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The descent down the mountain was long and painful. No one spoke. There was nothing, it seemed, that could be said. When the encampment came into view they could see that the elves were — finally — preparing to leave Sundermount. At that moment Aveline broke the silence.
"Hawke—" she started to say.
"Save it," hissed Ivy.
"Come on, Hawke, don't be—" Varric pitched in.
She rounded on him. "Varric," she said. "Don't."
Ivy rolled her shoulders and shook her head. Turning into the camp, she cut a straight line through the milling Dalish, not looking back to check if the other two were following. Down the mountainside and all along the road to Kirkwall the silence held, stiff like a badly starched frock and twice as ugly.
At the foot of the steps leading to the Hightown market she dismissed them.
"Are you sure you don't want to—" Varric started to say.
"No, I don't want to go down to the Hanged Man for 'just one drink'," said Ivy, venom in her voice. "I want to be let alone. Just go. I'll talk when I'm good and ready."
She stood on the steps and imagined she wasn't watching from under her hood as Varric turned and trudged down in the direction of Lowtown, and Aveline vanished off towards the Keep. For a few breaths, she stood and waited in that in-between place where no one lingered to do business or exchange gossip. The quiet, she imagined, spread up from her feet through the soles of her boots and, like an upside-down drip, crawled up her legs and torso, long tendrils of silence enveloping her from every direction.
Trussed in silence from toe to top, Ivy Hawke made her way through the Hightown market. The shopping crowds were thick, it was a bright cheerful day and no one wanted to be trapped indoors in some dim room. A fine day for a picnic, it could have been. Greetings and salutations bounced off her, as did the thumping of her leather boots against the paving stones. She walked through the din of the market, but it couldn't touch her.
Bodahn and Orana, at least, were used to getting the brush off. Ivy mused idly that she had treated them terribly lately, always rushing from one crisis to another, never giving them the time of day. Bodahn was so efficient and devoted, the least she could do was greet him politely when she strolled through the estate, once every third day or so. Without noticing she had become one of those nobles that she used to detest, too busy and important to treat their lessers with common courtesy.
A knot tightened somewhere near her sternum as she stomped up the stairs to her bedroom, dropping pieces of armor behind her. Someone, perhaps Orana, would pick them up; wipe the blood off, maybe give them a good polish with rain-repellent oil. Wipe the blood off. Everything she owned must always become covered in blood. Suddenly she was tired beyond bearing. Gently she shut the bedroom behind her. She didn't bother taking up her Amell silks and just crawled into the bed bare, pulling the heavy quilt over her head.
Night had fallen by the time she stirred again.
"Mistress."
Orana was standing at the foot of the bed.
Ivy groaned into her pillow. "I won't be down for supper, Orana. You and the fellows should just eat without me."
"Yes, Mistress," said Orana. "I cleaned your armor and arranged it on the stand."
Ivy forced herself to the smallest necessary attention. "Thank you, Orana," she said with an effort. "If you please, I'd like to be alone tonight."
Orana knew a dismissal when she heard one.
Ivy was grateful. Sooner or later the staff would ask about her, and she wanted to put that discussion off as long as she possibly could. Any hour now there would be knocking at her door, Aveline or Varric or some other poor well-meaning sod... She didn't want to think about it. Come to think, she saw no reason to think about anything tonight. Her head sank slowly back into the pillow.
She would have gladly remained there for the rest of the night, and the following day as well. Except that at three past the hour she woke and stared into the dark canopy above her bed. Suddenly she remembered that she needed to water Merrill's plant. Without water the plant would die, and it was not as though there was anyone else around anymore to do it, if she forgot.
Ivy never could remember to water her plants.
Well, there would be no more of that. From now on every pot and box and planter would get all the fresh water it needed, every day.
Her fingers fluttered over the tender green leaves and she hissed out a sigh. "It won't be the same without you."
Ivy pulled on her housecoat and bounded, barefoot, down the stairs to the front hall. No lamps were lit and the fireplace was cold and empty. She slowed down, and felt her way through the unfamiliar maze of back rooms, kitchens and pantries and she knew not what else. Somewhere in this warren there was a door that led to the inner courtyard, the one she could see from her bedroom windows. After much fumbling she finally found and unlocked a door in a tiny room lined with barrels and sacks.
The cold night air stunned her into awareness and she felt the hardness of the flagstones beneath the soles of her feet and a knot deep in her middle which might have been hunger. But her resolve didn't stir and she crossed the courtyard to the ancient stone well that dominated its center. Working the rope to pull up a full bucket made her arms burn and her breath quicken and she braced her feet for better leverage; brute strength was always Carver's domain, not hers.
She struggled to carry the dripping bucket through the house, sloshing water on her calves and all over the rugs in the front hall. What use was being stupidly rich if she couldn't ruin valuable carpeting, now and then? By the time she set it down again, the bucket was only about two-thirds full. Using a tin dipper that she appropriated from one of Orana's cupboards, she drizzled water over the clumped plants that squatted in pots in every corner. She watched shiny droplets of water slide over the leaves before soaking into the dirt beneath.
Everything went into dirt, eventually. Or so the saying went.
Once the bucket was almost empty, Ivy carried it up to her room and used it to fill her washing bowl. Even in her state of disarray, she couldn't fail to notice that her exertion had drenched her in sweat, rapidly cooling in the night air and raising an increasingly sour smell. She washed efficiently, for the coldness of the water, and quickly toweled off. Once that was taken care of, there was no reason not to turn back to the comfort of her quilts.
When she woke the next morning there was a tray perched on a dainty Orlesian table, placed presciently in her line of sight. Angled rays of light from the window fell on the laden plates, and she could see steam rising from them, accompanying an admittedly appetizing fragrance. Her stomach rumbled loudly. The savory fumes would have driven a hermit mad.
Self-denial, Ivy knew, had never brought anyone back from the dead. And even if the Maker and his bride had seen fit to reward a display of piousness from one of their eminent daughters, why would they break nature's laws on behalf of an unrepentant heretical maleficar? Abandoning this unprofitable line of thought, Ivy sought to silence both the lower and the higher portions of her anatomy with porridge and cream-filled breakfast buns. She ate until she could taste the food she was chewing.
Fresh clothing was laid out for her on a chair just to her left. The water in her bathing pitcher was still a little warm. Once dressed, Ivy reluctantly turned to face her bedroom door, knowing who was waiting for her on the other side. Orana had been quite fond of Merrill, despite her various eccentricities; she couldn't let her find out through the vagaries of idle gossip. It was the very least she owed her.
"Mistress?"
Ivy drew in a long, shivery breath and turned to face her. "Orana," she said, perhaps a little more sharply than she intended, "gather the staff in the sitting room. I have news to deliver."
Without preamble she turned again and marched down the stairs and right through the estate's front door. For a moment she stood before her doorstep in the sunny Hightown square and blinked, the light too bright in her eyes after so many hours spent in her dim room, alone.
“Champion.”
“Serah Selbrech,” said Ivy.
“Lovely day, isn't it?” said the woman chattily. “Why, it's been sunny all week! I wonder if the weather will hold?”
“If you'll excuse me,” said Ivy urgently, feeling her fists clench of their own volition.
“Of course, Champion,” said the woman, prattling on about how she must have important Championing business, or some such nonsense.
Ivy couldn't bear to listen for too long. She marched with false purpose away from the doors of the estate. She turned right, but the bustle of the market deterred her. Turned left, and saw the stairs to the Viscount's Keep and behind them Aveline's sympathetic face. She had welcomed her condolences once before, but now they seemed intolerable. Instead she walked straight ahead, following her feet rather than her mind, and found herself at the foot of the steps to the Chantry.
“With each step you take in my Hall, marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.”
Curiously, Ivy turned to regard the Chanter. She had never paid much attention to the Chantry's officers, past their function in distributing her donations to Kirkwall's many orphanages. At least, not when they weren't trying to kill her. A Maker of some sort existed somewhere, this she knew, but he had little enough interest in her, and she, in him, less.
On impulse, she said, “Tell me another.” She couldn't remember a verse whole to save her life.
“The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next.”
Ivy shivered. She had not thought about the Beyond since Carver's death. Neither subject was comfortable for her to dwell on.
“Good day, Champion.”
An idler had stopped by to drop some silvers into the Chanter's collection plate.
“Let him take notice and shine upon thee, for thou has done His work on this day,” said the Chanter.
The gentleman nodded his head in acknowledgment. “Maker keep you, Champion.”
Shivering again, Ivy turned her back on them both. “I must go.”
Without another word she rushed back to the estate and didn't look to either side until the door was shut behind her.
She stepped into the sitting room quickly so as not to give herself any time to try and back out. She was mildly surprised to find so many faces looking up at her, curious or apprehensive by turns. She hadn't realized how large of a staff the estate had accumulated over the last few years; how long had they been working for her, and why couldn't she remember any of their names? Had she ever known their names to begin with? Merrill probably had, even having spent all of her free time in the alienage, with her mirror.
Her voice wavered at first, but she related the basic facts to them briefly and to the point. Mistress Merrill had fallen in battle, that was all she told them. They were to accept condolences and flowers on her behalf if any arrived, and they were not to gossip. She knew the news of the Champion's scandalous companion would spread like overgrown weeds before nightfall, but still hoped to shame them out of speculating on the circumstances of her demise.
Merrill's memory would not withstand idle Hightown rumor-mongering. Who knew what foul defamatory lies these overstuffed prattlers could produce?
Worrying the matter over in her mind could occupy many of her daylight hours, Ivy knew, and bring her no closer to peace of mind than she was before. If peace of mind was indeed what she wanted. Nothing could make Hightown welcome a Dalish elf, or any stranger, and she finally knew with certainty that she was a stranger to Kirkwall and always had been. There could be no future for her in this place. Even now her desk was piled with letters, begging her aid in all manner of problems. Yet she knew not one of the querents would do the same for her, were their fortunes reversed. Kirkwall never gave anything back, it only knew how to take and take until nothing was left.
Her ugly ruminations brought her right back to the starting point. Disgustedly, she cast them off and rushed again out into the square. She wandered the streets of Hightown, turning corners with a resolute step; idlers scattered respectfully to clear her path. The Champion was on the prowl, which could only mean she had grave and substantial business far above the understanding of the common Kirkwaller. A facade of urgency was all it took to keep herself to herself, and the walk helped to dissipate some of the nervous energy that had plagued her. It was better than pacing.
Even if she did want to seek comfort, where would she go? Her cruel dismissal the other day would not endear her to Aveline, and even her tolerance had its limits. They were not used to seeing her so ill-tempered and could not have steeled themselves for such a harsh response. Hurt feelings all around. She could go to the Hanged Man to lose herself in a drink or six, but Varric would be there and, whether he offered sympathy or oblivion, for some reason she just couldn't stand the thought of it.
Isabela would be there too, a far easier companion in a time like this. But what comfort could liquor really offer her that sleep hadn't already failed to provide? They would just sit in silence as they had once before, though now Isabela had her own grief to contend with and not Ivy's alone. Maybe she had better leave that stone unturned, let Isabela see her own way through as she saw fit. Why was it so hard to keep in mind the mourning of others? She knew her friends, knew Merrill had been lost to all of them.
Ivy had never become properly acquainted with her neighbors. In fact, she hardly knew anyone in Kirkwall well, aside from her traveling companions. Her mother had tried to prod her into sending out invitations, hosting dinner parties, making social calls, but there was always something more interesting or more important to do. Any callers who came to the estate looking for her would find her gone or sound asleep. And anyway, that had been years ago. Once she was gone there was no one about to cajole Ivy into her best behavior; Merrill certainly wouldn't have thought of it, being as her idea of a party involved sitting on the edge of the roof, making crowns for them both out of flowers she picked out of the neighbors' gardens.
She wondered if any condolences would come. It was the polite thing to do, was it not? Regardless of how the nobles of Hightown might have felt about a Fereldan and a Dalish cavorting in their midst day and night, they would hold to propriety. After her mother's murder the wreaths didn't stop arriving for days. At least she had appreciated the occasional bottle of brandy that came along with them. Come to think of it, she suspected she still had one or two of those, unopened and untouched in the abandoned wine cellar.
The Chantry was like a lodestone; without meaning to, she found herself back at the foot of its steps. She sighed, drew a deep breath, and started climbing. Inside was cool and dry, only a little of the bright day's sunlight trickling in through the tall, narrow windows. Sisters murmured blessings at her as she passed. She looked up, and saw the Grand Cleric standing on her dais. As always, she looked impossibly serene and composed. For once she felt a pang of envy and longing, instead of her ordinary impulse to brush it off with a dismissive quip. If this was faith, was it also what Merrill had felt when she looked at her mirror?
“You seem troubled, child.”
Ivy started and found the Grand Cleric standing right before her. Her eyes had glazed over as her mind drifted, not the first time such a thing had happened to her in the Chantry. “Your Grace.”
“Serah Hawke.”
“Not 'Champion'?” asked Ivy.
Elthina sighed softly. “We all have times in our lives when names suit us more than honorifics. I have the impression that this is such a time for you, Serah Hawke. What ails you?”
“Someone close to me has died.” She didn't need to mention the circumstances of that death.
“The loss of a loved one is a grave injury to the soul,” said the Grand Cleric. “This is a recent loss?”
“Very recent,” said Ivy.
“Time is the only grace for such pain,” she said. “Some day you will find that there's comfort in knowing your loved one is at peace.”
Jolted, Ivy took a step back. “Thank you,” she said, “but I must leave. Right now.”
She walked out of the Chantry as fast as she dared.
As the door shut behind her, she crashed into a jangling pile of steel.
“Hawke!”
“Aveline.”
Great.
“I wouldn't have expected to meet you here, of all places.”
“I could say the same to you,” said Ivy, looking her up and down. “Didn't you tell me once you thought the Chant of Light was just a pretty song?”
“I don't think I said anything of the sort!” said Aveline, taking half a step back. “What are you doing, Hawke? We— I haven't seen you in days.”
They were keeping tabs on her, of course. Why wouldn't they? “I've been... preoccupied.”
Aveline's fists went to her hips, a curious sight in heavy armor that would have made her laugh at any other time. “That sounds like an excuse, and not a very good one.”
“Would you rather I said that I don't want to see you?” Ivy snapped.
“Why not?” asked Aveline, her brows descending precipitously. “You were free enough with your words the other day.”
“I beg your pardon, Guard Captain,” said Ivy, leaning in close to her face. “What words of comfort did you plan on offering? You don't really think Merrill is at the Maker's side, do you? 'They shall find no rest in this world or beyond,' remember? Even I know that part.”
“Hawke,” said Aveline, reaching for her shoulder.
Ivy shook her off and turned to leave. "This isn't a problem you can solve, Aveline."
"Hawke," said Aveline again, an edge of desparation to her voice that Ivy barely remembered. "There must be something. What can I do? What can I say?"
She turned back around and her breath hitched on the words. "Where is she?"
Aveline looked struck. "What?"
“Tell me where she is!" Ivy demanded, much louder and shriller than she intended. "If she's not at the Maker's side, then where's my Merrill?”