Work Text:
Merrill used to splash about in rivers, whenever she got the chance, but the open sea was quite another matter. She wondered if she could still swim.
Treading carefully, she waded out til the water was waist-height. Nasty-looking stones dotted the sand below, and she leaned forward into a dog-paddle.
Encouraged by her clumsy success, she opened her arms and legs and swept them in a wide arc, scything through the water like a, um… scythe. Not that Merrill had much to do with scythes - she’d only seen them in picture books about death. Like a kingfisher, then. Much nicer.
Getting out to deeper water, she let herself relax, cycling her arms and legs to stay warm and afloat. She wondered why they called it the Wounded Coast. It didn’t look wounded. It was quite pretty, really. The water was so clear. Dipping her head, she floated face-down, eyes open in the hope of seeing a starfish or anemone.
She had been floating like this for some time when she heard a tumultuous splashing. Hands grabbed her, clutching under her arms and dragging her brutally towards the shore. Templars? Bandits? She panicked, flailed her little fists, tried to let out a mind blast but was too disoriented and stressed to work up a really big one. Her assailants shouted and threw her on the sand.
"What-" she sputtered before a big hand pinched her nose and someone clamped their mouth to hers. "Mmmmm! MMMMMM!!!!" This time her mind blast worked.
She sat up to see Aveline and Isabela sprawled on the sand, legs in the air and seaweed in every crevice. “What are you doing?” she cried.
"We thought you were drowning!" yelled Isabela.
"Don’t ever do that to us again!" yelled Aveline.
Next time, Merrill vowed, she would only swim when out with Anders and Fenris. At least that way, no-one would try to “rescue” her.