XXI: The Day Began the Night Before

In the center of her Alienage hovel, Merrill sat cross-legged on the floor and pondered. She had done so often of late, nearly every night since she'd arrived in Kirkwall. Ever since she'd left her clan. Ever since the dreams…

I thought I would sleep better, leaving Sundermount. I thought…

Merrill flexed a hand, clenched a fist – willed herself to drop that train of thought.

So, she sat and pondered, staring at the center of her floor. Or, more specifically, the single shard that lay in its pouch on the floor. The grey streaked, tattered pouch that It had shown her how to weave – then imbue.

She hadn't trusted Its word, hadn't truly believed in the pouch's power. She had spent many a sleepless night terrified that it hadn't worked. That the taint would spread.

The clan did say I drove the halla away. Not directly… not to my face. But they whispered it.

Perhaps the halla sensed the blight within the shard, feared it… They feared… She shook her head again, harder, at that. No. It has worked, hasn't it? The taint is contained. They would have left long ago if it wasn't… they would not have remained so long.

It was not as if Merrill had not taken precautions before the pouch. After even. The Keeper had shown her how to slow the taint, when Carys… when Carys took ill. It was an ancient magic, from Arlathan, from the Dales – Merrill wasn't sure, and Marethari was not forthcoming at the best of times. It was a wonderous power, that spell that could even just slow the blight's corruption. Curiosity over its origins had held Merrill for so long, drove her to a near incessant prodding at Marethari to explain just where she had learned it.

The pursuit had faded when their relationship had soured… but the curiosity remained. It had hounded at Merrill, drove her desperate research into dream and lore just to identify where such a power could have come from.

That is, it hounded her until she realized the truth – it was unimportant, trivial, transient – a spell. The mirror – that was power that could be held, history that could be shown. The only thing important about the spell was that it worked. It contained the blight.

But not forever. Never forever. Otherwise… Carys would have not had to go. She would not have had to face the Blight with humans…. I would have still had my friend. It would not have all been so… so….

Merrill had confidence in Marethari's spell, yet even still she took precautions. She stored the shard far away from each camp, cleansed whatever vessel or nook she stored it in with fire. She remained alert for the taint.

Its lesson had changed that – not so much her vigilance, but her fears. They had abated even further when she understood the confining pouch, at least in part how it contained the shard.

But containment was not enough – for what Merrill planned, she needed the shard to be pure.

It had not been forthcoming – it had taken Merrill weeks on Sundermount to coax, to listen long enough for It to finally give in. Nights of sleeping – nights of dreams.

"As fire, blood cleanses." It whispered quietly, Its form pressed against Its cage. The spirit rarely took the same form twice, seeming to delight in throwing her off balance with different shapes each night. Sometimes It stood as a towering demon, mighty and terrifying. Sometimes it wore Carys face. Sometimes, It listed as formless light.

Now, It lingered in its shadowed cage, many-fingered hands gripping at rusted bars.

"The Blight can be cleansed? Purified?" Merrill asked, a pit forming in her stomach. The desolate landscape of Its prison in the Beyond always set her teeth on edge, but the idea that the Blight could be cleansed… that made her regret. "Could Ca – … could someone, could something living be cleansed with blood?"

It rasped a laugh, a cruel, mocking sound. "Nay. She could have not been spared her fate, young one."

Merrill shuddered at the apparent knowledge It had of her – knowledge she had never shared.

"Still," she pressed. "Still, the shard could be cleansed?"

It sat silent a long moment. "A living thing, never. The Piece? Perhaps."

"Could you show me?" Merrill asked, barely suppressing her nerves. "If you would, that is." Lessons in propriety.

"One hand? For it to be, there must be two." It began to drum the bars with its fingers, an irregular staccato. "Lone you slave to save the Dead. The People. Alone, this will not be – hands, palms, entwined."

Merrill considered, ensuring that she kept her distance from It. She was not quite sure what It meant – and that meant she had to be more cautious than ever.

Especially since she knew, at least in part, what It truly wanted – Its fingers beat an ever-intensifying rhythm into the bars of Its cage.

So too did she know What It was.

Merrill licked her drying lips. "You say that… well, you say that perhaps it can be done… but I don't… I don't know if it can be done. For sure, I mean. Maybe…" she tapped her fingers, against her thigh, desperately tried to clamp down her growing anxiety. Its fingers beat faster and faster against the bars.

"Maybe you can't do it." Merrill continued. "Maybe…"

Its fingers abruptly ceased drumming. The echoing silence hit Merrill like the blast of a horn. She almost, almost cowered. Almost fled at the sudden still.

How she wished she had her staff.

"I see you, little one." It spoke. "Your game is known."

She swallowed, considered if perhaps her gambit was not worth the risk after all.

It leaned forward, the shadow of Its maw twisting into what could only be a grin. "From blood it came, from blood it will depart. Consider this – " It lifted a hand from the cage, began to trace a single finger through the soil of the Beyond through the bars.

She saw. She understood, how it could be done.

"Bear favor to what was," It finished.

Merrill had remembered the lesson well upon waking, had been eager to try the weaving of blood to blood – of treating the tainted glass she held so dear. She had dared not, not when the Keeper was so near – not when she could sense, would judge Merrill's actions. She may have stopped her. Worse, she may have convinced her to stop.

Now Merrill sat, her single burning candle flickering in the darkness of night. There was no one here, no one near enough at least who could tell or disrupt what she was about to do.

She withdrew another pouch from her side, one carefully packed with earth. She sprinkled it in a circle, as It had instructed. Then Merrill shifted, knelt, and withdrew her paring knife. I must trace the circle again, she thought, in preparation. She pulled the blade to her wrist.

A sudden knock sent her into a full leap, the knife falling from fluttering hands. It clattered to the floor, even as another knock echoed. Staccato, beating – unbidden, the image of many fingers drumming rose in her mind's eye.

Someone is at the door? Part of her felt frustration at the interruption, tempered by terror of It – no, scared who it might be.

But part of her – well, part of her felt elation that someone had come to see her. Hoped that it was one of her new friends. She moved to the door and made to open it.

"Fenedhis!" She cursed quietly, turned and dashed through the dim light back to her ritual circle. Quickly, she kicked the dirt around into a more innocuous spread, turned again.

"Silly Merrill. It's dark out. You need light! Light," she muttered to herself, bending down to retrieve her candle by the battered brass holder. Fumbling, she remembered the knife as well.

Another knock. She made to the door, candle in hand, smoothed her tabard down where it had hiked up past her thighs. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door a crack.

Her meager candle flickered back at her, reflecting from a scuffed cuirass. The scarred human donning it was leaning heavily against the doorframe, his shoulders sagging.

"Martin!" she greeted, throwing the door open. The tentative smile that began to build on her abruptly died, however, as she saw him turn to look at her.

His dark eyes were bloodshot, his gaze unfocused. He did not seem to see her for a moment – he just stared at her in seeming confusion. Finally, he shook his head, then met her eyes. "Merrill?" he spoke with a question in his tone.

"Martin? Are you alright?" She asked, holding the candle closer to him. His face was pale, moist with sweat. "You don't look… well, you don't look well. I mean, not that you look bad… you do, but not in… that…"

He blinked his eyes, focused on her. "I… do not know…" he spoke slowly, painfully. "How I came to be here…"

Merrill puzzled at that. "Well, surely you must have walked, I suppose."

Martin seemed to seriously consider that, his brow furrowing. "Aye. Must have."

A breeze blew from behind him, bringing a chill and an acrid scent Merrill couldn't place. She shivered, barely suppressed the urge to cough.

"It's cold out," she said. "I mean, you would know better, you're outside after all. Unless you don't remember. It's warmer in here – not much warmer, I haven't got the firewood… or the place to burn it, really. I have a… hearth, I believe it's called? But the place where smoke leaves is blocked up. The Hahren said they would unplug it as soon as possible. Apparently, there are a lot of repairs that need…" she trailed off as Martin stared at her dumbly. "I'm rambling," she mumbled. "I'm sorry. Would you like to come in?"

He looked at her for a long moment, then glanced over her shoulder. He nodded, and she stepped back to clear the entranceway.

Before he moved, he met her eyes. "No… need to apologize."

Martin then half fell, half staggered in, nearly collapsing to the floor. He swayed, stumbled, barely caught himself.

The stench followed him, began to clog the small space of her home as Merrill realized just what it was she smelled. Durlimun. To the Dalish, it was often drunk as mavash – a semisweet substitute when clean water was scarce. Sourvun, hyn, and manise were also occasionally brewed for celebrations. Though to Merrill, manise was far more often saved and used as a basis for the occasionally potions Marethari had her mix.

She had never smelled it so pervasively before – and never emanating from a person, human or elf.

"Are you alright?" she asked again, this time without fear. This time, she felt concern.

Martin wavered, his hands hung loosely at his sides. Merrill abruptly realized he did not have his hammers – the first time she had seen him without them. He seemed small without them. Vulnerable.

His head lolled somewhat, but again he shook it, blinking, and looked to her. "I… No. Cannot sleep. Never… she is there… and when she is not…" he shuddered bodily. "I do not… know… what it is. Rain. Drums. Calling."

He sucked in a ragged breath, made to turn. "…sorry…" he muttered. "Should not… intrude."

"It's alright," Merrill replied. "I… well… I have trouble sleeping too. The dreams are quite terrible here. And the rats! I swear, they must be everywhere! I can hear them moving at times. It's quite dreadful."

Martin swiveled back to her, nodding. "Aye… bloody rats." He swayed once, and before Merrill could react, his legs buckled beneath him.

She dove forward, managed to catch his shoulders before he hit the floor face-first. With a cry she realized her mistake as his weight drove her heavily on to her knees and sent her candle flying from her hand. Instinctively she pushed the dead weight forcing her down to the side, clattering Martin heavily to the floor.

"Martin?" Merrill gasped, her hands fretting as she reached to help, then withdrew as her mind raced. She quickly turned to the sputtering candle, saw that it had luckily landed on its tin base. Turning back to Martin, she looked him up and down as she worried at what to do.

Her puzzling gaze slid over him, moved past him towards the open door. At the darkness without. With the ritual, with the dirt – with It still fresh in her thoughts – sudden panic clenched at her heart. It suddenly seemed as the darkness itself and was coming – for Martin and her both, to swallow them.

She could hear the drumming beat, just at the edge of hearing.

Merrill sprang into action, leapt up to shut the door – only for its passage to be blocked by Martin's legs. "By the Dread Wolf… I'm so sorry," she chattered as another draft chilled her to her very core. She stepped around the collapsed man, grabbing him below the arms. "I'm sorry, I… can you hear me?" She asked as she lifted him as much as she dared, grunted as she pulled at his bulk. "Please, Martin, the door - "

She nearly leapt away again as he suddenly stirred, a muffled snort sounding from him. Merrill pulled again, strained to lift and drag him from the door.

Martin turned his face to the side and coughed, not looking at her – not looking at anything, as far as she could tell. "Twas… down the glen… one Solace morn…" he sang suddenly, quietly.

"Martin?" she asked, leaning down. "Please… Can you hear me? Martin?"

He gasped as if in pain, his jaw clenched. His glazed eyes turned to regard her.

"Please. Just a little forward," she begged, her hands still under his shoulders. "Just so… the door."

His eyes seemed to focus on her for a long moment. Then, they closed, and his head dropped once more. "…a city fair…" he mumbled. "Strode I."

Merrill looked past him again, to the hungry darkness of the entryway. She had to move him. She had to close that door.

Come now Merrill. Just like lifting a stubborn halla. Except without help. She took a breath, crumpled the fear budding within her and willed it to quiet. Stooping, she grasped Martin under the legs again, squared her stance. Then, she heaved.

She nearly fell down flat as he actually lifted, moved forward a pace. Catching herself, she peered back to see Martin's feet kicking at her floor. Helping her move him forward.

"But… the Chantry bells…" Martin mumbled nonsensically, half a song, half a gasp.

Merrill pulled him along, struggled even with his stumbling assistance to drag him a few more paces forward.

"O'er Hafter's swell…" He continued as she finally lowered him down to the floor. Even as she scampered around him, made to close the door – his voice continued at a staggering pace. "Rang out through the foggy…"

She slammed the door shut, only fumbling with the latch for a half a moment before the door was blessedly shut. She sagged against it, exhausted as her heart slowed. When she had calmed enough, she looked down to Martin's still form.

"H… hello?" She asked, stepping up to him. "I'm sorry I dragged you like that. The door was open, and well, you know that. You came in through it. Or well, do you know that? You seem rather forgetful tonight." She knelt down, babbling like a fool. Stop it. Even still, she found herself unable to stop – though her stammered voice lowered to a near mutter. "That is, you remembered to come visit me. Which is nice. It is… nice, I suppose. Thank you. Martin?"

The elf reached down, timidly felt at Martin's shoulder. Leaning forward, she gave it a slight shake.

No response. Worried, she moved a hand in front of his face. Steady, yet small gusts of warm air hit her knuckles.

He was asleep.

Oh dear. What… what now? Can he just… stay there? I certainly can't move him any further. She looked down at him, half consciously reaching a questing for his head before snapping her hand away. That can't be comfortable, she thought. He's not even on a rotting plank.

She considered a moment. Then made up her mind.

Standing, she made her way to the nook that she used as a bedroom. It took hardly a moment later for her to return, blanket and straw-stuffed pillow in hand. Gingerly she knelt, lifted Martin's head, then placed the pillow underneath. Then with a quick flourish she threw the blanket overtop the armored human.

Wonderful. He looks positively snug now. Well, snug as one can be on hard floor. Would that I lived in a hallowed glade, or perhaps in a wood. On second thought maybe not a wood. Too many roots everywhere, prodding ever which way. Though, there would be less wood than in the floor.

She stood, satisfied that he was as comfortable as he could be. Wait a moment, she realized suddenly. What about me?

Even with the door shut, her house was positively chilly. Far too cold to sleep, at any rate. But I only have the one blanket. And pillow. She shivered. I can hardly sleep like this.

She hugged her arms across her chest, looked about, until her eyes once again met the ever-important pouch that she had so carelessly cast aside upon Martin's arrival.

Merrill could not do her ritual tonight. Could not steel herself again so soon for the amount of bloodletting that was required to cleanse the shard. Nor would she be willing to do such a ritual with… with one of her friends so near. For him to see…

Instead, she scooped up the pouch, leaned against the wall opposite Martin, and slid down onto her rear.

She could study it. As she had so often, now. Perhaps there was more to glean, rivulets of rain that could be worked around. Her hands rolled the shard within the pouch, felt at its grooves and edges.

She never even managed to open the pouch. Soon enough, she was asleep.

[=]

The sand crunched beneath her feet below, dry coarseness flowing between her toes. I've been here before, Merrill realized. Only I… don't remember when.

She stood still, taking a long moment to get her bearings. Empty, rolling sand stretched far in all directions, a clouded sky lingering silently overhead. The air felt… dry, sharp with energy. Crackling, as if lightning had just struck. It set her teeth on edge, an uncanny feeling she recognized almost immediately.

I know where I am. She recognized it now, the strange dreamscape that apparently represented Kirkwall's particularly dreary corner of the Beyond. It had shaped her dreams since she had arrived in the city, though the exact tenor of those dreams… I still don't remember. Usually I am better at remembering.

She sniffed at the air as a fluttering sensation formed in the pit of her stomach. It is more pleasant than I would have thought. Quite… flat. Empty. It smells rather nice here, well, compared to the Alienage. She felt shame at her own thoughts then, though there was no audience for her to insult. They do the best they can with what they are given.

She had spent some time among them now – well, not truly among them. She had not felt very sociable since her first "job" with Hawke had gone so poorly, opting instead to laying the groundwork for cleansing the shard.

Though the Hahren had visited, with his attendant – what is his name? He is so like a First to the Hahren. He attends to his needs, studies under him. Though without the magic. And the studying, I suppose. Oh, how I wish I remembered his name! She felt a sudden level of anguish at that, a sadness that she could not do her Alienage counterpart the common courtesy of remembering who he was. It is a Keeper's job to remember, she accused herself, cruelly.

A sudden clap of thunder brought her back to the present, reminded her of where she was. On the distant swirling horizon, she thought she could make out some whirling forms – perhaps spirits, come to feast on her misery. Or, perhaps worse than spirits – conjurings of her mind, projections upon the Beyond to torment her without will or purpose.

No, she closed her eyes again and clenched her fists. She inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. You must control yourself. It is dangerous to stand out.

She sat, breathed, hoped that the Beyond would shift to reflect some happier memory, of friendship or learning. She pictured Marethari's face, younger and smiling, pointing to a particularly difficult elvhen word in a tome.

Merrill's reverie was shaken this time not by thunder, but by the dripping of moisture on the back of her hand. Then, her cheek.

She opened her eyes.

Before her the sand had blackened, dried, formed into an irregular spike. Marethari's face, still smiling, now older, grinned down at her from she hung impaled.

Merrill's eyes shot open and she started, jerking her head back into the hard wood of the door where she sat.

She cradled her head in her hands as she glanced about frantically. Kirkwall. The… my house. Sunlight crept through the cracks behind her, spilling shadow over front of her. They danced in the smoldering remains of her candle, propped to her side. Merrill flexed her hand, clutched at the pouch that lay within. She immediately stowed it on her belt where it belonged.

As she calmed her racing heart, soothed her pounding head – she finally noticed the human in the room. Martin's blanketed form still lay just ahead of her, face down on her own pillow.

She pushed herself up on wobbly legs, nearly doubling over as her vision swam. Pain still pounded in her temples at her involuntary slam into the door.

It was a dream. Just a dream, Merrill thought, even as the details began to slip away. Blood spilling from the Keeper's grin.

NO. Just a dream. No deal was struck, no… just… nightmares. She shook her head to clear it, immediately regretting the action as the pain redoubled in her temples. The elf stood still a moment, smoothed down her bunched tabard, and breathed. Once. Twice.

She stepped forward, resolved to forget the whole thing – and promptly scrambled as her foot hit unexpected metal. Merrill cried out as she flailed, then finally fell forward, falling over and past the slumbering human.

Shame burnt her face as she scurried to stand and smooth herself out once again. "I'm so sorry," she began profusely. "I well, I just forgot you were lying there and, well, I didn't mean to disturb you. I'm sure you… need to sleep. You said something about that, didn't you? About sleeping? Needing sleep? Or something? And, well…" she trailed off as she noticed Martin's lack of response.

Her shame began to burn away as she realized she hadn't even shaken the man, let alone woken him.

"He-hello?" She whispered loudly, toeing at the man carefully. He didn't respond.

"Martin?" Merrill knelt down beside him, shook him softly. He was dead to the world. Merrill always lacked an aptitude for healing, try as Marethari might to instill the most important of skills upon her, but she certainly could tell that something was wrong.

No one just… kept sleeping, not when they'd been kicked (accidentally), shouted at, pushed, or cajoled. He wasn't well last night. But… the durlimum… it can be poison when there is too much. That much, I know. Could he be… no. No. He'll be alright. Hawke said that they drink this all the time. But what if he isn't?

Since the mishap in Lowtown, Martin had been by not once but twice to visit. To check if I was alright. He didn't say much, true – and he didn't stay long. But he came by.

She didn't really understand it. The last half year had gotten her so used to other's dismissal and hatred, it seemed completely foreign to have anyone care enough to actually seek her out.

True, he's rather… gruff. But they… he is my… friend.

She realized then she couldn't tell quite what was wrong. She didn't know quite how to help him.

But she knew who might know.

It was only a matter of getting there.

[=]

Aveline stood shock sure, tall at attention. Her carefully leveled gaze found the ever-familiar draconic etching of Kirkwall that adorned so many banners throughout the city, though this one was stained orange for the City Guard.

It's quite a crude symbol, she thought idly as she did her best to ignore the scrutiny now leveled upon her. I wonder, why exactly, they chose a wilding scratching over a proper dragon? What is the meaning?

Captain Jeven stood behind his desk before her, bare hands planted firmly on its surface. The greying captain did not wear the cuirass issued to so many of the guard, rather he wore a grey and orange gambeson emblazoned with the same sigil that decorated his wall.

The man leaned heavily over his desk, frowning, looked Aveline up and down – perhaps on the prowl for some flaw, some sign of mistake.

Aveline presented none. She merely continued her examination of the sigil just over the man's shoulder.

"Well, Sergeant, today's your lucky bloody day," Jeven finally rasped, the sound of sickness in his voice. That, or a hangover.

When he didn't continue, Aveline finally looked at the man. His eyes were bloodshot, heavily shadowed. The strain of responsibility, that. "Ser?" Aveline asked simply, unmoving from her position.

"I've put considerable thought and resources into the evidence you… acquired… of misconduct within the Guard," Jeven said. "Though you strayed from your post to get said evidence, my gut says it's worth following up on."

Aveline nearly spoke, nearly argued that she hadn't truly left her post – she had been on leave and had returned merely hours late. Only the soldier within her tamped her tongue.

"And so today I have a special assignment for you. You are to arrest Guardsman Arren and bring him back to the Keep for questioning. He is currently stationed in Lowtown on solo patrol, down by the Lower Docks." The Captain's frown dipped even lower as he regarded her, contempt in his gaze. "Best pass through the Red Lantern. South-west, in case you get lost."

"I know the area well enough, Ser," Aveline replied smoothly, coolly – a small bit of relief rising in her at the news. Finally. The Captain has let this lead dawdle too long already – we must root out Arren's coconspirators. "Who will accompany me on the arrest?"

The Captain's face twisted into a slight sneer. "We're stretched a bit thin at the moment. Tress and Lane are down with the shits, and there's word of some trouble brewing down in the Western. No one to spare." He glared down his nose at her. "Will that be a problem, Sergeant?"

Aveline shook her head. "You can count on me, Ser."

"Good," Jeven waved a hand at her in dismissal. "Get gone. And tell Linde to get her arse in here, right?"

Aveline saluted, turned, and strode for the door. Justice would be done today.

It was only a matter of getting there.