Blood, mother's late night crying when she thought nobody could hear her, endless quarrels with his father and sudden stampedes during starless nights from filthy dubious inns. That was all Samael remembered from those two decades of his life spent with his apostate family.
The Hawke family was once again running under the cover of night, this time from the Drunken Owl inn south to Lake Calendhad. Leandra and the twins were lounging on the creaking wagon pulled by a gaunt donkey Carver had stolen three days ago and Samael was walking behind the wagon along with his father, both devoured in ardent row about which direction they should take.
Leandra stroked her sleeping daughter's dark hair, glancing at her eldest child and husband. The seventeen year old boy was already as tall as his father and had his long matte black hair and the same shaped eyes blazing in dark amber shades. Those eyes were narrowed in disagreement right now, again. Samael seemed utterly enjoying every time he could oppose his father whose short temper he had inherited along with the ability to say the most impossible things in the most inappropriate time. Malcolm was growing tired with his son's defiance and moods. Those moods usually led to him running away from his family. He always returned after one or two days – dirty, beaten, and hungry. The lad had threatened several times that he would just walk away from the family, claiming he was sick of constant running or those piling corpses of dead Templars or bounty hunters along their way. While Malcolm ended up usually shouting about Samael's duty to protect the family, Samael countered with hysteric screams that his father should teach Carver to become his personal assassin and that it was not him who the Templars were after anyway. But mother's tears and father's threats kept him in check and eventually he had accepted the way things were and that nothing could be done to change it.
"Do as you've been told, son! Keep those witty remarks of yours for yourself! If you think you're the only one who is—" Malcolm's raised voice stopped abruptly and he clutched his son's shoulder. But Samael wasn't that little boy with constantly scratched knees and he shook off his father's hands of him, interrupting rudely his preaching.
"I suggest you come to terms with the fact I'm not afraid of you anymore, father! I bow to no one and I serve to no one!" Samael clenched his still boyish fists, glaring at his fuming father. His passionate speech was indeed silly and maybe conceited, but understandable; yet Malcolm had a hard time to see it was him who had corrupted his son's life and Samael was everything but a normal lad.
"You will do exactly what I tell you to, you ungrateful sprog!" Malcolm lashed out at his son, gripping his wrist. But Samael meant his words, freed his trapped hand in one nimble move and ran for his small valise containing all his belongings – one spare clothing, poison and trap making sets, bedroll, and various weapons. He silenced his mother with a raised hand and then he was gone. Ah, he heard well his father's imperious shouting to come back, but his only reply was a face filled with satisfaction and perverse joy that they would be lost without him. The boy hadn't gotten far when he heard an unfamiliar noise coming from the road: woman's squealing and soon bright lights were slashing the darkness.
Samael turned back, tormented, hesitant and angry. He had been determined to leave for good this time. He was sure he would survive on his own, however young he was, and for that minute he was running away he let himself thinking he could change who he was. His little sister's screams that ripped the air left goose bumps on his skin.
"FUCK!" He spluttered finally, rushing back to the wagon on the road. Soon he was able to see his father was fighting three Templars at once, fourteen year old Carver was doing his best to keep one Templar off his mother and himself and sweet little Bethany was dragged to a horse by another Templar screaming and pleading with them to let her go.
The valise thudded on the road as Samael tore his two blades out of their back sheaths. Bethany's face and robes were sprinkled with almost black thick fluid as her brother took her abductor by surprise. He tilted the Templar's head backwards and cut his throat mercilessly only to whirl around and taunt the Carver's opponent just in time since Carver was wallowing in the dust, nursing his wounded arm. Both Leandra and Bethany dropped to their knees, praying, not able to look as Samael parried the Templar with pure fury in his eyes. The Templar was a skilled warrior and knocked easily the boy down with one powerful lunge of his shield, thrusting the blade straight into his torso. The limber lad rolled so the long blade was stuck in the dirt instead and he managed to kick the Templar down where he swooped on him, roaring in frenzy. It was matter of one second to find that precious tiny unprotected spot between the helmet and breastplate where he jabbed his blade causing hot blood to coat his fingers. The Templar was still gurgling when the lad was on his feet again, stalking to the last standing Templar, engaged in the fierce combat with his father. Casually, Samael tried to pierce his torso with both his daggers from behind, but he wasn't strong enough to get through the armor. The Templar whirled around and sneered when just a skinny boy with eyes widened in fear was standing in front of him. One Samael's dagger was trapped on his back plate armor, but the second one was still in the boy's right hand, so he did the first thing that occurred to him - sticking the blade right into the narrow slot in the Templar's helmet. A loathsome sound was echoing inside of the helmet when Malcolm's spell finished him off.
The silence that followed was deafening. Mother was with the twins still cowering by the wagon and that look Samael received from them haunted him in the dreams for years. Like he was a monster, unleashed, uncontrollable, murdering creature of the night; not a brother, son, guardian. When Samael turned back to his father, a vicious slap landed on his face, sending the exhausted boy down. Malcolm yanked him up on his feet again, pulling him close. The boy didn't fight back.
"Don't… you… dare… do… that… again," Malcolm sizzled into his ear, shaking the boy when no reply came. "Understood, son?" Malcolm pulled the black hair veil, so his son's face was looking in the sky.
"Yes, father," a quiet reply came finally; emotionless and terse. Malcolm shoved him away, rushing to his wife to help her up and heal Carver's injury to end his heroic whining.
Samael picked up his valise, threw it back in the wagon and started the routine – dragging the corpses into the woods, looting them before he concealed them under the leaves and dirt. Silent tears were drawing tiny lanes on his dirty cheeks. He knew he couldn't leave his family, but neither could he stay.
oOo
Samael squirmed, snuggled into the thick cloak. He had been wandering under the bare trees of the Kirkwall outskirts for four days now, watching nature as it began to wake up in response to the early spring. When he was hungry, he hunted down an animal. When he felt like sleeping he wrapped himself into the cloak and slept at the first protected place he found. When he felt like crying he cried, not afraid somebody would see him this way. The assassin rolled over on his other side and the dream transformed into yet another memory he had.
oOo
"Come on, son. For how long do you want to pout?" Malcolm came to Samael who was sitting alone on the dead tree trunk, far from the fire where his family had settled for a night.
The boy didn't reply, but his defiant face and puckered were reply Malcolm came here for, observing his son carving something into the wood with a knife. Malcolm sighed and sat down next to him. Samael was only fourteen, but he was already skilled in poisons, traps and a whole year had passed since he killed his first Templar. Not that the boy would have a choice in this.
"You know well Carver is just jealous, my son. He's only eleven, he's a child." Malcolm was then quiet for a minute, realizing Samael was just a child as well, yet his once innocent smile had been replaced with a merciless sneer that chilled Leandra's heart and his dreams were tainted by those who had died by his hand.
"You should be the wiser one, Samael. You do know your brother didn't mean what he said to you. He's just—"
"A moron!" Samael hissed, jabbing the blade into the tree trunk.
"Hey! I thought I was clear about not addressing your siblings in such way!" Malcolm squeezed his son's shoulder to underline his reprimand and their eyes clashed.
"Yeah. Whatever." Samael growled, trying to pull the knife out of the wood.
"You need to keep in your mind that this is, we are, your only family. Nobody will accept and love you like we do, son. It doesn't matter how tense the relationship with your brother is, you are brothers. And you always will be, Samael."
The boy sighed another "Whatever," staring at his feet.
"You need to learn how to forgive people around you, son. If not, you'll be alone your whole life, because sometimes I think people live just to make mistakes every day. And every one of us wishes to be forgiven. The day will come and you will wish somebody close to your heart would forgive you for something you've done wrong."
"But—" the boy objected, not knowing really, what he should say.
"Just think about it, Samael. That's all I ask." Malcolm patted his son's back, strolling back to the fire.
oOo
Several curious beasts in the forest came to sniff Samael's little camp but they quickly faded back into the night. There was soothing silence at the glade interrupted only by the croon of some night bird and bare tree branches swaying in the mild breeze.
A silhouette of tall and proud doe slipped through the meadow, disappearing in the group of trees. But no deer came out; a human-like figure emerged from the shadows, sneaking towards yet another group of trees. When a sparkle coming from the dying fire illuminated the figure, the silhouette froze on the spot, glancing around. When nothing moved, the figure crouched next to the sleeping Hawke, watching him for long minutes. Finally the stranger's hand crept out of the shroud, but before the fingers could touch the black ring on the assassin's hand, Samael's own hand shot out, snatching the pale hand reaching to him.
The stranger gasped, both of them stared at each other for a few seconds, then the stranger tried to free his hand, unsuccessfully.
"Never touch a sleeping assassin, because he probably doesn't sleep." Hawke hissed, pulling the stranger's hood down with his other hand. "What are you doing here?" Samael breathed out, surprised.
"I felt like merging with the wild part of my soul tonight," an unconcerned voice replied and the stranger sat down next to the rogue, who had finally let go of his hand.
"So you do have another part than the wild one? Huh…" Samael sneered. "Just like that, sneaking through the woods, stumbling over me? I don't think so. How did you find me, Fawn?" Samael sat up, leaning on the tree behind him.
"I didn't." Fawn chuckled.
"Who did then?" Samael yawned.
"Merrill." They both fell silent after Fawn's short statement.
"Is she… here?" Samael whispered when he couldn't stand the silence anymore.
"No." Fawn stared at his own slender hands.
"Why not?" Feeling disappointed, Samael demanded an explanation.
"I convinced her to go back. I promised I would talk to you." Fawn replied, obviously satisfied with his persuasive abilities.
"I see," the rogue's quiet reply was taken by the breeze.
"You left quite a mess behind you, Hawke. Here I thought you can't be any stupider, yet you forced half of Kirkwall to search for you. There are bets you're dead, you're back in Fereldan or the Coterie captured you. I guess nobody would think you're hiding in the woods like a coward, wallowing in your ridiculous sorrow." Fawn stretched his long legs, lighting up a cigar.
Samael was taking a deep breath, ready to counter with some pugnacious comment, but… why? Fawn was right after all. He was hiding from the world, lost in his thoughts, lost in his memories, prowling the Kirkwall outskirts with no intentions to go back any time soon.
"Speaking of cowards, Mahariel, I have an impression you tried to flee the battlefield. More like fly away, actually. Tsk, tsk, that doesn't sound like a Hero of Fereldan, oh no." It was Fawn's turn to scowl about the assassin's mocking voice, and his hand found involuntarily the mended wound on his belly where the Qunari spear had pierced him. He also wanted to come up with some witty reply, but just like Hawke he realized there was nothing but truth in those words.
"I… like my life. You can't blame me for trying to keep my head on my neck when eight brutes with horns were trying to kill me." Fawn's words were firm, yet oddly hesitant; like he was trying to convince Hawke and himself as well he hadn't done anything wrong at the Wounded Coast. The long silence that followed was interrupted when the assassin pointed out the elf still didn't explain his reason to be there.
"I wanted to inform you I'm taking Merrill out of this musty city soon," Fawn's quiet words left Samael speechless and he jumped up, glaring at the elf. He struggled to keep himself from attacking the plotting elf, because, Maker, a good fight would certainly help with letting out some steam. Samael asked the only thing that mattered to him. "She… agreed to go with you?"
"Oh no," a casual reply came, "but she will." Samael looked in astonishment at the relaxed elf; that certainty in his voice was both disturbing and annoying.
"Please go away, Fawn." The elf looked up at the rogue in surprise, expecting the human would argue, yell, insult, anything but this quiet, sad plea. Actually he felt angry the assassin wasn't about to wrangle with him, so he just stood up, blew the smoke in Hawke's face and vanished into the night shadows.
Samael collapsed down on his sleeping spot again, pulling the cloak tight around him. His distant eyes were hypnotizing the horizon until the dawn. He let himself roaming through the woods for one more day, trying to convince himself to go back to Kirkwall.
oOo
Before he reached the city, Samael pulled the hood as low as he could, hiding carefully the tattoos and easily recognizable long black hair. Darkness covering him, he slipped into his estate through yet another secret corridor leading to a basement, listening for a minute to the silence in his mansion. When he concluded the mansion around midnight was probably asleep, he entered the main hall. The warm silver fur knocked him almost down as Charon bounced around his master, sniffing the unusual odors of forest emanating from his clothing. Samael smiled at Charon's genuine joy, patting his head.
"Missed me, my fuzzy friend? Ah, at least somebody did. Or did you make a bet I'm dancing with Andraste too?" he laughed softly, when Charon licked his cheek. Hawke turned around, only to face the old silent dwarf, his arms folded on his broad chest and his jaw set. Samael couldn't remember if Bodahn had looked that peeved before.
"Fuck… an inquisition," Samael sighed, trying to smile at the dwarf. The dwarf just shook his head, observing the dirty cloak, a leaf in the black hair waterfall and a mud trail Samael had left behind him and his filthy boots.
"Rivain stuffed turkey breast with potatoes and Nevarran red wine, Messere?" Bodahn asked with perfect courtesy, gulping down the comments about his master's recklessness and thoughtlessness about disappearing right after the fire, leaving no note about why he left or where he went.
"MAKER, YES!" Hawke actually felt like eating the whole turkey. Fresh meat cooked on open fire like what he had been eating had its charms no doubt, but this sounded much better.
After a third portion of delicious meal Bodahn pushed him straight into the nearest bathroom and Samael scrubbed himself in the bathtub filled with steaming water and lavender foam. All he was able to think of was his cozy spacious bed and a whole night and day meant for sleeping. Alas, the bed in his new quarters already had one softly snoring occupant. Samael stood above Merrill's figure snuggled into her usual sleeping position reminding him of a curled animal, a tender smile running across his face. He just rubbed his tired face and left the room intending to keel over in Merrill's bed in the master bedroom, the one he once shared with her. Of course, just for this occasion, nothing more, right? When he was able to smell the herbs on her pillow he just smiled to himself and fell asleep immediately.
oOo
"Mother fucking fuck, that hurt!" Samael hissed in pain when he finally managed to open the well-secured window of the Morrell's mansion. He literally fell inside, ripping his forearm on the sharp window edge – it was certainly humiliating for a rogue as skilled as Samael.
He left his estate in the early morning when he realized he couldn't talk to Merrill, not after what Fawn had said in the woods. He spent the day hidden at Fenris' mansion. He was more than glad to have his assassin just for himself so he decided not to answer any knocking on his door that day. When Samael stood up in the evening, serene, satisfied with a peaceful day in the elven warrior's company, he wished to stay there forever. Alas, one social call needed his attention.
"You do realize it's Wicked Grace night, right, Hawke? We're playing here since you burnt the Hanged Man to ground," Fenris threw in a comment, eying Hawke as he searched for his jerkin just in his leather breeches, scratching his head when he couldn't find it. At the husky voice of his elf Samael turned to him, surprised, when his jerkin was dangling on the elf's long finger, a teasing smile on Fenris' full lips. The assassin stalked to him, grinning, when the elf's hand holding his clothing pulled back when he reached for it.
"All right, all right. I'll come back to play tonight, I promise," Samael sighed, demanding his jerkin with an impatient gesture.
"Like you promised five days ago and ditched me, right?" Fenris scowled, flinging the jerkin at the rogue. Samael caught it and rolled his eyes, not bothering to explain again that he was delayed with such insignificant thing as a little attempt to assassinate him.
"I'll be back, Fenris," Samael whispered and slipped out of the mansion to investigate who had sent those hit men. He ended up standing in the darkened room in the second floor of the spacious Morrell mansion, waiting for his eyes to adjust to darkness inside. After he searched the room he had intruded he realized it was probably Raen's study and he chose a dark corner with a comfortable armchair to wait for him. The door finally opened after a half an hour. He watched intently as Raen just in his linen clothing went through some papers, lighting up a single candle. The weapons Hawke had found in the room were all under the armchair, just in case Raen would choose less diplomatic way of their conversation.
Raen yawned, stretching, his silhouette prominent in the light of a candle and Samael chose this moment to let him know he wasn't alone.
"That was most unwise, Raen." Samael said loudly, his voice slow and emphatic. Morrell whirled around, searching for the intruder. When he spotted Samael's shadowed face emerging from a dark corner he made a few steps backwards for the blade adorning the fireplace but there was none.
"Looking for something?" Raen recognized his own blade in the Hawke's hand, still not saying a word. They stared at each other for a minute and Raen calmed down, realizing Hawke would have killed him already if he came there to do that.
"Care to explain why you are here? In the night, in my locked mansion, and in my locked study?" Samael tittered at Raen's bitter undertone, then remembered why he came.
"I'll ask just once Raen. Did you send those assassins after me or not?" Samael asked slowly, searching carefully Raen's face for his reaction. He knew the answer before Morrell could reply, disappointed the archenemy was still hidden.
Morrell's reply was also slow, calm and convincing. "No. I believe you have many enemies, Hawke. If I needed to get rid of you, I would have done it myself because I respect you." The reply left Samael speechless for a moment, then he regained his usual self.
"My, my… now I feel special. I have an unlovely message for you, Raen. I will take your sister's life tomorrow. I am telling you this because I respect you as well." Samael stalked closer to Morrell, intending to punish Haydée for this second attempt to kill him.
"NO! Hawke, don't! I promise I'll talk to her. It won't happen again, you have my word! Just… let's talk. Yes, we can talk this through." Samael arched his eyebrow during Raen's ardent speech, admiring his love for a sister against his will.
"Raen… I… I can't ignore this. I can't live like this anymore. Knowing she won't stop until my guts are nailed to her bedroom's door." Samael threw his arms sideway, shaking his head.
"That was… an interesting metaphor, Hawke. But please reconsider. I'll make sure nothing like this would happen ever again. Well, at least not ordered by me or my sister."
Samael couldn't believe Raen was actually pleading with him and he felt awkward. He was surprised when he heard himself saying one terse "All right," then observing Raen's relieve, feeling relieved as well from unknown reasons.
"But I'm warning you, Morrell. Despite our mutual respect, the next foul trick coming from your sister and she's dead." Raen nodded at this quiet warning, knowing he and Haydée needed to talk. A lot. In the meantime Samael strolled to a window, jumping nimbly on the marble parapet again like it was the most natural way of leaving a mansion.
"You sure you don't want to leave through, you know, door?" Raen laughed at the young man's crouched pose.
Samael grinned back, whispering "I prefer it this way." When Raen blinked, the assassin was gone and only a window yawning at him was the witness of this unusual night encounter.
oOo
"He'll be here, right? You said he would be here, didn't you? So where is he?" Fenris silenced Merrill's eager ramble with a raised hand, sneering at her anxiety.
"You have no right to ask anything about him, witch. Not after what you've done to him." Fenris couldn't resist and used every opportunity he had to remind her of her deed in the Fade. Merrill shrank back like a small helpless animal that was kicked just like every time Fenris decided to torture her with this memory.
"Leave her be, you lout," surprisingly it was Anders who had defended the poor girl piercing the lyrium warrior with a scorching glare.
"Ah, of course. The abomination and would-be-abomination have to stick together, right?" Fenris looked straight to Anders' eyes burning in blue flames.
"Knock it off, you two!" Aveline entered their dispute, gesturing towards the chairs at the opposite side of a table, so those two hot heads wouldn't sit near each other. Varric guffawed when they actually listened to her, sitting down obediently.
"Come sit with me, Kitten," Isabela yanked the girl on her lap and Merrill landed there with a surprised squeak. They had been sipping a wine for an hour with Sebastian taken by a serious debate with the Captain, Donnic and other Guardsman. Varric was goading Isabela to get at some risqué details about her love life and Anders debated with Merrill about herbs after he had apologized for the words he had said to her in his clinic about leaving Samael.
The conversation was spontaneously dissipating when Sebastian glanced around the table, asking all of them, "Could you tell me if Hawke is coming here? I need to discuss with him the Viscount's order. I heard he left the city without a word, is it true? Perhaps—"
"Perhaps, he's back in the city, Vael, but he's hiding from you and your prodding questions." They all turned to door at the sound of Samael's voice and there he was, leaning on the doorframe in nonchalance. Hawke observed the collection of faces around the table – Anders had a light smile on his face, Varric just glanced at him coldly, reminding him he still owed him an apology, Isabela and Fenris were grinning and Aveline gave him a nod along with a light smile. Samael's eyes involuntarily hesitated at the Merrill's expressive face, but she averted her gaze when their eyes met.
"Maker, I bet good coin you were back in Fereldan, Serah Hawke." Donnic sighed, but then he lightened up again. "Well, at least you're not, you know, dead." Samael chuckled at those clumsy words, bowing to blushing Guardsman and sat down next Fenris.
"So? Who's winning? Or didn't you play tonight?" Samael asked cheerfully, though his facial muscles were protesting when he tried to smile.
Varric said, "I wanted to wait, Hawke, since I intend to leave you coinless and naked when I'm done with you tonight." Samael blinked at the dwarf's harsh words, smirking at him like he was welcome to try.
"Or I could challenge our princelet in drinking contest to see if he got better at it since our last clash," Samael laughed, feeling like he could waste himself tonight into oblivion. The whole table was poking the prince and Hawke, cracking jokes and reminiscing about Norah's nice ass and Sebastian's loss.
"I challenge you, Samael." A quiet, yet steady voice interrupted the hilarity and they all shut up, searching who had said that. When they found out it was Merrill they burst out laughing like it was the best joke ever. How could a skinny elven girl, who was drunk after one drink could match such a sipper like Hawke? But they all fell silent one by one when they saw Merrill wasn't joking and Samael wasn't laughing. His face darkened as he searched her determined face, confused as to why she would say something like that.
"I win, you'll forgive me. I lose, nothing would change." Merrill set up the simple rules, reminding him of what he had said to her after the masquerade ball. Samael's face twitched when he understood her statement. He was musing about his dream actually. Was it just a coincidence that his father spoke of forgiveness? Suddenly he realized how much he wished Merrill would win and he would be able to forgive her just like she had forgiven him his many ill deeds. But, Maker, how could she win? He realized everybody was waiting for his reply with their mouths hanging.
"Challenge accepted," Samael mumbled, still piercing Merrill with his blazing eyes. They both stood up at the same time like an invisible power yanked them out of their seats. Samael pulled out two bottles of the strong Antivan brandy along with two snifters from a cabinet in the corner and they both strolled to a distant small table, away from the group. Samael just didn't dare looking back at his friends, too afraid what he would see. And they were staring at them indeed, having no clue what it all meant.
Samael poured the first round, looking up at Merrill when he pushed the snifter in front of her. She was able to see a raw grin tweaking his lips and she closed her eyes for a second like she was making sure this was really what she desired. Merrill snatched the glass and gulped down the brandy, her eyes set on the man she loved.
oOo
After an hour the group of friends was trying really hard to play the kick-ass Wicked Grace game tonight, but their eyes kept wandering to those two stubborn lovers. They were motionless, silent, drowned into each other's eyes. They gulped down drink after drink and continued in their silent duel.
"What the hell is Samael doing?" Varric leaned to Aveline, whispering, watching those two pigeons with a badly hidden disquiet. Aveline sighed in reply; she was worried as well, but not as much as she worried about her coins.
Samael watched Merrill as she had the next drink in her trembling hand, forcing herself to gulp down the loathsome fluid. She shuddered when it burnt her throat and leaned backwards in the chair; her eyes veiled, her cheeks pink, feeling dizzy and sick.
"Ready to give up?" Samael whispered to her and she was able to see through the drunken veil Samael still looked… normal.
"Never," Merrill breathed out, pouring the next round, her hands were shaking and she spilled the alcohol on the table. Samael's sad eyes watched her when she gulped down the next drink, her face twisting in disgust and pure pain. She moaned and the snifter cracked on the stone floor. Samael reached across the table to catch her limp head before it could hit the table edge and he laid it tenderly on the desk, brushing the hair off her face. He glanced around in despair, realizing they were under the fire of their friend's eyes. Raking through his hair Samael pulled his cloak on and strolled out of the mansion, feeling their gazes on his back.
"Have I ever told you, this young Serah Hawke is… hiccup… the most peculiar person in Kirkwall? I mean does he do anything in the way the rest of us do?" Donnic folded his cards, his eyes swimming in alcohol looking around like the answer was hanging in the air. "Not to mention his many clashes with the law and… bloody hell he's back!" Donnic squeaked, pointing at the front door.
Samael stormed into the mansion again. Merrill groaned when he lifted her, holding her in his arms. Samael shot a glance at his friends, realizing they were all gaping at him again. "Just… I forgot something here." He muttered, leaving the mansion again. The short journey back was interrupted three times when Merrill vomited, only half-conscious of what was happening around her.
"So much for a romantic reunion then," Samael sighed to himself, when he lifted her again, keeping a rapid pace home. Bodahn was frightened when he came to greet his master and spotted the pale, sleeping Merrill in his arms.
"Is Miss Merrill all right? Is she hurt? Should I call a healer?" Bodahn rambled, genuinely worried about the elf.
"She… doesn't feel well, Bodahn. Well, I mean, hm, she's drunk as hell, nothing more. Relax, damn it." Samael growled and didn't dare look at the dwarf who had a pure outrage in his eyes. "Just prepare a bath please."
Merrill opened her eyes several times during the bath, but she always just moaned and squirmed, squinting at Hawke before falling asleep again. When she was properly clean, Samael gave up an attempt to dress her since he had no idea until now how difficult it was to dress a sleeping person. He just carried her to bed, hesitant what he should do next. At last he tucked her into the blanket.
"You won, my little pariah," he whispered finally, slipping under the blanket as well and pulling her as close as he could. Maker, it felt like coming home.