VI

-Fever Dreams-

.x.

"You know of certainty and borders. You are closer to the Qun than you think."

–Ketojan

.x.

Under the combined force of fatigue and her body's need to heal and rejuvenate, Hawke's sleep was restful and unbroken, devoid of dreams or any of the usual shadowy taints of the Fade. She had managed to find a position of relative comfort, curled on her side on the thin straw mattress, kept warm beneath the mound of blankets left to her. The long, cumbersome length of chains she coiled on the stone floor in front of her, keeping them away from her flesh as best she could. Still, the cool, unyielding metal banding her neck and wrists was a discomfort that persisted as faint, intrusive wisps of reality even as she slept.

She woke once briefly, her awareness reluctant and hazy, her eyes focusing briefly on the mortared stone walls around her before falling to fix upon the links of her restraints. Recollection came then, swift and merciless, and it was a method of mental defense for her to close her eyes again and burrow further beneath the many blankets, letting sleep descent upon her once more.

When next she woke, she burned.

She knew it was severe instantly. Her entire body was drenched in sweat, and as she moved to push the blankets away from her superheated flesh she felt that they were damp, too. The task of freeing herself from the blankets had pushed her to the brink of exertion. She lay on her back, eyes staring unseeing at the stone ceiling of her cell, breathing hard and feeling the fever heat suffusing every muscle, every bone, every vein in her body. It was a warmth so very unlike the fire she commanded. It was a pervasive heat, carrying with it continuous throbbing pain and weakness, and she knew that the chances were very, very good that she'd die from this illness if left untended.

The simple task of turning her head to the side was exhausting. There was no sign whatsoever that anyone had set foot in her cell since she'd been placed there by Fenris. The heavy, reinforced door was still closed. She wondered briefly if the Qunari guard was still standing outside. For an even briefer span of time, she considered calling out for help. The dilemma presenting itself was clear, even with her mind clouded and dizzied by the fever. If she was nursed through the fever, she would have to face whatever it was the Arishok had planned for her. And she had no doubts whatsoever that what it would entail would result in either the breaking of her will, or death.

Eyes on the door, an image of the guard as she'd last seen him hovering in her mind, she laid quietly as her internal debate waged. And then, with a long, soft sigh, she turned her gaze away from the door, letting her eyes focus once more on the ceiling. With the decision made, it was easy enough to give into the weariness that accompanied the fever, the soul-deep exhaustion that made it possible to fade back into slumber despite the simmering aches that consumed her entire form.

Her rest from that point on was intermittent. She woke once suddenly, gasping, ripped from the grips of a terrible dream. She moaned softly as the world swam around her, as nausea roiled in her belly. Her hands had knotted unconsciously in the blankets as she'd slept, though she hadn't pulled them back over herself. Instead, the blankets were clutched tightly to her as she lay curled on her side. Though her body was exposed to the chill air of the cell—her breath with every exhale rose as faint mist—she was again completely soaked with sweat. The simple woolen robe she wore clung uncomfortably to her body.

Help, she knew, was as simple as raising her voice. But she kept her mouth mulishly shut, refusing to stare at the door or imagine the guard the stood just beyond it. Life for her had become one of two finalities—death, or subjugation. The Qunari were not gentle in any aspect of their lives. Her subjugation would be as crippling as any mortal wound. And despite the choices she'd made, the promises she'd forsaken and the honor she'd lost, she would not lose herself. She would not live a life bound and gagged simply because she'd been born with a gift.

No, she wouldn't call for help. This fever was a boon.

Sleep became difficult to differentiate from wakefulness. Even when her eyes were open, the world felt surreal. The painful heat that had enveloped her body faded sometimes, and in its place grew a terrible coldness. She would lie in a tightly curled ball, the blankets drawn tight around her, her entire body shaking violently as tremors rolled through her. And then the chill would subside and the heat would begin again, the two forming a torturous pattern that she was too weak and disoriented to fight, had she any inclination to do so. All she could do was suffer through.

At some point, phantom sensations began to haunt her. She felt molten pinpricks skittering up and down her spine and thrashed helplessly in their wake. The cold iron fastened about her wrists and neck felt as though it was constricting, closing in about her skin until she was sure blood had been drawn. And finally came the feeling she'd dreaded most, the touch of hands—not gentle, but not unkind—on her shoulders, on her sides, and finally on her cheeks. The fingers were cold, so cold against her superheated flesh and her eyes flew open as she lashed out in protest at her nonexistent assailant.

"You're a fool, Hawke."

No dream, then. Fenris' voice, Fenris' words. She clung to them hard, making an effort to discern reality from the waking dreams she'd been trapped in. Through lashes beaded with sweat she stared up at the elf and then beyond, to where a large figure loomed, blurring in her exhausted vision. She dragged her tired eyes back to Fenris and found that while the rest of the world spun and wavered, he remained perfectly clear.

Each breath felt constricted, her chest heavy. She had to swallow once, twice, before she could get the words past the dryness in her throat. "Come to see me off?"

"That may very well be the truth." It didn't take a clear, unclouded mind to recognize the grim tone in his voice. "You've only been in here one day and one night. I checked on you myself. You feigned sleep, then?"

She couldn't recall his visit, though she'd been lost in a rhythm of troubled dozing and fretful waking and had likely been unaware. She knew it wouldn't take him long to discern the truth. Seconds later she watched the realization alter his features, lining his face with a solemn frown.

"You're a fool," he repeated.

"Yes," she sighed tiredly.

"You could have called for help."

"No."

He rocked back on his heels as though to rise from his knees, but checked the movement. Beyond him the figure of the Arishok stirred, and she turned her eyes to him.

"Shanedan," she whispered. It was getting very hard to stay focused. Weariness was again pulling at every fiber of her being, a relentless adversary.

The Arishok approached, stopping beside Fenris. Long moments later he dropped to a crouch. His expression was as it always was—grimmer, perhaps.

"Hawke," he said, "this is not the way."

"It's one way."

His head tilted to the side to concede her point, a movement so small it was almost to be missed. "A coward's way."

She wouldn't argue that. He was right.

"We've sent for healers." Fenris said. It seemed as though his voice was receding.

She was unable to keep her eyes from closing, from letting feeble, unwise words tumble from her mouth. "Let me die."

She wasn't certain if the response she heard was real or another figment brought on by her malady. "The Qun demands otherwise."

.x.

Awareness evaded Hawke, so too did time. So securely in the grip of illness was she that she was entirely uncertain of whether the voices she heard and the faces she saw were real. Clarity, when it came, was in brief bouts, and the first time it happened she found herself staring up two unfamiliar visages on either side of her. She reacted on instinct, some memory not scattered by the fever spurring her into a panic. She lashed out wildly, limbs weakened and uncoordinated, only to find herself restrained by hands, far too many hands. Recollections flooded back to her, of dank, dark places underground, of darkspawn, and she heard herself screaming until all awareness mercifully fled.

Hours or days passed. Lucidity returned more gradually this time, filtering back bit by bit until, blinking, she realized there was a stone roof over her head. She sucked in a deep breath — was this the maleficar's cell beneath the keep? She lifted an arm experimentally and found that it was unfettered, without chains. Where then was she? Shadows flickered on the periphery of her vision. She turned her head but they fled from her sight, seeking refuge in the darkest unlit corners of the room. Darkspawn. She struggled to sit up and found that she was buried beneath a considerable amount of blankets and sheets, all of which conspired to keep her trapped by tangling maliciously around her legs. She gained her feet and managed two trembling coltish steps before she was forced to stop, breathing hard, the world spinning violently around her.

She heard voices. They were barely audible at first but grew in volume until they were nearly deafening and she bolted, stumbling toward the outline of a door. It flew open at her urgent touch, booming against the wall. A large figure inserted itself into her path, chest emblazoned with bold crimson designs. She darted to the side, hitting the wall and pushing herself away from it, running for the stairs leading downward that she saw several feet away. The shadows from the other room had followed her, were converging upon her, and she ducked in order to avoid the grasping reach of their twisted, eldritch fingers. She'd reached the stairs and they seemed to lengthen and warp in her vision. She hesitated, unsure of her ability to traverse them.

"Hawke."

She knew the voice, knew too the intent it carried. She half-turned, maimed hand gripping the banister. There were several loosely grouped Qunari with the Arishok at their vanguard. Behind them loomed strange silhouettes whose shapes changed as quickly and completely as the flames of a fire. She could hear those shadows again, heard them conversing in a low and vaguely threatening susurrus. She edged backward, feeling the edge of the top stair beneath her bare heel. The Arishok moved. Her eyes flicked to him and she found that his shape too was changing, his outline muddying in her wearied vision.

"They've come for me," she told him. Her voice sounded odd to her own ears, thready and weak.

"No. It is only the sickness."

Something was crawling across the floor toward her, an ominous insect-like thing made of deceitfully shifting shadows. She was wholly unaware of the Arishok's careful scrutiny, her eyes tracking the creature's movement as it scuttled between the legs of the Qunari. The thing paused in front of her, long, segmented limbs twitching. She held her breath, descending a step. It leapt for her, a fragment of nightmare given inexplicable substance, and with a breathless cry she twisted aside, sacrificing her balance. She tottered for a fraction of a second before falling, attempting to shield her face as the rest of the staircase rose up to meet her.

Large fingers quickly fastened around her wrist, stopping her from tumbling downward, pulling her back until she felt solidity beneath her feet. Her breath left in her in a long, relieved exhale that transitioned into an abrupt gasp as she caught sight of the insect thing again, slowly climbing the stairs toward her. The Arishok had not released his hold, his touch anchoring her to the reality that was seeking to alter itself in such fickle ways.

She asked unsteadily, "It's not real?"

"No."

It looked real. She was positive that if it reached her, it would feel real. She looked at the Arishok, seeking truth. She found it in the austere lines of his countenance, in the invariant manner of his pale gaze. His face, unlike every other thing surrounding her, was unaffected by eerie distortion. Her eyes moved back to the stairs. The creature was still there, still approaching, and she could not help but back a step.

"Ignore it, Hawke. It is a product of your fever and nothing more."

"What about the rest?" she wondered aloud, closing her eyes, willing the world to right itself when she opened them again. "What about you? What of this place? It could all be false."

"It is not."

"How are you always so certain?" She was looking at him again. His voice seemed to have the effect of dissipating the spectres that haunted her. She needed him to speak more. "Do you never question anything?"

"Exhaustion addles you," he said. Still gripping her wrist, he began to move, pulling her with him toward the room she'd burst forth from. "You must recuperate."

"And what happens then?"

He spared her an unreadable glance, but said nothing. She suspected she already knew the answer, somewhere in her chaotic jumble of thoughts. Back in the room, he loosed his hold and directed her to the bed with a wave of one hand. There were others in the room that had not been there before, two women that she stared at for a long span of moments before her memory triggered. Viddathari.

"Ensure she sleeps," ordered the Qunari leader.

Hawke let herself be led to the bed, let herself be pushed gently down onto it. Before she laid down she offered a strange insight. "Your voice keeps them at bay, Arishok."

He'd turned to exit the room but paused at her words. She wasn't aware of him looking back at her as she sank down, as she nestled her head into the pillow, as the blankets were drawn up over her. All fears and doubts had gone, banished back beyond the boundaries of her perception. She slept.

.x.

The fever broke eventually, leaving her weakened far beyond what she'd been after destroying the North Gate. It was an almost impossible task to even sit up in bed in those first days, and she could not do so unaided. The Viddathari became her frequent companions, tending to her every need, even those most intimate and embarrassing. There were worse things than being bathed by women she did not know, however, and so she mutely endured it all. It took several days before she felt strong enough to attempt standing, and when she did it was on legs that shook. Determinedly she made an effort to regain her strength, pacing herself and taking only as many steps as she was capable of on a day by day basis. Finally the Viddathari deemed she was capable of leaving the room of her convalescence.

She'd already known she was within the keep. As she was slowly led from the room a quick glance about revealed that she was on one of the middle floors, where visiting nobles to the city had once been housed. She was unsurprised that one of the Karashok shadowed them on their slow, faltering circuit throughout the corridors. She had to pause frequently to catch her breath, leaning on walls or one of the Viddathari. Upon returning to her room she was overcome, sinking down upon the bed and immediately shutting her eyes.

She regained her strength slowly. Eventually she was able to master the stairs, departing the mid levels for the main floor. It was then that she gained a full understanding of the Qunari might brought to bear upon the Free Marches — the keep had effectively been transformed into a center of operations. It was a hub of ordered, organized activity, and pausing at the top of the stairs, Hawke caught sight of familiar barrels, labelled in crimson Qunlat letters, stacked three deep along one of the far walls. Gaatlok. Her hand tightened into a fist, and suddenly she felt crowded, suffocated, entirely too helpless.

"May we go outside?" Hawke didn't bother asking the ever-present Viddathari that had become her nursemaids. She knew enough of the Qun to know that their answer would count for nothing. Instead she directed her question to the Karashok that had accompanied them as always. He considered for a moment before dipping his head slightly, gesturing with one hand toward the large oak door that led to one of the keep's many balconies. Outside, she was immediately bathed in sunlight. She stood in it, luxuriating in it, and only thought to move long moments later. The balcony ran along the southern wall of the keep, giving her a mostly uninterrupted view of Hightown. She walked along it, trailed by her keepers, until she came across a stone bench. She paused, turning to address the Karashok. "May I sit for a while?"

He nodded again. She took a seat on the bench while the Karashok spoke to the Viddathari in a low voice, dismissing them for the time being. Hawke settled herself into a comfortable decision, leaning back against the wall behind her, closing her eyes as she basked in the warmth of the sun. The Karashok wouldn't leave — she was still considered a threat, even now, debilitated first by the expenditure of all her powers and then by the ravages of the fever. Her illness had done her no favors; the day before she'd tried conjuring simple fire in the palm of her hand. All she'd managed was a single flame that sputtered once and died. That small effort had taxed her considerably. It would be quite some time before she was back to what she had been, and she feared what awaited her in the interim. Allowances had been made, she was sure, because of her illness. Now that she was in recovery, she was experiencing no small amount of trepidation imagining just what the Arishok — and the Qun — would demand of her. She was glad to still be alive, glad she hadn't succumbed, but was also very aware that what she might experience while at the whim of the Qun could be worse than death.

She heard footsteps approach, turned her head and cracked her eyes open upon hearing Fenris' voice. "I will watch her," he told the Karashok, who inclined his head before striding away.

Hawke considered feigning sleep, considered greeting him, but in the end settled for turning her eyes to the urban scenery laid out before her. Fenris obstructed her view by positioning himself directly in front of her, crossing his arms over his chest as he perched on the balustrade. Having no choice but to look at him she did so wordlessly, running her tongue over her teeth before finally arching a brow in silent inquiry.

"You seem to be recovering well."

Hawke nodded. "Slowly."

They regarded each other in silence. She wondered if the memories of their shared past were assailing him too, wondered if the sound of her voice or the way she moved brought back recollections better left buried. He spoke finally. "You would have let yourself die so easily?"

She expelled a breath, a short, grim laugh. "Not so easily, from my perspective. There are certainly simpler and quicker ways to die."

"Regardless." His chin lifted as he stared down at her. "This is not the Hawke I knew."

Vexation furrowed her brow, one corner of her mouth twisting. "And you are not the man I knew. This is not the Kirkwall it once was. Everything changes. Yes," she said, seeing him open his mouth to interject, "even this drastically. I was given a choice between subjugation and death. I dread the former more than the latter. An opportunity presented itself and I took it."

"You would call illness an opportunity?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Fenris," she said, her words tempered with iron resolve. "I will not submit to the Qun."

"You think it will be that easy to defy what awaits you?"

"Nothing involving the Qun is easy."

He surprised her by snorting a little at her deliberate understatement, smiling. Unexpectedly, she found herself smiling back. Bit by bit her expression faded as she recalled the the years that had separated them and the hidden, barbed traps that were the memories of the emotions they'd once shared. Fenris was now the enemy. She needed to remember that.

"So what happens to me now?" she asked abruptly, eyes skimming over the rooftops of Hightown.

"That is not for me to decide."

"But you have an idea."

"You've some time yet, until you have recuperated fully."

"Time enough to plot an escape," she remarked, only half-joking.

"You can try." There was no hint of amusement anywhere on his face now. "I would advise against it."

"So what would you advise? I sit back and let the Qun claim me as it has you? Resign myself to a life of subjugation?"

He shook his head slowly. "You've no real idea what it could be."

"And I never will." Hawke pushed herself to her feet, unable to keep ire from coating every word that left her mouth. "I thought I'd already made that clear. I value my freedom more than anything else — freedom to be who I am, to embrace what I was born with. To be shackled and restrained because of my magic is a fate no better than death."

"And what has it won you, this freedom you tout? Years spent chasing a maleficar, fewer fingers and fewer friends?"

Her breath hissed out from beneath her teeth as she fixed him with a potent glare. She stepped closer, riding urges better left ignored, urges brought on by an anger she hadn't experienced for a very long time. "When last we spoke, all those years ago, you made it perfectly clear thatIwas responsible for what happened with the Chantry, that I would be responsible for whatever else Anders might do. You were right, and I've spent the last seven years attempting to rectify that wrong. But you would mock me for it?"

"No," he murmured, eyes intent on her face. "I… I should not have said that."

Suddenly aware of just how close they were, she eased back one step, and then another. "This is not the Fenris I knew," she offered with a brittle smile, tossing his earlier words back at him.

"Hawke—" he said, but she was already turning, walking as quickly as she could toward the door to the keep. The Karashok awaited there, opening the door for her to slip through. She went across the main hall with a determined albeit labored stride, feeling the effort strain muscles still not quite up to the task. She passed numerous Qunari and some of their non-kossith converts, but paid them no mind. She wanted the isolation of her room where she could sit and dwell on her anger, on the tangled knot of emotions that caused it — and on all the ways it rendered her vulnerable in the place where she could least afford to be.

.x.

The summons came eventually, as she knew they would, five days after her encounter with Fenris. She no longer required the aid of the Viddathari to eat, bathe, or dress, and so she was able to prepare for her meeting in relative privacy. Her armor had been taken from her after the destruction of the North Gate, as had her staff; she doubted she'd ever see either of them again. She wore still the ashy robe she'd been given weeks ago, though it hung off her now, far too big for her frame. The fever had taken a significant toll upon her, as evidenced by the image she presented in the gilded mirror bolted to the wall in her room. She looked gaunt, haunted, the flesh drawn tight across her cheekbones, gray eyes staring out from within dark hollows, thick locks of her wavy dark hair falling over her brow to hang past her ears. The scar that bisected her lip was far more prominent now, an unseemly line flaring across her face. She plucked at the folds of the robe, scowling at her reflection. The fabric's color, combined with her pallor, made her look like a ghost. She wondered if that in itself was some kind of dire omen.

Once prepared, it was a simple matter of raising her voice slightly to draw her attendants back into the room. The Viddathari were never far away and she was never left alone for long and always there were two Karashok stationed outside her door. She fully expected to be moved to more secure quarters as her recovery progressed.

She was escorted by two of the Karasaad and she walked in subdued silence between them, head bowed. Her stomach was roiling, beset with nervous energy as she was, and she hadn't bothered to eat anything for that reason. Today, she knew, she would ultimately learn her fate. She was not optimistic. The Arishok awaited her within what had once been the Viscount's receiving room. Like the rest of the keep, the large chamber had been repurposed to suit the needs of the Qun. All manner of decoration had been removed, so too the furniture, and the only thing it held now was a bench at the top of the raised dais that looked identical — and most likely was — to the one the Arishok had held court with during his time in Kirkwall years previous. As she crossed the threshold into the chamber the Karasaad at her sides peeled away, taking up positions on either side of the door. Hawke hesitated. The Arishok was not alone. There were numerous Qunari here, lining the walls, and she felt the pressing weight of their gazes as she continued forward.

"Shanedan, Hawke."

He was standing. As she neared the bottom of the dais he seated himself upon the bench and suddenly she was transported back in time to their first encounter, he an incredibly daunting figure deigning to give an audience to beings he clearly thought of as something lesser. She'd stood before him just like this, the dwarf Javaris at her side, and had looked up at him with no small amount of consideration and respect.

"Arishok," she greeted, snapping herself out of her unintentional reverie.

He studied her. She endured his scrutiny unmoving, not willing to meet the piercing nature of his gaze just yet. Instead her eyes drifted, taking silent count of the Qunari assembled along the chamber walls, mouth tightening a little to see that there were more than a few Saarebas, accompanied as always by their Arvaarad handlers.

"You appear frail."

It was an honest evaluation. She shrugged, attempting to convey an indifference she most certainly did not feel, standing alone before the leader of the Qunari army as she was. "I am. But I'm healing."

"This is not as you would have it."

She'd known it would be like this, he putting forth irrefutable, uncomfortable truths and she attempting to navigate her way carefully through them without ever revealing too much. "No."

"And your abilities?"

Her first instinct was to lie. Her magic was the only thing she had left to rely on, and if there was any hope of her ever escaping the grips of the Qun it would be through its merit. But to lie to him was to show great disrespect, something she had never done before, something she did not intend to do now. "It returns slowly. As it is, I am capable of conjuring no more than a candle flame."

He shifted, leaning forward, settling his elbows on his thighs. "Karasaad told me of your time spent in the Deep Roads and what you encountered there."

She was not surprised Fenris had relayed that information to his leader, but found that she was somewhat dismayed that the Arishok was now privy to yet another of her disastrous failures. She shook her head slowly. "Going there was a mistake, one of many I've made over the years."

"Indeed. But it was there you learned of the full potential of the power you bear."

"Yes. Desperation is a curious thing in that regard."

Silence. Against the wall one of the Qunari Ashaad stirred, folding his arms, serving as an unnecessary reminder for Hawke that this audience between she and the Arishok felt far more akin to a tribunal. She had the sense she was being evaluated on multiple levels. It worried her.

"No other has stood before us as you have and survived."

His voice snagged her attention, pulling her back from anxious thoughts. "Survival was never a part of the plan. It was but a hope," she admitted to him, revealing a truth she hadn't dared to share with Aveline.

"And yet you did survive. First the explosion, and then the sickness." He paused. "But you did not intend to survive that either."

In any other person, the reproach woven into those words would have been imperceptible. Hawke, who had exercised extreme caution in dealing with the Arishok years ago when a single misspoken word or misconstrued action could have led to war, was attuned to him still. She heard and recognized the condemnation in his tone and found to her surprise that it troubled her more than it should.

"Consider my choices," she said, unable to keep her eyes from flitting sideways to fall upon one of the Saarebas. "If my life has become limited to the point where I am to be muted and bound simply because I was born a mage, then yes, I prefer death."

"You were already told that the Tamassran may have decided a different path."

"And I was also told that becoming Saarebas was still a possibility."

He inclined his head very slightly, as close as she would ever get to see him yielding a point.

She inhaled deeply, deciding to dispense with the admittedly strained pretense she'd been struggling to uphold. "Let us speak plainly, Arishok. There's a reason you've called me here?"

Another silence. And then: "The Qun has never encountered one such as you."

There were more meanings in that statement than the most obvious, and Hawke thought hard on that before she reached an abrupt, unsettling understanding. "And because of that," she clarified aloud, "things have changed. The Qun may no longer have a use for me."

His tone was entirely affectless. "All have their uses."

Hawke felt an unpleasant, reckless smile twist her mouth, felt it pull against the tightness of her scar. "But what of apostate mages? Those that defy your army… those that have hindered your army?"

She was behaving poorly, treading where she should have the wisdom not to tread simply because she was afraid. The Qun as she understood it was an uncertainty, but now her actions had changed the demands of the inflexible ideology and she had no idea what to expect other than it would likely be worse, much worse, than what she had anticipated.

"Your fate is to be decided by the Tamassran, when they arrive here."

"Ah," she said softly, slowly. "And when will that be?"

"They have already passed the Rivaini coast."

"A matter of days, then."

The Arishok nodded once. "It is so."

Hawke rubbed at the bridge of her nose with one finger, ducking her head, unwilling to let any in the chamber catch a glimpse of the disquiet she knew was etched into ever crease and line of her face. "So I wait to know what judgment befalls me."

"No."

Her head came up, eyes moving to his face. He said in answer to her unspoken question, "We depart in three days."

It took her a moment to comprehend the significance of his words, and once she did she involuntarily took a step back. She'd expected this, known it was an inevitability, but to be confronted with the reality of it now still took her aback. She asked, half in awe, half in disbelief, "You will wage war on the Free Marches?"

"Your destruction of the gate bought the people of this city time enough to pass through the mountains. The other cities have since rallied behind them."

"But your countermeasures… ?"

"— have evidently failed." There was no mistaking the displeasure in his voice this time.

She stared at him as her thoughts raced. He would have her accompany the Qunari army out of Kirkwall, a situation which lent itself more to an opportunity to escape then remaining here in the keep ever would. She was no fool, though; she would be kept under perpetual vigilant guard, likely restrained at all times due to her own admission that her power was returning. Still — outside of these walls, she would have more of an advantage, even if it was an incredibly slight one. And if somehow, along the way, she was able to think of some way to further impede the Qunari—

Suddenly aware of the Arishok's unrelentingly perceptive gaze upon her, Hawke reigned in her thoughts, schooling her face into what she hoped was an expressionless mask. In an attempt to divert, she asked, "And how many of your forces will arrive by ship?"

His brows descended; her question was a foolish one. "Enough."

"Arishok," she cautioned as the full gravity of impending events finally struck her, "to war with the Free Marches is to war with Ferelden."

There was a long pause. "Perhaps," was all he said.

She shook her head, wishing she had enough mastery over words to successfully supplicate him to abandon this course of action. Nothing she could ever say would be enough, however, and she knew this, had known all along. This war had been decided seven years ago, rendered by the shortcomings of Kirkwall and all those that resided in it. In this, the Qunari would not be denied.

The Arishok stood, a precursor to her dismissal. "Go now, Hawke. In three days we march, and it is then you will begin to learn all that the Qun dictates and provides."

She could not stop the impulsive, unwise question that spilled from her mouth, "And will I survive those lessons?"

He gave her no answer. She hadn't really expected one. She backed away from the dais before turning. The Karasaad at the door awaited to escort her back to her room, falling into place on either side of her, walking a pace behind. She paid them no mind as she walked, paid no attention to anything other than the frantic procession of her thoughts. Opportunity awaited her upon leaving Kirkwall, she sensed, but also an uncertain threat tied to the Qun. She could not discern if it at its core lay the Arishok or herself. She had time enough to unravel those vague suspicions, to try and pinpoint where the greatest danger lay. She had three days.

Three days, until everything changed again.

.x.