Title: 100 Themes Challenge #89 – Through The Fire (Short)
Pairing: None~ Just Marian
Word Count: 1,192
Summary: Marian loved her hair. She really did.
Note: BECAUSE EVEN THE CHAMPION CAN HAVE A GIRLY WISH. I did not come up with this completely on my own. -heart- A very wonderful person did, and I said I would write it. So here it is, for her.
Marian Hawke was always teased for being boyish.
For her tendency to play in the dirt and mud, to beat down the boys... For her large figure, awkward until she grew into it, and rough way of talking. She didn't like dolls, and preferred to play 'Adventure' with the village boys, running around slaying dragons and demons with her stick swords, and after she came into her magic, her staff. Her father would laugh and only ever commented on her bravery, and tenacity in the face of her male counterparts. He was proud of her resolve to beat them all. When she was younger, it didn't bother her so much. She was accepted like that; it was just how it was. And it was fine.
But there was one thing that she prided herself in, so distinctly feminine and a mark of her sex that she coveted it with an enthusiasm not understood by her friends or her siblings.
Her raven coloured hair swung low on her back, long and shiny, a testament of borderline obsessive care. No one touched the silky locks without her specific permission and while also being clean; Carver, having tried many times to pull and muss it, was able to testify for this, and recalled the memories with winces of pain. She took time out of each day to have it brushed, often by her adoring sister or smiling mother. The girls from the village would often praise it, offering to braid it for her, finding pretty flowers to weave into the strands...
If she was asked to name her most prized possession, she would say her hair without hesitation. Even after she turned twelve, and was given her first mage's staff to begin training with, it remained that way. To her, what did magic matter when she couldn't flaunt it to gain the respect or approval of her peers? But her hair... That got her compliments. That got her attention.
When the twins got to be of an older age, and she responsible enough to take them out alone, they'd often go on hikes through the nearby forest, together. Carver swinging his wooden sword, and Bethany picking flowers for their mother, while Marian would watch on with a protective smile. It was nice. They'd stop at a meadow that they'd named the Hawke's Nest, and have lunch there.
She remembered one day in particular clearly. She had been sitting in front of her sister while she carefully plaited her hair, humming a cheerful tune in the otherwise silent field.
"Marian! Bethany! Look over there!" Carver had shouted, stabbing his hand in the direction of the far side from where they were situated. Through the tall waves of grass and peaking through the tree-line stood a small rabble of four men, ragged and dirty in appearance. Normally, it wouldn't have been a problem. She would have told them where the Chantry was, and who to talk to get food and clothing and shelter, and her good deed of the week would have been complete.
If it weren't for the rusty daggers that glinted dully in the noonday sun or the shouting that erupted immediately after the Hawke siblings were discovered, that's exactly what would have happened.
"Carver, take Bethany back, now! Run!" she yelled at her brother, who instead stood frozen in fear as the bandits came close. There was no time to fool around; pulling Bethany up and pushing her towards the trees, she grabbed Carver's shirt and practically flung him after her. Picking her staff off of the ground, Marian felt a small sense of relief as she spun around to face her opponents. Her siblings, at the very least, would have time to run.
It was in those mere seconds that she would find that there was a mage in their midst.
A fireball hit the ground to her right, blasting her to the side before she had time to throw up a shield. The flames licked at her arm and leg, setting them ablaze with pain. Standing up with her staff as a crutch, she saw the three laughing and pointing at her; oh, what would a teenager with a pretty stick do, right? Her temper rose. Swinging the staff towards them in a sweeping motion, she watched as ice shot and spread, a cone of cold that froze them all in place.
And like that it was over. Marian panted as she leaned heavily on the worn wood. She would have to tell her father when she—
A sudden jerk at the back of her head flung her off balance and pitched against the chest of a smelly man, not much bigger than herself. The rogue had snuck behind her during the initial strike, and with tears welling up in her eyes at the harsh yanking of her braid, the mage realized she was stupid for not realizing the difference in headcount.
"Little girl, you really shouldn't have done that," he whispered in her ear, spewing his filthy breath into her face. She snarled in reply, raising a foot to try and kick him from behind. He pulled on her braid again, eliciting a yelp. "Pretty hair, magelet. Makes this easier."
For the first time in her life, she hated her hair. She could feel every strand being used against her, causing the sharp pain at her scalp, worse even than the blistered skin of her limbs. The smell of it burning stung at her nostrils, making her sick.
"Now, if you'll just tell me wh- Aah!"
He let go of her braid, and she fell to her knees at the sudden release. Looking over to the bandit, she found him struggling to stand straight, rubbing the back of his head while glaring at a figure standing away from them. Taking the chance, Marian threw out her hand, sending whatever magic came first at him; a bolt of ice struck the man, freezing him in place like his comrades before.
"Marian?" The voice of her brother called for her, and, leaving the disaster of a day behind, she scrambled to it.
After they returned home, and their father had further disposed of the bandits at the Hawke's Nest, Marian was bandaged and confined to bed until her burns healed. But before she allowed herself to sleep or rest, she demanded that Leandra bring her a pair of scissors.
And so she cut it all off, leaving her once glorious, shiny hair all over the floorboards of her bedroom. She said nothing to her mother when the questioning look was given, and made no reply to Bethany's protests as she did it, leaving nothing but tufts of bangs at the front, and stopping at neck-length in the back.
Later that evening, as she lay curled up on her unburned side with tears in her eyes, Malcolm walked in and sat on the edge of her bed. The silence stretched between them for a moment before she felt his strong, farmer's hands run through her short hair gently, and his gruff whisper penetrate the quiet.
"You're beautiful, Marian."
She kept her hair short.