Author's Note: Thank you for checking out my story, The Endless Tale! This story is rated M for later chapters due to plenty of violence, explicit sexual content, and strong language spread throughout.

Although it falls mostly into the romance genre (adventure and mystery being close seconds), keep in mind that I've tried to match the pacing of the original DA2 tale, so be prepared for a somewhat slow burn love story, with plenty of new twists as a result of the Warden's unique plot and presence.

The tale will ideally follow the main characters through Act 1 all the way to the end of Inquisition (and I will update the character list accordingly). However, beyond that, I can't be certain.

There are multiple pairings in this story, so we'll see which ships win out!

Thank you all for reading! And as always, Bioware owns everything. Dareth shiral! :)


ACT 1

HAWKE

"Are there any other options?" I glance over at Varric across his tavern suite.

The tawny-blond dwarf frowns and shakes his head, the edges of his tied back locks almost appearing to blur in the orange-tinted candlelight. "None at the moment. Bartrand had an entrance lined up, but it was a bust. I'll keep looking, but if we don't find something, we'll have a fancy expedition with nowhere to go!"

Great. Just the kind of news I love to hear.

Find a potentially dangerous, elusive Grey Warden or our one viable chance out of Lowtown's all but doomed.

Delivered in classic sing-song, no-pressure-but-this-is-kind-of-important voice no less.

Why did I ever think this was going to be easy?

Since when have things ever been easy?

I sigh and swipe a quick hand across my beard, the thick strands even longer and unrulier than I remember. Another unfortunate side-effect from things failing to be easy.

"Sounds like you've got it all planned out, Varric," I quip in playful tease

A wide smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. "And that, messere, is why I am here." He bows, and I let out a half-suppressed chuckle.

It's the most lighthearted energy I can offer in exchange at the moment, but it seems to be enough to appease him, if his wide grin has anything to say about it.

"All joking aside, supposedly this Grey Warden came in with some other Ferelden refugees not long ago." Varric straightens himself up, all-business again. "A Lowtown woman named Lirene has been helping the Fereldans. We talk to her, maybe we learn where he is . . . I'll keep after my contacts in the meantime, see if I can drum up any more clues or extra work. Until then, lets focus on what I've already lined up. We've got a big job for Choir Boy tomorrow! It pays well, too."

"Choir Boy?" I arch an eyebrow at him. "Is that his new nickname now?"

Varric shrugs. "The man's a saint! I can't find a single speck of dirt on him! Which is saying a lot, considering . . . you know . . . the white armor? But we'll see how long that lasts. Everyone's hiding something. Until then, Choir Boy works just fine, I think."

"So long as we get his coin, you'll hear no complaints from me!" I laugh.

And that's the truth.

We could call the former Prince of Starkhaven Mr. Fluffywookins for all I care. Dignity and respect be damned! Add it to the cart! Whatever gets them both off.

Getting as much gold as possible is the only thing that matters to me right now. It must be, if I'm ever going to get Mother and Bethany out of the slums here. Ideally, before the templars or a mishandled dagger finds us. Whichever comes first. I'd hate to be picky.

Varric grins then pivots toward the door. "I think that's good enough strategy talk for one night," he says. "Come on. I'll walk you out." He waves me out into the the Hanged Man's upper hall; ever the considerate gentleman, who can probably tell I'm about two seconds from keeling over.

Chronic insomnia paired with constant sixteen-hour work shifts can do that to a person. Mother's and Gamlen's nightly shouting matches only make the dark circles and soul-draining lethargy more prominent. Or so it would seem.

The two of us trudge down the tavern's narrow, wooden stairwell together; each crooked floorboard squeaking under our dusty boots, to the point where I actually wonder if we might fall through.

We don't. Not this time at least.

Maker forbid it happens in the future, but I wouldn't discount it from happening just yet. Luck simply isn't on our side of late when it comes to unplanned, theatrical humor. Something Varric and I try to revel in, much to Bethany's tight-lipped annoyance. But I suppose what she lacks in good humor she makes up for in sweetness. Mostly. Her healing . . . capabilities and delicious meat pies more than cover the rest.

None of the other tavern patrons take notice of our quick arrival or departure through the bar downstairs. Instead, they continue their merrymaking, drowning their pints with blessed naivety, as if in hope each new mug might bring about a better tomorrow.

Poor sods.

They'll probably just wake up, hungover on the tavern floor, with their trousers and coin purses missing.

Or that's what's supposed to happen, if Varric's tales ever hold any real truth. I've yet to experience or witness it myself. And although I admit I am a bit curious, I should probably wait to test the theory until after I've got some time, coin, and pants of my own to spare.

Right. That's probably best.

Can't go pulling a Gamlen now, can I? Why, it'd steal all his thunder! And Kirkwall's simply not ready to witness my no pants Friday. That's a major city milestone, in and of itself. Worthy of a week of celebration. Fit for, say, the return of an old family estate, up in the heart of Hightown? After I've got plenty of rest in an actual bed that doesn't include a shared bunk with my sister. Andraste's sweet, flaming mercy does that sound amazing right now . . .

I sigh and shake my head, struggling not to drift off at the mere fantasy of it, bidding the growing sleepiness away. As far as possible. But somehow just doing so makes me feel even more tired, like I'm one short second from collapsing and ebbing away to the Fade's pull.

That tempting, mind-numbing pull . . .

I jolt, snapping fully awake again.

No, I can't cave in. Not here. Not now. Not in front of so many witnesses! I'd never hear the end of it, and then I'd have an even bigger target on my back.

Varric doesn't so much as glance at his fellow party-goers before we pass through the tavern's exit. An uncharacteristic and dismissive action that's probably more for my benefit than others. Either that or maybe he's finally starting to wear out himself, too. It's hard to tell.

A bitter breeze greets us on the other side of the door, one full of winter's frosty chill, that bites one right down to the bones.

The unwelcome sensation jostles me. Makes me regret ever dare climbing out of bed this morning, out of the secure warmth and safety of the covers. You'd think it would convince everyone else to stay inside also, to seek shelter beside a warm, indoor fire, where your hair won't stand on end.

But no. Of course not. Not even the night's unusual cold is enough to keep Kirkwall's city streets safe.

Bloodthirsty eyes watch Varric and I from every shadow bordering the Hanged Man's outskirts. Scanning. Contemplating. Weighing our visual worth. A regular occurrence, if not still a perturbing one. Especially on a night as inhospitable and freezing as tonight.

Only when we make our way around the tavern's edge, heading over towards Gamlen's house, does a group of predators reveal themselves.

Sharps Highwaymen. About a dozen of them.

They cut us off via an adjacent alleyway, clad in their characteristic worn, leather armor, every single one them sneering at us with malicious intent. Because of course they do.

"Well, would you look at that!" Varric halts, scowling at them. "Friends everywhere! Lovely."

Varric and I both draw our weapons and put our backs to each other. A practiced stance we've become far too accustomed to, after working the past several weeks together.

The leader snickers and closes in on us. A burly lout if I've ever seen one. At least a foot and a half taller than myself, rivaling a full-grown qunari.

Why is it the big ones only seem to appear when I'm exhausted?

Do they take it as some sort of challenge?

A contest, to see who can catch me dead-on-my-feet most? If so, I should charge per attempt. Although, I do take the loser's coin already, regardless.

The boss gets within three strides of us—close enough for me to eye an opening to cut out his oversized jugular—when a slim silhouette drops down from an adjacent rooftop, landing on the leader's back. It knocks him flat over, face first—his skull bonking hard against the cobblestone with a loud, resounding thunk.

I blink once. Twice.

The development failing to register.

A beautiful, young, elven woman with soft ivory skin and shoulder-length chocolate hair stands up atop the unconscious brute. Her stunning teal eyes scrutinize the leader with a ferocious intensity, like a hungry falcon analyzing its captured prey. A large scythe gleams in the palm of one of her hands, the curved blade arched downwards, pointed at his throat, resembling a silver talon poised for the kill; its attached metal pole even longer than she is tall.

Customary Dalish leather armor drapes over the elf's small, hourglass frame, exposing her bare midriff—providing quite the view for someone so visually prepped to hop into battle. But somehow it doesn't make her any less intimidating.

After a short moment of silence, the small elven woman huffs and steps off her knocked-out captive. She slowly turns to face the gang of gawking highwaymen, gathered behind her. The epitome of cool, nonchalance. "That's far enough," she says in a smooth, commandeering voice that makes all want to listen, a faint, familiar lilt on the tip of her tongue.

"And who in the Maker are you?" One of the gang's fatter members steps forward with a scornful glare.

"A stranger." She lifts her scythe to rest the length casually across one shoulder. "Let's keep it that way."

The man furrows his brow, and I can almost hear his jaw pop from increased pressure.

"Why you knife-ear—" He stomps closer, raising his sword.

Varric and I both tense and ready our weapons. Prepared to come to blows, as they are seemingly want to do. The stranger's sass certainly not helping.

But then, said-woman sprints forward.

In a blur of a second, she leaps in close and jabs the man in the side with the blunt snath of her scythe. The man topples over from the blow and skids into a pile of nearby, rotting boxes, blood trickling from his scraped cheeks and forehead. KO'd.

Everyone else stands frozen still—myself and Varric included.

My brain scrambles to catch up. The result simply not adding up, as if trapped in a hallucinatory dream.

The woman dashes forward again, charging the rest of the men. One after another, she takes out their enemy line with ease, her step never faltering, her blade never slicing. Her nimble movements come off almost like a well-practiced dance. Every attack and feigned retreat seemingly already planned out, using her enemies strengths and weaknesses to her advantage.

And then, the last highwayman falls. Almost unceremoniously so, from a quick knee to the gut. The she-elf stands alone among the pile of beaten, groaning men, looking no more fazed than when she first jumped off the building. Her lithe body a small wisp of a thing, like a legendary fairy of old. But her unexpected strength and skill utterly out of place and terrifying, like a death god incarnate.

"Well, that takes care of that." She straightens herself out under the pale moonlight, not a speck of blood or noticeable sweat on her.

Silence pervades the alleyway.

"Maker's breath," Varric mutters, lowering Bianca, his mouth gaping wide open like a breached fish.

I can't help but nod in agreement. The saying hardly does the moment justice.

The young woman glances over at the two of us, her focused gaze relaxing, becoming more welcoming and kind. Not what I'd expect from a potentially dangerous killer, who just took out an entire armed gang, single-handed. "You there," she shouts, and Varric and I both flinch. "Could you pass me that rope?"

She points at an abandoned rope on a crate by the wall behind us.

"I'm going to tie these fools up before they come to." She kneels beside the closest cluster of them. "The city guard can deal with them in the morning. Perhaps it will give them enough time to think about their actions for once."

Her tone and smile almost takes on a playful tone at the end, similar to a mothering teenager admonishing an overconfident sibling.

Varric does as he's asked and passes her the rope.

"Ma serannas." She bows her head to him with a grateful, heart-warming grin. Which only continues to astonish me, considering the earlier stark difference.

The woman then pulls a small dagger out and starts cutting the rope up into medium-sized bits.

Varric awkwardly steps back and scratches his head. "That's . . . quite some skill you have," he murmurs, his typical, laid-back attitude and posture slowly returning. "The swine didn't even know what hit them. Literally! How have I not heard of you around town? You new around here?"

"Yes and no," the woman replies, her attention fixed on her task. "I tend to stick to the shadows. Life here is easier that way."

Varric throws his head back with an amenable chuckle. "You got me there!" he relents.

The woman pauses to look over the two of us again, as if really inspecting us for the first time. Her stunning teal eyes widen with obvious dawning. "Ah! And you two must be the renown Varric and Hawke I've heard so much about! I recognize you. Both of you have made quite the name for yourselves. Your stories are supposed to be the best in Kirkwall." She points at Varric. "And you-" Her piercing gaze lands on me. "-you used to work for the Red Iron, correct?"

"That's right," I answer, staring right into her teal eyes, but my voice sounds unusually quiet, even to me.

Maker, what's wrong with me today?

Am I really that tired?

The corners of her lips curl up to form another mesmerizing smile, one that would knock any straight man—or woman—off their feet. And has me—me, Garrett Hawke, international charm extraordinaire—holding my breath.

"Quite impressive," her sultry voice continues, only enhancing her confusing spell, however unintentional. "I couldn't work with Meeran for a day, let alone a year. You must have some willpower, my friend!"

"Apparently not," my brain immediately wants to spit back out. But somehow I keep that tucked away, along with the remenants of my sanity.

The woman goes back to dealing with the rope, naïve to my own spiraling madness. She ties up two of the highwaymen on her own, until finally, I break through my internal fluster and step forward to help.

"I hate to sound redundant, but . . . who are you exactly?" I ask, attempting to feign even a fraction of composure—for appearance sake, if nothing else. I've got a reputation to keep, after all, and Varric insists that's important.

"Hm. I suppose a name wouldn't hurt," she mutters, seemingly under her breath. "The name's Serena. I'm a Fereldan refugee, just like you."

"Fereldan?" I snap back. It's impossible to disguise the rise of surprise in my voice. Sure, the accent sounded familiar, but . . . "How did you slip past the gates?"

"I could ask you the same thing." She flashes me a wicked, scheming grin. "But the past is the past, so let's not dwell on it. Agreed?"

Although I'm reluctant, I nod in acceptance.

Not because I'm not curious or I lack persistence. Andraste knows shyness has never been a problem of mine. But because if there's one thing I know for certain: although her smile appears warm and lovely on the surface, the extra chipper tone of her voice and the slight sparkle twinkling in her eyes hints at something deeper.

Darker.

It's clearly a warning.

A warning of possible violence, should the need present itself. One I feel no desire in testing.

The two of us finish tying up the rest of the highwaymen in silence. Not another word or glance exchanged between us. It'd be a lie, though, to say I wasn't peeking. It's hard not to, for many a reason. That exposed curve to her waist only being one of them.

When we're finally finished, Serena stands back up. She bows her head to both me and Varric. "Well, my work here is finished," she says. "I'll let the city guard know of their capture. It was a pleasure, you two."

She turns to leave.

"Wait!" I call after her, stopping her.

Serena looks back at me, and I glance over at Varric, who nods—seemingly on the same page as well.

"We could use a fighter like you," I assert, my heart hammering uncomfortably fast hard against my ribcage, as if I'm confronting death itself.

Confused curiosity flickers in Serena's squinted gaze. But as quickly as it appears, it vanishes. Her lips form a straight line, the sternness seeping out to the rest of her expression, taking over. Clearly demanding further clarification. And fast.

"We're organizing an expedition into the Deep Roads," Varric jumps at the chance. "We're going to need as much man—or in this case womanpower—as we can get. If you join up, I'm positive it will be worth your while! Bianca can guarantee it!" He pats his trusty crossbow with a playful wink.

Serena smiles at him. Again. The tenseness of her earlier aura melting away with astonishing smoothness once more.

"A tempting offer," she says, sounding charmed. Or maybe amused? "Unfortunately, however, the Dalish aren't too fond of being stuck underground, or of material possessions for that matter. Merely carrying around my pack and scythe all day can be exhausting enough."

She lifts her scythe up slightly, as if for example.

The air's sucked right out of me. Leaving me feeling deflated. Defeated. All hope lost in a manner of seconds.

"But . . . I'll tell you what." An almost rueful smile crosses her lips after a moment, stilling my descent. "If you ever need my help, you can call on me, and I'll hear you out. I won't promise anything, but the least I can do is that. Give me a few days time to think about this other offer of yours, and I may reconsider."

My spirit soars, breaking through the overhanging cloud barrier with incomprehensible speed and ease. If I didn't know any better, I'd think my boots had grown wings!

"Where could we find you?" I ask, feeling absolutely giddy, like a child before Wintersend.

"The Alienage. I'm typically lounging around the vhenadahl during the day. Or the 'Big Tree' as you humans like to call it. But for the next few nights, I'll be out of town. I have other business to attend to, and I'm already running late as it is. So, with that, I must be going." She bows her head one last time, then hurries to walk away. "Dareth shiral!" She waves over her shoulder at us. "Until we meet again!"

And just like that, the Dalish departs, leaving us stuck standing there in awe in the middle of the Lowtown street.


Bethany's leaning against the wall outside of Gamlen's place by the time I finally make it home safely. Her expression's set into that fixed frown she does whenever she's contemplating something deeply—her thin arms crossed firm in front of her chest, for equal measure.

It's as though she's trying to create an unbreakable, angsty barrier between the world and herself. One that's almost as intimidating as the foul aura she's currently radiating. Which would probably work well enough on its own. No fierce glare or broody posturing included.

Only when she hears my approach does she perk up. The frown dissipates, and her arms unfold. "There you are!" she lets out a deep breath. "What took you so long? I was starting to worry."

Ah, worry. So, that's what it was.

"It was nothing. Varric and I merely ran into an interesting woman, that's all," I answer.

The two of us step inside Gamlen's hovel of a home, if we can even call it that. Its familiar stench of old booze and candle smoke filling my nostrils. "A woman? What was she like?" Bethany asks.

I sit down at the wobbly 'kitchen' table, over by the door, while Bethany snatches the scratched-up chair, positioned across from mine. Its decorative puncture holes and scars contributed by none other than Titan, my forever delightful yet destructive mabari, who's huddled up with a bone in his usual corner. Where he got it, I'd rather not wonder.

"She was an elf. A Dalish elf. And she was strong, too. Stronger than a lot of other warriors I've seen. We offered her the chance to join us for the expedition."

Bethany quirks a surprised eyebrow at me. A mixture of trepidation, intrigue, and disbelief swirls within her dark, conflicted gaze. "And? What did she say?" she asks.

"She said she'd think about it."

"Do you think she'll say yes?"

I shrug. "She didn't seem too interested. But she may change her mind."

At least, I hope she'll change her mind.

We could really use a good fighter like her. In a worst case scenario, I know I could trust her to look after Bethany and Varric in a bind, which would be one less thing for me to lose sleep about. Especially when considering all the other close calls I've had recently. Tonight's excursions the least of all.

But besides that, I also want to see her fight one more time.

Her skirmish from earlier repeats in my head, each move of hers just as flawless and effortless as it was in person. I've never seen a woman, let alone a warrior or rogue, move so fast. Much less so smoothly, in an outnumbered battle, fought in such close quarters.

It was both admirable and petrifying. She would be a great partner to have on our side, both before and after the expedition, whatever her case may be. And our group's dynamic would be all the better for it.

Bethany clears her throat, and I look up at her.

There's a frustrated scowl on her face now. Worse than the one before.

Oh. Did I not hear something she said again? Or . . . ?

"What about the side jobs we have planned? Are we still on track?" she asks. Whether it's the first or second time, I can only guess.

I rub the back of my neck, hoping for the prior. "Yes, but we're still twenty sovereigns short. Varric's working on organizing some more jobs . . . It'll probably be another month or two, at the earliest."

Assuming we snuff out this Grey Warden in town first, to begin with. But I can't tell her that.

Bethany lets out a loud, drawn-out groan and buries her face in her hands. "I just wish this was all over and done with already!" She shakes her head, her dark waves swaying with her, splaying out across her face. "I'm tired of running all over town like this! My nerves won't stand much more of it!"

My chest squeezes, hearing the desperate tone of her voice.

I hate seeing her and Mother like this. It's been the same, ever since we first arrived in Kirkwall.

It makes me feel like I've failed them. All of them.

Her. Mother. Father. Carver. That last one cutting the worst of all, for nothing can convince me it's not the truth.

I lean forward and grab Bethany's hand to comfort her, just as I've always done our whole lives. The only thing I seem to know how to do in situations like these. "Tomorrow we're scheduled to head to Sundermount, to take care of some of the Flint Company mercenaries in the Sebastian Vael case. That'll at least get us out-of-town for a few days," I offer.

And away from the templars. And Gamlen. And Mother.

The three have slowly been driving the lot of us insane, in this small shack of a place, where the thin walls might as well be melted butter.

Bethany smiles. "Good. I'm relieved to hear that," she says. "But will we be fine to go there on our own? Just the three of us?"

I throw my hands up in the air and lean back again, happy to see her mood lift. "I don't see why not."

Bethany lowers her head, her tense posture yelling at me she's unconvinced. "I hope you're right, brother," she whispers. "For both our sakes."