Chapter 4: The Sea Drowner's Endurance

As she completed the last step into the Hightown square, Abigail had to resist the overwhelming urge to curl up on the ground and sleep. Every muscle ached, every inch of skin felt stiff and sullied. Her head pounded with disorientation even after long, quiet hours of wakefulness. She had thought that a childhood on the road, an adulthood spent struggling in lowest poverty, even the trials of military training would have prepared her for the job, but her time spent conscious in the Fade had drained her beyond compare. She wondered absently how Bethany and Merrill managed it every night.

She glanced to her right at the thought, watching Merrill walk slowly beside her. The girl was uncharacteristically silent; her eyes dark and lost, her posture slumped as if in defeat. Abigail raised a hand and brushed her knuckles against Merrill's cheek.

"What's going on in here, love?" she asked, tapping two fingers against her temple before dropping the hand to her shoulder, sliding down her arm until their fingers laced together. Merrill smiled at the gesture, a playful reflection of one she often used on Abigail, but did not look up from the cobbled street.

"Not a lot, I suppose," she sighed. "Just going over the day. It's been a long time since I've seen the Keeper, after all; let alone help her with a ritual like that."

"If it's any consolation, it was bloody unpleasant to be on the other side of it, as well," Abigail pinched the bridge of her nose with her free hand as they rounded a corner. "What with Bela and her ship obsession. I swear to Andraste, I will never let her live this down." She snorted at the memory, even through the twinge of phantom pain where Isabela's knife had twisted in her shoulder.

"I'm rather more worried about Anders," Merrill confessed, risking a glance over at Abigail. "Are you sure we shouldn't have gone after him?"

"I am in no mood to deal with him tonight," Abigail growled. "I don't care for his attitude on forbidden magicks on a good day, but after that display he has lost any right he may have mistakenly believed he had to criticize your affairs. It's nothing short of a bloody miracle that we got young Feynriel out of there whole and well."

Merrill looked away again, sharply. Her shoulders tensed even further as they fell back into silence. It troubled Abigail, set unease rumbling in the pit of her stomach

"You can tell me, you know," she said with a squeeze of her hand. "Whatever it is. I want to help. I would follow you into the Void if you but asked it of me." Merrill continued to stare at her own feet, her throat working erratically as she struggled to form words.

"I...I just. There's something I've been–"

"Abigail!" a voice from the shadowed doorway of the Amell estate called out. Abigail frowned at the grizzled, graying face that appeared in the meager torchlight.

"Uncle?" she asked in disbelief. "What are you doing here? I thought Mum was going to visit you."

"That's just it, girl; I've not seen hide nor hair of her all day. She should have been to my house before sundown." Gamlen stalked back to the door, banging loudly on it for what surely must be the latest of several attempts to rouse the darkened house. "This isn't like Leandra at all. She would have sent someone if her outing had gone on longer than–"

"What outing?" Abigail cut in sharply, feeling panic begin to crawl up her arms. Gamlen scoffed at her, fanning the heat into anger. "The one with the gentleman admirer who's been courting her for the last few weeks, you idiot child. Who do you think was leaving bouquets of flowers in your parlor?"

"I never saw...what." All exhaustion slipped away from her body, replaced by cold, tight awareness. She took a deep breath and tried to complete her thought. "What kind of flowers were they?" Gamlen scratched at his neck, frowning.

"White ones. Lilies, maybe? She said they were her favorites."

"Abby," Merrill breathed in a horrified whisper as recognition dropped in the pit of Abigail's stomach.

"Uncle, you should go home in case she's just running late," she said in a calm, flat voice. Gamlen nodded warily and headed out into the night. "Merrill, go wake Aveline and meet me down at the Hanged Man as soon as you're able."

"Abby," Merrill said again, the same terrible realization written across her face as clearly as it burned in Abigail's chest.

"Just go," Abigail barked, turning back towards the great stairs like a woman possessed.

She let her fingers move without conscious thought, tracing the lines of promises and wishes and other empty things on the surface of the vessel. For many long, hungry years she had looked to this plain piece of baked earth in the depths of her desperation, begging for guidance that never came. In the few good, short years in between she had brought it out of her weathered trunk in the depths of the night, when everyone she loved was safe and slumbering, to let it grow warm in the light of a life she had won them at a great and terrible cost.

She had never imagined the weight another pile of ash would add to it.

It had been hours now that she was sat in the dank, torch lit cupboard of a visiting room. This was a tactic common to the bureaucracy of the Templars, this willful ignorance of the value of her time. In times before it had brought her to the edge of rage, biting her tongue and clenching her fists around the splintered table to hold back the urge to speak out or strike and forever remove herself from Bethany's life. There were no such urges on that day. There was barely enough will beyond the grip of numbness left to draw breath.

She didn't look up when the door opened, nor when it shuddered closed and a wooden chair shrieked back against the stone floor. She didn't look up when the silence stretched into minutes. She didn't look up when a small, soft hand closed over her own from across the table.

"Look at me, Abby," Bethany commanded quietly, and Abigail was powerless but to comply.

Bethany's eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed, hardened in a way that made a fresh wave of hurt echo around Abigail's chest like the low, deep cracking of ice. Her grip on Abigail's hand tightened to the point of pain.

"How did this happen?" Bethany asked through gritted teeth. "They've not told me anything."

"It was my fault," Abigail said simply, her shoulders already primed for the weight of her sister's hatred. "I grew careless and missed the signs that were right before my eyes. The failure was my own, and because of it I have robbed you of your mother." She ground her teeth together in pain as Bethany's short, sharp nails bit deeper into her skin.

"How, Abby? I deserve to know what happened. Stop fucking protecting me and tell me how Mum died!"

"A madman," Abigail whispered, closing her eyes against the sickening rush of memory. "The same one that killed those women our first year in Kirkwall. He was trying to raise his dead wife. She looked like Mum."

"He was a blood mage, wasn't he?" The words were more accusation than question, and Abigail found she couldn't bear to think about what was sure to follow them. "It was fucking blood magic, wasn't it, Abby?" Bethany released Abigail's hand as if she had been burned by the contact.

"Do you see now what it does to people? Did it take Mum's life to teach you that blood mages are can't be trusted? We all get desperate at some point but when they do they go bloody mad and they drag everything they touch right into the Void with them. She'll ruin you, Abby. She'll take you away and then I'll be alone and I...I," Bethany's breath hitched, the manic anger draining into the ground as soon as Abigail rounded the table and wrapped her arms hard around Bethany's shoulders.

And once again, Abigail could do nothing but look upon the grim wreckage of her life as her sister sobbed in her arms.

Beneath the burning of her fingertips and the black throb of exertion in her arms, Abigail repeated the words to herself again and again.

One more.

There was peace in this. In the motion of her body, in the twist and pull of muscle raking against her bones.

One more.

The roar of her blood was enough to silence her mind. The fire in her lungs was enough to keep her sense of weakness fresh and raw.

One more.

"Hawke?"

She ignored the voice, wrenching herself up over the door jamb once again without breaking the rhythm.

"Damn it, Hawke. If you're alive in here you have to say something now before leave to come back with dogs to find your corpse!"

With a sigh, she let herself drop back to the floor, relishing the shock of force that rang up her legs. She left the room after throwing a loose housecoat around her bare shoulders. Varric looked up from his muttering and pacing when she breached the top of the stairs.

"Well don't you look like a ray of sunshine this morning," he said in a harried sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. Hawke folded her arms over her chest, waiting.

"Don't you give me that look, Hawke," he started, throwing his hands up in frustration. "No one's seen you in weeks. Weeks. Not even Daisy! The poor girl's frantic over everything."

"I've been busy," Hawke replied shortly, walking past him into the kitchen. She stared long and hard at the dusty bottles of wine lined neatly up along the far counter before drawing herself a ladle of stale water.

"This place is a disaster," Varric declared, watching Abigail warily from the doorway, meeting her eyes defiantly when she fixed him with a glare.

"She wouldn't want this for you, Hawke," he said firmly, like he was an authority on her mother's wishes. The anger flared, hot and sharp and gone again before the snide words could leave her mouth. Varric seemed to understand, from the softening of his eyes and the loosening of his shoulders.

"As the self-appointed den mother of our rag-tag band, I have taken it upon myself to find you some help. Do you remember Bodahn Fiddic?"

"Of course," Abigail frowned. "Isn't he a merchant, though?"

Varric shrugged. "He's still so pleased that you kept his boy from being darkspawn chow that he jumped at the chance to keep an eye out for this place. And you." He jerked his head towards the main door, the faintest smile edging up the corner of his mouth.

Abigail followed him outside, squinting her eyes against the midday sun.

"Messere Hawke, how wonderful to see you again," Bodahn proclaimed upon seeing her, rushing up to shake her hand with a great deal of enthusiasm. "And may I say how very sorry I was to hear of your dear mother's passing. I only made her acquaintance a handful of times, but she was wonderfully kind to me and my boy whenever she came by our stall."

"Thank you, Messere Fiddic," Abigail replied uneasily, eyeing her still-captive hand. "But surely you would prefer to maintain your business rather than..."

"Nonsense," Bodahn interrupted with a light-hearted scoff. "It would be an honor to at last repay you for saving my Sandal's life. Paragons know you must have enough to manage without the maintenance of an estate such as this. It would be my absolute pleasure to lend you a hand."

"Well, that settles it then," Varric declared, reaching up to slap Abigail heartily on the shoulder. "And now you're freed up to come by the Hanged Man and see everyone tonight. Isn't that convenient?"

"Terribly," Abigail muttered beneath her breath, noticing with a small shock what was occupying Bodahn's son several steps back down the walkway.

"Ah, yes," Bodahn sighed fondly as he followed Abigail's line of sight. "We ran into Miss Merrill while young Master Tethras was checking up on you. She's just wonderful with Sandal, isn't she?"

Abigail couldn't help but agree, watching her guide the boy through a Dalish game of hands, hearing him crow with glee when he succeeded in making the gestures. When Bodahn called for him to come, he looked up at Abigail with a wide, empty smile.

"Come now, boy. There's work to be done."

"Enchantment," Sandal agreed as he trundled after his father into the house. Abigail stared at Merrill, Bethany's words still echoing across her mind even as every inch of her skin ached for want of contact.

"I'll see you tonight then, Hawke," Varric said beside her as he started towards the square, patting Merrill on the arm as he passed.

Left alone with each other, Merrill could not meet Abigail's eyes. She held herself uncertainly, shoulders slouched and hands worrying the fraying edge of her tunic. It brought Abigail a confusing mix of guilt and anger and pain that churned thickly in her chest.

"I, um," Merrill hesitated, bowing her head. "I should go as well. Goodbye."

Abigail spoke before she could think to hold her tongue.

"Merrill, wait," she said, her voice edged with a hardness she had not heard before. Merrill froze where she stood, hands fisted at her sides.

"Would...can you stay?" Abigail asked, hastily adding when Merrill at last turned those wide, frightened eyes towards her. "For tea?"

"You still want..." Merrill trailed off, swallowing the end of the question with a wince. Abigail sighed, raking a hand through her own dirty hair and replying with what seemed like the only truth left to her.

"I don't think I could stop if I tried."

The scars caught the firelight with a dull glint. At the wrist they were short and clean, carefully made and well healed. The further they progressed, the more desperate looking they became. Long and crooked and rough under Abigail's thumb.

"Maker, Merrill," she whispered, unable to look away from the wreck of the girl's arm. "Why didn't you tell me it had gotten this bad?"

"You know why," Merrill answered quietly, brushing Abigail's hand away and tugging down her sleeve. "I shouldn't even have told you now, but I've no one else to turn to." She moved as far away as the couch would allow before continuing.

"There's a tool possessed by my clan called an arulin'holm. It's very ancient and very powerful, and will allow me to continue my work. The Keeper will never trust me with it."

"Why?" Abigail asked. "What are you working on that could be so dangerous?"

"Something important, even if I'm the only one who sees it," Merrill answered in a flat, detached voice. "All I need to know is if you're willing to talk to the Keeper. She trusts your judgment far more than mine."

Uncomfortable silence settled between them. Abigail sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

"I'll leave first thing tomorrow morning."

Merrill looked over sharply. "Really? I didn't think you...I mean, I thought you'd...I," she took a breath, turning her gaze back to the fire. "Thank you, Ab–I mean, thank you, Hawke." The sorrow, the resignation in her voice made Abigail ache.

"Please," she started. "Please don't. I know I've been distant and awful and it's utterly unreasonable to ask it of you but I can't...I don't know how to do this. Each loss just pushes down on top of the last one until everything's so heavy I can't even breathe. Mum is gone, Bethy is all but lost to me and when you go I'll be nothing but a thing made of grief."

The ceiling blurred and swam above her, the words rolling out in an unstoppable torrent. "You terrify me, Merrill. All I know of magic tells me that you are more powerful and dangerous than anything I've ever encountered and I can't bear to even imagine my life without you. Magic, magic like yours has taken my mother and so many others and still my need for you is nothing less than staggering. I'm so angry, so full of earth-shattering rage at myself, at the world, at you that I can't even think. I don't know what to do."

She felt the weight shift beside her. Felt Merrill edge wordlessly closer. Felt a warm, narrow body tuck itself against her arm. "Why am I still here? Why am I always the one who walks out of the wreckage? It should have been me. So many times, it should have been me. You'd all be happy and safe and alive if the Maker would just take me already."

"But He hasn't," Merrill said, low and firm as the press of her hand on Abigail's own. "He hasn't, and there's a reason for it. The People have asked our Creators the same question since we were cast out of Arlathan, and the only way I know to live with it is to try and see that there is a reason. There is work left to do, truths left to learn, people left to save. There has to be a reason. There has to be."

The strength of Merrill's voice began to falter, the last words tapering off as her grip on Abigail's hand tightened. A physical plea. It was too much for Abigail to resist any longer.

She pulled Merrill under her arm and lost herself to the smell of Merrill's hair, shaking with the force of relief and self-loathing.

For a long, still moment, Abigail watched Merrill sleep. The light shadowed the jut of her shoulder blades, the knobs of her spine. Every bone was pushed up too far against her skin. It was difficult to take in, but impossible to look away.

They'd been asleep for almost an entire day now, exhausted beyond measure after they had spent the night tentatively piecing their lives together once more. The anger and sadness was still flayed raw in both of them, but the balm of words and the promise of more had allowed them to settle into a tentative sort of hope. When Abigail had woken bleary in the mid afternoon, the weight of Merrill's arm around her waist and the damp heat of her breath against the back of Abigail's neck had felt almost like happiness.

Abigail smiled, the expression twisting her face in a way that felt foreign after being lost in mourning for so long. She pulled the blanket over Merrill's shoulder and stood from the bed, stretching the stiffness in her back as she did. For the first time in weeks, she was actually hungry.

As she made her way down towards the kitchen, she heard voices.

"I'm very sorry Guard-Captain, but Messere Hawke is still sleeping."

"It's nearly sundown. Is she ill?"

"What are you supposed to be then, some sort of butler? When did Hawke get poncey enough to need a butler?"

"I was hired to help around the house by young Master Tethras, Messere Isabela, I thought I already–"

"That's Captain Isabela, thank you very much."

"You need a ship to call yourself a captain, whore."

"Whatever is going on?" Abigail asked as she entered the foyer, drawing three sets of eyes towards her.

"Hawke!" Isabela and Aveline said in unison, walking over to meet her at the foot of the stairs. Aveline clapped a hand on Abigail's shoulder as Isabela looked her over with a critical eye.

"Well you don't look great, but you don't look like you have the plague either. What's the story then? Still moping about?"

"Must you be so disgustingly tactless?" Aveline snapped with a glare at Isabela. "The woman just lost her mother. She needs time to grieve." Isabela rolled her eyes in response.

"There's grief and then there's gratuitous self-pity that sucks the life out of everyone around you. Let's face it; Hawke's straddling the line at this point."

"Never mince words, do you, Bela?" Abigail asked with an awkward shadow of a laugh. She raked a hand through her hair, noticing with a grimace just how dirty it had gotten. Isabela narrowed her eyes further.

"Why waste anyone's time? Particularly since you have a spectacular amount of making up to do with–"

"Abby?"

Abigail glanced over her shoulder to see Merrill standing uncertainly at the top of the stairs with Abigail's housecoat hanging too loose around her shoulders and too high on her legs. Isabela spared Abigail a light punch on the shoulder and an approving nod before dashing up the staircase and wrapping her arms around Merrill's shoulders.

"Is it wise to trust her, Abigail?" Aveline asked quietly as Isabela and Merrill talked. Abigail shrugged tightly, half-smiling again when Merrill met her eyes from a distance.

"I'm not sure I know what the wise choice is anymore, Aveline," she admitted. "But everything hurts less when she's near."

"Love will do that." Aveline squeezed her shoulder with a grim smile of her own. "Just...just promise me you'll keep your wits about you. I loved Leandra as I did my own mother, and Maker knows you vex me like a sister would. I don't want to lose you to the same madness."

"You shant," Abigail replied firmly, turning towards Aveline with the ghost of a smirk. "Who else would you have to coddle so incessantly?" Aveline frowned and smacked the back of Abigail's head.

"Brat."

"Hawke, go get yourself dressed," Isabela ordered and she came back down the stairs with Merrill in tow. "And for Andraste's sake, take a bath. You smell like a dead goat."

"I do not," Abigail protested, pulling the stiff fabric of her shirt away from her skin with a poorly masked grimace. "And why, pray tell?"

"We're going to the Hanged Man for supper so you can tell us all about this trip to Sundermount you were going to gallivant off on by yourself. Big Girl and I need to know what we'll be helping with, after all." She nudged Merrill against Abigail with a wink.

"Take Kitten with you, but don't dilly-dally. Plenty of time for fun when the business is done."