A/N: So, as some of you may know, my mother died very, very recently. This is part of me processing that. It seemed the perfect situation to map my own feelings onto. This project will be ongoing, as I'm still very much in it and don't know what it looks like to feel better. So whenever I feel the need, I'll write another chapter. Maybe it'll even be finished, or finished-ish, one day. Who knows? You have Diablo Kades and Raven Sinead to thank for this. They read through it for me, and told me it was definitely good enough to publish. So. Yeah. Sorry for the bummer feels. But this is basically what I'm feeling. Even when I'm having a happy moment, I'm pretty much feeling fucking SAD.
"Hawke?"
The voice calling her name was soft, hesitant. It was easy enough to pretend she hadn't heard it.
Hawke sat in her mother's favorite chair before the fire in the woman's room. At some point between the last time someone had come in and now the fire had died down to coals. But Hawke didn't feel a chill in the room. On the contrary, she didn't feel anything. She was numb.
Gone. Her mother was gone. She had repeated the phrase an uncountable number of times, and yet she couldn't seem to wrap her head around it. With her father and Carver both it had been different. Perhaps it was because she was young when her father died, but it had been easier to accept. And with Carver she had been fleeing for her life from the Blight. There had been so much death to process, and then their lives as mercenaries had come. It had been easy enough to throw herself into the work and process the loss of her brother in her downtime.
In both cases her mother had still been there, though. But with Bethany in the Circle and her mother gone, she had no one. She was truly alone. An orphan in my own family home, she thought to herself, more than once.
"Hawke?"
The voice was louder this time, closer. Still, she ignored it. Her mother had blamed her for Carver's death, telling her that she should have kept her baby brother from throwing himself at the ogre. She had just… accepted that. Intellectually she knew it wasn't her fault, but she had taken her mother's words without fuss, just so her mother could feel better. After all, Marian had lost her brother, but Leandra had lost her only son. As much as Hawke was affected by this, Leandra had to have been feeling it five times worse. She had to have felt so powerless. Hawke, at the very least, had the kind of strength and experience that would have helped protect her brother. So, in a way, her mother was right. She could have stopped Carver from dying. Instead, she had chosen to protect her sister. She always protected Bethany. She'd been forced to choose, and she had chosen Bethany.
That was part of why she left Bethany behind when she went on the Deep Roads expedition – to spare her mother the loss of another child. She had chosen Bethany again, keeping her safe. And even though she'd been sent to the Circle, she had been kept safe from Bartrand's treachery. She smiled wryly as she thought of it, even though there was nothing funny about it. It was simply ironic that her mother blamed her for Bethany being caught, too. She'd always kept Bethany safe. And as soon as Marian stepped out, the Templars caught up with her sister. She had failed.
She sighed.
"Marian."
At the sound of her given name, she finally looked up. Merrill was kneeling on the floor in front of her. "Please, ma vhenan, emma lath. Speak to me? Let me in?"
Hawke stared into those impossibly huge eyes for a moment. In the dimness, the pupils took up almost her whole eyes. The vallaslin framed her eyes in such a way as to make them look even bigger. The woman was all hard angles and knobby knees and elbows, the fat on her body gathering at the small swell of her hips and breasts. They had been lovers for a short time only, but friends for many years now. She knew what those words meant. My heart, my love.
She smiled tiredly. "You do not want in, Merrill. It is not light things I think of."
Merrill reached a hand up to cup Hawke's cheek. "I do not care. Do you think it is only the happy times I am here for?"
Despite herself, Hawke pressed her face into the touch. She found herself being drawn out of her seat, and within a few beats she was curled with her head in the small elven woman's lap. The first tear came, then, and before she could stifle it she was crying, sobbing into the small woman's robes. Great, wracking sobs left her. She heaved with them, feeling almost as though she were losing her last meal, almost wishing that kind of relief was what she would experience when she was done. But she would not. No, this pain would not cease once she was through, for it was not bad food that plagued her. She could not forcibly remove her love for her mother in the same way.
Merrill didn't even make soothing noises. She simply allowed Hawke to cry, running her fingers through the warrior's hair in a rhythmic manner. She didn't tell her it was alright, didn't coo or shush her or encourage her to stop crying. And Hawke was grateful. She'd never been allowed to grieve like this, and she found that it was preferable to the quiet, desperate sobbing into her pillow she'd done when she lost her father and Carver. She'd always had to be the strong one, the one who took care of her mother until Leandra could again take care of all of them after their father died, the one Bethany had desperately clung to in the hold of that ship after losing Carver (while her mother looked on in disappointment and anger).
She'd never been allowed to simply… grieve. And now that she could, she grieved them all. She thought of her father, her mother, her brother. She thought of her sister, alone in the Gallows, just being informed by their uncle a few hours before. She thought of the remaining members of her family, and how they could barely be called a family. Her sister was kept from her by force, and her uncle was a lecherous scum she could not stand. She didn't think even this could bring the two of them together. Likely, she would send him money out of a sense of duty and never willingly spend time in his company again.
After what felt like hours she felt empty, like a wrung-out sponge. Sitting up, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, avoiding Merrill's large, sympathetic eyes. She suddenly felt foolish, letting loose in that way. She had never done so before, and she feared how weak being so vulnerable might make her appear. Bethany never appeared weak for her sorrow, and yet someone had had to be strong. Being strong meant not breaking down. Breaking down made her weak. It was not a comfortable feeling.
A small hand on her face draw her gaze back to Merrill's. "Marian, do not be ashamed. Grieving is natural. Being in pain is a natural state of things. It is transient. It won't feel like this forever. But you need to allow yourself to feel it now." The small warm hand caressed her cheek before she continued. "Let me be strong for you instead, ma vhenan."
She felt tears begin leaking out of her eyes again. She sniffed and nodded, wiping the tears away again. "Thank you," she whispered, allowing her lover to draw her to her feet and lead her away.
She didn't go inside her mother's room for a month.
When she ventured into her mother's room again, she had been having a good day. Merrill was out, collecting her few things from her home in the Alienage, taking the cloak Hawke had gifted her with against the chill of the autumn air. She was moving in, as they had discussed, partly to better care for Hawke, and partly to get the elf out of the dangers of Lowtown. Hawke herself had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast before going to her study to read. She enjoyed reading, losing herself in the stories she found in the books. Varric was good at finding the kinds of books she liked to read. She enjoyed Isabela's books, too, but… not right now. She wasn't ready to feel that way right now. That disastrous night had taught her that.
She reaches for the elf, wanting to make her feel good. Wanting to feel good herself. The elf is willing, returning her kisses with ardor. It has been weeks since they have been intimate, and she misses this beautiful thing, which had been so newly added, taking their relationship from friendship to lovers.
But her body does not respond. Even as she removes the elf's clothes, running her hands along warm skin, reacquainting herself with the elf's wants and desires – the things made her squirm and squeal, pant and moan – Hawke's body does not respond in kind.
It is upsetting. She gets angry with herself, redoubling her efforts, bringing Merrill to climax quickly. Refusing to let up, she does so again, almost against Merrill's will. Still, nothing. No wetness. No answering pulls of arousal.
It is like her body is numb.
Finally, Merrill stops her as she attempts to bring the elf to climax a third time. She asks her what is wrong, but Hawke cannot admit it, cannot name this new trouble. Sex has always been something that she could fall back on to feel good, to feel comfort. And now her body was denying her that, as well?
It wasn't fair.
Merrill tries to get her to open up, finally attempting to return the favor. But Hawke's treacherous body does not respond, and she ends the night in tears of frustration, trying to hit herself before Merrill stops her, holds her, let's her sob once more. She awakes naked, curled up in the elf's arms, well-rested for the first time in days.
They decide that perhaps lovemaking should be off the table for a little while yet.
She read some of the latest adventure Varric had found for her, an accounting of her cousin's deeds during the Blight. It is the story that sets Hawke's mood off. She finds references to her cousin visiting her own home in Lothering – not named for the Hawkes, of course, simply saying "visited her family" – that turned her mood sour. She hadn't seen the Amell Warden since before she was a Warden. Her mother had, though, and had only good things to say to Hawke about the woman.
Thinking of her mother made her forlorn, making her wish to be close to her mother, to be held and comforted by the very woman she so longed for. She held out for several minutes, but eventually made it into her mother's room.
Several hours later, this is where Merrill found her, standing stock-still in the middle of the room, lost in thought.
"Emma lath? What are you doing in here, Marian?"
Hawke started, turning almost guiltily to find Merrill at the door. Feeling her face flush for an unknown reason, she stepped away from her mother's bed. "Sorry. I… I haven't been in here in…"
Merrill nodded in understanding, those large eyes showing sympathy as she moved into the center of the room next to Hawke. "You miss her," she said simply, stating a fact they both knew.
Hawke nodded, feeling a tear at the corner of her eye and willing herself not to wipe it away. Merrill was teaching her how to show her vulnerability, slowly but surely, and she would be damned if she disappointed the small woman by her side. "Yes, I miss her very much."
The elf, snuggled into her side, looked up, brows knitted slightly over her large eyes. "Tell me about her?"
Hawke was confused. "But you… you knew her. What don't you know?"
Merrill shook her head, drawing herself away from Hawke and pulling her to the side of Leandra's bed. "No, Hawke, I know her as me. Tell me about her how you knew her: the good, the bad, the funny. I don't remember my parents, or I would share with you as well. I want to know how you knew her, me vhenan. Tell me?"
Hawke stared at her mother's bedspread, where Merrill now sat. She swallowed, nodded, and sat at the elf's side. Taking a deep breath, she recalled immediately a story from her childhood, and, in halting phrases that eventually smoothed out, she began her story.
Marian runs around the yard. She is small, no older than four. Her mother stands in the kitchen, watching her hoyden of a child smear dirt on her face before letting out a war cry, brandishing a bow and arrow she'd made herself with sticks and a bit of string. What have I wrought? A question that has crossed her mind almost daily since the twins were born.
She moves away from the window, picking up the girl, who has just started to cry. She named her Bethany, the boy Carver, after the Templar who had helped her beloved husband leave Kirkwall. Lifting the baby, she begins to nurse, finding herself settling by the window once more without even thinking about it, watching her eldest child lunge under the fence, away from some imaginary foe.
"Perhaps we should just surrender and have her taught? At least then she'll know how not to hurt anyone."
Leandra looks up to find her husband at the doorway, covered in the same amount of dirt as her child running around outside. His status as apostate requires that he hide in plain sight, necessitating him taking on difficult, physical jobs. Luckily, he's had a steady one since the twins' birth. It helps a great deal.
"What do you mean, dear?"
"Oh, you know, teach her how to handle those things properly. I know a little. I could trade for a light-weight bow, maybe a wooden blade, and teach her enough. Perhaps we have a battle maiden on our hands?"
Leandra scowled. She didn't like the idea. But the number of bruises the child has been giving herself, and the thought of the wild child playing with those makeshift weapons anywhere near the twins makes her reconsider.
The next day, Marian is delighted when her father comes home from his job building the new Chantry building with a child-sized bow. The arrows are dull, able to give a good bruise but unlikely to kill anything, as the bow is not powerful enough for that. In addition, he produces a very dull – but shiny! – dagger, just long enough to function as a sword for the small child. She takes to them immediately, and it becomes clear to all that she was practically born a warrior, even as small as she is. She learns very quickly, teaching Carver on them when he is older.
They become competitive, and often are both covered in scrapes and bruises after an afternoon session. They finally stop when Carver reaches his majority – she is fast and strong, but he is stronger, and his grudge makes it unlikely she can best him in a simple brawl. She instead beats him at their other shared love – women. Women prefer the elder Hawke, even given that she is a woman, and though she knows she shouldn't, she quietly gloats – to herself only – that he might be stronger and able to carry that giant blade, but she is more successful in wooing women. And he will never be able to deny that it was she that first taught him how to use the blade he is so good with now.
Merrill giggled. Hawke frowned. "What?"
"Oh, I can just imagine you, running around the forest with your child's bow. That is how the Dalish children are." Hawke smiled. Merrill continued. "Did you know, I was the only child who did not run around like the rest? I was very reserved until my magic came to me. I would watch the other children, but never participate in their games. Holding a bow was like holding a squirming dog twice my size, as far as how uncomfortable I was."
Hawke furrowed her brow. "That's curious. Even more curious is that that's how Bethany was. She would watch us wrestle, would laugh or cry out. But she wouldn't come near us when we were outside." She smiled wryly. "But once her magic came to her, she could knock us to the ground anytime we tried to rope her into it with us."
Merrill giggled again. "I can see that. She is a very powerful mage, as afraid of her power as she is."
"Maker, can you imagine if she weren't afraid? She'd be unstoppable!"
They both laughed at that. A few minutes later, they sobered some. Hawke looked up and froze, completely entranced by the look on her lover's face. The elf has a slight smile, a look that Hawke would have called "coy" were Merrill not completely and utterly innocent in the ways of trickery. Her eyes were deep pools, the pupils once again expanded all the way in the dim, lightless room. Overcome with emotion, Hawke scooped her up, kissing her deeply before muttering her thanks.
A small, warm hand caressed her cheek. "You are welcome, ma vhenan. Now, let's go for a walk. Stretch our legs, get you out of the house. Perhaps see if Isabela or Varric are in the mood for a drink?"
Hawke smiled, hugging the small elf in her lap closely to her. "Yes, alright. Let's do that."