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Ah but Maker be her witness, how she hates the rain.
It violently prattles against the glass of the balcony doors, casting the rooms and all of Skyhold in a dismal, murky grey despite the early time of day. The sun should be out, she thinks, but it doesn't stand a chance against the clouds, thunder, and water pouring from the heavens – just one more reason to hate it, and the late-year season that is responsible for it. Marian never liked the harvest. She also never liked rain.
“You came early.” She says this with a smile, her voice hushed yet still clearly audible despite the racket the storm is causing. It's warm, almost too hot, and she shifts beneath the blankets, narrowing her eyes at the flames burning in the fireplace to her left. Another week or so, she was told. She sighs. To the Void with days and weeks and those who claim she needs more rest. Resting is all she has been doing lately; she just might start to detest the idleness others forced upon her as much as sunless, dreadful days.
“It is impossible to see properly in these conditions, much less swing a sword without taking out someone's eye by accident. Ser Barris has wisely chosen to spare the men the risk.” He is sensible like that, Marian supposes, and wonders who else has had their daily operations interrupted. Does the Nightingale brood in her tower, tending to her birds who would be swept away by the winds if they tried to take flight? What does she do, when she can't move about her pieces, plot, whisper, and murder? Marian lets out another sigh, allowing her head to meet the back of the wall. It must be the rain making her so maudlin – she's never quite the same without the sun.
“You are well?” Her lips quirk upwards at the spark of warmth and sunshine that flickers to life at the sound of Meredith's voice asking the same question every day with her back turned to Marian while she stares out of the windows.
“Always,” she replies, just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Another week, she hopes, and they will no longer fear for the worst. Another week, Marian hopes, and she herself will no longer fear for the worst. “I only wish it wouldn't rain so much.” She knows it's the season. She knows that. But still-
“You miss the sun.” Meredith turns around and though her expression gives away no clue as to what she thinks, Marian sees it in the way she holds her hands behind her back – relaxed, not tense, not tense at all – she understands how much the sun means to her. Perhaps even that she carries part of it within herself, shines just as bright despite being so much smaller. It rained every day since Marian woke up and every day, Meredith came to visit. She didn't understand, at first. Now, Marian allows herself to believe, she does.
“It should be too cold for rain,” she replies, looking at the ceiling. Skyhold is all aged stone, tall arches, rustic, and weathered with little elegance to polish its rougher edges. A sturdy fortress, fit for the growing army and the refugees that have found a home within its ancient, drafty halls. “Nothing but snow and ice surrounds us for miles and miles and yet...” She closes her eyes in resignation, willing herself to stop dwelling on what cannot be changed. It will pass, the weather, just like everything else. The bed rest, the silence, the fear-
She merely has to endure for a little longer. Serenity comes to those who are patient and suffer in quiet; a lesson she learned when she was young, a belief she has lived by ever since. The Maker smiles on those who are faithful, disciplined, and who never ask for anything. Maybe He brought the rain to remind her of this. Maybe He brought it so she would learn to love it. Or maybe He brought it so she could focus on this, rather than the grasping, hungry Void which grows inside her mind, getting stronger and louder with each moment that passes. It's temporary, she tells herself, and it will fade. Just like the bed rest. Just like the rain.
“Marian.” She blinks, and inclines her head, only to notice that Meredith moved. She no longer stands by the window but next to the small table beside Marian's bed, holding a cup of water in her hands. Her brows are furrowed, and there is a displeased downward tilt to her lips as her eyes critically roam Marian's face and arms. She follows Meredith's gaze, sees what she sees; the sweat coating her skin, the damp spots where the thin sheets cover her legs, the shallow rise, and fall of her chest.
“I am fine,” Marian responds with a gentle smile, “it's just the fire. I was told the heat would aid my recovery though I find it nigh unbearable.” She doesn't mention that her skin is cold, almost icy to the touch and that the healer worries. Marian accepts the cup, calmly sipping the water, watching the rain's continuous assault on the thick glass panes on the opposite side of the room.
“Are you certain?” She hums and nods. Meredith isn't fully convinced – her frown deepens but whatever her doubts, she chooses not to voice them. Instead, she will remain watchful and vigilant, just in case. The thought of it brings yet another smile to Marian's face. They have reached an understanding, the two of them, and yet it is the 'just in case' which is attached to Marian's every action and decision that solidifies her trust in Meredith – Meredith, who turns and says: “I ought to leave you to your rest.”
Marian doesn't think about her clammy hands, of well-kept secrets, or the healer – in fact, she doesn't think about much of anything at all, her mind blessedly empty for a split second, as she reaches out, her fingers curling into the sleeve of Meredith's tunic. She brushes against her wrist, just briefly, feels the smooth crystal and the pleasant warmth it radiates – pleasant, unlike the fire and the stuffy air which have turned her insides drier than a desert.
“Please,” she murmurs, “stay a while.” The request is out of order. Every day since she woke up, her days followed the same pattern which meant Meredith would come, enquire about her health, and leave. Marian never asked her to stay. Now she does, and she can see it on Meredith's face, that for once, their thoughts are the same. It's been quiet, lately, with Marian's blood lying still in her veins, cold, and slumbering. Without it, she can't hear the lyrium. Without it, Meredith can't hear her either. A blessing, for sure, a momentary reprieve from a curse that cannot be broken.
But-
but.
'You miss the sun.'
Meredith scrutinises her with narrowed eyes, searching without judging. She seems to have found whatever she was looking for when she inclines her head, uttering a curt, decisive, “Very well.” She takes the empty cup from Marian's hands, refills it, and sits down on a chair next to the balcony door to Marian's left without another word. Neither of them enjoys conversation, and the silence that follows is... comfortable. Better than the one in Marian's head so she shuts her eyes, and allows herself to bask in it. Peace never lasts for long but Meredith makes it last longer than most.
She's not sure how much time passes. There are no timekeeping devices in her rooms, and the dismal weather makes it impossible to follow the sun so what could be minutes might be hours, and what could be hours, might be mere seconds. It doesn't matter; it is a good day, better than the others, and as it continues to rain while the fire continues to burn, Marian finds it much easier to look past both. There may be no sun outside, no soothing rays shining down from above to combat the cold which is native to these frosty mountains but right now, like this, she doesn't need it. As long as Meredith is around, she never does.
“It is unusual,” Meredith eventually states, voicing thoughts Marian didn't know she had. She doesn't look at her and stares out of the window, her face relaxed in a way it rarely is. She looks younger like this, less severe. Despite that, the sun within her burns as bright as ever, and Marian ignores the urge to reach out, to get closer. “The weather.” Her red-stained eyes meet Marian's for the fraction of a second. “A menace, too. There is little else to do other than sit and think.” The moment – whatever it may have been – passes and whatever spark lingered in the air, fades. Marian wishes she could ask what Meredith thinks about, what occupies her mind, if she, too, wonders about the rain which began falling from the heavens the day they brought Marian back to Skyhold shivering and feverish; dead to the world.
“I apologise,” she speaks softly because there is a time and a place and this is neither- “My condition... it must not be easy for you to remain idle.” Meredith hates being idle. So does-
“Or you,” Meredith replies quicker than she can finish her train of thought, having arrived at the exact same conclusion a single heartbeat faster than Marian herself. Before she notices it, a quiet huff escapes her mouth, the ghost of a laugh, mirth dancing across her features as she meets Meredith's gaze once more. Meredith doesn't share her amusement, not outwardly, though the subtle twitch of her upper lip doesn't escape Marian's watchful eyes.
“I have grown weary of these walls,” she admits with an almost wistful sigh, brushing the back of her hand against her forehead to wipe away the sweat. “Of... all this.” She doesn't elaborate. There's no need to; they both know what she means. She falls silent then, absent-mindedly wiping even more sweat off her temples. “I-” It's warm. Too warm. Her back itches where she can't reach, her nostrils burn and it's so very hard to breathe – Marian tried convincing the healer she doesn't need this searing heat, and that all it does is suffocate her but he simply wouldn't listen.
“I- would you mind opening a window?” Marian asks, doing her best to speak slowly so it's not quite as obvious how short of breath she is. “Not for long, lest the rain floods these rooms. I merely... some fresh air would do me good, I feel.” She hates the rain, she thinks as she watches Meredith get up to open one of the windows, inviting a small part of the storm inside, but she just might hate the fire more. A gust of wind surges through the tiny opening in the wall, sending papers, documents, and letters on Marian's desk flying through the air, soon followed by the first drops of rain hitting the stone tiles close to the window. Meredith stands next to the wall, perfectly dry and unruffled but Marian sits right in the middle of the storm's path. She shuts her eyes as the first droplets hit her face, and opens her mouth to inhale the fresh, wet air, feeling the sweat slide off her skin, the water entering her lungs and nose, chasing away the dead-silent desert in her veins to replace it with...
“Ah. Thank you. I already-” She takes deep breaths, too deep, notices the encroaching dizziness, and tempers herself. Her eyes flutter open, and she sees Meredith no longer on the other side of the room but right beside her, with yet another glass of water in her hands. “I am much better.”
The cold feels pleasant against her skin, combating the oppressive heat lingering in the air, erasing it little by little. It also soothes her, clears her mind; the fog stubbornly clinging to the edges of her vision melts away and when she looks at Meredith, she seems sharper, brighter, than before. If Marian were to reach out she could touch her, feel the cloth of her daytime robe with her fingers, and the perfectly smooth red lyrium of her hand. The urge is stronger than ever before, making her own hand twitch, but she's stronger than it. She resists.
Good things come to those who wait, He says. Like the sun. Or the rain. Marian huffs quietly, thinking of peace and patience and rain and Him. Maybe there was a point, a purpose to this rain after all, this dreadful wet season that ignores the freezing cold, and all the rules all of His creations have to follow. Maybe it wasn't about teaching her a lesson, or distracting her, or reminding her to be thankful without asking for too much. Maybe He simply thought of her, when he brought the rain. Maybe He wanted to show her that everything can be loved, even something one previously didn't.
Or maybe it was a gift. He always watched over Meredith after all. Maybe, just maybe, He watches over Marian, too. Maybe she finally deserves it. Maybe her sins are being washed away, her soul cleansed of the filth which stained it from the day she was born. Maybe that's what the rain is. Forgiveness. Absolution.
Love?
She reaches up to touch a droplet with her fingers, and rubs the water between them, slightly tilting her head to the side.
Or maybe she's just thinking too much.
“Marian?” She blinks, raises her head, and smiles. She knows it before she can see it on Meredith's face, in her eyes; recognition of a sort, a sense of familiarity. Meredith knows this smile well, perhaps even better than Marian. She always sees it on her face after all, or did – until Marian fell into a deep slumber most people feared she would never wake from, only to do so with a sickness in her body and mind causing her to rot from the inside out. Meredith hasn't seen that smile in weeks. She says nothing, doesn't mention it, but the light within her glows just a little brighter than before, allowing Marian to catch a glimpse of a sight she sorely missed – a fragment of her dearly precious, most coveted crimson sun.
Or maybe it takes a little bit of rain to make the inevitable sunrise following at its heels ever so much sweeter.
They remain as they are, in silence, until later when night falls, and Meredith turns to leave. As she reaches the top of the stairs, she pauses, then stops. She looks at Marian, inspecting her face which appears relaxed and no longer quite as pale, her bare shoulders which no longer glisten with sweat, her hands which are still and don't shiver, her legs beneath the sheets, whose fabric no longer sticks to her limbs. She returns to her eyes which are clear, lucid, alert, and-
“You look well. Better.”
Marian barely feels the cold of the weather outside, acutely aware of every drop of rain on her bare skin and the endless, eternal warmth coming from Meredith no matter how far away she is.
“Do I?” she asks, an odd tone to her voice neither of them can place. She smiles once more, so wide the corners of her eyes begin to crinkle because she can feel it; the rot inside her veins dies, the silence kicks and screams as it is being dragged from the depths of her soul by steel-clad, lyrium-infused claws. Its time has come; once it rains, nothing can escape the thaw.
“It must be the rain,” Meredith decides, and after casting one last, long look at Marian, she turns around, and leaves without another word. The stairs creak as she makes her way to the door which opens with a mighty groan only to swing shut without making a single sound. Soon enough, when even the echoes of Meredith's steps have faded, Marian's ears twitch as they pick up the tiny, barely audible hint of an achingly familiar hum somewhere in the distance.
“Yes,” Marian says in the no-longer all-encompassing silence of her rooms, a gentle smile blooming on her rapidly reddening lips,
“It must be the rain.”