In any "civilized" society, rumor is always the first enemy and greatest weapon of the apostate mage. Rumor infests every facet of life, from the markets to the work fields, from the hearths of local inns to the sparking campfires of forest hunters. It swarms and invades daily living, flowing in and out of every road, side alley, and secretive passage. It is persistent — as persistent as the most devoted mage hunter.
After years of living in South Reach, Marian Hawke had learned to pick up rumors as effortlessly as she listened in on her parents' ever more frequent arguments, muffled behind the thin walls of their village home. She was easily one of the most in-the-know people in the village; something that came in very handy for herself and her family. One time, Bethany came down with a cold and wound up sneezing icicles that embedded themselves two inches deep in the walls. Mother worried they would be in for a visit from the Templars — at least until Marian planted rumors there were werewolves prowling through the woods nearby. The rumor caught on and the entire Templar force was sent hunting nonexistent monsters deep in the woods, leaving Bethany with plenty of scrutiny-free time to recover. By the time the shining knights returned from the forests dirty, sore, and angry, the littlest Hawke was as healthy and cheerful as ever.
Marian prided herself on keeping up with local gossip, even devoting some of her free time to loitering at the local tavern and picking up the juiciest new stories. She didn't drink there, of course — she wouldn't waste her coin on that swill even if her parents did allow her to drink — but it never hurt to linger on the outskirts of the crowd and soak up useful information. The scruffy local bartender had given up trying to chase her away and now rather reserved her a seat near the door.
Her new friend Brooke Moorlay was also an invaluable help when it came to keeping in touch with local scuttlebutt. She was no greater fan of Templars than Marian — for very different reasons — and had taken to keeping tabs on local Chantry-related news on her own. Marian played off her interest as a feigned dislike for law enforcement, which was easy to believe given her rebellious nature.
As the days became weeks and weeks grew toward a year, the Ferelden and the Free Marcher became nigh inseparable. Almost every day, Brooke would stop by the stables to help Marian with her chores, groom the horses, and trade local rumors back and forth. Besides comparing local lumber prices and debating whether Ferelden would restart their seemingly endless war with Orlais, there wasn't much else to hold a growing girl's attention.
Local rumor was usually boring and repetitive: the miller was sleeping with the alderman's wife, the Dalish were lurking around in the forest on the other side of the river, and Knight-Captain Trevor was always suspiciously nicer than a Templar had any right to be. Marian filtered through most of this with disinterest. But she quickly pricked up her ears when the gossip grew far more personal.
Brooke Moorlay and Marian Hawke, the rumors suddenly claimed, were bedding each other.
She heard it first at the Chantry, when picking up the twins from their classes for the day. A few of the more unfriendly sisters were muttering about it, and Hawke, with her ever-sharp hearing, picked up on the conversation when she heard her name being passed between them. As she and the twins marched by, the sisters shot Marian a volley of unfriendly glares.
The second time she heard the rumor was while working at the stables. It was more an insinuation than an out-and-out accusation, this time from Horsemaster Lewis. The portly balding man waddled into the stables, glared around at his surroundings, and spat, "What, that Moorlay wench hangin' about today?"
Marian, brushing down the manes of one of their more adventurous horses, shook her head. "No, Master Lewis."
"Good," the man snorted, then hocked into a nearby haystack. "Lass like her ought not be invadin' the workspace, distractin' the workers. Maker only knows how little you manage to get done when yer makin' googley-eyes at her 'stead of doin' your job."
Marian bristled as the Horsemaster stalked off once more, no doubt heading back to the tavern to drink and boast about how his well-groomed horses were the pride of South Reach.
Normally rumors such as this wouldn't be cause for concern; sapphic relationships were far from uncommon in Ferelden, often seen as a quirky cause for gossip but little else. The Tevinter Imperium might have eschewed same-sex relationships, but most Fereldens couldn't care less so long as it didn't interfere with the harvest, war, or playtime with the dogs.
Marian, however, had problems with the claims. Two problems, to be precise:
Firstly, her family couldn't afford any excess scrutiny. They already had enough Templar attention as it was, what with Carver misbehaving during class at the Chantry and Bethany still learning to control her powers. And Brooke didn't exactly get along with the knights herself, often reprimanded for swiping food at the markets, poaching in the arl's hunting grounds, or generally making a nuisance of herself. Marian found the girl's Free Marcher hotheadedness endearing. Most others weren't so charmed.
Secondly, she didn't have any kind of romantic feelings for her friend. At least none she was aware of. It couldn't be denied that Brooke was beautiful, of course. Her short hair had grown as the months passed, lengthening into a luxurious auburn curtain that fell past her shoulders. She often kept it long and loose, and had recently taken to accentuating her eyes with dark strokes of ash. Marian often found herself impressed by Brooke's almost effortless beauty, but she just wasn't interested in that way…
Was she?
The third instance of the rumor came to her, unsurprisingly, from a glum and morose Carver Hawke. Over breakfast one morning, her younger brother glowered up across the table and muttered, "So Marian… people at school say you like other girls."
Marian sucked down her porridge in a single, shocked gulp and almost dropped her spoon into her bowl. When she managed to stop choking on her breakfast, she sputtered, "W-what?! Who says that?"
Carver shrugged, smiling smugly at his ability to so easily upset his older sister. "People. Drakken and Bol, mostly. They say you and that Moorlay girl snog in the stables when you're supposed to be working."
Bethany scoffed and scraped at her bowl with the side of her wooden spoon. "Don't they have anything better to do than make up outlandish rumors about other people? Besides, I can't see them wooing any women. I think they only have three teeth between the two of them!"
"They're not so bad," Carver said, hunching his shoulders and glowering at his twin. "Better than your friends."
Bethany pointed her spoon at her brother and narrowed her eyes. "You take that back!"
Carver stuck out his tongue. "Make me."
The raven-haired Bethany stuck her own tongue out, then looked to her older sister with a sweet smile. "Don't listen to Carver. He's in one of his moods again. Besides, it's not even true, right?"
"Of course it's not true!"
"Shame." Bethany shrugged. "Brooke is nice. I like her."
Marian leveled her own spoon at Carver. "Next time you see Drakken or Bol, you tell them to keep their long, crooked noses in their own bloody business."
"Watch your language." As usual, Mother seemed to appear from thin air, melting from a point somewhere behind her with a cold, elegant grace. She was dressed in a simple gray gown today, her hair pulled back in a functional braid that allowed her to show off her high-regal cheekbones. "And stop arguing at the meal table."
"Carver started it!" Bethany protested.
"Did not."
"Did too!"
Mother seemed to effortlessly tune out the young twins' bickering. She put a gentle hand on Marian's shoulder with a smile and gave it a gentle squeeze as she passed. "Good morning dear. I wonder if you could pick up some things from the market on your way back from your work today?"
"Such as?" Marian sneered at Carver one last time, then turned back to her lukewarm porridge.
"Eggs and flour, mostly. I can give you a list."
"Ooh, is this about her birthday?"
No sooner had the words fallen from Bethany's lips than the little girl clapped her hands over her mouth with a squeak. Mother whirled on her and hissed, "Bethany! It was supposed to be a surprise!"
"IknowI'msorry!" Bethany's muffled voice was a messy spillage of words behind her hands.
Marian frowned. "Birthday?"
"Well I suppose the secret is out now," Mother said, turning her back while Carver swatted his overly chatty sister upside the head. Bethany smacked him back, then the two returned to their breakfast without further confrontation.
"Did you forget, dear?" Mother continued, taking a seat next to Marian at the table. "Your birthday is coming up soon! Your seventeenth if memory serves."
"I… I guess I forgot," Marian said. She blushed and turned back to her breakfast. "I've… had a lot on my mind recently."
"Well try to act surprised later. Your father and the young Moorlay girl have put a lot of work into your party."
"Brooke helped?"
"Well of course, dear. Why wouldn't she?"
Marian pondered over this for some time, a dark frown crossing her features and pulling at the twisted scar on her face. She poked at her bowl for a few moments, then awkwardly cleared her throat. "You know… if there's going to be a party, I think I just want it to be a family affair. No outside people."
"Are you sure, dear? Brooke worked so very hard to—"
"I'm sure," Marian interrupted. "With me working at the stables, the twins in classes at the Chantry, and Papa away at the lumber mill, it's been too long since we've all just sat down as a family. If there's going to be any kind of celebration, I would rather it was just between us Hawkes."
Mother tilted her head with a concerned frown, obviously suspicious of her daughter's halfhearted excise. But she backed down when Marian threw her a carefree smile.
"It's your birthday, dear. That means it's your decision."
"Thank you, Mother," Marian said. Her smile disappeared as soon as her mother looked away. "I'm glad you understand."
To be honest, she was very glad her mother didnt understand. At least not completely. Marian didn't want Brooke there for fear of causing an incident, not for any desire for closer family bonds. In recent weeks, Brooke had become… confusing. The last thing anyone needed was that confusion spilling over into Marian's already-stressful family life. Maker knew, Mother and Papa were fighting enough as it was; Marian was just glad her mother hadn't heard the rumors about her daughter currently infesting the streets.
Mother was of a traditional sort, having grown up among Kirkwall nobility. That meant all traditional sensibilities and little tolerance for new ways of thinking. She had already started pressuring Marian into entertaining some of the wealthier sons of South Reach. On those horrid nights, she would have to don her nicest evening gown — a black velvet Free Marches dress Mother had somehow procured from a passing trader — and pretend to get along with whatever swine-sniffing degenerate Mother had fixated on.
Marian usually paid little attention to her soon-to-be suitors and joked about it all with Brooke the next day. It was only when the young men grew cross with her disinterest that Marian took real notice. One boy, for example, quickly became fed up with her cold attitude one night and happened to remark on her facial scarring — carefully covered up with makeup applied by Leandra before the evening's festivities began.
"You think you're some lofty city wench who can turn her nose up at folk whenever she wants?" the young man snarled at her from across the table. "You can slather on all the cosmetics you want, bitch, but you can't hide the fact you're damaged goods."
Unsurprisingly, Marian took the insult rather poorly. Under the table, her hands clenched into fists and twin balls of fire sprang to life between her fingers. She was about ready to fire both spells off, aiming straight between the young man's legs under the table, when Papa heard the raised voices and came to intervene. Malcolm quickly sent the boy away with a few terse words, warning him not to come back if he wanted to keep his own face free of marks.
He turned back to find his daughter standing, shoulders hunched and panting, with fire consuming her arms up to the shoulder. Her eyes blazed with a very different kind of fire, making her silver gaze flash in the flickering candle light. Her face was pulled into a feral snarl, the puckered scar on her face twisting and warping her usually pretty features into a stony mask of hatred.
"Marian," her father said, stepping around the table. "Marian, calm down. He's gone."
"He had no right to talk to me like that. How dare he talk to me like that!"
"I know," Malcolm said. "I know…"
He knelt in front of his daughter and took her hands. More out of reflex than anything else, Marian let the Fireball spell dissipate so she wouldn't burn him. Her breath still came in short pants and smoke wafted up from between her palms.
"I'll have a chat with your mother," Papa said, squeezing her fingers gently, "and see if she can stop judging these young men solely on the wealth of their fathers."
"Can you stop her completely? I don't want to see any of these prats!"
"Baby steps." He shot her a wry smirk. "Baby steps, Sparrowhawk."
He was about to turn and leave when he noticed the way his daughter was still trembling. The way her clenched fists shook and her lip quivered, her eyes as large as the laden dinner plates still set, nearly untouched, on the table. He was instantly back at her side, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Marian," he murmured, "what's wrong?"
Marian struggled to find her voice. It got caught somewhere between her belly and her throat, tearing itself from her lips in a strangled whisper as she fought to hold back her tears. "H-he called me damaged goods. He…"
"Oh, my little Marian..." Malcolm's face softened and he quickly pulled his eldest into a soft hug. She broke down then, burying her face in her father's shoulder as he stroked her hair and whispered it would all be all right. She hadn't cried like this in ages, but now that she was it was like a fountain of despair had opened up in her.
"I-is he right?" she whimpered. "Is it true?"
"Of course not," he said. He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, bearing the scar on her face for all to see. "You're more than your appearance, Marian. Your wounds don't define you. And no matter how many people claim otherwise, it'll never be true."
She sniffed and blinked as tears continued to fall freely in a single twisting path down her unmarred cheek. The damaged eye on the other side of her face — though it looked normal to everyone around her — was not functional and could not shed tears.
"What matters isn't what's on your face," her father continued. He took her hand and placed it against her chest, over her heart. "What matters is in here. And no one — not me, not your mother, and not this disgraceful excuse of a boy — will ever be able to take that away from you."
He put a hand on her shoulder again, holding her steel-gray gaze with eyes of an identical hue. She met her father's powerful stare and strangely found her tears fading in place of exhausted little sniffles. When Malcolm spoke again, his voice was stern and uncompromising.
"You are going to be a great woman, Marian," he said. "A powerful woman. One whose name will be spoken with reverence for many years. But it won't be because of your scar or because of your magic. It will be because of what you do, not what has been done to you."
For some reason, his words helped calm her tears. Her clenched fists fell limp at her sides, all thought of flame effectively quenched.
That night, Malcolm Hawke tucked his eldest daughter into bed — which hadn't happened since Marian had grown old enough and moody enough to spurn such childish treatment. He patted her hand and pressed a kiss against her forehead, then murmured, "Are you all right, Marian?"
She rested her hands over her stomach, staring up at the dark ceiling. "I… don't know."
Her next words surprised the gray-haired apostate at her bedside. "Is it always like this? Being an apostate?"
"How do you mean?"
She raised a hand up and sent a pulse of mana down through her fingers, watching as the digits grew cold and were quickly consumed by a thick coat of ice. "This… fear. Hiding who you are all the time, holding back all this power, afraid of anyone finding out who you really are. What you really are…"
She looked to her father again. "Is it always like this?"
Something very powerful and very sad entered her father's gaze now. He seemed to age years between heartbeats, his face falling and a hollow, sunken look haunting his gaze. He stared down at his own hands, for the moment free of a magical coating of winter, and nodded.
"Yes, Marian. Yes it is."
"And… how do you know when it's the right time to… to be yourself? To show what you really are? Like you did with Mother?"
"It's not something one can really explain. You just… know it."
"And what if you're not sure if the person is right?" She bit her lip. "What if you're not sure they'll like what you show them?"
Her father raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Is there someone who's caught my little Sparrowhawk's eye?"
The nighttime gloom shrouded the blush that was creeping up her face. She tugged her covers up to her chin and in a tiny voice said, "Maybe…"
Her father let out a short sigh and stroked at the thick beard that covered his chin. "I suppose… I suppose you just have to take a gamble now and again. You have to have faith that the Maker has led you to the right one. And if it turns out to not be the right one… then maybe next time it will be."
She stuck out her tongue. "That sounds awful."
A deep chuckle from Malcolm. "It is. Oh, it is. But that's what makes it so great when you do find the right one. So… do you think you've found the right one?"
Almost against her will, Marian found images of Brooke springing to mind. Her laugh, her smile, the way her auburn hair shimmered in the summer sun. The way her eyes had flashed when she heard the rumors that she and Marian were lovers. The way that flash hadn't been one of anger or indignation, but…
Marian licked her lips. "I don't know yet. But… I kind of hope so."
Her father chuckled and stood from her bedside. "Well I'll have to meet the lucky young man before long. Just do me a favor and don't fry him to a crisp like you almost did the poor alderman's son?"
Marian finally cracked the smallest of smiles. "I make no promises. You know me."
"That's my girl." Malcolm Hawke's eyes twinkled with humor even in the dim light of the room. "Sleep well, Marian."
"You too, Papa."
But sleep would not come easily to either of them. After her father left, Marian heard her parents arguing once again through the thin wall that separated their rooms. She heard muffled exclamations of, "We're not in the Free Marches any longer," and, "She's your daughter, Leandra! Start treating her like it!" and distinctly heard her mother cry, "It's not my fault she'll never be beautiful again!"
Marian, tired and overstressed from the day already, had no more energy for tears. Instead, she put her head under her pillow and fell into a fitful sleep marred by dreams of flaming swords, wolves, and the young alderman's son shouting at her again and again.
"Damaged goods! Damaged goods!
The next day when she relayed the tale in its entirety to Brooke, the young woman fumed at the injustice of the situation. The two girls spent the next few hours trading insults about the young man — and they spared no quarter when dealing with Hawke's mother, too. Marian's mabari hound, not-so-cleverly christened Dog by a young Carver, sniffed and nuzzled at her mistress' palm with a whimper, clearly upset by the girl's distress.
"You deserve better than that Blight-stricken puke," Brooke finally said, settling down on the hay bale next to Marian and shaking her head. Her long, auburn locks waved as she did, catching the light and taking on the color of flame. "Someone who'll treat you right. Treat you well."
"So I'm destined to spend the rest of my days with only Dog for company?" Marian scratched at the mabari's ears as she said it. The hound grumbled happily and let his fat tongue lol from his tooth-studded maw. "Sounds swell."
Strong hands suddenly wrapped around her shoulders as Brooke pulled her into a tight hug from behind. She pressed a playful kiss against Marian's cheek as a comforting gesture; Marian had long ago learned that Free Marchers were far more hands-on with their friends than their southern neighbors.
"I'm sure a Ferelden mongrel like yourself can think of worse fates," Brooke said in her ear with a wicked grin. "You're all destined to die covered in dog hair and drool anyway."
"That's a cheery image," Marian said with a chuckle, covering up the shiver that ran down her spine at the hot breath in her ear. She pushed the other girl away, letting her flop back onto the hay bale next to her. "I thought I had Free Marcher blood in my veins? That I was some Kirkwall warrioress?"
"Oh you do," Brooke said sitting up and picked straw from her hair. "And you are. But you're still Ferelden through and through. And your dog only makes the problem worse."
"Oi," Marian said, effortlessly adopting a heavy Ferelden accent. "Don't be insultin' me bloody dog awer you'll regret it. 'Nuff said, yeah?"
Brooke burst out laughing and held up her hands. "All right, all right."
Her laughter slowly died, replaced by a far more serious look. "But… next time you have a problem with one of these fools… just remember I'm here too, all right? And I won't let them run you ragged like this bloke last night. You deserve better than that."
Marian shrugged. "Mother seemed to think otherwise. The boy was the alderman's son; probably the richest kid in the village. Apparently that makes him pretty desirable to some eyes."
"Oh please," Brooke huffed. She settled back until she was stretched out on the hay bale like she was about to go to sleep. "I've seen the kid. You could silence a squeaky wagon wheel with all the grease in his hair. Where I come from, that's not desirable by any stretch of the imagination."
"And what about… what about scars?" Marian asked. She glanced at Brooke, then quickly away again. "Do those make people desirable?"
"Absolutely," Brooke said, not seeing the blush that crept up Marian's cheeks at her words. It only grew deeper when the other girl reached out and clasped Marian's calloused hand with her smaller, softer one.
"Scars means you've actually done something in your life," Brooke insisted. Her fingers were soft and cool in Hawke's grip. "You faced down a wolf at the whopping age of five, Marian. That's impressive, and it's high time someone recognized it instead of criticizing you for it."
The comforting words were not lost on Marian, nor was the fact that it was all based on a lie. She had never faced down a wolf in her life. She hadn't even defeated the Templar who had carved her face apart. The best she had managed was a pathetic pulse of fire and a childish cry of pain before her father had come to the rescue.
Everyone keeps saying Im defined by what I do, she thought. But what have I really done besides get myself into trouble?
The fingers of her other hand came up and — for what felt like the millionth time — traced over the twisting, alien groove that marred her face. "If you say so..."
"I'm serious," Brooke said. Her tone left no room for argument. "You're a good person, Marian. And you deserve an equally good person to spend your life with in return."
"I'm flattered." Marian sighed and let go of Brooke's hand as she stood and returned to work feeding the horses. The animals snorted impatiently at her as she approached. "But good people seem to be in short supply these days. Present company excluded, of course."
"Are you talking about me?" the Free Marcher girl inquired with a raised eyebrow. "Or are you referring to your dog again?"
Marian shot her a wicked grin. "The dog, of course."
Brooke stared at her with a strange look in her eyes. Then she settled back into her previous position and put her hands behind her head. "Of course."
The rumors only got worse after that.
Present Day
Things were not looking good for those trapped within Anders' clinic. The crowd was growing larger and angrier by the minute and there was still no sign of Aveline and the city guard.
Cullen and Carver were outside — the former hadn't returned to the shelter of the clinic for hours — and were allowing the crowd to ask questions about the Champion's condition. It was keeping the crowd calm enough for the moment. But many of the questions obviously had no answer: questions like, "Will Hawke go to the Tower?" and "Why would an apostate be made the Champion of Kirkwall?"
Merrill drifted between sitting with a still and pale Marian and sulking around the clinic's door to eavesdrop on the conversation outside. Her sharp elven ears caught every sound outside. Every shout, grunt, and angry curse, every frustrated shuffle of boots and scrape of armor plating.
"She should be made Tranquil!" someone was shouting. "She's an apostate, like all the others! Why should she be given special treatment?"
"I can't answer that question at this time," Cullen responded. "The decision over Hawke's fate is ultimately for Knight-Commander Meredith and Grand Enchanter Orsino to decide. Given the weight of her accomplishments in recent days—"
"She's a mage!"
"She saved the city!" Carver's voice growled. "Does that warrant no reflection? No reward?"
"She's your sister!" someone shouted. "Of course you'd want to keep her away from the Tower! But none of us got special treatment!"
"You helped keep an apostate hidden from the Chantry! You should be made Tranquil too!"
"Tranquility's too good for 'im!" someone else cried from the crowd. "Meredith should take 'is head!"
"Please" Cullen interjected. "We're just trying to do our job here. If you could just calm down—"
"Your job, Knight-Captain," another voice sneered over the chanting and roaring of the crowd, "is to keep mages in the Tower. So why don't you actually do your job and put her in chains?"
"The rumors are true! He's a mage-lover! I heard he ploughs 'em in the Tower library when the other freaks aren't looking!"
Cullen's voice was weary and exasperated. "There's no need to resort to—"
"Mage lover! I bet that's why they kicked 'im out of the Ferelden Tower! Got some of the monsters preggers, did he?"
"My history in Ferelden is none of your—"
"Mage lover!"
"Mage lover!"
Merrill turned away from the door, hugging her arms tight around herself and staring worriedly at her bare and dusty feet. Varric was still sitting on the cot next to the door, his crossbow resting across his knees. He glanced up as Merrill passed, as if she was the first thing he'd seen after waking from an engrossing dream.
"It's not true, you know."
She started. "What?"
He jerked his head toward the door. "I doubt Curly ever bedded any mage in the tower. Have you seen him around beautiful women? He goes red as a beet and loses all talent for comprehensive speech. Not much of a ladies man, that one."
Merrill found herself giggling despite her best efforts not to. "I don't really care who the Knight-Captain has or hasn't bedded, Varric."
The dwarf shrugged. "Always good to know which rumors are hogwash all the same. Proves the crowd outside don't know what they're talking about. They're grasping at straws now, losing their righteous fever."
She could still hear them chanting just outside. Again and again they cried, "Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!
She shivered. "I don't think they've lost any of their fever, Varric. They're just as angry as before."
"Ah, it's just bluster. I've seen it before. They'll give up and be back home in time for dinner. You'll see."
The tight set of his jaw suggested he thought otherwise. Merrill pointed this out, to which he simply said, "It never hurts to be prepared for the worst regardless, Daisy."
"Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!
Anders glared up from his position at Hawke's side, his eyes dreary and bloodshot. The blue-white light flowing from his palms flickered out with a pop of sparks.
"Keep it down out there!" he suddenly shouted. "Some of us are trying to concentrate!"
"Easy, Blondie," Varric said. "We're trying to lay low in here, remember?"
With a disgruntled muttering the mage turned back to his patient and the healing light returned. Hawke shifted a little, craning her neck in unconscious discomfort. Her brows knitted in a pained frown and she let out a weak little groan; little more than a gentle hiss of breath.
Merrill was instantly back at her side, hoping she would see those silver eyes blink open once more. But Hawke was still unconscious and she quickly fell back into her earlier position, still and cold as a corpse.
"What happened?" Merrill demanded. "She moved!"
"She did," Anders sighed. "That's a good sign; she's reacting to outside stimuli. Her coma's growing weaker."
"So will she be okay? Will she wake up?"
"I said it was a good sign," Anders muttered, "not a great one."
"What does that mean?"
The blond-haired mage huffed and let the healing magic die again, his hands clapping against his thighs. His face was drawn and haggard and his skin held an unnatural pallor. It was obviously difficult to maintain the magical flow keeping Marian alive.
"I've done just about all I can do," he said. "The wound in her stomach has been stitched and sealed and her other wounds are gone now thanks to potions and magic. I managed to mend most of the internal organs that were damaged by the Arishok's blade, but I still can't help the damage to her brain."
He shrugged. "I'm doing what I can to ensure her vitals stay strong and her wounds heal without infection, but I can't tell when she'll wake up. Or if she'll wake up."
"She'll wake," Merrill said, taking Marian's hand and squeezing it. Again Marian shifted, her large human fingers instinctively closing around the elf's thinner, more dexterous ones. Merrill's heart leaped into her throat at the motion.
"She'll wake up," she repeated. "She has to."
"Merrill…" Anders sighed and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. His robes and hands were still caked with dried blood. Hawke's blood. "Merrill, you need to entertain the possibility that she isn't going to wake up. Or if she does, that she'll have some serious brain damage. She could—"
"I know what could happen," Merrill said with a curt tone and an equally cold glare. "But I'd prefer to look at what is happening. She's healing nicely. She's moving and making noise. She's getting better."
She looked down at Marian's still face, at the frown still gently pulling at her features, at the way the scar on her cheek twitched slightly along with her chapped, downturned lips.
"She'll wake up," Merrill said, stubbornly refusing to meet Anders' gaze. "She will. You'll see."
Anders opened his mouth, obviously wanting to press the matter further. He never got the chance. Before he spoke, his voice was drowned out by a thunderous explosion from outside.
BOOM!
Merrill squeaked and her eyes snapped up to the door. Anders quickly followed suit, while Varric hopped from his cot near the door and shouldered Bianca with a scowl.
Muffled screams and angry shouts could be heard beyond the clinic door. Stamping feet and ringing metal and Cullen's distinctive smooth voice shouting, "Stay back! I implore you, keep the peace for all our sakes!"
The scrape of metal grating free from a scabbard. Then another.
"No! Templars, stand down! Stand—"
More screams. The sickly ripping sound of swords biting into flesh. Thick wet thuds as bodies hit the dirt.
"Templars!" Cullen roared. "Stand down, I command you!"
The screams didn't stop. There was another explosion, so loud and close this time it shook dust from the ceiling and rattled the clinic's doors on its hinges. Merrill shrank back against Hawke's cot, as if her fear alone would wake the mage from slumber to protect her.
BOOM!
A second later Cullen raced through the door, sword in hand and Carver hot on his heels, then whirled and slammed it shut behind him. Something heavy hit the other side of the door, driving him back half a step. Carver joined him, putting all his weight into holding the door shut. It didn't help; the same heavy something smashed into the door and pushed both hefty Templars back a few inches, their heels digging into the sand.
"Help me with this!" Cullen barked. His voice was shot through with fearful desperation.
Varric was instantly at their side, throwing his heavy shoulder into the door and finally succeeding in pinning it shut. Cullen grabbed the cot next to the entryway and wedged it tight against the wooden threshold. Another cot was soon braced against the first, and a heavy crate full of medical supplies followed quickly after that. The pounding and shouting outside didn't stop, but the door now refused to budge.
Once the door was effectively barricaded, Cullen fell limp against the wall and his sword clattered to the dirt. With a sickly sensation in the pit of her gut, Merrill saw the blade was dripping with blood.
"Cullen, what the hell just happened out there?" Varric demanded, concerned enough that he didn't bother using the nickname he'd given the man.
The Knight-Captain shook his head and wiped sweat from his brow with one armored hand. His voice was shaking. "Some fool smuggled a pouch of fire grenades into the crowd. Tried to throw them at the clinic door. Hit one of my men."
"And?"
"The Templars responded in kind," Carver reported. He, too, was covered in sweat and blood. "We tried to stop them, tried to hold them back, but—"
Cullen shouted and punched the wall with his armored fist. "Damn it, why didn't they listen?!"
"What does that mean?" Merrill said, her eyes wide as she glanced between the Templar Knight-Captain and the dwarf standing behind him. "What's happening?"
"It means the Templars got a little too bloodthirsty," Varric growled. "They attacked the crowd and lost. Are they dead?"
Cullen squeezed his eyes shut. "If they weren't before they soon will be. The mob is determined to storm the clinic and abduct the Champion to take to the Tower. Or kill her outright, depending on who you ask."
Merrill squeezed Hawke's hand tighter. "W-what do we do?"
Cullen shook his head and scooped his sword back into his hand. He didn't slide it into his sheath, instead gripping it tight in one gauntleted fist. His eyes carried a dark, steely look as he watched the door and listened to the enraged fists beating against it from the outside.
"Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!
"Open up this door, Knight-Captain!" that same sneering voice shouted through the clamor. "You can get skewered along with the Champion and all the others, filthy mage-lover!"
"Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!
BOOM! Another explosion as a fire grenade detonated somewhere beyond the door.
"Prepare yourselves," Cullen snarled, a dark scowl on his rugged face. "They're coming."
Authors Note: Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. I took some time to plan out where I wanted this story to go and it took a while to get a viable narrative threaded together. Hope you enjoy where the tale goes from here!
As a later note, I had to update this chapter because during a subsequent re-read, I completely forgot that Carver was supposed to be here too! Whoops...