A/N: I don't know what possessed me to stay up til 5:30 am, drunk on vodka shots, and write this. This is one of those chapters that looked very different to me in my head. If it seems off, I blame inebriation and Heath Wingwhit, who came up with the idea of alcohol in the first place. I am nothing but an obedient padawan. Keep reviewing please, you guys make my days!
"Maker's Balls, I wish I knew what's going on with Hawke and Fenris." Isabela was hanging out at the bar of the Hanged Man, studying Merrill over the cup of cheap rum she was nursing this evening. "And you." Merrill arched her brows and then shook her head in confusion.
The elf had to tug a finger between her throat and her scarf because she suddenly felt constricted, as if there was not enough air in the tavern this night. Isabela couldn't possibly know that she was messing with them. Or could she? She hadn't made much progress recently. Hawke had avoided her for a time, after that dinner, maybe a week, before things had relaxed between them. Fenris still had made no move, and Merrill was confident that Hawke was simply too shy in matters of love to ever reveal herself. It had been more than two months now since her grand declaration of love for Fenris.
Playing with the fringes of her scarf, Merrill looked at Isabela with big, green eyes. "As far as I know nothing's going on between Fenris and Hawke." She looked over her shoulder, to where most of the companions were seated. The two 'lovebirds' were across from each other, and seemed unable to exchange any words. Hawke had a lovelorn smile on her lips, and Fenris brooded, mostly adding scornful comments to the conversations of the others. He seemed incapable of much else. "She'll never tell him, and I am out of ideas. If I had any in the first place. She should not have placed her hopes on me. I know nothing about love."
It was the most honest thing she ever had said about this whole matter. Nothing but the truth. Hawke shouldn't have placed her hopes, her dreams on Merrill. No one should. Nothing would ever come of it. She took a quick drink when the bitterness in her seemed to overflow.
Isabela sighed and reached out to touch Merrill's arm. "I do worry about you, kitten. Right now, you looked incredibly unhappy. You deserve to be happy." And what if I don't? "Anyhow, what I meant when I mentioned you in the equation is that...well, it sounds ridiculous, I know, but I would swear that Hawke looks at you much the same way she looks at Fenris when she thinks you're not looking." Merrill gaped, looking shell shocked, and she was. "You two seemed close lately, so I was just wondering if her interest has maybe...wandered." She suggestively arched her brows, looking expectant.
Merrill nearly snorted rum through her nose at that expression. "If you are implying...no. Noooo, Isabela. All she ever tells me about is Fenris." Her heart was drumming in her ears, and in her chest. How hopeful this was. Maybe she had already succeeded at her plan without even knowing. Her heart was fluttering because of the possible success. Not because I care. "What a remarkable thought, Isabela. You know that if anything changed, you'd be the first one I told. That's how much you mean to me."
Isabela sighed with a smile, and pulled Merrill to her. "Sometimes you are so adorable that I just want to steal you away, kitten, and lick you all up." The tips of Merrill's ears were burning at those words, and she laughed. Her arms around the pirate squeezed tightly. She laughed more when she looked over Isabela's shoulder and saw Hawke, with a distinct hint of jealousy in her guileless eyes, watching them closely.
The summer was plagued with lots of political tensions over the Qunari issue. Their continued presence and the increased conversions to the Qun were like sparks on bundled straw, ready to burst into flame anytime. The viscount was increasingly worried, and the Chantry was meddlesome.
Kirkwall seemed to reflect the tensions with the driest summer since the Blessed Age. Outside of Kirkwall, fires raged through forests, caused by unwary travelers' campfires at night. Crops wilted and died. It was looking to be a poor fall and winter for the farmers and general populace of the Marches in the immediate vicinity of the city.
The city itself was unbearable to be in. Everything was dust and dryness, and consuming heat. People barely left their houses. Wells ran dry, and the rich feasted on iced delicacies, while the poor were grateful for every drop of water in their parched throats. The Lowtown Bazaar was deserted, with little produce to be sold. In short, it was miserable.
And then the Summer Torrent came. After over a month of unprecedented heat, the floodgates opened, and it rained, it rained, it rained. The streets of Low- and Darktown were flooded from the deluge as the amount of water coming down was almost as unprecedented as the heat had been.
Merrill was giddy, and danced through her house when the first drops started falling. "Mythal be praised, it's raining, Hawke. It's raining!" It was easy to tell for her, as the drops were falling right on the floor of her house. When the rain started falling harder and harder, the water started to pool on the uneven floor. Hawke put aside the book of romantic poetry that Merrill had given her. The latest plan was to woo him with self-written poetry. Of course Hawke had no idea that Tevinter slaves were not allowed to read, and so remained illiterate. That would go over well with Fenris, for sure. Merrill was hoping she'd be allowed to deliver the poetry for Hawke.
"Uh, your roof has...many holes." Hawke looked alarmed when the first puddles ran together. The rain drummed loudly on the roof, with much force. Merrill danced through the puddles with her bare feet, with the unadulterated joy of a Dalish elf. The water pooled faster. "You can't possibly stay here today."
Merrill was full of unconcern. She quickly collected all important books and put them up on her shelves. She had so little of value, what damage would a little water do? "We can't possibly stay inside, Hawke. Let's go outside. Let's enjoy the rain. It has been too long." She impulsively reached for Hawke's hand and dragged her outside.
The elves of the alienage had gathered around the vhenadahl. It pleased Merrill to see that they remembered their heritage enough to enjoy the return of the rain. Both Merrill and Hawke were not wearing their usual armor, as the heat had been too stifling to wear any form of metal. They were soaked to the skin in minutes. "Elgar'nan has fought the sun again, defying the sun's fierce power over us. We must now celebrate and enjoy the rain!" The Dalish raised her arms to the sky, lifting her face. Water streamed down her cheeks, over her forehead, soaking her hair. She hadn't felt so carefree in years. She raised her voice in song, a short song in praise of the All-Father and the Great Protector. When she finished it, her eyes sought Hawke.
Hawke's hair was plastered to her skull, and her cotton shirt clung to every curve. She looked beautiful. Her face was radiant, and awestruck. "That was beautiful, Merrill." She bit her bottom lip and then boldly said "Ma serannas, lethallan." It sounded clumsy, but she spoke elvhen. For Merrill. The elf had to swallow hard at this.
Merrill reached for Hawke's hand, chuckling even though a fist was still squeezing her heart about that gesture. "It was my pleasure. We must thank the Creators." She dragged Hawke to the biggest puddle that she could find in the alienage, dragged her closer, and then started to jump, showering them both with rain, a fountain hitting Hawke straight in the face.
"You!" Hawke wiped the excess water from her face, and then retaliated by driving down a booted foot in the puddle. Soon, their water fight became more intense, when Merrill started scooping up water from larger puddles. Hawke chased after her, now in the spirit of the game as well.
The streets of Lowtown were filled with people who had been hiding from the glaring sun. Now everyone wanted to be outside, to feel the coolness of the rain, and water on parched tongues. Children were playing the same kind of water games that Merrill and Hawke were playing, as they chased each other through the streets. Merrill's sides were hurting from running, and laughing. How she laughed that day.
Hawke was physically stronger, but Merrill was agile and kept escaping her reach. It was of course entirely possible that Hawke let her escape. She never looked where she was running, only stopping at the larger puddles. Soon, they were no longer puddles, as the poor drainage of Lowtown was unable to handle such water masses. They were to the ankles in water, but still, they chased each other, flinging water at every opportunity. When Merrill finally noticed where they were, she stumbled over the first step that led up to Hightown, colliding with one of the walls.
The other woman flipped Merrill around and triumphantly declared "Got you!" Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were gleaming with excitement, and she looked like a drowned rat. A gorgeous drowned rat though. Hawke pressed her against the wall. They were both breathing hard from the exertion. Hawke's breath felt hot on her face. She smelled like the summer rain around them, like the mint leaves she had chewed earlier, like wet leather. She smelled like Hawke.
Merrill instinctively reached up to cup her face, then pulled her down for a kiss. Hawke's hands were on the wall right next to Merrill's head. For a moment she was sure Hawke would withdraw. She felt her stiffen, lean back, to lean forward again just as quickly. The kiss was soft, like a feather, and sweet like the chocolate they had at their dinner. Their lips brushed over each other's time and again.
They did not separate until some random Lowtown creep interjected, offering them coin to see them do more in an alley down the street. Hawke actually punched him on the nose in one of her rare battle rages, and he stumbled backwards, to fall onto his ass in the rainwater.
Merrill tugged on Hawke's hand before the situation could escalate, pointing up the stairs. "I wonder if the people in Hightown are out on the streets as well!" That was distraction enough, and the two of them giddily bounced up the long stairway.
Merrill felt happy, and she did not even question that in her mind.
There were no celebrating people in Hightown. The nobles had not felt the oppressive heat as much, in their tall stone buildings with windows and ventilation, with their cold storage, and iced drinks. The Circle mages had been busy producing ice for the rich and the Chantry. What a convenient use of their power. If you were rich or a Chantry member, that is.
No, in Hightown people wandered about with fancy, colorful umbrellas, on clear streets washed clean by the rain. The rivulets of water all drained towards Lowtown, running down the steps in a rush of water. The last hundred steps had been an adventure. Merrill had slipped in the water at times, but Hawke held her hand, kept her steady, kept her safe.
By the time they reached the square before the Hawke Estate, near the Viscount's Way, both were exhausted and almost a little bit cold from the clammy wetness on their skin. "You can't go back today. Who knows when the water will drain? Tomorrow we will hire repairmen for your roof!"
Merrill wrung her green shirt that hung loosely and wetly on her body. She did not wear her chainmail underneath, nor her scarf, so the skin of her long neck and her collarbone lay bare. "I don't have the money for repairmen, Hawke, or the roof would have been fixed a while ago. It does not matter. The rain won't harm the eluvian, and that's the only piece of value in my home." Talking about the mirror made her heart feel as cool as her skin was right now. "Once the rain is over, it will be a stifling, humid mess in Kirkwall."
Hawke's gaze had gone noticeably cooler when the eluvian was mentioned, and she shook her head. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but then snapped her mouth shut audibly. Instead she ran a hand through Merrill's wet hair. "Your braids are coming undone. Maybe I can help you redo them. Let's go inside."
There was almost no heat trapped in the cool walls of the Hawke Estate. It felt so pleasant to be inside. Of course, both of them were now leaving puddles on the floor, puddles that Bodahn was only too eager clean up. Hawke's mother exclaimed in horror when she saw them, and ushered them upstairs into Hawke's bedroom, for a change of clothing. The mabari chased them excitedly, barking all the way. "He would love to play in the rain, I am sure," Merrill exclaimed, which earned her another irritated look from Leandra Amell.
When the bedroom door closed behind them, Hawke let out a long breath. "I am sorry, my mother still treats me like a six year old who trailed the rain inside. Though we really do need to get changed." She threw Merrill a towel from one of her dressers and started to dry her own hair with another. She then rummaged around to find a change of clothing for Merrill. "I...I think the only thing I have that could possibly fit you is an old robe of Bethany's."
The look in Hawke's eyes at suggesting that was so raw and pained that it hurt Merrill. It confused her, why would she hurt for Hawke when in truth all she felt was disdain for her? Because you are bloody lying to yourself, Merrill, that's why. Here Hawke was offering her a robe of her dead sister, the mage who had died on the expedition to the Deep Roads, making it her second sibling to die.
"I would be humbled and honored to wear one of her robes, Hawke. Ma serannas, lethallan." Merrill bowed her head and took the offered robe, pulled from a polished chest of fine rosewood, lovingly taken care of. It probably contained the rest of the belongings Hawke had kept as memories of her sister. How lonely she must be.
Of course, now they had the issue of actually changing, in the same room. Both of them were incredibly hesitant, until Hawke cursed at the puddle of water on the carpeted floor. She quickly kicked off her boots, lingeringly looked at Merrill, and then in a rush of fumbling fingers tried to get her clothes off as quickly as possible.
It was not fast enough to hide her body from Merrill's sight. She was lithe and sinewy, muscles rippling right underneath her soft skin. She was a fighter, and she moved like one, and she looked like one. Merrill couldn't recall ever having seen anyone more athletic, and more beautiful. Her curves weren't lush as Isabela's were, but well defined. Merrill lowered her gaze, because she didn't want to be caught staring, and because she, by the creators, was overwhelmed by the woman's beauty.
When she next looked up, Hawke was wearing the finery she usually wore around her mansion. As she wore no boots, the short patterned skirt showed plenty of leg, tantalizing flashes of toned skin. The mauve tunic with the Hawke crest was filled quite nicely with her broad shoulders. She still looked every bit as fine as she had when in her underwear.
Merrill herself did not rush taking her clothes off. There wasn't much to begin with, without her chainmail on. She unbuckled her belt, pulled her green tunic over her head, and pulled off the leather she usually wore over her chainmail like stockings. She patted herself dry with the towel, leaning forward slowly and deliberately. Did it look pretty? Seductive? Her cheeks burned like fire, and her thoughts were filled with nothing but self-consciousness. She was bony, all ribs, small hips, small breasts and spindly legs. There was absolutely nothing to her, compared to the beauty that was Hawke. All she could hope for were base instincts.
When she stood tall again, Merrill looked to Hawke and saw her leaning against the bedpost, bluntly staring. Just like all those weeks ago at their shared dinner, her eyes were clouded with lust. Far less shame this time. Merrill took a deep breath and then put on the robe. It was far too large for Merrill and dragged on the floor, and lent her a femininity she did not usually possess, at least not to this extent.
Hawke sat on the edge of her bed, and then leaned down to pat the floor. "Come, sit here. Let me brush and braid your hair." Her voice sounded a touch husky. Merrill lifted the hem of the too long robe and walked over there, sitting down. Soon, Hawke started to methodically remove the braids, then brushed out Merrill's short hair, gently removing all the knots and tangles before pulling strands together for braids. "I used to do this for my sister, she had this lovely beyond shoulder length hair. Dark like yours." Her hand came to rest on the nape of Merrill's long neck, fingers caressing gently. The tips of Merrill's ears burned like fire, and Hawke's fingers reached out to tenderly touch them, before she leaned down to kiss the tips.
The elf sighed and reached up for Hawke's hand, pulling it to her lips to kiss it. She kissed every finger, every line of Hawke's calloused palm, every knuckle, filled with warmth for the other woman, filled with longing.
Merrill didn't want Hawke to feel that she held her little sister. That was the last thing she would ever want. She sat up on her knees and turned around, placing both hands solidly on the bare skin of Hawke's legs. She felt Hawke's skin quiver under her touch. Her fingers were gliding up further, closer to the hem. "Merrill." It sounded odd, choked, like a warning full of yearning. Like she wanted her to stop, but didn't. Like she rejected the idea but wanted her. Like she wanted to push her away, but wanted to draw her close as well. Merrill wanted her. Merrill wanted Hawke to tremble like a leaf with desire for her. Hawke's conflicted feelings were fuel for her ardor.
Merrill slid a hand on the inside of Hawke's thigh, causing her to moan, and her other hand reached up to pull Hawke's face to her. Their lips collided, first gently, much like their kiss in Lowtown, but soon to be replaced with fire, with hunger, with lust. Merrill parted Hawke's lips effortlessly. She overpowered her senses, her fingers firmly entrenched in Hawke's hair, not letting her withdraw from the kiss. Hawke melted under Merrill's lips, let the elf rise and push her back on the bed, with the other hand still on the inside of her thigh.
The elf nuzzled Hawke breasts through her tunic, before assaulting the supple skin of her throat with light nips and kisses. Every moan, every whisper was more encouragement. As much as Hawke's mind might reject this, as much as her brain clung to the idea of herself with Fenris, her body was waiting to be taken by Merrill. Merrill was ready to take her.
Her hand glided up Hawke's thigh, until there was no where else to go, until Hawke cried out at the contact and threw her head back. Merrill sought to still her, sought her lips for another deep kiss, while her hand touched, felt, understood the levels of Hawke's desire. She curled her fingers.
The next moment she found herself pushed off the bed, lying on the floor face first. Merrill looked up in bewilderment. She heard Hawke's ragged breathing where she lay on the bed. The next moment Hawke was right there on the floor, grabbing her by the shoulders, hovering over her. "What in Maker's name are you playing at, Merrill? What is going on? Why are you tormenting me so? Why do you touch me and kiss me and hug me and drive me bloody crazy?" Her hold on Merrill's shoulders was tight, painful, bruising. "I thought you were my friend. I thought you wanted to help me win the man that I love." Hawke's voice sounded unnerved, unhinged. "I never wanted this, Merrill. I thought you were my best friend. Why do you ruin this for us?"
Merrill's fingers dug into the carpet, and she pressed her forehead against it too, as she tried to collect herself. Hawke didn't let her move. A wave of emotion rolled over the elf, deep and bitter, and honest to the bone. She turned her head to speak over her shoulder. "I am your friend, Hawke. Not your best, but your friend. I didn't do anything you didn't want. You wanted me to hold you and kiss you. You wanted to feel my lips on your skin. You wanted my fingers to touch you, to take you. I felt your desire. I wanted you, but you also wanted me." Hawke's breath was still ragged, and her fingers dug even harder, bringing tears to Merrill's eyes. But she did not cry out in pain. She would not.
"He's never going to love you. He is unable to love. He will never get over the fact that he used to be a slave. It will haunt him for the rest of his life. Even if he were to be with you, he would reject you anyhow. Mark my words. It will happen. In a week, in a month, in a year, he will break your heart and reject you. He is unable to move beyond. He is spiteful, and has an ugly soul. Not like you. He's not beautiful like you. He won't love you. Not like I love you." Merrill closed her eyes in defeat and could not keep stifling her sobs. She buried her face against the carpet. What a horrible realization to come to when all was lost. She was in love with Hawke. How did she ever think she was close to victory over Fenris? This was an even worse defeat than on Sundermount, because for one precious moment, just once, she had felt that she was not lonely, that she knew happiness.
She felt Hawke letting go of her shoulders. She heard the whispered words "The guest room is out in the hall. Bodahn will have finished preparations." Merrill rose without looking at Hawke, picking up her clothes. At the door she turned back. "I am sorry, Hawke." Sorrow and pain looked back at her. They both knew heartache now.
Merrill did not sleep a wink in the guest room. When she left the mansion at dawn, in her own, albeit damp, clothing, it was only one thought that kept her moving on, one thought that gave her any will to fight on. If I cannot have her, Fenris shall not have her either.