Dragon Age 1. Chapter 1

**Author's notes:** This is a trial run. I'm trying to find out if there is anyone who would be interested in this story, apart from myself. It's a post-game fic, and will be focusing on Merrill and Fenris and my idea of how a working relationship between the two could have come to develop. POVs will be switching between the two.

The idea for this has been sitting in my head since my first (almost... my way up Sundermount was blocked by revenants when trying to complete Merrill's quest in Act 3. I hate revenants. I gave up, started again with a female warrior, and romanced Fenris for the first time... of many... ) playthrough of DA2 with an fHawke rogue, while enjoying Fenris' and Merrill's party banter/fights, and thinking, well, wouldn't it be fun to throw them together and see what happens?

Well. This is what happens when it gets left to me.

As I said: Trial run. The story is about halfway finished, and I know where I want it to go in the end. Input is still very welcome, though. Be it spelling or grammatical mistakes, formating, background or plot holes- please tell me.

And now, on with the show.

**Disclaimer:** Dragon Age 2 and all of its characters are the intellectual property of Bioware. I own only the plotbunnies.

**Witch**

The guard didn't so much as spare her a second glance.

She was becoming really good at this, Merrill mused. Cut your hair short, smear some dirt in your face and wear dirty, draggled human clothing- and shoes, Creators, how she hated them- and you became no more than another city elf boy, in other words: As good as invisible.

It certainly worked on the humans. The elves would still notice her vallaslin beneath the dirt, but she did not intend to stay long. She only needed news- of the war, or 'revolution' as Anders had been fond of calling it- and a few provisions. A few days at most, and she would be gone, and glad of it- she wrinkled her nose, stepping around a heap of what looked suspiciously like human refuse in the middle of the street. This walled town, small as it was, stank worse than Kirkwall on a summer day after two weeks without rain.

Trudging along the street in her best imitation of a 'young male' walk, trying to keep her head low, while watching the mixed human and elven crowd warily, and that while still keeping an eye on the ground so as not to step into any dog turds or worse (multitasking was also one of those things she was getting really good at), she let the babble of conversation wash over her. A few snatches briefly caught her attention, but when she tuned in on the words, they always turned out to be of little interest. Wheat prices and runaway pigs, one man's marriage and another man's death, the awful name a neighbour next door had given his new child were of little consequence to her.

The name of a tavern, pointed out to a traveller by one of the townspeople, was duly noted, however. No place like a tavern to gather information. And since it was already going on evening, she decided she might as well seek it now. No telling how long it might take her. She didn't have a ball of twine on her, after all...

The tavern turned out to be all she had imagined it to be, and worse. A small, dark one-room building with a sort of kitchen at one end, a fireplace approximately in the middle between rows of benches and trestle tables, and walled-off boxes along both walls that betrayed its origin as a horse stable. Those towards the back had matresses on rickety-looking bedframes and hangings across the front to preserve at least a mite of the illusion of privacy. The ones nearer the doors had straw.

That was were the elves slept, of course.

Merrill noticed some curled-up shapes, wrapped in their cloaks, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted or drunk, a family of elves with three children with staring, blank hungry eyes- the sight gave her heart a wrench- a couple unashamedly moaning off somewhere in the murk. Her ears colored.

A good thing it was too dark for anyone to notice.

Gathering her composure, she adjusted the dagger at her hip- just big and sharp enough to give pause to anyone looking at her, but not enough of a weapon to provoke. (The other two were hidden up the back of her jerkin and down one boot, just like Isabela had shown her, never imagining she might someday need this kind of knowledge.) Her staff she had discarded long ago, with regret, hidden with most of her other belongings of Dalish origin in a cave off the Wounded Coast when she and Hawke and Isabela finally parted ways for good. With the way things were now, it would have been a death warrant to carry a staff openly.

With a suppressed sigh she sat down on one of the benches, far enough away from any of the human patrons so that they couldn't easily take offense at her presence. If anyone of them was looking for a quarrel, that wouldn't nearly be enough, but she hoped to go unremarked if she kept her eyes down and her mouth shut.

The party of rough-looking human men next to her seemed more intent on their on bowls, platters, and talk anyway. That was good, as far as it went. Not even their dogs- scrawny mongrels made up of every race found in the Free Marches and beyond- spared her more than a passing glance. There was no food to be begged off this elf, they could tell.

_Well, Merrill- what now? You've come this far. Now is when you have to decide. On, or back? _

On, into territory the Dalish clans of the Free Marches wandered, to put herself at their mercy, and the risk of execution? Or back, to the humans and their filthy cities, to live in an even filthier alienage?

Unappealing as those were, they were her only choices, if she didn't want to turn herself over to the Templars, and be killed for an apostate the moment she revealed her magic. There was no other way. She might have tried going back to Ferelden, but as the revolution had begun to spread there, as well, she would probably only get from one scrape into another equally as bad, but with a long ship's journey in between. And she didn't have the money to afford one.

When the elven barmaid finally found her, half an hour later, she was no closer to a decision than she had been all these months of wandering. But she was hungry, and ordered food and drink with a nod, wondering what it was she'd just agreed to eat.

It was: Stew with a lot of grease, no salt, and bits of meat in it that could have been anything from rat to dog, it was impossible to tell. With it went bread that almost broke her teeth and sour ale, closer to vinegar. Merrill sighed and concentrated on not retching it all back up, thinking wistfully of the Hanged Man's fare. That now seemed a feast in comparison.

The Hanged Man.

Not now, she told herself sternly, feeling the familiar lump closing off her throat every time she thought back on that time. She had been constantly embarrassed, annoyed, mortified, or angry at turns- and never had she felt so safe, so welcome. If she could have turned back time to go back to Hawke's getting them in lethal danger every second day, her neverending badgering about her mirror, Isabela's jokes, whether she understood what they were about or not, Varric's stories (the true, the made-up and the rest that were to be found everywhere on the spectrum in between), Anders' attempts to be funny and the pages of half-finished manifestoes he left everywhere he set foot, Fenris' scowling and biting remarks, Carver's shows of storming out on them in a huff...

…. There she was. Now wasn't the time and place to put her head down on the table and burst into tears, though, so she didn't. It was pointless and time-consuming anyway, her clinging to the memories of a companionship unlike any she had ever known among her own people. It was over, Hawke's company broken up and scattered like so many leaves in a gale.

No matter how many times she told herself, though, she couldn't seem to help it. She missed them so much it hurt.

And now she'd started down that road, and unable to turn back, like so many times before, was wondering what she could have done to prevent...

_Meredith and Orsino tearing each other to pieces with words when they arrived, the tall human Templar and the slender elven scholar, at one another's throats as usual, but this time, something was different, something was... final..._

_The glow emanating from the Chantry's windows and doors, bright enough to illuminate all the city, briefly, like a bolt of lightning, stark and intense, and then- _

_'Anders- what have you done?' Hawke, incredulous, furious like Merrill has never seen her- Hawke, their Champion, poised on the edge of a decision not between right and wrong, but between wrong and wronger- an impossible decision... Hawke, drawing herself up and staring right into Meredith's cold, stone eyes. _

"_I will not help in the slaughter of innocent mages."_

That was the moment when their party of misfits had begun to break apart. Everything that came later was only the consequence of that one decision. She vividly remembered the regret at seeing Fenris' slender, upright form walking away from them through the burning city. Odd that she would regret his leaving, of all people, but not that odd- he had been one of Hawke's companions, after all. It was like seeing an intricate picture starting to fray- even framed anew, it would never be the same.

And it did more than fray...

"_This is no dream." Hawke's words, so firm, so strong- but Merrill would never be able to shake the dreamlike feeling coming over her when they left the boat to sprint for The Gallows, dodging holes in the cobbles and rubble from collapsed walls, and bodies, so many bodies- proofs that the fight had preceded them. This could not be true. It couldn't... Hawke would never have allowed things to go this far. _

_But here she is, leading them right into the fray. _

_Merrill refuses to believe that the few words their so strong leader exchanges with every member of their party still left are goodbye, that some of them might not come out of this alive. She witnesses the desperate embrace that passes between her and Isabela, watches the pirate queen blink back tears, straighten and draw her daggers to await what was coming. _

_She sees Varric place Bianca over his shoulder as he looks up to the tall human woman, smile wryly as he says something she is too far away to catch. She sees Aveline nod grimly to whatever Hawke told her. The Captain of the Guard had been not at all sure this is the right path, but is determined to see it through to the bitter end at Hawke's side. _

_She sees her step up to Anders, who looks partly triumphant at having achieved his goal, partly as if he might be sick any minute. A few tense words, a nod from him, and Hawke turns towards herself. _

"_Tell me when all this is over." As if she really believed there would be a chance. Merrill tries to draw strength from that thought, but all that is left is dread, and the desperate wish to wake up from this nightmare. She clutches her staff in sweaty hands, sending a silent prayer to the Creators, and prepares to meet the foe. _

Never would she have expected to see who approached them in front of the line of Templars. No, that wasn't true. She had expected it. She simply did not want it to be true.

"_So we meet again, Fenris." Hawke smiles, a bitter, humorless smile. _

"_Someone has to stop this madness." He holds his sword in one hand, looking so calm, so calm... _

"_And that would be you, I guess?" _

"_I try."_

_Hawke sighs, closing her eyes, and for a fleeting moment, the agony of it all shines through. Here is a woman trying not to show how she is being torn to pieces. Merrill could have wept. "I don't want to do this, Fenris."_

_His face is impassive, lyrium-veined stone. "Neither do I. But we'll do it anyway. Because this had to happen, and you know it." A brief flash of smile, full of hate- full of regret. "I really thought you were different. More fool me, I guess." _

_After that, there are no more words. _

No one interfered, neither the Templars waiting in stoic, faceless lines, nor anyone of their own. As Fenris had said: It had to happen, and they knew it. It had been inevitable from the moment Hawke made her choice.

But it tore her apart to see it. The fight was brief, but brutal. Neither held back with anything, and in the end, it was the elf ending up in a crumpled heap on the floor, his sword broken to shards, armor shattered by the force of Hawke's last blow.

Merrill did weep, then, and tears clouded her gaze as she summoned her magic to throw earth and lightning down on the Templars' heads. Not blood magic. Never again, after what it had taken from her. And even if that hadn't been enough to drive it home, seeing Orsino... change... driven mad, or else finally driven over the edge, by the bloodshed... never would she forget the sight.

Never again.

By the time everything was over, Kirkwall lay in ruins, the Knight Commander was dead, and the Champion and all her companions outcast.

They ran; they hid; one by one, the company broke apart. Last, Isabela and Hawke decided to try and take back the pirate's ship still moored in Kirkwall, and Merrill went her own ways. Without goal, without a place to turn to, homeless, friendless and lost. She kept nothing from that time but the knives, and bittersweet memories.

She blinked back to reality and noticed that her stew had partly begun to congeal in the bowl. A sigh left her lips. As if it hadn't been inedible from the start...

A furtive look around reassured her that, apparently, no one had noticed her zoning out. Or if they had, with any luck, they would have construed it into reluctance to eat the poor excuse for food served in this hovel. Which wasn't entirely improbable.

"...Champion."

The word got her attention. It had issued somewhere from the middle of the knot of men sitting not too far from her. She dipped the spoon into her bowl again and pricked up her ears.

"...you sure? They're like flamin' vermin after all. Crawlin' about everywhere, not to be squashed.", was the next thing she caught. Nothing important after all, seemingly...

Or not. The next speaker's words nearly made her gasp.

"How many bloody elves with bloody lyrium tattoos have yer seen runnin' around lately? I tell yer, that's the same one they say was doggin' her bloody steps down in Kirkwall."

A hubbub arose at that. Only "...dangerous..." ..."s'posed to be dead... " "... flamin' giant sword..." filtered through. Merrill felt faint, but she managed to put her spoon down without dropping it, or pushing the bowl over.

"... say he did s'port the Templars, didn't they?", was next. One of the men snorted at that.

"They musta forgotten 'bout it then, 'coz last I heard, there was a price on 'is head, and not a measly one."

"But how are we to..."- "Andraste's tits, haven't we been over this all already...?"- "He's up in them mountains, dogs oughta be able to sniff'im out, no big deal." And on and on.

Merrill picked up her mug to steady her shaking hands, hiding behind the rim as she surveyed the self-proclaimed hunting party. They were still only a heap of scrawny, badly-armed peasants.

Fenris, if it was him, would tear them to pieces.

She ought to tell them what a fool's errand this was, ought to warn them they were courting certain death, but how, without giving herself away? She had no illusions whether or not one of Hawke's former companions would be just as good as any other to them. They'd pocket her, or try to, just as gladly. And if it came to that, _she _could tear them to pieces... and doom herself while she was at it. No.

But... she bit her lip. She couldn't just let them run to their deaths.

_What matter?_, a small voice within her whispered. _They're only Shems- stupid, cruel Shems who wouldn't hesitate to kill one of your own. Why help them? _

_-No. I won't have this blood on my hands. Because it will be, if I don't prevent them from doing this. _

She was so tired of death...


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's notes:** I was quite surprised to get so many reviews to ch.1, and all positive :O Thank y'all :D Now let's see if I can figure out how to add the second chapter. Is it just me, or has grown quite complicated over the past few years? o.ô

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1

**Witch**

And so it was that, when the hunting party set out early the next day, there was a young elven boy trailing their steps, just out of sight. Merrill still didn't know how to prevent what was likely to happen, but she couldn't not try. And maybe, maybe, they wouldn't even find him. Maybe he would have hidden himself too well, maybe he wouldn't even be here anymore... there were a lot of maybes to cling to, each sounding fairly reasonable. Merrill wasn't Meredith. She did believe in 'maybe'.

So she wasn't without hope that this might all turn out to be a fruitless wild goose chase as she jogged after the men, following them into the mountainous regions beyond the town. A Dalish hunter would have been in her element, but Merril was hard pressed not to lose them or give herself away.

Just as much as she was far from discerning whether they had yet found traces of their prey, not to mention was stymied as to how to get around them and get to Fenris first, when they did. 'Fool's errand' were the words that kept bouncing around in her head, but she was nothing if not stubborn, and for once, she intended that this stubbornness should do some good.

It was tiring. Days of trudging after the hunters, always on her guard; avoiding all other contact with humans or elves while she did so, days with no fire and hardly any sleep at night, and hurried meals out of her pack by day. And still she was no closer to a solution.

It was frustrating.

Add to that how close she was to regions the Dalish roamed through, and the result was one very edgy elf.

And then, after a week with no sign, just when the hunters were about to call it a bad job and return, they found what they were looking for.

She didn't dare sneak close enough to see what it was they were clustered around beneath the trees, but it was something that made them sure that their prey was near. Her heart hammered in her chest as she crouched low in a small dell, peering over the rim of it while a stone dug painfully into her breastbone and her ratty clothes were getting soaked through from the dew.

Now would have been the time to come up with a plan. Hawke would have known what to do; Hawke always knew, and if not, she at least had a Plan B. And a Plan C. And... and now was not the time to go off in another reverie. _Focus, Merrill... _

Just in time, too. One man had been looking in her general direction, and though she could barely make them out through the trees and it was unlikely he could have seen her, suddenly he started moving towards her hiding place. Merrill gasped, put a hand over her mouth, and slithered further into the dell, hoping that the low brush would conceal her from his searching eyes.

Steps were coming closer. Hesitant steps, not yet sure of her whereabouts, but soon they would be. She bit her lip, tensed, reached out hesitantly for her magic. After Kirkwall, she had hardly used it, not daring to, and now the first contact felt like a plunge into deep water. It filled her body with warmth and her ears with song, and suddenly she found herself hoping that the man would give her reason to use it, just to feel it rushing through her once more, vibrant and alive.

Then a voice was raised in a carrying call, and the steps faltered, died; the man lingered, unsure- the steps resumed, a murmured word, probably of dismissal, and he left. Merrill started breathing again. But it was some time before she trusted herself to let go of the Fade, get up and follow once more.

* * *

As it turned out, she didn't need a Hawke plan. Her own knowledge of the region served her just as well, because this was a part of the Free Marches her clan had often passed through in the years after they first came here, before Marethari had them move towards Sundermount to meet an "appointment".

Later the same day, the hunters turned aside to climb down into a valley she knew well. She also knew a way through the hills the humans were forced to skirt to reach its floor, a way that would enable her to get there before them. If she was lucky.

She waited just long enough for the men to disappear out of sight, then made her way sharply left, to the east, tumbled down a steep slope that suddenly appeared in front of her, had her breath knocked from her chest as she hit the ground and lay there dazed for a moment. Groaning, she pushed herself up, brushed leaves and earth off of her, and ran.

Only to lose both the humans and her sudden hope. Hours later, she was traipsing through the underbrush at the bottom of the valley, scanning the wooded area and finding nothing, not at all sure of just where she was anymore. A dog of her own would have been useful now. But she didn't have one. Maybe she should have taken that pup along after all, and it had been so little and sweet too... she _could_ have cared for it, even as she was, on the run...

Scuffing her toes in the dirt, she stopped walking with a sigh. This was pointless, and now she had probably gone and lost herself, too. Wasn't that just what always happened to her? Whenever she was needed most, she up and got lost.

"No. I'll find him." She balled her hands into fists at her side, wondering who she was fooling. Giving up was not an option now, though, so she might as well go on. Those men- no, they didn't depend on her. Only their lives, without them being aware of it. She couldn't quite decide if that made her responsibility greater or lesser.

But there were no tracks here, nothing to show that anyone had been through here. A sudden thrill of anxious heat went through her- what if the trail the humans had found turned away up the valley? Then she would have lost them, because finding them again, in this forest, on her own, was an impossible task.

She turned around, scanning the upward slope. No sign or sound of movement. A tense Dalish cussword left her lips as she pressed her fists to her eyes, cursing herself, her bad sense of orientation, her air-headedness, her general inability to do anything right. _Elgar'nan... _

When the telltale pricking at the corners of her eyes started, she drew herself up and swiped the back of her hand across her eyes angrily. _Stop crying and do something, Merrill!_

That was when she saw it, through the trees, just catching the warm light of the setting sun slanting through the trees. At first look, it might have been a cliff, massive grey stone overgrown with vines, but too smooth, too regular, and if you looked closely you could see the cracks where stone had been set upon stone long centuries ago.

Her despair forgotten, Merrill started in that direction, placing her feet carefully among the twisted roots of ancient trees. They seemed to cluster around the ruin- for it was a ruin, the wall she had seen part of an old Tevinter fortress that dotted this part of the world. The closer she came, the more their hanging branches revealed of crumbling stone and overthrown majesty. It would almost have been a sad sight, if not for what the Imperium had done to her people. It was certainly a disquieting one. Spending years around Hawke had taught Merrill more than she had ever cared to know about the creatures that could potentially be hiding in ruins like this; nothing she wanted to meet staff-less.

But curiosity got the better of her, as it almost always did. And, though a shiver ran down her spine as she set foot inside the ring of tumbledown walls, she could not help it. Also, what if Fenris had been hiding out here? It was not a bad place, as far as ruins went. Though the walls had mostly collapsed, there was a large walnut tree growing in what must have been the inside of the watchtower once, shielding a nook beneath a section of roof that had withstood time, where...

… a fire had been burning. A camp fire, embers still glowing softly.

The shock barely had had time to register before something hard grabbed her from behind. The squeal would not be suppressed- she felt ashamed of it immediately. And now a hand in a hard, metal gauntlet was pressing down on her mouth and nose, another was gripping her arms behind her back, and a voice spoke at her ear.

"Just what do you think you're doing here, boy?"

She had forgotten just how deep Fenris' voice was. But there also was an edge to it she couldn't remember hearing, and it made her shudder. Suddenly, she regretted coming here.

He was expecting an answer, though, not just asking rhetorically prior to ramming his fist through her chest, as was evidenced when he lifted his mailed hand off her mouth. It went around her neck instead.

"I- Fenris...", was all she could choke out. Her heart seemed to have gotten stuck in her throat, and she feared it might fly out her mouth, fluttering like a moth caught in a lantern.

The hands twitched, once. There was a silence behind her. Then she was turned around none too gently, the grip on her arms never loosening. Narrow eyes surveyed her form, flitting up and down her body, up and down...

"Witch." He pushed her away, and she stumbled, going down on her behind in a pile of leaves. Before she could do so much as blink, his hand was at his sword, and his sword at her throat. It forced her chin upward, her eyes to look into his, hate-narrowed yet oddly cold.

"Come to finish the job Hawke botched?" She shook her head hurriedly. Not a good idea- the sharp bite of the sword's edge made her recoil, but now there was the tree behind her and nowhere to go. Blood trickled down into her collar, wet and hot.

"No- no! Fenris, you have to go, they're after you..."

He cut her off. "What in blazes are you talking about, witch?" He was snarling. Merrill looked into his face and knew, if she drew on her magic now, he would feel it, and he would kill her. She drew a deep breath._ Calm, Merrill..._

"Humans... from the town. I overheard them talking. They have dogs, and they're armed badly... I followed, Fenris, you have to go... or there'll be bloodshed, and I don't want anymore blood on my hands, please..." She was babbling again. There was Fenris over her, poised to kill her, and she was babbling. And not making any sense, either, by the look on his face.

He was silent for far too long for her comfort. The sword remained at her throat, unwavering, while hatred was replaced by confusion in his eyes, followed closely by exasperation, and then distrust. He wasn't believing a word of it, she could see. Why couldn't she just once make sense?

"So you're saying... you followed a party of headhunters all the way out here, to... what? Get at me first? No? Explain yourself, witch!", he snapped. He was running thin on patience, eyes narrowing once more to merest slits. Debating whether to just kill her and be done with it, if she knew him.

Very well. Last chance to get through to him. Oh, Creators make that she didn't stumble over her tongue...

"No. I came... to protect them from you. Because if they find you, you'll kill them, and their deaths will be on me because I know what... how dangerous you are, and they don't. They're armed with _spades_, for the Creators' sakes!" Well, one of them was.

And now that had gotten his attention. Fenris blinked, once, twice, the sword slipping just the tiniest bit. A few seconds of speechlessness passed, and then: "There are so many things wrong with that, I don't know where to start."

Merrill sagged.

"You're trying to tell me that you, of all people, care enough about the fate of a few humans dumb enough to hunt me with spades, if there are any such, to come out here into the wilderness looking for me and tell me to... flee from them?" He scoffed. And then, surprisingly, lowered his sword.

"If you want a fight, come on. I don't care."

Merrill opened her mouth, but nothing came out. For the first time since being grabbed from behind, she looked, really looked at him, and was shocked by what she saw. Fenris had always been slender, but now he was skin and bones and sinew. His white hair had grown out until it passed his shoulders in a tangled mess that badly needed a wash and a brush. A scar zigzagged its way across his forehead, ending just over the left eye, that had wonderfully escaped undamaged. Merrill thought she could hazard a guess from whence that scar originated.

The same fight had ruined his armor, so now he was wearing odd bits of leather, along with iron bracers. Only the clawed gauntlets were still the same. And he had acquired the sword whose edge she had already had the chance to test.

But what struck her most was the look in his eyes. They were they same beautiful green she remembered, beautiful even when they flashed at her in anger, narrowed with hate, or darkened in pain. Back then, they had always shown _something_, try as he might to school his face into the impassive slave's mask. Yet now there was no life in them, no expression, they were dull- dead. She knew, by that look alone, that he wouldn't back down from the fight. And she also knew that she couldn't allow him to slaughter those peasants, and go down farther on the dark path he was treading.

"I... I'll fight." Was that her voice? She picked herself up from the ground, squaring off to the silver haired elf like... like a kitten to a rabid wolf. And she felt that way under his dull green gaze. Just a kitten about to have her head bitten off, and serve her right. "I'll fight you if that's what you want, but not here, and only after you've sworn to leave those men alive."

Part of her wondered if she'd gone mad. She could do a lot of damage even without her staff, but never enough to fight this... insane creature Hawke's companion had turned into. Not without reverting to blood magic... she shuddered.

But maybe she could wound him severely enough to make him think twice about entering another fight anytime soon.

To her infinite surprise, Fenris snorted. She stood there, stock still, gaping at him as he threw his head back and- started to laugh!

Then annoyance took over. No one ever took her seriously. No one! Even when she was trying her best to save lives, she was made mock of!

She slapped him. The blow came so suddenly that he staggered, and she froze, her hand still lifted. Where had that come from? She certainly hadn't planned to do that... oh Creators, she had pushed him right over the edge now, hadn't she?

Merrill gulped and reached out for her magic, waiting for that surprise to turn into anger, fury, hate. But what astonished her beyond belief was... it didn't.

"Well, well." The sword was sheathed. Fenris grinned... grinned at her! "I see the witch has finally found some spine somewhere. Now, if you do not want these humans to die, I suggest we move, because I hear someone coming." And easy as that, he was leaping the crumbled stone wall where it was lowest, moving off through the trees, leaving her to gape after him with her fists clenched.

"Oh, you...!" But she did take his hint and run after him, because he was right: Someone or something was approaching them, and she did not wish to meet them. Not when she had accomplished what she set out to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's notes:** It's short and I'm far from satisfied by it, but urrrrgh if I'm going to rewrite that again. So, have it as it is. I hope it's not too horrible u.u

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one

**Witch**

Her.

Of all the people to intrude in his self-chosen isolation, it had to be her. He almost hadn't recognized her, dressed up as a boy, her ridiculous Dalish armor and her staff nowhere to be found, dark hair cut short and face dirty.

But he would have known that voice anywhere. How often had he heard 'I know what I'm doing!', or some variation of it in this same voice. How often had he, privately in his head or less privately with words, told her that she didn't. He couldn't count the times, had never tried to. Always they had been on opposite ends, and if not for Hawke, one of them would have murdered the other a long time ago.

And now he had her here. Far away from any help. Far away from _Hawke_. And the best part was that she had come to him out of her own free will.

Merrill of the cursed mirror. The blood mage. The witch.

His fingers gave a twitch when he heard his name pronounced in a choking whisper, only wishing to crush her voice right out of her. But he could control them better than that, and the fleeting moment passed, and he found he was curious- actually curious as to what brought her here. It was faintly satisfying, seeing her wide eyes as his sword hovered near her throat, savoring the fear in them, feeling it roll off her like mist off the sea. It made him almost- almost feel alive again.

It was, however, entirely disappointing what a lame explanation she came up with. But when she offered to fight him- still afraid, so afraid, as well she should be- he suddenly and unexpectedly found himself in two minds about what was to do next. Part of him couldn't but commend her on this act, because though her knees were quaking- he could see it plainly- she wouldn't back down from him, even tried to stare him down. It was the bravest thing he had ever seen her do.

Part of him was filled by a sparking excitement like a glass filled with water the moment she spoke those words. Yes. It was exactly what he wanted- to fight, to kill her, crush the life slowly out of her still beating heart. It would be, oh, so satisfying.

Part of him was simply amused.

And it was this latter part which finally won out, after a brief struggle. Especially after she slapped him, of all things. He couldn't have said why, but for some reason he found he didn't wish to kill her yet, after all. She deserved this; a chance to think better of it and leave him alone, and get away with her life.

So he did what she wanted him to do. He ran away, and the look on her face, caught briefly when he started to turn around, was almost enough to make him burst out laughing again. Yes, definitely worth letting her live for the moment.

But quite soon, he wouldn't be thinking like this.

Because now she was following him. More, she seemed set on doing so, no matter whether he ignored her, or threw her pointed, threatening looks over his shoulder. Hints, it seemed, still bounced harmlessly off her airy head. And it was grating on his nerves.

Night had fallen after he'd set out from the ruin where he'd been living for the past days. That didn't deter him; it was nearly full moon, so there was light enough to see. He'd marched on in more or less of a straight line, not really caring where he was going, and the witch had fallen in behind him, silent like he could not ever remember her being. When she wasn't talking, she was able to move almost soundlessly through the forest, a fact he had never noticed about her- before...

A near soundless, magically imbued presence at his back. It made his skin crawl.

For the first part of their night journey, he thought she would get tired of it and rest somewhere, and he'd be rid of her; but the longer he walked, the clearer it became that she had no intention of doing so. And although he could now, as dawn was slowly creeping up the horizon, coloring the world grey, then slowly painting it with color once more, sometimes hear her stumble behind him, her feet dragging through drifts of leaves, and the occasional small, hastily repressed sound of pain when a branch he let go of slapped her in the face, she was still stubbornly persevering.

"Where are we going?"

He stopped; she walked right into him. He ground his teeth. "What?"

"I said, where are we going? I was lost before, but I think I know where we are now. There is a place not far where we could go, you see, but we'd need to move more to the east from here on, and if there's a clan there right now it's dangerous for me, but I still think you'd be safe, and..."

He cut her off.

"I didn't ask for flaming directions, witch." Something in his face caused her take a step back when he turned around to face her. The fear flickering briefly across her dirty countenance made something savage in him grin fiercely. Lovely sight. It made him eager to see her face when he was tearing her entrails out through her belly. Maybe he should do it, just for that...

If he thought she would have enough sense to shut up now, he had given her too much credit.

"Well, I... the caves are a good place to hide, so I thought maybe you..."

"I do not intend to hide, witch."

Her lips compressed into that tight white line that meant she was pissed off now. Still couldn't take being called witch to her face- being reminded of what she was. "Well, since you're running already-"

Her hiss was cut short as she danced away from his hand. Unexpectedly nimble.

"And I am not. Running." His lyrium warned him that she was drawing on magic. So, he would kill her, after all.

"What else would you call this, then?" She was backing away as he advanced, wary, but still not cowed. "Running is all you do, all you ever did, it's all you know because you're afraid-"

His sword flashed out, blue-white light dancing on the trees all around them. All it hit was rock, but he had been expecting this. They had fought side by side too often, he knew all of her favourite moves- _As long as she's with us, she can't do anything stupid with that mirror of hers- _he blinked, shaking his head, trying to dislodge the shard of memory, and then a bolt of lightning hit him square. What part of the magic made it through the protection of his lyrium still managed to shock him, making him reel momentarily, muscles beyond his control.

Easy as that, the witch had turned the fight. Now roots snagged at his feet, tearing his sword from his grasp, sweeping his legs out from under him. With a crash and a snarl, he landed hard on his back. A pair of knees landed on his chest; a dagger was shoved under his chin. He stilled, waiting for its bite.

She didn't have it in her. Even with him sprawled on his back and his neck exposed to her weapon, she did nothing but gasp and stare and tremble, the tip of her dagger scratching against his skin, missing her chance- and she had made the mistake of leaving his hands free.

"You need to learn to take an opportunity when it occurs, witch." She looked up, into his eyes. His hand burrowed in her chest, glowing hazily. Her heart faltered in his grip, then sped up, bumping against the metal walls of its prison. The livid fear on her face was all he could have hoped for.

The dagger was still at his throat.

"Well?" No answer. "Come, witch. Use your blood magic. Free yourself. Or do you still not hate me enough to kill me?"

Green eyes widened in her bloodless face.

"No." The word was half a gasp. Trembling hands withdrew the dagger from his neck. It flew into the trees, glinting as it caught the sunlight.

Fenris found he could not move. _What had she just done?_

Merrill shuddered, leaning back, trying to escape his grasp, and he let her go to collapse in a panting heap beside him on the ground. Hands came up to cover her chest, as if she couldn't believe what had just happened.

Neither could he.

The roots had sunk harmlessly back into the ground, freeing him, and so he got up to retrieve his sword. Slowly, as if moving through honey, he picked it up. His head was empty but for the one question: Why? Why let her live?

Why let _him_ live?

The sound of his sword being sheathed once more made the witch look up. As he turned, wordlessly, to leave, he heard her scrambling to her feet behind him.

He turned east.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's notes:** Sooo, this one is a leetle bit longer than the last ;) I wanted to split it, but didn't know where, so... here it is, in all its glory. Thank you people for all the reviews, follows, favs... you're great :D

Note on my author's notes: I realized after I posted the last chapter that it should be satisfied _with_. Derp.

**Disclaimer:** See ch.1.

**Witch**

"Here we are." They were the first words any of them had spoken since their fight.

The witch had led them, all day, through territory that was becoming increasingly wild and harsh, the forest receding, making way for bracken and then dry grassland dotted with rocks. It reminded him very much of the hills around Kirkwall with their forbidding air, the cliffs that not only looked haunted but were so, in all actuality.

This place did not feel haunted, but it certainly looked as if it should be.

They had been climbing steadily, and had now reached a sort of plateau above the treeline. Walking there in bright sunlight for everyone to see, Fenris had felt uneasy at first, but soon noticed that he needn't have worried. There was no one around for miles, nothing moving except the wind and a bird of prey far, far up among the scattered clouds. Not a human, not even sheep grazing on the hard, dry grasses.

There was also more cover than he'd thought at first. One time he'd stopped on a low rise, a bare stony mound among the otherwise flat landscape, and crouching low, had examined the horizon warily. When he looked again at where the witch had been only a moment before, he found her suddenly gone, and alarm flooded his body, almost making his markings flare. Up here, and exposed like he was (or felt he was) that would have been a bad idea, and biting his teeth together, he fought the reflex back under control.

But he did not let go of the sword hilt as he straightened and cautiously approached the spot he'd seen her last, and it almost cost the witch her head when she reappeared out of the grass like conjured there by a demon, peering up to him from a small, but rapidly widening ravine that had been well nigh invisible from where he'd stood before. She stared at him with wide eyes until the blue-white glow of his lyrium had died down reluctantly, then nodded her head down the ravine and led on without a word.

But he did catch her looking back over her shoulder from time to time as they flitted from ravine to dell to rocky outcrop.

They had stopped once in the morning, with Merrill offering to share her provisions with him, which he'd declined, and again at about midday when they found a small spring trickling from the ground, only to disappear again a few yards on. Again, he pretended not to notice the bread and dried meat held questioningly out to him, and saw her lips press together in this way she had. Feigning ignorance to that, too, he moved over to drink deep from the spring, then sat watching the sky, leaning back against the rock with arms crossed until she got up to move on.

That look irked him. It was Leandra gazing at him with Merrill's eyes...-

"_Your friend?" _

"_Yes, Mother. Don't worry, he won't smash anything, he only looks like he might"- to him, with a wink- "We'll be gone in a minute, I just want to ask Carver if he'd like to come along"- to her mother- "Carver! Action's on, do want to- oops..."- ripping the door to what was presumably the bedroom open, to an indignant squawk from within, closely followed by an exclamation of "What in the Blight do you think you're doing?!"_

_Her peal of laughter does not do anything for the younger Hawke's temper, and through the argument that logically ensues, Fenris stands stoically waiting in the doorway, trying to act like he doesn't feel Hawke's mother's eyes lingering on him, just like they might linger on a wounded dog or a beggar found outside her door. There is pity, and there is shock, rolled into one, and when finally he can't stand it anymore and turns his head toward her with the slightest hint of a snarl curling his lips, she rips her gaze away, blushing visibly, and bustles off, trying manfully to busy herself with the dishes, clean and dry as they are. _

_What it is that has shocked her so, he never finds out; but then, he does not wish to. _

The memory was so vivid that for a second he actually forgot where he was. A moment later, he was jarred back into reality as his foot set on thin air and he stumbled down gracelessly over a shallow step the rain had washed out and drew the witch's startled gaze. Without deigning to notice it, he straightened and walked on and ignored the burning of his eartips, as well as the odd feeling the sudden flash of remembering had left behind. A sort of... hollowness.

* * *

And now they were here. He could see the proud, sad, giddy little smile on Merrill's face as she pointed down the largest ravine they had yet passed. In fact, it was almost a valley in itself, washed out long years ago by turbulent water masses, of which, now, only remained a modest spring that started at one end of the valley, crossed it in its entirety, formed a pool at its end, to be swallowed by the chalk stone once again and disappear from human or elvhen knowledge.

Wind had blown in dirt into the sheltered little vale, where it settled, accumulated and built the bed for the lushest grass for miles around, a little forest of bushes, and one fairly enormous tree.

He looked at it more closely. Near the ground to about elven height, the thick trunk was painted in whites and reds, just like...

"Our _vhenadal_. The heart tree of the valley of meeting." Merrill spoke softly. He looked aside at her. The sadness was now plain as day, and he didn't have to ask why.

One other thing, however... "Why have you brought us here? Is it safe?"

The words took a moment to register with her, until her wistful look was withdrawn from the sight before them, and came to rest on him. She blinked once, then twice, and then only did she seem to realize what he'd been asking.

"What...? Oh. It's the safest place I know. The Shems don't know of it, and the clans normally only come here at certain times. There won't be a meeting this year, so we can lay low here for a long time. There's food, and water, and the caves have been made habitable. It's quite comfortable, you'll see." She tried a little smile on him, that died unborn in the face of his unchanging blank look.

"You're sure.", he said, deadpan. It wasn't a question.

"Would I have brought us here otherwise?" She bristled a little, and he felt oddly tickled somewhere inside that he still had this effect on her. It made him want to push her a little more, just to see...

He clamped down on the childish wish. What did he care?

"Come. You'll see." And with this, she turned brusquely away and moved on down the slope that descended steeply into the ravine, reaching the bottom while he was still surveying his surroundings.

The path she had taken was well visible, meandering down in narrow loops, although grass was beginning to encroach on its edges. It had plainly been trodden often and by many feet, but not recently. Where the ground grew level, it divided into a network of smaller, narrower paths that wound throughout the entire valley, as far as he could see. Here and there those little pathways would end at an opening in the rock wall; he could count six from where he stood, but the heart tree blocked part of his view, and how many more there were behind it, he couldn't say. The whole place was quite beautiful, the rock showing all the signs of having been carved by the forces of water, forming little dips and shadowed overhangs, all smoothly rounded, and glittering in every color stone could possibly have, vein laying over vein, broad bands of white, and red, and green, and narrow lines of blue or off-white or silver.

Fenris had thought he had forgotten how to appreciate beauty. Now he found this wasn't so. It took his breath away. No wonder the Dalish had chosen this place.

An impatient call sailed up to him from below. Looking down, he spied the witch crouching close to a gap in the rock, her crossed arms plainly visible even from here. He could just imagine the impatient scowl that went with it, and scowled himself.

Was this really such a good idea? Or was he hastening toward some catastrophe? Who could say if the witch had been speaking the truth? He had never clapped eyes on her would-be pursuers, could not know if her story was true and her intentions as unselfish as they appeared.

Who knew what was waiting down there for him?

_The knife catching the light with a flash as she hurls it into the trees..._

He moved forward without thinking.

The witch stood impatiently tapping her foot beside the entrance of the- presumed- cave, but her face broke into a smile as she watched him approaching her. His eyebrows contracted in a frown, but the damper this put to her apparent good mood was moderate now. She moved a step back and gestured at the small hole to her left.

By the inviting sweep of her arm it might have been a grand palace she was beckoning him into, not a damp, narrow passage through stone that might or might not lead somewhere. From outside, and with night gathering fast, it was impossible to tell.

He straightened back up and turned his eyes towards the witch. "You first."

A moment's hesitation. Fenris narrowed his eyes. If this was a trap after all...

"Let's hope no spiders have gotten in. I hate spiders. The small ones aren't so bad, but do you remember those we encountered in the Bone Pit mines? I still dream of them. Urghs..." She shuddered violently for a moment, then went down on her knees and disappeared into the hole at a crawl.

Fenris watched her get swallowed by the stone, pausing to consider the narrow entrance. There was no room there to use his sword if things went awry. Indeed, there was hardly enough space for him to crawl through with it still sheathed on his back.

He was beginning to have seconds thoughts about the impulse that had made him follow her here.

"Are you coming?", the witch's voice called from within. It had a faint echoing quality to it. So there was a cave behind this passage, one at least big enough to create an echo. That was good, as far as it went.

Taking off his sword, he held it in front of him and wriggled through the entrance. His lyrium tattoos hummed, emanating a hazy glow in the claustrophobic embrace of the stone as all his senses went on high alert. A little too late did it occur to him that this was just the place to crush him with her earth magic, if the witch had any such intentions, and the thought made bright flashes of blue race along his markings, lighting up the walls like dancing blue lightning.

Finally he was through, uncrushed, and straightened hurriedly, brushing down his jerkin and re-sheathing the sword, and trying to look calm. Hopefully the witch hadn't noticed his nervosity-

"Oh, you made light for us. How practical. Thank you."

He couldn't help it; he covered his face with his hands. She didn't notice the gesture, already on her way further in, chattering as she went.

"The other caves are all connected, and if any spiders have gotten in we won't know until they're on us. This one is seperate, though, so there's less risk of that. We lived here when our clan came to the last meeting, before the journey to Sundermount..." Her voice trailed off.

She had now reached a portion of the cave where piece of wall jutted inward, noticed by the lack of light that he hadn't followed her, and turned round to wait for him. Slowly, he stalked after her; she needn't think that he was in any hurry to catch up.

By the time he turned the corner, she was already bustling around in the room behind it, checking it for spiders, of which there weren't any; at least, not of the big, man-eating variety; disappearing from sight a moment to come back with an armful of firewood and kindling, arranging the wood on one side of a rather big fireplace, and proceeding to light a fire. Fenris was left to survey the cave in peace, surprised at how habitable it appeared. The floor was rock, all loose stones having been cleared away. Niches had been cut into the stone all around- or natural niches had been enlarged- to make sleeping places for a dozen or more people. In large nets hanging from the ceiling, sturdy barrels were stored well out of reach of any earthbound beast. And there was a large supply of dry firewood stocked at one end of the cavern. The Dalish were well supplied.

He caught sight of a low stone wall to the right, and cautiously moved towards it, peering over it into a dark hole from which sounded the trickle and chatter of running water. A kind of natural well, walled off to prevent anyone from toppling into it. There was no way to tell how deep it was.

Then, when orange firelight started to spill around the walls, he noticed that he was standing there glowing still like a mobile light source. Startled, and rather disgruntled with himself, he let the lyrium-light die abruptly. Merrill looked up at that, smiled at him, and he scoffed and started walking around the cave as if in inspection. Finding a spot from where he could watch most of the cavern, including the entrance, he settled down there, crossed his legs under him, his arms over his chest, but kept his sword within easy reach.

Lie low for a day, then move on, that was the plan. And this time, there would be no following.

* * *

The moment he woke with a start was the moment he realized he'd been asleep.

Cursing soundlessly at himself for his foolishness, he willed the racing of his heart to slow down and looked around warily through his long hair. The witch hadn't noticed his moments- hours?- of vulnerability.

In fact, she wasn't even here.

Now this could be a good thing, or a very bad thing.

Hurriedly, he grabbed his sword and pushed to his feet. Not a second too late; just then, a sound of scrabbling by the entrance drew his attention. He crossed over to it with a few fast, silent strides and stood there, ready.

When he saw what caused the disturbance, his fingers twitched, but the impulse to separate Merrill's head of slightly damp (?) hair from her neck passed in an instant.

She saw him standing there, looked up and smiled her usual bright, slightly embarrassed smile. Fenris' eyes swept down her slight form, and the embarrassment deepened. His own.

"I thought it was a good opportunity to take a bath. I hate being this dirty, but there was no help for it back in the town. Elves there are all dirty. I don't see how they can stand it. There's just no need to be this unclean..." Blithely and happily unaware of what was going on in his head, she moved back to the fireplace to arrange her bundle of wet clothes so they would dry in the heat. The shift she wore instead had a damp look to it as well, but she seemed to mind the discomfort as little as she did his incredulous stare.

Right... he had forgotten about this certain peculiarity of hers. Immune to innuendo and oblivious to hints, most notably of the sexual kind, but not limited to it, she could never comprehend why the sight of her naked or half-dressed after a bath would discomfit the males of Hawke's party, make Isabela whistle and grin, Aveline blush, and Hawke herself sigh and drape something over her, most often part of her own clothing. And she _would _insist at scrubbing herself in any river, pond, or what water she could otherwise find, after every fight they'd gotten into.

He ripped his gaze away from her slender legs, bathed in flickering firelight. Goggling at the little witch's body had been Carver's part, and he had no intention about following him on this path.

At least he had the consolation that he wasn't sputtering and choking as yet.

"Are you hungry? Have to be, since you refused my food all day... see here, I found mushrooms, and there were berries on the bushes, and nuts, too. Maybe you'll like them better than the meat once I've cooked something out of it, it was a little tough, I'll admit. You could go take a bath in the meantime, the water's cold, but that's nice and refreshing too..."

"Witch." It came out as a growl that silenced her instantly. "Stop. Babbling."

He could see her bite her lip, then she put the woven basket, out of which she had been sorting the aforementioned spoils of her foraging, down, stood, and walked up to him. Hands on her hips (which pulled the wet fabric of her shift tight around her lithe body, showing every curve, and displaying the little nubs of her nipples plain for him to see- he did his best to look into her eyes, instead of anywhere else, feeling suddenly cornered), she drew herself up to her unimpressive full height, and stared him straight in the eyes.

"Bathe.", she commanded. "You look like a tramp. And smell like one, too. I'll have food ready when you come back. By the way- your hair badly needs a cut, as well." The look on her face was pure Hawke in that moment, and Fenris found himself unable to do anything but stare, flabbergasted. But then it melted into Merrill's own, bright little smile and she added, "Or I'll comb it out for you and leave it this way, maybe tie it back... It would suit you, I think...make you look rogueish, just like Varric." And she giggled.

That giggle broke the spell. Embarrassed beyond words, Fenris swiveled around on his heel wordlessly- anything to escape- only looking back over his shoulder once to inform her, "I'll not let you anywhere near me with a knife, witch."

As he ducked into the narrow tunnel, he just barely caught her soft answer.

"But you already have."

* * *

And she was right. Damn her to the Void, she was right.

Naked and waist deep in the ice-cold water, he brushed his hair back with both hands, noticed, for the first time, and with no little disgust at himself, just how filthy and matted it really was, and immersed himself in the small pool. The cold embrace shocked him to his core for a second; then it turned into cool, calming caresses, soothing away a pain he hadn't known existed. Just like the constant pain his lyrium markings caused him, it had receded into the background, always there, but only noticed at moments like these, when something out of the ordinary brought it to his attention.

Something, or someone.

"_Serah Fenris."_

"_Don't 'serah' me." He turns from the window he has been looking out of, watching while not seeing the rain outside splashing on the cobbles. Attempting, but not succeeding in washing away all the blood that covers the city's streets."What is it you want?"_

_Ser Cullen steps fully into the little room, the same one Fenris has woken up in after his fight with Hawke, which he has spent the weeks of his recovery in, which he has hardly left for all the time he has spent at The Gallows. He can't bear the thought of a world outside, a world without the very same people who have made his life worth living for six years. People who stood with him against Hadriana, against Danarius; people he has, in the end, betrayed, and been punished for this betrayal. By still being alive despite everything. _

_Now he is watching Cullen close the door behind him. The newly made Knight Commander looks weary, the ever-present dark circles under his eyes even darker, his skin paler, and his cheekbones more prominent than he remembers. He looks up to Fenris where he sits on the windowsill. _

"_I have come to ask you to join the Templar order." Never one to hedge around an issue; that is part of the reason he likes the man. "I will not deceive you, we need reinforcement badly. This war is draining our forces. Men die, men desert, and too little come to swell our ranks. A powerful warrior such as you would be a valuable asset to us, in actual battle, as well as on the training grounds, and your presence among us would lift morale; something else we are badly in need of."_

_He falls silent and watches Fenris' reaction, waiting for an answer. _

_Fenris lifts en eyebrow. "Lift morale... me. An elf. Former slave. I don't think so, Templar."_

"_And a former brother-in-arms to the Champion. A man who has experienced mage cruelty firsthand, and has the scars to show for it." Cullen approaches the small writing desk beneath the other window and sits down heavily on the stool beside it, exhaustion showing plainer than ever in the way he sags into the seat. _

_Fenris can feel the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, humorless smile. "At least you do not think to coddle me with words. But do you really think the Templars would rally to such a symbol? There are those who call me turncloak, and rightly so; worse, a turncloak who chose the losing side."_

"_There are those." The Knight Commander accedes with a slight nod. "But not many. Most of them will sing the praise of your courage in doing what was right, even though it meant going up against your allies. _

_I don't need your answer right away. But I would be grateful to you if you at least thought about it." _

_Cullen is not yet halfway out the door when Fenris knows his answer. _

"_No."_

_The man stops, hesitating; but he refrains from prying him with questions. He gives a curt nod and exits the room, and that is the last Fenris sees of Knight Commander Cullen. _

He'd left Kirkwall this same day, taking nothing but a sword from the Templar armory, and what money he had saved. The rest was history; less than glorious history, dominated by drunken nights and hungover days, more brawls over petty things in dingy taverns than he cared to (or could) remember, until he finally killed someone and had to run for his life.

Stumbling about in a nightmare born of fever, Merrill's knife had been an offer of a way out. She represented everything he hated, in this one moment in time; and he wanted so badly to have been right all along. Mages, the bane of this world. Magic, a plague beyond curing. He'd wanted it to be a mage who killed him, as it was a mage who enslaved him, robbed him of his memories and made him a pet; as it was a mage who pretended to be his friend and ally only to betray him. Just so he would have been right.

With a whoosh and a gasp, he resurfaced from the pool. His lungs burned; taking deep swallows of the sweet air, he banished his hair from his eyes, gathered up sand from the bottom of the little stream, and began to rub down meticulously, gritting his teeth every time the rough kernels of it scraped over his markings. But he went on until every last part of him burned as if scalded. He threaded his fingers into his hair and carded through it roughly, wanting it to hurt.

His stomach was a tight knot of feelings indecipherable to him, guilt, loss and loneliness, hatred, disdain and despair, and it was twisting around inside, bubbling into anger. He wanted that anger. Anger was good; it was easy. He wished for it, willed for that nest of snakes to turn into the tightly clenched fist that was so comforting in its familiarity.

But it didn't.

For once in his life, his anger abandoned him. It came apart at the edges, unraveling like a torn sheet.

Who was he that he dared feel betrayed?

_Turncloak._

Who was he that he dared bask in his own bitterness?

_Hypocrite._

His hands fisted in his hair, and he went to his knees in the shallows, the stones digging into his feet and shins and pressing painfully against his kneecaps. What had he been doing all this time but run, truly? Run from the consciousness of his own betrayal, trying to tell himself that it was he who had been wronged.

Wallowing in self pity.

His palms hit the surface of the water with a muted splash and dug into the pebbles beneath. Anger flared up at last, but it was anger at himself. What a pitiable creature he had become...

_Forgive me, Hawke._

* * *

When he returned to the cave in his breeches, with his wet clothing draped over his arm, it was to find Merrill puttering around close to the fire with pots and pans, humming softly to herself. She was still wearing that shift, which mercifully was not clinging wetly to her skin anymore. And there was a soft little smile on her face that froze him in his tracks.

He stood still in the shadows near the entrance, taking in the scene before him. Her unexpectedly deft movements as she chopped up nuts and threw them into the pot, the twirl she gave the spoon between her fingers before stirring the contents of this same pot, the way she shifted to the right while still sitting cross-legged and how she stretched to reach the basket, tipping forward from the hip, and displaying even more of her thighs as the shift rode up.

So entirely unaware was she of her surroundings, so prettily unselfconscious, so happy with the small tasks she was performing that he was loath to intrude upon this small moment. Dawdling there on his spot, watching unseen, suddenly he felt a shift of perspective that would have left him deeply uneasy an hour ago, and still left him breathless as he was:

He looked on her, and what he saw wasn't the mage. What he saw was a girl; a slim, petite elvhen girl with short raven hair and delicate _vallaslin_ tattoos, bathed in firelight, murmuring softly to herself as she sat picking out berries. Telling them a story. Bits of it floated over to him, carried softly along the walls by an almost imperceptible echo.

[*]"_Long ago, when time itself was young, the only things in existence were the sun and the land. The sun, curious about the land, bowed his head close to her body, and Elgar'nan was born in the place where they touched. The sun and the land loved Elgar'nan greatly, for he was beautiful and clever. As a gift to Elgar'nan, the land brought forth great birds and beasts of sky and forest, and all manner of wonderful green things. Elgar'nan loved his mother's gifts and praised them highly and walked amongst them often._

_The sun, looking down upon the fruitful land, saw the joy that Elgar'nan took in her works and grew jealous. Out of spite, he shone his face full upon all the creatures the earth had created, and burned them all to ashes. The land cracked and split from bitterness and pain, and cried salt tears for the loss of all she had wrought. The pool of tears cried for the land became the ocean, and the cracks in her body the first rivers and streams._

_Elgar'nan was furious at what his father had done and vowed vengeance. He lifted himself into the sky and wrestled the sun, determined to defeat him. They fought for an eternity, and eventually the sun grew weak, while Elgar'nan's rage was unabated. Eventually Elgar'nan threw the sun down from the sky and buried him in a deep abyss created by the land's sorrow. With the sun gone, the world was covered in shadow, and all that remained in the sky were the reminders of Elgar'nan's battle with his father-drops of the sun's lifeblood, which twinkled and shimmered in the darkness."_

Fenris found himself listening intently, even after he recognized the story for an elvhen one. Where normally he would have scoffed at the teller and derided the tale, he now stood there like a softly dripping statue. It was magic that held him in its thrall. The magic of firelight and a soft voice, as inexorable as a blood spell; and yet he could not fear it. For the first time in his life, he felt at the same time spellbound and at peace.

"_Elgar'nan had defeated his father, the sun, and all was covered in darkness. Pleased with himself, Elgar'nan sought to console his mother, the earth, by replacing all that the sun had destroyed. But the earth knew that without the sun, nothing could grow. She whispered to Elgar'nan this truth, and pleaded with him to release his father, but Elgar'nan's pride was great, and his vengeance was terrible, and he refused._

_It was at this moment that Mythal walked out of the sea of the Earth's tears and onto the land. She placed her hand on Elgar'nan's brow, and at her touch he grew calm and knew that his anger had led him astray. Humbled, Elgar'nan went to the place where the sun was buried and spoke to him. Elgar'nan said he would release the sun if the sun promised to be gentle and to return to the earth each night. The sun, feeling remorse at what he had done, agreed._

_And so the sun rose again in the sky, and shone his golden light upon the earth. Elgar'nan and Mythal, with the help of the earth and the sun, brought back to life all the wondrous things that the sun had destroyed, and they grew and thrived. And that night, when the sun had gone to sleep, Mythal gathered the glowing earth around his bed, and formed it into a sphere to be placed in the sky, a pale reflection of the sun's true glory."_

As the story ended and Merrill fell silent, so did her formerly busy hands drop slowly into her lap, her look resting dreamily upon them while seeing things that lay far beyond reality. A sigh left her lips; a sigh that, soft as it was, crossed the distance between them like a bird on the wing, and broke the spell he had been under. Where before he couldn't have moved if his life depended on it, suddenly now he couldn't _not _move. He tried, but his body wouldn't obey him, taking a step forward and startling the witch out of her daydream. She blinked and looked up, saw him, and flinched. And it felt just like the slap she had given him, only more painful.

He had quite sobered down by the time he arrived beside the fire. Merrill continued picking her berries in silence, looking anywhere but at him; in silence, he spread out his clothes to dry just like she had. Standing there feeling like an uninvited guest, his searching gaze fell on her little knife, and he went to pick it up, planning to give himself that haircut she had mentioned.

But just as he settled down on the floor, Merrill pushed aside her work, and moved without hesitation to cut his hair herself.

* * *

[*] Copypasta from the wiki


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's notes:** Another rather short chapter again, but I hope it'll make up for that by the Merrillness of it ;) This literally came out of the blue, and I thought it was funny, so it stayed. HF :)

**Witch**

The caves were full of memories.

Most of them involved Keeper Marethari. Every corner, everything she touched, was filled with her- teaching the children, talking to the adults, settling a quarrel, meditating over a bowl of sweet incense, preparing potions, studying artefacts or scrolls.

She could still see her as she had been, elegant and graceful, unbent by age, warm and caring and yet distant, strong to the core of her being.

When she found one of the Keeper's herb knives forgotten in the woodpile- no one would ever know how it got there in the first place- and remembered Marethari's regret at losing it, it was all she could do to hold back the tears. Every remembrance she had of this place was tainted by the knowledge of what she had done, and how she longed to make it undone, to have listened to Hawke, and Anders, and Fenris- and Varric, too- back when she still had a chance to avoid the mistakes that brought her here.

She put the knife on a shelf where it could be found by someone other than her, someone more worthy of carrying this memento. A questioning glance from Fenris met her, and she smiled a quavery smile and murmured "Marethari's."

By the look of mingled understanding, pity, and disgust that passed his face, she knew he remembered that day as well as she did. Hawke had been cruel to bring him along, but then she had been used to relying on him, and maybe it hadn't even been done intentionally, to hurt her- maybe it was just because everyone else might have had qualms about killing her if the thing went awry and she turned into an abomination. Hawke herself had only come along because she clearly knew that Merrill would pull it through, with or without help, and wanted to keep the damage done as small as possible.

Knowing that still hurt, too.

She'd been so, so stupid.

Fenris had asked her what she intended to do. She said she didn't know.

"And you?", she'd returned the question, if only to stop mulling her beggar's choices, carding through his hair with her fingers and trying to cut it as evenly as possible. It felt soft-coarse and heavy, like fine horsehair.

It was the first time she could remember of her touching him intentionally.

"I'm not sure yet. I know what I am not going to do, though: Return to being a tramp." His deep voice rumbled in his chest so the vibrations could still be felt at the base of his neck. He turned his head to glance over his shoulder, and she thought she detected a hint of wry amusement in the twitch of his lips. She returned it with a rather shamefaced grin. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

He shrugged. "It was true."

Then silence fell for a while, only disturbed by the soft slicing sound of her knife shortening his hair. When she was finished (the result being only a little haphazard), and gathering up the cuttings, it suddenly spilled out of her without her leave: "I think the Dalish would take you in, if you wanted."

That had been the wrong thing to say. The pause stretching between them would have told her, even if his expression didn't.

"I don't think so.", he stated curtly, and moved off. Merrill was left feeling foolish once more.

That had been yesterday evening. Now it was morning, and she had to get out of here. The cave felt so cramped she could hardly breathe, and wriggling through the passage, she emerged into the clear air and breathed it in deep. There was a sharp, crisp note to it, a first harbinger of autumn approaching, a sign of change subtly felt. The nervousness from within slowly seeped out of her; suddenly, she couldn't remember what had set her on edge like this. This place was peaceful, beautiful, and safe, and she found herself considering the idea of maybe wintering here. If the snows didn't come too early, they should be able to gather enough supplies to see them through a frugal winter. There was also always the possibility of returning to town to buy what they couldn't otherwise get. She should still have enough money left, she reckoned.

Winter clothing would be something they'd have to buy. Grain as well. For the rest... well, she wasn't a hunter, and Fenris neither, and his sword was most emphatically not a hunting weapon, but they wouldn't need much meat between the two of them. There was still food enough to be gathered in the valley itself, and the forest wasn't that far away. Wood could be a problem, especially if it got really cold... add an axe to the supplies to be bought. There were barrels of salt in every cave, pots to cook in, furs to sleep in, and...

A whole winter, spent in a cave together with Fenris. Her stomach gave a nervous churn at that.

_He's dangerous, Merrill. He tried to kill you not two days ago. _

But then, that was before...

_His sudden appearance at the fire startles her out of fond reminiscences. The sight of him half-dressed, the brands twisting their way over his torso and arms like lyrium snakes, seeming to drink in the light of the fire... it is beautiful. Beautiful, and disconcerting. All of a sudden, she is very much aware of how she is sitting there babbling like a child, almost naked and nearly defenseless, while he is a weapon in elvhen form. _

_There is that fear again, stirring in her belly. But something warm and alive is stirring as well, lower down and higher up, and for a time, she is unable to look up. _

_And still, somehow she manages to go over there, take the knife, tell him "Let me. You can't see what you're doing, I can.", and cut his overlong hair to the length she remembers. Every time he says something and she is obliged to respond, she thinks there ought to be butterflies fluttering out her mouth..._

They were still there, along with the memory. Somewhere along the way, his rigid shoulders had relaxed under her touch, and that was almost enough to efface the one of his hand buried in her ribcage, the feeling of his fingers closing around her heart. She had never been so scared. She had never felt so helpless. She'd never had a worse idea than wanting to share a living space with Fenris for an entire winter, yet her thoughts _would_ return there, and lo!, she would find herself planning again.

Yet- it never hurt to be prepared, right? Right!

And with that thought she whirled around to get a basket from the cave.

* * *

There was a lot of food to be found in the valley, if one knew where to look. Mushrooms under the trees and stones, fruit on branches and bushes, nuts and seeds, and there were lobsters in the river, though she didn't attempt to catch any with her bare hands. There had to be lobster traps somewhere around; she'd have to take a look around the other caves.

There was one fairly enormous briar growing along the southern wall as well, sprawling and thriving in the sun, and full of sweet black berries. Merrill filled one basket to the brim with them and had to return with a second one, popping one berry in her mouth for every three she picked. Her fingers had been pricked by the sharp, hooked thorns so often she had started to just ignore it, and her arms looked as if she had been wrestling with an entire litter of kittens, scratched and bloody. It would have been a pity to stop, though; there was always one more berry, just out of reach over her head, and she had to stretch and stand on tiptoe to get at it; or hidden among the mass of brambles, which obliged her to weave her arm between them, gathering more scratches. Gingerly pushing away the branches, she entered deeper and deeper inside the briar, to triumphantly pick empty a branch that had been particularly full. The berries off of that branch tasted especially good, she thought. The spoils of victory.

Now with the second basket full and the briar almost empty, she tried to crawl backwards out of the tangle of brambles, and found that she couldn't. She tried again, with a little more force, but the multitude of little hooks wouldn't budge. The only result her efforts yielded was that, now, the thorns had her jerkin riding up over her back, and dug into the sensitive skin formerly beneath it. With a yelp of pain, the attempt was quickly abandoned; only to find that there was no other way out, be it forwards or sideways. Always the thorns would dig warningly into parts of her skin that she valued too much to lose in a wild attempt at breaking out.

She was, in fact, stuck.

Well, wasn't that just typical. One of those things that could only happen to her. And now she had to wait here, on all fours, for help to come along; and the only help available being Fenris... oh, Mythal. Just great...

Speaking if which... where _was_ Fenris, anyway? She hadn't seen him since the morning.

A small groan of exasperation made its way out her throat. No, please, he couldn't have just left without saying anything, could he? Of all the things she needed right now... the Creators couldn't be that cruel! She'd readily bear his scorn for being such a klutz if it meant he'd help her get out of this predicament. Mythal, please...

Mythal, however, was deaf to her pleading. The minutes stretched into eternity while she was stuck inside her briar, amusing herself with counting the scratches on her arms, and occasionally giving another try at escaping. Only to find that, no, the plant still had no plans of releasing her. Once she considered magicking the brambles into freeing her, but all she accomplished was getting herself even more tangled up. Sighing, she hung her head and gave it up. There was nothing for it but to wait.

Afternoon turned into evening, and Merrill was getting stiff and cold, with the sun now gone, before she caught the sound of soft footfalls on the grass. Trying to turn her head and look in the direction the sound came from almost took out her eye, and she hissed in pain when the thorn snagged on the soft skin beneath instead. The footsteps paused, hesitated, and finally came closer. Fenris' rough voice sounded like sweet song to her ears when he said, "What in the name of the Maker are you doing there, witch?"

"Help. Please...", was all she had ready in answer for that. There was a strangled sound from outside the briar, and then the branches moved. She yelped again. "Ouch! Would you mind... being a little more careful... ow! Fenris...!" It was a whine. She couldn't help it. Being stuck inside a bush all afternoon had done nothing for her patience. He made that strangled noise again, and she realized with dismay (and a strange little flutter in the pit of her stomach) that he was laughing. Really, genuinely laughing, laughing from amusement and nothing else. Huffing with annoyance, she subsided, feeling curiously warm inside.

It took the better part of half on hour to extricate her, and by that time they were both scratched and bleeding, Merrill exhausted and thoroughly embarrassed as he pulled her out bodily by her shoulders, standing her on her feet. Her ears burned so hot it was a wonder they weren't glowing, and Fenris' deep, throaty chuckles didn't help her at all. She could feel them vibrating through him, with one of his hands still on her shoulder, steadying her although it wasn't strictly necessary. He seemed to have forgotten about it.

"Maker's breath, witch... dare I ask, what _were_ you doing in there?" He was shaking his head, and his shoulders were shaking as well. She had never seen him like this.

"I..." She ducked out from under his touch. It felt suddenly hot; far too intense, far too much for comfort. So she picked up her basket and held it between them, by way of explanation, and as a makeshift shield. He took one look at it and put his face in his hand.

"And... what would you have done if I hadn't come along?", he asked from behind it. Merrill blushed again, looked at her toes and admitted, "Well... I would probably have eventually tried to burn the brambles with my magic. But I'm glad I didn't have to..."

When she looked up again, it was to meet with a very incredulous look. She bit her lip, but he refrained from saying anything, except, "You should see yourself... best go get cleaned up. And I think there must be some elfroot here somewhere.", turned, and left her standing there.

True enough, when she climbed out of the pool at the end of the valley after washing off the blood and dirt, there was a small bundle of elfroot on the ground beside her clothes, and Fenris nowhere to be seen.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's notes:** I seem to alternate between too-short and too-long chapters. Ah well. Have another long one. ^^

**Witch**

Days passed. They settled into a routine of sorts; not the most orthodox one, but a routine both felt comfortable with.

At least, so Merrill assumed.

She saw little of Fenris. Creators knew where he went, but he always returned. She would turn around and there he'd be, greeting her with the barest of nods, the setting sun coloring his silver hair gold and red. He hardly exchanged a word with her beyond what was necessary; she kept her rambling tongue in check as best she could. They slept in nooks as far apart from each other as it could get, yet still she could hear him move sometimes, even across the whole breadth of the cave, and she would find herself lying awake at night waiting for the soft rustling that told her he was there. She continued with her preparations for the winter to come; he looked at the stock of supplies and said nothing, but he came back with a sheep slung over his shoulders one day, and Merrill wisely did not ask him what farm he had stolen it from. The next one was almost a day's march off.

After the sheep, there would be the occasional bird, or hare, and once, a basketful of apples. She shook her head disapprovingly at that, and got the closest thing to a smirk she had seen since they arrived at the valley.

Her hair was growing back. Fenris' clothes didn't hang quite so loosely on him anymore. The first frost came and went and left the world breathing in the deep silence of oncoming winter. Merrill felt happier than she had in a very long time.

The day was beautiful; one of those glorious late autumn days when the air feels fresh and crisp, and yet the sun warms you through and through, and working out in it will make you sweat and want you to go down to your shirt sleeves, while to stop working means you will have to pull all your clothing back on in a hurry because the cooling perspiration will make you shiver within a minute if you don't.

Merrill was down to her shirtsleeves at the moment. She was also a few meters above ground, clinging to the branches of an ancient hazel bush, by now almost a tree in its own right, and shaking them for all she was worth. Nuts rained to the ground beneath her, but more clung stubbornly to their bush. She wished she was heavier, or at least a little stronger. This had always seemed so easy when the clan's men did it, but her strength was not nearly enough to make the hazel relinquish all its nuts. She'd have to settle for picking what she could reach, after gathering those that had fallen to the ground.

Right. Careful, now... she'd already slipped and crashed down once, she didn't want to do it twice. Her hip still hurt, probably a nice shade of violet by now.

Very slowly, and very carefully, she grabbed hold of a higher limb and lowered herself down from the branch she had been perching on. Hanging suspended in the air by her arms, her toes sought out the one beneath her, settled on it, and slowly, she let go, extending her arm to steady herself elsewhere...

And the slippery bark dropped her right in Fenris' arms.

"I... uh... Sorry. Uhm. Fenris? Did I hurt you?" She bent down to peer into his face, which was partially covered by his hands right now. There was no blood visible, but she was quite sure she must have smashed his nose, judging by the way her elbow smarted.

He muttered an oath and straightened, fingers still on the bridge of his nose, and her cheeks flamed. Typical. She didn't mind him catching her- not at all- in fact, this was quite like one of those scenes in one of those novels Varric used to write and that she used to like so much, but nowhere in them had ever been a heroine breaking the hero's nose when he gallantly rescued her. So typical.

Where _had_ he come from, at this exact moment, and at this time of day, anyway? It wasn't even afternoon yet.

"Fenris? Why are you-"

"Someone's coming. Get inside." Recovered, his voice carried that clipped sort-of whispered order that brooked no argument, and thinking of the human hunters, she didn't stop to ask questions, but nodded and ran for the opening of their cave. If they heard her just then, she'd given them away for sure, damn it, damn it... and there were still her basket, and the nuts, and the traps in the river, but there was no time to retrieve them.

Fenris followed her as fast as might be and took up position beside the entrance, sword in hand. Whatever unfortunate individual would be the first to enter would find themselves short a head before they even knew what happened.

When an angry look from narrow green eyes met her, Merrill noticed she'd been standing right in the middle of the cave, for anyone to take a shot at. Nearly tripping over her own feet, she mimicked Fenris and pressed to the wall across from him, gripping her dagger and readying her magic. His eyes were still trained on her- his lips twitched into a frown, but he said nothing. A breathless minute passed, stretching into eternity.

Then there were voices outside, pitched low. Scratching in the passage- Merrill held her breath. Fenris shifted, tensing.

And _then_, a voice called to them in Dalish, and Merrill's knees nearly gave way with the relief that flooded her. No humans. They should be able to talk their way out of this.

She answered in the same language and saw Fenris step back and re-sheath his weapon. He drew away a little, retreating into the half-shadows.

Meanwhile, the other elf was emerging from the passage and straightened herself, brushing dust off her leather armor. A man followed close behind. Both of them were armed with bows and a dagger, wearing traditional Dalish hunting armor. Scouts. They eyed her just as warily as Merril did them.

"_Andaran'atishan." _The woman turned toward Merrill, bowing slightly. "Forgive us the manner of our entrance. We saw that someone was here and feared that our hiding place had been discovered by the Shems. Our Keeper has had word that there was trouble brewing, that Shemlen were hunting one or several elves in this region, and so she sent us here to investigate. Are you those elves in question?" Her eyes regarded Merrill with curiosity, flicking over to Fenris' shadowed form every now and again. She could tell the silent warrior made her nervous. The man was openly watching him, bow in one hand and an arrow in the other.

"I... am afraid so." Merrill offered a small smile in response. The tense atmosphere did not escape her. This could turn bad quickly. "We managed to lose them on our way here, though. This place ought to be safe still."

"Let's hope so.", the elvhen man interrupted. He sounded a lot less friendly than his female companion, who shot him a glare. He went on nonetheless. "Who are you? How did you know about this place? Speak up!"

"I... I am...", Merrill started to say, lost her thread of thought, and was interrupted and rescued by a deep voice out of the shadows. "She's a Dalish who lost her clan and seeks to rejoin with her folk. I merely accompanied her here."

_Merely accompanied. _She stared at him. How could he say that... how could he tell such an enormous untruth with such nonchalance? _I brought you here so you would be safe..._

"Is this true?", the female scout asked of her. Merrill nearly started at being addressed directly, but managed a nod, her thoughts still ajumble. The woman looked at her suspiciously; something of her confusion must be showing on her face. She felt like the ground under her feet was being drawn away from her for some reason...

"And who are you, then, hiding in the shadows like someone who's afraid to show his face?" The man again. "Come closer. Show yourself. Now." Suddenly, he had the arrow notched. Merrill very nearly closed her eyes, dreading what would come next: The warrior rushing forward, cutting down the other elf in a wash of blood, then turning to do the same to the woman.

Fenris, however, stayed absolutely calm. Slow steps carried him nearer as he spoke softly, as someone would to a skittish halla they did not want to scare away. "No one you need fear. I am in fact the one the human men were after. I simply chanced to meet the girl in the woods, and she showed me a place to hide. If you let me go, I will swear to your Creators never to return here, or tell anyone of this place."

By now he had come close enough for the Dalish elves to see him, and by the way the man's eyes widened, nothing he had said would make the slightest difference.

"_Elgar'nan!_ You! I know who you are- that elf who dangled after the Champion, the Tevinter escapee! Lyth, draw your weapons, this one's dangerous! We can't let him get away, he'll lead the Shems right here!"

The woman did not have to be asked twice. While reaching for an arrow over her shoulder, she tried to push Merrill behind her with the other arm, but Merrill did not intend to be put out of harm's way. They couldn't do this, she had to explain...

She slipped away from Lyth's grasp, stepping between Fenris and the two Dalish, facing the latter while holding up her hands imploringly, and ignoring the hiss of "What are you doing?!", from behind her. "No, wait, wait! Don't do this, Fenris isn't your enemy, he's trying to escape those men, not bring them here! Please, can't we talk this over?" She needed to make them _see_...

"Step away there, _da'len_. I do not want to hurt you." Lyth sounded reasonable, at least. Maybe this wouldn't end in bloodshed after all-

"We still don't know _your_ name, by the way.", the man interposed in a low voice that sounded- if she had had the sense to listen, anyway- predatory. His eyes had narrowed, but she was blind to it, and she answered, truthfully, "Merrill."

A second later it came to her that this was exactly what she shouldn't have said. A second too late.

All warmth had fled from the two Dalish elves' eyes. _Mythal help me... _

They knew. Of course they did. She should have guessed. Clan Sabrae needed a new Keeper after Marethari's death; of course they would have applied to the other clans, having no First ready to take on the task. But even so, she couldn't assume that a crime as enormous as hers wouldn't get known far and wide, even with the tenuous contact the clans kept.

She _had_ known, damn her...

Her clan had not killed her only because Hawke vouched for her, but Hawke wasn't here and the scout's arrows were now trained on her, and Fenris was swearing in what had to be Arcanum, and blue-white lyrium light flashed out behind her, a gauntleted hand shoved her to one side, two bowstrings twanged in unison, and then she cracked her head on the cave floor and everything faded into nonexistence.

* * *

It was a bloody mess. A bloody, bloody mess.

Fenris wiped the sticky red smears off his face. One hand clutched at his ribs, over the broken shaft of an arrow- he had dodged one, but only one. He could only hope that the other hadn't penetrated deep. It was impossible to tell. He could breathe normally, though painfully, and that was something. The rest... well.

Three bodies littered the floor around him. One was almost in two pieces, the second leaned against the wall as if sleeping; although sleeping with a large stab wound right beneath the ribcage. The third was unharmed, or so he hoped... thought. Instinct had made him push Merrill out of the way, so he wouldn't behead her by accident, and that she had hit her head hard enough to disable was probably all to the good.

With a hiss and a curse he crouched beside her, shaking her shoulder roughly. A soft groan was his reward. Not dead yet, then; although, Andraste's pyre, she would have earned it. Anyone else would have had the sense to come up with a fake name. Not so the little witch. And to think that truthfulness had been the one character trait he had always liked about her.

She was coming to, moaning softly and curling into a fetal position, clutching her head with both hands. He shook her harder. They had no time for this.

"Wake up, witch!" It came out harsher than intended; the pain spreading from his side did not do much for his patience. He had to grit his teeth against it with every movement he made, the arrow scraping against bone somewhere in there, a feeling that was nearly enough to make him sick.

But harshness seemed to be exactly what was needed here. Merrill came back to her senses all at once, snapping upright with a distressed exclamation. One hand pressed to her temple, she looked round herself, found the two dead scouts in the floor, and doubled over retching.

Knowing very well that there was no help for this, Fenris left her to it, simply watching as she shrunk into a little ball of elf, hugging herself, head on her knees; simply listening to the keening noise she made, the silent weeping. He'd seen it before, and had also seen her pull herself together, wiping away the tears and straightening up to go on. Those were the moments when she had seemed almost strong to him.

He did not- quite- expect her to suddenly lash out at him.

"You killed them...", she whimpered, and then screamed at him, turning on him fully, "You _killed_ them! Why, _why_?!" Suddenly she was on her feet, and before he had time to do the same, let alone muster an answer, her hands lashed out, clenched into fists, and one struck him just beside the arrow wound. Of course; where else?

His world went white, then black, and then he found himself back on the floor, trying to get in a gasp of air, and to blink away the smudges of light obscuring his vision. The witch had gone very silent, he noticed gratefully, although that was a small relief.

"Fenris...?", came the quavery question. He would have answered, had he been able to find some air somewhere. "Oh Mythal, Fenris, I'm sorry... I didn't know you were wounded, I didn't mean to strike you, it just... happened..." Weeping again.

"Weren't you... just trying to... kill me?", he gasped out. She was kneeling in front of him again, running her hands over his chest to find the wound that had stained her hand a dull red-black in the fading firelight. When she found the arrow, her eyes went wide, only to fill with tears again a second later. Fenris snorted, fast running out of what little patience he'd had left to begin with.

"Are you going to pull that out, or will I have to do it myself?" He might have growled, he couldn't really tell. Maker's breath, she had seen enough wounds in their time with Hawke to be able to handle this better, had always been the first to run and help Anders, and now she was breaking down over a blighted arrow wound?

She swallowed once, hard, then sniffed, and... hardened. He had no other way to describe it. The expression in her face was the same now as it had been after Pol, after Marethari. She would hold up now, though for how long...

"I'll do it. Come..." Standing, she helped him to his feet- help that went reluctantly accepted when he found how weak his knees were- and over to the embers of the fire, which she fed with new wood, to create more light by which to see. She seemed very focused, now that she had rallied herself, and he didn't say anything lest he break that focus; they both knew what needed to be done. Getting him out of his bloodstained clothes, preparing clean bandages, heating a dagger in the fire, getting water.

Last of all, Merrill handed him a sliver of wood, and he accepted it with a nod of thanks, bit down on it, and steeled himself.

He felt her hands on him, steadying him, one reaching for the arrow. "On three.", her voice said softly, close to him. "One..."

And his world exploded in pain for the second time in the span of a few minutes. He heard a wooden clatter on the stone floor, felt cloth press down on the wound, although it could just as well have been burning hot acid poured over it. Merrill whispered something that might or might not have been a prayer, and then the cloth was removed again, and he had just time to feel the heat of red-hot steel beat against his skin.

Something lurched in his stomach, something old and ugly and _fearful_, the smell of blood and smoke and heated metal shattering the walls of his defenses like so much rotten ice. There was only one thing that wasn't agony: The feel of a small, soft hand on his shoulder, holding him down, but with less force than gentleness. It was to this that he clung with all his might as he spiraled down into darkness, the hissing of lyrium being branded into his skin, the sonorous chanting of blood mages, his own screams echoing off the walls.

The last thing he saw was flashing blue light.

* * *

The _next_ thing he felt was a hand softly stroking through his hair. That felt as wrong as it was pleasant- casual touches just for the sake of touching usually happened to other people. For Fenris, touches had meaning, and what they meant was normally that pain was about to be visited on him. Even if they started out pleasant- _especially_ if they started out pleasant.

Apprehension gripped him. He felt he couldn't stand for this touch to turn into anything painful, for no reason he could readily name, but it made him turn his head away all the same, and the moment he moved, another sort of pain woke in his chest. His indrawn breath turned into a gasp and then a hiss as he fought to open his eyes.

"Careful.", a voice said at his shoulder. The stroking motion had stopped, but he could feel a presence hovering near and hear someone moving about. A soft chink of earthenware, then the sound of water being poured, and the presence came closer, an arm sliding under his neck and shoulders, jarring the wound back to painful life yet again. There went his plan to open his eyes. He decided to leave them shut for now and endure the vulnerable feeling this gave him.

"I'm sorry.", Merrill said close by his ear. "You have to drink something though, you've lost a lot of blood. Slowly now..." And inch by careful inch she worked him into a more or less sitting position. His head was swimming by then, and he would have liked nothing more than to slip into blessed unconsciousness once again, but if he did that, he'd only wake again all the weaker- if he woke at all.

Something hard and cool was pressed against his lips- a cup, he guessed- and water licked over the rim to trickle into his mouth. No wine had ever tasted better.

Halfway through the cup, he could already feel the dizziness diminish, though exhaustion and pain both stayed with him like faithful friends. By the time he had finished the water, he could feel something like strength returning.

"More?" Merrill asked in a low voice.

"Later." He blinked. A pale face, framed by short dark hair and dried blood on one temple and cheek, swam into existence above him. "Thank you.", he added.

"No need." She smiled tiredly. A hand moved absent-mindedly as if to touch his face, but some minute movement on his part made her stop. It didn't make her relinquish her hold on him; he was still half-propped up against her willowy body, and it was starting to get uncomfortable in more ways than one.

"How long have I been out?", he asked in an attempt to get back to business. They still had two dead Dalish on their hands, and for all they knew, their clan might just now be moving into the caves.

Merrill didn't react at once; she stared blankly ahead for a few seconds, maybe reckoning in her head. "Mhh... I'm not sure. An hour, two, maybe. Why do you ask?"

"Because we've wasted too much time already. We should go. Now." Before the witch could stop him, he pushed himself into a sitting position, then waited doubled-over for the pain to subside once more. Merrill was right behind him, trying to coax him into lying down again, but he resisted her tugging. "Get... the things we need. We're leaving."

"Fenris..."

He turned his head just far enough to meet her look and hold it. She pressed her lips together in that thin line he knew so well, then nodded curtly and stood up to do as he said. Good.

Getting to his feet turned out to be no easy feat. Putting his blood soaked clothes back on over the bandages wound around his torso was impossible without help. As was fastening sword and sheath to his back. He wouldn't be able to use it, but leaving it behind was certainly not an option, and Merrill couldn't carry it for him; if it didn't squash her outright, the tip of it would drag along the ground if she carried it as he usually did.

But the greatest challenge of all proved to be exiting the cave via the narrow crawlspace. By the time he had made it outside, his entire side was throbbing in time with his heartbeats, and he was soaked in sweat. Merrill threw him a worried look, that he returned with a carefully blank one, and taking the hint for once, she turned to lead the way. He didn't care where; getting away was important. They could worry about the rest later.

* * *

The first day of their flight was a trial, as he trudged behind the witch, trying to ignore the pain eating away at his strength, occasionally stopping for breath while not daring to sit down for it for fear of not being able to get up again later. By the end of it, he could feel a fever getting hold of him, cold shivers running down his spine. Merrill did not even ask if he wanted a fire when they finally stopped for the night. It was too dangerous. But she put her blanket right next to his and put her arms around him for warmth, and he did not protest.

The second day was horror. Pain was a constant, despite the mashed elfroot Merrill applied to the wound after they came upon a cluster of the plants. His head swam, bad enough to make him lose his balance at times; after the second time he fell over his own feet, the witch took to walking beside him to catch him if he stumbled again. Waves of heat and cold chased each other through his entire body. And again, she held him as he shivered all through the night.

When the third day came, he was too weak to get up.

On the fourth day, they finally found them; but by that time, everything seemed a dream to Fenris.

* * *

Merrill had never thought that there would come a time when she was glad to be captured. But during the last few days, while watching Fenris go from bad to worse to delirious, she had been desperately hoping for _someone _to come along. When she wasn't cursing herself for her inability to heal, that is. One time, she had even considered using blood magic on the wound; only the knowledge that Fenris would rather die than be healed in such a way held her back.

But she dreamed about it. And after that, she was afraid to even come close to the Fade, keeping herself awake at nights by replaying the scene of Marethari's death at her own hands, and everything that had come before or after, everything that had led up to it or come from it, over and over in her mind. She was too easy a prey for the spirits at this time- the Desire Demons, Hawke would have said. She wanted to save Fenris too much.

As he grew more feverish with each passing hour, so did she; but hers was a fever of the mind, her thoughts always revolving, running in circles, chasing each other until she was ready to scream. Regret hounded her like the Dread Wolf himself, but there was no reprieve anywhere; she couldn't even cry. The two dead scouts, Fenris' injury: All of her own doing. Her own outcast state, staring her in the face in the lonely wilderness: Her fault, and hers alone. She had nowhere to go, no one to lean on, no one to help her. No one even to alleviate her loneliness, except this city elf, this former slave who she feared was dying in her arms.

It was a blessed relief when the hunters of the Dalish finally stepped out from under the trees and approached her, the day after Fenris had finally been unable to go on. She closed her tired, burning eyes as hands reached for her, drew her to her feet and tied her arms, and buckled the cold, cold collar of magic warding around her neck. Her crimes had finally caught up with her, and she was glad.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's notes:** I don't like this chapter. At all. And I nicked the Keeper's name. Tusk-y troll kisses to the one who knows from where ;)

**Witch**

Her prison was a stone room with a single entry; part of one of the old ruins among which the Dalish preferred to set up their camps. This entry being barred by a wooden door, there was no light except for what the cracks between door and stone wall let in. That, and the brazier the guard lit for her at night; the People were kind to prisoners, at least to prisoners of their own blood. She had furs to sleep in, food and water, and a chain long enough to walk around the entire room fastened to one of her ankles, though not long enough to get to the door.

Merrill had no wish to walk around much, though. Most of her days she spent sitting on her furs, knees drawn to her chest and head resting on them. Most of the nights she lay awake, watching the flickering shadows her little fire created on the walls and ceiling of her prison.

Most of the time, she spent thinking, and wondering. And worrying about Fenris. No one would tell her anything about him, except for "The city elf is alive.", once, on the first day. No more, though she asked every time, braving the disgusted looks she got for it. They probably thought her in love with him, and little wonder.

She knew what Dalish thought about mes-alliances like this, had once shared their opinion. The old Merrill; the Merrill who had left her people to live amongst humans and once-enslaved elves; would have been mortified by the mere thought that she would be held capable of such. The Merrill she was now couldn't have cared less. She thought of tattooed shoulders relaxing ever so slightly under her touch, looked her guards straight in the eyes, and asked her question.

Finally, after her brazier had been lit for the fourth time, it was the Keeper herself who came to see her. A middle-aged woman, small and fragile-looking, but there it was in her bearing, in the look she directed upon her outcast sister, the inherent strength that enabled her to fulfill the office of Keeper, something Merrill herself had ever sadly lacked.

She seated herself across from her, unafraid that Merrill would use the freedom of movement her chain allowed her to do her harm. Brown eyes, flecked with green, like a moss-grown forest floor, studied the younger elf calmly for a long time, for what seemed almost like eternity before she spoke. Her voice was low, deep for a woman's and melodious without trying to be.

"_Andaran'atishan,_ sister. I am Keeper Sabrielle. I apologize for keeping you in uncertainty about your fate for so long, and the fate of the elf in your company. I understand, from what my brothers and sisters tell me, that you have been asking about him quite frequently. I may now safely tell you that he is on his way to recovery, though his punishment remains to be determined."

_His punishment. _The words shivered through Merrill like an ice-cold wind. She opened her mouth to respond, only to find that her voice had died in her throat.

"You will be put on trial after Dalish law, for the murder of Keeper Marethari, who was your teacher. I have come here to hear you out. I would hear all that has happened, from your own mouth. And you would be well advised to answer truthfully; I will know if you do not."

With these words, the petite woman settled back, watching Merrill attentively, but patiently; waiting for her to speak.

She finally found her voice. "Fenris... is to be punished?", she asked haltingly, though she already knew the answer.

"Of course.", the Keeper answered. Her searching gaze rested on Merrill's face; what it was she was looking for there, she couldn't guess.

"But... it was my fault that he was even there! I brought him to the caves, and... everything that... happened there, it's all on my head! Please, you can't...", she plunged forward, only to be brought up short by one delicate hand held up in silent command.

"It was him who killed our hunters. Unless you wish to claim that you took the blade he wields from him and cleaved our brother nearly in two, as well as stabbed Lythiel? A blade that is almost as long as you are tall; yes, and heavier, I daresay." Her voice betrayed no emotion. Merrill hung her head, pressing her palms to her eyes.

"But... it was me who brought him there in the first place...", she tried again. It was no good.

"That is of no consequence as to how we will deal with him. But this is not about his crime. Will you tell me your story? I want to understand. Please believe that."

She did believe it; and despite knowing that it would not change her fate in the end, she took a deep breath and told it all, from the very beginning, starting with two of her clan's hunters going missing in an old Tevinter ruin; how thoughts of the eluvian would not leave her alone; the journey to the Free Marches, the spirit on Sundermount, blood magic, Hawke and her companions, and then- her voice having gone hoarse long ago, her throat aching, but unable to stop the torrent pouring out of her (it was so good to finally talk about it, tell someone, bear herself to judgment without fearing it, because this was repentance, this was what she longed for), how it had all ended; her disastrous plan to ask the spirit for help one last time, Marethari sacrificing herself for her beloved pupil, Hawke jumping into the gap for her despite everything she had done, and taking the full responsibility for her actions; the return from Sundermount under the unsympathetic gazes of Hawke, Fenris, and Anders; her destruction of the mirror.

After what felt like hours of endless talking, she fell silent, having told all, feeling as if she would crumble to dust any second. She was empty; empty of feeling, drained of all her strength. Now there was nothing to do except await punishment; it was over.

The Keeper had not uttered a word since she began to speak. Now the tiny woman got to her legs and crossed over to her, putting a hand on her head.

"Thank you for telling the truth."

Then she left; and Merrill sagged to her furs, curled into as small a ball as she could, and slept.

* * *

The first days were a blur of light and darkness and more or less insistent pain. And dreams; vivid, disturbing fever dreams, so absurd and yet so real, flashes of things past and things that could have happened (the worst of all), and things that might or might not happen, as if a horde of demons had gotten into his skull and were delightedly digging out and pulling about all his most painful memories, shredding them into nigh unrecognizable bits, mixing them together, and painting them in brightest colors on the canvas of his blank mind. He would wake to the feeling of hands touching him, hands he had not permitted to do so, and he would lash out blindly and try to fight them, then plummet into darkness once again. The warmth of healing magic enveloped him, and he dreamt of Anders scoffing at him in his weakness; food and drink would be forced past his lips, and it was Merrill crouching at his side, her chest pierced by arrows, her eyes wide and vacant and staring.

He came to with a start and a snarl, abrupt enough to scare the elvhen woman sitting at his bedside- who very definitely wasn't Merrill, and who also very definitely had no arrows sticking from her body, to his relief- off of it and send her crashing to the floor. A wooden cup somehow upended in the process hit him in the head and spilled its contents down his front. It landed in his lap.

Thus it was that the guard bursting through the tent flap at the sudden noise found them. Fenris felt he had never been this embarrassed so shortly after waking up (No, that wasn't entirely true. Sleeping anywhere around Varric or Isabela led to one waking to impending embarrassment sooner or later. It was inevitable.)- but at least any remaining shreds of his dream had fled, and his head felt almost clear.

"I'll tell the Keeper he's awake.", the guard stated flatly, and left.

Fenris ran a hand through his hair and pushed up from his half-sitting position to a sitting one. That he could do so on his own power, with only a slight bout of dizziness, was a good sign. The girl- young woman?- was back on her feet as well, watching him with a mixture of wariness and amusement as he removed the empty cup from his lap and stared down at the drenched bandages around his chest. He felt weak and a little sore and stiff, but otherwise none the worse for wear.

He glanced at the elvhen girl. "Does this mean you won't kill me, or is the killing just postponed?", he asked in a voice rough with disuse, as he started unwrapping the bandage from his chest. His companion (Guard? Healer?) did not try to stop him, as there was no reason, he saw when he had gotten the fabric off. The wound was closed, the fresh scar still tender and the skin around it bruised.

"The Keeper has decided to give you a trial. You are elvhen, after all." The young elf was moving to his bedside now, after a detour towards a small chest, from which she drew a clean shirt and trousers. Those she thrust at him, then kneeled down and gathered up the discarded bandages from the ground.

"How noble." Fenris scoffed. He lifted the blanket, noticed that someone had literally stripped him to the skin, then decided to take a leaf out of Merrill's book and swung his feet over the side of the cot, the easier to put the trousers on. Modesty be blighted. To her credit, the girl didn't blush; in fact, she hardly seemed to notice. She didn't grace his statement with an answer, either.

"What happened to the witch? Did you give her a... trial?"

"Not yet. The clan will hear you out together." So, she was alive. Something in his chest unclenched at the news.

He drew the shirt over his head to hide his face, just in case.

The clothing was loose on him, tailored for someone broader in the chest and waist, and too short at the same time. Of his armor or sword, there was no trace, which came as no surprise. Still, he felt naked without them. For as long as he could remember, he had held the hilt of a sword in his hands every single day; being weaponless was like missing a limb.

They couldn't take his lyrium tattoos, though. He might not have his weapon, but he still _was_ one.

"And when is that going to happen?" She wasn't very forthcoming with information. Anything useful he'd have to draw from her in fits and starts- and carefully. The girl was already giving him suspicious looks.

"That is for the Keeper to decide."

The Keeper this, the Keeper that. Andraste's ass, could these people do anything without their Keeper? - He didn't voice the thought aloud, though. It would not help him to antagonize his only source of information, and so he bit back the snort and finished tying the drawstring on his shirt.

"How long since you caught us?"

"You're very talkative for a captive, aren't you?"- Talkative? Now he _did_ snort. Not one of the things he'd ever been called.

"Can you blame a man for wanting to get his bearings? Are you going to answer my question, or are you not?"

She hesitated; but, apparently finding no harm in telling him, she finally volunteered, "Three days."

Fenris' eyebrow quirked. That long? He must have been worse off than he'd thought. Little wonder he felt weak; clothing himself had already nearly left him exhausted.

There was a rustle at the tent flap, and then another elf stepped through, armed, armored, and grim of face. And bearing a bowl of something that smelled very much edible. This little detail rather ruined the effect.

"The Keeper will come to see you soon. This-", he held the bowl out towards Fenris, "Is for you, if you feel up to eating."

He did, in fact. Though he still wondered why they even bothered, he took the bowl with a curt nod of thanks and, after making certain of the contents (old habits died hard), started in on the stew, forcing himself to go slow. Not an easy feat. He was nearly starved, and the food tasted good, certainly not like prisoners' fare. It tasted like something cooked to be enjoyed.

While he was eating, the girl left with her armful of damp fabric, and the guard withdrew outside. So, they apparently felt they had drawn all his fangs, and didn't see the need to watch him all that closely. Maybe that would yet turn out useful.

After the worst of his hunger had been sated, he put the bowl away. He knew better than to eat his fill right now, after a long period of starvation; his experiences as a slave, and from the time spent on the run from Danarius, had taught him that.

Instead, he got up, waited until the slight bout of wooziness had passed, and distracted himself with exploring the tent.

Not that there was much to see. It was of solid Dalish make, big enough for one person to live in comfortably, and sadly lacked any corners to hide in. He approached the flap, trying to see out. There was no sign of the guard from here; he obviously wasn't stupid enough to turn his back to the exit. What he saw from the outside world didn't help him much, either: Only the boughs of a tree, bare of leaves, an _aravell_ close by, and more trees.

The back wall offered no gaps to look out of, and the sturdy hides were well fastened in the trodden earth. The entire tent was entirely devoid of any blades, or anything that might be used to cut.

So far, so bad.

Then voices from outside and the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears. Quickly he crossed the two steps over to his cot and sat on it, drawing one foot under him in a posture that seemed relaxed, but from which he could jump up and run at a moment's notice.

Not half a minute later, the tent flap moved again to admit a delicate elf woman; briefly, Fenris got a glimpse of his guard and another elf armed with bow and quiver, then the cloth fell down again, and he was alone with what was presumably the Keeper of this clan.

"Keeper.", he greeted her calmly. "You are quite brave to leave your guards behind like this."

A quick nod was his answer. "Not all that brave, with my clansmen just outside, and yourself barely recovered and unarmed." Her face betrayed nothing. It was impossible for him to tell whether she knew what his markings were, and what he could do with them. She might be ignorant of it, or be feigning ignorance. He decided he better tread carefully around this woman.

"How are you feeling? You were quite gravely wounded when we found you; for a time I doubted you'd live, if I am honest." She was moving towards him, her hand extended; he stiffened, and that was enough to halt her in her steps. Her hand sank down at her side again, but still he looked in vain for a sign of fear in her eyes.

"I am well.", he replied brusquely. "Though, from what I hear, you might have spared yourselves the trouble you took to nurse me back to health. Wouldn't it have been easier to leave me to die?"

Her eyes regarded him thoughtfully. "Easier, yes. And also barbaric. Shemlen might do such a thing. Dalish, never."

"I am sure." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. The Keeper either hadn't heard the remark, or chose not to respond; he could see where the young woman from earlier had got her attitude.

Silence fell between them then; and stretched on, and on. Fenris sat still as a statue on his cot, watching the Keeper, who in turn watched him. He felt that she was testing him, and was resolved to pass the test. There would be no fidgeting, no awkward remarks to break the silence. Stone-faced, he returned her green-brown gaze with a liquid green one of his own.

Then suddenly, she smiled, and went on talking as if nothing had happened. "You truly are an interesting man, lyrium warrior." _Ah_. "I think I know what the young one sees in you...", cocking her head and regarding him slightly more intently, as he bit his lip and inwardly cursed the brief slip of his features, "She has been asking after you at every opportunity, you see. Of course, until now, there was not much we could tell her."

This woman was toying with him.

"Give her my regards. I am looking forward to being beheaded at her side." Flames. It was working, too... he hadn't meant to say that, or to sound as sarcastic as he did, but it was too late now. She was smiling again, Blight take her.

"You do not deny that it was you who murdered our two scouts."

Now it was his turn to smile, a brief curling of his lips, unamused. "To what use? You have seen my sword. You have seen the wounds on their corpses. I am sure you are also capable of putting two and two together; that is the next best thing to catching me red-handed. So, no, I do not deny it. Do you want me to?"

"No." The Keeper shook her head. "I know all I wanted to know. Except for one thing: Why you came to this place at all. Will you tell me?"

Fenris eyed her warily. Was that a trap? Then again, what did it matter now...?

He lifted one shoulder in a minute shrug. "There was a party of human hunters on our tail. My tail, to be exact. The little witch simply showed me a place to hide."

"You are the one the Shemlen have been after." - He confirmed this with a nod. The Keeper returned it with one of her own, before turning to leave. "Rest now. You will be brought before the clan tomorrow."

Fenris didn't bother with an answer. Tomorrow, then. This didn't leave him much time.

But he thought he might have the beginnings of a plan.


	8. Chapter 8

Tomorrow came, and with it two Dalish with breakfast and a set of shackles. After the one had been eaten and the other affixed to his wrists, they led him out of his tent and into the bright sunlight of a crisp, clear autumn morning. The grass was dewy and cold under his bare feet, but he didn't mind that small discomfort. It was noted and stored away as a sign of how far the seasons had progressed. It seemed to him that there was a large portion of this last summer he could not quite remember- when had it started? How had it passed him by almost unnoticed? Had he really been this dead to the world?

But he stopped wondering soon enough. Outside for the first time, he did his utmost to take in his surroundings and commit them to memory. The clan had settled on the crest of a hill- how high, he was unable to tell, as trees to both sides blocked his view of the hillsides and the land beyond. His tent seemed to be set more or less in the middle of the camp, which put a long, meandering trail of _aravells_ and other tents on the south and north side of it, but there was not much room to settle otherwise, as the hill began to slope down east and west a mere few feet from the outermost building.

The remains of old stone buildings dotted the narrow space here and there, the more intact of which had been cunningly integrated in Dalish mobile architecture. It was interesting, he had to admit, but not of much use to him, and so he went on scanning the elves themselves, instead.

It was a strong clan; many, well-armed hunters, healthy-looking people, a lot of children. Many of them watched him with open mouths and pointing fingers as he was being led through the camp. The adults were more discreet in their staring, but stare they did, and he made a point of holding every pair of eyes that caught his own for as long as he could. The times when he had flinched from every look were past. It was a meagre triumph, to find that most eyes were hastily averted when his gaze met them, but he would not be choosy as far as small victories went.

They came at last to a place where the hilltop widened enough to allow for a kind of square, formed by tents and _aravells _and holding what had to be most of the clan's population. Fenris found himself forced to reestimate their numbers. This clan was far larger than he'd thought; large enough that it would soon have to split up and form two smaller clans, if survival was to be ensured. So many elves would eat the countryside bare; it was a credit to their Keeper that every last one of them looked so well-fed and was so well clothed.

And, apparently, every last one was allowed to witness the trial the witch and he were to be given. He should have guessed.

As his guards pushed back the throng of elves that blocked their path and led him into the middle of the square, he caught sight of Merrill standing in front of the stump of a once-enormous tree, a pair of guards flanking her as well, her hands free, and an iron collar gracing her slender neck. She looked thinner than he remembered, tired and pale, yet she stood with head held high, slim shoulders squared. The pale light of the late autumn sun seemed to shine through her ivory skin, throwing delicate shadows along her throat. A soft wind stirred her short hair, blowing it across her forehead.

Green eyes were the only spots of color in this white-and-black face, catching the light and reflecting it like summer leaves, warm and fresh at the same time.

She was beautiful.

But he had no time to follow that train of thought right then. The moment he and his guards halted beside the other trio, the elvhen crowd parted to make way for the Keeper and the clan's elders to pass through. They did so in a solemn procession, stepping onto the big round of the tree stump, lining themselves up in a half-circle. Then with precious little ceremony, Merrill was ushered into their midst, and the trial began.

* * *

After it was all over, he would be surprised by how little he actually remembered of it. There was invoking of the Creators, and swearing of vows, and telling of ancient elvhen lore, of course, but he didn't listen to any of it. Merrill was made to tell her story- again, he supposed- and she did not hesitate a second as she began to relate the tale of her obsession with the cursed mirror. Her voice was low, but strong, never wavering; and looking up to her standing above him, watching her calm, set face even through the most harrowing passages of her story, he felt his perception of her shift once more. This wasn't a girl facing scrutiny, defending herself against accusation. Up there stood a woman, and she was taking full responsibility for a crime she had committed, even knowing it would mean her death.

His lips twisted into a wry little smile. Isabela's kitten had grown into a cat, it seemed.

Then Merrill fell silent; her sentence was pronounced: Death by the arrow, come dawn the next day; and she was pushed off the dais. Their looks caught and held for a second, he gave her a curt nod, and then lost sight of her as he took her place.

His own trial was mercifully short, the end predetermined from the start. He stepped back down from the old tree stump a man sentenced to death, with only one day left to live.

* * *

Merrill walked like someone in a dream, not even seeing the crowd that parted before her, or the ground beneath her feet, or the door to her prison that opened before her for the darkness within to swallow her once more. She must have moved to her furs and sat down there, because that's where she found herself, safely shackled by the ankle once more.

She lifted her hands to rub at her face, then straightened and drew in a deep breath, and it felt like the first breath in years.

"So this is it.", she murmured softly to herself.

"It does seem so."

She started. A moment ago she would have denied that anything would be able to startle her ever again, but this voice- this well-known, deep, rough, low voice did. It was dark in her prison room, as it always was at day, and she couldn't see him until he moved, putting his back to the door, when slivers of light outlined his tall, slim frame and put a silver glint in his hair.

"Fenris."

There was no reply, only the slight rustle of clothing as he approached, then the added rustle of furs someone was sitting down on. He was close now, close enough for her to stretch out her hand and touch him. And she wanted to touch him, to reassure herself that he was real, to reassure him that _she_ was real, to anchor them both, because she felt so light-headed still she might have been floating.

She didn't, though. She kept her hands carefully folded in her lap and said, "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Her eyes were getting used to the darkness. Now she could see his own green eyes flicking up to her as he spoke, glittering sharp like glass shards. Just like the shards of the eluvian.

"All of this."

"As well you should." His tone wasn't cold, but it was not sympathetic, either. He was stating a fact because he felt it had to be stated. It had taken her so long to get used to this part of him, the part that would tell about the atrocities he had suffered at the hands of his master with an impassive face and level voice, the part that neither sought nor offered pity, and threw it back into the faces of those who offered it to him. She had been one of them, at the beginning. Then her pity had turned to exasperation, then to anger. She had felt offended by his constant rebuffing her every attempt to be nice to him.

How little she had understood him.

"I know."

"Do you regret it?"

"No." And it was true. "I don't regret that it has come to this. Everything else, yes, but not this. I should have paid the price, then, not her. It's only right that I pay now."

She could feel him nodding softly. Her gaze had dropped to her fingers, and knowing nothing more to say, she felt silent; so did he.

A day and a night. That was all the time left to her, and she could think of nothing to say. Silently, in the cover of the darkness, she smiled to herself at that. Words had never been her strong suit, she always had too many of them and too little to say. It was better like this. This silence was not meant to be filled with inane chatter...

* * *

There was no way to measure the passing of time in the dark vault. The bit of light slipping past the door was not enough to go by, and only when it faded entirely did Merrill know that evening had broken outside. Soon after that, two Dalish entered with her lit brazier, and she blinked in the sudden glare, as it seemed to her.

The clan elves retreated, the door was locked and bolted once more, and they were alone again. Merrill scooted closer to the fire and its welcome warmth, rubbing her arms to chase away the chill that had begun to settle in her bones.

Fenris did not immediately join her there; he took advantage of the light to walk along the walls of the prison and inspect them. If he did this because he actually retained hope of escape or just to banish thoughts of what awaited them tomorrow, she could not guess, but whatever it was, the attempt was aborted after two rounds around the room and he moved to sit at right angles to her beside the brazier. She noted that his hands were shackled, still, his wrists rubbed raw by the metal, but if this caused him pain, he did not show it.

"And to think that I only wanted to save some humans." She chuckled softly; it seemed so far away now. Almost like a dream.

"So they were real?", Fenris asked, his voice sounding slightly laconic.

"Oh yes, they were. I don't have enough imagination to make up a thing like that. And I guess I did save them; from you, at least." She drew her knees to her chest and placed her cheek upon them, looking at him. From this angle, he looked even more horribly haggard than when she had met him in the woods. The wound, their flight, and the subsequent healing had taken a lot out of him.

"One small thing to be thankful for, then.", he stated drily. She chuckled again. "They probably aren't. They don't know how lucky they were."

"Lucky indeed." He looked back at her, his dark green eyes inscrutable. "I would have killed them without second thought. In fact, I'm still not sure why I didn't just kill you, then and there."

For some reason, that made her smile. "You're asking me? I never did understand you, Fenris. But it would have been the better thing to do, too; look where letting me live got you." For a moment, the unfairness of it all squeezed her heart so tight she couldn't get a word out. She pressed her forehead against her knees and waited with held breath until she felt sure of her control over her own voice once more.

"It's not fair. There's always someone else paying for my mistakes." Surreptitiously wiping her eyes on her trouser legs, she looked up again and ran a hand through her loosely falling hair. It was just becoming a nuisance, but she guessed that wouldn't matter by tomorrow morning. "You know, the thing that I regret most is my dragging you into this. I do seem to visit disaster on everyone I" _care about _"... know."

"It is your very own special talent." He was smirking, in that way he had; you had to look close to spot it, but it was there, in the twist of his mouth and the lift of his eyebrows. Merrill did not know if she wanted to slap him more than she wanted to laugh, or if she wanted to laugh more than she wanted to cry. Or kiss him. Or all of them.

She coughed a little.

"You seem so calm about all of this. Is that because you really are, or is it just the usual Fenris way of dealing with things?" A year ago, she wouldn't have dreamed about asking him a thing like this. A year ago, she had been someone different; _he_ had been someone different. She wasn't afraid of him anymore.

"A bit of both, I guess." A year ago, such a reply would have been unthinkable; a few _days_ ago, it would have been unthinkable. "I don't regret it. Certainly not the drunken tramp I'd become." Again, that twist of his lips. She did laugh, then, a soft, sad sound.

"Oh Mythal, I'm going to hear about this even as Falon'din guides us through the Beyond, aren't I?"

"Most certainly."

She reached over and gave him a push. It rocked him softly, but probably only because he allowed it to. He smirked again; she smiled back.

"But I don't intend to die here."

She stared at him.

"Not when I just started living again..."

Her mouth _might_ have dropped open at that, she wasn't sure. Too busy fighting down the flock of butterflies in her belly and the telltale heat in her cheeks. His look was trained on her as he said this, so matter-of-factly, and she felt so _foolish_ for having such a reaction to such a statement. And now he was inclining his head, raising his eyebrow in bewilderment, and she blushed to the tips of her ears and looked down at her toes.

"That... won't be easy. I mean, escaping. From here. With the guards and... all." If her blush could have gotten any hotter, it would have. _Get a grip and stop stammering, Merrill!_

"No. That is why I am going to need your help."

It could get hotter, after all. And it did.

"What... what do you need me to do?", she asked of her toes.

"To trust me."

_Wh... what? _Oh Mythal, her ears were going to burst into flame. But she somehow managed to look him in the eye and form a straight sentence: "What... How dangerous is this going to be, exactly?"

"If it works? Not at all. If it doesn't? No more dangerous than the two arrows out there with our names written on them. But you will still have to trust me to know what I am doing. Can you do that?" His eyes on her were carefully guarded, yet intent; and, feeling that she couldn't do any less for getting him into this mess in the first place, she nodded.

"When?"

"Not now. Too early. We'll have to wait until most of the clan are sleeping. That means early morning. And talking about sleeping, you had best try and get a wink as well. I am going to need you rested."

Merrill couldn't help smiling weakly at that. "I doubt I can get any, now."

"Try." He got up and started wandering around the room again. She followed him with her eyes, settling down slowly on her side on the furs, obedient to his wish. Try she would, but she wasn't hopeful about the result.

"Shouldn't you try to sleep as well?"

His steps slowed behind her. "I did. For days. You look like you have not slept since those scouts found us."

She couldn't argue with that. It was mostly true, after all. So she simply curled up and closed her eyes, and tried to relax, which was easier than it should have been with Fenris pacing around her, and knowing what he wanted to do, as well as knowing what awaited them tomorrow if his plan failed, and darkness was coming up really fast to swallow her, all of a sudden...

* * *

Something was prodding her. She swatted at it, and met only air.

"Witch. Wake up."

"Mmmmph..." But she had just fallen asleep, hadn't she? It couldn't have been more than a few minutes, why was Fenris shaking her awake alread...

She was suddenly _very_ awake. Equally green eyes met, one pair startled, one confused. He was crouching over her, very close, and his hand was on her shoulder. It was warm, and firm, devoid of the metal that normally encased it, and its touch must have been burning a hole into her clothing. She blushed, yet again; his eyebrows rose, his eyes following his own arm down, and his hand was withdrawn hastily as if he had just then noticed.

A sort of madness took hold of her then. And if her life hadn't been about to end, she would never have dared what she now did, grabbing his arm as he drew it back, pulling him toward her while she sat up, succeeding probably only because she had taken him by surprise with this move, and kissing him.

At least it was supposed to be a kiss, if she'd had any remotely clear plan at all. It ended up with her lips mashed against the corner of his mouth and her nose bumping against his cheek, and it lasted all of a second before she propelled herself backward out of his immediate reach, blushing head to toe and embarrassed beyond speaking. _The Dalish won't have to kill you now,_ a wry thought spoke up in her head.

But the anticipated reaction did not come, that is, Fenris lighting up and crushing her heart in his fist. What came instead was:

"What... was that?" Fenris sounded utterly dumbfounded. She couldn't muster the courage to look up and see if he looked that way, as well.

"I... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." Her voice, tiny to begin with, dwindled into nothingness. She hung her head. Of all the stupid mistakes...

"Stop stammering and answer me, witch." Now that was unexpected. Merrill unclenched her jaw and said the first thing that came to mind. "A kiss."

She could have slapped herself immediately afterward. Fenris' voice sounded drier than sand.

"Really."

Mythal, she was making such a fool of herself. Again.

"I... well, I... thought just in case this doesn't work, I wouldn't like to die... unkissed..." This at least sounded a lot better than "I wasn't thinking at all."

There was a pause. Then: "You've never...?"

"Not counting Isabela."

He snorted softly, and that gave her the courage to raise her eyes again. And to pose the second incredibly stupid question within the span of two minutes.

"Have you ever...?"

She must have caught him off-guard, because usually he guarded his emotions better. His wince shut her up. Biting her lip, she stared at him, a feeling of guilt settling in her stomach like a lead weight. There was just no way, even for her, to misinterpret the way his eyes flicked away, the way his mouth set and his shoulders tensed, the way his shackled hands clenched into fists for the briefest of moments.

"Not in a way that counts." His bitter grin was a terrible sight.

Merrill could have slapped herself.

She had seen Danarius. Just by chance (and Wicked Grace), she had been in the Hanged Man the day Fenris' past, in the form of his old master, caught up with him. And now, seeing him like this, several things she had noted and stored away about the man suddenly made sense. How he'd pegged Hawke's defense of the warrior as jealousy, and his odd comment about Fenris' "talents". The way his cold eyes swept up and down his former slave's body. Add to that Isabela's random comment about bodyguards being always at hand, and several things she had seen around the Alienage, and the picture that came to mind was almost enough to turn her stomach.

And make her really, really angry.

"I _hate_ that man!", she spat, with feeling.

He chuckled weakly. When his eyes met hers, the haunted look was gone from them. "I appreciate the sentiment. And now... weren't we planning a break-out?" And that fast, he was back to business, pushing up from the ground, as if nothing had happened. At least he would have seemed so to anyone not noticing how his hands curled into fists to stop their shaking. She decided to do the same, though she knew it would occupy her thoughts for quite some time.

Folding her legs under her, she focused on the present. "Will you tell me what you're planning?"

He did.

She bit her lip. Well, it was almost worthy of a Hawke plan.

"Alright. Let's do this." She breathed in deep, and bared her neck to him. For the briefest of moments, nothing at all happened, and she almost started to think he would not do it after all, but then blue-white light spilled around her as his tattoos activated, and her heart skipped a beat and started thundering in her chest like a panicked halla running away. Her hands dug into the fur she was sitting on, and she noticed that her eyes were closed, but she didn't need to see to know how close his ghostly hand hovered to her throat. Fingers without substance pushed past her skin, and she shuddered, his hand was inside her throat and if he chose to solidify now and kill her, there was nothing she could do. She waited, with baited breath, not daring to move.

There was a tug at the back of her neck, a soft chink of breaking metal, and the necklace warding her from the Fade was gone. It returned with a vengeance, nearly sweeping her away in its embrace, and for a moment she feared she was going to get lost in the flood overwhelming her senses. It was all she could do to hold on to anything solid within reach, and weather the storm.

Then it was over, and she very nearly fainted.

"I don't want to do this again. Ever.", she murmured, only realizing she had said that aloud when Fenris answered her. "With any luck, you won't have to. Are you all right, witch?"

She hoped so, she really did. Drawing in a shaky breath, she reached out for the Fade again. This time she was prepared for the roil of her magic, seperated from its place of origin for days, and she gripped its strands and started to weave with them.

Vines burst from the floor all around them. There was a gasp that didn't come from her throat, and she reeled to realize that Fenris was as afraid of her magic as she was of his powers. How had she never seen this before?

It almost slipped away from her then, but she forced herself to concentrate, directing the vines to grasp at the shackles binding both her foot and Fenris' hands. They wove under and around them, crushing the iron with the strength inherent to all green and growing things. Merrill felt exhilarated. It was hard to let go of her magic, it was pushing her, demanding she do more, wanting to be spent, but she crushed it down with a will.

Fenris was on his feet as soon as the shackles fell off of him, crossing over to the door, still rubbing his wrists. They were red and raw, but not bleeding, thankfully. She got up to follow him, positioning herself where she could be heard outside. This next part was going to demand a bit of acting, and she felt like a fool as she opened her mouth and started to cry out for help. Fenris cut in with an example of the most vicious bit of swearing and threatening she had ever heard, his markings lighting up to bathe the walls in flickers of blue. Real fear leaped in to lend an edge of desperation to her voice as she pleaded with her virtual attacker to stop, but when she caught the smirk on Fenris' face, it was all she could do not to burst out laughing hysterically.

The door burst open. The guards piled in, swords drawn, saw her standing there alone in the middle of the room, and paused just long enough for Fenris to grab the first one by the front of his jerkin, wrench the weapon from surprised fingers, and whack the other one over the head with the hilt. He folded up. The first guard jumped up from where he had landed on the floor, but before he'd gone so much as a step towards Fenris, Merrill stretched out a hand and stone erupted from the floor to encase him head to foot. His scream of frustration was cut short when the sword hilt connected with his own temple, and Merrill let him go gently to land on the floor in a heap.

And that fast, they were free.

A shared grin passed between them, reckless on his part, rather shaky on hers. Fenris strode over to her, grabbed her arm and hauled her along outside, into a cold, damp, overcast night. He closed the door behind them and looked around, though there wasn't much he would be able to see until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Standing still, Merrill with a thumping heart and shivering in the sudden cold, they waited until shapes began to form in the gloom. Then Fenris' hand closed around her arm again and he tugged on it, wanting her to follow, which she did, with trepidation.

As they crept through the dark, still, sleeping camp, Merrill noticed that Fenris was going further in, instead of making for the edges of it. Her brows furrowed. She put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks in the shadow of an _aravel_, mouthing, "What are you doing?", at him.

"Supplies.", was his equally silent answer, and without looking to see if she was following, he crept on, peered around the landship and disappeared inside a tent that she recognized to be the craftsmaster's. She followed, her heart beating in deafening thumps. It only got worse when she entered the tent, where the darkness seemed to be all-encompassing. Blind and deaf, she stood there, shivering.

The sudden touch startled her so badly she nearly cried out. Something was being pressed into her hand- two things, to be exact. One was hard and cold and supple, the other long and thin and smooth. A mail shirt, and a mage's staff.

She swallowed. Her lips felt numb, and it was so hard to form the words. "Fenris, I... won't be coming with you."

"Like fuck you aren't." His voice sounded calm and even. She could hear him rustling around somewhere to her right.

"I mean it." She couldn't, she just couldn't. She'd helped Fenris escape. She'd go back, and pay for her crime, and everything would be as it should. There was no way she could run again.

"Then think about this." He was close to her now, she could feel it. Something else was thrust against her: Soft and leathery, with something bumpy inside. A pack. "This Keeper knows what I am. She could have kept me bound hand and foot or magically restrained, and she didn't. She put me into this cellar with you. Why?"

If it wasn't so dark, she would have stared at him. He brushed past her, pushed back the tent flap, and stopped to wait for her. And, clutching her bundle to her chest, she followed.

* * *

The rest of their flight was a succession of heart-stopping moments as they dodged sentinels and slithered down the steep western slope of the hill. Merrill's heart was still hammering in her chest, her breath was coming in short gasps, and her feet as well as various other parts of her hurt viciously from stumbling into trees and falling over roots in her headlong rush through the gloom. They had to make the best of their head start, she knew; it couldn't be long until they were discovered to be missing. The staff she held slapped against her thighs with every step; the mail shirt chafed her arms through the fabric of her sleeves. She held on for dear life and suppressed the pangs of her conscience, reprimanding her for having turned thief, on top of all of her other crimes. It didn't really matter now, but she still hated the thought.

They pressed on endlessly, it seemed to her. She noticed she could see better all of a sudden; morning was coming. Fenris running before her was now more than a blob of white in the blackness; his lean form was emerging from the shadows, a familiar sword on his back and unfamiliar armor hugging his body. It was mail and leather, reaching down to his thighs, and reenforced leather leggings, and it might have been black or dark green, she couldn't tell. He was also carrying a pack as well. She was impressed. He was really fast at plundering.

When the sun had come up for good and was peeking over the mountaintops to the east, Fenris called a halt. They were both winded, he even more so than she was, his face pale and sweaty as he leaned against a tree to catch his breath. Merrill regarded him with concern. He'd only been on his feet for a day after receiving his injury, and then this flight in heavy mail...

She crouched down, still out of breath, but recovering, and rooted through the contents of her pack. They were oddly assorted; he'd just crammed everything into it he'd been able to get his hands on in the dark, that much was obvious. There was a water skin, but it was empty, and she heard no sound of running or falling water nearby.

But the tree Fenris was sitting propped against was an acorn, and it still had most of its leaves, though they were reddening now. She plucked the largest leaf she could reach from its branch, folded it into a sort of cup and went around knocking dew off of leaves and blades of grass, until she had a mouthful of water. This she offered to Fenris, kneeling down before him, and he took it without hesitation and a nod of thanks. She then dug out the food from her pack and parceled it out between them, and for a while they sat chewing in silence.

They rose again as one, knowing they could not afford to lose more time. As Fenris turned to walk away into the waking woods, Merrill turned one last time to look back. She could not see the hill rising steeply from between the trees any more, but she knew it was there. Her people were there.

Just for a moment, she teetered. Was this the right thing to do? Was she not just running from fate, again, afraid to take the consequences for her actions? She did not wish to die, of course, but what did she have left to live for? Outcast that she was; apostate; murderess.

She shuddered, her hands coming up to rub at her arms for warmth.

They met with another pair of hands, long-fingered, bronze-skinned, lyrium-veined, calloused and warm. Without the gauntlets, Fenris' touch was oddly gentle, and she hardly dared breathe, afraid she might scare him away like a wild bird, as his arms slowly slid around her, drew her into him. Two fingers at her chin coaxed her into turning her head, and she caught one brief glimpse of his beautiful green eyes, lit by the rising sun, wary yet intent, determined...

_Oh,_ she thought.

When she came back to her senses, her forehead was resting against Fenris', their breaths mingling in the space between them, lips only inches apart. A slow, lazy heat was twisting in her belly, much like a sleepy, contented cat might roll on its back in the sun, stretching and curling up again. Her fingers were resting at the base of Fenris' neck, threading through the fine silvery hair there. His hands at her back kept her knees from giving out on her; she was leaning against him with all her weight, unable to stand for being so dizzy. It felt almost like that time Isabela had bought her this drink made from honey and she had realized a little too late that there was more than honey in it. Only it was much, much better.

As a matter of fact, it hadn't been the most expert of kisses. A far cry from what she had imagined her first would be like when she guiltily allowed herself to dream of it. Bumping noses, clashing teeth, and tongues that got in each other's way had certainly not been part of these dreams.

And it had been perfect.

A long, blissful sigh left her lips and she folded herself into him, head coming to rest on his shoulder. His breath now tickled her ear; it made her shiver. This couldn't be real. She would wake up any moment now... or he would shove her away, his eyes narrowed and his look hateful, like she had seen it so often in the past...

"Witch." Fenris' voice was low, a rumble in his chest more felt than heard. His lips brushed against her ear. Her breath caught in her throat. "Come with me."

She had her answer then.

* * *

**Author's notes:** When I started writing this fic, I thought that, at this point, there would be one or two more chapters and then the happy end. But the story had other plans... so, this is going to be it for "Witch". The continuation of Fenris' and Merrill's misadventures will bei found in "Apostate", since it felt better to me to separate the suddenly a little longer fic here. Thanks to all my readers, followers, and review writers. I love you :D


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Dragon Age, Friendship, Romance