Marian wakes so early the next morning that the sun has yet to rise. She groans and buries her face in her pillow, but it's no use; she can't get back to sleep. Her body is used to early hours now, and that's probably a good thing, but there's early and then there's ridiculous.
She lies in bed for another twenty minutes, hating herself every moment, before she accepts that it's useless and gets up.
When she arrives, she finds that the breakfast room is already occupied. Wynne looks up from a cup of tea with a welcoming smile. "You're up early." She gestures to the seat next to her, and Marian sinks into it with a sigh.
"I know," Marian groans. "I couldn't get back to sleep."
"Well, it's nice to have company." Wynne takes another sip of tea, and like that's their cue, the servants arrive to start laying out breakfast around them. It's impossible to talk over the clashing of plates and serving dishes.
When finally they're finished and the servants leave, Marian is starving. Coddled eggs, fresh, crusty bread, dried and smoked fish, porridge and oats, dried fruit – Marian takes some of everything, and hopes that her eyes aren't bigger than her stomach. Wynne takes nothing more than a little fresh baked bread drizzled with honey.
"We're leaving for Orzammar next Friday," Marian says when she's assuaged the worst of her hunger. "Is there anything you need before we leave?"
"I'll take advantage of the opportunity to send my robes to the laundry maids, then, and instruct them on what they'll need to do," Wynne says. "If you give me yours, the maids can do them all at once."
"Of course," Marian says, weighing her curiosity against her remaining hunger. "I'll go up and get them when I'm done." Hunger wins, she decides, and digs in.
Wynne finishes her tea and sets down her mug with a gentle thump against the wood table. "May I ask you a question?"
Marian looks up from her food, startled. "Of course you may."
"What does being a Grey Warden mean to you?" Wynne's eyes are sharp, knowing on hers, seeming to pierce through her brain and into her soul. This means something to her, something important.
"It's fighting the Blight," Marian says, confused. What is she getting at?
Wynne smiles a little. Marian's done a trick, it says, done it well, just as expected. There's nothing more irritating than performing exactly to someone's expectations. "There's more to being a Grey Warden than killing darkspawn and saving the world from the Blight," she says. "Ultimately, being a Grey Warden is about serving others, about serving all people, whether elves or dwarves or men."
"Yes," Marian says slowly. She doesn't quite understand what Wynne is trying to lead her to, which probably means that Wynne hasn't gotten to the point yet.
"As a Grey Warden you are a guardian of men. And you guard them because their continued existence is more important than you are." Wynne tilts the teapot toward Marian, offering her some, but Marian shakes her head, refusing the tea and still lost. "Thus it is you who serves, not they."
She fills her own teacup while Marian thinks. As a concept it seems fairly self-evident, though Wynne must have a reason for bringing it up. "I don't understand what you're getting at," Marian is forced to admit. "We protect, yes, and we serve Thedas in that sense, but – "
Wynne stops her by gently laying her hand over Marian's. She can count the number of times Wynne has touched her on one hand and have plenty of fingers left over. It stops her mouth in its tracks. "A good king – a true king, who cares for his land – uses his power to rule firmly but fairly. He serves his people first and foremost. The king who does not do this, who believes that he is entitled to his power, who abuses it and uses it for his own means, is a tyrant." It pours from Wynne in a passionate speech, something she believes, and believes strongly. And Marian even agrees with her – but what does it have to do with her? Or being a Grey Warden? She doesn't truly have that kind of power, no matter what Wynne says. Yes, Grey Wardens are charged with stopping the Blight by any means necessary, with all the rights and responsibilities that implies. If a village is raided by darkspawn, the Grey Wardens are the ones to determine whether it must be burnt to the ground, and whether the villagers must be put to the sword. Theirs is a very real power over life and death – in a kingdom that acknowledges that power. Here in Ferelden, Loghain has taken that from them, along with everything else.
"We're not so powerful as you think," Marian says, with a small, sad smile. "We're sorry excuses for Wardens, really."
Wynne examines her with those cool eyes that see too much. "You are much changed from who you were," she says. "And I do not think you realize it." She sighs, and starts again, in that voice that Marian has heard aimed at other apprentices but never at her. It says Keep up, apprentice. "If you live apart from others, and your actions affect only you, then you may do as you wish. But if you have power, influence and strength, your every action will be as a drop of water in a clear still pond. The drop causes ripples, and ripples spread." Wynne spreads her hands further and further apart, until she's at arm's length. "Think of how far they will go, how wide they will become. How will they affect the pond?" She falls silent, searching Marian's face – for understanding?
She understands the concept. It's not a difficult one. What she's having trouble grasping is the reason that she needs to hear it. Is this... Oh, Maker, is this about her and Alistair? Or maybe Wynne heard the essence of Eamon's plan. Is this meant for Alistair's ears? But no, Wynne isn't subtle in that way – if she had something to say to Alistair, she'd say it to his face.
This is meant for her, then. Is this some sort of oblique warning that she's throwing her authority around too much? Is this about their side trip to Haven? But Wynne hadn't said a word about it – and Wynne is one of the people she would have pegged as thoroughly behind the idea.
Maybe Marian's demon encounter worried Wynne more than she let on.
Or maybe she's trying too hard to divine Wynne's reasoning when she should just ask.
Wynne's got her teacup in front of her mouth as she drinks, trying to hide her smile, but Marian can still see the amusement in her eyes as she watches Marian spin her wheels. Maybe that was her intention all along. Or... Or maybe Marian needs to stop this before she goes insane. More insane. Wynne sets her cup in its saucer with a tiny, genteel clink. "But I've lectured enough for today. I should stop before I wear out my welcome."
"You couldn't possibly," Marian says automatically. It's usually true, but right now Marian could use a little less enigmatic moralizing and a little more plain speaking.
"Now, why don't I believe that?" Wynne asks, watching Marian with shrewd eyes, but when Marian winces, she laughs and waves it off. She leaves Marian alone with her thoughts, and with the breakfast that's been laid. Her stomach rumbles.
With an appetite like this, she's surprised the Wardens haven't eaten the whole of Thedas by now. She doesn't remember Duncan eating quite so much – maybe this won't last. Hopefully.
She's halfway through a second plate and a fresh cup of tea when Alistair comes through the door and heads straight for the sideboard. His eyes are slits in his face, and his hair is flat on one side and sticking straight up on the other. "Morning," she says, amused.
He grunts at her. She laughs and watches him collect a truly astonishing amount of food, and then he sits next to her in Wynne's abandoned chair and starts to eat with single-minded precision. Had she looked like that when she came in? His stubble is threatening to become an actual beard – he hasn't shaved yet this morning, then. "What are your plans for this morning?" She turns to sit sideways in her chair, to face him.
"Training with the knights," he says, his voice a deep, scratchy rumble in his chest. Then he goes still when she touches his cheek, rubs her fingers against the stiff hairs on his face; she trails her fingers up to the soft skin stretching over his temple, savoring the contrast. He's got a few smile lines already, even though he's not much older than she is. She likes them. They say Here's a man who doesn't take himself seriously. She pushes her hand into his hair. It's softer than she thought.
He's so still, watching her out of the corner of her eye like he's afraid to move. Has she overstepped? "Is it all right that I touch you like this?" she asks, her nerves running high. She doesn't want him to say no, because she doesn't want to stop – and she wants him to take the same kind of pleasure in this that she does.
"Yes," he says instantly. "I – " He swallows. "I like it." Thank the Maker. He's silent for a moment while she tries to flatten his hair. He must have slept on it all night for it to be this stubborn. "Can I touch you like this?"
"I wish you would," she says. She pitches it low, something private between the two of them. "You have good hands." He glances at her then, startled, and she grins at him. Even as the smile's forming on his face, she takes his chin and turns him closer to her, kissing him hard. His reflexes are excellent – he kisses her back, his hand coming to rest on her knee for balance as he leans in, trying to get closer. Warmth curls in her stomach. She wants to open her mouth, to see if he knows what to do with his tongue... but he has things to do, places to be, and so does she.
She pulls away, not without a pang of regret. His eyes are wide awake now. "Good morning," she murmurs, dropping another kiss on his forehead as she stands with her tea. "Your hair is an astounding mess."
Marian walks out the door, and when she glances at him over her shoulder, he's attempting to flatten his hair without success. She laughs and leaves him to it.
Genitivi isn't in his room, nor does Wynne know where he is. Either he'd risen earlier than either of them or he'd had someone bring him breakfast in his room. Marian wanders the castle looking for him; she finds Leliana in Isolde's solar, Sten working out in the courtyard where Ser Perth waits for Alistair, and Zevran charming the kitchen maids, but Genitivi eludes her until she thinks to check Eamon's study.
Genitivi looks up from the desk, his welcoming smile shining. "Warden! Come in, please."
She salutes him with the teacup that's still in her hand. She's warmed the tea in it twice over while she looked for him. There are a few good sides to being a mage. "It's just Marian," she says.
She's loved this room from the first time she saw it. There hadn't been any undead haunting this room in particular, and that helps, but even better is the atmosphere. Books have their own smell, one that matures as they age; here it's soaked into the furnishings, the carpet, the very walls.
That and a cup of tea is all she needs out of life.
Genitivi sits back in the chair behind Eamon's desk. "Were you looking for me, or something to read?"
Marian grins. "You've written a library of your own – can't it be both?" He laughs, as she'd intended, and she goes on. "Actually, I wanted to see how you were."
"As well as can be expected," Genitivi says wryly. "Enchanter Wynne is very skilled, but I laid there for too long for magical healing to be effective, she tells me. That means I have to do it the old-fashioned way, and there's no guarantee I'll keep the foot."
Concerned, Marian rounds the desk. "May I take a look?"
"It's nothing you haven't seen before," Genitivi says, raising his eyebrows. "Though I'm not sure why you'd want to..." Nonetheless, he pushes the chair away from the desk, the legs rasping against carpet as it moves. He offers her his foot. The bandages are clean; either his wounds have stopped oozing or Wynne has already seen to his wounds. She unwraps them quickly, but when she gets down to the skin she freezes. His largest toe is black down to the joint, and the rest of his toes are affected, too, to various degrees. Marian sucks in a startled breath.
"Yes," Genitivi says. Marian looks up to find him examining his toes with dispassionate interest. "If I'm not strong enough to take the toes off soon, it'll spread to my foot, and then I'll really be buggered."
She laughs at that, to her horror; her hands fly up to cover her mouth, but it's too late, it's already out. "That shouldn't be funny," she says, muffled behind her hands.
Genitivi grins at her, somehow triumphant. "Then you ought not laugh." His amusement fades into resignation as he looks back at the ruins of his foot. "There's not much to be done, I'm afraid," he says, pulling his foot back to him. Marian stops him with a touch. His skin is burning with hectic heat, growing hotter closer to his toes.
"I brought the pouch in which I had the Ashes," Marian says, digging in her pocket. "I thought you might like to see it. But I also noticed something this morning..." Finally she catches the edge of the strap and brings it out. "I think there was a tear in the paper."
Marian opens the pouch and shows it to him. The leather is old and so soft, and caught in the rough nap of the grain side is a precious few flakes of ash.
"I don't know if this much can even do anything," she says quietly. "Eamon was healed entire, but we gave him quite a bit more than what's here."
Genitivi takes the pouch from her, slowly, reverence in his every move. His hands are shaking. "Am I worthy?" he asks, speaking more to himself than to her. "I don't know that I am. I don't know how I can know that."
"If not you, then who?" He shakes his head at that, abstracted, like he's not really paying attention. Marian chooses her words carefully, chooses the brutal truth to slap at him. "You're going to lose your foot if you don't do something quickly. You'll walk with a crutch for the rest of your life. Your journeys will be over; you'll watch the world go by from your chair by the window, and wonder how they could have forgotten you so quickly." Genitivi pales more and more with every word until he's white.
But though she's hurt him and hurt him deeply, still he shakes his head. "If my fear ruled me, I would be even less of the man who would be worthy of this gift," he says. Genitivi hasn't looked at her since he took the pouch. He can't seem to take his eyes away from it. "I'm an old man. Maybe it's time for me to retire." His mouth firms. "No. There are others who need this more than I do."
And he tries to give it back to her then. Marian's having none of it; she stands, backing away and shaking her head.
"I won't take that from you," she says. "You're the only one I trust with the location of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. If you think you're not worthy, what do you think some of your more venal sisters and brothers will do with Andraste's ashes? And don't try to tell me they don't exist!"
Genitivi closes his mouth with an audible snap. He'd clearly been about to do just that. "I clearly have more faith in my fellow Chantry members than you," he says. He's angry. She hates that she's pushing him like this, but every word she's spoken is both the truth and a reason to her... and she can't bear the idea that someone she respects so much is martyring himself because of some impossible standard.
"I have faith in your integrity," Marian says quietly. "There aren't many like you and the Chantry needs each and every one. You do so much good in the world. Don't you think you have a responsibility to keep doing it?"
She leaves him there, staring after her, the little pouch held tight in his hand. She'll send Wynne to him. It'll be his choice whether he uses the Ashes, his and none of hers. She's not certain he'll do it, though she wishes he would. She doesn't like things so much that they're worth more than a person's well-being to her, even if that thing is supposedly the ashes of humanity's greatest prophet.