Summer mellowed into autumn and before long, the frost began to etch patterns across the high arched windows of the Amell estate. Marian had given up her mourning clothes but the change in season mirrored her mood and it seemed that the world had suddenly become a dank cell, a place where one had to rub one's hands together for warmth and only a few wan shafts of light pierced the gloom. State affairs and preparations for the wedding kept her busy and prevented her from sinking into the melancholy, but there were times when she wondered if it was all just so much frantic scurrying, a way to pretend that she hadn't become numb to almost everything around her.
Marian could still appreciate the beauty and comfort of her manor, but when she spoke, the halls seemed to echo around her and each room was haunted by its own ghost. In her mother's chamber, Leandra waited with a vase full of wilted lilies. In the guestrooms, Bethany shuddered as the darkspawn corruption coursed through her veins and Carver lay belly-up in the dust, gaping up at a cloudless, yellow sky. In the study, she was reminded of her father on his deathbed, seizing her arm with his crabbed hand and making her swear that she would do her duty by them, a promise broken. Marian never lacked for vintage wine or fine meals, such good things, but when she and Saemus sat down to supper, she barely tasted what she chewed and had to remind herself to swallow. Of course, it was better to be rich and grief-stricken than to mourn in poverty. There were other Fereldans who'd suffered much worse, who'd lost everyone they held dear and had to eke out a living in Darktown.
For the most part, her friends were kind and Saemus was supportive, but sometimes Marian felt they were prodding her to forget her grief too quickly and it seemed as if they all needed something. Isabella wanted to drag her out drinking and carousing. Varric kept pumping her for raw material for his stories, whereas Anders would never shut up about his precious mage underground and grew angry when she wouldn't sympathize with their plight. Merrill kept hinting that she needed help with her mirror and Aveline needed someone to intervene on behalf of the guards before the Seneschal cut her funding. Helping with their requests had never bothered her before and often, she'd enjoyed being known as a friend one could depend on, but recently, she'd experienced a twinge of bitterness with every new burden placed upon her shoulders. It was hard to keep giving of her time, her emotions, her energy when she felt so tired and so damnably empty and yet the demands kept coming, buckets clattering against the bottom of a dry well.
Managing Saemus was another matter. He was still earnest, kind-hearted and generous, compassionate almost to a fault, but since their engagement, she'd had glimpses of another side of him, a rebellious, overgrown boy who could be petulant, oversensitive and prone to mood swings that often left her head spinning. Sometimes it seemed that he was less in need of a wife than a mother and he thought nothing of throwing her into the middle of his endless bickering with his father.
It was a family she'd wanted and the Dumars had certainly fulfilled that end of the bargain. She'd worried that the Viscount wouldn't approve of her, but he welcomed her into the household with open arms and while the sense of family was an incredible comfort, it was, at times, positively smothering. It was evident to her that father and son loved one another, but their every interaction was fraught with unspoken hurts and disappointed expectations. They didn't even have to speak to wound one another. The Viscount would simply cast a weary look in Saemus' direction and she'd see Saemus cringe, pained by the awareness that he was somehow inadequate.
Listening to them talk to one another was worse, the emotional equivalent of watching two people rip off one another's scabs. Having allowed her into their lives, they seemed to think it only right that she should play a role in the delightful family dysfunction. When Saemus wasn't railing against the Viscount's staidness and complacency, her future father-in-law was exhorting her to control his son's childish excesses. This was much easier said than done since Saemus was very good at shutting out anything he didn't want to hear or just flitting off, to Maker-knows-where to do Andraste-knew-what. Perhaps what bothered her most about this was that his evasiveness and irresponsibility made her resort to nagging and she caught herself borrowing tactics that her mother had once used on her. There were times when she really didn't like the person she became with him.
Saemus had just completed his daily argument with his father and was about to storm out of the palatial family quarters for the third time that week when she stopped him at the door.
He gave her a perfunctory kiss, completely failing to meet her eyes, and tried to dodge passed her.
"Where are you going?" she demanded, barring his path.
"I'm going out for a little while. I'll...be back soon. Darling." He appended the last word as a guilty afterthought.
When he was about to do something silly and impulsive, Saemus became absurdly sentimental with her, behaving as if he actually believed the performance they were putting on of being in love. They'd put on many public displays of affection since the engagement had become official – pet names, hand-holding, goofy smiles and kisses, spoon-feeding each other cake on Feast Day. At first, Marian had found it funny, their secret prank on Kirkwall society, but the game wore thin when he tried to recycle the same lies in their private conversations.
"I'll glad you won't be away for long, dearest" – she put an ironic emphasis on the term of endearment – "However, I would like to know where I can find you." She suspected that he'd avoided the question because she would not like the answer.
"Marian, truly, you needn't be concerned. I'm perfectly capable of managing myself and besides, I believe we agreed that it was healthy for us to maintain individual interests..."
"When we made this arrangement, we also agreed that we'd be honest with each other," she said. "I just want to know that you aren't going to the Docks."
When she said the Docks, she meant the Qunari Compound. He'd visited the place twice since their engagement and it did nothing to help the Viscount's peace of mind or increase the city's confidence in Dumar rule. Besides, it made Marian antsy. Saemus idealized the Qunari, but they were dangerous and becoming increasingly desperate in Kirkwall. It wouldn't take much for the situation with them to boil over and if they had the Viscount's heir conveniently within reach, they might take him as a hostage – or worse. The Arishok would think nothing of decapitating some earnest, well-meaning boy if it furthered the Qun and indeed, he'd expect a good follower of the path to gladly submit to the chopping block if that were deemed his assigned 'role'.
Saemus frowned. "You're beginning to sound like my father."
"We both care about you. I don't want to see you hurt. You know that diplomacy with the Arishok isn't going well..."
"Perhaps it isn't going well because we refuse to take the time to listen to what the Qunari have to say."
"I've listened. I've studied their books. I've worked for months on learning the language. And personally, I'm getting mighty weary of the demands of the Qun and the Arishok's personal brand of stupid."
Saemus shot her a look of annoyance. "Persistent, yes. Hardly stupid."
"The last time I was at the Compound, he had a tantrum because he isn't enjoying his vacation in Kirkwall," she said. "There's nothing more disheartening than watching an eight-foot-tall behemoth throw a pissy little fit that would have shamed a two-year-old child. If you'd seen it, it might have shattered a few of your notions about the wonderful nobility of the Qunari."
"He has cause to be angry. Look at how his people are treated, confronted with prejudice and suspicion on all sides..."
She sighed. "Saemus, I know you find them intriguing, but surely there are other places to spend your private time. I have no objection to you going over to the Blooming Rose and finding someone appropriately tall, chiselled and muscular. Why, you can paste horns to his head if you like. I don't begrudge you your fun. But please stay away from the Docks."
"It's insulting that you'd reduce my sympathy for the Qunari to some kind of...fetish. It's a great deal more than that and you know it."
"You're right. It's also a delightful way to provoke your father."
That last remark made his blue eyes spark with anger. "You know nothing of me and my father. And while we're discussing each other's peccadilloes, I could bring up the topic of your 'lessons' with the elf. It's hardly the sort of discretion I asked from you."
"I'm teaching him to read."
"Can't you simply get him a tutor?"
The possibility had never even occurred to her, although she could certainly afford it. She enjoyed teaching Fenris too much, taking pleasure in seeing him master new words and successively more advanced books. "He wouldn't accept that. It'd embarrass him."
"Well, since we're being honest with one another, frankly, your behaviour with him embarrasses me."
"We aren't even having sex, Saemus." She knew better to think he was jealous. It was his pride that vexed him. He might like Qunari horns, but he didn't want anyone thinking that his prospective wife had given him any, even if their marriage was a sham.
"The way you look at each other is about as near as you can get to it with your clothes still on. And you do it publicly. It'd probably be a sight better if you two went off to rut in some corner and just got it out your systems. It would certainly be more subtle."
She shook her head, turning away from him. "You knew I came with a certain history going into this."
"Yes. And you realized the same with me. So you can keep your lessons with elves, but I reserve the right to spend time at the Compound. We each get to indulge our little whims."
"I just...want you to be safe."
He bent forward, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'm grateful for the concern, but you need to trust in me. I don't need rescuing."
"I remember that all too well," she forced a smile despite her misgivings. Even when they fought, he was still her friend, one of the nearest and dearest she could lay claim to these days. "I suppose it's in my nature to feel...protective." She paused, taking a deep breath. "You know, even if the Qunari aren't a threat to the city, they aren't going to stay forever. One day, they will have to return to Par Vollen."
"I know," he said sadly. "I dread that day. I fear it will come...too soon. There is still so much to learn about them."
He put on a smile to match the faltering one she wore for him and gave her hand a soft squeeze. "If I'm not back tonight, don't stay up. And don't fret. I shall see you tomorrow."
When Saemus walked out the door, she considered tailing him, just to keep an eye out, but she knew that it'd be nearly impossible if he ventured behind the walls of the Qunari Compound. Instead, she passed the evening playing chess with the Viscount, who was quite a clever strategist when he had a chequered board in front of him. If Meredith had been a black knight or Orsino a white rook he would have been able to manipulate their movements, to understand the rules that governed their behaviour. But the Viscount's dry logic didn't work against the passionate rhetoric of zealots and Marian could see it was wearing down him, just as the city's white chalk cliffs slowly eroded with each turn of the tide, crumbling into a ravenous sea.
The next morrow, the seamstress, Mistress Deschamps, came to her estate to conduct fittings for the wedding gown. Marian put on the shimmering white dress and stood on a wooden box while the Orlesian woman made adjustments, adjusting the length of the train and nipping the fabric around the waist in with pins.
Deschamps clicked her tongue against her teeth. "You have lost ze weight, no?"
"I might have. It wasn't intentional."
"You did. Now I must take everyt'ing een. In Vaux Royaux, ze ladies used to say, "You can never be too thin or too rich". The last part may be true, but the first is not, I promise you. You get too thin, mademoiselle, your pretty face start to look harsh. Ees not good for your hairs either."
Marian gave a slight smile at the translation failure, preferring the sight of Deschamps' plump, powdered face to her own refection. "Yes, I'm sure you're right. I...will make an effort to take better care of myself."
"Good. We want you to stay beautiful for your big day, yes? Now take my advice and eat ze chocolate cake."
Marian glanced up at her face in the mirror. It was true. Her face looked narrower, her eyes large and wistful, her jaw line and the cut of her cheekbones more prominent. She'd always had an athletic figure, broad-shouldered and long-limbed, but now she seemed wirier, lean muscles clearly outlined under her skin. She looked tough and spare, like the survivor, the refugee, the grieving daughter she was, but this sweet, frothy dress didn't match this new person she'd become. Her leather armour, buttery soft with wear, would have suited her better. Marian wasn't sure she liked the way her reflection had altered. She looked hard and glittering, like a knife's edge. She looked like she'd lost the last of her innocence.
She and Saemus were supposed to pick out a wedding cake later that afternoon. She'd have to make sure to eat from all of the samples.
There was a knock at the door and Deschamps scuttled over to answer it.
The messenger was scarcely more than a child and dressed in the blue and gold livery of the Dumar household. "For Lady Marian Hawke," he said, carefully enunciating each word. "It's the important. From His Grace."
Marian nodded at the boy and pointed to her purse on the desk. "You've done well. Take two silvers for your trouble."
The boy darted forward eagerly, handing her the message and then helping himself to the coin. "Thank you, m'lady." He'd whipped out the door before she'd even had time to tear open the envelope.
The letter was not written in Seneschal Bryden's meticulous script but in the Viscount's own hand, a thin, wavering cursive. At the top of the paper was the image of the golden lion rampant.
Marian, it grieves me to tell you this, but I fear Saemus has committed a terrible blunder. One of my sworn men has just informed me that he has run to the Qunari and intends to convert to their cause. I don't need to tell you what this means for both of us, on a personal level as well as a political one.
I know that my son would reject my interference out-of-hand, but he admires you and you still wield influence over him. I am aware that your relationship with Saemus is a complicated one and has only become more complex with this foolish defection to the Qun. I understand that you have already undertaken much for the sake of this family. I ask you to do just one thing more, not for myself, but for Saemus' sake and for the continued safety and prosperity of Kirkwall. Bring him back. Return him to me and to his duty, so that the Qunari cannot use him as a political pawn. I would not ask this of you if I did not think you were the only one who might manage it. Please save my son from his own folly before it is too late.
Beneath the Viscount's shaky-handed signature, he'd written another line in brackets, one that almost made her snicker:
(Please remember to burn after reading.)
Marian hadn't required the reminder. There were spies everywhere and it was best not to commit anything to writing if it could be helped. The letter itself was a sign of the Viscount's desperation. In less urgent circumstances, he would have summoned her to a private audience in his garden, not because he loved the open air, but because in the Keep, even the walls were listening.
"I have to go," she told Deschamps, tossing the letter into the hearth fire. As the parchment withered and burned, she armed herself, strapped on her pauldrons and light chestplate over her dress and tugged her gauntlets over her forearms. Lifting the skirts of her gown, she kicked off her Orlesian heels and pulled on her well-worn boots, the leather stained with blood and encrusted with mud, but all the more comfortable for that.
"But, mademoiselle, your dress...you must..."
The dress was the least of her worries. She wasn't going to have any other occasion to wear it. "It looks like my big day came early. Fear not, you will be paid for your trouble."
Marian dashed down the stairs, trying to slow the jumble of thoughts crowding her mind. She was already too emotional and she would need back-up before she could confront the Arishok. In all the time she'd spent studying the Qun, she'd still never encountered any loopholes that one might use to override the free will of a videthari. The Qunari rarely questioned the intentions of their converts, as long as they gave themselves over wholeheartedly and the Arishok held onto his followers the way a miser clung to gold.
Nevertheless, she still held out hope that a diplomatic solution might be possible, if only she could turn the Qun's twisted logic in on itself and somehow convince the Qunari leadership that keeping Saemus would contradict their principles and damage their honour. No individual's will would ever be placed higher than the sanctity of the Qun and if Saemus' presence was seen to threaten this social balance, they might be persuaded to expel him.
Of course, to manage this, she would require the guidance of an expert, someone who knew the Qunari well enough to beat them at their own game. It was unfortunate that the one person she had the most need of was the one she was most reluctant to ask.
Fenris gave a start, hearing footsteps pounding up the rickety stairs of the mansion. Tossing aside his book, he dragged his greatsword from across the floor with his heel and reached over, gripping the hilt in the palm of his hand. He launched himself to his feet and crept towards his chamber door, the length of the sword extended before him.
"Fenris?"
He lowered his sword, feeling foolish. He kept anticipating an attack, almost hoping for one, but the voice was Marian's, not that of some slaver leading a pack of mercenaries. But why had she come rushing as if she'd set her hair afire? Marian had never been a great proponent of social graces, but usually, she had the courtesy to knock. This courtesy had only become more marked since that fateful evening when he'd...when he'd gone to her, likely because the other boundaries between them were so frayed and confused.
He flung open the door and found her striding down the hall towards him. She looked distressed, her lips tight and grim, her dark hair tumbling about her shoulders. Her attire was truly absurd, leather armour on her top half and a frothy white gown on her bottom, completed by the oldest and filthiest pair of boots in her possession, a pair that he knew she treasured because they'd come with her from Lothering.
"Fenris, are you busy?"
It was a funny question to ask him. It wasn't as if he was known for keeping a packed schedule. Under other circumstances, he might have pretended to be doing something terribly important just for the pleasure of teasing her, but it was clear that this wasn't a good time to be indulging in his rare bouts of contrary humour.
"Not especially. How did you get in?" He'd invested some time in securing the place from intruders and her ability to just wander in on a whim disturbed him.
She shrugged. "I was down there pounding on the door, but you took your sweet time in answering. Easier just to pick the lock."
He hadn't heard her knocking, but then the book had been an absorbing one and he'd been in the midst of discovering how Shartan had defeated five legions of Tevinter soldiers with a ragtag army of slaves.
"You are aware I set traps down there."
"I saw. Easily avoided," she said. "I also noted the decaying remains on the floor. So much nicer than a welcome mat."
He'd boiled the flesh from those old bones specifically for the purpose of leaving them in plain view of the foyer entrance. They were intended as a warning to any future bands of slavers. "I'm a hospitable sort. What brings you here?"
She brushed a strands of hair behind her ear, giving a light sigh. "I need your help and I know you're not going to like it."
"Does it involve freeing mages?"
She shook her head. "No."
He narrowed his eyes. "Does it involve helping Anders with his ridiculous problems?"
"No."
"It's about Merrill, then, and her demons. Coddling the witch will do no good..."
"It's about Saemus," she blurted out. "He's with the Qunari."
He frowned, not sure whether he should be pleased to be rid of the boy or annoyed that she wanted him to help reclaim him. "With the Qunari? He is videthari?"
"Yes." She paused, taking a breath, the strain of this admission showing on her face. "As it happens, my fiancé eloped with the Arishok. I suppose I didn't bring enough...horns to the relationship."
Despite the jape, he could see that she was upset. He had observed that she was most prone to such jests when she became fearful, perhaps believing that self-deprecation was preferable to the mockery of others.
"Well, you certainly bring an unusual fashion sense," he noted, nodding at her peculiar costume. "The boy is clearly even more of a fool than I surmised. Why should you bother to haul him back?"
She pondered this, before shaking her head. "I don't know. Frankly, if it were up to me, I might just let him have his stupid Qun. But there's the Viscount and city politics to consider. Besides, while he may have acted the fool, I don't wish to see Saemus get hurt in the cross-fire. This has become a dangerous business."
"You have a habit of showing kindness to those who wrong you."
She gave a sniff. "I guess you disapprove."
"I...do not. It is admirable, if not always practical," he said. "You have my blade, Marian."
"Thank you," she murmured. "Hopefully we shall not have any need of swords."
She looked both relieved and a little ashamed of herself, clearly conscious of the fact that his aid had nothing to do with Saemus. After gritting his teeth together for months, tolerating the boy's intrusion into the pleasant routine of reading lessons with Marian, biting back his anger every time the insipid fool kissed her hand or draped his arm around her shoulder, Fenris would've savour the thought of him getting shipped off to Par Vollen. Yet, having pledged herself to the Dumars, he knew Marian would not abandon them. It wasn't even a matter of honour with a headstrong woman like her, just of affection and the fierce, almost maternal protectiveness that she and Aveline held in common, a Fereldan trait, perhaps. It was one of the reasons people were so quick to gravitate to her, to hide behind her leadership. Perhaps even he was guilty of it, relying on her friendship as a shield.
Fenris glanced down at the red band still knotted around his wrist. He'd made a vow too, one too perilous for either of them to acknowledge aloud, and he would keep it. He had no great love for the Dumars or for Kirkwall, but for her...perhaps he had a streak of protectiveness in him as well, the instinct of a trained bodyguard. He would not allow her to walk into danger alone.
Hidden behind wooden palisades, the Qunari Compound was a forbidding place, a barren patch of ground with no shade or shelter except for tarps flapping from the walls and several dingy white tents. Marian blinked into the blinding sunlight, parched grass crunching under her boots and dust swirling around the hem of her gown as she strode past a cluster of Qunari soldiers cleaning and honing their blades, moving towards the Arishok's seat at the steepest point of the encampment.
The fishy reek of the Docks wafted over the high barricades and the stink of the sewers seeped underneath them, and unlike the city outside, the Compound didn't have the benefit of an ocean breeze to sweep the stench away. Marian wrinkled her nose, wondering how even the stony Qunari could tolerate four years spent in tedium amidst such horrendous conditions. It was no wonder they thought Kirkwall was a pit of filth if this patch of land was what they stared at day in and day out. The Arishok must be starting to go stir-crazy, she thought, regardless of the Qun's infernal demands.
When they'd arrived at the Compound, Fenris had slowed his pace and fallen a few steps behind her, something that she noticed he always did in the presence of Qunari. She presumed it had something to do with setting up the illusion of hierarchy, something that the Arishok would understand and respect, but perhaps he was simply watching her back.
Either way, she felt a renewed surge of gratitude for his presence, not only because of his knowledge of the Qun but because of the strange, almost hypnotic calmness that he exuded in the most desperate of situations. Just the sound of his footsteps behind her made her feel more grounded, although she knew they were far from safe. The Qunari were everywhere and while they appeared to pay little heed to the bas in their midst, Marian knew they were tracking their every movement, prepared to retaliate at the first sign of aggression.
She approached the Arishok, who sat, enthroned, on his hill of dirt, his massive body barely contained by high-backed mahogany chair. He frowned at her, furrowing his heavy brow and stood, taking a few steps down the stairs towards her. "What brings you here, basra?"
"I've come for Saemus Dumar." She didn't mention her relation to him or how his decision to become videthari would mean the end of their engagement and everything that went with it. If the Arishok was interested in such details, his spies had likely already informed him. He would not care about the personal side of the situation, how Saemus' defection would impact her or his father or the sense of betrayal she felt after having invested so much of her future in the Viscount's son.
"He has chosen the Qun. The videthari is not yours to demand."
She felt her cheeks flush with anger and humiliation. The damned 'videthari' should make an appearance and explain why he'd turned tail and fled, leaving her holding the bag for their ill-conceived marriage and all the pomp and ceremony that were to go with it. It was humiliating to have to ask the Arishok's permission to speak to the man who would have been her husband. If she kept her indignation down, it was only because she could feel Fenris' cautioning gaze upon the back of her neck, bearing down with almost as much heat as the afternoon sun.
She tried a tactic that she and Fenris had discussed on the way over. "He may wish to escape to your Qun, but that is not his choice to make. His role is to lead Kirkwall and he cannot betray that duty."
The Arishok mulled this over, pacing to and fro across the dusty landing, his clawed hands folded behind his back. "A clever ploy, trying to claim a path for the purposeless. You attempt to appeal to what is right, what is meaningful, but you forget that your way is not the Qun."
"Your so-called videthari was born to a role and a path, one that he would betray to indulge his own personal desires," she shot back. "Is that not the essence of the Tal-Vashoth? If he doesn't have the discipline to follow his first path in life, what makes you think he can serve the Qun? I didn't know the Qunari were in the habit of accepting traitors and weaklings."
"Hm. You weary me with your insolence. Perhaps I will allow you to have the bas just so I may have some peace from this sophistry. I do, however, find it strange that a letter was not enough and that you must make an appearance as well."
"What do you mean?"
The Arishok's expression did not alter, but there was a hint of scorn in his voice. "The videthari is not here. He has already gone to meet you at your Chantry. If you wish to reclaim him, I suggest you go there."
She frowned, giving him a nod in place of a bow, and turned away from the tiresome brute, annoyed that he had not given her that information the moment she'd said Saemus' name.
Fenris caught her look of frustration and his mouth quirked with a hint of wry amusement. Marian kept her silence until they'd cleared the Qunari Compound by a good hundred metres. When they were finally out of earshot (and striking range) of the guards, she muttered a dozen of her favourite curses and then borrowed a few of Isabella's best ones for good measure.
"Feel better?" he asked, when she was done.
"I do. That was...cleansing to the soul."
He arched an eyebrow at that, one of his eloquent little gestures. "To the Chantry then?"
She nodded, gritting her teeth together and offering him a grim smile. "To the Chantry."
They discovered Saemus kneeling at the high altar, his dark head bowed and his arms dangling limply at his sides.
Fenris glared at the back of the boy's neck, annoyed at this show of devotion mere hours after the fool had gone blithely prancing off to the Qunari. He watched as Marian sidled over and crouched down beside him, the skirt of her white gown pooling over the crimson carpet. She'd been angry before, but now she was quiet and almost unbearably gentle, as if quieting a skittish horse.
The boy didn't deserve such consideration, not after the way he'd hurt her, but Fenris gnawed the insides of his cheeks and held his peace, knowing that he was in no position to object. She'd offered him this mercy too, when he'd been too weak to stand by her, masking her hurt under the same appearance of good grace.
"Saemus?" Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
When the boy did not answer, her hand moved to his shoulder. At the merest brush of her fingers, his body crumpled to the floor.
Marian gave a choked gasp and bent forward, fumbling as she heaved Saemus over onto his back. The boy stared up at the domed ceiling with glassy blue eyes, lifeless.
Fenris grasped the hilt of his sword, assessing the room for an imminent threat, but they appeared to be alone with the corpse. The sanctum's inner recesses still echoed with Marian's cry.
He took a few measured steps towards Saemus' body, fighting the impulse to seize Marian by the shoulders, haul her up and drag her away from the corpse, to keep her prisoner in his arms. He hated her pain and he hated the boy who'd caused it, with his fickleness and folly and his inconvenient and piteous way of dying. His gaze tracked over Saemus' face, searching for a grimace of pain, an expression of panic or astonishment, but instead, he found an enviable serenity. He might have thought the death had been natural, if weren't for the faint bruising around the boy's throat, almost entirely concealed by the high collar of his blue silk jacket.
"You poor fool," Marian murmured, smoothing the hair back from Saemus' brow. "You lied to me. You said we'd be happy."
Fenris felt like an intruder, listening to her talking to the dead and yet he wanted to say something, if only to fill up the space where Saemus should have answered.
"This was no accident. The boy was strangled." His voice came out gruffer than he'd planned, as if he wouldn't have minded doing the strangling himself. He'd certainly contemplated it, at moments, when he'd seen Saemus enjoying comforts and pleasures he could not taste, could not even bring himself to swallow, and yet still desired and...envied.
Marian eased up to her feet, still transfixed by Saemus' stillness. "Yes. I saw the marks."
Fenris didn't like the faraway look in her eyes, how they glistened without tears, flame-like shadows wavering in the depths of her pupils. It made him uneasy.
"We should inform the Viscount."
"It will break him," she said, hollow-voiced. "It would be kinder to cut his head from his shoulders."
"Marian."
Her gaze snapped back to his face. "Yes?"
"Speak your mind."
"When do I not?"
"Talk to me, not to the dead. They do not listen."
"Nor should they," she said. "I've failed everyone who ever loved me, who ever put their trust in me."
"That is untrue."
She took out her curved daggers, her cold smile reflected in the gleam of the polished steel. "I'll make Saemus' murderer mourn. He'll cry tears of blood before this day is through."
"If you wish to grieve, there is no shame in it." He remembered how she'd cried for her mother, her head pressed against his shoulder, tears wetting his skin. If she needed that again, he could overcome his trepidation and linger with her while she grieved. Perhaps this time his arm would find its way to her back and she'd find him a more comfortable support.
"Better to make them grieve. My tears have dried up," she said. "Besides, I may not be able to save a life, but I have a talent for making corpses. Might as well put it to use."
Mother Petrice's zealots and templars were the first to bleed. When they attacked, Marian fought like a woman possessed, mowing through them as if she were scything grain for the harvest. Fenris found himself lagging behind her, stepping over the bodies she left in her wake. She'd always been an impressive fighter, but where she'd once hesitated, feinting, dodging, giving lesser enemies the chance to yield or flee, now she threw herself unflinchingly into the slaughter and it seemed less a battle she waged than a hunt, one in which all her opponents were unwitting prey. Fenris recognized the compulsion all too well, unsure whether to admire her skill or deplore the way she flung herself into dangerous confrontations, incurring greater risks to inflict more damage. Until recently, it'd been his preferred style of combat, too, raw and thrilling, but recently, he'd become more contemplative, more...judicious. He wanted life more than ever and it disturbed him to see her so willing to risk herself.
Even when all of Petrice's servants lay dead, hacked bodies strewn across the Chantry floor, Marian was still unsatisfied. Not even the Qunari arrow buried in the Mother's skull could give her the peace she desired.
"Blasted Qunari," she muttered, reaching down and ripping the Chantry amulet from Petrice's neck. "They had no right. The bitch belonged to me."
"It's better this way," he assured her. "If they'd let her live, you would've had to give her over for a trial."
She smirked at this. "Oh, I'd have let them send her to the Keep. My home away from home. The woman would've had a trial, but it wouldn't have happened in any courtroom."
They sat down on the steps leading up to the altar, waiting in silence for the Viscount's arrival.
On impulse, Fenris reached over and unbuckled the armour covering the top half of her gown, surprised when she did not resist him. Instead, she wiped the blood from her cheeks with her fingers, regarding him with a sad, searching expression.
"I'm alone now."
"You're not alone."
She flicked the skirts of her wedding gown, the satin splotched with blood. "I'm full of hate, Fenris. Who'd stay to drink such poison?"
He gripped her fist in his hand, roughly squeezing her fingers, surprised anew at how small and delicate her bones felt under the silk of her skin. He'd drink that poison. He'd take it straight from the bottle and gulp down every draught as if it were summer wine.
His voice was more forceful this time. "You are not alone."
She nodded, closing her eyes and he touched her cheek, rubbing the last traces of blood away with his thumb.
He glared at her, willing her free from this haze of grief and the worm of self-pity. Rage - that was better, more nourishing. It would keep her alive and strong. "Do you hear me?"
"Yes."
He resisted the sudden urge to press his lips to her ear, to nip the tender flesh of the lobe and sink his teeth into her neck. He wanted to bite her just to shock her, to wake her up and perhaps win himself a little retaliation, her nails rending his back or her mouth against his, tearing the breath from his lungs. They could ravage each other and every pain, every cruel pleasure they took would be a reminder that they would still living, amongst these dead. Anything, anything would've been better than this numb silence.
"Tell me you understand, Marian."
Her eyes blinked open. She lifted her free hand, lightly tracing her fingertips over the ridges of his knuckles. "I understand, Fenris."
He did not know love and if he'd ever been capable of such a feeling, he could not remember it. Hate, however, had been his intimate companion for years, the serpent nestled around his heart, what he'd taken to bed each night and woken up to every morning, what he ate, what he drank, what he breathed. By now, it'd seeped into the marrow of his bones. He might not know how to love her but they could hate together.
