"Give me life, give me pain; give me myself again…"
Tori Amos, Little Earthquakes
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The first time I see her, she's standing in the sun. She should not. Her skin is too fair to withstand midday in the garden and come out unscathed. She'll probably get some freckles, which she'll dismiss. She really shouldn't. I'm not sure they'd suit her. She's already not the prettiest thing around – her nose is too short, her fair hair looks silky but too thin, and the tale of her body would never be sung by countless minstrels.
And yet, I wonder why I can't tear my eyes off from her.
A voice calls me back to the tranquil's wing, where I've been living since the last time they brought me back. I bend down to pick up my tools and wipe the dirt off my hands; when I look up again, she's gone.
A few days later, as I leave one of the books back on the right shelf, I hear some tittering coming from the study table just round the corner. I casually stride over, caressing the spines of the books as my fingertips trail over them distractedly. I pretend to be interested in the Geography section – Kirkwall, the Frostback Mountains; anything is a good excuse. My eyes run over the lines of the first book I grab but my hearing searches for the source of that laughter. There she is again, surrounded by a group of junior enchanters. She's explaining something, drawing symbols and pointing to the intricate swirls that decorate the ceiling of the library. I can't help but follow her hand with my eyes.
Silence.
They've seen me.
They murmur.
And there it is again. Her laughter. But this time, it's open. It's frank.
I hate it.
As I leave the book and dash away, I start thinking that she must have arrived during the month that I wasn't here. That would explain why I haven't seen her before. Then how come she has already settled down?
I get it now. She was talking about the sea.
A week goes by. Solona and Elissa are going about their tasks – one of them silently crushes the concoction of seeds that I have prepared for her, and the other controls that there are always enough supplies for their precious potions and balms. This is all they care about. This is their world; a fragmented one, where every single movement has a purpose and follows a logic. And it works. Of course it does. How could it not? Their feet stomp to some hushed rhythm that I'm starting to hear. The drums of monotony have started to pound inside my head. It's a deafening sound that drowns the other thoughts that have always sustained me.
I can't remember those anymore.
She comes in. I don't see her do that – she just seems to materialize right next to me, and in her deep, feminine voice, she asks about some ingredients. I stand up and tell Elissa to write down how much hypericum, lavender, and rosemary I'll be taking for her. An earthy scent fills my nostrils as soon as I take the first pinch. She asks if it's supposed to smell like that. I nod and explain that this batch has been stationed for over three months now, and that such smell is perfectly normal.
She barely listens to me. She takes a pinch between her fingers –her nails are short and uneven, as if she had the habit of biting them– and closes her eyes. I hear her take a whiff and give a little hum of approval. Her hair smells of chamomile. It feels warm. I watch her.
She watches me.
She wonders if everything she's heard about me is true.
I shrug and give her the pouch she has come for.
Her eyes aren't deterred by my indifference, so I turn around and go back to my things; back to the silence of the glasshouse.
She keeps coming back. I let Owain deal with her. Being around her makes me feel odd. There is something there that feels like a punch in the gut. I can't put my finger on what it is exactly that's bothering me. I recognize the feeling as discomfort, yes. But she's done nothing to me.
She stands there and wonders if I begrudge her something.
I shake my head and give her some cocky response, something that is intended to make her know who she's dealing with: Anders, the rogue. Anders, the one who ran away more than once. The troublemaker. The rebel. The hopeless case.
She asks if I really see myself that way.
I snort. Hasn't she heard? Can't she tell?
She says that I don't look the part, but what does she know, right? She asks me if I'll take part in the celebrations of All Soul's Day. Stupidly, I wonder when that will be.
Tonight, she replies, giving me a quizzical look. She leaves.
I'd forgotten about that. Time flows in an unusual way in the tranquil's wing. It drips like treacle, but it's not sweet. It lacks taste, and colour, and air. I look around and I see the inhabitants of this area working silently, living their quiet lives.
They would never cross the Line.
They would never take the Leap.
And then I realize why her presence feels like a splinter right beneath my fingernail. She is movement. She is life. She laughs and questions and breathes.
I've finished with my duties and I'm given a reprieve. I'm allowed to join the others, just for one night. The fires are burning as the mead makes the rounds. She is the one that offers me a sip of the beverage. Before I know it, I hear myself saying that I'll take it if it comes from her lips. She laughs heartily. I give her a lopsided smile.
As the night goes by and the fire wanes, I worry less and less about the vigilant templars. They have nothing to worry about tonight. Nobody will risk the little happiness they can get through the celebrations over a random act of defiance. We sit together, away from the others. I weave my words into tales; the things I've seen while away pour out of my mouth and into her eager ears. After some time, she gives me a long look. She's sizing me up, and her bright eyes send a spark right up my spine, making me shudder.
Come.
I take her by the hand, or perhaps she has done it first. Does it matter? We tread lightly back to my corner in the tranquil's wing. I cannot even try to be gentle; she doesn't seem to want me to be so either. I press my lips against hers and I get that taste of mead that I wanted. Her touch is inexperienced but it's not shy. She wants to explore, I can tell. My fingers slide down the side of her body, following the patterns of her robe, and I find her legs. Her teeth are pulling me in, nipping me on the softer part of my neck. I growl. I want to bite her as well. I wonder if warmth is a taste.
My hands cannot stop now. They are running over the curves of her body, tugging at her clothes almost desperately. She moves her hips, letting me slide my fingers to the inside of her leg. In a matter of seconds, she's lying naked before me. I hear her gasp. I see her writhe. I feel her tremble.
I'm filled with the sudden need to devour this creature.
As we let our tongues do the talking, I find her sweetest spot. My hand strokes her - gently at first. She arches her back and I remember… These tremors, this want… Bring me back, I murmur, not knowing whether she can hear me. She's whispering the secret spell of the woman that asks for more. My fingers tease her and I can tell that she's ready for more. So am I.
I kiss her breasts and she wraps her legs around my waist. What happens next is lightning and thunder. Our mouths become one. So do our bodies. My breathing matches hers as our hips meet and part, rolling in and away like the waves that she once described.
We bite. We suck. We kiss and lick. We do not stop – not until we're spent. Not until her scent and her warmth cling to me as if they were my own.
In the quietness of the room, we feel these little earthquakes.
And for a moment, we are alive together.
...
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A/N: I don't usually do first person, but I thought it would be interesting to try and do Anders this way. I'd already done it in a chapter called "Creep" ( s/8811939/110/Falling-Embers ) and I kinda liked it.