SERENA
It's been three long, peaceful days since my last encounter with Hawke and the others. I never thought my life here would be so boring without them. Muscles I wasn't even aware existed twitch from restless exasperation—eager to stretch, to sprint, to let loose my inner warrior's innate, carnal desires.
As if to match my agitated mood, dark rain-clouds swirl overhead, creating inconsistent, ominous patterns in the sky. It almost makes me wonder if it's possible for someone's mindset to affect the local weather forecast. An unreasonable thought, mind you. I know. But I've certainly heard and seen worse.
While I consider the ridiculous notion, and wonder if a bit of rain might be my only thrill for the day, I spy an armored figure descend the steps into the alienage. Excitement rushes through me, down to my bones. I quickly sit up, my eyes glued on the approaching figure.
It's Hawke.
He strides over to me, his chin held high, and a wide grin on his handsome, rugged face.
Creators, if I didn't still have control over myself, I could run up and kiss him now.
But I don't. Yet.
"Serena," he calls up to me. "Could you come down for a second? I'd like to speak with you."
I swiftly slide off my regular spot on the vhenadahl and land in front of Hawke, my scythe clutched firm in hand. "What is it, Hawke? It's rare for you to come seek me out during the day like this." I attempt to mask my enthusiasm, but I'm pretty certain it's to no avail.
"I have a favor to ask of you," he starts, still grinning. "Tonight, the others and I are heading to Darktown to meet with a contact, someone who can help lead us into the Deep Roads for the expedition. I'd like it if you would accompany us."
"Of course, but what for?"
"For backup. It depends on how our conversation pans out. One can never be too careful when dealing with a fabled Grey Warden. And one hiding out in Darktown, no less."
My heart sinks. Every limb in my body suddenly feels heavier than if it was covered in chainmail. "A Grey Warden?" My nerves now tingle with heart-thrumming dread.
"Yes, and an apostate too, on top of that. He's been hiding out in Darktown for a little while now, and he doesn't sound very trusting at all from what I hear."
Hawke seems ecstatic about the idea. But I just can't seem to escape the internal panic, repeating in my head.
"Do you have a name?"
Hawke scratches his head. "Blasted, what was it? I can't rightfully remember. I believe it started with a B. Or was it a D? Does it matter?"
I bite my lip and pinch the bridge of my nose. "No, but . . . " I stop and sigh. "Is there truly no other way? You have to ask this Grey Warden? You are certain?"
Hawke raises a suspicious eyebrow at me. "Is that a problem?"
"No. No, it's not." I stroke my fingers through my tangled locks. "I'll meet you at the south entrance of Darktown, at dusk."
"Is everything alright?" He tilts his head at me. "You seem . . . troubled."
"It's nothing," I insist. "Do not worry about it." I head for the stairs leading up to Lowtown.
"Where are you going?" he calls after me, over my shoulder.
"To buy a drink," I shout back, then disappear around the corner, in search of the safe confines of the Hanged Man until I may very well come face to face with my inevitable fate.
His eyes are on me.
I can feel his curious stare penetrating into my back like a well sharpened blade.
Persistent. Unyielding.
It takes every ounce of my willpower to not spin around and confront the watchful elf. But the further our usual grouping descends into the squalid depths of Darktown, the harder and more aggravating it becomes.
If this takes much longer, I'm not going to be able to hold back.
How could I?
Even without Fenris's annoying contribution, every nerve in my body continually throbs under a mounting, phantom pressure—begging me to stop, to turn around, to run. Insisting that this isn't the right mission for me. That it's not too late to tuck tail and leave.
And gods how I want to listen.
Grasping onto my scythe is the only way I'm able to suppress the urges, all for the sake of my accursed word. However, whether it'll hold out for the entirety of our mission depends on this Grey Warden, if they even recognize me.
But why do I even bother being optimistic? With my luck, it's not a matter of if, it's a matter of who.
It's always a matter of who.
"What troubles you?" Fenris asks in a hushed whisper, evening his pace, so he can walk alongside me. His voice sounds oddly concerned and non-accusatory for once. "You seem more . . . anxious than usual."
"It's nothing." I keep my eyes glued on the others, who all walk in front of us.
Hawke leads us up another set of rotting steps to a single, wooden door. The scent of urine and garbage in this particular area reeks worse than, well . . . the Denerim alienage, and I thought that would forever be ranked the lowest of the low. Minus the occasional darkspawn camp. Or gory battlefield. Or perhaps Oghren's questionable brew.
No. On second thought, nothing can beat that last one. Except . . . maybe the joining chalice? Hm. It's hard to decide . . .
"This is it." Hawke pushes the door open and steps inside.
We all follow him into the room beyond, and I immediately scan the new area in a rush, my attention on high alert.
A small boy lies in a cot at the center of the dusty make-shift 'clinic'. Three older humans surround him. Two of which appear to be ordinary, low-class shems—one a gray-haired female and the other a well-built man. Parents, maybe. The third one, though, looks different. He's a blond human in an ornate, brown robe with a gray, fur cloak draped across his shoulders. A blue healing light emits from his extended palms, surrounding the child in what could be compared to a magical, wool blanket.
After a long moment's pause, the blue light vanishes. The boy sits up, the color slowly coming back to his complexion. The woman sighs and wraps her arms around the small child. Meanwhile, the older man checks on the mage, who's turned his back to us now and hunched over with exhaustion.
But I know that figure. That form. That over-the-top, trendy style, despite the daily hazards he constantly works with.
The mage suddenly grabs his staff, twirls around, and raises a hand aimed at the four of us.
"I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation. Why do you—" He stops and focuses on me. All the anger on his expression dissipates, relaxing into that of ease and recognition. "You. It's . . . you," he whispers, and my heart skips a beat.
I shake my head at Anders before Hawke or the others can look back and notice.
The corner of one of Hawke's eyebrows quirk up as he looks at me. "You two know each other?" he asks, glancing between the two of us.
"We've run into each other in the past. Nothing more," I insist, hoping he'll leave it at that.
Anders stands up straight and looks down at the ground. "Erm . . . Yes. That's right," he says, although very unconvincingly.
Creators, Anders. You're a mage, living outside the circle. At least learn how to lie! How have you made it this far without being able to lie?
Avoiding eye contact with everyone, I motion to Anders with my head bowed low. "Everyone, allow me to introduce you to Anders—one of the select few Grey Wardens who served at Amaranthine. Anders, these are my companions, Hawke, Bethany, Varric, and Fenris."
"A pleasure." Anders nods, then shifts his attention back onto me. "But you . . . what are you doing here? I thought . . . I mean, you . . . I never . . . " He pauses and takes a long, deep breath. A joyful smile graces his lips. "It's good to see you again. You look well."
"I am. You also seem to be faring rather well . . . considering."
He glimpses around the haphazard clinic. "Ah. Yes. Well, it could be worse. The smell is the worst out of everything. And they say Ferelden smells bad! Nothing compared to the barracks, though. What's brought you all the way here to Darktown? You hate being underground."
"I wouldn't have, if I had much of a choice. But you should be asking him that." I point at Hawke. "He's the one who's come searching for you."
Hawke steps forward and bows his head. "I'm part of an expedition into the Deep Roads. Any information you have could help save peoples lives."
Anders visibly tenses. He paces a few steps and puts one hand to his forehead. "I would die a happy man if I never think about the blighted Deep Roads again," he says, his tone turning grave, pained, anguished.
And oh how I understand. Perhaps even more than he knows.
"You can't imagine what I've come through to get here," he continues, straightening his form. "Although . . . since you're an acquaintance of an old friend: a favor for a favor. Does that sound like a fair deal? You help me, I'll help you?"
Hawke puts his hand up to stop Anders. "Let's be more specific," he says. "I don't do anything involving children or animals."
I fail to stifle an abrupt laugh.
It's good to know that I can still count on Hawke to lighten the mood a bit, even when I least expect it. Otherwise, this chance meeting might've turned out to be nothing but stressful. And that's no fun for anyone.
Anders disregards the comment and my laugh with nary a smirk, choosing to instead take a more serious route for a change, hinting at a new sense of maturity or boringness he must've developed sometime during my absence. Unfortunately.
"I have a Warden map of the depths in this area," Anders says, folding his arms behind his back. "But there's a price. I came to Kirkwall to aid a friend—a mage. A prisoner in the wretched gallows. The templars learned of my plan to free him. Help me bring him safely past them, and you shall have your maps."
Maps? As in plural?
Just how many did you take? And from where?
. . . Ugh. On second thought, I don't want to know. I'm not going to be the one to explain it to anyone. Ever. It's none of my business.
"How do you plan to break him out of the gallows?" Hawke asks, while my mind still reels, battling between my former ex-Warden-Commander persona and my newfound notion of not giving a damn. Or at least, trying to.
"I'm hoping it won't come to that," Anders answers. "I sent Karl a message to meet me in the chantry tonight. Maker willing, he'll be there alone. But if there are templars with him, I swear I'll free him from them, whatever the cost."
"Let's hope there is no cost," I cut in, finally shaking free from this pointless sense of duty of mine. "It wouldn't be wise to act too rashly on this, especially when we have our own mages to protect." I glance over at both Anders and Bethany, and she looks down at the ground.
"Right," Hawke agrees, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"So, then, you'll help?" Anders voice rises an octave.
Hawke shrugs. "You've convinced me."
I scratch the back of my head. "Thus, I will be helping out as well," I sigh.
Fantastic.
The future part of today is looking even more stressful and full of questioning already. Just what I was hoping for.
"I welcome your aid." Anders beams at me like a young school boy, full of hope. "And it's been a pleasure to meet all of you. We'll meet at the chantry then tonight. But until then . . . " He directs his stare at me. "Serena, may I have a word?"
I gulp.
All eyes fall on me.
The atmospheric tension of the room rivals that of a known blood mage attending a slain templar's funeral.
"I . . . suppose." I glimpse over at Hawke.
He's watching me closely. Too closely.
Sod it all.
"I'll meet up with all of you at the chantry later tonight," I insist, hoping they'll listen and abide by my wishes.
Hawke hesitates but nods. "Tonight then," he relents. He waves for the others to follow him out of the room. Anders guides them out the front door then shuts it firmly behind them. He waits there for a long moment. Listening. Or maybe thinking. We then sit down on a pair of nearby cots, positioned only a few feet across from each other.
Anders leans forward in his seat and gawks at me, his muddy pupils wide, full of both surprise and glee. "I still can't believe that you're here," he gushes, awe-struck. "When you left, I thought I'd never see you again. Did you find him?"
A painful ache twinges in the left side of my chest—the topic still an open wound. One I've yet to erase from memory, and one I doubt I ever will again.
"No. He was gone."
The words form a thick lump in the back of my throat, bringing back the despair and grief I've been trying to bury for the past several months.
"You're certain?" Anders voice turns dourer.
"I wouldn't have left if I wasn't, Anders!" I snap. "A reliable source witnessed the scene! There was nothing more I could do!"
Anders gapes at me like a gut child, his earlier mirth gone, missing without a trace.
But it's not like he didn't ask for a lashing either. He's the one dancing around fire, not me.
"I-I'm so sorry, Serena. I can't even imagine—"
"No, you can't." I stand up and give him an icy glare.
I won't let him speak more of it.
I can't.
Not here. Not now. Not when there may still be prying ears. And not when I'm this close to falling apart. Again. Not again, after trying so hard to keep pushing forward.
"However, that is all in the past," I continue, attempting to redirect the conversation, to regain my prior composure. "I am no longer the woman I once was. I have a new life here, and I have no plans of ever going back. So, for my sake, please forget everything from back then. It's the only way I'll ever move forward. Please, Anders. It's the only request I'll ask of you."
Anders winces at the last part. And for a moment, I regret saying it.
After all, I know it's not playing fair. It's a really dirty move on my part. He knows how rarely I ever ask anyone for anything. I mean, Andraste's tits, it's a miracle I even opened up to him about all this to begin with, back in Amaranthine. But knowing him, if I don't stand up and put my foot down with him now, he'll give me no other choice.
So, I have to do this. And I don't care what means I have to utilize to achieve his silence. It's the only way I can preserve myself and keep up my current façade. To keep on breathing.
Anders wrings his hands and exhales, loud and slow. "Alright. I understand," he concedes with effort. "I may not agree with you, but I understand."
"And our secrets are to remain between us?"
He gives me a look, like I must be insane to even suggest otherwise. "Of course."
Those two words act like a key that releases me from a nightmarish prison. My tingling nerves calm in an instant, for the first time in what feels like ages. "Good," I whisper and give him a kind, grateful smile. "Until tonight then, lethallin."
"Until tonight," he says back.
And with that, I exit Anders's clinic.
A glimpse of white hair immediately enters the corner of my vision on the opposite side of the door.
Dread weighs heavy on my high spirits, and I heave in an exasperated sigh.
"Tell me: is it a flat-ear custom to eavesdrop on other people's conversations, or do you just have very poor manners?" I ask, facing Fenris.
He's leaning against the clinic's outer wall, right next to the now shut exit.
The scrawny elf stands straight up, his sharp gaze softening when seeming to note my evident distress. "My apologies. You were acting strangely," he says. "You did not seem to want to speak with the mage, so I stuck around, just in case."
"Was that all it is?" I place a hand on my hip. "Curiosity had nothing to do with it?"
The elf shifts his eyes to the ground, his mouth hanging partly open, as if struggling to find words.
Guilt forms in the pit of my stomach, watching him strain so hard for an answer.
Maybe I'm being too hard on him.
Maybe I'm being too pessimistic.
But working with maybes is exactly what's gotten me into this situation in the first place.
"Just . . . don't do it again." I look off to the side and ruffle my hair. "I've had enough of Aveline's guards watching me all day. I don't need another pair of eyes spying on me as well."
I pause. Debating again. Wondering. Worrying.
"Also," I turn toward him, "whatever you heard in there, forget about it. I'll bring up my past in due time, on my own terms. But for now, it's best forgotten."
Fenris hesitates. His emerald eyes dig deeper into my own, searching for some unknown answer to an unspoken question. But by the dissatisfied scowl he gives me, he finds nothing. "As you wish," he utters, bowing his head. Not giving me so much as a clue as to how much he heard. Or what.
"Good." I smirk, still pleased by the agreement, reluctant or not. "Now, let's go. The smell here is disgusting, and I doubt I'm the only one who thinks so."
I wink over my shoulder at him.
He stiffens so much he could be a short, elven paragon statue. An irony I find great humor in. Especially here, in a human undercity of all places.
With a joyful laugh, I venture down the clinic's steps, further into the depths of Darktown, leaving the past and the stunned elf far behind me.
At least momentarily.
