Chapter Text
Leandra kneels by his deathbed, hands clasped around his thin, knobby one. He is only a shadow of the man he was before the sickness took him. The only thing that remains is the anger, the disapproval. Another cough racks his body and he tips to the side, the handkerchief Leandra pushes at him coming back red. His brow furrows and though he is thin and skeletal now, he is defiant, resentful of the sickness that has claimed his once young and strong body.
Carver leans by the door, face all scrunched up, fighting tears that already flow freely down Leandra's face. The sick room he's in was once Bethany’s. Once it became clear that he needed attending to night and day she had given it up, agreeing to share with Marian who was indifferent at having to share. Bethany's room was bright and warm before. Now it's dark and dank, stuffy and cold, with a bitter smell in the air.
'Oh, darling’ Leandra says. She says it over and over again like a parrot. Bethany wonders if her father wants something more, especially now. But what can she say? Bethany’s mouth feels as if it’s been stuffed with straw. She can hardly think of words outside of ’please, please’ and ’don’t die'.
Marian mostly looks tired and blank, reclining against the writing station, littered with tomes, littered with memories of lessons both girls had to withstand. Malcolm was an effective teacher but he did not suffer mistakes kindly. Marian took the brunt of it. She looks the same way she does in the Chantry, as if she’s somewhere else, wishing she were someone else, were anywhere else.
Bethany catches her eye but Marian shifts her weight and watches the sad scene. Their father has another coughing fit. He looks at Marian. He gives her a list of chores that must be done. "They're your responsibility now. Make something of yourself at last, won't you?"
Leandra tries to reassure him. Bethany waits for words that don't come. Malcolm looks at Marian as if she is a disappointment but he does look at her.
"I’ll take care of things, Father. Don’t worry." She sounds rehearsed. She stares through him. When he dies, Leandra wails. Carver runs away, slamming doors behind him. Bethany watches Leandra throw herself on top of Malcolm, muttering words that are incomprehensible.
Marian runs the tips of her fingers over Bethany's hair before squeezing her shoulder. She pulls her gently when Bethany remains catatonic and unresponsive
*
Leandra is attended to by the hens of Lothering while Carver rips at his ruffled shirt and ill-fitting dress jacket, worn at the elbows and heads off to get sloshed.
Bethany’s mourning dress is hiked up to her waist, Marian’s fingers curling inside of her when Marian goes limp, slumping against her.
They haven't finished yet. This is new for them but Bethany knows that. Marian had hardly said a word about their father’s passing. Her wet, hot lips are to Bethany’s neck as she takes a painful gulp of air.
Bethany is perfectly still, her fingers having slowed through Marian’s hair, as opposed to the franticness they previously gripped her with. Bethany notices that the room feels cold. Everything feels cold. She notices with the cessation of Marian’s heated actions.
"There's so much to do," Marian says fitfully. "I'm an apostate. We both are. I don't have a trade. How can I take care of us? Maker. Mother’s losing it and Carver is so angry. I can't do this. I can't do this."
"Look at me." Bethany commands. She's sixteen years old but has an imperial presence. Marian looks at her, sapphire eyes glossier than Bethany can ever remember. "You can do this. I won’t be a burden. I’ll help. Father was wrong. It’s not all up to you."
They hear a noise from outside the bedroom and they both freeze. Bethany is pressed to the wall and turns her head listen. She listens for what seems like forever but hears nothing more.
"I'm cold," she whispers to Marian apologetically. The window is being dusted with snow. It had taken forever to dig a large enough hole for the burial plot during such a cold season, but all three Hawkes worked diligently until the task was accomplished. Bethany thinks their father would have taken issue with any unevenness to the rectangular hole they dug out.
Marian’s fingers slowly withdraw, leaving Bethany stinging and empty. Bethany hates being without her touch. They had both been so nervous in the beginning. They'd only ever had each other. It hurt and then it didn't. Now he’s dead and the Hawke sisters bury themselves in each other. "I’ll get you a blanket."
And she does, wrapping it around her shoulders, rubbing her arms. Bethany discreetly pulls her dress down and dismisses Marian’s apologies. They sit on Marian’s small bed, feeling sad and sorry, sticky fingers absently twined.
Bethany wonders if Marian thinks of how much less they've cried than their mother and brother and if so, does she feel guilty for it?
*
Carver trains to become a soldier. It seems a good match for him. His anger and sometimes, Bethany suspects, hatred for his sisters has grown since their father died without even an acknowledgment of his one non-mage child. Every word he says towards them is brittle and charged. Bethany begs him not to go but he goes.
Marian shrugs away any feelings she might have about his chosen path—Bethany suspects Marian is only grateful to keep one of their housemates at bay. Carver had always barged into rooms without announcing himself and had nearly caught the sisters a handful of times. They separate when they're nearly discovered but it's only so long before an embrace turns into a caress, a kiss to the cheek slipping downward to a yearning, eager mouth.
Sometimes Bethany thinks it’s how they stay alive. Their mother has become a live doll. Blinking and unsettling at times, breaking into tears and sobs. Bethany tries to comfort her but Marian slowly becomes impatient with her. "She acts as if she's the only one who lost him," Marian snaps when Bethany questions her.
Bethany isn't sure what Marian mourns. It goes further than their father. Something maybe. Something untouchable. Bethany wonders if Marian can feel him now that he's gone, the power of the back of his hand. Strong for a mage. Marian is strong too but lacks a certain finesse. She's a jack-of-all-trades. Bethany can't see that as a bad thing, but she can remember her father’s words long ago: someone who is skilled at a little of everything is talented at nothing.
"What are you thinking about?" Marian asks her.
They're curled up beneath the blankets, Bethany tucked into Marian’s arm. Marian’s days of work are long. She does farming and repair work for the Lothering residents from dawn till dusk and returns exhausted and worn. It isn’t fair that he can intrude on their little time together. Bethany hates when her thoughts get dark and fill her with doubts, his doubts. "Do you think Father’s with the Maker?"
A long silence follows during which Marian tightens her hold around Bethany’s shoulders. They turn to face each other, so close their bellies press together. "I try not to think of him."
Bethany wants clarification on which 'him’ she refers to but can't bring herself to ask, any answer seeming unbearable.
*
Marian continues to juggle financial matters. She takes on odd little jobs, unimpressive things to secure coin. She never speaks of them to Bethany, even after being gone for hours at a time, the details seeming to bore her as much as the work. Always she is indifferent.
Bethany, on the other hand, has inadvertently been charged with the emotional well-being of her mother, a more taxing and difficult task than going out and doing 'mindless' work.
Always she must be close to her mother. Bethany takes her tomes with her, lest her mother become overwhelmed by the silence. Marian’s absence grates Leandra but Bethany doesn't think it has anything to do with the work she must now take on, the unfair responsibility that has been thrust upon Marian—but a sense that she is being ignored in this difficult time.
Bethany would never voice the thought, nor would she admit that she agrees Marian is gone longer than she needs to be at times.
With Carver’s absence, Leandra becomes more despondent, more prone to fits of tears and anger. How could that boy leave, after their father has just gone? How can he risk himself and put her through so much after she’s just lost everything?
Bethany only has so many words. She’s young but doesn't think there's anything she can say or do outside of bringing her father and brother back from where they went.
Sometimes Leandra, sniffling and with red-rimmed eyes will put bread on a plate in front of Bethany when she studies. "Those are healing spells?" She asks, brushing her fingers along the corners of the page. "Have you studied them long?"
"Not long."
Bethany sees the lines mark her mother's brow. "And Marian hardly does any studying at all," she laments. The words strike her as more her father’s than her mother’s.
Bethany doesn’t point out that there are only so many hours of the day. She knows that anything she could say to defend Marian will be taken as an argument. There's some part of her mother, Bethany suspects, that resents her and Marian for not being able to save him.
*
Marian has never feared the Templars. If anything, she regards them with a sliver of disdain but mostly indifference. Their father spoke of them heatedly in the past, not sheltering them from the abuses experienced at their hands.
His stories made Bethany afraid of them. Marian thinks them bullies. She can be reckless, Bethany thinks, when she stares them down defiantly. But Marian is older and maybe it's brave of her to not be afraid.
Maybe Marian’s courage comes from forgetting, every now and then, that she's an apostate. With their father gone she no longer studies diligently. She always found it a bit of a chore, those forced lessons with unforgiving reprimands. Bethany thinks of years ago when Marian sent an errant fireball into the wall in the middle of the night. Malcolm insisted there would be no sleep until she mastered the ability.
Marian had been either bored or tired— Bethany can't remember now, Marian had been as old as she is, making Bethany around eight or nine at the time. Malcolm took Marian tightly by the wrist, squeezing until she cried out and tears brimmed her eyes. "Are you trying to get us all killed?" Marian said something smart in response and earned herself another smack. She didn't apologize.
Bethany can't shake the thoughts. It's rare that lay sister Leliana’s stories aren't enough to distract her. The ginger woman has kind eyes filled with such sadness that Bethany can't help but feel sorry and angry for whatever past hurt the woman experienced.
"Your thoughts must be heavy indeed if I can't entertain my most devoted listener." Her fingers ease a lock of hair behind Bethany’s ears. Her cheeks foolishly heat at the contact and being called on her inattentiveness. "Unless I am losing my touch?" The question is asked teasingly, a smile glimmering on her lips, eyes bright and playful.
Somehow Bethany thought chantry sisters would be more dour, older, stale. "I didn't mean to be rude."
"Not at all. I'm flattered that you come every time— even if you're not in the mood." She giggles at this before clearing her throat. Bethany is sure she's missed something. "Have you heard from little Carver?"
Carver, who is big and strapping, taller than Leliana by two heads and strong as an ox, would be mortified to be described that way. He had spoken ’admiringly’ of Leliana in the past. "Nothing yet." She begins to wring her hands without knowing it. A templar is watching them closely but Bethany isn't sure if it’s that or Carver’s health being in danger that frays at her nerves.
"You must be so worried. And your mother." She runs a comforting hand along the back of Bethany’s head to her back. "This must be a very difficult time. I will continue to pray for you and your family. The Maker will watch over you."
No sooner has she said the words than Marian appears, settling a hand on Bethany’s shoulder. "Here you are."
Marian’s cheeks are smudged with dirt. Bethany wonders what job she’s finished. A job their mother would find too demeaning to take on. Leandra never ceases to tell them of the days when she was a noble, before Marian was born and she had it all.
Marian’s voice is pure and clear but Bethany knows she's let her down. Marian disapproves of the chantry. ’Bunch of hypocrites is what they are’. She calls it a business, some soul business. A racket.
Bethany’s cheeks burn again, this time with shame.
*
They were homeschooled. They weren't the only family to do it and a town like Lothering it wasn't uncommon. It could be done without accruing suspicion. Their mother taught them more conventional things: arithmetic, spelling and reading, writing, history. That went on for hours and while Carver was mercifully allowed the rest of his day for play and his own devices, Bethany and Marian had additional learning to do over the arcane arts.
Marian had a talent for simplifying matters for Bethany so she could better grasp the material. Their father was grudgingly grateful for her ability to do this—magic came so easily to him that he had difficulty breaking it down to its rawest form.
But Marian was a disappointment in other ways. She never cast spells as gracefully as their father would have liked. They lacked power. Her lacking shamed Malcolm— but Marian, who was ambivalent on better days, never let it get to her. She never showed it, anyway.
Luckily for her (or unluckily, Bethany still isn't sure) Bethany had an aptitude for magic. At all times she felt it flowing through her, a trilling, fearsome current, more vivid and alive than any blood running through her veins. Their father compared their magical prowess, often in front of one another, pitting them against each other, hoping to foster some competition or rivalry between them.
It made Bethany anxious but Marian refused to let it rile her. ‘I won't be involved in his stupid games.’
For while Carver had the opportunity to meet other children his age and play, Marian and Bethany only had each other. As a result, when their father died, they know no one in town, have little understanding of social customs and are marked as some unknown others.
Bethany knows the Chantry and Leliana because her parents brought her there throughout the years to appear devout, to not call unwanted attention.
Marian’s arms snake around her waist. Bethany stills as Marian presses to her back. "Mother’s asleep," Marian tells her and with that Bethany relaxes, melting against Marian despite the knife she holds and the potatoes that need peeling before her. "You're cooking again."
"Someone has to." This is the rare day in which Marian has not found work. Though her sister stresses and worries when it happens, Bethany is happy to have some time with her.
"You do everything around here."
"You work near every hour of the day."
"She should do something. He died. Not her. Not us."
Bethany doesn't want to fight about it. She sets the knife down and wipes her hands, starchy and dry on the apron she wears. "Why don't you study anymore?" She regrets the question as soon as she's asked it. This one is more likely to elicit a reaction.
"It was always what he wanted. Not what we wanted. We weren't allowed lives or opinions. I did it for years before you were born. He’s dead. We don't need to waste our lives on that drivel anymore."
Bethany faces her and takes Marian’s face in her hands. Marian’s breaths are too slow, too long, too controlled. She’s never allowed herself to raise her temper at Bethany. "I’m glad to see you today." Hear her voice, not just feel her presence and touch in the dark. "What manner of work do you do?" Marian still hasn’t told her.
"I've been learning to make traps. Little things. Unscrupulous things," she smiles.
"Unscrupulous, hm? I don't think Mother would approve." It's a joke but in case Marian has doubts, Bethany softens the words with a kiss. Marian returns it softly and then ferocious and eager when it becomes clear their mother won't be waking any time soon.
Bethany’s heart flutters against her chest as Marian turns her forward again, her hand slipping beneath the apron, torturing along the inside of her thigh before Bethany takes the hand, guiding it where she wants it. No matter her attempts in the early morning hours when Marian is gone and their mother has yet to rise, is she able to replicate the abundance of feelings and heat that floods her when Marian takes her into her hands.
*
Carver returns from Ostagar. Blood mats his hair, his normally sullen, angry face twisted with panic. It’s the Blight. There is no happy reunion.
The sky is dotted with black clouds, a humid, yellow tinge to the air. Leandra clasps her hands to her face as if doing so will keep the horrible truth at bay.
Leandra searches the home for scraps of memories, desperate for some souvenir to survive. At her urging, Bethany helps her gather some small items but Marian and Carver soon urge them out of the home.
Foul beasts, not quite men, resembling drawings in some of the texts she's studied throughout the years pour into Lothering, shrieking and wielding weapons, they begin to hack the villagers into pieces.
Bethany drops the items she carries. "We have to go," she tells her mother. How her voice shakes!
"Everything we worked for," Marian says bitterly. She urges the others ahead and Bethany takes her staff. Marian leaves hers behind to burn, as if who she is and all of that history can be taken by the licking flames and the plumes of smoke, by the black that spreads over the village.