Author's Note
As ever, oodles of thanks to my BFF and relentless laser-eyed, adverb wrangling, purple text murdering beta, strangegibbon, who has been the rock of ages. A very special thanks to the folks who've left me comments and reviews. It means so much to hear what you guys think. Thanks also to everyone who followed this story. It's all very humbling! *Squish* to all.
The Dragon Age Universe and everything in it belongs to BioWare.
This story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot, may on occasion trespass through M.
18. Broken Things
Sleep washed over consciousness like the high tide creeping upon the Wounded Coast. Marian's mind spun around in the utter emptiness behind closed eyelids, darkness swirling within darkness. It was the alcohol and spindleweed extracting their due, but the immense vertigo felt as if she were plunging into a vortex, pulled ever deeper into its churning belly. She lay still, suspended in that No Man's Land between sleep and wakefulness, longing for the former and dreading the latter whilst they tossed her back and forth between them.
Then, just as it felt that slumber might overwhelm her at last, something yanked her back. Her eyes sprang open, the dazzling sunlight streaming in from the window was searing and the world exploded in a bright, white flash of pain. She moaned, covering her eyes with her hands and fought through the overbright haze of discomfort to make sense of what was happening.
A glimpse of Merrill's face floated into her vision and she tried to dig out a smile but produced only a grimace.
"Hawke?" Merrill asked, adjusting the lay of her head on Marian's shoulder. "Are you awake yet?"
Marian didn't reply, desperate to claw herself back into the embrace of oblivion, but Merrill was determined.
"What happens now?" She rose and peered at her intensely.
Marian braved the glare and squinted at her mutely.
"Hawke, are we … ?" Merrill persisted, eyes murky pools of inquisition. "-what did this mean?"
"It didn't mean anything, Merrill." Hawke murmured incoherently, words tumbling over one another. "It was just one night." The last thing she needed was Merrill waffling on and second guessing herself over this.
"Of course, I'm just being silly... I mean, thinking that..." Merrill faltered and Hawke felt her weight lift off the bed. "I should go." The movement disoriented her completely and Marian sat up, clutching her forehead to stop her head from spinning like a pinwheel. She pushed forward after Merrill but the sudden momentum was too much and it was all she could do to scramble for the chamberpot and clutch it tightly as her gut tried to climb out of her mouth.
When Marian did wake finally, well into the afternoon hours later, she was confronted with two immediate legacies of the night before. The first was a terrific headache that waxed and waned rhythmically to a phantom beat and the second was a very porous recall of events. She recollected the Ball, of course, dancing with Gascard DuPuis and Deaver Bran slighting her during the Grand Cotillion. The memories that followed were riddled with alcohol shaped holes, chief amongst them being most details of the disaster that now demanded management.
Of the events surrounding it, she had a basic understanding that Leandra and Sebastian had found her in a compromising state and predictably, disaster had ensued. The images of her mother's horror, Sebastian's red faced disbelief and Seneschal Bran delighting in schadenfreude were burned into her mind but she couldn't recall how she'd returned home. There were discordant memories of Merrill's haphazard confession followed by several flashes that were both rather graphic and sweet.
Hawke emerged from her bedroom a little unsteadily, hair wet from plunging her head in cold water in the hope that Isabela's remedy was as efficacious as it appeared dubious. Soft murmurs drifted up from the main hall below and though she could not make out the words, the tone of the delivery was definitely her mother's. She stood at the top of the stairs and toyed with the idea of returning to her room, climbing out the window and moving permanently into the Hanged Man rather than face the reckoning below. It was a seductive thought but Hawke shook her head and took a deep breath.
"You need to loop the stitch around, dear-" she heard her mother instruct as she descended the staircase hesitantly.
Leandra was seated in her favourite armchair by the fireside, her basket of needlework resting on one side of it and Orana, embroidery hoop in hand, on the other. "What are you doing, Mother?" Her voice came out a little strangled. Needlepoint was an Amell legacy and though it was Bethany and not her who had been the domestic one, to be passed over in favour of Orana stung sharply.
Leandra flicked her gaze at her and then averted it, turning to point out the error in Orana's needlework. "No, dear. You need to do this again, where's the seam ripper?"
"Yes, Milady," Orana nodded, rifling through the tool basket for the implement.
Marian stood unacknowledged in silence, her heart sinking.
"Did you find it?" Leandra prodded the girl.
"No, Milady. It isn't here."
"I might have left it in my room, go take a look."
As Orana scampered off, Leandra sat up straight and turned her gaze to Marian. Her expression bore the burden of hurt, anger and humiliation stoically, some of the lines looking deeper and still others that were new but it was the scorching contempt that made Marian wither under the level stare. She sank into the opposite chair, folding her hands in her lap and looked down. Leandra spoke after a long pause.
"That elf girl - Merrill - she left before midday, asked me to let you know that she was going home. Was she here overnight?"
Marian nodded. "She came over last night. One of her friends, a clan mate, died at Sundermount and she was extremely upset."
Leandra nodded, pursed her lips and did not press further. Marian couldn't tell if the explanation had satisfied her. It was mostly accurate and could stretch passably over the truth. Feeling braver, she gestured at the circular frame that held Orana's needle stuck through the middle and picked it up, fingering the crude attempt. "You are teaching her your craft?"
"Yes, I won't be here forever. I don't want my skills to die with me. My sweet Bethany is gone. After last night, Carver wants nothing to do with this house and I can't blame him-"
Marian bristled, "I... I know how to do this, I remember- mostly. I just need to brush up-"
"Save it."
Hawke stopped, chastised by the vehemence in the tone. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms and struggled to maintain outwardly calm.
"Have you decided when the wedding will be?" Leandra asked sharply.
"What?" Hawke looked up flabbergasted. "I don't-"
"He did promise to make an honest woman out of you?" Leandra barreled ahead, glaring at Marian's astonished expression, "I hope you had the sense to extract that from him that at least. To think, an Amell taking some no good, immigrant name nobody even knows is the most we can hope for," she spat distastefully and Marian was too appalled to note the irony. "I had such high hopes. Seneschal Bran's son is your age - there was a match there, Ghyslain de Carrac,- why even, in my heart of hearts, I thought - Sebastian. If you had moved with caution, and with luck, you could have gone to Starkhaven a Princess but now - disgraced -"
She started to cry and a few shuddering sobs escaped her control before she dabbed at her eyes and regained composure. "It should be done quickly, two months or three at most. I had planned a year to do your trousseau when the happy time came, but there is no time now. Maker forbid-" she trailed off, her cheeks colouring, "-you take, and it begin to show-" she became too distraught to continue.
Marian couldn't speak.
"It is my fault." Leandra started again, "I should have been stricter with you. Back in Lothering, Miriam tried to warn me - but with Malcolm's health, and the children - I thought you were sensible. There are two types of women, Marian. The ones that gentlemen respect, the ones they honour - these are the ones they marry and give their name - and the ones which they use for entertainment. Without your virtue, which do you think you are?"
"I am sorry, Mother-"
"You should be!" Leandra cut her off angrily, "You should be, you have destroyed this family." She dissolved into tears and Marian felt a reciprocal prickling in her own eyes.
"I am not going to marry Gascard DuPuis," Marian explained once Leandra's sobs seemed to ebb. She felt wretched.
"Don't be foolish! What else are you to do?" She turned on Marian hotly. "He has taken your maidenhood, do you think any any other gentleman will take that charlatan's sloppy seconds? He owes you this. It is his duty. He despoiled you, if he will not do right by you, I will speak to the Viscount."
Marian pinched the bridge of her nose, her cheeks uncharacteristically hot and flushed. Beneath the embarrassment and mortification there was regret and sadness. She knew she had deviated from her mother's moral compass a long time ago and she had done everything to uphold the illusion that the rend between them was non-existent, but the facade could no longer survive and courage seemed to fail her. For so long she had struggled to keep everything that was ugly about her life from her family and now Leandra's pain was her fault and she could nothing to relieve it. No more lies to gloss over with.
She took a deep breath.
"Gascard didn't, Mother."
She stopped. "What are you saying? Do you think I am blind? I saw you with my own eyes. How dare you try to deny it? I will not have it."
"No, I meant- I meant that... he was not my first, Mother."
Leandra gasped. It was low, rattling draw of breath that pulled at Marian's heartstrings and made her feel miniscule and then she started to weep softly, hopelessly, completely shattered. Marian dropped to her knees on the rug and reached to take her hand but she wrenched it away with a strangled cry. Not knowing what else to do she crouched at her feet, wincing as her mother's tears painted deeper lines into her face.
"It was him, wasn't it?" Leandra finally composed herself, clasping a hand over her heart as the last of the sobs made her voice hitch. "That dour elf. I've seen the way you two look at each other."
"Fenris?" Marian raised an eyebrow and almost smirked at that irony. "No."
She gaped in shock, unable to believe there could be anyone else. Her imagination simply failed. "Then who, Marian?"
Pinned under her mother's gaze, Marian could not defend against the chill, bone-deep memory. She shook her head and closing her eyes for a moment, willed her thoughts away from flashes of that long ago time. Bethany, she instructed herself, think of Bethany. So lovely, pure and chaste- think of Bethany. She was safe. Till the end. That's all that mattered. She felt a little better immediately, "A long time ago, Mother - back in Lothering." She stood, eager to get away. "I'm truly sorry about last night. Please excuse me."
In the library, she went straight for the cabinet under the window, yanking it open and scrabbling through its contents in search of the bottle of scotch that had sat at the back. A moment of panic flared when she couldn't find it and then morphed into disappointment as she remembered it had finished after that last confrontation with Leandra. Sinking to the floor, she leaned back into the frustratingly empty cabinet, consumed by the sudden craving, the taste of whisky on her tongue and fingers drumming impatiently. Then abruptly she leapt to her feet, seized by inspiration.
"Bodahn!" she flung open the kitchen door and flew after him. "Bodahn."
"Madam," he looked up from his chores and gave her a respectful nod.
"Do you still have any of that dwarven drink that Varric brought you last time he visited?"
"The malt... distillation, Madam?" He looked at her curiously.
"Yes!" She clapped her hands, "I'd like some of that."
He regarded her with surprise and then responded, "Of course, Madam. Will you be served in the library?"
Hawke nodded, "That would be fine," and returned there to wait.
When Bodahn entered not long after, Marian had a moment of remorse though she reached for the tumbler immediately and ordered him to set the bottle down on the table beside her.
"I'll ask Varric to get you some more tomorrow," she promised.
"No, no, Messere, after all you have done for me and my boy, besides it's very harsh and I doubt you would like it or could drink it all-," Bodahn trailed off in surprise as she emptied the tumbler in one swig and reached for a refill. After a pause to recover, he cleared his throat and spoke, eager to gloss over the awkwardness. "A note arrived from Guard Captain Aveline earlier with special instructions to make sure you read it as soon as you were awake."
"Oh?" she emptied the second tumbler, shaking her head as the liquid burned down her throat. It was especially potent.
Bodahn handed her the parchment bearing Aveline's seal. She took it, gesturing at him to fill her glass yet again while she tore it open and scanned the letter.
"Wants to see me right away," she lifted the third shot. "When was this received?"
"At ten in the morning, Messere." Bodahn informed her, unnerved by the sight of her emptying yet another serving.
"I see. Thank you, Bodahn." She finally set the glass away and rose a little unsteadily. "I should go and see her then, I suppose."
TBC
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