My Warden (COMPLETED)

Memory - Stirring the Pot

9:39 Antiva - Rialto Bay

At least she took the time to move the crates out of the way, Alistair thought while struggling to catch a breath. If not, he'd have been battered to the consistency of oatmeal from smuggled cargo smashing into his body after she repeatedly threw him through the air. He moved to wipe the sweat off his brow but found leather and grime stuck to his hand. The grip on his shield was worn almost to the point beyond repair, just like his body after too many years sitting idle on the throne. He thought he'd kept himself in some semblance of shape in between all the fancy pastries, fêtes, salons, and feasts, but she was proving that very wrong.

"Again," Lanny called. She'd shaken off her mage robes for one of Isabela's frilly pirate shirts, a black corset cinching her up. To anyone passing, she looked just like any other sea dog working the decks instead of the mighty savior of the world. An occasional glint of gold shimmered in her shortened locs courtesy of Isabela and a few other pirate friends. When did she last cut her hair?

Alistair waved his hand, "How's about we take a break? Maybe try and find wherever you threw my internal organs and stuff 'em back in?"

Lanny pursed her lips, deflating those luscious temptations down to a thin line. No, he shook his head, that was not the thought to be having. It'd been eight years since the blight ended and through all that unending time he'd been able to keep himself in check. With Lanny running off to Amaranthine every time a darkspawn sneezed and Eamon skulking in the shadows ready to swoop in if Alistair so much as watched her walk away, it was easy. But here, far from his kingly duties and her from the wardens, with both of them back into the swing of things (her back in the swing of things, Alistair was struggling to not die) it grew harder to remember he wasn't supposed to be in love with her.

"The antivan prison nearly did you in. If it weren't for Varric's crossbow..."

"Bianca," he piped up.

That caught her, the determination to torture him slipping away. Lanny crinkled her nose and asked, "Who names their crossbrow Bianca?"

"Merchant dwarves that are good friends with pirate queens, apparently," Alistair said. Every bone in his body ached. They'd been holed up in the hold for what had to be hours with him waving his stick-sword, while she barely broke a sweat tossing him on his royal ass.

Lanny shook her head again at the absurdity, those golden knots jangling together, then she snapped up, all merriment slipping away. "Right, come at me again."

"How about we have a harshly worded debate instead?" Alistair sighed.

"This was your idea," she crossed her arms, her staff knocking into the low ceiling.

The practice sword, in reality a broken board borrowed for these purposes, nearly slipped out of his sweaty hand. He should have worn gloves, or at least real armor to try and cushion his fall. Maybe a big suit of pillows?

"And you went along with it. One of my ideas. I don't know what you were thinking," he chided, still gasping for air.

Lanny parted her hands and twisted her chin down, "I'm growing addled in my old age. You wanted to practice, and Maker knows you need it. So, let's practice."

It'd seemed smart at the time. After slipping out of Antiva and barely any crows aware, with Isabela piloting the ship and Varric supervising, Alistair thought it best to dust off his old templar skills in case they had to fight Maker only knew. At least he hoped he'd be a bit more useful in a fight than before. But he forgot that sparring against Lanny was like running into a bear's den half naked and coated in honey.