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Witcher fic: The Witcher and the Widow, Chapter 2
00:21 Feb 27 2011
Times Read: 633

I woke in light, to the almost forgotten sensation of having another warm body next to mine. Next to, and partially on. I looked down. One of his hands was cupping my breast, almost wholly covering it, the palm resting over my nipple which had hardened abruptly at the realisation. I groaned under my breath and shifted slightly. He responded by flexing his fingers, unconsciously kneading my breast, and I bit my lip. The feeling of having large, strong fingers enclosing me was almost unbearable.



Experimentally I tried wiggling out from under him, but his grip on me was firm and my traitorous nipple hardened further, if that were even possible. I tried gently prying his fingers up, but I may as well have been trying to shift the moon. I sighed and sank back down.



At least he was sleeping, his breathing was steady and he had a good colour. I tried peering over his shoulder to see the cloth-covered gashes, but couldn't crane my neck that far.



I lay back, hoping that he'd move before certain other pressing needs made themselves even more urgent, resolutely not thinking about having a naked man in my bed. With his hand on my breast. I closed my eyes and pressed my thighs together, relishing the slow grinding ache that was building. No, this wasn't good at all.



My movement must have roused him because he inhaled deeply, out of rhythm with his normal breathing. As I turned to look, his eyelids fluttered open and his strange eyes focused on me. I realised his pupils were slit vertically, like a cat's, and I stared in fascination at the glistening tapestry in the depths of his eyes, only inches from my face.



Lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement and he cleared his throat. I blushed. "Oh… good morning… how do you feel?"



His eyes held mine and then slowly travelled down to where his hand still cupped my breast. One brow raised and he looked back at me. I swallowed at the sudden flicker in his eyes: suggestive, knowing and carnal.



His thumb idly started to brush backwards and forwards across my hardened nipple and I caught my breath, willing myself not to arch upwards into his hand. I closed my eyes to compose myself. When I opened them he was still watching me, golden eyes taking in every fleeting expression.



"I hurt. But I feel much better," he rumbled, the vibrations sending tiny shock waves into my frame. "Thank you," he added.



I cleared my throat. "You're welcome."



My nipple was a sensitised pool of fire, each brush of his thumb sending a jolt of desire through me. I tried not to squirm, biting my lip.



He half smiled. "Unfortunately I have no coin with which to pay you for your help," he murmured. I swallowed. Had his voice gotten even lower? It was doing unspeakable things to the molten pool that was gathering in my loins. I shifted again, unsure whether I was trying to ease it or fan it.



"I shall just have to pay you in another manner," he concluded, and dipped his head down towards me slowly. I watched, enraptured, as his eyes hooded and drew closer, desire sparking in their depths. Then he hissed and winced, pupils contracting, as the stitches caught and protested his movement. He froze and eased back, teeth bared.



"Perhaps… another time," he managed, and removed his hand.



I was shockingly cold without it on me. Part of me was relieved it was gone, another part of me howled in denial. I squashed that part down, stamping hard, and cleared my throat.



"I should… ah, are you hungry?"



He gingerly lay back, nodding curtly. I sighed and clambered up, taking care not to jostle him. I stretched, easing out the kinks in my back from spending the night in the one position, and looked down at the witcher in my bed. He was sprawled half on his side, the covers draped around his waist, baring his back to the cool air. I bent down to check the dressing, touching the skin softly. Fluids had seeped from the wounds overnight, staining the cloth and sticking it to the flesh, but the skin was clean, dry and not hot to the touch. I grimaced. That would have to come off. Food first though.



Rummaging through my meagre pantry, I found the bread, slightly stale but still edible, and the last of the ham, placed them on a platter and brought it over to my patient. He twisted his head to look at me as I approached, his eyes an unnerving flash of gold. His brow rose at the scant fare and I flushed.



"I'm sorry… it's all I have," I said somewhat defensively.



He closed his eyes. "I am grateful for whatever you can offer, m'lady."



I set the platter down by him so he could easily reach it. He might have been wounded, but I was not about to start feeding him by hand! His lips twitched ever so slightly as he regarded the plate and then he availed himself of the food, moving tentatively. I backed away.



"I'll go get you some water. And I need to clean your wound."



He grunted in response, mouth full. He was nearly finished the bread already. I sighed. I'd need to go out and buy more, and soon.



I blinked in the weak, watery sunlight as I opened the door. Outside the village looked like it was from a fairytale, water droplets catching and sparkling like a shower of diamonds in the morning light. My neighbours were up and about and looked at me suspiciously, standing in my open door in my shift at this late hour of the day. I nodded to them, receiving only their scowls in response, as per usual. I pressed my lips together and stooped to retrieve my kettles. At least they were full from the night's rain.



I kicked the door closed behind me, making it bang, and deposited the kettles on the bench loudly. Even though I'd lived here for a decade, and had been a good wife and neighbour, they still suspected me, still resented me. The fancy townborn witch, who never got sick, never had children, whose husband died and who stayed to live by herself. I snorted under my breath in disgust. Melitele save me from the ignorant beliefs and suspicion of fools.



Placing one kettle over the fire to heat, I filled a cup from the other and brought it to my patient, who had long since finished the last of the bread and was gnawing on the heel of the ham. I offered him the cup, which he took greedily and slurped down, water spilling over the sides and soaking into the sheets from the awkward angle at which he lay. I sighed.



When he'd finished he belched gently and handed the cup back. I refilled it and set it down on the bench.



"Lie back. I'm going to look at your wounds."



He nodded grimly and settled himself into the mattress. I found a clean cloth and poured heated water out of the kettle into a pan, adding the last of my water myrtle tincture to it. I set it down by the bed and kneeled next to it. Soaking the cloth, I laid it onto the dressing on his back, softening the dried fluids. After a few minutes, the cloth lifted easily from his skin, and I inspected my handiwork.



His flesh was smooth, the stitches still neat. There was no sign of infection that I could see, no scent of rot or putrefaction. I smiled in satisfaction and sponged the wounds clean before applying more of my salve, noting that it was fast running out as well. "You're healing well," I pronounced as I stood up.



"You're a good healer," he responded. "Witch?"



I stiffened, though I supposed he couldn't see it with his back to me. "No," I replied. "Just a woman who knows a bit about herbs and how to treat an injured body."



His deep voice was soft and rough. "You have a rare talent then, m'lady. I thank you."



"You're welcome," I muttered, embarrassed.



He was silent for long enough that I'd thought he'd drifted off to sleep. I tidied up my herbs and slipped on a dress, tying up the laces. As I sat down to put on my boots, he cleared his throat, making me jump.



"Your husband, m'lady, where is he?"



My voice was cold, even to my own ears. "He's dead, witcher."



"I am sorry, m'lady." I turned away. I didn't want to hear the sympathy in his voice.



"It's old news," I said. "Neither your fault nor your concern." I gathered up my purse and walked over to the door where I paused, my hand on the latch. "I need to buy some more food. Sleep, witcher. I'll return soon." And I opened the door and slipped out into the fresh air.



Outside I took a few deep breaths, cursing the witcher for his compassion, and trudged through the mud to the village square, where a few stalls had been set up. I counted the coins in my purse – not nearly enough to feed a hungry, healing man plus myself for any span of days. I sighed and squared my shoulders.



The villagers looked up as I approached and conversation died. I stepped up to the baker's stall and looked over his wares, selecting two loaves and a bag of flour. He squinted at me in the morning light. "That'll be ten orens," he said, and hawked and spat on the ground to the side.



I looked at him in disgust. "I could buy five loaves with ten orens," I retorted.



"Don't have five loaves," he sneered back.



"I'll give you five orens."



He folded his arms and ran his eyes up and down my body. My stomach turned. "I could give em to you for nothin', if you lay with me."



I stared him coldly in the eye. "I'd rather scoop my own eye out with a rusty spoon than lay with you."



His face froze and twisted with hatred and I regretted my words. I threw the ten orens down on his stall, watching as he scrambled to scoop up the coins before they landed in the mud, wrapped my loaves up in my scarf and turned to leave.



"Witch," he hissed as I walked away. I faltered, but kept walking.



I dodged a few grubby children playing in the mud and paused in front of the farmer's stalls. The closest one was manned by a wizened looking lech who was licking his lips as he eyed me. My gorge rose and I bypassed him, making my way to the middle stall. An old friend of my husband's was behind it, and I knew at least that he wouldn't be importuning me. He looked up as I stopped and smiled at me kindly.



"What would you like, lass?"



I relaxed slightly and smiled back. "Whatever you have, m'lord. I need as much as I can get."



He looked at me curiously and I hastened to explain. "I have an injured man staying with me. I'm treating him. He's in a bad way and needs to eat."



His brows lowered and he leaned forward, speaking confidentially to me. "You be careful now lass, they say there's a witcher about, and you can't trust those bastards."



I stifled a giggle. "It's the witcher I have staying with me. But don't worry on my account. He's behaved perfectly well so far."



He looked at me, aghast. "Lass, you need to get rid of him. A witcher is bad news. And you have no husband to protect your honour…"



I sighed sadly. "I thank you for your concern, m'lord, but I have no honour any more. Ask anyone." I patted his hand. "I'll be fine. He needs my help. I can't turn him away."



He hesitated, then nodded paternally at me and I looked over his goods, choosing a leg of mutton and a chicken, along with some fruit and vegetables that looked reasonably fresh, a jug of milk, and some suet for my salve. He bundled it all up in a cloth and I slung it over my back and looked at him enquiringly. He flushed and cleared his throat.



"Go on… take it," he said gruffly, refusing to meet my eyes. "Pay me back when that witcher has gone."



Tears pricked at my eyes at his unlooked-for generosity. "Thank you," I said huskily, and he cleared his throat, embarrassed.



"Yes well. Get on with you then, lass."



I stepped back, dabbing at my eyes, and turned to the final stall I needed – the old herb woman. I'd have no chance to collect my own herbs, not with my patient; so I needed to buy more to replenish my stocks, as much as I deplored buying other people's gatherings. The herb woman was seated by herself on the ground a little way to the side, baskets spread out around her. I picked my way through the mud over to her and crouched down, examining her wares.



She had a goodly quantity of white myrtle, which was plentiful in the area; some celandine and hellebore; and a small amount of berbercane and balisse fruit. No genatia, which I was hardly surprised at. It was difficult to find in this village.



"How much for the myrtle and celandine, mother?"



She fixed a sharp, beady eye on me and stirred the herbs with a clean, if gnarled, finger. "And who ye be healing then, lassie?"



"Just stocking up," I replied gently.



She harrumphed. "If ye say so. Five orens the lot."



I paused. "The lot?"



"I be tired, and my back be aching. I want to go home and have a good drink. Five orens the lot."



Thanks to the farmer's generosity I had the five orens and some to spare. I handed them over gratefully and she cackled as she tucked the coins away. She produced a large cloth pouch and I scooped everything up into it, fastening it to my belt. As I got up to leave, her hand shot out and gripped my arm. It was surprisingly strong and warm, the fingers curved like hawk talons.



"Be careful, lassie," she whispered hoarsely. "Be careful of who ye open the door to." She cackled suddenly, shockingly. "And ye legs!"



I looked down into her dark, bright eyes, more than a little disturbed. "I will, mother." I patted her hand and she let go, blinking at me; then started hefting herself to her feet, groaning and complaining as I backed away.



Having bought all I could think of, let alone afford, I turned away from the village with its distrustful inhabitants, and made my way back to my hut. I felt their eyes on me the entire way there – hot, lustful, suspicious, and hateful. I shuddered as I reached the door, scraping the mud off my boots, and closed it with relief behind me. I leant back against the door and wondered, not for the first time, why I remained here. Why I abided the villager's intolerance. Did they dislike me because I was a widow and yet remained independent, being beholden to no man since my husband died? Because I was yet young and, I supposed, attractive, because with my herb lore I knew how to make creams and potions to protect my skin and hands? Or was it just that they wanted what I denied them, and their thwarted frustrations were what was souring? I sighed and looked around at my hut. It was not much, but it was mine, and it held all of my life's memories.



My patient was lying as I'd left him, seeming not to have moved. I placed my purchases on the bench and unwrapped them. The food I put in the pantry. I left the herbs out so I could work on them later, and shook out the cloth wrappings and folded them neatly. Cloth was always useful.



I set the suet close to the fire to soften, moved the kettle down so it would boil, and got out my mortar and pestle, placing about half of the myrtle petals inside the bowl and grinding away slowly, trying not to make too much noise. The petals reduced to a stringy mush, their sharp odour rising and making me sneeze. I sniffed and looked over to the bed, but he hadn't stirred. I poured the mush into a small square of cloth and tied it off with a length of string. The water in the kettle was bubbling, so I got up and poured some into a large glass jar, then went over to my old armoire and opened the door.



My few treasures were stored inside this cupboard – books I'd brought with me when I married, my wedding dress, my husband's clothes. And the few remaining bottles of good quality vodka my father had given me before he died. I sighed and picked one up – it was less than a third full and I only had two more left. I didn't know where I'd get more when this ran out.



I poured the remainder of the bottle into the jar and lowered the cloth full of mashed myrtle petals into the hot liquid. Delicate traceries of herbal extract immediately began wafting out into the clear fluid, and I watched as they swirled and formed intricate patterns, before dissipating to mix into the solution. I capped the jar and let it stand in the shadows to steep.



Throwing more myrtle petals into the mortar, I added the celandine leaves and ground away, dribbling water to reduce them to a fine paste. My back and hand were aching before I had them finished, but I persevered. When the mix was smooth, I pulled over the pot of suet and stirred it, then poured the soft mess into a clean jar, adding the herbal mixture. Then I sat and folded it in together painstakingly, my back muscles burning at the repetitive movements. It seemed to take an eternity but it was finally done and I had a new pot of salve, smelling clean and fresh. I sealed the jar and put it up on the table. I'd no doubt need it soon.



I looked up and found that he was watching me; his strange cat slit eyes glittering in the firelight. "Oh!"



His face was impassive. "You have a witch's skills, m'lady."



I stiffened. "I'm not a witch."



"No? It's not something to be ashamed of."



I sighed. "Unless you live here," I muttered, then raised my voice. "My father was an apothecary. I used to watch him, hounding him constantly as he treated his patients. I learned from him, but he never allowed me to go and train formally." I shrugged, fighting down the old bitterness. He was dead now, and past my reproach. "I only know simple remedies. Enough to keep me safe and well and clean."



"Ah." He shifted slightly on the bed. "My apologies, m'lady. I knew a healer, once… a good woman."



An unfamiliar feeling surged through me and I swallowed a sour taste in my mouth. How could I possibly be jealous of some woman an unknown witcher had known at one point in time? He was nothing to me, besides a patient – naked man in my bed, my mind whispered insidiously – so why should I care?



He shifted again, restlessly, and I buried my thoughts deeply.



"M'lady… I'm afraid I need to relieve myself."



"Oh. Oh! Of course!" I blushed furiously and got up, moving over to him. He was trying to lift himself up and hissing as the stitches caught. "Wait," I said, and got him to arrange his legs first, dropping them over the side of the bed. Supporting his shoulders, I pulled as he pushed and we got him sitting upright. He was breathing heavily and tiny droplets of sweat had appeared on his forehead. I moved to stand in front of him and hooked my arms under his shoulders, then pulled, lifting him back with me. Finally he was on his feet: unsteady and panting, but upright. I looked down and blushed even harder – the sheet had slipped to the floor as he rose and he was standing as naked as the day he was born before me.



And oh, but he was a well made figure of a man. I closed my eyes swiftly and heard his deep chuckle.



"Much as I'd like to indulge, I'm afraid I can't right now, m'lady." His voice was amused.



I cursed my wanton feelings and his laughing and blatant maleness, and wrapped an arm around his warm torso, guiding him towards the back door. His first steps were hesitant but soon firmed. I opened the door and ushered him out. He arched a brow at me as I paused. "Thank you, m'lady."



I blushed again and turned away, stumbling slightly, and left him to it. I went over to the bed and busied myself tidying it – flicking the sheets, straightening them, tucking them back in. I stooped to retrieve the fallen covers and heard his step behind me, slow but sure. He paused, and I turned to find him regarding my bent over form with a raised brow. I straightened back up hurriedly.



He smiled, a mere twist of his lips, and gestured at himself. "I don't suppose you have something I could put on…?"



"Oh! Of course!" I felt like my face was burning with the heat of my embarrassment. His leathers were still damp and not fit for wear yet. The only other male clothes I had were my husband's. I swallowed my reluctance and moved to retrieve them from where they had lain, folded and untouched for the past year.



He watched as I opened the armoire door and picked up a pair of his trousers, leaving the shirt behind. I left the door open as I returned to him and he peered over my shoulder into its depths. "You have books?" His gravely voice sounded surprised and I looked up at him defensively.



"I inherited them from my father when he died," I said, and thrust the bundle of clothing out at him. "Here, put these on." He caught the trousers reflexively and merely looked at me. "They were my husband's," I said stiffly, and turned away.



There was a brief, still pause and he sighed. "I'm sorry, m'lady."



I crossed my arms under my breasts and my eyes burned as I stared fixedly at the wall. I didn't want his caring, didn't want his sympathy. I didn't.



There was a rustle and a grunt and I hoped he wouldn't fall over putting the trousers on, but I didn't turn around to help. The noises stopped and I could hear his quiet breathing, then the chair creaked and he sighed again in relief.



When I was sure my face wouldn't betray me, I turned around. He had seated himself before the fire, his back held carefully away from the wooden frame of the chair, and was staring morosely into the fire.



"I'll leave as soon as I'm able," he said abruptly. "I won't impose on you."



I snorted. "You're barely able to walk, witcher. You'll stay until I say you are fit to leave."



He brooded at the fire for a while. "I bow to your healing wisdom, then, m'lady." He turned and regarded me with his fascinating eyes. "May I at least know your name?"



"Lynnéa," I replied.



He regarded me steadily. "Lynnéa. A pretty name. Fitting."



I flushed, feeling like I was permanently reddened under his gaze. Lynnéa meant lime blossom in the old language; slightly sweet and fresh, used in medicines, with an underlying tartness. Yes, that probably summed me up perfectly. He was astute, this witcher.



I raised my brow. "And yours, witcher?"



"Geralt," he said simply.



I blinked. "Geralt… of Rivia?" He nodded slowly.



"The White Wolf? The Butcher of Blaviken?" My voice had risen sharply with an undercurrent of hysteria. I had the Butcher of Blaviken in my house?



His face rippled with an unidentifiable emotion and he fixed me in his golden gaze. "I assure you, m'lady, I mean you no harm. You need not fear me."



"Oh. No. Of course not. Not at all," I babbled. He sighed heavily and stared at the fire again.



Slowly my hysteria died and I felt foolish and ashamed of myself. Whatever the tales had claimed he'd done in the past, he was still an injured man, weakened and needing my help. I swallowed and stepped over, touching him lightly on the shoulder.



"I'm sorry…" I faltered, and swallowed again "…Geralt."



He shrugged, the muscles under my fingers bunching. "It's no matter."



But I heard the loss and the pain buried in the depths of his voice. It resonated with my own. A wave of empathy surged up within me. "I'm sorry," I whispered again, and squeezed gently.



He looked up at that, his eyes searching mine intently, and then he relaxed. His expression softened and he reached up and covered my hand with his own. He opened his mouth to speak – then stiffened and looked past me towards the front door. I started to turn, puzzled; and then the door shook underneath a series of heavy blows.



"Open up, witch!"

Witcher fic: The Witcher and the Widow
01:42 Feb 22 2011
Times Read: 641

What has been consuming my life lately.







Title: The Witcher and the Widow

Category: Witcher/Wiedźmin, Andrzej Sapkowski

Words: 4,328

Genre(s): Romance/Adventure

Rated: M

Summary: After the troubles in Vizima, Geralt rode off, looking for new adventure. The story of a chance encounter and the impact of the witcher on one woman's life. With much thanks to Sesh, Night and Skeasel who inspired me, and Skeasel for betaing me.







Is there a point when you know your life is on an axis? A point where, in later years, you look back and say yes, that is when it changed. That is when it happened. After that, everything was different – for the better, for the worse.



Although, the only thing worse than change is stagnation.



Which was precisely what I was afraid of. Stagnation. To rot, still quick, in a half life of sameness day after day after day. To feel the endless, crushing weight of monotony smothering and suffocating without relent. To have no future, no brighter day, no new morrow's dawn to spark hope and anticipation.



So it should not surprise, then, that I grasped at the first avenue for change that came my way.



It was a miserably rainy afternoon, as all days seemed to be, but I did not have the luxury of escaping the cold and wet. I was a woman widowed, next to penniless and marked as barren, an outsider amidst my community. Add to the fact I had some learning and skills of my own, my only legacy from my father, and the rest of the village scorned and reviled me. Some called me witch. Sometimes I wished I were.



So instead of relaxing before a fire, chatting amiably with my husband and child, eating and enjoying the reprieve from work, I was out in my meagre plot of land – one could scarcely call it a field – attempting to salvage what I could out of this season's crop. It was a wretched failure of a task. The cold and the wet had rotted the poor roots in the weak soil. I sighed and kicked at the sod despondently. There would be naught gained here.



The light was fading fast into twilight and the rest of the village was deserted, lights flickering behind clouded window panes. I raised my face to the grey uncaring clouds and closed my eyes, letting the rain sluice sweat and grime away. Chill droplets pattered on my face. If I had the energy, I would have cried from sheer desperation and frustration. All I could do was heave a sigh and wish briefly, fervently for something to go right, just once.



When I opened my eyes again, there he was. A tall figure, garbed in leathers, close fitting and dark; leaning against the rough drystone wall that fenced my sorry excuse for a field from the brushes beyond. His hair was long and pale, plastered to his skull by the wet. He stared at me broodingly and I took an involuntary step back, clutching at my hoe. As if that would do any good.



We stared at each other in the lowering light. Through the gloom and drizzle I could make out the polished hilts of two swords over his shoulders. What kind of person carries not just one, but two swords? I wondered. What kind of person sheathes his sword on his back instead of at his side?



How long had he been standing there watching me? I flushed, cheeks burning against the cold rain.



Did his lip quirk at that or were my eyes failing me in this damnable light?



"You should get inside, m'lady," he said, and I started. His voice was a deep, gravely rumble, undeniably male, powerful and resonant. It reverberated through me, making me shiver. Making me remember that I was a woman, alone in the dusk.



"It's not safe out at night."



I drew my hoe up defensively. His lips definitely quirked at that. I was unaccountably annoyed with myself. "I… thank you, m'lord."



I backed away, then turned and walked towards the door of my hut. Walk, don't run. I half anticipated a rough hand on my shoulder, but I reached the threshold unscathed. My hand on the latch, I turned. He was still there, unmoving, watching me. I caught the glitter of eyes under lowered brows, then ducked my head and went inside, shutting the gloom out behind me.



Inside I hurriedly latched the door and sank back against it, my breathing harsh, my heart pounding uncomfortably. I looked down: the silly hoe was still in my hands. I laughed shortly, and propped it in the corner. I was not going out again tonight to put it in its proper place.



I wiped the back of a hand against the trickling rivulets of water on my face and grimaced, finding bedraggled tangles of hair knotted on my forehead. Along with the mud on my cheeks and the hollows under my eyes, I must have looked a fright. I laughed again, longer this time. I was a widow scorned; I had no business concerning myself over my looks. Save that for women who could get a husband.



My laughter died and dejection settled its familiar weight around my heart again. I sighed and pushed off from the door. I was cold and wet and hungry, but I was alive, and though I despaired, giving into hopelessness was not in my nature.



I stoked the fire and lit a lamp, and began to look for something to fix for supper. The warmth from the hearth reminded me of my sodden clothes, so I peeled them off and let them drop to the floor, a small act of rebellion that only I would see. I'd wash them after I'd washed myself.



Naked, I padded over to the wooden half tub. I had half filled it earlier today in anticipation but the water had turned icy. I dipped out kettles and pots and placed them over the fire to heat, then found some bread and a slice of ham and huddled in front of the flames to eat it, turning to toast my skin. My hair started to dry and wisp up and I patted it back, knotting it at the back of my neck.



I was comfortably warm and full by the time the water had heated so wasted no time in adding it to my bath. I drizzled a few drops of my own scented soap into the water – celandine and ginatia blossom – and breathed in the sweetly scented vapours. They were both relaxing and uplifting and my heart eased somewhat as I inhaled. Then I lowered myself into the warm water and lay back in the tub.



In my warm, perfumed tub before the fire it was easy to forget the harsh world outside. I cleaned myself, sponging water over my back and shoulders, rubbing the soap through my hair and bending to rinse it clean. Then I lay immersed in the warm water, breathing gently and watching the hypnotic swaying of the flames through half closed eyes.



I must have dozed off because I woke with a start to the echo of a loud bang. I jumped, splashing water over the tub's rim. Droplets sizzled as they fell into the fire. Gripping the sides of the tub, I sat and listened intently, but the noise did not repeat itself. I contemplated staying in the tub, but the water was cooling, my hands were shrivelling, and I still had my clothes to wash. Regretfully, I stood up and reached for a cloth to dry myself with, when I heard a muffled noise at the door.



I whirled and froze, listening intently. Yes, there it was again. A voice, I was sure of it. There was a thump on the wood and then a scraping noise. I bit my lip, closed my eyes, and steeled my nerves, and went to the door. Breathing a quick prayer, I gripped the hoe and flipped the latch, opening the door to the cold night air. There was no one there. I looked around – nothing to be seen. Raindrops prickled on my skin, making me uncomfortably aware I was mostly naked, with only a brief cloth clutched to my chest, and brandishing a dirty hoe at an empty doorway.



Snorting, I took a step back, then looked down and stiffened. He was there, the man from the fence, sprawled across my doorway. Blood matted his pale hair, diluting and rinsing out in the rain. His hand was open, face up across the step, fingers curled towards the palm. He was shuddering uncontrollably in the cold, and the back of his leather jerkin was sliced open, revealing bloody, bruised flesh. I reached down and gently touched his hand – he was chill to the touch and he didn't react to me at all. I folded my lips.



Putting the hoe back in its corner, I reached down, hooked my hands under his armpits and struggled to drag him inside. He was a dead weight, scraping across my floor and leaving a trail of water and blood behind him. His weapons trailed behind him, scoring tiny lines into the stones of the floor. I grunted, heaving him through the doorway, and panted with the exertion. I was strong, I had to be; but he was several hundredweight of muscle lying inert on the stones.



I rolled his legs inside and got the door shut, latching it securely, then looked down at my guest. In the firelight his skin was pale, with livid red scars etched into his face. His hair was dead white, soaked in blood and looked unwholesomely rosy in the glow of the fire. His leathers were sodden and filthy, covered in mud and gore. I sighed and kneeled next to him, reaching for a buckle.



As I touched him he roused suddenly, his hand flashing out and grasping my arm. He'd moved so fast, even in his state, faster than I could see. I gasped in fright and he looked at me directly, eyes flashing golden in the light. He bared his teeth and then looked me over, eyes widening.



"Well," he smirked. "I can see I've come to the right place." And he stared at me openly and appreciatively.



I hunched over myself, holding my threadbare shield of cloth up protectively, and his smirk deepened. I couldn't even remember how long it had been since I'd had a man look at me naked. Let alone a strange, exotic man half dead from cold and wet and wounds. I felt an unravelling in the pit of my belly, a quivering; and I firmly quashed it down.



He was still holding my arm, tightly but gently. His fingers froze me to the bone. "You knocked on my door. You were hurt. I brought you in."



He studied me intently with his strange eyes. "Then I must thank you, m'lady."



I pulled on my arm, but his grip was like iron. "Please," I whispered, feeling the quivering in my belly being replaced by the first bitter tendrils of fear.



His lip twisted and he dropped his hand abruptly, wincing as the movement caused one of his cuts to burn. "I'll not hurt you, m'lady," he said harshly. "I… need your help," he added grudgingly.



I sat back on my heels, cradling my arm.



He glanced at me sidelong. His eyes still glittered gold in the light and with a start I realised that was because they were gold – golden as the dawning sun on a clear day, golden as the yolk of a fresh egg, golden as an oft-polished oren jealously hoarded by a farmwife. I gaped at him, and the derisive twist came back to his lips.



"I am a witcher, m'lady. Will you still help me, or not?"



A witcher? Here? How? But… I gathered myself, shaking my head. Witcher or no, he needed my help, else he'd be out in the cold bleeding his life away like any other man.



"Of course I'll help," I said softly.



He looked at me for a long span of seconds, then nodded once, and relaxed back on the floor. With his eyes closed, he spoke again, gravely voice wry. "I suggest you put something on, m'lady. I'm not dead yet."



I flushed and stammered and got up and put on a clean shift. It clung to my damp skin and I was glad he still had his eyes closed. Though a small, treacherous part of me wished he'd open them again and look at me. It had been so long…



Sighing, I cleared my thoughts, gathered clean rags, my sewing kit, and herbs from the shelf, and put another kettle of water on the fire to heat. I knelt back beside him and studied his wounds. He had a long gash on his forehead extending back into the hairline which was still sullenly seeping blood, scratches on his face and neck, but nothing else on the front. Only the gashes on his back.



Timidly I reached for the buckles of his jerkin again. This time he made no move to stop me. I wrestled with the water soaked leather, eventually pulling them free. His linen shirt was matted to his chest and I couldn't help but notice his superb physique. He was broad and muscular but not bulky, built for stamina and grace as well as strength. I swallowed. Stop thinking about that.



His skin was icy and clammy and as I watched he shivered absently. I frowned. I needed to get him warm, and soon, otherwise he'd catch a fever. I peeled his soaked gauntlets off, draping them over a chair back from the fire, and then reached for the buckle of his belt. His eyes snapped open at my touch and their golden depths pinned me, but he said not a word. I flushed.



"I need to get you warm," I explained.



He nodded once, then closed his eyes again. Suddenly freed, I breathed a small sigh of relief and set to work again. The belt leather was swollen and I swore under my breath as I worked at it, banging my fingertips on the tang of the buckle. Eventually it slithered free, and I undid the laces of his trousers, blushing furiously and trying not to touch anything there. Though I couldn't help but look, as I peeled the wet leather down over his slim hips. Oh but he was impressively made, even chilled as he was…



I peeled his trousers down his legs, and then sat back and swore at myself, because of course he was still wearing his boots. I could have sworn I heard a low, deep chuckle, but when I looked up suspiciously, he was still and silent.



His boots were no mean feat to remove. The laces were knotted and swollen and took forever to untangle. It would have been quicker to cut them, but he didn't suggest it and I didn't want to. Eventually I had both of them off and his white feet lay bare on the floor. Quickly I skimmed his trousers off and draped them up where they could drip in safety.



I crouched back down next to him and tried to lever him up. He looked at me, startled for a moment, and I noticed his eyes were slightly glazed. I pursed my lips and encouraged him up. There was no way I could lift him into the tub. Together we managed to get him to stand – he was unsteady on his feet and new blood trickled down his face, droplets splattering on his chest and on the floor, but he managed to get into the tub. He hissed as the water covered his wounds and settled. In the exact same spot I was relaxing not very long ago.



I swallowed, and busied myself removing his undone shirt and jerkin, leaning him forward to slide the sleeves down his arms. As I removed the fabric a small pendant fell out of its folds, curiously carved like a wolf's head. I reached out to touch it and he rumbled. No, he growled. I snatched my fingers back and looked at him.



His eyes were open, golden and terrible. "Leave it be," he said quietly.



I swallowed and nodded. His lids slid closed and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. I turned and looked at the wounds on his back – three large parallel gashes, one quite deep, possibly down to muscle; the others surface wounds only. They were puffy and angry looking in the firelight.



I touched them softly – they were warm, far warmer than the rest of his skin. Not a good sign. Gently I leaned him back in the tub. He shifted until he found a comfortable position and then relaxed. I got up to fetch my herbs and the heated water.



Kneeling back down beside him, I pulled out a small bottle of tincture of white myrtle and poured some on a cloth. His nostrils twitched as the astringent odour rose on the air. "White myrtle?" he queried.



"Yes," I blurted out, startled. "How did you…"



"It's my job to know these things," he said. "White myrtle is fine to use. You may go ahead."



I frowned at his arrogance, but did as he bade. He drew in a sharp breath as I dabbed at his scratches, but otherwise made no sound. I cleaned up the blood and filth from his face, rinsing my cloth in the warm water. Leaning in, I studied the gash on his forehead. Though it was long, it had already started to knit, and it was shallow and fairly clean from the blood flowing out of it. I didn't think it would need stitching. First, though, I needed to get his hair clean. It was disgustingly filthy.



I got up and grabbed another pot, this one empty, and set it at the base of the tub, under his head. Then I tilted his head back over the rim of the tub and scooped water up over his head, rinsing his hair.



When it was thoroughly wet and the worst of the debris was rinsed out, I lathered up some of my soap and applied it to his hair, taking care around the cut on his forehead. His nostrils twitched again at the scent.



"Ginatia?" he said disbelievingly.



I bristled. "Would you prefer to stay smelling like whatever it is that died in your hair?"



He snorted. "No, I suppose not."



"Well then," I said tartly, and continued.



His hair was silky soft in my hands, long fine strands that shimmered palely in the light and caught on the rough skin of my palms. I marvelled at its texture – surely men were not supposed to be granted hair like this?



I took almost sinful pleasure in getting his hair clean, massaging the grime away from his scalp and running the long strands through my fingers. The tight muscles of his face relaxed as I rubbed and soothed. Eventually, though, his hair was unavoidably clean, so I gave it a final rinse and then twisted the worst of the water out of it.



Hair clean and rinsed, I rummaged in my herb bag, pulled out a salve and gingerly smeared it onto the cut on his forehead. The creamy ointment sank instantly into his skin and I slathered on more. He sighed as it disappeared, easing the pain of the wound.



That done, I rinsed the last traces of blood from him and stood up. "Come on," I said, "let's get you lying down so I can see to those wounds on your back."



He grunted, eyes still closed, and grasped the edges of the tub, levering himself up laboriously, water sluicing off him and splashing onto the floor. I held onto his shoulders and he leaned on me, making me buckle slightly with his weight, as he lifted first one leg out and then the other. He groaned ever so slightly as his back flexed and I led him over to the bed. He was wobbly and wavering on his feet, making his steps shaky, but we managed. I pulled back the cover and lay him down on his belly, arranging his arms to the side where they wouldn't pull at the wounds.



I have a naked man on my bed. The thought flashed through my mind unbidden. Well, a naked, wounded, half unconscious, slightly delirious man on my bed. I know I'd asked for change but… I pursed my lips and turned to get my kit, bringing the lantern over to light the area better.



Settling down beside him, I studied the wounds. I would definitely need to stitch the deep one, and possibly the other two as well. I touched his back softly; the skin was still cool away from the gashes, but no longer clammy, just damp from the bath.



"I'm going to pour some tincture onto these wounds, and then I'm going to have to stitch them for you."



He grunted once in acknowledgement. Uncommunicative male.



I took a deep breath and poured the liquid over his back. He hissed and tensed as it penetrated the wounds, the muscles of his back flexing impressively. I admired his resolve. I knew from experience how much the formula stung on an open cut.



Setting the bottle aside, I dabbed away the excess fluid and then took up my needle and thread. "Are you ready?" I said softly.



"Yes," he said tersely.



With steady fingers I pushed the needle into his skin and slowly began to sew up the gaping wound, pausing to wipe it down with the tincture as I went. I noted with sympathy how his fingers clenched the bedsheets, but did not pause. The wound had already been open for too long.



The lantern was starting to gutter by the time I had finished my stitching, my fingers were cramping, and I was nearly out of white myrtle tincture. I gave the area a final wipe down and sat back to admire my handiwork. The gashes looked much better stitched up neatly and cleaned. I reached down for my salve and smeared it liberally onto the wounds, then covered the whole thing in a soft, clean cloth.



His back muscles were still knotted and quivering so I stroked his shoulder soothingly. "It's over," I said softly. "Relax." Gradually he did. His fingers loosened their death grip on my sheets and his breathing slowed and evened out. I soothed his shoulder until he'd relaxed completely, pulled the covers up over him, and then got up, stretching out the kinks in my back, and started to clean up the mess.



I emptied the bloody, dirty water from the tub as best I could without actually moving it, throwing potfuls of water out the door to mingle with the mud outside. I set more pots out to collect rainwater for the morning, and set to sorting out his gear.



His weapons I propped up against the wall and left, I had no experience with swords and didn't want to be responsible for accidentally damaging one. Or slicing my finger off. They were wickedly sharp. I did stroke a finger admiringly over the patina on the slightly smaller one though. It glittered brightly in the firelight, looking both sinister and comfortingly reliable at the same time. Both weapons were battered and well used, but also well looked after. I guessed they should be fine.



I brushed the filth from his leathers and left them to dry away from the fire so they wouldn't crack. His shirt I cleaned with more of my soap – smell of ginatia, I smiled to myself – and hung out to dry over a chair back. He had no pack or any other possessions to speak of. I remembered my own dress, abandoned and forlorn in its puddle, and washed that too. I sat back, tired, and wondered about my mysterious guest.



The lantern flame fluttered and then winked out abruptly and I sighed and waited for my eyes to adjust to the light of the fire only. I got up and made sure the door was securely closed, went over to the bed, looking down at my patient. He was lying still and quiet, his breathing deep and even. I gently touched his skin: he was still cool. I frowned and sighed, and got into bed next to him, fitting him to me so I could warm him with my body.



There's a naked man in my bed, was my last tired rambling thought before I closed my eyes and sleep overtook me.

DA fic: Kitten
09:19 Feb 16 2011
Times Read: 648

Written for the Sugar and Spice competition in the People of Thedas community on Dreamwidth.



Contains smexings. You have been warned.







The first time I saw her was in the hall of her new peers, and she reminded me of nothing more than a cornered alley cat: all big eyes and bared teeth, needle sharp claws and a hiss bigger than herself. She was surrounded by the Bannorn who were taking it in their turn to provoke their new fellow, and she was giving as good as she got. Even as I watched, however, her thin frame shuddered and her hiss wavered between retorts. I strode over to the little huddle.



“Enough, sers. Leave the lady be.”



Eyes turned on me, round and slitted, dull and quick and I stared them down, to be left faced only with hers – tiger’s eye catching and flaring in the afternoon light. I smiled gently down at her and her lips flexed in antagonism.



“I do not need your help, shem,” she spat, and turned on her heel and stalked out of the hall.



I watched her retreating back, caught between irritation and admiration, and vowed to win this spitfire over.

oOo



The next day I caught her in the markets, picking over produce in the stalls. I watched her, delicate fingers nimbly sorting through piles of limp vegetables. She chose what she wanted and bargained with the stall owner, then tucked them into her basket. As she turned to leave she caught sight of me watching her, and scowled.



I ambled over and offered her a half bow. “My lady.”



She stiffened and brushed past me. “I am not your lady, shem.”



I walked alongside her. “Does that thought so offend you?”



She shot a look at me, purest terror incompletely masked by annoyance, and I reconsidered my flippant approach. Somehow, somewhere, this girl had been hurt, hurt badly. By men - shems. By nobles, most likely, from the way she shied from me. A sudden rage gripped me and I vowed to myself to undo this hurt.



I reached out my hand and touched her lightly, fleetingly on the arm, and she froze. “I am sorry, my lady. Shianni. I did not mean to offend you. Please forgive me.”



She studied me consideringly for a moment, the earlier panic in her eyes dying down. She hefted her basket, holding it as a shield between us. “Very well. I forgive you.” And she continued on down the street.



I remained where I was, watching her go. Such courage! “Does this mean we’re friends now?” I called after her.



“Sure,” she responded flippantly without even turning back. “Whatever you want, Bann Teagan.”



And she disappeared around a corner, leaving me to behind to plot how to make this alley cat purr.



oOo



Two days later the Bannorn gathered again in the hall and she was there, in her own pocket of isolation amidst the crowd. She disdained the glances of the Banns gathered conspicuously away from her, and concentrated on the words of the King. Truth be told I couldn’t have repeated what Alistair spoke of; my intent was reserved for her alone. The way her slim fingers twined themselves together in her sleeves so hard that they turned white. The way her shoulders stiffened and tensed and the way her spine shook ever so slightly. She was brave, this tiny leopardess, but even wildcats had their limits.



I nodded to the lords and ladies gathered, and made my way over to her, clasping my hands behind my back. She didn’t look up at me, but her hands stilled their twisting. On the dais Alistair droned away. His speechcraft was terrible, but then he wasn’t raised to be a king.



“Why is it,” she murmured from the corner of her mouth, “that I see you everywhere I go these days, Bann Teagan?”



“Merely a coincidence, Bann Shianni,” I replied with a smile in my voice, watching interestedly as she suppressed a start at the title.



She stared straight ahead, however, and continued to refuse to look at me. I admired her determination, even as I willed her to acknowledge me.



Alistair’s speech ended and he strode off to do whatever it was he did now that he was king, and the nobles around us milled and started drifting out of the hall. She clicked her tongue in exasperation as one too many brushed rudely past her, then turned and made to follow them.



“Wait.”



She halted.



“Would you do me the honour of dining with me this afternoon?”



She spun, skirts flaring briefly, and stared at me incredulously. “What?”



I took a step closer, no more, and noted that she did not retreat. “Would you do me the…”



She raised a hand, cutting me off. “Yes, I heard you the first time. Why would you want to dine with me?”



I shrugged. “Because that’s what friends do.”



Tiger’s eyes regarded me inscrutably for a long moment, before she turned away again. “Not tonight, Bann Teagan.” And she stalked out of the hall and into the sunlight.



oOo



It became something of a game between us over the next several days. I’d see her around Denerim – in the markets, or in the Great Hall, or on the streets. She’d watch me approach. I’d smile at her. “Join me for supper, Bann Shianni?”



She’d shake her head, a little slower each time. “Not tonight, Bann Teagan.”



She’d walk away, always turning before that last corner, and watched me watching her. And I’d walk away with her gaze on me each time, depthless eyes sparkling and weighing in the autumn sunlight.



oOo



Two weeks later we met in the Wonders of Thedas. I was choosing a gift for Connor, who was being sent to the Circle; wondering if the proprietor still had that collection of articulated golem dolls I remembered from when Alistair was a little boy. There was a subtle displacement of air behind me and then there she was, red hair glowing in the dim candlelight.



I put the toy back on the shelf and smiled, delighted to see her. Her lips twitched in response.



“Bann Shianni. How lovely to see you.”



“Bann Teagan.” She nodded at me.



“Please.” I reached out and touched two fingers to her forearm briefly. “Just call me Teagan.”



She didn’t recoil, didn’t even blink. “Very well. Teagan.”



Her low voice saying my name brought a quick thrill to my heart. I smiled again to cover it up.



She glanced around the shop. “I’ve never been in here before.”



I gestured expansively. “The Wonders of Thedas. Everything a mage could desire. Plus interesting trinkets brought from all over Thedas, for a reasonable price, of course.” I laughed softly.



Her lips curved upwards ever so slightly. Encouraged, I took her arm gently, giving her ample opportunity to withdraw. She didn’t. Exulting, I led her over to a display of runestones which glowed in the dim light, letting her touch them, feeling the magical energies spark against her ungloved hands. She giggled as the tiny, fine hairs on her arms rose and crackled in response. “That tickles!” she laughed.



We spent a happy hour in the shop, wandering from the runestones to look at scroll collections, fingering the silk of mages’ robes and hefting the weight of carved demon statuettes. All the while the Tranquil proprietor studiously ignored our mirth.



She paused over a black, polished ball, nestled on a silken bed, painted in a cunning imitation of the night sky. She looked at it longingly. “So many stars,” she murmured. I looked at her inquiringly, and she shrugged and walked away; but her fingertips trailed over it as she left. I marked the skyball for later.



The mood had changed, however; turned melancholy and quiet. I cleared my throat and she jumped slightly. “I should go,” she said.



I was disappointed, and made no attempt to hide it. “Very well. Would you care to join me for supper, Shianni?”



She shook her head. “Not tonight… Teagan.”



She turned and walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the latch, and looked back at me over her shoulder, skittish and shy. “Shall I… shall I see you tomorrow?”



I smiled. “I’d like that.”



She smiled back, her whole face lighting up, and then she was gone.



oOo



The next day was hot and clear and we met in the strong noon sun outside Wade’s Emporium. I was sweltering, but she soaked up the sunlight like the cat she was.



“Teagan.” She smiled and nodded at me.



“Shianni.” I gestured and we walked slowly through the marketplace, side by side, not quite touching. We wandered around, not really saying anything, just being in each other’s company. When the heat got too much, I steered her gently to the Gnawed Noble Tavern, opening the door and ushering her in. She blinked at such courtesy, which made my blood boil briefly, but went inside.



The tavern was mercifully dim and cool; quiet conversation in the background and the scent of cooking food teasing us. I seated her at a quiet corner table and took the liberty of ordering for us both. All the while she watched me with an air of quiet bewilderment.



When I sat back down, she cocked her head quizzically. I raised my brow, waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, I cleared my throat, and she jumped.



“I am sorry, Shianni, I didn’t mean to startle you.”



She smiled unconvincingly. “It’s all right… Teagan. I’m just not used to this.”



“To what?”



She gestured around the room. “All this. To sitting down to eat in a fine tavern with a gentleman. If I’d come in here even a month ago, I would have been tossed out by the guard.”



The food arrived, platters handled with care by the waitress, and she stilled. The waitress gave her a curious glance, at which she bristled but said nothing. I smiled to myself. Two weeks ago she would have snarled. “Please, help yourself.”



She fell to with a will, eating neatly but quickly, as if she were afraid it would disappear. It was refreshing to see a woman eat with a good appetite. The food was excellent, as usual, but I was more interested in watching her. The way her fingers fumbled with the fork. The way she neatly dismembered the joint of chicken, the way her tiny lips closed around the morsels of food. The way she swallowed after taking sips of wine between bites. I shivered in imagined anticipation.



Finally she was replete, though truly I couldn’t get my fill of watching her. She sat back with a satisfied sigh and cradled her cup. The waitress cleared away our dishes, leaving only a new carafe of wine, and we regarded each other over the otherwise bare table. She was relaxed, unguarded; as pliant as I’d ever seen her.



“So tell me,” I said, “how does it feel to be the new Bann of the elves?”



She blinked lazily at me. “Terrifying, to be honest. It’s not something I ever expected.”



“No, I suppose not. What did you expect?”



“The usual for a woman of the Alienage. To work, and get a husband, and have children until I was worn out with it all.” Her words were spoken lightly but her face was shadowed as she spoke.



“You didn’t want to do that, I take it.”



She shrugged. “I’ve never really been one for following traditions. Too fiery, my family always said. Of course, I doubt I’ll ever get a husband now… Not that I want one,” she added, muttering.



Ah. “And why don’t you want one?” I prodded gently.



She stilled, hands gripping her goblet like it was a lifeline. “I… you don’t really want to know do you, Bann?”



“Teagan,” I corrected, smiling. “And yes, I do want to know.”



“Teagan, then.” She grimaced. “Very well.”



Sighing, she took a gulp from her goblet and refilled it. “It was about a year ago now. Not long before the troubles began. My cousin was getting married…”



I sat in horrified fascination as she told me the story, about how young Bann Vaughan had strolled into the Alienage to cause trouble on what should have been a joyous day, how she’d knocked him out with a bottle, and how he’d taken his revenge on her and the wedding parties. She drank more of the wine, shaking, her eyes half closed in remembered pain.



“He… used me. Hurt me. He and his men. I thought I was going to die. The pain… But then… my cousin saved me. He and Soris, rushed right in and killed the Bann and saved me.” She blinked, and tears fell onto her hand. “And then he went off with that Warden, Duncan, and I didn’t see him for a year. Leaving me behind to deal with the trouble I’d caused.”



I blinked. Her cousin was the Warden? The Warden had killed Bann Vaughan? I made a note to speak with Alistair about this.



“And then…” she sniffed, “… he comes back and saves us all again, and makes me a Bann, when I have no idea what I’m doing; and then he runs off into the wilds again, leaving me to deal with it all. Again.”



She buried her face in her cup. “I never asked for this. I never meant for it to be this way. But I’m glad he’s dead. For what he did to me. And others. Glad!” She looked up at me fiercely, defying me to defend Vaughan in some way.



I couldn’t, of course. The man had been a complete ass, arrogant and uncouth. And the rumours about him had obviously been true. I sighed.



“Shianni, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I know that probably doesn’t mean much, coming from me…” I shrugged helplessly. She just sat there watching me with wide, slightly glazed eyes. I leaned over the table and touched her hand comfortingly. “I am sorry for what they did to you, Shianni.”



She stared down at my hand, then back up at my eyes, then her face contorted and she collapsed into tears. The waitress started over in concern, but I waved her away and moved to sit next to my companion. She jumped as I approached, but didn’t leave, and I sat next to her and put my arm around her gingerly. She was stiff and unyielding, but I held her tenderly, letting her cry.



Eventually her sobs quietened and she sat hiccuping gently. I offered her my kerchief. “I must look a mess,” she mumbled, accepting it.



“Of course not,” I lied. She snorted indelicately.



She heaved a great sigh and sat quietly in my arm. I didn’t move, for fear I would disturb her or our new-found rapport. Eventually she blinked and realised where she was, pulling away slightly. I let my arm drop with reluctance.



“I should go,” she said, avoiding looking at me.



“Of course, if you feel you must,” I replied.



She stood up, holding her skirts tightly. “I think I should.”



I escorted her to the door, holding it open for her. She paused on the threshold and spoke quietly, without turning back to face me.



“Thank you, Teagan.”



I smiled. “You’re welcome, Shianni.”



And she walked determinedly back to her home in the Alienage.



oOo



It was another week before I saw her again after that. I had the feeling she was avoiding me. She wasn’t in the markets, didn’t go to the Great Hall with the other Banns. I stifled my disappointment as best I could, and meandered my way through the city, hoping to run into her.



Eventually she found me. I was quietly reading one night when there was a knock on the door of my suite in Eamon’s estate. Puzzled, I got up to answer it. I was not expecting anyone.



One of the elven servants was at the door, and Shianni stood behind her. Both of them had their heads down, avoiding my gaze. I thanked the serving girl and bade her leave.



“Shianni, how lovely to see you.”



She looked up at me shyly at that, tiger’s eyes veiled by thick lashes, alluring and slightly wild. “I apologise for coming, Teagan…”



I touched her arm to cut her off. “There is no need to apologise. Please, come in.”



I stood back and let her come into my suite. She gazed around with interest, taking in the shelves of books, the bench with the wine, the homey clutter of bachelor living. I closed the door quietly behind us; she didn’t even jump, and I smiled with some small sense of triumph.



“Would you like something to drink?”



She looked around, and smiled. “Yes, please.”



I gestured at one of the armchairs in front of the fire and she seated herself while I poured a rich, heady red into two goblets. She nodded in thanks as I gave hers to her.



I settled in the other chair. “Not to say I’m displeased but… to what do I owe this pleasure?”



She gripped her cup, staring into the fire. “I just… I’ve been thinking. About… well.” She shifted restlessly, clearly uncomfortable. “I just wanted someone to talk to, about… that; and I couldn’t seem to talk to anyone at home. They’ve changed. I’ve changed. It just… didn’t seem right. They all seem to avoid me now. I guess now that I’m their Bann it was bound to happen.” She looked downcast. “But then I thought of you.”



She looked up at me earnestly from the depths of her chair. “We actually talk. I… like that. I feel… comfortable, talking with you. Being with you.



“I’m sorry.” She blushed rosily. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was far too forward of me. Andraste’s ass. I always was terrible at this social stuff.”



“Not at all,” I said gently, smiling. “I’m glad you feel that way. Here,” I put my cup down and got up. “I have something for you.”



She perked up at that like a small child, all big glowing eyes and happy anticipation.



“Close your eyes and hold out your hands.” And she did. Just that small gesture of trust meant more to me than I could say.



I knelt down beside her and gently placed the skyball into it. It looked huge in her tiny hands. The glossy surface mirrored the firelight, adding more stars to its curve.



“Now, open them,” I whispered, looking up at her face.



She opened her eyes slowly and her jaw dropped. “Oh, Teagan,” she breathed, as she ran her thumbs over the smooth dome of the skyball. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.” Her eyes welled and filled with tears and she let them run uncaringly down her cheeks. “It’s beautiful. I can’t… I can’t accept it. It’s too much.” And she tried to push it back to me.



I folded her hands closed over the skyball with mine atop, holding them in place. “It’s a gift, Shianni. Please take it.”



Her eyes were shimmering with reflected firelight as she studied me intensely for what seemed forever. Her fingers flexed, catlike, under mine and her expression softened. “Thank you,” she said simply.



She looked so vulnerable, so lovely in the glow from the fire. “You’re welcome,” I said huskily, gazing up at her.



I don’t know how long we remained there, staring at each other before the hearth. Her eyes were the centre of my universe. I could count the tiny flecks of gold in her irises, the bunches of lashes darkened with tears, the soft rhythm of her breaths as we drew closer to each other. I held back, unwilling to move that final margin to her, wanting her to move to me, praying to the Maker that I’d read her aright.



I had, and she did. Her breath caught and she breathed my name and then her lips brushed mine, soft and delicate as a butterfly alighting on a blossom. She hesitated, still watching me, and then I could fairly see the decision being made and she pressed her lips to mine firmly.



She was soft and warm, her lips a guarded invitation that tasted of wine with a slight undercurrent of fear. I let her lead, let her lips soften against mine, let her lean into me; and when the tip of her tongue flicked against my lips hesitantly I welcomed it, parting them for her and letting her delve into my mouth.



She made a tiny kittenish noise of satisfaction at that and deepened the kiss. Only then did I cup her face and hold her to me, framing her jaw with my hand and feeling the silky softness of her hair draped between my fingers. Her eyes slid closed as she explored my mouth, and when she eventually pulled back for a breath she regarded me lazily through half closed lids, her eyes asmoulder.



I stood up and held out my hands to her, and she carefully placed the precious skyball on the table next to her and got to her feet. I smiled at that – so careful! – and took a step in closer to her, pulling her into me so I could feel the length of her body against mine. She was so tiny! I leaned down, tilted her head up and captured her mouth again. She slid her hands out of mine and onto my chest, the tiny palms hot against my shirt, and I shivered.



Growing bolder, she skimmed her fingers over my shoulders and down my sides, then up my back as far as she could go. There she scratched lightly, raking her nails down to my waistband and back up again, and made a delighted sound as I responded involuntarily. Encouraged, she ventured further, her hands slipping under the hem of my shirt. Her fingers against my skin gave me goosebumps and I shivered again. Her lips curved as she smiled against me, and then she pulled back, slipping her hands around to my stomach and out.



Eyes down shyly, she reached for the hem of my shirt and started undoing the buttons there, slowly exposing more of my torso, pausing to look up as if to make sure it was all right. I watched her as she uncovered me, fingers slim and nimble. After the first couple of buttons she let them roam across me and I took a breath as she skimmed across my chest. She reached up to push the shirt from my shoulders and as it fell to the floor I wrapped my arms around her and stooped down to kiss her again.



She was pliant in my arms, her hands still on my chest, caressing me. I moved my mouth to her neck and kissed there, and she threw her head back in enjoyment. I gently nibbled down the soft curve of her throat and she shivered against me. When I sucked softly where her pulse beat, her fingers stiffened and her nails dug into my chest ever so slightly. I smiled and kissed her mouth again, and she was eager, passionate.



Her dress was the type to unbutton down the back, so I gently turned her around. She protested wordlessly as my mouth left hers, but then I kissed the side of her neck and she murmured in approval. She stood waiting as I slowly unbuttoned her, revealing her slim white back. She was pale and soft, hairless in the elven manner. I brushed my fingertips down her spine, and she arched against me. I brought my hands up and started to slip the fabric from her shoulders slowly, in case she objected. She made no move to stop me however, so I kissed the tip of one pointed ear, making her shudder, and slid the fabric down to puddle at her feet, leaving her in only her smallclothes.



I trailed my tongue along the rim of her ear while I gently brought my hands up to cup her breasts. Her head lolled to the side and she leaned back into me, breathing heavily. My fingers brushed over her nipples, hardening them, and she took a sharp breath. I slid one hand down over the gentle curve of her belly, brushing over her smalls and pressing lightly against the folds of her womanhood. She gasped as I rubbed her, her hips flicking forwards involuntarily. I wrapped my arm around her while I circled against her folds and she pressed against me again, her back against my hardness.



I slipped my hand under her smalls and pushed them down over her hips, where they dropped to the floor. Stroking over her I could already feel her wetness, so I gently slipped a finger into her and brushed over her tiny bundle of nerves. She shuddered and moaned as I stroked, her hands reaching behind her and grasping my hips.



With every brush of my fingers her breathing quickened and her moans got louder. Her back was warm against my chest and as I licked slowly up the shell of her ear she arched. I circled and rubbed and her hips pressed forwards into me rhythmically. Her nipple was hard between my fingers and tweaking it made her breath catch. It wasn’t long before her movements became jerkier and then she moaned my name and froze, pressing herself hard against me.



Slowly she relaxed back into me, panting softly. I kissed down her neck and brought my hand up to my mouth, fingers glistening in the firelight. She tasted of the sea and of herself, wild and free.



I spun her around and kissed her, my mouth demanding on hers. She was lax and open, returning my kiss artlessly but fervently. “Teagan,” she murmured, as she tasted herself on my tongue. She ran her hands down my back and dipped her fingers under the waistband of my trousers, teasing me. Her fingers slid against my skin to my stomach, making me shudder, and she brought them up and over my chest, lightly dragging her nails over my nipples. I growled faintly and she smiled.



She made a tiny mewl of surprise as I picked her up, cradling her in my arms, as light as featherdown. I stepped over to my bed and carefully deposited her in its centre. She was tiny and pale and perfect in the midst of my sheets and I feasted my eyes on her.



She blushed as she lay there under my gaze. “Teagan…”



“Yes, Shianni?”



She looked at me frankly. “I think you might be overdressed.”



I smiled. “What do you recommend?”



“Teagan, if you need help with this then maybe I’ve come to the wrong place…” And she lay back and smirked, just slightly, cat’s eyes glittering half hooded in the dim light.



I mock-growled at her and she laughed lightly. Then watched with considerable fascination as I undid the fastenings on my trousers and pushed them slowly down over my hips, leaving myself naked and erect before her. She swallowed and the first hints of doubt flickered over her face. “Teagan, I…”



I crawled onto the bed and gently stroked her face. “Shh. I won’t hurt you. Do you trust me?”



She looked into my eyes for a long moment and nodded once, deliberately. Ever so slowly I leaned in, watching her, and pressed my mouth to hers. She stiffened, then relaxed, and opened her lips to meet mine, bringing her hands up to skim over me and draw me down onto her.



I relaxed against her, my tongue exploring her mouth, and let her hands wander across me. She traced the breadth of my shoulders and down my spine as far as she could go, tickling slightly. I flinched and she giggled. Breaking away, I kissed the point of her chin and the curve of her jaw, then trailed my lips down her neck, kissing and licking. I swirled over the hollow of her throat and she flexed her fingers against me.



Moving lower to the swell of her breast, I brushed my cheek over the hard point of a nipple and she gasped, then arched into me as I took it into my mouth. Her hands fixed in my hair, holding me in place, as I flicked and teased with my tongue. I suckled on her and she moaned, pressing me into her.



I shifted and trailed my tongue across to repeat the actions on her other nipple, licking and swirling my tongue around it before sucking it into my mouth. As I looked up at her her mouth was open, panting softly, and her eyes were closed. She shifted restlessly beneath me, her hips lifting as she briefly brushed against me, sending a jolt of fire from the head of my cock up my spine, and I gasped.



Gently, I rubbed myself at the soft folds of her womanhood, taking care not to press into her. She tensed and then moaned as I stroked, and her hips twitched. She reached for me and drew me up into a kiss, wild and wet, and brought her legs up around me. “Teagan,” she murmured into my mouth, “please…”



Kissing her back, I reached down and positioned myself at her entrance, then slowly pushed myself in. She gasped, eyes closed tight, and I bit my lip. She was tight and hot and wet and I had to fight to not plunge myself into her. I moved slowly, waiting for her to accommodate me, until she bucked her hips and invited me further into her.



When I was fully sheathed inside her I lay panting, holding her and savouring the feel of her wrapped around me. She looked up at me, eyes glazed. “Don’t stop,” she moaned, and I captured her mouth with my own and started moving.



Withdrawing was an exquisite ache that compounded with each slow thrust back into her depths. She undulated beneath me, enveloping me in her arms and legs and mouth and self, urging me on as she took shameless pleasure in me. Our breathing grew more ragged as I quickened my pace, and her moans rose, punctuated by the soft slap of our flesh together. She angled herself up, grinding, and then arched around me, squeezing tight, teeth bared and nails dug into my shoulders.



I held motionless, my arms trembling, while she convulsed and panted, waiting for her to still.



As her shudders subsided she looked up at me, eyes sparkling and face rosy in the firelight, and smiled a hazy, replete smile at me. I smiled back, and then shifted position, sliding myself out of her slowly, feeling bereft as I withdrew. She made a moue of loss and I gathered her up in my arms. I knelt back and positioned her on my lap, straddling me. She wrapped her legs around me and kissed my face, rubbing her cheek over my jaw, and slowly lowered herself onto me. I groaned as she surrounded me again, and cupped her ass, holding her in place against me, and started rocking my hips.



She moaned and moved with me. Her breasts ground against my chest as we rocked together, the hard pebbles of her nipples tiny points of heat against me. Our rhythm increased and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to hold out for much longer. Her questing mouth moved to my neck and her tongue trailed upwards and caught the lobe of my ear; she nibbled on it, making my breath hitch. Encouraged, she sucked on it and I groaned and clutched her tighter to me. “Maker… Shianni,” I moaned.



Her only response was to tease my ear further, driving me wild, and I slipped, lost in the feeling. I thrust up into her deeply and she squeezed around me, fluttering in time to our rhythm. I groaned and closed my eyes and forgot myself in an explosion of sensation, hips jerking and cock twitching.



As my heart slowed and breathing quietened I drew back and looked at Shianni, still wrapped around me. Her face was damp and skin flushed, and she’d never looked more alluring. I kissed her, slowly and deeply, and then lay her back on the bed, withdrawing gradually.



She tucked herself against me and breathed a quiet sigh of contentment. I kissed her forehead, her closed eyes, and listened as her breathing slowed and she drifted into a doze.



I watched her as she slept and marvelled at this kitten curled so trustingly in my arms, no longer wild but not tamed either, purring and free.

ME fic: Control
21:03 Feb 05 2011
Times Read: 657

A bit of dark fic. Speculative only. Because the resurrection story was never really believable.



I blame the heat. And the alcohol.



Link to story is here because it's 7am and I can't be fucked doing all the html again just for VR because it's special.