Author's Note: I'd like to express my utmost appreciation to all of you who have read and reviewed this fic. I didn't realize when I started it how difficult an undertaking it would be. It's very difficult to write about the Arishok and the Qun—they are both unyielding and rigid and hard to portray in words. I struggle with it somewhat because I don't wish to bend or weaken the concept of the Qunari in general in order to forge believable ties between both the Arishok and Hawke, and between Hawke and the Qun.

That said, I take to heart every review I receive. Knowing that people enjoy this story is greatly inspiring, and I thank you for the time you take to read!

IV

-The Barrow Dawn-

.x.

"What comfort has freedom brought you, mage? You would have more if you submitted to the Qun."

-Ketojan

.x.

Hawke awoke to dampness and cold.

A persistent spattering of water upon her upturned face freed her from the reluctant grips of a dark and terrible dream. No sound escaped her as her eyes fluttered open to find only a world of an impenetrable blackness. Moments passed and the dark shaped itself into shadows amongst other shadows, until finally she realized that she was not lost in a plane of eternal and merciless night as her dreams had so hinted. Turning her head a small distance, she discovered with a dazed sweep of her eyes that she was buried beneath huge blocks of stone.

That fact in itself was not surprising; she could recall with vivid clarity her stand before the North Gate with the whole of the Qunari army pressing in upon her. She had achieved her goal and destroyed the gate—she could remember too clearly seeing the stones of its foundation come tumbling down around her before all awareness had fled. The crooked and uneven slabs that so effectively entombed her were, she surmised, a testament to her success. The realization that they may also serve as a sepulcher was not a heartening one.

As more water spattered onto her cheek—rain, she knew, filtering through the cracks in the blocks heaped all around her—she attempted to shift her body away. Immediate pain filled her then, and she couldn't help the low moan that escaped her as every muscle and every bone began to ache with sharp intensity, jarred by her stirring. Even the expanse of her skin was alight with agony, feeling gritty and raw. She ceased all movement, remaining as she had been upon her awakening, lying prostrate on her back, legs splayed and arms close to her sides. Still the water rain persisted, small droplets beating a staccato against her face before sliding uncomfortably down her neck to pool beneath her shoulders. Slowly she turned her head, gritting her teeth at the discomfort caused by even that small action, so that the water instead dripped past her ear. She had no will for anything else. All her power, all her energy had been expended in her last great push of magic, in the explosion that had buried her thus. In the aftermath she was left feeling alarmingly feeble, having barely the strength to keep her eyes open to stare unseeing at the interior of her makeshift crypt.

That she was alive was nothing short of a miracle. Having exerted all her sorcery in an effort to destroy the North Gate, she had been left unable to conjure even the most elementary of magical shielding as the great blocks of granite had collapsed all around her. That had not been a part of Hawke's original plan; she had not lied to Aveline when she had said she did not plan to die. That she hadn't been crushed beneath the tremendous weight of the gate's debris was astounding, but now she was left to consider a more insidious demise—would the Qunari dig beneath the fallen stones of the North Gate to locate the mage that had hindered them so? Or would they assume her dead—not an improbability, by any means—and leave her body here within the chance convenience of her tomb? Both options made her close her eyes as an oppressive despair washed over her. Neither option, she knew, would end happily for her. Both were at this point equally possible and inevitable.

Hawke took several deep, steadying breaths in light of the knowledge as to how dire her situation really was, recalling as she did so another time, not so long ago, when she had first discovered she was capable of causing such magical destruction. The first and only other time she had attempted this exertion of her powers, she had had an ally nearby to assist her in the aftermath, one who had aided her in her weakened, dazed state in getting to a place of relative safety. No friend awaited Hawke now, ready and willing to dig her out from within this haphazard cairn to guide her securely through the threats that lurked beyond. Whatever came for her now—if indeed something should—would be in the form of an enemy.

A deep chill had settled over her. Unable to escape the water pooled beneath her body—unable to tell how long she'd lain thus—she was helpless against the icy tendrils that crept throughout her form to settle within the brittle marrow of her bones. Even the simplest of magical tricks—conjuring a tiny lick of flame from which to leech warmth—was beyond her now. With the unshakable cold came an inescapable weariness. Hawke could not move, could not summon her power, could do nothing against the dire circumstances she now found herself in. And so she let close her eyes once again and gave way beneath the forcible push of fatigue, drifting off once again into the murky, dreamless dark.

.x.

The Qunari found her a full day later at dawn, having taken that long to shift and move the sizable chunks of rubble that had so effectively ensconced her. The rain had not abated in the hours that had passed and so unrelenting was the downpour that it surely seemed the whole world must be drenched beneath its torrent. The Qunari, working tirelessly under the supervision of their Arishok, tackled the task of removing the giant, charred stones with the same stoic, unyielding determination with which they approached everything.

Almost the entirety of the northern courtyard bore the marks of Hawke's conjured fire. The gate itself had crumbled completely, as though obliterated by the very will of the Maker. The mountainous pile of smoldering, charred stones was impassable. With the final explosion, the fire had swept outwards to blister the surrounding walls, blackening the mortar and even the cobblestones of the street. The flames had wrought further destruction upon any Qunari that had had the misfortune of being closest to Hawke; nine had died in the immediate blast and three more had succumbed to the severe burns they had sustained. Even the Arishok had not escaped her attack unscathed. While he had exhibited some resistance to her brand of magic in their earlier encounter, such was the tidal force of power she had unleashed at the gate that the flames had managed to scorch the length of his forearms and some of the exposed skin of his chest. The dead and the wounded had been attended to in the hours that had passed, and the Qunari leader stood now before the great mound of rubble with his burns salved and dressed, seemingly unaware of and unperturbed by the rain that pounded down all around him in a relentless deluge.

The water had extinguished the greater of the raging fires left behind after the North Gate had fallen. Even so, smoke still rose skyward in thick dark plumes and the heat the stones retained slowed the Qunari's excavation. That they labored so intensively to uncover the mage that had caused such devastation was not perceived as unusual by their number. Exceedingly rare was the occurrence that the Qunari found themselves so thoroughly routed by one lone individual. Even more anomalous was the fact that it was a human who had done so. Hawke's pharaonic demonstration of raw power had cemented her status as dangerous and worthy rival, so unprecedented and unexpected had it been. That she had managed to stall the considerable might of the Qunari army by one feat alone was by all merits astoundingly impressive. The Arishok had ordered her retrieval after the Qunari dead had been taken from the courtyard and the military ranks had been reorganized. It was recognized by all involved that the possibility of the human mage's death by the collapse of the gate was high. There was, however, the chance that she had survived and if it were so, the Qun demanded she be found, for there were rigid axioms by which such a rival must be held accountable.

When one of the working Ashaad shouted out in sudden discovery, the Arishok moved as one with the rest of the Qunari gathered and began to climb the uneven mound of debris, striding forth undeterred by the stones that wobbled and smoked beneath his feet. A ring of Qunari converged finally upon the position of the Ashaad where he stood in a waist deep aperture within the hill of stones. Wordlessly, the Ashaad indicated with a thrust of his chin to the ground at his feet where the crumpled form of Hawke lay.

The rain had created a sizable pool around her prostrate body. Her ebony robes were singed and tattered about the edges and completely soaked, clinging to her skin. Blood was visible in smeared lines down the length of her exposed arms and legs. Her head was turned to the side and the water had plastered her dark hair to her skull in thin, dripping ribbons. Her staff lay some several feet away, still half-buried beneath the immense bulk of a granite block.

Fenris—a Karasaad now within the Qun—hopped down lightly from where he'd been balanced on a large jagged shard of broken stone and approached the fallen human, gently splashing through the pool of water as he did so. He knelt beside Hawke and with deft fingers felt for signs of life. A moment passed before he raised his eyes to that of his leader and nodded once. "She lives."

The Arishok remained motionless for a string of seconds before he moved, stepping down from the rubble. Fenris rose and stepped back as his leader approached, his head respectfully inclined. The Arishok came to a halt, the water rippling around his booted feet, and stared down at the prone mage. There lay one of the only humans to earn the mantle of basalit-an. There lay one of the only living beings who had stood alone in open defiance against the Qunari and lived.

There lay the mage that had managed to halt his entire army in its tracks.

When he knelt, it was with great deliberation. The water that soaked through his leathers was shockingly cold, but he made no move to withdraw. Instead he reached for the mage.

And stopped when her eyes snapped open.

He read no fear in their mist-like depths, no trepidation, no panic. He saw instead an acceptance of a fate that she had been unable to escape, a calm and quiet resignation. He checked his movement and for a moment they regarded each other, two adversaries bound and made familiar with each other by a history of decisions and circumstances. Water trickled over her brow and down the side of her face, tracing the exact line of her scar. She moved then, slowly bringing one arm up and over her chest; he noted the way her face became drawn and the way she inhaled sharply in pain.

It was she who spoke first, her voice muted and low, "I cannot stand."

Fenris stepped forward and again knelt at her side. She glanced at the elf without expression but accepted his aid as he carefully lifted her into a sitting position with a hand at her back. That the entire process had been agonizing was evident in the way she breathed, but she uttered no other sound until she was upright. Eyes returning to the Arishok, she asked in a voice made taut by her suffering, "What of the refugees?"

"Safe, for the time being. We will hold and strengthen our position here."

"Until more of your armies arrive," she said.

He dipped his head, affirming her words. "It is so."

She looked away, gaze skimming over the blackened, smoking, rain-spattered rubble that surrounded them. He watched as her eyes fixed on the serpent-headed length of her staff, watched as the fingers on her maimed hand flexed briefly. She did not look at Qunari or elf as she phrased her next words.

"And what of me?"

"You live."

Her eyes flicked back to him and he saw worry burgeon to life within them, belying the steadiness of her voice. "In what manner?"

He did not answer. Rising to his feet, he gestured wordlessly at Fenris; the elf began to gather Hawke into his arms with the intent of carrying her from the exposed depths of her would-be barrow.

"No," she said sharply, shaking her head. "I can walk, with aid." That she was disputing her earlier words to them did not matter. Fenris assisted her with an arm about her waist as she slowly and unsteadily gained her feet. So pale did she become when at last she stood that it appeared she must topple over, but after a long minute she shook off Fenris' touch and took first one wavering step, and then another forward.

"My staff," she said as the elf made to lift her up onto the slick, rain-wet surface of the foremost of scattered stones.

"It will be retrieved." The Arishok replied without turning, having already made his way up the uneven mound.

After a moment of hesitation, the mage allowed Fenris to carry her over the rubble. He hefted her as gently as he could, but her soft sounds of pain were audible to both Qunari and elf as they picked their way across the field of stones. When Fenris finally stepped down from the last onto the cobblestones of the uncluttered part of the street, he set her down carefully and she moved away from him on legs that shook.

The other Qunari had dispersed to fulfill their other duties, their task in the courtyard having effectively been completed. Elf, Qunari leader and human faced each other in silence, a conflicting trifecta of races and creeds. Hawke clutched the scorched, ragged edges of her cowl about her neck as though to ward off the incessant patter of rain. Her tremors, borne of cold and weariness, were apparent to both observers.

Her eyes found again the Arishok and she spoke then, her voice still even in light of all she was currently faced with. "Why not kill me? Why not leave me here to die?"

"The Qun demands otherwise."

"I won't submit."

The Arishok's eyes were unblinking even as water streamed in rivers down the hard, craggy planes of his face and dripped in rapid trickles from daunting, imperious curve of his horns. A silence stretched on between them, broken only by the dull roar of the rain. It was she who finally broke it, voice finally wavering beneath the weight of her conviction. "I won't become Saarebas."

"You will become," the Arishok replied tonelessly, "what you are meant to be. There are certainties and absolutes all about you, Hawke. They will no longer be ignored or denied. Karasaad," he addressed Fenris then, "Escort her to the Keep. Instruct Viddathari to tend to what wounds she has. Find a place to secure her."

Hawke said nothing further as Fenris caught at her arm, urging her to walk with him. Without another word she acquiesced to the steady pressure of his touch, pivoting and making her way from the courtyard with slow, halting steps.

The Arishok watched their departure until they were beyond his sight.

.x.