SERENA

Two days have passed.

An awkward tension pervades Varric's suite at the Hanged Man. The intensity of which bears down on our group like a hovering archdemon; its maw ready to snap.

I glimpse up at everyone seated around Varric's elongated, wooden dining table. Hawke, Fenris, and Isabela sit across from Zevran, Aveline, and I, while Varric and Sebastian occupy the far opposite ends, looking like observing royalty in their own rights.

No one has said a word since our dinners arrival. Although, Isabela and Varric have certainly glanced at one another often enough, between bites, their attempts at trying to persuade the other to lighten the mood painfully obvious. But neither seem quite ready to take up the task, and I can't blame them.

Tricking us all to come out here under the rouse of a small, quiet dinner together, with just the two of them, must've been daring enough for the two rogues to accomplish as it is, knowing the troubles it would likely stir. But seeing their plan actually fall into action? Well, that's another battle entirely. And not a particular position I would enjoy, were I them.

But I'm not them.

I'm part of the offending party.

And that . . . that's arguably far worse.

Creators, what am I supposed to say?

To do?

How are we ever going to try to make this situation any better if we can't even talk to each other like this?

I glance over at Hawke and Fenris again, a part of me still holding out hope that maybe, maybe, our friends efforts weren't all in vain. That perhaps there's some hint that they're open to starting a dialogue, somewhere, somehow, no matter how awkward or painful it might be.

But all I find is them still staring at their plates with blank indifference, nibbling on what remains of their half-stale pieces of bread and beef stew, in a closed-off, withdrawn silence.

They haven't looked at or spoken to anyone since they first saw Zevran and I chatting with Isabela inside Varric's suite. And I'm guessing by their current demeanors that that's not going to change anytime soon.

Fenedhis. This is awful.

I hate this.

I can't take any of this anymore!

Succumbing to my rising frustration and gloom, I stand up and rush toward the door. "Sorry, I'm going to head in for the night."

That's all I can manage to say before my throat tightens and I feel my voice start to crack.

Fighting back blinding tears, I shoot down the tavern steps, out into the cold of Lowtown. Willing my feet to carry me back to my home in the alienage faster. Faster! But, no. Not too fast. I can't appear even more suspicious than I already do now. I can't let others see what's becoming of me, that I'm falling apart, breaking and unraveling under the mounting stress. That's not what the Hero of Ferelden is supposed to do. It's not how she's supposed to act. I've got a persona to maintain here now. . . for the nobility, the Dalish, the Grey Wardens, Hawke's crew, the elves, mages, all of bloody Ferelden. Everyone.

I can't let myself crumble like this. I can't.

Pull. Yourself. Together!

I lightly tap my cheeks a few times to serve as a gentle reminder.

But even with that little pep talk, I still feel like I'm holding on by a thread. A very tattered, snapping thread.

The alienage steps at last come into view beyond Gamlen's house. I take two hurried steps down them, and my chest squeezes. Aches. Cold tears drip down onto my cheeks.

I quickly stop, cover my mouth, and hold my breath, struggling to suppress the starting flood. But it's futile.

I'm shaking. Trembling. Unable to resist.

Curling into myself against the nearby stairway wall, I brace onto myself so tightly, I fear that letting up even slightly I might break. That my entire being might shatter.

Gods, everything hurts. It hurts so much.

What happened to the dreamlike world the others and I had before the qunari attack? When being around everyone was as easy as breathing air? Where I wasn't suffocating and finally making progress? Has that path been completely wiped out, without a trace? Is this to be our new normal now? Is this to be my new normal?

My heart breaks at the thought.

The delightful memories of the nights Fenris, Hawke, and I spent laughing and playing cards together feel like a bittersweet fantasy a child made up. One that was never meant to last.

"You have never been very good at masking your emotions, have you?" Zevran's musical brogue speaks up behind me.

I jolt and quickly whirl around to face him, my heart pounding furiously against my ribcage.

He's standing at the top of the staircase with his arms crossed in front of him. Watching. Waiting. Analyzing.

I gawk at him in a flustered mess, my tears still overflowing, my mouth gaping. However, no matter how hard I try, no words come out.

Zevran steps down to my level and gently pulls me into his arms, laying one careful hand along the back of my neck, cradling me.

The gentleness of his touch makes my heart twinge. "Zev, what are you doing here? Why are you—" An uncontrollable sob wracks through me, cutting me off, mid-question. The thread inside finally snaps.

I grasp onto his leather chestplate as the suppressed cry breaks loose, gripping onto him like a piece of driftwood in a storm. The tears and accompanying shaking unending.

Zevran doesn't say anything. He simply strokes his fingers through my hair, while I weep into his chest. The action feeling both warm and familiar. A blessing in the surrounding darkness.

The comfort soon gives me pause.

When was the last time I cried so freely like this? Without restraint? In the arms of another?

My mind searches for the memory, reaching for it desperately, as though it might somehow save me or ground me amid this downward spiral. Suddenly, I'm back in front of Tamlen's unmarked grave in the Hinterlands. Zevran's holding me, just like he is now. Stroking my hair. Holding me close. Supporting me, so I don't collapse into a puddle on the ground.

It was the first time we ever held each other like this. The first time I ever dared let anyone see the legendary Grey Warden let down her guard. The first time I let anyone else in after losing Tamlen, back at the clan.

The memory calms me like a healing balm on a wound, until the trembles gradually still and the sobs cease.

Feeling levelheaded once again, if not a bit still hungover from the stopping tears, I lean back and look up at Zevran. He tucks a stray hair of mine behind my ear, his honey-colored gaze never deviating from me for an instant.

Then, without warning, he flashes me a mischievous grin, lifts me up by the waist, and lofts me over his right shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Zev! What in the Void do you think you're doing?" I shout, flailing and beating at his back. "Put me down! Right now!"

Zevran laughs and descends the alienage stairwell. "And risk you falling, my dear? Never."

"Zev!"

He spins around at the bottom of the steps, making me close my eyes and grasp onto him tighter to keep balanced. All the while, he continues to laugh, seeming to enjoy my protesting fluster to the fullest.

Shortly after his last disorienting whirl, he slows down and sets me down gently in front of my front door. "Well, here you are." He glances over at the entrance. "I will leave you to your privacy, then."

He bows and turns to leave.

The reality of his actions hit me the moment he walks away.

He was trying to cheer me up again. Me. When he must be hurting from all this as well . . .

"Wait." I run after him, grabbing him by the arm. "Stay a while longer," I insist.

Zevran pauses and blinks back at me. A wily smirk quickly spreads across his lips.

"But no funny business." I cut him off before he can give a witty retort, pointing at his chest, reading him like an open book.

He nods, and with a teasing smile, turns to face me fully again. "As you wish." He bows with elegant formality.

But I don't buy his 'act' for a second.

He's probably trying to find a loophole as to what's considered 'funny business' as we speak, despite knowing exactly what I mean. And he'll probably push his luck with that, too, knowing him.

Squinting a brief warning at him to ensure he understands I'm serious, I resign myself to the inevitable, and walk over to unlock my house's front door. We step inside and start removing our boots, tossing them aside one by one beside the nearby wall into a disorganized pile.

As I reach to remove the two daggers secured behind my back next, Zevran's hands brush against my own, beating me to my targets.

"Ma serannas," I whisper as he takes them and places them on top of the adjacent letter table.

When he's finished, I turn to help him as well. However, the moment I grasp for the first and largest of his daggers, my stomach lurches.

Every part of me freezes, as if ice entered my veins.

He's still using the same custom dagger I bought for him during our second visit to Denerim. I'd got it for him as a gift, to thank him for his unwavering support during our trials in Orzammar and Haven. Wade even engraved the Vir Tanadhal into the pommel at my request. Albeit not without promising to bring him more drake scales to work with as soon as I stumbled across some more.

The sight of the well-kept elvish scripture brings renewed tears to my eyes.

He's maintained this . . . the whole while. And I . . .

I lean forward against his back, guilt pressing down on me like a ball and chain. "Ir abelas, ma vhenan," I whisper, withholding a sob. "I . . . I'm so sorry. I should've tried harder to look for you. I shouldn't have given in to despair so easily. If I hadn't, then . . . then maybe—"

Zevran turns around and cups my face between his hands. "Enough," he shushes me. "You have nothing to apologize for. I . . . should have been more careful as well. Had I known you would leave your post to come search for me, and on such a rumor no less . . ."

He trails off and lets out a long, frustrated sigh, as if trying to recompose himself. To swallow any possible words or visages of regret. Just like the cool-headed Crow he was when we first met. The assassin who built up a thousand-and-one walls to keep everyone and everything at a detached distance.

"But . . . there is no point in dwelling on any of this now," he digresses, a twinkle of vulnerability still lingering there, amongst the consuming darkness. "Mistakes were made, and we must make an effort to move past them. Together. Yes?"

I smile and grasp onto his warm hands, touched by his efforts, no matter how well hidden. "Isabela's right." I chuckle under my breath.

Zevran tilts his head at me.

"We're both stubborn idiots."

Zevran snickers and gives me a quick nod. I then make him turn around again and remove his daggers for him.

Once their both placed beside my own, we stroll over to the front of the couch and curl up on the opposite ends. We stare at each other in the ensuing quiet, neither of us moving. Then, Zevran heaves out another loud sigh and waves for me to scoot closer to him.

I don't hesitate.

I slide over, positioning myself between his legs, and recline my back against his chest. His fingers slowly start braiding locks of my hair together—one of the best comforts I enjoyed with him, during the blight.

It's easy to lose myself in the familiarity and happier memories. But in an instant, my senses return, and I find myself torn. Torn between both wanting distance, but also desiring our past normality. A second of peace. A second of love. Of comfort.

And I hate it. I hate that I love this. How much I miss it. How much I miss him. How selfish I am for not wanting him to stop, for him to leave, or for this moment to end. And I hate not being able to do him or the others justice, either. That I can't just jump right into things again and pretend like nothing's happened, that nothing's changed.

It's horrible. Sinful. Yet, also bliss. A miraculous dream come true that he's even alive. That's he's here. And in this shit storm I've somehow found myself in, I'm desperate to cling to that refuge—to our old memories, to even an ounce of relief, if only to re-experience it for a night. To make up for all the time we've missed.

The feelings claw away at me, tearing apart my sensibilities from the inside. Leaving me scarred, terrified, exposed. My battered barriers left to the mercy of the continued emotional barrage I can't seem to hold back.

"Stay?" I whisper, the plea almost lost in my throat.

"Always." Zevran plants a chaste kiss on my left shoulder, then continues working on my braids in the tormented silence.


I wake up to a hot, golden ray of sunlight beaming onto my face the next morning.

It's searing. Irritating.

Uncomfortable.

In an aggravated rush, I quickly kick the furs and blankets off my legs and bury my face in the cooler side of my pillow. I sigh as a welcome and sudden frigidness washes across my skin at the fabrics touch, dispelling the built up heat.

Blearily, I lie there, basking in the betterness of it, while also trying to wake up. Birds chirp their peaceful chorus outside the nearby window pane, and beyond them, I catch the occasional familiar morning greetings from my fellow alienage elves.

It's tranquil.

Too tranquil.

If I stay in bed and listen any longer, I might just remain there and nap all day. Which doesn't sound too bad, normally. But in this particular case, it'll just leave me to ponder more on my problems lately. And that won't do. I've had enough the past few days.

Feeling restless just considering such an outcome, I sit up and look across the room. Zevran's still stretched out on the couch, the top of his head propped up on the far western cushions.

Despite his reluctance, he seems to have honored my wishes about not trying to sneak into my bed last night. Although, it'd be a lie to say I thought he'd do otherwise. The reason being an awe-shocking truth about him: although he's a shameless flirt, he always respects people's boundaries, never pushing beyond mere words if it's unwanted.

It's something I've always admired about him. But in this particular instance, it's also frustrating. Not because I actually wanted him to disregard my wishes. To be honest, I'm still not ready for any acts of physical intimacy again just yet. However, having him so nearby, within walking distance . . . it proved more frustrating than I would've thought.

Even now, hours later, a part of me still wants to reach out, to touch him, to give in to both forgiveness and lust. To just make sure he's real, that he's really here. That I'm not dreaming.

But I can't. I'm not there yet. Things still aren't right, and I can't in good consciousness act frivolously with such turmoil in my heart and mind. I owe him, Hawke, Fenris, and the others more than that. I need to be better than that.

Desperate to get moving, and to get such thoughts out of my head, I stand up and start getting ready to face the day. When I've just about finished, and I'm tightening up the last straps of my Dalish leather armor, I strut over to the couch and take in Zevran's relaxed form from head to toe.

He's dressed down to only his loose green tunic and black breeches. His remaining weapons and armor lie in a neat pile on the ground in front of the couch. A stark contrast to all the other disorganized papers and books lying about. Something that he admitted last night drives him crazy. Which I already knew.

But watching him sleep so soundly and defenseless like this makes me go crazy. Reawakening a warmth in my chest, seeing the trust he doesn't often show others. The tempestuous pull from last night slowly teeters on the verge of becoming overwhelming.

Eager to will it away, to get back to business before I give in or make a mistake, I swat him in the side to wake him up. His eyes immediately flutter open, and he squints up at me. "Time to get ready." I stare straight down at him. "It's already half past noon."

He stretches his long arms and legs out in front of him, like a comfortable tabby cat, waking up from a nap. "Already? Ah, and here I was having such a lovely dream, too. But, I suppose waking up to your presence is just as good as well."

He winks at me, and I roll my eyes.

Same old Zevran, it seems.

Disregarding his latest comment, I walk over to the table and grab another apple from the fruit basket he brought over yesterday. I take a few small bites of the delicious, juicy fruit, relishing in the sweet aftertaste. Meanwhile, Zevran sits up and starts throwing on his own weapons and armor, securing any buckles or straps with practiced skill.

He glimpses over at me when he's almost done, and in that brief second, I realize I've been staring a little too closely. Zevran smiles, catching me red-handed, and my heart almost leaps out of my chest. I quickly turn away, suddenly feeling overly self-conscious and flustered under his watchful gaze. Like he's peeled off another one of my many layers, exposing another horde of secrets within. And with their possible reveal, I come to a horrid realization.

I have no idea what I'm supposed to do now.

Because the harsh reality is this: I still have feelings for Zevran, as well as for Hawke and Fenris. But what kind of feelings? And what in Thedas do they expect me to do about it?


After gathering our things and having a simple, hurried breakfast together consisting mostly of leftover fruit, Zevran and I make our way toward the Hanged Man in search of something to do.

A familiar, robed figure strides out of the Hanged Man as we're passing Gamlen's house, and I immediately recognize it's Anders. But something's wrong.

His gait and posture are tense. His face: scrunched up tightly into an infuriated scowl. He notices us after a few angry strides, and the expression suddenly worsens, blood thirst and murder clear in his eyes. Creators, I don't think I've seen him so mad since his friend got turned tranquil by the templars!

Without so much as a word of greeting to either of us, Anders storms right up to Zevran and grabs him by the collar. "You! How dare you! Where have you been? Do you have any idea how worried she's been about you? What you've put her through?" He gives Zevran a hard shake.

My eyes flare wide open. "Anders! Wait-" I try to wedge myself between them, but it's no use. Even when not physically touching each other, the two keep glaring at one another, locked into a firm, testosterone-fueled standoff.

Varric and Merrill run up behind Anders a second later, looking just as frantic as I am with the confrontation.

"Easy, Blondie," Varric coos. "Why not hear out his explanation?"

"Explanation?" Anders balks. "What kind of explanation is there? He's run off for years, leaving Serena to mourn for him, without so much as a word!"

"Anders, I appreciate your concern. You know I do. But this . . . this is more complicated than you realize," I insist.

Anders gawks at me, as if I've slapped him. "And you're defending him? Just like that?" he huffs.

"Yes, just like that," I persist, stepping away. A bit irritated by his accusatory tone. "So, please. Listen. And try to place nice." I say the last part, hoping to appeal to his lighter sense of humor, even a little bit. Anything to calm him down, to stop him from potentially summoning Justice.

Anders's scowl softens, but only slightly.

Still frowning, he focuses on Zevran again and juts his chin up in a judgmental, contemptable manner.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't turn you into a walking fireball," he growls, crossing his arms, narrowing his eyes at him.

Zevran quirks a mischievous eyebrow. "Oh feisty, are we? Very well then. If not because it'd be a shame to upset our lovely companions here, then how about the fact that we are standing out in broad daylight, no?" He waves around the little square we currently occupy, where a few other wary shems wander about. "I imagine that if the stories I hear of the Kirkwall templars are true, it might not be so wise for apostate mages to be throwing magic around in public, correct?"

" . . . He's got you there, Blondie," Varric mumbles, glancing around at the watchful passerby.

Anders glares back at Varric, then returns to scowling at Zevran, looking ready to go off on another tirade.

"But in all seriousness," Zevran interrupts, catching the hint, "it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Serena has told me much about you. You have my gratitude for looking out for her throughout your journeys together."

Zevran bows his head to Anders, and Anders tenses up and gulps.

"Yes . . . Well . . ." He tilts his head at Zevran, unmitigated confusion and doubt sweeping over his expression in waves. He relaxes partially after a second, then buries one hand deep into his locks, letting out a loud huff. "By the Maker," he grumbles. "Just . . . don't do it again." He points at Zevran. "I'll be watching you. Don't think I've forgiven you just yet!"

"Of course. I would have it no other way." The assassin flashes him a charming, flirtatious smile.

Anders crinkles his nose at Zevran, still seeming displeased by the response. But at least he's somewhat calmed for the moment, with no current threat of Justice sneaking out.

Merrill hurtles past Anders then, stopping just short of Zevran. "Hello, it's so nice to finally meet you. I'm Merrill. I . . . well, I used to be part of Serena's clan. But you know. Things happen and . . . Well, here I am! You know, you don't seem all that dangerous or intimidating for a Crow. Or at least, based off the stories I've heard."

Zevran laughs. "It is a good thing I am no longer a Crow, then. Otherwise, one might take offense."

"Oh! Oh really? Oh, no. I'm so sorry. I-I didn't mean to-"

"Stop fretting, Merrill," I cut her off with a sigh. "He's only teasing."

I glower at Zevran, and he smirks at me. Not even denying it.

Merrill continues to glance between us, still seeming uncertain about who or what to believe. "Oh. Alright then," she concedes with an innocent smile.

Varric steps closer to the rest of us. "So, Twinkle Toes, I hate to break up your group introductions and whatnot, but where were you and Jokester headed, exactly?"

Zevran raises his eyebrows at the nickname, seeming surprised, but also amused by it.

"Honestly? To find something to do." I shrug. "I was hoping you or Isabela might have something that needs done?"

"I don't personally, but Hawke's meeting up with some of the others later tonight to sneak into the Viscount's Keep. Apparently, the Divine's sent one of her secret agents to spy on Kirkwall, to determine whether or not they need to lead another Exalted March. Not heartening stuff, if you ask me."

"A march?" Anders gawps at Varric. "You really think they'd do that? That they'd go so far?"

"I wouldn't put it past them," I mutter. "The devout have done much more for less, and with current tensions on the rise, and the prevalence of blood magic incidents going around, that might be all the excuse they need."

I pause to consider the ramifications of such a response. It'd no doubt mean the utter annihilation of the Kirkwall circle, not to mention any civilians who happen to get in the way of the carnage. Or who are believed to be mage sympathizers.

But this meeting also opens up another opportunity for us as well, to avoid such conflict. And if this agent really serves the Divine, then there's also a chance they might know why the Divine is supposedly after me as well.

If we can just convince them to share that purpose, and advise the Divine against an exalted march, that'd be two less problems for all of us to worry about.

However, such talks are bound to be risky. If they're a zealot, our appeals might fall on deaf ears. And if our talks go poorly . . . or they try to personally pursue my capture . . . Well, nothing might save us from the Chantry's ire. Not even Hawke's, Sebastian's, or Aveline's titles.

I groan at the thought. "It looks like we've got no choice. If we're going to do this, Hawke's going to need all the influential voices he can get. So, tell me. When and where are we meeting up tonight?"

Varric blinks at me as if I've said something that's caught him off guard. "I've got to admit, I'm shocked you're volunteering. Aren't Grey Wardens supposed to stay out of politics?"

I laugh and rub one hand across my forehead. "Politics, yes. If word gets out, I'll probably get the scolding of a lifetime. But . . . I'd argue the world didn't seem to mind so much when I got involved in politics to help stop the blight. Why should another detrimental event for Thedas be any different?"

"True," he hums. "Well, if you've got your mind set on it, we'll be meeting up in front of Hawke's place at dusk. I suggest bringing all of your equipment. We may need it."

"Let's hope not," I scoff. "I imagine battling an agent of the Divine might come off as poor taste when trying to open doors for negotiations."

"I won't argue with you there." Varric nods. "However, I'd rather us go in prepared. Never know what the world might throw at us next."

"Tell me about it." I side-eye Zevran, who's merely watching us with focused interest.

I've definitely got enough excitement in my life for the moment. And if we're to get any answers about the Divine, to solve at least one of our problems, this agent of hers must be kept alive and willing to talk, no matter what.

Corpses, I find, can only typically do one or neither.