SERENA
So much has happened in two weeks. Our group has spent most of our free time resolving more personal matters for our inner circle.
First, there was Aveline's painfully awkward dilemma with Donnic. A situation I found equally cringe-worthy as amusing. And I doubt until the end of my days I'll ever forget the look on Hawke's face, when the guardsman actually accused our dear leader of holding a secret torch for Aveline. We all had a good laugh about that later on at the Hanged Man, after the newfound couple resolved their prolonged misunderstanding. Much to the Guard Captain's continued embarrassment.
Varric confronted Bartrand a mere few days later.
That encounter, however, turned out far different than expected. And not in a good way.
From Bartrand's lyrium-crazed bodyguards, to the dozens of servants he slaughtered while trying to get others to hear the idol's 'singing', it's a wonder he's survived this long since departing the Deep Roads. Killing him could've been viewed as a mercy—a tempting and justifiable opportunity for revenge. One several of us would've loved to partake in after everything he's done to us. But thankfully or regretfully so, Anders temporarily restored his sanity, resulting in Varric and Hawke agreeing to spare his life in search of a cure . . . if such a thing even exists.
Varric still gripes about the decision to this day, grumbling about how much he wished 'Blondie hadn't wiggled his fingers and cleared his head.' But we all know that's not really true. The dwarf's just another big softy underneath all his bluster, and I for one think he might be a bit relieved that his brother maybe—just maybe—didn't leave us down there to rot of his own volition.
Not that I believe it, mind you.
Bartrand's still a no-good, greedy rat, albeit a loony one now, twisted even further by that idol's red-lyrium nastiness.
But . . . Varric's got enough trouble to worry about as it is, what with his new House Tethras responsibilities, and still being busy looking up leads for the rest of us. So, I keep quiet on that front. For now.
Thinking back on all of our personal conquests lately feels . . . strange, when considering the big picture.
It's like everyone's finally making efforts to move forward, to leave their pasts behind them. Hawke and Fenris included. And although I'm happy for them, I feel . . . stuck. Disheartened. As if I'm the only one getting left behind.
Perhaps it really is time I try moving forward as well? Make more of an effort? Maybe not at a sprint, per say, like Aveline or Varric. But . . . gradually, one step at a time?
Surely that wouldn't hurt, would it? They wouldn't blame me, would they?
I clutch onto the old, silver necklace dangling across my chest. A relic of mine from ancient times at this point.
It feels warm to the touch, as if welcoming the prospect. But the weight of the concealed gold earring and pierced iron arrowhead at the end continues to hold me back. The last dreaded seeds of doubt, rooted deep within my heart and soul. The most enduring barrier that haunts my every move, word, and thought.
I glance up at the others walking in front of me now, searching for an ounce of their courage to try to overcome it. But find none. They're all too fixated on our current task at hand, which is . . . understandable.
Hawke, Varric, Fenris, Merrill, and I are currently traversing across the Wounded Coast together, in search of more crafting supplies for Sandal and Solventius. A monthly endeavor Hawke insists upon to stock up not only on some much-needed potion and rune stocks, but also to rake in a bit more coin for everyone else involved as well.
It's an easy task, if not a demanding one, requiring one's full attention in order to successfully scrounge the sandy bluffs and trails. All seems to be going smoothly today, too, which never bodes well for an outing. Something always has to go wrong. Whether it's sudden rain clouds forming in a crystal clear sky, or yet another group of enemies jumping out to attack us, luck just isn't on our side. And the lack of any trouble so far appears to have put everyone a bit on edge, based on their tense postures and gazes.
I sigh and grasp tighter onto my scythe.
Yes. I guess I should try to focus now, too. It's really not the time to be getting lost in thought or working on my own personal development. Although, it might be preferable to this silence.
A quiet rustle resounds atop the cliff to our left. One of force, not brought on by wind.
I stiffen.
A whizzing sound pierces through the air. I throw up a barrier around us on instinct. A hail of arrows rain down on us from up above, splintering against the glowing walls before collapsing in trash heaps atop the sand.
Hawke and the others all spin around to face our new attackers.
Raiders. A lot of them.
Varric shoots bolt after bolt at the archers shooting at us from the cliff's, while Merrill adds a few fireballs to the mix. Their onslaught overcomes the lot quickly enough, most falling dead within seconds. The leftovers cower in retreat, just as a new batch of warriors run out of hiding, further up ahead.
Hawke, Fenris, and I leap out of the barrier and charge the approaching raiders, up the nearby slope.
I count ten in total, a majority wielding longswords, with perhaps two or three using daggers. We all split up to take them down, slicing at whichever ones cross our paths, while Varric and Merrill offer backup from a distance.
Amidst the ongoing screams and clashes of battle, I notice three more raiders run out of a nearby cave up ahead. They charge toward Fenris and Hawke, who are too engrossed with their current opponents to notice.
My heart races at the sight.
They won't be able to dodge or defend swift enough. I have to do something. Quick.
I cut the last of my opponents down with a rushed and somewhat reckless parry, then throw a burst of chain lightening at the approaching raiders. They collapse into a fit of grunts and seizures at Hawke's and Fenris's feet; both of whom jolt and glimpse back to look at them, then me.
I smirk. The mana prickling in my veins recedes, drifting away like an ebbing wave, retreating from a beach's shore.
But then it flares back up again. A tsunami overcoming the mighty sand barriers, rushing through me with rejuvenated force.
I can't control it, stop it. An all-consuming heat floods through me. Burning. Burning. Scorching.
The world spins. My vision fades.
I feel my hands and knees hit the sand hard—my sight lost in the process. It becomes more and more difficult to breathe, to maintain balance, to string together a single, conscious thought.
Next thing I know, I'm slipping. Falling. I can hardly feel the ground against my numb hands or knees anymore.
A burst of blinding green light fills the darkness. A ghostly visage of a smiling, robed woman manifests at the end of it. She whispers something to me. But no matter how hard I try to focus, I can't hear her. Her voice: it's too low, too garbled, like some water-based wall lies between us.
Another bright, green light flashes from her core.
The robed woman's gone.
Flemeth replaces her. She's standing in front of a grand, gold mirror that must be two stories tall. A bald, elven man sulks in her arms.
Flemeth's wary, hawk-like eyes scan the surrounding scenery, over the man's drooped shoulders, until they land on me. Their knowing gaze pierces right through my soul.
My heart skips a beat.
Flemeth and the bald elf vanish in an explosion of green, swirling smoke.
There's another flash of bright green light.
The scenery shifts. This time it reveals Leandra, Hawke's mother. She's sitting in what looks to be a dark, dingy room in Lowtown. But something feels wrong. Off. She looks . . . grey, sewn up, eerie. Almost identical to Justice, when he first inhabited that Grey Warden's corpse back in Amaranthine.
Another figure approaches her from behind. Someone bulkier, in robes. A man? I can't tell. Everything's too dark. Too fuzzy. It's hard to think. To focus. A painful throbbing beats in the back of my head.
Darkness swallows Leandra and the stranger, and I'm alone once again. Returned to a black abyss.
The pangs escalate. Stinging. Aching. Stabbing.
I can't take it. It hurts. It hurts so much! My head feels like it'll split in two!
Through fading consciousness, I swear I hear the others call out to me. But their voices fade, as I fail to resist the comforting emptiness of the Fade a second longer.
HAWKE
"What's happening? What's wrong with her?" I ask, as our entire group swarms around Serena. She's now lying limp, passed out in Merrill's arms, her entire body covered in sand and sweat.
"She's having another one of her fits," Merrill whispers, putting one frantic hand to Serena's forehead. "This is what happens when she uses her magic sometimes. Her connection to the Beyond is too strong!"
"To the Beyond? You mean the Fade?"
"Yes, that's right." She nods. The dark-haired elf purses her lips. She looks down at Serena, as if worrying, hesitating. But I'm having none of it.
"What do you mean, Merrill?" I shout. "What's happening?"
Merrill clenches her fists and closes her eyes. "The Keeper," she sighs, "she-she lied to you when she said Fenyriel was the only Somniari she knew of to survive the past two ages. Serena's a specialized Somniari, one with an unimaginable connection to the Beyond, the Fade. But she's no longer aware of it. Not fully, anyways."
I gawk at the fidgeting she-elf. Her words still spiral, failing to make much sense. "Wait. Hold on." I lift up a hand. "How could Serena be a Dreamer and not know about it? That seems like a pretty hard thing to miss."
Merrill lowers her head. Slumping her shoulders, she bites down on her bottom lip. "Serena's magic first manifested when she was only six years old," she explains, "and it was nothing like we could've ever anticipated. Against all reason, her mana never tired. Then, we discovered she could summon and banish spirits at will, granting them access to visit her here, in the real world, without use of lyrium, a summoning circle, anything . . . It was absurd. But it was clear she loved them, and they loved her . . . She would spend hours, each day, speaking to all manner of benevolent spirits when we were young. Something I'll admit I envied."
Merrill smiles and brushes a few rogue hairs off Serena's face. It's a gentle gesture, hinting at a possible friendship, that must've existed beyond their tattered remains. But it's soon lost, masked over by a darkening expression, twisted by grief and pain.
"One day that all changed, though," Merrill murmurs. "A powerful demon trapped Serena in her dreams. It held her captive for three whole days. Torturing her. Feeding off her. The Keeper managed to save her through the same ritual we used on Feynriel. However, the experience proved too traumatic for such a young child. Especially one who had only grown to trust and love the spirits so much."
Merrill slumps down lower and shakes her head.
"She lost all of her memories about her Somniari abilities as a result. A defense mechanism, against the fear and betrayal she felt—or so we theorized. She's thought of herself as just a normal mage ever since, with a few more quirks than others. But that's far from the case, and with far more repercussions than others."
Merrill pauses.
She stares up at me, her conflicted gaze riddled with profound fear and uncertainty. It's as if she's prepared to deliver grave news of unknown origin, but doesn't know how.
It makes my stomach flip.
My breath hitches in the back of my throat.
"And how's that, Merrill?" I ask, my heart now racing. "Get to your point. What does this have to do with now?"
Merril gulps down whatever may have been stopping her before. "Being a Dreamer, with as much unique mana and pull to the Fade as she has . . . it-it frequently results in her magic backfiring onto herself, if she doesn't use it often enough—which she never does. The pull essentially gets so strong when her magic overflows, it splits her consciousness between here and the Beyond, and her body can't keep up. As such, she'll collapse with intense fevers like this. The only way to help her recover faster would be with a mana drain or mana cleanse spell, to stop her magic from running out of control. But I'm not skilled in such areas of expertise . . . We must take her to Anders. Quickly. He should be able to help her."
Her sudden mention of Anders throws me through a loop.
"Blondie? Does he know about this?" Varric asks. "Her fits, I mean?"
Merrill nods. "I'd imagine so . . . "
Her words suddenly cut off, as if forcibly stopping herself.
An unimaginable feat for the talkative elf. One that puts my suspicions on even higher alert, out of fear of what it could mean.
I scowl at her, on the verge of demanding more answers.
Merrill stiffens. She looks away from us again. "Anyway, that doesn't matter now!" she stammers. "A fever can claim a warrior just as quickly as any wound can. We must hurry. Before her fever gets worse."
I glimpse down at Serena again. She's panting heavily now, her head soaked with sweat. I've never seen her look so pale or ill before. Not even that time we all caught the wintersend flu.
Curses! She's right.
I'll have to let Merrill off the hook for the moment. Taking care of Serena has to come first.
But all these secrets, these lies and run-arounds . . . Intentional or unintentional . . .It's about time for a reckoning.
Even my patience has its limits, and I think I've kept quiet on it long enough.
SERENA
"Well? How is she?" Hawke asks from over by Anders's clinic door.
I woke up not much earlier, but have opted to pretend to keep sleeping, in fear of the line of questioning I might face, should the others learn I'm awake.
"She needs some rest, but she'll be fine," Anders says. "I'll keep watch over her for the night. You all should retire home for the evening and wash up. She might not wake for a few hours yet."
A tense pause lingers in the air.
My bet on its cause?
Hawke and Fenris.
I can only imagine how frustrated they must both look right now. Neither are likely to budge. Not without a bit of tactful prodding or insistence, which I unfortunately can't render this time.
"Come on, Hawke, Broody. Let's go wait it out at the Hanged Man," Varric steps up to the task. "First round's on me. What do you say?"
Hawke sighs. ". . . Very well," he grumbles.
And I do a small internal cheer, praising the dwarf and all his crossbow-loving glory.
"But send for us straight away if there are any changes," Hawke adds.
"I will." Anders agrees. "Goodnight."
The others retreat out of the clinic, their footsteps fading deeper into the heart of Darktown.
Anders closes the door behind them, waits a quiet moment, then approaches my cot, stopping just short of the foot of my 'bed'.
"They're gone," he says, and I can already imagine him crossing his arms, staring down at me. "You can stop pretending to sleep now."
I peek open my eyes and smile up at him, finding him doing exactly as I pictured, only with both his eyebrows raised. "Who says I'm pretending?" I ask.
His usual playful twinkle returns to his amber eyes. "You, since you're awake and talking and all."
He plops himself down on the cot beside me, looking just as lighthearted and handsome as the first time we met back in Amaranthine. Minus the templar and darkspawn guts coating our boots and armor. Oh, and the possibility of a tainted, painful death looming over both our shoulders. And that 'rebellious' earring he used to wear on his right ear, before Velanna threatened to rip it out. The simple things.
"What would I do without you?" I roll onto my side to face him.
"Still be passed out from an ungodly fever again, that's what." His face scrunches up into a frustrated scowl, returning to his prior seriousness. "What were you thinking using your magic like that? You know how you get when you push your magic too hard."
"I didn't think it'd be such a big deal." I shrug. "I thought I had everything under control. It was hardly a little zap! And even though I didn't . . . have it under control, exactly, they were bound to find out about the fits at some point. It's not like I can just not use my magic forever!"
"Yes, well. You could've chosen better timing for your little reveal. Perhaps when I was still around?"
I sigh.
Yes, I suppose that's true. I guess I could've avoided using that chain lightning spell this time, and Hawke and Fenris might've been okay. They do have fast reflexes. But that's a lot to bargain on a 'might'. And if something happened to them because I didn't use my magic, I'd . . .
My throat tightens.
No. Stop. Don't think of that!
I shake my head, dispelling the mounting fear, twisting my gut.
The visions I had when I collapsed flash through my head at that instant, starting with the mysterious robed woman, followed by Flemeth, then Leandra.
A dull ache pangs in the back of my head with the recollections, the pain intensifying each passing second. A symptom I know far too well; one that will undoubtedly grow worse over the next few upcoming days. Yet another glorious side effect of this detestable magic of mine. How lovely.
I groan.
I knew it was too good to be true—to simply think I could just leave my past behind me, with nothing fighting to hold me back. I suppose I just didn't think I'd get such a painful reminder of that so soon. Or with such force, for that manner.
I rub at my aching temples, my brain feeling like it's trying to slam its way out of the back of my skull, and winning.
"Headache still bothering you?" Anders asks, rising to his feet.
"Yes," I mumble under my breath; every word exchanged between us making the throbbing ten times worse.
Anders picks up a mug off a neighboring nightstand. "Here, drink this." He passes it to me.
I don't even dare look. I just start gulping the mystery liquid down in heaps, trusting Anders's medical advice explicitly. The bitterness of the unknown concoction tingles the back of my throat, reeking and tasting of a mixture of elfroot and spindleweed. The tingles spread throughout the rest of my body, prickling at my nerves, hidden under the skin.
I grimace and pass the empty mug back to Anders. He returns it to the nightstand, and I smile up at him, already feeling a tad better. Although, a tad numb, with a 'weedy' aftertaste.
"Hey, Anders?" I whisper, flopping flat onto my cot again, happy to enter the numbed state if it offers some relief.
"Hm?"
"Ma serannas. You've always been here for me. Even when I don't always deserve it."
He chuckles and sits back down across from me once more. "Consider it my repayment for not letting the templars take me from the Keep all those years ago. I imagine hanging would've been quite the unpleasant experience. Or so they kept telling me."
"Ugh. Don't remind me about that." I roll my eyes.
The grief I received from Rylock and the other templars after his recruitment was legendary. It's only thanks to Alistair's continued interference that their bullying didn't get worse. Especially after we took Rylock down together, against my better judgement.
The thought makes me think about our current shared status as wanted wardens and apostates, and how Anders all but shooed our protective allies away earlier, shortly after he finished 'healing' me.
It seems unlike him, upon reflection.
As a healer, I've never seen him try to oust people out of his clinic like that. He's usually very understanding if a patient's friends or family wish to remain by their side, and he's usually even less dismissive with our friends.
Yet, in this instant, he wasn't. He even lied to them, insisting I still wasn't awake yet, despite knowing otherwise.
"I'll admit. I'm surprised you sent Hawke and the others packing for me." I grin up at him, only realizing now I should probably thank him.
"Oh, sweetheart. That wasn't just for you." He smirks. "If I had to put up with one more minute of Fenris's suspicious glaring, I might've lost it and called it a day!"
I laugh. "He's just worried, like everyone else! You two should really try to reach some sort of understanding with one another. I enjoy eavesdropping on most of your arguments. But they can be . . . a bit much at times. Even for me."
Anders scoffs and shakes his head. "What you see in that beast, I have no idea."
"Anders . . ." I scowl at him in warning.
"Alright! Alright!" He raises his hands up in front of him. "I'll try to make more of an effort. For your sake, if nothing else."
He grumbles something more under his breath. But I know there's no ill will to it. At least, not directed toward me. And not with any real bite to it. Just his usual sarcastic sass, seeping out from under the surface. A habit he's yet to change since Vigil's Keep, and a trait I'd never see him without.
"How are you doing by the way?" I ask, sitting up, hoping to change the subject. "It's been a while since we've seen each other last. I hope you're not still beating yourself up about that girl."
Anders face contorts with profound grief and despair, the likes of which could rival a mourner, still tormented by their loved one's death. "Serena, I almost killed her. How could I not still be bothered by that?"
"But you didn't! And it wasn't you! It was Justice. Or Vengeance. Or whatever the heck we're supposed to be calling him now."
"But it was me who failed to restrain him! If I had, then maybe—"
"Anders!" I leap up and grab him by the cheeks, forcing him to look up at me. "You. Didn't. Do. It. You stopped him! That girl still lives and breathes because of you!"
Anders clutches onto the top of my wrists, his soft touch warm, familiar, desperate. "If you and Hawke hadn't been there, I don't believe that would still be the case," he whispers, lowering his head in self-defeat.
I sigh and turn toward the door. "You need to trust in yourself more, Anders . . . Only you can fight back Justice. No one else. You must remain strong and vigilant, to protect both yourself and others."
I pause to consider the significance of such words for myself as well. Not only as a wanted mage, with this strange, hunted magic of mine I've still yet to fully understand, but also as a former warden, a warrior, and a runaway elf, with far too many precious people to lose to continue hiding from my own troubles or past now.
"And . . . if it proves to be too much for you to handle . . . perhaps you should reconsider the current path you're on," I whisper, clenching my fists, reaching a new decision with the declaration.
"What? Give up the mage underground, just like that?" Anders balks. "Accept the injustices plaguing mages all across Thedas and go back to turning a blind eye and doing nothing?"
"No, not necessarily nothing, Anders," I persist.
But from the determined glare he's giving me now, I know he won't listen. He's too far on the defensive again, prepared to go on yet another scathing rant about all the wrongdoings we mages face at the hands of templars and the circle.
"Forget about it." I sigh. "I can't tell you how to live your life. All I can say is that I don't think holding onto our self-loathing and hatred like this is doing either of us any good."
Regardless of where or how it's directed.
"I'm going to head out," I whisper. "Just . . . think about it. For me?"
Anders doesn't respond—merely sighs and looks down at his boots.
If at least one of us can make it out of this self-loathing spiral, I'll consider that a win. But I'll be damned if I give up now before trying again. The others deserve more of my effort than that. And if they can overcome their pasts and doubts to move forward, together, then so can I. Creepy, cursed magic, past losses, and all.
