HAWKE

The estate's lit hearth flickers before me, casting a warm, if not timid, glow over the darkened foyer.

It's a welcome relief after the long trek home from the Vinmark Wastes. Although, I could go without all the dried blood and sand sticking to me, too. But that's nothing a hot bath won't fix. Even if it does take two washes. Maybe three.

But that'll have to wait a while longer yet. I still need some time to gather myself first.

Bethany and Mother both just left me to my thoughts after our brief conversation about what transpired in the warden prison. A discussion I dreaded the whole way back, in fear Mother might keel over upon learning its more alarming details. Father's involvement surprisingly being the least of them.

Despite my worries, however, Mother seemed awfully upbeat about the whole thing. You'd think we'd just told her we discovered a long-forgotten, destroyed family heirloom, not the fact that Father was a secret blood mage, who happened to be involved in an age-old magic ritual. Which, oh, by the way, sealed away demons, darkspawn, and a fabled chantry monstrosity, at the behest of blackmailing Grey Wardens.

As Varric would say, you couldn't make this shit up.

Yet, somehow she took it all in stride, only barely batting an eyelash.

'We must think of tomorrow' and 'need to make the best of it' was her exact phrasing and opinion on the matter, before she sauntered off to bed, without evident care in the world.

'It's relieving.' That's what I should say.

I should be ecstatic that she's not upset. That she won't lose any sleep over it.

But no.

It's maddening.

How could she take this so well? Act so blasé? Father being a blood mage is surprising info enough, coming from such a strict man, who preached against blood magic and excess risk at every turn.

That creature on the other hand, though . . . Corypheus.

How am I supposed take all of this? And its connection to our family? To the Grey Wardens? And Serena!

Maker, Serena!

"Ugh. I'm too sober for this . . ." I mutter.

I inhale a deep breath and lean forward, propping my arms up against the foyer hearth. The cool stone on my skin serves as a grounding anchor, binding me to the present. I struggle to reel my thoughts back in, to calm down, using the sensation as a concentration point.

But it's no use. My head's a rattled mess. The stress: it's still rising. And I'm starting to feel rather like a tattered rope about to snap.

The estate's front door clicks open and closed in the night's heavy silence. I peek over my shoulder at the room's connecting entryway, curious to see who it might be. Bodahn, Sandal, Orana, and Mother all went off to bed hours ago, leaving me the last one up, to stew over my thoughts. So, it can't be any of them.

Serena and Fenris march into the foyer not a moment later, strutting in like they own the place. As usual. The Dalish twirls one lockpick between her nimble fingertips, spinning it back and forth line a pinwheel with confident finesse. She stops upon noticing me. A broad, playful smile tugs at her lips. "You should really consider changing your locks, you know." She smugly halts and crosses her arms. "Any rogue with a decent set of lockpicks can barge right in. Unless . . . that's what you're hoping for, lethallin?"

She raises her eyebrows at me, her teasing curiosity on full display.

I chuckle. "Ah, you caught me! I do rather enjoy people constantly breaking into my home. It keeps the days interesting."

Serena and Fenris both quietly snicker.

Burying my earlier internal, emotional spiral, I stand up straight and face them head on. "What are you two doing here?" I squint at them, feeling a tad better, but also confused by their presence. "I thought you two were already on your way back to the mansion?"

"She insisted." Fenris waves an armored at her.

Serena wrings her fingers in front of her chest and lowers her head. An uncommon reaction from the proud warrior. Even more so in this situation. "I-I know this must've been a lot," she stammers, staring straight down at the floor, her long, dark hair draping along the sides of her face. "For more reasons than one. I wanted to check to see if you were alright. Or if you needed to talk. We're here for you, if you do, you know."

My eyes widen, realization hitting me faster than collapsing bricks.

They were worried about me.

About how my family's involvement in all this might be affecting me. Among other things.

The stiffness in my taut muscles laxes. I smile and pace over to my usual seat, a few feet behind me. Bodahn's propped it up against the wall again, in the corner between our common card game table and my letter table, on the far side of the hearth. Something he almost always does while cleaning nowadays, since our typical meetups have become so far and few between of late. Another unfortunate side effect of my city saving and being named the new 'Champion of Kirkwall'. How I'm starting to hate that title . . .

Plopping into the chair's soft, red cushions, I motion for the others to pull up their own, like we used to. They do so with a moment of notable hesitance, perhaps surprised by the extension, and I lean forward to grasp at the three tankards I keep stashed on the table for their visits. None of which have been touched in ages—excluding for Orana's occasional wash downs and dusting. Bless the young, attentive girl's heart.

I grab one of the two bottles of wine sitting beside the mugs, opting for the Rivaini red Isabela recommended to me a while back. She said it's supposed to be strong enough to knock any tolerant sailor off his feet, so I've been holding onto it for just such a occasion. Andraste knows I'll need it, if we're having this sort of discussion tonight. I've never been good at speaking about my feelings. But it seems I'm going to have to try.

One by one, I pour us all a glass of the foreign vintage, then lift mine up for a quick whiff.

It smells . . . strong. Fruity. Like . . . cranberry? With hints of . . . what is that?

I dare a small sip, allowing the dark, liquid courage to dance across my taste-buds.

Ah, smoked oak. That's what it is! Not bad either.

I take another, larger gulp, relishing in the bold aftertaste and the added bravery I'm certain it'll grant further down the line. Serena and Fenris both do the same.

When we're all finished taste-tasting, I lower my mug and consider my next few words carefully.

"I've been thinking," I start, still uncertain where this statement might take me. "About if this is really the right path for me going forward or not."

"What do you mean?" Serena cocks her head to the side, identical to a small bird, expecting to be thrown more bread.

'The Champion of Kirkwall' . . . Everything." I shrug. "Danger seems to stalk our every move. And as the years go by, the threats only continue to mount . . . It makes me worry whether or not they'll ever cease—or if it might be best for everyone if I were to just . . . leave."

"Leave . . . to go where?" Serena glimpses over at Fenris.

Both the elves arch a quizzical eyebrow at me. Waiting.

"I don't know." I sigh, swirling my drink. The action makes me feel like an Orlesian diplomat, pretending to be an experienced wine connoisseur. Or a runt, playing a wannabe noble. Carver and I enacted the latter option often enough when growing up, much to Mother's and Bethany's aggravation. But, oh, how we loved to piss them off. "It's just a thought. Perhaps a stupid one, at that."

Much like our distant childhood games.

Fenris chuckles into his tankard, tipping it back almost to full capacity.

I suppose that must mean he likes it. High praise coming from the particular elf. I'll have to inform Isabela. I imagine she'll find it to be a nice bargaining chip the next time they've got a debt to settle. Myself and Varric included.

"Hawke, whatever you decide to do, we'll always be here for you, like you've been here for us." Serena fixates her stunning teal eyes on me again. The way they glimmer in the dim firelight rivals that of the finest jewels, or the clearest seas. A beautiful, breathtaking vortex, sucking me in. One I could find myself getting lost in—willingly—for days.

Struck completely speechless by both the sight and her words, I miraculously manage a nod. No doubt looking like an open-mouthed dullard. A hapless mute.

Serena smiles, the kindness and joy reaching her gaze.

But the light in her expression quickly fades. As if cast out, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind.

She hunches forward to rest both elbows on her knees, the newfound gloom pushing her down. "I . . . also want to apologize. Again," she says, clenching tight onto her drink. "For only adding to your worries earlier . . . By not telling you both that I'm a warden—the warden. I should've before now. I wanted to. But in all honesty . . . I was afraid. Afraid what telling you all might mean. How different you might treat me . . . and . . . although I know it's selfish . . . I wanted to forget . . .Living with the taint, it's not easy. It's often the reason behind my nightmares. And sometimes, just thinking about it on my own, I—"

Her lips clamp shut.

A faint flicker of fear burns in her eyes. Equal to the time when we first got trapped in the Deep Roads.

She gulps down whatever's bothering her, hard. The internal spell breaking. Dissipating with a long, reticent sigh. "I didn't want to trouble you all further." She avoids making eye contact with us and shifts in place. "You've all got enough to deal with, without adding more of my problems to the mix."

She smirks up at me at the last part, at last deigning to look at us again. But despite the teasing tone of her expression and delivery, there's a hint of vulnerability still lingering there, in her depths, as if we've just broken down yet another one of her many hidden barriers. Perhaps the largest yet.

The concept fills me with more joy and hope than I thought possible, quelling any suppressed anger or vexation I've harbored since the tower.

However, that doesn't mean I've fully forgiven her. Yet.

She's kept far too many secrets. Offered far too many abrupt disclosures—some with potentially lethal consequences—and she'll need to earn her way back into all of our good graces to make amends. Which I for one intend to milk to our advantage. Perhaps by fishing for more information, when normally she might divulge none.

"I suppose I also should've put two and two together," I relent, giving in to the idea. "A powerful, Dalish mage and warrior, who happened to come to Kirkwall, right after the blight, fostering a major hatred for darkspawn and the Deep Roads? Not to mention you knew Anders, and I recall you mentioning venturing into some old, dwarven thaigs in the past. Isn't that right?"

Serena cringes and rubs the back of her neck. "Yeahhhh . . . That was a slip of the tongue on my part," she mutters, glancing away. "Thought Varric might've caught me there for a second."

"He probably almost did, if we didn't get so distracted with the whole red lyrium idol and Bartrand trying to kill us portion."

We all chuckle at the morbid memory. Something I doubt any of us ever considered doing beyond those fateful nights. Except maybe Varric. But Varric can find a list of reasons to laugh at just about anything. It's a perk, stemming from his natural love of storytelling and unexpected twists.

Turning serious again, I stare down at the dark, red wine in my cup. The obscurity of its surface reminding me of Serena's usual veneer. "I understood why you hid it from us," I acknowledge. "My troubles are nothing compared to what you used to contend with . . . Assuming all the rumors are true, that is."

I flash Serena a curious look, my scheming plan at last coming to fruition.

Serena shrugs. "If you want to ask, by all means do so, lethallin. No point in hiding any of it all now."

I lift a testing eyebrow at her. "Archdemon?" I pose.

"Yep. Stabbed it through the head and everything." She emphasizes with one swift strike of her fist.

"The Urn of Sacred ashes?"

"Oh, yes! But let me tell you: getting to the ashes was the fun and easy part. The crazed, dragon-worshiping lunatics inhabiting the place? Not so much."

I purse my lips and bob my head, taking in her words carefully on that one. "I assume that must be why that one lady from Haven's after you then, huh? Revenge?"

Serena tenses.

Ah, yes. Caught her there.

"Yes . . . that's . . . probably a good guess," she whispers, shrinking into herself.

That answers one thing. But I'm not about to yield now.

"What about this magister, though?" I recline further back in my seat. "I understand your magic is . . . different. And the visions and whatnot. But it seems there must be something more to their persistence than that."

Serena's brow furrows. "I-I don't know," she stutters, and for once, I can tell she's telling the truth. As skilled as she is at putting up a mask, she's horrible at lying the second it's broken down. "They've been hunting me for as long as I can remember. I just assume they want to use me as a new experiment, a new opportunity for them to grasp at power."

"A likely plot," Fenris concurs with a cold, distant glare. Probably thinking of Danarius.

A heavy silence fills the room between us again.

It looks like that's something we're still going to have to look into.

At least we know a little bit more now, in terms of their motivations, however.

"Disregarding the magister and Haven woman," I continue on, eager to ask the millions of other questions I've held onto, "why did you flee Ferelden? You were Warden-Commander of the Grey! The esteemed Hero of Ferelden! Worshiped by all who live there, like a living saint, who helped stop the blight! Why leave that to come here? The wardens could've protected you far better than simply slipping into hiding like this."

I motion to our three wretched states. All of us covered in various degrees of dirt, blood, and unmentionable muck.

Serena curls into herself more. A sudden gloom looms over her hunched shoulders. "I lost the person I loved. Again," she whispers in a slow, hesitant drawl. "Someone I thought more important than anyone else. Than anything else. And I . . . I couldn't take it. Anything that might remind me of the past—of him. I just wanted to start over. To forget. It's the only way I felt I could keep breathing. And when I found myself in Kirkwall, after traveling around by ship, it seemed like the best option at the time. And not long afterward, I met you, and my clan, and I just . . . stayed."

She trails off, and I get the feeling she really can't speak more of it.

I've known for a long time whatever tore her from Ferelden must've been something significant. Something traumatic. Life changing. There was no other viable explanation for her extreme aversion to what should be expected first-conversation topics.

But knowing she's the Warden now adds a whole new bitter meaning to the situation. To know she put in so much for a worthy cause, only to sacrifice everything to retreat here, as a shadow of the once exalted hero . . .

It's just a bit too hard to swallow. More so because she lost her lover. A lover she cherished, who I still know next to nothing about.

Who she still holds onto.

My heart pangs at the concept.

"It's been almost five years since then," I whisper, swallowing down the acidic emotions I know will do me no good. "Do you still have no intention of going back? Of letting people know who you are?"

If my voices comes off desperate, it's because I am. I want to find a light in this familiar tale. No matter how deep I have to dig, or how many questions I have to ask.

Serena cracks a small smile at me. "What? Hoping you could have one more powerful friend of status here, to help you sort out this mess?"

I shrug. "An extra pair of reasonable hands certainly wouldn't hurt." Especially when dealing with people as dangerous and stubborn as Orsino and Meredith.

Serena frowns. "I-I don't know, Hawke." She hangs her head. "I don't know if I can ever go back—to Ferelden, that title. I still just want to leave everything from my past behind and move forward, like all of you have been doing . . . I lost too much to the blight, to the wardens, and I'd prefer to keep it that way. Without sacrificing anything else . . . Anyone else."

She sits up straight and lifts her tankard high into the air, her earlier smirk and proud mask returning.

"And besides! Kirkwall's got plenty of action for me here anyways. I've never felt so on my toes before! Templars, coterie, and slavers all around! And I, an unknown Grey Warden, Dalish, apostate, living out in the open, while still technically in hiding! You sure know how to pick your friends, don't you Hawke?"

I snort. "You know me. Friends everywhere!" I wave one exaggerative hand about the room. But then I groan and massage my temples, recalling our most recent trouble with 'friends' at the Vinmark Wastes. "I can't even say that right now without wanting to vomit. . . "

Fenris smirks and grabs the bottle of red from the center of our table. "Finally too much trouble for you to handle?" He asks, while lazily refilling our glasses.

"Never." I smile at him, lifting my filled cup up to my lips. "But I don't want to see another carta member for at least three months. I'll never get this muck off my boots!"