SERENA
It's midday when I spy Hawke, Bethany, and Varric descend the steps into the Kirkwall alienage. Flat-ears watch them from all corners of the square, while I merely glance at them once from my perch, then continue polishing my blade.
My back rests comfortably against the trunk of the vhenadahl, my usual lounging spot for the past several months, ever since my first arrival in this unforgiving city of both physical and metaphorical chains. And it's a comfy one at that. Better than any cramped ship. And I'll be damned if I force myself to move now without reason.
The others come to a halt a few feet away from me, in front of one the small makeshift shrines that surround the painted tree's base. Perhaps one of the only things that flat ears have gotten right about our Dalish culture.
Hawke smiles and puts his hands on his hips. "Serena," he calls up, staring right at me. "Mind coming down here for a minute? I'd like to speak with you."
"Hawke, we both know that whenever you wish to speak to me, it's never just for a minute." I raise my eyebrows at him.
He shifts in his spot and crosses his arms. But despite my accusatory quip, his smile doesn't leave his expression. The stubborn oaf. "Alright, alright. All I can promise is that it won't take more than ten minutes," he says. "I just need to chat with you, and then you can choose to go on your merry way, if you so choose. I promise."
". . . I will hold you to that promise, lethallin." I sigh and hop out of the tree, landing in front of him.
Why is it I can never say no to him? Or the others for that matter, either?
A sudden burst of glee sparkles in his riveting, dark brown eyes, making me wonder what could've possibly put him into such a good mood. He's always cheerful, certainly. More so than any person I've ever met. Even on rainy days. Or during storms. Storms for gods sake! But today, it's to the point where it makes me nervous. Like he's baiting me into a trap, and I might've just taken the first unknowing step towards it.
"So, we have accepted a job." He beams. "Huzzah and what not. But before we pursue it, I want to investigate a bit further, and you might have the answers I'm looking for."
"Go on," I permit, but I give him another cold stare in warning. After all, I might be intrigued by his mission, but I'm not one to snatch dangling lures like some inexperienced mabari pup. Not without a great deal of caution first. Especially if it's another attempt to figure out more about my past, which wouldn't be his only attempt this week.
Hawke's smile falters, and he scratches his head. "Uh . . . yes. You see, there are supposedly some smugglers in the alienage," he says.
My eyes widen in feigned shock. "Smugglers? In Lowtown? No! What a surprise." I can't help but smirk at the end.
Hawke groans. "Yes, yes. Poke fun. But listen. Please."
I frown and bite my tongue, gesturing for him to continue. Although, I'd love to continue the act further.
"Their hideout is supposedly in that hovel over there." He juts his chin in the direction of a small rundown building in the corner of the square. Rotting wooden crates sit piled in front of the hovel. There, they serve as a hub for countless cobwebs and spiders—the filthy pests. "Since you are almost always out here, I was wondering if you've seen anyone enter or exit that building within the past few days?"
I stare at the shabby structure. My thoughts race, trying to pick apart pieces of time that would otherwise be long forgotten. But outside of the typical wandering passerby, there's nothing. Not even a single courier, dropping off a letter, or a nosy neighbor peeking through a dusty window. "No, no one comes to mind. What exactly are you retrieving from these smugglers?"
"According to our contact: lyrium. For the templars."
"Of course." I huff. "I should've known. If it's not mages or darkspawn, it's the chantry. No wonder I've yet to get bored in this life."
Varric chuckles, and the two of us exchange our usual smiles. One that even Bethany joins in this time.
When the humor fades, I let out a deep breath and cross my arms, allowing myself to return to the task at hand. "Who is this contact?" I ask.
That seems like the most logical place to start.
"The man's name is Anso," Varric says. "He's a brand new surface dwarf that works in the Lowtown bazaar. Keeps saying he thinks he's going to fall up into the sky. Sound familiar, Twinkle Toes?"
The man's name swirls around inside my head, along with a quick burst of images from the bazaar. A few dwarves enter the picture, then vanish once the memories pass. "Perhaps," I utter, dismissing any further attempts to remember. "Did this Anso give you any more information? Or are we only working with what we have?"
Hawke shrugs. "Other than saying if we have to kill the sods, then it can't be avoided? No. He strongly believes that they'll be reasonable though." He laughs.
"Ah, optimism. You are a cruel, cruel mistress," I whisper.
Not that I'm qualified to criticize. I can still remember when I fell prey to such hopes and ideals myself, back in my time in Ferelden. Reality and hard times have a way of changing things, though. And fast.
"Any plans for when you intend to strike?"
"Tonight," Hawke answers.
I sigh. "And here I was hoping I might get a peaceful night's rest." I rub the back of my neck.
Everyone grins.
"Very well. Since it is in my area, and it also piques my interest, I will aid you in this quest, Hawke. However," I pause and point at our leader, "if any of them so much as touches the vhenadahl, I get to kill them. No questions asked. I will not have them desecrate the one place of true value to the Dales in this city. Understood?"
He nods. "Understood. We meet here at nightfall then."
"Nightfall it is," I agree. "May Andruil guide our path. It seems we're going to need it."
The men that attack us inside the hovel fall in rapid succession to our blades that night.
And then . . . nothing.
Not a copper, treasure, anything. Our so-called lead: a dead-end. All of that effort, all of that time, wasted. It makes my vision go redder than the building's already blood-splattered floor. The heat inside me rising just as much, threatening to erupt straight through the ceiling.
Curse, berserker blood.
And curse Oghren for ever teaching me.
I should've just stuck to my other specializations. But no. Anything to stop the blight. Had to think about the blight.
Stupid, nosy, goody-toe-shoes.
"I guess we have no choice but to go back to Anso and tell him." Hawke moves toward the door.
He struts past the warm corpses of the fallen. All the while, I struggle not to snap my scythe's snath in two. The inner berserker fire still raging. Unrelenting.
Varric taps my shoulder and inclines his head to the exit. "Come on, Twinkle Toes. Let's get out of here," he says.
I nod and follow in Hawke's footsteps, taking a deep breath to try to quell the internal inferno. Hawke gives me a quick once over at the entrance, as if wanting to ask a question, but he doesn't. A wise move.
He leads us outside. A pack of armored warriors surround the hovel. Shields up and weapons drawn, tucked together like a silver fortress. Only an armored woman with short, brown hair and three men in long, silk robes expose their faces to our stares, setting them apart from the rest of the helmeted crowd.
"That's not the elf," the woman raises her voice. "Who is that?"
"It doesn't matter," one of the armored men answers beside her. "We were told to kill whoever enters the house."
The woman pauses to glare at us. Her dark brown eyes seemingly attempt to pierce through us like a Dalish arrow.
But it doesn't work.
She's no Dalish. But I am.
The corners of my lips curl upward into an uncontrollable, hearty sneer, a new adrenaline rush pulsing to the surface. "Really? You? Kill us?" I laugh. A tickling tingling sensation spreads out across my limbs, only adding to my inner berserker's delight. "We shall see about that."
Without another word, I dash forward and slash at the midsections of the first line of armored men. My scythe rips into their armor. Their combined screams, mixing with the shrieking of tearing metal, rings in my ears, sending more euphoric tremors rippling down my spine. Their blood flies everywhere, drenching their nearby comrades, weapons, and the surrounding alienage tiles.
Hawke and company hardly have the chance to move before this first row of bodies collapse, and I sweep forward to lash out at the next. Rejoicement warms me down to the bones. Each new, planned move: a gift I relish in. Far too precious to deny.
I love the way it feels to flex my muscles like this, with no need for restraint or concern. Just like the countless battles I faced during my time as a warden. It's been too long, and after earlier, I needed it.
But then, I see it.
The good feelings vanish. Scattered like ash to the wind.
In the far back of the crowd stands a mage, casting loudly in Tevene.
My chest constricts. It becomes harder and harder to breathe. To move. Everything around me stills.
The tension in my body wraps around me like a cocoon, transfixing me in place.
Fast images of my past with the eluvian and Tamlen flicker through my head.
Then, there's a memory from a much earlier time, from the days of our distant childhood. One full of fire, screaming, and a terrified Ashalle, cradling me close to her chest in the shadows. Three enemies emerge from beyond a nearby smoking aravel. Staffs firm in hand. Malicious smiles, beaming down at us with self-righteous pride. And—
My scythe groans under my tightening grip.
No.
I dismiss the rest of the nightmarish memory and stomp toward the robed mage. Two men attempt to strike me down along the way, but I don't spare them even a second glance, before slashing through them like a whirlwind.
Nothing can stop me now. Not even Fen'harel himself.
The mage's dark eyes widen. His hands desperately wave about as he struggles to cast a futile, blue shield around himself. A last ditch effort in a pointless last stand.
I stop a few feet away from him and glare at the bald man. "Ma halem," I hiss, and then I slice through his barrier, lopping his head off in one clean strike.
His spell vanishes, and with it, his body collapses. Much like a puppet, who's strings have just been cut.
I watch as his blood spews from his still twitching corpse. All the proof I need to know he's really dead. And yet, it still feels so unfulfilling. So frustrating.
So . . . enraging.
I gulp down the seething hatred and turn around to check on the others, forcing the feelings again beneath the surface.
Hawke's just struck down the last of our enemies with his sword, leaving the alienage's square littered with mangled bodies. Pieces of their torn out guts and broken armor lie strewn everywhere across the square's floor, like macabre decorations.
An upgrade, honestly, compared to all the usual muck and grime. But still quite disturbing.
I approach my panting battlemates with paced footsteps, trying to suppress my need for more. More blood. More battle. More anger.
The three of them quietly glimpse over at me, then focus on the nearby corpses. Their avoidant stares obvious, and no doubt a side-effect from my earlier surprise outburst. Not that I could've helped it. They started it.
"It must've been a trap," Hawke breaks the uncomfortable silence.
"No, what made you think that?" I tease, hoping to lighten the mood. "Come. Let's go alert this Anso of yours. I'm sure he would like to know."
We all head toward the alienage's main steps, eager to get out of here. To leave both this battle and its memories behind. We're about to ascend when a dark-haired shem rounds the corner at the first landing. He's adorned in fancy steel armor, similar to the men's we just slaughtered.
The human's brow scrunches together to the extent that a profound set of wrinkles forms on his broad forehead. "I don't know who you are friend, but you made a serious mistake coming here," he growls, glaring at us. Just like they always do.
He then stands up straight and bites his bottom lip.
"Lieutenant, I want everyone in the clearing. Now!" he shouts, his voice echoing off the alienage walls.
Another armored shem hobbles around the landing's corner, blood pouring from a fist-sized hole in his chest. "Captain," he gurgles, blood gushing out of him, across the landing's floor.
The first human looks back, just in time to see his assumed lieutenant collapse beside him. A tall, lanky elf with snow-white hair and even starker facial features rounds the corner after him. He's dressed in all black, leather chausses, steel gauntlets, and a pointy iron chestplate, with a large great sword sheathed behind his back. Dark, tan skin covers him from head to toe, standing in fierce contrast to his bright green eyes.
But these features aren't what captures my attention.
Not for long, anyways. Handsome as he may be.
What captivates me most about the elven stranger are the white, winding markings that trail down his chin, neck, and limbs. The unique designs almost resemble tattoos, or perhaps Vallaslin. But they're . . . not.
I don't know how, or why, but they're different. More sinister. Powerful. Dangerous.
Of that much, I'm certain. I can sense it.
"Your men are dead. And your trap has failed," the foreign elf snarls in a husky, menacing baritone. One that I can't help but find somewhat alluring. Without a look of acknowledgment, he storms past both the fallen lieutenant and his captain. His frigid aura almost palpable, soul freezing. "I suggest running back to your master while you can."
The elf stops, his gaze focused straight ahead, on the four of us.
The shem frowns and grabs his shoulder. "You're going nowhere, slave," he snaps.
The elf's white markings flare a brilliant, unexpected blue, almost like magic. He then whips around, lifts the captain up with one arm, and phases his fist straight through the captain's ribs. The man gasps and keels over, blood pouring from his gaping mouth—the familiar electrifying tingle of pulsing lyrium thrumming through the air.
"I am not a slave," the elf sneers and veers back toward the four of us.
His glowing markings slowly fade, until they're only white again. The tingles also fading.
Once he's returned to a somewhat more usual 'normal', and the atmosphere settles, his gaze softens. "I . . . apologize," he says, his tone far less harsh, refined now. Diplomatic even. He moves away a few steps. "When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters I had no idea they'd be so . . . numerous."
"I take it these men were looking for you?" Hawke asks, perhaps the only of us still not stunned into silence. But that's hardly a surprise. It'd be more stunning for him not to get a word in.
"Correct." The elf turns around to study our group. Whether he's impressed or not, he doesn't show it. "My name is Fenris. These men were Imperium bounty hunters, seeking to recover a magister's lost property—namely myself . . . They were trying to lure me into the open. And crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone. Thankfully," he motions to us, "Anso chose wisely."
"So, everything Anso said was a lie then?" The frustration in Hawke's voice is hard to miss.
"Not everything," Fenris says. "Your employer was simply not who you believed."
Hawke awkwardly shifts his weight between feet and crosses his arms. "That seems like a lot of effort to find one slave," he mutters.
Fenris' eyes grow dark, almost more vicious than when he plunged his hand into the captain's chest. "It is."
"Does this have something to do with those markings?" Hawke eyes the stranger's white lines.
Creators, Hawke. Do you really have to ask?
The elf nods. "Yes." He lifts his arms and looks them over. "I imagine I must look strange to you. I did not receive these markings by choice. Even so, they have served me well. Without them, I would still be a slave."
A slave.
Such a bitter word to cross the tongue. Even when I've yet to experience it myself. But oh how easy it is to still feel sickened by it. Especially when tied to a blasted magister.
"If you couldn't fight them, why not just run?" Bethany poses.
Her voice sounds somewhat accusatory at first; but to a more trained ear, used to the slighter intonations of her voice, I can tell it's only harmless curiosity.
The concept must hit far too close to home for her, as it must for any apostate with a family, constantly on the run. Something my clan and I can understand. More so than other Dalish.
Fenris pauses and stares down at the ground, seeming to contemplate his own response. The way his brow creases together makes me wonder if perhaps he has the same question himself. "There comes a time when you must stop running, when you turn and face the tiger." He straightens up again, returning to his earlier lighter stance; back to the moment at hand. "Perhaps the deception was unnecessary," he says. "If so, I am sorry. I've become too accustomed to hiding."
He stops, and an intrigued but hesitant glimmer sparkles in his vibrant emerald eyes. The pure innocence of it makes him appear no more intimidating than a puppy—a very tall, dangerous, and spiky puppy.
"If I may ask, what was in the chest?" He tilts his head at Hawke. "The one they kept in the house."
"It was empty," I answer.
His eyebrows droop. "I suppose it was too much to hope for. Even so . . . I had to know."
"You were expecting something else?"
"I was, but I shouldn't have. It was bait. Nothing more."
Fenris abruptly kneels and starts searching the fallen captain's garments.
He rifles through pocket after pocket—turning them all inside out, almost ripping some at the seams—until he pulls out a single piece of folded parchment from beneath the center of the man's chestplate. He stands up with it and looks it over. A fearsome scowl spreads across his expression; the intensity far worse than ever before. "It's as I thought," he snarls. "My former master accompanied them to the city." With a glare full of incomprehensible malice, he crumples up the note and turns to face the four of us again. "I know you have questions, but I must confront him in Hightown before he flees. I will need your help."
Hawke scratches his beard, a nervous habit of his, and an obvious one at that to any attentive passerby. "It sounds like you intend to do more than just talk," he emphasizes the last word.
Fenris clenches his jaw and glares down at the ground, his gaze far off, somewhere we cannot reach. "Danarius wants to strip the flesh from my bones," he says. "To send so many hunters that I've lost count. And before that, he kept me on a leash like a Qunari mage—a personal pet to mock Qunari custom." He raises his hand in an agitated sweeping motion as he speaks, his anger continuously rising, spiking. "So, yes. I intend to do more than just talk."
"That's . . . all very well and good." Hawke raises a hand. "But let me make sure that I have this straight. You lured me into a trap, and now you want my help?"
The elf shrugs. "If Anso had told you to divert an ambush of Tevinter bounty hunters, would you have done it?"
"Yes," I respond without a second thought.
Everyone shifts their gaze onto me. Thankfully, though, they do not question it and quickly look away.
"I see your point," Hawke says. "But you could've asked."
Fenris casts his eyes downward. "Had I known of you earlier, I might've asked you personally. But I only had Anso to rely on, I fear . . . I'm not lying to you now. Please, help me do this."
"I say we accept." I step forward, beside Hawke. "I will help out regardless. However, you should consider your options wisely. This job will be in Hightown, after all."
Hawke purses his lips, no doubt considering such a factor.
Out of all of us, he's the one with the most to lose when getting closer to the higher ups. Remaining on their good sides is the only way his family stands a chance at getting their estate back. And being more cautious ensures Bethany's safe.
After a long, agonizing pause, Hawke sighs. "Looks like it's going to be a long night. Even longer than we originally thought." He smiles at me.
And for the first time in a while, I wonder if maybe, maybe having a long night wouldn't be so bad for once.
If anything else, at least it'll be interesting. I hope.
Ma halem: You are finished
