It was an unusually peaceful night in Hightown. Even the city guard sleepily patrolling the streets found no trouble save for a rowdy group of merchants' sons raucously singing bawdy songs on their way back from The Hanged Man. They quieted down quickly enough, however, at the threat of being thrown into the Gallows until they sobered up.
A few blocks away, in the Hawke estate, all was quiet save for the merry crackling from the well-stoked fireplace in the main hall. Sandal and Bodahn had finally gone to their quarters to get much needed rest. Gamlen had come and gone many hours ago. Only the mabari hound was still sitting alertly at the feet of his master, whining occasionally.
Hawke sat hunched on the edge of her lavish four-poster bed staring at the plush rug beneath her feet. She wore the tunic she usually slept in but her face and hands were still marred with streaks of dried bloodstains dark as burnished copper. She had held this position for hours. Only her hands which occasionally clenched and unclenched the bed sheets showed that she had not fallen into some sort of unnatural stupor.
Hawke did not hear the soft padding of elven feet on stone nor the creak of the door stealthily being opened as Merrill crept into the room and seated herself at Hawke's feet. The mabari acquiesced to give her just enough space to do so, but only after she scratched the spot he liked behind his ears.
Merrill leaned her head lightly on Hawke's knee. Normally Hawke would have reached down and stroked her hair but now she sat still and silent as a statue. Merrill broke the silence.
"Ir abelas, ma vhenan."
Hawke dragged her gaze away from studying a frayed carpet thread and focused it on Merrill.
"I don't speak elven, Merrill."
"It means, 'I am filled with sorrow for your loss.' Leandra is in a better place now."
"A better place? Yes, I suppose mother is lucky not to be in this accursed city anymore. Even if it means she's not here. Alive. With her family."
"I'm sorry. I said the wrong thing again, didn't I?" Merrill lifted her head and drew her knees up to her chin, sitting as a small child might.
"It's bad enough that I was born a mage and still I couldn't stop this, that I did nothing to help and she died alone and frightened and in pain, still believing I would save her... but surely you understand now. You saw what he did to her. Quentin used dark magic just like you do. It turned him into a monster." Hawke spoke with a vitriol Merrill had never heard her use before.
Merrill looked up at Hawke, trying to read her expression. "It's not the same. Magic, even blood magic, is just a tool. He used it for something terrible. I'm using it to help my people."
"If it's such a great help then why can't they stand the sight of you? Why do they run in fear?" Hawke turned her face away and bit her lip.
Merrill rose and looked down at Hawke. The memory of Pol, who had fled directly into a monster rather than face her, was still fresh in Merrill's mind. It haunted her dreams sometimes.
Merrill stood for a long moment until Hawke finally looked up at her. Green eyes met dark ones.
"I'm sorry about your mother, I really am. I can tell I'm not helping so I'll leave you be."
Merrill walked out of the room. A few moments later Hawke heard the thud of the front door closing. The mabari at her feet growled at Hawke accusingly and Hawke glared at him, daring him to make another sound. He gave what seemed to be an exasperated shake of his head and settled down at her feet again. Hawke went back to examining the rug's weave.
Pink and orange wisps of clouds were just beginning to tinge the sky when Hawke finally dragged herself to her feet. The fire downstairs had long since died and she felt cold, cramped and hollow.
She washed the blood from her hands and face with a bowl of water and clean washcloth the elf servant girl had left out for her. Hawke could hardly stand to look at the blood as it came off. Demon, mage and even her mother's own blood all swirled together in the basin.
When Hawke finally crawled under the covers she did not expect to sleep but exhaustion took over anyhow. The mabari had only just leapt onto the bed and curled at her feet when she was already sinking into a thankfully dreamless sleep.
Hawke awoke with a start. She had forgotten to draw the curtains closed and a shaft of mid-morning sunlight was pouring into the room across the bed. She felt worn out and brittle, like an ancient Tevintar manuscript that might crumble at the slightest touch.
The reason she had woke was soon made apparent when a soft shape slid under the covers behind her. Hawke lay for a moment pretending to be asleep before finally speaking with her back turned.
"Where were you all night?"
"Out. I went back to my old house for a while." Merrill sounded tired but her voice held no anger.
"Were you spending time in front of that mirror again?" Hawke asked, scowling.
"No. If you must know, I was gathering flowers."
"Flowers?" Hawke did not understand.
"Yes. I heard that it is customary to give flowers to people who are grieving. I also wanted to replace the ones that were sent to your house. So I gathered some yellow roses. Your mother told me once they were her favorite."
Hawke squeezed her eyes shut. Her voice was thick when she spoke. "They were. They were Bethany's favorite too. Where did you get yellow roses in Kirkwall?"
"The Viscount's garden of course." Merrill said as if stating the obvious.
"You went into his private garden in the middle of the night, or wee hours of the morning, just to gather a few roses?" It seemed the elf never ceased to surprise her.
"Well, I had help. Isabella is very good at being sneaky, you know, and Varric made up a story about a time you challenged the Grand Cleric to a wrestling match. Well, I hope he made it up. I think the guards were just glad to be relieved of their boredom."
Hawke pressed her face into her pillow. Imagining her friends going out of their way for such a trivial thing was almost too much to bear.
After a long moment a slender arm tentatively slid around Hawke's waist. When Hawke did not resist Merrill drew her closer until their bodies were pressed together.
A wave of heaviness seemed to rise from within and crash onto Hawke's chest. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat but the tears came instead.
When it was over she turned, shamefacedly, towards Merrill. Her eyes were red and puffy and her mouth was set in a grim line.
"I still meant what I said about blood magic."
"I know," Merrill said.
Mage faced mage, neither willing to budge. Then Merrill reached a hand out and cupped Hawke's cheek. It was a gesture she had never made before. Always it was Hawke who was the strong one, the fierce one, the one always trying to make light out of even the grimmest situation.
Hawke rested her head on Merrill's bony shoulder. They both fell like that into a deep sleep that lasted well into the afternoon.
In the coming days and weeks Hawke would have to make funeral arrangements, face Carver and deal with the Viscount who would call on her for aid with the Qunari presence once more. The situation with Merrill and the mirror was far from over and Hawke was beginning to believe nothing good could come of it. For now, however, Hawke took refuge in the safe haven of the elf's arms, the only home she had left.