#marc garren

“I can see lights in the distance Trembling in the dark cloak of night Candles and lanterns are dancing, dancing A waltz on All Souls Night.” – Loreena McKennit ‘All Souls Night’

Grace/Marc • The Academy • 9:34 Dragon

The women were gathered out in the field near the academy, barefoot and in simple black shifts. Torches glittered in each girl’s hand, the oldest closest to a pyre, and the youngest of them holding a single candle on the outskirts of the circle. Marc could see Grace in the inner circle, her red hair reflecting the fire light as she and her sisters pressed forward toward the pyre, torches outstretched. A ring of Templars surrounded them, each watching carefully for signs of foul play as the girls went through their private ritual. A goodbye to the ones they had lost that year. It was the Night of Souls.

“Hail our fallen sisters!” A loud voice carried over the crowd, splitting the silence.

“Hail!” Each woman raised her light above her head.  Their faces were stony. There were no tears. No emotion flickered across their faces. Even the children were hushed and silent, unmoving from their statuesque poses, the candles burning in their tiny hands.

“Hail our honored dead!” the voice shouted again. The women in the inner circle tilted their torches towards the pyre. What initially appeared to be a pile of logs on top of the pyre was revealed to be a crude statue of Andraste, carrying a girl, whose eyes were shut in repose. In the girl’s hands were a dozen or so golden chains. Each one held a dead phylactery. One of the Templars sniffed quietly, shifting as he turned his eyes away from the pyre.

“Hail our sisters in arms!”

“May they find eternal peace in the arms of the Maker!”

“And may we follow them when our task is done!” the crowd replied.

“Hunters, let us send our sisters to the heavens.”

The center torches lowered in tandem, touching off the pyre which had been soaked that morning with lantern oil. It erupted into an inferno as the torches were thrown up onto the top. The next ring followed their actions, throwing the torches on to the top of the enormous bonfire that raged high into the night sky. The entire field was lit up as the little girls took three steps backwards and formed large circle around the bonfire.

A high soprano cut the air and Marc winced. He could hear the pain in the voice as his lover sung the chant, the notes dissonant and warped from their original tune in to something hauntingly primal.

“The light will lead her safely from the paths of this world and into the next.”

The crowd of Hunters repeated the line in turn, the crescendo of voices swelling into what sounded like a scream. In fact, the children were screaming and sobbing, their candles unwavering but their faces awash with sorrow.

“For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.”

The crowd stilled and the screaming stopped. The flames licked the air higher and higher as the crowd lifted their left feet in unison and stomped on the ground hard.

Left. Right. Left. Right Pounding their pain into the ground. A few of the Templars broke down and wept. They were the ones that had seen this and lost their Hunters before, or recently. They knew the pain the girls were going through. The loss of a family member. This was their time to mourn the dead. This one primitive, visceral dance around the pyre, sending their sisters to the Maker.

The stomping grew louder and louder, and was accompanied by wails as the women started twirling hand in hand around the fire,  some throwing flowers and tokens in to the blaze, others simply crying and mixing their tears with ash and dirt, marking their faces. Three of the Hunters had shielded themselves and pressed closer to the fire. Marc could see Grace among them, their hands glowing white hot with fire. As their hands pressed into the wood, the flames shot higher into the sky. Many of the Templars started coughing as the air was sucked out of the clearing as the wood pyre turned to char and ash in seconds. The wailing and stomping stopped immediately as the fire went out.

They stood up from their places of mourning. The darkness was complete now, each woman temporarily blinded by the fire. A splinter of char fell from the pyre, audible in the barren silence.

“We walk in the darkness, knowing one day, we will join them in the Light,” the original caller said, her voice carrying over the crowd.

“We walk in the darkness, so that we may serve the Light better.”

“Hail we sisters in arms.”

“Hail, we honored dead.”

Marc found Grace standing silently by the charred remains in the field, as the Templars found their charges and escorted them back to their rooms and barracks. Some of the children were yawning. Most of the older women were blindly picking up small pieces of ash and marking their foreheads with a black dot. Grace had done this as well, ash and smoke staining her face a dull grey as she gripped his hand. She was stumbling alongside him, her eyes still traumatized by the bright light.

“I’m sorry,” Marc whispered gruffly.

“It was a bad year,” Grace choked out, her voice hoarse with smoke and screaming. “Rowan, Trista, and Eleanor and Duncan. A few accidents during training, not to mention the ones that didn’t pass the tests. We lost seven recruits this year and four fully blooded sisters and a Handler.”

“Aldric isn’t taking Rowan’s death well. He was crying during the ceremony,” Marc sighed, pulling her close to him as they passed through the door. Grace blinked as her vision filled with dots of light, slowly adjusting to the lit hallway.

“She was a good Hunter and a friend. He loved her very deeply.”

“Next year will be better.”

“Next year will be next year,” Grace snapped bitterly. Marc flinched, knowing he had said the wrong thing.

“And I will do my best to keep you safe from harm, my Huntress. I will keep you all safe.”

“That’s my job Marc,” Grace sighed. “You know this. We all know this. Don’t throw yourself away for me. It’s not worth it.”

“You’re worth it to me.”

She looked up at him, green, bloodshot eyes blinking away tears that were mixing with the black and grey ash on her face, streaking long dark lines down her face.  She smiled quietly, stepping near him.

Marc/Grace

3 weeks before the Conclave.

for @dadrunkwriting

Grace turned into the warmth of his chest, nuzzling her face up against his skin. He was warm. Something felt wrong about it, but he was solid, and real, and warm. So warm. She whined as he lifted his arm away from her side, stroking her hair back from her face.

“Gracie.”

She blinked her eyes slowly open and smiled, studying the lines of his face.

“Good morning,” she mumbled, reaching up and touching his hair. It was silver under her hands, a sign of age that seemed strange on his face.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked. His voice rumbled in his chest like water over rocks, silken and powerful.

“Better than I have in a while,” Grace whispered, cuddling closer. “I know why you chose me.”

He balked and pushed her away from him, frowning deeply. “Gracie, why are you talking to me like that?”

“Why are you here, really?” Grace asked, pushing off the ground.

“Gracie?”

“Don’t think I know what you are… demon.”

They glared at each other. There was a rush of wind as the face of her dead lover changed into the purple grimace of a desire demon.

“You knew,” it hissed. Grace looked at the ground. “You knew and you did nothing? Why?”

“So I could see his face one last time. You’re the face of my desire, demon. You tell me why I did nothing,” Grace spat, turning away. She felt warm hands on her shoulder.

“You could be happy you know,” the demon purred. Grace shook herself, tearing her shoulder from the demon’s grasp.

Protector

Ferelden • 9:36 Dragon • Marc/Grace

The four women knelt in front of the Knight Commander, hands folded on their knees. Customary. Statuesque. Orderly. Just how they had been trained.

“I hereby release you from the confines of this Circle, with full knowledge and agreement that you will return once the mages have been caught, on pain of Tranquility or Death.”

They nodded and stood, all four women joining hands and bowing low. “Thank you, Knight Commander.”

Marc watched the ritual with ease. Grace turned back from her fellow Hunters and flashed a dazzling smile, framed by wine red hair.

They filed out of the room, each Hunter with their own Handler, hand in hand before breaking into a quick dash down the corridors, while each woman opened potions and checked their armor. Grace fiddled with a buckle before tying her hair back, her grin now turning to one of determination and strategy.

“If we hit them all at once, they won’t be able to pick us off,” a small elven mage said. Marc nodded. “We’ll take a lot of casualties though.”

“If we can block anything that comes to our men, we’ll be safe,” Grace answered, looking over at the woman coolly. “Remember: we’re the expendable ones.”

“Grace,” Marc warned. She brushed him off with an errant wave of her hand.

“Alright. We know what we’re doing. Let’s go.”

The women held their hands out with the items they had been provided. They seemed trivial: a sock, a bracelet, a lock of hair, a ring. The Templars stood back as they watched their Hunters concentrate on the items, each muttering the same spell in slightly different time.

Grace was the first one to open her eyes. They burned with a fire that rarely came to their green depths, but built as she moved down the hall, gripping the ring she had in her left hand. Her sisters in arms each followed her shortly after.

“It’s–“ Grace started. Her sentence was quickly continued by the other Hunters.

“A tavern–

“Outskirts–

“Golden Cat.”

“Three–“

“Two men–

“One Woman–“

“Second woman is dead.”

Grace tensed, holding the ring out in front of her. “Blood magic.”

The girls paused, before dashing down the hall, their black coats and cloaks flowing behind them like the wings of large bats, descending through the sky.

Marc followed his brothers quickly, sprinting after his Hunter. She was right in the front, almost laid flat out as she bolted down the stairs, taking two three, sometimes entire flights of stairs at a time before the four women sprinted out of the front of the tower, eyes narrowed against the sun and dust.

The Golden Cat was a grungy hole in the wall tavern on the outskirts of Denerim, its windows shuttered and boarded against the light. The four pairs of mages and Templars looked distinctly out of place in the tiny bar, the women tightlipped and suspicious, and the men stoic and silent as they watched their charges flit around the bar room, trying to pick up the trail around the heightened emotions that showed themselves around alcohol and sex. The small elven woman pointed above her, and nodded. A silent nod between Grace and Marc had the two of them creeping up the stairs, sword and staff at the ready. It was too cramped for the full group. It would have to be the two of them.

Grace stopped them short before the landing, blowing flames into her hand to illuminate the dim passageway. She looked strained in the firelight, almost nervous as she took each step at a time, hand tightly gripping her staff. The blade glittered dangerously.

Out of the darkness, a bright light flashed, sending Grace diving to the floor as Marc blocked the shot of lightning with his shield. He could hear her panting as she assessed the damage, relieved when she popped up behind him, hands at the ready and spinning shields of her own into being, the intense smell of peppermint surrounding them like a cocoon.

More lightning, each stronger than the last hit their barriers as they found themselves back to back, shield and hands flashing in the light as they blocked and parried each aggressive strike of magic. He felt Grace shift behind him, her deceptively cold hands sliding up over his shoulder as she flipped over his shoulders, grunting as she took the brunt of a blow of cold.

“Grace!”

“I’m fine!” she yelled back, limping back to her spot behind him and lashing out with staff and pillar of flame.  The both froze as they heard a commotion behind them, the woman having grabbed one of the men and gleefully slitting his throat. Behind him, Grace stumbled, her head reeling as the cloying feeling of blood magic settled over the room.

The woman started to scream and change, claws extending out of her hands, and her clothing ripping and tearing as her form changed, becoming far more monsterous. Marc felt himself leave the ground as the claws caught his shield, pulling him through the air. He could hear Grace’s scream of terror as she ran to his side, hands glowing green as she washed him with her magic, fingers tracing his cheek as his head spun from the impact. He could only see the shadow of her form as she took up a defensive position in front of him, staff spinning angrily. Her hands burst into orange infernos as she swung at the abomination, face contorting in pain as she felt its claws rake into her back, turning her clothing into ribbons. She dropped in front of him, looking at his face as she fought tears back, the hot red of her blood starting to drip onto the floor from gaping wounds.

He shook his head at her, trying to make the sounds that he wanted to scream at her. She smiled at him. It was a sad, accepting smile.

We are the expendable ones, he heard in his head, as distant as a memory. No one but you cares for our loss.

“NO!”

She was already on her feet, hands once more aflame as she unleashed herself upon the abomination, staff cutting through its flesh like air as she kept the flames up. The smell of burning meat mixed with burning wood and peppermint as she charred her way through its defense, fighting like nothing mattered to her anymore.

Her fellow sisters mounted the landing as it fell dead at Grace’s feet. The thud of it’s body hitting the floor was followed shortly by the sound of Grace’s knees hitting the floor as she started to waiver, blood pouring freely from her back. Marc caught her gently, pulling her close.

“Protecting is my job, Gracie,” he whispered. She smiled weakly at him, frowning as she felt the wash of magic from her fellow sisters flow over her.

“We’re a team, dummy,” she teased, cracking open an eye as the green faded.

“Well, next time,” Marc laughed, “let me do the saving.”

“Shall we climb into bed?”Grace Trevelyan x Marc Garren (OC)

OK This one involves more explanation, because my darling Quizzy is deeply entrenched in her backstory hell™. Grace was taken from her home at age 5 about two weeks after Saturnailia (this is just at the end of 9:22 Dragon) when it was discovered she had magical talents. Originally destined for the chantry regardless, her father used his connections to place her in a special program, which trained her as a Hunter, an accessory to the Templar Order. The program was very small, and more than a little brainwash-y. Because of course, you can’t have mages just running around enforcing the law they are paired up with young Templar recruits who are also recommended for the program. These relationships are highly encouraged to be of a romantic nature in order to solidify the bond between Handler and Hunter, and it is repeated ad nauseum to these children that these relationships continue until death. Marc Garren is her Handler. As a note, he’s gone prematurely grey, he’s really only two years older than Grace. (I had a friend who started going grey our freshman year of highschool.)This takes place about two weeks before an incident with a young runaway and Grace’s subsequent retirement. (Timeline wise, its about four days after the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry.)Also this got A LOT longer than I originally intended??? And doesn’t quite fill the prompt???? I hope you enjoy it!