Carver had left for work for the day already. Nate was still in his room. Probably awake, but not out yet. Marian suspected he did this to give her some time to herself. But this morning, having time to herself was a terrible idea.
Carver had left his laptop up. And when Marian passed by it to get her morning coffee, the image filling the screen caught her attention. She couldn't not look at it.
She took in the familiar street corner in Lowtown, the dark shapes on the ground that could only be bodies, and the headline: Lowtown Riots Rekindled: 7 dead, 13 injured. And the mural on the wall in the background.
A faceless man in a uniform. A woman in a simple housedress. Between them, a crying child: a blonde boy, no more than six, held fast in the arms of the faceless man. Another little boy with an identical blonde mop of hair was hiding behind the woman. A second man in uniform was behind the first, aiming a rifle at the woman.
Beneath were three names and a date. Saorise. Dermot. Stephen. 8 Haring 9:32.
It was one of the few murals Marian had painted in Kirkwall that was still intact, having gone ignored by the Viscount and the Chantry in the quiet street in Lowtown. Marian had known Saorise and her twins. She had known the boys were both Gifted. And she had wept as she painted their names on the wall.
Over the years, a dozen or so other names and dates had been added to the mural. Some of the names Marian had added herself. The more recent ones were added by friends of the children and family members killed by Templars.
There seemed to be more names in the picture than Marian remembered. But there were other additions to the mural as well.
Red lines of paint, slashing through the list of names, and a crude version of the Templar's flaming sword all but covering Stephen.
In the span of a single breath, Marian felt her heart shatter. She dropped the empty mug that had been in her hand and backed away from the laptop. When her back hit the counter behind her, she folded her arms tight over her stomach and hunched over herself, as if that could stop the sudden, painful twisting she felt there.
"Marian, what's wrong?"
Nate's voice sounded anxious, but she couldn't seem to let go of herself. She was still staring at the picture of the now defaced mural until Nate stepped between her and the laptop, breaking the trance.
"Bastards," she hissed.
She barely got the word out before Nate had his arms around her. She let out a choked sob, and pressed her face into his chest.
"I'm sorry, Marian." He spoke softly into her hair. "Everything's going to be okay. You're going to be okay."
She clung to him as she cried, digging her fingers into his back as she choked out very bitter curse she could think of. Nate held her just as tightly and repeated quiet sympathies and reassurances.
It didn't take long for her to run out of curses and Nate's steady voice to calm her. As the knots in her stomach eased, she relaxed her grip on him, pressing her hands flat on his back and focusing on his heartbeat. Eventually, he loosened his arms and pulled back slightly, looking down at her.
"Better?" He asked.
She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry."
"Don't." He shook his head. "It's okay. It really is."
She nodded in response before resting her forehead on his chest for another minute. Then she dropped her arms and pulled away, whispering, "Thank you."
"Do you want to talk?" He asked as he took a step away, giving her some space.
She shook her head. Her thoughts were crowded, a swirl of confusing emotions. He must have seen it.
"Talk to me, Marian." It was more of a plea than a demand.
She looked up at him. The bruises on his cheek had finally faded. The cut was just a faint line now, barely noticeable. But the furrow of his brow was deep, the concern in his eyes evident.
She took a deep breath and let the words tumble out.
"I painted that mural. I knew that family. The Templars claimed the boys had set up traps. They weren't the first family to be killed during a routine 'collection.' But those boys, Dermot and Stephen…everyone loved those boys. Everyone loved Saorise. I painted that for the neighborhood to heal. We lit candles there every year. And…those bastards destroyed it. I may have hated that Maker forsaken city, but it was still my home. And everything thing is gone. Everything I did there. I just…Andraste's ass. I've been stuck here for two weeks, and I just…I have nothing left. I feel lost, and I don't know what to do with that. I hate feeling lost."
He waited, like he was making sure she was actually done talking before he spoke. And when he did, his voice was quiet.
"We have to do training, when we start out as recruits, on how to handle trauma. It's not a very consistent thing. It hits everyone differently. One of my first big assignments, we lost one of our team. And for weeks, I had these mood swings, angry rages. I blamed myself, but I tried to take it out on everyone else. My partner at the time was drunk more often than he was sober." He frowned at the memory and shook his head before continuing, "All I'm saying is that it's normal. What you're feeling is normal. You don't have to do anything with the feelings. You just sort of…accept them. Call them what they are, let yourself have them, and focus on the other stuff. Focus on being here."
She tilted her head to one side as he spoke, soaking in every word. It was the most she'd ever heard him say all at once, and it wasn't empty platitudes but something that made sense. Like he understood.
"You sound awfully smart," she said finally. When he frowned, she quickly added, "That was a joke. I mean, it's true, but I was being…sorry," she sighed, frustrated. "Defense mechanism for my general inability to handle serious conversations involving my emotions. I am emotionally stunted. I think have a sibling and at least one ex who will agree."
He raised an eyebrow at her babbling. The corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.
"Sorry. I…shit." She let out a small laugh and shook her head. "Making jokes about my need to make jokes. I really need to work on that talking thing."
"Well, you did already start."
"What?"
"The talking thing. You started talking…why don't try to keep going?"
"Oh." She blinked, watching him watch her. His eyes had the faintest hint of amusement in them. "You mean just spill my guts about everything going on in my head?"
"Maybe not everything," he chuckled. "But something."
She knelt to pick up the mug she had dropped, grateful it hadn't broken. She paused in her crouch and thought for a moment, considering the empty mug in her hand. And then, with a sigh, she let herself sink the rest of the way to the floor, leaning against the cabinets and resting her elbows on her knees. Nate joined her on the floor without a word.
"I'm tired," she admitted. "And I'm heartbroken about that mural getting destroyed. And I'm angry that they haven't found the bomber yet. I'm angry that everyone there is still fighting. I'm frightened that the Chantry will send Seekers after me. And I'm tired. I miss my bed. I miss my friends and my stuff, and I'm bloody exhausted." She paused, taking a deep breath and blinking back the hot, angry tears that threatened as she spoke. Then, dropping her head, she quietly added, "And I feel guilty that I'm not there to help. I feel guilty for hiding."
"What do you think you would do if you were there?"
"I don't know…" She stared down at the empty mug, turning it in her hands. "I know there's not much I can do. There never has been, but everyone asked me to help anyway, expected me to help. And I always tried, at least. It feels strange to not try but…" She shook her head and looked back up at him. "I can't take care of everyone in Kirkwall. I never could. And it's my job, is it? It's not my responsibility to fix everything."
Nate smiled. "No, it's not."
Marian returned his smile. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"
"I have no idea what you mean."
"Making me say that out loud. That it's not my responsibility." She shook her head again, knowing his grin meant yes, and asked, "Was that enough sharing for now?"
"Yes. That's enough," he chuckled and, in one effortless movement, stood and held his hand out to her. And as he helped her up, he said, "I have an idea."
"Oh?"
"If you swear you won't tell Carver, I'll take you out to breakfast and to the park for a little while. But you'll need a hat. And we'll have to go out the fire exit, so the patrol out front doesn't see us."
Once she'd found one of Carver's Denerim Buccaneers hats and pulled it low to hide her face, Nate took her to a diner for omelets and hash browns, then on a short walk through the outdoor market, and finally to a bench at the edge of the park.
"Maker, this is fantastic," Marian sighed. She pulled the hat off and turned her face to the sun, closing her eyes and relishing the warmth on her face.
Nate chuckled and draped his arm across the back of the bench.
"I'd make some joke about you needing to get out more, but you really do need to get out more."
"Yes. I do." She laughed and looked out across the grass. She watched a young, dark-haired woman playing with a little blonde boy, both of them spinning, arms wide. An elderly man tossing a ball to a mabari. Students from the nearby university standing in line at the coffee cart on the corner.
"When mother died," she said softly, "Sebastian gave me this little book of quotes…you know, one of those ones with quotes from famous people that are supposed to make you feel better? It was…thoughtful, I guess. Most of them didn't mean anything to me. But I remember one…from a Dalish poet, I think, saying something about keeping your face towards the sunshine and your shadows will fall behind you. I usually think they're silly, those cliché inspirational things, but right now I think whoever said it was genius. This, right here, right now, in the sunshine…Maker," she sighed. "Right now I feel like everything is right—or, at least, is going to be. I think this is my favorite place ever."
She leaned her head against Nate and closed her eyes again. He dropped his arm from the bench to her shoulder. Just as Marian was drifting off to sleep, she thought she heard Nate whisper, "Mine, too." But she might have already been dreaming.
A/N: So...I made Walt Whitman a Dalish poet. Don't ask. It made sense at the time. Also, the whole mural thing was inspired by the murals painted around Belfast during the Troubles. I saw a little bit of a parallel between the mage-Templar situation and the situation in Northern Ireland. I don't mean to imply it's perfect comparison, but I did borrow a few things from events there, and I thought it was worth pointing out. Credit where credit's due.