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It was terribly unlucky that Hawke was afraid of spiders. All of her strength and bravery and Hawke-y-ness seem to fly away the moment some little, eight-legged creature came within her sight. Usually, it was Merrill to the rescue, armed with a cup at a piece of parchment. It was silly, but Merrill couldn’t deny that it was nice to be the big, strong hero every once in a while.
Some days, however, there were no heroes.
Those days usually came about when there were spiders bigger than Merrill.
One of those spiders, as it so happened, had Merrill upside-down and quite dizzy.
“Just- Just hold on!” Hawke cried, trying very admirably to be brave.
“No, no, I’m quite alright!” Merrill tried to insist. She cast a burst of sudden, forceful magic at the spider, making it shriek. The web wrapped around Merrill’s ankle shuddered when two of the spider’s arms recoiled from the blast. “You worry about the one behind you!”
“The-?” Hawke turned around and yelled—at quite a high pitch—and swung her sword blindly at the spider that had very nearly pounced upon her from behind. “Maker, help!”
Thankfully, Hawke was only begging her god for help, not Merrill, so there wasn’t any obligation for Merrill to stop doing what she was doing. With another blast, Merrill’s magic sunk directly into the spider’s mouth, and it froze, twisted, and died.
Which was, of course, lovely, save for the fact that Merrill was still a good two Hawkes’-worth above the ground.
“Oh, dear.”
She dropped to the hard, stone floor rather painfully, most certainly breaking her ankle in the process. Her vision went white—it hadn’t done that in quite some time—and she let out a very terrible scream. Hawke called her name at some point before there was the tell-tale sound of a sword making contact and a giant spider’s death rattle. Through the dizziness and the blurriness and the pain, she felt herself being picked up like a cornhusk doll. Hawke’s sharp armor dug into her tummy, but it was nothing at all compared to the pain in her ankle. She bump-bumped along at an impressive pace as Hawke hurried along out of the Bone Pit. She was sure that Hawke was saying something, her voice still terribly teary, but it didn’t feel like long before they were back in the light of the sun.
They walked for a little while longer—Hawke walked, Merrill was carried—until Hawke finally stopped by a stream. She sat down, slowly, and tried to put Merrill down, too. Unluckily for the both of them, Merrill’s ankle was still very much so broken, so she cried out in pain as soon as she was shuffled off of Hawke’s shoulder.
“Oh, Maker’s breath, I’m sorry,” Hawke winced. She carefully nestled Merrill in her lap as she fiddled about in her bag for healing potion.
Merrill felt quite a bit like a baby bird—a little hawk, perhaps—cozy in her nest of armored legs, fed by the bigger bird’s careful hand. It was a little romantic, too, if she was being honest.
“I really thought we’d cleared most of those out last week,” Hawke said, sounding very apologetic.
“Well,” Merrill offered, smiling up at Hawke now that the pain wasn’t nearly so blinding, “there was only two! There were far more the last time.”
“Why do I go anywhere without Anders?”
“He is quite useful on days like these.”
Hawke groaned. “I’m an idiot, I’m sorry.”
Merrill shook her head. “Nothing of the sort,” she insisted. “I do feel much better, you know. After the potion.” She offered Hawke a shy kiss on the cheek as thanks. It was the least she could do.
Hawke blushed a little, but she nodded. “But not entirely, right?”
Merrill shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she admitted. “I don’t think-” She moved her foot. It hurt a good deal just from that little motion, but it wasn’t enough to make her cry anymore. “Not broken, I think.”
“Not walkable, though?”
Merrill shook her head again.
“Alright,” Hawke said, trying to steady herself. She reached into the pocket hanging off her belt and pulled out a small handful of brown mushrooms. She gagged a little, but she ate them, chewing and swallowing before she spoke again. “In that case-” She cut herself off with a small groan, covering her mouth like a proper shemlen Lady before she spoke again. “By the Maker, pardon me.” She shuddered. “Those things are awful.” She took a breath and rolled her shoulders. “But… I should be able to get us back before nightfall.”
Merrill’s eyes widened. “Before nightfall?” She echoed, confused. “Oh, no, no. I won’t be well enough by then! Why not camp? I’m not exactly Varric, you know. I won’t groan about a bit of camping.”
“That won’t do,” Hawke replied, shaking her head. “There’s been way too many reports of Qunari and bandit raids lately. You’re still injured.” She carefully maneuvered Merrill out of her lap. “We’d be sitting ducks.”
Merrill sighed. “A shame that’s such a negative expression,” she said. “Sitting ducks always look so wonderfully content.”
Hawke put one of her large, strong hands on Merrill’s shoulder. She gave her a solemn nod. “They really do.”
Merrill watched with piqued interest as Hawke took off some of the spiky bits on her shoulders. When Hawke asked, Merrill happily held on to them. They were a good deal lighter than she thought they’d be. A good thing, she figured. Hawke wore quite a lot of armor. It certainly added up quickly.
Clearly feeling the boost in energy from the mushrooms Anders always insisted she carry, Hawke rolled her shoulders, taking several deep breaths. She brushed her short hair back behind her little, round ear.
“Hawke,” Merrill said, slowly and curiously, “do tell me you’re not planning on carrying me all the way back to Kirkwall.”
“What?” She blushed slightly, but she smiled. “Have some faith!” She flexed those large, powerful arms of hers, and Merrill couldn’t help but giggle a little. Hawke’s grin widened. “You can’t be more than seven stone,” she added. “Fenris is at least nine, and I’ve hauled him up and down more stairs than he’ll ever admit to.”
That was true. And Hawke had carried Merrill quite a few times before. Mostly, it was when Merrill was drunk, though, so she couldn’t exactly recall how well it went. And, for as sweet and courteous as Hawke was, Merrill knew better than to insist too much that Hawke need not strain herself in being nice, however much Merrill hated to be a burden.
“Oh, alright,” Merrill said, giving in. “But if you get tired…” She thought for a moment. “You will take a break, right?”
Hawke hesitated to say yes, of course, Merrill right away.
Merrill gave her what she hoped was a rather stern look.
“Yes, Merrill,” Hawke sighed.
Merrill smiled. “That’s better,” she said. “Now, should I-?” She let out a bit of a squeak as Hawke put her hands around Merrill’s waist. It tickled. She was comparing the width of Merrill to her shoulder, it seemed. Content with her findings, Hawke knelt down all the way and slowly maneuvered Merrill onto her shoulders, wearing her like a fleshy, elf-shaped scarf.
“Alright,” Hawke said, adjusting Merrill slightly. “Two hours. Maybe two and a half. Totally doable.”
“You know,” Merrill laughed, looking as best she could at Hawke as they—well, as Hawke—started the walk back, “it’s days like this where I think you’re mad. Brilliantly mad.”
Hawke smiled back down at her. “I think I’ll focus on the brilliant part.”
Merrill nodded. “A good choice.”
It was sunny. Her ankle hurt terribly. Every bounce of Hawke’s long strides tickled and bruised. She felt like quite a maiden—a princess pulled right from one of Varric’s stories, one of the ones that he insisted was terrible—as she was carried back to her castle by her knight in shining armor and spider guts. It, Merrill decided, was, indeed, very romantic.