SERENA

A week has passed.

Confined to bedrest at Hawke's estate has proven to be quite the experience—and that's putting it lightly.

Every morning and afternoon, Anders drops by to help lower my fevers and check on my wounds. The process proves exhausting each time, but whether it's due to the piled-on healing spells, the copious amounts of potions he forces me to consume, or something else, it's hard to tell.

When Anders isn't around, or I'm not passed out between healing sessions, Fenris and Hawke spend every waking moment at my side, with the others dropping by to visit occasionally as well. Fenris and Hawke appear to be growing closer as a result.

My suspicion only amplifies when I walk into the foyer after yet another post-afternoon-healing nap to find them smiling at each other by the hearth. They appear to be finishing up a round of Wicked Grace at the nearby table; one that's got Hawke groaning and questioning the elf the second Fenris reveals his hand.

I laugh and resume my approach.

At first, they both look up and beam at me, warmth evident in their kind, twinkling gazes. But then, Hawke jumps to his feet.

"Oh no, you're not supposed to be up and walking around just yet. Doctor's orders." He hurries over to cut me off from entering further into the foyer, his hands firm on his hips, his strapping, armored body towering over me. A . . . sturdy human in every sense of the word. But the slight, playful quirk of his lips betrays any feigned attempt at intimidation. At least, for now.

I cross my arms and roll my eyes. "Hawke, if I stay in bed all day, I'll never recover. Walking around the mansion won't harm anyone. Besides maybe you, if you continue to try to stop me."

Hawke laughs with a deep, charming tenor. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you," he says. "If Anders sees you, you're on your own."

He points at me to accentuate this fact, but I merely smile and shrug it off.

If Anders wanted to fight me over this, so be it.

The two of us walk over to join Fenris at the table.

Hawke quickly pulls over another seat for me, placing it in the space between theirs. He then plops down into his own chair in an indolent fashion, sinking deep into its red cushions, before propping his mud-stained boots along the side of the table. I eye the different patterns, splashed along the rims, while Fenris shuffles and redistributes the cards.

As soon as he's finished, I snatch up my set.

Two angels, two knights, and a serpent. Not the best starting hand I've had, I'll admit, but it has potential.

Now how about the other two?

I peek over at both of them.

Fenris remains unreadable, toting his typical, blank expression, while Hawke's still an open book. He's got at least two good cards he's holding onto. One more and he wouldn't be able to stop himself from grinning—his worst tell that Varric and I keep scolding him on. Yet, he doesn't seem to want to listen.

If he wants to keep wasting sovereigns though, who am I stop him?

While I contemplate my first betting move, Hawke coughs to clear his throat, recapturing my attention.

"I have . . . some news," he murmurs, his relaxed posture tensing and the atmosphere around both men growing dour. "They found Alessa, that woman I told you about before, that we saw at Gascard's estate. Her body . . . It was found in a Lowtown foundry, along with several strange, disturbing notes and other items . . . The templars are suspecting some sick sort of necromantic ritual. One you helped stop."

He pauses to take a long sip of his wine, from a cup he's had resting on the table.

But he's too quick about. Too hasty.

There's something else in this discovery that's bothering him. Something unspoken, that's somehow unnerved and pissed him off, all at the same time, if his firm grip on his mug says anything about it. And whatever it is, he doesn't seem to want to discuss it, either now or in the future.

So, I do the only thing I can do: I swallow my words and bite my tongue. The curiosity and concern clawing within me acquiescing that they will never be satiated. A small act of kindness, considering my impulsive, foolishness of late. As well as my own endeavor at gaining a little bit of redemption.

"They also found Gascard in Darktown," Hawke continues, returning his mug to its prior position on the table. "Seems he might've been a student of the killer after all, instead of the grieving victim he made himself out to be."

I frown.

So, in the end, he was connected as well? How unfortunate.

I had hoped there'd be no more victims or suspects in this madness.

However, their game is finally over. And with both sethlin taken down, perhaps this means Kirkwall may return to a minor sense of normalcy once more?

The thought's soothing. Refreshing. A novelty that all of Kirkwall may relish in.

But then my heart sinks, recognizing that with a true return to normalcy for our group, I would eventually leave the estate.

There'd be no more daily visits or card matches between Hawke, Fenris, and me.

No more secret smiles to always walk in on and witness.

And certainly not nearly as many late night conversations, where the three of us pass out together, huddled by the fire.

It seems a horrid, dreadful reality, detached from all that's right, despite being the truth of our past.

And somehow, that elicits a deeper ache in my chest than I've ever felt before.

A sin with no consolation prize. And an oversight I hadn't dared consider . . . until now.

"I see you haven't lost your touch, Twinkle Toes," Varric mutters with a loud, drawn-out sigh.

He places yet another pitiable set of cards on the bedroom table beside us.

The second batch I've defeated today.

"You win. Again," he slumps back further into his chair, shaking his head.

"Much obliged, master Varric." I smile and reach forward to collect the small pile of snacks we've been using as betting chips today, which lie atop the center of the table. "You do me such an honor, coming here to keep me company like this."

He shrugs. "Just figured you might be lonely, what with Hawke, Broody, and Blondie gallivanting about, doing errands today. Plus, I imagined you might need a break from Leandra's . . . fussing." He gives a flippant wave of his hand at the last part, no doubt having struggled to find the least offensive word to describe our current situation.

"By the Dread Wolf, you have no idea." I throw my head back in exasperation.

The woman's hardly given me any space since the attack. She's quite literally taken up the habit of waiting on me, hand and foot, like some Orlesian servant. Something I never expected from such a noble-born woman, who regards her pride and lineage so highly.

But I know it's just guilt-ridden, so I've tolerated the temporary treatment, if only to appease her worried conscience.

However, I don't know how much longer I can take it. Putting up this polite act all the time is starting to drain me.

Fighting another fatigue spell, just imagining her fretting, I pop another biscuit snack into my mouth and gulp down the last of my ale.

Varric shifts uncomfortably in his seat beside me, watching. Pursing his lips so tight together, he looks like he might burst. "Listen, Twinkle Toes. I've been meaning to talk to you," he blurts out, submitting to the urge.

I turn to stare at him.

His gaze is serious. His usual jokes gone, along with any trace of his usual mirth.

Oh, no. This can't be good.

He hesitates and licks his lips. "As your friend," he starts, and I can tell already, I'm not going to like where he's going with this, "I feel like I'd be doing both you and Hawke a disservice, if I didn't voice my concern. What's this I hear about something going on between you two and Broody? You do know the elf's like an angsty, Tevinter porcupine? And Hawke, well, he's Hawke, right?"

I laugh. "That's all you can think to describe him as?"

"Do you have any better ideas?"

I pause to consider.

Hawke's many things, certainly. But to narrow him down to just a few words, it doesn't seem to do him justice.

"Fair enough," I concede.

Varric grows serious again. "Look, all I'm saying is you might want to be careful. You'll probably have to choose eventually, and I'd hate to see any of you get hurt over this, but that might be difficult to avoid as things currently stand."

"Oh, I don't know," I muse with a teasing veneer. "I rather like the idea of setting up my own personal harem. Wouldn't that suit your dangerous temptress persona you've set up for me better?"

Varric beams at me, but it lacks the distracted twinkle I'd been hoping for. "Ha. Ha. But in all seriousness, talk to me," he persists. "What are you thinking?"

I pause and purse my lips, considering my next words carefully.

I didn't want to talk about this. Not today. Not after struggling with yesterday's disappointing realization. Or the fact that I've been missing both their presences all day today, ever since they left. But it seems I've got no choice now.

Varric's relentless as he is endearing. And if I can trust anyone with my thoughts on this, it's him. He's too invested in the three of us to spread any in fear of messing things up.

The judgement makes me recall Fenris's and Hawke's smiling faces earlier, when I sent them off together around midday.

My heart warms at the happy memory; the sensation of seeing them both looking so cheerful and at ease around each other like that similar to locating a safe haven in the eye of a storm.

But the encircling walls of dread and fear linger amongst its shadows, reminding all who bear witness, this is just a fleeting respite. A possible intermission before a war. And a battle . . . I'm not sure I'm prepared to face.

"I'm thinking, I'm still not certain yet," I whisper, looking down, straining to dismiss the darker emotions in favor of the lighter ones. "I'm working through a lot at the moment, if you couldn't tell. And I can't imagine life without either of them. But I believe I'm making steps in the right direction."

And that much I'm certain.

Had he asked me any time before Leandra's-crazy-necromancer incident, I'd probably feel differently. Like I was still lost in the start of the squall, instead of fighting halfway in.

But the times have already changed.

I'm grasping at newer, happier memories and feelings now, instead of dwelling on old ones. And I'd cast myself into the Void before giving up on all the progress I've made.

Struggle or not.

Varric watches me, his calculating gaze soaking in every movement and every word. "Just . . . be careful, alright," he submits. "There. I've said my piece." He raises his hands up in front of him in a defensive position.

I smile at him and resist the urge to pull him into a tight hug. "You're a good friend, Varric. Better than we all deserve," I insist with a brief pat on his shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah. You're making me all warm and tingly inside." The dwarf pretends to shudder. "Let's see if I can snatch a win from you yet, before the others get back."

And with that, the two of us begin yet another round of Diamondback, his words still spinning in the back of my head, long after the others arrive.

HAWKE

It's been a hectic few days.

And without Serena's presence on the battlefield, even more so.

Between dealing with all the troubles at the Bone Pit with Sabin, Brekker, and all those blasted cavern spiders and undead, and now Seamus—the Vicount's son—going missing at first to convert to the Qun, only to get killed by Mother Petrice in the chantry earlier today, it'd be a bit of an understatement to say I'm a bit exhausted from all the unnecessary politics life keeps involving me in lately.

My only sanctuary from the growing tensions in this hostile city stems from the quiet nights I've gotten to spend at home, drinking and playing cards with Serena and Fenris. And after the long day I've had, I couldn't crave anything more.

However, when I walk into the estate tonight, rather than discovering my two usual companions waiting for me quietly by the hearth, entertaining a barking Titan, I walk into a shouting match, echoing in the foyer.

"This is important. Don't interrupt with your selfish prattle," I hear Aveline snap from atop the stairs.

"Get off your high horse. I have problems, too," Isabela retorts, standing down below, in front of our letter table.

Aveline huffs. "Oh? 'What drink should I order?' and 'Who's the father?'"

I groan and rub my forehead.

Maker, it's going to be a long night.