Okay, a bit of an introduction before I jump into this. I have been really hesitant to write any DA2 fics for several reasons, the first being that there is so many awesome stories already out there, that I didn't want to dip my feet into the pond of awesome. Secondly, I have read so many DA2 fics, I have a slight anxiety of influence and don't want to just rewrite a story that has already been written.
That being said, I decided to give it a shot anyway. This is slightly non-canon, because I wanted to do something different than just rewrite the gameplay. I have a few ideas of where this will go to make it a different story from the ones out there... so we shall see. Also, all mistakes belong to me and the vicodin I am taking for a broken tooth.
Also, I am not sure if I'll even continue this. Depends on how it is received. So please review and let me know if you love it/hate it/want to see it continued.
Time was a pesky, illusive creature. When things were going poorly, it lumbered forward at an agonizingly slow pace. But then at other times, it slipped by, sneaking by so fast that Merrill hardly noticed its passing until her stomach growled or her eyelids grew heavy.
She was always losing track of time, among other things. She even lost herself on occasion, but those occasions were less frequent since Varric had given her a ball of twine. It was a pity there was no ball of twine to help her with keeping up with the passing of time.
As it was, she never had time to shop for food. Not that she had much coin to buy it with anyway. Her share of the profits from the missions she participated in with Hawke were mostly spent on books for her studies. In fact, if it weren't for Hawke stopping by several times a week to bring her food and necessities, she might forget to eat altogether.
Her work kept her busy, her research. The Eluvian would not restore itself, and she would help restore history to her people, her clan. It was important. It was worth forgetting to sleep some nights, skipping a meal here or there. Her sacrifice was paltry compared to the gain the Eluvian could provide. It could give them a history, not just legends and stories. It could give them their language, not just broken fragments and phrases used to supplement the common tongue. It could place a name to each of the Creators. It could provide them with an identity.
Merrill sat cross legged in front of the Eluvian and raised her knife to make a shallow cut on the underside of her arm. The blood blossomed brilliant red against the white thatch of healed scars adorning her milk pale skin. She bit her lower lip. It didn't hurt much. Not anymore.
She closed her eyes temporarily and reached out. Not with her hands, but with her mind, within herself to the seat of her power. She reached out and felt for the blood, felt for the wisps of power that dwelled within her own life essence. There it was, like a flame in the dark, whispering to her, calling out and beckoning her. Taking hold of the power, she absorbed, brought it into herself, and then pushed it out.
Opening her eyes, she saw the blood no longer oozing from the cut in slow steady drips, but rising into a vapor as if evaporating. It rose in a swirling, roiling cloud, twisting and floating on non-existent air currents. A gentle prod sent the cloud towards the mirror, to a specific section where it was still cracked. The cloud pooled against the cool glass, hovering against the surface before it condensed in drops that streamed down the glass before being absorbed into the crack.
As the distinct scent of magic and power gradually dissipated, Merrill returned to herself and narrowed her eyes at the mirror. Her brow knit together in frustration. The crack had been almost a gash on surface of the mirror, now it was a narrower crack, but it had not mended completely. Dread Wolf take it. She had been working on this mirror for what seemed like ages! Still it was not finished. It would take more. Much more.
The knife she used for her blood magic was still in her hand. She considered it for a moment, weighing the hilt in her palm thoughtfully before making another cut. This one was vertical, deeper, nothing like the superficial cuts she usually made. It bisected her arm from wrist to midway down her forearm. The result was immediate.
Using small quantities of blood made the power easier to control. It was slow and painstaking, but easier to harness.
Creators. The Dalish woman sucked in a breath as she felt the sensuality of the power drawing her in. This is much better, she thought before being swept away in the crimson seduction of power, submitting to its draw. Time once again had no meaning. The walls of her pitiful hut seemed to fall away, the floor dissolved underneath her. Only she and the power remained. And the Eluvian.
The sharp crack of thunder shuddered her entire body, drawing her from the blood magic trance. Pain lanced through her body, not from her arm, but radiating out from her cheek. She returned herself abruptly, the dim flickering light emanating from the lamp nearby was blinding. Merrill blinked involuntary tears from her eyes.
The roof of her shack must have finally collapsed under the assault of the storm, striking her in the face and yanking her from the blood trance. It was bound to happen eventually. It leaked every time it so much as drizzled. She hoped the Eluvian had not been damaged. She had worked so hard on it; the prospect of repairing further damage to it was daunting. She'd have to go to the Hanged Man. Varric would let her sleep in his suite until her roof could be repaired. Or she could go to Hawke's, but Hightown was so far away, and she would never find her way there, even in broad daylight, let alone during storm at night.
Besides Varric was always nice to her, did not care if she was a blood mage. Hawke was nice too of course, but it was also quite clear she did not approve of Merrill's methods, her relentless study of the Eluvian. Varric was always nice to her, even when it came to blood magic. Of course, he would let her stay the night. He might even help repair the damage to her shack.
It was funny though. She had heard the thunder, felt her roof collapse, but she did not feel the rain or the wind. She did not feel wet, except under one arm. How very odd that it was only raining on part of her.
Finally, Merrill's eyes adjusted to the light, she realized she was not looking up into the dusky night sky above the alienage, but the startling brilliant blue eyes of the Ferelden rogue. And the unsettling blue eyes and handsome face of her friend, was her roof, perfectly intact. Well, as intact as it had been at the beginning of the night.
"Hawke…?" Merrill whispered, puzzled. Oh, dear. Was that her voice that sounded so strained, barely a squeak? Why is Hawke's face twisted up like that? Hawke always looked so solemn, always so serious like the City Guards that hardly ever smiled, but the skin around her lips and eyes looked pinched, it was different from her usual stoicism.
"Thank the Maker," Hawke breathed and smoothed her bangs back from Merrill's forehead, allowing it to rest on the side of her face. Her fingers and palms were calloused, rough despite the tender gesture. Fighter's hands.
Merrill had wondered what Hawke's touch might feel like, and now that she knew, she felt her face suddenly flush warm. Shoving the thought away, she tried to sit up, but Hawke only pushed her back down.
It was then she realized that she was laying down, the upper part of her body pulled into Hawke's lap and supported by her strong arms, cradled against the rogue's torso.
The realization only deepened the blush, spreading from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. She was certain she must looked like a boiled crab, but Hawke said nothing, she never did, even when Merrill managed to make a fool of herself by rambling or blushing.
Hawke was always kind to her, to everyone really, not just her. Hawke was genuinely good; she never turned down a request for help, even from an elf or someone who could not pay. She was compassionate, offering comfort, words of consolation, to anyone whom she deemed needed it. Hawke never raised her voice, never seemed to get angry. She was clever and always had a witty remark, but that had taken Merrill awhile to catch onto because Hawke's expression never changed, even when she was making a joke. She was beautiful. She was so strong, fighting as if she were possessed by a demon, but there was a beauty and grace to her movements, even in battle.
She did not approve of blood magic, but she did not show disgust like Fenris or judgmental contempt like Anders.
So she was not surprised at the level of tenderness Hawke showed as she gently lifted Merrill in her arms and gingerly placed her on the bed. But why was she here? Why had she thought there was a storm? And why did her throat feel so dry and scratchy, her body so leaden? "Hawke, what are you…"
Hawke held up a hand, cutting Merrill off, something she had never done before.
Merrill swallowed hard, but complied, watching as Hawke ripped the hem of her own tunic with an almost frantic jerk. Then, she held the makeshift rag to Merrill's bleeding forearm.
She inhaled sharply. Creators! There was so much blood, still steadily flowing from the self-inflicted would. It was flowing faster than her magic could have consumed it. Her wide green eyes flickered to where she had been seated in front of the Eluvian, to the small puddle of blood and dried smears on the floor.
Hawke applied more pressure to the wound, heedless of any pain Merrill might feel. At Merrill's pained whimper, she snapped her gaze to Merrill's, eyes flashing dangerously, like they did before a fight or whenever Templars were around her sister. Hawke looked like a predator, and Merrill felt like her prey. But still, the older woman said nothing.
Merrill swallowed the tight ball of fear in her throat and clamped down on her lower lip so she would not make any more noise. When Hawke finally managed to stem the flow of blood, she further destroyed her tunic by tearing more strips from around the waist and bound them tightly around Merrill's arm.
"What in the name of Andraste's sanctified arsehole were you trying to accomplish?" Hawke breathed, her words no louder than a whisper but still Merrill flinched as though she had shouted.
"I was just trying to fix this crack in the Eluvian. It was much trickier than I thought it would be because it wasn't so much a crack as a fissure… in the glass. I tried to fix it like I fixed the others but it just wasn't working. So I tried a little harder, a little more blood because I needed the power. It was only a little blood really, and it is worth it if it restores my people their heritage." She spoke quickly, licking her lips, not caring she was rambling. "I know what I'm doing, you know. I didn't think-"
"Exactly!" Hawke exclaimed, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "You didn't think."
The flush returned to Merrill's face, but this time it was anger. How dare Hawke scold her like a child? "I am not a child, Hawke. I know what I am doing."
Hawke stood and stalked angrily over to the Eluvian, to the blood congealing in front of it. "Oh, yes." She said sarcastically, pointing at the blood staining the floor next to her feet. "That is why I found you bleeding to death in some Maker damned blood trance!"
It was the first time Merrill had heard the other woman yell. "I didn't bleed to death." The elf said softly. Hawke did not yell. Even in battle. Even when she was very angry. Hawke did not lose her composure, never betrayed any emotion but calm, even when surrounded by chaos. "I am not a child, Hawke. You all may think I'm a bumbling idiot but I do know what I am doing."
The rogue spared her a glance, shook her head. "I was right to deny you the arulin'holm."
Merrill stiffened as if Hawke had struck her. The remark cut deeper than any knife used for blood magic could.
The arulin'holm had been a source of great tension between the two of them. Hawke always defended Merrill to Fenris, had told him to shut it when he had called Merrill a monster after Pol had been killed. But then she had denied her the tool that would help complete the Eluvian, claimed it was best for Merrill. The notion that a shemlen knew what was best for her more than Merrill herself did outraged her. No one trusted her, not even Hawke, and that broke her heart. They all thought they needed their help, their protection like a fool or child that did not know any better.
Weeks passed before Merrill had spoken to Hawke again, and then only because Isabela had intervened. She was so hurt that Hawke did not trust her. Isabela had listened to her angry tears, her pain and stroked her hair.
"Kitten, Hawke adores you. So much so it turns her into a self-righteous prig." Isabela had told her. "She would rather you hate her than risk you doing anything that brought harm to yourself. The two of you are miserable. With the Qunari mess, she needs you more now than ever." Isabela smiled in that special way that she reserved only for Merrill, not a smirk but a smile, reassuring in its warmth. "I'm not saying forgive her, Maker knows it's not my place to get involved in a mess of feelings. But can't you put it aside enough to tolerate one another's presence?"
So Merrill had. She stopped avoiding Hawke and gradually, they resumed their friendship as if nothing had happened. At first, it had only been an act; she was still hurt. But once she was around her again, Merrill found she could not stay angry at Hawke. And perhaps, after what happened with Pol, she had been right to be afraid to give her the arulin'holm.
But now all stinging pain bubbled to the surface again, as if it had never left. "I don't need you Hawke. I don't need your protection." Merrill shot back icily. "I know I ramble, and I don't always understand everything that is said, and I don't get dirty jokes and I get lost. I might not be as pretty or smart as Isabela," At the mention of the pirate, Hawke's gaze snapped to her. "But I am not a fool. Nor am I child that you can reprimand. I don't need you to save me. I don't need you telling me what to do or how to help my people or what is right or wrong. I don't need you at all!" Merrill lied, tears spilling from her eyes. "I don't need you. Leave me alone."
For a fleeting moment, hurt passed over Hawke's features. Like a little puppy that had just been kicked or pushed away. But it was quickly replaced by stoicism. Striding over to the bed, Hawke touched two fingers to the bandage she had tied around Merrill's arm, which had stopped bleeding.
The elf jerked it away as if the gingers had burned her, unable to bear the rogue's touch.
"I won't send Anders; he will only show you contempt," Hawke said neutrally and withdrew her hand. "I'll make sure Varric or Isabela comes to look after you." Without another word or a farewell, Hawke spun on the heel of her boot and left Merrill's hovel, slamming the door behind her.
The Dalish exile turned her head into her pillow, unable to stem the flow of tears. Creators, why was this so complicated? Hawke was the one she wanted to look after her, to care for her. But she made her so angry! Why didn't Hawke understand? Why couldn't she see how important the Eluvian was to her? Hawke was so smart, so beautiful, so kind… there were moments that Merrill hoped, oh how she hoped, that she might return her feelings.
But then she made her contempt for Merrill and blood magic perfectly clear. Nothing could ever be between them, not even friendship it seemed.
Hawke was angry.
If there was one thing she prided herself on, and to be fair there were a few, it was her self-control. Bethany and Carver were the opposite of her in that respect. Bethany was always the more sensitive of the twins, wearing her heart on her sleeve.
Of the twins, Hawke had always been more like her. Compassion and empathy guided her actions. Perhaps had she been swayed by Bethany's arguments not to be left behind, she would not be imprisoned in the Circle. As it was, Hawke differed from her in one fundamental way: she never allowed others to see what she felt. Otherwise, it would have been easy for an enemy to take advantage of and exploit her emotions.
Carver had been quick to anger, always surrendering to his rage and that made him blind to all else and stupid. In his anger, he had launched himself at an ogre and been killed. Hawke should have been closer to him, to stop him. More than that, as his elder sister, she should have been more understanding of his feelings. Maybe had she listened to him more when they were younger, he would have been less inclined to explode like a dwarven cannon.
Hawke was meticulous in governing her emotions. She always showed kindness where it was warranted because it was simply the right thing to do. There were too many people who cared only for their own feelings, but Hawke believed that everyone deserved to be helped, to be delivered from their suffering. If one had the opportunity to end the suffering of another person, was it not their duty to do so whenever they could?
But anger, rage, hatred were all dangerous, useless emotions as far as Hawke was concerned. They clouded one's judgement, made it impossible to make objective, rational decisions. Let her enemy be angry, it was only opportunity to use it against him.
Not that she was indifferent to suffering and cruelty and injustice she witnessed, and there was plenty in Kirkwall. It upset her, certainly, but rather than let it anger her, it only solidified her determination, steeled her resolve. Instead of being consumed by an insatiable hunger for vengeance or retribution, she was fortified with purpose.
So when she had snapped at the young Dalish elf, she had been appalled with herself.
But when she had walked in with a bundle of food for the elf and found her lying, unconscious in a puddle of blood, she had been terrified. The air still held the acrid taint of magic that singed her nostrils. Cold sweat broke out on her shoulders as she ran to Merrill's side, dropping to the floor and pulling her into her lap.
"Wake up, Merrill, please," Hawke had coaxed her, held her ear to the elf's mouth and nose when she did not answer. She was still breathing, thank the Maker. "Come on, wake up." She shook her, gently at first, then more vigorously. "For Andraste's sake, Merrill!" Hysteria crept in at the edge of her voice, and Hawke swallowed hard to force it down. She patted her cheek, then raised her hand and backhanded her sharply.
At that, the trance seemed to be broken and Merrill's eyes had slowly fluttered open. Relief had washed over Hawke like a breaking wave, washing away the fear. But as the wave of relief subsided, another crashed down her with crippling force. Anger.
Hawke shook her head vigorously to clear her thoughts as the feeling crept back into her throat, aching to be released as a scream. Inhaling deeply and with concentrated effort, she mastered her feelings.
She was angry because she was frightened. The Dalish elf had come to mean so much to her. How anyone could not love Merrill was beyond Hawke's grasp, except Fenris, but she was convinced the only happiness he derived from life was stewing in his own hatred and misery. And Anders. But Hawke was not blind. She knew that Anders' loathing of Merrill had much more to do with his jealousy than Merrill's blood magic.
Merrill was better than all of them, except maybe Bethany. Better than Aveline even, who was always morally just but still jaded and bitter by all she had witnessed in her life. Merrill however had seen just as much injustice and badness in the world, yet still managed to think the best of people. She was genuinely sweet and good-hearted. Her intentions were always pure and honest. Even when Fenris was nasty to her, Merrill still tried to be friendly. Even her forays into blood magic were with the best intentions. She did not crave power or wealth or domination over others; all she wanted was knowledge for her people, an escape from the bonds of ignorance.
She loved Merrill. She loved her in a way that extended far beyond the safe boundaries of friendship. Part of being master of her emotions was recognizing them. She had realized that her affection for the elf was romantic long ago, but it was not as easy as that. There were complications, other feelings that Hawke found herself helpless against. But one thing was certain: because she loved Merrill, she could not allow her to be destroyed by this mirror, by blood magic.
It put the two of them at odds. Merrill thought Hawke was trying to sabotage her work, that she did not believe in her. They fought, disagreed at every turn where the Eluvian was concerned.
Because she loved Merrill, she would rather the elf hate her forever than allow her to become an abomination or destroy herself with obsession. It hurt, but losing Merrill, seeing that purity and goodness destroyed, would be worse than anything Hawke could imagine.
The Hanged Man was as busy as usual. Isabela was not difficult to spot, even surrounded by a cluster of two men and two women Hawke had never seen before. Probably sailors that had just docked in Kirkwall, already enamored with the pirate queen.
Hawke pushed her way through them, ignoring their grumbles and protests. "Isabela,"
The pirate grinned at her appearance and took a healthy swallow of rum. "Have you come to steal me away from all these fine Antivan sailors?" She asked mischievously, casting a wink at one of the nearest young men.
"I need you to look after Merrill." Hawke ignored Isabela's flirtations.
There were few things that could cause the pirate to immediately sober. The grin faded and she waved a hand of dismissal at her admirers. "Sorry lads and ladies, party is over." The sailors grumbled their protest, reluctant to leave what had they thought might be a promising night for at least one of them. "Go, before I cut off your intimate parts and feed them to the gulls." She snapped irritably when they did not move away fast enough for her. "What's wrong with Kitten?"
Hawke raked her fingers through her unruly, short black hair, and Isabela quirked a brow at the uncharacteristic gesture of the other rogue. "Merrill… she was working on that damn mirror again. She cut too deep, I suppose, and lost consciousness. I was bringing her food and found her. But she is angry with me and does not want me around. Will you go to her, take care of her?"
"Oh, Hawke…" Isabela reached out and gently caressed Hawke's cheek, more gently than anyone would have believed possible for the pirate, which caused Hawke to mentally flinch. "You're a bloody idiot."
"I know." Hawke admitted, sighing, defeated. "Please?"
"Of course." Isabela gave a small, half nod, for once not having anything sarcastic or witty to say. She quickly left, and Hawke took her place at the bar to finish the tankard of rum the pirate had abandoned.
Isabela was right, partly. Hawke was a bloody idiot. They were all bloody idiots.
There you have it. Again, please review and let me know what you think so I know whether or not I should continue this.