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Years seem to pass in the space of a few days while Marian grows.
The year she turns eight, Marian shoots up like a summer weed, tall and gangly and knobby-kneed. Leandra despairs that she'll easily be as tall as Malcolm by the time she's grown. For his part, Malcolm just laughs heartily and says he doesn't think he's so tall, really. He's only part ogre after all.
Marian doesn't see why it would be so bad to be as tall as Malcolm. Her father is tall enough that when he hoists her up on his shoulders, she can see far past the squat, cozy houses in their little village and well into the nearby woods, even catching sight of the meandering brook-turned-river disappearing into the distance. It makes Marian feel like she's on top of the world.
And besides, why wouldn't Marian want to be just like her father in every way? He's her hero. Jovial and smart, a wit that could cut the hardest stone. Always willing to play and crack jokes, to compete with Marian to see who is best at head-butts, to make silly faces at Carver, to spin Bethany around until her squealing laughter fills their little home with joy.
"I swear to the Maker," Leandra says often, voice full of loving exasperation, "it's like having four kids instead of three."
"My fellow children! I call on you to join me in arms!" Malcolm has been known to respond, and lead a playful charge on his wife that ends more than once in a full-family tickle fight, Leandra's own laughter mingling in perfect harmony with that of her "four children."
It is a happy life they have here, in Amaranthine.
And the magic. Well, Marian is a particular fan of that. Malcolm creates dazzling light displays to entertain and cheer them on dark winter nights, can heal a scratch or a skinned knee with a brush of his hand, fend off wild animals or bandits or anyone who seeks to cause any of them harm with the long, bladed staff he uses as a walking stick.
Marian knows well not to mention these feats to anyone outside of their little family. She does not understand the danger it poses for them all, truly, but she knows her father would be deeply upset if they were well-known, and she could not bear to disappoint him so.
Truly, she wants so badly to make him proud. No, not just to make him proud—to be just like him: strong and brave and fearless, keeping the dark at bay with nothing but a calloused hand and a lopsided smile.
Marian is neither strong nor brave nor fearless. She sees fearsome shapes moving in the shadows at night, only dispelled by the light her father conjures to reassure her, a flickering little flame that dances in the palm of his hand. After the light is extinguished, Marian safely tucked once more within her own blankets, she stares at the skin of her own palm and wills forth a flame to match his.
It does not come.
Marian's eleventh summer brings with it a pervasive heat, a sweltering, oppressive heaviness that seemingly will never end. The grasses turn brown, the meandering brook dries to a mere trickle. Marian's favorite shady tree does little to provide solace from the sun, and her skin tinges red with alarming quickness. Her mother frets, and her father procures an herbal remedy to help soothe burns.
Even so, it hurts, and Marian spends a restless night tossing and turning and trying her best not to scratch at the itchy, raw skin. In the morning, she is greatly relieved to find that the burn has healed. It falls away almost instantly from her mind, the momentary discomfort forgotten almost as soon as it is no longer felt.
But it happens again, and then again. Wounds that heal far faster than normal, scrapes that disappear almost instantaneously without a trace.
Marian thinks nothing of any of it until The Incident.
She's at her favorite shady tree again, this time climbing it, trying to get a better look at a brightly colored bird that has taken residence in its highest branches. She's a good climber, usually, good at finding the right branches to grab onto. Today, she miscalculates, and the branch snaps under her weight. She plummets to the ground, hot air whistling past her face. Terror grips her so fiercely she doesn't remember to scream until she makes impact with the hard-packed dirt—and by then, the air has been knocked from her lungs, and it is impossible to make any noise at all.
Marian lies still, blinking at the sky and gasping for breath, heart quivering as fast as hummingbird wings. It seems to take a long time to be able to inhale more than a tiny sip of air, and she's trembling all over by the time she feels as though she can breathe again. She moves to prop herself up by her elbows, and a searing pain tears through her arm.
Marian catches sight of it out of the corner of her eye, sees the way her arm turns at an unnatural angle. She sits up with speed, then, arm rather uselessly dangling beside her. She's aware all at once of the pain as abject terror fills her once again. How had she not felt it at first? It's intense and pulsing, sharp and unbearable.
She needs her father, but the short distance back to the house seems suddenly insurmountable. Her lip wobbles. Tears begin to prick at her eyes. A warmth travels from her shoulder to her elbow.
And through the tears that blur her vision, she sees her arm right itself.
It's such a shock, Marian stops crying. The warm sensation grows, and Marian finds that she can move her arm again. When the warmth recedes, the pain is gone, and she feels as if she has imagined the whole ordeal.
But she hasn't, Marian knows. Though her arm looks good as new, the rest of her is littered with scrapes and bruises, and she still trembles as adrenaline from the fall dissipates.
When the realization of what she has done hits her, Marian is on her feet and racing back to the house faster than she's run ever before.
"Father!" she cries as she bursts through the door.
Malcolm sits alone at the great oak kitchen table, quill in hand. When he hears her entry, he drops it and is immediately on his feet, looking for the threat. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing!" Marian exclaims with glee completely incongrous with her urgency and physical state, hair all out of place and threaded with leaves, clothing dusty and askew. "Everything is wonderful now—I'm just like you!"
This makes somewhat less sense to Malcolm than it does to Marian. He advances slowly, taking in her appearance. "Sure you are, pup, always have been. But what's happened?"
Marian races breathlessly through the whole story. She can hardly contain the wild joy that has been bubbling within her since she realized she healed her own arm. She knows what this means, the word that finally describes herself as well as her father.
"So I must be a mage," she finishes, and grins.
Malcolm looks at her with what Marian does not understand until much, much later is dawning horror. He kneels before her and grips her tightly by the shoulders. "Marian, tell me the truth, and quickly. This is important. Did anyone see you? Could anyone have seen you?"
Marian shakes her head, but Malcolm does not calm. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," she says. Some of her joy bleeds away at seeing her father's distress. "I-I know I'm not supposed to climb the tree without you there, but it's okay now—I can heal myself! So it's okay if I fall, right? Because if I get hurt, it doesn't last anymore!"
Malcolm dips his head, though his grip remains iron-firm. "Marian, that's not…" he starts, and his voice shakes.
"I'm sorry," she says automatically, desperate to make this better. She had been so pleased. She'd been so sure he would be pleased as well.
"No, pup, don't be sorry," Malcolm says. He releases a trembling breath and raises his head to look her over once again. "Are you alright?" He lifts a leaf out of her hair
Marian nods.
"Well," Malcolm says, and finally he smiles. "I guess we'd better see about some training for my mini-me."
Holding a staff does not come naturally to Marian.
For one, her father's staff is far too tall. She is growing quickly, sure, but she is still only a girl of ten years. When she positions her hands at the correct height for her small body, the uneven weight of it threatens to pull stave and girl both to the ground.
Malcolm chuckles at the sight and shakes his head. "We'll need to get you your own staff, I think."
And isn't that a thought? Her own staff, just like her father's. Marian imagines something in the same dark wood, topped with an imposing blade that catches the sunlight.
Leandra tsks from the background where she's mending garments for a neighbor. "And where are you going to find a proper staff for a ten year old girl?"
Malcolm smirks conspiratorially at Marian while he addresses his wife. "Oh, there's always a way, love. Isn't there, pup?" He taps his chin thoughtfully. "Come on, let's go for a walk."
It seems an abrupt change of topic, but it's a rare treat to be the sole recipient of her father's attention with the twins getting so big and demanding more and more of him, and so Marian happily bounds along after him as Malcolm leads the way out of the house and down a well-worn path.
Their walk takes them in the direction of the woods. The afternoon sunlight filters through leaves and branches, creating dappled, dancing shadows on the pair as they walk. The woods are vibrant this time of year, even with the heat. Greens and golds adorn branches and the beaten trail both, and the air is filled with joyful birdsong.
Malcolm pauses in the middle of the trail, listening intently. "Do you recognize that call?" he asks.
Marian strains her ears to listen and picks out the whistling "tee-hee" of a songbird. She cannot identify its source.
Malcolm steers her forward again with a hand on her shoulder blades. "A black-capped chickadee, I believe. I never did hear them in Kirkwall. It's beautiful, isn't it, pup?"
Marian nods eagerly. Now that she's listening for it, she can hear the chickadee tee-heeing even as their feet disturb the forest floor.
Malcolm sighs. "Nature is a gift from the Maker, pup. One we must never take for granted. We are luckier than most, here in Ferelden, where we can hear the birds sing and see the flowers bloom in our own backyard."
They step over a large root that has burst free from the soil, twisting and turning and lying in wait for the unsuspecting foot to catch on it. Malcolm ensures Marian has cleared it safely before continuing to lead the way down the path.
"Magic is a gift from the Maker, too," he says. "And here too, we are luckier than most, to knowthat it is a gift. Many people would disagree, or tell you it is something to be feared, or locked away." Here he stops, turning to look at her, his face uncharacteristically serious. "Marian, I want you to remember this. You must not believe them. Though we keep this great gift private, we must not fear the Maker's blessings. Do you understand?"
She doesn't, not really. She has never been scared of her father's magic. Why would she be afraid of her own? But Marian nods anyways. She will take each lesson he teaches her and store it close to her chest, that she may make him proud by following it to the letter.
"Good," Malcolm says, satisfied by her quiet acceptance.
They walk a little farther before Malcolm stops again, letting out a noise of triumph and stooping over to pick something up from the ground. "Tada!" he declares, turning to her and brandishing a stick with a flourish. "Try this on for size, pup."
Marian takes the stick with some confusion. It is only a little taller than her own height and thin enough that she can wrap her small hand around it comfortably, yet large enough that her grip creates no risk of the stick snapping. She looks up at her father curiously.
"This will do until we can get you a staff of your own," Malcolm explains. "It won't work to channel your magic—you need something infused with lyrium for that—but at least you'll get the hang of holding it."
Understanding dawning at last, Marian gives it a test swing and feels very grown up and powerful—until she promptly catches a bush and sends the stick flying. The resulting crash sends a flock of birds hurtling out of their nearby tree, and Marian sees a squirrel flee in fright. She looks up at her father, eyes wide and stomach churning with familiar worry. What if she's not any good at this? What if she lets her father down after all?
"Don't worry." Malcolm wades into the foliage to retrieve it and return it to her with a kind smile. "Try again."
A little more nervous this time, Marian again tests the weight of the stick in her hands and how it glides through the air. She imagines being able to send sparks of lightning flying from its tip the way she's seen her father send it through his own stave, and that earlier joy catches fire within her again.
"That's my girl," Malcolm says, ruffling her hair.
Marian beams and clutches her "staff" more tightly. She follows eagerly as Malcolm leads the way back home, where she will do everything she can to learn to be a mage just like him.