She woke up early that morning to sounds of laughter coming from downstairs. An odd sound, and what a strange time for a visitor she thought as she stretched, kicking the covers from her body with her legs. Who could her mother be entertaining that was rude enough to make such noises?
But that smell...oh that smell she hadn't enjoyed in quite some time. The scent of freshly baked bread and cheese teased her senses and encouraged her to leave the comforts of her room. Carelessly wrapping a robe around her, she slowly descended the stairs and stumbled into the kitchen, eyes barely opened in the bright morning light.
"Good morning sleepy head," Leandra smiled, kissing Hawke on her forehead as she hummed through the kitchen.
Hawke nodded her greeting in return, brain and mouth not quite connected yet into consciousness. She walked to the table by memory instead of sight, wiping the sleep away from her heavy lids.
"Morning sunshine," another kiss planted on the top of her head, this time from Malcolm as he gently rubbed her back. "Someone isn't awake yet," he smiled towards his wife, a grin on both their lips.
"Too...noisy...so early," Hawke protested his mocking of her, setting her elbows on the table and holding her head. Warmth from the kitchen stove enveloped her, and for a moment she relaxed under its soothing blaze.
A sharp realization plunged into her head, and Hawke stood abruptly, her chair falling backwards and hitting the floor with a loud thud. Both of her parents turned to look at her, Malcolm's hand on the small of Leandra's back. "Are you alright?" Leandra asked, concern filling her green eyes.
But Hawke wasn't looking at her. She stared in horror at the man in the kitchen that resembled her father. Her dead father. He seemed concerned for her wellbeing as much as Leandra, taking a step towards her with an outstretched hand. "Marian?"
"Don't touch me!" she yelled, pressing her back into the wall behind her trying to remain out of reach of his grasp. Whoever this man, whatever this man was, could not be her father. He was gone, years ago. She had watched him die, knelt beside his lifeless corpse, begging for it not to be so. That image would not break from her mind as he stopped moving, clearly aware that his actions were causing her to panic.
Leandra gently patted his shoulder before moving in between them, kneeling to her daughter who had slowly slumped down the supporting wall. "Marian," she whispered, in that gentle motherly tone. "What is it?"
Hawke opened her mouth and tried to tell her mother. That man is not Father! She wanted to scream it as loud as she could, but the words would not form on her lips. Instead, a mumbled incoherent mix of vowels and consonants emerged. Her frustration continued to build as she continued to communicate the horror in front of her, but it was useless. "I don't...know...why..." she trailed off, about to say something that referred to her father not being real and felt that the words would not come.
Leandra looked over her shoulder at Malcolm who shrugged. "Maybe she's come down with something," he suggested to his wife.
"Send for the healer," Leandra stated as she turned her attention back to Hawke. "Let's get you back to bed, alright?"
Hawke nodded, ignoring the tears that threatened to fall at any moment. With her "father" no longer in the kitchen, her fear subsided a bit, enough to be escorted back up the stairs and into her room. Perhaps shock and disbelief were settling over her, as she made no further attempt to warn her mother of the imposter. Instead she dutifully got into bed and allowed her mother to wrap the covers around her.
Leandra sat on the edge of the bed, bringing a hand to Hawke's forehead. "You feel fine to me; a little warm but not feverish." As she rubbed her daughter's arm in an attempt to make her feel better, she noticed the quick pulse beneath her skin. "Maker's breath Marian!" she exclaimed feeling her wrist. "What has you in such a state?"
One more attempt she made to tell her mother; one more failed attempt. "Maybe you're right," Hawke finally conceded. "Maybe there is something wrong with me."
Leandra patted her leg over the covers. "Your friend Anders should be here shortly," she assured her. "He'll fix you right up."
Hawke nodded and her mother left her alone, disappearing through the open door and down the stairs to return to fake Malcolm. Her warrior sense told her to grab her weapons and run a sword through the man. But just the thought of doing violence to him made her queasy, perhaps another side effect of whatever spell she was under.
That was it! Bolting up from under the covers she came to the realization that this must be some kind of spell. Blood magic most likely. Why send for Anders at all? Malcolm Hawke was a mage, surely he could find something wrong with his own daughter. Whatever was at work here, she had to figure out a way to communicate to Anders what was happening.
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When Anders entered her room later that morning, she was clutching some sort of toy and crying softly to herself. She spent the time alone prior to his arrival considering every option she could think of, all resulting in failure. Frustration had taken hold of her again. There was no way to warn them, to tell them, to plead with them. No way to help release her from this nightmare.
Her parents had briefly filled Anders in on what had happened, but to see her now only added to his concern. He placed his bag of vials and herbs on her desk and then swiftly moved towards her bed. Hawke looked up at him, cheeks stained and eyes red. He brushed the hair away from her face that had become damp in her own tears and gently tucked it behind her ears. He had never seen her in this condition, even after she had lost her brother in the Deep Roads. It was alarming and also frightening.
"Talk to me," Anders whispered to her. "What has happened?"
She smiled an exhausted grin and her voice quivered. "I'm going mad," she told him with a laugh, followed by more tears.
"No," he assured her, wrapping his arms around her tightly as she cried. "The insane can never admit it."
After a few moments she pulled away. "That's just it," Hawke told him, desperation in her tone. "I can't admit it. I can't say the truth of what is wrong! If I try, I mesh brak grnsorn frauk..." she gave up the effort as she heard the useless babbling once more.
He tilted his head as he studied her. "Well that's odd," Anders said with slight confusion. "Let me take a look at you."
Hawke immediately relaxed under the sensation of his magic pouring through her body. Feeling him explore her insides in such a way always calmed her somehow. She had never felt this when her father used magic on her, or her sister, so she assumed Anders did a little something extra whenever it came to her. She wasn't complaining; the warmth of his touch was welcomed after the last hour of panic and fear she had endured.
Anders could find nothing wrong with her. He searched endlessly through the now familiar make-up that was his friend and found no damage, no flaw, no spell nor demon. Her heart was racing at an alarming speed, which was to be expected after what her parents had told him, so he did his best to calm that from within before she damaged herself. But other than that, she was as healthy as she should be.
"I'm sorry Marian," he said, almost sounding ashamed that he didn't have a better answer for her. "I could find nothing."
Hawke fell back into her pillow, searching the ceiling for answers. There was no logical reason why she couldn't tell anyone that her father wasn't real except for some heinous act of someone or some thing. "I can tell you it's bright outside," she began speaking nonsense just to make sure she could. "I can tell you when I was four I stepped on a tadpole in a pond and killed it; cried all night in my father's arms." She turned her head to look at him. "When I was nine I locked the twins in a closet because I was tired of having them around. I got scolded for that one. I can go on and on if you wish, until I think about the one thing I have to say and then..." she stopped trying, knowing it wouldn't work.
Anders sighed, anger in his inability to help her washing over him. "Just because I can find nothing wrong does not mean I don't believe you," he assured her, holding her hand supportively. "We'll just have to find a way around it." He thought for a moment and then stood to retrieve his bag. When he did, he noticed her journal on her desk. "Hawke?" He turned to look at her, holding the book in his hands. "Maybe you can write it?"
Her face lit up at the brilliant idea and she sprung from the bed, kissing him hard on the lips as she took her journal from him. "You are a genius!" she exclaimed with excitement as she reached around him for her ink.
Anders enjoyed her improved hopeful attitude, almost as much as he delighted in the unexpected reward he had received. Oh how he had wanted her, but never dared to pursue it. Perhaps now...
The book hitting the wall answered that question. She covered her face once more, fighting back the desire to throw herself out the nearest window in frustration. What was holding her back? Who was doing this to her? Why would they torture her like this? She had spent years struggling with the grief and pain of losing her father. What sick being would want to punish her?
The list was long in her mind as she mentally ran through all those she had angered or disappointed over the last five years. No way they could go through all of them, could they? She looked upon Anders once more, who was keeping his distance now. "Out of all our experiences together, who would want revenge the most?"
"I'm not certain," Anders replied. "But it is clear to me I am no help to you alone. Let me get your father and perhaps the two of us can figure it out."
Hawke's eyes widened at his suggestion, and it was suddenly very clear to her. This facade went beyond her. She hadn't realized this before, the way her mother was interacting with her father. But to have Anders acknowledge the man's existence, as if Malcolm had always been a part of their lives, meant that everyone around her was influenced as well.
It was that thought alone that had her pulling back from Anders when he approached her. They were all in on it, all of them. She was to believe that she had never lost her father and that he was still in her life. She could make no sound to tell anyone, show no proof that he were not real, and could not even act on the thoughts of harming him.
One thing she could do though. Quickly she got out of bed and began to change her clothes, ignoring the fact that Anders stood only a few feet away. Shocked at her sudden nudity, Anders remained thankfully quiet and made no advances to stop her. Stepping into her boots without bothering to lace them, and then taking her sword from its stand, Hawke rushed down the stairs and out of the estate, ignoring the calls of her name behind her.
She may not be able to tell anyone, but she was not going to remain in that house a minute longer.