AN: kurakaji and Halfblood Fiend, thank you both very much for your reviews. I will continue working on this story whenever I can.

In spite of the exploits of the night before I slept poorly and woke early, bleary-eyed and bone-weary. Pale, grey pre-dawn light was streaming through the cracks between the boards nailed across my windows. At least, I liked to call them windows. It made the place sound homier.

One side of my clinic opened against the cliffs that Kirkwall was built upon. At some point a part of the tunnel must have caved in, which was no surprise since there were more passageways hewn in this rock than there were holes in a Jader cheese. It had opened up a large space that I had now claimed as my own.

With a loud whistle that sounded more like a tortured moan a gust of wind made the shutters rattle in their frames and the wood groan. On the upside living here meant that I had a lot of access to fresh air and did not have to breathe in the putrid stink of the sewers all day long because the stiff breeze chased the foul humours away. On the downside it made the clinic positively icy and I shivered as I hid beneath my threadbare blanket, fully clothed except for my shoes and the bloodstained coat I had not bothered to clean yesterday. I was not sure what I would do come winter.

Me and every other poor sod who ventured down here in the hope of healing. As busy as the summer had been, I was sure the cold season would be worse. I'd have to talk to Lirene about it. She had to know a few workers who would be willing to help me repair the walls. I had treated many and charged none, and besides, it would be an investment very much in their own interest. This healer was the only one willing to treat Fereldan refugees for free; they'd better make sure he didn't freeze to death.

Another waft and I pulled my knees up to my chest and the blanket over my head. It wasn't of any use, the wind's cold fingers found all the holes, and that place at the small of my back where my shirt had ridden up, and caressed my skin, causing goosebumps to rise. I gave another full-bodied shiver and cursed, throwing back the covers.

I was awake; I might as well make myself useful.

As much as I hated to, I sat up and rubbed sand out of my eyes. In the gloom I could just make out the outline of my boots at the foot end of my camp bed. I slipped into them and groaned at the cold and damp my poor toes were now trapped in and slung the blanket across my shoulders. As I trudged out of my tiny room at the back of the clinic I realized how my soles stuck to the floor with a wet squelching sound. I looked down to see that my boots were caked in filth, mud and blood and things I didn't care to identify closer. A spell took care of most of that. You weren't a proper Ferelden unless you had your very own, special ways to deal with the various kinds of mud.

I refocused on my magic and warmed some water next. The fire I lit the normal way, and when it was crackling merrily, radiating a pleasant warmth that slowly began to chase away the chill, I stood next to the fireplace and hastily cleaned myself up with the help of a washcloth and some soap that smelled faintly of herbs. A gift, I never spent coin on anything lush anymore. Lye and lard it was for me, never mind that I wouldn't have allowed for that stuff to touch my skin not too long ago.

My soiled coat I let soak in what was left of the now lukewarm water and dressed in my spare, the one I had come to Kirkwall in. I was loath to wear it out in the open, afraid despite the impossibly low odds that somebody might recognize it. It was well worn now but still flashy, patches of leathers in various clashing colours, the combination of which had offended Nate's eyes in particular, and made me look just like the peacock I once had been.

By the time I was finished it was no longer dark. Instead my clinic was cast into various shades of grey, all of them equally drab and depressing. I unlatched the door and lit the lantern that hung above it, a garish red thing that I was sure had once belonged to a brothel. Just as I was about to turn and head back, I saw movement out of the corner of my eyes, drawing on my magic by instinct.

"Healer, ser!" A boy came running, clutching a basket to his chest.

"Pod, wasn't it?" I asked. I had a vague recollection of treating him a short time after I had arrived in Kirkwall. Now he was working for Lirene, though she changed the person carrying the provisions donated to me as often as she could. The precaution made it easier to outmanoeuvre the starving refugees, those who would literally kill for a meal.

"Yessir." The boy grinned, bucktoothed, and thrust the basket into my arms. Then he was off again, gone before I could say goodbye.

Inside, wrapped in a rough linen cloth, I found two loaves of bread, a piece of hard cheese, a bushel of apples and a sack full of nuts as well as carrots, two turnips, half a celery root, a bone, and some wilted greens that would make a thin and tasteless stew.

My mouth began to water at the mere thought of cooking supper. Out of all the drawbacks of being a Grey Warden, the constant hunger gnawing at my insides had to be by far the worst. It hadn't been as bad back at the Vigil, where the kitchens were open at all times and a midnight raid on the pantry was par for the course. A group of Wardens tended to eat... a lot. Though a part of our ravenous appetite might be attributed to how much work we had to do back then. Rest was a luxury we couldn't afford when all the signs had pointed towards the Blight not being quite as over as everyone might have believed at first.

When we weren't practicing under the Commander's watchful eye, we were always tracking through the countryside, chasing darkspawn. Between fortifying the keep, establishing connections in Amaranthine, finding new, efficient and occasionally fun ways to kill our blighted foes we were busy people indeed. I have even taken upon myself the extracurricular task of annoying Nathaniel. Then, one time, there had been that food orgy...

The daydream burst like a bubble of soap and I realized that I was standing in the middle of my clinic with a silly smile on my face. I sat down on a three-legged stool and managed not to pitch face-first into the fireplace. Singed eyebrows had been big in style at the Circle, but I have always found that particular look of magical experiment gone wrong didn't really suit me.

I ate half a loaf and two apples and put away the rest of the victuals, trying to ignore the vortex sucking at the pit of my stomach as well as the fact that I still had bread left. I would like to do nothing more than gorge myself on it, but I had to make the food last.

As I brushed the crumbs from my lap and stood, I heard shouts, and the tread of so many feet, it left ripples on the surface of the kettle which hung above the fire. Usually the only thing to cause such a tumult was when the guards raided the Undercity in one of their sporadic attempts to lower the criminality. But they were usually preceded by runners calling out to all the residents to barricade themselves inside their shacks. Those who did not even have a makeshift hovel to call their own would slink deeper into the bowels of the earth to hide in the sewer tracts. The commotion increased in volume, punctured by the occasional high-pitched scream.

Maker; that sounded bad.

I hazarded a peek outside, ready to slam shut the doors at a moment's notice, and bolt to for the back exit – a convenient connection to the parallel tunnels that I had blasted open back when I had moved in. But all I saw was a ragtag band of people, many of them carrying others. Lowtown folks, because none of them looked quite as bedraggled as those who dwelled in Darktown.

There was no glint of armoured figures amongst them, however, and the serpent that had curled around my chest loosened its hold. I took a deep breath, swallowing bile, and threw open the doors.

The throng of refugees that burst into my clinic was more than I could handle on my own. Thankfully Lilley could send one of her boys for aid; otherwise I would have been hopelessly swarmed.

From what little I could make out as I darted from one wounded man to another, a boiler with molten metal had exploded in one of the foundries. It was ugly, but it was something to keep me busy through the coming days. I hated myself for the thought as much as I thanked the Maker for the distraction. There was only so long I could think of coats and mud, drown in memories of the past to forget those of yesterday.

My occasional assistant, another apostate who had decided to go into hiding in the city instead of running away, arrived a few moments later. I ordered her to cut bandages from cloth and to brew more potions, and went to gauge the wounds, separate the workers by the degree of their injury. It was a hard, pragmatic way of thinking and the detachment necessary to treat these people gave me strength. As a healer, I would function for as long as I was needed.

The hours that followed I spent cutting away metal that had fused with flesh and applying cold magic to numb the pain. Burn wounds were a nightmare to treat, constantly oozing fluids, the charred skin cracking open. My clinic was filled with the moans of the injured, and the weeping of their loved ones.

I suffered a moment of panic when I realized that nothing we did would be enough, there were just too many of them for Doreen and me to treat. Then one of the women – I still do not know her name – organized the injured labourers' relatives and friends into work groups, each of them assigned a task of their own.

The hours blurred together into an endless fight for the lives placed into my hands. I healed, with scalpel and catgut, salve and magic until when I turned to the next task, it was to find that there was nothing more to do. Doreen was asleep, curled up in the corner and the workers' family members were standing clustered around the cots. I told them to wake me if one of the injured showed signs of rapidly getting worse, draped a shawl over my assistant's sleeping form and fell face-first into my cot, bloody coat and shoes be damned.

oooo

The next days were not as bad as the first one, an accident with a moored ship at the docks and a man who had been beaten up badly by thugs, an elderly woman with a sore tooth and of course the foundry workers who had to be looked after. I sent out Doreen to collect some more spindleweed, and boiled and exchanged bandages, brewed poultices, applied cold water and magic where I could.

The families of the wounded brought groats and broth to feed the injured and their healer, as I was now called, and a couple were even willing to apply a little elbow grease and help me further take care of my patients. In its own way, Kirkwall could still surprise. In a city rife with strife, where no one saw eye to eye, where neighbours fought feuds over generations, and misery settled in like soot in the cracks of the masonry, it was still possible for something like this to happen. United by a common goal, driven by love and not hate, the refugees divided the workload between them, and toiled alongside me.

I could drown myself in work and forget this was anything but the most ordinary of days in Darktown and I did.

But in the few breaks I took, it hit me. Karl was dead. Like so many times before, I had been too late. No matter how much I did, it was never enough.

I lost two of the men suffering from the worst injuries and I might have thrown up from exhaustion or sight of my magic winking out, and their still, covered forms, yet I could not afford to waste the food I had been given. I needed the strength, though I wanted nothing more than to forget, to barricade myself behind walls and grief. I did not want to be hugged by the mother of some boy who would not end up a cripple begging at some street corner of the docks. Because of me. I did not want these desperate, crying, grateful people to squeeze me hands and tell me how I had saved their family.

Those who lived were simply the fortunate ones. Those who weren't passed away, with their relatives silently beseeching me with their eyes until I shook my head and the quiet was replaced by wailing and anger. And I was left to question my own choices, whether there was something I could have done, a detail I might have overlooked. Maybe if I had acted sooner–

Such futile thoughts plagued me whenever I wasn't keeping busy. Death was an every medic's constant companion. I knew that, yet deep down it didn't feel right, that I couldn't help all. That the cards the Maker dealt us were as inequitable. Where was the justice in that?

oooo

I did not leave clinic for days. There was too much to do, with the workers recovering I had to replenish my stock of medical supplies. By the time Lirene paid me a visit, things had pretty much calmed down again. She had brought tea and dry biscuits that I eyed suspiciously, but hopefully not too obviously. I did not want to appear ungrateful, but the grey lumps of grain looked like and had the constancy of Fereldan dog treats. Thankfully they proved to be mostly tasteless. I nibbled on one and then dunked it in my tea to soften it, eating more because it gave me something to do than because I was hungry.

Lirene updated me on everything that was going on in the city above me; on how the shop was running, and that the viscount had once more refused an audience with the representatives of the Fereldan refugees. She told me of a quenched riot in the Alienage, but I sensed she was holding back on something. When, leaning forward in evident excitement, she finally divulged that during the night of the twelfth somebody had killed a squad of templars in the Chantry, I had to force myself to keep breathing.

Of course. What else had I expected? "That was... ," I frowned because I was no longer sure, "Three days ago?"

"Five," Lirene corrected me with a shake of her head. Her eyes, kind but heavily lined despite her still young age, regarded me with sympathy.

"Ah." I clenched my fingers to prevent my hand from toying with my hair. "And did they find the guilty ones?" I asked, nervously. I was a terrible liar. Cousland had always said so.

"No, but half of Hightown is under lockdown," Lirene replied, voice lowering from habit. "Templars at every corner."

She wanted me to keep the biscuits. I thanked her for the kindness and watched her retreat shortly after, assuring myself that she reached the nearest stairs without incident. The biscuits I put away on a shelf; next time I had a patient with a bad tooth, I'd let them bite down on one.

Her words though, lingered. I sank down on one of the cots, head cradled in my hands, considering if I should really chance this madness. Did I have any other choice? I had committed to the cause a long time ago.

It was the best time. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes until the blackness was chased away by bright spots. Only then did I lift my head and look around my clinic. There were plenty of bloodstained bandages lying around that I haven't gotten around to burning yet. I grabbed one and wrapped it over my knee and calf, tying it into a sloppy knot.

oooo

Stepping into the courtyard of the Gallows very much felt like that one time we had ventured into the lair of the monstrous, talking broodmother who had been responsible for the attack on Vigil's Keep. I was queasy, whether from the short ferry ride or the nerves, I did not know. Affecting a limp and leaning heavily on my staff, I turned in a circle, just as somebody who had never been here before might.

The bronze statues of weeping slaves did nothing to placate my fears. They weren't a tribute, a memorial to the slaves of Tevinter. They were here to instil fear in the current citizens of the Gallows. Such was the love the Chantry bore for those of her children who were born with magic.

But it wasn't the statues' gaze I feared. Clad in metal, eyes not visible through the narrow slits of the helmets the templars seemed just as inhuman. I would have known something had happened even had I not been in the very midst of the events that had transpired at the Chantry. The gates to the Gallows were closed, but the few templars on duty let visitors in through a side door.

"I need medicine," I told my boots when it was my turn, shifting to ease my weight off my 'wounded' leg, hands clenched around my staff. They were suitably dirty and worn, as was the rest of me. I probably stank, too.

Maker, I hoped the staff would not give me away, but I could not stand to be here without it. Walking sticks were the tool and weapon of the common man, I told myself. Hardly anybody journeyed without one. They did not only serve as a walking aid, but could also be used to fight off wild animals and bandits alike. Many people attached nails or rusty pieces of metal to form makeshift weapons, my mind rambled on.

And then I was allowed to pass, limping away from the knights of the Order as quickly as I could without raising suspicion. Solivitus' stand was at the far back of the courtyard, wedged in next to that of some poor tranquil woman and massive portcullis that were never lifted. A Formari herbalist with barely enough magical power to light a candle, he was one of the few non Tranquil mages allowed to set up shop outside the Gallows.

Sol's eyes went wide when he saw me, but he recovered gracefully and cheerfully asked, "What can I do for you, good man?" Beneath his breath, barely moving his lips, he muttered, "You are taking a grave risk coming here, my friend."

"I had to." I pointed at my leg in the hope of fooling any templars who might be watching our exchange.

Sol nodded, his eyes darting around the courtyard in a practiced manner all Circle mages adopted sooner or later, his hands idly ghosting over his goods. "There was some incident at the Chantry. It's all everybody talks about anymore, and Maker, it's a mess. Meredith is furious because she cannot find those responsible and the templars are furious. They're going to crack down even harder now."

"I wouldn't know about that," I answered hoarsely and licked my dry lips. Pulled out my purse. Pretended to haggle. I never meant my actions to have an impact on the other mages. Their lives were hard enough without me adding to their plight. Andraste's tits, what have we done? But now that I was here, I could not back out. Sol was part of the underground movement that saw mages to freedom, but I did not have the time to explain, and I owed Hawke a duty of confidentiality for he had shown me the same courtesy. Besides, that wasn't why I was here. "I need you to find out something for me," I began. "I need to know who... ," my throat burned, voice faltering for the briefest of moments before I could resume, "I need to know who performed the Rite on Karl."

"Anders– "

"Please." I had nothing to offer him, for Sol had already refused freedom, but I hoped he would do this one favour for me. Just this. Just this once.

"Karl was my friend, too." Sol sighed, caving under my unflinching gaze. "I will look into it." He sounded despondent at the thought, but he had agreed and I believed that he would do what he promised to. I bought the supplies he had meanwhile stapled on top of his counter, and Sol pressed one more jar than I had asked for into my hand. The label read 'Use on Intimate Area, 2-3 times a day for a week'. Under different circumstances I might have laughed, but this time I only pocketed the goods with a nod and left.

oooo

When I came back to my clinic, feeling absolutely drained from my venture, it was to find that I had visitors. And not the good kind.

There were five men loitering about the clinic, one of them leaning with his hip cocked against the operation table. I recognized them for who they were by their, shifty eyes, dirty hands and clean blades. They belonged to the Coterie of my name was Ser Irontin. The question was only, which part of the Coterie? Last I checked there were nine fractions, and at least three of them were in perpetual war with each other and the remaining ones. Any alliances forged were fragile and unreliable at best.

"You the healer?" the leader of the group asked me almost as soon as I was through the door.

"What do you want?" , I asked, doing my damnest to sound intimidating.

One of the men in the back chuckled, showing just how badly I had failed. "Cheeky bastard for a dog lord, ain't he?" he asked.

"Don't look much like a lord o' anythin' to me," another one sniggered. "'Cept o' the sewers, maybe."

"Ah." The leader grinned to the first thug's comment, gracing me with a smile that showed a very incomplete set of teeth. And without having had a run-in with Lirene's bakery, at that. "We can fix that."

"Look." It never did much good, reasoning with types like these, but I tried. "I thought we had a deal."

"You have a deal with Roslyn," serah toothless replied, his voice as oily as his hair. "This is Brekker's territory."

I suspected Roslyn might yet have something to say about the matter. Too bad she wasn't here. My gaze swept over the lowlifes invading my clinic. The arse who had first spoken was still leaning on my table. The table I used to heal my patients on. He had no right to spread his filth over it like that. I felt the familiar anger rise inside me, but unlike at other times, I did nothing to push it down. It had not been an idle threat of mine when I had told Hawke that I was ready to protect my clinic against all those who would jeopardize my calling.

And, bubbling beneath the surface, incensing me until I did not even feel the bite of my nails against my palm, nor the rapid beat of my heart inside my chest, I wanted somebody to pay. I couldn't get my hands on Meredith, and I didn't know which templar had performed the rite on Karl – yet – but I knew this piece of dung here was having great fun bullying those who he thought were defenceless. Maybe he was even the one who had stabbed Pod, and if not, even so he surely had a long tally of names to answer for.

I watched, detatched from my own actions, as I approached the surprised man, and then as my hand descended - white knuckles and cold fingers clenched around the hilt of the scalpel that I always carried with me. The force of the blow put it cleanly through his hand, and I let go, grabbing the Coterie enforcer's hair to smash his face against the wooden surface of my table. He left behind a half-ring of broken teeth and when I pulled him up again it was to see that his nose was gone and jaw shattered in more places than one judging by how it hung askew, a gobble of bloody saliva running from the brute's split lip.

The man's friends did not idly stand by, but pulled knifes out of their various sheaths. Thankfully, I still had my staff, the one I had insisted on entering the gallows with. It was little more than a wooden stick, but good enough for the purpose of beating some sense into mindless idiots. I smashed it into the groin of the man behind me before he could flank me and whirled to face the other ones. Step, spin, and thrust, a basic form of fighting with the spear that the Wardens had taught me. My staff connected with flesh with a satisfying smack, my mind keeping count out of the force of habit.

Judging by the looks on the Coterie members' faces, those despots had not counted on any form of resistance. They had probably expected to find one more terrified, half-starved refugee who would grovel before them and go down without a fight. I might be a refugee, and very hungry indeed, and under pressure I might even admit to being all three of the above, but being a Warden had taught me the invaluable lesson of standing up for myself. I might not be a warrior, but the job of a physician was hard physical work, and most likely the only thing that kept me in shape now that I didn't spend my days actively running away from templars of slaying darkspawn.

Before my adversaries could as much as organize themselves in any way, three of them were out, and I still had my magic to fall back on. But the fight had gone out of their eyes, to be replaced by trepidation, easy to see in how they backed away instead of advancing despite having the advantage of numbers.

"Get out," I forced out between my clenched teeth and wrenched the knife out of the leader's hand, ignoring the cry of pain. "Or I will fix you up, alright."

The two remaining thugs picked up their fallen friends and all but ran out of my clinic, the fifth one limping after them, his hands cupped around his jewels. I hoped the damage was permanent; his ilk shouldn't breed.

Cousland had encouraged for me to try and practuce martial arts in addition to roasting any fools who got in our way. Thank you, Raynard, for broadening my horizon on the various kinds of violence people liked to inflict on others. If nothing else, hitting somebody over the head with a heavy object felt wonderfully cathartic. But as satisfactory as it had been to marginally improve Darktown by teaching its most infamous denizens a lesson, the high from the fight was already almost gone, leaving me feeling worn out and tense. The Coterie wouldn't stand for such an affront to their organization.

They would only send more thugs after me.

I turned to make sure Brekker's cronies were gone for good and saw him standing rooted to the door and staring at me, wide-eyed. Of all the people of Thedas he had to have the worst timing. My heart jumped in my chest and I dropped the bloody knife as if I could still deny that it had been me using it to wound, to inflict pain; the deed anathema to any healer.

"Hawke!"

AN: I'm sorry for how long it took me to update. I haven't given up on the story, it's just in VERY slow progress.