SERENA

Shrieks echo in the darkness, along with the loud clashing and ripping of metal.

The sound of battle beckons me to move forward, to fight, to do something. Anything! But my legs won't move. They're stuck. Locked in place.

Two eyes as white and pale as the moon stare back at me, reflecting the pain, anguish, and confusion in my own. The darkness in those pupils equivalent to an unending haunted abyss.

I know these eyes. I do. But they are different. They are changed . . . tainted . . . sick.

"You . . . lethallan," the owner of the eyes speaks out to me.

That voice. It's gravelly, and much rougher than normal, but I know that voice as well. I try to look at him, desperate to see him, if only for a moment. But I can't. I can't see. My vision . . . it won't focus! It's so blurry. And I still can't move. Some unseen force is holding me in place.

My vision slowly steadies, enough for me to make out portions of the person standing in front of me. A man's chest, protected by our clan's customary leather armor. Black splotches cover his face. The stench of rotting, tainted flesh reeks off him, burning the hair inside my nostrils.

Grief tears through my heart and soul.

It's like their being ripped out, torn to tiny bits and pieces by a giant ogre. My guts twist and churn inside me. I feel like I'm going to be sick.

"No help . . . No . . . help for me." the man says, and my eyes finally meet his. "The song . . . in my head . . . it calls to me. He sings to me!"

A burst of bone-splitting pain explodes behind my eyelids. Worst than if ice picks were shoved in.

An image of a giant dragon with large fangs flashes through my head. Any scream I make is muffled by an all-consuming silence. The dragon looks around, as if searching for me, hunting me. And then, it vanishes.

I'm back at the previous location with the man.

"Always . . . loved you," he whispers, his voice still so full of pain, tinged now with regret.

I try to look up at him again, still feeling shaky, unnerved.

Another jolt of pain erupts inside my head.

The image of the dragon returns. But the scene is altered this time. It's breathing fire over a horde of marching darkspawn in a cavern below, its claws digging deep into an underground stone bridge.

"He demands your death!" the man's voice shouts, the words echoing in my ears.

A close up of the dragon's glazed over white eyes flickers before me. A perfect match to the man's. And then, the imagery shifts to a genlock stabbing a female villager through the stomach. A fire rages behind him as other villagers cry out and try to run, only to be slaughtered by other advancing darkspawn. Puddles of blood spew from their lifeless corpses, smothering the ground. No one's left alive. Not even the children.

"I must obey!" the man shouts.

I'm transported back to him. His fists now strike out at me. My body dodges the attacks, as if being pulled by invisible strings.

The scene changes abruptly again.

The man's standing before me once more. Calm. Unmoving. As if the attack never happened. My gaze zooms in on his lips. A cold wetness drips down my cheeks. A subsequent salty taste fills my mouth.

"I'm so sorry," he says, and electricity pulses through me.

An array of pictures fill my mind. I see faces of people, places, things. I know them. I know them all! But I can't place them. They're moving too quickly.

The ground vanishes beneath me.

I fall.

And fall.

And fall.

Into a bottomless, suffocating darkness.

The onslaught stops as my knees finally hit the ground. I'm looking down at my hands now. Familiar blood covers my palms and fingertips. A fresh grave in the forest lies before me, a bloody dagger resting atop its surface. A shadow of a figure approaches me from the side.

"Serena . . . " the new male voice sends a shiver down my spine.

I attempt to glance over at him. An explosion of bright white light bursts forth in front of me, blinding me, obscuring his silhouette that I've longed to see. A dragon's roar rips through my ears, shaking me down to my soul.

My body jerks forward, and a loud gasp escapes my lips. Every part of me throbs.

The earlier scenes are gone.

I'm now sitting upright in my bed in Kirkwall, surrounded by my moonlit bedroom. Sweat covers every inch of me, from head to toe, and cold tears stream down my cheeks like surging rivers flowing from my eyes.

All my nerves tremble. I can't control the tremors. I'd have better luck commanding a pack of unruly werewolves, if given the choice. And I've already tried that, with little to no success, before I got that spirit and Zathrian to compromise.

My vision darts around my small room. Everything appears so strange, unfamiliar, foreign. But this is my home. It's been such for the past three years, ever since Hawke and the others all but forced me to buy it after our expedition into the Deep Roads. My scythe and boots lying beside the nearby dining table are proof enough of that.

Gulping down the horrid nightmare, and still struggling to catch my breath, I dig my fingers deep into my hair and close my eyes. "Fenedhis," I growl.

That's all I can utter as my reoccurring nightmare repeats in my head for the rest of the night—Tamlen's last words still echoing in the background, reminding me of a very possible future for me that's yet to come.

A future that may arrive sooner at this point, rather than later.


HAWKE

A heavy atmosphere lingers over our group this morning. It congregates around a certain Dalish elf, who has yet to say a word since Varric, Fenris, and I met up with her in front of the Hanged Man, before moving on to Darktown.

Her cold eyes remain fixed on the path ahead, appearing empty and lacking the usual energy I've become accustomed to over the years.

It's as if she's become another person. Even Fenris's moody temperament feels tame in comparison. The tension itself has made our talkative group fall completely silent, so much so that it feels wrong to speak up at all, even if it's to ask Varric a simple question about the coterie we're pursuing.

Curiosity gnaws away at me as I watch her quietly, waiting for some hint or clue for what caused this sudden change. But her expression doesn't waver. Not once does she look at me. Or anyone or anything for that matter. Even as we enter the heart of Darktown. A skill I wish could be taught.

As we approach the busiest portion of the Darktown market, I can no longer keep quiet. Without looking her way, I clear my throat to catch her attention.

"You seem . . . broody today," I start. "Do I want to ask? Or is Fenris's personality actually contagious?"

The question was meant to latch onto mutual preference for sarcastic humor, to create an opening for our usual type of banter. But when I dare to look over at her, I'm met with the bitterest glare. The likes I've only ever seen her reserve for blood mages and slavers. The darkness of her pupils draws me in like an oceanic whirlpool, in the darkest cavern, and my legs quickly stop, succumbing to the intensity of its torrent.

Serena continues forward without the rest of us, not once looking back or offering a single word in response.

"Oh, that's bad," Varric whispers. "Not even a witty one-liner. It's best you leave it be, Hawke. At least, for now."

"What in Andraste's name could've happened," I whisper. "She was fine yesterday. I've never seen her like this before."

Varric sighs. "Hawke, let this serve as a reminder that Twinkle Toes is in the end a woman. It's best we leave it at that. If she wants to talk about it, she will. Until then, my lips are sealed and so should yours."

With that, the dwarf follows after her, leaving me to ponder the entire confusing situation from a distance.


FENRIS

The Hanged Man—I thought I could find some solace here tonight after the tiresome chase in Darktown earlier. Yet, as soon as I enter the tavern, it is already clear that is not going to be the case.

Serena and the abomination sit congregated around a table near the center of the scrappy tavern, surrounded by several other grubby-looking human men of questionable background. The mage rests his head limply on the table, snoring, a drink still loose in his hand. The other men drink close to Serena, leering at the laughing she-elf, up and down.

All of them clearly have unspoken intentions—none of them decent. But the Dalish doesn't appear to care or take notice.

The alcohol has taken her. Her cheeks now glow a faint rosy pink, and she wobbles back and forth in her seat, all of her energy clearly being spent on keeping herself upright, which she's already failing at considerably. She probably doesn't even recognize who is and isn't around her anymore, much less possess the ability to read or understand typical conversation subtilties.

The prospect shocks me.

It seems unfathomable. In one night alone, Hawke and I watched the Dalish drown four of Hightown's strongest wine bottles with ease, showing next to no signs of inebriation. What it took to put her into this state must've been considerable, perhaps even enough to serve a full round to the entire city guard.

However, what pushes me over the edge, is despite being so intoxicated, she's still milking a drink. And the men are cheering her on. If this continues, they may very well force her to her death to get what they want.

It has to stop.

I'll tear her from the beasts myself, if I must. Someone must.

I approach the table with this firm determination in mind. Serena immediately looks up and stares at me, her pupils dilated to the point there's more black than teal. She smiles as soon as she seems to focus enough to identify me. "Oh, lethallin! Come to join us, have ya?" She hiccups. "Come . . . pull up a chair. The more the merrier!"

She pats the seat next to her. But her company doesn't appear to agree. The men around her frown and glare at me like I'm an unwelcome intruder, dissolving their fun. I ignore them all and walk around the table to stand beside her. "I think it's about time you retire for the evening. You have had enough." I yank her up by the arm.

She stumbles into my chest and looks up at me. "Ah, what's this? Touching a woman so freely? How bold of you, Fenris," she snickers with a wide, mischevious smirk.

Her hands trail down my chest, and she lifts her lips up to my ear.

"Should I return the favor?" she whispers, and my whole body shivers, her hot breath tickling against my skin. Her exploring fingers reach for the laces to my trousers.

I catch them, swiftly, and pull them back to chest level. "You are drunk. You do not know what you are saying," I insist.

She laughs, seductive and carefree. "Don't I?" She steps onto her tip-toes.

Her lips touch mine. A mere peck, warm but brief. Enough to startle me. Then, she moves back, and slumps against my chest.

My hands quickly grasp at her arms as her full weight collapses on me. I look down at her, shocked and confused. She's passed out but still breathing. For now. The alcohol must've finally reached her limit.

"Festis bei umo canavarum," I snarl and pick her up into my arms, the heat burning within my cheeks dissipating as if washed out by cold water.

She's lighter than I expected, considering she's still wearing full leather armor. She weighs only a little more than lethendralis. Or that's the only thing I can readily compare her to. I don't recall carrying any others. Either before or after . . . the procedure.

It explains why she's able to move so swiftly on the battlefield. But her clan's revealing armor helped lure her into this mess to begin with. Never before have I met such a troublesome woman. Especially not one prone to passing out or causing trouble so quickly.

Serena sleeps quietly in my arms, a peaceful expression on her face despite the misfortune that almost befell her. I scowl at the gaping men, who have been watching quietly from around the table. They immediately scatter and turn away, some even clicking their tongues. The cowards. I ought to rip all their hearts from their chests. It is the least their actions deserve. But I'll have Varric see to them later. His form of revenge may be sweeter, and he is all the more protective.

Once they're all away, I stomp out of the tavern, leaving the abomination to fend for himself. If he gets pickpocketed or murdered, so be it. He deserves it for failing to protect her in the first place. Perhaps for even encouraging such nonsense.

The cold night air nips at the exposed skin on the back of my neck as I march to the alienage. The streets stand all but abandoned at this late hour, with only a few beggars huddled alone in the corners, attempting to preserve warmth in the frigid night. They all spare us only a momentary look as I pass, then turn away, easily dismissing two elves. A blessing in this moment.

As I approach Gamlen's neighborhood, though, I'm greeted by familiar footfalls.

"Fenris!" Hawke calls out at me, from atop Gamlen's stoop. I stop, and he rushes over to me, his brows furrowed as he glances over Serena in my arms. "What happened? What's going on?" His voice comes off full of concern. More so than I've ever seen before.

"She apparently had too much to drink . . . as shocking as that may be to believe. She's out cold. I'm escorting her home."

Hawke sighs, and his expression softens. "I see," he whispers. He then looks at me and stretches out his arms to Serena. "Here, let me take her. I'll carry her the rest of the way."

Before I can respond, Hawke pulls Serena from my arms. She nuzzles against his chest, and for a moment, I feel . . . empty.

Why?

Hawke looks back up at me and leads the way to the alienage, all the while I contemplate that feeling, and why I now also feel irritated. We don't stop until we reach her residence—a small, two-room hovel we forced her to buy, situated right next to the vhenadahl she treasures so much.

Hawke steps aside, and I try to open its door. It is unlocked. As usual.

It seems she has still yet to heed our warnings about locking her place up at night. No surprise there. She only seems to listen when she chooses. But almost never when it comes to her own safety.

With a mute shake of my head, I step inside. Hawke follows with the same frustrated look on his face. Most likely thinking the same thing.

Once he's in, I close the door, and Hawke places Serena on top of her bed. He throws a fur blanket over the top of her; one she apparently made herself, not long after she left her clan.

"She leaves herself far too defenseless sometimes," Hawke whispers under his breath.

"She's not the only one," I quip. The accusation obvious.

Hawke grins. His cheeky gaze fall on a bottle of wine, resting on Serena's nightstand. He picks it up, scrutinizes it, then takes a long whiff and gulp from its contents. "You want some?" he asks, offering it over to me. "If not, I'm going to finish it."

I consider the offer, but shake my head. It could get ugly having to explain to Serena why her alcohol is missing once she's sober. It'd be foolish to risk putting myself in such a . . . compromising situation. Especially when she is undoubtedly going to be fighting a splitting hangover. Some battles you are not meant to win.

Hawke doesn't seem to care so much about such odds and shrugs. A testament to his boldness. Or his naivety.

With the bottle still in hand, he walks over to the far side of the room. He leans against the wall and sits down. "She's gonna have one heck of a hangover when she wakes up tomorrow," he echoes my thoughts.

I sit down beside him and nod. "We shall see. We've never seen her drunk like this before. One cannot be certain."

"True."

Serena rolls onto her side in bed, grumbling as she does so.

Hawkes closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Women," he scoffs. He then gulps down the rest of the bottle, not leaving a single drop left.


It is close to sunrise now. I can feel the slight early morning chill, seeping through the cracks of Serena's battered front door.

Hawke sits fast asleep at my side, the empty bottle of wine from earlier still clasped in one hand. I've yet to get a wink of sleep myself. Although, I have slipped a couple of times. None for more than a few moments. Soon, I will return to Darnius's mansion in Hightown to rest. The heavy weight on my eyelids demands it.

As I decide this, the silence I've become accustomed to throughout the night is interrupted. Serena stirs and suddenly sits upright in her bed. I close my eyes and pretend to still be sleeping.

I hear her panting, as if she's just run several laps. But she says nothing. Does nothing.

I take a peek at her after a long, quiet moment. She's looking down at her lap, one of her hands pressed hard against her forehead. She looks miserable, conflicted, pained. Moments from plummeting into an abyss. Tears drip off her cheeks and land mutely atop her fur blanket.

"Damn it . . . " she mutters, curling up into herself tighter.

I can only watch in stunned silence as she deals with whatever unknown torment she's battling with until sunrise. Not once saying another word.