AAARGH! I've been mercielssly assaulted by endless numbers of plot bunnies ever since I've finished DA2I Even though I preferred Anders as he is portrayed in Awakening, I'm a sucker for well written angst, and this little brain-fart came up. I just had to get it out of my head! This might be slightly spoiler-ish, even though there's nothing mentioned straightforward.

Also, this piece was written with a particular song in mind, namely, "While your lips are still red" by Nightwish. I strongly recomend listening to it before or while reading this :) It might clear up the "artistic mumbo jumbo" I have going on here. But I'm babbling again.

Enjoy a little angsty romance :P

Even the best of us are afraid of something. Sometimes, the most noble, fearless of people are afraid of the mundane things in life. She was afraid of words. Tiny little words that tasted so sweet on his tongue, words she had never heard before, words that he was forbidden, lest she slipped from his grasp. Too late had he realized, she knew. She could feel things he had never said. Words had no meaning between them; she had lived his love for her.

She was young, too young for the world to be resting on her shoulders. Even as she struggled to appear strong and unwavering for her companions, for the people of Kirkwall, he could swear he saw the fear, the terror in her eyes, hidden just below the mantle of responsibility. She had never fallen in love before, he could tell that from the way she flustered whenever a flattering remark reached her, from the delightful blush that colored her cheeks when he had first mentioned her beauty. To a man deprived of physical and social contact for so long, it was pure torture. Knowing that he could so easily have her, body and soul, was almost his undoing. But the knowledge that should he have her, he would, eventually, shatter her heart into so many pieces they could be passed through the eye of a needle, it would kill him as sure as a blade to his heart. But then he sees her smile at him, and that moment alone is worth a thousand deaths.

He would never forget the first time he'd seen her fight. The deadly accuracy and predatory grace she possessed placed on display for all to see and fear. The skill with which she handled her blades, drawing silver ribbons in the air distracting the eye long enough for her to slit the throat, only served to remind him that she could end him just as easily if need be. He held on to that belief, knowing that day would come, when she would have to choose. But still, what he always admired at her was her hair. A dark mane of waves pinned up at the top of her head with a straight twig. He found himself wondering just how long could it be. Only once had he seen her wear it down and even then by accident, after a particularly nasty fight. The raven curls cascaded over her shoulders and down to the small of her back. He stared aghast as the ocean winds swept it from her face, making it flutter wildly around her like the banners of some great fortress. That was the way he wanted to remember her, not the battered, bruised shell of a woman that she would become after he and the world were done with her. How he ached to run his hands through her hair, to ensnare it, to feel her lean into his touch as he did so. But it is not meant to be, he tells himself. She deserves far better than him.

He now lays awake at night, thinking of her, praying that maybe she is as well and then admonishing himself for doing so. He dreams of her. Of how those deft hands would feel pressed to his skin, of those nimble fingers raking through his hair. Of how it would be like to be free, if only for a moment. How it would be like to bury his face in her raven locks and feel everything else fall away. To be able to love her the way she deserves to be, free of his duty to the mages, his hatred of templars and fear of himself. He chases the dreams away, but they always come back and haunt him.

When he wakes up in that cave, her words ringing in his mind and his heart lurching, the only thing he knows is that he is a monster. He… He is the thing that should not be, that should never have been in the first place. Yet she does not blame him. She insists that she trusts him, that he can and will keep control. And for her sake, he believes her. He believes her to believe in himself.

A few days later, she comes to his clinic, alone and unarmed, and is heart throbs painfully in his chest at the sight, at the living proof of her trust in him. She speaks to him as easily as any other day, and he marvels at the control she has over her feelings. Aware or not, she still ends up arousing him to no end. He warns her off, one last time. Still she refuses to back down. She avoids his eyes and worries her bottom lip back and forth between her teeth. He feels the heat rising up from his stomach and the blood pulsing in his ears at the sight. In a rush of emotions, he pulls her against him, pinning her between his body and the wall, roughly claiming her lips in a desperate attempt to sate his thirst of her, but silently begging for her to push him away, to run and never look back. She does not. Instead she kisses him back, a loving, tender contrast to his raging need of her, and it only makes him want her more. He holds back, tries to rein himself in, but her face as he pulls away, her closed eyes and swollen parted lips, the soft, whispery gasps she makes are enough to drive him to the worst choice he could possibly make. Falling in love with her, utterly and completely.

The look of relief on her face as he enters her chambers shows him how fearful she truly is. Blue eyes meet his worried gaze and he sees the compassion, the love he does not deserve swimming just beneath the glassy surface. He can't bear it. How blind can she be? To see the man but not the monster he is, to love him so decisively, so purely. And he is about to taint it all, her love, her faith in him, her. She embraces him softly, but it still feels like she's trapped him. He holds her, kisses her, worships her the way he knows best. He claims her for himself. As long as her blood still flutters in her veins, as long as her heart beats against his chest and as long as it's his name that falls from her lips in the midst of rapture, she is his. While this night still lasts, and while the dreaded dawn is still a lifetime away.