AN: On reaching the sudden and inevitable plot hole that is Jowan's entire existence, I've had to throw out nearly everything that the game tells us about distances and travel time.
Also, thank you so much for the reviews and the follows and the favorites. They mean a great deal to me and I treasure every one.
Marian has not been on a horse in ten years, and she has never been on a horse alone. Her arse is not happy about the change.
Duncan has kept her riding hard since they left the Tower, and she is tired, body and soul. A curious numbness has insinuated itself between her and her emotions, and while she is grateful for it, Marian knows it won't last. Her dreams tonight should be... interesting. She's disinclined to do anything except stare at her horse's ears.
Her horse slows and steps carefully off the road and through a field to the left. She glances up only to find that Duncan has taken her horse's trailing reins; he's guiding them to a ruined cottage, with thatch half gone and what looks like half a tree taking root inside. It's so dark; Marian is used to the Tower, where light is cheap and the library lamps are left burning all night long. The cottage is surrounded by trees, and the shadows underneath their branches are deep and liquid.
"I use this place as a way station," Duncan says, bringing his horse to a stop with his heels. Her horse drifts forward a little, but he stops eventually. "You would do well to remember it; there is an intact fireplace under the side with the roof."
Marian nods and then, sighing, she more or less rolls herself off the saddle and drops down to the ground. She can't quite help the pained noise she makes – she is incredibly sore – but Duncan says nothing, only glances at her and dismounts himself, leading their horses around the back of the cottage. Marian follows, for lack of anything else to do, and finds him already picketing them in a small clearing partially overshadowed by a tree.
When he starts to take the saddle and other things off of his own horse, Marian watches him for a moment and then steps to her horse, copying him as best she can with her height disadvantage and hands unused to the task. Duncan smiles his approval, and her mouth turns up a little in response; then she accepts the cloth he hands her, and they rub the horses down. It's soothing, in a way; the motions are repetitive, and the horse makes some sort of happy noises when she figures out what she's doing. She lets her mind drift, and she's surprised when Duncan takes her hand.
"They're all right now," he says, and takes the cloth.
"Oh, good," Marian says, a little disappointed. She scratches her horse on his shoulder, and he amiably turns his head and butts her in the stomach.
Duncan laughs. "You've made a friend," he says, and gestures for her to precede him into the cottage. "I'll be in after I water them."
She hesitates on the verge of crossing into the interior, but it's not much darker inside than it is out; the roof lets in a bit of starlight, and she can see where to put her feet to avoid the cracked paving stones that floor the cottage. The tree growing through the wall yields a few dead, dry sticks and Marian builds a tiny fire on a bare stone, lighting it with her thumb. It will last long enough for her to ask Duncan if he wants a real fire for the night.
Marian looks around for a bit of ground that's flatter than the rest; when she finds some along one wall, she lies down and stuffs her pack under her head. It will make as good a pillow as any. She folds her hands neatly over her stomach and stares up, through the branches of the nameless tree. They sway a little in a higher breeze and she watches them make patterns with the stars in the night sky. It is fully dark now, and the little fire she's made casts a cheerful light to keep her company.
Duncan has to duck his head to come in through the hole that was once a door. When he sees her little fire, he smiles and turns back to bar the doorway with the remains of the door. "We should be up with first light," he says, settling himself on the ground. "But we have time to eat, and you must have questions."
He offers her some crusty bread and cheese – she recognizes the Circle's mark on the bread – and a little salted cod from his packs, and they eat in companionable silence.
When they're done, Duncan offers her his bedroll; Marian accepts, under no illusions about how she's going to sleep tonight. She may as well be comfortable while she tosses and turns. She freezes her little fire and lies back, counting stars.
"How long have you been in the Circle?" he asks, when she says nothing.
"Ten years," Marian answers. She debates the pros and cons of telling him about her family; it can't make any difference to him either way, she finally decides, and a lifetime of holding her secrets close keeps her silent. "What can I expect my life to be now?"
Duncan is silent longer than she thinks the question warrants; she wonders if he's fallen asleep on her already, though it seems unlikely. She turns her head and scrutinizes his face in the pale, pale light of the new moon, just cresting through the tree branches; he looks sad.
Finally, he says, "In times of peace, Wardens train, and recruit, and watch for signs of the next Blight. Darkspawn make their way to the surface in smaller numbers whenever they find an exit from the Deep Roads, even when there is no Blight, and we must drive them back."
Marian frowns. "But that's not what's happening right now, is it?"
"No," Duncan admits. "The darkspawn are attacking en masse from the south. It may be that a Blight is coming."
"What makes it a Blight, instead of quite a lot of darkspawn?"
"An archdemon," Duncan says, his voice dropping. "You know the story?"
Marian laughs, little more than a huff of air. "It was the Revered Mother's favorite bedtime story in the Tower. The magisters corrupted the Golden City with their greed and wickedness and created the curse of the darkspawn," she repeats in a sing-song voice. "You have brought Sin to Heaven/And doom upon all the world. That's one lesson the Chantry doesn't want us to forget in a hurry. And, of course, whose fault it is."
"The darkspawn seek out the Old Gods," Duncan says. "They're drawn to them, and when they find one, the taint corrupts it. It awakens, in that moment, as a darkspawn of hideous power, and it leads the horde against the surface peoples. A Blight."
She shivers. After a moment, she asks, "And then Wardens fight?"
"Yes," Duncan agrees. "Then we fight."
They lie in silence for a while, and then Duncan asks for the details of her training; she is most proficient in the Primal spells. Entropy is her particular weakness. He wants to hear about her Harrowing, and there she tells him as little as she can get away with; she knows that he noticed her reticence, but she doesn't particularly care. She doesn't want to think about Mouse, or what he almost tricked her into doing.
"Your willpower saw you through your test," Duncan tells her, and she wonders if he has a sideline as a mind-reader. "Trust it; it will not fail you."
It's a cryptic statement that makes no sense to her, but Marian doesn't ask what he means; something in his voice stops her. He's not taking questions anymore.
"Thank you for recruiting me," she says instead. Thank you for rescuing me.
"Thank me tomorrow," Duncan says coolly, and she turns away from him to face the wall.
She means to sleep, but sleep is not coming. Her mind is playing cruel tricks on her, replaying every instant of her Harrowing, of Jowan's pleas; how had she allowed herself to be gulled so badly?
She'd trusted Mouse. She'd trusted Jowan, too. It burns to realize that despite every oath she'd sworn to herself, she's just as much of a trusting fool as anyone else.
Marian sleeps fitfully, struggling with dreams that make no sense but leave her apprehensive when Duncan shakes her awake. They're on the road as soon as they re-saddle the horses, but no matter what she does, she can't seem to shake the lingering dread; four days later, when she catches sight of Ostagar in the distance, the looming, broken tips of the fortress seem to welcome her with cruel hands.