#carverill

Merrill looks over to the spot where the Eluvian used to stand, before she ran her staff through the glass, before Hawke and Varric disposed of the pieces while she held her knees to her chest. The Carver she remembers would have said something just to fill the silence, but now he waits, patient, until she speaks: “I couldn’t fix it myself,” she starts, “and a—a demon offered his help. I took precautions, but Mahariel—my Keeper—she—” Her voice dies at the back of her mouth, and underneath the wound is raw, held closed by still-fragile threads of half-mended flesh that threaten to snap.

“I’m sorry. Say no more if you’d rather not.”

She takes a breath to unknot her throat and blinks the sting out of her eyes, glad to have his back to him. “I think she tried to drive the demon away before I could get there, but she ended up getting possessed instead,” she continues once she’s regained her composure, carrying the two mugs of tea to the table. “Everyone had been telling me for years what a fool’s errand it was, and I didn’t see it until—until I killed her.”

The last few words draw a crease between his eyebrows. “Merrill, you didn’t kill her. You couldn’t have known.”

She stares down at his hands, too large for the mug. She thinks of Master Ilen, somehow, of the little toy halla he would carve for the clan’s children. “Didn’t I? If not for me, she’d still be alive.”

He blows on the plume of steam rising from his mug before taking a careful sip. “You know, I used to blame everything on someone else. My sister, most of the time. It was easier than admitting that I could change things. That maybe it was my own fault. And if I’ve learned anything now, it’s that everyone’s responsible for their own actions. Same goes for you, and your Keeper.” He shrugs. “Alright, so maybe restoring the mirror didn’t work out, but confronting the demon was her decision, not yours. You said yourself you took precautions.”

She raises her face to look at him. If she tries hard enough she can still see the broody young lad who would argue with Hawke for the mere sake of it, who would lament his fate and blame it on the Amells and his sisters and Kirkwallers and mages, but now— “You’ve changed,” she says.

Carver runs a hand through his hair. “I, uh. Let’s say that the Order has changed my view on a great many things. We have to do whatever it takes to stop the Blight and the ‘spawn, and sometimes that means—well. Things that wouldn’t sit well with the common folk, I reckon. We even have a couple of blood mages in our ranks, and they can handle themselves. You made it easier for me to accept them, I have to say.” He sighs, and the steam of his mug parts, swirling around his breath. “Truth be told, I’ve been thinking a lot about you,” he finishes, his voice nearly lost in the soft white plumes.

Warmth rushes to her cheeks, and not only from the heat rolling off her cup of tea. An ache blooms somewhere under her breast, both tender and sweet, the same that Hawke used to stir when she would lean close, smelling of leather and roses, and Mahariel before her, smelling of earth and blood and wild berries.

And suddenly she’s tired—tired of things passing her by, wind-swift then gone, tired of closing her hand only to find naught upon her palm. Before she knows it, she’s standing between his thighs, fingers curled around his short, rounded ears, and pressing her lips to his.

His breath hitches under her mouth, but he doesn’t question it; instead he melts into the kiss as though he’d been waiting for it—and he was, she supposes, because now she knows for what it is the heaviness that weighs down his gaze when it sweeps her, the heat that guides his hands around her waist as he pulls her to him. He has a scent all his own, she finds out, like sun-warm metal and dusty roads and sea salt, and he tastes like honeyed tea and oranges, like the cloves and nutmeg of the hearth cakes.

Clinging to his shoulders, she throws one leg over his thigh, then the other, and straddles him without breaking the seal of their mouths. The plate and studs of his armour are rough and ragged through the thin cotton of her trousers. His grip is firm, strong, his fingers sneaking under the hem of her shirt to caress the small of her back. She tilts her head back so that his mouth falls on her throat where her heart pulses, and he moans, a low, deep sound that rumbles down her neck and fans out between her parted legs.

“Merrill,” he pants, blue eyes glazed under the furrow of his brow, “you know I have to return to Weisshaupt after this.”

“I know,” she says, simply, because there’s nothing else to say.

He rises to his feet then, holding her to himself while she hooks her legs around his waist, and carries her to the small cot in the adjacent room. It takes seconds for her trousers and shirt to be swept off and dropped to the floor, but his armour has to be peeled off layer by layer, buckles and leather straps uncovering laces and clasps. His chestpiece clangs to the floor, followed by his plated tassets, his chainmail and leathers, and finally he kicks off his boots to crouch between her legs, the bed groaning under his weight.

His skin nearly burns as she trails her fingertips along the mabari tattooed on his chest and the raised scars on his shoulder blades, but hotter yet is his mouth, chasing the warmth of his breath on the taper of her ear, her neck, the tips of her breasts. Her insides clench in anticipation under the strained laces of his trousers when his teeth graze her nipple as it tightens between his lips. He takes his time, kissing each rib, swirling his tongue around her navel, sucking on a hipbone on his way down to her center. Her legs part as his tongue brushes the knot of flesh atop her entrance, sending a ripple of warmth through her, and then he starts kissing and licking until she has both of her hands threaded in his hair and can’t help the cries that pour out of her mouth, until she surrenders to the wave of pleasure cresting over her with a great shudder.

Carver is grinning at her when she looks down her heaving breasts, tugging the laces of his trousers loose. “I’d say I must be dreaming,” he starts, his cock hot and hard on the inside of her thigh, where the scratch of his beard left a pleasant burn, “but Grey Warden dreams aren’t anywhere this pleasant, usually.”

“And neither are blood mage dreams, so this isn’t one of my dreams either,” she replies, giggling.

Carver kisses her again, his lips slick with her arousal. She throws her legs around his hips to welcome him inside her, and goes soft in his arms when he stretches her open and fills her up. He slips one hand under her body, almost lifting her up the bed to draw her even closer until she can’t even tell where one starts and the other ends. Then he starts sliding back and forth inside her, slowly at first, and faster, and faster, watching her face for tells, shifting his hips when she bites her lip and thrusting deeper when she arches under him. Before long, heat is coiling up inside her again, taut as the bowstrings of her clan’s hunters. At last it comes loose with a twang that reverberates to the very tip of her toes and makes them curl in pleasure, and she pulses around his cock, pulling him over the edge soon after her.

It takes some effort to lift her eyelids once she’s returned to her senses. Carver is above her, bright-eyed and flushed, his heart hammering against hers. “Maker’s breath, Merrill,” he sighs, his voice hoarse and thick as he brushes her cheek with his thumb, “you make me wish I could stay.”

“Are we really leaving Kirkwall then? Forever?” Merrill asks, and Carver can hear the small touch of sorrow in her voice. He could sympathize with her to an extent; Kirkwall was a pit of a city, now more than ever, but they’d all lived there for nearly a decade, probably the longest amount of time that he and Merrill had ever lived in a single place, and the wretched city had grown on him in that time in spite of everything. 

But Garrett was right - they had to get out of Kirkwall for now, let things cool off before anyone else razed the city to find them. In his anger Carver had replied that executing that abomination of a Mage would’ve solved most of their problems. Garrett had taken that suggestion about as well as anyone would’ve expected, and Carver can still feel the ache in his jaw from the punch it had earned him.

“We’ll.. probably come back, someday,” Carver replies hesitantly when he notices how long he’d let the silence linger, not wanting to make any promises to her that he wasn’t sure he could keep, but he couldn’t see most of them having a life here again after today..

Anders could never come back to live here again, obviously, so Garrett wasn’t likely to come back, and loyalty towards his brother was really the only reason that Fenris and Isabela had stuck around too. They’d all follow Hawke as they always had; only Varric and Aveline were likely to stay. Carver himself was leaving the Templars behind, and with her clan having moved on Merrill had little reason to stay, not that she’d be welcomed back to them anyway. Carver wasn’t happy to see her losing the home she’d chosen for herself, of course, but he did like the thought of them staying together a little longer.

“I hope we do,” Merrill mumbles, folding her arms across her chest as Carver steps out into the streets, scanning the area to make sure it was safe. The pathway leading to the Docks wasn’t far, but the last thing Carver wanted was to be dragged into a firefight when it was just the two of them. They’d left their armor behind, choosing more tattered clothes to help them blend in with the Lowtown citizens, and Carver was definitely regretting the decision now. “Do you think the others-?”

“Shh! Templars are coming this way,” Carver whispers sharply, taking a step back into the alley just as a pair of armored men rounded the corner further up the street. Merrill tenses up beside him, still wary of the men even after so many years in the city, but right now their known relationship with the Champion was far more likely to damn them than to protect them. “Perfect.. If they catch us now we’re done for!”

“Quick, turn towards me!” Merrill commands promptly as the approaching footsteps get louder. Carver keeps his gaze on the Templars for a moment longer before he turns towards the woman behind him, having no time to question her before she suddenly grips his shirt, pulling him down into a heated kiss. Carver lets out a short gasp, bracing his hands against the wall behind Merrill, and his heart pounds hard in his chest as he focuses on the warmth of Merrill’s mouth against his. 

Maker’s breath, her lips were so soft.. 

He presses himself closer, sliding his hands down from the wall to gently grasp her face, and he feels her grip on his shirt tightening as he gently traces his thumbs along the length of her ears, a soft shiver going through her body that has him sighing when he feels it against his own.

He distantly hears the Templars stop at the end of the alley, one of them scoffing something to the other before they move on. Carver doesn’t feel any more eager than Merrill is to break the kiss, but the need for air finally breaks them apart. Carver draws his head back, trying not to look as out of breath as he feels, and the dark flush across Merrill’s face sends a pleasant rush of warmth through him.

“S-Something Isabela told me about,” Merrill explains shakily after a beat of silence, looking like she’s trying very hard not to smile. “Something about doing things like that in public making people embarrassed..”

“That.. sounds like something she’d say,” Carver replies quietly, leaning forward as the temptation to kiss Merrill again starts to grow, but the others are probably waiting at the Docks already and he doesn’t want to risk being caught by Templars who aren’t so easily swayed from their hunt. With a sigh Carver steps back, giving Merrill room to get around him, but Merrill just beams as she suddenly leans forward, standing on her toes to press another soft kiss to his lips before she steps away and hurries across the street. 

Carver stands still for a moment before he licks his lips, grinning to himself and following Merrill into the shadows, eager for the two of them to be in the safety and privacy of the waiting ship.