A/N: I got the idea for this story while listening to the new album of my lady love, Sophie Ellis-Bextor. One of her songs is called Homewrecker. Warning: this Merrill is not a cute and adorable ball of fluff. She's angry and bitter, and yet still so Merrill. The first chapter is relatively short and mostly inner monologue, so you get to understand how her mind works. Enjoy.

He looked like a puppy. Not like a cute and fluffy Hightown puppy cared for and loved by a child of Kirkwall's nobility. More like one of those ugly runts in Darktown who got kicked around and were left to die. Sometimes Merrill got lost in Darktown, and while trying to find her way she lurked in the shadows, and watched how Darktowners treated each other and creatures around them. It was not a pleasant sight. Nothing was pleasant in Darktown, where only despair reigned supreme.

There, Fenris tilted his head and looked at Hawke in this gut-wrenching way, just like Darktown puppies did before the boot hit them. Just a hint of hope in them that there would be more. Food, affection, a life. What did he see in Hawke? And more importantly, what did she see in him? Hawke turned to him, smiling brightly, offering him her plate of fried herb potatoes.

Merrill mused all this over the rim of her tankard of cheap Lowtown beer. Life was currently quiet around Kirkwall, as quiet as it ever got here, and thus the companions spent a considerable amount of time apart. They had their monthly night of drinking and games at the Hanged Man, and today was such a night.

Merrill didn't mind the time apart. It gave her time to work on the eluvian, and that's really all that she had come to Kirkwall for. She had made very little progress, but she had all the time in the world to pursue this passion of hers. Not that she was likely to have any success, with Hawke having denied the arulin'holm to her. She quickly took a swig of beer to hide the stab of pain she still felt about this. Her green eyes were locked upon Hawke. Good, righteous Hawke, warrior of justice and fairness around Kirkwall. Who felt that blood magic was evil and would destroy her and her clan. She had denied Merrill the tool with a warm touch to her shoulder, and this sad, caring smile that made Merrill want to punch her.

Merrill's dark reverie was broken when Isabela slid into the seat next to her, depositing fresh tankards of beer on the table. "Kitten, don't look so glum, I haven't seen you in weeks." The pirate lightly squeezed the elf's cheek, which made Merrill laugh. Isabela and Varric were the only one of the companions who genuinely cared for the elf, and they were the only ones who put her at ease. To the rest she was the rambling idiot girl from Sundermount, and she was happy to oblige to keep up the facade. It was easier that way. Once upon a time, when she set out on this task, she had genuinely been more lighthearted, but the first few years in Kirkwall had taught her better.

"I was just waiting for you to come back with more beer, and some exciting stories of what you have done in the meantime. Your stories are always so exciting!" Merrill smiled brightly, and honestly. Isabela didn't judge, and she told a good tall tale. She was so good at distracting Merrill from her undue amounts of rage and anger she felt about Fenris and Hawke. She felt she was in for a very booze-heavy night, to get her spirits soaring. Maybe later they would play Diamondback and she could take some money off Fenris. A girl could dream.

Unfortunately the great mood didn't last forever. As soon as the companions split apart and went their separate ways well past midnight, Merrill's mood darkened, and she regretted having joined the companions this night. On her way home through the streets of Lowtown, the alcohol was still working its way through her system, and the lightheartedness turned to bitterness. Watching Hawke and Fenris had been uncomfortable and insipid. She obviously was in love with him, every time that she gazed at the elf, and whatever kind of feelings he possessed, there was something going on as well. Was it love or just lust, or his trademark brand of hatred? Hard to tell. Based on the puppy looks, it probably was love.

She really wished she didn't spend so much time thinking about Fenris. She remembered meeting him the first time, on Sundermount. The day she started dealing with a man of her own race who treated her like dirt under his toenails. Every single attempt at friendly conversation and fraternization over their shared racial heritage was ripped to shreds by him. Every day he made up new slurs to express his distaste for her. In her head, she created her own slurs. Dimwit, imbecile, nitwit, kook, simpleton. Brooding, browbeating bully. Not that she ever spoke any of those. Merrill was not raised to be a vicious person at anyone. She kept the vindictiveness inside of herself, cradling it warmly, nursing it tenderly. It was all hers.

Besides, the imagined slurs all lacked impact. He would shrug them off if she used them on him. In truth, Merrill would never be able to hurt Fenris with words the way he was able to. She strove for perfection and appreciation, and did not receive any of it. She did not understand any of his goals, any of his dreams, other than the violent death of his slave master Danarius. No, her words would never harm him. All her words could achieve was that she prattled on until he lost his temper. It was small satisfaction, but it was something at least!

Merrill finally arrived at the alienage. She didn't feel like heading inside her home, only to see the blind eluvian laughing in her face. Sometimes she envisioned the cracks were eyes, and the device was mocking her futile efforts to restore it. No, she would much rather sit outside this summer night, praying to the creators that no thugs or rascals decided beating up elves in the alienage were on the agenda tonight. She sat on the ground, cross-legged, resting her back against the vhenadahl tree. The one lone tree in Lowtown, it often seemed. What a faint, shameful representation of the greatness that Arlathan had been. Would they ever achieve this greatness again? Merrill pulled her knees up against her chest and pressed her face against the bony knees. Sometimes she felt so overwhelmingly sad, about herself, but mostly about her people. So much potential, so much greatness, and it was all falling apart in her time, under her hands. If only she could fix the eluvian.

If only she had received the arulin'holm. It was Fenris' fault she didn't have it. He had been there, along with Anders and Hawke. Merrill had been so crushed about Pol's death, about his terrible reaction to her. She had still been mourning when he had already flung insults at her again. You are a monster, he had said. He jeered and taunted her when she was met with nothing but derision back in the clan, when Marethari told them she had warned the others. When Marethari had given the tool to Hawke, he actively had talked her into not granting it to Merrill. Anders had applauded the decision. It had been very hard that day to think why she had wasted months on these people who didn't care about her fate, her aims, herself one bit. Hawke pretended to care, but she was not better than any of the others.

Merrill's eyes stung at the memory. It had been a month ago now, and it still hurt. It still ripped her heart to shreds. She should not have gone to see them tonight. She should not have subjected herself to Hawke's eager hug of greeting, as if the two of them were friends. She should not have subjected herself to the angry, brooding glares of the other elf, and the derision on his face. He didn't veil his insults, and the only one who ever came to her defense was Isabela.

Merrill leaned her head back against the bark of the vhenadahl. The sky was dark above her, and the stars were swimming in the sky. Either because of her angry tears or the amount of alcohol in her bloodstream. "Elgar'nan, lend me your strength. My heart is full with the desire to find retaliation, for all those who have harmed me. Fill me with purpose."

Maybe it was her prayer to the elvhen creator who was considered the god of vengeance, because a thought came to her. A very simple premise. Fenris had feelings for Hawke. He was unable to express them properly, Merrill was sure of that. There was this certain amount of tension between them that belied their feelings. Hawke certainly made no secret of it. What if it were true, and they had a relationship? Words couldn't hurt Fenris. Actions could. His heart could easily bleed. Just like Hawke's. Just like Merrill's heart was bleeding all the time.

The thought actually made her rise with a smile and stumble heavily towards her house. Time to sleep over it, and plot. It certainly was easier and had more promise of success than her efforts with the eluvian.

Merrill thought it was a sign that even the next morning when she slowly came to from her heavy alcohol-induced slumber that she still remembered that plan. Quite simple, all in all. She simply needed to break them apart.

As she steeped tea leaves in hot water, she rested her chin in one of her hands and pondered lazily. Isabela might be able to help her with this. Surely she could seduce either Hawke or Fenris, fueling a jealous rage that broke them apart. Merrill's eyes glazed over as she considered this. Since her childhood, she had always possessed a keen, imaginative mind that let her see things easily. A daydreamer, is what Marethari called her. She had no problem imagining her friend seducing either one. Her mind rested on the image of Isabela and Hawke. Pretty.

For all that her companions thought she was naive and innocent, they truly got Merrill wrong. Merrill had no issues with imagining dirty things. Her imagination was very active. In Dalish camps, people simply didn't have the ability to hide her their nightly activities as well as the houses and walls in human cities allowed for. No, she didn't need help in that area at all. The only problem she had with dirty things was that she didn't understand the thousands of euphemisms humans had for the activities.

She forcefully broke her reverie and shook her head. Just too easily she could see how Fenris might actually find such a seduction inspiring. Isabela simply wasn't enough of a threat. Everyone knew she wasn't serious about relationships. Unfortunate.

No, the only course of action open to Merrill was to do it herself. Hawke was beautiful and intelligent, so it was not a huge sacrifice to make. Merrill felt absolutely nothing but disdain for their quasi-leader. She would be taking one for the team, certainly.

Merrill poured herself some tea with a smile. It would have a much wider impact on either of them if Merrill took it slow. She wouldn't just sleep with Hawke, she would fill her heart with distrust for the Tevinter slave. She would have to play with all her paranoia, all her fears. And he'd have to feel it, how Hawke trusted him less and less, every single day. Then the final betrayal.

She would definitely need to talk to Varric and Isabela to find out if they had any riveting literature that would help her cause. Not that she would tell them what she wanted such books for. They would think she was just lonely and needed inspiration. Little did they know.

Merrill hadn't felt this energized since their return from Sundermount. How sweet revenge would be.