Chapter Text
The walk back to Gamlen’s place didn’t take long, Lowtown’s alleys were a well-trodden path for Marian, and without the distraction of her anger, she took the most direct route home.
Kirkwall’s streets were alive in the morning, full to bursting with sellers, peddlers, and idlers of all types, hawking their wares with a gusto that Marian could only be in awe of. The backstreets that were so dangerous at night were bustling with noise and colour, a cacophony of voices shouting, talking, laughing, all in the omnipresent shadow of Hightown above them.
Marian sunk through the crowd with ease, a year of city living acclimatising her to crowds in a way rural Ferelden never could. Weaving her way effortlessly into the gaps left by Kirkwallers as they went about their day.
If there was one good thing about a city, it was that you were anonymous. Just another face in thousands, another body in the masses; nameless, faceless, alone.
In Kirkwall, Marian had experienced a type of loneliness that she had never thought possible, a kind of isolation that defied any real description. Back in Lothering, she had known everyone by name, and they had known her too. It had been a small village, filled with small people; relatively out the way on the southernmost tip of the Hinterlands, and the northernmost of the Wilds. Few travellers ever came through there; its only claim to fame had been the ancient Tevene highway that ran alongside it.
It had been why her family had settled there in the first place.
But it hadn’t been until coming to Kirkwall that Marian had realised just how backwater Lothering had been. Not until coming to a place where she could wander around for a week, and not see the same face twice. it was humbling, the throbbing mass of humanity that made their home within Kirkwall’s walls. The melting pot of humans, elves, dwarves and quanri, who eked out some semblance of living amongst the smog and poverty of Lowtown.
It was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, living in a city of thousands made it far less likely for her to be caught and singled out as a mage; the winding hovels of Lowtown were a messy and dangerous warren for templars, who stuck out like a qunari in a chantry in their expensive silverite armour.
On the other hand, it was incredibly isolating. Marian had always been a standoffish person, even as a child she’d had incredible difficulty interacting with others. She had always been extremely conscious of both her and her father’s (and later Bethany’s) positions as apostate mages, always aware that a single slip, a solitary incident of someone seeing just a bit too much, could very well end with her being dragged away from her family; locked up like a dangerous animal in a Circle tower.
That made making friends next to impossible. But Marian knew what she was, had always known; apostates didn’t have friends, they had potential leaks. Any person that got too close was a risk, a risk she was unwilling to take. So, Marian had long ago resigned herself to a mostly friendless existence, with only her family for company until she, one day, had to leave them too.
But at least in Lothering people had known of her. There was always a friendly voice to call out to her in passing at the weekly market, always a shopkeeper willing to gossip or a drunkard at the local tavern ready to lend an ear. They hadn’t been her friends, none of them, but at least she’d had people to talk to. Even if it was just in her capacity as Bethany and Carver’s shadow.
Kirkwall was different. In Kirkwall, no one gave a shit.
No one cared about your name or asked about your day, people couldn’t care less about you or your family. Marian didn’t know the names of half her neighbours; in Lothering, she’d known everyone.
It scratched and gnawed constantly at the paranoid part of her brain. She had no idea who lived around her and what their preferences were, who was likely to report her at the smallest sign of something suspicious and who could be bought off.
It was part of the reason she paid Old Marv, the old tramp hated everyone: the guard, templars, the Carta and the Coterie; hated anyone who claimed authority over him and the gangs who charged him for his drugs. The old man had been in and out of city jails all his life, knew both Darktown and Lowtown better than anyone; Marian kept him loyal to her.
Marv had a soft spot for the vicious Fereldan refugee with less trust for the world than him, and Marian knew that as long as she kept funding his habit, he wouldn’t betray her.
Marian made her way through Lowtown quickly, striding purposefully through canopied alleys and busy hexes. Around her, groups of labourers and dockhands rowdily made their way to work, and women wrestled screaming children into some semblance of order. A new day had begun in the city, and everyone was awake.
However, despite the seemingly pleasant veneer -the bright sunlight of the morning and the groups of free-running children- Kirkwall was still Kirkwall; Lowtown was still Lowtown. Marian could see from the corner of her eye as groups of petty dwarves traded money in the shadows, and a watcher for one of the local gangs flicked a knife, gazing intently at the crowd.
Kirkwall was a festering shithole of a city, and no amount of sunlight and noise would ever be enough to hide it. The air still lingered in a foul haze of rot and industrial waste, and the poor of Darktown still crawled beneath their feet, forgotten and reviled in the dark.
When Marian reached Gamlen’s hovel, the morning sun was high in the sky, peeking over the roofs of Lowtown and casting long shadows across the hex. Marv was passed out and the foot of the steps leading up the door, his hair filthy and lank and his clothes crusted with months of dirt. He lay in a puddle of filthy water, no doubt mixed with his own foul waste, a trickle of drool leading from his mouth to the dusty ground.
Marian wrinkled her nose with distaste as she delicately stepped over him, she may find it necessary to keep the beggar loyal, but that didn’t mean that she had to like his personal habits.
Stepping up to the door, she delivered a few strong knocks to the battered wood, “Open up! It’s me!” she called, knowing full well that everyone inside would be up.
A few moments passed, and she heard the clinking of metal as the various locks and bolts that kept them safe at night were disengaged; the door swung open with a tired creak.
Marian stepped swiftly inside, deftly dodging a fuming Carver as she pulled to the door behind her. The smell of stale air and unwashed bodies greeted her as she swung her eyes across the dim and dusty room.
“Where the hell have you been?” Carver demanded the instant she was inside, glaring down at her with furious blue eyes as he stepped in front of her.
“Worried, Carver?” Marian replied, quirking a brow, and flashing a smirk.
If anything, that only seemed to make him angrier, crossing his arms and baring his teeth, “Hardly,” he returned, staring at her as if she was something particularly offensive, “but Mother has been, she and Gamlen have been going at it all night. The same argument as always, you think they would’ve exhausted the matter by now,” he said, jerking his head toward the door to their right, the one that led to what could only barely be described as a kitchen.
Marian frowned, her stomach twisting in what could only be guilt, even as concern swum to the forefront of her mind. “What set it off this time?” she asked, staring at the door.
Carver snorted and uncrossed his arms, “You,” he said derisively, “what else could it be? What were you thinking wandering off into the night in Lowtown? Anything could have happened to you and we wouldn’t have known until morning,” he spat accusingly.
Marian felt her hackles rise once again, an echo of her fury from the night before, “I was thinking,” she hissed, meeting Carver’s eyes with an angry stare of her own, “that it would be better if I didn’t blow up this dump with us in it!”
Carver rolled his eyes, “It’s not my fault that you can’t control your temper, but you made Mother sick with worry,” he shot her a truly poisonous look, mouth curled with venom, “I like to think one dead child is enough for anyone.”
Marian felt herself deflate with an almost audible pop, the anger leaving her as rapidly as it came. She slumped, the sour taste of shame flooding her mouth like bile as she broke eye contact with Carver.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she heard Carver say disgustedly above her as she stared intently at the barren, dirty walls.
Maker, all she ever did was cause her family unnecessary worry, even when she was trying to protect them. Too violent for Mother, too much of a mage to be safe; she tried so hard to keep them happy, to keep them alive -why was it never enough? And now she had to tell Carver about Varric.
It wasn’t fair.
She sighed deeply, feeling suddenly ancient, “I was at The Hanged Man, talking with Varric,” she told Carver.
He snorted, “Oh? And what did that dwarven bastard have to say?” he asked.
Marian opened her mouth, just about to reluctantly tell Carver the whole sordid tale, when the door to the kitchen burst open with a crash.
“Hard to believe they left me nothing!” she heard her mother exclaim angrily through the open door.
Marian watched as Gamlen stormed into the room, his soiled clothes were ruffled and askew; she took a surreptitious sniff of the air, and felt a scowl form on her face as the scent of sour ale and cheap perfume met her nose.
His face was set in a rictus of fury, brows twisted together and cheeks hollow with anger as he snidely replied, “Well Mother was pretty steamed when you ran off with your Fereldan apostate!”
Her mother followed quickly on his heels, skirts snapping at her ankles as she marched after him, “I’m still their daughter! Their eldest!” she cried; her eyes dark with simmering anger as she confronted him. She walked right up to him, fists clenched and shaking as she snarled almost in his face.
Marian watched as Gamlen and her mother glared at each other with identical faces, sparks flying between them in their joint rage. Sometimes, it was hard to believe that Gamlen and her mother were siblings; other times, it was hard to forget.
It was then that Gamlen caught her in the corner of his eye, where she and Carver were silently observing. He turned to her abruptly, his face twisting into a nasty sneer, “Ah! So, the prodigal daughter returns! Where were you last night?” he bit out viciously.
Marian stiffened, and felt Carver do the same beside her. For all that he may disparage her, or feel overshadowed by her, he was still her brother and they were united against Gamlen. Marian felt that Carver at least had a right to question her decisions -party to them as he often was- but Gamlen was just the mean uncle that had lost the family fortune. The uncle that was too much of a coward to get it back.
Marian narrowed her eyes and swept them deliberately over her uncle’s dishevelled appearance, “Somewhere more productive than you, no doubt,” she replied calmly, keeping her own fury carefully contained, it would hardly add to the situation. “Where was it this time?” she asked idly, “The Rose? The Menagerie? Did you at least say hello to Madam Lusine for me?”
Gamlen’s face darkened considerably, deep lines of fury sweeping across it. He took a threatening step toward her, almost involuntarily, “Why you…!” he began, raising a hand.
“Gamlen!” her mother shouted sharply, stopping him in his tracks, “Don’t you dare raise a hand to any of my children!” she commanded thunderously, her face uncharacteristically grave.
Gamlen’s eyes never left Marian’s face, “Why not?” he spat furiously, “This is my house, and the little shit feels like she can just disrespect me in it!”
Marian’s icy gaze crackled with cold fury as she took in her uncle, snivelling waste of a man he was, she couldn’t believe she was related to him. “Go on then, Uncle,” she goaded coldly, “hit me. We’ll see what happens.”
Carver then suddenly stepped in front of her, a matching chill in his eyes, “If he wants to hit you,” he said seriously, “he’ll have to go through me first,” and Carver flexed his muscles, his arms strong and bulky from years of swordsmanship and hard labour.
That stopped Gamlen where he stood, and he lowered his hand slowly as his face settled into a resentful scowl, closed and spiteful. It was a little offensive, that somehow Carver’s muscles were more intimidating than her, with all the banked power of magic running through her veins, but often a visual statement was more powerful than the hypothetical of magic.
It was also somewhat nice to know that Carver would still stand up for her when it counted.
But Gamlen wasn’t done yet. “I just think you should all be a little more grateful!” he said spitefully, eyes wild as he looked at them all in turn, “Afterall, I didn’t have to get you into the city or put you up in my house! You would all still be begging for crumbs on the docks if it wasn’t for me!” he cried.
Her mother’s eyebrows rose incredulously as she scowled, “Grateful!?” she shrieked, her voice rising in indignation, “Grateful!? My children have been in servitude -servitude- for a year. They should be nobility!” she exclaimed, levelling an accusing finger at Gamlen.
“Well, if wishes were poppy, we’d all be dreaming,” he replied acidly, turning back to sneer at her.
Marian stepped out from behind Carver, she and Carver could defend themselves, but her mother didn’t deserve this, especially not from Gamlen. “You mean this is real?” she said mockingly, turning his attention back to her, “No wonder I can’t wake up,” she said as she cast an unhappy eye around the room.
Gamlen shot her a look of pure vitriol, something disgusted and seething in his grey eyes, “And here I thought that Fereldan you ran off with was a mage, not a jester,” he hissed at her mother. He turned back to Marian with a snarl, “Your mother was supposed to marry the Comte de Launcet,” he informed her, “and instead she ran off with some Ferledan apostate. You don’t get to stay the favourite when you do that,” he finished with a rude look to her mother.
Her mother’s face was still furious, but something hesitant and regretful had entered her gaze now, “Where is Father’s will?” she demanded, stepping up to Gamlen, “If I could just see it for myself-” she drifted off, looking away as she clenched and unclenched her hands reflexively, a pleading note in her voice.
Gamlen looked down at her mother, sneering, “It’s not here, all right!” he said, but then his gaze softened a little as he took in his despondent younger sister, and he said apologetically, “It was read, it went into the vault,” he shrugged, “No one needed to look at it again.”
Sensing this argument was only going to devolve further, Marian attempted to distract her mother, she could feel Carver’s barely contained resentment simmering at her back, “I know the Amells were nobility, Mother,” she said, turning her mother’s hurt gaze to her, “but not much else. Why don’t you ever talk about them?” she asked.
Marian’s mother sighed, deep and pained, and something within her just seemed to collapse. Marian’s eyes widened in shock as she worried if she had just made things worse.
But her mother rallied herself and took a deep breath, “The Amells have been a noble family in Kirkwall since Garahel drove out the Fourth Blight,” she began haltingly, staring off at something only she could see, something wounded entered her voice, “but we’ve always carried magic in our blood.” She shook her head and gave Marian a sad smile, “It’s been a stain on our lineage. No family of good standing would ever marry into a line with magic.”
Marian could feel something cold and hard settle into the pit of her stomach as she listened to her mother’s words. The familiar chill of angry resignation that sat in her bones was suddenly a thousand times heavier.
Marian’s mother wrapped her arms around herself, a gesture of self-comfort that didn’t go unnoticed as she continued, her voice achingly soft, “When I married your father…” she paused here and smiled that heartbroken smile, “I was bringing more magic into our line, not less. I think that’s what hurt my parents the most.”
Marian had to look away then, staring blindly at the wall as she fought to keep her emotions in check. Something ugly was building in her chest, something ugly and all too familiar as she swallowed and clenched her fists.
Magic, always fucking magic. That’s what had hurt her grandparents the most? Not that their daughter had run off with a Fereldan commoner -a penniless Fereldan commoner- but that she had dared to marry a mage? Dared to pollute the Amell bloodline further with more magic? Marian suddenly couldn’t give two shits about the Amell name and money, wouldn’t have cried if the Amell legacy fell off a cliff and died.
She felt cold all over, cold and furious. What was so wrong with magic that it had prompted her grandparents to disown their eldest child? What was so inherently flawed and terrible in her -in Bethany, in their father- so disgusting that it had led to the Amells all but abandoning her mother?
Marian was suddenly incredibly glad that she’d never met her grandparents, immensely pleased that she’d never had to see the revulsion and dismissal in their privileged noble faces as they looked at her in all her apostate glory; she didn’t think she could take that from family.
“Did Grandfather mention Mother in his will at all?” she asked tightly, staring stubbornly at the wall.
Gamlen scoffed and crossed his arms, “Our father died when you were still in pinafores, girl,” he said dismissively, “you can hardly expect me to remember,” he rolled his eyes.
Carver barked a short laugh, “Oh, of course not,” he drawled, “why should you do something reasonable?”
Gamlen stiffened and shot Carver an offended look, bristling like a cat.
Marian caught the movement and her eyes narrowed, gaze calculating, something wasn’t right here. “That touched a nerve. What’s in there that you don’t want us to see?” she said suspiciously.
“Nothing!” Gamlen replied instantly, a bit too quickly for Marian’s taste, and she watched as he twitched nervously beneath her unwavering stare.
“Certainly sounds like nothing,” Carver commented sceptically, and she knew that he, too, was watching with mistrustful eyes as Gamlen fidgeted under the weight of their combined gazes.
Gamlen scowled, straightening defensively as he held his arms closer to his body, “It doesn’t matter anyway!” he declared stubbornly, “You won’t be seeing the bloody thing. It’s still locked up on the estate. And that’s long out of my hands,” he finished, avoiding meeting their eyes as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.
Marian raised her brows incredulously and Carver made a noise of disgust beside her, “What daft bastard leaves that behind?” he said derisively.
Gamlen huffed and uncrossed his arms, “It was old news,” he stated, glaring at Carver as though he was something particularly vile. There was an impressive amount of vitriol in that stare, more than Marian thought was truly warranted for the moment, but this seemed to be something of a sore spot for their uncle. “You think I’ve been sitting around here for twenty-five years waiting for Leandra to slink back?” he continued, gesturing furiously at the dirty, stained walls around them.
Marian’s mother stepped forward, laying a comforting hand on Gamlen’s shoulder, “Who bought the estate, Gamlen?” she asked softly, picking up on his distress and trying to defuse the tension, “Was it the Reinhardts? Perhaps I could speak to them,” she reasoned.
Gamlen roughly shrugged the hand off and turned his glare onto his sister, “No one you know,” he said darkly, almost to himself. Shaking his head as if in resignation, he looked at her mother, “Get used to Lowtown, Sister,” he said, a note of finality entering his voice, “that’s where we’re going to stay.” With that he turned and stormed off, walking into their shared bedroom, and slamming the door behind him.
Marian’s mother turned as if to start after him but thought better of it; she flinched at the sound of the door closing and stared forlornly at it, a bridge that she couldn’t seem to cross.
Marian on the other hand had long ago exhausted whatever sympathy she might’ve had for Gamlen. Losing it sometime around the first time she had found him passed out drunk at the most expensive brothel in Hightown. “Charming,” she snorted, and Carver grunted in agreement next to her.
Her mother turned back to the two of them with sad blue eyes and gave them a reproachful look, “He isn’t entirely wrong,” she sighed, looking dejected and miserable, “we did turn up out of the blue and expect him to house and feed us.”
Carver scowled, “Don’t apologise for him, Mother,” he said firmly, “he got himself into this hole; he has no right to take it out on you.”
Their mother gave Carver a grateful smile and hugged herself tightly, “I suppose,” she said resignedly, “but you two could treat him with a little more respect.”
Marian’s mouth tightened at that, lips thinning into a severe line, “I treat him with exactly the respect he deserves,” she muttered darkly, thinking of all the times she had found Gamlen gambling away their hard-earned funds -or wasting it on whores and drink. She and Carver bought most of the money into this house, it was their hard work that kept food on the table and a roof over their heads. Gamlen’s labouring job on the docks barely kept him, let alone the four of them.
Her mother turned to her, disapproval written all over her face, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you,” she said warningly. “Where were you last night?” she cried, “I was so worried!”
Marian winced and shifted her weight guiltily, “I was at The Hanged Man,” she replied, “talking to our new business partner.”
Her mother’s eyebrows rose, “Business partner? You mean that Carta dwarf you owe money to?”
If only you knew, Marian thought, remembering how much she actually owed Varric. Instead, she sighed and shook her head, “Varric’s not Carta, Mother,” she corrected softly, “he’s a businessman, and apparently, Carver and I are a good investment.” She gave a smile, injected with a good amount of false cheer, “We’re meeting up with him later, he’s got some ideas about how we could start putting together that money.”
“He better,” Carver muttered, rolling his eyes.
Marian dug an elbow into his side, just to watch him flinch.
Turning her attention back to her mother, she gave what she hoped was a reassuring look, “He seems decent enough, and genuine in his desire to have us on the expedition,” she shrugged, “we can trust that much at least.”
Her mother just gave a resigned sigh, dropping her arms and shaking her head, recognising an argument lost. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, Marian,” she said.
Me too, Marian thought, me too.