Chapter 4
Beyond rebuilding her family's old home, there was little for Marcelle to during those first few weeks. On the days when she felt particularly daring, she would go out into the town and reacquaint herself with the villagers of Lothering. She found that most of them were new, having come to resettle the area with the King's blessing, but some of them were familiar faces. Old Barlin had welcomed her with a tight hug that had lifted her from her feet despite his advanced age. He had been surprised to see her, but had mentioned just how blessed Lothering was to have her back in its midst.
Old Barlin was kind to Marcelle. He knew that it was too early for her to have established a garden by which to feed herself, and he took it upon himself to make sure that she was fed every day. Whether Marcelle awoke to find a sack of stored grain resting in the furrow beside her door, or received an invitation to come to the tavern for dinner, there was not a day that Marcelle knew hunger. Barlin had also been kind enough to give her the supplies she'd needed to reconstruct her family's home, even going as far as to give her spare planks of wood that had been left over from the reconstruction of Dane's Refuge. "Take 'em with my blessing, girl," he'd said, patting her fondly on her shoulder as she'd staggered back to her home with her arms full of wood and tools under a frosty evening sky.
Hole by hole, the Hawke Family home slowly began to be repaired. Each repair signaled a new victory, and when there was nothing left to repair, each new victory came in the form of some piece of furniture or knickknack that Marcelle collected. Her first acquisition had been a new door, followed by a small bed and a pair of chairs. She did not want for money, having brought most of her personal wealth with her when she had fled Kirkwall, and so these purchases came easily (and discreetly). Food was easy to come by as well, since Barlin always kept something for her at Dane's Refuge.
She never ventured into town as far as the Chantry, always keeping to her father's rule that she was never to pass beyond the blacksmith's house. Any closer and she ran the risk of being spotted by Templars. While being seen was not necessarily a guarantee of capture, the Templars of Lothering were notorious for their interactions with the townsfolk. A talkative Templar and a skittish young apostate not fully in control of their magic was not the best combination. Malcolm had feared that his children, frightened by the presence of the men and women who could take them away, would inadvertently seek to defend themselves. Bethany had almost given the family away when she was thirteen by spontaneously bursting into flames in front of the family's house. She had been spooked by the sound of the blacksmith dropping some supplies he was carrying along the road, as the clang of metal against metal sounded like the clattering of fast-approaching armor. It had only been the timely intervention of Carver dumping the bucket of muddy farm water he was carrying over her that had hidden their secret.
While Marcelle was older and much more capable of controlling herself, there was some comfort in obeying her father's rules. They were familiar and reminded her of a better time. However, she did not let this rule stop her from leaving her home and mingling with the townsfolk in their taverns and along the streets. It was better that they considered her one of their own sooner rather than later. By slowly blending in, introducing herself to one person at a time, she was able to insinuate herself into the community. It was best that come the spring that the people of Lothering were comfortable with her presence. In the spring there would be no more snow to hide behind, and no chilly winds to drive people indoors. Everyone would be out wandering the town, the Templars included. If they noticed that the townsfolk were giving her strange looks, they would come to investigate, and Marcelle would have to leave.
As it was, the Templars spent most of their time in the Chantry or patrolling the streets during the afternoon. They were not often seen outside of the Chantry after sundown. However, on one cold evening Marcelle encountered them in Dane's Refuge. She was sitting in the corner of the tavern, poking at her thick, onion stew with a crust of day-old bread when two Templars entered. They paid no mind to the apostate slurping her soup at a lonely table in one of the dark corners of the establishment. They were too busy talking and commiserating about their fate. It was not hard to eavesdrop, nor was it difficult to guess their intent. By their long faces and the tangle of their legs under the table they sat at, it was apparent that they had come to get drunk.
"I hate Ferelden," one of them moaned into his mug. "It is cold. It is not like Antiva."
"I hate it too," moaned the other. She took a long drink from the pungent brown ale in her mug. "Smells like dog. Even the beer."
"And I thought people were joking when they said that. But it's true! Smells like wet dog. It sticks to your clothes, and Maker's mercy, your hair too. I haven't gotten it out of my tabard."
"Too true. I tried washing it in beet juice, but all I managed to do was stain the lining!"
"I thought you Orlesians used apple vinegar for all your cleaning purposes?"
"You try getting it from these barbarians."
Marcelle listened with mild disinterest to their conversation. They were typical foreigners: wet dog this, wet dog that, barbarians, barbarians, barbarians. While both of the Templars could do with some reminding that the Maker's Bride was Fereldan, Marcelle did not want to risk gaining their ire. She also didn't want to linger long in a public place while they were nearby, and so she quietly slipped her meal's worth of coins onto the worn table top. Delicious and hot as the soup had been, thick onions and spices were not worth a disturbance of the peace.
She made her way out into the cold night, picking her way along the cobblestones. She took extra care to not step into any of the slushy puddles of ice. Spring was only a few weeks away, but Ferelden's weather could be unpredictable. Though she expected warmer weather soon, there was no telling how long she would have to remain bundled underneath her cloak and its thick fur trim.
The thought of warming weather reminded her that she would need to gather materials for a new set of clothes. Her robes from Kirkwall were too ostentatious for a small village like Lothering, and she had only been able to get away with wearing them because she kept herself bundled beneath her practical cloak. The Warden Commander had chosen a very tasteful cloak for her, guessing that she would need simplicity and practicality over glamour and style wherever it was that she was going. Marcelle had not fully appreciated the gift when she'd first received it, but now she was thankful more than ever.
Between the moonlight and the crunching snow below her feet, Marcelle mused what her former companions would think of her if they saw her now. She had gone from Marcelle Hawke, Fereldan refugee, to Marcelle Hawke Scion of the Amell Family, to Marcelle Hawke the Champion. Now she was only Marcelle Hawke, apostate mage. Her deeds carried no weight in Ferelden, and held just as much in the Templar-controlled Kirkwall. Though she had done much for Kirkwall, that was not enough to guarantee her safety within its walls. The Templars knew she was a mage, and with Knight-Commander Meredith's death, the grace she had allowed Marcelle to live under had disappeared. Her freedom was no longer a convenient amusement or a necessary evil, it was now optional. She was a mage, and they would come for her.
Marcelle accepted this. While she enjoyed freedom, she did not need it. She had not asked for titles or power; she had acted as she had because of her family. That family was now gone – either by death or by duty. The titles and the rewards that came with it were hollow. Marcelle had to live for herself, not for other people, and after having spent the better part of a decade doing the latter, the former was quite difficult. Truth be told, she was not completely predisposed against a life in the Circle. The Circle offered a life of study, control, and containment, which did not disgust her as much as it did Anders. Life in the Circle was comparatively easier than maintaining an estate or running a city, which held some appeal to the world weary Champion.
If the Circle had been an option for her, she gladly would have agreed to go.
But the Circle was not an option any longer. If Marcelle had understood the young Templar who had come to warn her to leave the city correctly, the Circle was no longer an option for any mage. It seemed that Mother Petrice's tree had borne fruit – but of a different kind. The Templars had learned something from the Qunari about the handling of mages. As the Qunari killed their mages for being outside of their guardians' care, so too would the Templar Order. There were no second chances, no opportunities to explain, no possibilities of infecting other mages with stories of the outside world and the wonders of living… there was only death. The Templars would not stop until they had found every mage in Thedas and slaughtered them. And those that they did not slaughter, those mages who had held steadfast, they would break. Their lips may not have been sewn, they may not have been forced to wear blinders or heavy crowns that bowed their heads, but they would have been broken. All mages would be laid to rest along the sea of Tranquility, whether in this life or the next.
Such unnecessary cruelty caused a well of anxiety to form in the pit of her stomach. Mages did not have to walk free – but they had the right to live. It was true that there was no redemption for mages who had turned to demons for aid – they were too spiritually injured to save. Yet, there were many mages who were innocent of any wrongdoings who would suffer as a result of the actions of the few. The extremists had condemned them all, and therein was the injustice.
The anxiety quickly manifested itself into a physical pain in her chest when a terrible thought crossed her mind: Sebastian would be among the first to answer the Templars' call to arms. She was at her door when she sagged against it and put a hand to her heart. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. How many mages, she wondered, would Sebastian take his vengeance upon? She swallowed icy air to calm herself, and with a shaking hand let herself inside. The howl of a lone wolf followed her indoors and would not leave until she had lit a fire and slipped into her nightgown.
As she settled herself into bed that night, it occurred to her that Sebastian could probably drown himself in the blood of mages and not feel sated. She had seen that look in his eyes before, that deep and hunted stare. She'd seen it when he had first posted his bounty on the Chantry's board, and then later when he had looked at Anders. Death was justice; it was the ultimate justice. For all his goodness, Sebastian was still a mortal man with all of man's worst flaws. He might deny himself a woman's love, but in his vengeance he might not deny himself a woman's life.
It was with all her heart that she deeply desired the opposite. She wanted Sebastian to know peace, to know love, and to let go of his hatred. She had cursed herself for indulging his revenge by killing the Flint Mercenary Company because she knew it had set a precedent for him. Yet, if she had not killed them she would never have come to know him. If Sebastian had not posted his bounty, she would never have known he existed.
She teased these riddles out in her mind as she slowly succumbed to sleep. Loose ends hung around her, waiting for the first opportunistic spirit to find her and take advantage of her confusion and vulnerability.
And so one did.
There was another desire demon in the Fade, and it was waiting for her as she passed through the Veil. It was wearing Sebastian's handsome face and his clothes, but it was also wearing a crown. He was the Prince of Starkhaven, and in this dream he had come to welcome his wife.
Marcelle had shamefully concocted the dream when the Grand Cleric had confirmed Sebastian's identity as being the last of the Vael ruling family. She had lain in bed that night and indulged herself in a fantasy about a man who by all accounts did not want the burden of power. In her head, she had dressed him in silks and crowned him with gold. She had swaddled him in kingly glory and though she had defamed his moral character by doing so, in her eyes, he was no less diminished.
It occurred to her, as Sebastian took her face between his hands and smiled at her lovingly, that she had probably done him a great many disservices. He would likely be horrified if he knew that the demons that were perpetually on her trail were using his face to taunt and torment her… or, given the new man he had become, he probably would have thought it fitting that her gift also be her curse.
"Welcome home, wife," Sebastian said, placing a gentle kiss on her lips. His blue eyes fluttered shut and he let out a small puff of air in pleasure that fanned across her features. "I have missed you so."
"And I have missed you also, husband," she replied automatically, looking for the strength to pull away from the touch that she had so longed for. "There was only rain in Kirkwall." His long fingered hands on either side of her cheeks were hard and warm, and smelt of polish and resin.
"There is rain in Starkhaven too," he chuckled, lifting his eyes to the ceiling above them where the sound of rain on the roof was echoing. A thunderclap shook the walls around them and upon hearing it Sebastian gathered Marcelle into his arms. "The Maker is sure to bless us with a green and verdant spring this year."
"It will be good for the people." Marcelle flashed him a smile, following the script of this dream as easily as she would a well traveled path.
"Aye," he placed a gentle kiss to her temple, "and good for us too."
Marcelle closed her eyes and sank into Sebastian's warm embrace. Her arms encircled his waist and she rested her cheek against his shoulder, rubbing it against the warm, red fabric of his shirt. She trembled in his arms, her body shaking of its own volition as it demanded that the dream moved forward. Her teeth chattered and her knees shook. Marcelle suddenly found herself soaked with rain, the fabric of her robes and cloak sticking to her skin possessively. A lock of wet hair fell over one eye as she pulled back to look at Sebastian, and he was quick to smooth it out of her face and behind one of her ears.
"Come," he whispered in her ear, "let us get you out of your wet things and into something drier. I would not wish for my wife to be sick…"
She only nodded, watching the desire demon with half-parted lips. They knew everything about this man by now. They had to. She touched the backs of her fingers to his cheek, and he captured her hand in his and kissed each of her knuckles gently. His tongue darted out to tease at the spaces between her fingers, which caused her breath to hitch in surprise. She closed her eyes and sighed as he blew over the places his tongue had been. Her cold fingers were burning as they heated, matching the temperature of the blood that skipped and danced below the surface of her skin.
"My poor wife…" Sebastian murmured against her wind bitten hands. "Let me soothe you."
Marcelle's world quickly flipped upside down. She did not know who instigated the kiss, but she found herself pressed up against the wall next to the fireplace. The heat of the fire licked at her ankles as Sebastian dropped a hand to her hip and began to bunch the fabric up to her waist. His other hand tangled in her wet hair, gripping and pulling as his lips moved over hers. His tongue snaked out between her lips, plundering her mouth with wicked and sinful intent before he dragged it down her chin and along her neck to kiss at the sensitive skin there. He worried and sucked at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, leaving red welts where his lips had been.
"Is this," she whispered breathlessly, unable to quiet the noise of half-pain, half-pleasure she made when she felt his teeth scrape a bruise, "a traditional Starkhaven welcome?"
"It soon will be," he whispered, rubbing his nose just below her jaw and inhaling deeply, "if I ever let you leave my side again. Maker's mercy, these months have been torture…" Having dragged her robes up high enough, he slipped his hand below their hem to ghost along the skin of her thigh. He gripped her leg firmly, lifting it up so that it wrapped around his waist. "I have missed you so much, my love. To spend a night without you is agony."
"Next time," she reached a hand up to grasp at her face and pull him away from his caresses, "I will bring you with me."
Sebastian spent several long minutes kissing her in response. His lips moved up and down her face, planting kisses along her cheeks, chin, and forehead before narrowing his focus down onto her red and puffy lips. He soothed the swelling blossom of her lower lip by tracing the edge of it with his tongue and slowly drawing it into his own mouth. He sucked on it gently before releasing her, and grinned when he tugged a low moan out of her mouth. His fingertips dug into the sensitive flesh of her thigh. "Oh, Marcelle…I must have you. My blood is burning within me, and it is a fire that I have never known before. Let me show you."
Marcelle could only gasp out something intelligible as he ground his hips against hers, lifting her so that she could feel the full extent of his arousal.
"Let me show you," he repeated, grinding his hips between hers, "how much you mean to me. Let me," he grunted as he gave a particularly hard snap of his body against hers, "share everything I own with you. My kingdom, my heart, my body… all the gifts of paupers. Not," his head rolled backward, "what you really deserve."
"No," she protested. "All I ever wanted was you…" She wrapped her arms around his neck for balance as he rocked against her. The hand in her hair abandoned it for the wall, and the hand that had been on her thigh was now resting against the swell of her bottom. Its fingers were toying with the edge of her smalls, teasing first one finger beneath the fabric, and then another. She opened to him like a dew-laden flower in the sunlight and buried her face in his neck as he curled a finger and sank knuckle-deep into her.
"Wife," he rasped, dipping a second finger in, "you are more than ready for me. Oh, Maker…I will spend myself here if I do not have you. Let me take you to bed," he withdrew his fingers and then slipped them in once more, "where I can love you properly."
Coherent thought was rapidly pushing itself out of Marcelle's head, and she was finding it hard to follow the pathway of the fantasy she had created. She could recall only the barest of fragments about it, of how Sebastian had made love to her in their bed as the rain clattered above them and thunder rolled in the distance. She would cradle his hips with her thighs, feeling him split and spread her up to the very end of her limits. An image of him hovering above her, smiling with his eyes closed as he spent himself inside her, came to mind. In both her real bed in Kirkwall and in the dream bed in Starkhaven, she had clenched her thighs together to keep his issue from escaping. Starkhaven was green and fertile with the spring rain, and so was she. She would grow round with his child, and he would worship her and the growing life in her belly. He would be all hands and lips, doting and considerate to her swollen body's needs. He would sing chants to of the Maker's love to their child, and make promises that only fathers could, of how he would protect her from harm, and how he would show their child how to be truthful and kind and good.
Thoughts of the future vanished as Sebastian's fingers curled against something that made her writhe, buck, and cry out. Dragged into the present, she dug startled fingertips into his shirt as her head knocked back roughly against the wall. She inhaled deeply and tried to regain her composure. It was very difficult to think with Sebastian stroking her in such intimate places and watching her reactions with such an intense gaze. His fingers moved each time he saw a new emotion flick across her features and his blue eye were almost black in the firelight with his wicked intent. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, chest heaving in an onslaught of lust and resolve.
The fantasy was a lie. Sebastian would never touch her so; and he would be disgusted to know that she had brought herself to her shatterpoint thinking of him. She clung to his disgust, to the pity he would feel about her poor, misguided heart's attempts to find love, in order to keep herself grounded and fuel her resistance. The thought of his scornful gaze resting upon her naked flesh was enough to fuel the gentle slithering of her hands up to his neck. The thought of him pushing her away, repulsed by how easily she had been lured into the allure of a title and kingdom, was enough to give strength to her fingers.
She squeezed his neck with all her might, capturing the tanned and muscled column with a loud grunt of effort.
Sebastian flailed and bucked against her, the fingers that were inside her finding their way up her body to grip her own throat in an iron vice.
"Why do you fight me, wife?" he croaked hoarsely, slick fingers white with the force of their grip.
Marcelle could make no sound to respond, could not even breathe if she wanted to. But when words failed her, as they so often did, she had other means to communicate her intent. She sent a pulse of spirit energy through her hands and Sebastian flew away from her. He hit the wall on the opposite side of the room and broke through it. The rain outside was nothing more than an illusion, merely a sound effect, for the hole revealed only the weird and twisted landscape of the Fade. Shaking her head to clear herself of the desire demon's influence and straightening her skirts, Marcelle rose from the crouch she had sank into just in time to see the desire demon step through the rubble of the wall.
"You shame him," Marcelle growled at the demon, "with your mockery!"
The desire demon laughed and ran a long hand down over her stomach. "The Sebastian Vael I know of never fought against the temptation of a woman's touch."
"You do not know him." Marcelle put her hands together and conjured a ball of blue energy, the fade leaking and bleeding around her as she did so, "And I will never give you the chance to."
"Oh," the demon crooned, "is that so? Come then, little mage, and fight me. Know that I will greatly enjoy walking the world in your skin and driving men to sin and temptation with your face."
The ball of energy in Marcelle's hands shattered into a tiny, thousand beads of energy as she released it towards the demon. The desire demon spun and ducked, but found herself unable to avoid each of the tiny orbs. She screamed and hissed as the energy seared flesh from her limbs and scarred her hauntingly beautiful face. The pieces of magic that missed her dispersed upon meeting the wilderness of the Fade outside, fizzling out of existence with a firefly's wink.
Marcelle had launched two more of the orbs at the desire demon in the time it took for the demon to regain her composure and fury. A shower of fire fell down around Marcelle's head, but she raised one arm and created a shield of thick ice to protect her from the heat. The desire demon pelted her with molten rock and sprays of fire, trying to break past the sheets of ice that Marcelle had conjured. She was so engrossed in her fiery onslaught that she was unaware of the sudden flash of brilliant, white light behind her.
"I will wear your face, little mage!" the desire demon taunted, raising a clawed hand high above her head to pluck the fire out of a star. "And I will - "
Faith's sword burst from the front of the desire's demon chest, cutting her off mid-speech. She howled and clawed at the blade, nails scrabbling against the white hot metal that was hissing and smoking inside of her.
"You will die," Marcelle finished. She stretched her hands forward and a barrage of white sparks erupted from her fingertips. The cold air of the magic's release whipped and whistled around her hands, rubbing her knuckles raw, but the magic flew straight and true. The desire demon shattered, pulled apart by the magnetic force of the magic.
Marcelle ran a shaking hand over her face while the other gingerly inspected the red marks on her neck. Faith was watching her curiously and extended a hand towards her, the tips of his gauntlet glowing blue with healing energy. He seemed to frown when she waved it away with an excuse of, "I will be fine."
"As you say," Faith acknowledged with a tip of his head. Wearing a helmet, Faith's moods were hard to decipher and though he had acknowledged Marcelle's words, the air around him suggested uncertainty. "I will be here to help you," he said at long length, eying Marcelle's disheveled appearance up and down, "anyway that you need." Faith slipped his sword into its scabbard and crossed towards her.
"Faith," Marcelle replied helplessly, holding out her hands to him in a gesture of despair. "Are you disappointed in me for being weak?"
"You are not weak, fledgling," Faith replied. "No, never weak. If you were weak, we would not be having this discussion, for you would have been consumed by the demon's lust. You acknowledge your flaws, you are confident that your strengths can overcome them, and you have faith that your flaws are improvable. I would call you stronger than most. "
Marcelle pursed her lips at his assessment. "Thank you, Faith. But, I just wish," she said taking a deep breath, "they would stop using him; using his face. Why do they not come as my mother? Why not my brother or my father? Surely, Bethany means as much to me as Sebastian does. Why does it always have to be him?"
"Desire demons are attracted to those who want what they cannot have." Faith could only offer her the words she did not want to hear, "You want something that your friend will not give to you, nor can you give to him. Yet, he is a part of you, and always will be. You must come to terms with this, or it will consume you."
"It is not for my sake," Marcelle ran her hands through her still wet hair, "I am happy to be consumed. I simply cannot bear the thought of Sebastian being perverted in such a way by these… foul creatures. He deserves better. He should not suffer such gross indignities. "
Faith placed a firm hand on her shoulder, his touch crackling against Marcelle's wet robes. "Then use that to defeat them, fledgling."
Marcelle wished it was that easy, and after two more nights of being nearly seduced by demons wearing Sebastian's face, she made up her mind. With the help of the herbs growing in a small planter on her window, she did not return to the Fade again for some time.
We'll be meeting the Prince of Starkhaven soon enough! Very exciting.
Thank you to all of you who have been reading, reviewing, and alerting! M'always aiming to please! :)