The Black Emporium

Leliana stepped through the thick wooden door and into the sparse quarters she would call home for the foreseeable future. The door slammed shut behind her, followed by the comforting thunk of the lock's bolt sliding home.

The room was small and cramped, but Leliana had lived in far worse conditions in the past. The important thing was that it was warm, safe, and – most important of all – inconspicuous. Less than fifteen minutes' walk from Xenon the Antiquarian's throne room, this small and long-abandoned complex of apartments once housed his many urchins. It would serve her purposes well.

She saw that one of the Antiquarian's urchins had left a message on her desk. She picked up the parchment and scanned through it quickly, noting the soft scent of Chantry incense wafting up from the paper.

Sister Nightingale,

I was most surprised by your first report. Demons, blood mages, immortal relic merchants… you have been busy, haven't you?

While I cannot openly condone your actions in Kirkwall, I must commend you for your conduct over the course of your first investigation. While it sounds as if things did not go as smoothly as anticipated, I am glad that this Hawke and her companions did not have to be executed or made Tranquil. The greater the number of compassionate apostates in Kirkwall, the better.

I hope you will find your new quarters more than adequate to continue your operations in the city. Bartering with this Xenon character was… most interesting. It cost no small sum for him to grant you access to his complex, but I am sure both parties left the bargain satisfied. I am surer than ever that your mission is of the utmost importance, and I spared no expense solidifying your cover within Kirkwall.

I am very proud of you, my little Nightingale. I pray you will meet with equal success in all your future endeavors.

You are always in my prayers,

Dorothea.

P.S. If your reports were truly accurate, I would be most grateful if you could procure me a signed copy of Hard in Hightown from Master Tethras. It will be the envy of the entire Chantry!

Leliana smiled at the letter and the hastily-written postscript. She considered burning it to ensure the message's security. But she hesitated a few moments, then folded the parchment in half and tucked it into her leather jerkin.

Turning her scrutiny back to her quarters, she noticed that the urchins had already unpacked all her belongings. Her ravens were cooing quietly in the corner, eager to set to their duties. Her inks and parchment were arranged neatly on the desk. And propped against one wall was her treasured rosewood lute, freshly oiled and restrung by Xenon's minions.

Dorothea's bargaining must have made Xenon very happy indeed. As she walked up to the instrument, she wondered just what priceless treasure Xenon had managed to swindle from the Chantry. She also wondered just how difficult it would be to steal back.

Abandoning such silly notions, she instead focused on the lute. Her fingers traced lightly over the strings for a moment before trailing up to the engraved dedication along the head of the instrument.

May this gift wake your inner muse, it read, and forever bring life to your song. – M.

She smiled the carved words, a stronger smile than she had thought possible when looking at the gift. In the past, the sight of the instrument and knowledge of whose kindness had brought it to her grasp had always left her feeling cold and sick inside.

The sight still made her feel sad, to be sure. But it was now a softer kind of grief; an almost bittersweet mix of grief and affection that left her chest swelling with both heartache and a strange, loving warmth.

She paused, debating with herself, then reached down and picked it up, cradling it tenderly in her arms. She moved back to her cot and sat down, resting the instrument on her thigh as she absently strummed at the strings. Perfectly in tune; no surprise there.

For a time, she lost herself in the feel of the lute, the comforting weight in her lap, and the gentle hum of the strings beneath her fingers. Before long, however, she found herself strumming the chords of a very familiar song. The melody filled the room, echoing down the halls of the Black Emporium as she began to play with more force and confidence.

Almost against her will, the words floated from her lips, the beautiful, lilting words flowing with a grace she had not felt in a very long time.

"I feel sun though the ashes in the sky… where's the one who'll guide us into the night?"

She paused, fingers scraping against the strings. She looked down at the lute, surprised at herself. She had not had a strong desire to play music in months. When the inclination did descend on her in those rare moments, she certainly did not wish to sing this song.

One of the first songs I ever sang to her, she thought. I still remember the way her eyes lit up, the smile that pulled at the corners of her lips… It was always her favorite.

That memory hurt, but she felt the hurt, accepted it, instead of tamping it down into nothingness like she had done so often in the past. She felt as if she needed to feel it now, needed to acknowledge it rather than turn away and pretend she felt nothing.

When she did, it almost felt right, singing this song again. Like a little piece of Lyna was with her, still smiling at her and listening with rapt attention. An audience of one, just like it used to be.

So she smiled to herself, pulled the lute closer to her chest, and continued singing.


Dalish Camp, Sundermount

Merrill's heart was beating an almost painful rhythm against her chest as the clan gathered around her for the first time in almost a year. Thankfully, their attention wasn't on her. They were all focused on the funeral procession making its way through the camp.

It was a warm evening on Sundermount, the beautiful blazing orange of the sun just beginning to set behind the mountain. But Merrill was still shivering so hard it may as well have been the depths of winter. She had her hands clasped tightly in front her and her eyes fixed on the ground, not trusting herself to meet the angry gazes of those that surrounded her.

They don't like it, she thought. But I had no choice. Mahariel must be properly mourned.

Together, the hunters brought the body forward, borne between them on a stretcher made of interwoven tree branches and lengths of vine. As they passed, members of the clan reached out and ghosted their fingers over the deceased's face or shoulders; one last farewell from the clan. As the hunters passed, Merrill reached out and caressed the hard wooden shoulder, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground.

There was no body to bury, of course; according to Leliana, Lyna's body had been taken far to the north to be buried with the other Grey Warden heroes in their fortress of Weisshaupt. At first, Merrill hadn't liked hearing the news; Lyna belonged with her people, not with some shadowy cult of warriors so far from her home.

But she couldn't change it, nor could the clan. So, as was customary with such funerals, the craftsmen of her people had spent days carving a near-exact likeness of Lyna from precious ironbark. Now, the hunters were bearing the statue forth to its – and Lyna's – final resting place.

The swelling chorus of In Uthenera, the ancient Dalish funeral dirge, surrounded her on all sides, both beautiful and mournful. Everyone had added their voices to the song as the hunters approached, save for Merrill and the guest sitting behind her; Leliana was resting on a rocky outcropping a few feet away, having been granted her request to accompany the song on her fancy-looking lute. The gentle chords of the song soothed Merrill's nerves, until she felt brave enough to look up and meet the Keeper's gaze.

She saw no acceptance there, no comforting warmth or approval. She hadn't expected any. She had openly asked her friends to keep the knowledge of her possession a secret; if her clan learned of her weakness in the face of demonic influence, she would never be allowed to return.

Still, one look at the Keeper and she almost believed Marethari knew anyway. At this point, Merrill almost didn't care. Today was not about her or Marethari; it was about sending Lyna to the Creators the way she always should have been. She was willing to focus on that, even if that meant meeting the Keeper's cold and disapproving gaze.

The hunters had reached Lyna's grave and silently flanked either side as the clan's song grew in a lamenting crescendo. Elves all around her lifted their heads to the sky and raised their voices in a song that seemed to shake the rocks around them with its power.

"Vir sulahn'nehn… vir dirthera… vir samahl la numin… vir 'lath sa'vunin'…"

Merrill couldn't stop herself. As Lyna's statue was lowered into the grave, she closed her eyes and sang along, adding her wavering soprano voice to the chorus. Behind her, she heard Leliana join her, the smooth resonance of her lilting song mixing with Merrill's own.

The elves around her began to sway back and forth, eyes closed as they lost themselves in the song and in fond memories of Lyna's life. Ashalle broke down before long and buried her face in her hands, weeping for the girl she saw as her daughter. Behind her, a haggard and weary-looking Hahren Paivel put a comforting hand on her shoulder, drawing her into a tight hug. Pol stood to one side, eyes dull and sad as he sang with all the rest. Fenarel, standing with the hunters next to the grave, had silent tears streaming down his cheeks.

Merrill squeezed her eyes shut and focused on the song, letting it wash away her sorrow. There was comfort in music, a strange soothing quality that she had found second only to music. So she sang, harder than she had ever felt brave enough to sing. Not because the clan expected her to or because Marethari would all but stripe her if she didn't, but because she wanted to.

For Lyna.

The sun was setting behind the mountain as the hunters finished placing the last of the dirt over Lyna's statue, sealing her within the earth. In Uthenera slowly died away to a hum as the clan bowed their heads in respect, offering prayers to the Creators and asking that Lyna be taken to their side without the Dread Wolf's interference.

Merrill looked at the ground and thought, Creators… I've never been very talkative with any of you. I know I say the prayers and sing the songs but… but this time I want to ask for a favor."

She hesitated, squeezing her hands in her lap. If Lyna is up there with you… I want you to bring her a message from me. Tell her I'm sorry I was so angry when she left. Tell her I didn't understand, and that I know better know. I know why she had to leave. Tell her I never hated her for going away, and…

She bit her lip, feeling the familiar surge of grief well up in the pit of her stomach. She fought it back and thought, Tell her… tell her that I love her. Now and always.

Now Maren was approaching the grave, a small, twisting sapling in her hands. Merrill felt a strange anxiousness fill her at the Halla keeper's approach and before she knew it, she had stepped forward to stand in front of the red-haired woman. Maren stared at her in confusion until Merrill held out her hands and said, "May I?"

Maren looked to the Keeper for confirmation. After a few moments, Marethari reluctantly nodded. Maren nodded back and held out the sapling for Merrill to take.

Merrill's hands felt bloated and numb as she awkwardly took the sprout from Maren's calloused fingers. Then, with slow, measured steps, she turned and moved forward to the small hump of fresh dirt that was her oldest friend's grave. Once close enough, she sank to her knees.

She licked her dry lips as she slowly dug out a small hollow from the dirt and rested the sapling inside it. With careful, gentle movements, she buried the roots and patted down the dirt so the sapling wouldn't fall. After a few long moments, the tiny seedling was standing all on its own. In time, it would grow to be a mighty tree that stretched high into the air overlooking the rest of Sundermount. It would be beautiful.

The grief came roaring back and she hunched her shoulders as a strangled sob tore itself from her throat. At first she thought it had been lost in the gentle hum of the song behind her, but she felt a soft, comforting hand fall on her shoulder.

She sniffed, thinking, Marethari?

But it was Leliana who knelt in the grass next to her, her face drawn and somber but her eyes dry of tears. She flashed Merrill a half-hearted smile and murmured, "I wanted to… pay my own respects. Is that allowed?"

Merrill nodded slowly, squeezing her eyes shut as she listened to In Uthenera fade away into silence behind her. She heard the sound of leather armor shuffling as Leliana reached up and pulled a small locket from around her neck. The bard cradled it in her hands for a moment before handing it to Merrill.

"This belonged to her," she said. "They gave it to her shortly after her Joining. She called it Warden's Oath."

Merrill traced her thumb over the intricate carvings that adorned the silverite locket. The amulet seemed to vibrate in her hands, thrumming with powerful magic. It made her fingertips tingle in a pleasant, shivery buzz.

"It's… beautiful,"

"She gave it to me," Leliana said. "The night before… She said that whoever carried it would carry a piece of her with them."

"A beautiful sentiment," Merrill whispered.

"I want you to have it."

"What?" Her eyes widened as Leliana held the locket out for her to take. "No! No, no. You were her bondmate! I could never take this!"

But the woman caught her hands and gently curled her fingers around the locket. "Merrill… grant me this, please. You need it far more than I do. It would make me very happy to know it was cherished in your hands."

Merrill swallowed loudly, looking down at her hands. "If… only if you're sure."

"I am."

She reluctantly nodded, then reached up and linked the chain around her neck. "All right. I will wear it with honor."

Leliana smiled. "I am sure you will, child."

Merrill didn't let go of Leliana's hand as the two continued kneeling together before the fresh grave. Merrill could hear the clan shuffling and breaking up behind them, wandering away to return to their duties before night fell. She didn't turn to bid them farewell, just as none called to her. It suited her just fine.

"It…" Merrill cleared her throat. "I'm glad the Keeper let you attend."

Leliana smiled. "As am I. The service was beautiful."

"I only wish…" I only wish Hawke could be here.

No. She wouldn't say that. She didn't wish that at all. This was a procession for her clan and those who knew Lyna. Hawke had no place here.

Still, she found herself thinking, it would have been… comforting for her to be here. Standing with me, holding my hand, helping me say good-bye…

No. She didn't need Marian for that. She was capable of saying farewell all on her own.

She cleared her throat again and said, "I only wish we didn't have to be here in the first place."

"I wish that too," Leliana said softly, a deep undercurrent of sorrow beneath her voice. "But we cannot change the past. We can only look to the future and have faith that the Maker – or the Creators – will lead us through the dark days to come."

"Will… will I see you again?"

Leliana laughed as she rose to her feet. "Anything is possible, Merrill."

Merrill rose as well, then suddenly threw her arms around Leliana's waist. Leliana stiffened, obviously not expecting such an affectionate display. But Merrill held her tight and murmured, "Thank you, Lady Nightingale."

"For what?"

"For taking care of Lyna. For making her feel accepted and… and loved."

Leliana gently pushed Merrill away, smiling warmly at her. "It was the privilege of my life, Merrill."

With a gentle laugh, she gave the elven girl a gentle nudge back towards camp. "We should return to the others. It is growing dark, and your clan will be expecting you. I will be right behind you."

Merrill nodded and shuffled after the rest of her people. When she didn't feel Leliana follow, she turned to find the bard leaning over the grave one last time. She was finally letting the tears fall, hunched over the grave with her eyes closed and her head bowed. Merrill considered stepping back after her until she saw the bard's lips moving. Her honed elven senses picked up the human's words, though they were little more than a whisper.

"Adieu, mon cher amour," she murmured, her voice shaking just a little. After Leliana had rejoined her, Merrill considered asking what the strangely lyrical foreign words meant. But she thought better of it and held her tongue. Some things didn't need to be translated. Some things, Merrill could understand just fine.


The Hanged Man

Night fell, and once again Hawke found herself lying face-down on the Hanged Man's bar, her forehead pressed to the comfortingly rough grain of the wood. A half-empty bottle of rum was clutched with a death grip in one hand.

"I suppose all those things you said when I first woke up were all lies too?"

She grimaced and shook her head, grinding her nose uncomfortably against the bartop. "No… no, I didn't…"

"It was stupid of me to think… to believe that I was… and you would…"

Tears began to leak from between her eyelids, squeezed shut hard against the memories snaking into her booze-addled mind. She shook her head again and said, "No, I didn't mean it…"

"Hawke. You need to leave. Now."

She put one hand over her head, like a child covering her head from the swat of an annoyed parent. "I'm sorry... so sorry."

"Hawke," Merrill insisted. "You need to leave."

A rough hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled hard. She let out a shout and blindly swung her bottle at her attacker. She heard a surprised exclamation, but someone grabbed the bottle away before she did serious damage.

Hawke swayed, eyes bleary and narrowed against the glare of the Hanged Man's lights. In her wavering, hazy vision, she saw a familiar white jerkin and blue bandana. As soon as she saw it, she sighed and turned back to the bar, her face hitting the bartop with a dull thud that rattled the glasses further down.

"Well, well," Isabela cooed, sliding into the seat next to her. "Someone's having a bad day."

Hawke reached out and beckoned with one hand. "Give me back the bloody bottle."

"Hawke, it's far too early in the evening to be this drunk."

"Not as drunk as you think I am," Hawke growled, reaching out and snatching the bottle from Isabela's grasp. She tucked it against her shoulder, wrapping her hands protectively around the cool glass neck. "Not nearly as drunk as I want to be."

"You can still speak halfway decently at least," Isabela confirmed. "So just what has my fearless leader in such a dreadful flump? We just killed a demon. Shouldn't you be happy-drunk instead of mopey-drunk?"

Hawke considered telling her everything. Isabela liked Merrill, right? She called her Kitten. Would she be able to talk some sense into the infuriating little elf?

But no. It was a terrible idea, just like the thousand others she had thought up half a bottle ago. So she settled for a dark scowl and a muttered, "None of your bloody business."

"Ouch. Someone's drunk and cranky."

Isabela gestured to the bartender, who slid a shot glass of amber-colored liquid to her. She slapped a few coppers on the bartop and kicked back the glass in a single swig. "So," she said, grimacing against the taste. "Whatever it is that's got you in such a state… you want my help with it?"

"Maker," Marian groaned. "No."

Isabela ordered another glass. "Would killing something make it better?"

"Don't think so. Haven't tried. Yet."

Another glass. "What about some…" her voice took on a husky edge, "pleasurable company? To take your mind off of things?"

"The Rose is on the other side of town," Hawke complained. "And even if I could stagger my way over there without being caught by Templars, Cora's not working tonight."

She shivered when she felt the gentle touch of a fingertip tracing up her arm. Isabela's sultry voice brushed against her ear. "I was thinking something a little… closer to home."

Hawke pushed Isabela's hand away. "I just want to drink until I can't cry 'cause I'm too busy throwing up."

"A sound plan," Isabela admitted. Another glass was downed in a single gulp. "Very popular plan, that one. Hell, I might just join you."

They drank in silence for a time. But after Hawke downed another gulp of rum (and almost lost her lunch in the process) she slumped against the bar with a world-weary sigh. She swallowed with difficulty and whimpered, "Isabela… can I ask you a question?"

"Whatever you want to ask, Hawke," the other woman replied. "As long as it's not about Qunari, politics, or Anders' manifesto."

"Am I a bad person?"

When Isabela didn't answer right away, Hawke glanced over at her from her place against bartop. The piratess was staring at her with a confused frown. She tilted her head to one side, her earrings jangling as she did. "What brought that on, Marian?"

Hawke raised her bottle, shook it for emphasis. "This, I'd imagine."

"You know what I mean."

"I don't…" she huffed out a short sigh. "I just want to be happy. Mother's found got her old estate in Hightown, Carver's run off to join the Templars, Merrill's finally free of that demon… And they're all happy."

She blinked blurry tears away. "When is it my turn? When do I get to find something that makes me happy? Someone that makes me happy?"

"You… you don't have anything? Anyone?" Isabela sounded genuinely surprised.

Hawke scoffed. "Unless you count Cora. And I fucking pay her to be nice to me. How pathetic is that?"

"I'm sure—"

Hawke shook her head, sniffing morosely as she took another pull from her bottle. "Maybe Fenris is right. Maybe apostates never get to have peace unless they're either dead, Tranquil, or locked up in the tower."

"All right, rich girl," Isabela reached over and pulled the bottle of rum from Hawke's grasp, not without protest from the mage. "That's enough of the dizzy water for one night."

Hawke collapsed against the bar in defeat, burying her face in her hands as her voice began to shake with the first weak sobs that signaled a much larger outpouring. "I-I just want to feel needed for once. And I want it without being afraid I'm going to lose it."

She sniffed, thinking of Merrill again. You need to leave, Hawke. Now.

"I thought I had a chance at that," she murmured, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and smearing what little makeup she wore in the process. "I guess I was wrong."

She felt Isabela's hand fall on her shoulder again. She glanced up to say more, but was cut off when Isabela suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into a smoldering kiss. Hawke's eyes flashed open and she made a small, strangled sound of surprise and discomfort. Isabela ignored her, kissing her with a passion and intensity Hawke had never felt before.

I thought we had something, Hawke. I guess you have more of something with Isabela.

When the pirate queen eventually pulled back, she squeezed Hawke's shoulders and fixed her with an intense and insistent stare.

"Now you listen to me, rich girl. You are not a bad person. You're a sarcastic ass and you have no idea how to do your own makeup. Your dog smells, your brother's a tit, and your hair looks like you cut it with garden shears—"

Hawke scoffed indignantly, still a little lightheaded from the kiss. "It does not!"

"—but," 'Bela continued, "none of that makes you a bad person. You make mistakes just like the rest of us. And you fix those mistakes just like the rest of us. You're not some goddess, Marian. You're a person. And you need to wake up and see that means you get to stumble sometimes."

"I don't—"

"I won't try and find out what's got you so deep in the dumps," Isabela interrupted. "But I know what I can do to help."

She reached down and grabbed Hawke's hand, squeezing it tight with her own calloused fingers. She gently tugged Hawke away from the bar, leading her with sure and steady footsteps to the stairs at the back of the tavern. She glanced over her shoulder and called to the bartender, "Corff! I'm taking room two for the night!"

"You got it, Captain."

"'Bela," Hawke murmured, trying very hard not to stumble and fall down, "what… what are you doing?"

"Comforting my gloomy friend the only way I know how," the dark-haired woman replied, "before she moans and groans herself to a premature death by melancholy."

"I wasn't moaning."

Isabela shot her a radiant grin. "You will be."

Hawke knew she shouldn't spend the night with Isabela. She knew it was the booze that was telling her she needed this, wanted this. The pirate queen had had an eye on her for months now, it was no secret. This was just as much for 'Bela's enjoyment as it was for Hawke.

But 'Bela was here, offering some small shadow of love with no strings attached. Hawke didn't have to worry about upsetting her or insulting her or saying the wrong things. She didn't have to agonize over making the right decisions and constantly worry if she said something that would hurt their relationship. 'Bela wanted her as she was, and as such she could truly be herself without fearing the consequences. Isabela was simple. Isabela was safe.

Did that make this all right, even though she knew she would spend the entire night wishing she was with someone else?

But as 'Bela led her into their rented room, as the pirate queen eased her back against the soft and comfortable mattress and stretched out above her with a hungry smirk, she decided it didn't matter. She would take something solely for herself and pretend – at least for the night – that there was someone who loved her for her mistakes as much as her victories. Let the consequences be damned.

She had earned that much.