They say that personal sacrifice, for no personal gain, is the most powerful expression of love in the universe. They also say that a good leader never lets their emotions stop them from doing the right thing. That it is a true hero's purity of heart which enables them to change the world.

I used to believe it. Thought a single person could make a real difference, just for being unafraid to face the shadows head-on. Now, I only wonder how it was possible to be so naive, for so long. Being pure does not enable you to save others from their own corruption. And the real enemies are not the ones that meet you on fair terms.

Protect the innocent. Follow the straight and narrow way. Die for what you believe in before considering a sellout. The goals had all seemed straightforward, in the beginning; the enemies, too, easy enough to put to the sword. It wasn't until later that I encountered the faces of my true adversaries – those foes that masquerade as friend, that feign love in order to get close enough to strike.

Somehow, you're supposed to fight that? How could anyone possibly hope to fend off such powers of darkness? With so much at stake – so little guaranteed, death seemed to be a greater victory than surviving only to find life reduced to utter ruin.

When fate drops the future of the very world in your hands; when your self-control becomes the only stave between damnation and deliverance, and the time comes to make that immutable personal sacrifice, it's hard to find the fabled high road. Maybe there are stories where it's as simple as choosing between your happiness and everyone else's. Too often, though, you aren't the only one in the room when the time comes to bring the pillars crashing down.

Until now, shock had kept my mind restrained to the tasks at hand. The demands of the moment: putting a profane dictator to the sword, inciting rebellion throughout the Free Marches, and other so-called 'hero-work', had enabled me to keep the terrible price of those demands out of my thoughts. Now that we'd fled the city, and with no signs of pursuit to keep me occupied, it was harder to block out the dark revelations. Some spectral exciseman had come, and was collecting his due from my soul.

I had defied and killed the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, and defended the murderer of the Grand Cleric. Crimes of unpardonable severity, no matter my reasons. There would be no mercy for me if captured. Nobody would understand. Nowhere would be safe. And no matter how many miles I ran, it would never be far enough to escape this nightmare. In one fell swoop, the dream of changing my fate had been denied me forever.

My destiny was, and always would be, written in blood.

This is the fate of mortals who aspire to heroism, who dare to think they can stand against the powers of darkness in the world: The darkness consumes them, or kills them, or cripples them – whatever victory is greatest. The question is not if you will fall, but when.

The best I could hope to do now was protect those closest to me in the aftershock of recent events.

"You okay, Hawke?", Varric asked, startling me. In my rumination I hadn't noticed the Dwarf falling back to my side any more than I had noticed how far behind I was from the rest of the group.

No, I wanted to scream. There was absolutely nothing okay about me. I was dead tired, trembling with pain, and my heart was broken. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other. But this wasn't time to indulge grief or grievances openly, so I tried to smile, "I'm fine."

He chuckled ruefully, "You look like you're about to –"

Searing agony shot up my side, blinding me, ripping the air from my lungs and showing me a few new things about how much pain it was actually possible to feel before you pass out. I staggered. My legs gave out from under me as if they had been severed, and I dropped to the ground with an involuntary moan.

"– fall over", Varric muttered grimly, trying to keep me from face-planting into the dirt. "Please tell me you did that on purpose."

"Sodding rock…", I growled – though no rock had blocked my path – and struggled vainly to regain command of my body. A wave of nausea threatened to make me heave. Small spasms raked my tensed limbs like an electric pulse, and the harder I tried to focus, the more muddled my thoughts became. Without Varric's support I wouldn't have even been able to pull myself to hands and knees.

"Everyone hold up!", the Dwarf called to the others urgently, propping me up as best he could, "I think Hawke's hurt!"

"It's not that bad", I groaned unconvincingly, "It's okay." It had to be okay. Had to – even if it wasn't. An injury would slow down our flight and endanger the others.

As the rest of the group returned, I counted heads to make sure every familiar face was present; something I must have done forty times since leaving Kirkwall, but an old habit too often indulged to be refrained from now. Everyone who remained looked battle weary and solemn, but alive. An incredible feat, considering what we had just faced.

It shouldn't have been necessary.

Guard Captain Aveline was leading them. Her ginger hair was pulled back, kept out of her face by the orange handkerchief which was usually tied around her neck. A nasty purple bruise the size of a fist was forming over her eye.

Aveline's husband, Donnic, was with us. He'd somehow found his wife just after the fighting, and would not be convinced to part with her even if it meant becoming a fugitive, sharing our condemnation. I might have found such devotion touching if exhaustion and disillusionment hadn't already sapped the color from the world.

Merrill, the young elf witch, and my sister, Bethany, the only mage from the dissolved Kirkwall Circle still alive, followed close to the ex-guards. Merrill's hair was a tangled mess, and her staff was visibly cracked down the side. Bethany seemed to have retreated to some sanctuary deep within herself – I had seen the withdrawn look on her face after many conflicts, but it was particularly poignant now. At least she was alive. My sister was the only family I had left.

Fenris strode behind them all, his face still smeared with gore from the fight so many hours before, his evergreen eyes clear, solemn, and intent. The elf's incandescent lyrium tattoos pulsated with a nervous, eerie glow in the moonlight every time something shifted by the roadside, as if he expected us to be ambushed. And of course, Varric was standing next to me, the only one whose demeanor revealed nothing of what we had just lost.

That was six, present and accounted for. But there should be seven.

At first I did not see Anders. He moved some distance apart from the group with all the gall and half the confidence of a stray dog, apparently understanding that his continued presence was not entirely welcome. Good. At least the abomination still had that much sense.

"What's wrong?", Merrill chirped on approach, brushing a stray lock of raven hair behind her pointed ear nervously.

"Nothing", I told her, as if saying so would make it true.

Varric gave a sharp huff, "Hawke–"

"Nothing's wrong", I insisted weakly. "Let me catch my breath. Just… tripped."

"You collapsed", Varric corrected curtly, "You're as pale as a corpse and shaking like a deranged blood mage."

He was right.

Putting a tentative hand under my armor to the site of the pain, my waist, I prayed it was nothing more than a torn muscle or a broken rib. A truly foolish thing to pray for, all things considered. I knew enough about warfare to recognize the signs of a serious wound, and such things didn't just disappear because you asked them to. Even so, knowing what to expect didn't abate the crisp horror, when pulling the palm away revealed a sticky, dark maroon substance dripping from my fingers. Way too much of it.

Blast! I dropped the hand quickly, hoping the others hadn't seen.

Of course they saw.

"Is that… your blood?", Bethany asked, her voice a hoarse whisper.

I opened my mouth to reply, managing only a constricted gasp as a wave of pain surged from the wound.

"That is a serious injury", Fenris observed gravely.

Anders pushed past the others, the alarm on his face obvious. An expression of genuine horror assumed his features as he assessed my condition. "Have you had this since the battle?", the apostate demanded angrily, stepping forward, then hesitating.

I didn't answer him. I couldn't. Tears were burning in my eyes. A single word might bring them cascading forth.

It was too much to endure having this man as an enemy. For so long I'd thought my adversaries were the ones who waited for me in darkness, and stalked me from shadow. But no. The real assassin had been at my shoulder, holding my heart and watching over me as I slept. He had been lying beside me, waiting for the most opportune moment to strike. Deceptive to the end, Anders had put the knife in my back. He had betrayed me with a kiss.

"Athena", the traitor entreated, slightly less incensed, "Love, why didn't you say something? I could have healed you."

Was it so wrong to prefer death over the aid of a demon?

"Here. It's not too late yet." Anders moved to my side and knelt, oblivious to the torture his attention was causing. The air hissed around his fingers as he summoned his magic, intending to close my wound. Every instinct within me demanded flight.

"Stop", I warned.

His eyebrows creased. He fixed me with those deep, tragic brown eyes that I used to lose myself in. "There's nothing to worry about, love. I'll help you."

Anders seemed to think his gentle tone would soothe me. But I knew better than to believe he truly had my interests at heart. "Don't touch me!", I snarled, jerking away from his grasp and trying not to double over from the resulting pain.

The abomination withdrew his hand, looking almost hurt.

I felt no sting of remorse. My heart was already full with grief.

Varric gave a short 'hmph'. "Listen, Hawke, I know you just lost… eh, well – everything. But I didn't help you hack through half the Templars in Kirkwall so you could throw your life away a few hours later. Let Blondie patch you up… he owes it to you."

"Athena", Anders pleaded.

"He owes me nothing", I replied to Varric, who clearly didn't understand. "Our debts are settled."

"Do you expect me to just let you die?", Anders demanded, "You know I won't do that!"

I remained silent; it took every ounce of energy to retain coherent consciousness.

"Ugh!", the traitor jerked to his feet and stalked across the road, putting his back to me. He tilted his gaze towards the night sky and covered his face with his hands, sputtering curses.

"Mistress Hawke clearly can't go on like this", Donnic said finally, looking to Bethany and Merrill. "You're both mages, right? Can either of you close her wounds?"

Bethany shook her head. "I can't", she whimpered.

"Keeper Marethari tried to teach me, but…", Merrill drifted off uncomfortably. "…I'm afraid not."

Only one among us could mend me with magic; he was again facing me with a frustrated, if not sour expression. Magic was out of the question.

"In that case, we'll cauterize it", Aveline suggested in a tone that didn't invite further dissent.

Anders' jaw clenched and he made some kind of aggravated noise. Everyone's gaze turned to him, most of them were angry.

"There are problem with that, Anders?", the guard captain challenged.

The apostate rounded on her, scowling. Agitated sparks of electricity danced off his fingertips. "Do you see where the wound is? Athena's bound to have internal injuries – not something you can just set to fire and expect to be fine. She'll still bleed-out!"

"Do you have a better suggestion?", Donnic asked, trying to be diplomatic.

"Yes", he snarled, "I would treat her myself and put this whole thing behind us. But she's delirious and you idiots are–"

"Anders!" Merrill tilted her head in my direction meaningfully. The world seemed to be spinning violently; I suppose I was beginning to look considerably imperiled.

He began to approach again, sounding more desperate than frustrated. "If I don't heal her, she'll die. There's nothing for it …"

I recoiled, but I wasn't really sure if he was anywhere close to me.

"Love, you have to trust me."

"Trust you?", Fenris exploded suddenly, stalking forward, "Athena would not be hurt at all except for trusting you!" His entire body was glowing. The warrior grabbed Anders' arm in a fierce vice-grip. "You won't lay another finger on her, demon."

"Let go of me, bastard!", Anders cried, pulling vainly in an attempt to free himself. For a moment his eyes flashed with blue energy, as if an internal struggle was also taking place between the man and the monster within. "I'm trying to save her! There's nothing evil in that!"

"Stop it!", Bethany insisted, bravely putting herself between them. "This isn't fixing anything!"

"I will stand down when this abomination does", Fenris threatened.

An uneasy pause. I assume the others were waiting for me to speak; but I had nothing more to say. Shadows crept across the corners of my vision, and my thoughts were growing hazy.

Anders was practically begging now: "Let me do something! Just stop the bleeding!"

Fenris replied hotly, "You've done enough."

"Are you bloody insane? Do you want–"

"HAWKE!", I fancied Varric yelled.

After that, darkness claimed me.

I believe I ceased to be fully a part of the world. Vague awareness of a heated argument between the others in the company existed, but the words were indistinct and alien; nothing more than murmurs through the veil. There was also some conscious recognition of Fenris, lifting me off the ground and carrying me to a place that was dark and cool. I did not know where Anders or the rest were, did not care to. The sharp sensation of magic struck, once. After that, I fell into a depth of the mind where no sensation could revive me. It was not death, though it must have been close– and it was the most at peace I'd ever been.