There is a breath pulled in when the trajectory of his hand is altered, skirting impatience before convinced into better behaviour for virtue of
he had said he wanted to look at her. So he can do that, relax backwards with a flicked look up at her face—a subtle have it your way in the set of his expression, more mischief than complaint—before looking at where his hand has been directed. Thumb skimming over those raised ridges of scar tissue along her belly, first, feeling as well as touch.
"What was this one?" he asks, turning his hand, admiring this loose configuration they've made together.
"A blade," she answers, lifting her hand from his, his inspection permitted to carry on unimpeded. Her fingers fall to his forearm, holding there for balance as she leans back slightly on his lap. It shifts her weight back across the muscle of his thighs, creates some distance in which Derrica can observe him as Marcus looks at her. Her braid slips from her shoulder, hanging down her back.
There are other, lighter marks. Other places a blade has touched and cut deep enough to leave a mark. They are scattered, one here along her ribs, one there at her breast, one high on her arm.
"It was before I wore any armor. I didn't have my own."
They only make a path by chance, he thinks, but Marcus follows it anyway. Fingertips trailing across her skin, making gentle lines between this speckling of old hurts. Her ribs, over her breast, the backs of his knuckles then smoothing over the mark to her arm. He can hold two things to be true at once: one being, that he regrets she's been hurt, that she ever needed to start wearing armor at all.
The other is that there's something assuring and comfortable in the way she too bears marks, maybe even more than he, whether or not they're a little more discreet.
This thought, far removed from the instinct that has him ask, "The Annulment?"
The invocation of that occurrence bringing a chill to her body, one eased almost immediately by Marcus' hands.
"I was lucky," is made quieter by the way her breath has gone shallow. Her fingers slide up his forearm, thumb finding the bend of his elbow. "There was a templar who tried..."
Who has she told this to? Ilias. Julius. (Leander had seen her, and she had seen him, while the tower burned around them.) If anyone would understand, it must be Marcus. But there is still a moment, a trailing kind of hesitation as she watches him, breathing beneath the warmth of his fingers on her skin.
"I killed him. Before he could get to his dagger."
This trailed off comment has his attention hike back up.
It's a look that demands to know more, only gentles by degrees at the news that this man is dead. All the same. His hand settles at her arm, the other at her thigh, and the former slides up to her shoulder, over it, her neck. Brushes his thumb down her jaw.
"Tell me of it," he invites. It's open, such a prompt, to share whatever measure of it she'd prefer, but there is no small piece of him that would specifically like to know how she killed him too.
Her fingers curl more securely there at his elbow. Though she had been the one maintaining such strict space between them, the combination of Marcus' invitation and the path of his hand encourage her closer. Draws her a few scant degrees in towards him, until she braces here free hand over his chest. Her thumb runs back and forth there, fingers arrayed beneath the bare trace remaining of his earlier injury.
"They were killing us," is hardly necessary to reiterate; she has spoken of this to him, in his hearing, before. "Enchanter Iria had told me to run, so I cut across the courtyard. I thought I could hide in one of the store rooms. He must have seen me pass."
Foolish, in hindsight. Derrica has had much time to think of all the things she should have done differently.
"I'd never been Silenced before. It felt like I was suffocating."
Her fingers trace down his chest as she draws in a breath, shakes her head a little. Self-conscious over this admission, aware of the luxury she is expressing to him. Marcus had suffered in his Circle. Maybe he had been made very familiar with what Silencing felt like early in his life.
It might not have occurred to him, that any Circle mage—even that of Dairsmuid—would have gone any amount of time without having felt what that specific phenomenon was like. But surprise doesn't sketch out across his expression, only absorbing that information as his arm settles around her waist. Doesn't pull her in closer, just holds them both there.
It's how it should be.
"Smothering," is agreement. That's how it always felt to him. These are both better words than the one the Order, the Chantry, has chosen to call it.
The loop of his arm around her waist is grounding. Derrica is quiet for a moment. Lifts her hand from his chest to his jaw, fingers returning to the scar there.
"He was bigger than me," she tells him with a sort of grim humor. "He threw me across the hall once he caught up to me. No one had done that to me before either."
Self-conscious of this too: how little experience she'd had in combat, how little ability to defend herself. There had been a stretch of time where she had struggled with anger over these deficits. She'd been prepared for so many things, but never any of the things that happened that night.
Her fingers map the scar, looking at the line of his jaw rather than meeting Marcus' eyes as she tells him, "The armor was very cold, and very heavy when he pinned me. He was so sure of himself, he was smiling when he went to draw his dagger."
He lifts his chin as her fingers return to his scarring, tracing it. Not a discouraging cant, but a responsive action, inviting and allowing. This is a conversation about marks that are left behind, in all the ways that might imply.
The arm around her waist stays. His other hand, between them, seeks out where her own scattering of scars can be only just felt out with fingertips. Pausing when he finds one, stroking along it, considering its depth, before moving on to the next. She feels warm, and so does he, having come close enough to press the point, to have her, as invited.
Marcus turns his head, lips brushing against her fingers. Just that, before asking, "What did you do to him?"
Simple words, so plain as to obscure the nature of the action. How she had sobbed. How much blood had come of it.
Her thumb runs along his cheek, straying from scar tissue to stubble. Her breath hitches, goes shallower as his fingers move from one raised scar to the next along her skin. As his lips graze her fingers.
"It was the first time I'd done that."
Marcus will understand what this means, she is certain. Even if there is some quiet, self-conscious edge as she offers this up, this first time, this first life taken long after Marcus must have suffered much on his own, she has no doubt that he will know the weight of what she is trying to encompass here.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
he had said he wanted to look at her. So he can do that, relax backwards with a flicked look up at her face—a subtle have it your way in the set of his expression, more mischief than complaint—before looking at where his hand has been directed. Thumb skimming over those raised ridges of scar tissue along her belly, first, feeling as well as touch.
"What was this one?" he asks, turning his hand, admiring this loose configuration they've made together.
no subject
There are other, lighter marks. Other places a blade has touched and cut deep enough to leave a mark. They are scattered, one here along her ribs, one there at her breast, one high on her arm.
"It was before I wore any armor. I didn't have my own."
no subject
The other is that there's something assuring and comfortable in the way she too bears marks, maybe even more than he, whether or not they're a little more discreet.
This thought, far removed from the instinct that has him ask, "The Annulment?"
no subject
The invocation of that occurrence bringing a chill to her body, one eased almost immediately by Marcus' hands.
"I was lucky," is made quieter by the way her breath has gone shallow. Her fingers slide up his forearm, thumb finding the bend of his elbow. "There was a templar who tried..."
Who has she told this to? Ilias. Julius. (Leander had seen her, and she had seen him, while the tower burned around them.) If anyone would understand, it must be Marcus. But there is still a moment, a trailing kind of hesitation as she watches him, breathing beneath the warmth of his fingers on her skin.
"I killed him. Before he could get to his dagger."
no subject
It's a look that demands to know more, only gentles by degrees at the news that this man is dead. All the same. His hand settles at her arm, the other at her thigh, and the former slides up to her shoulder, over it, her neck. Brushes his thumb down her jaw.
"Tell me of it," he invites. It's open, such a prompt, to share whatever measure of it she'd prefer, but there is no small piece of him that would specifically like to know how she killed him too.
no subject
"They were killing us," is hardly necessary to reiterate; she has spoken of this to him, in his hearing, before. "Enchanter Iria had told me to run, so I cut across the courtyard. I thought I could hide in one of the store rooms. He must have seen me pass."
Foolish, in hindsight. Derrica has had much time to think of all the things she should have done differently.
"I'd never been Silenced before. It felt like I was suffocating."
Her fingers trace down his chest as she draws in a breath, shakes her head a little. Self-conscious over this admission, aware of the luxury she is expressing to him. Marcus had suffered in his Circle. Maybe he had been made very familiar with what Silencing felt like early in his life.
no subject
It's how it should be.
"Smothering," is agreement. That's how it always felt to him. These are both better words than the one the Order, the Chantry, has chosen to call it.
And that's all, listening.
no subject
"He was bigger than me," she tells him with a sort of grim humor. "He threw me across the hall once he caught up to me. No one had done that to me before either."
Self-conscious of this too: how little experience she'd had in combat, how little ability to defend herself. There had been a stretch of time where she had struggled with anger over these deficits. She'd been prepared for so many things, but never any of the things that happened that night.
Her fingers map the scar, looking at the line of his jaw rather than meeting Marcus' eyes as she tells him, "The armor was very cold, and very heavy when he pinned me. He was so sure of himself, he was smiling when he went to draw his dagger."
no subject
The arm around her waist stays. His other hand, between them, seeks out where her own scattering of scars can be only just felt out with fingertips. Pausing when he finds one, stroking along it, considering its depth, before moving on to the next. She feels warm, and so does he, having come close enough to press the point, to have her, as invited.
Marcus turns his head, lips brushing against her fingers. Just that, before asking, "What did you do to him?"
no subject
Simple words, so plain as to obscure the nature of the action. How she had sobbed. How much blood had come of it.
Her thumb runs along his cheek, straying from scar tissue to stubble. Her breath hitches, goes shallower as his fingers move from one raised scar to the next along her skin. As his lips graze her fingers.
"It was the first time I'd done that."
Marcus will understand what this means, she is certain. Even if there is some quiet, self-conscious edge as she offers this up, this first time, this first life taken long after Marcus must have suffered much on his own, she has no doubt that he will know the weight of what she is trying to encompass here.