Yesterday's threatening storm has come today, pounding the sides of the castle with sheets of rain. It wakes Marian out of a dead sleep. In fact, the sudden slap of it, the overwhelming noise nearly gives her a heart attack, if she must be honest. It sits her right up in bed.
A moment's listening tells her that it's nothing in the chamber with her, or even inside the castle, and that gives her the chance to remember the wet the wind left on her feathers yesterday, the grey and the gloom, and the fishermen who'd gone home early. It must be a spectacular storm. The Circle suffered the same sorts of weather in Cloudreach, but never the sheer force of wind that she can hear throwing rain at the outer wall.
Marian sticks her head out into the hall. It's early, too early to be awake, but half-dressed servants carrying candles are going into all the outer rooms. "Not to worry, miss," one of the maids says to her as she passes. "It's only a storm. We're just closing up the shutters."
"Wake me if it's actually a giant," Marian tells her, yawning. She falls back to sleep faster than she expected considering the storm, with Cú tucked up behind the crook of her knees.
She wakes again later – it's impossible to tell how much later – and rolls over instead of getting up, dislodging the heavy mabari who's using her as a heat source. She stares at the grey stone of the ceiling, though she's not really seeing it. Several things have been worrying at her all night, occupying her thoughts and threading through her dreams, and the one she's willing to think about right now is something about Sten. Last night at dinner... he's never hidden his contempt of humans and their practices, but he's never volunteered anything like that, either. It's difficult enough to get him to answer a simple and practical question like what kind of armor do you wear? And volunteering an opinion, without her prompting? Is he ill?
She wants to know what he meant by it, though, and she'll never know if she doesn't ask. She'll probably never know, period, because Sten never answers her questions; but that doesn't mean she should stop asking. That's practically heresy.
The castle is stuffed to the gills with people today, trapped inside while the storm rages outside. Marian spots the edge of Wynne's robes vanishing into the study that Genitivi has made his home and passes Morrigan in the front hall, who is frowning so fiercely that Marian snaps her mouth shut on her greeting.
It's not smart to prod the tiger, after all, not when she's so handy with a horror spell.
Alistair's playing hazard with Zevran and two of the knights, which she counts as foolishness, if only because Zevran is the kind of man who plays with weighted dice. Marian shrugs and goes on her way, hunting Sten upstairs and down; she looks nearly everywhere before she finds him sequestered in Isolde's solar. It's literally the last place she would have thought to find him. She's only being thorough when she puts her head through the doorway to the solar, but there he is in one of Isolde's delicate Orlesian chairs, reading a book.
Huh.
The solar is a beautiful, warm, rich room with only a few chairs and a table. There's a huge window on one wall, one with a wealth of real glass panes, that must light up the room when the weather's fine. The shutters are drawn today, of course. Sten has lit torches on the wall instead.
"Good morning," Marian greets him cheerfully, settling into a chair. She discovers too late that it's the kind of chair that won't allow you to sit any way except with the most proper of postures. She shifts her weight forward onto her thighs and sighs a little. Of course Isolde decorates like this.
Sten raises his eyebrows at her, his eyes cool, and glances deliberately at the shuttered windows; the wind is howling like a banshee outside. It sounds like there might be some hail mixed in to the rain now. The storm is getting worse.
And then he returns to his reading like she's not there.
She's impressed, despite herself. She'd never have imagined that someone could call her foolish and absurd without a word. Unfortunately for Sten, she's also stubborn and curious.
"Good book, that?" she asks.
Sten raises the book so that she can read the title on its spine. The History and Social Influence of the Potato, by RN Salaman, it says.
So she's less interesting than the history of the potato. "You could crush a girl's ego that way," Marian says lightly. He shakes his head, returns the book to its original position, and keeps reading – and from the way his eyes are moving, she's sure he's really reading, which is sort of humbling. Marian can only speak a few scattered words of Tevene and the really naughty Orlesian swearing Lissette taught her. The largest renaissance of magical scholarship in three hundred years is happening in Orlais. There are entire libraries in the Orlesian Empire that are out of her reach because she doesn't speak the fucking language. And it's infuriating.
To the point, then. Perhaps he'll respond to that. "You said something at dinner last night I wanted to ask you about."
Wonder of wonders, Sten actually puts the book down to look at her. "Speak, then."
"What did you mean about human wisdom?"
He snorts. "Perhaps if humans sought wisdom beyond the walls of Chantries, they might find it now and then."
It seems silly and defensive to point out that everything she knows, she learnt from books, so Marian bites her tongue and waits for the urge to pass before she replies. "Then where ought we look for wisdom?"
From the look on his face, Marian thinks she's surprised him. What did he think she was going to say? Probably nothing flattering. His opinion of her stings a little, based as it is on little more than her race and his opinion of her leadership abilities. Though if she's honest, it's one she shares...
Sten puts his book down. Marian looks up, a little startled at this indication that he's actually going to talk to her instead of using his every effort to ignore her.
"You could try actually looking for it," he says, his eyebrows raised. "Wisdom is like breath. You need it, but no other can give you theirs."
It makes her think of her meditations. They're going well, and she's been feeling better, more stable and centered. That's probably not what he means, but maybe he has a point. "How do you find it, then?" she asks curiously.
Is that respect in his eyes? No, she must be seeing things. What she's not imagining is that his voice is lacking the sarcastic, dry undertone that his words normally carry. She has the feeling that he's letting her see something true for the first time. "It's everywhere," he says. "In every moment of eternity there is a chance to find it. You have only to reach for it."
"You make it sound like there's only one wisdom to be found." That can't be, unless – Maybe he defines wisdom differently than she does. Sten's Common is excellent, but that doesn't help if it's the concept behind the word that's mistranslating instead of the word itself.
Sten shakes his head and picks up his book again. "There is little point in pursuing this." It doesn't sound like he's dismissing her out of hand, at least, but like he thinks that they're never going to agree.
She doesn't need to agree, only to understand. But if he doesn't want to talk about it anymore, she can't exactly force him.
"I don't think that's true," Marian says, watching him intently. "But if that's the case, I'll leave you to your reading." She gets up, stretching a little. For all those sorts of chairs force her to sit properly, they always leave her back aching. She laughs. "I hope you enjoy your book."
Sten levies the most unimpressed look on her that she's ever had the pleasure of seeing. She grins at him and strolls out of the door.
When she's out in the hall, she lets the amusement slide off her face like it never was. Philosophy is the last thing she expected from Sten. That means she doesn't understand him yet, and that's something she can and should fix.
As always, her first impulse is research.
She can probably get something from Eamon's shelves. Didn't he have A Compiled History of the Occupied North? It's probably too much to hope for the Truth of the Qun, though. And of course, there's Genitivi's collected works... Marian checks her steps when she remembers that Genitivi is probably in Eamon's study. It takes a minute of convincing herself that she's probably made too much of their disagreement before she can make herself go in.
Genitivi is indeed there, lounging in Eamon's desk chair, but so are Wynne, Irving, and of all people, Leliana. Leliana's in the middle of telling a story, all flashing hands and bright smiles, but her smile turns warmer when she sees Marian hovering at the door. "Marian!"
"Don't mind me," Marian says instantly, pasting a smile on her face, sidling in and edging her way toward the bookshelves. "Really..."
Leliana laughs at her with only her eyes, but she goes back to her story, and it's only a moment before the others turn back to her and listen. Marian's tempted to listen, too; Leilana's got an engaging way about her with a story, and this, the tale of the Black Fox's year of mischief against the lord of Val Chevin, is one of her favorites.
She manages to drag herself away, but not before Leliana introduces wicked, wicked Clotildé. Clotildé's her favorite. It's not often that a woman in a storytale uses her mind to outwit and outthink and outplan all of her opponents.
Now, if she remembers correctly, the histories were over there...
Eamon does have the Compiled History, thank the Maker. Marian drags it down, and The Exalted Marches by Petrine, and someone's shelved Thedas: Myths and Legends over here for some reason, so she takes that down, too. She's already got an armful of books, and she wanted Tales of the Destruction of Thedas again, too; but she's no taller than she was last time she was here, and there's no convenient tall fellow Warden to give her a lift.
Eamon's not much taller than she is, come to think of it. He must have a stool somewhere... And of course, Wynne is sitting on it. Of course. Marian is not going to interrupt them again, she's just not, and asking Wynne for the stool is out of the question. She'll just come back later, that's all.
She gives Tales one last look as she turns away, but Genitivi is there standing before her, blocking her escape. His eyes fall to the books in her arms. Suddenly Marian's nervous, like he's going to judge her on her reading material. "Excuse me," she says in a low voice.
Genitivi looks at her thoughtfully and then up at the shelf. "Was there something you wanted up there?"
It feels so strange to be asking him to get down his own book for her.
"Yes," Marian admits. "The Tales of the Destruction of Thedas. But I can come back – "
He forestalls her by reaching up and plucking it from the shelf, turning it over in his hands. "This is one of the first books I ever wrote," he says, smoothing the cover. She's read it before, she knows that the corners are a little frayed and the spine is loose, but he looks at it like it's precious. She understands the feeling.
Genitivi lays it gently on her pile and bends his head so he can read the spines of the other three books. Then he looks up at her, a sharp, considering look. "Qunari?"
Marian nods, a little taken aback. It's not a secret or anything, but she's surprised at his being able to figure out exactly what she's doing just by the books she's picked.
Well, and she shouldn't be surprised, really. Genitivi is exactly the man she should have expected to know his materials inside and out.
Genitivi turns away, looking over the shelves with a critical eye. The instant his back is turned, Marian looks at his foot. She can't tell if he's healed or not. He's wearing boots on both feet now, but he could have bandages on underneath.
"Ah," he says, satisfied, and takes another book down from the shelf. She looks away before he catches her staring. It's a smaller book, about the size of her hand which is traditional for journals, bound in soft leather. "I thought I saw you there. Madoc of Alamar," Genitivi says to her. "He spent a year in Kont-aar. I think you'll find it... enlightening."
"Thank you," Marian says, smiles, and then flees like the darkspawn horde is on her heels.
She studies through the rest of the morning, through a tray of lunch and into the afternoon, curled up in her bed with her dog. Cú's perfectly willing to be her desk if it means he can lie on her legs.
When she's done as much as she can, she sits back, regarding the books in front of her with a frown. Qunari are fierce, fierce fighters, of course – she'd known that already, just from Sten's example. Their tactics and strategies are good, surprisingly flexible, and when they meet an obstacle they can't fight through, they bring out cannons, gaatlok, or mages, which are all equally explosive. It doesn't surprise her in the least that they conquered half of Thedas – the only surprise is that it wasn't more.
And then when they were backed into a corner, and Kont-aar was all that was left of their conquered territories, they just withdrew. Petrine offers a few possible reasons, but none are convincing. They left because they wanted to. It's tempting to think that they'd taken too many casualties, to an army that was already smaller than ideal, but somehow that doesn't ring true, either.
Myths and Legends is useless. Madoc's journal, on the other hand... She picks it up again. He'd been a wanderer, an adventurer, who at one point had lived in one of the smaller villages outside of Kont-aar. What he describes is so far out of her experience that she's not sure she's reading the words aright. Qunari society sounds like a beehive, like a swarm of ants, each working for the benefit of the whole and not for themselves. Can that really work? The Qunari seem to be thriving, but she's not sure she believes it. In her experience there is always greed, always abuse, and the small everyday cruelties that some people seem to need like they need breath in their lungs.
Marian sighs. This is depressing, and more importantly, it's not giving her any insight into Sten, though she does have a few ideas for small-party tactics. She piles up the books again to take back to Eamon's study when she goes down for dinner. Tales ends up on top. Marian stares down at it. What is she doing? She has the foremost historian in Ferelden under the same roof as her and she's trying to learn things out of books?
She snatches up the books and goes back downstairs. Genitivi is alone, and though at first he's surprised when she sits on the stool and asks him to tell her again about his travels in Rivain, and reserved in his speech, he soon warms to his subject. He's a natural storyteller, like Leliana. He takes her to Rivain, as she requested, though she does notice that he's creeping ever northward in his stories. He must know that she's pumping him for information about the Qunari. He doesn't seem to mind, thank the Maker.
He detours west, into Tevinter's ever-simmering war with the Qunari: the siege of Qarinus, the sack of Alam, the first, second and third Battles of the Nocen. The Qunari always seem to have the edge in straight tactics, and the better fighters, and of course their ships are the better of any in Thedas, but when finally the Tevinter war machine gets started, they have the better mages. The Qunari use their mages sparingly, if at all, it seems. Marian wonders why.
They're interrupted by a servant who tells them that it's time to change for dinner. Marian follows Genitivi up to the guest wing, careful in case he trips, but there's no trace of the limp in his steps. Maybe he took the cure after all.
They part with smiles on both sides. Marian finally feels like she's been forgiven.
The next day dawns pale and clear. That afternoon, Leliana and Zevran start Marian on wielding two knives at once. Well, they try. Marian has never appreciated how terrible she is at doing things with her left hand, or doing two different things with her hands at the same time. Leliana is sweet and encouraging, but even she wilts a bit after the second day of Marian dropping both daggers when she tries to do something, or accidentally striking with both daggers when she's supposed to be guarding with one, or...
Zevran just laughs. It's not helping. When she tells him so, he shrugs. "The style is not for everyone," he says. "But if you'd like to practice your coordination..."
Marian throws one of her practice daggers at him and his laughing face. He catches it. Of course he does.
Sten is always out in the practice yards when she is, and she suspects that he spends quite a lot of time there. He actually greets her now when they pass. It's strange.
If she's curious about the Qunari, shouldn't she ask a Qunari?
She will, Marian decides, but not yet. She's enjoying their détente, if she must be honest, and she's in no hurry to set him off again by opening her mouth.
She sees Alistair in the practice yards sometimes, too; not all the time like Sten, but enough that she knows he's keeping up his weapon skills. Other times he disappears entirely. Not that she's looking for him.
She's not.
Oh, to the Void with this.
She might be avoiding him. A little. She doesn't think he's noticed yet – they are busy with arranging their departure to Orzammar – but he will if she doesn't straighten herself out. While she's with him, the intensity of the way she feels, the warm, soft affection and lust and something else that she's afraid to name, they feel right. Better than right, really. He makes her feel whole. But then, when he's not near... Oh, Maker, she feels like she's going mad. How can she possibly feel this way about someone she met a month and a half ago? All her doubts are overwhelming her and she doesn't know what to do.
Marian thinks what she's most afraid of is that this is nothing more than a teenaged fever dream, a flash in the pan, and that they'll implode spectacularly and she'll lose someone in her life who she really... enjoys spending time with.
Her own inability to confront what she's really feeling is irritating in the extreme.
Marian is brought back to reality when Zevran starts prodding her in the ribs with the blunted dagger she'd thrown at him. "Marian? Are you in there?"
She hadn't permitted him free use of her name, but naturally, Zevran assumed it as his right. Marian sighs. There's a bench against the edge of the yard. She sits on it, her elbows on her knees, and stares at the dirt.
Zevran follows, sitting next to her and stretching out his legs to their fullest extent. She can just see his boots. They're not as pristine as she would have expected; they're leather, and the toes are fraying and deep scratches mar the sides. Does he need better gear? He's the last person she would have expected to keep quiet about something like that, but she's also unsure of how far the idea that he's her man goes with him, and she and Alistair have made no secret about the leanness of their purse. She'll have to ask him later.
His voice, when it comes, is a low, seductive invitation. "What's the matter, tesoro?"
And she's surprised to find that she wants to talk about it, to someone. Anyone. She looks up at Leliana, who's talking to one of the knights – that girl can make friends with anyone, it's a gift – but something about the idea of asking her for advice about Alistair feels strange. Confiding in Zevran has certain advantages, too. He's not so close to her that he won't give it to her straight. Well, perhaps with a minimum of flirting, which is the same thing for Zevran.
"Have you ever..." Oh, it's hard to think it, much less say it, but trailing off where she left that sentence is inviting disaster and innuendo for days. So, quickly, before he can start, and before she can't go on. Marian turns her head to look at him from where she is, her eyebrows drawn into a tight, anxious line that she can feel. "Have you ever been in love?"
Zevran laughs. "Oh, yes, several times already today, in fact."
Marian groans and buries her face in her hands. Why had she thought this was a good idea again?
But he doesn't go on, the way she'd fully expected him to; instead the silence lingers until it's uncomfortable. Marian lifts her face out of her hands to look back at Zevran. He seems to be very far away, in another time or place. He notices her looking at him, though, because he smiles again. It's wide and beautiful and genuine and it's still a mask, hiding whatever's going on inside of him. "No," he says.
"No, you've never been in love?" Marian asks, pressing the question, because... Because she thinks he's lying, that's why.
"Ah, cara mia," he sighs, slouching infinitesimally lower on the bench. He tilts his face up to the weak, watery sun, chilled as it has been by the storm, and closes his eyes. He's from a warmer place than Ferelden. Is he a little bit cold all the time? "No, I have never been in love. In truth, I don't believe I'm capable."
Whatever the truth is, it's gone now. It's disappointing. For a moment, she thought...
Then Zevran turns a wicked eye on her and says, "But I wonder what brought this on?"
Marian groans long and loud, but that's not going to save her. Nothing can save her now.
Later, much later, when she's escaped from the interrogation and bathed the practice yard's dirt away, she checks in with Bodahn to see how the resupply is going. It's no easy thing, either. Rations, fodder, clean water, all their primary and spare armor and weapons, clothes, cooking supplies, bandages, soap and rope and bedrolls and tents, three mages' worth of potion ingredients, Bodahn's trade goods, and their personal belongings – it makes for quite a lot of sheer stuff that first they have to procure and then fit into Bodahn's wagon somehow. Bodahn's in his element, bossing servants and villagers around like drudges. She has to remember to thank Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan before they go. This would never be possible without their support.
Somewhere during the fracas, Bodahn beckons her over, off to the side away from the swirl of helpful hands. "We'll be ready when it's time," Bodahn says, tucking his thumbs into his belt with pleased satisfaction. "I'll have the wagon loaded this time tomorrow, though, so I'd appreciate if you'd bring down those things you're not needing at the moment."
Marian promises to tell the others. "Is there anything else we need?"
"No, but..." Bodahn scratches at his beard. He looks concerned. "I went down the pub this morning for supplies – well, and a pint – and what did I find when I got there but some traders saying how King Endrin has passed on."
"King Aeducan?" Marian says, frowning.
Bodahn nods. "Old as he was, he was probably poisoned or assassinated. That's how the dwarves do things."
"So..." Marian pinches the bridge of her nose, thinking hard. "So political turmoil and a brand-new ruler, that's what we're going to be dealing with?"
"And maybe a witch-hunt if they haven't figured out who killed King Endrin yet," Bodahn adds helpfully.
Marian winces at the phrase, which is perfectly apt to the situation but it's also one that no mage likes to hear.
"Is there anything else we need to bring, then? Gifts for the new king?"
Bodahn shakes his head. "The treaties should be enough, I think..." He looks troubled, though, and she understands why. This isn't good news for them. Especially the way their luck has been running lately. It seems like everything that can go wrong in Ferelden is going wrong, and all at the same time.
Maker, have mercy. Please.
Marian takes her leave of Bodahn with a distracted nod, hurrying back up to the castle. She should find Alistair and tell him about this development.
Though why she thinks he would care is a mystery. Politics bores him to tears. She's just manufacturing excuses to see him, really.
Maybe she should take herself up on them.
She finds Alistair frowning at his things in his room where he's meant to be packing. She was going to talk to him. Really. But somehow she's got her nose in his throat instead, her eyes closed and her fingers clenched in his shirt, smelling his skin. She's forgotten what she was going to say. She's forgotten her nerves. Instead, she's wondering if he'd let her kiss him in places other than his mouth.
His hands settle on her hips. "What, here?" Alistair asks, sounding scandalized in a happy, delighted sort of way. "Now?"
Marian leans back, looking him right in the eye. "Alistair?"
He makes a soft, interrogative noise, his voice gone all husky and intimate. He can't seem to look away from her mouth. She can't seem to stop smiling. He makes her feel... Beautiful. Powerful. Wanted. What was her problem again?
"Shut it." And she kisses his gorgeous, laughing face, and then neither of them are much interested in talking anymore.
The wagon is fully packed the next day, as Bodahn promised. Isolde insists on having a formal dinner that evening to see them off.
The next morning, they leave for Orzammar, bright and early.