THE RING OF STEEL AGAINST STEEL SINGS its tell-tale song throughout the crisp air of the camp. the young men's breath pluming visibly as it expels from their mouths in the late winter air. and in loghain's case, such is accompanied by an angry grunt of pure effort being placed behind every stroke of his weapon.
loghain was nettled, put off.. and already he had insisted they stop their archery training in favour of swordsmanship. it was too much. his chest slotted up against maric's back, as he showed him for what felt like the hundredth time, the proper form and where to aim. maker's breath, sometimes he wondered if maric 'forgot' on purpose.. that boyish smile admitting such to a scowl and a roll of his eyes from loghain, as he stormed forward.
their breathing had begun to sync, and loghain's hard breath had shifted blond strands, ghosting along the hot expanse of maric's cheeks.... to the point he could have sworn he'd heard the man's breath hitch. felt it, even. and loghain, much to his own chagrin, had begun to stir below the belt.. his heart feeling heavy beneath his ribs, and aching with familiarity. but at least that part he was used to, at that point. nearly pushing maric off of him then, he demanded they pick up the swords. notably more irritated than usual during these sessions of respite.
maker, what was wrong with him, man? he'd been able to huddle with maric in the wilds without much issue, or on other such cold evenings that the fire was not enough. (or, so he'd say when compared to now). he'd even done that exact gesture before, pressed up against the man and showing him proper form. but then now, his iced eyes held a spark of alarm, with his lips and throat slightly strained from the clench of his teeth. lips curling slightly in an uncomfortable scowl.
he was angry. at maric, but mostly at himself. he'd sworn he'd let this go, ever since he'd learned that night after the bluff, about maric and rowan's betrothal. why would he entertain something he could never have, after all? he'd harden himself to it, just as he had with everything else. but such was obviously proving more difficult than he'd initially assumed, as he refused to close himself off (whether by negligence or because of maric's insistence) to the prince. refused to harden himself fully, and keep cool, like he had whenever rowan tried to get close. feeling her annoyance at the fact that he rebuked her attempts, while maric received his full range, at times.
so each stroke of his blade that strikes a defensive position, is enough to knock maric back a pace or two. his throat wrung with angry cries, as his muscles strain with the overexertion. his black hair slicing through the air as much as the edge of his sword. it was made clear that this wasn't about training, anymore. it was about loghain taking out his frustrations, and it being on maric himself was just a bonus... a thrust makes a slice in maric's arm, boldly putting blade to flesh with a snarl, and when maric gapes at it he takes it as an opportunity to teach him a lesson. his blade comes back down to a weakened sword-hand as attention springs back, and the force causes the other man to fall backward with something wounded in his eyes. a look loghain wanted to both own and destroy. and as he breathes heavily, surrounded by the steam of his own breath, maric kicks out and loghain loses his feet. (turns out he'd learned a thing or two from rowan). a grunt accompanying his landing on his elbows right above maric. expression stricken unsure... brows furrowed, almost widened. somewhere between anger and fear, as he had appeared at the witch's hut so many moons before...
@almaric. plotted 🧍♂️.
