Chapter Text
They let her and Isabela keep the tent up for a week. Isabela is adamant that "as the Inquisitor," Merrill should get to stay wherever she wants, yet she's caught her vhenan staring longingly at the bedframes being moved inside. So when Josephine insists for the third time, Merrill accepts the quarters they prepare for her without too much fuss.
Sleep hadn’t been going well in the tent, anyways. She’d assumed it was the mark keeping spirits out of her dreams—Cole as much as confirmed that its "brightness" makes her harder to listen to—yet these past few days have taught her the opposite is true. Spirits are drawn to the mark, to its ancient power shining like a beacon in the Fade; Desire longs for it, Despair mourns over it, and Pride...
Too often does Pride offer to help her harness it, to "restore the power of your people." She's gotten good at ignoring them, well aware of the price they seek.
When Merrill falls asleep in her new quarters, she knows the dream isn't hers. It's not the content—Haven has been the subject of all her dreams lately, to Despair over those she didn't save, or seeing herself if she had; if she had just chosen Pride or Wrath, combined their powers—but the detail of the dream. She recognizes the spiderweb crack in the broken stone at the base of the Chantry, the dark stains showing through Varric's tent from his inkwell,
the Breach, not consuming the sky as it does in her dreams (in a future she isn't sure she should forget), just there as it was in its temporarily-closed state.
"It's rude to bring someone into your dream without asking," she speaks into the cold open air, mostly teasing. Solas hasn't spoken with her much during Skyhold's reconstruction, and while at first she'd welcomed the space to process what's happened without having to navigate his ever-shifting boundaries, now she'd just like to speak with her friend.
He's within arms length of her when he responds; "In my defense, I did little more than prompt your subconscious; it seems the mark has given you some Fade-walking abilities of your own.” His layered feelings on that swirl through the Fade around them, joy and guilt and an ironic humor. “And it seems less my dream, than ours combined; a bit redundant to invite you to that which you’ve helped construct, perhaps.”
“Are you always more forthcoming in the Beyond, or are you trying to be more honest after what we talked about?”
Solas’ eyebrows pop up. She’d missed surprising him. He takes time to think as they walk through Haven, something drawing her to the dungeons she’d woken up in, and his answer is sure. “Both hold some truth; things come more easily to me in the Fade, communication included, but I find myself owing you more honesty than what is easy.”
Merrill’s face scrunches up. “I don’t like thinking of it as owing . I’d like you to tell me why sometimes you look at me like a child and sometimes like a ghost, I’d like to know why you have so much guilt inside you you feel you have to push it on me;” she stares down at the open shackles still chained to the ground. Inhumane , Anders would call it. It’s a word she’s never understood, not when it describes things she thinks are very human. “I’d like to know a lot of things, but I’m not owed them. Honesty isn’t a currency between people, it’s… a language, I think. One we speak a bit differently than each other.”
“... You are remarkable, Gyalan . To extend the metaphor, I hope to become more fluent, with your patience.”
She can tell when his eyes join hers in focusing on the cuffs. There is confession heavy in the space around them when he speaks again. “When I aided you, captured and dying here, I was prepared to preserve the mark over your life.”
Merrill isn’t as scared by that as she thinks others would want her to be. It’s not as if Solas is the first friend she’s had who considered killing her at some point. “What changed?”
“You… Became a person to me. Or rather, you forced me to confront what I had willingly blinded myself to: that the people are not hollow for their divorce from the past, from the world they were owed.”
Solas speaks his honesty like elvish, she thinks, dancing around unknowns even as he admits to them, obfuscating what he can’t reveal to avoid offending with his refusal. She nudges one of the shackles with her foot. “Seeing us as people seems hard for a lot of people.”
He shakes his head, huffing a bit of steam into the air. Could she shape that steam, shape other parts of this dream as he has shaped pieces of the Fade so easily before? “I saw this world as hollow, the Dalish trying and failing to preserve a culture that had already been cleaved; I woke, and everything was empty . Even the Fade but an echo…”
“ Oh. ” How he speaks of their past, of times where spirits and the beings of Thedas lived as one; how he speaks elvish differently than she’s ever heard; how he is too-big for his body and woke to an empty world .
“How long has it been, since you woke from Uthenera ?”
Fear looks… strange, on him. It doesn’t sting like fear directed at her. It’s the type of fear Cole has reassured her of and sought reassurance for in turn: fear of yourself, of what you may do, of whether your world is going to crumble around you and be your fault again . He’s not big in his fear.
“... Over a year. I cannot give an exact time, I was… of mixed awareness, at first.”
Merrill thinks of the blended-together mess of the days after her return from the future. “Is it still hard to stay in the present?”
She knows the answer before he says it, and he knows that and doesn’t say it at all. Here they are together, walking through an intricate reconstruction of the past; Solas sleeps in for hours. Merrill doesn’t need to guess what he’s doing in his dreams.
—
Reaching a new level of understanding with Solas is probably what inspires her to approach Bull (that, and Cole's expression of Bull's confusion, his desire for what he knows about blood magic and what he knows about her to make sense like they had before he'd seen it, the blood and the power of it ).
She finds him in the tavern. "Are you more comfortable talking with me in the open, or in private? It wouldn't actually effect my ability to influence your mind; I don't really do that type of blood magic, especially not to people I like."
The Iron Bull smiles reflexively, and she can see the fear-bared teeth, understands them. "In the open, then. Why didn't you tell the other Inquisition leaders," she refuses to call them 'advisors', not with how active they are in the Inquisition's operations, "about what I did during the siege of Haven."
Narrow eyes, bared teeth, but posture relaxed. "Who says I didn't?"
His fear keeps her from laughing. "I feel like they would have mentioned it before putting me in charge of an Andrastian Inquisition.” She thinks she sees more genuine amusement this time; Merrill's never been the best at reading emotions, and the fear is clouding everything.
Still, reading people is different from understanding people. "What more do you want to ask, The Iron Bull? I want to answer." I want to say what will make you less afraid of me .
He looks at her, open in his observation, and takes a measured breath. "Wish I could say 'I don't wanna know', but I do, Boss." It looks like it pains him to say. "It's for power, right? I didn't read you as…"
"Power-hungry?" She fills in, fingers following the grain of the table. "I wouldn't say I am, though I suppose most people wouldn't. It's about power as much as lyrium is about power, as much as group rituals are about power—as much as a Reaver drinking dragon blood is." Merrill had done her research before she first used blood magic, studying her People's histories and others as well; it isn't just mages who take advantage of the power of blood. "What does your Ben Hassarath information say about my magic? I know I wasn't subtle in Kirkwall."
Something about this question seems to relax Iron Bull, just a little; the familiarity of reporting information, maybe. "Honestly, not much that could be substantiated. Humans aren't known for reliably reporting on elves," she lightly snorts instead of laughing at that, "and the Dalish tend to be too insular to get any eyes or ears in."
She's missed Bull's honesty, how he says maybe more than he should in a way not quite like hers. "Well, I don't mind filling you in, even if I am a little biased."
As Merrill speaks—about her quest for knowledge, speaking with Audacity, learning blood magic to remove the taint from the Eluvian, succeeding —she realizes this may be the first time the real events on Sundermount have been told to anyone. The Sabrae clan spoke of it to the clan near their newest camp, she knows, but they'd never had the full story, never cared to listen; it had only taken one pleading look for Varric to withhold details in his book (something Isabela and Fenris still speak of with envious outrage); and from what she's heard, Hawke has taken to making up increasingly unbelievable lies about all their time in an around Kirkwall like a sport.
If she's honest, she wishes it were to a different anyone. Even Fenris would probably be more sympathetic (is, actually; it had taken months after the event, but he sat next to her at The Hanged Man; told her that while it wasn't the same, he does understand having to kill a mentor turned monster. Someone you care about, even if maybe you shouldn't). To his credit, The Iron Bull lets her speak, only interrupting to ask for clarification. What he thinks as he listens or asks, only spirits know.
The sounds of the tavern wash over them for a time, once she's done, voices and drinking and creaking wood. "And with the Inquisition?" Bull once again offers his voice to the din, quiet in a way that she knows means more than she understands; "How much have you used… with them?"
"Outside of that fight? None, really; I have lived among shemlen long enough to know that they" you "wouldn't let me" live "stay out of the dungeons otherwise. And I wasn't lying when I said mind magic isn't my strong suit; anything beyond the Horrors Dorian casts is pretty much beyond me, though I'll happily admit to not trying much. I like experiments, not ones on people." Since she can't tell much of anything about Bull's reaction, especially not whether he believes her, she adds: "I mean, if I did do that kind of magic, it would be kind of silly to spend all this time trying to convince you I'm not evil when I could just make you think that."
Bull's horns tilt with his head. "Point," he grants. Then, as if related: "I need to get hit with something."
Merrill blinks, thinks of Ketojan. "Is that a Qunari practice?" She doesn't ask why do so many of your practices hurt you . She understands the sacrifices cultures ask.
"Uh-huh," he grunts, "helps process shit, sometimes."
"If you're trying to process whether to kill me, I can't say I don't hope you decide not to." It's a joke, maybe; in so much as a joke is telling the truth and hoping to get a laugh.
He doesn't laugh, looks out into the Tavern. "Nah," he sighs; "processing why I should want to kill you, but I don't."
Merrill chokes back the instinct to comfort him. Maybe Isabela is right; maybe her standards have gotten too low with the people here, caring for them just because they're people to care for. "Probably because you shouldn't want to kill me. I'm a bit tired of explaining that to people, though."
"... Nice talking with you, Boss."
She leaves the tavern, thinking loud enough for Cole to hear: I tried .
—
It's hard to find a complaint about someone so genuinely well-meaning as Cole. Walking down into Skyhold's lower courtyard to find Solas, Vivienne and Cassandra in a heated debate, looks and gestures being thrown at Cole a few meters away, Merrill is struck fondly with one: she wishes they would tell her about their own problems before someone else's.
" Ga son? What seems to be the problem?" Three heads turn to her. Cassandra and Solas express something like relief (Merrill can't read Vivienne's expression at all, which she expects in most of their conversations).
"Inquisitor," Cassandra addresses her with a nod of her head. Merrill thinks it will be a long while before she gets used to that title; hopefully the Inquisition won't be around by then. "I had wondered if Cole was perhaps a mage, given his unique abilities."
Ah. "And you learned Cole is closer to a spirit."
Vivienne intercedes, a had certainty in her words: "It is a demon." Merrill hears dangerous thing and shakes her head.
"They are an ally; Cole has aided in Therinfal Redoubt's clearing, the evacuation of our people from Haven, and countless times in healing and reconstructing Skyhold since then. You don't have to like them," even if it's like not liking the person who keeps your home, "but that doesn't stop Cole being a person."
Cassandra frowns; "Did you not say they are a spirit?"
And oh, Merrill hates that her question is genuine. Thankfully, Solas is more than happy to explain the concept of spirit personhood, leaving Merrill to look at Vivienne, at whether she allows any of the information in, or dismisses it outright.
It certainly seems like the latter as she scoffs; "And how long until it collects its payment ? How many lives will be lost then?" Merrill doesn't miss the way Cole flinches, even meters away.
"Enough," Merrill says, quiet but firm. "Cole has proven themself with their action. If you're looking for them to be removed or otherwise punished for what they are, you won't find it here. Actually," she turns to Cassandra, "They gave information to Leliana's scouts more than once; I'm sure she has some record of them. With that it shouldn't take much to get Cole set up as an official member of the Inquisition." She pauses, switches her intended audience. "If you want that, that is."
Cole is much closer to them, then, definitely favoring the space nearest her and Solas. Their fingers fidget in front of them. "I want to keep helping, with you." Lowered head turned to Vivienne, they add, just a touch desperately: "I'm not like Envy, won't let myself be. I can't take like that."
They don't turn to her, but Merrill knows like before that Cole is addressing her again. " You would stop me."
Tilting her head, she agrees; "I would." Good thing we'll take care of you long before you could get to that point.
Another smile pokes out from under their hat, more than making up for the disapproval and unease communicated by Vivienne and Cassandra respectively. Not that she takes much offense to it anyways; if anything, it's a little funny that they expected anything else, putting her in charge.