a bit of this, a bit of that

"The mage’s heavy sleeping would never fail to impress Meredith, as she had not even moved the whole time she worked. It was almost concerning that she did not rouse. Maker knew what could happen were Meredith anyone else, someone less careful. 

Perhaps it spoke of the trust the mage placed in her. "

There were scars, not a single soul in Kirkwall could claim a life without work or violence, but Meredith's were few and old, faded silver by the times, like wounds were a forgotten recklessness of youth she'd completely overcome. It was hard to imagine Meredith reckless, or young. She had more lines of age than lines of wounds.

The difference between them was stark. Meredith didn't have hard divots left by Carta's darts, or pink magical burns, or darkened demonic marks etched all over. Fuck, there wasn’t even a single freckle across her stony shoulders, where the sun never touched.

Only Hawke ever touched. And kissed and bit, hard.

She bit and clawed and bruised, tore shivers from Meredith's spasming muscles and sighs from her swollen lips. Hawke dragged her down the lofty pedestal where Meredith had put herself and maked her as just as human, as lowly, as the same, as Meredith pretended not to be.

A crude, inapt healer at that, by the amount of scars criss-crossing her skin. She wasn't surprised, though, at lack of training and a disregard for self-improvement, it was an evil that afflicted most apostates.

Yet, it still bothered her to know Champion Hawke had skills not fully known to her. Much to her annoyance and disgust, Meredith had seen her perform glib tricks for impressionable children and stray dogs, as well as terrible feats of unchecked power against her enemies, and although Meredith knew no mage could exert mastery over every aspect of their curse, much less an uneducated one, she knew Hawke to be a healer.

She'd felt it.

In the rare nights when time wasn't a concern, with her apostate caught securely in her arms, when her eyelids were too heavy to bear, Meredith could sense the other woman performing her enchantments. She could feel it in the unwinding of her limbs, the mellowing of her aches, in her sweet restful sleep.

She had a keen eye for patterns. Changes in tone, half hidden glances, aborted movements, those were all tools in her hands, secrets and weaknesses for her to use when it suited her best.

The Maker. Air. Lyrium. Food. Hawke. Foregoing any of those might kill her, no matter how hard Meredith might try to overcome the need, so she does as she must. Meredith prays, breathes, drinks, eats, and kisses like her life depends on it.

She contorts her body and her morals to reach Hawke's accursed mouth, to claim and consume her, to leave her mussed, glazed, warm, and pliant beneath the barbed plates of her armor.

And when she's had her need met (never sated, never done), Meredith shamefully cleans herself of the mess Hawke leaves behind, red warpaint smeared over her nose, her cheeks, her lips, an indictment of her weakness, her need.

Very, VERY old sketch.

"You have stood with me when all others

I've been watching your world from afar

I've been trying to be where you are