Anders' Clinic

"You don't have to be here."

Merrill started and sat up in her seat. The world around her was hazy and unfocused, and her eyelids felt heavier than Bianca had been the time Varric let her hold the crossbow. A dull ache had settled into the back of her neck, which she massaged with the heel of her palm. Had she been sleeping?

She looked down and found that she had indeed been sleeping; slumped over against Hawke's cot, still holding tight to the human's hand. Hawke herself was still unconscious, though it seemed that Anders had finished his surgeries for the time being. Most of Marian's smaller wounds now were sealed either by magic or everyday stitches. The gaping wound in her chest had been covered by a strange, plaster-like poultice. It had obviously sealed the wound; Marian was breathing deeply and calmly now.

Merrill shook her head and looked for the speaker to find Carver sitting nearby with his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He looked up at her, with a gaze that looked as tired as Merrill felt.

"You don't have to be here," the young man repeated. "You can get some sleep in a proper bed. Marian hasn't so much as moved over the past hour."

She sighed and rubbed at her tired eyes. She hadn't slept long, or all that soundly. "I'm not going anywhere. Not until she wakes up."

"The mage…" He sighed, shoulders slumping. "I mean, Anders said that she wouldn't wake for a long time. Something to do with a relaxation hex to keep her calm. You have time to get some rest."

Merrill narrowed her eyes at him. "Why are you suddenly so concerned? I thought you didn't want anything more to do with Marian. Or me, for that matter."

The last time they had met face-to-face, Carver – who had been drunk – had drawn his longsword on his sister and tried to attack her. Only a combined effort from Merrill, Isabela, and Bodahn Feddic had kept the young Templar from killing his own sister. And it had taken all three to subsequently keep Marian from doing the same to her brother.

Once the weapons had been taken away, Carver and Marian had gone their separate ways. For good.

Now, the young Templar shook his head and clasped his hands tighter in his lap. His lips were pressed into a thin, tight line. "Those were… different times. I won't apologize, but I also won't… I won't abandon her."

Merrill's expression softened against her will. Carver glanced at her, then back down at his boots. His cheeks warmed with shame. After a while, he awkwardly cleared his throat and said, "I want to know. What happened to her? I've heard the stories, but—"

"The Arishok," Merrill interrupted. "They were fighting. He… he stabbed her. It was horrible."

His eyes wandered over his sister's assorted wounds, his gaze darkening. "I'll bet. But she won anyway?"

"She used a fireball spell. It was… also horrible."

Carver shook his head with a sudden scowl and stood from his seat. "Andraste's tits, why does this keep happening? Every time something bad happens, Hawke blood is spilled. Blights, Ogres, serial killers, and now this?!"

He kicked his crate over in a sudden display of violence. Merrill jumped and squeezed Hawke's hand tightly. The woman didn't make any motion in acknowledgement of her touch.

But Carver was already done. His head was bowed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His hands were clenched into tight, shaking fists. When he spoke, it sounded as if he had just run a marathon.

"I should have…" there was something small in his voice, something twisted and wrangled as if he didn't want to let it out. His voice trembled, and Merrill thought she spotted a tear making its way down his cheek. He sniffed and quickly rubbed his eyes. "I should have been there. I should have been there."

"It wouldn't have helped," she murmured, glancing at Marian's pale face. "The Arishok fought her alone. If you had tried to join the battle, the Qunari would have killed you. I know. I tried to help her, too."

She gestured to the bruise on her forehead, the imprint of the hard hilt of a Qunari sword. Carver glanced at it over his shoulder, then shook his head and turned back to her again.

"It's not the same. I wasn't there for Bethany, wasn't there for Mother…" he glanced back at her. "I'm her brother. We should have faced the Arishok together."

"We can't change the past, Carver," she murmured. "I know that better than most. All we can do is keep moving forward and try not to make the same mistakes twice."

"Fat lot of good that does her. She could die, and I… I would never get to tell her…"

He sighed explosively and threw himself back onto his crate. His hands buried themselves in his hair, his back hunched. "I can't lose her too. I should have been there…"

"Lots of things should have happened tonight," Merrill said, her thoughts drifting back to Isabela. "But they didn't. You can't change that."

She hesitated, then reached out and clasped Carver's large, armored hand with her much smaller, much more slender one. She squeezed gently.

"Marian would be grateful that you're here now," she said, giving him her warmest, most encouraging smile. "And that's all that matters."

Carver's expression didn't change.

The sound of raised voices drew their attention. Someone – actually, several someones – were shouting outside the clinic. Varric also sat up, hefting Bianca against his shoulder. He hopped off his cot with a grunt and headed for the door. His eyes were narrowed dangerously, his finger hovering over Bianca's trigger.

Merrill also stood and followed close behind the dwarf. "What's that?"

"Sounds like we've got quite the fan club gathering outside."

"Fan club? What do you mean?"

Varric pressed his back against the doorframe and poked his head around the corner. "Yep. Like I thought."

Merrill looked over his shoulder and saw that a crowd had indeed gathered outside. There were at least twenty people crammed into the alley outside the clinic, clamoring and shouting. The two Templar guards flanking the door had drawn their swords in preparation for an attack. Merrill saw with a sinking heart that there were several angry Templars in the crowd outside.

Cullen was also outside, though he hadn't drawn his sword. His arms were folded across his chest as he spoke to the group.

"Everyone!" the Knight-Captain called. "Everyone, you need to return to your homes! This is an ongoing Templar operation and—"

A rotten tomato flew from the crowd and splattered against his chest plate. He recoiled with a disgusted grimace and the Templars on either side of him stepped forward and raised their swords. He signaled for them to stand down.

"My sister was a mage!" one of the crowd-goers shouted over the din. "And she got carted away to the Tower!"

"So was my brother! They made him Tranquil!"

"And my mother!"

One of the protesters, an angry-looking Templar with a disfiguring scar across his nose, forced his way to the front of the group. "Every mage goes to the Tower. It's the law. What makes Marian Hawke so special?"

"If you have issues with this arrangement," Cullen snapped, wiping rotten tomato paste from his armor, "then you can take it up with Knight-Commander Meredith."

"You can't be serious! This is a travesty!"

"We won't stand for this!"

"Hawke should go to the Tower like all the rest!"

Merrill didn't know what came over her. Hearing all these men and women clamoring for Hawke's blood ignited something in her. Her blood boiled inside her until she was sure she'd turned beet-red. Her hands quivered, tightened into tiny fists. And before she could stop herself, she stepped around Varric and stepped outside to face the crowd.

"Daisy!" Varric grabbed at her arm as she passed. He missed. "What do you think you're doing?"

She didn't answer him, her thin face pulled down in a furious scowl.

I'm tired of hiding behind Hawke, she thought. Tired of hiding from Templars, from bandits, from everything in this awful city. I'm not hiding any more.

A ball of lightning was conjured into life between her palms. She threw it up into the air, high above her head where it exploded into a shower of sparks with a loud snap! Instantly the clamor died down and every gaze was fixed on her. The alley was suddenly silent.

"Now you all listen to me," she snapped. Her normally tiny, quivering voice rang over the crowd with more power and authority than she thought possible. "Marian Hawke is a hero. She saved your lives from the Qunari! She's lying in there, wounded and dying, because of you! And this is how you repay her?"

She felt Cullen's wide palm fall on her shoulder, obviously trying to pull her back. She shoved him away and took a step closer to the crowd. Those nearest to her took a fearful step back.

"That woman," she continued, "the woman I love, has done nothing but sacrifice for you people. She has fought and bled for you ungrateful shems for years! When she fought the Arishok, she wasn't fighting for herself. She wasn't fighting for me. She was fighting for all of you!"

She raked her gaze over the crowd, a dark sneer pulling at her features. "How dare you turn against her after everything she's given! She is the only reason we all haven't been conscripted into the Qun!"

The angry-looking Templar with the nose scar stepped forward again. "You want to stand with her, knife-ear? You can get the brand, the same as her."

"You aren't going to make her Tranquil," Merrill snarled. She clenched her fists and twin balls of fire sprang to life around them, consuming her hands up to the wrists. The crowd flinched away from her. "If you try, you'll have to go through me."

"And me." Carver suddenly appeared at her shoulder. He had his broadsword in his hand, and he planted the sharpened tip into the dirt and sand beneath his boots. "My sister saved your lives. If you try to harm her, I swear to Andraste I'll kill you all."

The scarred Templar sneered. "You'd truly turn your back on your own order? To defend a mage?"

"That's right." Carver nodded, a dangerous set to his jaw. "I may be a Templar, but I'm also a Hawke. You're welcome to find out which I find more important."

"Traitor!"

"Mage-lover!"

Another object sailed from the crowd; a rock, this time. It struck Merrill in the jaw and sent her reeling back a few steps. The fire crackling around her hands sputtered out, her mana flow interrupted by the surprise and pain. She rubbed at the quickly-forming bruise along her jaw and watched through watering eyes as Carver moved to step toward the crowd, broadsword raised.

He didn't get far. Cullen interjected again, grabbing them both by the arms and pulling them away from the crowd, which was quickly growing more and more agitated. There were at least twenty-five people now clamoring and shouting at the men and women taking shelter in the clinic.

"You two aren't helping," Cullen said, escorting them back to the door to Anders' sanctuary. "Get back inside and care for the Champion. I'll handle things out here."

"Can you?" Carver demanded, eyeing the crowd. They were still throwing things, but the Templar guards were blocking most of the projectiles with their shining, emblazoned shields. "If this comes to a fight, you're going to need us."

"A contingent of city guards are on their way to reinforce us as we speak," Cullen said. "Your friend Aveline is among them. Once they arrive, the crowd will disperse."

"And if they don't?"

Cullen's expression darkened. "Then may the Maker have mercy upon us all."

He gestured for them to return to the clinic, where Varric was waiting with Bianca still tucked tight against his shoulder. Then the Knight-Captain turned back to the crowd and held out both hands.

"Please," he called, "return to your homes. Your animosity accomplishes nothing!"

"Rebel mages get the brand!"

"If Hawke doesn't have to go to the tower, my sister shouldn't either!"

"Traitors!"

"Traitors!"

The last thing Merrill saw was Cullen wearily rubbing his forehead. Then Varric shut and locked the clinic door and the sight was lost. The shouting and clamoring of the crowd died back to a dull, muffled rumble.

Varric sighed and put a hand on Merrill's shoulder as he led her back to Hawke's cot. Anders had set to work again, doing his best to work on the bloody puncture wound in Hawke's torso. If he heard the commotion outside, he didn't acknowledge it.

"That was very brave, Daisy."

Merrill huffed. "Those people don't deserve Hawke."

"No. No they don't."

Her shoulders slumped. After facing down the angry crowd, she suddenly felt very tired. Her hands were shivering as if she had plunged them into a bucket of ice water. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and the bruise along her jaw was throbbing uncomfortably.

"I shouldn't have done that," she said, her voice now very small. "Now they know I'm a mage too!"

"I said it was brave, Daisy," Varric said with a sad smile. "Not smart."

"I was just so angry," she sighed. "Hearing all those people clamoring for her blood… I just wanted to defend her. To show them how wrong they were about her."

"That might have worked," Varric said. "If you were speaking to something less than a mob. People can be reasoned with and turned away, not mobs. They've got the taste of blood in their mouths now, and nothing will change their minds. I've seen it before."

"So what do we do?"

He patted her shoulder and eased her down into her old seat at Hawke's side. She quickly reached out and clasped the unconscious woman's hand again, squeezing it tightly in her cold, quivering fingers.

"Stay here, Daisy," the stocky dwarf said. "Get some rest if you can. I'll keep an eye on the fan club outside and tell you if anything develops."

"You shouldn't go out there," Carver said. "They're already riled up enough. And it won't take much for them to jump from kill all mages to kill all nonhumans."

"Hey," Varric shot him a charming, crooked grin, "it's me we're talking about! Worst case, I'll give them a sneak peek of my next book and they'll calm right down. Your old pal Varric knows how to work a crowd."

"And if that doesn't work?"

He cranked back the loading rod of his crossbow, feeding an arrow into the firing mechanism. "Then I'll let Bianca do the talking."

The bandages stayed on for weeks. They itched and itched, but Papa scolded her every time he caught Marian scratching at them. They had to be changed twice a day, and they stuck and pulled painfully at her skin when they were removed. She caught a slight glimpse of the world every time they were changed, but her right eye remained as dark as if the bandages were still in place.

She had been blinded. Papa explained that he could rebuild her eye, make it look like nothing was wrong. It would even move with her other one and no one would be the wiser. But magic couldn't repair damaged optical nerves, nor could it rebuild the delicate internal structures that granted sight. Her vision would remain forever dark on that side and there was nothing she could do about it.

She spent over a week in bed, prohibited from strenuous movement. At first – after the endless throbbing pain of her wound had finally, finally faded – she thought it was great. She didn't have to do her chores or her studies, she got to play with her carved toys as long as she wanted, and Mother brought her soup whenever she asked. Papa even told her stories before bedtime, spinning tales of his exploits and adventures throughout Thedas. He hadn't done that in quite some time.

But after a few days, the leisurely periods of recovery became more of a prison. She longed to get out of bed and return to the world. She wanted to walk in the forests again and kick at her pinecones. She even longed for the distraction of her household chores and studies.

But more than anything else, she wanted to look in the mirror. Mother had strictly forbidden it when the bandages had gone on, of course. She claimed there'd be plenty of time to preen and fix her hair once she was better. It was a poor attempt at humor, and one that didn't fool Marian.

She saw the way Mother avoided her gaze every time the subject was broached. She heard her parents arguing at night, yelling at each other that this area was no longer safe. She had tried to spy her reflection in the tray Mother used to bring her meals, but it was blurry and unfocused – not to mention blocked by the heavy bandages.

When her impatience got the better of her and she demanded to know why she couldn't look, Papa had sighed and set the record straight. He had set his chair near her bed, then reached out and cupped her tiny hand in his two large ones. His calloused palm felt rough and hard under her delicate child's fingers.

"Magic is an incredible gift," he'd said. "And it is capable of doing incredible things. But it can't do everything, Marian. It enhances our physical traits, but doesn't replace them."

She hadn't understood. Magic could do everything. She'd seen it with her own eyes: it had built their home, shielded their family from harm, and killed that Templar in the woods. Magic could break all boundaries, change all the rules.

But Papa had shaken his head with a weary sigh. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was pale and clammy. The last few days had been difficult for him, she knew. The combination of magical healing and arguing with Mother was obviously taking it out of him.

"I'm not a healer by trade, Sparrowhawk," he said. "I was able to fix the worst of the damage, but… but I couldn't erase it completely."

"W-what do you mean?"

"When the bandages come off," he said slowly, avoiding her heavily-bandaged gaze, "you'll have a scar. A long one. It will cover almost half your face, over your right eye. And it won't go away. Not with magic, and not with time."

He squeezed her hand again and his voice shook. "Forgive me, Sparrowhawk. I never wanted this for you. Never wanted any of this for you."

She wanted to shout at him. She wanted to stamp her feet and rail at the injustice of it all. She wanted to blame him, to put all responsibility on his head. She wanted to cry and send him away, leaving her to her dull, throbbing aches and her itchy bandages. But she didn't do any of that. She couldn't. For some reason, she couldn't form the words.

Instead, what fell from her lips was, "I forgive you, Papa."

Tears had welled in Malcolm's slate-gray eyes, and he gathered her up in his arms to hold her tight against him. She hugged him back, weeping silently into his shoulder with her one remaining eye.

That had been over a week ago. The itchy bandages had continued, as had Mother and Papa's arguments. The pain slowly – ever-so-slowly – began to fade away. She woke one morning, almost two weeks after her accident, and realized that it had finally vanished completely.

That was the day. The day the bandages came off. The day she caught her first glimpse at her face since the attack. She was standing in front of a large shard of broken glass hung on the wall, which they used as a mirror. Her reflection was warped and a little blurry, but she could see it clearly enough.

Papa unwound the bandages slowly, his fingers gentle as they peeled the bindings away from her skin. They no longer tugged at her, soaked with blood. They slid away smoothly and rasped against her skin with a perpetually itchy scrape.

Marian's heart was racing in her chest. Adrenaline coursed through her system in an icy flood, and she felt dizzy with equal parts fear and anticipation. Mother was standing a little off to the side, her hands folded elegantly in front of her. She looked just as anxious as Marian felt.

"Now Sparrowhawk," her father was patiently explaining, "you must remember that just because the bandages are off doesn't mean you're completely healed. You must give your body time to recover after what you've been through, or you'll open your wounds and the bandages will have to go back on."

"Yes Papa," she dutifully replied.

"And…" he hesitated. "Please don't be alarmed. I tried to control the damage as best I could, but…"

"I know, Papa," she interrupted. "I won't be afraid."

She knew he blamed himself for her injury. She knew Mother blamed him too; she had heard as much during their many arguments. But she didn't blame him. She knew that it was her fault. She shouldn't have wandered so far into the forest, directly against her father's wishes. A smarter girl would have stayed home or, failing that, stopped the Templar herself before he'd managed to hurt her.

None of it mattered now, of course. Nothing could be done to change it. She simply had to live with the consequences.

The last bandage finally fell away, and she was granted an unimpeded view of her face. She stifled a gasp, remembering her promise to her father. It didn't stop her eyes – both of them, though only one now worked properly – from stretching wide in shock.

An ugly, twisting gash of a scar stretched down her right temple, over her eye, and down her cheekbone. It twisted next to her nose and slashed diagonally across her jaw, over her lips, before curling to a stop at the dip in her chin. It was a livid white depression against her skin, a hideous deformation that divided her face almost in half, and she reached up with trembling fingers to trace along the groove. It didn't hurt anymore, but the winding furrow dug across her cheek felt strange and foreign under her curious fingers.

She slowly pulled a face in the mirror, sticking out her tongue and watching the scar pucker and shift as her skin moved. Then her face fell still, eyes silently raking over the mark and memorizing every facet of her new, alien appearance. Papa squeezed her shoulder, no doubt waiting with bated breath for her reaction.

Once again, she wanted to shout. She wanted to stamp and scream and wail that it wasn't fair, that she would never be beautiful now, that she didn't deserve the bandages or the pain or any of this.

But again, she didn't. She just stared at the scar, realizing with a sick sense of certainty that her life had changed irrevocably. She would never again be able to blend into a crowd, would never be able to walk down the street without people staring. She'd be teased and taunted by other children, and she'd likely never marry – after all, who would want such a hideously marred wife? People would spit on her as she passed, would call her a freak and a monster and a –

She knew that scar was the end of her life as she had imagined it. Things would be different now, so different from the childish fantasies she had dreamed up in the blissfully ignorant days before the attack. Before the Templar.

She suddenly thought back to her earlier mantra, the fantasy that had brought her strength even when the Templar had chased her through the dark and foreboding forest: I'm a dragon.

In a single moment, that fantasy had been shattered. She didn't want to be a dragon anymore. She didn't long for great scaly wings and the ability to summon fiery breath. She didn't want to fly away from the forest to far-off lands of adventure and excitement. Now her wish was far simpler, and far more unlikely.

She wanted it gone. She wanted the scar to vanish, to heal over completely until nothing remained but a distant, fading memory. She wanted to wake one morning and find it had vanished, no matter what it took. She would give up her carved toys, her favorite jerkin, even her precious magic. She just wanted, more than anything else in the entire world, to be normal.

Papa squeezed her shoulder again and murmured in her ear. "Marian? Are you all right? Say something."

"I'm all right, Papa," she finally said. She reached up, patted the hand on her shoulder, and felt him relax. She was glad; this wasn't his fault, no matter who said otherwise or what he told himself.

"It doesn't look that bad," she lied.

Years passed. The twins were born, and the cabin grew very crowded. Mother and Papa began talking about moving again, maybe back to a village. It was easy to see that Mother was tired of the wilderness, no matter how comfortable Papa tried to make it. She was of noble birth, after all. The life of a drifter may have suited him, but it didn't suit her.

They spent months planning before the decision was finally made: the time had come to leave the forest and return to Ferelden proper. They spent days packing all their things, and Papa saddled up their tired old mare with all their most prized possessions. Mother brought along her jewelry, her sewing supplies, and a tiny locket inscribed with some kind of bird-like insignia. Papa brought his staff, his favorite pair of boots, and a leather-bound journal he refused to let Marian read.

Marian herself spent most of the time making sure the two-year-old twins weren't lost in all the bustle. The children liked to stick to Marian like glue, and it was often difficult to get time alone to herself.

But during her rare private moments, when Mother or Papa were playing with the twins or telling them tales of the villages, she managed to steal away a small pouch from the kitchen. Inside it she hid her small collection of carved wooden toys and her handkerchief, which was now faded from age.

She also dropped inside a tiny, polished stone that she had found in the forest during her first trip exploring with Papa after her accident. When she held it up to the light, the stone caught the sun's rays and sparkled radiantly. Even in the dark, she could see the little stone twinkling like an earthbound star.

Papa said it was called an amethyst and that it was very valuable. But Marian knew she loved it not for its fancy name, but the way it always sparkled with a deep purple hue. Her favorite color.

After they had left their cozy cabin far behind, the trip back to the villages seemed to take forever. By Marian's count, it had been four years since she had seen a living person other than her family – and the Templar. The prospect of returning to civilization after so long a time living out in the woods sent butterflies fluttering through her stomach.

Her mind, as always, returned to the matter of her facial scarring. The wound had healed completely over the years, and was now a dark furrow that stretched across her face. Her right eye was now slightly crooked, and her eyebrow on that side was jagged and lopsided where the scar bisected it.

How would people react when they saw it? Would they cringe? Would they stare? She didn't like being the center of attention, preferring always to stick to the rear of groups and be left to her own devices. She doubted her scar would allow her such anonymity any more.

The twins, by comparison, were stoic and silent: the two-year-olds sat swaddled in blankets in the back of the cart and stared out with wary eyes. They had never known a world outside the forest, and couldn't begin to imagine both the wonders and the dangers of civilization.

Marian envied them that sense of innocence and wonder. They didn't know about Templars or witch-burners or any of the other treats of the world. Lucky for them.

She was walking behind the bouncing cart, keeping her spirits up by telling Bethany about the various foods she remembered sampling in the cities.

"Do you know what a noodle is, Bethany?"

The toddler shook her head.

"It's marvelous," she said, thinking back to the taverns and inns Papa had taken her to when they had last been on the run. "Imagine a soft little rope that you wind around on your fork. You put it in soup or serve it with bread and sauce. You can even have it with butter and cheese! Does that sound good?"

The toddler shook her head.

"Hmm…" Marian tapped her chin, her finger rubbing over the indentation left there by her scar. "What about a donut? Do you know what a donut is?"

The toddler shook her head.

"It's something called a pastry. They make them in Orlais, I think. It's a little circle of… well, I guess it's like cake. And you put creams and chocolates and all manner of sweets on the top and eat them for breakfast! Does that sound good?"

Wide-eyed, the toddler nodded.

Up ahead, Papa reined in the horse and called over his shoulder, "Slow down, Marian. Someone's here."

Her heart instantly dropped into her stomach, her next words dying on her lips. Who was it? Another Templar? Something worse? She quickly tucked her hands away into her pockets, lest they betray her with an unwarranted shower of sparks or frost.

But the figure that melted out of the shadows of the trees was no Templar. It was an elf.

He moved gracefully, more like a dancer than anything else. His bare feet made no noise as he glided over the forest floor, which was carpeted by crunchy dead leaves and branches. He seemed to appear out of nowhere, like Papa's tales of specters and wraiths than inhabited ancient ruins.

Marian's eyes stretched wide. She'd never seen an elf before, though she'd heard of them from Papa's tales. As the man came into the light, she saw that he was accompanied by another. Both carried bows and sported the facial tattoos of the Dalish Clans.

Two elves! A man and a woman.

The man was short, only a little taller in stature than Marian herself. His blonde hair was pulled back from his face by a strip of dark leather, while his armor – made from the same material – was adorned with drapes of vines and flowers. His feet were bare and muddy, and his face had been smeared with mud as well. He was carrying a bow, which was currently drawn with an arrow ready to fire.

The woman trailed behind him, and at the sight of her Marian's eyes stretched – if possible – even wider. She wore leather armor like her compatriot, also adorned with leaves and vines as a manner of camouflage. Her jerkin, however, was cut at the shoulders and belly, showing off her flawless alabaster skin. Her hair fell in a luxurious midnight-black curtain that framed her elegant face, which was adorned with the swooping marks of her tattoos. Her eyes shone a brilliant sparkling green.

She was the most beautiful person Marian had ever seen.

The male elf swiftly strode toward them, his bow still drawn and aimed at Papa. As he drew close enough to speak, his lips peeled back from his teeth and he barked something out in a strange, lyrical language Marian didn't understand.

He was obviously not a friend. Marian was about to grow fearful when her father suddenly responded in that same lyrical tongue. He gestured to his own chest and said something Marian could not decipher, though she distinctly heard the word, "Malcolm," in the mix.

The elf narrowed his eyes suspiciously and did not lower his bow. But when he spoke next, it was in the Ferelden common tongue.

"You are refugees?" the elf man said, his voice laden with a heavy accent.

Malcolm nodded. "These forests aren't safe for my family any longer. I'm taking them back to the cities."

The bow didn't move. "You travel through our territory, shem. I should kill you where you stand."

"And you would be well within your rights to do so," Malcolm replied. He held up his hands placatingly. "I was well aware that I traveled through Dalish lands. But I had no other choice. I have to get my family to the cities. It's not safe here anymore."

The elf's aim faltered the slightest bit; even half-blinded, Marian's gaze was still sharp enough to pick out the way his aim quivered. His beautiful companion remained stoic and unreadable behind him.

Eventually, the man sneered again and said, "What were you doing living in the forests in the first place? The Brecilian Forest is no place for shemlen to raise families."

"It was the only option, I'm afraid." Papa cocked his head. "Your tattoos. They are familiar to me. You are of Clan Elgara?"

The elf's eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. But he slowly nodded, to which Malcolm smiled his warmest, most charismatic smile. But Marian saw the way his hands were raised, fingers splayed wide. Within the blink of an eye, he could loose a bolt of lightning or a wash of fire to take the elf by surprise.

"I've done some trading with your clan," Papa continued. "I'm a friend of Keeper Ehrendue. I promise you that I am no enemy, falon."

The man turned and muttered something to his beautiful companion. He looked angry, as if he did not want to let them go.

Then, something remarkable happened. The woman stepped forward and put a delicate-looking hand on her companion's shoulder. She nodded to the assembled Hawkes and said something quiet that Marian could not hear. She couldn't help but notice how the woman kept glancing directly at her.

The elf man's gaze softened. The bow slowly descended. He still looked suspicious, but he no longer held the commanding presence he had displayed before. The black haired woman, by comparison, seemed to grow even more radiant.

She stepped forward now, her arms folded in front of her. She nodded to the cart and when she spoke, her voice carried a soft and lyrical accent that sent butterflies fluttering through Marian's stomach.

"Your goods," she said. Like her friend, her voice carried a heavy accent. "What do you carry?"

"If you're looking for something of value, I'm afraid you won't find it," Malcolm replied, sounding relieved. His hands slowly lowered to his lap. "But if you're willing to trade, I'd be happy to talk. I'm sure we could all use a rest."

A few more words were exchanged between the two elves. Then the man finally returned his nocked arrow to its quiver and slung the bow over his shoulder. "If you are truly vhenallin, a friend of the clan," he said, sounding a little reluctant, "then we will not harm you. We will trade, but then you will be on your way and you will not return."

Malcolm nodded and dismounted from the mare, leaving Mother to take the reins. "You are wise and kind, my friend. Ma serannas."

The elf man approached the cart, his sharp eyes darting quickly over their sparse collection of supplies. They didn't have much; a few articles of clothing, an old cooking pot, and some game Papa had caught for the road before departing.

The woman, however, did not seem interested in their possessions. Instead, she walked straight for the children waiting at the rear of the cart. Mother looked apprehensive and moved to dismount from the horse and join them, but Papa put a hand on her arm and held her back. There was something in his gaze that Marian could not place. He knew something the rest of them did not.

Marian quickly hopped away as the beautiful elf woman approached. She blushed and stared at her muddy boots, avoiding looking at the raven-haired woman. When the woman's deep green eyes fell on her and the twins, they flashed with warm kindness. She bowed her head and placed a hand against her chest in greeting.

"Andaran atish'an, da'len," she said. She smiled at Marian, which made her heart flutter uncomfortably in her chest. "I am called Saidavel. What is your name, little one?"

"M-my name is Marian." Her voice sounded very small and frightened. "Marian Hawke."

The elf woman knelt in front of her and cocked her head. Over her shoulder, Bethany stared at her with wide eyes, while Carver tried to inch away and began whimpering in fear. Marian could smell the scent of pine needles and fresh rain as the elven woman drew close. She blushed and refused to look up from ragged boots, too afraid to meet that captivating green gaze.

"And what brings you to our part of the forest, hmm? Does your father speak true?"

Marian nodded quickly. "We can't stay here. Too many bad men are coming into the woods now."

"He is a wise man, then," Saidavel said with a smile. "Tell me, da'len, did one of these bad men hurt you? Is that why a child bears a warrior's mark upon her face?"

Warrior's mark? Marian had never heard it referred to in that manner before. But, seeing the woman's smile, she nodded again. "Y-yes. How did you know?"

Saidavel cooed and reached out, tracing Marian's scarred forehead with incredibly soft fingers. Marian felt a shiver run down her spine at the woman's touch. It was not an unpleasant shiver.

"You were clawed by the talons of Fen'Harel himself, da'len. Yet you escaped? The Creators certainly watch over you."

Marian heard Mother hissing at Papa, telling him not to let the elven woman touch their daughter. But Marian didn't want Saidavel to go away. She sensed no malice from the beautiful woman with midnight-colored hair. In fact, she felt… nice. Her aura pulsed with soothing latent magic in a way Marian had never felt before.

"I don't think I'm lucky," she said, still staring at her boots. Saidavel's touch faded as the elf drew back. "I don't want this warrior's mark. It makes me ugly."

She didn't know why she was talking. If it was anyone else, she would have remained stoic and silent, particularly about this. But something about Saidavel made her want to talk. She could tell the elven woman was trustworthy. That she meant no harm to her or her family.

"Ugly?" Saidavel echoed with a concerned frown. "This is the furthest thing from the truth, da'len. Such a mark does not diminish you. It shows you are strong."

Marian looked up at her. "Strong? How am I strong?"

"The greatest of heroes must endure the greatest of pains, da'len," the woman said. "How else are they to embrace their destiny?"

Her gaze grew more somber. "I can sense you have already endured much pain, Marian Hawke. And you will endure much more before your tale is done."

Marian's heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest. "W-what do you mean?"

But Saidavel didn't say more. Instead, she reached into her pouch and produced a handful of berries and roots. She held them out to her and the twins with an encouraging smile.

"Eat, da'assan," she said. "You look like naught but bones already."

Marian was never one to turn down free food. She and the twins eagerly gobbled up the offered treats. The berries were tart and made her cheeks pucker, while the root was bitter and barely edible. But she and the twins still gulped them down like they were the finest sweetrolls. Saidavel was right; it had been a long time since they had eaten.

While the children were distracted with the berries, Saidavel put a warm hand on Marian's shoulder and drew her away. When Marian looked at her, confused and jealous of the twins and their treats, the elven woman smiled encouragingly. She drew another small cluster of berries from her pouch, all colored a deep scarlet.

But she didn't offer them to Marian. Instead, she crushed them all in one hand and mashed them into a dark red paste.

"A great destiny lies before you, da'len," she murmured as she swirled two fingers in the berry paste. "A great and terrible destiny. And so you cannot leave without the proper preparations."

She reached out and traced her fingers, now dripping with scarlet berry juice, across Marian's forehead. Marian flinched at the woman's soft touch and the cold dampness of the berry juice.

Saidavel gently chided her for moving and continued her work. She drew a series of vertical lines over Marian's forehead, then swooping figures under her eyes. These were followed by circles on both cheeks and then more vertical lines down her jaw and over her lips. Saidavel drew back with a thoughtful frown, then finished with a single horizontal swathe over the bridge of Marian's nose.

As she worked, the woman began singing something. It was quiet, almost too quiet to hear, but Marian could pick out a few words of the lilting elven language:

"Ame amin," the woman sang. "Halai lothi amin. Noamin Heruamin."

"What is that?" Marian said before she could stop herself. "That song? What is it?"

Saidavel looked surprised for a half-moment. Then her eyes sparkled again and she smiled. "It is an old elvhen song, little one. Written for a great hero after a great victory. I think there will be a few songs written about you as well when you grow older."

"I don't think so," Marian said with a frown. "I'm nobody special. I'm just a little girl!"

"Ah, but is that all you are?" Saidavel said with a mischievous smirk. "And here I thought a dragon lurked behind those silver eyes."

Marian's blood ran cold in her veins. How did she know that? How could she know that? Had this beautiful elf been spying on her and her family? What other deep secrets did she know?

"H-how do you know that?" she asked in a tiny, frightened voice. "I haven't told anyone but my Papa about that."

Saidavel's wide, soothing smile seemed to chase away any lingering doubts. She meant no harm to the Hawkes. "I sensed it, little one."

The pieces began to fall together. Marian licked her suddenly-dry lips and said, "Are… are you… like me?"

The elven woman gave her a single, graceful nod. "I am. That is how I can sense the power within you, and the destiny that lies before you. These words were only for you, and so I had to converse with you, in a manner where no one else would overhear."

"What do you mean?"

"Did you not sense it, young one? We have been speaking telepathically since I first arrived."

Marian's eyes widened, as did Saidavel's smile. The girl was about to say something, to demand answers to all the questions that had suddenly sprang to life. But then she felt Saidavel's gentle hands cup her cheeks and draw her forward. A moment later, soft lips pressed against her forehead, and she shivered again.

"Dareth shiral, little dragon," Saidavel said as she drew back. Her lips did not move when she spoke. "Your road will take you to strange and unfamiliar lands. May the Dread Wolf forever hunt in different forests."

Then, with a soft breath and the wafting scent of fresh rain, Saidavel drew back and stood to her full height again. She took Marian's tiny hand in her own and led her back to the cart. With a heave, she helped Marian up to sit next to her brother and sister. Then she took a step back, bowed her head, and spoke aloud.

"May the rest of your journey be safe and restful, little Hawkes. Dream happy dreams."

She said no more. With that final blessing, she turned and walked away, returning to her male companion. Marian wanted to watch her go, to stare after the woman until the final moment when she vanished from sight. But her eyelids felt suddenly heavy, and within moments she had passed into a deep and peaceful sleep.

At the front of the small caravan, Malcolm watched Saidavel reunite with her companion. The male elf had provided them with much-needed food and medicinal supplies in return for some cooking pots and a string of decorative beads that were originally of elven make. Their business concluded, he had agreed to let the cart go.

But he wasn't about to let the elves wander off without some answers. So he stepped after Saidavel before the woman could get too far away.

"Why did you stop us?" he demanded. "I saw you and your friend spying long before you stepped out onto the road. Why reveal yourselves now?"

He took another step forward, his face darkening into a scowl. "More importantly, what does an elven mage want with my daughter?"

Saidavel stopped in her tracks, but didn't turn around. When she spoke, her voice did not carry over the air. Rather, it echoed within his mind on a warm wave of telepathic energy.

"Great things lie in store for your daughter, Malcolm Hawke," Saidavel said. "Her destiny will take her to strange and foreign lands, where her choices will influence the fate of thousands."

She now turned to face him, hands linked in front of her once more. "Many of those thousands will be elvhen. Many more will be mages. And one – a very special one – will be both. I have foreseen this."

"How?" Malcolm pressed. "Mages can't see the future. No one can."

Saidavel smiled – a sad, knowing smile – and simply said, "Ar lasa ghilan, lethallin. Banal ir."

Malcolm was about to say more, to demand to know what she meant by that. He wanted to make her reveal all she knew about Marian and his family. What destiny was she talking about? Who was this elven mage who would be so important?

But Saidavel wasn't finished. Her eyes suddenly flashed again, but this time they lacked all the warmth and humor they had shown before. Now they were cold and commanding, the same as her voice.

"Protect her, Malcolm Hawke," she said. "Protect her even at the cost of your own life. There will be many who seek to cut her down. You must prevent that, for as long as you draw breath."

"She's my daughter," Malcolm said. "Of course I'll protect her."

"Swear it. Swear that a Templar will never lay another finger on her so long as you live. Swear that the scar upon her face is the last one she will ever bear."

Despite himself, Malcolm winced at her words. "I… I swear."

Saidavel nodded, and her commanding presence vanished as quickly as it appeared. "Good. Great things lie before her. Things that will change the fate of Thedas itself. History will remember the Hawke name, lethallin. This I promise you."

She turned to leave again, but again Malcolm called her back.

"You tell me to protect her," he said, "for as long as I live. But will I be able to protect her? Will I live to see this destiny she's to fulfill?"

Saidavel didn't turn to face him again. And when she spoke, her voice was soft and sad.

"No. You will not."

All the air seemed to have been sucked from Malcolm's lungs. His shoulders slumped and his fingers fell slack. Before he could say more, Saidavel and her companion briskly strode away and melted into the trees, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.

Author's note: I like to think that Saidavel is secretly Merrill's mother. Canon be damned. :D

Also, I have no godly idea how long this story will continue. Every time I try to follow my set plan, more new ideas (like this scene) pop into my head and demand to be written. So for now, let's just see where this journey takes us.

Translations:

Ame amin. Halai lothi amin. Noamin Heruamin.: The last lines of "I Am the One." Roughly translated, it says, "I am the one who can recount what we've lost. I am the one who will live on."

Ar lasa ghilan, lethallin. Banal ir: I provide guidance. No more.