I was bored so I wrote this. It came to me in a flash of booze-addled inspiration. Incidentally, guys, I don't recommend doing this in real life unless you wanna get hit.
SHE AIN'T HEAVY
Pain shot through Merrill's foot as a sharp rock jutting from the road dug itself into her heel. She instinctively lifted her foot from the dirt mid-step, but this made her nearly lose her balance, and for a split second it was all she could do to keep from falling over-face first. She jammed her staff into the ground and managed to regain her composure, swallowing a Dalish curse as she did so.
Once she was no longer in danger of falling over, she looked around at her companions. She was relieved that none of them — especially the shemlen Hawke, who marched several metres ahead of the group — seemed to notice the embarrasing incident, wrapped up as they were in their thoughts.
"Ow," Merrill whispered under her breath, low enough that the others could not hear.
Hobbling after Hawke with considerable effort, Merrill cursed the poor condition of the road they followed. Her feet were already sore and raw from the day's journey and they still had several leagues to go before they could return to Kirkwall. It would be some time before she could rest, not unless they wished to be marching in the dark.
Merrill had faced far worse pain; this was nothing compared to the agony visited on her the day she received her vallaslin, or the heartache over her departure from her clan. But these rationalizations did little to soothe the soreness of her feet.
As she walked, Merrill failed to notice that Hawke had stopped ahead of her and had turned around.
"Merrill," he said. "You're wincing."
Merrill looked up. Garrett was watching her intently, carefully scrutinizing her movements. His inspection only served to heighten her embarrassment.
"No, I'm not," she replied.
"You are." Garrett crossed his arms over his chest. "Every time you take a step. It's as plain as day."
"I'm not!” she snapped. “Mind your own damn business!”
Merrill regretted the insult as soon as it escaped her lips, but if Hawke was offended by her comment, he gave no sign. Instead, he strode over to her and halted in her path.
“Merrill,” he repeated, holding out his hands. “Let me help.”
“How?” she asked wearily.
“I can carry you.”
“Carry me?” she exclaimed incredulously. “What do you mean, carry me?”
“Like this,” he said, bending down at the waist.
“Wait —“ she began to object, but Hawke ignored her. He slipped one hand around her knees and the other around her lower back, and before she could move away, he was lifting her up in the air. She nearly dropped her staff to the ground, but managed to maintain her grip.
“Put me down!” she commanded. When Hawke did not accede to her request, she raised her staff threateningly and its tip began to glow with energy. “I said put me down! I’m not a child!”
Hawke laughed. “Trust me, I’d never mistake you for one.”
Merrill’s face turned red from a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “This is ridiculous! You can’t carry me all the way to Kirkwall!”
“You’re as light as a sack of feathers,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve lugged far heavier loads. Have I told you of the time Carver broke his foot while chopping wood and I had to carry him over a mile to the healer?”
“We’re a lot farther from the city than a mile.”
“Then I’ll carry you until I get tired,” he said, in a way that suggested he would brook no further debate.
Still angry but seeing that further debate was useless, Merrill lowered her staff. She scowled in frustration and focused instead on dreaming up ways of exacting humilitating revenge on the arrogant shemlen. Behind them, the dwarf Varric cried out to Hawke, inquiring about what the going rate was piggyback rides.
Hawke carried her for the better part of an hour. When he finally set her down, she never breathed a word of thanks, even though the pain in her feet had faded.
For his part, Hawke never asked.
Modifié par Face of Evil, 27 janvier 2011 - 04:56 .