SPRING
Dragon 9:31
The ocean is angry, and violent.
Water never used to scare her. It is hardly a living thing, with no intentions or bias. The sea does not wait patiently for unexpecting victims. It does not choose a perfect opportunity to exact its revenge upon humanity, but passively allows unsuspecting green boys and girls to get so drunk on its beauty that they succumb almost willingly to a lifetime at the very bottom, where no one might ever find them again.
That was before, however.
That was before the dam broke and the black water rushed through the makeshift roads of Crestwood in the dead of night to drown the darkspawn that had invaded their village, the forceful current destroying homes and shops before anyone even knew what was going on.
The entire ordeal had lasted maybe minutes, but it felt like ten years. Everything had happened so quickly and it had been so dark that even her memories of that night are cloudy and vague, full of splashing and groping shadows, unable to tell if they were friend or foe—human or darkspawn.
Lana had already been packing her and her father's things, anxious about the darkspawn slowly nearing the village. A few Templars had come only one day prior to the flooding, urging everyone to evacuate within the next few days lest they find themselves diseased or dead.
Crestwood was not a village of fighters, and she couldn't leave her father behind for her to play hero and run headfirst into a horde.
There had been a crash that seemed to shake the very foundations of the one-room home she shared with her father, and then it was gone, and she was fighting a losing battle against the icy cold water as black as pitch as it blinded and choked her, spilling into her mouth and nose and ears, making her chest burn, slamming her against other bodies and pieces of debris.
And the next thing she knew, she was opening her eyes to see the sunrise, exhausted and sore and bruised, soaking wet with her cheek pressed against the wild grass just outside the village, coughing up the lake water out of her flaming lungs.
Getting up to look at the aftermath of the flood had been the worst part.
While they had only been living in Crestwood for no more than three months, Lana had been growing very fond of the place and wanted more than anything to call it 'home'.
Upon looking at the place in full light, Lana found there was nothing to look upon. Half of the village was completely underwater, while the other half of the village that had been built on slightly higher ground was only a pile of rubble with streets made of corpses—human and darkspawn alike—bloated and tinted some horrible pale blue color, eyes wide open and lips parted in horror.
Lana remembers the silence most of all. Not even the birds had been singing that morning, allowing Lana a few moments of uninterrupted grief.
There had only been four survivors total.
Lana had survived because of sheer luck, and looted several corpses with shame weighing heavy on her heart with each coin pulled from their pockets, but she had lost everything overnight, and moving quickly to avoid Templars coming to their aid meant taking whatever she could, even used boots or a dull pair of daggers.
Her father had survived by hiding in the forest after being carried out of the village by water, though he was never able to fully explain to Lana exactly what had happened.
And just on their way out of the village perimeter, they had found the last two survivors, a mother with her boy of six, still suckling his thumb and crying inconsolably, missing one shoe and covered in mud.
"Take us with you," the mother had said, wide-eyed and trembling and blocking the dirt path out of the village, holding her son close.
But the truth was, Lana hadn't the faintest clue where they were supposed to go. The path of destruction left by her father in other cities and towns meant that settling down anywhere in Ferelden was dangerous, especially with darkspawn hiding in the shadows.
"I know you," the woman had continued, desperate, "and I know what your father is."
Shaken by the events that had only recently transpired, Lana had quickly drawn her new weapons, stepping in front of her father.
"I won't tell anyone he's a mage," she begged. "I have family across the Waking Sea in Kirkwall. If you take us to Kirkwall and protect us, I won't tell anyone what your father is, I swear to the Maker."
"I'm not a mercenary," Lana had told her, sheathing her weapons once more. "And I am certainly no bodyguard."
But without a better idea, the four of them had set off north together anyway, avoiding as much fighting and violence and darkspawn as they could, as the main bulk of the darkspawn horde focused on bigger cities with major populations. The boy cried and cried, always screaming, never able to sleep at night beside the campfire.
Two days before reaching the docks in Highever, the crying stopped.
A single emaciated wolf had found them, pouncing on the boy as they slept, and while Lana was able to kill it quickly with nothing to show for it but a few surface wounds on her left arm, the boy was gutted and buried the next morning underneath the tree where Lana would find his mother hanging two hours later, after returning with some berries to eat.
She had cut the mother down, sawing through the rope with her terribly dull weapons, and buried her next to the son, marking the graves with some white stones.
That last night under the stars, Lana found she couldn't sleep without the sound of the boy's crying.
"I heard they keep elves as slaves in Kirkwall."
The elf girl sitting in a circle with the other children clutches the tips of her ears and flushes. "They do not!"
"It's called the City of Chains, you know."
"It was called that."
"Better to be an elf than a mage in Kirkwall, I think."
"You don't think it's better to be dead than be a slave?"
An older boy seems sure of himself, likely happy to be scaring all the other children. "I don't know. I hear some people treat their slaves real nice. Keep them in the house and everything."
"That doesn't make them any less a slave," the elf girl responds, grabbing at her skirts and walking away from the others, passing by Lana with a hmph!
She can't stand to be underneath the deck, where bile fights its way out of her stomach every time the ship rocks even slightly. The air is salty and cold atop the ship, but it's where most people seem to prefer to spend their time, gossiping and wondering hopefully what kind of city Kirkwall might be.
Her father has been below deck since they pushed off to sea, growing feverish and sickly and delirious, probably starving and dehydrated.
They're all starving, with the food situation onboard not very good, but they'll be arriving in a day, and Lana doesn't know how she feels about it.
Kirkwall is a land of mystery to her, and she'll be arriving with no money and no family to stay with, but it wouldn't be the first time she's built a life from the ground up for herself and for her father.
And somehow, she's sure it won't be the last time.
The crew are all in good spirits as they sail into sight of Kirkwall, all of them drunk and sunburnt, jeering at their passengers as everyone gets their first glimpse of the city, not half as excited as the crew.
The first thing Lana sees, pressed against the bow of the ship by other curious refugees, is a miles-tall and -wide black wall that seems to block the sky from them. The ship is about to enter a narrow channel that doesn't allow them any means of escape should they be ambushed, and on either side of this channel entrance are twin statutes, both seemingly made of bronze and chained to the cliff, weeping into hands with the appearance of being flayed.
Carved into the inner channel walls are crude images that seem to depict some religion's gods, but Lana isn't familiar with each individual face, though they seem to be watching the ship, the shadows making it seem as if their stone eyes are moving.
Lana forces her way through the pressing crowd, hurrying belowdecks to attend to her father, heart pumping.
"Home?" her father asks as she kneels beside him. He's still pale and sweaty, but looks no different from the other people around them, suffering from seasickness.
"Kirkwall is our new home," she tells him, throwing one of his arms around her shoulders and helping him stand. He puts most of his weight on her. "We're not going back to Ferelden."
Her father's mouth moves, but no sound comes out. His lips are blistered and cracked, and he breathes heavily.
"Let's just find a place for you to get some food and rest," Lana says, combing wispy white strands of hair back and out of her father's face. "I'm sure the city has been expecting us."
"Welcome to The Gallows!" the captain shouts in his Free Marches accent, giving his passengers a yellow-toothed smile as the anchor is thrown overboard with much effort from the crew. "Enjoy your new life in Kirkwall, Fereldan dogs."
Lana looks around anxiously, squeezing hard on her father's spidery hand.
The Gallows is a tall tower bigger than any building she's ever seen in Ferelden. It is nothing short of a prison, with statues of more bronze slaves with chains around their necks at the docks.
Some other refugees have already arrived, lingering alone and with others as they watch the most recent ship throw a gangplank over the side. Everyone on the deck seems to move at once, trying to get off the ship first, and Lana and her father are shuffled forwards and over the gangplank, finally onto solid ground.
"We need to find someone who will speak to us," she murmurs to her father, guiding him along by the hand, but she doesn't think he's really able to hear or understand her, given the current state of him. "No funny business, all right? If we can't get into Kirkwall, we've nowhere else to go."
For the most part, she follows the crowd of people fresh off the ship, being led by a few city guards to a large, open courtyard, where the gates to the city proper are guarded by mean-looking men already fighting off a crowd of angry refugees.
The courtyard is much fuller than the docks, so much so that Lana feels it might be better to board the ship again and return back to Ferelden.
There are hundreds of refugees already here. There are some with families, huddled in dark corners and watching with wide eyes. Some are armed with weapons, whispering to partners and glancing over their shoulders when they feel eyes on the back of their necks.
There are dead bodies, as well. They're fresh, still not stiff or rotting, but the entire courtyard smells like shit and corpses, but Lana has long since become accustomed to the smell of death.
It's then that Lana notices there are an unusual amount of city guards around, but the closer she looks, she begins to realize that half of these patrolling men aren't city guards at all, but templars—and what's worse is that the city guards seem to be reporting to the templars as if they're the authority.
She tries to find the most decent-looking guard or templar, hoping to use her sick father as some form of leverage, but they all look the same to her—cruel, intimidating, brutal—until she meets the eyes of a young templar with light hair, who immediately clenches his jaw and looks quickly away from her with widened eyes.
Lana pulls her father towards the man, who avoids eye contact with her for as long as possible, until they're standing right in front of him and he cannot pretend to not notice her any longer.
"Excuse me, ser," she says, watching his eyes flick between her and her father. "Aren't they going to open the gates to Kirkwall?"
The templar shifts uncomfortably. "Er—no," he answers. "You must have only just arrived, I'm assuming. We've already had several waves of refugees over the last few months, and there simply isn't any room left in the city for more."
She frowns. "So you're going to let all these people die here?"
"Wh—of course not! How could you suggest such a thing? Ships are coming back for all of you!" the templar replies, slightly defensive.
"We just arrived and you'd send us all right back to the darkspawn," she hisses, fearful of the very idea. "You'd kill us all."
"The Blight is over, my lady. Haven't you heard? A letter arrived several days ago. I shouldn't be telling you this, but I suppose there's no harm. The letter said that a Gray Warden sacrificed their life to save Ferelden from the Blight."
Lana hesitates. She hadn't heard this news at all, but she's been keeping well away from any guards or templars that may have been discussing it.
"What are we supposed to do back in Ferelden?" Lana asks, growing angry. "We've come all the way from Crestwood—"
"Crestwood?"
"Yes, Crestwood. It's been a long journey for us both."
"Oh, no, it's just—" He sighs, looking far more genuine than before. "I heard about what happened to the dam. I'm very sorry. I know it's not what you want to hear, and I know you've traveled a long way, but I can't let you in. I don't have the authority to decide who enters and who does not."
"But my father is sick," she protests. The templar surely can't deny that she's right. "He's been like this for days, and we've barely eaten. He needs medicine and a bed to lie in."
The templar lowers his voice. "I can't allow you into the city."
"He'll die—"
"If I let you in, all of these people who were here long before you will need to be allowed entry. And orders are orders." He hunches over slightly to put his face closer to Lana's. "It is nothing personal. We're only being fair. The city simply isn't big enough to accommodate half of Ferelden's population."
Knowing she will get no further with the templar, Lana finds a shadowy corner in the square, wanting to keep close to the gates and away from the more violent sections of the Gallows.
It's easy enough to coerce him to sleep for a bit once he finishes coughing and complaining of chills.
The Gallows are a nasty place, and violence becomes more commonplace as people grow more desperate.
More fights begin to break out, dead bodies are left in the corridors, soiled and stiff. Some casualties are only innocent bystanders, while others are merchants that had been taking advantage of refugees, or mercenaries prowling the Gallows looking for some extra coin.
Two promised ships never arrive—one was said to have gone down in a storm just off the coast of the Free Marches, and the other had been apparently captured by Riviani pirates.
A third ship arrives nearly a week later, but is smaller than promised. People pack onto the ship dangerously tight, causing a panic as the ship begins its journey home. A few bodies are pushed overboard to make room, and the chaos that follows causes the ship to go up in flames before even entering the narrow channel.
Lana and the other refugees left behind all watch in silence as the ship goes slowly down. More than half the passengers are unable to swim, too far and too malnourished to reach the docks. The screams are deafening, but one-by-one the screams stop, and one-by-one their heads dip below the surface, until the ship that set sail only hours ago might never have existed at all and the only sound in the Gallows is the lapping of the water at the dock.
Because of the decrease in the refugee population still living outside of Kirkwall's gates, the templars begin to serve small servings of bread and wine, claiming the city water to be completely undrinkable.
Lana's father, still ill and running a fever, gains nothing from sipping wine, and the bread is difficult to chew for him, hardly able to move at all most days.
One day, after Lana is served her wine by the same light-haired templar she had spoken to before, he taps her on the shoulder as she's returning to her father.
"You dropped this," he says with a small smile, holding out a small leather pouch.
"I didn't."
"I think you did." The templar places it in Lana's empty hand and returns to his station, leaving her dumbfounded.
When she's back with her father, she opens the pouch to find medicine within, a few tonics and some herbs tied together with twine.
Her breath hitches and she lifts her eyes from the pouch to the templar, who seems to have been watching the entire time.
Her hair is matted. She'll have to cut it short again, and she hates when it's short.
She's still wearing the clothes she had on in Crestwood, and they carry the smell of the lake that nearly drowned her. She's beginning to itch, and her fair skin is beginning to blister from being exposed to the open sky for so long. She wonders what her reflection might look like.
The medicine has improved her father's mood, but her stock is running low now, and the fever returns as soon as the effects of the medicine begin to fade even slightly.
"If you could just let me in to buy what he needs, I'll return—"
"I still can't let you in. Nothing has changed. For months, Kirkwall has been receiving refugees. The city is at capacity."
Lana wants to scream, but that won't help her case. The templar has been kind enough in procuring her medicine to begin with, which is more than she would ever expect from a templar to begin with.
"Who's given you these orders to keep us out of the city?" she asks, one leg dangling off the dock, several feet above the calm water.
The templar looks ridiculous—clad in full armor and attempting to sit comfortably upon the hard ground. "The Knight-Commander, of course."
The moon shines bright off the surface of the water.
"A templar?" Lana scoffs, holding one knee to her chest. "Running a city isn't exactly a templar's job, is it?"
He narrows his eyes at her. "Who are you to determine what is or isn't a templar's job?"
"You're all the same." The hunger is getting to her, and she hasn't slept on a comfortable surface in over a week. "Follow orders blindly and get your praise like dogs. It doesn't matter who dies along the way so long as you follow orders, does it?"
"Don't act like you don't have blood on your hands. I've seen you use those blades of yours, and you're clearly experienced with them," the templar retorts, his cheeks reddening. "You wouldn't have made it here from Crestwood without slaying a few foes."
"I did what I had to do to survive." Lana turns her head away from him, looking out at the silhouette of the statues. "Hunting mages is nothing but sport to you templars. It has nothing to do with survival and you know it."
"You feel very passionately about this," he counters, cocking an eyebrow. "Should I be suspicious?"
"I'm not a mage, if that's what you're asking."
"Then I'm assuming you've known a mage or two in your lifetime."
"My uncle," she says quickly and readily. "He was never in the Circle, and he was the best man I've ever known."
His armor is loud when he stands up. It takes him a while to get fully onto his feet. "You must not have known many good men, then."
"No," she says to his back as he walks away, "I suppose not."
Of all the refugees that were here when Lana and her father docked, perhaps only a quarter remain.
She feels herself growing weaker every moment, and can't imagine another ship ride home. It seems too hard, and the seasickness was already debilitating the first time.
As her father sleeps that night, she tries to think of any other possible options, but without any money or medicine or reliable transportation, it's difficult.
For a brief moment, she wonders if it would be better to put him out of his mercy. A quick and painless death would be better than this—a slow dying from fever and starvation. He's getting older and his magic grows more unstable with each passing year.
But she shakes it off, disgusted with herself. She had promised Uncle that she would take care of him.
But leaving to traverse the Free Marches would inevitably kill him and staying here will inevitably kill him, so she decides they'll take the ship back to Ferelden. She'll find a place they've never been before, where she can find some work on a farm or in a shop. The Blight is over, according to the templar, and she'll certainly be able to find work dealing with repairs.
Besides, Kirkwall seems dangerous, run by templars and guarded by templars. Hiding in plain sight might be too difficult for her father to pull off, but it's possible . . .
Lana's eyes fall shut for a few more seconds than anticipated. They snap open again, but she's so tired, and sleep sounds so nice, even against the concrete.
But the next time she wakes, it's because she's being shaken awake in the dead of night.
The light-haired templar's face hovers above her, and he looks a bit pale.
"What are you doing?" she hisses, pushing him away from her.
The templar moves to her father, attempting to wake him quietly. Lana panics, but her father seems too out of it to realize what's happening, and he allows the templar to pick him up off the ground completely.
"Are you coming?" he asks Lana.
She grabs her daggers, nearly stumbling over her own two feet in the process. "Where are you taking him?"
"I'm getting you into the city."
A few people are watching, but most are asleep. They all know better by now than to question the templars and their actions, but Lana doesn't like the attention they're drawing.
Over the clanking and shifting of his armor, it's unlikely anyone can hear him speak.
"A ship runs back and forth every three hours for the templars to come and go. It's supposed to dock shortly, but we must avoid the templars—" The templar stops abruptly. "Can you walk, ser? Here—your arm around my shoulder—there we are—anyway, like I was saying—" He starts walking again, holding her father tight by the arm. "Most of my colleagues may not like the idea of sneaking in a few refugees without permission."
As he rounds a narrow pathway, Lana pushes him roughly against the brick wall, pressing one of her blades against his neck and watching his hands go up suddenly in surrender. Her father holds himself up against the wall, wheezing.
"I'm trying to help you," the templar spits, breathing raggedly. "Isn't this what you wanted?"
"How do I know you aren't leading us right into a trap?" She presses the blade harder against his neck.
"Stop acting like a savage," he counters, wincing at the feel of the blade. "Put your weapons down so we can get going already. This is the only chance we've got at getting you inside."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Put your weapons down, I said," the templar whispers, his eyes meeting hers unflinchingly.
Knowing that—if he's telling the truth—they're running out of time, Lana slowly lowers her blade and takes a step back.
The templar hooks her father's arm around his neck again. "I'm not heartless, all right? I see that your father is ill, and I know your options are very limited."
"I'm supposed to believe you're doing this out of the kindness of your heart?"
He doesn't answer, but continues down the alley until Lana can hear the creaking of a heavy ship.
"Just in time," the templar sighs, looking up and down the docks from behind cover. "The templars arriving have just gotten off, and the templars they're replacing will be boarding soon, including me. We need to get you on now. There'll be about twenty of us in all, so you must be silent."
"Where are we supposed to hide?"
Lana follows him across the docks to a small boat that barely seems able to fit fifty people.
"These are old slaver ships," the templar explains, placing a hand on the outside of the boat, looking almost disappointed. "The ship was built to utilize every inch of space. Your hiding place won't be exactly well-hidden, but as long as you're quiet, no one will notice you, especially in the dark."
The templar helps her father onto the deck, pulling back some of the floorboards to reveal enough space for five or six people to fit shoulder-to-shoulder. It makes Lana feel as if she'll be lying in a coffin.
They're able to help her father into the hiding place, though he squirms and resists at first, finally succumbing when Lana assures him this is the only way. He shuts his eyes tight when fitted into the space below the deck and she doesn't blame him.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks the templar one last time, wondering if she's only stalling. "Are we going to be killed when we dock?"
He sighs, raking steel-covered fingers through the back of his hair. "No," he replies. "I don't know why I'm doing this. Perhaps I'd like you to see me as a good man. Now, get down there and don't make a single noise until I collect you."
She hesitates. She doesn't like the reasoning, but can't afford to care about it. "Thank you," Lana tells the templar, now prepared to hide below the deck and pray no one finds her.
"You don't have to repay me."
"I wasn't going to."
This makes the templar laugh softly. He crosses his arms, and the two of them linger awkwardly, unsure of how to part ways.
"Can you at least tell me your name?" he finally says.
"Why should I?"
"I got you into the city."
Lana smiles weakly, sliding her lower body into what very well may become her coffin. "I'm not there yet."
The ride is long—not in reality, but it feels like the longest ride of her life.
Several times she has to hold her hand over her mouth to prevent people from hearing her breathing. Towards the end, she starts to become claustrophobic, but forces herself to lie as still as possible, not wanting to wake her sleeping father and send him into a panic.
Twice, she almost vomits when the ship lurches violently, but she resists the urge and closes her eyes tight, blocking out everything, even the pale moon shining through the slivers of the wooden deck.
When the ship stops, she waits for the templar to pull back the board, allowing the moonlight to nearly blind her. He reaches down to help her up, and they both carry her father off the ship.
"Well . . ." the templar sighs, looking around the docks. Though some merchants are loading up their ships (likely in the hopes of getting an early start in the morning), it's quiet. "This is the mainland. Welcome to Kirkwall."
Across the harbor, Lana can see the faint silhouette of the Gallows. They haven't gone as far as she suspected, but it still seems as if they aren't yet in the city proper, on the wrong side of another towering wall, smooth enough to keep outsiders from climbing it.
"On the other side of that wall is Lowtown," the templar explains, gently urging Lana and her father towards the wall. "That's where many of the refugees have found residence and work. It's not such a pretty place, but I'm certain you'll have no complaints."
"How are we supposed to get in?"
"Follow me. The city is full of underground passages. Kirkwall was the center of the slave trade for a time, and these passages are the gruesome reminders left behind."
The templar leads them further down the docks in silence, through a narrow alleyway, down nearly three dozen slippery steps carved into the wall face (which takes them a bit of time, considering her father's state), through a cave that requires a torch be lit, and down a corridor to find an iron gate that leads to a wooden door. Whatever is beyond it, Lana has not a clue.
"This passage in particular was used for smuggling. The amount of lyrium that must have come here was likely incredible," the templar says, passing Lana the torch and lifting the iron gate to open it just wide enough for Lana and her father to slip through. "But no ships come to Kirkwall undetected anymore."
"And this door will bring us to Lowtown?" she asks, suddenly very hopeful.
"Yes, it will open into an abandoned warehouse in Lowtown. I would advise you to watch for squatters. They can be quite dangerous."
"I'm not afraid of a few squatters."
The templar pulls another torch down from the wall, holding the tip to the flaming one in Lana's hand. The cave brightens considerably. "This is where I leave you, then."
Lana is hardly listening, draping one of her father's arms around her shoulders and squeezing them both through the gate by the orange light of their torches. The templar closes the gate behind them.
"You still owe me your name," he calls out to her one last time, just as she extends a hand to open the wooden door. "I've gotten you into the city now."
She looks over her shoulder at him. He's looking through the iron bars at her, forehead pressed lightly to them. "Only if you tell me yours first."
The templar offers her a half-smile. "Cullen."
For a moment, she considers giving him a fake name, but decides he has earned this much.
"Lana," she says, pushing the door open with her shoulder. "My name is Lana."
Dispatching the squatters had been easy, but navigating the winding streets of Lowtown by the first sliver of the morning sun proves the real challenge.
The shops are still closed, so she can't ask for help. The streets are empty, which strikes her as odd, considering how "full" in the city it was—according to the templar.
At least they were being fed in the Gallows, no matter how foul the bread had been or how potent the wine. But she can't look back—they've gotten into the city, which is more than hundreds of other refugees can say, and that in itself is a huge victory, and the start of her new life in the Free Marches.
Lana and her father wander for a bit, until he's too tired to keep going. She finds a dark and secluded alleyway out of the main common area, settling on hard ground against a harder wall.
He lays his head in her lap. Her father is drenched in sweat, but there's nothing she can do. She's out of medicine and out of food, and the water she had packed for the boat ride is long gone by now.
She doesn't sleep that night, keeping one hand on her father and the other on the pommel of her dagger.
Thievery comes easily to Lana.
It's easy for her to steal some burnt loaves of bread from a merchant's stand, and on her way back with the food, a man dressed in colorful silks scrunches his nose at her and throws some bronze coins at her feet.
She passes by a tavern, as well, and enters out of curiosity, despite knowing she shouldn't leave her father alone for long. She's able to buy a pint of beer with the bronze coins, which is better than whatever wine they had chosen to serve the refugees in the Gallows.
Everyone seems so alive inside the tavern, gambling and playing cards, people of every race gathered around tables, listening to a high-pitched bard strum along with a lute. The lively nature of The Hanged Man makes it difficult for Lana to tear herself away from the entertainment, but her stomach is starting to growl in earnest, and she knows her father is likely hungrier than she is.
When she finds her father in the same position she had left him, she expects the worst, but he wakes when she shakes him.
"I've got food, da," she says with a smile, opening her satchel to show him the bread and cheese she stole. "Go on, sit up, food will be good for you. Come on, da, eat—"
"Not here, you won't," says a voice from behind her.
Lana turns to find a templar looking down at them with droopy eyes.
"Damn refugees. We did you a service, allowing you into Kirkwall, so do us a service and get out of Lowtown, would you?" He sounds more annoyed and exasperated than angry. "You rats belong in the sewers. Make haste about it."
She only looks at him with wide eyes, unsure of what he's telling her to do.
"Fucking beggars." The templar reaches into his coin purse and pulls out a single coin, silver in color. Lana takes it greedily. "There, now will you move? No one wants to see dirty refugees eating stolen food off the ground."
Lana slowly rises to her feet, about a head shorter than the templar in front of her. His hair is flaming red, and his facial hair is patchy across his double chin. Her daggers press against her thighs, still sheathed.
Now that it's daylight, she can see clearly now.
There are templars everywhere—groups of three or four of them standing around and looking for signs of trouble. Pairs of them patrol the streets, some of them looking through the wares being sold by foreign merchants.
Being ushered into the city under the cover of darkness has made her forget this place is dangerous, and she remembers the elven boy on the ship trying to scare them all.
It's her father going limp against her that brings her back to the present. She catches him and nearly loses her balance in the process.
"What's wrong with him?" the templar asks her, taking a wary step backwards. "Not contagious, is it? Can't really afford to come down with some damned Fereldan sickness."
"Where—?"
The templar sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Darktown. Just follow the stink. When it gets worse, you're there. That's where you gutter rats belong." He frowns at her, one hand on his hip. "I swear it, they've let too many of you brats inside the walls. Now get going, and don't make me ask again."
Lana nods, kneeling again to gather her things, working clumsily with her father leaning against her.
"And see if you can't get a bath while you're at it."
Darktown is a foul place, stinking of death and decay, disease and blood and chokedamp. The smell is so bad that it ruins her appetite.
Sick and dying and starving refugees line the rough streets in near darkness, looking up at Lana and her father with wide eyes and hollow cheeks. Half-naked babes wrapped in dirty fabric suckle hungrily at breasts, alternating between eating and crying.
She hasn't a spare coin to give them, and she needs the food in her satchel just as much as they do.
There are no homes in Darktown. There are no buildings or taverns. When Lana looks up, she cannot even see the hazy gray color of Kirkwall's sky. There will be no moon and stars to sleep beneath, no fresh air for people to breathe instead of the rot that's choking them.
These must be part of the secret passageways Cullen had mentioned, Lana thinks. There's no other explanation as to why these passageways have been carved at all, but it makes her think that people must have been living here for a long time before the refugees had come.
A bit further into Darktown and the smell of death becomes overpowering. Lana's legs are shaking violently, and as weak as she is now, she can't carry her father another step.
She goes to sit against the nearest wall, but catches sight of the wall opposite her at that moment.
Stiff and pale bodies of all shapes and sizes and colors have been stacked carelessly. Some of their eyes are open, and some don't have any eyes left at all. Flesh has been torn away in pieces where rats and other scavengers have gotten to them. Flies buzz around the pile, the sound ringing inside of her head.
Lana grabs hold of her father and drags him away from the bodies, wanting to vomit. But the adrenaline soon fades, and they collapse only a little ways from the bodies.
Looking around to see if anyone is still watching, she props her father against the wall and starts breaking up the bread inside of her satchel. She holds it out for him, but he doesn't take it.
Frustrated and exhausted, she puts the food in his mouth for him, but he can hardly bring himself to chew. He moans in complaint when she forces him to swallow, and eventually puts himself to sleep after a few more bites.
Seeing him sleep frightens her. She worries that each time her father closes his eyes, he won't open them again.
The sores on his back are getting worse. Some of them have opened and leaked pus, while others look like massive scabs, all of them grotesque. According to her father, they're painful and itchy, which leaves him weeping quietly several hours out of the day.
His clothes are saturated in urine and feces, but the smell is covered by the general air of Darktown. He grows thinner everyday, thinner and weaker and grayer and hungrier and thirstier.
Lana begins to wonder if Cullen knew it would be this way when he let them into Kirkwall.
She begins to miss Ferelden, as well.
In Ferelden, there were no shortages of abandoned buildings to sleep in for a little while. There was always a roof to sleep under, a farm to work at, a table to eat at. The land was covered in forests teeming with wild game and edible herbs and berries, and bounty contracts were being handed out to capable men and women by local guards, paying well for a few hours of work.
Part of her regrets ever coming here, but she was left with no choice. Kirkwall seemed hopeful before they left Fereldan, and the woman they traveled with had spoken so fondly of it.
Lana must do something. Her father will not survive here for long. She cannot afford to delay any longer.
It's during her first proper bath in months that she's able to find help.
Several women seem to take pity on her aftering catching the smell of death wafting off her. They scrub her until the bath water needs changed several times, and one of them points out a cut on her back that Lana hadn't even noticed.
The others who have come to the bathhouse seem to take offense to her appearance and smell, moving far away to bathe in peace. It doesn't bother Lana in the slightest.
"This looks infected, dear," the older woman says, and Lana winces when she feels a fingertip prod the area. "Better have it checked out."
"I don't have the money," she replies, wincing again as the area is scrubbed hard.
"You're a refugee, are you?" the younger woman asks. "I can tell by your accent. Have you heard of Lirene?"
One of them dumps a pail of lukewarm water over Lana's head, leaving her sputtering and coughing, the feeling of being drowned near overwhelming. "No. Should I have?"
"Lirene is Ferelden, too," the young woman continues, scratching at Lana's scalp. "She collects donations for the other refugees. You might be able to find some medicine there, and perhaps some food if you need it."
"My father is deathly ill," Lana confesses, not caring much about a scratch on her back. "He's had a fever for weeks and can barely eat. He's got sores all over his back, too. Could she help with that?"
"No, probably not, but . . ." Both women are quiet for a moment. The younger one clears her throat and puts her mouth very near Lana's ear to continue, whispering so quietly it might simply be the breeze. "Ask her about the Healer of Darktown."
Lirene's shop is filled to the brim with people looking for help.
People are coughing up phlegm and blood into their hands and elbows. Some are slouched against the walls, holding their stomachs and pale as snow. Many are shouting, attempting to get Lirene's attention, and Lana has to stand on her toes to figure out who Lirene even is.
Lirene happens to be a relatively young woman with dark hair, gaunt and haggard and sleep-deprived. She is clearly overwhelmed, shouting at the refugees like she's trying to herd sheep.
Lana urges her father forward, pushing through the crowd of pregnant women clutching their bellies, men with broken bones and open wounds, and children with hollow cheeks and doubled over in pain. She ignores them all, making her way to the counter, where Lirene is still trying to organize the chaos.
"Excuse me," Lana says, catching Lirene's attention almost immediately. "My father needs help."
Lirene looks at her father carefully, hands splayed upon the counter. "Haven't seen you two before."
"We've only been in the city proper for a week," she replies. "He's been ill for much longer."
"And the templars let you in?" Lirene seems surprised by this, cocking a thin eyebrow. "So either you have the coin or the templars took a liking to you."
"I didn't pay to get in."
Lirene gives her a sad look. "What did the templars do to you, girl?"
"It's not like that."
"I hope you're not lying to me." Lirene looks skeptical for a moment, but then sighs and gestures to the others. "Do you see this place? Do you think you're the only Fereldans who need help? I feel for you, child, and for your father, but I have women coming in with babes halfway out their wombs and men holding their entrails."
Lana can feel everyone watching her. "My father is going to die if he doesn't get help."
"You want help?"
Lirene motions towards a side room. Lana follows her, ignoring the jeers coming from the other refugees who want attention. This room houses the sickest of the refugees, it seems, those with awful blisters on their faces and rattling breaths. One man looks dead already, his eyes rolled back into his head.
"Here's my advice," Lirene continues, "go back to Ferelden. It's the only place that your father will get the help he needs."
"I can't go back," Lana protests, looking around the room again and frowning. "He won't survive the journey home."
"Listen . . ." Lirene kneels before a little girl, offering her a piece of bread. "I will not deny that your father is very ill, more so than many looking for help here, but the donations are not coming in fast enough, and if I am to be fair, the donation money will be spent on those who came first. I am sorry, truly."
"There has to be something." Lana continues to follow her around the room. "I'll do anything. I'll work for medicine or rob enough nobles to care for everyone in here. My father will die without help, and we've come all this way. He's all I've got left."
Lirene turns to take a good long look at Lana's father again. She seems to be fighting with herself, biting down on her lower lip and folding her arms across her chest. "Well . . . there is someone," she murmurs, "someone who has been very good to us refugees . . . someone who has given much to us and asked for nothing in return."
"The Healer?" Lana whispers, and Lirene purses her lips.
"You know of him?"
"I was told to ask." She waits for Lirene to answer, but when no information is given, she adds, "He's a mage, isn't he?"
"Please, child . . . he has been good to us."
"I won't say a word, I swear it." Lana adjusts her father, gripping his wrist tight. "Where can I find him?"
"Look for the lit lantern in Darktown," Lirene finally answers, looking slightly ashamed of herself. "His name is Anders."
She doesn't know what to expect—surely some old, frail, wispy-haired Healer with spotted and trembling hands.
When she enters the clinic, she's surprised at what she finds. There are several patients lying in cots made from patched animal skin, moaning and groaning. At their sudden entrance, a man much cleaner and healthier than the others looks at them quickly before finishing what he's doing.
He's kneeling by a pale woman lying on a cot. A newborn babe suckles at her breast as the healer wipes blood and fluid off the babe's skin, wrapping it in a dirty towel.
Assuming this man is the healer, Lana gets a good look at him.
He's far younger than she imagined he would be, likely a few years older than herself. Short and dark whiskers cover his cheeks and sharp jawline, darker than the red-blond hair upon his head, half of it tied back with a bright red ribbon. Despite his age, there are streaks of gray in his hair, and his eyes look tired and heavy.
When he finally stands, he is much taller than her, looking to be very lean underneath the bulky robes he wears.
"Are you Anders?" Lana asks as he approaches, looking her father up and down.
"Who's asking?"
"Lirene sent me. My father is very ill."
"How long has he been like this?" Anders leads them to an open cot and helps Lana lie him down gently.
"Weeks, I suppose, since before we came to Kirkwall," she answers, placing a hand upon her father's chest to ensure he's still alive. "It's gotten worse with each passing day."
Anders feels her father's forehead, touches his neck, presses his abdomen, turns him slightly onto his side and peers down his tunic to take note of the horrible sores on his back. And then he freezes, making Lana's breath hitch.
"Are you going to breathe down my neck the whole time?" Anders asks her, not unkindly.
Lana takes a step backwards, not having realized she was so close. "I'm sorry."
She takes this moment to look around the clinic and really take in her surroundings. There's a pile of bottled potions and poultices in the back corner, stacked with roots and herbs and leaves that she's unfamiliar with.
Beside this is another empty cot, presumably the one Anders typically occupies, what with the personal effects around it. There's a pitcher and large bowl there with a yellowed rag hanging over the side, a pair of scuffed black boots, two off-white tunics, and two pairs of stained breeches. There is a stack of books with titles she can't make out, along with medical tools that she doesn't recognize.
There is a small partition between Anders' sleeping area and the rest of the clinic, but it does little in the form of privacy.
"It seems like plague to me," Anders finally says, brushing his hands off and getting back to his feet. "There isn't much I can do with magic, but I have medicine."
Lana can't believe what she's hearing. "He'll be all right?"
"In time, yes," he smiles, moving over to his corner of the clinic and dipping his hands in the bowl of water, scrubbing them before looking through his bottled medicines. "You would be surprised what rest and good food can do for a person."
"Thank you," she breathes, feeling hopeful for the first time since entering the city. "I'm sorry, I don't have any money or—"
Anders chuckles. "Dear girl, people come to me because they don't have money."
She smiles for the first time in forever. "I have a name, you know."
"Not that I'd know it," Anders teases, and it makes her more comfortable knowing he's open to a bit of back-and-forth. It's been a while since she's had a light conversation with someone. "You forgot to introduce yourself."
"I'm Lana," she tells him. "And this is my father, Donel."
"Glad to make your acquaintance, Lana."
"Likewise," she says, "Anders."