Chapter Text
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide;
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."
~John Milton, "When I Consider How My Light Is Spent"
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Sometimes battles unfold like a dance. Times when everyone has a place and everyone knows their steps, when words are superfluous and they all simply know.
This is such a battle.
Varric’s bolts fly with unerring accuracy while Isabela darts and weaves and spins from opponent to opponent—or, rather, victim to victim—her blades flashing orange, reflecting the sun as it sets over the Wounded Coast, the daggers caught up in their own dance. Fenris, too, moves on quick, sure feet, nimble and deadly and impossibly fast as his tattoos glow and his sword drives through slavers, turning their triumphant battle cries into agonized screams. And Hawke, with mana buzzing through her veins, hovering ever-present at her fingertips and coalescing into flame, into ice, into shuddering, flickering bolts of lightning with barely a thought.
Times like these they are a unit that moves, breathes, thinks and acts as one. They are winning, because that is what they do in battles such as this one.
It is enough to make her forget that even the best battles, even the ones they are winning, can turn on a copper.
And maybe it is because they are winning. Maybe their opponents are too aware of their dwindling numbers, are aware they are going to lose—aware they are going to die—and fury and desperation combine to push them forward recklessly, knowing that any blow they can land will be enough.
She sees too clearly the slaver rushing toward her, hatred making his eyes wild as he bares his teeth at her like a rabid beast. She also sees the dagger he’s wielding in one hand and a little sphere that looks conspicuously like one of Varric’s tar bombs in the other. Narrowing her eyes, she sends a wave of ice and frost the assassin’s way, freezing him solid to the spot.
She sees, too late, fingers release the tar bomb and she realizes—also too late—that’s not what it was at all.
The mana that’s been buzzing beneath her skin throughout the entire battle, the energy she’s been summoning with barely more than a breath and a thought, rushes forward as she tries at the last moment, the last second to twist and stretch it into a shield. The little sphere judders and cracks like a newborn chick forcing its way out of an egg, but in between the cracks, light—so very much light—streams out.
Fenris’ voice, ragged, hoarse—and, yes, she hears it: terrified—calling her.
“Hawke!”
The force of the light leaves her breathless, so breathless she cannot answer Fenris, can barely think to answer him. It hits her like a blast, melts her shield like spun sugar in the rain.
She is suddenly five years old again, sitting in the back garden with Papa and Mama, with Bethany and Carver, both toddling around on chubby, unsteady legs. She is sitting on Papa’s lap as the sun above them shifts into shadow, but for the sun’s burning ring stretching out from the eclipse’s darkness.
You must never look at an eclipse straight on, sweetling, he told her.
But now, now she isn’t looking at an eclipse, she’s looking into the sun itself.
Everything goes white.
And then black.