how to drag a bird in five easy steps.

[ofkirkwall]

Who: Marian Hawke & Thedas' Greatest Hits.
Broadcast: N/A
Action: Three Twins medbay, later Caprine.
When: Backdated to late 9/8, some hours after Totally Fun Dragon Outing.

[ In truth she doesn't want to wake, she wants to sleep for weeks or months. Avoid the deep ache in her bones, the bile rising in her throat, the disgust that twists her insides into knots. That way she doesn't have to look at them then, doesn't have to look at him, and watch them recoil from her like some sort of thing - some sort of monster. But she does wake slowly, muscles protesting at even the slightest movement, jolts of agony dancing across her every nerve. Curling in on herself she clutches the sheets around her, hoping to shut the world out for at least a moment longer.

Good job Marian, you blew it. Just had to go and screw everything up, didn't you? Couldn't be happy with being bloody happy!

An ugly pit coils in her belly making her pull her sheets around herself some more, eyes clamping closed tighter. The smell of blood sharp in her nose, the taste of cooper lingering on her tongue. Reminds that cling to her like a wet blanket, that refuse to let her forget her own idiocy. If she hadn't rushed in like she had, if she hadn't stumbled and allowed herself to get caught. It'd be nice if they could all pretend nothing happened. Everyone going back to how things were when no one knew about Marian Hawke's dirty little secret or how much of a giant hypocrite she is. The woman that who damns blood magic and the very people who practice it a bloody blood mage herself. Maker's balls it is so painfully ironic.

It'd be nice really, but there is no going back now, no way to run. All there is to do now is watch her approval ratings plumett into the red. No way she's getting that special Wicked Grace scene now. ]

Comments

[wolfehawke]

[For all that Kirkwall had to throw at him, Adalwolfe's rarely surprised anymore by what people actually do, the lengths they go to in order to protect themselves. Saddened, frustrated, even angry, but not surprised.

And then along comes Marian.

Him but not him, cut from what he thought was the exact same cloth in that they'd been in the very same situations with the same factors and the only difference was gender. Not so, it seems.

Adalwolfe tries to rationalize the differences on his way to the Caprine, arm in a sling at healer's orders and walking with a pronounced limp before he settles into the shuttle's chair, thinking not for the first time that Anders is holding out on him with healing anything not life threatening on purpose. Vindictive, that one. But he's had much worse and despite protests of him leaving the clinic so soon, he has to do this now.

Is it because she's female? He knows it was different, how Malcolm talked to Bethany about her magic, about the Circle and what went on there. He'd always made no secret of Templar abuses from his time - nothing like what Anders went through in later years, but still terrible - but sometimes he speak to Bethany alone and minutes later she was attached to his side, refusing to say a thing of what she'd been told but hiding from it. It's a bigger danger for women, Templars 'taking advantage' of their power over their mage charges, and it makes the temperature drop several degrees in anger for Adalwolfe to even think about it.

If it's that he could understand, and from there a slippery slope. Or it could have been someone else, later in Kirkwall, that had taught her. Surely she's not stupid enough to have trucked with demons? He's not. He has to give her that benefit of the doubt, at least.

But it all still rankles at him, makes his docking rough and bumpy for how lost he is in thought. Their father had made a point of raising them to be examples of free mages. He has lessons emblazoned on his brain, driven home with the sense that no matter how hard, this was important, the only thing more important was family but this was still a way to keep it. Stay hidden, but let your magic serve what's best in you, not that which is most base.

He sighs when the rattling of the ship finally ceases, airlock secure, and eases himself up onto unsteady legs. He supposes the only answers he'll find will be from Marian, and there's no way he's going to let her wriggle out of a serious conversation this time. She's avoided it for too long already.

I suppose now I know why, he thinks, knocking on the door to her quarters. He knocks the way their mother would when angry. Polite but sharp, and usually followed by opening the door promptly despite hearing either no response or a 'go away!' from her children. Manners, then get what you're after anyway. That was Leandra.]

Marian, we need to talk.

[ofkirkwall]

[ It's too bloody familiar the way he enters, the way he talks. For a moment she could swear it was Leandra that stood in her quarters, arms crossed and brow furrowed into a disapproving frown. For a moment she could swear she hear her mother's voice ( I knew you would come. ) and smelt her favorite perfume ( the room smells of blood and rot ). Like salt to a festering wound, serving only to cause the ugly knot in her stomach to grow.

Her fingers hover in the air and tremble, halted in their task. He finds her packing, or at the very least sorting the particulars of her pack. Elfroot and lyrium potions at the top, her journal and another book considerably more aged right below, a few random herbs, a spare knife, bandages and a suture kit, a metal flask, a strip of red cloth - all the things she keeps close by. She had been counting the number of potions she had left, making sure there was enough bandages, that she had enough supplies. But that task is near forgotten, her mind latching instead on images she sees now only in her dreams.

( mother's skin is so cold, so pale. she's smiling. she's dying, she's dying and there is nothing - I love you. You've always made me so proud. no, no, please don't leave me here alone, please. i failed, i failed again. )

Breathe, breathe. She grabs the closest thing she can reach, the old weathered grimoire, anchors herself to it to the room. Leandra's image shifts, becomes taller more like Malcolm with broad shoulders she used to hang off of as a child. She hates how much he reminds her of them both; hates how much he acts like them, sounds like them, looks like them.

Marian does not look up at him, she looks to her things, to the grimoire in her hands. ]

Do we? As you can see I'm a bit busy.

[wolfehawke]

We do. You're not going anywhere, at least not yet, so you might as well put that down and get comfortable.

[He stays standing, between her and the door, not trusting her not to bolt even if he's not entirely sure he would stop her if she did. He's being too strong about this, he knows. Too familiar, like she owes him something when logically she doesn't. But he wants to know- no, needs to know why.]

So. Blood magic.

[He spits the words, tried of the games, tried of reaching out and having her come close to reaching back and then turning away at the last second presumably because of this. He's just plain tired of all the hidden meanings and covered insecurities, the secrets. It's worse than the Orlesian Game and to have someone of his own blood do it? He's too angry to care that they're not actually related as such.]

How did you learn it? Father?

[ofkirkwall]

No.

[ She snaps, vicious, anger flaring like an angry wound. Their father most of all knew better than that, he knew what happens to mages who practice blood magic. For all his flaws he did well to ensure his children knew better. ]

You know as well as I Father would not teach us something that would put us in even more danger.

[ A glance at the door then Adalwolfe, and she exhales, resigns to remaining and sits down besides her things. The potions roll towards her, soft sounds of glass clinking together feels louder than it should be, sharper against her ears. There's no running from this, no wiggling her way out, as much as she wants to so desperately. ]

I taught myself.

[wolfehawke]

Well. That's a relief.

[He says it under his breath but still audible, shifting his weight to one leg and running his good hand back through his hair with a bit more force than necessary. He drops his hand immediately after.]

No demons?

[ofkirkwall]

[ Malcolm knew better. He had despaired for his eldest the night he found out, held her close was she sobbed uncontrollably, hands stained with her own blood. He never condemned her for it, never yelled at her, he only smiled sadly as she apologized again and again and stroked her hair. It will be alright, little bird. It was their secret.

Still clutching the grimoire she dares herself to look at him, skin paler than usual, dark bags underneath her eyes. Never really did look that great during after using the blighted magic, always took a lot out of her. More than a lot. ]

No demons. [ She's insulted that the thought entered his head though she cannot fully blame him, people always assume demons are involved. ] I might have been stupid enough to learn it in the fist place, but I know better than to make deals with demons.

[wolfehawke]

Good.

[He takes her at her word because she's never outright lied, and because he's certain he could tell if she did.]

Then... why? Why learn it?

[The anger bleeds out of him and there's just confusion left, his eyes searching her face for answers over that stupid gash over his nose he refuses to let Anders heal away. All he can hear is Malcolm's voice in his head.

Magic serves what's best within me, not that which is most base.

You have to be an example of what a free mage can be.

Protect your siblings. Protect this family.

When I'm gone...

You must protect them, like I protect all of you.

By being a hypocrite? By hiding things from his eldest while still dictating exactly what he has to be and do with his life? The old anger rears up from when he was smaller, ill fit to his own body and his own newly fledged magic. He'd fought so much against anything, against everything he could rail against, he would. His father, his mother, his magic, the Chantry, whatever he set his eyes on during any given day would get the brunt of his ire.

He exhales and there's frost on his breath. He notices and swallows, trying to calm down. Breathe in, then out, slow. Calm.

His voice is low when he speaks again, a rumble in his chest. It sounds thick to his own ears, too heavy.]

It was to protect them, wasn't it. The twins.

[ofkirkwall]

Carver.

[ Family, their brother, the twins. Even when Malcolm still lived she did all she could to protect them. She got into fights with other kids for them, coming home with cut and bruises more often than not. There was nothing she wouldn't do for them, for their family. ]

He... I was scared he was going to die. Bethany was too young, she didn't have to power to heal him and Father─ [ Her voice catches in her throat. ] I didn't know what else to do. I had to make sure he was going to be okay.

[ Morbid curiosity had her keep the book she found but it was Carver that pushed her into it, the desperate need to keep her brother safe. To see him alive, healthy, and being the little snot he always was. The very same thing made her send him away, far far away, in hopes that false Calling wouldn't entrap him as well.

My beautiful daughter, my little bird. Take care of them for me, won't you?

She tried, she really tried. But she wasn't good enough, wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough. For all she tried to do she couldn't live up to the role her father gave her. She couldn't keep them safe. ]

[wolfehawke]

Was it the fever or the time we were attacked while we were moving again that one summer on the coast?

[He gives up being a barrier, instead moving to sit beside her on the bed. Not right next to her, not touching because that's not a boundary he's sure she wants him to cross just yet. If he's honest with himself, he's not sure he wants to cross it just yet either, but he does want to clarify. Somehow, knowing it's for Carver makes it easier. Understandable. Forgivable.

Wolfe remembers. He remembers Carver, delirious at thirteen, his skin so hot it could burn. Mother had done nothing but run back and forth to the well, Bethany drawn and guilty that her own magic could do so little for her brother in the few months she'd had it. And Adalwolfe with all his years ahead of them still lacking in so much as a single iota of creation magic. He'd never learned, didn't take to it, and then he'd regretted it so harshly he'd nearly turned to what his father had always forbidden. The demons in his dreams, they could so easily teach him, and then Carver would be safe. It didn't matter what happened to him... Only he hadn't done it. Carver's fever broke and they all thanked the Maker.

The bandits were later. He doesn't remember when, exactly. Not too long before Lothering. Father had gone ahead a month or more earlier to scout out a house and they'd been on their way to meet him when the highwaymen took them by surprise. Carver had fought off the bandits at the side of his siblings, Wolfe and Bethany flinging spells and Carver with his massive two-hander, cutting swaths through the men that were stupid enough to run them off the road. Cart overturned, they'd used it for cover and fought the threat off handily, no survivors to tell the tale of the apostates. Only Carver had gotten a blade under the ribs, in his guard, and stubborn as he was refused to even tell any of them about it until a half-mile further he collapsed.

That damned book was in his pack. He can't remember where he'd gotten it, but he'd kept it hidden in his things. A secret weapon, only to be used in the most dire of circumstances, because as his father intoned so often he could die tomorrow, and then Adalwolfe would have to keep them safe. He hadn't had to use it, but he'd taken it out for the first time in years that day, with Carver ashen on the back of the cart, breathing shallow and so uncharacteristically quiet...

Both times were his fault, he'd always thought to himself. But for the grace of the Maker was Carver even still alive, somehow charmed. It's why he hadn't allowed his little brother on the Deep Roads mission, why he even knew the little bit of creation magic he could pick up. He knows exactly where Marian is coming from.

Or thinks he does.]

[ofkirkwall]

It was my fault.

[ It always was in the end, always her failure when something happened and the twins were hurt. They were her responsibility, she had to keep them out of trouble, keep them alive. Father made sure she knew that much when they were born. She was to protect them when he wasn't around, when things he never spoke of took him from them for weeks. She was to protect them all when he was no longer able too. ]

The twins were not long from thirteen. We were exploring the wood nearby our house, Mother wasn't exactly happy about the burnt curtains so it was better we were out of the house. [ That was definitely her fault, something of a prank gone horribly wrong. ] I don't remember how far we wandered or when it happened but we were attacked. A couple of bandits, I think. It happened fast, one moment we were happily wandering around the next I had set a man on fire and the other loosed an arrow into Carver's shoulder.

[ She can still remember Carver's cry of pain, Bethany's scream, the smell of burning flesh sharp in her nose. She set the wood ablaze then to cover their escape, unconcerned for the attention it would undoubtedly bring. All that mattered was getting out of there, getting back home, getting them safe. ]

The arrow had been tipped with something, a poison or oil or ─ Maker's balls, I don't know what. The wound festered so quickly, we tried poultices and potions but nothing seemed to work. Bethany almost pushed herself to exhaustion trying to help him, and I... I couldn't do a damn thing. [ Not a single healing spell to her name, despite Malcolm's attempts, it was simply a school of magic she could not learn let along master. ] It was my fault, Wolfe, I couldn't let him die because of what I did. I couldn't.

[ So she made a stupid choice, she opened the book, gave into the one thing that their Father warned them against. She had no idea if it could help or not but she wasn't going to let that stop her, she would damn well try even it if it meant damning herself in the process. And damn herself she did, only it took years for it to finally hit. For her choice to come back and destroy all that she held dear, to tear out her still beating heart and crush it.

You're no better than the rest of them.

She's not, she's not. She is nothing like them and she never will be. ]

[wolfehawke]

Of course you couldn't.

[It doesn't make it alright, but it does mean something, the why of things. Motivations. Moreover she knows blood magic is wrong on the whole, harmful, and comes with a terrible price, but who isn't willing to pay a terrible price for family? For love?

Tentatively, he slips an arm around her shoulder, offering comfort and understanding, but he doesn't draw her near. She'll have to take that last step on her own.]

Marian, you did what Father would have done. You protected him. He was... well, Father was a bit of a hypocrite, having done blood magic himself, but we both know he was a good man. That he took care of the family, above everything. You're no less than him for doing the same thing.

[He peers at her, letting go of a shaky breath. He doesn't want to as, but he has to know. Wolfe asks gently, hoping to hear her answer yes.]

Then, and this time with the dragon, was that it? Only when people's lives were in danger?

[ofkirkwall]

[ Something cracks then, she isn't sure what or why, but it does and she can feel the tears welling up behind her eyes. Hot, stinging. She inhales sharp and leans against him, accepting the comfort he offers with such a simple gesture. Maker she isn't sure she deserves, after all she has said and done, for how hypocritical she has been over the years. Damning blood magic and mages in one breath, bearing the scars of it's use in another.

Stupid, stupid Marian.

She exhales heavy, curls in on herself against him, doing all that she can to keep herself from weeping. Old habits struggling to keep the masks in place, the shield between the world and every vulnerability she can't afford to have. The Champion doesn't cry, doesn't succumb to her misery - no the Champion pushes forward with a grin on her lips and witty comments dancing across her tongue. ]

Not since Mother ─ [ Words catch, her breathing hitches, and she forces back a sob. ] Before... I didn't care as much, I used it to fuel my spells when I was out of lyrium potions. [ A breath, she stares at the floor counting invisible spots. ] I was out of lyrium potions a lot - Surprise, I tend to overuse them a bit! Just can't help myself they are so helpful. But I didn't use it against people, though there were a few times I wanted too.

[ She would have loved to have forced Sister Petrice off the nearest cliff. ]

[wolfehawke]

[She starts crying just a little and Maker help him he wants to go find Fenris that second and force him to sit down and listen for once, not just hear so he can reject her pain - the same pain that hundreds of mages have felt before in their desperation - out of hand. As it is the muscles in his arms grow tense and he holds her as if to keep her together.]

I can think of a few people I wouldn't have minded using that on too. Petrice comes to mind.

[Their minds work similarly, it seems.]

I'm not going to lecture you on how you shouldn't overuse lyrium or whatever else you do because that's not going to change anything, but what I am going to tell you is you can stop. Don't let your past dictate your future.

[He pauses, looking down at her.]

If... that's what you want.

[He wants to know what Fenris said, if he's even spoken with her yet as he suspects, but if she's already in tears Wolfe isn't going to ask just now.]

Look, I'm here for your either way, whatever your choices.

[Even if I don't always agree with them.]

[ofkirkwall]

You know... I almost want to shake you for sounding so much like Father.

[ She can hear him if she tries, if she closes her eyes hard enough. As if he was sitting right there next to her, smoothing her hair with his hand, mouth curved into that gentle smile. It's bittersweet but leaves her feeling a little calmer, together, not lost to the misery weighing heavy on her shoulders. ]

You're too bloody good, I don't know they stand it.

[ Supportive regardless what she decides to do, regardless of what terrible choices she may or may not make. Honestly, how can he exist? If their positions were swapped... she can't truthfully say she'd do the same. She isn't that good of a person, not so easy to understand or forgive. A good thing then, that their positions are as they are, that she is the one with the poor judgement.

She exhales, bringing her hand up to wipe the tears from her eyes. ]

I thought you might hate me too.

[ A laugh, short, half muffled by her hand. She says more than she wants with those words alone, by the way her tone becomes almost pained. In truth she thought all of them would hate her, turn their backs and refuse to be near her. ]

Not sure about the potions, that's like asking me to stop drinking─ [ Not gonna happen. ] But the blood magic? That I don't want to use again. It makes me feel sick and angry. I don't regret learning it, I don't regret saving Carver's life, but I hate it. I hate the mages who use it to hurt people, who think it's the only option left to them. [ She thinks of the Wardens, of Clarel, and her blood starts to boil. ] Hypocritical of me, I know.

[wolfehawke]

[He doesn't know what to say to her telling him he sounds like Malcolm. Once long ago he might have been proud, seen it as a victory. Or perhaps he'd still have been frustrated, for as much as Carver whines about being in his shadow, Wolfe in turn has always felt his father blotted out the sun with his stature. For now he's just conflicted, and leaves it at that. This isn't about him.]

I'm not going to hate you for making hard choices, sister-mine. Choices I might have made too, in your place. I thought about it too much to condemn you for action.

[It's how she said 'hate me too' that gets him, though. That gives credence to his worry that Fenris had already had his say and acted true to assumed form.]

I used to hate them too, thought they were weak, but you know... Anders, despite his own hatred - or Vengeances' hatred, really - of blood magic, made me understand. It's not weakness, it's just desperation brought on by a world that hates mages. We don't have many options if we want to be free and that's such an obvious one...

[He lets out a long breath.]

The mages who use it to gather power for themselves, like Magisters of Tevinter, those I still hate, but the ones driven to in a desperate bid to survive, or to save those they love. Like you. Like father, or Merrill. I can't hate that. It doesn't come from a place of cruelty or hatred, it comes from the opposite and it's not the mage's fault for being forced into a corner. You and I both know the Chantry doesn't leave many other options. Or Corypheus, for that matter.

[He chuckles in a self deprecating way.]

Sorry, I didn't mean to lecture. I just meant that... well, you don't need to use it. You're strong enough on your own. And people here don't have the same attitudes about magic as they do at home.

[He glances at her.]

Aside from Fenris, I'd guess. Did he say anything to you?