Side note --- I actually wrote this before I'd finished The Belgariad, so prior to that, I've wondered whether Pol has ever experienced love when she was younger. I've also not read Polgara the Sorceress yet, so this is just a little something umthing I cooked up in my overly strange head.
Disclaimer --- Most characters mentioned all belong to David Eddings. I don't really own much besides a brain (and sometimes that gets faulty), so have pity on this poor rapscallion.
Touch
The gentle pitter-patter of the raindrops on her window distracted her. She found this odd. All too recently she had been lost in thought, unaware of her surroundings, as though she'd taken flight. Lately her friends have found it necessary to bring the lady back to the ground and take her out of her reveries. Yes, she may be distracted, but she noticed that much.
She didn't really blame anyone but herself. The woman had been unfocused, and her mind raced too quickly now. In reality, she blamed it on the visitors. They'd barged in on the island kingdom unannounced. And they'd brought him along.
There wasn't much to it. She and her father had welcomed them almost with open arms. They were curious about the visitors from another land, maybe even another reality. Their sorcery intrigued her, and she had asked for tutelage under one of them.
That was where she realized she made her first mistake.
She hated to admit it, but the sorcerer was brilliant. While she quickly learned how to muster her own shimmering power without the Will and the Word, he easily adapted to her world's sorcery. It was rare for the lady to find such an equal, though she admitted that to no one.
It had been weeks since they'd been stranded in her country, and he had made the first move. He found a stray black lock out of place, and he reached towards it, brushing it behind her ear. She only stared at him, a mixture of bewilderment and amusement. There was no jolt of pleasure, no hopeless yearning. She'd been alive far too long for those kinds of sensations.
"You're beautiful," he told her plainly. There really wasn't much else to say afterwards, he had conveyed the rest of his feelings in his eyes. And she inclined her head, smiled at him, and replied softly. "I know."
But that had been days ago. Four days, in fact. She'd counted. A day after the incident, he had tried to reach her again. She gave him a piece of her mind. "You think so highly of yourself. Has it occurred to you that other men have thrown themselves at my feet with promises and sweet words? You are no different."
"I make no promises," he said, his voice low. He went on to say that he couldn't make promises. Not when he didn't belong to her world. He would leave her, she knew that. He was mortal, she knew that, too. Had it been any other time and place, had they been...
"Stop it," she spoke, her composure almost breaking. "Stop."
The lady put her knitting down, frowning at the mess she made on the stitches. She winced. The shirt she was working on mended itself after a time, and she put it to the side. Sweeping her dress, the lady stood up and approached her window. With the flap of her white wings, she catapulted into the air.
He was surprised to find an owl perched outside his window, and he quickly opened it to provide the poor creature sanctuary from the torrential downpour. Once it was inside, he stepped back as the owl shook itself to its normal shape.
They uttered no words. She shrugged out of her cloak and he stood in front of her, placing a warm hand on her cheek. With his fingers, he traced the outlines of her face, just landing to the base of her chin, which he tilted up towards him.
Her eyes looked at him defiantly still. But her arms were already circling around his waist. And once his mouth finally met hers, she had stopped thinking.
She knew this was her second mistake, but at that point she didn't care.