Work Text:
Merrill has never dreamed in images alone. It has always been something of a mess.
When she passes the Veil – closing her eyes, letting the lyrium sing – her senses no longer make sense. If she concentrates hard enough to get headaches, she can make out a physical space. Most of the time, though, she lets the ideas trip over her like fox cubs in a burrow. She navigates by a mixture of instinct and educated guess; she has found, over time, it is faster this way.
Marethari hadn’t liked it. It had made her worry, enough that she kept pushing and prodding and trying different things. Hoping that eventually something would fall into place, something inside Merrill would shift such that she could move through the Beyond in, well, the normal way.
Merrill had hoped that, too. In her head, it had been the final test. If she could learn to dream like the rest of them, she could be a good Keeper at last.
But, well. It doesn’t matter now.
The spirits know to expect her; they lurk outside her door. Clustering so hopefully, like pigeons looking for seeds.
Merrill settles herself, then sends out a cautious hello.
There is a fluttering wave of excitement, the feeling of a heartbeat thrumming in the thumb.
She responds with a memory: the scent of dead leaves after rain, cool water on her hands. The spirits lap it up.
There’s more where that came from – only don’t get too excited.
This is, perhaps, a silly thing to say. They know there’s more. They know so keenly it hurts, and the hurt is as deep as the sea. The waves of it break upon the shore: lap at her ankles, seek to drag her down. To drain out all that she is - until she’s been emptied and filled again with brine: nothing but a waterlogged corpse with limpets latched tight to the bones.
It’s good, to remember this. It stops you getting careless.
Ordinarily, of course, Merrill would have written it down ahead of time. Reminders not to trust. A list of things to look out for: arguments they’ll make and the ways she’ll turn them down, each in a neat little column. Or, well, as neat as she can manage.
As they stir and murmur and reach with not-quite-hands, Merrill realises that she has forgotten to do this. She didn’t write down anything at all.
She had started to – sat down with charcoal in hand and everything – but a neighbour had knocked on the door. Asked if she had any milk. The answer had been yes, she’d been saving it for a rainy day but it was no trouble; she’d heard her neighbour’s wife giving birth last week, you see, and so she’d be happy to spare it.
So she had gone up to the rafters, where the wind helped keep things cool, and brought the bottle down. Her neighbour had thanked her – very kindly – and turned around and left.
And Merrill had stood there, in the door-frame, letting the room grow cold. Wanting to come see the baby. Wishing he’d said something more.
All of this comes back to her at once. It starts to feel like a terrible dream, the kind where the Keeper’s set some very important test and you haven’t prepared at all. In fact, you’re late, and also naked, and to top it all off you’ve already gotten possessed.
One of the gathered spirits is nudging its way to the front. Small, inconspicuous – somehow it finds its way through.
Merrill flinches, moves back. It lets her.
And then it reaches out.
Do you remember, it asks, the evening before last? All of you had gathered in that strange mortal structure, the one named after death. You had sipped the ale, talked and laughed until they closed.
When they closed you moved into the night. Your face was flushed. Your cheeks still ached from smiling.
You said your goodbyes. One by one, your friends all peeled away. You were left there, alone, because you are a knife-ear. You live where the knife-ears live. You are not like the rest of them and even here, even in this ‘Hanged Man’, they look at you askance. You know this; you have caught them doing it, when they think you are not watching.
The ground was cold and hard. You cut your foot on a thin shard of glass. No one thought to walk you home.
The big green growing thing had risen up to meet you. The ‘tree’. The ‘tree of the people’. The ‘tree of the knife-ears who live in the city’. Are these your people, Merrill?
Are these your people, who sing the Chantry hymns? This is where you live. Why don’t you feel at home?
Would you rather live with the rich ones? Your pretty shemlen friends? They know you but they do not understand.
I understand. I’ve been listening, in the dark, when you’re alone. These others, these desperate sods, they’d offer you the world. They’d give you pretty promises and watch them turn to ash. Don’t judge them too harshly; they’ve just been here too long.
If we are being realistic, I cannot give you the world. I could offer, of course, but that demeans us both. I simply want to be honest. I’d simply be your friend.
Don’t you think, dear Merrill, you’ve been alone too long?
Ears ringing. Hand at her side. Knees on the hard wooden floor, barely softened by a rug she made herself. A dull and throbbing pain. Three drops of red on the weave.
Merrill stands up, unsteadily, and runs a hand across her brow. When this is done she stills, with one arm still outstretched. Everything looks very… red.
“Merrill?” Breathy. Shocked. The world turns to reveal Isabela, with all the blood gone from her face.
“Oh!” Merrill says. The words come out distorted. “I didn’t hear you come in! Can I get you anything?”
Her friend doesn’t speak, just gapes and stares. Is there something on her clothes? She looks down; it turns out that there is. There’s rather a lot of blood, and a knife still jammed in her side.
“Oh,” she says. “Oh.” Then everything goes very dark.
I hope that you believe me, Merrill, when I say I did not want this. It is not my fault you panicked. It is not my fault you drank the lyrium dry.
If you are lucky, you have missed your vital organs. You will be pale, and listless, and weak, but you will carry this scar away.
If you are not, well. Let’s not dwell on that possibility.
Although, I have to wonder – do your friends know to bury you, Merrill? Your pretty shemlen friends, would they put you to the flame? I would consider having that conversation. If it isn’t already too late.
I know how it’s done, of course. Oak and cedar, and a tree over the grave. Oak to keep you steady. Cedar to keep us away. I have seen it done before, in the days of your Friend of the Dead. Before he went away.
The loss eats at you; I know. A thousand thousand losses, each one greater than the last. A Keeper doesn’t get to look away. Can you call yourself a Keeper, when you’ve run so far from home?
Ah. It seems you’re waking up.
Do keep what I offered in mind.
There are three long and blissful seconds without any pain. Wait, no, there it is: fingers poke at the wound, make it shriek and pulse.
Merrill screams. A hand finds its way into hers.
“We’re here, kitten.” Isabela, low and urgent. “Come on, deep breaths.”
The world is far too bright. Her body is curled on its side, Isabela kneeling before her. Hair unkempt, lit by a vivid blue light. She’s glancing between Merrill’s face and something outside her view.
She twists her neck to see. There is blinding light, a glimpse of torn flesh and bloodied hands, before Isabela cups a hand to her cheek. Her head is gently, if firmly, turned back.
“Is she awake?” Hawke. Thank the Creators, Hawke is here as well.
Merrill tries to speak, finds her throat is rough and sore. Gives a weak little nod instead.
Hawke’s hands come near the wound – there is a sharp new burst of pain that makes her gasp. She clings to Isabela’s hand, grips it so tightly she’s worried that something will break. Struggles to think of anything but pain, bright and hot and lancing through her gut.
It lasts forever – or a minute – and then it ebbs and fades. Merrill realises, dimly, that she feels lighter.
“Sorry!” says Hawke. Wincing; Merrill can hear it. “Couldn’t do the next spell with that still in there.” A beat. “Would have been better to do it before you woke up but, well. We ran out of time.”
Clattering of metal on wood. Oh – the knife. The knife that was still in her side.
Hawke is still talking. “Try to keep still, Merrill. We’ve got you. It’s going to be okay.”
Merrill nods, hisses a breath through her teeth. Isabela smiles down at her; it doesn’t quite hide the exhaustion. “You’re doing wonderfully, kitten. Gave me the fright of my life when I walked in on you – why couldn’t it have just been sex?”
She has no response to that, just a single muted ‘ha’. More pain; she clings to Isabela’s hand.
Luckily, Hawke responds for her. “Honestly, Isabela. Where’s your sense of theatrics?” Distraction in her voice. Usually, a joke like this would skip off her tongue; here, it plods. “You know she ran all the way to Hightown to fetch me? We’re lucky your neighbour had the sense to staunch the wound.”
Isabela tuts and repositions, careful not to let go of Merrill’s hand. “I was worried. Besides, I didn’t leave her on her own.”
“What on earth was stopping you from just going to Anders?” Hawke is saying, with mock-exasperation. “It would have been so much faster!”
“And here I thought you’d be flattered.”
Merrill lets them talk. Her cheek sinks down, comes to rest on the floor’s cool wood. It’s nice. Refreshing. She lets her eyes slip closed. Her brow is clammy with sweat and while the pain is lessening, healing magic sets her teeth on edge. But it’s nice, Merrill thinks, just to be here – to listen as they talk, tossing the words back and forth. The three of them, together. Their voices in the dark.
Such friends you have. Such dear, sweet, kind, doting friends. Such dear, sweet, kind, doting friends who would miss you if you died. How odd that you still feel alone.
Do you remember your meeting? The sun had barely risen from the earth so large and still. You woke with the feeling of rocks in your stomach. You woke with the heaviness of lead.
The fire had been started and the hunters had set out. The feathered things were singing. Everyone was looking at your shiny shemlen friends.
And your puny mouth betrayed you, as it so often does. Reaching for all the wrong words. They smiled, politely, and you knew that you had been judged – even before you set the blood loose from your hands.
You worry, sometimes, don’t you? You ask yourself if this last mistake is it. The one. The straw on the back of your friendship. The moment they realise that you’re not worth their time.
I do not think this is accurate – I have seen how these things work. There is no clean ending, no single breaking point. There are simply a thousand thousand hurts, each one a log on the pyre. The friendship hangs in the flames. It slowly turns to ash.
So, you see, it is only a matter of time. How many times have you said something… inept? How many times have you reminded them of what you are, of what you have been doing? You must know, surely, that this cannot go on much longer.
Did you know that mortals form a lasting impression of someone within seconds of meeting them? I find that fascinating. Something said in your realm can never be taken back. How novel. To be so… fixed.
Our friendship, Merrill, would defy such petty rules. There would be neither boundary nor decay. Never a need to worry. No call to second-guess.
It is something to consider.
Hushed voices. Dark outside – the day wiped clean away. Light from the foundries leaking through her window, forming a square on the wall. A smaller, gentler light from the door. The heavy animal of her body, stirring as it wakes.
She clutches the sheets with one hand. Sends the other searching round the wound – now covered with layers of cotton. The pain is very slight.
Merrill moves, experimentally, and finds it isn’t too bad. She sits up with slow, deliberate motion, to look at the Eluvian.
Someone has tidied up; her notes sit in a tidy stack, the arulin’holm resting at their side. The mirror itself has been moved, turned in place until it no longer holds her reflection. Did they think it would keep her safe?
There is a panicked burst of laughter from the other room, followed by a furious ‘shh’. Half a minute of silence.
Merrill waits for the silence to end. Once the conversation is flowing, she lifts her body to its feet. Half-dressed. Clothes torn to get at the wound.
She takes a hand, traces the line of the bandage against her skin. Hawke and Isabela. One of them – or both of them. They touched her body, here, to keep her from the grave.
Light in the doorway, voices in the air. A stream of cool air in her lungs. It feels as if her guts were rearranged.
She sees her face in the Eluvian, now. Pale and haggard, dark rings beneath her eyes. Merrill stands and stares. For a fraction of a second… is that Tamlen’s face she sees?
Turn away, heart racing, bile in the throat. Breathe steady. Breathe deep. Think of your friends, your pretty shemlen -
No. No, we’re not doing that.
The wardrobe is out of reach, but she finds there is a new set of clothing folded on the bed. She changes fast but faltering, sneaking glances at the door half the time. Not quite knowing what she wants or what she’s hoping for.
It all feels less real once she’s changed. Merrill stands and looks at the door-frame, and tries to make herself move.
Do you remember the evening before last?
She does, actually. And it had gone nothing like that.
The Hanged Man had been very quiet; their table was the only one full. Isabela said it was because of First Day, most likely. Everyone home with their families. She had gone very quiet at that; Merrill had felt sorry for asking.
But Isabela had brightened – very deliberately – when Hawke walked through the door, looking numb and a little bit scared. Merrill realised, with a jolt, that this would make it the first feast-day since Leandra’s death.
“You know what, Kitten,” Isabela had said, draping an arm round her shoulder, “you should tell Hawke about those stray cats terrorising the Alienage! The way you just told me.”
There had been so much talking she ran out of breath, and she really thought she told it better the first time around – but Hawke had smiled. Like the sorrow was layers and layers of muck all caked to her face, but that one smile had made it start to crack. Made it so the things hidden beneath it – the light, and the warmth, and the stupid, improbable joy – could all start shining through.
Merrill had sneaked a glance at Isabela, and she’d been beaming too. Her smiles were much more frequent, but somehow they always… got lost. Never quite made it to her eyes. Here, in the Hanged Man, though, their bodies so casually close… the smile suffused her whole being. It was like she had put something down.
The rest of them, too. Varric ostensibly working on a story, finding himself drawn in. Anders making the face he reserved exclusively for cats. Sebastian quietly chuckling, Aveline stifling a snort. Fenris staying very quiet and then laughing so loud he grew flustered, which only made the rest of them laugh more.
Friends, and cards, and ale, and laughing so hard you can’t breathe. A room that can hold all these things. A hurt that broke the strongest woman she knows – and Merrill’s words helping it heal.
She had felt… powerful. And she hoped against hope that that didn’t make her bad.
She stands before the door-frame, one hand braced against the wall.
Isabela’s face hangs in her mind. The face she’d made on walking in, on seeing Merrill… like that. Eyes bulging, jaw slack. Every last muscle straining out of fear.
Was this the same woman who faced the Arishok and barely flinched? Just bristled in outrage as they threatened to take her away? She’d looked like a rabbit caught in a trap. Like her world was burning and there was nothing she could do.
Like Merrill felt, on sleepless nights. When she thought about her clan, and her people, and where she stood in the world.
Hawke, too – already grieving, and now she’s here. Hands red. Voice taut with worry. Pulling a knife from Merrill’s side. This - she isn’t what Hawke needs.
(A new face in the mirror. A stirring in the Fade. Have these friendships turned to ash?)
Can you call yourself a Keeper, when you’ve run so far from home?
Merrill has never dreamed in images alone. It has always been something of a mess.
There had been a time when she tried, and tried, and tried to make herself fit. She had begged Marethari to look, see, I can do it, just give me one more chance! The shame of it. Her mouth and her mind so stupid, and angry, and slow. She had wanted to lie down, cry, beat her fists against the earth. She had been, what, eleven years old?
It wasn’t exactly uncommon. Her and Marethari… if Merrill’s honest with herself, it was never a harmonious team. Whenever she went to an Arlathvhen, she’d look at other Keepers speaking happily with their Firsts and wonder what she had done wrong. If one of these other mages could make Marethari happy.
Things like this had happened quite a lot. And usually Marethari would look at her, and shake her head, and say something patronisingly wise. This occasion, though, Merrill remembers, because that didn’t happen at all.
Merrill had just said something about not having the right knowledge, not knowing what she was doing. To which Marethari had sighed, and said “Oh, da’len. With so much lost, do any of us know what we’re doing?”
It had helped, at the time. Made her feel less alone. Years later, of course, it made the fight about the Eluvian so much worse. It still stings her inside when she thinks of it.
But Marethari was right, wasn’t she? About this if nothing else. For all they do, all they try to save… they’re really nothing but children. Stumbling about in the ruins, picking up what they can. Calling out for a parent you know will never come back.
She saw that, for a second, in Marethari. She sees it in herself.
It’s a Keeper’s job to remember. That’s all you need to do.
The night ends with Merrill’s body squished between them. Pillows and cushions piled beneath her back. Her forehead points up at the ceiling, with one of Hawke’s strong arms propped behind her neck.
Hawke rests her head on Merrill’s shoulder; she’s already sound asleep. Drooling, just a little, but Merrill doesn’t mind.
Isabela has tugged off her boots and claimed the rest of the bed. She sprawls on her back, head on Merrill’s lap, one hand reaching up to trace circles on the back of Hawke’s hand. Her hair is soft and endless, spreading out from her face like a halo. Eyes half-lidded, smile tugging at her mouth. Still a little guarded – even here, even now.
Everything is warmth and tangled limbs. There is something twisting in Merrill’s chest. Some indescribable feeling, some urge to shout or cry.
“’Bela? Hawke?” she murmurs. It’s good to say their names.
Hawke grunts and shifts but does not wake. Isabela’s eyes flick towards her. “Still here, Kitten. Try to get some rest.”
“I know. It’s just…” A beat, tongue faltering. “I’m sorry I worried you. Both of you.”
More stirring from Hawke. She moves her head, nudges at Merrill’s shoulder like an animal looking for warmth. “S’alright…” she murmurs, very much asleep, “you’re. You’re warm. S’good. You’re good.”
Isabela glances between them, and smiles. “Well. There you have it.” She reaches up to take out her earrings, tosses them onto the ground. This done, she rolls over, slipping a hand into Merrill’s once more.
“Thank you,” Merrill whispers, unsure what else to say.
A squeeze of the hand. “No need. We’re generous like that.”
“Yes,” Merrill murmurs, “you really, really are.”
No, don’t start. Do you even have what I’m after? Can you help with the Eluvian?
I thought we would make good friends. There is so much coldness around you. You feel it in every empty room.
Not right now I don't. You’re very… pushy. But no, thank you. I don’t want to be possessed.
Such an ugly word.
Do you think so? That's hardly a surprise.
You do know, Merrill, that this feeling will not last. There will be death, and there will be struggling, and people will exit your life. They will not tell you what went wrong. They will not tell you what you did.
Oh, shush. I asked you not to start.
There will be days where you wake in the morning and feel each one of your wounds. There will be days that taste like ash. There will be closings, and door-frames, and bits of broken glass.
Merrill. Are you listening to me?
…Merrill?