A sort of dark drabble that I wrote about Merrill/vague f!Hawke while listening to Seven Devils by Florence and the Machine. Feat. Merrill the hardened badass, who still remains loving.
Merrill clenched her jaw tightly, willing her mind to close to the whispers.
The mirror was calling to her again--or something behind it...or someone.
The demons wanted more--always more--never sated.
Anders said he was different, and that he had a spirit of justice within him.
But the Chantry was wrong. They were all wrong.
The People had the right idea; all spirits are dangerous.
All are not of this world and will try to lead you astray. The rest was semantics.
So she built her walls ever higher.
She could see them, even make trades, but she knew the score--nothing is given without a price exacted in blood and soul.
And she was willing to pay a high price indeed to see their history restored, even if no one acknowledged the sacrifices she had to make.
Hawke...she knew, Merrill guessed, or knew in parts. But she supported her, regardless. It’s hard to love someone, and despite that, sleep with a knife under your pillow, but Merrill was glad of it.
It wasn’t a matter of trust, or belief, but rather in case the Keeper lost her way.
Merrill clenched her jaw tightly and dared any to lead her astray. She knew her own strength and took courage in it--the parts the demons could never quite reach.
It was time.
She placed the last shard of glass into the mirror and waited.
Gripping her staff, she raised it high.
