It was sheer luck, it was. That she happened to pass by at that exact moment.

Merrill had lost all of her money at Wicked Grace and it wasn't much fun to watch and not play, not when Anders shot her a dirty look every time she commented on his cards over his shoulder and Hawke suggested she get drinks for the rest of them every few minutes, right when she was starting to tell a particularly interesting story.

So she left the Hanged Man and left the others at their game, with Varric insisting after her that she shouldn't walk in Lowtown alone at night — but she had no money for anyone to steal and besides, she could take care of herself.

Anyway, there she was, walking through the market late at night, and there he was - Fenris, fighting a whole gang of bandits on his own.

She should have jumped in to help. But she didn't. Not right away, at least. She watched.

He would only yell at her for getting in his way, you see. He was never very happy to see her. Really, he was never very happy at all and to be honest he was a bit scary, Fenris. He was always angry. His anger radiated from him in waves - if she could see auras like some of her clan he would be a pulsing purpley-red color that gave you a headache to look at.

But he could fight wonderfully and it was sort of beautiful to watch, to the extent that screaming bloody death could be beautiful. He was like a dancer. So controlled, so graceful. When he whirled around with that gleaming sword these lovely little bursts of blood shot out around him like raindrops and those bandits, so clumsy in comparison, were cut down like grain beneath a scythe.

Soon there was just one robber left and he looked about ready to turn around and run, demonstrating that he wasn't a complete idiot and might actually live through the night after all.

That was when the odd thing happened. Before the one sensible man could run for his life, Fenris dropped his sword.

It wasn't a fumble or a slip. He simply opened his hand and let it fall.

And although she was certainly too far away to see it, Merrill could swear she saw him close his eyes.

Stupid, stupid Merrill. She should have moved in right then.

But she was just too surprised and the bandit must have been pretty surprised too, but he recovered before Merrill did. The cutpurse rushed over to Fenris and in one brutal motion slit his throat from ear to ear.

A red curtain fell below his chin and Fenris dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

(Where did that expression come from - a sack of potatoes? Did someone drop a great many sacks of things to see which of them would fall faster? Or maybe it was the one that hit the ground with the most satisfying effect? Why not a sack of iron fillings instead? Who decides?)

Merrill was wondering for a moment if she was in the Fade, or had drunk a lot more than she had thought she did, or if this was some sort of trick – it just didn't seem like something real. She stared open-mouthed at the dark-haired scruffy human, crouching down to go through the fallen elf's pouches for whatever spoils he could find. The sight of it finally shook Merrill into action. She raised her staff and called loudly upon her magic, and blasted the bandit with a wave of prickly vines that pulled him off and pinned him to the wall.l

"Varric! Someone! Help!" she screamed as loud as she could.

She fell to her knees beside Fenris and his wide, staring eyes and the horrible choking sound he was making as his life bled away.

With no time to think Merrill did something Fenris would find unforgivable if he survived this - she used his blood. In a manner of speaking, that is.

Her magic was fueled by blood, normally only hers. But here was rather a lot of it, spurting like a fountain out from under his chin to the rhythm of his sputtering heartbeat, and if something wasn't done he would perish in only seconds.

So she spoke to the blood already spilled, and used it to speak to the blood still pouring from his wound. Blood, cease your flow. Thicken. Hold.

It would only work for a minute, but a minute was enough, as it turned out.

She heard Varric coming up behind her - must he always follow her home? - and Anders too. The healer stood over Fenris prone on the ground and called on his magic, and the open gash across the fallen elf's throat knit together smoothly, leaving only a thin, blood-encrusted scar.

"That's all I can do here," Anders told them. "But he's in awful shape. We'll have to get him to my clinic, if he lasts that long."

The boys hefted the elf between them and Merrill ran alongside, wringing her hands fretfully.

Everyone else had abandoned the game of Wicked Grace, when Varric and Anders had followed her out and not returned, and heard the commotion in the market. Some of them raced to the clinic and some of them surrounded her with a rush of comraderie. Aveline said that she had saved Fenris's life and got to work cutting down the cutthroat she had tied to the wall. Isabela slapped her on the back and said well done.

Merrill couldn't seem to get anyone to understand that the trouble wasn't over yet, not at all.

She was pretty sure that Fenris had just tried to kill himself.