Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

prologue

There's a grove of ash trees in the middle of a meadow.

Merrill pauses at the edge of the treeline, examining the clearing with suspicion. It's unnervingly normal. The yellow grasses wave slightly in the breeze. Little flowers poke their heads up here and there. Merrill tries not to look at them. The poor things don't yet know that there will be no pollinating insects this summer, that they are the last generation of their species.

She glances up, instead.

The sky is not blue, but she doesn't hope for blue, not anymore. It's a sort of yellowish gray, and that's a good sign. She makes her decision, and starts wading out through the tall grass, stepping quickly and silently as only a Dalish could.

She trips over a rock three-quarters of the way there, though, because all the lessons of the clan could never overcome basic Merrillness.

“Well, I'm getting old,” she mutters to herself, lying in the mud. Stupid excuses, and not even anyone to listen to them. She stays down until she's sure she can't hear anything, until she's sure the stillness is unbroken. It's starting to get to her, that quiet. She thinks maybe she's starting to imagine ringing noises.

Another minute and she's at the grove. Her knife comes out. Well, it's not actually her own knife, the small simple blade she keeps sharp as a thorn and uses to slice new lines into her palms. This knife belonged to a Templar. She didn't kill him, just came across his body and took the large serrated blade with a heavy wooden handle. It's blunt now, from repeated use as a saw, and she really should have sharpened it before she left the tower but there's no time to indulge in self-loathing; the branches need to be cut and Merrill needs to make it back and that means speed.

She cuts the ash branches as quickly as she can without slicing off her own thumbs, but it's slow going when you keep looking over your shoulder to make sure there's nothing creeping up behind you in the distressingly open space at your back. She has to put down her stave to do it, and even though it leans against a tree trunk only a few arms-lengths away, she feels vulnerable without its steady weight against her arms.

At the third branch her arms begin to ache. She breathes in deep, savors the smell of the trees and the decomposing leaves and the sweet, musty scent of the meadow and the sharp tang of the bleeding sap and even the faint rusty metal smell of the knife. She breathes in the hot, dry summer air but she doesn't dare let her mind wander. Her arms ache and ache and she keeps going.

At last she saws through the last branch, the sap welling up a lurid spring green in the washed-out world of grays and yellows. Living wood. That's supposedly important. A sacrifice, maybe, or just an organic component to the ritual. She doesn't know. She leans her head against the ridged bark of the last ash and composes a thank-you in her head. The trees have been her friends lately. She admires the way they stand so tall and serene, surviving as all the animals fall. But she knows it's an illusion. There are few unpossessed creatures left, and soon the spirits will have to turn to trees, and the world will die.

She straps her bundle of sticks securely on her back, and picks up her stave, running her fingers over its smooth carved surface. Morrigan laughs at it, says that Merrill's Dalish magic will never be truly comfortable working through a human apostate's staff with its Circle affectations. Merrill really doesn't care what she says about it. The staff is a part of her now, like her grief and her aching bones.

The staff never goes on her back anymore. A few seconds of fumbling will spell death if she runs into anything unpleasant.

She makes her way back through the grass. The meadow doesn't seem malevolent any more. It's a gift, she realizes. A last patch of beauty before the end, to strengthen her resolve.

The woods, when she reaches them, are eerily silent and still, as they have been for weeks. The shadows are lengthening. Merrill makes her way back to the tower as fast as she can without actually being suicidally incautious. Nevertheless, she nearly stumbles into the tear that has opened up in her path in the half an hour since she has passed. She spots it just in time, not through alertness but by stumbling over a piece of black masonry. Every muscle locks up, except her neck, which she twists to look at the sky. Green sky, not spring green but green like vomit, like disease, like a Walking Bomb spell, like mold on the peaches you were planning on eating. Wrong green.

Merrill used to love the Fade. She always wanted to explore more of it.

Now she thinks she's seen far too much.

She circles around, keeping that patch of wrongness to her left until the forest is once more an undisputed brown-gray and the sky a safer soupy shade.

The sunlight is fading. Merrill grips her stave tight and walks on the balls of her feet along the soft forest floor. All her senses are alert but often that doesn't even do any good, because spirits without bodies can materialize when and where they please.

She reaches the tower and immediately sees that her efforts were useless anyway. The spirits are already massing. Merrill counts five lesser demons, rage and fear, and two terrors. Overkill- in Merrill's current state, a single terror would be more than enough. She wonders morbidly if they'll fight like dogs over who gets to possess her body.

The ruined tower lies in the center of a large cleared space. Once there was a fort here, where faithful Gray Wardens kept watch on the world. It fell into disuse and disrepair long before the civil war and the Breach and all that followed. The main body of the fort is by now just two broken lines of low walls, but the tower is more or less intact, a looming thing of weathered limestone with a green crown of vines.

Merrill glances up at the tower, then back down. She hesitates in the shelter of the treeline for another moment, but really, there is no choice. She has nowhere else to go. So Merrill whispers an unornamented prayer to Falon'Din for a quick death and makes a run for it across the clearing.

They're on her within seconds. Her blood magic is worse than useless against bodiless spirits. But though they are bloodless, they are still very much corporeal, and her earth spells are still good against them, her vines wrapping tightly around beings of ash and mud.

It isn't enough. Merrill is exhausted and her mana is depleted. The terrors break free of her vines with ease, and she's knocked to the ground. Claws skitter across her armor, and then find an opening and tear along her skin. Oh, well, Merrill manages to think over the roaring in her head. I tried my best.

A rush of air above her. The spirits go tumbling back. Merrill manages to roll over, telling the pain to shut up. Overwhelming relief. It's Morrigan, lowering a hand from her forehead. “Fool!” Morrigan is shouting, which is comfortingly familiar. “Do not just lie there," she commands. "We must retreat, quickly.”

Merrill tries to explain that she doesn't think she can stand, but the muscles in her mouth don't seem to be cooperating and her vision's starting to go black.

“Oh, really,” she hears Morrigan complain, and now there are strong hands lifting her up, and the fire of healing magic burning through her veins. Her senses return and she staggers forward into the relative safety offered by the tower walls. She lets herself sag until she's sitting on the smooth stone steps. Morrigan bars the door and closes the gap in the warding glyph. It won't keep them out for long.

“Leave the staff. You shall not need it if we succeed, and should we fail it will not matter in any case. We don't have time for foolishness.”

Good-bye, Malcolm's Honor. It's horrible seeing it lying in the dirt like a plowshare. No point. No time.

Up again. No time. They sprint, taking the well-worn steps two at a time.

“Did you collect all of the ingredients?”

“Yes, I did,” Merrill says with breath she can't really afford to spare, air whistling through her lungs, leaving a sharp pain in its wake. “Are you ready?”

“As I shall ever be,” comes the reply from ahead. Doesn't she ever get tired? Merrill would sigh but it'd be a waste of breath.

Round and around the tower they go. Like a funnel. An upside-down whirlpool. Merrill tries not to listen to the howling outside. And then they are at the top. She skids to a stop, almost running into Morrigan.

The small tower room is stuffed with various supplies three layers deep, but nevertheless the space is completely dominated by the Eluvian. It stands there, complete, shining. The bane of her youth, the burden of her middle age, and now perhaps it will finally fulfill its intended role and serve as her salvation.

“I certainly hope you are ready,” Morrigan says, “for if you are not, 'tis far too late to do anything about it.”

“I know,” Merrill replies, the pounding in her chest settling down. “And I am ready.” She speaks as much to convince herself as Morrigan. Her heart is still going too fast. She isn't as young as she used to be.

Not that forty is old. From some perspectives, forty is young. Too young to die, anyway.

She unstraps the sticks from her back and gingerly places them in a triangular pattern on the fire, which starts to smoke unpleasantly. Then she takes the vervain from her bag and gives it to Morrigan, who tears off the leaves and scatters them over the sigils painted in front of the mirror. The paint is a composite pigment made of blood and lamp oil, and it's drying fast, caking and flaking on the flagstones. Still, it's wet enough for the vervain to stick.

“I hope this works,” Merrill says. The howling has intensified, and it sounds closer.

“As do I. But I believe I have the Eluvian calibrated correctly.”

Merrill looks at the woman who has been her only companion for the last five months. Morrigan was sarcastic and languid, when Merrill first met her, magical advisor to the Empress with a mysterious long smile. She's still sarcastic, but her sharp face is hollow and stained with dirt, and there are fine creases in her skin. Her edges are more jagged. Her gold eyes blaze with anxiety and determination. Merrill feels an upwelling of affection.

She takes Morrigan's chill, nailbitten hand. The witch of the wilds makes an aborted flinch.

“No matter what happens,” Merrill tells her, “I'll always remember you.”

Morrigan smiles, and for a moment it's the old smile, sly and full of secret laughter. “Of course you shall. It's a Keeper's job to remember.” Then her face snaps back into coldness. “We are wasting time.”

Merrill nods. She takes a deep breath and steps up to the glass.

What sounds like a million fists begin to hammer on the door. Merrill glances back at it. The wood is warping. It's sickening to watch.

Cool hands grab her face and turn her back towards the mirror. “Focus,” Morrigan instructs. She shoves a grubby sheet of paper in front of Merrill's eyes.

Merrill glances over it, and freezes. “What is this,” she says.

“'Tis the list. You've seen it many times before.”

“I've seen the first three things! This one has four! What is that last one? You can't just spring this on me at the last moment-”

“I can and I have,” the witch interrupts, shouting to be heard over the din from the door. “This way you do not have time to argue. Listen to me, Keeper. Remember the list. Change only those four things, and nothing else. The more changes, the less predictable an outcome. History will try to snap back and you must stop it, understand?”

The door shatters, splinters flying everywhere. Merrill feels a a blow that knocks her back and strange white-hot pain. She looks down to see a three-foot splinter shoved through her body like a skewer. She stumbles.

Morrigan pushes her into the mirror.

Everything vanishes.

She is in a place of unbelievable coldness, and somehow she is looking at someone else's face. Her own face, she realizes, but different. Twenty years younger. Young Merrill stares at her in horror, mouth opening in a soundless scream. And then they pass each other. Merrill's not sure how she knows they are passing, as there is no indication of movement in the void, but know it she does. Oh dear, she thinks guiltily. She wonders if the girl is headed for the body Merrill has just left. If so, she's in for a very nasty surprise. It seems unpardonably rude, to leave someone a body in such bad condition, but there's nothing to be done about it now.

The coldness is now so great she imagines she can feel her cells freezing. She will arrive at the other end an elvhen popsicle.

It gets colder. Far more cold than she could possibly have imagined before stepping through this portal. She had no idea this kind of coldness existed, even n the far reaches of the void.

And then Merrill falls out of the mirror, and lands on hard cool stone.

Chapter Text

ACT ONE – THE BLIGHT

chapter one: origin

A breath. Cool, dank air. There is wet moss growing on the stone beneath her. Incredible pain in her stomach, but she manages to touch it with one hand and there is no wound, no splinter, the skin feels smooth under thin leather.

Someone's calling her name. It's all too much. She breaths out.

Darkness. Cool, comforting darkness, devoid of dreams or pain. Merrill surfaces reluctantly, slowly registering that she is on a pallet and everywhere there is green light. Not the sick green of the Fade, but a warm, lively, joyous green of spring and life and renewal.

Two faces swim into focus, and she knows they are dear and familiar faces, but she can't remember their names.

“Morrigan?” she tries. “Hawke?”

The faces are alarmed. She's gotten it wrong. That should probably be upsetting, but right now she's too exhausted to spare any energy on emotion.

She's tired. She slips back into darkness.

The next time she wakes, she spends some unknown period of time watching the branches above her rustle and sway. The green leaves make a lattice between her and the blue, blue sky. They remind her of laced fingers.

“Merrill,” someone says.

She turns her head. This time, the face matches a name.

“Mahariel,” she whispers. Her throat is very dry, and it feels like her abdomen is on fire where she was wounded in the future.

“Drink this,” her long dead friend says, as though reading her mind. Merrill reaches up a shaky hand and takes the wooden cup. Mahariel helps her to lever herself up until she's in enough of a sitting position to swallow. Merrill pauses, her lips on the rim of the cup, and sniffs. The smell bypasses her brain and shoots straight to her memory. Marethari always made the best tea.

She drinks, and tastes ginger and canavaris, and nights lying awake with the stomach flu, Marethari's soft voice distracting her with tales of Arlathan, lined hands making her tea and smoothing her hair. The drink is sweet; the memories, bitter.

The pain recedes a bit. She puts the cup down. “It worked,” she whispers.

Mahariel frowns. “What worked?”

It worked. Merrill breathes in.

Summers in Ferelden are not hot and dry. The air here always has a taste of cold crispness even on the longest of days. She smells pine and mud. She listens, and hears the wittering of birds in the trees and bushes, hears the rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth, and slightly farther away, the sounds of the clan. Someone's scraping hair from a skin, someone's cooking, someone's telling a story. She can hear children running and laughing. Her hand flattens against the soft fur beneath her, fingers luxuriating in the texture.

It's been twenty years, and suddenly, she's home.

Her stomach hurts.

“Oh no, why are you crying?”

Merrill feels her drooping eyelids fly open. “Mahariel!” It's her own voice, shouting. She stares into the puzzled eyes of a young elf (oh, so young) who doesn't yet realize she has days to live.

“What? Merrill, you're acting very strange. I mean, you were the one lecturing me about how the mirror was oh so dangerous and we should stay away, and then as soon as we get to the ruins you start babbling about seeing something in the glass and you go and throw yourself into it. The Keeper was saying we're very, very lucky you came back after a second. What were you thinking?”

Merrill stares at her own hands. The skin is so smooth, uncalloused, unscarred. She is nineteen years old, and today is the day she first found the Eluvian. Morrigan's magic worked perfectly. Of course it did, it's Morrigan's magic. She was silly to ever doubt it.

She can hear Mahariel's breath. Twenty years. She'd started to forget. Bright eyes, clever hands, leather armor as green as the forest. And now, she thinks, you decide. Here and now. Do you let history take its course? Or do you do your very best to save a life?

That's not a choice at all. Morrigan must have known that.

“Mahariel,” she says, “you're very sick. The mirror infected you like it did Tamlen.” She looks up, holds the girl's gaze. “It's the darkspawn taint.”

The fingers on both hands work their way deeper into the fur.

“Darkspawn?” Mahariel's eyes narrow. “How do you know?”

Merrill breathes in and out. “I had a vision,” she says.

“A what?”

Soft, slow footsteps. A shadow falls over Merrill. She looks up.

“I am glad to see you awake, da'len. You had us worried.”

She isn't ready. Rewind, please. Go back to the cave, let her try it again, give her some time to get used to the idea that here-

here is Keeper Marethari, tiny, delicate, beautiful, soft skin lined with frowns, the sun behind her lighting up the edges of her hair like a glowing crown.

She can't do this. Whatever possessed her to think she could do this? Maybe another pride demon.

Cool hands take her chin in a viselike grip. Marethari stares at her. “Now, perhaps, you can explain why you felt it necessary to do exactly what I told you not to? Why you ignored all your training and common sense?”

She can't speak. She can't think. Her hands push against the ground beneath the fur, thump thump thump.

Marethari lets go of her face in order to catch her hands and with horribly gentle strength pin them flat on the fur. “Mahariel,” she says. “Leave us now, please. This is Keeper business.”

Merrill turns her head to watch Mahariel glance back and forth between them. “Yes, Keeper,” she says after a moment, and jumps to her feet so smooth and effortless that Merrill somehow finds room in her clanging head for ancient envy. “But can I talk to you soon about Tamlen-”

“Yes, child, of course,” Marethari says, and probably only Merrill would have heard the impatience in that soft voice. “Soon. But now you must go.”

“Right,” Mahariel says, and fades away, becomes just another part of the sound of the camp.

“Keeper,” Merrill says, and because she does have a few hard-learned tricks now she didn't know at nineteen, she modulates her tone to what Marethari will probably consider respectful, even if the words themselves are not. “The mirror has been tainted by darkspawn. It's infected Mahariel and Tamlen.”

Marethari blinks, and Merrill realizes with amazement that she can see the thoughts moving. The truth is too horrifying. If Mahariel is infected by the taint there's nothing Marethari can do to save her. This is unacceptable. Therefore, Merrill is wrong.

“What makes you say that, da'len? There have been no darkspawn in this forest for centuries.”

Her stomach throbs and she wants to rub it, but Marethari's still holding her hands. “A blight has begun, Keeper. I saw it. When I went into the mirror, I had a vision.”

The frown deepens. “Oh, da'len,” the Keeper says softly. She finally lets go, sits back looking sorrowful.

“What?” Merrill snaps, and then curses herself. Forty years old and she's still letting Marethari get to her. Anger will not help. Anger will be the opposite of helpful. She rubs her stomach, and becomes aware that she is wearing her old robes, soft green leather and fading gold paint. She's never understood why Marethari frowned upon elaborate staves because they'd make Merrill “think too highly of herself”, but the robes were always highly decorated, relics passed down from the Keepers before her, so old the leather was soft as baby's skin. She'd made her own clothing on Sundermount, traded her faded robes for shemlen chainmail and cut the toes out of her boots. She'd worn that outfit for years, washing it every two days in the big tub Orana filled with kettles from the fire every morning after breakfast. She thinks maybe she left it at Weishhaupt. And then the place was overrun and burned.

“Look at me,” Keeper Marethari commands.

She does. It's hard, keeping herself focused on a face. It always has been. Some things have gotten easier with time, but not that.

“That mirror is evil,” Marethari explains with a great show of patience. “If it showed you anything, it was only to mislead you for its own purposes.”

Merrill breathes. “You have no way of knowing that,” she says, as evenly as she can manage.

“What is the alternative? That I believe you were given a vision, something that happens less often than the birth of red halla? Let us put aside this foolishness and-”

“Keeper,” Merrill says- not shouting, just, talking loudly okay- “Mahariel is infected, and she is going to die unless you let me save her.” She realizes with despair that she is crying, huge tears dripping down her nose, which is getting clogged. A paragon of dignity, that's her.

But this is so stupid. Mahariel is going to die, needlessly, because of the personal issues of her clan's mages.

Marethari is silent.

“Please, Keeper,” Merrill begs. “I know I've been a- frustrating student, I know I make you worry and I know you don't think I'm wise enough to be a proper First. I'm sorry I snap at you. You only worry because you love me, I know it.” She can't keep looking at Marethari's face, she drops her eyes down to her hands. “Please, if you have any respect for me, trust me just this once. The stakes are too high for us to ruin things because we don't get along. I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to make things go all right.”

Hands touch her again, on her shoulders this time. She can't do anything but sob and shake. “Da'len,” Marethari says softly. “What have I done to upset you so? I am sorry.” She repeats, “I am sorry,” even quieter.

Shaking under those soft hands, Merrill remembers. This is before the arguments, the fights, the silences. Before Sundermount, Kirkwall and Audacity. Before even the Eluvian.

To Marethari, things are fine, and it is a shock to see Merrill break down like this.

If, back then, in the past that never was, if she'd let it out early, screamed and cried instead of biting her tongue and swallowing blood, if she'd actually told her what was wrong- would- would things still have-­

She touches one of the hands on her shoulder. Maybe this can be a gift. A taste of love, poisoned long ago but not yet bitter on the tongue.

“I have to take Mahariel to the Gray Wardens,” she says. “If it's not the taint, they'll tell us, and we'll come right back.”

“And if you are not wrong?”

Merrill swallows. “There are things I have to do,” she says. “I'm so sorry, but I can't explain. If I'm right, we won't be coming back for a while.”

Marethari pulls her into a hug. Merrill lets herself go limp, reminds herself not to tense at the sudden restricting arms. She lets Marethari stroke her hair. It hadn't been like this when she'd left Sundermount. Marethari hadn't even wanted to look at her, then.

“I do not want you to go,” Marethari murmured.

“But you'll let me?”

A sigh. “I cannot keep you prisoner, little one.”

She's released. They both clamber to their feet. Merrill is dizzy. She's not sure if it's a physical effect or just shock at the sudden increase in light and sound.

“There is something more I have to ask of you,” she says.

Marethari looks at her.

“There is a blight coming. It'll be obvious soon. You'll leave for the Free Marches. When you get there, please, don't go anywhere near Kirkwall.”

The Keeper blinks. “Part of your vision?”

“Yes,” Merrill says. “Please. Please trust me. I wouldn't ask if it weren't important.”

She shakes her head. “I don't understand any of this. But...” She looks bewildered, and Merrill feels guilty for it. “I find I do trust you.”

Impulsively, Merrill hugs her again. It's different, when she's the one initiating it. Marethari makes a soft, pleased sound. Merrill wonders how long it's been since she's hugged her teacher.

It's only then that she realizes she may have made a mistake. She doesn't want Marethari anywhere near Sundermount and Audacity, but the Dalish were a large influence on the city during their time there. She doesn't know how many things she's changing. Without Marethari, Feynriel might die, or become an abomination, or be made Tranquil.

I'll deal with that when it gets here, she thinks. She's old enough now to admit to herself that she is selfish. Saving Marethari is far more important to her than saving Feynriel. It's horrible and she hates it but it is what it is. So she keeps her mouth closed and her tongue still, just gives Marethari one last painful little smile.

Then she stands, and feels a sudden unexpected surge of joy. She's young again. No aching bones, no old scars to pain her in bad weather, and the energy is incredible.

Perhaps she really is strong enough to do this.

She finds Mahariel with the warriors, where they're practicing their archery in a little hollow. Walking through the camp is surreal. She looks at the faces and they seem hollow, like their skin is transparent and she can see their skulls, only what she's really seeing is how their bodies lay so still on the ground after Hawke killed them.

Some of them try to talk to her and she turns away from them, terrified.

“Oh, hello Merrill,” Mahariel says. She's sweating and a bit out of breath just from ten minutes' light practice, which isn't a good sign. Merrill shudders. Mahariel's death was such a drawn-out awful ordeal. The last of Marethari's hair went white that week. “Finished being told off then?”

“The Keeper agrees with me,” Merrill says. “You've been infected.” She twists her fingers together. “She wants me to take you to the Gray Wardens,” Merrill lies. “The only cure we know of is to become one of them.”

Mahariel stares at her.

“You're joking.”

Merrill presses her lips together and shakes her head.

“This isn't funny, Merrill,” Mahariel shouts, voice rising on Merrill's name.

“I'm so, so sorry,” Merrill says, and it isn't enough, nothing's enough. “Abelas, lethallan.”

She's still staring. “I can't leave,” she says, “I have to find Tamlen. If I'm really infected then so is he!”

“Lethallan...” She's not used to this much emotion, after a year of numbness. “Even if Tamlen's still alive, he'd never make it to the Wardens in time. It took him much more strongly than it took you.”

She watches as the hunter's face changes, lets her stumble unsteadily towards the trees. She's smart enough not to leave camp, and surely Merrill can allow her a few minutes to grieve.

Merrill's remembering more now. She wasn't actually close friends with either of them. They were the same age as her and so they'd been thrown together often, but the young hunters somewhat resented the stranger from an unfamiliar clan who never had to share in the day to day work and seemed to monopolize their Keeper's attention. Maybe they'd been more like squabbling siblings than true friends. She has no personal experience on the subject, but Hawke's relationship with Carver always seemed a bit too familiar.

You can't grow up with someone without being close, though. Tamlen's disappearance and Mahariel's tortuous death had been horrible.

She has to at least give Mahariel a chance.

Chapter Text

It's a very long journey from Lake Calenhad to Ostagar. The stone of the Imperial Highway makes for hard riding. Neria has never been on a horse before. She'd never seen a horse before this trip. She's still not sure what to make of them. She does know that her ass is very sore. At least the discomfort, and all the new sights and sounds and smells, effectively prevent her from thinking very much.

After a week the woods become thicker and darker and it starts getting colder as well. Duncan calls a halt right after the road turns south. They light a fire and get Duncan's small tent up quickly. Five minutes after they finish, the sun dips below the horizon.

Neria shivers for a while before she finally falls asleep.

In dreams the Fade is nowhere near as sharp and clear as it was during her lyrium-assisted Harrowing. It's more an amorphous green haze. Tonight she seems blessedly alone, but still she looks around warily, wrapping thought-arms around her dream-self. Everything is unusually quiet. By now she'd expect at least one demon appearing in the form of Jowan, or maybe her mother. But there's nothing.

“Oh! Hello!”

Neria's heart thuds, and she spins around. There's an unclear small shape climbing down from a hill. It looks a lot like a female elf.

“I'm really not in the mood for temptation tonight,” she says, folding her arms.

“Oh,” the figure says. “Oh, no, I'm not a spirit. I'm a mage.”

“Really,” Neria drawls. “Are you lost? Are you a poor, sad thing, cruelly betrayed, needing a little favor from a gullible young apprentice too wet behind the ears to think properly?”

The thing rubs its head. “Oh dear. No, look, I'm not really here. Like you, I'm asleep. A little bit down the road from you, I think. Now that I've found you, I'll introduce myself properly in the morning. I'm Merrill, by the way,” it says, finally taking a breath.

Neria stares, intrigued and confused despite herself. “If I accept that you're telling the truth- you can go into other people's dreams? No one ever said anything about that at the Circle.”

“Well, they wouldn't,” Merrill says, twisting its hands. “And most people can't without proper training. I spent some time with a somniari, a dreamer as the People call them. He could find anyone in the Beyond, even non-mages, and even control their minds if he wanted to. I can't,” the spirit-person-something assures Neria hurriedly.

Would a demon really be that awkward? Yes, Neria thinks grimly, they would. Mouse had his quirks too. The clever ones are good at being personable.

But if Merrill is telling the truth, well, the words are interesting. What Merrill's doing doesn't sound like blood magic, but it isn't taught in the Circle either. Why? Because it's way too close to “ruling over man”, of course.

“Why were you looking for me?” she asks.

“Really I was looking for anyone,” Merrill says. “My companion and I are easy prey on our own. I was hoping to find people to travel with. It's just really lucky you happened to be a mage.”

That's a lie, Neria's sure of it. For one thing, she can't see an elven mage- almost certainly an apostate- powerful enough to casually traverse the Fade as easy prey for anything. For another, Merrill is a really bad liar. Nobody at the Circle was that bad at lying. Everyone got a lot of practice, there.

“You know where I am in the real world?”

“Oh yes. It's pretty much the same direction as I took in the Beyond to get here.”

“The Beyond is the Fade?”

“Yes, sorry. That's what the Dalish call it.”

The Dalish. The People. Strange magics. “Are you Dalish?”

“Yes- well- sort of.”

“Sort of.” Neria pulls her arms tighter. All this talking's pretty exhausting. But- a Dalish mage?

“I can see you're tired, so, I'll see you in the morning, all right?”

Neria nods uncertainly.

Merrill vanishes, not suddenly, more like the morning mist over Lake Calenhad dissipating in a stiff breeze. The Fade is blessedly empty. Neria curls up against the edge of her little hollow and enjoys the nothingness.

In the morning Neria's muscles ache but her mind is tumbling. Today she'll see if it really is true, if a Dalish witch came to speak with her in dreams.

Neria's father used to tell her bedtime stories about the Dalish. She thinks she remembers her parents talking about an Alienage girl who ran off to join a traveling clan when it passed by Denerim. The proud nomadic elves are mentioned in many of the books in the Circle library, and a couple even have firsthand accounts of encounters with them. She snorts a bit, remembering Brother Genetivi's chapter on vallaslin. That bit had been bookmarked and passed around by a lot of the elven apprentices at the Tower. Laughter in your free time helped you bear minor indignities during classes in silence.

She'd entertained fantasies of escaping the Tower and running to the Dalish, who'd protect her despite her magic and teach her how to be proud of who she was.

She was always so sure she would find a way to escape one day. She'd made a thousand plans. None of them included a Gray Warden commander and a promise chaining her to a lifetime of danger and servitude.

Neria thinks as she packs up the tent the way Duncan has painstakingly taught her. She's indebted to Duncan. He stood up for her, and that means a great deal. And the vague picture she's gathered of life as a Warden sounds infinitely better than a future holding only the Tower, seventy years of guilt and fear and caged cramped frustration. As a Warden she'll travel all over Ferelden, maybe even to other countries, and she'll be able to talk to interesting people, and they might even all be like Duncan, willing to be friendly to someone who's that horrible intersection of elf and mage.

But there will still be restrictions on her movements and actions, and orders, probably even more serious than the rules of the Tower, and there will be a great deal of danger. Military life does not sound appealing. What she's heard of Gray Wardens and “sacrifice” sounds even less enjoyable.

On the other hand, she heard what Duncan said to Irving about a Blight. If it really is a Blight, she might as well help save the world, since that's a category which includes her. If she stays until the end of the Blight, she'll have fulfilled her obligation to Duncan. Gray Wardens probably go to Denerim sometimes. She can find her phylactery and then...

And then look for Jowan, her thoughts continue, and she stops them dead. She's avoided thinking about Jowan so far, she can do it for a little longer.

Until after she's initiated, at least.

They're barely five minutes down the road before Duncan's horse stops. Neria cranes around her horse's huge neck and looks down at two elves. The taller one wears beautifully worked green leather armor, made of elegant criss-crossing strips. There's a bow on her back that's almost as long as her. She's sweating despite the cold air, and leaning just noticeably on her companion, a very small elf wearing robes that glimmer through a coat of grime and... she's carrying a staff. Possibly a walking-stick, it looks more like a branch than a weapon, but possibly... not.

Both have dark tattoos curling over their faces.

“Andaran atish'an, Gray Warden!” calls the smaller one, and Neria recognizes the voice of her nighttime visitor. Well, what do you know, she'd been telling the truth after all.

“Andaran atish'an, ma falon,” Duncan rumbles. “Well met.”

The elf blinks. “Not many humans know the language of the people,” she says uncertainly.

Duncan chuckles. He dismounts in a fluid motion that belies the massive bulk of his armor. “A few words only, my friend. What brings two Dalish out in the open before strangers?”

“We are traveling to Ostagar,” Merrill says. “My companion wishes to join the Gray Wardens.”

“Does she indeed?”

Neria pushes a knee into her horse's side until the beast slowly shuffles to the left and Neria has a better view of the elves. The archer is staring up at them, and if there's one expression Neria's learned to interpret, it's fear and mistrust.

Duncan looks at the woman, her shaking legs and bloodless face. “Volunteers to the Wardens often undergo many trials to prove themselves and their skills,” he says mildly, face expressionless.

Merrill's eyebrows draw together and she quivers with anger. “Well obviously she isn't in any state right now to perform for you, but I swear on the honor of my clan that she's the best archer we've had in generations, even our chief hunter says so-”

Duncan shakes his head. “I am afraid your word is not enough. It's clear you are aware of the Taint and are desperate enough to say anything to save your friend.”

The Dalish mage is now enraged enough Neria worries she might throw a fireball at Duncan. Her mouth works for a few seconds before she says, “Then what will satisfy you?”

“If you can demonstrate your skills,” Duncan says, “I will welcome you both into our order.”

Merrill's eyes widen.

“I'd be happy to join you in defeating this Blight,” she says at last.

“That isn't enough,” Duncan says. “The Circle has already loaned me several mages for that purpose. I've heard of the skill of the Dalish Keepers. The Wardens would be greatly strengthened by your permanent recruitment.”

“I'm not a mage,” Merrill says. Neria opens her mouth, and shuts it.

“Let us not play games,” is Duncan's only response to that.

Neria frowns down at her boots. She's grateful to Duncan for saving her from the Templars, for being the first adult human who's ever really shown compassion to her, but this is a cruel trick he's playing on the Dalish travelers.

“I might die in the Joining,” Merrill says, a last ditch attempt at an out.

“I know,” Duncan replies, “and I wonder how you know about that. In any case, it's a risk I'm willing to take.”

A long pause, and then:

“If that's what it takes.”

Neria looks up.

Merrill turns on one heel, looking towards the forest. She glares at a particular tree. Neria can't say what it is, seeing as she's only recently started seeing trees close up. Merrill creases her forehead, and the tree explodes in a shower of deadly woodchips. Neria's fingers clench in her horse's mane and she tries to duck down against its neck, but the splinters hit an invisible wall an inch from Duncan's face and drop harmlessly to the dusty road.

“Satisfied?” she asks Duncan.

“Entirely,” Duncan says. “Would your companion like to ride? Servana is a gentle beast.”

Merrill turns and converses quietly with her companion for a moment, and then the archer nods and steps forward. Duncan lifts her gently up onto the greathorse's broad back.

The archer's name is Mahariel. Neria knows this because Merrill told her. At one point she tries to ask Mahariel a question and the Dalish warrior mutters, “Don't talk to me, flat-ear.” Which makes Neria burn hot and cold with anger. But she can see the woman isn't feeling well. She slumps against Servana's mane while the rest of them walk, Duncan sweating in his armor even in the chilly southern air.

Neria leads her horse behind and tries not to obviously betray her intense interest in Merrill. It's not unrequited, she knows; they keep awkwardly making eye contact as they try to steal glances at each other. Neria wonders why a Dalish mage would be interested in a wet behind the ears Circle girl. Curiosity about Circle methods? Neria can't see it. From what she's read and heard, the Dalish take pains to stay contemptuously ignorant of all human customs. She wonders if Merrill has something nefarious in mind for her, and then she wonders if she's become excessively paranoid.

Merrill's eyes keep straying to Neria's back, but her mouth is chattering away, her dreamy, lilting voice leaving pauses for Duncan to respond. After three hours, Neria knows Duncan's mother's name, every post he's been stationed at since he became a Gray Warden, what kind of polish he uses to keep his armor shiny and a whole host of other irrelevancies she really doesn't need rattling around in her head.

Though curiously, she doesn't know much more about Merrill than she did at the start. She knows Merrill likes dogs, and prefers hot weather to cold, and dislikes Fereldan cooking, but she hasn't actually learned anything personal about her. That doesn't necessarily mean anything. Neria wouldn't want to talk about herself either, and she's got nothing to hide. But there's something false about Merrill's cheerful natter.

She pulls her cloak tighter against the weight of Merrill's stare. She'll have to remember to be wary. She doesn't trust her new friend one inch.

Chapter Text

 any continuity mistakes are because i was too lazy to replay ostagar before writing this..

Ostagar is impressive.

Merrill has stood at the gates of Kirkwall staring up at the endless white wall of the gallows. She has gazed upon the great waterfalls of Redcliff. She has been rendered speechless by the Emerald Graves.

Ostagar is still really, really impressive.

Neria seems to be in a state of shock. It must be quite hard for her, Merrill realizes, ripped from the tiny world that's been her life for so long and thrown immediately into grand vistas and great armies. Merrill finds herself feeling protective of her. Protective of the Hero of Ferelden. It seems absurd. But she likes Neria the person. The girl is very quiet, but she spends her valuable stock of words on questions for Merrill, about magic, about the Dalish, about the Beyond. Merrill answers the questions carefully and wonders how in Andruil's name this reclusive elf is going to transform into the Dragon Age's greatest hero, the leader of five armies.

She thinks of Morrigan's list. She doesn't have it physically, but the words are burned into her mind; she can see them even with her eyes open, in Morrigan's spidery left-handed slanted scrawl.

Item one: prevent the Warden from desecrating the Sacred Ashes of Andraste.

She looks at Neria. The elf is trying to hide behind the hood of her cloak. Merrill can't imagine her killing darkspawn, let alone destroying the most sacred relic of the most powerful religion in Thedas.

Duncan leads the horses across the bridge, Mahariel still riding the large gelding, Neria and Merrill walking behind. There are holes in the ancient parapet, and Merrill can gaze down maybe five thousand feet to the wild lands below. The air smells of snow and pine. The mountains rise up to the sky on all sides.

She's not expecting the towering man in very shiny golden armor.

It's beautiful armor, she thinks, but in a battle it must shine terribly and be a bit of a target for archers. Not really smart armor to give to a warrior king.

“Ho, Duncan!” he calls, and his voice rings out through the crisp mountain air, and 'ring' really is a good word for the way the phrase sounds as golden as his armor.

Merrill helps Mahariel down from the horse. She's worse today, tired and feverish. Merrill has to swallow down her guilt. They shouldn't have waited so long for Duncan and the Hero. They should have just headed to Ostagar on their own. But she didn't know the way, not beyond her memories of the maps Morrigan had shown her, and without a horse Mahariel might not have made it, and they might have been turned away- no use second-guessing things now.

They finish walking the last few feet to the man in golden armor. Merrill stares up, and up. He does look a lot like the King she knows. He's certainly very kingly.

Merrill feels her face warm in the way that means she's blushing, and becomes very irritated with herself.

His eyes widen. “Three new recruits? Well done, Duncan!” 

Duncan bows, an action that takes quite a while in such a tall human. When he straightens up, he says, “We met these two on the road, your majesty.” His tone has suddenly changed from the amused, aloof man who joked with her on the road. She thinks he's much more respectful and affectionate. The difference between a warrior on the road with three untrusted strangers and the warrior at camp, speaking to his lord. “They are Dalish elves, and mighty warriors.”

King Cailan grins. “Dalish warriors!” he exclaims. “How exciting. It's a pleasure to meet you, my friends.”

Mahariel stirs, and Merrill just knows she's about to say something about her respect for shemlen kings or rather her lack thereof. She stomps on Mahariel's foot. “Ow!” Mahariel whispers in her ear. “By the Dread Wolf, Merrill!”

Merrill plasters a smile across her face. “The honor is ours, your royalness,” she says brightly.

“Mahariel,” Duncan says, looking like he's very much trying not to laugh, “you need the attention of a healer. There are many in the camp by the Circle's tents. Come with me, I'll show you the way.”

“I'll come along,” Merrill says.

Duncan smiles at her. “No, I would like for you two mages to find our junior Warden. He'll tell you what you need to know for now. I believe he's up the hill there.”

Merrill's going to protest, but then the king smiles at her, and she completely loses her train of thought. She shakes her head. For heaven's sake, Merrill, she can imagine Hawke saying, you're on a mission to save the world and prevent the deaths of everyone you love, and you're getting distracted by a pretty face? Really? For shame. We can't have you acting like me.

It's the first time in a while that thoughts of Hawke have made her want to laugh. She suddenly wishes Hawke were here, with an appalling intensity she is utterly unprepared for. Hawke would be rude to everyone, and get them both in terrible trouble, but Merrill wouldn't mind one bit, if it meant having a comfortingly tall human mage by her side, Hawke spinning her father's staff in one long brown hand, winking at Merrill in that way that always made her want to burst into giggles.

But Hawke's not here, and Merrill has to be sensible and avoid picking fights with the Warden Commander in front of his enthusiastic puppy of a patron. She sighs, resettles her pack on her shoulders, and focuses on walking towards the hill without tripping or wandering.

Merrill feels her spirits lift as she hikes up the slope, Neria trailing behind. The long afternoon feels to her the way biting into a crisp autumn apple tastes. Golden light glows on every surface. At the top of the hill she pauses and turns to look out at the view. The Korcari wilds are just about visible through a thick gray bank of evening mist.

She'd visited the wilds about a year ago, accompanied by Carver Hawke. She hadn't told Morrigan where she was going. It had been a wild mad hope, her idea of looking for Asha Bellanar, or at least some useful relic of her, in the old hut deep in the Wilds. It hadn't gone well. Carver had been nervous and twitchy the whole time, the Calling wearing down his mind. They hadn't found the slightest trace of a hut, or of any habitation at all. The Chasind had vanished. Carver hadn't wanted to stick around to find out why. They'd left empty-handed after only two days. Red Templars had found them on their way back to Vigil's Keep and Carver had died cutting a path for Merrill to escape.

The memory seems unreal, now. It is unreal, she thinks. She's standing here in this aromatic pine forest gazing out at the landscape and none of it has happened yet. None of it will ever happen. After all, if she fails, she won't even meet Carver Hawke. No matter what else happens, he won't die on the edge of those fens.

She's so deep in contemplation she nearly has a heart attack when a large someone barrels into her. She barely catches her balance, taking a wobbly step backwards. The human mage doesn't stop to apologize, just continues stomping down the path.

“That was rude,” Neria mutters.

They both peer up the hill, in the direction the mage had come from. Merrill can just about see a figure standing in the middle of the Tevinter ruins. As the elves cautiously approach, the shape resolves into a muscular young man in heavy Gray Warden armor, a shield on his back and an air of irritation in his movements. There's something puzzlingly familiar about him.

“Oh, please don't tell me you're mages, too.”

Merrill bristles. “So what if we are?” Her Nevarran accent thickens, as it always does when she's angry, and she feels self-conscious in her gilded robes, which just makes her angrier.

“Well, the Mother Superior seems determined to make me deal with as many angry mages as possible,” he explains, shrugging. “Seriously, if you've come to complain about the Templars, I'd appreciate it if you saved your time and my ears. I'm getting a headache.”

Merrill snorts. “Well, you can relax, because we've no intention of doing any such thing,” she tells him. “We're new recruits. Duncan said we should talk to you. He didn't explain why.”

“Oh,” says the man. “Well then. Hello.” He waves one hand awkwardly. “I'm Alistair.”

And with that, Merrill finally places him. Alistair. Alistair Theirin.

He'd been a middle-aged man when she'd met him, golden lion's hair beginning to silver. There were deep lines of worry on his face then. There are none now. He looks young as a yearling halla.

“Well,” she says at last. “Pleased to meet you, I suppose.”

Neria mumbles something. Alistair gives them both a wry, friendly smile. It's a smile that invites them to join him in baffled amusement at the world. Merrill blinks. He has King Alistair's good-natured grin, but almost none of the charisma or self assurance she remembers. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he's mildly uncomfortable within his own skin.

There's another brief silence. This time Merrill doesn't break it with babble, just watches Neria until the girl finally speaks up. It's like a dam breaking. She lays siege to Alistair with an army of questions about life as a Warden. Merrill is happy enough to fade into the background. She wanders to the edge of the hill and tries to make out the layout of the camp through the tree canopy, wonders where the persistent unforgettable sound of mabari barking is coming from.

The bonfire provides a welcoming warmth in the gathering dark. The temperature has been dropping with alarming rapidity since the sun sank below the fog bank. The stars have yet to make an appearance, and the moon is a mere sliver of silver.

Mahariel looks leagues better. Merrill sighs in relief. She's standing in a relaxed pose next to an archer and a swordsman, both human and somewhat grimy. “This is Jory and Daveth,” she announces. Merrill wonders what it is that's happened to melt her so much that she's bothering to make friends with shemlen. Perhaps it's best not to question it.

She thinks she hears the swordsman cough “Ser Jory,” into his breastplate, but maybe it's just her imagination.

There isn't much time for mingling before Duncan appears and announces that they're all going to have to go into the Wilds and bring back five vials of darkspawn blood. At night. In the dark.

“Oh, Maker,” Merrill hears Ser Jory whisper.

No one ever told me this would be easy, Merrill reminds herself.

No one is particularly eager to leave the safety of camp to wander out into the twilight. They linger at the gates, eventually head down the narrow, winding path, and hesitate again when the ground vanishes into pools and hillocks.

“Right,” Mahariel says into the silence. “Shall we?”

They all take another glance at that gray, dismal bog. “No time like the present, I suppose,” Ser Jory offers after a second.

There's a little bit of confusion about who'll lead the way, but it soon becomes clear that Mahariel has the strongest will of the group. Alistair hangs back noncommittally, a passive observer, and Neria is completely lacking in confidence; the thief defers to everyone else, and Ser Jory is a natural follower. So they all follow Mahariel, and Merrill is proud of her as she points out tracks and trailsigns and proves the superiority of the Dalish in any wilderness. There's no way Merrill could have followed the Chasind trailsigns, but Mahariel barely hesitates.

The Tevinter architecture is sort of reassuring to Merrill, even in its ancient ruined state. It's familiar, the same pillars and arches from ruins in the Brecilian Forest, or built into the Kirkwall Gallows. She could almost imagine she's out on a picnic to the Wounded Coast with Varric and Isabela. If it wasn't for the terrible cold, that is.

The dead soldier's note gives the group some pause. To Merrill's surprise, Neria speaks up for the first time. “Look, it's the ashes, and I think I can see the hill he talks about up ahead. Let's see what happens.”

“What?” Jory asks, incredulous. “Why?”

“To find out the truth!” she insists. Her voice is louder than Merrill's ever heard it.

“And what do the rest of you think of this folly?” Jory enquires.

Daveth shrugs. Marethari grins. “Afraid, are you, shemlen?” Alistair rolls his eyes.

Merrill is as curious as Neria. “I'd like to see if it works, too.”

“The ayes have it,” Mahariel proclaims. “Let's go.”

Merrill's probably the only one who's actually expecting the ritual to work. She has too many memories of Hawke tripping over spirits and enchantments everywhere they turned in Kirkwall to doubt an old superstition. When the spirit appears, the others seem stunned, so Merrill takes the initiative. “Hello, Azeroth,” she says. “My name's Merrill, would you be up for a chat-”

The spirit's roar of fury and dive for her throat answers that question. Merrill sighs internally, and flings the thing away with a wave of raw magic. Lightning strikes him a second later, lancing from Neria's staff to crackle on the spirit's ash-formed skin. Azeroth screams in fury.

It's a shame. She would have liked to know the truth to the tale. The battle is short, in any event. They're not too shabby, this bunch. Merrill tries to hold herself back anyway, lets Neria step up to the challenge. It goes fairly smoothly. Azeroth is vanquished, his secrets with him.

Everyone's in a hurry to move on then. Merrill pauses for a moment, looking out across the marsh, remembering the sad story of the girl and the spirit. Lonely children, wise enough to be unafraid, foolish enough to think anything lasts forever.

She goes to catch up with the others, and stops, finding herself shaking. She'd gone seven days without seeing a spirit. That had been nice.

Audacity's voice hasn't been this loud in her head in years.

She needs to get a hold of herself. They'll be fighting plenty of spirits before the year is done.

They find a box that looks a likely candidate, tucked into some old Tevinter ruins. Mahariel steps forward and kneels down to open it.

Merrill isn't looking at Mahariel, she's nervously glancing around the ruins, and so she sees Morrigan first.

It's been a week since she last saw that dark, sharp face, those glittering golden eyes, and a great relief settles over her even though the thinking part of her brain knows that's illogical. This Morrigan does not know her, is not necessarily her ally. But just the sight of her, her confidence, the blackwood staff on her back humming with power, releases some of the anxiety that's been driving Merrill since she woke in the clearing.

“Well, well,” and how had Merrill forgotten that incredible self-satisfied sarcasm, “what have we here?”

Merrill can't help it. She laughs.