She bowed her head in the pre-dawn light to pray.

"Maker, my enemies are abundant.
Many are those who rise up against me.
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,
Should they set themselves against me."

Let me do Your work. There is evil here. The Wardens allied with our enemies, with Lord Erimond and Corypheus to overthrow the world. But I know if You are with us, they cannot stand against us. Let us feel Your presence and be unafraid.

"Let the blade pass through the flesh,
Let my blood touch the ground,
Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice."

Maker, guide my sword and shield. I use them for Your glory. I will defend the Inquisitor and the soldiers under my charge to my last breath. Send us to victory.

Maker, clear my thoughts. Make me pure in mind, pure in heart, and pure in action, that I may be an instrument of Your will. Be with us all today.

And she knelt on the cold, hard ground for a few more minutes, controlling her breathing, thinking nothing, but just existing in the quiet silence of her soul as she gave herself over to the Maker.

Finally, she rose and gave the order to the man standing next to her. "Begin the shelling," she said. And the order was repeated, the cry taken up, as torches flared into existence to illuminate the darkness, and the crews on the siege weapons sprang to their work.

She stood watching, waiting—there was nothing else for her to do yet—as the first of the siege engines shuddered and groaned to life, and with an explosive crack, launched the first of many boulders at the long-standing walls of Adamant.

And as she watched in the trickle of light as the dawn slowly, lazily, made its way over the horizon, she barked orders—"number three, left 300, up 200"—"number one, fire for effect"—but meanwhile she thought of the Inquisitor, and Hawke, and Loghain, and Bull, and Varric, and prayed for their success and safety.

And if more than her fair share of thoughts and prayers wandered to the dwarf, with his red-gold hair, quick smile, gentle compassion, easy understanding, and ready wit—well, that was understandable.

Maker help me, I never thought to, but I love him. Keep him safe. Don't take him. Not yet.

"Spiders. It had to be spiders," the Inquisitor muttered next to him, ducking under one of the numerous webs that had run across.

"Better than snakes," Hawke opined.

"Not really." Gareth shuddered. "Their sticky little webs and their legs—ugh, their creepy, crawly legs. And have you ever seen them when they get something caught in their web? They move faster than you can see, wrapping it up, alive, and then sucking all its blood out. It's just…horrifying."

"Snakes are still the worst. They're just so…slithery. And cold. And they bite."

"And spiders don't?"

Loghain, their leader, whirled around, torch illuminating his granite, unyielding face. "Far be it from me to interrupt, but perhaps we can save these fascinating insights for another time. Like, say, when we're on a picnic in Fereldan, instead of trying to sneak into what we hope is an unoccupied and forgotten cistern leading into Adamant."

"Sorry," Hawke muttered. Varric sensed the wince in her voice.

Loghain's face softened. Not a lot—but enough that Varric wondered again what was between the Warden and Hawke, though Hawke had never seen fit to enlighten him. It was yet another rift between him and her.

"It's all right," he said, looking at Hawke, voice gentler. "I understand that banter can help. But I hope you can understand why stealth is of the essence."

"It won't happen again," the Inquisitor promised.

Loghain nodded, stiffly, and turned around, and went back to leading them deeper into the tunnel, the companions quiet except for the constant rustle of moving feet, the clink of weapons against armor, and the occasional distant rumble as they heard Cassandra's siege engines hit their marks.

As they went further, and the passage drew narrower, Varric began to feel the walls closing in on him. Their only light was Loghain's torch, and it flickered faintly ahead of him. It was just enough to illuminate their steps, but beyond its limited radius, it was black, pitch black, the kind of dark that you could feel, creeping and malevolent, the kind of dark that made you think—made you know—that all kinds of evil and bad things were lurking within it, watching. Waiting.

It was ridiculous, he tried to remind himself. He was a frigging dwarf. He should love this shit. Or at least tolerate it. Hundreds of his ancestors had lived underground, in tunnels. You'd think there was some kind of racial memory that came along with the short legs that could make him less…claustrophobic.

He wasn't always this bad, but ever since Bartrand—well, fuck.

He tried to think about something else. His novels. Wide open spaces. Cassandra.

But all he could feel was the walls closing in on him, the darkness drawing tight around him, being trapped—and the air was heavy, and his chest was tight, and the walls were so close he couldn't breathe anymore. He panicked. He heard himself breathing faster and faster, trying to draw great lungfuls of air, but it still wasn't enough, and the more he tried, the dizzier he felt . He tried to say something, but his mouth was too dry, and—

He felt a sharp elbow in his ribs. "Breathe," Hawke hissed.

"Trying ," he choked out.

Her hand found his in the darkness, threaded through his fingers, and squeezed. "I'm here," she murmured. They dropped back behind the others slightly. "Deep breaths. Breathe with me." And she inhaled and exhaled slowly, and Varric tried to match her.

Her hand squeezed and relaxed on his in time with their breathing, and eventually, he found the rhythm again, and the dizziness started to abate.

He squeezed her hand to let her know he was better. "Thank you," he whispered, but she didn't let go of his hand.

Her only reply was a wholehearted, "Fuck Bartrand," said in an undertone, for his ears alone.

"Bastard," he agreed. Then… "Sorry, mother."

Despite himself, he smiled. He might have royally screwed things up the other day, but if he and Hawke could hold hands, marching through a cramped tunnel toward death and danger, led by a betraying Warden, all the while cursing Bartrand…things might be getting back to normal.

The Inquisitor yelped from ahead of them. "Frigging spiders!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hand through his hair and shaking his head.

Loghain turned again, waving the torch at the Inquisitor. "Will you be quiet before you kill us all?"

"Spiders are crawling on me! I can feel them. Maker's fucking balls." The Inquisitor kept slapping at his neck.

Loghain and the Iron Bull exchanged a look.

"Stand still, boss," Bull said, as Loghain held the torch closer to the Inquisitor. Gareth hopped from foot to foot as Bull examined him. "There aren't any spiders on you. Just some loose dirt." Bull brushed at the Inquisitor's neck. "No worries."

Gareth had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Sor—"

Loghain cut him off. "Everyone shut up and stand still," he said, in an urgent undertone, thrusting his torch over his head.

They all froze and waited. Varric eased his hand slowly to Bianca.

They heard the distant rumble, from above them, of the boulders hitting their targets—and then, a few seconds later, a softer, almost imperceptible cracking from closer above. Varric watched with increasing horror as he saw the concrete ceiling over their head beginning to crack, and a soft, gentle powder of dirt and debris waft silently down.

"The shelling must be close to collapsing the tunnel," the Inquisitor said, alarmed. "Shit." Then, as another crack released more dirt and rubble, "Shit! How did this happen?"

"Does it matter?" Hawke asked. " I think the question is what we do now. Do we go back, or forward?"

Loghain considered, briefly, with the calmness and confidence of one used to making such decisions, and being obeyed. "We're closer to the end than the beginning. It's more dangerous to go back."

They all nodded in agreement.

"There's no more time for secrecy. Prepare for an attack the second we exit the cistern. Hawke, be ready to send the signal to alert Cassandra's forces. Secure your gear, and on my mark, run!" Loghain commanded.

Cassandra had relaxed, if indeed one could be said to be relaxed while in command during a major offensive.

Still, the shelling had gone well, and there were two places where the walls looked suspect. They were concentrating their fire on them, and she had every confidence they would soon fall.

It would make the attack much easier, with far fewer casualties, if they could collapse the walls, rather than forcing their way in with grappling hooks and ladders.

"Leliana," she acknowledged as she saw the Spymaster approaching.

"Things are going well, Cassandra?" Leliana asked, as she drew close.

Cassandra gestured. "As you can see, the walls—"

And then her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword, as she saw a red burst of mage fire flare high into the sky, and then explode over Adamant. "Maker," she gasped. And then, to herself, Not again. Herfeet involuntarily took her a few steps toward the castle, ready to run to them, before she realized what she was doing.

She and Leliana shared a grim look.

"Get your scouts, and the few mages we have, and get them to do…something," Cassandra gestured, "anything, anything they can to distract the Wardens. I'll get the engineers, soldiers and the Templars ready to march."

Leliana nodded, once, quickly, then ran to give orders.

Just what they were trying to avoid, scaling the walls. There would be heavy casualties today. But none of it mattered if they weren't in time to save the Inquisitor.

Justinia. Galyan. Anthony. Maker, not them too. Not them, please.

She felt the familiar mantle of guilt and helplessness settle over her as she got the Inquisition's forces ready to march.

Maker, please let us be in time.