SERENA
A week has passed. Confined to bedrest at the Hawke estate has proven to be quite the experience.
Every morning and afternoon, Anders drops by to help lower my fevers and check on my wounds. The process is taxing, but whether it's due to the piled-on healing spells, the copious amounts of poultices and potions used, or something else, it's hard to tell.
When Anders isn't around, or I'm not passed out between healing sessions, Fenris and Hawke spend every waking moment at my side, with the others dropping by to visit occasionally as well. Fenris and Hawke appear to be growing closer as a result.
My suspicion only amplifies when I walk in to find the two smiling at each other over by the foyer hearth late this afternoon. They appear to be finishing up a round of Wicked Grace at the nearby table; one that's got Hawke groaning and bickering with the smirking elf about his current hand.
I laugh and resume my approach, pleased to see their blossoming affection.
At first, they both look up and beam at me, warmth evident in their soft, twinkling gazes.
But then . . . Hawke jumps to his feet.
"Oh, no! you're not supposed to be up and walking around just yet. Doctor's orders!" He hurries over, cutting off my entry route near the bottom of the stairs. He place his hands firm on his armored hips, his strapping, form towering over me like a grand oak. A sturdy human in every sense of the word. But the slight quirk of his lips betrays his feigned intimidation.
I cross my arms and roll my eyes. "Hawke, if I stay in bed all day, I'll never recover! Walking around the mansion won't harm anyone. Besides maybe you, if you continue to try to stop me."
Hawke's intense expression cracks. He laughs, his forced aura instantly dissipating. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you," he points at me with a a wide, conceding grin. "If Anders sees you, you're on your own!"
I smile and shake my head, shrugging off his 'warning'.
If Anders wants to fight me over this, so be it. I wasn't crowned the leader of our previous group for nothing. A few lectures here and there don't scare me, and I've got plenty of ways of forcing him into submission. Some of them decent.
The two of us walk over to join Fenris at the table. The topic already long forgotten.
Hawke quickly pulls over another seat and places it between theirs. I claim it, and he plops back down into his chair's thick, red cushions, propping his mud-stained boots along the table's edges.
I eye the different splash patterns, coated along the rims. An inevitable drawback of living in the Free Marches. But an increasingly worrying one, which always risks sparking Leandra's ire.
Here's hoping Hawke's own heedlessness doesn't backfire on the rest of us. That's one scathing tirade on cleanliness and manners I wouldn't want to witness again. Although, I've seen plenty of others.
Fenris shuffles and redistributes our cards, and I snatch up my set. Two angels, two knights, and a serpent. Not the best starting hand I've ever had, I'll admit, but it has potential.
I peek over at the other two, to read their expressions.
Fenris remains an impassive wall. Meanwhile, Hawke's an open book. He's got at least two good cards he's holding onto based off his raises eyebrows. One more and he wouldn't be able to stop himself from grinning—his worst tell that Varric and I keep scolding him on. Yet, he doesn't seem to know how to listen.
While I contemplate my first betting move, and imagine Hawke's already gruesome defeat, again, Hawke coughs to clear his throat, disrupting my focus.
"I have . . . some news," he murmurs, his posture tensing.
The atmosphere around the two turns dour. Worse than if at a funeral.
"They found . . . Alessa, that woman I told you about before, that we met at Gascard's place. Her body . . . It was found in a Lowtown foundry, along with several strange, disturbing notes and other items . . . The templars are suspecting some sort of sick, necromantic ritual. One you helped stop."
He pauses to take a long sip from his wine goblet, resting on the table. But he's too quick about his movements. Too avoidant and too hasty.
Something else about this discovery troubles him. Something unspoken, that's somehow both unnerved and pissed him off, if his tight grip on his drink and the murderous glint in his eye says anything about it. And whatever it is, he doesn't seem to want to discuss it, either now or in the future.
So, I do the only thing I can do: I swallow my curiosity and bite my tongue. A small act of kindness, considering my impulsive foolishness of late. As well as my own endeavor at gaining a little redemption. Even if it does kill me inside a bit.
"They also found Gascard in Darktown," Hawke continues, returning his goblet to the table. "Seems he might've been a student of the killer after all, instead of the grieving victim he made himself out to be."
I frown.
So, in the end, they were connected as well. How unfortunate.
I had hoped there'd be no more victims or suspects in this madness. There were plenty enough to begin with. However, their game is finally over, and their chapter finished. And with both sethlin taken care of, perhaps Kirkwall may now find some relative peace, and our group can go back to normal?
The thought's soothing. Refreshing. A novelty that the whole populace could relish in. But then, my heart sinks, recognizing that with a true return to normalcy, I'll eventually have to leave the estate. There'd be no more daily visits or card matches with everyone here. No more secret smiles to walk-in and witness. And certainly not as many late night conversations, huddled up close together by the hearth.
It seems a horrid, dreadful reality, detached from all that's right, despite it being the truth of our past. And somehow, that elicits a deeper ache in my chest than I've ever felt before. A loss with no consolation prize. And an oversight I hadn't dared consider . . . until now.
"I see you haven't lost your touch, Twinkle Toes," Varric mutters with a loud, relinquishing sigh.
He places yet another pitiable set of cards on the desk beside us. The second batch I've beaten him at today, ever since he first strut in my room.
"You win. Again," he slumps back further into his seat, shaking his head.
"Much obliged, master Varric." I smile and reach forward to collect the small pile of betting snacks, scattered across the wooden surface. "You do me such an honor, coming here to keep me company like this."
He shrugs. "Just figured you might be lonely, what with Hawke, Broody, and Blondie gallivanting about, doing errands today. Plus, I imagined you might need a break from Leandra's . . . fussing." He gives a flippant wave of his hand at the last part, no doubt struggling to find the least offensive word to describe our current . . . situation.
"By the Dread Wolf, you have no idea." I throw my head back in exasperation.
The woman's hardly given me any space since the attack. She's quite literally taken up the habit of doting on me, hand and foot, like some Orlesian maidservant. Something I never expected from such a highborn woman such as herself, who regards her pride and lineage of upmost importance.
But I know it's just guilt-ridden, so I've tolerated the temporary treatment, if only to appease her worried conscience. However, I don't know how much longer I can take it. Putting up this polite act all the time is starting to drain me, more so than Anders's exhausting treatments.
Fighting another bout of fatigue just imagining her constant fretting, I pop another biscuit snack into my mouth and gulp down the last of my ale.
Varric shifts uncomfortably in his seat, watching me. His lips purse together so tight, it looks like he might burst. "Listen, Twinkle Toes. I've been meaning to talk to you," the flood gates burst out.
His gaze turns serious. His usual mirth gone, evaporated.
Oh, no. This can't be good.
He hesitates and licks his lips. "As your friend," he starts, and I can already tell I'm not going to like this, "I feel like I'd be doing both you and Hawke a disservice, if I didn't voice my . . . concern. What's this I hear about something going on between you two and Broody? You do know the elf's like an angsty, Tevinter porcupine? And Hawke, well . . . He's Hawke, right?"
I laugh. "That's all you can think to describe him as?"
"Do you have any better ideas?" He lifts an eyebrow.
I pause to consider.
Hawke's many things, certainly. But to narrow him down to just a few words, it doesn't do him justice.
"Fair enough," I concede.
"Look, all I'm saying is you might want to be careful. You'll probably have to choose eventually, and I'd hate to see any of you get hurt over this, but that might be difficult to avoid, as things currently stand."
"Oh, I don't know," I muse with teasing veneer. "I rather like the idea of setting up my own personal harem. Wouldn't that suit your dangerous temptress persona you've set up for me better?"
Varric beams at me, but it lacks the typical playful twinkle I'd been aiming for. "Ha. Ha. But in all seriousness, talk to me," he persists. "What are you thinking?"
I pause and bite my lip, considering my next words carefully.
I don't want to talk about this. I don't.
Not today. Maybe not ever.
But especially not after reaching such a similar disappointing realization yesterday. Or the fact that I've been missing both their presences today, terribly.
However, it seems I've got no choice. Varric's relentless as he is endearing. And if I can trust anyone with my thoughts on this, it's him. He's too invested in the three of us to spread any rumors in fear of messing it all up.
The judgement makes me recall Fenris's and Hawke's smiling faces earlier this morning, when I first sent them off with Leandra for her chores. My heart warms at the happy memory. The sensation of seeing them both looking so cheerful and at ease around one another similar to finding a safe haven in a storm. But the constricting walls of fear and dread linger along the hurricane eye's shadows, reminding all present that this is just a fleeting respite. A possible intermission before the start of yet another trial. And a battle . . . I'm not ready to face.
"I'm thinking, I'm still not certain," I whisper, looking down, straining to dismiss the unpleasant emotions now swirling around inside me. "I'm working through a lot at the moment, and I can't imagine my life without either of them. But I believe I'm making steps in the right direction to make a decision."
And that much I'm certain.
Had he asked me any time before Leandra's-crazy-necromancer-ex-lover incident, however, I'd probably feel different. Like I was still lost at the start of the squall, instead of fighting halfway in.
But times have already changed. I'm grasping at newer, happier memories and feelings now, instead of dwelling on older ones that have kept me locked away in a cage. And I'd cast myself into the Void itself before giving up all the progress I've made. Struggle or not.
Varric watches me, his calculating gaze soaking in my every move and word. "Just . . . be careful, alright," he laments. "There. I've said my piece." He raises his hands up in front of him, in his defense.
I smile at him and resist the urge to pull him into a hug. "You're a good friend, Varric. Better than we all deserve."
"Yeah, yeah. You're making me all warm and tingly inside." The dwarf pretends to cringe then shudder. "Let's see if I can snatch a win from you yet before the others get back. I've got a reputation to keep."
And with that, the two of us begin yet another round of Diamondback, his words still spinning in the back of my head, long after the others next barge through the door.
HAWKE
It's been a hectic few days.
And without Serena's presence on the battlefield, even more so.
Between dealing with all the troubles at the Bone Pit with Sabin, Brekker, and all those blasted cavern spiders and undead, and now Seamus—the Vicount's son—going missing, only to get assassinated by the Qun-hating Mother Petrice, it'd be a bit of an understatement to say I'm a bit exhausted from all the unnecessary politics life keeps throwing at me lately.
My only sanctuary from the rising tensions: the quiet nights I've got to spend at home, drinking and playing cards with Fenris and Serena. And after the long day I've currently endured, running back and forth across Hightown to help one Lord or another, I couldn't crave anything more.
However, rather than returning home to my two usual companions waiting quietly for me around the hearth, I walk into a shouting match, echoing throughout the estate's main foyer.
"This is important. Don't interrupt with your selfish prattle!" Aveline snaps from atop the foyer's stairs.
"Get off your high horse. I have problems, too," Isabela yells from down in front of my letter table.
"Oh? 'What drink should I order?' and 'Who's the father?'"
I groan and rub my already aching forehead.
Maker, it's going to be a long night.
