Author's note: Thanks once again to my wonderful beta-reader, clafount, without whom this story would have foundered long ago. Also, this chapter definitely helps BoP earn its 'M' rating, so beware.


The sun had set on the Alienage streets an hour before, and though he was on good terms with the hahren, Carver didn't like being here alone. He shouldn't have to be here at all, he knew; if it weren't for his foolish tongue, Merrill probably would have kept meeting him in the Hanged Man or by the docks of an evening. But he hadn't seen a glimpse of her since she stole off of the boat from Highever, more than a month before .

A third, less tentative round of knocking didn't seem to give him any more satisfaction than his first two attempts, and the warrior considered stalking away and sulking in the Hanged Man. Assuming he wouldn't get shanked on the way back through the ghetto's alleys, of course. "I said I was sorry," he complained loudly against the door. "Look, I know you're in there," Carver said, and he did; he could hear her heartbeat, when he closed his eyes and concentrated, a pulse just out-of-time with his own . "Just...can we please talk about this?"

Nearly a full minute passed, and the human was on the verge of turning his back on the door and taking his chances in the alleyway when the elaborate lock began shifting. Silently, Carver thanked Isabela's generosity in helping to secure Merrill's hovel-it contained powerful artifacts of magic, which could cause a world of trouble if they were stolen by the wrong people, as well as the former First's other worldly possessions.

"What do you want, Hawke?" Merrill demanded, and Carver tried not to flinch away from the appellation. It stung him even worse than Varric's near-constant refrain of Junior, at least from Merrill's lips.

He couldn't resist the flinch when he saw how haggard the elf looked, with sallow cheeks and purple bruising beneath those intricate facial tattoos. "Maker," he sighed. "What happened to you?"

Her brows knitted. "That's none of your business," Merrill exclaimed. "You say you want to talk, so talk. I've not got all night."

"Can I come in, at least?" Carver tried plying her with a hopeful smile, but it died at her withering look. Nevertheless, Merrill pulled back from the doorway and jerked her head for him to enter.

Deep shadows covered the room, thicker than the human remembered. Even after closing his eyes for half a dozen heartbeats, it was still hard to see his way around. Merrill, for her part, picked her way over the messy room with an ease and grace he'd come to expect of her. Habit borne of his days as a mercenary saw Carver double-check the locked door, but once he was sure it was secure, he did his best to follow the elf back into her room.

Where the el'u'vi'an stood more-or-less complete in its frame. Just a few gaps remained, and the joined pieces still showed thousands of veiny cracks that ruined any prospective reflection, but the mirror's majesty was unmistakable. "Have you been working on this day and night? For this whole month?" They'd fetched back the newly-cleansed shards from Ferelden in the opening days of Guardian, and it was just now the first week of Drakonis .

The woman threw him a suspicious look. "Yes," she admitted. "You can't understand how important this is for me," Merrill said, all in a rush. "For my people. Even if they don't want it...we need this."

"I don't understand," Carver conceded. "But I want to...honestly." He moved to take a step closer to the mirror, but Merrill's hand shot out, gripping his elbow with surprising strength. He saw a fresh network of scars along her forearm.

"It isn't safe for you to approach it," the elf insisted. "I don't want to lose you, too."

The proclamation turned Carver's mouth into a desert, though not out of fear of the mirror. "You were...close, with Tamlen, right?"

"We were," Merrill affirmed. "Not...not like…" She trailed off, then, and awkwardly pulled her hand back from the warrior. "I don't have any food or anything, but there is some clean water, if you want some."

"I'll survive," Carver assured her, his lips tipping into a frown. He wasn't sure how to handle the sudden appearance of Merrill's old friend into the conversation, an elf who'd evidently been a victim of the mirror while it was still corrupted by the darkspawn taint, and so the human tried to change the subject. "I really am sorry, Merrill," he reiterated, tilting his head to get a better look at her face. "You know I didn't mean-"

"What, that you can't stand having a filthy blood mage for a sister?" Merrill broke in, her forest-green eyes flashing dangerously. "It seemed pretty clear to me, Carver."

"That's not fair," the warrior retorted. "Bethany isn't...she wasn't like you-and me," he amended, hastily. "She didn't used to think that Andraste was just a story, I mean. My sisters were apostates, but we all followed the Chant of Light." He grimaced, looking away. "It was just...a shock, to learn that she doesn't, anymore."

"You don't know that," the elf pointed out. "Athadra herself pointed out that there's nothing against blood magic per se in the human religion."

Carver swallowed a cynical chuckle. "That's how it's taught, though. Even Father taught us that blood magic was evil...and I guess he should know, since he had first-hand experience." He shook his head. "I just...I've come to terms with my own damnation. Either the Maker exists and I'm not worthy of Him, or He doesn't, and it doesn't matter either way."

Merrill perched herself lightly on the edge of her cot, stifling a yawn. "You aren't damned, Carver," she whispered, casting a glance toward the unfinished mirror. "You're a good man. Too good." She drew herself up with a deep breath, and despite the exhaustion etched on every inch of her face, the elf gave him a bittersweet smile. "You've done more to help me than I ever thought any shem'len would, but your part in this is done. You should go home, Carver."

The warrior did not look away, even as the sight of that tired smile seemed to shake the ground beneath his feet. "Is that what you want?" He asked, suddenly wishing he'd taken up her offer of water. "For me to go?" He got the feeling that if he followed her advice, he'd never see her again.

Silence hung in the air for a long moment, even after Merrill's eyes found the dingy floor. "...No," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "But I've already stolen your stories from you, helped you do things you're ashamed of," she reasoned. "Being my friend hasn't done anything good for you ."

"Is that what you think?" Carver's laugh was a barked huff. "You're the only real friend I have in this Void-taken city...I mean, Varric's alright, I guess."

"What about Isabela?" Merrill countered, her brows knitting. "She came with us to Ferelden, after all."

The warrior rolled his eyes. "She came with you to Ferelden...and then she shacked up with Beth, and then Beth and Athadra both, after we got the damned glass out of that temple." The memory of being underground amidst more darkspawn was enough to make him shiver...even though the two Wardens had slaughtered each and every one of them. Bethany had certainly lost any timidity for fighting in the months since she'd been taken from him, and she'd collected a worrying number of ways to kill things in the interim . Shaking the thought off, Carver pressed on. "I like them," he admitted. "Isabela and Varric...but they aren't you."

Merrill still couldn't meet his gaze. "And who am I to you, Carver? What do you really want?"

"I want...I don't know," he exclaimed. "I've already told you that I care about you, more than I can remember caring about anyone, before. And if you just want to be friends-"

"You say that like it's a common thing," the elf breathed. "Something you can throw away at a lark." Her eyes filled with pools of light in the dim room, but Carver thought they looked wet, even so. "I've never had any friends. Only my duty ."

Without knowing why, Carver took two steps toward her, and then he sunk to his knees to keep from looming over the elf. "I'm your friend, Merrill," he insisted. "That means I don't want to take anything away from you, or make you give up anything you care about. I promise." He gave the nearly-finished mirror a long look. "I want to help you reclaim your history, and I want you to be safe." When the warrior looked at her again, he was stricken once more by how pale and drawn she was. "...When was the last time you ate, Merrill?"

The incongruity of the question must have thrown the elf for a loop, because she blinked several times, and took a long time to consider. "I...think I ate a bit of stew last week," Merrill mumbled. "I've been getting by on magic, mostly…" She had the presence of mind to look a bit sheepish, at least.

Shaking his head, Carver took one of Merrill's hands in both of his and moved to stand. "Come on...you've been pushing yourself too hard. Let's take you out to the Hanged Man and get you some more stew." When the elf looked to protest, the warrior shook his head. "You won't be able to finish the mirror at all if you die of starvation ," he pointed out. "And I'll...I'll help, afterward. You can use some of my blood."

The promise drew Merrill to her feet at last. "...Really?" She looked too scared to hope, but when Carver nodded, she threw her arms around him and nearly collapsed from exhaustion. "I'm...I don't know what to say," she mumbled into his shirt.

"Don't say anything," he breathed against the crown of her head, his thick arms crossing behind her shoulderblades. "Just come with me and eat. The dwarf's been missing you, too." Carver tried to ignore the thud of his heart at having her so close, and he shifted to tuck her into his side, ostensibly to keep her from stumbling...even though he stumbled plenty in his own right, through the dim maze of Merrill's home.

The walk through the moonlit Alienage and Lowtown beyond was blessedly free of bandits, whether through Carver's reputation or sheer luck, and the Hanged Man's barroom was just as warm as ever, filled with boisterous patrons and lit by hanging braziers. The warrior marched his companion through the crowd, up the short flight of stairs to Varric's room; the door was open, as it nearly always was when the dwarf was in residence.

"Daisy!" Varric guffawed, looking up from his table, which held an intimidating spread of dwarven business documents. The beardless dwarf shuffled the parchment into a neat pile with surprising quickness, and placed an empty ale tankard onto the folded papers to keep them in place. "It's been awhile. What's the occasion?"

Carver's arm was still strewn over Merrill's shoulders, and somehow on the way, her own arm had slipped around his spine, just beneath his shoulderblades. Neither of them seemed willing to surrender the embrace before the other. "Junior says I have to eat something," the elf lamented, though a bit of mischief glinted in her eyes as she looked up to the warrior.

"And I can't cook anything more complicated than toast," he pointed out, holding up his free hand. "Still manage to ruin that about half the time, too...so, you hungry, dwarf?"

Varric sat back, scratching his stubble. "I guess I could eat," he mused, letting his eyes linger on the joint of Carver's shoulder. "What are we having?" When neither of his two guests made any suggestions, or indeed appeared to move at all, Varric heaved a sigh. "Fine. I'll make sure Corff doesn't piss in the soup," he complained, climbing out of his chair and mumbling something Carver could have sworn sounded like at least not my soup . "Don't touch anything," the dwarf warned them. "But siddown. I'll be back shortly."

Eventually the warrior and the mage drew apart and took seats around Varric's great round table, and they reminisced about the last time they'd sat down here while they waited. It had been about eight months since the dwarf had orchestrated the Hawkes' unexpected nameday party; at once, it seemed like only yesterday, and a whole different lifetime entirely. Bethany was still around; they had no money; neither of them had seen the true horrors of the darkspawn, and at least one of them had never succumbed to the temptation of blood magic.

Varric's return kept Carver from growing maudlin, and soon enough the dwarf had Merrill enrapt in a story about an elven princess and a Tevinter magister who'd fallen in love in the middle of the ancient conflict between their peoples . Eventually the two had to choose between love and hate, between duty and joy ...but it got too late before he could finish the tale. "I guess you'll have to come back tomorrow night to hear what they decided," the dwarf gruffed, though his lips held a smirk.

"I suppose I'll have to," Merrill admitted. She looked much improved by the bar's meagre fare; a bit of pink had returned to her cheeks, underneath the ink that marked her as an adult amongst her people, and her eyes shone with excitement for the first time Carver had seen since the temple. Since his own foolishness had nearly ruined their friendship .

The night air had grown oddly cool, despite the time of year and the nearby foundry that kept the sky afire. Carver took up position beside Merrill as they stalked away from the Hanged Man. "I didn't bring my twine," the elf lamented with a half-hearted sigh, just before they reached an alleyway where they might have parted ways. "Though I don't get lost at night nearly as often as during the day… "

"I'll walk you back," the warrior offered; his heart sat at the bottom of his throat as he wordlessly extended his hand, and his stomach tightened when the mage's fingers laced through his own. Merrill's grip was surprisingly strong.

"That would be lovely," she breathed, and together they crossed the alley to the wider path that would take them to the Alienage.

Carver didn't trust himself to speak, though he silently thanked the Maker that no bandits crossed their path. Luck remained with them at the Alienage gates as well, for the city guard hadn't yet closed them for the eve. He thought he recognized Donnic standing stoically at the top of the stairs, but it was hard to tell beneath the helmet, and the warrior didn't pause to investigate.

Merrill's home was pitch black inside, at least to his human eyes, yet the elf's grip did not falter as she guided him back to her bedroom, where the el'u'vi'an stood waiting for their attention. A candelabra sparked to life once they reached the chamber, burning more brightly than the noonday sun for just an instant-in that instant, Carver thought he saw something deep within the unfinished mirror, something dark and sinister, but it was gone after a blink . His brows drew down and his lips parted to mention it, but Merrill spoke up before he could form any words.

"Thank you, Carver," the elf said, just above a whisper. "It was good to get out of the house again…"

He turned his head to look at her, his eyes catching the light dancing across her inked cheeks. Warmth seeped into him at the sight of her tentative smile, and from her hand, still wrapped up in his. "Thank you for letting me in," he answered, after a breath. Neither he nor Merrill moved beyond the bedroom's entryway, rooted to the dusty floorboards. "I really like spending time with you, Merrill."

That set the elf's brows to knitting, and she cast her eyes down. "I've...not been a very good friend, especially this last month," she admitted. "And I never did answer you, before...when you wondered if I wanted to start the vi'lath with you…"

"That's okay," Carver assured her, somehow managing to speak through the lump in his throat. "Being your friend is...more than I have a right to hope for." Which was perfectly true, as far as it went. The fingers of his free hand brushed her cheek, coaxing her to look up at him. "Merrill, it's alright…"

Merrill's forest-green eyes flashed decisively, and before Carver could sort out just what she'd decided, the mage arched up to claim his lips in an awkward kiss. Shock flooded through his chest, keeping the warrior from responding immediately, but the warmth of his affection overrode his hesitation before the elf could mistake it for rejection. A memory from Lothering lanced through the back of Carver's mind, though, embarrassing enough to dampen the furious pounding of his heart . Carefully, he wrapped his fingers around Merrill's shoulders and held her in check just enough to pull a few inches from her still lips. "Merrill," he panted, licking over his lips and doing his best to hold her gaze. "Are you sure you want...this? Us?"

A bit of suspicion tinged the edge of her features. "Do you?"

"Maker, yes," the warrior replied. "But...but only if you do," he amended, uncertainly. "I don't want to make you do anything you'll regret."

"You haven't," Merrill said, dismissively. Her thin, strong arms slid about his upper torso, one of her hands coming to rest at the nape of his neck. "You've been a better friend than I ever thought I'd have."

"Especially for a shem?" He managed a cocky smirk, even as his arms wrapped around the mage. Her only response was to hoist herself higher and claim his lips again, and he fell into the kiss without any further reticence. Despite the weight of Merrill's chainmail undertunic and leggings, Carver hoisted her off her feet with little effort, bringing her face level with his own.

Merrill's lips softened after a moment, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world when her legs hooked around his waist. Carver's head tilted as he consciously deepened the kiss, and he moved to sit heavily on Merrill's cot bed . She shifted in his lap, planting her knees to either side of his thighs and arching back slightly. "Have you ever...done anything like this before?" The elf asked, a hint of concern touching her brow, even as her cheeks flushed beneath the threats of her tattoo.

Carver thought his heart might explode his chest. "A few times," he admitted, fire racing along his bare shoulders, where Merrill's hands had settled. Unbidden, he recalled one of the scant visits he'd paid to the Blooming Rose, back in his mercenary days. "What about you?"

"No," Merrill breathed, though she didn't seem nearly as nervous as Carver had been in similar circumstances. "Not with anyone else, anyway," the elf continued, biting her lip.

The warrior couldn't resist arching up to smooth her lips with a brief kiss. "I meant what I said," he reiterated, even as her position on his lap and her hands on his arms did much to cloud his good intentions. "We don't have to...do...anything," he managed to say. "Unless you want to, that is," he amended a little hastily, lust nearly overpowering his caution.

The elf's eyelids slid closed as she took a breath, and more quickly than Carver could have guessed, she'd stripped off her tunic and was making short work of the chainmail shirt she wore beneath it. Taking that as answer enough, the warrior stripped off the sleeveless underpadding he'd taken to wearing as a shirt, and in the space of a breath, both he and Merrill were bare above the waist.

The vision before him was enough to steal Carver's breath. More ink graced Merrill's flesh beneath her collarbones, branches of a great tree that accentuated the elf's small breasts. The tattoo's branches joined into a thin trunk that swept down her abdomen, disappearing beneath the trousers and armour she still wore .

A glance up at her face let Carver see a hint of nerves, which nearly stole a laugh from him. His hands settled at her hips, his thumb idly grazing over one of the many scars that nettled over her flanks, and the warrior pressed a soft kiss to her breastbone. "I've never seen anyone more beautiful," he vowed in a low whisper.

Merrill's fingers knotted into his hair, and the warrior found his head getting pulled back. "Neither have I," she affirmed, her lips crashing down upon his to steal any reply he might have given. Her tongue was more insistent now, or perhaps more confident, and it was all Carver could do not to fall back onto the bed at her urging.

Instead, the warrior took firmer hold of Merrill's flanks and pushed up into her embrace, shifting to lay her gently on her back. Guided by instinct and his very brief experience, Carver visited the elf's neck with his lips and teeth, slowly forging a path down to the branches painted across her chest. He used the willowy trunk to guide him further, his thick fingers fumbling to loosen the leather, armour, and padding that Merrill still wore below her hips.

She looked at him curiously when he reared up, but Merrill didn't object when he tugged her leggings down, discarding them in a heavy heap near the articles already stripped away. The elf breathed a giggle when the warrior planted a kiss inside her thigh, just above the knee.

The designs criss-crossing her lower limbs didn't surprise Carver; he should have suspected that Merrill wouldn't limit herself to the facial markings her people took as rites of passage. But the warrior was soon distracted from such thoughts as he made his way farther up Merril's thighs, and she seemed to realise his intent, for her other leg slipped encouragingly around his shoulders and her breath started to come in shorter gasps.

Carver nuzzled the flesh where her thigh joined her hip, taking a long look up Merrill's body until their eyes met. Very deliberately, the warrior shifted just enough to bring his mouth over her core, keeping his gaze locked with hers. Her eyes narrowed suddenly when his tongue brushed lazily across her folds, and it was all he could do to maintain her stare as the taste of her essence mingled with her sudden cry of pleasure, setting his senses alight.

The warrior's palms grazed up the back of her thighs, coming to rest at the small of her back to give him more leverage, and his tongue delved deeper within her. Merrill's hands returned to his head, her legs crossing at his spine from over his shoulders, and she whispered a string of Dalish words that the human had no hope of comprehending. Carver nearly lost himself in the act, taking raw pleasure in his senses, and no small amount of pride in the reaction that his lips and tongue drew out from his companion.

He delved more deeply yet again, and Merrill arched beneath him, until his tongue brushed up against a thin barrier that kept his agile member from pushing any farther. Confused at first, another memory rose unbidden, of the first time he'd been so close to a girl, back in Lothering. That explains the blood, he thought to himself; that part of the memory served to tug at his own veins, there and then.

Carefully, Carver retraced his path up Merrill's belly and across her chest, until her legs wrapped around his hips. "I see you weren't lying about...you know," he panted, when they'd come face to face. Before her curiosity could turn to suspicion, the warrior licked his lips, shuddering at the renewed taste of her essence. "If you...want to keep going," he began, trying to keep the sheer hunger out of his voice, "then it might hurt a little bit...at least at first." Swallowing, he held her gaze as steadily as possible. "There'll be blood," Carver warned her, and he couldn't keep all of the longing from his voice, then.

"I know," Merrill insisted. Her nimble fingers were already working at the warrior's laces. "I'm looking forward to that last part, in fact ."

A sigh of relief took him when the confines of his trousers disappeared, but it turned into a shuddering gasp as the underside of his length pressed heavily on Merrill's core. "Me, too," Carver admitted breathlessly. Merrill's right hand planted itself upon his newly-exposed hip, while her left took possession of the nape of his neck, and Carver's body moved at her fingers' coaxing. Their lips met an instant before the elf's legs tightened, drawing him into her in a sudden rush. Pain blossomed sharply on Carver's tongue as she bit down, strangling her own pained cry, but the sensation was lost in the heat that surrounded him from her core. He sensed the blood that came before he smelled it, unable to resist the urge to lance deeper, encouraged as he was by Merrill's limbs tugging desperately at him.

Behind them, neither saw the shadows that shifted between the cracks of the half-completed mirror .