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A Difference in Languages
It is in the morning, when the passions of the previous night have faded, that Merrill begins to wonder.
Hawke had kissed her back. Hawke had followed Merrill to her room, her bed, all the while staring at the elf with an unfamiliar expression. Hunger, Merrill would have said if she’d had to name it, or maybe desire, but she knows both would be wrong. She’s never seen anyone look at her that way before.
Then afterwards, when they’d both been breathless and sated, Hawke had held her. She’d tangled their limbs together, tracing the mage’s arm ever so gently with calloused hands. When Merrill had said – stupidly said (she’s always saying stupid things, always-) – that she loved her, Hawke hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t pushed Merrill away. She’d asked the elf to move in with her, kissed her and … other more interesting things.
At the time, it had all seemed so certain. Now, as Merrill watches the warrior’s chest rise and fall in sunrise hues, she thinks about how Hawke never actually said what they were: she’d just smiled salaciously and called the elf her ‘Dalish lover’. And when Merrill had asked what the night had meant, Hawke hadn’t answered that either. Not seriously, anyway.
Merrill’s not stupid and she’s not naïve. She knows perfectly well that most people don’t make declarations of love after one night together. And she knows, from bitter experience, that for many people – elves and humans alike – sex is primarily about pleasure. Hawke may have invited Merrill to live with her, but that could just be convenience; an agreement to a casual relationship. Because Hawke isn’t like Merrill. Where Merrill commits, Hawke deflects, her answers light-hearted masks that offer opportunities to back away. And while Merrill’s emotions are often writ large on her face, Hawke’s hide behind a multitude of smiles. Even her name is camouflage – always Hawke, never Marian, outside family. Never an individual with her own hopes and dreams.
No, Merrill thinks gloomily. Hawke could have meant anything with her declaration last night. And Merrill’s too aware of what people think of her and has seen the fallout of too many promises bigger than they were to let herself be fooled again.
Suddenly, Hawke’s eyes flutter open.
“Mmm,” she mumbles. “Merrill?”
Merrill’s heart sinks. Now, Hawke will ask why the mage is still here. She’ll smile a guileless smile, say she was joking last night. Merrill’s heard that line before, too many times from too many people. Maybe this time, she’ll be able to make herself laugh and pretend that she was joking as well.
“Why are you awake already?” Hawke says. “It’s … not that early actually.” She sits up. The bedsheet falls from her chest, but she’s completely unashamed. “Are you OK?”
“What?” says Merrill in surprise. Then she realises that this is the first thing she’s said so far and blushes. “Yes, thank you. I’m just thinking.”
“Are you sure?” Hawke asks. “You seem tense. You’re not … I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Hawke is unusually sober and serious, her tone radiating concern rather than humour, and Merrill nearly melts.
“No, ma vhenan,” she says softly, honestly. “It was perfect.”
A smile lights up the brunette’s face. “It was, wasn’t it?” She leans forwards and captures the elf’s lips with her own. “Good morning,” she says. “What do you want to do today? We could move some of your belongings in? If you’re still moving in, of course.”
Merrill frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be moving in?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Hawke says breezily, her cheeks a little red. “You might have gotten a better offer elsewhere. I wouldn’t blame you. This house is a bit dusty.”
“But who would have made me another offer?” says Merrill, still not understanding. “Or a better one? What could be better than moving in with you?”
Warm, brown eyes light up in a grin. “You sure know how to sweet talk a girl.”
Merrill blushes at that, and wins another kiss. Maybe it’s not so bad, she thinks, if she doesn’t know exactly how Hawke feels: the warrior obviously wants her. Merrill’s never experienced a desire so sweet and strong – maybe she could just enjoy it. She just has to remember that it might not mean to Hawke what it means to her; that being wanted for something and by someone as wonderful as Hawke is still good.
“So,” says Hawke, jolting her from her thoughts, “are we moving you in?”
Merrill thinks of the eluvian, cracked and broken in her little hovel. She can’t move that. Perhaps some of her other belongings – books, papers, trinkets – but she needs some of those for the eluvian. As for others…
If she doesn’t bring them, it won’t matter if Hawke becomes bored of Merrill – the mage will still have her home. Her pride.
“I think I need to think about what I can move,” she says, which is true. “And how. The bed might be difficult.”
Hawke laughs. “It’s OK. You can share mine.”
Merrill blushes because obviously she would be sharing Hawke’s bed. That’s the whole point.
“Maybe we can do some shopping instead,” Hawke says. “You said last night you wanted some crafting materials?”
“Oh, yes. And some herbs. And candles and-”
“Alright,” says Hawke, laughing again. “Shopping it is.”
She stands and offers a hand to the elf. When Merrill takes it, she finds herself being pulled forwards. Calloused hands catch her by the waist; smiling lips claim hers. It’s nice. It’s more than nice. Merrill’s hands move of their own accord, craving soft skin and long-healed scars.
A knock on the door startles them both. After a second, Hawke grabs her robe, puts it on, and tells a patient Bodahn that they’ll be down for breakfast soon.
“Very good,” says Bodahn. “We’ve made Mistress Merrill’s favourites.”
Merrill’s eyes widen, wondering how Bodhan knew she was here. Then she realises that, of course, he saw Merrill go upstairs with Hawke and never come back down. Hawke doesn’t seem bothered though, so Merrill says nothing. Maybe Bodahn is used to overnight guests like her.
She doesn’t want to think about that.
At breakfast, Merrill sits by Hawke, opposite her mother. She likes Hawke’s mother – Leandra’s always been polite to Merrill, always enquired after her day and indulged her questions. Now, though, she’s frowning slightly.
“Mother,” says Hawke, “is everything OK?”
“Oh, yes,” Leandra replies. “I’m just surprised to see Merrill here so early.”
Merrill can’t help blushing but before she can say anything, Hawke says, “I would think the more surprising thing is me being up so early.”
“Well, yes, that’s surprising too.”
And Merrill thinks everything might be OK, but Hawke says, “You’ll get used to the sight soon enough anyway. Merrill’s agreed to move in.”
A sigh. “Another charity case, Marian?”
“I don’t need charity, Mistress Hawke,” Merrill says. “If you want to give charity, I know lots of elves in the alienage who could use it.” Leandra just looks at her, and Merrill realises what she meant. She flushes.
Next to her, Hawke says, “It hurts to be thought of as a charity case, Mother. I try so hard to be of value. But Merrill always has had a charitable heart.”
Her mother purses her lips. “I see.” A moment of study. “I hope you know what you’re doing, dear.”
Hawke smiles lazily. “Don’t I always?”
Leandra leaves. Merrill glances at Hawke, who is staring after her mother, expression unreadable.
“Ma vhenan?” she says.
Hawke doesn’t turn, but Merrill can feel her attention switch to her. “Sorry, Merrill.”
Merrill’s not sure what she’s apologising for but doesn’t want to ask.
“Shall we get going?” Hawke says. “The market nearby will have some good items.”
It will but the market nearby is fancy, with everything priced at ten times their value. If they go to Lowtown, they could pay a lot less. Merrill doesn’t have that much coin. Plus, in Lowtown, less people call her ‘knife ears’ which is always nice. Still, the Hightown market is closer and sometimes has items she can’t find elsewhere, so she agrees.
As they exit the house and start to walk, fingers thread through hers. She looks down to see Hawke’s hand there. It’s odd – Hawke is tactile, often clasping shoulders, ruffling hair, even hugging people (especially Merrill), but the elf has never seen her try to hold anyone’s hand.
Hawke sees her look. “Is this OK?” She grins mischievously. “I just don’t want to let go of you yet. I’ll be a perfect gentlewoman though, I promise.”
In that hand, Merrill can feel callouses, cuts, and fingertips whose whorls she wants to memorise. The warmth is comforting; the grip, steady. Hawke has good hands, she thinks. Strong hands.
“Merrill?”
The grip starts to loosen, so Merrill tightens her own. “You’ll have to let go of me eventually,” she points out. “Like if you need to use the privy.”
Hawke’s eyes crinkle with her laugh, and Merrill feels pleasantly warm. “I promise nothing. Shall we go?”
They go. Conversation between them is as it always is – Merrill tells Hawke about the plants they pass, and Hawke asks questions, seeming genuinely interested. She laughs at Merrill’s more amusing observations, adding jokes to Merrill’s jokes, and making that pleasant warmth return again and again. When the elf asks about a particularly odd statue that she’s always wondered about, Hawke tells her stories of its history, knowing stories are what she craves.
At the market, Merrill stops, assuming Hawke will take the lead. The brunette, however, seems a little surprised by the sudden halt. She asks where Merrill wants to go, so, after a second, the elf picks a direction. It’s very confusing. Nothing she looks at can possibly be interesting to someone like Hawke, but the other woman never tries to pull away, never tries to hurry her along. When Merrill apologises for taking so long at one stall, getting more and more flustered at Hawke’s presence, the brunette squeezes her hand and says that they have all day.
It helps. That grip is comforting, steadying, and soon, Merrill’s too caught up in browsing the various products to worry. Everything is prohibitively expensive though. In the end, she buys one thing that she knows she can’t get in Lowtown and makes mental notes of everything else, in case she needs to return. When Hawke asks why she isn’t buying anything, Merrill explains that she doesn’t have the coin.
Hawke frowns. “I can-” She cuts herself off as her eyes catch Merrill’s. “Sorry. I understand.”
Merrill hasn’t said anything so she’s not sure how Hawke knew what she was thinking. Still, the subject seems to have been dropped. That is, until they pass a stall selling clothing and armour. Merrill looks just because she wants to – her vestments are a bit holey and ragged but they’re basically fine. She likes looking at beautiful things though. That’s probably why she stares at Hawke so much.
Now, her gaze catches on a white ensemble. It’s gorgeous. For a moment, she allows herself to imagine what she might look like in it. Then the stall owner notices her interest and with a mental sigh, she braces herself for some sneering comment. She’s had a lot of those this morning, from people who didn’t see Hawke behind her.
“You have the right bone structure for this,” the owner says. “Plus, it would bring out your eyes and hair. Good choice, messere.”
“Oh, th-thank you.”
“He’s right,” says Hawke from behind her and the stall owner jumps. “That looks like it was made for you.”
“And it’s a steal at only ten gold pieces,” the stall owner adds, recovering quickly.
Merrill nearly splutters. She opens her mouth to tell him how ridiculous it would be to pay that much for something she doesn’t need when Hawke says, “I could get it for you.”
She whirls. “I don’t want you to buy things for me like some … pet.”
Hawke holds up her hands. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was just thinking, I should get you a gift. A ‘welcome home’ gift, I mean. To celebrate.”
Suddenly, Merrill panics. “Is this a human thing? Do I have to get you a gift as well? Mythal! I didn’t realise. I’ll look now and-”
“No, it’s a Hawke thing.” The brunette sounds amused but her gaze is soft. “You’ve already agreed to upheave your life for me, Merrill – that’s not exactly small.” She pauses, then grins. “In fact, I’d say your presence is present enough.”
She looks so pleased with herself at her wordplay that Merrill can’t help smiling.
Still.
“You’re letting me live in your fancy house when everyone knows I’m an alienage elf.”
Hawke pauses. “Well, that’s all about the scandal, obviously,” she says with a slight smirk, though her eyes are hesitant. Merrill’s lips attempt to quirk; Hawke’s sober. “Merrill,” she says more seriously, “I’m sorry for making you think this was charity. It really was meant to be a gift. I’d still like to get it for you, as a gift, but only if you’re OK with it.”
Last night, Hawke asked that a lot – whether Merrill was OK with things. Whether Merrill wanted things. At one point, Merrill had tentatively said no, what Hawke wanted sounded awkward and uncomfortable, and Hawke had simply said, “Let’s not then!” before doing something that was far more delightful. It was very different to previous experiences, where it was assumed that she wanted what the other person wanted, and a ‘no’ was met with grumbling and anger.
She looks at their linked hands, thinking of that. “I’m OK with it,” she says softly. “But only if I get to get you a gift too.”
Hawke’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t have to.”
“Oh, I know I can’t buy anything fancy but I can make you something. If you’d like. You probably don’t, not when you can buy-”
“A priceless handmade elven gift?” the brunette says. Finally, she’s smiling and her eyes have that emotion from last night, the one Merrill can’t name. It makes her feel wonderfully warm though. “I don’t think I can buy that.”
“Good. Then I can make something for you.”
“OK,” says Hawke, sounding oddly happy. Merrill feels warm again, both at that sound but also at the thought that maybe Hawke wants to get her something because it’s her. She watches as the warrior hands over the coin for the clothing and makes arrangements for its delivery to her estate. As soon as she can, she takes Merrill’s hand again, and Merrill feels somehow content.
The city bell strikes midday. Merrill’s stomach rumbles.
“Hawke,” says someone from behind them. “Fancy seeing you here.”
They turn to see Fenris, smiling his small smile at them. Merrill likes it when he smiles. It makes him look alive, and he does it so rarely.
When he sees Merrill, the smile slips slightly. “And Merrill,” he says.
“Hello, Fenris,” Merrill says.
He nods then turns back to Hawke. “I was about to buy some lunch. If you wanted to join…”
Hawke looks at her. “What do you think, Merrill?”
She hesitates. The morning has been so wonderful and she loves having the warrior all to herself. Truthfully, she doesn’t want that to end. But Fenris likes Hawke and it’s selfish to keep her like this. Especially when Fenris likes so few people. It’s not as though he likes her after all.
Fenris, meanwhile, has looked down. “You’re holding hands,” he says.
“Yes,” says Hawke. “It’s good to see the lyrium left your eyesight intact.”
It should be mean but her tone is gently teasing, and there’s a glint of humour in the other elf’s eyes as he says, “Perhaps. Perhaps my remaining senses are particularly excellent. But tell me: is this a new method of stopping Merrill from getting lost? What happened to the dwarf’s ball of twine?”
Merrill hesitates because if it were up to her, she would shout their relationship from the rooftops. But what is there to shout? She doesn’t want to say something wrong or stupid again, or make Hawke commit to something she doesn’t want to commit to.
Hawke, for her part, seems to be waiting for something. Merrill isn’t sure what it is, but after a couple of seconds, Hawke says, “No. Merrill’s gotten very good at finding her way around. I really just wanted to hold her hand. It’s a delightful hand after all.”
Her tone is cheerful and she’s smiling but there’s something a little forced in it. Maybe Fenris realises because his face softens. “I’ll take your word for it.” A pause. “I can get lunch myself.”
Merrill had forgotten about that. “I don’t mind eating lunch with you,” she blurts.
“High praise,” says Fenris, but to her surprise, he’s smirking.
Hawke, meanwhile, raises an eyebrow. “Am I invited?”
“What? Yes, of course! It’s you that Fenris wants- Oh, you’re teasing.”
This time, the smile looks genuine. To Merrill’s pleasure, Hawke gently kisses the tip of her nose. “Maybe we could call on Sebastian too? Actually, wait, he’s busy today. But Aveline usually takes a break around now – anyone want to see if she’s free?”
Merrill perks up. Aveline likes Merrill far more than Fenris does, and the feeling is mutual. The guard captain might not always say what she’s thinking, and she might be a little rude sometimes, but she talks plainly enough to Merrill. More than that, she treats Merrill a bit like Hawke does – like her opinions matter, like she knows what she’s doing. And she doesn’t hate mages. If Aveline is there, Merrill won’t be left out of the conversation.
Hawke seems to be studying Merrill now, but for what, the mage can’t say: Hawke’s expression is surprisingly unreadable. They must stare at each for too long though because Fenris coughs. “You know, I can leave,” he says. “Far be it from me to interrupt.”
“No, that’s OK,” says Hawke decisively. “Let’s grab Aveline. It’ll be nice.”
#
They call on Aveline and agree to buy food from the stalls at the market. Aveline immediately catches Hawke in conversation, so Merrill walks behind. To her surprise, Fenris walks with her.
“So,” he says. “You and Hawke.”
Merrill blushes. “She’s wonderful,” she says, stating the obvious as usual.
He gives her an evaluating look. Maybe he’s also wondering what Merrill adds to any relationship with their informal leader.
“Be careful,” he says finally. “You walk a dangerous path and I won’t see her dragged into it.”
Merrill straightens. “I would never hurt her!”
Fenris considers. “I accept you would not intend to. But.” A pause before he adds, very gruffly, “You’re both idiotically happy today though. Maybe … just keep it that way.”
Merrill blinks, not sure what to say to that. Fenris huffs and walks a little faster, before changing the topic to the latest rumours in the city.
But just as they reach the stalls, he pulls her to one side. “One more warning, Merrill,” he says. “Be careful around Anders.”
“Because he’s a mage?” Merrill asks, unable to keep a little bite from her voice.
“Partly,” Fenris says. “But mostly because to the extent he remains a man, he is a hypocritical and mean-spirited one. And any fool can see he’s half in love with Hawke.”
Merrill knows Anders is wary of her for the same reasons Fenris is. But he cares passionately about doing the right thing. He heals people. He likes kittens and soft things, and they’ve joked before about starting their own cat sanctuary. Anders wouldn’t hurt her. Not for something like this.
Yet Fenris is watching her soberly so she says, “Thanks, Fenris.”
He claps her shoulder roughly. “If he bothers you, let me know.”
This time, when she says, “Thanks, Fenris,” her gratitude is real. Even though Anders would never hurt her and Hawke would never let Anders hurt her. It’s nice to know Fenris wouldn’t either.
They catch up to Aveline and Hawke and buy their lunch, before sitting on the nearby steps. For a while, they all talk of meaningless things. Aveline asks Fenris to please be less obvious about the fact he’s squatting and Fenris sarcastically apologises for existing. Hawke asks Aveline about a rumour of smugglers on the Wounded Coast. Merrill just listens, enjoying the sunshine and the sights around them.
Hawke finishes eating first and excuses herself to the privy. In the meantime, Aveline asks what the three of them are up to.
“Nothing,” says Fenris. “Merrill and Hawke are enjoying the day without me.”
“We’re enjoying it with you now,” Merrill says and is rewarded with one of Fenris’ small smiles. “And you, Aveline,” she adds, in case the guard captain is feeling left out.
“You won’t have me for long,” Aveline says but there’s a smile in her eyes too. “Try not to get in trouble this afternoon.”
“I can’t help it. It just seems to happen.”
Aveline laughs. “You’re far better than Hawke is. That woman would find trouble in the quietest corner of a library.”
“You wound me,” says Hawke from above them. She sits down, right by Merrill. “I am the epitome of sensibility.”
The warrior’s arm casually snakes around the elf’s shoulder, pulling her close. Merrill’s eyes widen in surprise but it’s nice, feeling that weight around her, and she can’t help snuggling a little. Hawke’s lips gently brush her hair.
Aveline says, “That’s new.”
Merrill looks at the guard, who has one eyebrow raised. Hawke says, “Disappointed you didn’t get a front-seat view when we-”
“No, Hawke,” Aveline says in a restrained voice. She gives them another look. “It suits you.”
“What? Merrill?” Hawke looks down at her. “She is rather beautiful, it’s true.”
Merrill looks up into warm brown eyes and giggles, despite herself. “You’re even more beautiful. Beautifuller. Is that a word?”
Aveline is smiling now. “I see what Fenris meant. Well, if you’re both happy, let me offer my congratulations.”
Fenris stands. “You can have mine too if you stop hugging so much.”
“Oh, Fenris,” Hawke says, clutching Merrill even tighter to her. “You do like to ask impossible things of me.”
He rolls his eyes, while Aveline looks an odd mix between pleased and surprised. Merrill, for her part, can’t help beaming. It’s never been like this before. Nobody’s ever held her so much. Nobody, other than Tamlen and Mahariel, has been so open about wanting her with them. She nestles in more, trying to be as close to Hawke as she can. It’s almost better than the passion of last night.
But as Hawke laughs again, Merrill wonders why Hawke would want her. She’s boring, she’s awkward, and she’s terrible with people. She thinks of Hawke’s joking words, and what Fenris said, about Anders. He’s had an interesting life. He’s passionate and charming. He’d be perfect for Hawke. He wouldn’t bore her.
Hawke looks at her, frowning slightly. “All OK, Merrill? I’m not squashing you, am I?”
“No, ma vhenan,” she says, melting at that concern. She smiles, to show she’s OK.
Hawke smiles back, eyes sparkling with it. “Good.” A pause. “Though, you keep calling me that. What does it mean? It’s not an insult, is it?”
Merrill blushes and looks away. Fenris – who seems to know everything – says, “It’s an Elvish term of endearment. I believe Merrill is calling you her heart.”
“Oh.” To everyone’s astonishment, Hawke looks a little taken aback, her cheeks bright red, and Merrill’s heart sinks. Stupid. She’s so stupid. “Merrill-”
Merrill looks down. “I don’t have the words in your language to not say that,” she says quickly. “I mean, there are words, I suppose, it’s just hard to think of a good translation and I always think I’ll get it wrong but in my language, I know what I mean so…”
Aveline frowns while Fenris looks intrigued. Hawke blinks. She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her eyes frown slightly.
Merrill’s always had a talent for making things awkward and now she doesn’t know how to salvage it. In some desperation, she says, “Oh, Creators, I forgot, I still need to find these herbs. I’ll just head to Lowtown now, that’s where they’ll sell them.”
She leaps up. Fenris and Aveline trade looks.
Hawke stands too. “I’ll come with you.”
Aveline and Fenris mutter something about needing to get going, as Merrill looks at Hawke. She doesn’t understand. Hawke might be happy to flaunt her Dalish lover to the city, to flaunt what they did last night to high society, but she was obviously embarrassed by the mere thought of being special to Merrill. Except now, she wants to spend more time with her.
Frustration builds. Why can’t people ever say what they mean?
Softly, Hawke says, “If that’s OK. If it’s not, I can leave you to it. Whatever you want, Merrill.”
Merrill swallows. “I want what you want,” she says, because that’s safe enough and because this is still better than anything else she might get.
Hawke studies her a moment longer before smiling tentatively. “I’d like to go to Lowtown with you.”
Merrill nods. “OK. Let’s go.”
As they walk, Hawke reaches for her hand. This time, her grip is soft, uncertain. Merrill doesn’t comment.
#
The tension eases as they walk. Hawke asks her when she plans to work on the eluvian and how long Merrill thinks it will take to fix it. Merrill nearly kisses her then and there. Nobody, nobody other than Hawke, has ever just … supported what she’s trying to do. As Merrill tries to explain what it will take, Hawke nods, asking questions and giving encouraging comments.
As they enter Lowtown, another tension Merrill didn’t know she had releases itself. Lowtown might be dirty and dangerous but it’s easier to navigate than Hightown. Here, people are honest about not liking you. Here, you know where you stand.
Hawke smirks as they near the market. “Good old Lowtown. I’d almost forgotten the smell of blood and human waste.”
“I can get you some things to help you keep smelling it if you want,” Merrill says.
The warrior chuckles. “Thanks, but you know what? I think I’ll live without.”
Merrill smiles. “I guess you’ll have enough of it with me living in your fancy house.”
Hawke doesn’t laugh. She seems to war with herself before saying, “I like your smell.”
“Oh.” Merrill blinks. “Because I smell like Lowtown?”
“No,” Hawke says. “Because you smell like you.”
“But I smell like-”
She stares. Hawke has put her head in her spare hand.
“Ma- Hawke?”
“I’m not very good at this, am I?” Hawke says. “I’m sorry.”
“What aren’t you good at?” Merrill pauses. “You’re good at everything.”
Hawke blushes slightly, looking pleased. “I’m not but thank you. Maybe let’s shop, before your stalls close.”
The elf is still confused but she shrugs and leads Hawke towards the market. As she suspected, there are perfectly serviceable materials here and they’re much cheaper – even Hawke concedes that, to Merrill’s pleasure. Within a couple of hours, she’s bought everything she needs, and her unease is forgotten. Hawke helps her carry it all back to her house.
“Is there anything you want to take while we’re here?” she says. “And while you have your big strong lover to help you.”
Merrill looks around. “I don’t know,” she says. “I’ll have to really look through.”
“We could do it now.”
“But everything is such a mess – I clean sometimes, I swear – and it’ll be boring for you.”
“Boring is fun,” Hawke says. “Boring means nothing is trying to kill me. Besides, I like seeing your belongings. You have stories for everything.”
“Don’t you have more important things to do?”
She expects another of Hawke’s sarcastic responses, but the warrior sits down and looks at her. “Merrill?” she says quietly and everything stills. Hawke is never quiet. “Why can’t you believe that I want to spend time with you?”
The human isn’t smiling. Her fingers curl over the edge of the seat, knuckles white.
“I…” Merrill isn’t sure how to answer. “You’re always busy and your life is so exciting and I … I’m not. I’m nothing like Anders.”
“Anders?” Hawke frowns. “What does he have to do with it?”
“He’s very charming and good looking.”
“Right,” says Hawke, still frowning. “Are you telling me you’re sleeping with Anders? That would be very impressive.”
“Would it? Why?” Merrill pauses. “I suppose he doesn’t like me much so that would be why. But I’m not sleeping with him. Well, I suppose I do outside when we travel with you but that’s in separate bedrolls so I don’t think that’s what you meant.”
“OK, good.” Hawke hesitates. “Is it … are you regretting agreeing to move in?”
“No, of course not.”
There’s a big sigh then, and suddenly Hawke seems a lot less tense.
“Why would I regret that?” Merrill asks. She peers at Hawke, who’s avoiding her eyes, and something in her softens. “Oh, lethallan,” she says, draping her arms around the warrior. Hawke leans in, closing her eyes. “Did you really think that?”
Before she can answer, Merrill’s door opens.
“Kitten, I need a drink and a companion and- oh, hello, Hawke.”
Merrill twists to see Isabela standing in her doorway. The pirate is frowning slightly.
“Hawke,” she says, her voice lower now, “I’m disappointed. You were starting without me?”
Merrill frowns. “Starting what?”
Hawke sighs as she sits back. “Isabela’s just being immature.”
“Immature? I’d say I’m being very mature. Come on, you know I like a little girl-on-girl action. Well, more than I’m seeing right now anyway.”
Merrill considers this before sitting on Hawke’s lap, something she’s done once or twice before. Immediately, Hawke’s arms loop around her, thumbs tracing her back. Her eyes brighten and her grin is just … happy.
Innocently, Merrill says, “Is this better, Isabela?”
Beneath her, Hawke shakes with silent laughter, immediately getting the joke. Isabela, however, looks as though she’s debating whether to explain or not.
Her firm belief in preserving Merrill’s supposed innocence wins out. “Never mind, Kitten. I came to take you to the Hanged Man. You can’t work on that mirror all day.”
“I haven’t,” says Merrill though a pang hits her at the loss of one day working on it. “I’ve been with Hawke.”
“Have you?” Isabela says. A smirk plays on her face. “Well. Hawke – fancy joining us?”
Hawke looks at Merrill. “If you want to go, I’ll go. Assuming you want me with you anyway.”
Merrill feels warm again, at this acknowledgement that she might not want to go. Truthfully, she isn’t sure what she wants. She likes Isabela – probably more than any of their other companions – but she feels like she and Hawke were about to talk about something important.
Still. Hawke likes Isabela and drinking and it’s like with Fenris – it’s selfish, to keep the warrior to herself. Especially if Hawke doesn’t want things between them to be too serious and sincere. Maybe it’s better to show that Merrill understands that.
She says, “OK.”
She hops off Hawke, who looks oddly disappointed. Then the disappointment vanishes and the warrior stands, capturing her hand again. Merrill’s starting to realise how much she likes that, how comforting it is to feel Hawke there. She squeezes the hand; the smile Hawke gives her is one of the brightest things she’s ever seen.
Isabela says, “You two are just too sweet.”
Hawke chuckles. “I’ve been called many things in my life, Isabela, but sweet is not one of them.”
“Oh yes? Tell us some.”
They leave the house. “Brute. Bitch. Whore. You know, the usual.”
“Sweet thing, where I come from, those are terms of endearment.”
The two women laugh. Merrill doesn’t because it’s not funny. Quietly, she squeezes Hawke’s hand again. The brunette looks down, surprise and then something else in her eyes. After a second, she releases Merrill’s hand to put an arm around her shoulder, so, bravely, Merrill puts an arm around her waist. This time, the look Hawke shoots her is that one from last night. The one that makes her feel warm and right.
“You two are going to get mugged if you stay lost in your own world,” Isabela comments.
“Well, I do like to meet new people,” Hawke says. “But who would mug Merrill? She’s just too adorable.”
Isabela rolls her eyes. “I think I vomited a little there, Hawke.”
“Kinky.”
The pirate chuckles and says nothing further.
There’s quite a crowd in the pub when they enter. Once they’ve checked if Varric is around (he’s not) and sat down, Hawke offers to buy the first round. Merrill watches her stride confidently into the throng of people.
“So,” says Isabela, drawing her attention back. “It’s about time.”
“For what?”
“You and Hawke. I’ve been watching you make moon eyes at each other for months.”
Merrill frowns. “We’ve not been doing that. I’d remember. I think.”
“You have. Trust me.” Isabela looks at her. “But tell me – are you happy?”
Merrill nods but the pirate knows her a little too well. “Are you sure?” she says. “You’re quieter than usual. Is something bothering you?”
The elf hesitates. She doesn’t often tell people about things that are bothering her because normally, they don’t want to know. But Isabela always listens to Merrill. She’s kind and patient with her, even if Merrill doesn’t always understand her humour. If there’s anyone who could help Merrill decipher Hawke, it’s the pirate.
Although, it’s not as though Isabela always says what she means. She deflects even more than Hawke does.
“Kitten?”
“It’s Hawke,” she blurts and Isabela’s face darkens. “It’s … I’m being stupid.”
“What’s happened, Merrill?” Isabela says quietly, her gaze intense.
“Nothing. I … I told her I loved her which was stupid of me and Hawke … hasn’t said anything like it, and she got embarrassed when I said how special she was to me in front of Aveline and Fenris. I guess I thought … never mind. I’m reading into it too much. Asking me to move in is just convenient and she’s got a big house. And sex doesn’t mean love. I know that. It’s OK if she doesn’t love me. I can still love her because who wouldn’t? Love her, I mean. But it’s nice anyway just to be wanted and you always say that it's better without love, don’t you, Isabela? So-”
Isabela’s expression has lightened again. “I do, Kitten, but I don’t think you need to worry.” She sits back. “Hawke’s strong, don’t get me wrong, but in some ways, you’re stronger.”
Merrill stares.
“You tell people how you feel and who you are,” Isabela explains. “If I ask you something, you’ll usually tell me the truth. I don’t think you realise how scary some people find it to do that. Or even to hear it. It’s … an intimacy, to be so open and vulnerable. And not the fun kind either.” A brief smile. Her eyes dart towards the crowd. “Our Hawke’s a strong woman but she has to be. People depend on her – she’s too idiotically good not to let them – and she has a whole estate to run. People want her to listen to them, to take on their problems. They don’t want to know that she might have problems too. So, she laughs and jokes and pretends she’s always confident and doesn’t have feelings. That way, people won’t get scared if things are going wrong, or doubt her decisions. That way, she can’t be hurt that people don’t care about her. It’s probably one reason he likes you so much – you’re so open about how much you care for her, and you always ask about her and listen to her. But if you want to know how she feels, I’d say your best bet is watching what she does.”
“You mean like sex?” Merrill asks.
Isabela throws her head back and laughs. “Not this time, but good on you for going there. I mean like helping Fenris fight slavers, or Aveline court Donnic. Or helping a certain elf face their clan. Among other things.”
Merrill considers this. It’s true that Hawke does a lot for her. She’s always listening to her, boosting her up, standing up for her. She came with her to face her clan and to the hunting grounds. But it sounds like she does that for everyone. Maybe Merrill isn’t special.
She feels special though, when she’s with Hawke. Sometimes, it feels like Hawke has eyes only on her. Or that Hawke is the only one who understands her, who lets her do what she needs to. And while Hawke is tactile, she doesn’t kiss everyone else and she doesn’t hold their hand. She doesn’t follow them around all day, looking for herbs that she knows nothing about.
Still. “I don’t know,” she says. “She deserves someone more. Like you or Anders.”
Isabela smiles. “She deserves much better than me, Kitten. And if she wanted Anders, she’d have him. Have some faith in yourself.”
Hawke arrives at that moment, balancing their mugs. “What’s this about Anders?” she says. “Also, this is the second time he’s come up today. Are you sure you’re not sleeping with him?”
Merrill is horrified, wondering what Hawke heard. Isabela, however, seems very relaxed as she takes a drink of ale. “I brought him up. I was just telling Merrill that in the right light, he could be very handsome. I bet that spirit of his could add something in bed. Plus, he’s very passionate. Don’t you agree?”
Hawke considers as Merrill’s stomach clenches. “I think he’s a bit too spirited for me,” she says with a laugh. “I can only handle one person at a time. But if you want him-”
“Well, never say never,” says Isabela with a grin, while somehow simultaneously giving Merrill a significant look. She doesn’t know what the look means but she can tell it’s meant to be important.
Hawke, meanwhile, says, “And, uh, what did you think, Merrill? About Anders?”
Merrill isn’t expecting the question. “Well, um, like I said earlier, I don’t think he likes me much,” she says. “And I don’t really like listening to him tell me how awful I am for practising blood magic.” She considers because it feels a little unfair, to be so mean. “I do like his taste in animals though. And his hair.”
Isabela is trying not to laugh for some reason. Hawke says, “Anders can come on a bit too strong. Maybe it’s a Circle thing. I’ll have to wait until Bethany-”
She’s almost violent in the way she cuts herself off, her sister a sore subject even three years on. After a second, Merrill reaches for her hand. “She’ll be OK,” she says, a repetition of a comfort she’s given countless times before.
Hawke nods, swallowing as she always does. “She’s strong,” she says. “All us Hawke women are.”
Merrill thinks of what Isabela said and wonders if that’s true. Isabela said people don’t listen to Hawke. Merrill wants to. She wants to know everything about her. But she’s not sure she can ask here, in such a crowded place; or more, she thinks Hawke won’t answer. So, instead, she lets go of the warrior’s hand and hugs her tightly, trying to explain through that gesture what she thinks. Hawke sags into her, eyes closing as Merrill’s lips brush her head. A soft exhale leaves her.
For a few seconds, they sit like that. Then Hawke moves back and says in her usual amused voice, “So, Isabela, are you chasing after Anders?”
Isabela takes a deep swig from her mug. “I don’t know. Maybe I could chase after you. If Merrill doesn’t mind of course.”
Hawke laughs while Merrill frowns. “I don’t think I could survive being chased by you.”
Under her breath, Isabela mutters, “You do not help yourself sometimes.” She straightens. “Fine then. How about you, Merrill? You like me.”
Now, Hawke tenses.
“I do,” Merrill agrees, not entirely sure if Isabela is being serious.
“So, how about it?” Isabela smiles, showing teeth. “Want some fun with me? We could add Hawke in if you wanted. She might survive better with you.”
In a slightly strained voice, Hawke says, “If you want Isabela, we can talk about it. But I want you to myself first. If that’s OK.”
“I don’t want Isabela though,” Merrill says. “Erm. I mean, I like her but I don’t want-”
“It’s OK, I’m teasing,” says Isabela loudly. “And I am not drunk enough for this, let me tell you.”
Which reminds Merrill that she hasn’t actually drunk anything. She picks up her mug with slight trepidation – she doesn’t really like the ale or the wine here but the cordial always comes with seeds that stick in her teeth and taste foul. Except, when she takes a sip, she can taste cordial but no seeds.
Hawke sees her surprise. “I asked them to make it plain. It’s why I was there for so long. They wanted to argue so I thought I should remind them why nobody ever wins one of those with me.”
This time, she doesn’t need to glance at Isabela to know she’s getting a ‘significant look’. She’s slightly stunned – she’s tried asking for the drink without seeds before, and Isabela and Varric have as well, with no luck. Apparently, the seeds are an extremely integral and important part of the drink and their removal would be an offence to the Maker himself. What did Hawke do to convince them?
“Ma- Marian,” she says, then winces because that feels more intimate, somehow. She thinks of Hawke’s reaction to the hugs and hand holding, how relaxed and happy they made the brunette, and kisses her cheek. “Thank you.”
Hawke’s expression is odd – somewhere between startled and pleased. “It’s OK, uh, mavinon. I really just wanted to argue with them.”
Merrill and Isabela trade confused looks. Isabela says, “Is mavinon some kind of kinky sex name?”
Merrill splutters out her drink.
“No!” says Hawke indignantly. “I realise it’s shocking but not everything is about sex.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. But alright – is it a weird pet name?”
“No! It’s Elvish.”
“Is it? Because judging by Merrill’s expression, nobody in the history of Thedas has ever said that word.”
But Merrill’s eyes are widening now for a different reason. “Ma vhenan,” she says with feeling.
“Yes, that-”
The world tips dangerously as Merrill and Hawke lose their balance in the mage’s kiss. The warrior wraps one arm around Merrill’s waist, clutching her tightly. The other arm is used to stop them from toppling over entirely. Once they’re righted, that arm, too, clutches her close. A moan sounds through the elf’s body but she’s not sure who started it.
A loud noise by her ear makes her jump. She looks at Hawke, who looks half-dazed, and then at Isabela who looks somewhere between amused and exasperated.
“Is this going to be an orgy?” she asks. “Or would you like to wait until you get home? Also, this isn’t convincing me that that nickname isn’t some kind of kinky sex name.”
Merrill hesitates but Hawke said it. Plus, she got the pub to give her a drink without seeds in it. And got worried that Merrill didn’t want to move in. And asked her to move in, and held her close, and helped her shop and bought her a beautiful present and-
“It means ‘my heart’,” she says quietly.
Isabela’s mockery vanishes; her expression softens as she looks between them. “I see. Well. You still have to either let everyone here join in or wait till you get home to have sex.”
Hawke’s face is bright red even as she smiles lazily. “It would give people something to talk about. And beauty such as ours ought to be shared.” She looks at Merrill; her eyes are dark, heady. “Like I said though: I want her to myself first.”
Isabela suddenly downs her drink. “That’s it,” she declares. “I’m going to get laid. I think you both should do the same. With each other, ideally.” The pirate comes over and kisses them both on the cheek. The elf doesn’t catch what she says to Hawke but to her, she whispers, “You deserve her, Kitten.”
Then she’s gone. Merrill and Hawke look at each other.
“I think we’ve done something amazing,” the elf offers tentatively.
“What’s that?”
“Been too much for Isabela. I bet that’s never happened before.”
Hawke laughs. Her fingers catch Merrill’s. “They’ll have to write that on my grave. It will be the biggest achievement of my life.” She smiles at her. “Shall we finish our drinks and get out of here? It’s getting late and we’ve got to get back to Hightown. If, um, if you still want-”
“Can we stop by my house first?” Merrill asks. “I want to pick up some clothes and a few other things.”
Hawke beams so brightly that she nearly has to look away. “Let’s go.”
#
All the way back to Merrill’s house, Hawke holds her hand. Once there, she helps Merrill sort her clothes and hunt for a few flowers and other items that the mage needs. Sometimes, she asks questions about what they’re taking, and listens as though drinking in every word, her eyes full of that mysterious feeling.
On the walk back, Merrill asks about Hawke’s life in Lothering. Hawke talks – jokingly, at first, and then more sober and serious when Merrill asks gentle questions. She talks of moving around so much as a child; of always, always protecting Bethany; of Carver’s desire to prove himself. Merrill squeezes her hand as she talks of her brother’s death and her mother’s blame. Of losing her father so young, of having to save her family from the Blight, of working off her uncle’s debt. Hawke talks and talks and Merrill just listens.
Finally, outside the house, Hawke pauses. “Maker, I took over that conversation, didn’t I? I’m sorry. I’m usually a bit less egotistical than that.”
“No, it’s good,” says Merrill. “I’m glad you trusted me, Hawke. Thank you.”
Hawke turns slightly red. “You know,” she says, “if you want, you can call me Marian. If you want. You don’t have to.”
There’s definitely a line that’s being crossed here. Something quietly sacred. Merrill says, “Should we go in, Marian?”
They go in. Orana has dinner ready while Bodahn and Sandal help them move Merrill’s belongings. Leandra eats dinner with them and makes polite enquiries about their day. She still seems uncertain about something but she doesn’t comment on Merrill’s presence. Afterwards, Hawke- Marian’s mabari nuzzles her, barking contentedly when Merrill hugs him back.
Something’s shifted, she thinks. She doesn’t feel on edge. Doesn’t feel unsettled. The house feels odd – too big, too fancy – but it feels somehow right, to sit in front of the fire, one hand in the dog’s fur and the other being stroked beneath calloused fingers.
When she looks at Marian, she thinks maybe the other woman feels it too. Her expression is content; her kisses and touches, absent-mindedly sweet. When they finally retire to Ma- their room, the passion of last night is replaced with gentle, slow movements; with soft murmurs and long kisses. Marian asks for positions where she can look into Merrill’s eyes, and all Merrill sees is that unfamiliar emotion, the one that makes her feel warm and right. The one she thinks might be in her own eyes.
And finally, when Marian, curled up behind her, sleepily murmurs, “Heart? You know I love you, right?”, Merrill closes her eyes, letting their limbs tangle together further.
“I know, ma vhenan,” she says quietly. “I know.”
Fin