Scars

by Vhetin1138

Marian Hawke is dying. Mortally wounded during her battle with the Arishok, she is left to struggle back to health under the watchful care of her companions. Merrill must fight to protect her from new threats that arise all around. And Hawke herself, caught up in fever dreams, must learn to embrace her destiny as champion. Rated M for violence, language, and sexuality.

7. Seeking Truth

Marian's seventeenth birthday came and went; a quiet family affair, just like she had wanted. The Hawkes all gathered in their tiny cottage, together as a family for the first time in a long time. There was a hearty meal, mostly thick stew and hard, salty bread, and a platter of delicious sweet honey cakes for dessert. The twins argued over who would claim the last one, at least until Marian took advantage of their distraction and nicked it herself. Mother scolded her, of course, but Malcolm rested his hands over his belt buckle with a twinkle in his eye, laughing as his eldest licked at her sticky honey fingers.

There were no gifts to exchange as the family had little extra coin for presents. Even Hawke's meager salary from her job went to putting food on the table. That said, after dinner Bethany held out a tiny fist and cried, "Marian! Marian! I got something for you!"

Marian cocked her head at her younger sister with a smile. "Oh? And what is it?"

She held out her hand and the littlest Hawke dropped a tiny piece of jewelry into her palm. It was a ring, forged from dull hammered iron and inscribed with runes. A tiny gem twinkled from its top, but the entire piece was encrusted with dirt and mud. There was a dull, rustic beauty to the thing; a harsh practicality shown in its sharp lines and grooves that Hawke found strangely pleasing to the eye.

Bethany hopped away, eyes raking over her older sister's face in search of approval. "I found it," she explained, clutching tight to the edge of the supper table and peeking over with just her eyes. "On the ground in the markets. Someone must have dropped it."

Marian raised an eyebrow with a smirk. The motion tugged at the scar over her eye. "And you didn't think to return it?"

Bethany wrinkled her nose. "Return it? No. Whoever dropped it obviously has no use for it anymore. Probably belonged to one of the lord's men, and they certainly have jewels to spare."

Marian slipped the ring over her finger and admired the way it fit snugly just below her knuckle. Then she pulled Bethany into a tight hug. The little one let out a murmur of protest, but grudgingly allowed the show of affection from her elder sister.

"So you like it?"

"I love it," she said, ruffling her sister's hair. She pressed a kiss to the girl's temple. "My little jewel thief."

Brooke was not there to share in the festivities. The day before, Malcolm had gently informed Marian's friend that the birthday was to be a private gathering for family and she was not invited. When the news reached her of the successful delivery of the message, Marian was consumed by equal parts relief and guilt; she was glad she hadn't been the one to politely refuse Brooke entry to the gathering, but she also knew her friend had put a lot of effort into organizing a special day for her. Papa had unhelpfully enlightened Marian as to the preparations for such a day: Mother needed help with her sewing in order to take a break, the twins needed to be excused from classes at the Chantry, and Papa needed to somehow weasel out of work for the lumber master.

Brooke had helped in all these matters with a strange kind of determination. She had spent hours with Mother sewing and mending and patching jerkins and trousers. Later she had spun an impressive tale about a strange Orlesian illness that had befallen the twins and all but demanded they be released from classes for the day if not the week. And, most impressively, she had lent aid to Papa at the lumber mills, using their combined wit and cunning to convince the lumber master to travel out of South Reach and meet with an (imaginary) envoy from the Dalish clans of the Brecilian. The woodland elves supposedly wanted to negotiate trade in return for logging rights in the forest.

It almost broke Marian's heart to all but spit in the face of such hard work. But Marian stood by her decision, convinced it was the lesser of two great evils. She still didn't trust her feelings around Brooke. And given the Free Marcher's strange behavior in recent days, she certainly didn't trust Brooke.

The passing of the party date fixed things — in a manner. Marian no longer had to worry about confronting Brooke in the wake of the festivities because Brooke suddenly stopped showing up at the stables for her usual chats. She also didn't show up at the tavern after work, where she and Marian usually loitered to soak up local gossip and complain about their respective lives. Her absence was more than just coincidence; it didn't take a genius to realize the girl was hurt by Marian's decision and wanted to put some distance between them.

In a strange way, it was a good thing. Distance was exactly what Marian needed at the moment. As terrible as it sounded, she preferred if Brooke was hurt than front and center and confusing her still. The young Hawke needed time to sort out her thoughts, time to decide what she truly wanted from their friendship.

The rumors still swam throughout South Reach, finding all the right (or wrong) ears and tongues perfectly suited to propagate the lies. Mother was still calmly oblivious to the word on the street — she was used to living life far above the everyday gossip of working peasants, after all — but Marian was inundated in it everywhere she went. Children from the Chantry and their lecherous fathers leered at her when she went to pick up the twins from their classes. Those who knew her in passing joked about it when they saw her, saying things like, "Surprised to see Moorlay detached from you for once," and "Has she asked you for money yet? Free Marchers always do before long."

Before, the rumors had dug at her like tiny verbal daggers. She was suddenly in the spotlight again, just like when she and her family had first emerged from the forests and everyone felt the need to point out her horridly scarred face.

But now, after the accusations and insinuations had begun to really sink in, she found herself reacting very differently. She flushed now whenever the subject was raised and awkwardly stared down at her muddy boots while inwardly cursing herself for acting like some starry-eyed Orlesian schoolgirl.

The fact of the matter was that the rumors had stirred something in her. Some deeply-buried part of her that, perhaps, she hadn't allowed herself to see before. She was attracted to Brooke, she realized. The redhead was kind and beautiful and obviously cared for Hawke in a way no one had before. She was different.

But Marian had never been this close to someone before. Her family had always fled civilization before she could build any meaningful relationships with her peers. What if the same thing happened here? If she opened up to the idea of a relationship with Brooke, would Marian be snatched away from South Reach like she had been snatched from every village before? It had been hard enough to leave behind her past lives when she was little, barely more than a lonely child kept carefully guarded by her fugitive parents. If she put down roots here and built something with Brooke, would she be able to so easily move on if something happened again?

And then there was the big problem, the bronto in the room. If she did start some kind of relationship with the Free Marcher girl, how long would it be before her magic was brought to light? And when that day inevitably came, how would Brooke react? She couldn't just come out and tell her, of course. Years of living in hiding because of her so-called "gift" had distilled in her a deep aversion to trusting anyone else with the secret. And besides, the last person who had discovered her abilities was…

Her chest tightened at the mere thought. It was the Templar. The one back in the woods. The one who…

She couldn't bear to finish. Her skin still crawled at the memory of the vengeful knight with his beautiful armor and his bloodthirsty sword. Her twisting scar throbbed every time the man came to mind, a phantom reminder of those terrible days after her injury.

At the end of it all, it wasn't Brooke she was truly afraid of; it really was herself and her many, many secrets. As far as Brooke knew, Marian was a normal seventeen-year-old girl with a perfectly normal family. And Marian might not know much about love and courtship, but she was sure basing an entire relationship on a lie was not a great way to start.

So, as was customary in situations such as this, she decided to take the matter to her father. Papa would know what to do. He was, after all, the smartest person she knew. Wise beyond his years as Knight-Captain Trevor liked to say.

The moment to bring it up came one muggy evening after Malcolm returned from his post at the lumber mill. She found him sitting outside, legs folded with his back against the cottage wall. He was silently watching the sunset, eyes roaming over the dizzying array of oranges, purples, and blues that lit up the evening sky. He coughed a bit, hiding and holding the outbursts behind one heavy, calloused hand, then was still once again. A bottle of brandy was lying in the dirt next to him, the bottom of the bottle dug into the ground so it would remain standing when not in its consumer's grasp.

The years had not been kind to Malcolm Hawke. Since moving to South Reach he seemed to have aged two decades, and appeared to be jumping forward even quicker as time continued to inevitably march by. His long hair and beard had gone gray, bleached bone-white in some places, and his chiseled face was hidden under an ever-deepening mask of wrinkles. His skin was pale and dark around the eyes, giving him a pallid, almost sickly, sunken complexion. And Marian couldn't help but notice how often he grew sick these days, coughing so hard it doubled him up and left him gasping for breath.

But despite the weight of years and illness holding him down, his steel-gray eyes still held their trademark humor, shining with an ever-present internal flicker of kindness. That look fell on her when she rounded the corner of the house to find him. A smile pulled at his chapped lips and he gestured for her to join him.

She took a seat at her father's side, hugging her knees to her chest. He put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him a little, enjoying the quiet moment and the beautiful scenery. Together, they watched the trade caravans trundle along the main road toward the village, watched long trains of mules and brontos laden with goods as they lumbered past their quaint little cottage. A stocky dwarf with strings of beads woven into his beard waved to them as he passed and Malcolm returned the gesture with a tip of his brandy bottle.

"Nice night," Papa remarked as the caravan moved on. He took a swig of his drink, then returned it to the dirt at his side. "Warm. Calm."

Marian nodded in response. "It's… perfect. Or as perfect as South Reach can get."

"What could make it better?"

"Well…" she pretended to stroke her chin, lost in thought. "The town does seem to suffer from a distinct lack of dragons."

A hefty laugh from the man beside her now as the arm around her shoulders squeezed affectionately. "You and your dragons, girl. Don't you ever think of anything else?"

"Sometimes I think about nice shoes and fancy clothes," she admitted. "You know. Girl stuff. But it always seems to come back to dragons in the end."

"Somehow I'm not surprised."

They fell into a calm, contended silence for a few long minutes. The sun continued its descent into the dark womb of the horizon. When the color above had changed hue from red to a bluish purple, Marian licked her lips and spoke again.

"I wanted to thank you. For talking to Brooke about my birthday."

Her father tipped his head and took another pull at his drink. "She wasn't happy. You might be singing a different tune before long. That girl has fire in her, the likes of which you've probably never seen."

"I know, but…" she let the words hang on the warm evening air, grasping for more to follow. "I just didn't know what to say to her. How to ask her to stay away without… well, without it sounding like I wanted her to stay away."

"That silver tongue of yours still needs some practice, I see. You should come down to the mill some day and debate shipping prices with the fellow who runs the supply caravans from Denerim. You'll be a master of debate and manipulation by week's end. That or he'll swindle you out of house and home and the mill will be broke in the span of an hour."

She snorted a little, unable to conjure a full laugh. "I'll pass, thank you."

"Suit yourself." He shrugged. "Why did you not want Brooke there anyway? I'm sure she would have gotten you a present, at the very least."

Here was the moment she'd been waiting for. The matter had finally been raised between them. But now that the question was out in the open, she found herself hesitant to answer it in full. Her heart was racing in her chest, thudding uncomfortably up against her ribs so hard she could feel it pulse through her thick leather jerkin.

"It's… complicated."

"Girl stuff?"

She laughed now — a real laugh, free of fear or anxiety. "I guess you could say that."

Malcolm sighed. "Well I'm afraid I'm not much help there. Apart from occasionally wearing a dress, I'm not much in tune with girl stuff."

She giggled. "They're robes, Papa. Not dresses."

He responded only with a wink.

There was another long period in which silence ruled. Then Marian began again.

"Papa… I have to ask you something."

"No," her father instantly replied, "I don't know when Bethany and Carver will be moving out of your room. I'm still getting the plans together for that addition to the cottage. It's going to be a bugger to build it without magic, but your mother insisted we do it the normal way."

He made sarcastic air quotes with his fingers as he said it. She giggled again and said, "No, no. Not about that. It's… it's actually what we talked about before. When you sent the alderman's son away."

"Oh?" He drew the brandy bottle away from his lips, a small spark of alarm in his eyes. "Has he been causing you trouble?"

"No. But I've been thinking about what you said that night. About being a mage and how difficult it can be? And also about… about finding love. And how difficult that can be."

He chuckled. "Aye. No shortage of troubles facing down a growing Hawke, eh?"

She nodded seriously. "You said it. But… but what if they're one and the same? What if you were afraid to show what you truly were to someone? Because you were a mage, but also because… because of what it might cause."

"Love?"

She nodded with a gulp. Her heart seemed to have clambered up into her throat now, but had lost none of its distracting, thudding strength. "Yes. What if you were afraid of that love? Of what it could mean? For you and… t-the other person."

"I'm not sure I follow."

Marian hissed between her teeth. "It's…"

"Complicated."

"Uh-huh. Because…" Her every instinct was screaming at her to stop talking, to shut her stupid fat mouth before she let the secret out. But some part of her willed her to continue. This was her father, after all. If she couldn't talk to him, who could she talk to?

"Well," she finally said, "it could get me in trouble."

He made a short sound of derision. "Just who are you eying up? The blighted King of Ferelden?"

She scoffed. "Sorry, but King Cailan isn't really my type. Besides, he's already married."

"A father can still have high hopes for his daughter," Malcolm said, a small smile suggesting he wasn't entirely serious. "Can't blame me for wanting to live out my twilight years in a palace instead of a wooden cabin on the edge of South Reach."

"I'm serious, Papa."

He sighed wearily. "All right. Seriously, then. Who is this mystery man causing you so much grief?"

"It's, ah…" she gulped and charged ahead before her misgivings could hold her back. "It's not a he."

Silence from her father. For a single heart-stopping moment she thought it was a disapproving silence. But then he sniffed and matter-of-factly said, "It's Brooke isn't it?"

Her eyes snapped over to him, stretching wide with alarm as a deep blush colored her cheeks. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then scoffed and nudged at her with the arm still around her shoulders. "Oh come off it, Marian. You really thought you were being sneaky, keeping her from coming to the party?"

"So… so you know?" Her voice was tiny and tight with fear.

"I suspected. Have suspected for a while. But you didn't want to talk about it so I let the matter rest. You've never been one to hide from your feelings, Sparrowhawk. I figured you'd bring it up when you were ready."

She let out a sigh and hugged her legs closer, resting her chin on her kneecaps. "I don't know if I'm ready. For any of this. It's all so confusing."

"Why?"

She looked at her father as if all reason had flown from his head like a startled raven from its nest. He returned her incredulous stare with a single raised eyebrow and took another swig of his drink, as if challenging her to argue with him.

"Why is it confusing?" he repeated.

"We're both women, for one. That's… not normal."

Her father frowned and set his drink aside. "According to who's authority? The Chantry? The Qun? The Imperium? To my knowledge only the latter would really be angry with you for such an apparent affront."

"B-but—"

"Love is love, Marian." Her father's voice took on a harder tone. "And no one has the right or the authority to tell you otherwise. If you have feelings for Brooke, then you have feelings for her. That she's a woman holds little meaning so long as that core fact remains true."

"But I don't know if I like women!" Marian insisted. "I-I mean, I didn't like the alderman's son, but that doesn't mean I don't like all boys!"

"Then you like men too." Her father shrugged. "You're allowed to like both. What about this is so difficult for you to understand?"

She sighed explosively and let her legs slide out in front of her. Her spine and shoulders thumped against the wall, the back of her head following soon after. "All of it! I know I feel… something for Brooke. And I know she has feelings for me."

Her father nodded in solemn agreement, pursing his lips. "She made that much clear when she was told she couldn't come to the party. Though she may have been angrier at missing out on your mother's famous ham stew. Who knows?"

Marian ignored the quip and continued, "But there's some part of me that holds me back. That says this isn't what I think it is. And the more I think about it…"

"The more afraid you become," Papa finished. "I know what you mean. Courter's nerves we called it back in Kirkwall. You're afraid of rejection."

"No," the girl shook her head emphatically. "No, because I know I won't be rejected. Not with Brooke. But I am afraid… of starting something and then losing her. Of losing all of this."

She gestured to the beautiful sunset, to the caravans still sluggishly passing by on the road. To the not-too-distant twinkling lights of South Reach. Malcolm followed the path of her gesture, taking it all in with her in silence. After a moment, however, Marian's hand fell limp back to her lap.

"The twins were too young to really remember the forest," she said softly, her voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. "But I do. And I remember the village that came before. And the village before that."

She hazarded a glance over at her father, who suddenly looked very grave. The brandy bottle was sitting forgotten by his side.

"We're apostates," she said, carefully lowering her voice so the breeze couldn't catch her words and carry them to the caravaneers passing by their property. "We live our entire lives on the run. Sometimes we may settle down for a time, but we were never meant to have peace. To feel love. To—"

"Untrue," Malcolm suddenly interjected. "That's what the Chantry and the Templars would have you believe."

"What?"

Papa sighed and mirrored her position, letting his head fall back against the comforting solidness of the wooden wall at their backs. "Marian, you think too often in simple terms and labels. Mage and Non-mage, Templar and apostate. Even the words that idiot boy said to you, damaged goods, upset you more than they should have. They're just words, created to help smaller minds comprehend the world around them."

He looked over at her, eyes shining in the light of the dimming sunset. "You're more than the labels that are placed upon you, Marian. You may be a mage and an apostate and whatever else you like. But beneath all that lies a single, inalienable truth: you are a person."

He put a hand against his chest. "I am a person. So is your mother and so are the twins. Together, we make a family. And those labels carry far more power than the ones you seem fixated upon. And apostates may not be able to settle down, to find peace and feel love. But people can."

He sighed and closed his eyes. "I can't promise you that our days of running our over. I can't pretend like we'll all live happily ever after here in this little village. But I can tell you that it's possible. And I can promise you that someday, somewhere, you will find peace. We all will."

"Let me guess," Marian said with a dry smirk. "We'll find it in the arms of the Maker? The bosom of Andraste? When we're dead, in other words?"

Her father let out a quick, short huff of a chuckle. "You beat me to that by mere moments."

But then he continued in that same serious tone. "You will find a place to call your own. It may be here, in South Reach with Brooke. It may not be. But until you try, until you look past the labels, you'll never know where that place is."

"But how will I know when it's the right time to try?" She still wasn't completely convinced.

"It's easy."

"Bullshit."

"May the Maker strike me down if I lie," he said, holding up a hand as if swearing an oath.

"Then keep talking. How do you figure it out? How can I figure…" she gestured vaguely to the air around her, "all this out? Brooke and me and all the rest?"

"You just step back, take stock of everything around you, and ask yourself a single, very simple question." He turned to her and fixed her with that powerful slate-gray stare, as if daring her to look away.

"Is this worth fighting for?"

The words died on the evening air and the decision was made. Marian reacted instinctively, primally, as if she wasn't really in control of her decisions at all. As if some great higher power, simultaneously directing her actions from above and within her, from just behind her heart, had forced the decision upon her still fraught and indecisive mind.

Yes, she thought. Brooke is worth fighting for. This place, this life, this family is worth fighting for. It's worth dying for if need be.

She suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to say it out loud, to leap up and shout it, sing it, scream it for the whole world to hear. Noise granted legitimacy, made it so that no one could question her judgment or commitment. But, given the sensitive nature of the subject matter, she settled for a short nod and a quiet, "Yes."

Her father, who had turned back to his drink and the sunset, obviously thinking she would take time to mull over his words, looked back at her with a surprised expression on his tired, lined face. "Come again?"

"It's worth fighting for," Marian said. Her voice was louder, stronger this time. "She's worth fighting for. She's the kindest person I've ever met, the first one to see more to me than just my scars. She's worth it, Papa. And I'm going to tell her that."

He blinked at her, then jostled the arm still around her shoulders with a grin. "Well good for you, Sparrowhawk. I'm glad you've made the decision at last. And this is just a hunch, but I think Brooke will be happy too." His eyes lit up. "Ooh! Do you want me to bring flowers? Sprinkle the petals down over you and sing like a cherub as you tell her?"

Hawke smiled sheepishly, blushing again. "I think I can talk to her on my own, thank you."

"Ah," he sighed with a good-natured chuckle. "You're no fun any more."

Despite the seemingly unstoppable smile determined to pull at her lips, she found herself compelled to ask, "A-and you're sure you're not mad? Or upset? Or… or…"

He waved a hand, dismissing the question with a grimace. "You know me better than that, Sparrowhawk. Just don't tell your mother yet. She's dead set on seeing some little Hawke grandchildren within the next decade. I guess the twins are our only hope for that dream to come true now."

She frowned, thinking him serious for a moment. But then he shot her another sly wink and a mischievous grin. She shoved at his chest with a laugh and settled back into her earlier position again, resting her chin on her knees as she watched the last tendrils of the sunset sink below the distant mountains.

"So I have your blessing?" she finally asked.

Papa nodded. "Not that you'd listen if I said no. But I have one condition."

"Oh?"

"When you and Brooke get married, you still have to let me walk you down the aisle," he said. "I may not have a problem with the rest of this, but that's where I put my foot down. Deal?"

She pondered over his words, then smiled at him. "Deal."

"Good. I'm glad that's settled." He shifted, pulling his arm from around her shoulders as he reached over to his other side. A second later he produced the bottle of brandy and held it out to her. When she didn't immediately grab it, he shook it for emphasis and said, "Well don't just stare at it like it's grown fangs. Take it!"

"A-are you sure?" she stammered, taking the bottle from him. It had warmed in the light of the setting sun, but she didn't know if that would matter. She'd never been much of a drinker before, and Andraste forbid Mother found out.

"With everything you'll be facing down when that sun comes back up tomorrow," her Papa said, "I think a little liquid courage in your belly would do you good."

Hard to argue with that kind of logic. So she raised the glass and tipped it toward her father in toast.

The first swallow was sharply bittersweet and stung her throat as it went down. The prickly lukewarm taste didn't help either. She almost spewed it all out her nose and broke down coughing and covering her mouth with the back of one hand.

"Maker's balls," she gasped once she was in control of her breathing once again. "That goes down rough."

But she took another swallow. It was a little easier.

After a few moments her nerves began to even out, like someone gently pulling tangled thread tight. She sighed and rested back against the house again, looking up and watching as the stars began to burn through the purple-black of the evening sky. The caravan finally passed them by, leaving the two Hawkes in peaceful, blissful silence.

She reached down and took her father's hand. Squeezed it gently. "Thank you, Papa."

"Any time, anywhere." The way he said it made her think he meant every word.

"Will you stay with me? Watch the moonrise?"

Her father scoffed. "Well you can't very well head inside with the smell of alcohol on your breath, can you? Your mother would have a fit."

Marian snickered and threw back another swig of the brandy. It still stung, but it left a warm, pulsing sensation in the pit of her belly. "Well when you put it that way, it almost makes me want to hop up and run inside right now."

"The day has been dramatic enough, Sparrowhawk," Malcolm murmured, staring up at the sky with her. "Let the night, at least, be calm. Give these old bones a rest."

They stayed that way for a long time. And as long as it lasted, it was perfect.

---

Anders' Clinic, Darktown

Barely half an hour passed before someone in the crowd outside produced an axe and began chopping through the door. The crack, crack, crack of the sharpened head against the thin wooden barrier set Merrill's flinching with every staccato crackle of metal against wood. She cowered toward the rear of the clinic, refusing to leave Hawke's side. Anders was with her, furiously trying to heal the worst of her wounds before the door came down.

Hawke had gone deathly pale, as if an invisible wraith had drained all the vitality from her body. She didn't move any longer and her breathing had slowed considerably. Merrill didn't need Anders' experience with medicine to see what was going on: they were losing the Champion. Anders said something about hematomas and hemorrhages, about the way the brain could swell when put under pressure, but Merrill didn't listen. All she cared about was watching the faltering rise of Hawke's chest, ensuring the woman continued to breathe for the next moment and the next.

Cullen, Carver, and Varric were still at the door, piling everything they could against the entryway to deny the crowd outside. It wasn't working well. When the chopping of the axe outside began, Carver hefted his longsword back and plunged it straight out, through the door. There was a wrangled scream and the chopping stopped. The young Templar drew his sword back, the blade now coated with blood.

The mob outside quieted for a blessed moment. Merrill heard muffled words being exchanged, feet being shuffled. Then the chopping began again and the crowd exploded once more into vengeful chanting.

"Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!"

They wouldn't be deterred by hidden blades from within. They would have their blood one way or another.

Varric, as was his usual custom in stressful situations, was trying to liven everyone's spirits by spinning one of the endless tales he had stored away in his head.

"Did I ever tell you…" he grunted, throwing his shoulder into a heavy packing crate as he pushed it into their barricade, "about this friend I had? She was part of the Legion of the Dead in Orzammar. Made a living fighting Darkspawn day in, day out, for ten years!"

"Penned into the Deep Roads," Carver muttered, desperately hammering a brace across the door. "Surrounded by bloodthirsty monsters who're trying to murder you? I can certainly relate."

"I know, right? Well, she used to have this saying she shared with the other dwarves she fought with. Pen em in and put em down. Apparently one of the Legion's favorite tactics was to herd the Darkspawn into a tight tunnel and detonate the supports, bringing the roof down on them."

Anders perked up a little at that, his eyes taking on a sudden sharpness he had lost as the minutes ticked by. "You are not blowing up my clinic, Varric."

"Of course not," the arbalist snorted. He succeeded in shoving the crate into place and patted the top affectionately, as if wishing the inanimate box luck in the battle to come. Merrill could almost imagine the wish: May an axe never find your planks, friend.

Then he turned to find another box. "I'm just suggesting we blow up the door. It'll take these shits a lot longer to mine through the rock walls."

"There's more than one door, you know," Cullen pointed out. He was shoring up defenses at the other door to Varric's right, bracing it with loose timbers and blocking the entrance with abandoned cots. It wouldn't stop the crowd for long, but every moment was precious.

"Well I'm open to any other suggestions," the dwarf huffed, his boots scuffling in the sand as he shoved the second box into place next to the first. "Blondie, how about conjuring up some magical firestorm to send these folks scattering?"

Anders shook his head, eyelids drooping as if he were nodding off. His fingers trembled as he passed them — and the magic flickering out from them — over Hawke's bloodied and torn gut, still covered with its pale, plaster-like poultice.

"I can't," he said, his voice weak and quivering as badly as his fingers. "I'm about tapped out as it is just keeping Hawke stable."

"Shame," Varric grunted. "How 'bout you, Daisy?"

Merrill flushed and looked down at her toes. "I'm not that good with fire. Hawke was always the one with the gift for pyromancy."

"Well… shit."

"Never thought I'd see the day I actually missed Marian setting things on fire," Carver muttered, more to himself than anyone else present.

The axe returned again, chopping hard against the door. Another grenade exploded outside, making the walls tremble and forcing Cullen back a few steps. The door rattled on its hinges for a moment, then fell still. The Knight-Captain was instantly back at his place, hammering barriers across the threshold with twice as much speed and desperation written into his every movement.

Merrill watched the doors for a moment, not trusting that they wouldn't burst inward as soon as she looked away.

I hate this, she thought. Trapped in this place like a rabbit in a snare. Nowhere to go, nowhere to run.

Not that she wanted to run. The last thing she wanted to do was leave Hawke's side, even if that meant standing and fighting — and quite possibly dying — here in the clinic.

I don't run when I'm scared, she thought, jaw tightening with resolution. I stand and face my fears. I'm like Hawke, not like…

She didn't want to even think the words that came next, but they sprang to mind anyway.

Not like Isabela.

The pain of Isabela's betrayal hit her hard and fast once again, worming its way into her gut like an invading dagger. She still couldn't quite believe the piratess was gone, that Merrill would never see her again. She would never again hear her sultry laugh, never blush at her inappropriate jokes or giggle at her inebriated antics.

She could imagine the woman even now, as if she were still present with their group. She would be sitting on one of the crates Varric had pressed against the door, muscled thighs folded and provocatively exposing quite a bit of her almond-hued skin. She would be leaning on one knee, tossing one of her prized dueling daggers in one hand while antagonizing Carver with an enticing view of her ample cleavage. Making the pup growl, as she liked to say.

Why'd you do it, 'Bela? she found herself thinking once again. Why did you leave, right when we needed you most?

She knew why, though she was loathe to admit it. Isabela was a coward, plain and simple. She had been faced with a choice: stay and fight with Hawke, or flee to pursue her own selfish desires. And when that choice was pressed upon her…

Well, Isabela had never been all that good at going against her desires.

"I look out for Number One, always," Isabela had told her one night, as they drank together at the Hanged Man. "Can't get far as a pirate otherwise. Too many overeager fiends willing to stab you in the back. Or the front, come to think of it."

Merrill had sipped at her tea — she lacked the stomach for the Hanged Man's in-house brew, or any brew really for that matter — and cocked her head. "Number One? What does that mean?"

Isabela had shot her one of those lascivious smirks of hers and said, "Why, me of course! Did you hit your head and suddenly mistake me for an altruist?"

She had shuddered as if the very thought upset her and kicked back another hefty swig of the Hanged Man's draught.

"But…" Merrill had licked the foam from her lips. "But what about Hawke? And the rest of us?"

Another smoldering grin. Isabela's arm — heavy, hard, and muscled from a rough life spent before the mast, yet somehow bearing a strange, smooth softness — fell around the elf's scrawny shoulders and pulled her closer. Gentle lips had pressed against her cheek and Merrill shivered in the pirate queen's embrace.

"You're a close second, Kitten," Isabela murmured. "I promise."

Her voice had carried a note of awkward affection — as if Isabela herself were surprised by and unused to the friendship she shared with Merrill, Hawke, and all the others.

At the time, Merrill had taken the statement as a compliment. After all, it meant Isabela cared for her! Her, a scrawny little Dalish outcast, in the good graces of a beautiful and dangerous pirate! She had never imagined her life would get so exciting!

But now, in the harsh light of reality, she realized how painful it truly was to be a close second.

Hawke suddenly bucked on her cot, her back bowing up, then folding in the middle. The woman coughed, then again. The third time, a spurt of blood flew from her lips and stained her chin.

"Anders?" Merrill was instantly clutching Hawke's hand again. "Anders, what's happening?"

"She's having a seizure!" the spirit healer growled. "Dammit, dammit, dammit! Varric, I need you over here!"

The stocky dwarf was currently helping Carver jam a long plank of wood diagonally against the door. He grunted and replied, "A little busy at the moment, Blondie!"

Cullen suddenly appeared at Merrill's shoulder, deceptively silent for a man in such hefty armor. "What do you need me to do?"

Anders scowled at him. "Never mind. I can do it myself."

"Anders—" Merrill began.

But Cullen scowled and cut her off. "I am here to help, Anders."

"I don't need help from the likes of you."

But he didn't object further when Cullen pressed down on Marian's shoulders, holding the woman as she thrashed and convulsed. Cullen didn't even blink as Marian coughed up blood again, spraying flecks of red across the chest of his already-filthy armor.

Anders closed his eyes for a moment, drawing up a pulse of mana within him, then jabbed his hands forward. There was a flash of light and when it faded, Marian was still. She was breathing regularly again, though her respiration now wheezed up from her lips in a harsh rattle.

"That's enough," Anders snapped, shoving Cullen away. "Get your hands off her. She's asleep again."

Cullen scowled at the mage and adjusted his pauldrons with a growl. "I am only trying to help."

"We don't need your help."

"Anders—"

"Don't try and defend your actions." The mage shook his head with a dour sneer. "You don't help, Cullen. You cage and contain. You destroy. And when the desire strikes you, you Tranquilize."

He spat at the ground beneath Cullen's boots. "I don't need that kind of help, Templar. And I'm damn sure Marian doesn't need it either."

Cullen reached out a hand toward Anders, no doubt seeking to put a hand on his shoulder. To comfort him somehow, to assure him they were all on the same side. But Anders' eyebrow twitched and suddenly Cullen was hopping back, the armored glove of his right hand glowing red hot.

"Damn you, apostate!" Cullen spat, yanking his singed fingers from the smoking gauntlet. "What's wrong with you?"

"It's about time someone stood up to you!" Anders shouted back. "After everything you and your kind have done to us!"

"Anders!" Merrill suddenly interjected. "This isn't the time!"

"The time for what?!" Anders suddenly roared. The venom in his voice was so powerful, Merrill almost mistook him for Justice. She shrank back, eyes wide in the face of his rage. "To sit and watch as Marian dies? To wait here until the mob bursts down the doors and sets the clinic ablaze?"

He shoved away from Marian's cot and spun away, running his bloodstained hands through his equally bloodstained hair. Marian continued wheezing on the cot behind him, though her seizure, thank the Creators, had finally stopped.

"Anders, we need you to—"

"To what?" he demanded. "My magic isn't helping! She's dying and there's nothing I can do about it!"

He gestured to Marian. The woman had finally fallen still again, blood covering her chin and chest. Merrill could still hear the rattle in the woman's breath, which seemed to grow weaker with every exhalation.

Against her better judgment, she moved away from her seat at Hawke's side and took a step towards Anders. "Hawke needs you," she pleaded. "She'll die without you!"

"She's dying anyway!"

"So you're just going to give up?" Merrill demanded. Her voice took on a harsh, bitter lilt. "You're going to let her die just because a Templar offered to help?"

"You don't understand," Anders said through gritted teeth. "I can't help her. I'm not powerful enough!"

"Then there is only one solution," Cullen said from behind them. He was still nursing his singed hand. "Only the Circle has the power necessary to save the Champion's life."

Anders whirled. "No. No! That's out of the question!"

"Curly's got a point," Varric said, his back resting against the newest crate. "But somehow I don't think that'll appease the crowd."

"No!" Anders hissed. "She's staying here. I won't let you put her in shackles, Knight-Captain."

Cullen let out a short huff of frustration. "We have no time for this petty squabbling. Hawke's only hope for survival lies in the Circle. The Grand Enchanter is incredibly powerful and reinforced by numerous mages of equal talent with healing magic as you, Anders. Orsino can help!"

"Power is worthless if you live with a noose around your neck."

"Anders!" Merrill stepped up to him and put a hand on his arm. He jerked it out of her grasp.

"I won't let her got to the Circle," he said. His voice quivered dangerously. "I haven't forgotten Karl and what they did to him. That won't happen to her. I won't let it."

"That's not your decision!" Merrill insisted. "This is about Hawke, not about you!"

"This is about the Circle! And I'm not going to let her get snatched off to the Tower like all the others. I won't let that crowd outside get what they're clamoring for. And I won't let those fucking Templars take her too!"

Merrill hissed through her teeth. "That isn't your decision!" she said again. "This isn't about you or your crusade! This is about Marian!"

"But—"

"We need to think about her! She needs us, Anders! And if you can't see that, if you can't look beyond your own fear and your own selfish wants, then you're no better than Isabela! You… you…" A sneer tugged at her lips, her vallaslin curling with her scowl. She shoved at his chest. "You coward!"

Crack!

For a moment, Merrill mistook the sound for the axe smashing against the door again. But then fire raced through the side of her face and her head was snapped off to one side. She staggered a little, her hand coming up to cup her suddenly beet-red cheek.

He had slapped her.

"Anders!" Cullen's voice barked.

Varric was across the room with deceptive speed, almost instantly placing himself between Merrill and the gore-stained mage. A blink later his fist sunk into Anders' stomach, doubling up the tall man with a huff of escaping breath. The stocky dwarf followed up with a sideswipe to the nose that sent Anders reeling.

Carver placed himself between them, though not after he savored the sight of Anders bent over and wheezing, a self-righteous sneer on his gaunt face.

"This isn't helping anyone," The young Templar said. "All I care about is ensuring my sister lives through the next few hours. If you people can't stop fighting long enough to help my sister, then you may as well go outside with the mob."

"I can play nice." Varric stepped back, cracking his knuckles with a dark scowl. A single dangerous, accusatory finger was leveled in Anders' direction. "But you touch Daisy again and you and Bianca will be getting better acquainted."

Anders nodded, blood dripping between the fingers that cupped his nose. When he spoke, his voice was thick and nasally. "Udder… udderstood."

"Good. Now get back to work and no more whining. Merrill's right; Hawke needs us and I'll be damned if you and your fucking crusade get in the way of her recovery."

Varric pointed to Hawke's inert form. "She does not die on your watch, Blondie. I don't care if you have to get on all fours and lick Meredith Stannard's boots to make it happen. One way or another, Marian Hawke is surviving this night. Am I understood?"

Anders sheepishly nodded and returned to his earlier seat. He wiped blood from his nose one more time, then stretched his neck — the bones letting out a rapid-fire crackle when he did — and returned to work.

Within a second, all the tension seemed to have drained from the room. Everyone returned to their previous tasks and the only sound that could be heard was the muffled roar of the crowd outside, still hammering away at the doors.

"Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!"

Merrill rubbed at her cheek, unsure of what to do with herself. Her body felt numb from shock and adrenaline, her skin still stinging where the slap had fallen. With dull, clumsy movements she returned to her seat and took Hawke's hand again.

Anders didn't look up. But she heard him speak with a voice that was barely more than a short, shameful murmur.

"Sorry."

The little elf leaned back in her seat, closing her exhausted eyes and trying to will the dizzying surge of adrenaline out of her system. After a few endless moments she murmured, "I forgive you, Anders."

Cullen glanced between them one more time. Then, satisfied their quarrel was over, he returned to the door and hefted another plank of wood onto his shoulder, ready to reinforce his already-complicated barricade.

Merrill sighed and pulled the rough green scarf from around her thin neck, using it to dab away the blood that stained the human woman's lips and chin. Her voice was very small and weak when she spoke.

"I know…" she hesitated, her words failing her, then tried again. "I know you care about Hawke. You wouldn't still be helping her otherwise. You're… you're not a coward."

The rest of her sentence was spoken only for her, within the carefully-guarded confines of her mind where only her own heart could twist at the thought.

Not like Isabela.

---

A week passed and Brooke still refused to make any effort to reconnect with Hawke. Marian, in light of her recent decision regarding the young woman, began to worry that her time had passed and Brooke was too angry to listen to anything she had to say. She began to worry that she had destroyed any hope of romance between them before it even began, and this worry only grew the longer the Free Marcher girl remained absent from her life.

The next time, she thought. The very next time I see her, I'll take her aside and tell her everything.

But the week ticked by and no next time came. Brooke seemed to have vanished from the face of Thedas. Marian didn't see her at the stables, at the tavern, or even along the hidden forest paths the other girl liked to hunt. Hawke even passed by the Moorlay residence — a tiny cottage on the other side of the village from her own family's cramped cabin — and saw Brooke's parents and brother going about their daily duties.

The redhead was conspicuously absent. For a few moments Marian considered asking them where she was. Brooke's brother Bolton was, after all, a decent enough fellow no worse than Carver on a good day. But she quickly tossed the idea aside and slipped away before anyone could spot her. If Brooke had told her family about Hawke's aloofness, they would likely be just as mad as Brooke herself.

What am I going to do? she found herself fretting more and more often. It would be just my luck to ruin our friendship before I even made up my mind about her.

But beyond combing the village house-by-house — which she wasn't willing to do, as most of the local Templars were already suspicious enough of her secretive nature — there was nothing she could do. So she made up her mind to simply wait for things to cool between them.

Brooke would come back. She had to.

Yet as the days passed with no sign of the auburn-haired young woman, Hawke even found herself praying things would work out. She was surprised at the sudden overwhelming desire to turn to the Maker for assistance; she wasn't usually a religious person. But after six days passed with still no sign, she found herself on her knees in the tiny room she shared with the twins. She took a deep breath and folded her hands in the way the Chantry sisters had taught her. Her silver eyes closed and she took a deep breath before getting things underway.

"Oh Lady of Perpetual Victory," she began. She kept her voice low so Carver wouldn't hear and come to tease her. "Your praises I sing. Gladly do I accept the gift invaluable of your glory. Let me be the vessel which bears the Light of your promise to the world expectant."

The words were hefty and awkward on her lips, but she said them anyway. If she wanted Andraste to hear, it was important to lead with the Canticle of Exaltations — at least according to her old tutors at the Chantry. Now that she was actually down on her knees, she was starting to wish she hadn't half-dozed through the lessons on the Canticles. That fact alone might make the Prophetess unfriendly to what she had to say. But then, everyone said she was of a decent sort. Maybe she'd find it funny, as Brooke had.

"It's, uh… it's been a while," she said. "I'm not really one for prayer. Maker knows, it's been ages since I confessed my sins at the Chantry. And, well, I've developed quite the laundry list of sins since then. If there's anyone who's earned a reputation for being a troublemaker, it's probably me."

She paused, gathering up the words she needed to say. Only the most important ones; Andraste was a busy prophetess, after all.

"I need some help from upstairs," she continued, "and I'm not sure how else to go about it. You see, I messed up. I hurt someone close to me, someone I didn't mean to hurt. I made her think I… I dislike her, or think she's weird, or… never mind. The important thing is that I want to make things right, but I need her to be open to it. She needs to want to fix things just as much as I do.

"You helped when Carver got that fever, years ago when he was still just a baby and we were living in the forest," she continued. "He was so little and so sick, and Mother prayed every day for him to get better. And he did! He got so well so quick even Papa was saying it was a miracle and had nothing to do with his healing magic. Now, I'm not sick. But I hope you'll help a Hawke out one more time. For old time's sake."

She looked up at the tiny, stylized painting of the prophetess hanging on the wall in front of her. Mother had bought it from a passing merchant ages ago and insisted it be hung in the children's room so Andraste would watch over the littlest Hawkes.

She seemed so kind and serene, with her shimmering blond hair and tight, regal features. And even in such a simplistic painting, she carried an air of sadness behind those blue eyes; if anyone understood the pain of heartbreak it would be this woman, betrayed and murdered by her own husband. She would listen, wouldn't she?

Hawke quickly looked away, back down to the dirty floor.

"This is important," she said. "Quite possibly the most important thing I've ever done. And I want to do it right, but I can't do anything until Brooke shows herself. So could you help? Send her a dream about me or something? Just to… let me in. And give me a second chance." She hesitated, her lips quivering. "I… I think I love her. And I want to make sure I didn't mess things up. I want to fight for it, like Papa said. I just need the opportunity to. That's all I ask. So… please?"

She debated a few moments, wondering if there was more she had to say. No further words came to her. So she bowed low and murmured the closing prayer. "By the Maker's will I decree harmony in all things. Let Balance be restored and the world given eternal life."

She sent one last mental plea of Please, please, please, and finished, "Amen."

She didn't know if the prayer would help; Papa had never put much stock in the religion of the institution that had all but enslaved him. But Mother believed and so did her children. Marian felt hopeful for the first time since her birthday a week ago. She hoped Andraste had heard her plea and decided to take pity on a tiny, confused young woman with silver eyes and a scar on her face.

Two days later, her prayers were answered. But not, she would think later, in the way she had hoped they would be.

She was working at the stables, once more shoveling muck from the floor. It was amazing how quickly the horse pens began to stink again, and so soon after she'd scoured the place last time. Her hair was pulled back into a loose braid, tied off with a length of twine she'd snagged from the hay bales, and she had a thick length of cloth wrapped around her nose and mouth to keep out the worst of the smell.

As usual, she was distracting herself from her duties by thinking of Brooke. Would she show up today, finally? What about after work, at the tavern? Maybe today would be the day everything fell back into place, back into the way things were before her birthday and the mistakes she had made.

She didn't even have Dog to keep her company. Normally the loyal Mabari, who had been purchased as a pup by the Hawke family shortly after moving to South Reach, would be snoozing on a hay bale with his tongue lolling from beneath the heavy folds of his muzzle. But while the war hound had befriended and imprinted upon a young Marian, he was off with Papa today at the lumber mills.

She grimaced behind her makeshift face mask as she scooped another forkful of muck from the floor. It plopped into the slop bucket with a sickening squelch. She wrinkled her nose and muttered, "Better this way, I guess. Poor Dog has always had an oversensitive nose. Wouldn't want to put him through this."

I wish Horsemaster Lewis granted me the same courtesy, she thought. I wish he'd hire on that dwarf from the taverns. The one with no sense of smell, just for the day.

The first sign that someone was approaching was when the horses tossed their heads and nickered loudly. Marian looked up at them and narrowed her eyes. That was when she heard the heavy boot steps crunching on the dry gravel outside the main room of the stables. Her heart leaped into her chest at the sound and she spun to the newcomer.

Was it Brooke? Had she finally decided to come back?

But it wasn't the young Moorlay standing at the entrance to the filth-strewn stables. It was several someones, actually. Four to be precise, all young men about Hawke's age. And standing at the head of the small posse was none other than the greasy-haired alderman's son, his face twisted by a strange mix of smirk and sneer.

Hawke sighed with a scowl and pulled the mask from her face. "Horsemaster Lewis isn't here at the moment. Can I help you gentlemen?"

The young men snickered nastily and the alderman's son — Jesley, if Marian's memory was correct — cocked his head at her. His smirk/sneer only grew wider and he said, "Too bad about the Horsemaster. Guess we'll just have to deal with you, huh?"

"That's right." She scowled deeper. "I'm in charge while he's gone. What do you want? You don't have horses with you."

"I don't."

"So why are you here?"

Jesley took a step into the stables, arms linked behind his back. "Just wanna… talk."

She didn't like the way his four friends moved in behind him, fanning out and cutting off her escape. They were still snickering and muttering between themselves. Her silver eyes darted over them and she lowered her pitchfork but didn't drop it to the ground. Instead, her grip around the rough wooden shaft tightened until her knuckles were as white as snow.

Jesley swaggered toward her and waggled his forefinger at her. "You caused me quite a bit of grief not long ago. You disrespected me. Disrespected my family."

As they drew closer, Marian couldn't help but take a step back. She wasn't far from the rear wall; the boys were pinning her in and they knew it. Before long she wouldn't have anywhere to move and definitely nowhere to flee. She'd be trapped.

Still, she refused to show fear to these thugs. She narrowed her eyes. "Not my fault you were a poor dinner guest. Try closing your mouth when you chew next time. Maybe then you'll have more luck with the ladies."

She expected Jesley to hiss at her, to scowl or shout with rage. But, possibly even worse, he smiled at her. It was an ugly smile, full of arrogance and snide confidence. He chuckled, the sound as ugly as his smile, and said, "Always so clever, eh? Always with a joke at the ready, eh? Think you can talk your way out of this?"

"I can talk my way out of anything." She shrugged, masking her nervousness with sarcasm. Like father like daughter, Mother always said. "It's a talent. Hasn't steered me wrong yet."

"Well…" Jesley reached behind his back and produced a thick wooden club. His cronies pulled similar weapons: a heavy wooden ladle here, a thick stick there. One of them even had a knife. The alderman's son flexed his grip on his club and shot her that same disconcerting sneer/smirk.

"There's a first time for everything, I guess."

"Hold on, fellas." Marian raised a hand in a placating gesture. Her heart was racing now, the stink and slop of the horse stables completely forgotten. There was something in their eyes she didn't like, a look of dark humor and bloodlust common among thugs and murderers. These young men wanted to hurt her, there was no mistaking it. "Hold on. Let's not be too hasty."

Jesley took one more step toward her and came to a halt, clapping his hefty club into the cup of his hand. "Can't talk your way out of this one, Wolfbait. We're here to pay you back for the disrespect you showed me."

Hawke let out a short huff of breath and planted her pitchfork into the dirt at her feet. She didn't let it go, but folded both hands over the blunt head of the tool. The desire to simply flick her wrists and encase the boys in ice was overwhelming. But she pushed down the desire, though not without difficulty. Her eyes never left Jesley's sneering face, and her own features pulled into a dangerous snarl.

"You don't want to do this."

"You're mistaken," Jesley said. "I've wanted nothing else since you scorned me that night. You dishonored me, bitch. And that dishonor demands a response."

"If honor is what you're looking for, then bringing four cronies to beat up one defenseless girl isn't the smartest course of action. If you were really honorable, you'd fight me one-on-one."

The boys laughed again, smirking between themselves. A girl, fighting against the alderman's son? Preposterous. She didn't even have her Mabari to back her up. All they saw was Marian Hawke, a normal-looking young woman with no military experience, no combat training, and no friends or father to rescue her from the violence she was about to endure.

But her words had the desired effect; Jesley's smirk faltered for a moment, then he scowled at her and hefted his club once more. He shifted his balance from foot to foot, obviously weighing the validity of her words. Then his nose twitched and he snapped, "All right. Fine. We'll do it that way. One-on-one, like the Qunari."

I'd be more afraid if it was a Qunari, Marian thought. Not this scrawny, greasy-haired blighter.

The alderman's son jerked his chin toward her. "What's your weapon of choice? If we're doing this the honorable way and all…"

Marian wrapped her fingers around the handle of her pitchfork and yanked it from the ground. She hefted it in both hands and took a step toward Jesley. "If you want a fight, I'm sure I can make do with this."

More snickers among the boys. Even Jesley cracked a smile this time, his gaze flooded with a dark lust for violence.

"If you say so, Wolfbait."

The fight started without warning. One moment, the greasy-haired alderman's son was standing in front of her with that same evil smirk on his gaunt face. Then his club swung up toward her head, no doubt hoping to knock her upside the skull and drive her to the ground before she could move to defend herself. She could see it written into his face; he thought he'd won already, thought she would be an easy victory. Perhaps he thought she would take one blow and fall to the ground whimpering and crying. Perhaps he thought that without her father to come and rescue her, she would be helpless to defend herself.

But Marian Hawke, daughter of the apostate Malcolm, was no defenseless Orlesian noblewoman who fainted at the sight of smudged dinner dishes. She was a Hawke and an Amell, and had lived a much harsher life than this privileged alderman's son who arrogantly presumed himself to be the toughest blighter in South Reach.

Malcolm Hawke was a pragmatic, practical man. He had lived as an apostate for longer than she had been alive to know him. And in that time, he had taught himself to battle without magic as effectively as he did with it. The other mages in the Circle, he had told Marian, used their staves as little more than conduits to reach the magic that lurked within them. But Malcolm used the staff itself as a weapon, building on techniques perfected by Rivaini duelists. And he had imparted these teachings on his children, first teaching Marian and then Bethany when their magic manifested.

So when Jesley swung his club, fueled by narcissism, arrogance, and self-assurance of an easy victory, Marian was ready. She pulled her pitchfork, so similar to her father's hefty training staves, up to counter the blow.

Crack!

The alderman's son staggered back, thrown off-balance by the ricochet. The force of the blow traveled back up his arm and he howled, clutching at his hand. Marian smirked in triumph, but didn't let up. She needed to press her advantage and show that she was not to be challenged in this manner.

She took a single step forward and swung the blunted end of the pitchfork sideways. Crack! The pitchfork's shaft smacked hard against Jesley's ankles. He howled even louder, wailing in pain, and crashed to the ground. His thugs, standing still behind him, gasped audibly.

The pitchfork spun deftly in Marian's hands, the bared muscles of her arms flexing as it whirled. The tines of the pitchfork came down and tapped against Jesley's chest. He was breathing hard, looking at her with equal parts rage and surprise.

"First blood to me, then," she said, not winded in the least. "Do you yield?"

She knew he wouldn't. She knew the boy, raised on a steady diet of privilege and narcissism, would probably rather die than surrender. So when he scrambled back to his feet, covered in dust, hay, and horse muck, she wasn't surprised. She was even less surprised when he hopped away from her, gestured with a trembling hand, and cried, "Get her!"

His four cronies charged. The pitchfork came up again.

The first lunged at her with his stick. She smacked it away with a twist of her weapon and planted her muck-covered boot in his solar plexus. He doubled up with a wheeze, out of the fight for the time being. The next swung the heavy ladle and connected with the small of Marian's back. She winced and whirled, the shaft of her pitchfork passing within centimeters of his nose. He hopped back, eyes wide at his good fortune.

Marian didn't have the chance to press her attack because the boy with the knife lunged next. Of all the thugs, he was the most dangerous. She dodged and hopped back, out of reach. Charge a bow, but flee from a knife, as Papa used to tell her. She skirted along the rear wall of the stables, her boots scuffling in the hay as the horses tossed their heads and whinnied and the boys regrouped to attack her again.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

She forced the boy with the ladle away again, sending him staggering into Jesley. He shoved the boy away with a grunt and threw himself into the fray. The club descended and hit hard against the shaft of the pitchfork, forceful enough to send vibrations down Marian's bared arms. She didn't shove him back in time to avoid the incoming knife that scored along her bicep and drew forth a brilliant line of blood. She cried out and faltered, driven back even further.

The boys pressed forward, galvanized by the sight of her wound. She was pushed onto the defensive, forced to focus on blocking the incoming attacks rather than making attacks of her own. She could have driven them all back with a single telekinetic burst, of course. She could have frozen them in place, pummeled them with rocks from the gravel floor, or sent them scattering with a burst of fire or lightning from her fingertips. And she could do this all with barely more than a twitch of a single eyebrow.

She could have done these things. She wanted to do all of these things. But she didn't. She wouldn't. Because as dangerous as these boys were, they were nothing compared to the danger that faced her if she unleashed her magic and drew the Templars. If she used magic here, these boys would have to die to keep her secret. And even now, when they pressed in around her leering and snarling with weapons drawn and darting for her flesh, she didn't want to kill them. Not unless she had to.

The pitchfork came up again, whirling and darting through the air in front of her. She smacked away the ladle and the knife, but Jesley and the fourth boy (unfortunately armed with only his fists) pressed in close. The unarmed boy went low, grabbing for Marian's dancing feet, while Jesley went high. She felt strong hands wrap around her leg and tug just as Jesley's club batted her makeshift staff to the side. She felt her balance shift hard and the world spun.

Then she felt a single terrifying moment of weightlessness and then she crashed to the ground. Her arm was pinned uncomfortably behind her back and she grimaced in pain. The boys pressed in around her, reaching for her, grabbing at her. But she didn't let them get the better of her. She would not lose like this, pinned to the ground and surrounded by these idiot thugs with their ugly smiles. She hefted her pitchfork with one hand and swung with all her might.

Crack!

The shaft hit hard against the unarmed boy's temple, sending him staggering into the other two. It wasn't much of an opening, but it was enough. Marian scrambled to her feet and drew her staff up again. Just as she regained her balance, she felt a hard fist collide with her jaw and fire bloomed across her face. Her head was snapped to the side, the world flashing white for a moment.

"You like that, bitch?" Jesley leered. "How does it feel?"

But she was on the other side of the stables. The boys were now the ones pinned against the wall and Marian was not about to let such a clear advantage go to waste. She drew her pitchfork horizontally and shoved forward like she was pushing at a door that wouldn't close. She caught three of the boys in the chest and thrust them hard against the wall. She pulled back sharply and jabbed forward again, slamming the hard shaft of the pitchfork against their collective sternums. They all grunted in pain and clutched at their chests.

But there were two boys she couldn't catch and they were determined to keep her on the defensive. The knife darted out again and scored a long line down her cheek opposite the old scar that divided her face. She cried out as pain ripped down her cheek, holding a hand to her face. It came away wet with blood.

Rage surged deep in her gut, racing through her veins and consuming her mind in a dark red fog. She grabbed her fork with both hands and swung it as hard as she could manage. She purposefully aimed at head level.

CRACK!

The knife-wielding boy went flying onto his back, unconscious before he hit the ground. His dagger clattered to the dirty hay and filth-strewn floor. Marian saw his fall and smiled to herself, pleased at the small victory.

Her smug triumph was short-lived. A pair of arms suddenly wrapped around her neck. A second later, two thick, calloused hands grabbed her wrists and effectively immobilized her. A second after that, her pitchfork was yanked hard from her grasp.

A hard fist was driven into her gut and all the breath was forced from her lungs with a huff. She doubled up, feeling the muscles in her stomach spasm from the blow. The fist swiftly returned, this time hitting her in the cheek just below her scarred and non-functional eye. Her head whipped to the side and she felt rough hands in her hair, yanking her head back.

"See how it feels, Wolfbait?" Jesley's voice hissed in her ear. Just ahead of her, she saw one of the boys bend at the waist and scoop up the fallen knife from the ground. Jesley's hand dug even deeper into her hair. "You're getting just what you deserve."

The boy rounded on her with a crooked grin, the knife clutched tight in his meaty fist and the sunlight glinting on the dirty blade. Her eyes widened at the sight and she tried to struggle. But the hands at her wrists and in her hair kept her rooted in place.

This is it, she thought. No choice now. I have to use my magic or they're going to kill me. Or at least they're going to try.

She could do it. A telekinetic explosion or a burst of lightning down her arms would send them flying away from her. They would scream and flee and never think to harm her again. She'd put them in their place, make them regret ever think of attacking her at all.

Her hands clenched into fists. Mana surged within her. The knife drew closer.

"Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Every set of eyes in the stables turned toward the sound of the new voice. When her eyes fell on the newcomer, Marian's gray gaze stretched even wider.

Brooke stood in the stable's entrance like a vengeful revenant freshly risen from the grave, hair flying in the breeze as her eyes raked over the scene inside. Her face pulled down into a furious scowl, her eyes blazing with fury. She took a step inside and demanded again, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Marian didn't give the boys time to formulate an excuse. Capitalizing on the distraction, she wrenched one wrist from the grip at her back, leveled her arm, and drove her elbow back into her captors. She hit something hard, felt it fold under the force of the blow, and heard Jesley cry out in pain. The grip in her hair loosened and she ripped herself free.

She knew she didn't have time to grab her pitchfork again and resorted to her fists. She punched and kicked at the two young men at her back, driving her knee into Jesley's solar plexus before striking hard with the heel of her palm at the other boy's face.

Brooke was suddenly at her side, grabbing Jesley by the back of the neck and pushing him toward the exit of the stables. One of the boys — the one with the wooden ladle — grabbed for her. But she whirled on him and snatched his wrist, twisting it behind his back and shoving him after the alderman's son. Marian pivoted on one foot, grabbed the third boy by the throat, and squeezed. He choked and clutched at her wrist, but couldn't break her iron grip. She walked him over to his unconscious friend, still lying prone on the floor, and threw him toward the body.

"Get out!" she shouted. "And take your idiot friends with you!"

Jesley turned to say something more, but Brooke slapped him hard before he could say a word. The pop of her palm against his cheek was not too dissimilar to the sound of Marian's pitchfork slamming against the hefty club. He whimpered and moved to speak again. Brooke slapped him again, even harder this time.

"Go!" she roared. "Get out of here! And don't come back!"

Hawke stood at Brooke's side, shoulders hunched and fists clenched. Blood was flowing freely down her face and down her arm and her heart was thundering in her chest. But she made sure to keep her pale silver eyes fixed menacingly on Jesley and his cronies as they fled, supporting their unconscious comrade between them.

Jesley looked back one time and Brooke instantly pointed at him and shouted again, "Go!" He quickly picked up the pace after that and the group quickly vanished around a corner and didn't reappear. Marian remained still for a few moments, ensuring they didn't come charging back with hidden reinforcements. But they didn't return. The fight was over. A victory for Marian Hawke and her Free Marcher friend.

Her shoulders slumped and she let out a curse, wiping blood from her cheek. Her fingers were stained deep crimson, sticky and wet. The sight forced a grimace to her face and she muttered, "Bugger it all. I have enough scars on my face as it is. Damn that bastard with the knife…"

Brooke rounded on her, that same furious look on her face. "What the hell did you think you were doing? Fighting five of them at once? Are you insane?"

"Uh…" Marian froze, staring at her friend with a confused frown. "They kind of attacked me, you know."

Brooke shoved her hard, sending her back a few steps. "I don't care! Why didn't you run?"

"Run where? You didn't deign to share the location of your super-secret hideout with me," Marian snapped. "Besides, I could take them. You should have seen me earlier."

Brooke eyed her friend's wounds, lingering on the cut on her cheek and the bruise forming under her nonfunctional right eye. "Uh-huh. You handed them a right thrashing."

"Hey, I was doing pretty well!" Marian huffed indignantly. "I still could have won."

"Weaponless with your hands held behind your back? Your Pa may have taught you to defend yourself, but you're not a goddamn Grey Warden!" She shoved at Marian again. "Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

Her rage expressed, she fell still. She was quivering from head to toe, but some of the fire had gone out of her eyes. Marian felt herself relax too, though dull throbs of pain still pulsed from the cuts on her cheek and arm. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, pulling at her eyelids. She didn't think she could grab her pitchfork again even if she tried. All she wanted was to find a comfortable hay bale and sleep, and the only thing keeping her on her feet was the memory of Jesley's eyes as he fled from the vengeful young women in the stables.

He looked like an owl with those big eyes, she thought. Or even a sparrowhawk! I never thought the nickname would be better suited to a bastard like that.

She couldn't stop herself. She giggled.

Brooke looked sharply over at her with a scowl, looking very much like she wished to strike the raven-haired woman at her side. Then, after a few moments, her expression softened. She huffed out a short breath, then she laughed too. The two woman broke down then, the floodgates opening and allowing a torrent of mirth to burst forth from them both. They just stood there, laughing and clutching at each other as their adrenaline burned away in the calm.

"All right," Brooke finally choked out after a few long moments. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up, you crazy Ferelden warrioress."

Marian didn't fight her friend's request. When Brooke took her hand, she allowed herself to be led back into the stables. The memory of Jesley and his sneering cronies were left far behind.

---

Five minutes later they were sitting together on the hay bale. Brooke managed to find a rough-hewn rag and was using it — and a bucket of clean water — to clean Marian's wounds. It took a long time to wash the blood from her arm and her sleeveless jerkin, and the gash in her bicep would need bandaging and maybe even stitches. Marian decided on the former option, as her father could easily heal up the wound himself once she returned home.

"Still bloody stupid," Brooke was saying as she cinched a strip of cloth tight around Marian's arm.

"They didn't really give me a choice, Brooke."

"Still bloody stupid," the Free Marcher girl snapped. Her tone was harsh, but with a comforting note of concern. "You should have run. Should have come to find me."

"I didn't know where you were," Marian insisted. "I haven't seen you since…"

Since the birthday. Since the day Marian had, acting through her father, spurned Brooke's hard work and pushed the young woman away. She still felt a twinge of guilt at the thought, a slithering worm of shame that coiled and writhed in the pit of her belly. Brooke's gaze darkened as well, her lips pursed into a tight line.

"Yes, well…" She cleared her throat. "You're just lucky I wandered around in time. I considered stopping by the tavern first, and I shudder to think what would have happened if I'd decided I was a little too thirsty."

Marian smiled. "Well I'm glad you quenched your thirst before setting out. For my sake if nothing else."

Brooke sighed and rinsed the rag in the water bucket, now tinged a light shade of pink from blood. She twisted the rag, letting the water pour back into its source. Then she touched Marian's chin and set to wiping away the blood on her cheek.

"Where'd you learn to fight like that anyway?" the Free Marcher asked. "I always joke about you being a warrioress, but I didn't think you actually knew how to hold your own like that. And with a pitchfork no less! I'd have chosen a sword myself, but—"

"My father…" Marian searched for an excuse, playing off her hesitation as a wince of pain when Brooke drew a little too close to the cut on her cheek. "My father used to be a mercenary. Did a few tours in Rivain where he picked up a few tricks. He thought it wise to pass those tricks on to his daughters."

"Smart man."

It wasn't exactly a lie, just a partial truth that left out a very big detail. Marian squirmed a little, but this time it was indeed due to the pain in her cheek. Brooke scolded her for fidgeting.

"I figured Jesley would try to pull something," she said as she worked. "He's friends with my brother. Always thought he was a prat, but I never thought he'd actually attack you for refusing to bat your eyelashes and giggle at his every word."

She snorted and shook her head, wiping blood from the corner of Marian's lips. "You might want to keep an eye out in the future. He'll be even angrier now."

"I'll have Dog hang around the stables from her on," Marian said, enjoying the gentle touch of Brooke's fingertips along her skin. "And now that you're back…"

A sudden tension fell between them. Brooke's eyes darkened and Marian cleared her throat and looked down at her lap. Her cheeks warmed and she cursed herself for it. After a few long moments she licked her lips and murmured, "Brooke… why did you leave?"

The dark look in the girl's eyes didn't fade. "You really have to ask?"

Marian sighed. "I know. Brooke, I'm—"

"I get it," Brooke interrupted. "You know? I get it. I overstepped my bounds with you, let things get a little too cozy, and you obviously didn't appreciate it. Should have seen it sooner, honestly. But I've learned my lesson and—"

"No, no, no!" Marian interjected now. "That's not what it was. I didn't understand, didn't…"

She trailed off, gathering her thoughts and sucking in a deep breath. It was time, time to let loose everything she'd kept buried over the past week. It was clawing at her now, tearing its way up her throat. It wouldn't let itself be contained any longer.

"I didn't understand," she said again. "And I was afraid. You're… Brooke, you're the only one who's ever treated me like this. The only one who didn't look at me like some weird, scar-faced girl who was raised in the woods like some Chasind savage."

She chanced a glance up at the girl sitting next to her. The anger had finally left Brooke's dark eyes and she was looking at Hawke with a strange look on her face; an expression caught somewhere between profound sympathy and some deep-seated sadness. Marian continued before she could allow her fear or Brooke's features to overwhelm her with silence.

"Brooke… you're the most special person I've ever met. You're kind, you're intelligent, you're smart… and the last thing I would want to do is hurt you."

"Then why did you send me away?"

More out of instinct than anything else, Marian fell back on her quick wit. "Would you believe me if I said I didn't like parties? Besides, Mother cooked that Orlesian ham they say tastes of despair." She pulled a face. "The tales don't do it justice."

"Marian," Brooke wasn't amused. "It's not about the birthday. It's the fact that I put so much effort into making it a special day for you, when you would be surrounded by the people who were important to you. And… and when the time came, that special day didn't involve me."

Hawke was seized by a sudden urge to touch her, to comfort her and show her that she was wrong. That she did think Brooke was important. So she reached out and clasped her friend's hand. Brooke squeezed back tightly, then leaned forward and rested her forehead against Marian's shoulder with a long, shaky sigh. Marian felt it cool against the skin of her arm.

"That's why I left," she said, her voice muffled against Marian's shoulder. "I thought you didn't want me in your life. Didn't want me…"

She huffed and shook her head. "It hurt. And I was coming here to tell you that, to say that I would leave you alone if you wanted. And that's when…"

"When you came to rescue the damsel in distress?" Marian said with a hint of a smile.

"That's one way to put it, I suppose."

She could smell the sweet scent of Brooke's hair thick and heavy in her nostrils, drowning out even the sickly stink of blood and sweat that clung to her after the battle. She hesitated, then wrapped an arm around Brooke's waist and pulled her closer. Brooke shifted and a hand came up to rest on Marian's other shoulder, pulling her into a gentle hug.

"You're wrong," Hawke breathed into Brooke's hair. "You are important to me. I was just… confused. I've never been close to anyone outside my family. No one has ever tried to get close to me. And so when you started trying… I didn't know how to respond."

When Brooke spoke again, her voice was very small. "So… you want me? I-I mean—"

Marian smiled, a soft chuckle escaping her lips and ever-so-softly tugging at the strands of Brooke's auburn locks. "Of course, silly! What would I do without my fierce Starkhaven protector to watch over me?"

Brooke giggled and the hand on her shoulder tightened. When she spoke again, her voice took on a tighter, heavier tone. She smiled and looked up at Marian with hooded eyes.

"You know," she said in that same husky tone, "in all the old tales when the heroic knight saves the damsel, they're rewarded with a kiss."

"I heard that too," Marian said. Her heart was racing in her chest now, even faster than when she'd been fighting against Jesley and his cronies. Brooke was close now, so close that she could see every flutter of the Free Marcher girl's lashes, every flick of her eyes as they darted between Marian's gray gaze and her slightly parted lips. She gulped audibly and continued, "But I'm not much of a damsel, you know. I was thinking of buying you a pint instead. Maybe a nice handshake and a pat on the back?"

"Don't you dare."

And then the hand on her shoulder went to the back of her head and Brooke leaned closer and their faces crashed together and they were kissing. The world jolted and ceased to exist. Marian sucked in a surprised breath that Brooke caught with her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed and everything around her devolved into dizzying sensations: foreign lips pressing insistently against her own, hands clutching tight to her neck and digging into her hair. Her own hand, tight around Brooke's waist, drawing the other woman closer and closer, as if they could never get close enough.

They parted after a time. Both were breathing hard, eyes flashing and smiles on their lips.

"I've been waiting a long time to do that," Brooke said breathlessly.

"Well then don't just sit there like a stump," Marian shot back. Her hand came up and cupped the other girl's cheek, drawing her closer. "Get over here and enjoy your reward."

Brooke smiled. "Yes ma'am."

The next few hours passed in a blur. The two stayed in the stables for a time, kissing and laughing and clutching close to each other. But as they continued, something else rose between them. Something hot and primal and needy that set their nerves alight and had them greedily diving back for more. More kisses, more contact, smiles, more everything. They couldn't get enough of each other, and soon the need for more drove them to seek a more private location.

There was a stockroom just beyond the main area of the stables. It was a tiny little compartment, usually piled high with sacks of grain for the horses. But Horsemaster Lewis' stock was running low, and the normally cramped space was devoid of any other kind of tools, supplies, or furniture. After scouting around for a bit, Brooke managed to find a thick cloth horse blanket, meant to keep the steeds warm in the depths of winter, and the two spread it out over the hard gravel floor. Then the fire rose again and they were back in each others arms, kissing and nipping and laughing as they fell to the hard ground atop their makeshift bed.

Marian felt her heart flutter with excitement and anxiety equally as Brooke pinned her to her back and lowered herself down on top of her. The weight of the Starkhaven girl pressed against her felt heavenly, especially when she leaned down and caught her lips again. When Brooke's whisper-soft kisses passed to her jaw, nipping along the strong line of the bone there, she arched her back and murmured contentedly. But the Free Marcher kept going lower, along her neck, along her collarbone, and lower still. And then her hands came up, deft and quick like the striking paws of the forest cats that had prowled by Hawke's childhood home, and began unfastening the ties of her jerkin.

Almost instinctively, Marian's hands came up and caught Brooke's wrists. Her eyes were wide and full of a chaotic mix of desire, fear, and desperation. When she whispered, "Wait," her voice was a soft and scared hiss of breath. Brooke instantly froze, her fingers falling still over the ties of Marian's shirt. Concern wrote itself across every feature of her beautiful face.

"Is this too much?" she asked quickly, the words falling from her lips almost too fast for Hawke to follow. "Am I going too fast?"

"I-I don't know," Marian said honestly. Part of her wanted this, really wanted this. In fact, it had been ages before she had wanted anything as much as she wanted this girl, wanted to feel her skin beneath her fingers and her weight upon her chest. But another part of her seized up in fear, drawing tighter and tighter with every motion the other girl made. "Do you think you're going too fast?"

"I'm not sure either," the redhead admitted. "I mean, I'm not exactly new to this kind of thing, but we Starkhaven folks do things differently than you do in Ferelden. We're a little more… forward in our affections."

"Have you ever…" She bit her lip. '…been with someone before?"

Wide-eyed, Marian shook her head. Brooke stared at her, apprehension on her face for the first time since the kisses began, and murmured, "I'll stop if you want me to. We can save this for another time, when you're ready. We don't have to—"

Something else suddenly caught Marian's attention. Her father's words from that night they had sat outside the cabin talking. How he said she could find out if something was really worth doing by asking herself a single simple question.

Is it worth fighting for?

She had thought Brooke was worth fighting for. She had known it instinctively, feeling certainty steel her nerves. In that single moment of clarity, all her anxiety had disappeared and she was left with a clear path forward.

And now, she realized, Brooke felt the same way. When she had discovered the fight in the stables, when she'd seen Marian pinned and wounded by her aggressors, she had leaped into battle without second thought or hesitation. She had felt that same clarity. To her, Marian was worth fighting for.

Suddenly her apprehension disappeared. Now, later, what did it matter? Time would only soften her resolve, give her ample opportunity to second-guess herself and push her friend away again. And the knowledge that she could bring this to a halt at any time, to back out if she grew uncomfortable, gave her all the strength she needed to say, "No. I… I want this."

Slowly, her hands left Brooke's wrists and she gave herself over to the care of this wonderful girl who had seen past her ravaged face and instead looked into her heart. This girl who had stuck with her through good times and bad, fleeing temporarily but always always returning, even when Marian had foolishly thrown her devotion away. She didn't know what the future held for either of them, but in this moment all that mattered was that Brooke wanted her. And she wanted Brooke.

Simplicity, she thought dizzily as her jerkin was unlaced and pulled from her torso, is a hell of an aphrodisiac.

Her skin was bared to the cool air, gooseflesh breaking out across her arms. And something bloomed in Brooke's eyes at the sight, something furious and lustful and so powerful it made Marian shiver even harder. Brooke bent down and their lips met again.

Time dissolved.

Their clothes were shed rapidly after that and for the first time they felt each other, all of each other, and gasped at the incredible taste of discovery. The skin of Brooke's shoulders and back, the gentle ridges of her spine, felt like silk under Marian's fingers. Brooke's lips found the soft joining between Hawke's shoulder and neck and she latched on, ignoring her lover's hiss of pleasure. Her hands, those gentle fingers, traced along her ribs, along her hips, over her thighs, and back up again. Marian's came to rest at the gentle dip at the small of Brooke's back, unable to do anything other than twitch and grasp and feel.

They kissed again and this time it was with a heated fervor. Their smiles were gone, replaced by insistent frowns and tense groans as both fought to climb the slope they had suddenly discovered together. Brooke was obviously more experienced and more talented in the heated arts of pleasure. The way her fingers, lips, and tongue moved over her lover's body was nothing short of agonizing — but only in the best possible way. Marian felt her senses sing as Brooke drew close, could hear the thunder of both their heartbeats racing, racing. It was like they had suddenly caught the sun beneath their skin, like every ounce of mana Marian had ever conjured was summoned up all at once and set alight by some magical flame that consumed them both.

She had never felt anything so wonderful in her entire life. She doubted she would ever feel anything so wonderful.

Yet that was proved wrong when later she threw her head back and a strangled scream that sounded more like a whimper tore itself from her throat. She lit up like lightning, bliss racing through her entire body with all the heat, force, and power of an Inferno spell. Brooke smothered her cry with a kiss, easing her through her pleasure with gentle caresses and whispers of love Marian could just barely comprehend.

And then it was after and they were lying together, feeling their bodies cool and the sweat dry on their skin. Marian was snuggled close, her face buried in the gentle curve of Brooke's shoulder. Soft fingers traced up and down her side while the other cradled her head close, Brooke's breath just barely tickling her hair, which had come loose from its loose tail and spilled down over her shoulders in an inky black curtain.

"You know," Brooke eventually said after their breathing had returned to normal, "you should probably get back to work. Those stables won't muck out themselves."

"Fuck that." Marian scoffed and pressed a kiss to her lover's shoulder. "I'm staying right here. Never want this to end."

"All good things do, my fearsome warrioress." Brooke nudged at her ribs. "Come on. Up, up. I'll help you get dressed."

"But…" Marian drew back now with a frown. "But you didn't get to—"

A finger against her lips. "There'll be another time. I promise."

"You're sure?"

Brooke smiled, then consumed her senses with another of those world-shattering kisses. When she finally pulled back, her hand came up and caressed Marian's cheek. The pad of her thumb traced over the gentle depression of the scar that stretched across her face.

"I promise," she repeated. "But you have to promise me something in return."

"Anything. Whatever you want."

"Next time your birthday rolls around," Brooke nuzzled against her neck with a smile, "you don't even think about keeping me out. Where you go, I go."

"It's a deal."

"A date," Brooke corrected. Then she patted Marian's ribs again. "Now come on, love. Duty calls."

"Five minutes," Hawke protested, pulling her lover back down with her. "Just five minutes to enjoy this."

Brooke found it difficult to deny such a request, so she nodded and kissed Marian's scarred cheek, relaxing in her embrace. That hand went back to Marian's head again, tracing and stroking her hair with an affectionate, repetitive motion. Marian closed her eyes and savored the sensation of warm skin, soft as fresh spring grass, beneath her fingers.

They remained that way for the next ten minutes. And as long as it lasted, it was perfect.

---

Night fell over South Reach. And when it did, it was heralded by a horseman.

He came over the hills to the north, carried by a jet-black steed that snorted and tossed its head and gnawed at the hard iron bit between its teeth. The horse was powerful and magnificent, its coat shimmering in the near-darkness, and the saddle on its back was decorated with red draperies and shimmering metal studs. Sharp, angular blinders hooded eyes that glinted in the dark with a disturbing intelligence.

The man seated upon the horse was similarly adorned: black leather covered by black armor, all shrouded by a black cloak and cowl. A hefty sword was slung over his shoulder, the hilt inlaid with a single shimmering ruby. His features were thrown into shadow by his hood, but long locks of hair — black as the midnight-colored horse carrying him — spilled out from the shadows and fell to chest-level. He carried sharp spurs on his boots, but he didn't use them. In fact, he didn't seem pressured or rushed at all. His horse walked down the road at a near-glacial pace, as if the rider didn't care about making it to his destination in a swift manner. As if he could afford to take his time.

The air seemed to cool several degrees as he passed by, prompting more than one Ferelden farmer to look up and shiver at his passing. The horse's hooves churned at the dirt, leaving a steady and unerring trail along the road behind it. That trail did not waver or stop along miles of roads behind him, stretching far, far into the north.

Only now, at the borders of South Reach, did the rider pause. A pair of the arl's men stood guard at the checkpoint along the road leading into the village, armed with long halberds and swords. A single Templar stood with them, the setting sun glinting on his polished armor. The knight held out a hand as the rider approached and his voice boomed out from the confines of his helmet.

"Halt!" the Templar called. "Who goes there? Stand and unveil yourself."

The man made no move to dismount or to pull back the cowl shrouding his features. But that hooded face ever-so-slowly turned to regard the Templar, who suddenly found himself recoiling from the gaze with revulsion and barely-concealed fear. There was something unsettling about this man, some evil air that surrounded him and his magnificent steed. Something terrible lurked beneath the shadows of that cowl, the Templar was sure of it. He took a nervous half-step back and insisted, "Where do your allegiances lie, stranger? I would know your purpose here."

A single gauntleted hand, inlaid with sinister iron studs like the rest of his armor, came up. The Templar fought back the urge to reach for his sword. But the hand delved beneath the neck of the man's black armor and drew forth a necklace with a heavy pendant. The shrouded man pulled the necklace from his throat and held the pendant out for the Templar's scrutiny.

It was a circular talisman, masterfully crafted from precious silverite with deep engravings etched into the surface. It was linked together on a dark chain, black like the man's armor, horse, and cape. The Templar squinted to see the carved symbol through the slit in his helmet and the dimming light.

It was an eye. An open eye, surrounded by gently curving lines stretching out from the center like the waving arms of a seaborne kraken. But the Templar knew it wasn't meant to look like tentacles, but rather the curving tendrils of fire.

The Templar stiffened a little and took a step back. He didn't dare touch the pendant. He wasn't allowed to. Wasn't worthy.

An open eye caught in the midst of an inferno. There was only one guild in Thedas who carried that sigil.

He bowed his head and thumped a fist against his chest. "My apologies, Master Seeker. I didn't recognize you. You may pass unhindered. Enjoy your stay."

The man said nothing. That hidden stare lingered on him for a moment. Then he spurred his horse onward and carried on down the road. The necklace disappeared, no doubt tucked into some shadowy pocket set into his studded black armor, and the horse tossed its head and whinnied. The sound echoing away into the darkening night and was echoed by other horses in the village. As he passed, the setting sun revealed the same flame-covered eye painted in brilliant white across his chest plate. Then the Templar turned away with a final shiver, determined not to pay any more attention to the black-armored man than necessary.

The Seeker passed by the checkpoint and continued down the road. He pace was still slow and steady, casual even. He didn't look away from the path ahead of him and offered no farewell to the Templar or the arl's dumbfounded guards. He just ambled down the churned dirt path, shifting a little as the motion of the horse jostled the saddle upon which he sat.

He didn't need to rush, didn't need to race for the twinkling lights of the village ahead of him. His destination would come soon enough, and his quarry would stand before him soon after that. Neither would be going anywhere soon and so he kept his pace slow and calm.

He was, after all, a man who could afford to take his time.

---

Author's Note: Fantasy lesbians, religion, fathers actually being good parents… sometimes I think I'm deliberately steering this story toward subjects I know nothing about. Oh well, so long as you guys enjoy, I'm happy!

Until next time. Be sure to favorite or leave a review if you're liking the tale so far. It really helps. :)