For some reason, it has been an uber-productive week for me. Completed another story, wrote three features for work, about to add another chapter here, put together three packets, designed some ceremony propaganda, and put my name in the hat for Farsi at the Defense Language Institute. Fingers crossed, people.

I feel like I have this really complex relationship with each chapter. At the end of every chapter, I break up with them, then when I start dating the next chapter, I'm lamenting ever breaking up with the previous chapter and remembering how good things were back when me and Chapter 9 were a couple... we were so much better for each other than me and Chapter 10 could ever be... so I'm going to break up with Chapter 10 now, and start the vicious cycle all over again with Chapter 11. Son of a bitch.

Guess the metaphor got away from me, eh? I've completely lost the point.

Enjoy!

"Balls!" Hawke swore as her dagger clattered to the ceramic tile of the garden patio. She immediately clutched her shoulder with the opposite hand and abandoned the fight. She had extended her arm too far, straining the still healing tendons and muscles as she attempted to spin and strike in an opening below her opponent's shield in what would have been a simple maneuver. A maneuver that would have been simple before her duel with the Arishok.

Luckily, her opponent immediately dropped her assault, as well as her shield and sword and was at Hawke's side, brow furrowed in concern. Hawke shrugged off Aveline's hand. "I'm fine," she insisted, despite the hitch in her breath.

Merrill abandoned the book she had been reading and bounded from her spot underneath a nearby tree. Even though the martial arts were a skill she could never hope to master, she enjoyed watching the daily sparring bouts between her lover and Aveline and sometimes Fenris. It was like a dance. A spontaneous, beautiful dance even as Hawke healed and gradually recovered from her wounds. At first she was slow, yet still deliberate and lethal. But she had improved over the past few months, regaining her speed and flexibility.

But there were still moments like this one, when Hawke would unexpectedly drop something or push herself too hard, and Merrill would always rush to her side.

"Maybe that's enough for today?" Merrill said softly, carefully folding her hands around Hawke's shoulder. The elf glanced over her shoulder to the Guard Captain. Aveline had become a powerful ally lately whenever Hawke was being silly and stubborn, when she tried to push herself and risked hurting herself all over again.

"I think Merrill is right." Aveline gave a curt, half nod and squatted down to pick up Hawke's dagger. She weighed it thoughtfully in her hand before extending it to her friend. "You are almost back to normal. There is no sense pushing harder than your body will allow."

The beads of cold sweat that broke out on Hawke's upper lip had nothing to do with exertion or the heat, Merrill knew. The rogue was hurting though she would refuse to admit it. "I don't feel like I'm back to normal."

"What do you want Hawke? You are lucky to be alive, let alone have use of your arm. It's a miracle your life has extended this far. It's only been six months." Merrill thought Aveline sounded a lot like the Keeper whenever she lectured, and wondered why she and Donnic had no children. "Do you remember being skewered and tossed around the Keep like a doll? Because I can still see it whenever I close my eyes."

Hawke gently removed Merrill's hands from her shoulder, smiled at her and squeezed them reassuringly before releasing them and answering the guard captain. "Trust me, Aveline. I remember. Every time I twist the wrong way or pick up something that's too heavy, I remember."

Aveline sheathed her sword and slung her shield onto her back while Merrill scampered back to her tree to retrieve her book. "Why you dueled that overgrown goat for that idiot, I will never understand." Aveline continued as they fell in step beside Hawke as she headed inside.

Merrill tried to stifle a smile but failed. Aveline might grumble about her, but the mere fact that she did not constantly refer to Isabela as "that whore" anymore was testament enough that the guard captain had softened where the pirate was concerned. If only Isabela were still around, she would never believe the change.

The smile turned to a frown, and Merrill had not heard Hawke's response. No one had seen Isabela in months, not since the night Hawke had first awakened after the duel. Merrill had awakened to the sound of the pirate's throaty laugh and husky voice, teasing Hawke about not being able to hold her water.

She still did not know why she did not open her eyes then, why she had waited and pretended to be sleeping as the two rogues talked. She felt as though she should have shot up, tackled (albeit gently since Hawke was still hurt) her lover and kissed her all over. But she hadn't. Instead, she listened.

Fingers had ghosted across her brow, brushing her hair from her forehead like Isabela did all the time, only this time it felt different, and Merrill had clamped down on the inside of her cheek to keep from whimpering aloud again.

"I didn't do it for them. I did it for you. It was always about you." And then Isabela was gone, rapid boot steps announcing her departure as well as the crack as she slammed the bedroom door behind her.

Hawke had squeezed her hand in the moments of silence that followed. "You, of all people, deserved the truth."

Merrill had opened her eyes and nodded even though she was not quite sure what the truth even was. There had been something about the way the pirate had said "you" that left her feeling perplexed. The word had not been stressed or emphasized, but something subtle, a slight lilt when she had said "It was always about you," that had left Merrill more confused than anything.

She bid Aveline an absent farewell as her brain mulled over the problem again. She supposed she might feel jealous, but she didn't. Hawke loved Merrill; she did not even have a flicker of doubt about the way Hawke felt about her. And she could not fault the pirate for, well, she hadn't said she loved Hawke had she? But even if she had, Merill could not fault her for it. Hawke was good. She was beautiful and witty and good, good to the core of her bones. So good, she would duel a giant Qunari to the death just because she thought it was the right thing to do.

So what did she feel? She followed Hawke up the stairs and sat on the edge of the bed while the rogue stripped off her sweaty tunic and trousers.

Hawke had been even more somber and pensive than usual lately. Not necessarily aloof, but there were stretched moments of silence, when Hawke would lose herself to her thoughts, and when she snapped out of it, she pretended as if nothing were amiss.

Part of it was from her injuries. Merrill had changed the bandages every night until they were no longer needed, and still the rogue had refused to look at the wound. She had watched her struggle as she tried to move her arm for the first time, watched when frustrated tears streamed down her face after her first attempt to spar with Fenris. She was always there whenever Hawke's arm seized and she dropped whatever she had been holding, there to pick up the pieces.

There was improvement of course, and now there was hardly a difference between the old Hawke and the new, healed Hawke that Merrill could tell. She still moved with frightening ferocity and strength and terrifying precision, but the rogue still felt a difference, and it bothered her.

But there were other things. The Knight Commander, the intimidating blond Templar, had declared Hawke the Champion of Kirkwall. A title that bothered the rogue almost as much as she detested the fame and constant bother that accompanied it. Everyone wanted to see her, to talk to her, to bother her with flowers or well-wishes or poorly composed ballads professing love.

"Now I know why the Viscount never granted an audience with anyone," Hawke had mumbled once as they were mobbed by a group of commoners in Lowtown market.

Then there was the Knight Commander herself, and the elf Mage, Orsino. There were politics that Merrill did not quite understand, but the Knight Commander refused to accept any candidate as successor to the Viscount, and that worried both Hawke and Orsino. There were new laws, new restrictions, and Bethany's letters spoke of unrest among the Circle as the Templars tightened their grip on the Mages.

And Isabela had disappeared, and Hawke felt responsible. She knew what the pirate meant to Merrill, how close they were. And Merrill did miss her, terribly. Nothing felt right without the pirate close by, without her laughter or dirty stories. It was as if Hawke felt that she had taken Isabela away from Merrill, which was absurd. But whenever the topic of Isabela arose, Hawke's eyes saddened and she became apologetic.

There was so much. No wonder Hawke was upset, though she might not admit as much. Merrill watched Hawke's tight expression, the one she wore whenever her shoulder ached, as she pulled on a fresh tunic. When she was upset about Pol, Hawke had attempted to console her, even defended her from Fenris. Hawke always made her feel as if nothing else in the world matter, as if nothing could ever harm her.

There had to be some way to make the rogue feel better. Isabela would know what to do; she always knew what to do. Merrill swallowed the lump of sadness in her throat. Isabela would come back. She had before, and she would again. She had to. Without Isabela, she felt as if she were a drift, like a ship that had lost its anchor.

It was as if as though the pirate helped steady both her and Hawke, and without her, both were lost, mired in uncertainty, directionless, unsure of how to move forward.

Merrill fidgeted as she waited for Hawke to finish changing. What did Isabela always say? "Just get naked" wasn't a problem for the lovers. That was one aspect of their relationship that remained unaffected by the past half year's turmoil, at least once Hawke had healed enough that it wasn't painful. "Say how you feel," seemed like better advice.

So when Hawke turned towards her, she met her lover's eyes and blurted. "I need your help!"

"I need your help!" Merrill said abruptly causing Hawke to falter with the laces of her tunic.

"Anything, lethallan." She replied quietly and sat next to her on the edge of the bed, placed her hand on her knee. "You know that."

"If you're feeling up to it that is." The elf winced at the implication. "I don't mean to suggest you're not up to it. You seem up to it. I just don't want you to feel like you have to if you're hurting. Not that you are hurting, but…" She scratched her head, trying to recover from her own babbling. "I just don't want you to feel like you have to."

Hawke smiled and gently wrapped her arm around Merrill's shoulders, pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. "I feel up to it. Whatever it is."

"Oh! Good! There is… an herb I need. Up on Sundermount. It shouldn't be hard to find, but I was reading about it in one of the books I found in your library. You have such wonderful books, by the way. And I wanted to see if I could find it. I'm sure I've seen it on the mountain before. Could we look for it tomorrow?"

"Of course. I'm sure Varric would be happy to come along." Mentally, she ticked through her companions. Aveline would likely be busy tomorrow and an herb hunt did not seem a fitting use of the guard captain's time. Fenris would just grumble the whole time, and Isabella… "And Anders is always looking for new herbs to—"

Merrill squirmed in her arms. "No!" She blushed and ducked her head. "I mean… can it be just us? It shouldn't be dangerous. No one ever goes to the side of the mountain we'll be on. Only the hunters of the clan, really."

Hawke blinked, then nodded, feeling herself flush.

She had been preoccupied lately but had not felt she had been neglecting Merrill. But if the elf felt she had to specifically ask for it just to be the two of them, maybe she did feel neglected. Things just hadn't been… normal since the duel, for either of them.

She felt like a stranger in her own body. She had always been extremely physical as a youngster, climbing trees, running, sparring and wrestling with Carver. Fighting had always come natural to her; she had always excelled in any physical activity. Her daggers were an extension of her body, a part of her, flowing with her movement, responding as if though they were made of flesh and bone and muscle. Now though, she felt clumsy, like a gangling toddler just beginning to walk.

It was frustrating beyond measure. Everyone told her she was as good as she ever was, but before it had been so effortless. Now she had to consciously work to make her muscles comply. She tried not to let it show of course; it only worried Merrill when she did.

Merrill… How was she supposed to protect the Dalish Mage when Meredith seemed so intent on filling the power vacuum left by the Viscount? And Anders? And Bethany? How was she supposed to keep them safe when the dominant force in Kirkwall was the Templars? If the Knight Commander had her way, they would all be shackled and chained like the slaves of the Tevinter. Orsino did not help matters by publically bickering with her either.

The Knight Commander was a good person, a strong, determined woman. She and Hawke might differ in personal convictions, but she seemed to care deeply for Kirkwall. She could be reasoned with, surely.

But in the meantime, until the matter could be peacefully resolved and a compromise reached, Merrill was still in danger. Hawke would feel better if Isabela were there to help shield the elf.

Damn Isabela… Unconsciously, Hawke clenched her fists. If only she had not prodded the pirate, insisted that she be honest with her feelings. She, of all people, should have known better. Guilt panged in her gut, like a sore tooth that persistently ached but screamed white-hot agony when prodded. It had been Hawke to drive Isabela away with her stubborn, bull-headed persistence that Isabela acknowledge the truth. She should have left it alone.

Isabela's departure hurt Merrill, more than the elf had given voice to. Merrill adored Isabela in the way that Merrill loved: without reservation, without judgment, unconditionally. The mere notion of romantic love sent the pirate fleeing, did Merrill even understand? It was all so damnably complicated. Just like it had been between Hawke and Merrill at one point. Hawke wasn't even sure she understood it herself, most of the time.

Damn that selfish pirate! How could she leave them now, now when they both seemed to need her most?

"I love you, you know that right?" Hawke said suddenly, feeling a sudden, urgent need to profess her feelings, to assure Merrill that she was loved, cared for.

Merrill cocked her head to the side, simultaneously startled and confused. Gently, the elf pushed her back onto the bed and climbed on top of her, straddling her hips and planting both hands on her chest before leaning down to kiss Hawke's cheek. "Of course, lethallan. And I love you. We should never doubt that, should we?"

"No," Hawke smiled and pulled Merrill in by the front of her tunic for another kiss. "No, we shouldn't. I just needed to say it. Now… about this herb of yours…"

"It can wait until tomorrow, lethallan." Merrill smiled playfully and covered Hawke's mouth with her own.

The path that her Dalish lover led her on was uncharacteristically sunny and bright for Sundermount. The forest seemed more inviting here, the trees alive with the chatter of squirrels and birds, the sun bright and lively overhead instead of the dense, foreboding gloom found at higher elevations along the south face of the mountain. They didn't speak much, but climbed, hand in hand until the elevation gently sloped evenly in front of them and the path through the trees gave way into meadow.

High grass undulated in the wind in green blue ways like the sea. Green stalks and blue and purple wildflowers stretched for what seemed an eternity before meeting the line of the forest on the opposite side from where they stopped. A jagged peak climbed into the sky behind the trees as if reaching up to pierce the clouds.

Hawke leaned her head back to the sky, letting the warmth of the summer sun smile down on her skin. It felt marvelous to be out of the city, away from the clotted stink and clamor of so many people in such a small area. It was fresh here, like Lothering used to be. Open sky and rolling gusts of wind, whispering meadows of grass and swaying fields of crops. There were no shouts or cheers for the Champion here, only the brutal honesty of the sunshine, of rock and tree and earth.

Merrill turned and cocked her head to the side to gaze up at her. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. But—" Hawke smiled and leaned down to accommodate her lover as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss her. "where is this herb you're so anxious to get?"

"Things don't feel the same, do they? Not really. You're all better now, mostly, and the city has put itself back together for the most part, but the docks still have that Qunari smell to them, do you notice it? But it feels like everything has changed." Merrill did not ramble often, not when they were alone. It usually meant she was avoiding a particular topic, or talking circles around what she really wanted to say. "It isn't the same. I feel like a piece of us is missing."

Hawke's mouth suddenly felt as if she were gnawing on raw cotton. "Merrill…"

"No!" The elf insisted, taking both the rogue's hands in her own. "I need you to hear me, Marion, please?"

Stiffening at the use of her name, Hawke slowly nodded and closed her mouth.

"Isabela left us, but it isn't your fault. You did everything you could, but she made the decision to leave. And now… nothing feels right." Merrill nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully and raised her wide green eyes to Hawke's. "And you're still hurt, but you're getting better. I need you to know that it isn't your fault, and eventually you'll heal all the way, and maybe Isabela will come back and everything will be alright. It'll all be alright because we'll do it together." She pressed the rogue's hand to her chest, over her heart.

Her chest tightened with emotion, the rawness of it thick in her throat, and she whispered so as not to let it sound her voice. "I feel like I've let you down. I killed the Arishok, but Isabela is still gone. The Viscount is still dead, and I feel like we are hurtling towards the edge of… oblivion and nothing I do will be able to stop us." Kirkwall had become a keg of trapped steam, the pressure building and building in between Meredith and Orsino, between Mage and Templar. She felt as though she were standing on the precipice of a mountain and could see for miles and miles into the distance in all directions, she could see everything around her, but she could not see the mountain beneath her.

"Hawke…" Merrill touched a hand to her cheek. "We will be alright, I promise. Come on."

Reluctantly, Hawke nodded, unconvinced. "Where—"

"This way!" Merrill darted off across the meadow at a dead sprint, moving faster and more agilely than Hawke had ever seen her move before.

"What?" Hawke shouted, confused. Was this what she meant by frolicking in the woods? Elves frolicked, even Merrill acknowledged that, yes, but this seemed to be a marathon sprint. When the elf did not slow or reply, she was forced to sprint after her.

Legs pumping, she dashed through the high grass, ignoring as it whipped her arms and legs and face, heedless of where each foot fell. Obstacles were hard to see until she was right on them, and she was forced into several last minute turns and leaps around stumps and rocks. She was forced to glimpse up between what was immediately in front of her and where her lover was. Merrill was hard to spot, the grass almost as tall as she was, but every so often, Hawke caught a glimpse of dark brown hair and shifted her direction accordingly.

While she had accustomed herself to the sometimes odd behavior of her lover, this was utterly uncharacteristic, and Hawke felt a surge of irritation. Running through the meadow for no apparent reason, the midafternoon's sun high overhead and the wind whistling in her ears… How long had it been since she ran? Since she really ran until her lungs burned and her muscles shrieked in protests? Since before the duel, surely.

Suddenly, the irritation gave way to whoop of exultation. She was running. She became acutely aware of every blade of grass that whipped past her, every subtle shift in elevation between each foot fall, the thudding rush of blood in her ears. She was running and pushed herself to go faster, as fast as she could until she could no longer feel her lungs aching for air, no longer did her muscles protest. It all fell away as she chased Merrill.

The meadow melted into forest, and the run became more of reckless obstacle course. Her wild dash was interrupted by weaving in and out of trees and ducking under half-fallen ones. She noted, with pride more than envy, that Merrill had no trouble staying several strides ahead of her. She moved like a squirrel, never slowing for obstacles, instead using them to propel her forward. Gone was the awkward elf in the city, who lost her way going from her doorstep to vhenadal. She was a child of the Dales, of the forest and ran and frolicked and leapt with none of the uncertainty she showed in the city.

The forest began to thin as Hawke followed her uphill. It was so steep that she could not see what lay over the crest of the hill, but Merrill, still ahead of her gave a magnificent leap and disappeared on the other side. If her momentum had not been slowed somewhat by the climb, she would have tumbled over what turned out not to be the crest of a hill, but the edge of a cliff. She skidded to a halt and waved her hands frantically to maintain her balance as she peered over the edge. Her heart thudded dangerously close to panic until she saw Merrill pop to the surface of the jade green pool at the base of the cliff.

It took her a moment to realize that the thunder in Hawke's ears was not her pulse, but the thunder of cascading water over a slightly higher rock face to her left into the pool below. It was a natural glen, framed on all sides by sheer cliffs fringed with trees and scrubs, except where the large pool bled into a small stream that seemed to meander to her left, winding lazily out of sight.

"Come on, Hawke!" Merrill shouted, and her voice echoed off the rock walls framing the pool.

Still breathing heavily with exertion, Hawke backed up several paces and for a running start and leapt, arching her body into a perfect dive. She was falling, falling… at least ten man-lengths before she plunged into the water. The ice cold broke over her with such abruptness that she almost gasped. She touched the bottom of the pool that was slick with algae under her fingers. She flipped, and used her legs to propel her towards the surface.

She broke free of the water with a laugh and whipped her head from side to side, slinging water with her hair as she searched for Merrill, who was already swimming towards her.

"You really are crazy, aren't you?" Hawke grinned as Merrill looped her arms around her neck.

"Ma vhenan, that is you." Merrill corrected and returned her grin with one of her own and kissed her, hard, aggressively as if forcing her determination on her lover. "We'll be alright, I promise."

Nodding, Hawke searched herself as she pulled her lover closer. The tension she felt she had carried since she awoke after the duel seemed to have vanished, and she felt… alive. For the first time, everything felt as if it might turn out alright after all, and the feeling of dread was replaced by a feral hope, an intense appreciation of the woman in her arms. "I love you, Merrill. Thank you."

And scene. I lack any sense of good judgement. I hope you enjoyed. Next chapter: Isabela returns. Something exciting happens... and then profit!

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And as always, thank you for y'all's support and encouragement.