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1.
It is easy to hate shems.
The history of Thedas is littered with fallen empires, and perhaps no one knows this better than the Dalish. What Merrill remembers from her early childhood is this: her birth clan’s name was Alerion, they wandered the rolling hills of Nevarra, her mother had green eyes, and long ago, all of the elvhen lived in Elvhenan, a land more beautiful and perfect than you could ever imagine. Every glittering city was a gem in Elvhenan’s crown, and Arlathan was the most radiant of all - until the shems came from the north and, jealous of the empire’s wealth and power, made the very ground open up and swallow the city whole.
Elven children grow lean on nostalgia, and it is easy to hate shems.
2.
Magic takes Merrill from her mother’s arms, traded away at the Arlathvenn for - what, she wonders later. A sack of potatoes and a halla? Some wheat and a new set of aravel wheels? As a child, the rules were explained to her and she went happily. There could only be two magical children in every clan. Any more was dangerous. Of course. Merrill didn’t want to be a hazard, so she hugged her mother and went happily to her new home with Keeper Marethani and that was it.
Later, when she is grown, when she knows better, she grows sour with the knowledge. In ancient Elvhenan, all of the people had magic. I should not have been punished for my gift.
(And, more quietly, I want my mother, but her mother would not even recognize her now if they met at the Arlathvenn.)
It is magic that takes her from her clan a second time as well. In strict terms, she goes willingly. Marethani looks at her with sadness in her eyes and she says, “There is no more I can teach you.” Merrill will never be keeper, not after what she’s done, not after the bargain she’s struck.
I did this for Tamlen, she thinks. I did this for Mahariel, and so no one else among us would suffer the blight. They owe her their thanks, but the words won’t come. These people used to be her friends, as much as she ever had friends. They are not kin to her. Clan Alerion roams beyond the Vimmark Mountains, and there will be no reunion there, either. If she leaves, it will be to Kirkwall and the alienage.
The road is long and full of bandits, not somewhere a single elf can go alone. Merrill falls back to Sundermount, just outside the edge of camp, and the waiting is interminable. Her internal monologue grows overwrought and overdramatic. She speculates that she’ll become a hermit and die alone on the mountain before any travelers ever come along. She wonders what the logistics of being a hermit would be - right now, Marethani leaves food for her, but the clan will move on eventually, and then Merrill have to hunt for herself. She’ll have to skin things, and cook them, and, oh, she’ll have to make her own clothes…
Tamlen and Mahariel were always better at those things, Merrill thinks wistfully. She does not expect to be a very fashionable hermit.
And then Hawke shows up and-
And-
Oh, shit, thinks Merrill. She’s perfect.
3.
The Alienage is not what she expected. Pol, who grew up in Denerim, described his first home as crowded and joyless, prone to plagues and raids by the shem authorities, and separated from the rest of the city by a heavy gate that was frequently locked. There is no such gate in Kirkwall. The Alienage is as much a part of Lowtown as any of the other quarters, and it is bright and it is colorful and there is a tree, a beautiful tree, perhaps the most beautiful tree in all the city.
She has a small house. The locals are kind, and the templars don’t know enough about elves to spot a Dalish blood mage right under their noses. Merrill is subtle, and she’s not the sort to draw attention to herself, so she gets by just fine. In some ways, it’s just like being in the Dalish camp, only without the threat of needing to pack up and move every few weeks.
4.
Life is quiet.
5.
Most of the time.
6.
Except for when Hawke blows through like a hurricane, with Varric or Aveline or Anders or Fenris or Isabella or her brother in tow, and she crows about adventure this! and fortune that! and Merrill… Merrill has spent so much of her life being quiet and meek and below notice that she is absolutely enchanted. She would follow Hawke anywhere, and she does - to the deep roads, to the broken coast, to lowtown, and back to Sundermount…
She goes back to Sundermount more times than she probably should. Marethani told her to stay away, but Merrill has never known how to leave well enough alone, and she may be a quick study, but at this subject she is hopeless. By the time she is through, Pol is dead and the Eluvian is in her spare room but try as she might, even with all the tools she thought she might need, she cannot seem to fix it.
She would never have been so bold if not for Hawke, she thinks. It would have been so easy to disappear into Kirkwall, to busy herself with the goings-on of the alienage and never be dragged off on adventures. Or - or perhaps she should have never left Sundermount in the first place. Perhaps she should have never messed with the Eluvian at all…
Hawke has kind words, of course. She always has kind words, and the sort of effortless confidence that makes Merrill burn with envy. Once she’s gone, Merrill takes to the streets of the alienage for a late night walk, her heart too heavy for sleep. She’s not a child, she thinks. She knows what this feeling is. And perhaps, she thinks in passing, poor Arianni is is an example of why Dalish girls should stay away from charming shems but... Merrill has no clan to lose. Maybe she hasn’t had a clan since she was a child and her magic got her traded away.
She wants to know if Hawke’s door is truly always open to her.
7.
Merrill waits in the vestibule for a few odd moments, palms suddenly sweaty. She is being foolish, she thinks. Hawke is so brave and beautiful and strong. She lives in splendor beyond Merrill’s wildest dreams. They’re not a good match, not at all. Anders would be more your speed, she thinks. Or Fenris. Marethani would approve of him, and say “Oh, what a beautiful vallaslin. I’ve never seen one like it before. What god is it for?”
Too bad they both hate you, and Marethani told everyone that you would bring the blight.
Hawke saves her by appearing in the doorway, dressing gown half-undone, and Merrill’s breath catches. She is exactly where she meant to be, but how to express that? She’s never… she’s never seduced anyone before. It’s just not how the Dalish do things. There would be courting, shy hand-holding and stolen kisses, followed by a betrothal, and - and what if this is all inside her head, and Hawke doesn’t feel the same way, and-
“I don’t deserve you,” says Merrill breathlessly, capping off a long list of concerns that she’s not even fully conscious of having said.
Hawke’s perfect lips quirk into a smile. “Perhaps you don’t,” she says, and Merrill’s heart lurches for that awful half a second before she speaks again. “But I deserve you. Did you think of that?”
It’s a joke, thinks Merrill, feeling terribly off-balance. She’s being made fun of - but perhaps, perhaps she can hold out hope? She’d only be setting herself up for a bigger fall, but she’s never been one to do things by half measures, so why start now? If she’s going to end tonight limping back to the alienage in shame, then she has to know that she didn’t sell herself short.
(Everything else has been going wrong lately. Is it so much to ask that one thing go right?)
She swallows hard around the knot in her throat. “It’s foolish of me to even dream that you might.” She’s done it, she thinks. She’s made a fool of herself. Hawke looks like she’s going to laugh again. She’s going to shoot her down once and for all and that will be the end of it, all this will be over with and Merrill can go home and spend all night staring at her Eluvian and stewing in her failure.
“I thought I was pretty obvious already,” says Hawke, “but I could spell it out for you.”
Why are you dragging this rejection out, thinks Merrill. Do you think this is funny? She probably thinks it’s funny. Merrill turns away, indignation burning hot in her stomach, and Hawke, improbably, reaches out and, with a gentle hand, turns her face back towards her.
“Merrill,” she says, voice light. “It’s all right.”
Merrill thinks, I have completely misjudged this situation, and she leans onto her toes and kisses Hawke because, honestly, she might be awkward but she isn’t stupid.
“As much as I have always dreamed of making love in the vestibule,” says Hawke, which makes Merrill go very pink about the ears, “It’s probably a very bad idea.” She takes Merrill by the hand and leads her into the house proper, and Merrill’s head spins.
“I-” she stammers, and Hawke raises an eyebrow at her. “I didn’t expect things to move so fast.”
“Well, I don’t take things slowly,” says Hawke. Merrill nods. She can be okay with this, she tells herself. It’s not the Dalish way, but… she’s not Dalish anymore, no matter what her cheeks say or what rites and training she went through.
“I’ve never,” she forces herself to say as she follows Hawke up the stairs. “With anyone. I - I won’t be any good.”
Hawke stops in her tracks and she turns, a smile on her lips. “Everyone starts somewhere,” she says, in a tone that makes Merrill wonder just how much experience she has but also makes her certain she doesn’t want to know. She leans down to kiss Merrill on the mouth again, her lips soft and sweet like honey, and she holds it for a dizzyingly long time. “I’ll show you everything you need to know.”
8.
Merrill lies down first, but she’s not sure if she’s leading or following or both. Hawke is so sure in her movements, and she wishes that she could be like that, too. Right now she just feels bashful and uncertain, her heart beating too fast in her ears, her stomach lurching with every kiss (and lower places, they lurch, too).
“You can tell me,” says Hawke, breath warm against Merrill’s cheek, “If you want this to stop.”
“But - I don’t want this to stop,” says Merrill.
“Then it doesn’t have to.” Hawke smiles, and she’s so quick in disrobing that it’s like a magic trick. Her robe slips down her shoulders and - poof, it’s gone. Or else it’s on the floor, Merrill’s not paying that much attention to it. How could she, when Hawke’s shoulders are there to be gazed upon? Or, for that matter, Hawke’s breasts-
“I know how you Dalish live,” says Hawke. “Sort of. You’ve seen a naked woman besides yourself before, haven’t you?”
“Never a Shem,” answers Merrill hesitantly, and she looks Hawke over and looks for the differences. Her skin is more rosy, her curves and muscles each more defined than one would expect from an elf.
“Well, if it makes you feel better.” Hawke smirks. “I’ve never seen a naked elf.” Perhaps that’s a magic trick, too, because she makes short work of making Merrill’s clothes disappear after that. (Probably to the floor, but again, she doesn’t keep track.) She leans down to kiss Merrill’s clavicle, her breasts, down her stomach to her hips, and Merrill’s legs squirm with every brush of soft lips, every hint of teeth. She feels wet and wanting, like upon waking from one of those dreams that couldn’t be discussed come morning-
-and Hawke is looking up at her with such a peculiar look, her hands placed carefully on Merrill’s knees. After a moment, her lips part, and she says, “Wow. You’re a wonder.”
Merrill bites her lip, not hard enough to draw blood she knows but she can always taste it anyway, ever since--
She says, quietly, “please.”
Hawke parts her legs and arranges her carefully, slides a hand along Merrill’s thigh and carefully over her lips.
She shudders with anticipation. “Please,” she repeats.
Hawke follows her hand with her mouth, kissing her way down Merrill’s leg but looking up at her through her lashes. She reaches the tense place where her leg joins her body. Merrill can feel her breath, warm and humid, and she wants- she wants-
“Please, Hawke,” she sighs. She sees the smirk in Hawke’s eyes as she lowers her head and gently presses her mouth to her-
Merrill makes a very rude nose, and clamps her hands over her mouth. Hawke laughs, and her breath tickles, and her tongue slides somewhere that Merrill has scarcely touched herself. This is obscene, she thinks. If the clan could see me now, well, that would be terribly embarrassing, but more importantly, they can’t.
Hawke looks up for a moment, her mouth slick. “Are you all right?” she asks.
Merrill lowers her hands, fighting a giggle. “Yes,” she says. “Yes. I had a - a peculiar thought.” She sits up, takes Hawke’s chin excitedly in her hands. “About my clan. They would disown me for this, but they can’t, because they’ve already disowned me and - it was funnier when I thought of it.”
Hawke leans forward and kisses her, and Merrill tastes herself in it and her spine goes to jelly. “That,” says Hawke, “Is a very peculiar thought to have while being eaten out. Which I am going to get back to. If you don’t mind.”
Merrill eases back, her hands slipping into Hawke’s hair as she moves back down. “Oh,” she sighs. “I don’t mind at all.”
9.
The fire is guttering out. In the dying light, Hawke grazes Merrill’s cheeks with careful fingertips. “What god are these for?”
Elven children grow lean on nostalgia, Merrill thinks. She’d chosen carefully once, and in choosing she’d thought she was an adult. She knows better now. There is only one god who stands by exiles.
“Fen’harel,” she says, watching the embers. “They’re for Fen’harel.”