I can feel the cold hand of death, and the end drawing near

I've seen gods of the men, and all of which they fear.

Sing to me songs of the darkness

Farewell to heaven my friend

Come to me, bury your sorrow

temptation awaits condemned

Zatox – Poltergeist

Her fingers were trembling again. Her whole right hand would've shaken, had it not been for the desperate clutch of the left. Breath. Slow and steady. Lilyan Hawke tried to calm herself, for the dozenth time now, and to no avail. She could not loose herself again. Not here. Not now. Not amidst the handful of friends that she had still left. Not with all their eyes resting on here.

The stood in the entrance of the Amell mansion. With hardly a year spent inside it's wall, she would not call it her mansion. Lilyan stood pressed against the door, the others gathered around. They had become so few. Merill, Anders, her siblings... and Isabella, probably to her own surprise. And they were all waiting for Lilyan, to say something. To lead them into battle like she had done before. Waiting and look... Their eyes! Look at them! They're weak! Pathetic! You don't need them! Bring me to the battle and we crush them! All of them! Let me ou... Lilyans fractured sanity took another dent. A million roaring voices, raging inside her head, easily drowning out the feint battle noise and her brothers worried questions. The beast was clawing the walls of it's cage again. Trying to escape, trying to claim it's prize for their bargain. The walls. Walls inside her mind. A prison that demon could not escape from. Or so she hoped. Walls... warm blood, where teeth dug into her lip, and a steady stream soaking the scarf wrapped around her head, over her right eye. The creature fed on her blood, on every drop that was shed. And the prisons walls were shaking.

"Sister! Sister are you all right?"

It was Carvers hand, the worry in is voice, that grounded Lilyan just long enough. The walls would hold. They would have to. They had held up to now. Didn't they? If only she could tell.

Her head felt infinitely heavy, but she managed to nod, managed to press words through her teeth.

"We need to get going."

Easier said then done. By the sound of the fighting, by the swelling noises, the walls had already been breached. Every second wasted here, was further slimming down their chances to reach the harbor, and Isabellas ship. As small a chance of escape as that already was. With a heavy sigh, Lilyans fingers closed around the staffs hilt, and she freed up the exit.

They didn't even make it to the stairs that led to Low-town. Each step their small group had hastened through the streets, the sound of fighting had swollen, had drawn closer. The templars had led their assault without warning, before the city had even noticed the absence of merchants and travelers arriving on the roads. And as much as Kirkwall was built to be a stronghold, the defenders were little match for the force, that the chantry had amassed. They had driven back a first assault, and at a terrible price. But for all Lilyan knew, the walls had already fallen, the cities defenders already been overpowered. Everyone knew the inevitable. Few people were still out on the streets, most of them rushing to their homes. Fools that would not be able to... You are the fool! We should be out there, on the glorious killing fields! We should sing the songs of battle, not of cowardice! For a second or two, that almost kicked her of balance, all noise was lost in the maelstrom of anger, raging inside her head. When reality returned, she could clearly make out the Andrastian battle-cries behind them. Too close, too fast. And the group was out in the open too, hastily crossing the deserted marketplace. And the long Stairwell hardly offered better cover.

"We're not going to make it."

Merills frightened voice phrased what they all thought, what they all knew.

And right then, right there Lilyan Hawke made a choice. Her choice. Perhaps the only good one, that she'd made in years.

When they reached the staircase, descending into the bowels of Low-town, her steps came to a halt. Even her voice felt better, stronger now.

"You go ahead. I'll hold them."

The group stopped dead in their tracks. Carver and Anders almost simultaneously started protesting her decision. Not that it mattered, not that their words even reached Lilyan. Her eyes wandered down the staff she was carrying. The keystone. Her fathers staff. A heirloom, she hardly deserved, not after betraying the most basic of her fathers lectures. A simple fling of her arm, and Bethany caught the weapon, the eyes wide with surprise, slowly being replaced by realization. By sadness. Between her sisters, and Merills eyes, Lilyan could not help but turn down her gaze, lest what little of her heart was left would fully shatter. No time for goodbyes, regardless of the pain.

"Go you fools! GO!"

Her voice had become a scream, and a wild swipe of her hand conjured wall of blue flames to explode into existence, cutting herself of from the rest of the group. Cutting them off from their pursuers. She turned her back on the flames, desperate to blink her healthy eye free of water. It was better this way. The creature wouldn't be able to harm them anymore. And besides, all this mess was her fault, wasn't it. She had struck the knight commander down. And when the seeker had taken her to task about the creature she had chained inside her mind... for endless maddening nights, Lilyan had tried to recall who struck the first blow.

Did it really matter? Either way, it was her hand that had taken the seekers life, her hand that had spelled doom over Kirkwall. If could trade her life in to let the others escape... it'd be a fair trade. And to her own surprise, Lilyan calmed down. For the first time in month, the first time since the Qunari rampage, she felt something, she had almost forgotten. Peace. Solitude.

"You and I will both perish here demon, and you will not have me, regardless of how much you struggle. But grant me your power, just one more time, and I promise you a slaughter that will quench even your insatiable thirst for blood."

She had spoken aloud, and yet she received no answer. The voice remained silent. But the demon answered. She could feel it. The surge of strength, power flowing through her her body, clouding the worries, the sorrow in deep, untamed rage.

Mechanical, almost without her own will guiding it, her hand moved up, ripped the scarf off her face. And the world turned red.

When the first enemy emerged over the stairs edge, Lilyan was well beyond even noticing that her foe was not a templar. It didn't matter. A single flick of her fingers, and flames erupted inside the mans armor, sending him to agonizing death. Even his last screams were meaningless, far removed from Lilyans ears. New silhouettes appeared atop the stairs. Templars? The chantries Crest? Her fingers formed a sign she had never known before, and a web of lightning erupted among them, shattering the marble steps as easy as they cut through metal and flesh. She remembered clearly now. The feeling, merging with so much power. Her father had time and time again lectured of the abominations, of their pain. But it didn't feel bad at all. Lilyan was floating, watching her own body move with ruthless efficiency, spelling doom and destruction on the killing field before her.

The numbness, the light-headedness keeping her mind afloat, tore like a veil when the first arrow hit her. The projectile easily carried the force to toss her small frame around, to bring Lilyan to her knees, screaming in agony and anger alike.

Blood, so much blood. It had gathered in her eyes. It was gushing out between her fingers, where her right was clutched around the arrow shaft, lodged in her shoulder. Good. The blood was good. The blood was power. Enough to extend her struggle past her bodies limits.

The templars were closing in now, and fast. A wide, sweeping gesture. Her left arm refused to obey, but it was enough, to sprinkle the assailants in Lilyans front with drops of red. A simple snap of her fingers, and the same dark magic that had claimed the knight commander, tore the men apart.

The spear came out of nowhere. The initial thrust missed Lilyan by mere inches. Not that it mattered, when the shaft brutally smashed into her forehead, finally toppling her balance. She couldn't even tell what hurt more, her face colliding with the floors marble, or the arrow snapping inside her shoulder.

Just a little more time. Just a little more power. At least restore the barrier in front of the stairs leading down. Just a little more... No use. No good.

The man stood over her, raising his spear to deliver the final, merciful blow. Lilyan Hawke closed her eyes. But the pain would not stop. No final cut, no merciful serenity.

Just the heavy rustling sound, of an armored body collapsing next to her, feint and distant through the sound of blood, pulsing in her ears. Through the drum of her own heartbeat.

While she did not yet dare to open he eyes again, Lilyan could feel strong hands around her waist. She was lifted in the air, and a jolt of agony erupted in her shoulder, when her maltreated body came to rest over a shoulder, when her savior began to move.

A voice. A friendly voice. Deep. Dwarven.

"Hang in there Hawke, don't you die on me. Didn't think old Varric would turn tail on you, did'ya? I won't let you die some stupidly heroic fashion."

A deep thankful warmth, from the bottom of her heart. When she opened her eyes, she could make out nothing but a brown coats back, and dwarven feet, carrying her through some sort of tunnel with admirable haste. Her useless left arm and her head were flailing wildly from the motion. Her right arm was moving on purpose. And the realization blew away whatever warmth and hope she'd felt.

No.

Moving without her will, without her consent, in disregard of her desperate attempts to regain her body.

No.

Fingers, reaching for the dwarfs belt, for the dagger he carried. Lilyan wanted to scream out, wanted to warn Varric of the impending disaster, but her jaws would obey her no more then her limbs.

No!

The fingers of the hand that was no longer hers closed around the weapons hilt. Slowly, like the demon was savoring the taste of victory, the dagger moved out of the sheath, the hand raised to take lethal aim.

Yes.

The End

Authors note: So much for this one, and thanks for all the revies. My next Dragon Age project should be online, as off now.