel that bitter pain and regret. In this, she excels, at least. She can't make anything better, she can't bring him back. But she can punish herself. She make things so much worse that it doesn't even matter.

So she takes what they give her, drink what they give her.

As a certain person approaches, Tabris is staring blandly at a tablet in her hand, while the indigo-skinned man across from her demonstrates how to let it dissolve on your tongue. Her only thought is that this is a lot easier for a guy who appears to have had his tongue cut in half.

District 10 suites - Open

When all else fails, there's always giving up.

Sleep is some kind of reprieve, and so as the days pass she spends more and more time indulging in it, or simply laying in bed with the covers pulled up over her head. At this point, all she really feels like doing is wallowing in her own misery. She's pretty sure that the other people who've had loved ones died haven't reacted quite so badly. But she doesn't care. She's miserable and pathetic and a sad excuse for a Warden and she doesn't care.

It's a good thing she did manage to make some kills that last arena. One of the only times she's seen out of her room is as she shuffles out into the kitchen with a cup of instant ramen, pours the water in, and pops it in the microwave. Once it finishes, she takes the ramen and goes back to her room. Rinse and repeat.

The room itself isn't locked, and anyone who particularly wants to go in will find a large stack of said ramen in one corner. It's thanks to the avoxes that her room probably isn't a total pile of trash, but as it stands, there's usually at least one trash can shoved in another corner with a few empty Styrofoam cups and other assorted trash that hasn't been cleaned out quite yet. The room smells stale, with all the lights off, and just generally looks like a big depressing mess, which suits her just fine.

You can burst in there, or try to catch her during her food shuffling.

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All Fitz was planning on was doing what he's been doing every day since arriving in this godsforsaken place; escaping his anger and anxiety and cabin fever with the old familiarity of drilling himself hard enough that by the time he gets back to his room, he can sleep deeply and dreamlessly. What he wasn't expecting was to see a young woman fall apart before his eyes.

That berserker rage, that hollow collapse, those are all too familiar to Fitz, who seems to spend his life losing the people who matter to him. He doesn't follow the news, but he has something of an idea of the pain she's in, even if he doesn't know what's caused it.

He hovers in the doorway as she destroys the training dummy, unwilling to enter but unable to leave. He knows that if it was him, he would hate to be seen in this state, but he stands there afraid to move, in case she looks around and sees him. Would it be worse to see a stranger walk away from her pain, or a stranger stand watching her fall apart? Does she need sympathy, or someone to let her pain out onto, or to be alone? He doesn't know her, and it's something that's so dependant on the person. Emotions aren't Fitz's strong suit, so he stands there paralysed with indecision for a while.

She has gone to her knees now, and he moistens his lips uncertainly, giving her a moment before he says, very softly, from his place in the doorway, "Are you all right?" Stupid. Of course she isn't all right. He doesn't really have any other useful things to say, though.

Cullen keeps close enough track of those from Thedas to know when yet another of their number hasn't returned from an arena. The fact that this time, it's Alistair hits somewhat close to home. Every time they lose someone, Cullen can't help but think the next could be Adella, and this, more than ever, brings that possibility to mind.

Facing Tabris will be difficult, he knows, but he's not the sort to shirk his duty. When he finds her in the training room, he doesn't say anything, just sits near her. She looks worn, exhausted, empty. What should he say? That he'll say a prayer for Alistair's soul? He will, but would Tabris even care about such a thing?

Finally, he settles on, "If you need someone a little more lively than a dummy to hit, I'm always available."

Bayard comes to her each day, like a dog checking in on its sick owner, quiet and concerned. He brings her whatever baubles or candies he's collected that day, but by the time he reaches her room he's forgotten what's made him so excited about them. Rather than wax poetic about glow in the dark stickers or ring-pops, he lays them on the dresser next to her where she sleeps, asks her if she wants anything, and then sits a while on the edge of her bed. He could enthuse, but he suspects she'd rather someone to listen, and someone who will allow her to come to that at her own time.

Bayard isn't the type of person to bring his own mood into someone else's space, but rather he absorbs theirs like gauze and ink. He takes in a bit of her somber air in an effort to ease the weight that's crushing her into the bed, the grief heavier than anything Bayard's seen up close. He doesn't bring her sunlight so much as another warm body in the dark. He watches the Avoxes carry out her ramen containers and he asks them little favors, like a glass of water for Tabris, or maybe an extra blanket.

Sometimes he does his Youth Program homework at the edge of her bed, occasionally reading a bit out loud less to tell her things than to just let her have a voice that she can hear and so he can continue sounding out the letters that seem to come so easily to his classmates. Today he finishes his readings and sets the book down.

"Aunt Tabris," he says quietly, "would you like to shower?"

It's never the fighting that gets you. You're ready for that.

There's a moment, when you're going down the steps blind, and you reach out your foot for the next step, only to find that there aren't any more stairs. It's jarring-- suddenly, without realizing how you'd gotten this far, you're done. Ground floor. Nowhere to go but up, right? It's never the fighting that gets you. It's the moment when it stops.

Where do you go from there? You had a plan, you had... a rhythm, almost. It was awful, but it was familiar. You could expect it. Shepard didn't really know if she'd be able to cope with it, when that moment came for her, but she'd seen it in others. James' fatalism, Samara's calm despair, Kaidan's anger, Javik's... Well, Javik. God, Javik. God damn it, Javik.

And now this.

Shepard had been looking for Tabris almost as soon as she got back and figured out the news. It hadn't been quick, and it hadn't been easy, but it had been, apparently, in the nick of time.

"What are you doing?" seized her by the wrist while the blissed out Capitolite issued his broken protests. Shepard gave him a glare that glowed in the dimness and she could see the respect fear bought her; the recognition in his eyes, "We're leaving. Come on."

She didn't let go.

Peggy considered meeting Tabris in the Training Center. After watching her go at the dummy, Peggy decided it would be best to leave Tabris alone.

Instead, Peggy goes home and starts seasoning a beautiful brisket she got on her way there. Treating a brisket the way it should be takes patience, but Peggy has that. Her home smells like a smokehouse by the time it's over the next day. It's comforting.

She comes to the D10 the next day. The brisket is in a tray in a basket, which she sits on the table. It makes the suite smell like smoke and sweetened meat.

"Tabris." Peggy starts knocking on Tabris's door. "Tabris, come out. You can't live off of ramen."

She's startled by his words, and she lurches to her feet suddenly, swinging around and pointing the sword at him, ready to fight--But not really, because when she realizes that it's just some kid, she all but collapses against the wall, arm with sword dropping down. The spur of movement is over, and she just seems to droop again, staring at the ground for a few moments.

"Absolutely." She finally says, voice husky, sore from the abuse of the screams she'd let out as she attacked the dummy. "I'm just floating through this Maker-damned life. Got a tune in my ear and a skip in my step." The sarcasm was dry enough to send D4 into a drought. There's another pause, before harrowed eyes flick up to look at him, gold in her eyes offset by the red from barely restrained tears. But she wipes the heel of her hand across her face, and she's good, because she'll be damned if she cries in front of a stranger.

"Who are you, anyway." She would never claim to have any kind of knowledge of every one of the tributes, but most she'd seen in some kind of passing. At the very least, at the cornucopia and crowning.

The kneejerk reaction is to snap at him. How dare he even comes near her, when he has Adella? When he thinks that the two of them are even close to the relationship that Tabris and Alistair had. But the beatdown on the dummy has worn away the quick, vicious anger, leaving a weary rationale that informed her that she would be worse than an idiot if she took those words seriously. He's done nothing wrong--In fact, he's trying to be a comfort to her.

She owes it to him to at least think over her words.

"You've done nothing wrong for me to want to hit you like that." She tells him instead, voice quiet and raspy. Her eyes flick up to where the Gamemakers observe the people training--Pretty much empty right now, but Cullen should get the point she's making. "When the time comes, I'll find the people who have."

It's a solemn promise.

After the first day or two of Bayard visiting, she makes an effort. It's not much, but she'll usually sit up when he comes. When he returns, the stickers are fixed to the wall, the little baubles arranged elsewhere, each getting their own spot. It's an effort that she makes especially for Bayard, a final stubborn streak that despair can't quite dislodge. She can't make herself better, but she can do...something. She can pin stickers to the wall.

Once or twice, she even talks to Bayard. He's a patient listener, a good one. She tells him stories about Alistair. She tells him how they met, and their courtship--Leaving out the parts not suitable for young audiences. She tells him how Alistair picked a rose in a place forsaken by the Maker himself, and gave it to her. Told her that she was another beautiful thing amongst the despair.

It's not a day for talking, when he asks. It's a day that she has sat up, though, face expressionless as she stares out at the hologram that feigns to be a window. When he asks, she doesn't respond for a few moments, letting the silence settle in the stale air. Finally, she gives a little mirthless wheeze of a laugh.

"Do I smell that bad? Don't answer that." There's another pause, and she looks like she's forgotten that he's talking to her for a bit, until she speaks again. "...If you suppose I should." She lets Bayard decide. He's probably better at decisions than she is right now, anyway.

She should be more surprised that Shepard just appeared in the club, a calm fury that seemed determined to not let her do her very best to destroy herself in creative methods. Tabris didn't argue--Either because she knew that it was a pointless attempt, or she was too strung out on a potent mixture of alcohol and grief. Or both.

Instead, the elf looks calmly at Shepard, even as her wrist is grabbed by the other woman. That was usually a sore spot for her--Tabris had a lot of issues with being grabbed by the wrist in a normal setting. But now she just turns to watch the tablet she'd been about to attempt taking fall from her hand. "Dunno." She replied to Shepard's question that wasn't a question. "Forgot its name."

She contemplates protesting, as the Capitolite quickly finds another place to be that's anywhere away from that glowing red glare. But the fight is well and truly gone, and the fire that had burned hot within her has seemed to have fucked right off. The alcohol hasn't managed to persuade any feelings out of her, and just seems to slosh around in the emptiness. So she turns to Shepard, wrist limp in the other woman's hand, and expression damn near to placid.

"Why?"

Edited 2015-07-25 09:55 (UTC)

His mouth is turned down in sympathy, a look in his eyes that's too old for someone not yet into their twenties, but he doesn't press. She's obviously lost something real, whatever it is, and the wound is too fresh and raw for careless probing. When he's felt this way, he'd as soon not show it to some stranger either. He averts his eyes from her face, and pretends he can't see the tears in her eyes.

"FitzChivalry. The new Tribute for Eleven. I came but a few days hence."

"I don't doubt it in the least," Cullen says quietly. And he's honest with that - he has no doubt Tabris will find a way, eventually, to exact terrible retribution on those responsible.

He'd want to do the same to anyone who tried to take Adella from him.

"Still, though, the offer stands. Keep it non-lethal, and I'll happily provide a moving target for you."

He's really not sure what else to say - he's not good at comfort, really, and he's not sure Tabris would appreciate it anyway.

It's because she does sometimes talk, because he comes back and sees the baubles arranged and the stickers pinned, that Bayard is certain that this is what Tabris needs. Not someone to push her into pretending everything's alright, but someone to acknowledge that things aren't alright at all but there are still enough small things left to differentiate each day from the next. He doesn't hold it against her that she doesn't want to talk today.

"No. You smell fine," Bayard says, knowing it's a lie but also that sometimes even dishonesty is a kindness, that there are some untruths that the Lord won't hold against you. This is one of them. "I just think it'd help you feel better. I'll have the Avoxes change your sheets while you do it, I think they're getting a bit stiff."

He takes something from his pocket, a little piece of soap that looks like a dog, still in its wrapper. "Besides, I wanted to show you what I brought you today."

"Watch me."

Tabris shouts it at the door, cranky at letting her misery be disturbed. But, after a few moments of staring at the door, she sighs. Peggy is right more of the time than Tabris wants to admit, and she's trying to help. And, she's pretty sick of ramen. So the door to the room will swing open, with Tabris standing there, looking like death warmed over.

"I could have, if I tried." She continues, like the issue here is that Peggy was questioning Tabris' commitment to living off of ramen, and not the myriad of other problems lurking stubbornly in the background.

She laughs without mirth to be found, a hollow sound. Some newbie, perfect. Hopefully someone else has explained the ins and outs of this nightmare he got dropped in, because Tabris wasn't up for being a welcoming committee. At least, in the conventional sense.

"Well, Fitz. Welcome to Panem. You're going to have fun dying repeatedly, and watching everyone you care about come here, and then die. Or you'll make friends with the people here, and they die. Everyone fucking dies and then you get put on a gossip magazine where people with goddamn magenta hair titter about you."

She paused for effect.

"Isn't it just fucking dandy."

"That much I pretty near figured," he says, trying not to sound short-tempered. That would be a dick move right now. Even though he doesn't actually know how to talk to an angry and despairing woman, and all he wanted to do was train and forget his own issues. Why couldn't he just leave well enough alone? He doesn't know what to say, and she doesn't want him to say anything at all, not when -

He abruptly connects her mood to her words. "You've lost someone? To the...?" He gestures around the room, taking in the cameras and the Capitol in general. "I know they punish...severely here, but I didn't think...I should have guessed. I'm sorry."

She doesn't say anything for a few moments, thinking over the offer. It's not that she doesn't appreciate it--She does, and she knows Cullen is just trying to help. But she's afraid that if she fights, she might lose control, like she did with the dummy. While Cullen was a skilled combatant, she didn't want to put him in a position where he had to fight her like that, or try to disarm her to keep her from causing harm to him.

Tabris may be a berserker, but she's a trained berserker. One of the most important parts of that training was learning how to control and direct that rage, and how to pull out of it when the fighting was done. And right now, she knows enough to be aware that the control was strained.

"If you give me a few days," She finally says, feeling weary and indescribably old. "Give me a few days with dummies that I don't care about, and then we'll see about practicing on the people I do." She glances over at him, and rests a hand on his shoulder. "I know you mean to help. Thank you."

Cullen nods. "I understand." He may not know the particular ins and outs of being a berserker, but he knows control, and how tenuous it can become when emotions are running high.

"If there's anything you need - all you have to do is ask," he adds after a moment. "Even if it's - to go away."

He figures she might want the out. Certainly the last thing Cullen wants to do is seem like he's - rubbing his own relationship in anyone's face.

She smiles softly at the little soap dog, reaching out to touch it. "I'm not sure I want to use it, it's so pretty. But I suppose things were made to be used. Thank you Bayard, I like it." She gently took the little soap figurine, and stood up. After a moment of thought, she made her way to her closet, pulling out a dress. If she was going to bother with getting clean, it wouldn't make sense to go and put on the pajamas she's been staying in.

She doesn't really want to do this--Take a shower, look proper. It felt like it was saying that things were normal again. That if she got cleaned up, made herself look decent, that she was saying she was done being upset about Alistair. That she was over him. But there was another part of her, viciously stubborn and refusing to let herself lay down and die. Refusing to show that weakness to Bayard, especially. That stubbornness made her nod to Bayard, and then disappear into the shower.

For a long time, she didn't even bathe, she just stood there and let the hot water wash over her. But eventually, she washed up, using the little bar of soap Bayard had gotten her, careful to try to preserve the dog's shape. After drying off, changing into a new set of clothes, and even bothering to brush her hair, she stepped out of the bathroom. Tabris certainly looked better than before, but there was still that tiredness in her face. You can't just wash away your grief.

She felt almost guilty, feeling better and looking better. But there's no help for it. She can't stay like this forever. So, she sits down in a chair, rubbing her face. "Ugh," She managed. "Still not sure how they make the water so hot. One of these days someone is gonna cook themselves like a lobster in those things."

Éowyn's grief and rage, though of a different timbre, is no less intense than her District-mate's. She hates this sense that she had come so close, only to have it stripped away. She hates the hopeless guilt that's been burning away at her since she got back, that voice in the back of her head saying You swore your life to them, swore to see them safe, and they are gone. She hates that there's nothing she can do about it, knowing that if she strikes out against the Capitol and goes down in a wild blaze as she wishes she could, it would lay too many people open to questioning and attack.

She's been in the gym since dawn, her hair tangled into a rough plait, stripped down to leggings and a sweat-soaked undershirt, her face grimly set as she hacks down mannequin after mannequin, slashing them to pieces. There's less of the berserker to her than to Tabris, but her stubborn, unending concentration is such that she doesn't see the elf come in, doesn't register the sound of Tabris' rage until, abruptly, it stops.

Only then does Éowyn come out of herself enough to realise she's not alone, and, turning, to see Tabris on her knees. With a low grunt of effort and anger, Éowyn throws her whole weight into a swing, sending the dummy's head flying a good ten feet as it's sliced away (imagine the look of surprise on Snow's face, the blood in his beard, the solid thunk of blade on bone, imagine him crumpling headless to the ground not a president not a figurehead nothing but a corpse) then tosses her sword to the ground, uncharacteristically careless of her weapon.

A moment later, she's crossed over to the smaller woman in long, brisk strides, kneeling down opposite Tabris and putting out one practice-blistered hand to touch Tabris' cheek. "Who did they take from you?" she asks, her voice low, little more than a bitter whisper.

"If that makes you feel better, I suppose. But it's my job to make sure you stay somewhat healthy."

Peggy goes to the table, picking up the basket and offering it to Tabris. In District 10, there are a little more traditions involved with giving food, but she doesn't expect Tabris to play along with any of it, so she just offers the basket.

"I made this for you. It's a little more substantial than ramen."

While Tabris is in the shower, Bayard directs the Avoxes. He doesn't know how to do most of the work himself, like the laundry in those fancy machines, but he does know what needs to be done, and so he makes a suitable steward. He has her sheets and blanket changed with something fresh and new. He tells them to air out the room. He sends her pajamas down to get laundered.

When Tabris returns, her bed's freshly done up and there's a little more daylight in the room - not intrusively so, but it's no longer as dim as it was before. Bayard's decided not to invite all of the sun on in.

"I've tried it," Bayard says, looking cheerful at the prospect. "It got so hot I couldn't stand it anymore, and when I jumped out I was pink all over like I'd been in the sun all day."

He sits on the made bed. "How do you feel?" he asks, thinking of her body and not her mind. He knows that her mind will feel terrible for a long time, that grief is not excised easily.

Tabris watches Eowyn send the head of the dummy sailing away, her face the weary calm of someone who has simply run out of ability to feel anything else. When she turns to look at the other woman, there's no reaction at being touched--neither leaning away nor into her hand. Instead, golden eyes just focus on that uncompromising face. Eowyn understood. In a way that many others couldn't, Eowyn knew what it was like to be apart from your husband, and to lose someone you had cared for--even if they were not the two same men.

"Alistair." The name is choked out, the single word cracking her voice, as if even the name could bring her pain. Then she paused, unsure if Eowyn knew the man, aside from the fact that he regularly visited her room in the suite. "My husband. For ten years."

When she finally turns away from Eowyn, it's to stubbornly grind her palm into her eye, refusing to let the tears spill out. She doesn't want to give them the satisfaction. She doesn't want to reveal that splitting weakness within her. It feels like a piece of her has been torn out, like they had neatly chopped her down the middle and stood back to watch her. Alistair had been a part of her life since she stepped out of the alienge, since she became a Warden and embarked on the great adventure of her life. Her adulthood had been shaped with him at her side.

"They brought him to this cursed place just to take him from me."

"Don't get yourself hurt." She says it automatically, a worried scowl on her face. Trust Bayard to nearly boil himself alive in one of those things. She wasn't sure just how hot the showers could get, but she was pretty sure that the answer was too hot.

At his question, she fell silent. Eyes turn to hands, fidgeting and unsure. How she felt was a loaded question. Even her body wasn't in its top physique--Not with the grief crushing her down, bearing down upon her very bones. How did she feel. The question wouldn't be ignored, but it would be thought over, until she was sure that she has a good answer.

"I feel like a snake that shed its skin, and worries that things were left with the skin that it wanted to keep." She replies finally. It's more than she would usually confide to another. Especially a child. But Bayard was different, and he deserved the truth. "I feel clean and new, but I don't know if that's a good thing."

Éowyn's rage swells in her, futile and all the more brightly-burning for it. She understands, all right. She understands in fragments, but she understands nonetheless, and hates the Capitol with every fibre of her being for putting anyone through that kind of pain. It's several moments before she pulls herself together enough to speak, her hands on Tabris' shoulders now, her voice quiet and fierce.

"He is free, then. That is what we must trust in. He is free of this place, and all its torments." From the way she says it, she knows perfectly well that's little comfort. Even if Tabris can believe it, can believe that her love is somewhere better than this, that does nothing to ease the pain of separation. Éowyn holds her gaze on Tabris, offering her hand. "This is not the place to mourn. Too public, too open to those who would do you wrong. Let me help you back to our floor. I have a tea to help you sleep, if you need it."

She hates this, how helpless she feels in the face of Tabris' righteous grief. Illness, she can deal with. Violence, she can face. But something this raw, this utterly natural, she can do nothing to heal. That is something she's had to learn the hard way, and it weighs heavy on her.

Giving food was a bit of a tradition in the alienage, as well--perhaps it was for any place where people were wretchedly poor and the government looked on in indifference. There wasn't much ceremony involved, just a knowledge that when a family was hurting, they got help. Then they would help when someone else needed it. It wasn't something Tabris had really thought about--but staring at the gift of food, she remembered. Remembered the food given when her mother was killed. Remembered giving food when others were in similar situations.

It was oddly comforting, that feeling.

She accepted the basket, peeking in and smelling it. Holy shit that smelled good, and Tabris suddenly remembered what an appetite was. "...This smells really good. It's different from the Capitol food. Realer." Or maybe she's just being sentimental. Either way, she manages a weary smile for Peggy. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

Slosh is the right word for her, the damn sot. It's a disgrace, a mess, and it's leaving with her. Looking at Tabris is like looking in a mirror, complete with all the familiar nausea.

"Because nobody gets to take the easy way out on my watch," Anger was better than grief, by far-- that looming final step in her mind. If you could anticipate it, maybe it didn't need to hurt so badly, "You'll thank me later."

"I was red as an Injun," Bayard says, meeting her scowl with a blithe, pleased innocence, as if his own unwillingness to recognize danger is a sun to part Tabris' worried clouds. He shouldn't feel so confident in his invulnerability after his last death, in Tabris' arms no less, but he refuses to become weak and scared before her. Where Tabris has become smaller and more pained throughout the Arena, Bayard has been trying to grow and become stronger, so that the two of them can combined be brave and competent enough to be one supportive being. He will bear the weight when she can't, as she did for him.

He nods, eyes on hers and seeing her words as if the letters are coming from her mouth in black bubbles. He thinks of his father, retiring to the library in solitude when he's home. He thinks of his cousin, shearing her hair upon learning she is a widow now.

"There ain't nothing you've left behind, so far as I know. Alistair's still as here as he was a few moments ago. He didn't pop off just because you dared to shower on his watch."

Before Alistair had been here, she had seen Cullen and Adella together, and wondered if that was what she would want. To be together with her lover, but trapped in this terrible place. It seems that the Capitol decided for her, again and again. She was trapped and unable to do anything as they threw her against hurt upon hurt, no recourse, no ability to do anything but try to move with the flow to minimize as much of the pain as possible.

"...You're right. I'm glad it was him that didn't come back." She whispers it, even as she takes Eowyn's hand, slowly rising to her feet. "It's better for me to face this, than him. He's home--Whether Thedas, or at the Maker's side, I know not, but he's safe. He wouldn't be able to handle me being the one to go." Because Tabris could handle this pain. It didn't feel like it right now, it felt like she was dying, but she knew that she would continue on, and one day it would stop hurting enough for her to function. She couldn't say that Alistair would be able to do the same.

Better to save him from it, anyway.

"But you're right." The elf flicks her eyes to that hateful platform where the gamemakers watch the tributes train. "Let them see my anger, but nothing more. They would do well to commit it to memory." Because some day, she'd come for them, and they'd get to see that ferocity, that rage that drove her to kill until she was dead, in a very close, very personal way.

She keeps the thought in her mind, and it helps.

"Let's go to our floor. Thank you, Eowyn, for your words."

Éowyn shakes her head, pushing herself to her feet and putting her arm around the smaller woman. "Would that I had more than words to give," she says softly, as much to herself as to Tabris, and starts towards the elevators. Would that I could free you. Free all of us. This is no way to live. "But they are all I can offer. Words, and the knowledge that I share in your anger and your grief, as much as I can."

Which is little enough, she thinks. Anger is futile without a way to visit it on those who deserve it; grief only adds to the great slew of loss and sorrow she already feels. But it is all she can think of to say.

Usually, she takes the stairs. The elevators, although she has learnt to operate them, make her uneasy; confined spaces have never been her strength, and knowing that there is a great void of several floors under her feet makes her even more uncomfortable. But in this case, the stairs seem like a bad idea, a procession of shame for someone whose emotions ought to be left private. So, swallowing down her own feelings on being trapped in the little metal boxes, she calls the elevator, looking at Tabris as she waits.

"What strength I have," she says at last, abruptly, "is yours. If you have use of it."

"Okay, yeah, I get you, but consider this," Tabris rambled, even as she was drug along. A sorry sight to be sure, with Shepard a vision of order and glowing red, and Tabris just looking...diminished. Kind of sad and pathetic. Hah. She was fucking pathetic. "One in the hand is worth two in the bush--I may thank you later, possibly, but if you let me go, you'll get a thanks now. Guaranteed, hot and fresh."

She winces when the open air hits her, like a vampire emerging into the light. Ugh. "Besides, what does it matter. Would the Capitol stop me. Would they even care? Grab me before I die and shove me in some nasty hospital or just let me die and go print out a new one of me?" Well, at least she's talkative again. Better than the blank stares and wordlessness. Even so, she's like a particularly heavy doll in Shepard's hand--listless and without any free will.

Ellis had told her about engines, they were...involved in the strange coaches that were called cars. She had never seen one before, but...apparently they were red? Alright, then. She'll remember that for later. In the meantime, her lips twist in vague irritation, but she ends up just settling back against her chair, too tired to argue it further. He can't kill himself over a hot shower after all, and she just doesn't have it in her to make more of a bother about things than she has to.

"...I hope he isn't here." She closes her eyes, sinking into the chair. Tabris was always a small woman, but her presence had been large, the way she held herself and spoke, she never seemed to know just how petite she was. But that presence has sunk away for now, and against the chair, looking haggard, she really does look like a small, drawn in woman. "Even in spirit, even in my heart. I want him to be free of this place, and thus, me. He belongs here as much as a fish does flopping around in a flower pot."

For a few moments, she let the silence settle, before finishing her thought. "He was a believer in the Maker. They say when the faithful die, they pass through the Fade and go to the Maker's side. I'd rather him go there, than hang around this shi--place."

It's more acknowledgement than she expected. It feels like Tabris sees the intention behind the gift, and moreover, it feels like it actually makes her feel even a tiny bit better. "Thank you." Food in the Capitol is delicious, but none of it has the heart that comes from cooks who know hunger. Only those who have been hungry can recognize it.

She gives a wan smile of her own, wanting to do something more but unable to think of what, if anything, there is to do. "Think nothing of it. Let me know if there's anything else you need."

Tabris didn't reply at first. Words were all anyone could give here, for now. But they meant a good deal to her, and she knew that when the time came--because the time would come, Tabris could feel it in her bones, feel it in the same way she had felt when she had first seen the archdemon, and knew that they would do battle. She knew that this time she wouldn't be the one to kill the snake at the head--Snow would belong to someone else. But blood would run in the streets of the Capitol some day, and Tabris would be there to add to it.

She isn't too fond of the elevator either, but understands why Eowyn would call it, and is thankful. She had no energy for the flights of stairs. Once the doors open, she steps into the box, waiting for Eowyn, then pressing the button to have it lift them to their suite. Only when the doors close does she speak.

"Alistair is--was the last son of the last king of Ferelden." It's an odd thing to admit, even though everyone knows. The landsmeet had set that out there, even though Tabris had done everything within her power to steer them away from Alistair as a candidate. "I asked him not to take the throne. Every noble I'd met was selfish, littleminded. Ignorant at best, cruel at worst. They weren't worthy of calling him their equal. And still, it's only been when I came here that I met people like you, or Maxwell, and learned that there are exceptions." It's a compliment, if a bit longwinded.

"I don't think that he ever regretted that. I think...he led a life he was happy with. I can be grateful for that much."

Éowyn nods, her mouth a thin line but her eyes gentle, and clasps Tabris' arm. "He had you," she says quietly, "and he had his choices made in freedom, and he had friends and comrades-in-arms. More than that, no king could have, and no man could ask." Again, it seems cold comfort, but they are not empty words. She is, in fact, repeating almost verbatim the feelings she had when she was trying to reconcile herself to Théoden's death - some of the feelings she has over Aragorn's, and Arwen's, and Samwise's, as well. "He died loved, and in battle, not wasting into old age and forgetfulness. There are worse endings for a man, and for those who care for him."

But he did not die free, she thinks, and hates it. Death is not what she fears, not truly, not even for those she loves. But it hurts that they have no say in the manner of their deaths, no freedom to take their own road to the end. It hurts to know that anyone, least of all those well-beloved, should die a slave. Éowyn bites back the thought, releasing Tabris' arm, and offers a thin little smile.

The words are more helpful than Eowyn seemed to guess. Just having someone there, assuring her, was helpful in its own way. It burned her, to know that Alistair died in such an inglorious way, a way that wasn't suited to a Grey Warden. But keeping in mind all the things that he had...He had the life that he'd wanted. He wasn't like that king that so many people seemed to know.

"Most of the others of my world knew Alistair as a king." She told Eowyn quietly. She knew she was rambling, but she wanted to just...talk. She wanted words that were trapped in her chest to be free, to relieve at least some of that pressure within her. "But I can't imagine him being happy like that. He always told me he didn't want to be king. When we were Wardens, he had me lead our group, even though he was my senior warden. Because he hated leading that much. Even if he's good at it, I can't imagine him happy." She scowled, stubbornly rubbing her palm into her eye.

"...I don't regret any of the decisions we made. I don't think he would, either. I have to be content with that. He lead a good life." That's as much as anyone can ask. It's more than many men get. It's more than many Wardens got.

"You can't take him from having been here," Bayard says quietly. "I think, since he loved you - he'd have rather been here with you than not. Even if that means you've got to mourn."

He pats at the edge of the bed so he'll join her, if not for an embrace then at least for the comfort of someone by her side, some body heat to try and puff up the sad and withdrawn woman that he sees before him. Suddenly, Tabris looks her size, where previously her personality seemed to exist outside the lines of her skin and frame, like a watercolor placed sloppily over a pen sketch.

"Where I'm from, we just call the Maker the Lord, or God. I reckon he's there now, along with a many great people taken from us soon. That's what my Granny says and she ain't ever given me a reason to doubt her." Every word is slow and deliberate and kind, delivered with an almost surgical gentleness that comes to Bayard naturally.

Éowyn nods, helping Tabris out onto their floor. "Such lives lead us down paths we do not expect," she says quietly, "and not all men are best-suited by power. Here, sit. I shall brew you a little of that tea, and we may sit together, and you may speak of him to me, if it will help you to say farewell." She gives the elf a little smile, squeezing her arm, and clears her throat. "If you have no regrets in your life together, then that is miracle aplenty."

She quickly stands and obediently plops down on the bed next to him, listening to him talk. She resists muttering that calling him God isn't very original. Like the Maker is much better. "Everything you've said that your granny has told you has sounded quite reasonable, Bayard. I doubt this is any different." She replies, for while she's sure that his granny probably isn't entirely right about everything, and she certainly wasn't picturing Alistair or the Maker of his world while she said that, it was the sentiment that counted. And Tabris wasn't one to tell children that their parental figure was wrong, anyway. Not unless it truly called for it.

"I don't know if I'll join him." She continued, rubbing the side of her face. "I deserve it, all I've done for the Maker's children and all that. But he's not one to judge on works over your heart. Maybe I should start getting religious." A quiet snort followed that. Tabris' religious views were murky at best, when once she had been angry, furious that the Chantry would claim she was loved by a divine being who would let her people be treated so, time and Alistair's own quiet faith had worn her into something more muted. The Maker, perhaps, she could accept, if not his organization.

"I've been running headlong down a path I didn't expect since my first wedding." She mumbled as she followed Eowyn, and obediently sat down on the couch. "Not that I'm not happy about...some of it. And bittersweet about other parts. As you said--What we had was something rare." She sighed, sliding a hand through her hair. "If you don't mind listening...I wouldn't blame you for not wanting to hear everything." She sighed, settling back. "But if I do, you will have to tell me about your own husband. Is that a deal?"

Éowyn stilled for a moment, her hand on the kettle, then nodded as she looked over at Tabris. "Of course," she said at last, and turned to fill up the kettle. Honestly, it felt as though it might be something of a relief to speak of him, to remember him. "Wait one moment. I have to fetch some herbs from my room. Is that all right?"

"I don't do things in exchange for gratitude, Tabris. You'll take your I-Told-You-Sos when I give them, and no sooner."

Let it never be said that Commander Shepard lacked conviction; but true, she wasn't uncharitable, at least on practical terms. Gratitude is unimportant. What's important is this: Tabris is an elf, and Shepard can deadlift a krogan, so prepare to get carried, princess. Ain't nobody got money for a taxi in this economy.

"Absolutely not." Tabris replied without hesitation, and stared at Eowyn for a few moments, before her face finally cracked into a crocked smile. "Yeah, it's fine. Please, go ahead. I'll be here." Not like she exactly had a lot of plans. Well, she probably had plans, but she was pretty much going to ditch all of those. She didn't want to do anything, and certainly nothing for these Capitol assholes, who have never experienced any loss in their lives. Maker damn them all.

"Bossy bossy. Do I need to salute you, too?" That's all that Tabris really had to say for herself, before she was scooped up like she didn't weigh anything. Which wasn't really that unusual to be honest, though she'd still have the bother to fuss about it normally. Right now? She just leans against Shepard with a defeated sigh. Humans are honestly the rudest.

"Just like my soaps. Should I swoon." At least she was evidently feeling alright enough to sass Shepard, which was probably as good of a sign as any.

It was something, Éowyn thought, that Tabris could still joke. Of course, had she not been rather a serious person herself, she might not have taken that for such a good sign. As it was, though, she could let herself be reassured by it, smiling back at Tabris and tossing her hair back over her shoulder as she strode towards her room, mug in hand.

She was gone for a few minutes, then returned with the mug now half-full of herbs and seeds. Back in the kitchenette, she turned her back on Tabris and started to work, over the low whistle of the boiling kettle. At last, she spooned generous amounts of honey into the mixture, and brought two mugs over, handing one to Tabris and sitting nearby with the second cup cradled in both hands.

The tea was sluggishly thick and an unpleasant yellow-brown, but it smelled sweet and warm, and - as Tabris would hopefully find - tasted good too, both comfortingly sweet and surprisingly fresh. Éowyn took a long mouthful of her own, offering Tabris another of those little smiles.

"I hope it tastes all right. I have had to learn to account, here, for the lack of kingsfoil."

He rests against her shoulder, the two of them not that different in height, trying to comfort what can't really be comforted. The pain Tabris feels right now is always going to sit in Tabris like a big, dark pool that leaks into everything around it; the best either of them can hope for is to contain it, to cherish that pain because it's the residue of love, and to clear away and bring to safety what would be ruined by that viscous darkness.

"Only if it'd help you any." Bayard sighs a bit and looks at the wall. "I wish I'd had time to know Alistair a bit better. It seems I missed out while you've still got memories to hold close. I wouldn't want to be grieving so but it seems I could have learned a lot from him about being an honorable m- person."

Women can be honorable in the same ways as men, Bayard's learning.

"I wish you could come to Thedas. See what he was like when he wasn't busy being stressed about all of this bull--stuff going on here. I mean, it's not like he's that different, but...he smiled more." She smiled in turn, looking down at her hands. Those stupid dimples. They'd captured her heart like she was a blushing child who'd read too many romance novels. "I think you would like Thedas, Bayard. We have Mabari, and we have elves and dwarves and all kinds of magic. I know all the Wardens would love you. The people under my command--They would spoil you rotten."

Tabris' history with Thedas was contentious. Just like her faith, it wavered, tempered by the knowledge that the individuals within were usually better than the thing as a whole. There were problems that seemed insurmountable, and it was endlessly frustrating. It would be easy to just tell Thedas to fuck off. And more importantly--It lacked Alistair, if he has truly died. How could she go back to Thedas and live without him? Hell, how could she explain his disappearance?

"Did you know that Alistair was of noble blood?" She's told a few people now--It was hardly a secret, really, when most people knew Alistair as king. She'd been quiet out of respect to Alistair, knowing what a contentious subject it was for him. "His father was the King of Ferelden. I asked Alistair once, if he wanted to be king, too." She gave a dry laugh. "But he didn't. I wasn't surprised, really. He was my senior Warden, but he still let me boss him around. Besides, kings can't be with elves. Though...that's more selfish of a reason, I suppose."

"Maybe someday I will." Bayard says that with such youthful certainty, as if there's no actual barrier to this hypothetical. "I don't want to be spoiled. I reckon I'm having enough of that here. Soon I'll forget what hardship is and that won't make me anyone worth knowing."

It's not true, of course, but somehow he's managed to stay above the fray of the Games, the trauma and the gutting misery. Maybe it's delusion. Maybe he's just lucky and so beloved by so many people here, Tabris included.

"I didn't know." He thinks, sucking at his lower lip a bit, because conversations of this nature deserve not platitudes but honest consideration. "I reckon to be with someone you ain't supposed to be with...There's a bravery to that, I think. Going against what you been told for love."

The Capitol has plain out spoiled Tabris in food since she's been here, but the elf spent a lot of her life poor, and after that, on the road. She's eaten a lot of stuff that has looked worse than this. So, while Tabris feels skeptical, she wouldn't be rude enough to refuse the drink. A few hesitant sips later, she's glad that she did.

Shes's got no idea what kingsfoil is, but it doesn't take a genius to surmise that it's probably some kind of herb that often gets brewed into teas. So Tabris just nods, and takes a few more sips, only setting the cup down when she felt a little bit warmer, a little bit less like she was about to die, or burst into tears, or a number of equally negative things.

"...It wasn't love at first sight, but it was...a crush, maybe. He was supposed to help me on my quest to become a fully fledged Grey Warden, so I approached him at the fortress we were at. He was sassing some angry mage, and I was already amused. Then the mage stomped off, and Alistair turns to me, and he says..." She smiled at the tea fondly, saying the well-worn words, comfortable and still amusing. "'You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.' The Blight is--Well, it's awful. But this man made a joke about it. Didn't know me from Andraste herself, but he just grinned at me and starting cracking jokes about the Blight. I looked at that crazy bastard, and I said to myself, 'Fuck.'" She laughed a little, shaking her head. It was difficult, exactly, to make someone else understand. Particularly someone who didn't know what the Blight was. But she remembered the way her heart had done strange things at that dimpled, cheeky smirk.

"I knew I was doomed from that very moment."

Éowyn smiles. Although the words are foreign, and although she has never loved someone for their humour, she thinks she understands a little nonetheless. What won her heart for Faramir was something not altogether dissimilar: the ability to treat a stranger with kindness and compassion, as though they were no stranger at all. To share ways of coping, without fear. Yes, she thinks she may understand a little of it, after all.

"Of such small things, our fates are woven," she agrees, quietly, and takes a sip of her tea. Her silence invites words, a space that needs filling.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Love of mine, some day you will die.

Training Centre

training centre, natch

Let me know if this is alright.

In Da Club

Suites

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its perf

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Training Centre - hope this is okay

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[cw: racism]

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