Marian wipes away the tears with an angry hand. She needs to get out, and to find her friends, and then someone's going to hurt for this.
Her mind is her own, thank the Maker; perhaps the thing wasn't a demon after all, but just another nasty trick of ancient magic. The idea that it had been telling the truth crosses her mind, but it's only a passing thought before she dismisses it with a sharp shake of her head. Her father is by the Maker's side, Maker willing, and Jowan is probably halfway to Tevinter by now.
The doors behind her are still sealed shut, so she crosses the tiny room to the opposite door, which opens easily. The next room is empty, too, and she swears as she strides to peer around the corner, which is likewise empty and bare, just as everything else seems to be here. She turns around just in time to see Leliana melt out of empty air in front of the door Marian had just come through, staring at the door in slightly anxious confusion.
"Leliana?" Marian asks incredulously, then kicks herself. If it is Leliana, she would have turned around eventually, and if it isn't, she could have used the moment to think –
Leliana turns, her face brightening with relief. It's Leliana. Of course it is. All the temple's creatures have had that maddening air of serenity around them, something that's entirely absent from Leliana. "Marian!" She takes two long steps over to join Marian. "Where are – "
But before she can finish, Alistair appears before her eyes in the same way Leliana had, though his face is grim in a way that worries Marian. She must make the strangest face, because Leliana spins on her heel, her hand reaching for her bow until she sees that it's Alistair. That means that she's watching when Morrigan shows up behind Alistair, and Cú shortly after her.
There's a lot of uncertain glancing back and forth. She takes in Alistair's face, the way he won't look at her, the banked fury in Morrigan's eyes, Cú's hesitant, unhappy pacing. She holds out her hand and Cú comes to her, though not without a moment of hesitation that breaks her heart. They have all been cruelly used, and she can't even promise that it's over. She runs her hand over Cú's head, scratching lightly around his ears, and he sighs.
"Everyone all right?" Marian asks eventually, looking up.
The silence speaks more than words could have. "We should move on," Morrigan says after a moment, colder and more remote than she has been these last days. Whatever – whoever – she saw must have upset her.
Marian waits for them to come closer before she turns and leads them down the short hallway to the next room. She takes a breath before she pushes this door open.
Even as she watches, the luminescent glow that suffuses the temple coalesces into a haze of blue light, thicker at the edges, forming into a figure –
Forming into her, every detail exact, right down to her clothes and the staff in her hand. She's an eerie ghost, transparent and lyrium-blue at the edge. Ghostly echoes of Leliana, Cú, Morrigan, and Alistair take their places next to the copy of Marian on the opposite side of the room. She stares at herself, written on the air in magical wirework, and she stares back.
Is that really how she appears? She's so cold, so cruel. Even Morrigan at her worst had a touch of sardonic humor that saved her from being an utter bitch. This stranger opposite her has no saving graces.
"That's us," Leliana says, shocked.
"An interesting effect," Morrigan says, her amber eyes narrowed. "See there, they await our move."
And it's true, they're just standing there, patiently waiting for the intruders to do something. Do they have no will of their own?
Marian takes a few careful steps into the middle of the room, but the copies wait, still as stone, until she reaches some invisible line in the sand. Then her duplicate lifts her staff. Quick as a snake, Marian brings hers up, but she knows she's already too late.
Pain crawls down every nerve, every inch of skin, every hair on her body and burrows into her flesh like knives. Pain freezes her voice in her chest, steals her breath and her nerves and her sense of identity. All there is is pain, excruciating, unbearable.
And then the spell ends, and she breathes in great big gulps of air. Breathing still hurts, in fact, though it's a small pain compared to what came before; something's wrong with her ribs and every muscle is sore, twitching and ill-used. She's never been on that side of a crushing prison before. She devoutly hopes that she never will be again.
She looks up. Leliana is keeping the other Alistair at bay with a flock of arrows, though Marian is interested to see that some of them are being deflected off of his shield. Morrigan is holding off herself and the other Leliana, though she looks pale and her breathing is heavy. Alistair circles the other Marian, anger and reluctance warring on his face. Cú rips into his twin even as she watches, though he doesn't seem to like the taste of magic; it doesn't stop him from trying to rip out his own throat.
The pain is fading, but Marian thinks some of her ribs might be broken. She can still move, though, and so she does, placing one careful foot in front of another. She puts herself opposite Alistair, flanking her twin, and then waves him off. He frowns at Marian, obviously uncertain as to where she's going with this, but then she glances at Morrigan meaningfully and he understands at once.
He pivots on one foot and slams his shield into the false Morrigan's side, sending her skidding across the ground until she hits the wall. He goes after her and Marian turns away, to the other her.
They're exactly alike in every respect, as proven by the spell she'd led with. It's one of her favorites, and it's always the first thing in her arsenal. Where she's weakest is melee, but Marian doesn't dare pit her little knife against a mage without backup. If nothing else, Leliana would kill her.
There's something wrong with her duplicate's eyes, though. She looks... wrong, sick, almost like she's enjoying this fight.
Marian draws magic into herself, sends it spinning through her body, and then she does the hardest thing of all – she waits, restraining the magic that crackles in her fingers. She just needs an opening. Anything will do.
Leliana told her once that it's all in the eyes. Most people can't help it. There's usually at least a flicker in the direction they're planning to move, or a bracing tension as they prepare for what they're going to do next. Does that apply to magical doppelgängers? Do they have human weaknesses?
She'll never be able to put into words what makes her certain that her opponent is about to attack. Her hands are moving before she can even think of what they need to do, casting a crushing prison just as the other Marian starts calling down frost. Her doppelgänger doesn't even see it coming.
While she's a little bit distracted, Marian draws her knife and slits her own throat. The echo of Marian fades away, leaving nothing behind but disquiet in her wake.
A well-timed frost spell is all that Cú needs to take care of his opponent, and after that, the fight is soon over. Morrigan is drawn and white, and though she snaps at Marian when she suggests a break, Marian insists.
"Did you see the cruelty on my... on her face? Is that really what I am?" There's something a little bit lost in Leliana's eyes.
"Hmph. No doubt this had something to do with 'facing the dark side of your soul' or some such rubbish." Morrigan rolls her eyes, giving it a good effort, but her words lack their usual bite.
Alistair is quiet.
If she were the leader they need now, she'd know just what to say, or to do. She'd have a comforting word for Leliana, or maybe something tangible like her own water skin for Morrigan. They need support... but so does Marian. She feels like she's drowning.
But she doesn't get the luxury of allowing herself the anger, the pain, the heartsick grief that threaten to wash her away. She has a duty. She has responsibilities. There's a fucking Blight on. That's more important.
She'll have a quiet word with them later.
Marian preoccupies herself with Genitivi's notebook for five more minutes, and afterward, when she allows herself to look up, Morrigan is looking steadier. Marian stands, brushing off her pants, and heads for the door that will take them further into the temple.
Her friends follow, as always, and it's not until she hears the first footsteps that she realizes how afraid she was that they wouldn't come. Marian swallows. She is really very fortunate in her friends. She needs to remember that more often.
The next room is empty of more than just people. There's a giant hole in the floor, and this isn't the fault of time; the edges of the hole are crisp and clean, and they're surrounded by eight floor plates that recess when enough weight is applied. With the help of Genitivi's journal, it only takes a few minutes of experimentation before they realize the trick of the room, the way that they call the bridge into life. After that, the puzzle is soon solved. Morrigan finds one last plate on the other side that stabilizes the bridge so that they can all cross, and they're through and on to the next room with no one trying to kill them or take advantage of their tender, bleeding emotional wounds.
Marian would knock wood if she could do it without someone looking at her like she's gone strange.
The hallway that leads to the next room is longer than she expects, and it gives her too much time to think about what might be coming next. Most of the trials have been deeply personal in some way. Most have emphasized quickness of the mind rather than martial prowess.
Marian isn't feeling at all quick anymore. She almost hopes that what's coming up is another fight. At least that's easy – kill or be killed.
The door at the end of the hall is open, and she can see giant, pulsing sheets of fire in the next room. It's getting hotter as she goes, too. She wipes the sweat off her forehead with a grimace. They pass through the doorway and into another large room, but this one has a dais at the other end, with a majestic sweep of stairs leading up to...
Oh. Maker. It's Andraste's Urn, right there, nearly close enough to touch.
If that's really the Urn... Then she's been wrong this whole time. While that's like a punch to the gut, she can get through that. The unpleasant realization that some of her assumptions were obviously incorrect is the harder thing to swallow.
All right, then. The thing exists. That doesn't mean it has any of the magical qualities ascribed to it by legend, but it does mean that she needs to do whatever it takes to get some of Andraste's ashes to take back to Redcliffe.
She couldn't have dreamed this up in her wildest fantasies back at the Circle.
Leliana, Morrigan, and Alistair talk behind her as she approaches the small plinth that stands before the flames. It's very old, just as everything is in this place, and worn at the corners, but time hasn't blurred the words inscribed on the top.
"Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit," Marian reads aloud. "King and slave, lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker's sight."
But what does it mean? The trappings of worldly life... The body, which houses the soul? What other kinds of worldly trappings could a king and slave have in common?
Be born anew. The flames that block their path, which burn without fuel or smoke.
The answer comes to her like she'd always known it. She groans, closing her eyes. No one is going to like this.
To Marian's surprise, Morrigan shrugs and starts taking off her robes immediately, and even Leliana seems resigned to the necessity, if not exactly happy about the situation. Alistair, on the other hand... He flushes right up to his hairline, his eyes darting from Marian to Leliana and Morrigan before he swallows and looks determinedly at the ceiling. "Are you sure?" he asks.
"As sure as I can be," Marian says. She feels like she should apologize, though it's not her fault, nor is the situation that brought them here. "I'm not sure what would happen if we tried to go through without..." She trails off. She doesn't want to actually say it out loud, like that'll mean it's not really happening.
She doesn't want to undress in front of him, not like this. She's fantasized about it in other situations, private situations – when it's their choice and they're ready. Alistair doesn't look any happier about it than she is, and it's wrong of her to take a little bit of satisfaction from that, but she does anyhow. Some men, like Zevran, would make this even worse in their blatant enjoyment. Some men would be watching Leliana and Morrigan strip with no respect for their privacy.
Sometimes she really appreciates that Alistair's a decent human being.
"You don't have to," Marian says. Alistair looks at her in confusion. "We're going to be..." She gropes for a word that's not naked. "Vulnerable," she decides. "Someone ought to watch our backs."
"Not literally, though," he says with a funny little movement of his mouth that she thinks is amusement.
"No," Marian says, blushing. "I didn't mean – " She makes a disgruntled noise when Alistair grins at her, though he's still red as a beet.
His hands go to his belt. She whirls on the spot, immediately, instinctively, and then she sighs – she's being utterly ridiculous about this, and too precious about her naked body, like it's a prize. But he deserves his privacy, as do they all.
"I won't look," Alistair says. It's a promise, and she believes him.
"Me, neither," she says softly.
Then there's nothing else for it. She leans her staff against the wall and takes off her belt, lifts the furs and her tabard over her head and sits down to pull off her boots. Her socks are rank; she stuffs them down into her boots and makes a face when Cú tries to shove his entire face in her boot.
She's nothing against being naked, and indeed Morrigan and Leliana have seen more of her than this, but she hates this. She hates being coerced.
Marian sighs, and strips off her shirt, undershirt, and breastband in one movement. She resists the urge to look over her shoulder, but she can see Morrigan out of the corner of her eye, and she's tapping her foot. Marian stands, shoves her smalls and pants down her legs and steps out of them, and then she's naked as the day she was born.
The air is heavy, hot and thick; she's so warm that she's sweating from the fires, from nerves, but she's come so far, through so much. This isn't going to stop her. Nothing's going to stop her, not now.
But she'd be an idiot not to be afraid.
It makes sense, though – if you want Andraste's power, Andraste's favor, then you must suffer as Andraste suffered. Burn, as she burnt. Marian holds her hand as close to the flames as she dares, and it's so, so hot. She can only hold her hand there for a second before she has to snatch it away. Her hand feels blistered, and she resists the dual urges to look at it and to heal it with magic. Looking at it will only make it hurt more, and healing it with magic might be frowned on by whoever is judging their progress.
Oh, she's scared. What she wouldn't give for a little reassurance right now.
Marian takes a deep breath and walks into the fire. Morrigan follows at her right, and presumably Leliana and Alistair are coming too, though she won't turn her head and break her promise.
And she burns. First comes the pain, which is the warning before the piercing heat; then her skin blisters, and bubbles, and then the boils break open and start to char. Her hair and eyelashes burn away in a flash, and her eyelids dry up and her eyeballs burst, and all the while her nerves are screaming. So is she. Her muscles bake in her body, her bones snap...
She can no longer hold her balance and she falls out of the fire onto her hands and knees. She's shaking all over as she gasps for air, blessedly cool air in her lungs and washing over her skin. The stone floor is rough and cold under her hands. She has hands, and not charred stumps – hands and eyelids, for her eyes are closed tight against the pain.
She opens her eyes. Her hands look just the way they're supposed to. She moves her fingers. They're a little stiff, probably from the illusory pain, but they don't actually hurt. Marian sits back on her heels, sweeping her hands over herself to check for other injuries, but she's whole and hearty, barring the ribs she'd cracked before. An illusion of pain, then? Something to test their resolve?
She turns her head to check on her friends before the rest of her brain catches up, and even though she instantly closes her eyes and turns away again, the glimpse she caught of Alistair, of his side and back, partially turned away, is seared on her eyelids. She wishes she hadn't seen – she promised. Damn it.
Oh, but he's gorgeous, smooth and golden and muscular. The long lines of his legs lead into a tight ass, broad shoulders and well-defined arms; she could just see the familiar edge of his profile. Her imagination fills in the rest.
Marian sighs. What's one more thing to feel guilty about?
Something flashes in her vision, an overwhelming white light that makes her wince and rub her eyes until her vision comes back. When it does, her clothes are back on her body where they belong, her staff in her hand, like nothing happened at all. She hadn't felt her uniform coming back to her; when she looks around, the place where she left her things is empty, and her friends are dressed and standing, just as confused as she is.
She could chalk it up to a very strange waking dream, if it weren't for that half-second glimpse of Alistair nude.
The familiar sounds of armor clashing behind her brings Marian up on her feet. She spins to find that it's the Guardian. He stops in the flames, regarding her steadily, and she requires no more than this to convince her that he's inhuman. Nothing could survive that. "You have been through the trials of the Gauntlet," he says, inclining his head to her. He's still calm, still serene, but he's also proud, quietly rejoicing in their success. Despite herself, his happiness is catching, and Marian smiles a little. "You have walked the path of Andraste, and like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, pilgrim. Approach the Sacred Ashes."
They've done it. Oh, Maker, they've actually done it. Marian laughs out loud, incredulous and relieved, and spins to share her joy. But Leliana is already bowed in prayer, and Morrigan is examining the dais and the Urn with speculative interest. Only Alistair notices her attention and returns her smile, though he looks back at the Urn afterward. "I didn't think anyone could succeed in finding Andraste's final resting place..." he says softly. He shakes his head. "But here... here She is."
"Powerful magic, indeed," Morrigan says, in the same soft tones. No one seems to want to break the hushed silence of the chamber. It's a shame; this place was made for song, for echoes of the song and harmonies of the Chant to live forever. Marian looks up at the ceiling, at the gently rounded corners and sighs.
Marian approaches the dais with careful steps. The statue of Andraste waits for her, a naked flame in her hand that burns without fuel. She's watching the heavens – for the Maker, probably. The Urn lies at her feet. It's huge and ornate, made of an unusual golden stone that Marian doesn't recognize.
These are Andraste's ashes. Suddenly they're very real to her, and so is Andraste. She'd once been a human woman, who crossed the world twice over and brought the song of the Maker to so many people. These are her remains. They're not just some magical font of healing. Taking the ashes without some kind of acknowledgement feels... wrong. Marian closes her eyes and prays, not to the Maker, but to that woman who had the courage of her beliefs, who died for them.
And then she reaches out, takes off the lid, and scoops a little bit of the ashes into her glove. Is that enough? she wonders suddenly. How much will Eamon need? How do I know? But her hand is already replacing the lid, like it has a mind of its own. In a strange kind of half-trance, she puts the ashes into a little twist of paper that she rips out of Genitivi's notebook, and stores that in one of her potion ingredient pouches.
That's it, then.
Marian stares at her hands, but they hold no answers for her, and when she turns around the Guardian is gone. Not that she had any real hopes of getting answers out of him, either, but she could have tried.
And she feels whole again, she realizes, at least in body. Her ribs are healed; indeed, it's like they were never injured at all. Even the blisters on her heels are gone. What kind of magic is this?
She goes back to her friends and waits for Leliana to finish praying, and then they take one of the side doors; it leads back out to the mountaintop where the dragon lives, and from there they make their way back to Genitivi. He's ecstatic at their news, but when Marian shows him the little pile of ashes, he's so overcome, goes so pale that Marian slides her hand under his elbow to keep him on his feet.
"Oh, Maker..." he breathes. "I'm not worthy to look upon..." He trails off, his eyes going distant. "What was it like? Coming to the Urn?"
Marian describes it all, from the Guardian to the murderous echoes of herself and her companions, the bridge puzzle, and finally the trial of fire. He's a good listener, and he has a way of asking questions that makes her really think about the answers. His years of interviewing the peoples of Thedas have taught him well.
"Thank you for this," she says, handing over the little notebook of his research. "It was useful. I tore a blank page out of the back, though..."
Genitivi shakes his head, dismissing the matter without a word. He clutches the notebook and looks around the temple. "Perhaps my research will not seem so much like blasphemy to the Chantry now," he says.
"I should hope so," Marian says, frowning.
"We must organize an expedition. There is so much history here. It must be studied. And... and pilgrims should be allowed to come to the Urn." Genitivi sounds overwhelmed with the plans he's making, with everything that he needs to do, and the enormity of the find he's just made. He's none too steady on his feet, either; Marian glances at Wynne, concerned for Genitivi's health, but Wynne just shakes her head. She's not sure what that means.
"We should start back," she suggests. Marian appoints herself Genitivi's support while walking, and he talks to her of his plans, of the scholars he'll bring here, and the suggestions he plans to make to the Chantry for smoothing the way for the pilgrims he anticipates.
Marian can't help but worry – not about the Urn, for the Guardian and the Gauntlet will probably be extremely efficient at keeping away the unsavory element, but for the pilgrims. This place isn't exactly safe. Genitivi won't be dissuaded, though, and with Leliana on his side he seems to be prepared to argue forever, so she lets it go.