Even years later, Marian would remember the elves in the forest and Saidavel's cryptic words. She would remember those flashing green eyes and the exotic designs the elf's dexterous fingers had painted across her scarred and ravaged face. Mother scrubbed the berry paste from her cheeks as soon as the elves had vanished of course, hissing that they were lucky the Dalish hadn't stuck them full of arrows before they could blink. She told Marian not to listen to the elf woman and forget this had ever happened.
But Marian never forgot.
When they finally emerged from the forests and reached the towns, it was both better and worse than Marian had imagined. Everything was bigger than she remembered from her early days before they had fled to the forest; towers stretched high into the air, occasionally blocking the rays of the sun above while great carts laden with fruits and vegetables trundled down the road in huge caravans of men and horses. Soldiers patrolled the highways in neatly-organized columns, their tall spears stretching up into the air like the quills of the forest hedgehogs Marian used to chase as a girl. And no matter where they went, there always seemed to be Templars glaring at her.
She told herself it was just her imagination. That the Templars had no reason to suspect her of anything, even with the scar that ravaged her face. She and her family were just another batch of refugees, fleeing some conflict or another. Contention between the arls was common in Ferelden, and there had to be some kind of border war they could capitalize on.
Her heart was racing when they reached their first town. It was a sprawling, dusty-looking collection of wood and thatch buildings that stretched right up to the edge of the Brecilian Forest. Marian was riding on the horse when they arrived, safely tucked into her father's lap as they approached the first checkpoint leading into the village. Mother was sleeping in the wagon behind them, the twins snuggled close under each arm.
"This is South Reach, Sparrowhawk," Papa murmured as they fell into the line of people entering the city. "It's a logging town that thrives off of lumber mills and the Drakon River. Do you remember who rules here?"
Marian scrunched her face up, thinking back to her many lessons on politics and geography. "Um… it's, uh… Arl Bryland!"
Her father chuckled and ruffled her hair. "Good job."
She stared at the many plumes of smoke rising into the air all around the village and listened to the distant shouts of soldiers and the cry of crows somewhere above them. Then she glanced over her shoulder at her father with a concerned frown.
"Is this going to be our new home?"
His chuckle slowly faded. "I don't know, Sparrowhawk. It could be. Do you want it to be?"
She shrugged, reaching forward and patting their horse's stringy mane. "I don't know. Will there be other children?"
"I would assume so."
"Like me?"
Malcolm Hawke's frown deepened. "Probably not, Marian."
"Oh." Her face fell. "All right."
"If we do settle here," her father continued, keeping his tone as light and cheerful as possible, "you'll be able to return to a proper school. You'll have friends again."
Marian sniffed a little and said nothing, thinking back to her friends from previous villages. There weren't many, as the Hawkes had moved many times before finally settling into the forest. Even before going into exile, they had rarely remained in one place for long. Marian did remember one, however: a young boy named Yarpen, who had been about her age. He'd lived in the last village the Hawkes had visited before the forest, and Marian remembered liking him well enough. He'd been the son of the local lord's favorite hunter and had regaled Marian with tales of his father's many adventures in the lord's service.
Marian's own father had much better adventures, of course, but she was forbidden to share them. So she'd sat and silently listened to Yarpen's tales of bloodthirsty bears and great salivating boars with feigned admiration. She'd considered asking Yarpen over for supper one evening, but they had moved on before she could get the chance. She hadn't seen the young boy since, and doubted she ever would again.
For the longest time, Marian had longed for companionship. She dreamed of the days she would return to the cities and build up a veritable army of friends who would accompany her wherever she went. They would do everything together: swimming in the river, swordfighting with wooden sticks in the back alleys where the lord's knights occasionally wandered, and playing tag through the alienage. Maybe she would even make friends with a Qunari! The idea had fascinated her.
But as she grew older and they spent more and more time isolated in the forest, her desire for companionship began to dwindle. She still wished to return to civilization rather than hide away in the wilds like a common bandit or a member of the Chasind, but some part of her — some deep part, bitter at their continued exile in the woods — realized that she would always be shunned from "normal" life for some reason or another.
The scar on her face only made that all the more certain. When they had happened upon their first settlement after leaving the Brecilian forest, Marian had begged her father to give her a hat or a cowl to cover her scarred face. People were staring. They looked at her normally at first, but when the ravaged side of her face was thrown into the light, they recoiled with wide eyes and curling lips. Some were better at hiding their revulsion. Most were not.
When they'd stopped at an inn for the night, tired and sore from too much time on the road, the innkeep had asked what had happened. He'd narrowed his eyes and growled, "Your lass steal somefin?"
"Beg pardon?" Papa had replied with a wary frown.
The innkeep had nodded at Marian, who was bashfully trying to hide behind her mother's dress. "The little one. She steal somefin? 'Cause I heard that if a young'un steals somefin in Rivain, they mark 'em up like that. So they don't never forget they's a thief."
Malcolm had scowled at the innkeep and coldly snatched their food from the bar. "My daughter is no thief. She was attacked… by a wolf."
"Really?" The inkeep's bloodshot eyes widened. "Well, beg pardon master. I 'eard them wolves is bad inside the trees. Somefin about the knife-ears stirrin' 'em up to attack us normal folk. If'n you don't mind me askin' master, but is she a werewolf? 'Cause I heard that them Dalish cavort with werewolves upon the solstice. No shortage of wickedness and unnatural happenin's in that forest."
Malcolm had glared at him and turned away without another word. Marian had followed, but not before sticking her tongue out at the red-eyed innkeep.
She sighed as they rode along in the column heading for the city, absently playing with a strand of hair from the horse's mane. If she returned to school now, things would be no different. People would point and laugh or recoil in disgust. She would be plied with endless questions about how she got her scar. Did it hurt? What had happened? Did she scream every time she looked in the mirror? Did her family scream when she woke up in the morning, hair and face an equal mess?
If Papa sensed her melancholy, he didn't bring it up. He just patted her shoulder and continued to feign confidence. "If we do settle here, we could make a real living. Settle down, start a farm. Maybe we could even get you a dog. How would you like that?"
"I guess that'll be nice."
Papa ruffled her hair again, his voice softening. "It'll be okay, Marian. We'll be safe here."
Marian tried to believe him. She tried to believe that this time everything would be all right. That she didn't have to worry about Templars or witch hunters or the Rite of Tranquility any more. She tried to believe that, even with her scar, she could live a normal life here, in this bustling village by the forest.
She tried. She failed.
They spent the next five years in South Reach. Papa began work at the local lumber mill, sawing down trees and loading transports headed for other parts of Ferelden and the Free Marches. Mother took up work as a seamstress, mending ripped trousers or patching jerkins with rough scraps of leather. Marian returned to schooling at the local Chantry, learning about the history and geography of Thedas, as well as the more intricate nature of Andrastianism: how the Prophetess had been taken as the Bride of the Maker, and how she had been betrayed by her treacherous mortal husband Maferath. Marian thought it was a very exciting story.
The dreaded questions about her scar came and went, and as the years passed she grew used to avoiding those who called too much attention to it. The names upset her of course: other children called her Darkspawn and Wolfmeat, but she did her best to ignore them. The knowledge that she could — in theory — light them all on fire with a flick of her fingers was more of a comfort than she liked to admit.
What wasn't comforting was the fact that the only institution that offered educational opportunities was the Chantry. She had nothing against the church — she was a semi-devout Andrastian herself, after all — but where there were Chanters, Templars were never far behind.
She burst into tears on her first day, when she saw the silent knights standing guard on either side of the entrance to the Chantry. She had turned and buried her face in Papa's shoulder, begging him to let her return home and help Mother with her sewing. She didn't want to return, didn't want to go anywhere near those magnificent soldiers with their shimmering armor and their razor-edged swords. She had tasted the bite of those blades once and had no desire to feel it again.
Papa had stroked her hair and gently but firmly told her that she had nothing to fear. As her sobs grew louder and others nearby turned to watch, he told them she was simply nervous for her first day of school.
He'd taken her aside, out of earshot of the others, and cupped her face in his warm, rough hands.
"Marian, look at me."
She had done as requested, sniffing and blinking away the heavy tears that tugged at her left eyelid — her right eye, damaged as it was, could not cry. Papa brushed a tear from her cheek and offered her his warmest, most encouraging smile.
"You have nothing to fear from these people, Marian," he said. "I promise you."
"B-but they're Templars!" Marian said, her voice falling to a frightened squeak. "L-like the one who hurt me!"
"No. Not like him. That was a single man."
"B-but—"
"Not all Templars are evil, Marian. Some of them are good people. Better even than you or me."
"But w-what if these ones aren't? What if they… what if they can sense what I am?"
Malcolm's grey eyes had softened, his lips turning up in a smile. "My darling girl. That's not going to happen."
"But—"
"Remember what happened the day you were hurt? Who came to save you?"
"Y-you did."
"That's right. And you want to know how I knew you were in danger?"
Marian's eyes felt as wide as dinner plates. "H-how?"
"I felt it," Papa said. He reached out and took her hand, placing it against the rough material of his shirt, over his heart. "In here."
"How is that possible?"
"Magic, Marian." He grinned at her. "It can do wonderful things and bind people together in incredible ways. You're my daughter and I share a connection with you, just as I share one with your Mother and with the twins. And if you're ever in trouble, if you're ever in danger, I'll feel it. I'll be there to protect you, just as I was before."
He placed his hand over hers, pressing it against his heart. "I promise you, Marian. I will never let anyone hurt you again. I'll die myself before I let that happen. Do you believe me?"
"I… I do, Papa." Marian nodded.
"Good. Now come. There's someone I want you to meet."
He took her hand and led her, still sniffling, back to the front doors. Her heart plummeted into her chest as her father led her right up to one of the Templar guards, who was standing with his arms folded and his shield slung over his back.
"Knight-Captain Trevor," Papa said, greeting the man with a friendly nod. "My daughter here is a little nervous, what with all the soldiers loitering about. She's gotten it in her head that you're all some manner of revenants, come to snatch her away from the land of the living. Would you please prove her wrong?"
With the clank and rattle of armor plates, the Templar reached up and removed his angular helmet, revealing a wide, kind face with skin as dark as night. He looked down at Marian, causing her to squeak and hop behind Papa for protection. But then, the unthinkable happened.
The Templar smiled at her.
"Well hello there, Marian," the man said. His voice was deep, gentle, and seemed to rumble like distant thunder. "Your father has told me much about you."
He held his fist to his chest and bowed his head in salute. "It's an honor to finally meet you in person."
"It…" Marian peeked out from behind her father's leg. "It is?"
"Oh yes. Your Papa and I are good friends. He delivers shipments of lumber for the fires at the local Templar garrison. He's a good man. A little foolhardy and more than a little irritating. But a good man nonetheless."
He leaned down, causing Marian to squeak in fear again. But she didn't hide this time, instead gazing into Knight-Captain Trevor's dark brown eyes with her wide grey ones.
"You don't have anything to fear from me, Marian," he said, his voice little more than a whisper. "I'll keep you safe so long as you remain under the Chantry's roof. After all, does the Chant not say, all men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings?"
He cocked his head and smiled wider. "It is my sworn duty as a knight of the Templar Order to defend all those who walk in the Maker's light."
He glanced at Papa. "Even if the walkers happen to be smarmy daredevils who have more guts than brains."
Marian's eyes stretched, if possible, even wider. "You… you know what I am?"
Knight-Captain Trevor smiled at her again, then straightened to his full height once more. "What you are, Marian Hawke, is a young girl about to be late for her first day of classes. You should go, before Sister Nenneke grows cross."
She felt Papa's hand fall on her shoulder, and she turned to face him with a shocked expression. "You… you made friends with a Templar?"
"As I said," Malcolm murmured, falling to one knee before her, "there are good men among them. Knight-Captain Trevor will ensure you are protected. But no playing with fire, all right? Even his protection can only go so far."
"Y-yes, Papa."
"Good." He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "Then go, darling. And have a wonderful day. I will be here once your classes are finished."
Marian nodded numbly and turned to enter the Chantry, her entire conception of the world shaken to its very core. Knight-Captain Trevor smiled warmly at her as she passed through the great double doors and into the cathedral.
She, hesitantly and shyly, smiled back.
Thus her academic schooling began, in a far different fashion than any she'd imagined before. Her magic schooling also continued, under the cautious and watchful supervision of her father. After their third year in the village, Bethany joined her in her lessons; she had thrown a tantrum at dinner one night and frozen the soup she refused to eat into a solid block of ice. More fights between Mother and Papa ensued soon after.
Carver, surprisingly, showed no signs of magical abilities as the years wore on. He remained nothing more than a normal young boy as the years passed, though he seemed to grow more sullen at the attention Papa paid to his magically-inclined daughters.
Contrary to Papa's claims, Marian made no friends at her school. Some claimed it was due to a lack of effort on her part, but she knew that wasn't the whole story.
The truth was that she had long ago learned to judge people based on their reactions to her scar; if they wrinkled their noses or squinted in surprise upon first seeing it, they would inevitably turn to calling her names and refusing to sit with her at mealtimes. If they didn't, she knew she could trust them.
She had yet to meet someone of the latter kind.
The years wore on and she grew less and less interested in her academic studies. She once again began to look to the horizon, eager to explore the world for the first time since she'd been attacked. Reality, however, kept her securely grounded in South Reach.
As soon as she was old enough she took a job with the local stableman, shoveling out stables and brushing down the horses after her studies were over. It wasn't glamorous work, but the stables were warm in the winter and it allowed her to be alone with her thoughts of far-off kingdoms and exciting adventures. It suited her well.
That was, however, until a visitor came to the stables one autumn day, five long years since the day they had moved to South Reach. Marian, who had celebrated her sixteenth birthday only a few weeks previous, was shoveling muck from the stables and doing her best not to gag at the smell.
She wasn't alone in the stables. The twins had just arrived from their classes at the Chantry, deciding to keep their sister company until it was time to return to the cabin for supper. Carver was sulking in the corner, scuffing morosely at the dirt with one rough leather sandal. Bethany was reclining on a bale of hay nearby, kicking her feet absently and giggling whenever the horses tossed their manes and whinnied at her.
"Marian," Bethany said, cocking her head at her older sister. "Do you think Papa will make us dumplings for supper?"
Marian shrugged and tossed a forkful of foul-smelling goop into its appropriate waste bucket. "I don't know. Maybe."
Carver pulled a face and sniffed. "I don't like dumplings."
"Why not?" Bethany said, sounding as if the statement was a personal affront to her honor. "Papa makes such good dumplings. Ooh, and rabbit stew!"
"I don't like rabbit."
The young girl stuck her tongue out at her twin brother. "You don't like anything!"
Marian left the twins to their bickering and focused on the task at hand. The smell was only going to get worse the longer the stables remained filthy, and Horsemaster Lewis would tar her hide if he thought she was slacking on the job.
But she did hesitate when she heard footsteps. The twins continued their speculations about dinner in the stall behind her, but someone else was approaching. She paused her work and looked up, tossing a lock of raven-black hair from her eyes.
She had visitors. Two of them; a boy and a girl, both around her age. The young man was tall and well-built, with long black hair pulled into a tight ponytail and a dark look on his face. The girl — his sister, no doubt — had her hair shorn close to her head, leaving little more than stubble across her scalp. She'd obviously fallen afoul of lice in the past month or so and had cut her hair short as a result. The two were leading a dark brown draft horse behind them.
Marian huffed and turned back to her duties. They were travelers. Newcomers to the village, far from her concern. They were probably just wandering the city, trying to find their way to the markets. She didn't have time to socialize, and if these stables weren't mucked out by the time Horsemaster Lewis returned from the markets…
"Excuse me? Excuse me, miss?"
No such luck, it seemed. Marian sighed and straightened, plastering a friendly smile on her face like she'd been forced to practice so many times before. She turned to the two and planted her pitchfork into the straw at her feet.
"Welcome to Horsemaster Lewis' stables," she said, reciting the customary greeting Lewis demanded from his workers. "If you have mounts to check in—"
The girl shook her head. "No, nothing like that. We're looking to get our horse shoed. We're new to town, and our parents want to make sure Pegasus is ready to work the fields tomorrow morning."
She patted the horse's mane and smiled. Marian didn't smile back, taken aback by the friendly greeting.
She hadn't flinched. The girl hadn't flinched when she'd seen the scar.
It was hardly like someone could miss it, especially when she tied her hair back like she had it now. She'd tried letting her hair down in the past, to cover up the unsightly old wound. But she found that it was always getting in her eyes and sticking out at odd angles. She had no choice but to bare the mark for all to see.
And she saw it, she thought. She saw it and didn't so much as blink.
Marian shook her head, as if she were chasing away an irritating insect. That wasn't right. That couldn't be right. She must have missed it, must have been distracted by—
"Is that all right?" the girl pressed. "We can pay. Gold sovereigns, straight from Denerim."
She pulled a coin pouch from her belt and shook it, letting Marian hear the clink of coins inside.
"O-of course." Marian chided herself for being so easily distracted, then gestured for the two to follow her deeper into the girl instantly fell into step behind her, bringing the draft horse with her. Her brother hovered at the threshold with a distasteful look on his face.
"I'll wait outside," he said. "I don't want to soil my new boots."
The girl waved him off. "Fine, fine. Go snoop around the markets or something. I'll find you when I'm done."
The boy grunted and stalked off, out of sight. The girl shot Marian an apologetic look. "Sorry for my brother, Bolton. He's a little squeamish when it comes to farm living. We used to be cityfolk, but we're looking to settle down here for the time being."
Marian grunted and took the horse's reins from the girl. "We've seen a lot of refugees in South Reach lately. Something about fighting in the Free Marches, I think."
The girl rolled her eyes and sat down on a nearby bale of hay. "Everyone in the Free Marches winds up fighting at some point or another. This time it's some kind of coup attempt in Starkhaven. Whatever happened, my parents decided it was time to head further south."
"You're not from Ferelden, are you?"
The girl cocked her head. "How can you tell?"
"You're not splattered with mud and dog hair, for one. And your accent's wrong. Not strong enough for Ferelden. You're a Free Marcher?"
The girl smiled, and Marian quickly turned her back. "Starkhaven, actually. Your accent isn't Ferelden either. It's got a bit of a Kirkwall drawl to it."
"My parents," Marian said, "came from Kirkwall."
"Right shithole of a city, if you ask me. No offense."
Hawke led the horse over to a nearby workbench, where the necessary tools were resting. She hitched the obedient animal to a post and scooped up a hammer. "I've never been there. Don't plan to go, either."
"Oh. So you're Ferelden through and through?"
"All my life," Marian grunted, using the hammer to pry the old horseshoe nails free of the horse's hoof. The animal snorted and tossed its head, at which Marian quickly reached up and patted its flank, speaking in calming, soothing tones. The horse glared at her with one eye, then snorted again and slowly calmed down. Marian made a mental note to be gentler in her ministrations.
The girl raised an eyebrow. "You're good with animals."
Marian smiled a little despite herself. "You should see me with my dog."
"Ugh. You Fereldens and your dogs." The girl rolled her eyes, but a small smirk suggested the dig wasn't entirely serious.
"If I were actually a loyal Ferelden citizen, you'd probably have earned yourself a knock upside the head with that comment."
The girl shot her a grin. "Then I'm very glad you're not one of those soggy, wet-dog-smelling Ferelden mongrels. Much better to be a warrioress with Free Marcher blood in her veins."
Marian glanced at her. "Warrioress? What makes you say that?"
The girl gestured to her own face. "Your scar. I can only assume you got it in battle. Defending your family from bandits or darkspawn no doubt. Ooh, or was it a dragon? It was a dragon, wasn't it?"
The girl's words called something up in Marian, an old memory of a beautiful elf with raven-black hair and green eyes. Green eyes and the words battle scars…
But she quickly shook her head and recited the old excuse. "No, nothing like that. I was attacked by a wolf when I was a child. My family used to live in the Brecilian Forest."
"The forest?" The girl's eyes lit up with wonder and delight. "Oh, you must tell me all about it! Did you see any old ruins? Or elves, what about elves? I heard there are trees in the forest that are so old, they can talk! They spend all day coming up with rhymes and worrying about their stolen nuts. Or was it acorns?"
Marian frowned at the girl, happily smiling on her hay bale. Then she shook her head and returned her focus to the task at hand. "You're a strange person."
"Ah, but that's the best kind of person to be."
Marian reached for a fresh horseshoe from the workbench, just out of reach. The girl hopped off her hay bale and handed it to her, offering an open hand along with it.
"My name is Brooke," she said. "Brooke Moorlay."
Marian bit her lip, then held out her hand. "Marian Hawke."
"Very pleased to meet you, Marian."
The two girls shook hands, then spent the next few minutes chatting back and forth while Marian finished reshoeing the horse. They talked about South Reach and its relation to the rest of Ferelden, how the king wanted to go to war with the Orlesians again.
Brooke spoke of Starkhaven, its great ivory towers, and its royal guards in sparkling silver armor. She also spoke of her few trips to Kirkwall and how different the city was compared to spotless, sparkling Starkhaven. Kirkwall, according to the Free Marcher girl, was dirty and smoggy, a haven for criminal gangs and smugglers hiding in twisted streets under smoke-filled skies. Strangely, Kirkwall was also home to a great many mages — some had claimed the city's water supply was laced with powdered lyrium, which led to a greater number of babies born with magical powers.
Marian listened raptly as she reshoed the gelding. These tales of far-off cities and adventure were a metaphorical breath of fresh air amid the stale boredom of South Reach. She plied her new friend with all manner of questions over the next hour. Were there elves in Kirkwall? What about dragons, had they ever been spotted above Starkhaven's ivory towers? What were the markets like on a warm summer afternoon?
Brooke answered as many questions as she could manage with a ready smile and a happy bounce from her seat on the hay bale. Eventually, however, as the sun began to set over the thatched wood rooftops and Marian's work drew to a close, Brooke hopped down from her seat and brushed off her hands.
"Well this has been a lovely conversation, Marian. But I should probably be getting home. And… I think I'll need your help to do it."
Marian raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"My brother, Bolton, stalked off somewhere on his own, remember? He's probably off playing dice with the other boys by now. But I'm still new here, and I don't know the way home."
Marian turned away. "Ask one of the Templars. I'm sure Knight-Captain Trevor will be happy to help."
"That's the problem. I'm not a big fan of Templars."
That pricked up Marian's attention within the blink of an eye. She masked her surprise as an irritated flick of her head, as if shaking a strand of straw from her eyes, and slowly turned to scrutinize her companion once more.
"What, are you some sort of apostate?"
Brooke snorted. "Me? Bollocks, I hope not. But my family… let's just say we've been on the wrong side of the law one too many times. Angry Templars were a regular fixture at our old farm in Starkhaven. And I'd rather that trend not continue here.
"Besides," she continued, cocking her head and shooting Hawke a roguish grin, "a Templar won't be willing show me where to find a decent meal in this cesspit. Are you any different?"
"Apparently not," Marian said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder to where the twins were still talking in hushed tones. "Didn't you hear? I'm in for dumplings tonight. Wouldn't want to miss that."
Brooke narrowed her eyes playfully. "Touche, madame. I guess Templars it is, then. If you don't see me again, it's probably because I said the wrong thing and wound up in the city jails. Farewell, Free Marcher girl."
She threw Marian a jaunty salute, then took the reins of her horse and headed back out onto the street. Marian watched her go for a half-second too long.
Then she sighed, her shoulders slumped, and she called, "Wait! Hold on."
Brooke half-turned back to her. Marian scowled at the girl, but gestured for her to come back into the stables.
"I'll help you get home," she reluctantly said. "But let it never be said that I refused help to a stranger in need."
Brooke smiled and came bounding back into the steps with a happy clap of her hands. "Wonderful. Now I won't have to worry about getting mugged on the way back. With a fearsome warrioress like yourself to guide me, we can take on any foe!"
"I think you're overestimating the danger lurking in South Reach's back alleys. This isn't big, fancy Starkhaven."
"Andraste's tits, I hope so. I've had enough run-ins with bad characters to last a lifetime."
The twins had finally begun listening in to the conversation. Bethany gasped, hiding her open mouth behind her palm. "You said the T-word! You'll have to wash your mouth out with soap!"
Brooke smiled sweetly at the girl. "Of course, honey. I'll get right on that, as soon as I'm finished talking to your sister."
"I don't like soap."
"Carver, shut up."
Marian gestured to her siblings, pointing them toward the door. "You two go on and head home. I'll catch up shortly."
Bethany nodded and dutifully clasped her brother's hand as they headed for the door. "We'll tell Mother you'll be late. Be back in time for supper! You don't want to be late for Papa's dumplings!"
Marian waved and watched the twins leave. Bethany was skipping — at least as well as she could while Carver sullenly dragged his feet. After a few moments, they passed down a side alley and out of sight.
Brooke watched the two go, hands on her hips and a smile on her face. "They seem nice. Are they your siblings?"
"Yes. Twins," Marian replied. "The best things that ever happened to me."
"I know what you mean. Bolton may be a wanker from time to time, but I'd do anything for him."
Brooke looked out of the stables, at the sun sinking behind the horizon. "Well, Marian, we'd better get on the move. I don't know what prowls the back streets of South Reach after dark, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to find out."
"Rats, mostly."
Brooke scowled and mimicked Carver's surly drawl. "I don't like rats."
Against her better judgment, Marian found herself laughing.
Present Day
The shouting outside had only grown louder as the hours passed. The ranks of protesters had swelled with more angry Templars and Kirkwall natives who screamed, chanted, and threw rocks at the clinic door. Cullen was still trying wrangle them to the best of his ability, now supported by four more loyal Templars sent from the Chantry. Aveline and her guards had yet to arrive.
Varric was currently dozing next to the door, Bianca cradled under his chin like a child with his treasured teddy bear. Anders was also sleeping, worn out from the exertion of healing magic and surgery. Hawke had yet to reawaken.
But Merrill could not bring herself to sleep. She had tried a half dozen times, but could never do more than fall into a fitful, nightmarish doze. Images of blood, fire, and horned warriors raced through her mind every time she closed her eyes.
Now, she was pacing back and forth, rubbing her arms and listening to the clamor just outside. The most recent rallying chant was, "Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!"
Merrill sighed and ran her hands through her hair, doing her best to filter out the noise. She focused on the steady rise and fall of Hawke's chest and the way the woman's breath rasped up from her lungs. She was breathing better than before, and it looked like none of her wounds had become infected. That, at the very least, was a small mercy.
"Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!"
She sniffed and sat next to her Champion, tracing the soft pad of her thumb over the back of the woman's hand. She couldn't be sure, but it almost felt like the human squeezed her hand back in response.
"Marian," she sniffed, "I know I'm asking a lot, but I need you to wake up. Right now."
She glanced over her shoulder as a heavy rock thumped against the door again. She squeezed Hawke's hand tighter. "You beat the Arishok, but the fight isn't over yet. There are poeple here who want to hurt us. And… and I don't know if I can stop them."
She shook her head. "I'm no warrior. I'm not brave or dangerous. I like books, not blades. That was always your specialty."
Something else thumped against the door, even bigger and louder than before. Merrill winced, while Varric snorted and started from his sleep. He looked around, then scowled and relaxed against the wall again.
"Bloody protesters," the dwarf muttered, settling back into a comfortable position with his crossbow tucked close to his chest. "Blondie should have put up some kind of force field around the clinic. Something nice and thick, preferably with an electric charge."
He grumbled a bit longer, but quickly fell into slumber once more. Merrill wasn't surprised; dark circles had formed under his eyes and it was clear he was exhausted. They all were.
"He's not wrong."
Anders had been woken by the noise as well. He rubbed his eyes and sat back on his stool. A sigh fell from his lips.
"I should have put up a force field," he said, glancing to the door. "But I couldn't. Not without weakening my healing magic and potentially losing Hawke. Now I'm too weak to…"
"You're doing your best," Merrill reassured him. "Hawke is still alive because of you."
"For the moment."
The little elf shuddered. "Don't say that. She's going to wake up. She has to."
Anders continued to stare at the door. There was a dark, hard look in his eyes Merrill didn't like.
"Cullen's a dedicated soldier," the mage said. "He's a good Templar, and I don't mean that as a compliment. But even he and his lackeys won't keep that crowd out."
Another heavy thud from the door, and more shouts of, "Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!"
Anders shook his head and settled back into his seat. After a few moments, he sighed again and closed his eyes.
"That door will come down before long," he murmured as he too drifted back into slumber. "And the horde will be right behind it. You'd best be prepared for when that happens."
Author's Note: Sorry for the long delay in updating this one. I had planned to continue this tale over Christmas. A round of holiday pneumonia made those plans go up in flames. But now I'm back and much better, and so the show goes on! :D