SERENA

Green fog stretches on as far as I can see. A veil of mist obscuring any possible scenery.

I attempt to wade my way through the endless murk, the clouds drifting all around me, winding like wayward puffs of smoke.

About twelve steps in, I come across a small, woodland clearing. A brown-haired, elven girl sits on the ground in front of a handful of floating spirits, her expression blurred. One of the spirits appears different than the rest. Rather than merely sporting a genderless, faceless form, like most disembodied spirits of the Fade, it resembles a robed woman with a kind and beautiful face. The softness in it exuding profound love and understanding, like that of a mother. A guardian. A face I could swear I remember seeing somewhere before, but I can't recall where.

"Why do you not join the other children in their games, young one?" the robed spirit asks as the girl finishes braiding some white flowers together in her lap.

The girl hesitates, the scene and are her actions oddly familiar, and perplexing. "They're scared of me," she whispers. "But that's okay. I prefer playing with you all anyways."

The robed spirit sighs.

She hovers closer to the small child, one gentle hand brushing against the elven girl's rosy cheek.

"Sweetest heart," she says. "You must enjoy your present with those you care deepest about, while you still can. For one day, pride, duty, and sacrifice will sunder your paths apart. Remember this, child. And it remember it well. Cherish these moments. For alas, only Light in darken'd time breaks."

The spirit pulls back, and suddenly, I'm now sitting on the floor in front of the spirit, holding the flowers. I look back and forth between the braided foliage and the spirit, and something in my head clicks.

The sensation equivalent to a physical jostle to the brain.

This child . . . it's me.


I gasp and open my eyes, the dream within the Fade quickly disappearing.

Or I suppose I should say memory. Whatever it is, it's still not making much sense to me.

Breathing heavily, I lurch forward, sitting straight up. My heart's beating so fast I can feel it pounding in my throat. My stinging and very irritated throat.

"You're awake!" Alistair's relieved voice calls out to me, somewhere beyond the daze.

I glance around my surroundings, searching for him.

I'm lying in a colorful bed, covered in furs. Peculiar little baubles decorate the adjacent floor and walls. Such things range from patterned fabrics, to risque nude paintings, to a horde of dangling colored crystals, wrapped in white thread.

Alistair, Isabela, and Hawke sit gathered at a small table at the center of the bedroom, situated between me and the door. Watching me. Wide-eyed. Completely stiff.

"Where . . . am I? What happened?" I ask, trying my best to fixate on them, my chest still heaving, as though I've just run for miles.

"We're at the Hanged Man, in Isabela's room," Hawke answers, pivoting in his seat. "You're safe. We won."

"Won?" I quirk an eyebrow at him.

"Against the magister. He's dead. Very dead. It helps when one of your allies turns out to be an ex-templar, and a bunch of city guardsmen show up, prepared to stab him where it hurts."

He smirks over at Alistair, who offers a wide grin in return. They exchange a brief nod. A renewed accord between like-minded comrades.

Hawke's gaze darkens then. His shoulders droop from a sudden touch of gloom. "The Haven woman, unfortunately, couldn't be found," he says, staring down at the table. "She apparently took off, not long before we arrived. At least, according to the captive we questioned."

The memories of my imprisonment and subsequent escape slowly come back to me.

I recall being ambushed, being chained up in that cage, the magister and that woman coming to speak to me. Hawke and the others showed up not long after that. And then, there was the big conversation on deck with the magister. But after snapping at him, everything sort of just . . . cuts out. The very last thing I'm able to remember is hearing a loud, ringing noise. Darkness followed, along with a familiar flash of green.

Then, there was that dream.

I gulp, recalling the spirits from the forgotten 'memory' and the declarations the magister made aboard the ship. "That magister . . . he called me . . . a Dreamer," I whisper, rubbing at my aching forehead.

The title sounds just as ridiculous now. But that 'memory' gives it a whole new meaning entirely.

I catch Hawke and Isabela glimpse at each other and shift uncomfortably in their seats. But it's not the type of discomfort I expect. No, their faces emanate guilt. Understanding. Knowing.

Dread sinks like a fired arrow into the pit of my stomach. "Did you . . . already know?" I ask, the words almost impossible to get out.

They both continue avoiding making eye contact with me, while Alistair merely fidgets in his chair, observing the three of us with a confused, puppy-dog frown.

"How?" I persist, glaring at the two of them. "How, Hawke?"

Hawke sighs and tilts his head all the way back, over the top of his chair. "Merrill told us," he relents. "When you collapsed a few years ago, back on the coast. She said the clan hid it from you, when you went through a similar experience as Feynriel as a child, that made you forget."

I clench tight onto the soft, fur blankets covering my legs.

Every part of me feels heavy. The breath's knocked clear out of me.

"So, now I can't even trust my own family to tell me the truth?" I scoff, shaking my head.

"They did it to protect you! You were afraid. You were—"

"Weak," I interrupt. "I was weak! But I still deserved to know!"

I pause and reflect even further on the magister's earlier words, spoken inside my cell. Specifically, the ones regarding my parents this time.

He also claimed that both my parents were mages. Another keen fact the clan kept hidden away from me, if it indeed turns out to be the truth. And from the way he spoke about them as well, my mother didn't just disappear into the moonlight one night either, as Ashalle claimed . . .

"The secrets and lies just keep unraveling. Only this time, I had no part to play in withholding any of it." I hunch forward and rake my fingers through my tangled hair, feeling crushed. Heartbroken. Betrayed. And by those who held my deepest trust.

It hurts.

Profound confusion, relief, anger, and despair all well up inside me, expanding like a dam about to burst.

"I need some time to process this," I whisper.

I need to be alone.

Isabela lifts up both Hawke and Alistair by the arm. "Take all the time you need, sweet thing," she insists, tugging them over towards the door. "Fenris and Varric should be returning with Anders any moment to get you all patched up. If you need anything in the meantime, we'll be waiting for you downstairs."

I nod and watch with an appreciative smile as she drags a stumbling Alistair and Hawke out into the hall, both of them gawking and questioning her, as she shuts the door behind them with a playful wink.

Their voices trail off into the distance, down the hall. Leaving me alone to my thoughts, and a much-needed, reflective silence.


"Anything else I can get you, messere?" Bodahn asks as I take another sip from the steaming mug of hot cocoa, he insisted on bringing me early this morning.

"No, that'll do. Thank you, Bodahn." I nod to the beaming dwarf, dismissing him.

"Very well. Just call if you need anything."

He bows and disappears out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him.

I groan and glance back over at the guest bedroom's gleaming fireplace.

I'm currently staying at the Hawke estate again, in my usual guest quarters, curled up in a lone armchair beside the flickering flames. Brooding.

It was a requirement forced upon me by all the others, due to their continued insistence that they've yet to guarantee my safety—what with the Haven woman still on the loose, without any promising leads to her whereabouts.

I expected as much from Hawke, Anders, and Fenris when our group met up to discuss the situation in person the day after my rescue. They've always been an overprotective trio, for as long as I can remember. But even Aveline and Isabela pushed for the decision as well. So, it's not as though I could refuse.

And when Alistair and Seneschal Bran insisted on behalf of the nobles worries, too . . . Well, that settled that. What I wanted didn't matter anymore. It had become a political subject, and it was expected of me to comply for the good of the realm.

You'd think they'd have a little bit more faith in me, though. I'm the bloody Hero of Ferelden for Mythal's sake!

Yes, the magister and his lackeys caught me by surprise. I won't deny that, and it was my own fault. But it was one time, out of how many years since I've been on the run?

I sink back deeper into my chair, exasperated from the frustration beyond all measure.

The entirety of this ordeal is really starting to weigh on me. Dealing with the most recent revelations have been hard enough to cope with as it is, considering their massive consequences and implications, but sitting around doing nothing but think about it isn't helping, either.

I need answers. Fast. Otherwise, I'll go insane before ever coming up a plan to keep pushing forward. Which is kind of crucial, what with those . . . spirits and the Chantry involved.

Oh, and of course there's also the issue of the clan keeping secrets from me as well—about my family and Dreamer status, too. Important facts they might've been holding onto for years, mind you. That—I don't know—could help explain how I might better learn to control said powers. Or perhaps better help me understand the visions I've struggled with since my youth. Or why the Tevinters want me so bad to begin with.

Small matters, obviously. Nothing to make a fuss over.

That's why they must've kept it secret, of course. No point wasting time discussing senseless trivialities when a rogue halla might be running about.

"Ugh." I roll my eyes at my own sarcasm, the intensity and accuracy being even too much for me to bear.

There's a soft knock at the bedroom door.

"Come in," I answer. But in all honesty, it almost comes out as a groan.

Alistair steps inside, adorned in the King's legendary and spotless, silverite armor. "You seem to be healing up well." He grins at me from ear to ear. It's the same lighthearted smile he gave me at our first meeting inside the ruins of Ostagar. One that established us as friends almost immediately, if our continued jokes didn't do so afterward. Awkward shem and human relationship boundaries first excluded.

"I could live without the royal treatment, but you know how that goes." I wave over to the endless flower bouquets, bunched together in the far corner of the room. Just a few of the many 'get well' gifts that have been flowing in from the local nobility the past few days, ever since word got out that the Hero of Ferelden endured such mistreatment at the hands of a Tevinter magister. And within the protection of Kirkwall to boot!

"Right. That I do." Alistair smirks, looking over at the collection and letting out a faint chuckle. "Well, anyways, I'm glad you're feeling better. But unfortunately, I'm going to . . . have to head back to Ferelden now. I've stalled Teagan long enough, and he's rather insistent we get back to our other issues at hand."

"Issues? What kind of issues?"

"Oh, you know. The usual." He shrugs. "Questioning Grey Wardens, Orlesian nobles scheming to steal their old province back. Nothing too fancy. I . . . don't suppose I could convince you to come with?"

I don't miss the hopeful tone in his voice. And for a moment, I'm tempted to accept.

I miss Alistair. I miss the simplicity of living in Ferelden. My home, where I grew up. Where we forged so many memories and bonds together, both during and after the blight.

But I can't.

"No, I'm . . . afraid I still have responsibilities here." I hang my head.

The clan being one. The chaos of Kirkwall, the missing Haven woman, and my free research into the taint being others.

"Very well." Alistair sighs. "I expected as much, so I won't trouble you on it further. Just know, that should you ever reconsider it, the offer stands. All you ever have to do is ask."

I smile at him, my heart brimming with warmth at his declaration. "Thank you, Alistair. I mean it." I stand up and step closer to wrap him up in a tight hug, which he returns without hesitance. "Dareth shiral, lethallin," I whisper, fighting back burning tears. Saying goodbye again. Not knowing when or if we'll ever see each other once more. "Have a safe trip home," I mutter, my voice on the verge of breaking.

Alistair squeezes me tighter in his arms, perhaps feeling just as upset by the underlying connotations.

After a tense, quiet moment of holding each other like this, the two of us step away from each other, and Alistair heads over to the door. "Oh, and before I forget!" He pauses and glances back at me from the empty archway. "This might just be the ex-templar in me talking, but I suggest keeping an extra close eye on this Meredith character I've heard so much about. There's something . . . not quite right there."

He shakes his head, like he's disturbed by something. His well-known 'Alistair senses' tingling, as Wynne would put it.

"Duly noted." I grin, crossing my arms. "Goodbye, Alistair."

"Until we meet again, my friend." And with a sad smile, Alistair bows his head and exits out into the hall.

I watch him leave with a stinging pain in my heart.

Why? Why does nothing feel right anymore? What happened to the better times from three years ago? Or seven?

I groan and pinch at the bridge of my nose. The heartache from earlier increasing at the comparison.

Desperate for a change in outlook, a distraction, anything, I step over to the nearby window, overlooking an adjacent Hightown side-street, leading to the Blooming Rose. A slight draft whisks through the divide between the two window panes, bringing with it the slight chill of the bitter, morning air. Small groups of people wander about the brightening stone walkways below, carrying about their business without noticeable cares in the world.

Among them, I notice Hawke, coming from the direction of the infamous Hightown brothel, alongside Fenris and Isabela. An unlikely grouping so early in the morning, immediately capturing my interest.

Curiosity getting the best of me, and unable to sit around doing nothing any longer, doctor's orders be damned, I turn, grab my scythe propped up against the nearby wall, and rush out of the Hawke estate as fast as my legs can carry me.

I confront the three outside of an adjacent hallway.

"And where are you guys off to so early, I might ask?"

They stop in their tracks, their eyes widening with noticeable shock and alarm.

"Serena? We're . . ." Hawke hesitates and rubs the back of his neck, ruffling up the dark strands of his hair in a rigid, awkward manner. "We're on our way to Sundermount, to pursue a fugitive, possibly hiding out amongst the Dalish."

Oh, so that's why they got so tense. It wasn't just me.

"Ah, good." I cross my arms. "It's about time I press them for some answers myself. Mind if I tag along?"

Hawke scowls at me. "Serena, it's still not safe yet. That Haven woman—"

"Is nowhere to be found. Aveline and her men are on top of looking for her. You can't just expect me to keep sitting around, waiting for them to find something in the meantime like this! I've been locked up for days now. Any longer and I'll be banging my head against the walls."

Hawke sighs. " . . . I suppose we can't keep you locked up forever," he grumbles. "Plus, I'd rather not encourage you to add any more holes in my house."

He grins at me with a teasing flicker, glimmering in his dark-brown eyes.

I snicker, happy to see him falling back into our old habits again, at last. "Great. Now that we're all in agreement, what are we waiting for?" I smirk and give them a mischievous tilt of my head. "We've got some tasks to complete, right? Let's hop to it. There's no time like the present."


Coming to the clan was a horrible idea. A terrible decision, really.

I don't know what I was hoping to accomplish by pushing my way in here, demanding the truth. But it wasn't so I could feel like this.

I glare absently down at the patch of grass lying between Keeper Marethari and me. The trees surrounding us rustle and sway in a mid-morning breeze, their haunting symphony a once welcoming comfort, that now only adds a nightmarish quality to what was supposed to be a progressive and freeing conversation.

"Why? Why didn't you tell me about this?" I whisper, clenching my fists. "Didn't you think I deserved to know, at least when I left? Did you not think me strong enough, even then?"

I hold back the urge to yell at her, keeping my tone clipped and even, while the rest of my being trembles with barely contained anger.

Keeper Marethari's gaze softens. More so than when the two of us first separated from Hawke and the others upon our arrival at camp. An insistence I made for privacy purposes, so our group could pursue our individual initiatives in peace, without risk of intrusion.

"We didn't want to add on any more to your already heavy burdens at the time," she answers. "We knew, in time, you would return, and we could speak with you then."

"That's another lie," I snap through gritted teeth, raising my voice slightly this time. Unable to control it. The coils within me wound so tight now, they're on the verge of splintering to pieces. "Even I didn't know if I would be coming back at that time. And I almost didn't. I almost-"

I gulp, recalling the tower at Ostagar, the final battles of Denerim, the archdemon, the Mother, and the Architect.

'I almost died . . . to protect all of you. To protect everyone. And yet, you chose to keep these secrets from me—about the spirits, my magic, everything!'

That's what I want to say, but I can't say it out loud. My pride refuses it.

Marethari stares at me with what I could only assume to be pity, as if somehow able to perceive my internal rebuttal.

But I don't want pity. I've had enough pity and sympathy to satiate me for days. Perhaps years.

"What about my parents?" I shift subjects. "Were they both really mages as he claimed? What really happened to them?"

The Keeper purses her lips. She lowers her head and squints down at her feet. "Your mother and father were . . . . compassionate people. Mages, who once belonged to the same reclusive clan."

She paces off to the side, gazing up at the darkening clouds overhead.

"They did not discriminate against elves or men, and that proved to be their undoing."

Her brow furrows, and she turns to face me again. Pained resignation fills her once sympathetic expression.

"Not long after their bonding, during the latest stage of your mother's pregnancy, they passed through a nearby human village. Your father came across a burning farm there, belonging to some shemlen farmers. He tried to help heal the ones, who lie dying within the confines of the flames. But when a small group of templars arrived, they accused him of setting the blaze himself. They were forced to flee. Your mother ended up going into labor from the stress. Your father led the pursuing templars away long enough for your mother and Ashalle to escape . . ."

She pauses, and I can swear I see true regret and anguish flicker in her wide, green eyes. As if she really knew them. As if she cared for them.

But her grief's nothing like my own.

I might not have ever known my mother or father, but they were still my parents. The ones I dreamed about meeting, ever since I was a da'len. To hear of their suffering is not easy. But to only hear of it now, after years of misled disception, hurts far worse.

"And then what happened?" I push for more.

Keeper Marethari shakes her head. "Your birth . . . was not an easy one. According to Ashalle, your magic proved too much for such a tiny vessel. You were dying upon your very first breath—your mana slowly burning you from within. Your mother pleaded into the Void for help. The spirits heeded her call, and answered, healing you. But a few days later, the templars caught wind of your trail. Your mother was not fit to keep running so soon after birth, so she entrusted you to Ashalle, choosing to sacrifice herself to save you both, so that the two of you may return to the rest of the clan."

I attempt to swallow the hard lump that's formed in the back of my throat. Failing. But the action still somewhat relieving, nonetheless.

"Why did you never tell me?" I choke out, holding back stinging tears, as a result of hearing of their love and bravery. "Why did you and Ashalle have to lie to me about this? Why tell another tale?"

Marethari shifts in place. "Your mother and father . . . would not wish for you to be consumed by hatred for this world, like so many others within the People. And it was not my place to ignore their bidding."

"Not your place?" I scoff.

Rage scorches through me like a spreading wildfire, scorching under my skin.

"If it wasn't your place, who's was it then? My deceased mother? My father? The spirits? That magister?"

Keeper Marethari closes her eyes. Her signal of defeat.

She has no more excuses for me now. No more lies.

I huff and glance off to the side, spotting Terath, one of our younger, dark-haired hunters, and Vinell, a blind, grey-haired elder, chatting with Hawke, Isabela, and Fenris around the clan bonfire. But if Hawke and Isabela's strained smiles give away anything, it's more likely they're accosting them for still being here, due to their continued identities as shemlen in their eyes.

"I need to go." I stomp toward them, away from the Keeper.

"Serena!" the Keep's voice rises with indisputable desperation.

But no matter how heartbroken she sounds, or how disrespectful ignoring her calls might be, past clansmen or not, I continue forward, unable to force myself to ever turn back.


Hawke

"Ready to go?" Serena calls out, approaching our group.

The two elves, who have been 'keeping our group company' for the past few minutes both flinch, their fierce expressions slackening in the dancing light of the dimming bonfire's flames.

It's good to know I'm not the only one she can sneak up on. Seems she can do it even with her fellow Dalish as well.

"Yes, are you?" I ask, uncrossing my arms, showing her a relieved grin. I don't think I could've withstand the veiled threats or shooing scowls much longer.

Serena nods. She juts her chin out, gesturing for us to follow her to one of the far corners of the Dalish camp, closer to the adjacent mountain trail.

We wander a few paces away from the bonfire. The other elves quietly watching us. But then, Serena stops and glares back from where we came. "They weren't bothering you, were they?" she asks, not looking away from elves by the fire for an instant. If looks could kill, they'd be dead standing.

"Uh, no. Not really," I lie.

It's not as though I could actually tell her that, even if it was the truth. There's too much tension already. No point in continuing to stir that pot without reason, of which there's currently none.

Serena frowns. With an exasperated sigh, she closes her eyes and rubs at her forehead. "I'm sorry about that. The People-"

She pauses. Her words cutting off sharply.

She presses her lips firm together, as if biting her tongue. It's a look of hers I know well. Something's troubling her. More so than when we first arrived. But what? Could the talk with the Keeper have gone that poorly? Or is she simply embarrassed? Upset by how her clan members may have been treating us?

Maker, I wish I could just read her mind sometimes. It'd make these moments so much easier to handle.

"Forget about it," she says, before I can so much as try to find a way to address the subject. "Did you figure out where this fugitive of yours is hiding?"

"Yes, actually." I nod. "This way."

I guide her over to another mountain trail to the far north of the camp, to which she quickly follows.

I suppose distractions will have to do.

Maybe finding this 'killer' will help give her some more peace of mind? There's nothing like a potential fight to help get the stress out. For Serena especially.