SUMMER

Dragon 9:31

Knowing that her father is in good hands with Anders for the time being, Lana sometimes disappears for days to thoroughly scout out the city.

She finds that Kirkwall is larger than she ever could have imagined. She tries to think of a place back home to compare it to, but it's even bigger than Denerim, and that's the biggest city she knows. When she discovers the area of the city known as 'Hightown' to locals, she gets lost within the maze of manses and estates, homes that she knows she will never be rich enough to set foot in.

Even the Chantry is the biggest she's ever seen, the steps always teeming with people, verses from the Chant of Light overlapping each other from several brothers and sisters who spend hours sweating in their robes, calling to the people, performing blessings on those who ask for them.

The buildings here look old and full of history, tall enough to block out much of the sun during the hottest part of the day. Merchants set up their wares in the streets and taverns are all full to bursting with drunken riff-raff and bawdy songs.

Lana spends many of her days wandering the streets of Kirkwall, freshly washed and dressed in clean clothing, unafraid to wear her weapons at her hips to prevent criminals from attempting to rob her or take her unawares. Lowtown is still dangerous and full of mercenaries hiding in the shadows, always seeking their next and newest target, but she stays in the open, surrounded by people to prevent herself from becoming vulnerable.

She tries to familiarize herself with the templars, their routines, their patrol routes, their faces. Some look friendly enough, while others look hardened and ready for a fight. The templar who smuggled her and her father into the city is nowhere to be found, and she dare not return to the prison that is the Gallows, afraid she may be met with trouble.

She explores the docks, which smell of salt and fish and sweat. The port is massive, filled with merchant ships that hail from Starkhaven, Nevarra, and Orlais. Burly men unload barrels of merchandise and crates of alcohol, weapons and armor, clothing and spices, fruit and cheese, colorful textiles and metals.

Merchants call out the day's catch from the makeshift fish market and trinkets from far away lands are haggled upon by those with enough money to spend. Oysters are set neatly in ice buckets, selling quickly, ready-to-eat the moment that coin is exchanged for them. Fishmongers cut the heads of still wriggling fish, obviously practiced in their art. Women stir cauldrons full of fish stew, spooning out servings to the dock workers.

Even with the salty sea breeze, it's beginning to grow hot, and Lana finds herself unable to stand the blistering of her skin, so she steals a few coins from an unassuming merchant's purse with ease and makes her way to the Hanged Man, which has quickly become her favorite place in the city.

She enjoys sitting in the back corner, nursing her warm ale and observing the crowd. This is where criminals and refugees and mercenaries come to drink, and there seems to be an unspoken rule within the establishment that all are comrades here. It's too easy to overhear everyone's conversation, to make note of who is important by watching how many people buy them drinks, and she enjoys the musicians who pluck away at their string instruments and sing of long forgotten heroes.

It's easy to lose track of time here. Time doesn't seem to exist underneath the roof of this tavern, with no windows to see the position of the sun. Dice and card games go on forever, it seems, until someone runs out of coin or clothes or valuables. Women lead drunken men towards the back rooms amid wolf-whistles and hearty cheers. Drinks are ever flowing, always spilling, and much appreciated.

Lana is able to win some money betting over a drunken brawl, and she tucks it away safely in her near-empty coin purse. She finishes her drink, preparing to leave when the table beside her is taken by a rather unlikely duo that she can't help but be interested in.

One is a dwarf without a beard, which strikes her as interesting, his red hair pulled back out of his face. There are golden rings in his ears and his nose is a crooked thing that looks a little too big for his face. Slung over his broad shoulders is a massive crossbow that looks too heavy for him to hold, and unlike anything she's ever seen.

He gives some of the patrons a warm and friendly smile and they raise their tankards to him, giving Lana the impression he's a regular. The dwarf's eyes sweep over Lana and he nods politely at her when he catches her looking.

Beside him sits a tall and burly man full of confidence, his chest puffed out even while seated. His presence is certainly commanding, but there is something soft and personable about his face.

He props his greatsword against the wall beside him, bigger than anything Lana could ever lift. The man doesn't seem much older than she is, with a coarse black beard that's thinner above his upper lip. His hair is equally as dark, shaggy and combed over to one side to keep it from falling into his dark eyes.

The man looks around suspiciously, not as comfortable here as his counterpart, and orders them both drinks before speaking in a low voice, though not low enough to go unheard by Lana.

". . . looked into the entrance?"

His accent marks him for a Fereldan. She sits up a little straighter, hoping to hear more.

"I had some people look into it," the dwarf replies, thanking the barmaid when she comes to bring them drinks. "Apparently it's all caved in."

"So what do you suggest? I've already put far too much money into this expedition, if only at Bethany's insistence."

"I'm glad she insisted at all." The dwarf chuckles into his tankard. "I've heard there's a Grey Warden in the city. If anyone knows how to get into the Deep Roads, it'll be him."

"I still think it's far too early to go. The Blight only just ended. It's likely crawling with whatever darkspawn were forced to retreat."

"On the contrary," the dwarf says, waiting for a patron to pass by their table before continuing. "The Deep Roads are ripe for the picking. This is the best time to go before more darkspawn are borne, and we're running out of time. The Grey Warden may be the best chance we have at following through with this whole thing."

"Do you even know where to find the Grey Warden?" the man asks with a scoff. "I highly doubt he'll willingly give up his maps to us."

As more people begin to look their way, the dwarf and his friend lower their voices still so Lana can't hear any more of their conversation, but she continues to watch them curiously, fingering the rim of her tankard and thinking hard.

It isn't long until the man stands up, grabs his sword, and leaves quickly, attracting attention from all over the tavern.

The dwarf decides to stay behind and finish his ale. Lana considers for a moment going to talk to him.

She's heard the stories of ancient dwarven thaigs filled with treasure, enough to make any man or woman rich beyond their wildest dreams if they're willing to risk their lives for it, and Lana can't deny that she could use a little of that treasure.

She inhales deeply, finishing her drink and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Getting to her feet, she takes a seat at the table with the dwarf, who doesn't seem very surprised in regards to her sudden company.

He smiles at her. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"No," she answers quickly, her head already pounding from the ale she's already consumed. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation."

The dwarf laughs loudly, his voice scratchy and deep. "I wouldn't be surprised if all of Kirkwall has heard of our plans by now," he sighs, leaning back in his seat. "We're always looking for donations."

"I don't have the spare coin to donate to your expedition," she says bluntly. "Take me with you."

The dwarf sighs again, this time rubbing his bare face. "Look, kid," he begins, "if we brought along every person who asked us to go without anything to offer, there wouldn't be anyone left to live in Lowtown. I appreciate your interest, but perhaps I could just buy you supper."

"I'm not just another lowlife," she tells him. "I can fight. I'm good with my blades, and I could really use a large amount of money right now."

"Listen, I don't have a say. It's not my expedition to begin with, and we still need the money to fund it. Adding more people to our plans is just going to cost us more in the long run, and we can hardly afford it as it is."

"I know how business works. I'm not asking for half your earnings. I just need something to live off of for a little while."

"I'm sorry, kid," the dwarf says again, seemingly exhausted. "I can't do anything for you. I'm sorry. Here." He slides a few coppers across the table, but she just looks down at them, disappointed. "For your trouble."

"I don't need your charity."

"No?" He smiles kindly, letting the coppers sit on the table between them. "There's not a single person I know in Kirkwall that wouldn't accept money given to them right now."

"I don't want your money."

The dwarf's smile fades and he looks her up and down. "I'm going to regret this," he replies, "but do you work well with others?"

"If I have to, yes."

"Then I can get you work, but that doesn't mean I'm agreeing to take you with us to the Deep Roads." He pushes the coppers closer to her. "And take the money, damn you, or I'll put it in your coin purse myself."

Lana finds her way back to Anders' clinic well after the sun goes down that evening.

She's still slightly drunk, but had managed to get food with the money the dwarf gave her before her descent back into Darktown.

Anders seems surprised to find her back so late, but gestures to her father. He's fast asleep, and there's a little more color in his face than there has been in weeks. He's also the only patient in the clinic right now, and Anders is using his free time to scrub his soiled clothes in a wooden bucket of tepid water by his cot.

Lana kneels beside her father, brushing a few stray white hairs from his face. His flesh doesn't burn as hot, and his breaths are not as shaky. She presses her lips lightly to his temple. He doesn't even stir at her touch.

She looks over her shoulder at Anders, privately glad that there isn't anyone else she's obligated to share food with. "I brought some food. There's plenty, if you'd like some."

He wrings out his tunic and hangs it on a thin cord that stretches from wall to wall. Making his way over to Lana, he pulls up a stool and watches her pull the food out of her satchel. There's some half-burnt bread that a merchant gave her for free, and two pastries with honey drizzled overtop.

"I ate about five of these," she says with a grin, offering him one of the pastries. "It's hard to get good sweets in Ferelden. I quite like the selection here."

Anders takes it, but doesn't immediately eat it. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He doesn't seem to be accusing her of anything terrible, but she can't quite think of anything that she had failed to mention that might have been of some importance. "Tell you what?"

Anders' head turns slightly to the side, his eyebrows furrowed together. "That your father is a mage?"

Lana nearly drops the food in her hands, dumbstruck and suddenly sweating. "That's a serious accusation, you know. What makes you say that?"

He smiles incredulously. "He told me so himself."

"I—" Lana's heart jumps into her throat, but Anders reaches out to touch her shoulder, squeezing gently to reassure her.

"I wouldn't tell anyone, Lana. You know that I'm a mage myself. Why would I do something so foolish?"

"Do I know that?" she asks breathlessly, afraid that a templar might be listening on the other side of the door. "I haven't even seen you do any magic yet."

Without hesitation, Anders removes his hand from her shoulder and holds it up in front of them both. Purple sparks issue from the tips of his fingers for a few seconds. "Do you believe me now?"

"I'm sorry," she answers nervously, looking back down at her father. "It's not something I normally announce to strangers."

Anders takes a bite of his pastry, keeping his eyes trained on Lana. "I don't intend to pry, nor do I want you to think I'm being rude, but . . . Maker, I don't really know how to say this, but . . ."

"Just say it."

He shifts uncomfortably. "Is it the illness, or is there something wrong with him?"

Lana flushes from head to toe, looking away from Anders and at the ground.

At the sight of her discomfort, he suddenly backtracks. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to offend you or your father, I only . . . well, I was a little caught off guard when he spoke to me."

"He's simple," she confesses coldly. "So . . . go on."

He looks taken aback by her sudden change in demeanor. "I'm sorry?"

"Aren't you going to laugh at him? Everyone does when they find out."

"Why would I laugh at him?" Anders scoffs. "I—I'm not quite sure what to say, to be honest. He's been simple all of his life? He was born this way?"

"Yes."

"And he's never been caught by the templars? Surely he hasn't mastered the use of his own magic."

"No."

"And he's never fallen prey to any demons?"

"He doesn't seem possessed to me, so . . . no, I suppose."

"So how did you do it? How have you kept him alive and away from the Circle for so long?"

Lana stares at him, unsure of what to say. This isn't the reaction she had expected, but he seems far too interested for her to not give an answer at all. "Are you mocking me?"

"No, of course I'm not mocking you." Anders sighs, lowering his pastry to his lap and laughing softly. "I'm genuinely interested, but if you'd rather not tell me, then you're certainly not obligated to. I'm only curious."

She hesitates, picking at her own pastry. Anders is not her friend by any means, but he's no longer a complete stranger, and he has done her a great service by caring for her father and allowing her a place within his clinic for free.

"My uncle took care of us for a long time," she explains in a hushed voice. "He was an apostate with a far greater understanding of his own magic, and he was much older than my father. He had never been to the Circle either."

"Are you a mage, as well?" Anders asks, his mouth full of food.

"No," she answers. "I was actually born to a whore who left me on my uncle's doorstep when she had me. I don't think she knew my father was simple when they met. I think she believed he was just very drunk when I was conceived. I never met her, and I've no desire to. I don't even know her name."

Anders is quiet. He listens very politely, busying his hands by tearing apart his pastry into bite-size pieces.

"My uncle tried to teach my father how to control his magic by suppressing it, but suppressing it only made it worse. Whenever he became emotional, it was . . . inevitable. He burned buildings, people, templars, and we would be forced to run as far as we could and start again in a new village, under new names. Uncle loved my father very much, and sacrificed his life to protect him."

Lana runs her fingers through her hair, staring down at her father.

"And when Uncle died a few years ago . . . well, to be honest, I considered slitting Da's throat to put an end to it. I thought it would save us both a lot of pain. It would save me from more mindless killing. I could have had a real life, you know?" She frowns, feeling the overwhelming feeling of guilt creeping up on her. "But I couldn't do it. I don't know if magic is a blessing or a curse, but . . . Da never asked for it. All I know is that he loves me, and if that means bloodying my hands over and over again to keep him alive, then . . . so be it."

Anders exhales through his nose as she finishes. Surely he hadn't been expecting such an honest confession, but she can't remember ever talking about it, and it all comes out of her in a wave of remorse and sadness.

He is quiet for a long time. She doesn't blame him for not knowing what to say. "I'm sorry life has been so difficult for you," he finally says, sounding sincere enough.

Lana shrugs modestly. "We've gotten by."

"I want you to know that you have a friend in me, Lana. Whatever I can do to aid you and your father . . . you may ask of me anything, and I will be more than willing to accommodate."

She side-eyes him, feeling ashamed of herself. Whatever hunger she had been feeling is gone. She puts her half-eaten pastry down, and pulls her knees to her chest.

A friend, she thinks. She doesn't remember who her last friend had been, or if she'd ever really had any. "Can he stay here a little longer?" she finally asks softly, wishing that she didn't need to ask in the first place.

"As long as he wants. I won't let anyone come for either of you."

Darktown is waking. She can smell the giant rats being cooked for breakfast, though it does little to cover the scent of the chokedamp, which is particularly strong today.

Entering Lowtown is like being born again. Suddenly she can breathe and there's a sky above her and she can feel the warmth of the sun beating down on her, the sky still pink and orange.

She continues through the labyrinth that is Lowtown and crosses over into Hightown, the only place in the entire city that makes her truly uneasy. While it's all very beautiful and clean, Lana feels uncomfortable and wildly out of place here.

People barely look twice at her and, when they do, they wrinkle their nose at her appearance. She knows she probably smells awful, but it can't be as bad as the scent of all the expensive perfumes and oils that the nobility drench themselves in.

The bathhouse in Hightown is far nicer than the one in Lowtown, to say the least. There are vaulted ceilings and tall, stained glass windows depicting religious works of art, including a depiction of a very beautiful and naked Andraste that Lana can't help but think is close to blasphemy.

Everyone in the water is beautiful and happy, laughing and splashing each other, paying no attention to the street rat who climbs into the emptiest tub.

After scrubbing herself clean for the second day in a row, Lana hurries to a tavern she hasn't visited yet, a place that her new dwarf friend had told her about. It's a place that the Dwarven Merchants' Guild has eyes and ears in, he had told her, and houses a less criminal crowd than the Hanged Man.

This tavern happens to be twice the size of the Hanged Man and is lit better, as well. The ceilings are twice as tall and serving girls swarm the place, already serving food and drink to hungry dwarves. The few human patrons that are present stick out like sore thumbs, and most of the dwarves have full beards, which makes it easy to find the dwarf she's looking for.

Beside Varric is his brooding friend with the big sword from the Hanged Man. She seats herself at their table, where a drink has already been ordered for her—this time it's a sweet wine instead of ale.

"Glad you could make it," Varric says with a smile, nodding in greeting.

The man is staring at her, scanning her face and her body and the daggers at her hips. "What?" she snaps at him.

He doesn't even bother to look abashed at his being caught. "This is the girl that wanted to accompany us into the Deep Roads?" he scoffs, finally looking away to face Varric. "This malnourished pup wouldn't last an hour in the Deep Roads."

"I can fight well," she says bitterly. "I can hold my own just fine."

The man laughs a deep, rich laugh. "Can you? I thought you kept those daggers by your sides for decoration."

"I'll show you how well I can fight. If you take me to the Deep Roads, I'll prove it."

"And what is it you're looking for in the Deep Roads?" he asks, shaking his head as if he can't believe he's entertaining the very idea. "Riches? Glory? Your death?"

"I could use the gold," she says with a shrug. "I need it to care for my father. I need it to get out of Kirkwall."

"Where is your father now?"

"In capable hands."

"He's ill?"

"I never said he was."

"If he wasn't ill, you needn't have left him in capable hands. Why couldn't you bring him here? I'm sure we'd have liked to meet him."

Lana looks around her. "You're asking me why I chose not to bring my aging father to a shady tavern to talk with some thugs?"

"Thugs?" the man asks, hardly offended. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"That's enough, kids," Varric finally interrupts, his fingers digging into his temples. "Lana, this is Hawke. He's a partner of ours for this expedition. The expedition that I already told you I couldn't get you involved in."

"I could bring you if I wanted, Lana," Hawke says again, full of arrogance. "However, I already have friends who have been promised eternal glory and lifelong riches, friends who can defend themselves against darkspawn and whom I trust with my life. So I'm sorry to say that you will not be coming."

"Then why did you bring me here?" Lana asks desperately, looking to Varric for an answer. She's already had her fill of this man called Hawke. "And why did you bring him?"

"Because I've found you work," Varric answers, waiting for Lana to wipe the incredulous look off her face before continuing. "Hawke has agreed to bring you on for a few odd jobs. It'll be mercenary work for the most part, and he's willing to split the gold between yourselves and some others."

"You're telling me, with all your connections, the only jobs you can get are forcing me to work with him?" she frowns, scowling at Hawke when he grins.

"You should be thankful that I'm even considering having you come along." Hawke shrugs, seemingly proud of himself.

"I would be more thankful if you considered taking me into the Deep Roads."

"I'm not doing that," he says with a certain finality that lets Lana know nothing she says will change his mind.

But of course she's going to keep trying. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

"You're right, I don't. I suppose I'll see what you're made of when you come along for a job."

Lana grits her teeth. "Why did you even bother to meet me if you were just going to be an arrogant bastard?"

"Varric was very generous with his description of you," Hawke answers with a brutal honesty that makes her flinch. "I thought I might try to fuck you afterwards, but I've changed my mind. You're a bit too crass and brash for me. And a bit too skinny, too."

Varric chokes on his drink. "Hawke—"

"I'll fuck you, but only if you take me to the Deep Roads."

Hawke stops laughing and raises his eyebrows, sharing a brief look with Varric. He considers her for a moment and strokes his chin, trying to tame his beard with his fingers. "No," is his final answer.

"What do you mean no?" she repeats, blushing.

"I can walk next door and find a whore who will ask less of me than you." Hawke smiles at her, always pleased with himself, but it fades quickly and he becomes far more serious. "You ask a great deal of a stranger, Lana."

"All I want is enough gold so my father will never be hungry again," she sighs. "Where is the shame in attempting to bargain for that? If you were in my place, wouldn't you want the same for your family?"

Hawke listens, still combing through his beard.

"I know you're Fereldan just from your accent. I know that you likely came here to escape the Blight, just like my father and I did. We both know this city doesn't want us, but I cannot leave."

Hawke wets his lips, glancing at Varric again. "I can't promise you anything about the Deep Roads, but I'll let you know when a job comes up. Where will I be able to find you?"

Lana knows when to accept defeat. "The Hanged Man."

"Very well." Hawke clears his throat, raising a hand to signal a barmaid. "And by the way, you wouldn't happen to know a Grey Warden, would you?"

"No," she says, "and if I did, I certainly wouldn't tell you."

After taking the time to explore all of Hightown's niches and shadowy alleyways for days, Lana finds the perfect place to climb.

In between two ancient-looking estates, the rock is rough enough for her to find a good grip, and she pulls herself up the wall quickly, reaching the roof in near record time.

She's always loved to climb. Redcliffe always had plenty of cliffs and thick trees to hide in during games of hide-and-seek with the other children. None of them could ever climb as well as her and she was always the last person to be found. She would only come out when her friends began shouting for her, coaxing her back to the village, growing angry when she would drop down from a tree that was impossible for anyone else to climb.

Lana watches the noblemen and women saunter around Hightown from her rooftop.

They wear their fancy gowns and expensive fabrics, acting as if Kirkwall isn't a massive shithole, full of arrogance and superiority. There is no sense of community here—this is a dog-eat-dog world where people suffer, a world unlike any she's ever known.

She knows better than to take any of these people at their word, and knows better than to trust their false and deceitful smiles. While Lowtown and Darktown are not much better, at least the thieves and killers there are honest about their intentions.

She continues to keep an eye on the ground as she runs across the rooftops of Hightown on nimble and sure feet, not entirely sure what it is she's hoping to see up here.

A few Templars are harassing a family of refugees. A woman about ten years Lana's senior pulls a cartful of silks and velvets and jewels through the crowded and sunny courtyard. A few merchants are trading imported wine for heavy bags of coin.

It's more difficult to steal here. She's been able to get enough, but not like she used to. There used to be farms everywhere in Ferelden, always stocked with fresh eggs. There's no game here either, and Lana dares not leave the city to explore the surrounding wilderness, afraid to leave her father in a city of strangers, even with Anders.

"Hey! You, girl! Get down from there!"

Lana looks down at the city guards brandishing fists at her. She smiles, reminded of her days running through Denerim, always being chased by exasperated guards.

With speed, Lana runs and leaps further along the rooftops, jumping short gaps between buildings as the guards continue to follow her on the ground. Unable to help herself, she laughs as the warm breeze hits her full in the face and blows the loose strands of dark hair out of her eyes.

Keeping an eye on the fastest guard, one with flaming red hair, Lana jumps another gap and lands lightly on her feet, launching herself over the side and climbing swiftly down the wall of a handsome manor.

"Someone stop that girl!"

Looking over her shoulder at the guard calling for her, she barely has time to register what's happening.

She collides into someone's hard chest and knocks them both to the ground, falling right on top of him. There's a clatter of steel against stone and, for a moment, Lana fears her daggers have slid right out of their worn sheaths.

She scrambles up from the body she's fallen onto, looking around for her blades, but they're still secure at her hips.

"Lana?"

"Hawke, grab her!"

Hawke is flat on his back, his greatsword lying a few feet away from him. He wraps his arms around Lana, but she bites down on his forearm and he recoils in pain, gasping. She moves quickly, kneeling on his chest, but Hawke is stronger and pushes her off. Lana lands hard at the feet of a dark-haired woman who smiles sweetly down at her.

"Hawke!" the guard shrieks, her voice wild.

Lunging at her, Hawke grabs her wrists with one hand and slams them against the cobblestone ground, pinning them above her head. Lana tries to kick and squirm, but it's no use.

"What did you have to bite me for, Lana?" Hawke hisses, his face bright red. Regardless, he releases her wrists and pushes himself to his feet, picking his sword back up. "Calm down, Aveline. She's fine."

The guard called Aveline doesn't look as convinced. "She was running across the rooftops like a common thief. What were you doing up there, girl?"

"I was just watching," Lana shoots back, allowing Hawke to help her back up to her feet. Most of her hair has fallen out of her braid, sticking to her sweaty skin. "I like it up there."

"She's fine, I said," Hawke repeats, patting Lana hard on the back to brush some dirt off. She gives him a sharp look and he lowers his hand.

"Hawke, your word doesn't carry much weight around Kirkwall," Aveline replies cooly, fixing her eyes upon Lana. Her face is pasty white and covered in orange freckles. "You're one of Hawke's friends?"

"If you could call us that," Lana answers, brushing the rest of herself off. "We met at a tavern once."

"I knew she was a whore," one of the guardsmen says with a triumphant grunt. "Good with her legs. Whores are known to be good with their legs."

"She ain't a whore," the other guardsman snaps, motioning to Lana as if showing her off. "No whore wears such pretty-looking daggers."

"Stop calling her that," Aveline says, giving both of the men a very withering stare. "Where did you come from, Lana?"

"I'm from Kirkwall."

"Your accent has betrayed you," Hawke snickers, putting a large hand on Lana's shoulder for it to be immediately shrugged off. "Don't be shy, Lana. We're all refugees here. Aveline and I met in Fereldan."

Aveline sighs, shaking her head. "Go on, then. Run along, Lana, and don't let me catch you running on rooftops again."

Aveline and the other guards turn away, walking back down the streets of Hightown towards the barracks. Once she's out of sight, Lana turns back to Hawke and his dark-haired companion.

"You didn't have to do that," Lana tells him, wiping the sweat off her forehead with her sleeve. "We were just having a bit of fun. I wouldn't have let them catch me."

"Aveline's version of 'fun' likely isn't the same as yours," Hawke replies, crossing his arms. "You're a dirty fighter, biting me like that."

"My blades aren't my only weapons," she says, looking down at her fingernails. Only yesterday she had scrubbed them clean, but they're caked with mud and dirt again. "Us women learn that at a very young age."

Hawke's tone drips with venom. "Yes, because the Maker has been so generous with you."

"Brother," the dark-haired woman says gently, putting a hand on Hawke's forearm and smiling, "you should be nicer."

"My little sister, Bethany," Hawke grumbles. "Never quite learned when to hold her tongue."

"A trait we both share," Bethany teases, giving her brother a gentle and playful push.

Her voice is hardly more than a whisper, breathy and soothing in contrast to Hawke's. She's a beautiful girl with sleek hair that obviously is cared enough about to be brushed everyday, falling in loose waves to her shoulders. Bethany's eyes are brown, just like Lana's, but they're full of life, a shade of brown that Lana doesn't think she's ever seen before.

Lana looks down at herself, feeling slightly self-conscious about the stiff tunic that carries the smell of Darktown and the dirt on her face. Her boots are nearly a year old and starting to tear, and her breeches are stained with food and drink and blood and mud.

"Care to have a rematch, Lana?" Hawke asks mockingly. "Say . . . first light, three days from now?"

"Garrett, she's only a girl—"

"With weapons?" Lana says, ignoring Bethany's quiet protest.

Hawke shakes his head. "Certainly not live steel," he answers. "Even I'm not big enough a fool to suggest that. Perhaps I could ask Aveline what's lying around in the barracks. She might even care to make a wager."

"First light, three days from now," Lana repeats. "Where should I meet you?"

"Just outside the city gates there's a forest. Head north along the trail for about half a mile and you'll come upon a clearing that will be perfect. Big enough for me to knock some sense back into you. And you know what?" Hawke grins, leaning forward and closer to Lana. "If you win, I'll even bring you with me on the next job."

"And you'll consider taking me to the Deep Roads?"

Hawke hesitates, but his smile doesn't falter. He holds a hand out for Lana to shake. "Fine. I'll consider it."

There are several patients to share food with today, but Lana brings back more than enough. She needs to get her strength up for the match tomorrow. She's determined not to lose to Hawke. If she loses, she loses all credibility with him, and she doesn't want to be humiliated.

She ensures that her father gets more than everyone else, and then Anders. The rest is divided evenly between herself and the other patients.

"He looks good today," she comments, kneeling on the other side of her father while Anders checks the sores on her father's back. "You look really good, Da."

Her father takes Lana's hand in his and pats it. "My Lana." And as Anders rolls him onto his back again, he touches Anders' forearm. "Anders."

"Yes," she smiles, "Anders. Very good." She glances at the healer who blushes at the sound of her father speaking his name. "Will he be well enough to leave for a few hours tomorrow?"

"What's tomorrow?" Anders asks suspiciously. "He needs rest, as much as he can get. If he had a steady source of clean water and food, he might heal slightly faster. Unfortunately, my magic isn't much help in this situation."

"I want him to come watch me fight," Lana explains, watching her father's face brighten considerably. "He used to watch me fight all the time, when we needed the money. I was very good."

Anders blinks at her in surprise, laughing to himself when he can't find the words to say. "I'm certain it will be a fight for the history books, but I don't think it's something that's worth overexerting your father. What are you fighting for, anyway?"

"Don't worry about it. I'll tell you if I win."

"Should I keep a cot reserved for you?"

"I won't need one," she replied boldly. "I told you, I'm a good fighter. You can come with us and watch if you doubt me."

"I have a clinic to run," Anders sighs wearily, looking around at all the resting patients who are obviously listening in on their conversation. "I'll stay here and keep an eye on your father."

Lana looks at her father and feels his forehead. The fever seems to have gone. "You could close for half a day and take a break, couldn't you? My father would love to have you there, and between the two of us, we could certainly get him there."

Anders gives her an exasperated look, eyebrows raised. "I'll think about it."

The next morning, as day breaks, Lana and Anders walk her father out of the city gates.

She tries not to let her anxiety show as a group of templars looks them over upon leaving, so she picks up the pace, half-dragging her father with them as they approach the forest. He's clumsy on his feet, but with more practice, he'll be fine.

The trees are narrow and tall, taller than the trees in Ferelden. These trees are cramped close together, but a path into the forest gives them room to walk side-by-side without running into any obstacles.

Lana's daggers hang at her hip, praying that Hawke will have seen sense. If she could fight with her daggers, it would be an easy win. Warriors who wield greatswords such as Hawke's are slow, and Lana has always been quick and stealthy, able to dodge those heavy blows with ease.

Hawke is already waiting for her when they find the clearing. Bethany is there, seated on a log off to the side and Aveline is seated to Bethany's right, looking as if she'd rather be anywhere but here. Varric sits on Bethany's left, smiling at Lana and eager for the battle to begin.

Anders and her father sit on a thick log opposite Hawke's entourage.

"Wooden swords," Hawke announces, picking up two of them from the ground. He smiles smugly. "Couldn't find any wooden daggers. I hope you're strong enough to wield it."

Lana unhooks her daggers from her waist as Hawke throws one of the wooden swords at her feet. In truth, it's rather heavy and she fears it will tire her quickly.

She looks up at the canopy above, sees the sun filtering through the thin leaves, but it's not quite bright enough to blind her if she's facing the wrong direction. She looks at the ground, stomping on the hard-packed earth that clouds at her feet with each step she takes. She can slide her foot easily across the dirt.

Lana holds the sword up, trying to get a good grip on it.

"So," Hawke says, "we've already established the terms of your victory, however small those chances are. But what if I win?"

"What do you want?" Lana asks, moving closer to the center of the clearing.

Hawke gives a bored sigh. "I suppose we can work out the details after I've won." He holds up his sword and takes a few steps back from her, getting into position. "Yield whenever you're ready."

The adrenaline that surges through her gives her the strength she needs to steady the sword.

Hawke lunges first. He takes the offensive, swinging his sword wildly and slowly, giving Lana plenty of time to block the blows, which are powerful and painful, but she dances gracefully around him.

When Hawke pauses to catch his breath for the tiniest second, Lana presses him and swipes at his knees, his shoulders, and his sides. Her sword swats him on the back of the thighs, hard, and Hawke staggers and grunts.

He lifts his arm to swing at her again, but she sidesteps him and holds out her foot. Hawke's skin catches on her boot and he falls forward, landing with a thud onto the hard dirt. Lana jumps backwards as he climbs back to his feet, spitting dirt out of his mouth.

"You cheat," he growls.

"You didn't establish rules," she fires back. "And I thought you knew I was a dirty fighter in the first place."

"No kicks between the legs."

"I'll agree to that."

He lunges again, making to aim a blow near her chest, but at the last second he lowers his sword and it catches her on the side of her leg, tripping her up. Lana cries out as the sword makes contact, but as Hawke swings his weapon again, Lana's meets his forearm.

Hawke's shout causes some birds to rustle and fly away above them.

He begins to move quicker, his blows coming faster, but much less powerful. For a few moments, the only sounds are their grunts and heavy breathing, the clacking of wood on wood. She forces his sword away from her and kicks him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

Hawke stumbles backwards and Lana jumps at the chance while he's dazed. She runs towards him, ducking to avoid the lazy and horizontal swing he aims at her, hooking her leg around him and bringing him down onto his back, his sword falling from his hand.

Lana kneels on his chest, the wooden edge of her sword against his throat as she pushes his own out of reach. She can hear Bethany and Varric laughing in the background.

"Yield," she pants, feeling the sweat drip down the sides of her face and off the tip of her nose. Her heart hammers within her chest. "Yield, Hawke. I bested you."

Before even realizing what he's about to do, Hawke's head crashes into her own.

Her nose gushes blood down her tunic and her forehead is on fire and the entire forest is spinning around her. The sword falls from her own hand this time, and she hears everyone yelling around them, calling an end to it, shouting Hawke down, but he doesn't listen.

"I shouldn't have done that . . ." he mutters, his voice sounding as if miles away.

Lana gets unsteadily to her feet, the both of them stumbling towards each other without their weapons. Together, they grab each other's tunics and fall back to the ground, dizzy and exhausted.

"Ow . . ." Lana moans, releasing Hawke to hold her hand to her face. "Oh . . . my nose . . . you broke my nose . . ."

"Fuck . . ." Hawke groans, getting onto his hands and knees.

Lana continues to roll on the ground, hardly able to stand without wanting to faint, hardly able to even sit up. Once the forest stops spinning so quickly, she forces herself into a sitting position, and as she goes to stand, several things happen at once.

She hears the scraping of wood against the dirt, sees Hawke approach with the wooden sword and raise it high into the air.

Lana hates him with everything she has at that moment. He's going to strike her, to hurt her, to kill her, all because he doesn't know when to stop.

Someone cries out—a horrible, anguished, pained cry—and Hawke freezes with his sword in midair.

Ice cracks and forms at his feet, quickly cocooning his legs and torso, encasing his chest and shoulders as it works its way up his lifted arms. When it begins to cover Hawke's face, his eyes dart to Lana's and there's an uproar.

"She's a mage!" Aveline yells, pointing a threatening finger at Lana.

Varic says nothing, but looks positively enthralled.

"It's not her!" Bethany says with a gasp. "Look!"

"No!" Lana screams, horrified. All of her pain forgotten, she jumps to her feet and dives towards her father, touching his hands that are cold as ice. Anders has paled, grabbing onto her father's shoulder with a white-knuckle grip. "Da, no! Stop! Stop it! Let him go!"

Her words ring throughout the forest, echoing for what feels like minutes, but her father obeys and stops immediately. The ice around Hawke melts and disappears as quickly as it had arrived.

Chest heaving, Lana holds her father close and turns back to the watching crowd, prepared to reach for her blades. Her father's body is overcome with terrible shakes, and she holds him tight in the hopes that it might calm him, that they might be able to avoid a far more dangerous demonstration of his power.

Everyone is silent for a moment. And finally, completely out of breath, Hawke rasps, "What are you playing at?"

"Please don't hurt him!" Lana cries, bending slowly to grab her daggers. "Please! He doesn't understand! He was only trying to protect me! He can't control it!"

"Then he should be in the Circle!" Aveline tells her seriously, but Hawke shushes her. Aveline turns her angry expression upon Hawke. "A mage who can't control his own magic at that age? That's incredibly dangerous! He could have killed you, Hawke!"

"Please—he's simple—he doesn't understand—"

"Lana—" Anders whispers in her ear, grasping at the back of her tunic. "We need to leave. Now."

Bethany takes a few careful steps forward before they can move. Anders pulls desperately at Lana, urging them away, but Bethany calls out, "No, wait!"

Lana pauses and Anders lowers his hand from her tunic.

Bethany smiles at Lana's father, holding out a hand with her palm facing upwards. "Look." A small flame appears in her palm, and Lana freezes, amazed and terrified. "I can do magic, as well."

Her father's eyes light up, the horror-filled expression on his face turning to one of childlike wonder at the sight of the flame.

Lana licks her lips, tasting blood.

"We won't tell anyone," Bethany whispers to Lana's father, closing her hand into a fist and smiling kindly at him. "It'll be our little secret."

Lana's father places his index finger to his lips, smiling weakly. "Secret," he repeats.

Anders heals her broken nose and applies paste to all the bruises on her body.

She sighs heavily, glad the clinic is empty save for the three of them.

Lana watches Anders write furiously into a journal, an oil lamp emitting a dim, orange glow from the corner of the clinic he's claimed as his own. Part of her feels guilty for intruding upon his privacy.

Her father has been under his care for weeks now, and while Anders hasn't complained or made passive comments about him leaving, Lana suspects they're becoming a burden. It's part of the reason she's been sleeping on the streets, despite how awful it can be. All that matters to her is that her father has a bed to sleep on.

She stands up from her cot and the noise makes Anders turn so quickly that it surprises her. "Where are you going? It's the middle of the night."

She buckles her sword belt back around her waist. "I've got to get some sleep."

"The clinic is empty, Lana. Lie back down," he says irritably. "You can't think I would really let you leave in the dead of night to go sleep on the streets of Darktown."

Lana stammers for a moment, blushing bright red. "I'm not going to sleep on the streets of Darktown!" she hisses. "If you must know, I have a place to—"

"No, you don't," he interrupts her. "I've seen you sleeping out there at night." He goes back to his writing. "Your father could have left here days ago, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm saying that I've cured him." Anders scoffs, and she can't help but wonder what it is he's so invested in writing. "As if I would send your father back out onto the streets when they're plagued with templars. And as it happens, I've grown quite fond of him. You both are more than welcome."

Lana is quiet for a moment. "Please don't tell him I've been sleeping on the streets."

"I won't."

"Thank you."

"And . . . perhaps we could strike a deal," he says, suddenly bashful. "If I allow you a place here free of charge, maybe you could continue bringing those sweetbreads I like so much."

Lana can't help but laugh. It is a simple thing, an easy ask for all that he has done for her and her father. "All right, Anders. We have a deal."

"Did your father fix your nose for you?"

Lana's hand jumps to her nose, having forgotten it was ever broken to begin with. "Er—no, he doesn't know any healing magic. One of the Circle mages did it for me."

Bethany nods, looking ahead at the back of her brother and smiling. "He's fond of you, you know," she whispers, giggling into her hand. "All he does is talk about how insufferable you are, but that's the thing. All he talks about is you ever since we ran into you in Hightown."

Lana hums, staring at the back of Hawke's shaggy head as he leads them down a winding path off the Wounded Coast, searching for some bandits that have been sowing discord within the Merchants' Guild.

"I could try to teach your father some magic, if you'd like me to," Bethany continues, tearing Lana's gaze away from Hawke. "Basic things."

Lana doesn't want to be rude to Bethany, who has only been kind to her since the incident with her father, so she settles with a quiet, "Maybe."

"Celebratory drink, everyone?" Varric asks as they make their way back from the Wounded Coast to Lowtown. "First round is on me."

As tempting as his offer is, Lana politely declines, knowing that she still needs to buy some last minute food for her father and Anders. She bids her temporary companions good-night outside the Hanged Man, but Hawke calls for her.

Bethany and Varric enter the tavern to give them some privacy. Hawke looks very intimidating covered with dried blood, and he waits for a few passing refugees to clear before speaking again.

"You fought well today," he says in a low voice. "Perhaps I underestimated you."

"Thank you."

Hawke sighs. "I'm sorry. Look, if you find yourself in need of more work, come find Varric, and he'll be able to track me down. You would make a valuable asset."

"Then take me to the Deep Roads," she begs again, hoping that her skills on the job today proved herself.

There's a heavy silence that falls between them as he considers her for the hundredth time. "No."

"Why not?"

He doesn't answer, looking so tired he might fall over where he stands. "How did you get into Kirkwall, Lana?"

She shrugs, wondering for the briefest moment if she should tell him the truth or not. "A templar got us in," she whispers, looking over her shoulder to ensure no one is listening. "He smuggled us aboard a ship."

"And what did you give him in return?"

"Nothing."

A crease appears between Hawke's eyebrows and he strokes the beard on his face, looking pensive. "I don't know what rundown village you've come from, but this isn't Ferelden," he tells her. "Everyone in this city expects something in return, especially templars."

"And what about you?" she snaps. "Do you expect something in return for your being generous enough to bring me along on a job?"

"I take care of my friends."

Lana softens, remembering what Bethany had said. "Is that what we are?"

"We could be. There's room for you among us."

Lana bites down on her lip, sighing heavily. "I have to go."

Hawke frowns, but doesn't protest. "See you around, Lana."