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Meredith insists that it started with the fever. That she got used to his hands on her, the healer's touch that brought sweet coolness and much-needed sleep. And there was that one time, true, when the fever dug in deep and made her temporarily mad, and she snatched at Orsino's robes and brought his hands down, down to where the fever burned hottest.
But Orsino didn't love her then, not yet.
She was already hardened by the time she was fitted for the armour of the knight-commander, frown lines and glittering eyes and a voice gone brittle with bitterness. The templars, now under her command, muttered and called her 'hardass', but it was better than being called a piece of ass.
Fearing her came easy for the mages, who were bred to duck and run before the templars' verbal lashings, and that made their newly-appointed first enchanter flush with anger. Of all the things he was well sick of, fear was number one, and Orsino certainly didn't love her then.
She could beckon with a look, cause an armoured knee to buckle and bend with a word, but even in this she was still unsatisfied. Orsino pushed against her, swallowed her venom and spat it back, held her gaze when they argued. The high flush in their cheeks were the same, the way their lip curled just so when something infuriated them, Meredith's pacing and Orsino's gesticulating.
So many times she ached to hear his shoulders slam against the wall behind him and so many times he ached to feel it, but Orsino still didn't love her then.
It is the middle of Frostfall when he first learns of Amelia, and not from lurid rumour or vague reports. She is especially snappy, her gemstone eyes brittle and jagged, her lips twitching as if holding back words she yearns to spit out. She slams Orsino's office door and maybe that is nothing new, but the resounding thud coming from her office was. She hisses and spits when he crosses the hall, but he does not flinch; he is steady and neutral, a placid sea to her roaring inferno.
When she is naught but trembling embers in his impulsive embrace, Orsino thinks that maybe he could love her then.
He is driven outdoors by the oppressive closeness of Templar Hall, driven away from the prying eyes of templar guards and the constant needs of the Circle mages. He walks the labyrinth with measured steps until his breath is deep and even and his hands no longer shake. And sometimes, he lingers in the courtyard, or in the garden amongst the sweet smell of embrium and the gently waving leaves of the elfroot, and sometimes he sees that which he isn't meant to see.
It is just after sunset and the garden is soft with the twilight, and he does not expect to find her here, but she has intercepted the youngest apprentice who was attempting to stuff the poison leaves of elfroot down her throat and she's holding the girl but her hands are not talons and her grip is not iron, and from her mouth it is not vitriol that spills, or threats or commands or ultimatums, but song, sweet voice roughened by age but no less enthralling, and the young girl's wretched tears are drying up, and it is then that Orsino loves her.