XI: An Old Hag Who Talks Too Much, or Lost Memories of Home
Merrill could scarcely believe it. Before her stood an old woman, frail and human in appearance. Wild hair framed her ancient face while aged rags hung from her beleaguered form. She seemed to tower over Merrill, despite her obviously hunched and small stature.
Merrill then realized (to her shame) that the old woman towered only because she stood atop the altar, in the circle where the wormwood amulet had been lain to rest. Merrill looked up to the woman's neck to see the amulet set there, dangling from her mottled throat.
She realized with a start who the woman was. She stands in front of you right now! One of the oldest beings in this world. The First immediately fell to on knee, both out of reverence as well as abject terror.
"Andaran atish'an, Asha'bellanar," she recited, woodenly and from memory, struggling but managing to not trip over the words. These lessons in propriety, in the respect and fear of such old powers of the world, they were the only things that kept her foot from her mouth. Lessons that Keeper Marethari had drilled into her, time and again. Another thing to thank her for. To miss her for.
Asha'bellanar stepped down from the altar with grace that belied her appearance. Merrill glanced up to see the being looking down upon her, face impassive.
"One of the People…" Asha'bellanar intoned slowly, carefully. "I see, so young and bright. Tell me child, do you know who I am, beyond that title?"
"Only a little," Merrill managed. Asha'bellanar… woman of many years… an ancient being, one not to be trifled with.
"Then stand," commanded Asha'bellanar. "The People bend their knee too quickly."
Merrill stood shakily to a nod of approval from Asha'bellanar. The being then cast her gaze upon the others gathered, lingering on Mallet. "How strange. Is it fate or chance?" She asked, as if to herself. "I never can decide." Merrill turned her head to Mallet – and saw a man pale with dread.
"Does it matter?" he asked, voice quiet and strained.
Asha'bellanar threw back her head and laughed uproariously. It was not a happy sound. "Now that is the right question. No, dear boy, it does not." She turned that horrible gaze back to Hawke, a smile on her face. "But there are more pressing matters to attend to. I find it refreshing when someone keeps their word. I half expected this amulet to wind up at the bottom of the sea, or in a merchant's pocket!"
Hawke swallowed loudly. "Even if we weren't in your debt after you saved our lives, I'd be a right idiot to cross someone who turns into a bloody dragon."
"There is wisdom in such fear," Asha'bellanar responded dryly. "But if I wanted you dead I would've burnt you with the darkspawn, or simply abandoned you to the Wilds. Did you not consider that?"
"Honestly? I thought there was some sort of curse on that amulet," Hawke replied, a hand rising to rub the back of her neck. "I mean, don't take it to the Dalish and you smite us all or something."
"And what did you believe the taking would entail? Did you think I would pass over you? Perhaps I would even… smite… the Dalish when you brought it to them?" Asha'bellanar face split into a complete, surprisingly toothy grin.
"No…" Hawke almost muttered, abashed. "Thought it was a message, like a reminder that you'd smite them next week. You would've saved us a lot of fear if you'd told us that… were you inside it? How are you here? Come to think on it, I don't think that would've made us feel any better at all."
"If fear is what motivated you to see your obligation fulfilled then it was well I did not save you from it. And in answer to your question… I would hardly fit inside an amulet," Asha'bellanar answered wryly. "But perhaps… just a piece. A bit of security, when the inevitable occurred." She glanced slyly towards Mallet. "I know my Morrigan far, far too well. She always did choose her… friends well."
"You mentioned her before," Hawke said, halting for a moment as if she had reconsidered the question. "Who is she?" She asked finally, evidently throwing caution to the wind.
"Would that one of you knew her," Asha'bellanar laughed. "You would know that she is a girl who thinks she knows better than me, or anyone. But I can hardly fault her for such notions, after all, I raised her to think so."
"I…" Mallet started saying, but Asha'bellanar interrupted him immediately.
"It would not do for a dead man to interrupt," she rebuked, a sudden raw malice in her voice. "After all, one can hardly remain buried if he claws his way back to the sky."
The man's jaw snapped shut.
As Asha'bellanar turned back to Hawke she seemed to finally notice the rest of the party, scattered as they were behind the three supplicants. "It is good to see you all honoring your responsibility, all who are able at least, though it seems your brother is somewhat worse for wear. Do not fear, his wounds are not fatal."
"There was some sort of shade," Hawke supplied. "Yelled at us in elven. I suppose it didn't want to entertain."
"Anywhere the People once slept is a feast for spirits. So much history, so many memories – too bad they don't realize what it is exactly they are biting in to. This makes them dangerous." She looked up over their heads, eyes to the summit of the mountain. "Though the ones that do… they are who you should fear most of all."
Merrill, unsure of what further to say to the ancient being standing before them instead thought back to the shade they had just fought. Were the People so tall then, so strong? Shemlen. It did not call the humans shemlen, it didn't even notice them. It called me shemlen. I suppose we are now. Quicklings, mortals – cursed to die.
"And see how easily she slips," Asha'bellanar spoke directly to the listless First, driving Merrill from her thoughts. The ancient being's eyes met Merrill's, reflecting an intense sadness. "You must be careful, child. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut."
Merrill nodded, clutching her staff, too nervous to answer – or to even truly consider the unbidden advice.
There was an awkward silence at that, Merrill and Mallet cowed into silence while Hawke stood quiet – apparently deep in thought. Asha'bellanar sat down carefully on the altar, slowly, and waited patiently.
Finally Hawke broke the silence. "As you pointed out, we have fulfilled our obligation. What happens now?"
Asha'bellanar closed her eyes. "Now I do what I have always done." She stepped down directly from her perch and moved around the altar, stride full of purpose – then stood at the edge of the cliff.
She turned to regard them, looking over each one in turn once again before settling her gaze on Hawke. "But before we part, know this – we stand on the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. You must watch for that moment, and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap." She turned now, stepped the one step it took to reach the ledge. As she spoke again her voice reverberated around them, and Merrill felt the heat of magic radiating from her contradictorily hunched shoulders. "It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly."
The being thrust her arms out to her sides as if she wished to embrace the view before her. Then, she stepped once more and plummeted out of sight.
With an earth shattering roar a buffeting blast of burning air nearly drove Merrill to her knees – the sheer suddenness and strength of the Beyond bringing tears to her eyes.
A creature the likes of which Merrill had never seen swooped from where Asha'bellanar had fallen, purple scales glinting in the late afternoon sun. Its wings commanded the wind, sent it soaring above them where turned a single circle. It cried out once more, belching a stream of fire and winged directly over the altar at incredible speed. It only took a few moments for it to fade into the distance, finally melting into the far-off sea to the south.
A dragon. A dragon – she is a dragon! Merrill thought in sudden excitement, her melancholy forgotten. She knew she should feel afraid, should thank the Creators for surviving an encounter with Asha'bellanar – but a dragon! "I thought they only existed in stories!"
"Sometimes," Hawke smiled ruefully, though her eyes remained on the horizon the dragon had dissipated into. "I think it all is just a story, told by somebody... The Maker? Some Spirit? Corff? Who bloody knows… Maybe I'm still in the Wilds, bleeding to death from the Darkspawn, and this is all a last gasp fever dream of a life. Only way I can figure that the Witch of the Wilds swooped from the sky to save us from that horde. No way that actually happened."
The strange awe they found themselves in was suddenly shattered by a distinctive durgen'len chortle behind them. Merrill turned to see Varric, face taut and pale without a shred of humor. "We're definitely here, Hawke. No way anybody could make this shit up. Not even me."
Hawke turned too, her honest smile crooking into a dishonest smirk. "I'll never get used to you having the right of it all the time, Varric." She shrugged, rolled her shoulders. "At least now the potential curse of Cormac's Foe is lifted from over my family's heads. How's Carver?"
"Awake. In pain. Swearing up a storm."
Honesty returned to her smile. "That's my brother. Come, let's get back down to the clan. I hope the Keeper can sooth our battered bones." Grimacing, she glanced to her arm. "Literally, in my case."
"I'm sure she will help you," Merrill offered. "The Clan owes you a debt now, for fulfilling our purpose here. However…" They will be glad to move on. Happy even, perhaps enough to show gratitude to shemlen. Master Illen would give them gifts in better times. Were we not so wary, would that we still had our halla… Paivel would even… In better times.
In better times I would not be leaving. We would not wander. We would live in our homes in the Dales, or even in old Arlathan. There are no better times before the Dalish. She gripped at the pouch hanging down at her waist, at the precious shard that lay within. But maybe there can be.
"Flemeth was right, wasn't she?" Hawke asked, nearly startling her. The beautiful human was staring at her, eyes fierce with intensity and just a hint of sadness. "You do slip easily."
Merrill shrugged absently, too weary to be nervous. "The Clan will tolerate you, but not me. I can't remain with them."
Hawke nodded, glancing up the sky. "I don't think we'll be able to get very far today anyways. We part ways – Aveline, Carver and I will stay with the Keeper, hopefully get ourselves healed."
As they spoke Mallet moved up to stand beside Hawke, his fingers tapping anxiously at his sheathed hammers. "Varric and I could take Merrill on – find us a campground a ways from the Clan."
Hawke looked at him, considering, before turning back to Merrill. "That suit you, Merrill?"
Merrill nodded. "It has been a long day. I would not mind… rest."
"And we'll rough it just like proper Dalish," Varric grumbled behind her without feeling. She couldn't decide if he was actually annoyed or not. She did note his grin was once again plastered on his still pale face. "Maybe sing some campfire songs, let you all know where we are."
"I can leave signs," Merrill said. "I'm not the best Hunter, but I can leave a trail easily enough. No one else will follow. Except maybe the Clan, but they won't bother us. Probably. I'll make sure…"
Hawke's eyes crinkled in amusement. "One minute you're spilling blood magic, the next you're crying, and now your misting my eyes like a proper daisy. Go on, get a move on. We'll follow behind, hopefully catch up by sundown. No need for a trail."
Things moved quickly from there. Merrill followed the battered man and the talkative durgen'len down the mountain, back through the temple – Mallet took the lead with a brisk pace. She fell behind only once, when she allowed her fingers to skirt the reliefs of the Creators one final time. I don't expect I will return here, at least… not for a long time. Give me strength.
Merrill felt herself slipping once again into melancholy, but this time she refused to allow it total dominion over her. She glanced down off the cliffs as she walked, admired the brown and green mottled forest that stretched to the edge of vision where it faded to blue haze. They were on the opposite side of the mountain now, halfway down. She marveled at the coolness radiating through her wrapped feet from the ancient steps, as she gripped each stone with her toes. Distracted herself in them. For a time, there was only that comforting coolness.
Finally they came back upon the Pale Graves, memorials of the Dales to their fallen. Merrill allowed herself to touch the Beyond, feel its warm embrace at the tips of her fingers as she felt for the spirits buried here. They were quiet, at peace for now. She would leave them as she had first found them, in peace.
The group was silent the whole way, even as dusk set upon the world. Even as they rounded the bend to the camp. Apprehension built within her then as she saw the first of her clan – Harshal, bow held vigilant to the pass. She looked past him, saw the children, saw the others – saw them avert their eyes, heard their muttered whispers. Felt rather than saw Harshal's steady refusal to see her.
They moved through the center of camp, Merrill's perception desperately latching to the beauty of the clearing they were in – wet mud and earth, stiff surrounding trees in the dimming light. Fireflies flickered every so often about them as the song of crickets filled the wood. It was much like Ferelden, she realized. The closest land that she could claim as a home – as much as a wandering Dalish could claim a land as home. The land where she had spent half her life. A land beyond reach.
She tried to picture Carys as a child here in the Marches, with her and at play. Splashing in puddles, Tamlen pulling her hair. Junar stood to the side, older only by a couple years but his arms crossed and shaking his head. She could picture the smile on him.
The sight of the real Junar nearly pulled her from her imagined world, his arms still crossed as he deliberately turned his back on her. From the back he looked as his father would have in the dream, before humans had murdered him when the clan had strayed into the Bannorn.
She imagined she could hear Hahren Paivel calling to them, voice stern but filled with smiles. Tamlen laughed and pushed Carys into a puddle as he sprinted to lessons, Carys for her part desperately trying to trip him. Phantom Carys instead settled for tripping Merrill, catching her before she could fall face first into the mud, and pulled her along. Laughing. They were laughing, all three of them.
A firefly lit in her face, dispelling the dream.
They were outside the clearing now, down the path from camp. Headed back to the Highway built by the tevinter humans of old.
Her face felt incredibly hot, her eyes runny. She felt tears dripping down in the dark, burning trails down her cheeks as she followed Mallet.
She felt a hand on her arm, dumbly turned to see Varric standing beside her. In the darkness she could only see the form of him, the phantom.
"It'll be okay, Daisy," he whispered. "You don't have to… Kirkwall's not so bad. Well, it is, but it isn't, you know?"
Merrill didn't know. She couldn't know. She had known first only Clan Brae'ael, but her memories of it were foggy and distant. She knew Sabrae, knew Carys, Marethari, Silael, Pol, Tamlen – she would know them all no longer.
She sat on a fallen tree the durgen'len pulled her to, watched as he pulled blankets from his modest pack. Saw Mallet drop his own pack, withdrawing a hatchet. Observed their preparations, finding herself too despondent assist.
Sparks lit before her as Mallet flicked his tinderbox. She had no idea how much time had passed, how much time she had spent watching and silently weeping. Sparks again and a fire suddenly lit to life in the small pit the human had formed in the center of their modest clearing. The man sat at the fire, pulled something unidentifiable from his pack.
Bathed in warming firelight and flickering shadow, Merrill found herself oddly fixated on him, as if the only thing she could look at was the marked man now paying homage to flame. He glanced up at her, pulling what looked to be strings off of the strange thing he'd pulled out of his pack.
He jerked his head, beckoning. "Come on, you'll catch chill out there. Sit by the fire."
She almost didn't register what he said, but she suddenly felt a cold breeze slip past her – then slip through her, chilling her to the bone.
She stood on shaky legs, made to reach for her own pack of meager belongings on her back (she just remembered she had forgotten to strip her camp on Sundermount), where her hand met only the rough cloth of her scarf. There was no pack on her back.
Mallet sighed, flicking one of the strange strings he held like a whipe at the fire before absurdly putting it in his mouth. "Varric took it off you not an hour ago." He jerked his head again, this time at the place across from the now growing fire.
Even in in the dim Merrill could make out the details of her old leather bag (a gift from Master Ilen) and the tattered green blanket she usually kept within. Spread out on the earth, awaiting her. Even her staff lay propped to the back, she realized belatedly. She moved to it nervously, uncomfortable with how vulnerable she had been. How vulnerable she was. With this human and durgen'len you only just met today.
She sat, heavily, dropping her face into her hands. She realized suddenly the implications of her spread blanket, of her place prepared. "Varric… Varric set this for me?"
Mallet tossed another string into his mouth. He looked even stranger in the firelight, the scars that marred his face seeming to consume the shadows cast by the dim light. He did not look to her, his gaze lingering on dancing flames as he continued to pull strings from the odd lump in his hands. "Aye," he answered simply.
She too looked into the fire, wondering just what it was this human saw in it. The human with the strange name, strange face, strange string. She had seen him fight the shade on the mountain top, had seen the speed at which he had reacted to avoid its blade, and yet she found herself unafraid at that moment. Unlike earlier, when she had first seen the strange humans. Perhaps even then she hadn't felt afraid of this man, marked and scarred – his face resembles my now marked wrists and hands, she realized idly.
Merrill thought back to that afternoon, at what she had felt from each stranger in turn – she felt drawn to Hawke, initial fear then a strange gratitude from Carver after had defended her, a liking that had grown towards Varric. The durgen'len smiled so widely, spoke so grandly, and called her a daisy. Aveline intimidated her, but Merrill did not feel threatened by her.
Of the group, Mallet was different. She did not know what to think about him. What to feel. Even when he had spoken, however briefly, with them to Asha'bellanar – he'd felt almost a disconcerting void to her. A complete unknown – except that Asha'bellanar had cursed him when he'd spoken, called him a dead man, even while she had been kind to Merrill.
It was at that moment that her first emotion arose towards the scarred human – curiosity. It was a far cry from the all-encompassing despair she had been at first hiding from, then wallowing in. She seized upon the curiosity, desperate to chase the despair away even for but a moment.
"What is that?" she asked with a hoarse voice, cursing herself for her stupidity as the question left her lips. You want to know who he is, Merrill, what to feel about him – and you ask him about his food? "What you're eating, I mean," she said to his questioning look. Silly, stupid Merrill.
"Rat jerky," he answered, popping another bit into his mouth. "Stringy as all hell but surprisingly palatable. I have eaten worse on the road." He considered her for a moment before leaning back towards his pack, pulling out a thin stick resembling the one he was eating himself. He then tossed it over the fire towards her – she caught it clumsily but successfully. "You may as well get used to Lowtown fare if you are to live in Kirkwall," he counseled as she looked at the dark meat in her hands.
She put a questing finger to it, prodded it delicately. She grasped the edge between her fingernails and pulled as she had seen Mallet do and was rewarded with her own modest string. She put it in her mouth, was surprised at the flavor. Smoky. Strong.
"Do all humans eat rats?" She asked, realizing as she said it how judgmental it sounded. "Not that there's anything wrong with that I mean. It tastes… well, it doesn't taste bad," she decided. "I mean, it seems like it will be perfectly filling. Obviously, it's filling. Why else would people eat it if it wasn't? Oh, there I go again – I didn't… I… never mind."
Mallet looked at her, bemused. "Tastes of burnt shite if you don't pull it off in bits. Little bits at a time is alright. Hides the stringiness too, ironically." He put another string into his mouth, swallowing immediately. "Most humans do not eat rat. I have noticed many in Lowtown and below in Kirkwall essentially survive off the stuff, that and whatever else they can catch or afford."
His voice was strangely quiet here, even with only the sounds of crickets and their small, crackling fire between them. She put another string in her mouth, this time immediately swallowing to avoid too much of the flavor. Just a little bit of smokiness seemed alright.
"Are you not from Kirkwall, then?" She asked. "I mean, if it's alright if I ask. I don't want to be rude. I said that earlier, before. I mean, being rude, not asking where you were from. I – I'll shut up now. You can ignore me. I'm sorry."
"No," Mallet said, shaking his head. "No need to apologize. None of us are of Kirkwall save Varric. The rest of us, fereldans all."
"You're from Ferelden?" Merrill asked, sudden excitement at the connection she now realized they shared. "I spent most of my life there. Well, in the places where humans didn't live. I saw some places from a distance, though! We spent a lot of time in the east… I think we were in… South Reach?"
The man across the fire tilted his head. "I traveled that way myself a few times, before the Blight. We never encountered any Dalish, however."
She nodded at that. "We usually stayed away from humans. We traded with one or two at times, but… before, we learned to avoid your people. Not that I'm saying we needed to avoid you in particular, but… you know…"
His head dipped in response. "I understand. Humanity has not done well by the elves. I do not blame you for your caution."
"I… thank you."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Merrill got antsy. She had to fill that void, as at ease as it seemed. "Have you been in the Free Marches long? Do you like it here?"
He pulled another string off his jerky, thumbed it into his mouth. He chewed on the minuscule piece of meat idly as he stared into the fire. "Not long. A month now perhaps, maybe less. I have not been… paying much attention." He looked up at her. "Ferelden will always be my homeland. I miss it."
She pondered what he said for a moment before a thought struck her. "Why would you leave home, then? Isn't the Blight over?"
He stared at her for a long moment, unblinking. She flushed in embarrassment.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry… I'm just… I'm not good with people. Especially new people." She looked down at her hands for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. "The Clan is the only home I've ever known, and I'm leaving them too. I… wouldn't go if I didn't have to. But I do."
At that he glanced back down, back into the flames. "Circumstances have driven me from my home too. I cannot return – it is likely that I can never return." The fire flickered in his dark eyes for a long moment before he spoke again. "I understand your pain."
He looked back up at her, flashing a tight smile. "But Kirkwall, as bad as it is, is not all gloom." A wistful expression went across his face, a particularly harsh look given his scars and the shadows. "There are good people in Kirkwall, Hawke in particular. Though I… we… shall always miss our homes… it helps to have friends such as her. Or Aveline, even Varric. I did not think to find friends at all, let alone so soon into my exile."
"What about Carver?" She asked hesitantly. "He seemed so frightening at first, but he was kind to me…"
"I noticed," Mallet grunted, frowning. "He is a child in the body of a man. A kindness here and there does not change that. You should see how he treats his sister most days." He tore off a sizable chunk of the meat in his hand, then cast the rest in the fire. The fire smoldered, a small billow of smoke belching from it. The scent of burnt meat wafted from the flames for a moment. "Perhaps he will grow up. Not soon, I would wager."
That wasn't the impression Merrill had gotten from him at all, but then again, she was never particularly good at understanding people – especially today. She was just going to ask Mallet what exactly he meant about Carver being a child when they were interrupted by the return of Varric. Merrill felt ashamed to admit she had just noticed his absence: she hadn't exactly been all there before her chat with Mallet.
The biggest grin Merrill had ever seen threatened to split the durgen'len's face as he sat down upon the earth, setting his strange weapon gingerly down at his side. "Daisy. Mallet. Nice to see friendship building already. Sodding cultural exchange, right before my eyes."
Mallet grunted through his final mouthful of meat. Merrill took a tentative bite of her own, more as a defense mechanism than any actual desire to eat – and nearly spat it out. She grimaced as she chewed the foul stuff, suppressing a cough as she forced herself to swallow.
Varric barked a laugh beside her. "Mallet, you gave her Lowtown rat and didn't show her how to eat it? That's low."
Mallet shrugged. "Even properly eaten the stuff is foul. What I wouldn't give for a good stew."
Varric made a face. "I'll take string rat over stew any day. What's with you fereldans and stew? Gotta boil all the flavor away? You animals."
"While we are on the subject, did you find any game?"
"Game?" Varric asked. "I got cards, if you know diamondback – wait. Game? As in hunting? Rabbits, deer, bears – whatever?"
Mallet nodded. "I had assumed that was why you slipped off with that crossbow of yours."
Varric snorted loudly, irreverently. "I'm a city boy, through and through. I don't know how to hunt less I see a nug right in front of me. I didn't see shit. Well, except for shit. Nature's call you know."
"I wish I didn't."
"'Nature's call?'" Merrill interjected, confused. "Is that some sort of durgen'len ritual?"
"It's an everybody sort of ritual," Varric laughed. "We all gotta go sometimes, Daisy."
"Go where?" she asked, feeling foolish as even Mallet flashed a strange smile.
"He relieved himself," the human answered succinctly.
"Oh," she said, ears burning.
At that moment she was startled yet again by a voice from behind her – "Stand and deliver, ye wretches. Your money or your life." Any sort of intimidation the woman might have been going for was ruined immediately as she laughed.
Varric threw his arms up mockingly. "Oh please spare me, vile highwaywoman. Wait – Look behind you! There's a guardswoman!"
"Like that'll work on me," Hawke replied gamely, moving into their little clearing. She dropped her pack heavily beside Mallet, crouched and threw her own blanket down on the ground. "Obviously there is no one behind me."
Merrill swiveled to see Carver and Aveline marching into the clearing – Carver looking much better than he had when they'd parted ways earlier. Aveline seemed much the same – standing tall and exuding strength.
Carver met her eyes and she smiled shyly, feeling emboldened by her conversation with Mallet even as she ignored his characterization of Carver. He might seem scary, but he stood up for me. He can't be as Mallet says.
His reaction surprised her. Carver smiled bashfully back, blushing. Nonetheless he moved up beside her, set his own blanket down and sat heavily upon it.
Aveline took one look at the fire, then glanced back at the surrounding trees. "I'll keep watch. Wouldn't want any surprises out here."
Hawke waved her off. "Good on you, Aveline. I'll take over a bit later."
At that the stern woman nodded and moved out of sight, disappearing into the shadows.
Merrill was distracted from this development by the man beside her – Carver was looking at her, still smiling. "You're looking much better."
She dipped her head, embarrassed but not quite sure why. "So are you. Looking better, I mean. Not that you looked bad. Just that you were rather pale after that shade threw you so hard."
Carver bristled at that, but it was Varric who spoke up. "Oh don't worry Junior, it was a good shot. I mean, that shade thing was doing the shooting, and you were kind of the bolt… but hey, still would've brained any duster in your way. Well, unless that duster is a wall."
Carver's smiling demeanor immediately shifted. He snarled, whipping his head to the smirking durgen'len. "Varric, so bloody help me…"
"Ugh," Hawke grunted, curling her lip in disgust. "I'm too tired to deal with this shite. If you're going to kill each other, do it quietly. I myself am not so eager to undo the Keeper's good work. I'm turning in." She stood immediately, pulled her blanket several paces back from the fire and lay down. She pulled it around herself, wrapping up in a cocoon of fabric.
"I only meant to say... I'm glad you're alright. That you are all… alright." Merrill offered timidly as Carver still glared at Varric. "You have all been so kind to me."
Carver turned back to her, visibly calming down once again. "It was nothing," he replied.
"Aside from the 'slitting your wrists and commanding your blood' thing," Varric said. "You're a right daisy, Daisy. Even with that shit there was no call for your clan to hate you so much. Especially that one guy. What an ass. Good on you, Junior, for standing up for her."
For his part Mallet cast a thoughtful expression Carver's way. "It was the right thing to do," he put in quietly.
Merrill didn't take her eyes off of Carver. "It wasn't nothing," she said, then turning to look at them all. "It's been so hard – " her voice broke then with emotion, but she managed get it back with her next breath. "I've never been very good with people. Even when the clan didn't hate me… I had only two real friends. One was taken by the Blight… and the other died. I haven't… I won't… know anybody, in Kirkwall. I hope you will all visit me. It would be nice to have friends again."
"Oh sod it," Hawke barked from her cocoon. She struggled momentarily to sit herself up with no limbs. Somehow she managed it and looked straight to Merrill. "Varric's right. Just keep your magic… especially that magic under wraps in the city and you can drink with us any time. If you need coin, we usually can use a hand on the jobs we're on. Magic hands are even better."
Mallet was leaning forward now, looking at Hawke curiously.
Hawke noticed. "What?" she demanded of him.
He chuckled lowly, a tired sound. "You look like a wrapped smoke," he said, still chuckling.
"And if you were Aveline," Varric interjected, "You'd be a lit one at that."
"Oh piss off, Varric." Hawke bit back without malice, clearly amused. "You too, Martin. Gang up on the bound woman why don't you. How very sporting. I'm going to bed." She flopped unceremoniously back onto the ground.
Merrill sat confused as both Mallet and Varric snickered – even Carver smiled slightly.
"Who's Martin?" she asked.
"A right tosser," Carver said helpfully.