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Marian felt… funny.
Not in the laughing-funny way, but more of the… weird-funny way. It wasn’t bad, at least, but this… probably wasn’t perfectly normal. Not even for her.
It all started with a bloody nose.
Marian was being a proper, house-tending girl for once. Betty was out with Mum—shopping and probably staring wistfully up the long stairs to Hightown—and Uncle Gamlen was out at the Hanged Man, so that left only Marian and Lord Stubs in the house. Without any land or siblings or Lothering squabbles to busy herself with, all Marian could do was sit around. Bored. Staring at the ceiling once the book Varric loaned her got too boring to compete with the totally riveting ceiling. In the past hour, a water stain had—probably—grown a whole inch to the left.
“That’s probably not a good thing, right?” Marian asked, looking over at Stubs.
In his usual fashion, he barked out a response as soon as he slammed his fat head down over something he was chewing on.
Marian narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you have?”
Stubs did his best to smile in that drooling, half-brainless way he liked to when he knew he was about to get in trouble.
“If you have another one of Mum’s shoes, she’s going to turn you into the worst fur coat Kirkwall has ever seen,” Marian warned, slowly standing up from her spot on the mostly-sunken-in couch.
Stubs barked happily at the empty threat, confident that Mum would never actaully lay a finger on him, and rolled over to reveal the half-eaten rat forming a dark puddle on Uncle Gamlen’s floor.
Marian screamed.
She shouldn’t be so squeamish, not after living on a Lothering farm her whole life and in Kirkwall for several months. She had a friend who lived in Darktown, for Andraste’s sake. But a half-eaten rat?
“Stubs,” Marian whined, standing up fully, her posture more of a cringe than anything anyone could describe as valiant or confident. “Mum and Betty are going to be home soon…” She took a deep breath and grabbed the gloves she’d thrown by the door last night. She refused to take her eyes off the rat. Maker’s breath, Stubs, I am not in the mood for a game of keep-away right now! She tried to squish down the shaking in her hands as she donned the gloves. “Brave girl, Marian,” she whispered. “Betty and Mum will have a heart attack if they see rat guts on the floor. You are… literally saving two lives right now.” Stubs was looking up at her, his blood-soaked belly looking for a gauntleted belly rub. “You,” she hissed, “are not helping.”
She counted backwards from three before she reached down, felt the squelch of shredded flesh between her hands, squeezed her eyes shut, swallowed back puke, and sprinted toward the door.
In the rush, she felt her face collide with the doorway, but she still managed to throw the carcass into the gutter a good dozen feet away from the steps. She refused to think about the fact that she felt something wet on her face. It was not rat blood. Not at all.
“Yes!” She threw her hands up. “Done!” She felt a rush in her victory. Bouncing on her toes, she looked around the sparse, messy parlor. “Bloodstain on the floor?” She let out a cocky little pshh of air. “Done. Completely done. Marian has got this.”
She just had to…
Where in the Maker’s name does Betty put the cleaning rags?
• ° • ♡ • ° •
The water in the mop bucket was a dark, reddish brown. It wouldn’t surprise Marian if this was the first time Uncle Gamlen’s floors had been cleaned since, if she had to guess, some time around when the Golden City turned black. Stains—dark red, sticky ones—still kept turning up from time to time, but that was probably just an ancient curse. Nothing she could do about it. The beds were made, the walls wiped down, the furniture rearranged. It looked, if she were being honest, like an entirely different house. It was no Hightown mansion, but it wasn’t… bad. It could be home. It just needed a little love. A little bit of good, old-fashioned Marian elbow grease.
She gazed upon her work, rolling the shoulders that should have been beyond sore. She sniffled, ignoring the salty sweat and snot from a lingering cold that had been kicked back to life while she cleaned. Her gloves were coated in dirt-blackened snot and sweat that Stubs kept trying to lick clean.
“Marian?” The door creaked open, letting in Mum’s voice. “What-?”
Marian turned around so fast she felt dizzy. She grinned. “I cleaned!”
Mum screamed.
So did Betty.
“Sweet Andraste, Marian!” Betty dropped her basket of groceries and ran across the room, yanking off her bandana and shoving it into Marian’s face, sending a wave of pain and something like electricity running through her. “What happened?”
“Mopping…?” Marian hazarded, furrowing her brow as she was led over to the couch. “Some other stuff, too, but mostly- Mum? Are you alright?”
“I swear,” Mum hissed, sounding faint, “you are going to put me into an early grave, Marian Agnes!”
“By mopping?”
“You’re covered in blood, Sister,” Betty whispered, wincing.
“Blood?”
“Yes, blood!” Mum looked about ready to either pass out or throw her shoe. “Do not tell me you haven’t noticed!”
Marian blinked. “I…” She stopped. I did slam my face pretty hard onto the door… The rush was wearing off, and pain was starting to bloom in her face, radiating out from her nose and into her eyes, her head. “I didn’t,” she said, all the conviction of a scolded little girl.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Marian.”
“I didn’t!” She whined. “Really!” But even if I am bloody, don’t the floors look nice? I even tidied the hearth! Mum!
Mum just huffed. “Bethany, please, tidy your sister up before your uncle gets home,” she sighed. “I’m going to lie down.”
“Yes, Mother,” Betty replied, nodding before focusing again on Marian. “You didn’t notice?”
Marian shook her head—a dumb idea, considering that Betty’s hand was still on her absolutely-bleeding, probably-broken nose. “By the Maker!” She winced. “I swear I didn’t!” She did her best to plead her case to a more sympathetic audience. “I felt great, really,” she insisted. “Like I was bursting at the seams with energy!” She paused. “After I… slammed my face on the doorway and now, yeah, that- My nose is broken, isn’t it?”
Betty nodded.
“By the Maker,” she groaned. She opened her mouth to speak again, but stopped as soon as she noticed the way Betty was studying her. “What?”
“Can I heal you?”
“I would love that, actually,” Marian said. “But I thought-?”
“Your friend, uh, Anders-” Betty took her bloody bandana away from Marian’s face. “He gave me a few lessons the other day while you were out with Merrill.”
Marian raised an eyebrow as Betty prepared her magic. “I didn’t know you two spent time together without me.” She couldn’t help but frown. Anders said he was too busy to come to the Bone Pit… Why not just say he was helping Betty with her magic?
“I do have a life when you’re not watching, Sister,” Betty said, smiling a little cheekily.
Marian gasped. “You’re not-!”
Betty blushed. “Maker, no! He’s- He’s far too old for me! I- I think, at least, but-” She shook her head. “That’s beside the point. He’s a- He might be a friend. I’m not sure yet.” Cool, soothing magic, so unlike Merrill’s hot, frantic, blood-rousing healing, washed over Marian’s face. “He’s a bit much, and I don’t think we agree on everything, but without Father to teach me…” She trailed off.
“Are his lessons at least fun?”
“Maker, no.”
Marian smiled. “Good! Can’t have too much fun without me, right?”
Betty groaned. “Anyway,” she said, letting her magic fade, “I can sense some… weird magic on you. Maybe… maybe give Anders a visit tomorrow?”
“Weird magic?”
Betty shrugged and gave Marian an apologetic smile. “It just… Something feels off, and I’d rather you be safe than sorry.” She put a hand on Marian’s shoulder. “Just in case.”
Marian nodded. “I will,” she promised.
Betty smiled and let her go. “I’ll go put the groceries away before Uncle Gamlen comes home.”
Marian smiled back. “Good idea.” She let out a breath and sank back into the couch, feeling the day’s fatigue finally hit her.
Weird magic, she thought, what…?
A burst of something hit Marian right in the face, shutting her up.
She felt wet. Literally wet. Wet and warm. And sticky.
The gash on her thigh felt like she was being stabbed again. Only… smaller, this time. The skin—and the skin around her other, smaller gashes—felt like it was being pulled tight. Stitched up.
She could hear Merrill chanting something that sounded like sorry over and over again.
Marian blinked up at the dark stain on the ceiling.
Ah.
That’ll do it.