She traces the white stripe on Merrill's arm, ignoring the criss-cross of old scars and new, the scabs of wounds still healing.

"Why do you do this to yourself, sweetheart?"

Even the sharpness of her reply is tempered by the sweetness of her voice. "You can't understand, Hawke." Brilliant green eyes close on despair. "I don't need you to understand."

"Maybe I could help if I did understand." Drawing the pattern of destruction on the elf's skin, focusing on the vein pulsing blue under the pale white, wishing for answers, knowing none will be forthcoming. She flicks her tongue out to taste the damage. Merrill tenses, trying to pull away and failing, the warrior woman's much greater strength keeping her still.

Frowning, she gives in, allowing Hawke to touch uncontested.

As if she has a choice.

"I love you, Merrill. I just want to understand."

She follows the lines, each a desperate call for something the elven woman didn't have in her to give, to meet the demands of the world, or of her obsession. The raised scars taste the same as the rest, until the swipe of her tongue crosses a newly made wound. She rolls the copper taste, trying to identify. Meets with nothing.

Still she follows the lines.

Lack of understanding doesn't stop her from loving, from hurting. Doesn't stop the elf from responding with whimpers and grinding hips, until the taste of need is replaced with the taste of desire, the silky heat of unbroken skin. But Hawke keeps her fingers on the scars, in the wide chasm of magic and blood, trying to ferret out answers, even as Merrill cries out, even as she lays prone, gasping for breath.

Tracing the length of her lovers arm, scars and scabs and never good enough, never strong enough, never enough, she thinks maybe she might understand a little.

Thanks the Maker she had not been born a mage, because she thinks she might ask for help too. The Maker might not listen to such pleas, but there are always demons who will.