A/N: Yay, love your reviews, guys. I always fret that my Merrill is not believable because it's so easy to focus on her as comic relief. This chapter is primarily based on another Assemblage 23 song, Collapse. One of these days I will be able to write a story without using my favorite songs as crutches. Reviews welcome! One more chapter after this, hopefully tomorrow!
And you're watching me die
Right in front of your eyes
And if you turned your back on me
I wouldn't be surprised
There's no new story to tell
It's every man for himself
As brick by brick
We construct our own personal hell
Assemblage 23 - Collapse
Hawke guided Merrill by her elbow as they walked through Hightown. It was after dark on a crisp fall evening, so aside from a few patrolling guards, there were few people about . People in Hightown led orderly lives, in their mansions with their tall walls, with neatly planted flowerpots by the columned or arched entrances. The Hawke mansion had no flowerpots outside, only a heraldic shield above the wooden gate.
"These flowers will look so lovely in a vase!" Merrill had plucked them with abandon as they walked through Hightown, it was sheer luck that none of the city guards had noticed, nor any of the noblemen. Kirkwall nobility was the prickly kind, like one of the roses that Merrill had given her with careless glee. A red rose with thorns. How romantic. How pathetic am I?
Inside the mansion, the dining room table had been set for a late dinner. Leandra was already waiting impatiently. Hawke studied her mother closely. She had settled into life of nobility so easily, as was her birthright. Sometimes she even seemed happy. Sometimes she prattled on about finding a proper husband for Hawke, but ultimately she just seemed happy that she was back in her childhood home. I never had one of those. Not like this.
Their relationship was not a close one, never had been. Hawke had always been so withdrawn, more Malcolm's child than Leandra's in attachment. After Bethany's death, the accusations had come flying. It was as it was. Hawke was the eldest, responsibility had always been on her shoulders since her father put it there. That was not to say that they didn't love each other. Hawke wanted to see her mother happy, with her limited means of emotional expression.
Dinner was exquisite, perfectly prepared by the elven servant, Orana, that Hawke somehow had acquired from Tevinter slavers. Hawke made sure that Merrill ate, ate lots in fact, because the more time she spent with her (the closer she is to my heart), the more she knew the elf missed many meals while focusing on her work. The Merrill that was sitting here talking brightly, with all of her charming naivete was not the same Merrill that taught and studied magic.
After dinner, Leandra and the staff retired, leaving the two of them to sit before the fire, sipping on sweet port wine. It was a companionable silence. Merrill finally rose, and so did Hawke. "I should go, it's late." She always said that after dinner, and then Hawke would escort her back to the alienage, because Merrill inevitably was distracted or got lost, a burden of guilt that Hawke did not want to bear on her shoulders.
Their dream connection had faded in the last days of summer, and so had the desire, and the sadness. It made Hawke feel empty, and that was worse than not having known those two emotions before. The only emotion that had stayed with her, keeping her cold at night, was loneliness.
It was a spontaneous decision. "Stay." Hawke reached for Merrill's hand, pulling the elf towards her. "It's too late to go back now." To Lowtown. From this path that I have been on for months. Merrill tilted her head, a quizzical look on her face. Hawke felt the need to clarify. "Stay here, with me. It's cold tonight." Was that sufficient? Merrill looked surprised, and actually flustered. Hawke turned around and led Merrill upstairs, to her bedroom. The elf meekly followed.
The bedroom was bathed in darkness. The door closed, and all meekness was shrugged off when Merrill hugged her from behind and whispered in her ear. "Are you sure this is what you want?" Hawke shivered in those arms, then nodded assent. "Say it, Hawke," the voice whispered, the breath hot and intoxicating on her ear.
Hawke shuddered and then quietly, breathlessly said "I want you, Merrill." The elf laughed and kissed her ear, then flipped her around so that Hawke's back was pressed against the bedroom door. This was Merrill, her teacher, not the rambling girl most people knew. In the darkness, Merrill slowly caressed Hawke's face while pressing the whole length of her body against the taller woman. She felt every line, the curve of her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose, the shape of her lips with her fingertips. Such a delightful caress. Hawke was rigid, with nervousness and flickers of desire, descending her body like tendrils of fire.
"Lights." Merrill's thumb was on her lips, her other hand was on Hawke's pulse drumming wildly in her neck. The urge to kiss that thumb was overwhelming. "Lights, Hawke. I wish to see you." It finally dawned on Hawke what was asked of her, and she lit the wood in the fireplace, and every single candle in the room with a flicker of her magic. She looked at Merrill, her face now imbued with warm light, and her green eyes filled with a solemn sensuality. She never knew the elf had such long lashes on those fathomless, green eyes of hers. "Say it again, Hawke. Say it like you mean it. With conviction." Her hands were in Hawke's hair now, wrapping the curls around her fingers, sweeping the hair back from her face. Her body pressed into her, and she pushed her thigh against Hawke, causing her to whimper.
"I want you, Merrill." She stated it boldly, aggressively, the way she used to approach things in life. She said it without a smile. She said it with fervor. Hawke was rewarded with a searing kiss, her shoulders pushed hard against the door. Merrill stretched, kissing her with a thirst that was as fathomless as her eyes. Hawke tasted the sweet port wine on her lips, on her tongue, in her mouth, felt the elf's fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her ever closer. Her own hands finally sought the elf and ended up against her chest, surprised by the softness.
Merrill pulled back and looked up at her with a smile around her lips, a wicked smile. She looked at Hawke's hands on her breasts, her eyes challenging her to explore. All Hawke wanted to do was rip the clothing off her and feel them bare against her fingers. Her hands crawled to the neckline, ready to tear, but the elf danced away lithely, towards Hawke's bed. She teasingly coaxed Hawke to follow her, shedding a piece of clothing with every step she took backwards.
Hawke fell on top of Merrill onto the bed, feverish at the contact of all this tantalizing, bare skin under her fingers. The elf easily took off Hawke's clothing for her, always softly laughing at Hawke's eagerness, speaking encouragement. It frustrated her so. Hawke felt teased, mercilessly, when she was so hungry, so hungry for much more than laughter and whispered words.
She was taller, and now pinned Merrill down, her fingers digging into the elf's shoulder. "I already told you I want you. I want you to want me too. Stop talking." Merrill stared up at her and it was like a duel, as they confronted each other darkly. The elf no longer laughed.
"If that's how you want it, you shall have it." Merrill was above her again, with the surprising amount of strength that she had in her. They spoke no more, because once Merrill started trailing down kisses on her neck and shoulder, neither of them had enough breath. They clung to each other as if they were drowning. Hawke couldn't look, all she could do was squeeze her eyes shut to deal with the sensory input. Her body responded automatically, rising and falling with Merrill's, rubbing against her, gliding with her, like a ship on first smooth, then rougher waters. Soon, it was too much. It was much more than in her dream. She wanted to scream, but Merrill didn't let her. Everytime Hawke wanted to cry out because she couldn't bear it anymore, Merrill's lips were on hers, her mouth and tongue were stifling her screams, and all she could do was to moan heavily into her. Soon Merrill's hungry mouth was busy with other things, but her fingers found Hawke's lips, sensually sliding between them. She couldn't have screamed for her life, as her tongue danced around those fingers, nipping and sucking. She was taken possession of more thoroughly than she had ever imagined it.
She had never felt so alive. She had never felt so close to dying before. She was dying right before Merrill's eyes, only the elf couldn't see it. How could she ever let go of this? She struggled against the elf, near expired with exhaustion, grasping for some kind of control, but Merrill didn't grant her any. Her green eyes held nothing but challenge, as she moved up to kiss Hawke, drawing her last breath from her. Her hands were so relentless, holding her down and driving her insane with every stroke. She turned her head, moved it to the elf's shoulder, and bit down, her nails digging into the soft, pale skin of the Dalish's back. She felt the skin break under her touch, she felt her world collapsing, and her only escape, her only redemption was the liquid on her fingertips, from the scratches on Merrill's shoulders. It came so naturally to her now, to focus, to tap into that power. To feel all that again and more, to be more than a husk. To have a real connection.
Merrill yelled in anger and rage, beating Hawke's hands aside, jumping up and out of bed. She wiped at her back, and then went back to Hawke, drumming her fists against her in a furious rage. "How could you? How could you use me like this? How can you abuse this power so?" She was crying, bitter sobs. "How could you violate me so?" She shook Hawke who was limp with fear and shame, then pushed her back into the sheets. She grabbed her clothing, and left, only half-dressed, but desperate to escape.
Hawke felt her rage, seething in her like fire. She knew it was not her own, she had no reason to be angry. It was all Merrill. Rage, fear and so much pain. She covered her face with her hands, Merrill's blood still red lines under her fingernails. She hadn't looked for rage, she had enough of her own. It was not what she had wanted. How could one night go from precious to completely wrong?
Merrill refused to see her. She would not open her door to her, and Merrill's closest friend Isabela refused to assist Hawke. "I don't know what the two of you are playing at, but Merrill doesn't want to see you. You probably were an ass to her, not treating her with the respect she deserves. She has a good heart, you know!" Unlike me, I know. Trust me, I know better than anyone else. Isabela was poking Hawke's ribs hard with a finger, and Hawke impatiently slapped her hand aside. No one accepted her boundaries anymore.
None of the others were any help either. Hawke drank with despair in their nights at the Hanged Man, and even the companions noticed that their leader was nurturing some kind of heartache. How she hated their sympathetic looks and whispered words amongst each other. On assignments, she was merciless as ever, colder, more determined. She never used blood magic. It was her secret weapon, should she ever need more power. She carried Flame sheathed at her belt. She had not used any blood since Merrill left her.
At night, she curled up in a ball, and woefully longed for the days when Merrill had dreamed of her and carnal pleasures. All she felt now was anger still, but mostly overwhelming sadness and loneliness. Most nights she saw the mirror that was blind, sometimes the mirror would display the face of a Dalish woman, and it felt like her heart would rip in her chest, so much did seeing her hurt. Who is she? What has she done to you? Why do you never see me anymore, Merrill?
"Are you sure Merrill left a message for me, Bodahn?" It seemed so unlikely. It had been several months since their last contact. The connection had faded away again. Sometimes Hawke had pondered using the connection to will Merrill back to her, but that would be even more violation than she had already committed.
She approached the writing desk with hesitation. Would it be one of her silly notes that she used to write, about watering her flowers? If only. But no, it was a relatively formal request to come see her in the alienage. The letter had barely landed back on the desk by the time Hawke rushed out of the front door.
Merrill was rather no nonsense. There were no smiles between them, no tearful apologies, no falling on her knees to beg forgiveness. Those were scenarios that had all entered her mind to be scratched out again, foolish actions that wouldn't accomplish anything. Hawke didn't understand how she could reach forgiveness. If she were Merrill, she would stab Hawke in the heart and leave her to die. She would enjoy driving the knife.
Her imagination was running away with her, as was her self-loathing. Hawke sat down to seriously look at Merrill's face. She was so lovely. She looked as concentrated as when...Stop thinking about that, it will never happen again. She was suffocating with guilt and was convinced she would be unable to speak any word. "I have come to understand you need assistance with a task, Merrill." Her voice sounded strained as she pushed those words out between her teeth.
The Dalish nodded, worrying at her bottom lip. "My work on the eluvian has stalled, and I need a tool from the Dalish, to continue my work. The Keeper is bound to not give me this tool, which is why I would like to have your assistance. She respects you." For whatever reason, Merrill's expression clearly dictated. They all don't know me. Only Merrill does. I don't deserve respect.
"Will our debt be settled, if I assist you?" For Hawke it was a debt, her actions. It was a stupid question, because no payment would ever be high enough. Merrill stared at her dumbfounded.
"Creators, what debt are you speaking of? Listen, Hawke, we don't owe each other anything. I don't trust you anymore, which is why I am not seeing you nor teaching you. The only thing I am asking for old times' sake is that you aid me with this. You know it is important to me." You just want to see that woman clearly. It lay thickly on Hawke's tongue, but instead of saying it, she nodded. She did know how important it was to her.
"I shall ask Aveline and Isabela to come with us." Merrill looked pleased enough with the choice of companions. The enmity between Merrill, Fenris and Anders was too large, a gulf not to be bridged. It did not help they envied the elf for her closer connection to Hawke.
In retrospect, Hawke was grateful for her gut choice of having Isabela along. The pirate was the only one able to comfort Merrill after the varterral's death, after Merrill cried over Pol's shattered body. She was grateful for Isabela, and yet so jealous. She envied them their easy friendship, and the ease with which Isabela was able to soothe her with caring terms of endearment. Hawke's emotions were all bottled up like an icy rock inside her throat. Nothing got past. She was at the end of her rope, always slipping.
She channeled her rage into Marethari as she tried to comfort Merrill the only way Hawke knew: through cold aggression. She handwaved all of Marethari's explanations and condemnations of blood magic. "You have no idea how powerful your First is. You have no idea. She knows what she is doing. She deserves your trust and that of your clan, not this constant doubting. She is doing this for the Dalish, why do I understand this and you don't? I am giving her the arulin'holm, end of discussion." It felt like the longest speech Hawke had held in her life. She was pleased that Marethari actually flinched.
When they headed back to Kirkwall, Merrill had the safely wrapped arulin'holm tucked under her arm, walking with bowed head. Hawke wanted to hold her and inhale all her pain into herself, to spare her.
Hawke bid Merrill to join her in one of the sitting rooms of the mansion, not daring to take her to her bedroom. Too many memories. Pleasant (oh, the pleasure) and unpleasant. They had no history in this sitting room. Hawke felt that Merrill looked strained, drawn, sleepless. She found herself longing for their connection. "What can I do for you today?" It was an honest question. If Merrill needed something from her, she would have it, no matter the cost.
"Why did you do it?" Merrill remained standing and just rushed those words out, looking at Hawke more sadly than she ever had before.
Hawke sat down, defeated already. "Why did I do what?" Her eyebrows itched, or just made a perfect excuse for covering her eyes with her hand.
"How can you say the things you told Marethari, saying such wonderful things about me as if you cared, when you cannot even give yourself to me without betraying me. Why did you betray me? I thought you wanted to be with me!" All that Merrill had kept to herself for all these months of distance between them, it now came up, so clear on her face. Hawke remembered feeling all the resentment and loss and hopelessness, and she covered her face fully now.
"Merrill, you do not understand. No one knows me." Hawke took a deep breath, imagining her icy armor, but it kept breaking and melting. "No one ever allowed me to feel. I certainly didn't allow myself. It's a weakness that I purged long ago." She pulled her knees to her chest, burying her face on them. "And then I thought I would best protect myself from the templars by learning to use blood magic, because you would be so easy to manipulate and much better to get along with than a demon, hah." Her laughter was bitter. "Only that you are not to be manipulated at all, and you are so bloody strong and principled." She pulled at the hem of her skirt and then looked at Merrill with all the sadness she usually kept hidden inside of her. "It was an accident, the first time, a blind and greedy child grabbing for a toy. You were right. But that one drop of your blood, it was a spark. I was a dry husk, and suddenly I felt. Your lust and your pain, and your happiness and your loneliness. When it was gone, I felt dead."
She balled her hands to fists, nails digging into her palms. She was not ready to concede defeat, Hawke would not cry. "When you were with me that night, I felt so alive, and I felt like you would leave me for sure, turn your back on me, and then what would I feel? I didn't do it consciously. I just wanted to feel you again. I missed you. I miss you."
Merrill listened to this with a serious face, and then sat down opposite of Hawke. Very matter-of-factly, she stated "I miss you too," and stretched out her arm, her hand coming to rest in Hawke's lap. Her palm was upturned. "Give me your hand." She pulled Hawke's hand into her lap, then turned it up as well. "I won't say that I understand you. I won't say that I do not care. A spark it might have been, but amongst embers, Hawke. You are such a good person, who wears this mask of rage and indifference. You have the kindest heart of us all. I want the mask to come off. Fair is fair." From out of nowhere, she produced her work knife and then cut her own palm. "It's yours to have and use," she indicated with a nod. She then handed her knife to Hawke, waiting.
Without hesitation, Hawke cut her palm that was still resting in Merrill's lap. "Yours." She did not even feel the pain of it. She was already tapping into the sweet siren song of Merrill's blood. She gasped when she felt a warm touch to her soul, and then their connection was reciprocal. She could only look at Merrill in silent wonder, and receive silent wonder in return. Merrill rose, and lightly touched her bleeding hand to Hawke's face, kissing her lips ever so gently. Hawke reached for her face, leaving her own bloody hand print, wanting to pull her closer, but the elf withdrew, and then hurriedly departed.
Hawke felt shattered, confused, and relieved, a wild combination of emotions she could not identify. What a heady mix. What a mess to sort out.