First dragon age fic so please excuse any mistakes. Also this story isn't really like my others, kinda just a bunch of cutesy rambling but I hope you like it all the same.
In dwelling upon the smallest of things, one may find that they have attained the greatest of joys.
Hawke had heard it said a hundred times by a hundred different people, men and women, peasants and aristocrats. All sorts, really. She'd heard it in Lothering growing up, as characteristically backwater as a place could be, and she'd heard it in the city of Kirkwall, as cosmopolitan and urbanized as a place could be. A book she'd once read in the estate's library told her the dwarves of Orzammar had their own version of the saying, and Merrill said the same of her people, that all the clans acknowledged the truth of it, that the Keepers often encouraged their people to find solace in it during times of strife. No matter where she went in Thedas, all these places and peoples with customs and tongues and histories distinct from one another, this small nugget of wisdom seemed to be a unifying factor of them all, something that granted them commonality in the face of their vast differences.
Hawke was not sure where exactly she herself had first heard it, but she always remembered having held the sentiment close to her heart, letting it guide her through difficult times, first through harsh winters and times of scarcity, then through her family's flight from the Blight, then through her struggle to scrape by in a new city she knew nothing about. When wide-sweeping, world-shaking events of great consequence threatened to uproot her from all she knew, it was important to anchor herself firmly within the little sphere which was her own life, to remind herself of what was important, to find solace in the small and that which was easy to take for granted when the large and weighty grew too pressing to ignore.
She dwelt on this wisdom often, trying to make it an active component of the way she viewed the world, the way she navigated its many trials, and so always tried to pay special attention to these little joys, in the hopes that they would prove additive in granting her an overall sense of inner contentment.
In summer, she dwelt upon the sun and its light, in the way it warmed the ground beneath her feet, cobblestones and fresh earth alike; in the way it filtered down through a forest's canopy such that individual rays could be separated from one another, like distilled gold; in the way it caught the water of the Kirkwall docks or the Wounded Coast, glittering across its surface and rendering it a sea of little diamonds.
In winter, as she took her customary morning walk, she dwelt upon the frigid air as it glided across her skin, driving away the vestiges of her sleep and bringing her quickly on to full awareness, and within her lungs as well: its clean flavor, its crisp bite as she held it, its airy diffusion as it left her lips in a cloud of steam, and in how it only made her appreciate her crackling hearth and thick fur blankets all the more when she returned to them.
She dwelt upon many such little things, across many areas, but she was perhaps most cognizant of the little things she saw in her love, Merrill, the light of her life.
She appreciated the big things as well, to be sure, the broad-sweeping characteristics of her personality that constituted her core being. She appreciated her bravery in leaving behind all she knew and cared about, working tirelessly in pursuit of what she saw as her duty, even as those she saw herself as working for the sake of would never appreciate it, and would only ever scorn her and her efforts, both.
She appreciated her honesty, her unapologetic insistence on being exactly who she was, and no one else, and in encouraging such earnestness, such authenticity in others, too, believing deeply that something so important as someone's true self ought never be concealed for any reason, least of all the petty ones for which such a thing was often done.
She appreciated these things, she did, along with all the others. Virtues were virtues. Many people were brave, however. Many people were honest. What those people were not, however, what they never could be, was Merrill, and so Hawke learned long ago the importance of all the little things that made her up, these little fragments that formed the adorable mosaic she was so proud and so delighted to call her beloved.
As the two went to sleep for the night, it was Hawke's custom to remain awake for a time no matter how taxing the day had been, in order to ensure that Merrill herself went easily to her rest with soft humming and gentle touches. It had taken a long time for Merrill to begin to feel comfortable in the estate, but she liked to think that her efforts played some role in the arduous process of feeling at home in a place utterly unlike her old home, its great difference only serving as a reminder that she would likely never return. During this time, when left only with silence, with the soft, cozy warmth of their shared bed, with the slender elf snuggled firmly back against her, their bodies flush together for the peace and comfort such closeness brought them both, Hawke often found her thoughts drifting to these many little things she adored about the woman in her arms, finding that the lovely reverie it stirred in her always lulled her gently into her own sleep, a very natural smile upon her lips.
Despite the many nights by now that she'd had to consider the subject, she was sure she had not yet thought of them all. She was just as sure she never would, but nevertheless she had identified a great many which were her favorites.
Quite fitting to her meditation upon the little things she adored was her appreciation for the fact that Merrill was…well, little. The relative shortness of elves was a common point of derision among those humans so short-sighted as to hate them, saying that it was only natural to look down upon a people so far beneath them, in physical and in moral stature, both. Hawke hated the idea, as she hated any idea which lent support to the disdain that human society felt to her beloved and her people, but she hated this idea perhaps most uniquely, largely for her heightened inability to understand it as compared to the others.
She loved her little elf, not just despite that fact, but partly because of it.
She loved being able to take Merrill easily in her arms and spin her around whenever the mood struck her, as they strolled through the auspicious gardens of the viscount's palace, or as they danced sometimes in Merrill's Lowtown hovel; wherever, inevitably ending with the two of them giggling their hearts out. Sometimes Merrill tried doing it the other way round, huffing and puffing and giggling yet more loudly as her little arms tried with all they had to match her beloved's strength, before inevitably resorting to arcane means, lifting her up a few feet and giving her a twirl with a flick of her finger, instead.
She loved the way that Merrill was just the right degree of short, too. When the pair embraced, the difference in their heights was just so, was just perfect, as a key fits its corresponding lock, such that Merrill's head came up to just under Hawke's chin, allowing her to bury her head in the cleft of her neck, nuzzling gently against her skin for comfort. For Hawke's part, she delighted in their nearness, in how much more intimate their own embraces felt than those they might have shared with others for their heightened closeness.
She delighted just as much in burying her nose in Merrill's short mop of raven-black hair and breathing deep the subtle florality that dwelt there, emanating naturally from every part of her, daffodils and dandelions and, of course, daisies playing sweetly across her nostrils and soothing her spirit like nothing else in all the world.
She loved the way Merrill had to extend herself to the very tips of her toes to reach her lips and kiss her, finding such fun in the game they made of it where Hawke would stand on her own tip-toes in opposition to Merrill's efforts, always extending herself just out of her little elf's reach, before, after much whining and pouting and laughing, at last relenting and letting their lips meet, with Merrill letting out a triumphant little huff when her desire was fulfilled, sometimes adding in a little nip to her bottom lip as payback for the extra effort she'd had to exert in pursuit of something so simple as a kiss.
Merrill often said that the tendons of her ankles ached by the time their lips parted, but that the pain was, of course, well worth it.
She loved the way Merrill's short stature often acted as a sort of deception. To the many foes the two had faced, it was quite common for her to go underestimated, preferring to focus their attention upon the plate-armored human warrior charging them with a greatsword, deeming the unassuming little elf with a stick at her side the lesser threat. Yet by the time that they found themselves suddenly aflame, or encased in a tomb of ice, or lashed apart by the primal forces of nature themselves, the realization that they had gotten it backwards was far too late in coming.
She loved Merrill's littleness, but one trait was itself far too little to hold all the love she held for the bubbly elf on the whole.
There was much for Hawke to adore about her voice, as well.
She loved its high, pure tone, its lovely lilting cadence, its rhythmic musicality, its free-flowing ramble. She'd always thought that if one had tried to teach a gently-going stream, or perhaps a breeze rustling through a forest's canopy how to speak, that Merrill's voice would be the result.
She loved its general, pervasive beauty, but she perhaps loved its more specific permutations yet more.
She loved the soft, naked awe that dwelt in it when Merrill first said her name in greeting after a few days or even a few hours apart, as though she'd never been fully certain she'd see her again, never taking such a thing for granted given all the loss in her life so far and only appreciating what she saw as such a welcome surprise all the more when it happened. Each gleeful utterance seemed a sort of prayer, an expression of gratitude to her Creators that they'd allowed the two of them even a single moment more together when, at any moment, such a thing might have been rendered impossible forever.
Nothing made her feel more cherished than when she said her name in that way she did, nor could anything render her more grateful than Merrill's gratitude itself.
While this awe most often showed itself when they were together, alone in the other's arms, it was not exclusively restricted to such moments, of course. There was much beauty in the world, and Merrill seemed never to tire of it, never for even a moment relinquishing her sense of wonder, and letting that wonder bleed heavily into her voice as she marveled at the grace of an albatross in flight over the docks at sunrise, at the dancing shadows of buildings and people come noon, at the myriad hues of the sky as the sun made its descent, at the gentle flickering of fireflies against the summer nightscape. Hearing her so filled with appreciation for the world was so irresistibly contagious, she had to admit, and she could not help but mirror it in all ways, both in her outlook and in her cheek-splitting smile.
She often wondered how a great cynic, jaded or simply unimpressed by all the so-called mundanities of the world, might react to Merrill's awe, or rather, how long their cynicism might withstand such an innocent, heart-warming litany of praise for the beauty of existence.
Not long, she'd wager.
Though such times of gentle awe were perhaps her favorite, Merrill's voice took on many distinct tones depending on the circumstance, and she loved each for its own reasons.
She loved the quiet, raspy tone of it in the mornings, sleepily murmuring for her to come back to bed when she woke to stoke the fire or read newly arrived letters or do some other triviality. Without exception, she found such a summons impossible to resist, earning a pleased hum and a pair of arms about her neck in reward when she yielded to it.
She loved the frantic, wild tone of it when she feared Hawke to be injured during one of their many battles. When the danger was past and the last foe felled, she'd cast her staff to the ground, bounding over to her and falling at her side, dexterous hands skittering all around in search of wounds, asking over and over if she was alright no matter how superficial the laceration or how glancing the blow had been, only stilling into a relieved gratitude once she assured her enough times that it was but a scratch, that it hardly hurt at all, that there was no cause for warning.
But while such assurances were enough to ease her worry for the moment, it did little to prevent Merrill from remaining hyper-vigilant to threats for the rest of the day, striving with great determination to see she sustained no further injuries, or from insisting that she go see Anders when the day was done for even the shallowest of cuts, or from constantly checking in on her in the days that followed, wanting to know all was healing well.
She loved the low, throaty tone of it, spilling from deep in her chest when the two were alone in their chambers, clothes scattered about the floor, careless in their eagerness, hearing the raw need flowing through her body as well as seeing it in her swollen dark pupils.
She loved the little whimpers Merrill made as she teased her with the ghost of a caress, far from where it was needed, the groans of pleading frustration as such teasing drew on too long, the heart-melting cry of her name when she at last relented and touched her in just the right way, in just the right place.
Yet for how delightful the sounds Merrill made were when she touched her, Hawke found the act of touching just as delightful on its own, for she found there was much to love about Merrill's skin.
She loved the airy smoothness of it, consistently so in every part of her body, from sharp-boned cheek to toned flat stomach to soft-curved hip. Despite all the finest and most lavish of fabrics in Hawke's wardrobe, those her still-new wealth and noble station allowed her, velvets and silks fit for royalty, none had yet proven the equal of Merrill's skin.
She loved the dualism to be found upon it, the sharp alabaster hue of her natural skin, clean and pure as fresh snowfall, contrasting wonderfully with the elegant artful strokes of her jet-black vallaslin that extended across every inch of her, rendering her whole body a canvas, a masterpiece greater than any to be found in a gallery.
She loved the ease with which that pure white tone flushed a pale rosy pink, even something so small as a word of praise or a kiss upon the cheek proving sufficient to see that lovely blush engulf the whole of her body.
She loved its sensitivity, how it shivered and flexed at her touch, how the intensity of these responses always told Hawke exactly where her touch was most needed as they made love. It was always such fun to put together the signs her lover's body was giving her in order to ensure that it was fulfilling for her, and therefore for them both, as possible.
Its sensitivity had another positive to it, as well, as it rendered the bubbly elf perhaps the most ticklish person she'd ever known. Little else raised Hawke's spirits so high as to hear the resounding peal of elated laughter she got when her fingers twitched against Merrill's ribs.
But these were rather broad domains, the biggest of the little things upon which she tried to focus. There were, of course, much smaller, much narrower and more specific things to dwell upon and harbor admiration toward.
She loved the way Merrill's brow knit together so tightly when she was concentrating, either upon her mirror or upon a foe in battle, or how she chewed at her lip when she found something truly frustrating, how her usually easy-going expression grew so serious when faced with something truly dire.
She loved the brightness of Merrill's eyes, those little emeralds, their fire and luster the envy of any monarch's crown, and the way that the hidden flecks of gleaming gold within their irises only showed themselves when the light of the sun hit them just right.
She loved her prominent pointy ears, how sensitive they were as she brushed her thumbs along their ridges, how they were the first part of her to grow pink when she blushed in embarrassment or in passion, how they always twitched in the most adorable way when she got her first sip of hot tea after a long time out in the cold or the rain.
She loved her constant desire for contact, always finding that it was Merrill's hand to seek hers out as they walked at each other's side, and not the other way around, or that it was Merrill's head to nuzzle into her shoulder as they sat beside the fire after a hard day's travel. Hawke, of course, loved the contact as well, but for how quickly and how consistently her little elf sought it out, it seemed she loved it just that tiny bit more.
She even sought her touch in her sleep, sometimes, subconsciously interlocking their fingers where Hawke's arm was draped across her waist, so that there was no possibility they would be apart for a single moment, not even as they slumbered.
She loved her sweet tooth, how she slathered honey or fresh jam on just about anything she could come breakfast time, how she'd often pick berries of all sorts from bushes they passed on their travels, popping them straight into her mouth and humming in delight at the flavor. She always made sure to offer some to her love first, of course, but Hawke only ever declined with a smile, knowing them to be, by far, her favorite food, foregoing what might have been her share so that Merrill could have more. Seeing through her refusal with a grin, Merrill occasionally forced her to have some so she "didn't always have to feel so guilty over a few berries." She'd play at having a few, secretly squirreling away the rest in her pack so that she could discretely leave them for the elf to eat later, much to her good-natured dismay. She'd even planted a few berry bushes in the estate's back garden. It'd be a while yet before they matured, but nevertheless she swore there'd one day be an ample supply right there in their home.
She loved the way Merrill murmured in her sleep. Hawke herself was about as light a sleeper as one could be, the slightest sound enough to draw her to wakefulness, and so such murmuring almost inevitably interrupted her own slumber. She didn't mind, instead greatly preferring it that way, as it gave her a little window into her lover's dreams. Sometimes they were pleasant, in which Hawke heard her own name said quite frequently, such that she knew that, within those dreams, the two of them were together somehow. Strolling through some beautiful forest, perhaps, or lounging upon the sands of some picturesque beach, somewhere serene and sublime. At such times, Hawke could only smile, pressing gentle kisses to the nape of her neck and sometimes earning a soft sleepy purr in return, letting the fact that Merrill's dreams were pleasant, that her mind was not tormenting her, lull her back to her own rest.
Sometimes they were nonsensical in that way only dreams could be, and Hawke had to try her very hardest to stifle her laughter as Merrill drawled out tales of the reign of Viscount Varric and the various absurdities that idea entailed, from outlawing the worship of the Maker in favor of the Fair Lady Bianca to hauling the viscount's throne down to Lowtown and ruling from his room in the Hanged Man, handing down edicts with a frothy mug in hand.
Despite her best efforts, no matter how far she buried her face in a pillow, no matter how roughly she gnawed at the inside of her cheek, she was only rarely successful in keeping her laughter contained, waking Merrill up more often than not. It had happened enough by then that Merrill only ever smiled and raised an eyebrow, waiting on her to explain what silly words her dreams had made her speak, inevitably joining her in her laughter once she realized the full extent of said silliness. They laughed and they laughed and they laughed some more, until they grew exhausted enough to return to bed, wiping the tears from their eyes and clutching their aching sides.
Though sometimes…most times, she was sad to say, Merrill's dreams were neither pleasantly sweet nor laughably absurd. Most times, they were dreadfully sad, or fraught with icy terror, and Hawke would be awoken not by soft murmuring, but by shuddering, panicked breaths, by desperate pleas for forgiveness, by quiet weeping she'd tried to conceal. Hawke was never quite sure what made these dreams so awful. Perhaps she saw her people being wiped out in an instant by some monster or by a human force, perhaps she experienced all the scorn and rejection those same people had burdened her with in the span of moments, perhaps Hawke herself was cut down before her very eyes as she was powerless to intervene. She did not know, and perhaps never would; Merrill did not wish to speak of them, even despite her gentle urging that talking might help, claiming that she only wished to be held through them, that it drove the memory of them off faster than any amount of dwelling upon them could.
Nowadays, Hawke knew better than to try to talk her through them, or to drudge up the terror they'd caused, and upon being awoken by her cries or her shuddering, immediately wrapped both her arms about her midriff, pressing Merrill's body firmly back against hers and urging her to draw upon the warmth and strength of it, to use it as an anchor to ground herself back in the real world, and stifling her own tears to think of her love in such pain. When the sharpest and most potent of the nightmares' agonies had subsided, she let up on much of the pressure, shifting instead to soothing scratches of her scalp, to feather-light kisses of the tips of her ears, to gentle assurances that she was, in fact, here, she was safe, she was loved; all as Merrill whispered her thanks again and again, when such thanks were as unnecessary as unnecessary could be. For as much as Hawke hated the frequency with which Merrill's mind tormented her with its foul dreams, there was little else that made her so glad as to have the opportunity to relieve the pain that torment brought with it. But nevertheless, despite its not being needed, Merrill only kept thanking her, the words pouring out so earnestly, so desperately from her lips, over and over, until at last they slowed, grew more slurred, grew completely silent, the exhaustion of her nightmare catching up to her and drawing her back down into a merciful unconsciousness.
Only then, when her shaking had subsided, when her breathing had again grown deep and regular, could Hawke even attempt to return to her own rest. At times she was unsuccessful; at other times, if the dreams had been particularly intense that night, she was simply unwilling; at such times, she remained awake until dawn came, ever vigilant to any signs the nightmares had returned, ever ready to soothe their sting once more.
She loved her vallaslin and how distinctive they made her look, how they may as well have been painted on by the elven gods themselves for their sublime elegance, how they made all her face's expressions unique as they twitched and shifted in line with a smile, or with a quizzically raised eyebrow, or with a good-natured pout, the additional intricacy they added to what was already one of the most expressive faces she knew.
She loved her free-handed generosity, seeming as though each day Merrill had some new gift for her or for one of their friends. Rarely was it something she'd bought from a market stall. In Hawke's case, it was far more likely to take the form of a trinket she'd kept from her childhood or a glinting chunk of smoky quartz that reminded Merrill of her eyes or a particularly lovely flower she'd found than anything else. She even tried to give gifts to Fenris or Anders sometimes, despite how openly they wore their disdain for her and her…unorthodox methods of utilizing the arcane. Sometimes they accepted these gifts. More often they did not, but Merrill kept trying regardless, never seeming to resent their resentment, only wanting them to see her as more than the other blood mages that had sullied her esteem in their eyes long before she'd met them.
She even loved her sneeze, by way of it being simply adorable, and for not a single reason more.
She loved and she loved and she loved.
She loved this and she loved that, and, yes, she loved that other bit, too.
Indeed, the more she thought about it, the more she realized just how wise the old wisdom really was.
For it was the little things that made Merrill just who she was, no one else, and so it was the little things she found herself with the greatest admiration for.
In dwelling upon the smallest of things, she found that she had attained the greatest of joys.