Chapter Text
The first word Merrill learns to read in the common tongue is etched into her wrist, black ink stark against the splash of blue vein and pale skin. Yet Keeper Marethari began her education in elvhen, deeming knowledge of her people more important than the strange letters that appeared during her first blood.
Merrill didn’t need to see the troubled look on her Keeper’s face when she caught sight of it that week—she had already been teased for being such a late bloomer—but she would eventually need to face the truth. A First could not serve their clan if they were literate in one language alone.
Gossip amongst the clan eventually filled in the gaps: the way a soulmate's name appeared spoke volumes about their true selves, or so people believed.
Soul marks among elves were meant to be inscribed in elvhen, proclaimed gifts from the goddess Mythal. Though the Keepers preserved their ancient lore and rituals, hahren knew the language best—they had to, in order to arrange marriages between the clans and across human cities.
In time, Marethari took her First aside and clasped her pupil’s hand between her own. In a low, level voice, she said what she could.
“Our people seldom mix with the outside world, Merrill, but there are times when we must. It is why we keep up with the common tongue, to barter and trade, or…”
The unintended comparison was an ugly one. A union between soulmates was cause for celebration among the Dalish, a rare but not unexpected event. Mythal looked after her people, after all.
To be told at fifteen that her mark raised its own obligations—whoever heard of a Dalish elf expressing themselves most truly in a language other than elvhen?
Merrill learns to hate the name Leto.
--
Fenris never put much stock in names. He remembers very little from his childhood; all his memories start around somewhere in his teens, weeks after the lyrium markings began to heal. It was a slow process.
Eventually, he accepted that he would know no other life, and he would need to make the most of this one. Named and owned by someone else, marked as a tool to be used. Whoever he was before he became property of Danarius of Minrathous had been lost forever.
Strangely, while the lyrium tattoos twisted over most of his body, Danarius had left a particular section of his hip alone. Neat, little letters that he was not taught to read.
”It's a name. Merrill,” Danarius said impatiently, after he once again caught Fenris bare-chested by a mirror, running the pads of his fingers over his right hip bone.
“I was surprised to find you with a soul mark, little wolf. Aren't you lucky?”
Danarius delighted in hiding truths from his slave, like a magpie hoarding shiny objects. Hadriana was even crueler, making oblique, cutting comments about the ‘imperfection’ on his skin.
He gathered enough about the mark over time to realize its purpose. There was someone out there waiting for him. Someone that loved him, someone that may even defy the odds to…
To what? This soulmate, with a silly-sounding, lighthearted name, belonged to the life he'd been forcibly torn from. Danarius was amused by the mark but Fenris knew his master would never let him actually seek this person out.
Their name didn't matter in this life, he told himself.
Until he came to Kirkwall and found a chance to start over.
--
As she accumulates scars and becomes accustomed to the feel of a blade against her thumb, Merrill’s understanding of the world changes.
Her eventual status as a pariah does not surprise her. Marethari tried to hold them together, but there was little she could do with her bullheaded First. A mere three years pass between her soul mark manifesting and the clan’s arrival at Sundermount, and yet she views the world through a completely different lens.
Gone is the girl who traced the shape of each letter on her wrist with reverence and no small amount of wonder. Gone is the shy, studious First who believed nothing worse could come to her than her Keeper’s disapproval.
When Hawke comes, bearing Asha’bellanar’s amulet and a way out, Merill tries not to hope too fervently.
Step carefully, she’s told. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut.
With Hawke it seems leaps of blind faith were practically a requirement, so she tucks the advice away along with the well-meaning criticisms of her clan and Keeper, her respect for the Witch of the Wilds notwithstanding.
The outside world begins to look like less of a divine punishment.
--
Months pass as Hawke prepares to join the Tethras brothers’ expedition to the Deep Roads, and they learn the importance of anticipating team dynamics.
Varric and Bethany got along with just about everyone, in their own ways. Aveline and Isabela would forever snipe at one another. Merrill and Anders often disagreed on magic theory, but they seemed to enjoy their debates. Fenris was a goddamn wild card.
And yet, Hawke remembers the early days fondly, when things went off-script more often than they worked out.
They once bought Fenris, Merrill, and Aveline to fetch something for some noble, an easy cash grab in preparation for the expedition to the Deep Roads. Despite Fenris’ obvious disdain for mages, he was quiet for most of the journey.
Save for one question.
“Is Merrill a popular name amongst the Dalish?” Fenris muttered the question at first, with none of his usual derision, as though he hadn't meant to speak out loud. Hawke turned when Merrill asked him to repeat it.
Both elves looked a bit startled, but she answered, “I'm not sure, Fenris. Every clan has their own traditions and favored namesakes. We tend to stick to the pantheon, so I'm sure there are others out there, though I suppose the city elves do it differently… have you met another Merrill?”
“Nevermind, witch,” he replied curtly.
Before Hawke could throw in their two cents, they noticed movement behind the party.
“SPIDERS!” they screeched, and the moment was lost.