SERENA
It's been eight months since the qunari left Kirkwall. Rebuilding the city has been a slow and painful process, with far too many callouses and days with little sleep to count. But the tediousness is probably much worse for Hawke.
Ever since the final battle, he's been swamped with new responsibilities as the 'noble Champion of Kirkwall'. His victory over the qunari has forced him into a position of power and influence in the city, serving as the only reasonable mediator between Meredith and Orsino, in the absence of a reigning viscount. A post that although may not be coveted, certainly holds merit.
As such, none of us have gotten to see him much of late, if at all. So, when he dropped by the mansion the other day, in search of help tracking down some coterie that've been pestering him and Bethany this past week, Fenris and I both leapt at the chance. How could we not?
If only I'd known it would end up with us standing in the middle of the Vinmark Wastes, surrounded by heat, sand, stone, crazy-stabby dwarves, mechanical death-traps, and now . . . bronto guts.
Lovely.
I lift one foot to inspect the damage to my boots soles, blood and other . . . things . . . dripping off the edges.
"Did you hear that?" Bethany asks, glancing around the wreckage of our most recent battle site inside a roofless, fenced fort. "They're after us . . . for our blood! But why?"
Hawke shrugs and taps one of the nearest, fallen carta members with the side of his foot. "Crazy people like blood. A lot."
Fenris huffs. "Clearly these dwarves are insane," he grumbles, stepping closer to me. "Perhaps even more so than Varric."
"I heard that!" Varric whips around to glare at him. He stands over by one of the fort's ramparts, while Anders kneels and heals a wide cut on his left forearm. An injury he got when dodging one of the many spear-like contraptions the enemy ambushed us with earlier, in the heat of battle. "The carta doesn't normally act like this," he insists, shaking his head. "They're businessmen!"
Hawke frowns and squats beside another slain carta member beside him in the sand, the sun blaring down on him, revealing the reddish highlights hidden in his dark brown hair. "I'd like to know who this Corypheus fellow is," he says, as he picks the dead dwarf's pocket. "With a name like that, he's bound to go 'mwa ha ha' at some point. I just know it . . . And really? More blood? Why can't it ever be spit . . . or a lock of hair? I've got plenty of hair." He strokes his unruly beard to emphasize this fact, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.
"You really want to encounter a spit mage?" Varric quirks a peculiar eyebrow at him.
"For variety, sure." He shrugs, standing upright again.
Bethany sighs. "You worry me sometimes . . ."
"Agreed." I glimpse over at her with a roll of my eyes. "Look, as much as I love this . . . little banter of yours, and experimenting with all these traps and whatnot, which I definitely do. The task at hand?"
I gesture to the closed gate at the other end of the fort, trying to get us moving forward. Or at least to stop talking about the possibility of a hair or spit mage, as appealing as such ideas may be.
But there's another hidden reason as well.
One I'm too hesitant to voice.
For as much as I want to joke about everything, and just enjoy our limited time together—mad carta men or no—I can't banish an uncomfortable . . . feeling about this place. About this venture. And such inklings rarely ever turn out to be false.
Mythal, how I hope I'm wrong for once . . .
"Sodding, flaming, nug-humping, arse-licking, knickerweasels of a blighter," I curse as I kick yet another genlock corpse, littered across my path. Perhaps the sixth I've slaughtered since we've entered this accursed, underground warden prison Rhatigan's deranged men lured us into earlier.
"That's some colorful vocabulary you've picked up." Hawke gives me a teasing side-eye, as he walks around another mound of rubble on the other side of the dusty, old thaig-like room.
Bethany and the others all approach me as well. "You doing alright, Twinkle Toes? You're not looking too well." Varric's concerned gaze turns cautious, worrisome. Like he's watching Anders, fearing Justice might soon take over.
"I'm fine," I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose.
I just need to get this blasted singing to stop.
Where in Elgar'nan's name is it coming from? I didn't hear it when we first entered the tower. But ever since we passed through that stupid entrapping barrier a few chambers back, it's been popping up non-stop, but no one else seems to be able to hear it . . .
It can't be an archdemon.
No, it's not. . . eloquent or tempting enough. So then, what is it? Why is it here?
"Are you sure you're not hurting anywhere?" Bethany gently touches my shoulder, jolting me from my thoughts. "If you are, I can always try healing you. Anders can, too."
"Right." Anders nods from his spot, slumped against the wall. But from the weary expression on his face, and his hunched over posture, I'm guessing he's finally started to hear the nonsense, too.
Great. I guess it really is a warden thing, then. Fantastic.
"I'm fine," I insist again, this time with more emphasis. "Let's focus on figuring out how the heck to get out of here and why Hawke got all gold and glowy with that . . . thing." I point at the bizarre 'sword' he picked up when he first looted Rhatigan's corpse, the leader of the carta that baited us here.
It's unsettling to me how he basically lit up like Fenris when he picked up the strange weapon. But nothing compares to the nervousness plaguing my every thought and action over this song I'm hearing. The anxiety inside begging me to get out of here, for us to get away from whatever's calling me deeper into the tower chasm. A realistic nightmare returned from the depths, forever destined to haunt me, in this world and the Beyond.
The singing's getting louder, more pronounced.
The further we descend into the warden prison, the more difficult blocking it out becomes.
Our group struts out of yet another ancient hall, riddled with rubble, shattered walls and tile, and golden griffin statues. Up ahead lies the next bridge. As we near it, I notice something move behind a large boulder at the halfway mark. Something with the taint.
I grasp at my scythe, prepared to dash forward and take whatever's hiding there down.
But stop.
It's a limping human.
He stands up and looks over us with wide, glazed over pupils, clumps of light brown hair missing across his beard and scalp. "The key!" he shouts and hobbles over to us like a lyrium-addled beggar. "The dwarves! I heard them! Looking. Digging. How do you bring the key here?" He scowls at us, his body hunched sideways, seemingly unable to remain standing upright.
"You mean . . . this?" Hawke lifts his new weird-looking sword he took from Rhatigan. "How is this a key?"
"Magic. Old magic it is. Magic from the blood. It made the seals. It can destroy them!" The human fidgets and glances around the area, the shiftiness of his behavior putting me more on edge than actual darkspawn. At least they're a bit more focused and predictable. And we know whether they're a threat or not.
"I came in here to find Corypheus." Hawke tells the human. "Do you know where or what he is?"
"Sh! Do not say his name!" the shem snaps. "He will hear you! Do not wake him! Not when you hold the key!" He points at the relic with one wavering, gloved finger. His focus latched onto it, as if it's the only thing of importance in the room.
Varric sighs. "I don't think we're getting any help here, Hawke."
"Neither do I," I mutter, as yet another verse of incomprehensible singing echoes in my head.
"Hawke?" The shem cocks his head at him. "You are the blood of the Hawke? I smell no magic on you . . ." He crinkles up his nose, as if he just tried. " . . . But you hold the key. The key to his death. Yes. I can show you out. Yes."
He keeps prattling on with Hawke, but in truth, I stop listening.
The song mutes everything else out, granting me access to only a few, rare spoken fragments. I hear the human mention Hawke, how he must use the key to release more seals, that we have to keep going down, further into the depths.
And then I notice the sick human dart away, waving for us to follow him across the rest of the bridge.
"This is why I prefer the surface," Varric mutters.
"You and me both," I mumble.
"Name . . . so long since I've said my name," the tainted shem murmurs, just after we destroyed the first seal and Hawke absorbed its power. "La . . . Larius. I was Larius." He faces a Grey Warden shield hung on the wall. "There . . . was a title, too. Commander. Commander of the Grey."
He turns back to look at us, and a horrid realization dawns on me, taking in full view of his dirty blue and grey armor.
I don't know why I didn't recognize it before. Maybe it was the distraction from the song, or I wasn't that interested. But the truth remains . . .
"He was a warden," Anders gasps. "Poor wretch must have come down here on his Calling."
"Yes! The Calling!" Larius's eyebrows shoot up. "The songs get louder. Only death stops them. I am dead. But I never died."
My heart stops.
Every limb of mine tenses.
The Calling?
No . . .
Fear fills me to the brim. It hurts to stand, to breathe.
Is that what I'm hearing?
Am I nearing my Calling? Anders, too?
"Anders? What are you talking about?" Hawke narrows his eyes at him.
Anders glimpses over at me, but I'm stuck, my entire being rooted in place. Frozen with fear. "Wardens aren't immune to the taint forever," he explains. "In time, we start to hear voices. The same ones darkspawn hear. That's when they send you into the Deep Roads to die."
That's one way to put it.
Nothing like a thirty-year secret death sentence to rouse people to a cause. Even better when no one finds out about it until after the joining. Or the fact that we have to drink darkspawn blood in order to achieve our status and skills.
If only we could say the blood cocktail tasted like rum, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad. We might even get some more recruits out of it. Oghren would probably vouch for it.
Hawke looks back at Larius. "If you're a warden, then do you know what just happened? What does the seal have to do with my blood?"
"The magic—it calls to the blood, reads the thoughts of those who hold it. The last to hold it, the Hawke. I . . ." Larius curls into himself like a regretful child. "I was there when he laid the seals. Before I became this. You favor him."
Larius jolts and turns around, fidgeting in rejuvenated panic.
"C-Corypheus calls!" he says. "In the darkness! What waits there?"
I don't want to find out, but our group follows Larius, nonetheless, as he scurries across the next bridge, deeper into the tower.
A few feet in, the song picks up again. Tempting. Pulling. Calling. The voice twisted in some foreign, incomprehensible tongue.
"I'm not listening. I'm not listening," Anders whispers by my side, covering his ears, his eyes clenched shut.
Everyone turns to face him. "Anders are you alright?" Hawke asks.
Anders just keeps muttering to himself beside me, oblivious to everything else happening around him.
"We have to find a way to calm him down!" Bethany gently links her arm around his lifted elbow, an act he doesn't resist.
"He'll kill us all, if he allows this insanity to take him!" Fenris snaps, scowling at Anders.
Rage courses through me at Fenris's heartless tone.
"You don't understand!" I yell at him, making him and the others flinch. "None of you understand! So just shut your traps and keep moving! Bethany and I will take care of him."
And just like that, I grab Anders's other arm, and push our group forward, down the next hall. Refusing to look anyone in the eye.
If this is to be our Calling, so be it. We'll at least walk into it together, side by side.
HAWKE
"Wait. I need a minute . . . " Serena suddenly speaks up, after we've broken and absorbed the power of the second seal.
She sits down on a nearby rock, sweat coating her from head to toe. She hasn't said a word since her last angry outburst a floor level back. However, she looks even more troubled and unwound compared to before. And I doubt all the darkspawn, sealed demons, and my father's reoccurring ghost are the reason to blame. Although, all three continue to shock and worry me plenty, what with their uncovered relation to my family.
"What's wrong?" I ask, walking over to her, concern now rising, deep in my blood.
Serena doesn't respond. She just continues panting with her head hung low, bowed between her knees. It's like she's fighting off hurling or passing out.
"The taint is strong in this one." Larius staggers over to us. He peers down at Serena and tilts his head. "Yes. Very strong."
My heart drops into my stomach. "What do you mean?"
"He means exactly what it sounds like." Serena looks up, cold determination shimmering in her crystal-clear gaze. "My full name is . . . Serena Mahariel. Former Grey-Warden Commander and Arlessa of Amaranthine. But you all probably know me better as the Hero of Ferelden."
My breath hitches in the back of my throat.
"What?" I whisper, slack-jawed.
All my fear from a second ago, worrying that she might've picked up the blight sickness on our way here, disappears, replaced with confusion and an unplaceable feeling.
"You heard me." Her thin eyebrows knit together to form a scowl. "I might as well get this all out now. Might not get another chance at this rate."
She grimaces as though suffering from a sudden headache, her hands pressing hard against the top of her temples.
My thoughts spin.
Grey Warden? Hero of Ferelden?
Pieces of our past flicker through my head. I see our last trip into the Deep Roads, her fear of its depths, her skilled fighting style, and our first meeting and interaction with Anders.
"Is that . . . Is that how you two met?" I point at our other known warden, who's now leaning heavily against his staff. "She was your commanding officer?"
"Bingo." He flashes me a strained smirk, an equal amount of sweat coating his blanched face.
Varric and I both blink at each other. Words fail me and seem to skip him as well.
Just when I thought she couldn't possibly be hiding any more secrets, she unloads this one on us here? Now?
I ruffle my fingers through my hair, trying my best to swallow the climbing rage bubbling up inside me.
So much for all the progress I thought we made.
"Are you going to be alright? Should one of us help carry you?" I somehow ask in a calm, professional manner.
Serena's head snaps up. "Fenedhis, no!" she exclaims with wide, horrified eyes, as if I've just threatened her life. "Just . . . give me a minute. The song will quiet down."
She takes in a few deep breaths. Slowly. Painfully slowly. Her whole body trembling. Her hands noticeably shaking.
Without glancing up at any of us, she rises to her feet again, using her scythe to keep her balanced. A good call based off her wobbly footing.
"Alright. I'm ready," she says.
She pivots toward Anders, who seems to be struggling to stay upright as well.
"Anders?" she calls out to him.
They both meet eye contact, and he nods.
"Let's go," she insists, passing me and going forward. "The two of us can't get out of this place fast enough."
FENRIS
Both Serena's and the abomination's conditions have continued to deteriorate ever since their big reveal. All the while I have felt uneasy, on the back of my heels, and for one reason.
She is a warden. The Warden. The one from legend. And I never knew.
How could I not see it? The hints: they were all there. Plain for everyone to witness.
How could we all have been so blind?
Such questions hound my every thought as I watch her waver back and forth in front of me. She can hardly walk straight now down the seemingly endless, derelict halls, even while using her scythe as a walking staff. But she and the abomination continue to press onward, deeper into the tower chasm, haunted by unknown darkspawn voices, yet, undeterred.
She stumbles, and I lurch forward to catch her by the arm. She does not complain, as she usually would, merely bobs her head with a grateful bow. The most she has acknowledged my presence this past hour, much more anything else.
"How deep does this hole go?" I growl with growing agitation. Hating seeing her like this and being helpless to do anything about it.
Larius glimpses over his shoulder at me, his dull grey eyes emptier than a demon's. "We will reach the bottom soon enough," he says. "Won't be long now."
And for once since meeting the blighted lunatic, I wish to trust him, if only so it will lead us out of this loathsome abyss faster. For good.
We have at last reached the bottom of the warden prison. Although, it resembles more of an underground bog compared to what one might expect.
The green mist that lingered in the upper floors pervades the bowels here, swirling around another large tower, looming in the distance. Our supposed exit. A murky body of water, beset with crumbled ruins, winding dirt paths, and ranges of pointed stalagmites sets the stage for our pest-infested route to our 'salvation'. We have just finished scouting another dead end along the zig-zagging track, where Hawke gave the final rites to Varric's presumed royal ancestor—Tethras Garen.
But there is no more time for sentimentality here, to which Varric and I agree. Both Serena and Anders appear to be hanging onto consciousness by a thread. A very thin, breakable thread.
"Stop! Just make him stop talking! Make him stop!" the abomination wails, grasping and shaking his head again.
"Hang in there, Blondie. We're going to get you and Twinkle Toes out of this," Varric tries to assure him. Although, I don't see why. His words obviously don't work, for either of them.
I glimpse over at Serena, who's grimacing on the other side of the abomination, fighting her own quiet battle. Just as she has done, ever since they first started hearing the 'voices'.
"Anders. It's going to be all right. We'll help you through this." Bethany rubs the abomination's back.
The tormented mage shrugs away from her, clinging onto his staff even tighter, like a snot-nosed child.
"How can anything live here?" I clench my fists and glance around the barren wasteland, hating how useless I feel in this hopeless situation. "What do the darkspawn feed on?"
"They don't eat," Anders grits out through clenched teeth, his madness passing, albeit only the short-term part of it. "The taint sustains them."
"Perfect," I scoff.
That must make their numbers almost innumerable. Just what we need.
We round another corner, across a narrow bridge, and Anders hunches forward with a stuttered groan.
"What's wrong?" Hawke whirls around to face him, everyone halting.
"I can't . . . the voices," he says. "Wardens. The Joining. I have too much taint in my blood. I can't shut him out!"
He curls further into himself, his head held tight between his hands as he rocks back and forth, his ashen fingers clutching desperately at his scalp.
"Anders, you can fight this." Serena hobbles closer to him. "I know you can."
"Help me," he whispers, glimpsing up at her. "I will not . . . be controlled!"
A flare of brilliant blue light encompasses the mage, its bitter, familiar prickling igniting intense fire across my brands.
The arrival signal of Justice.
"Anders! No!" Serena jumps forward, grabbing him by the face.
There's another bright flash of light—green this time—and Serena and the abomination are both thrust back, away from each other.
Hawke and I both catch Serena, while the abomination falls beside Varric and Bethany. The unnatural lights between the two of them: gone. But neither of them moving.
