Part Two: Darkness

Bethany feels safest on the steps on the Chantry, with the gaze of all the Templars, sisters and acolytes gazing through her and not knowing her.

"If you're really interested, I can reach out to the Knight Commander." She overhears the words as Ser Bryant approached with Carver in tow. He always follows the Templar like a puppy.

"I'd like that," Carver says, looking sidelong at his sister.

"Good morning, Ser Bryant," Bethany says with a coy smile as she folds her hands.

"Good morning," he says kindly. But he doesn't notice her.

Carver is glaring and she quietly retreats.

The Hawke boys smile and wave as they set off southward down the road.

Bethany waves back. Mother is holding a kerchief over her mouth to hide her frown of disapproval. It was Garrett's idea. The king was calling for more levies at Ostagar. The pay was three times what Barlin was offering for labor on the farm.

Garrett is confident they'll be far from the fighting, because they're just two country boys, not soldiers. Mother isn't convinced.

Especially because they both leave with greatswords hanging across their backs, playing throwing jabs at each other and laughing as they go.

All of Lothering is startled from their homes in the middle of the night as the first survivor from Ostagar stumbles into town.

He is soaked through. Not even the pouring rain is powerful enough to cleanse the blood staining his ragged, shredded clothes. His eyes are white and wide and wild as he screams.

"They're coming! They're coming!" He shouts at anyone who will listen. "The King is dead! The darkspawn! The darkspawn are coming!"

He is gone nearly as quickly as he comes, his arms and legs flailing as he forces his exhausted limbs north through the storm.

For three days, Bethany helps tend to the wounded limping into Lothering.

They straggle in, two or three at a time. Some are soldiers, wearing broken armor and carrying swords, axes or bows heavy in their arms. Some are camp followers, bloody and shivering and happy to be away.

When no one is looking, she pushes a little magic into the wounds as she wraps gashes and cuts with fresh bandages.

All of the stories are bad.

Some of the men die painfully as black corruption courses through their veins.

She always looks to the road for Garrett and Carver.

Leandra sobs when she sees her boys running up the highway.

Ser Bryant and the last of the Templars evacuated two days ago with most of the townsfolk. He tried, unsuccessfully, to get Leandra to go without her sons.

"We have to go," Garrett says. "Now."

No one questions him.

Bethany had already packed everything they could carry as she thrusts the backpack into mother's arms. She pulls Birchcore out from under her bed.

There is no room for Ser Bark in her bag. She kisses his head.

They don't bother to close the door behind them as they flee.

Carver spares only a wordless nod for her.

The creature's curved black sword was locked on his blade. Its arms looked bony and weak, but it pushed Carver back as if he were a struggling child. The hurlock hissed in his face, its jagged, rotting teeth stretching out for his neck. The cords of Carver's neck were taut as he tried to shove the monster back.

Her ball of fire wobbled and spun through the air, exploding in a flash of heat and light as it struck the darkspawn across the back. The creature wailed. Carver cut it down.

Gratitude.

"We have to keep moving," Garrett says, ignoring the deep gash across the bridge of his nose and the streak of blood that marks him.

Four more dead darkspawn lie around them. Carver is breathing hard. Bethany's hands are shaking so badly that Birchcore trembles even when she wraps both hands around it. The stink of black darkspawn blood makes her dizzy.

"We would have been home days earlier if we just ran instead of constantly stopping to help people," Carver accuses. His bare arms are marked with a dozen cuts.

Garretts eyes blaze disapproval.

He swallows and says nothing.

Carver is dead before Bethany even has time to move.

She blanches, frozen, as the ogre scoops her brother off the ground. Panic shoots through her - one, two, three times - as the ogre slams Carver into the ground.

The side of his head is a twisted knot of blood and dirt.

Garrett flashes toward the ogre, sword gleaming, to do what Carver could not.

Twelve minutes.

She had claimed her first breath of life twelve minutes before him. Twelve minutes was never enough to reconcile the magic that divided them.

The cleft between them will always remain permanently, infinitely wide.

The demons are pulled to her as a beacon in her shallow, nightmarish sleep.

She does not disguise herself. She does not try to fool Bethany. Desire's eyes shine with deep, purple fire and a hungry ecstasy.

"I can give you the power to protect your family." The demon's words are honey-sweet, soothing to a raw, bleeding soul that screams across the Fade.

Her slender fingers lightly wipe the tears from Bethany's cheek. The demon takes her hand, squeezing it as gently, as calmly, as her father.

"Let me help you," Desire purrs.

Bethany hopes her father will forgive her.

She feels uneasy as the witch's eyes pierce through her, beyond her.

"Only foolish girls strike bargains in the depths of their grief."

"What would you know of grief?" Bethany spits.

Flemeth's cackle is loud and thunderous and chills her to the bone. Her mother and brothers do not stir from their unnaturally deep sleep.

"She burns, but she does not realize she is not the fire. The flame consumes, spewing only heat and shadow around it."

Flemeth's claw-like finger floats as it lifts from her sign, pointing toward the sleeping Garrett.

"There must be darkness to balance the light."