Author's Note: This is a much longer chapter than normal, so it took a bit more time than I expected to try to do it justice (although, I'm still not 100% pleased with it, tbh).
The next chapter will probably be posted within the next couple days as well since it's almost finished. Thanks again for checking it out! Dareth shiral! :)
SERENA
So much has happened in so little time.
These past two weeks, our group has spent most of our scheduled meetups resolving more personal matters for select party members within our circle.
First was Aveline's painfully awkward dilemma with Donnic. A situation I found equally cringe-worthy as amusing. And until the end of my days, I doubt I'll ever forget the shocked look on Hawke's face, when the guardsman actually accused Hawke of holding a secret torch for Aveline.
We all had a good laugh about that one later on at the Hanged Man, after the two finally resolved their prolonged misunderstanding with one another. Much to the Guard Captain's continued embarrassment.
Following her successful courting nonsense, Varric at last confronted Bartrand, who we had discovered returned to his Hightown mansion of late. That encounter, however, turned out far different than expected. And not in a good way.
From Bartrand's lyrium crazed bodyguards, to his mutilated servants he slaughtered while trying to get them to hear 'the singing' we wardens are oh-so-familiar with, it's a wonder he's survived this long since departing the Deep Roads.
Killing him could've been viewed as a welcome mercy—a tempting and justifiable opportunity for a merited, bloody revenge for all the trouble he put us through three years ago. But thankfully, Anders was there and was able to temporarily restore his sanity; thus, resulting in Varric and Hawke agreeing to spare his life in search of a cure. Something Varric still gripes about to this day, complaining over Diamondback about how much he wished 'Blondie hadn't wiggled his fingers and cleared his head', because murdering Bartrand would've been so much easier.
But we all know that's not really the case. The dwarf's just another big softy underneath all his bluster. And I for one think he might be a bit relieved with the possibility that his brother didn't just leave us down there to rot of his own volition.
Not that I'd ever believe that bullish prospect, mind you. Bartrand's still a no-good rat, albeit a loony one, twisted even more so by that red-lyrium nastiness.
However, I'll never voice that concern to Varric.
The dwarf's got enough troubles to deal with as it is, what with him taking over House Tethras's responsibilities now and all, while still looking up leads for Fenris, his brother, and myself.
It seems like everyone's finally making efforts to move forward, to leave their challenging pasts behind them . . . Perhaps it really is time I try doing so as well? Maybe not at a sprint, per say, like Aveline or Varric. But gradually, one step at a time. Surely that wouldn't hurt, would it? They wouldn't blame me, would they?
I clutch onto the old, metal necklace dangling across my chest.
It feels warm to the touch, as if welcoming the notion. But the weight of the concealed gold earring and pierced, iron arrowhead at the end continues to hold me back. The last dreaded seed of doubt, rooted deep within my heart.
The most enduring barrier that haunts my every move, my every word, my every step.
I glance up at the others walking in front of me, searching for an ounce of their courage to try to overcome it. But find none.
They're all too fixated on the task at hand, and it's understandable.
Hawke, Fenris, Varric, Merrill, and I are all traversing through the Wounded Coast right now in search of more crafting supplies for Sandal and Solventius again. A monthly endeavor Hawke insists upon to stock up not only on some much-needed potions and runes, but also to rake in a bit more coin for everyone as well.
It's an easy task, if not a demanding one, requiring one's full attention in order to successfully scrounge the sandy bluffs and trails.
All seems to be going smoothly today, too, which never bodes well for our leisurely outings. Something always has to go wrong. Whether it's sudden rain clouds forming in a crystal clear sky, or yet another group of enemies jumping out to attack us, luck just isn't on our side. And the lack of any trouble so far appears to have put everyone a bit on edge, based on their tense, watchful bearings.
I sigh and grasp tighter onto my scythe. I guess I should try to focus now, too. It's really not the time to let myself get lost in thought . . . Although, it might be preferable to this silence.
Resigned to this decision, I put my inner walls back up. My senses heighten from the increased allocated perception.
And then, I hear it: the quiet rustle of something brushing against a bush atop the cliff to our left. A whizzing sound through the air follows, prompting me to throw up a barrier around us on instinct. Arrows rain down on us from up above, piercing the magical, glowing walls, before splintering to pieces on top of the sand.
Hawke and the others all spin around and draw out their weapons.
We glare up at our initiating attackers.
Raiders. And quite a lot of them.
Varric shoots out bolt after bolt at the archers perched atop the adjacent cliff, while Merrill assists with equivalent use of fireballs. Their onslaught overcomes the lot quickly enough, most falling dead from a combination of their efforts within seconds, while few others cower in retreat, cuing for a new batch of warriors to run out of hiding from further within their camp.
Hawke, Fenris, and I leap out of the barrier and charge the approaching raiders up the nearby slope.
I count ten of them in total, a majority of them wielding longswords, with perhaps two or three using daggers.
The lot of us split up to take them down, slicing at whichever ones happen to cross our paths, while Varric and Merrill offer long-range backup.
Amidst the growing chaos, I notice three more raiders run out of a nearby cave up ahead. They charge toward Fenris and Hawke, who are too engrossed in their current skirmishes with other opponents to notice the encroaching reinforcements.
My heart races at the sight. I quickly cut down my final opponent with a rushed parry, then throw a burst of chain lightening at the approaching men. They collapse into a fit of seizures at Hawke and Fenris' feet. Both jolt and turn to face the sound, glimpsing between me and the fallen men.
I smirk at them.
The mana in my veins prickle as it recedes. But then it flares back up again, rushing through my body with rejuvenated force.
An all-consuming heat explodes within me.
The world spins.
My vision fades.
I feel my hands and knees hit the sand, hard.
It becomes more and more difficult to breathe, to maintain even a semblance of balance or conscious thought.
Next thing I know, I'm slipping. Falling.
I can hardly feel the ground against my skin anymore.
There's a burst of blinding green light. A ghostly visage of a smiling, robed woman follows. But I can only see the lower half of her face. She whispers something to me, yet no matter how hard I try to focus, I can't hear her. Her voice: it's too low, too garbled, like a watery realm lies between us.
Another bright, green light flashes.
The woman's gone. Now I see Flemeth, standing in front of a grand mirror, wearing the new intimidating outfit she wore at the top of Sundermount. She's talking with a bald, elven man, who she soon welcomes into her arms. Her wary gold eyes shift around the surrounding scenery until they land on me.
My heart skips a beat.
Flemeth and the bald, elven man vanish.
The setting's replaced with yet another burst of light. This time it reveals Hawke's mother, sitting in what looks to be a dark, dingy room.
But something feels wrong, off.
She looks grey, sewn up, eerie. Almost identical to Justice, when he first inhabited that Grey Warden's corpse back in Amaranthine.
Another figure approaches from up behind her; and then, I'm alone again. Returned to the black abyss.
My arms tremble. Every part of me goes numb. Through my fading consciousness, I swear I feel myself collapse, and I hear Merrill and the others calling out to me.
HAWKE
"What's happening? What's wrong with her?" I ask, as our entire group huddles around Serena. She's now lying limp, passed out in Merrill's arms, her entire body covered in sand and sweat.
"She's having another one of her fits," Merrill whispers, putting one frantic hand to Serena's paling forehead. "This is what happens when she uses her magic sometimes. Her connection to The Beyond is too strong."
"To the Beyond? You mean the Fade?"
"Yes, that's right," she says. The dark-haired elf purses her lips. She looks down at Serena, as if worrying, hesitating.
But I'm having none of it. "What do you mean, Merrill?" I shout. "What's happening?"
Merrill clenches her fists and closes her eyes. "The Keeper, she-she lied to you when she said Fenyriel was the only Somniari she knew of to survive in the past two ages," she says without looking around at any of us. "Serena's a specialized Dreamer, one with an intense connection to the Fade and all its inhabitants. But she's no longer aware of it. Not fully, anyways."
I gawk at the fidgeting elf, her words still spiraling, failing to make much sense. "Wait. Hold on," I whisper, holding a hand up. "How could Serena be a Dreamer and not know about it? That seems like a pretty hard thing to miss."
"Serena's magic first manifested when she was just six years old . . . " Merrill explains. "And it was nothing like we could've ever anticipated. Against all reason, her mana never tired. Then we discovered she could summon and banish Fade spirits at will, granting them access to visit her in the real world, without use of lyrium, a summoning circle, or even offering them a deal. . . It was absurd. But it was clear she loved them, and they loved her. She would spend hours every day speaking to all manner of benevolent spirits like this. Something I'll admit I envied."
Merrill smiles and brushes a few rogue hairs off of Serena's face.
It's a gentle gesture, hinting at a possible friendship, that must've at some point existed beyond the tattered remains.
But it's soon masked over by Merrill's darkening expression, a look that twists from noticeable sadness, regret, and pain.
"One day that all changed, though," Merrill continues. "A powerful demon trapped her in her dreams. It held her captive there for three whole days. The Keeper managed to save her through the same ritual we used on Feynriel. However, the experience proved too traumatic for such a young child. Especially one who had grown to trust and love the Fade spirits so much."
Merrill's head droops low.
"She lost all of her memories about her Dreamer abilities as a result; a defense mechanism against the fear and sense of betrayal she felt—or so we theorized. She's thought of herself as just a normal mage ever since, with a few more quirks than others. But that's far from the case. And with far more repercussions than any of you all know."
Merrill pauses.
She stares up at me, her conflicted gaze riddled with profound fear and uncertainty—as though debating. Prepared to deliver grave news of unknown origin.
It makes my stomach flip.
My breath gets caught in my throat. "And how's that, Merrill?" I ask, my heart now racing. "Get to your point."
Merril gulps down whatever may have been stopping her before. "Being a Dreamer, with as much unique mana and pull to the Fade and its spirits as she has," she continues, "it-it frequently results in her magic backfiring onto herself, if she doesn't use it often enough. Which she never does. The pull essentially gets so strong from all the built-up mana that it splits her consciousness between reality and the Fade, and her body can't keep up. As such, she'll collapse with fevers like this. The only way to help her recover faster would be with a mana drain or mana cleanse spell, to stop her magic from working up. But I'm not skilled in such areas of expertise . . . We must take her to Anders. Quickly. He should be able to help her."
Her sudden mention of Anders throws me through a loop.
"Blondie? Does he know about this?" Varric asks. "Her fits, I mean?"
Merrill nods. "I'd imagine so . . . "
Her words suddenly cut off, as though she was planning to say something more, but stopped herself. An unimaginable feat for the talkative elf. One that puts my suspicions on even higher alert, for fear of what that silence may mean.
I scowl at her, on the verge of demanding more answers.
Perhaps noticing my own internal shift, Merrill stiffens. She looks away from us again. "Anyway, that doesn't matter now," she stammers. "A fever can claim a warrior just as quickly as any wound can. We must hurry. Before her fever gets worse."
And with that final reminder and plea, I decide to let her off the hook. For now. If only to ensure Serena's safety and well-being.
But all these secrets, these run-arounds . . . Intentional or unintentional . . .
It's about time for a reckoning, regardless whether Serena or Merrill are willing to talk about them all in depth with us or not.
SERENA
"Well? How is she?" I hear Hawke ask from outside the door to Anders's clinic.
I woke up not much earlier, but have opted to pretend to keep sleeping, in fear of the line of questioning or fretting I might face, if the others learned I was awake.
"She'll be alright," Anders says. "She needs to rest. I'll keep watch over her until she recovers. You lot should retire home for the evening and wash up. She might not wake for quite a few hours yet."
There's a tense pause that lingers in the air.
I can only imagine how frustrated and unyielding Fenris and Hawke both must look right now. Neither are likely to budge. Not without a bit of tactful prodding and insistence. Which, unfortunately, this time I cannot render.
"Come on, Hawke, Broody. Let's go wait it out at the Hanged Man," Varric steps up to the task. "First round's on me. What do you say?"
Hawke sighs. "Very well," he grumbles, and I do a small internal cheer, praising the charismatic dwarf and all his beardless, crossbow loving, glory. "But send for us right away if there are any changes."
"I will. Goodnight," Anders answers.
The others' footsteps retreat out of earshot, deeper into the Darktown alleyways.
Anders closes the door behind them.
He approaches my cot at a steady pace, stopping just short of the foot of my 'bed'. "They're gone," he says, and I can already imagine him staring down at me, crossing his arms. "You can stop pretending to sleep now."
I peek open my eyes and smirk up at the smiling mage. "Who says I'm pretending?"
His usual playful twinkle returns to his eyes. "You, since you're awake and talking and all."
He sits down on the cot beside me, looking just as lighthearted and handsome as the first time we met back in Amaranthine. Minus the templar and darkspawn guts surrounding us. Oh, and the possibility of a tainted, painful death looming over both our shoulders. And that 'rebellious' earring he used to wear on his right ear. The simple things.
"What would I do without you?" I ask, rolling onto my side to face him, so I can better appreciate his ongoing presence further.
"Still be passed out from an ungodly fever again, that's what." His face scrunches up into a frustrated scowl. "What were you thinking using your magic like that? You know how you get when you push yourself too hard."
"I didn't think it'd be such a big deal." I shrug. "I thought I had everything under control. And even though I didn't, they were bound to find out about the fits at some point anyway. It's not like I can just not use my magic forever."
"Yes, well. You could've chosen better timing for your little reveal. Perhaps when I was still around."
True. I suppose I could've avoided using that chain lightning spell and been fine.
But it seemed the safest option at the time. If I hadn't, I don't know if I could've moved fast enough to take out those three men before they descended on Hawke or Fenris. And if something did happen to them because I didn't use my magic, I'd . . .
No. Stop that. I dispel the growing sense of fear, guilt, and dread rising within the pit of my gut.
Quick flashes of the visions I had, back when I collapsed, flit through my memory, starting with the mysterious robed woman. Then Flemeth. And the last being that creepy, alter ego lookalike of Leandra, if I can even call her that.
A dull ache pangs in the back of my head at the recollections, the pain growing stronger each passing second. A symptom I know too well won't let up any time soon and will only get worse over the next couple of days. Yet another glorious side effect of this detestable magic and fever of mine.
How lovely. I sigh. I knew it was too good to be true—to simply think I could just leave my past behind me, with nothing fighting to hold me back. I suppose I just didn't think I'd get such a painful reminder of that so soon. Or with such force, for that manner.
I rub at my throbbing temples, my brain feeling like it's attempting to slam its way out of my skull.
"Headache still bothering you?" Anders asks, getting up onto his feet again.
"Yeah," I mumble under my breath, my thoughts still locked in the past, wondering when I might ever break beyond this. Beyond the secrets, the pain, the fear—of not only who I am, but also the situations I've endured, and the ones I've yet to overcome.
He picks up a mug off a neighboring nightstand. "Here, drink this." Anders passes it to me.
I don't even dare look. I just start gulping down the mystery liquid in heaps, trusting Anders's advice explicitly.
The bitterness of the unknown concoction fills my mouth, tingling in the back of my throat before spreading to the rest of my body.
As soon as I finish, I grimace and pass the empty mug back to Anders. He returns it to the nightstand, and I smile up at him.
"Hey, Anders?" I whisper, flopping onto my back again.
"Hm?" He fixates on me.
"Ma serannas. You've always been here for me. Even when I don't always deserve it."
He chuckles and sits back down on the opposite cot again. "Consider it my repayment for not letting the templars take me from the keep all those years ago. I imagine hanging would've been quite the unpleasant experience. Or so they kept telling me."
"Ugh. Don't remind me about that." I roll my eyes.
The amount of grief I received from Rylock and the other templars about his conscription still annoys me to this day. It's only thanks to Alistair's continued interference that it didn't get worse. Especially after we both took Rylock down, against my better judgement.
The thought makes me think about our current status as both wanted wardens and apostates, and how Anders all but shooed away our protective allies earlier, shortly after he finished 'healing' me.
It seems unlike him upon reflection.
As a healer, I've never seen him try to force people out of his clinic like that. He's usually very understanding if a patient's friends or family wish to stay by them, so long as the time and space allow. Yet, in this instant, he wasn't. He even lied to them, insisting I still wasn't awake yet, despite knowing better.
"I'll admit. I'm surprised you sent Hawke and the others packing for me," I comment, grinning up at him, only realizing I should probably thank him now for the consideration.
"Oh, sweetheart. That wasn't just for you." He smirks. "If I had to put up with one more minute of Fenris's suspicious glaring, I might've lost it and called it a day!"
"He's just worried, like everyone else." I laugh. "You two should really try to reach some sort of understanding with one another. I enjoy eavesdropping on most of your fights. But at times, they can be a bit . . . much."
Anders groans and shakes his head. "What you see in that beast, I have no idea."
"Anders . . ." I warn, giving him my best, stern scowl.
"Alright! Alright!" He raises his hands up in defense. "I'll try to make more of an effort. For your sake, if nothing else."
He grumbles something more under his breath. But I know there's no ill will to it. At least, not directed toward me. And not with any real bite to it. Just his usual sarcastic sass, seeping out from under the surface. A habit he's yet to change since Vigil's Keep. And a personality trait I wouldn't ever see him without.
"How are you doing by the way?" I ask, sitting up, hoping to change the subject. "I hope you're not still beating yourself up about that girl."
Anders face contorts into an expression of profound grief and despair, the likes of which I'd only expect from a mourner, still tormented by their loved one's death. "I almost killed her, Serena. How could I not still be bothered by that?"
"It wasn't you! It was Justice. Or Vengeance. Or whatever the heck we're supposed to be calling him now."
"But it was me who failed to restrain him! If I hadn't, then maybe—"
"Anders!" I stand up and grab him by the cheeks, forcing him to look up at me. "You. Didn't. Do. It. You stopped him. That girl still lives and breathes because of you. Have some more faith in yourself."
Anders clutches onto both of my wrists, his soft touch warm, friendly, and familiar. "If you and Hawke hadn't been there, I don't believe that would still be the case," he whispers, lowering his head in self-defeat.
I sigh and turn to face the door. "You need to trust in yourself, Anders . . . Only you can fight back Justice. You must remain strong and vigilant, to protect both you and others."
I pause to consider the significance of such words for myself as well. Not only as a wanted mage with this strange, hunted magic of mine, but also as a former warden, a warrior, and a runaway elf. With far too many precious people to lose now, to simply continue to curl up and hide in fear of 'inevitable' heartbreak or defeat. All because of a distant, broken past that I keep refusing to let go of.
"And if it proves to be too much for you to handle . . . perhaps you should reconsider the current path you're on," I whisper, clenching my fists with rejuvenated purpose, a new decision lying deep beneath my declaration.
"What? Give up the mage underground, just like that?" Anders balks. "Accept the injustices plaguing mages all across Thedas and go back to turning a blind eye and doing nothing?"
"No, not necessarily nothing, Anders," I retort.
But from the determined glare on his face, I know he won't listen.
He's too far on the defensive again, prepared to go on yet another scathing rant about all the wrongdoings we mages face at the hands of the blasted circle.
"Forget about it." I sigh. "I can't tell you how to live your life. All I can say is that I don't think holding onto our hatred like this is doing either of us any good."
Regardless of where it's directed.
"I'm going to head out," I whisper. "Just . . . think about it. For me."
If at least one of us can make it out of this self-loathing spiral, I'll consider that a win. But I'll be damned if I give up now before continuing to try. The others deserve more of my effort than that. And if they can overcome their pasts and doubts, so can I.