WINTER

9:31 Dragon


With the changing of the seasons, The Hanged Man celebrates Satinalia in their own fashion—with plenty of meat and drink to go around.

There's more to celebrate than the coming of winter, however.

Hawke has finally raised enough money to fund his expedition to the Deep Roads.


"You were living there the whole time?"

"Yes," she admits, taking advantage of the cool air outside of the tavern. With so many people packed into such a small space, the air thick with smoke and the smell of sweat, Lana doesn't think she could stand another minute within. "And I would appreciate you not offering your own opinion on it. I've heard enough from Fenris already."

"Forgive him, Lana, you know that Fenris only cares for your safety. I, on the other hand, did not intend to give an opinion at all." Hawke smiles, standing beside her and leaning against the wall, his breath puffing in the wintry air. "Besides, you seem like a girl that can hold her own if things were to go awry."

Lana drinks the stale-tasting ale she's been nursing for nearly an hour. She can't complain much, as Varric had bought this particular round, so it wasn't as if she wasted any hard-earned money on it.

The door opens with a crash and a couple stumbles out, ignoring both Hawke and Lana, giggling into each other's ears. She watches them until they've turned a corner.

"Congratulations, by the way," she says, attempting to sound happy for him, raising her cup to him. "Raising fifty Sovereigns is certainly no easy feat."

"It's been a long time coming," Hawke tells her, offering a sigh that is nothing short of relief.

"You know I have to ask—"

"My answer is no," he replies, not even needing to hear her speak. "Nothing you say will change my mind, Lana."

"You said it yourself," she retorts coldly, huffing. "I'm a girl that can hold her own. Haven't I proved myself to you?"

"Do I seem to you a man who would so casually throw your life away?" He sounds offended, and in the low lighting of the lantern that swings above the entrance in the biting breeze, she can see that he looks offended, as well. "I am not willing to gamble with the life of someone who is needed and relied upon by her remaining family."

"Don't you understand what I could do with the money from something of this scale?" she pleads, knowing that it's too late for Hawke to change his plans around to accommodate her, but knowing that she must try. "Father and I wouldn't have to live on the run anymore. We could settle down anywhere, on a piece of land where templars could never touch us."

"Your persistence is the bane of my existence, do you know that?" It's spoken in jest, but it doesn't feel that way. "What would happen if something were to happen to you? How would you feel, knowing in your last moments, that you would be leaving your father alone to fend for himself?"

"Nothing would happen to me."

"You can't be certain of that, and it is not a risk I am willing to take."

"And you? What of your family? Do you not fear for your mother?"

"My mother would be able to continue living without me or Bethany. It is selfish, I admit, but she is a capable and healthy woman. Your father needs you."

Lana burns with anger, but tries not to let it show. This is, after all, a happy and celebratory night, and it wouldn't do for her to ruin it out of spite. "You treat me differently than everyone else," she says. "Is my life really so precious to you? Is it worth more than the rest of your friends' lives?"

Hawke turns to face her. It feels as if he is scolding her the way a father would. It reminds her of Uncle. "I am fond of you, Lana, it is true. You are certainly becoming a dear friend to me and you are someone I respect upon the battlefield," he replies, "but you must understand that no one will be here waiting for anyone else to return from the Deep Roads. I refuse to be the person to deliver the news to Anders and your father that you did not make it back. That is not a burden I wish to carry for the rest of my life."

"I am not a kid sister for you to feign protectiveness over."

"Is that what you think?" Hawke gestures with his chin towards the door. "Shall we fetch Bethany and ask her how it is I treat my little sister?"

Lana puts her tankard down upon the ground, brushing herself off and resigning herself to the fact that Hawke will never take her with him. "I think I'm just going to return home for the night."

"Home?"

"The clinic," she explains, shooting him an unwavering glare.

Hawke inhales very deeply. "All right," he begins, and she shakes her head as he continues, "perhaps I do have an opinion to offer—"

"I thought you might—"

"He's dangerous, Lana, and you know it. You would not have run away if you did not recognize the reality of what he is."

"Varric said you weren't holding a grudge."

"No, not particularly, but I still can acknowledge the truth of things without holding a grudge."

"I can hold my own, just like you said." Lana pats the daggers at her sides, growing rusty and duller by the day. She'll need to buy new ones soon, but she lacks the money. "I don't know what else you expect me to do. I don't have anywhere else to go and the clinic is a fine roof over my head. I should be grateful that he allows us a couple of beds at night."

Hawke raises his eyebrows as if trying to prove a point. "He's an abomination."

"Justice is no demon."

"Perhaps he was no demon before joining with Anders, but he's not quite the same virtuous spirit any longer."

Though Lana feels more or less the same, she feels obligated to defend Anders in Hawke's presence. He has given her much more freedom than she's had for years, and has not yet complained of the burden that comes with caring for her father.

"You spend too much time with him," Hawke laments.

"And you don't spend enough with him," she counters. "If you bothered to speak with him once in a while, you might come to understand him better."

"I understand enough," he argues, holding up his hands in defense. "I understand what we saw in the Chantry, and I understand the lengths the demon is willing to go to ensure the freedom of even just a single mage."

"And why shouldn't he? It's not blood magic. Your own sister is a mage. Don't you think she deserves to be free just like everyone else?"

"I'm not such a fool to ignore the common fact that magic is dangerous, no matter who wields the power," he says plainly, as if this is something he has thought about and seriously considered before. "No one is immune to temptation. In fact, I'm surprised your father has not fallen victim to some demon during his life."

"His heart is pure and he wants for nothing—"

Hawke snorts in the middle of her reply. "Everyone wants for something."

"So you believe that the templars are in the right to keep mages on such short leashes?"

"If that's what they were doing, then yes, I would agree." Hawke looks around. This is a dangerous conversation to be having in the streets of Lowtown. "I will not pretend to be blind to the abuse many Circle mages have suffered, especially here. And I will not pretend to be blind to the fact that the templars' abuse has led to mages turning to blood magic and demons to free them."

"You should be fighting to correct the templars then, instead of placing the blame upon the mages."

"I'm not choosing sides, I'm only stating the obvious. Do you, or do you not, agree that magic is dangerous?"

Lana grinds her teeth, thinking for a moment. "I know the dangers well enough."

Hawke doesn't press her, which she's thankful for. Instead, he softens his voice and tells her, "My father was a mage, did you know?" He smiles fondly in remembrance. "He even resided within Kirkwall's Circle for a time."

She won't deny this interests her. Hawke has never spoken of any of his deceased family members. "What happened to him?"

"A story for another time," he answers gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. "My father was a good man, but there was a cost to his magic, as there is a cost to all those who are cursed with it. Even those with the gentlest and purest hearts can be led astray by temptation." Hawke lowers his hand and smiles more genuinely at her. "Bethany tells me that Anders reminds her of him. High praise, coming from Bethany. She adored Father."

"Hawke . . . please—"

"I can't, Lana. I'm truly sorry."


Hawke brings her on one more job before they are due to leave. A few templar recruits have gone missing, and this is the second time that Lana hears the name 'Meredith' accompanied by something gruesome, a whispered initiation rite to ensure the utmost dedication and loyalty from the templar recruits.

While she isn't thrilled with the job, he does promise Lana that it will pay well enough to set her up comfortably for the few weeks that he and his friends will be away.

She says nothing to Anders about helping templars when she leaves the clinic that afternoon, promising to be back with enough money to feed them for a while. Anders doesn't protest—he doesn't do much of that at all after the incident in the Chantry.

Hawke leads her, Varric, and Aveline to the base of the mountain chain just beyond Kirkwall's gates, up and down twisting and winding pathways until they reach a camp that, supposedly, belongs to the only templar recruit that returned from these new initiation rites.

The winters are far crueler here than they are in Ferelden. The wind is bitter, and it feels as if she's never wearing enough layers to truly keep warm. The mountaintops are capped with snow now, which is good for the merchants within the city, who are selling clean water at a rate that Lana thinks may be more than triple a fair price.

It isn't much longer until they start hearing the shouts of battle, the clanking of armor and sword, and the four of them race towards the sounds, finding a templar engaged in battle with several monstrous-looking abominations, rapidly surrounding and closing in on him.

"Maker, please!" the templar cries, slicing at the abominations, unable to see who has come to save him. "Help me! Cut them down!"

So they do, hacking and slashing and piercing them with bolts from Varric's crossbow. The templar is clearly a skilled fighter, obviously no recruit, but as they cut down more of the monstrosities and Lana's view of the battlefield becomes clearer, she realizes that she knows that templar.

As Hawke brings down the last abomination with a shout, the templar turns to look at his rescuers and immediately freezes upon catching sight of her. "Lana? Is that you? Maker's breath, I hardly recognized you!"

"I've been bathing regularly since you last saw me," she admits.

"A friend of yours, Lana?" Hawke asks, covered in slimy blood and other horrible fluids.

"No," she answers, folding her arms over her chest.

"Yes," Cullen answers at the same time, frowning upon hearing her own answer. He sighs heavily.

"Why would you say that?" Lana snaps, watching his cheeks color.

"I didn't mean to offend you," he answers, avoiding her eyes best he can before finding nothing else to stare at, his eyes finding her own face once again.

"I wouldn't take it too personally," Hawke jests, nudging Lana's arm with his elbow. "Lana probably wouldn't consider us to be friends, either, yet here we are."

"An introduction would be nice," Aveline interrupts, shifting noisily in her steel armor.

"Oh! Yes!" Cullen tears his eyes forcefully away from Lana again. "I'm Knight-Captain Cullen. I appreciate your help with this, truly. I would have become one of them without you here."

Knight-Captain? she thinks, feeling her heart sink.

"You shouldn't have been out here by yourself," Aveline chides him, and even Cullen seems surprised to be scolded after such a rigorous battle. "The city guard should have been alerted if there was a pattern of missing people."

"I intended this to be a quiet investigation," Cullen shoots back. "If I had come here with half an army, I can't imagine it would have ended well for anyone."

Cullen says nothing to Lana the rest of the time. He gives Hawke a little information about his investigation, confirming and denying rumors, admitting that his presence and interrogations within the city's most popular brothel were not well-received, and suggesting they go themselves if they have any hope of finding Keran, the lost recruit at the center of their own job.

Until they go to leave, and Cullen calls her back. Hawke hesitates, but Varric convinces him to give them a moment of privacy.

"I've been searching for you," he tells her quietly. "I wasn't certain you were still alive."

"Well, here I am."

"And you father? Is he . . . ?"

"Alive."

"Good."

A heavy silence settles between them. She doesn't want to talk to him. She doesn't want to talk to the Knight-Captain. She doesn't care if he helped her into the city. He doesn't deserve to be rewarded for good behavior, as his service to the Templar Order has drowned out all the good he's likely ever done in his life.

"I have to go now," Lana says awkwardly, taking a step away and hoping to rejoin her friends quickly.

"Can I see you again?" he calls after her, still holding his bloodied sword in his right hand. "Tonight, perhaps?"

She almost feels sorry for him. "Maybe another time," she calls back, hoping she never sees him again.


Thankfully, no one says anything to Lana about Cullen during their descent.

"Hawke . . . we're not seriously going to the Blooming Rose, are we?" Aveline groans, her cheeks bright pink, and not from the cold. "It wouldn't do well for me to be seen around that place, and you heard Cullen . . . they might not talk if they think I'm going to have them shut down."

"Suit yourself," Hawke replies with a shrug, flashing her a sideways smile that makes her blush even harder. "What about you, Varric? The Blooming Rose seems a place that you would be fond of."

"I am fond of it, in fact, however . . ." Varric looks genuinely disappointed as the doors to Kirkwall are opened for them by the guards. The men straighten at the sight of Aveline, who seems to inspire loyalty and confidence all over the city. "Bartrand needs me to hammer out the last remaining details of our trip. You'll invite me next time, though, won't you?"

"I'm sure he'd understand if you were a bit late . . . a man has needs, you know, and it's unlikely you'll be receiving any woman's comfort in the Deep Roads," Hawke teases, draping an arm around Lana's shoulders. "No matter . . . Lana and I will go . . . trust me, you'll love it . . ."


When they're alone, making their way to the Blooming Rose, Hawke decides to press her about it.

"I thought you weren't friendly with templars."

"I'm not."

"He seemed more than interested in being friends with you."

Lana frowns at him. "Cullen smuggled my father and I into the city."

"The Knight-Captain smuggled you in? Maker . . . he'd shit his breeches if he knew he helped a mage, I'm certain." Hawke smiles, but upon catching sight of Lana's exasperated expression, it fades from his face. "Oh, stop pouting like that. This city is crawling with templars. If you have to befriend one of them, at least it's the one who wants to shove himself inside you. Did you see him blushing like a boy? He probably thinks you're his hero now—"

Lana curls her hands into fists, stopping in her tracks in the middle of Hightown's busy street. "Don't mock me!"

Hawke freezes, turning to look at her incredulously, seeming shocked that she's raised her voice to him. The heat rises to her cheeks when she notices people looking at her, but they quickly avert their eyes when she scowls at them.

"I would never stoop so low as to be with someone like him!" she hisses, blushing furiously now. "So just . . . drop it!"

"Yes, ma'am," Hawke answers, trailing slightly after her the rest of the way.


While Lana is no stranger to brothels, it's her first time setting foot in the Blooming Rose.

It is surprisingly more professional than any brothel Lana has set foot in before, and the prices she is given for a sole hour with a whore shocks her, but they are more than accommodating when Hawke tells them they are looking into urgent disappearances.

The ceilings are tall and vaulted, making it feel very cold and empty, but the common hall is full of people—most of them scantily clad, dressed in fine silks. While nearly all of the patrons here are humans, the whores are a healthy mix of humans and elves, skin colors ranging from the darkest ebony to the palest ivory. Some have their hair dyed shades of blues or greens, while others have chosen their natural shade.

The whore they're looking for is a plain-looking girl named Idunna, with a shock of red hair and heavy makeup, garbed in clothing that once may have been rich and fashionable, but is now dated and covered in stains, the purple color of it faded. Her voice is sultry enough and clearly very practiced, even while claiming to know nothing of the missing templar recruits.

"I'm bored of your questions already," Idunna tells them, moving to the bed and looking at them both. "Why don't we have some fun? It'll cost extra for the both of you, though. Hope you don't mind."

Idunna meets Lana's eyes, and for a moment she feels frozen on her feet. She has to admit that the sight of the whore spread across the bed is enticing, but Hawke doesn't seem at all interested. Idunna smiles sweetly at her, staring into each other's eyes.

"We're here to ask questions, not to have fun," Hawke says bluntly, oblivious to Lana, who can't take her eyes off the lovely whore, who slowly stands up from the bed.

"Why not have just a little fun, Hawke?" Lana asks, but it feels as if the words are ripped from her instead of spoken with her own mouth.

"What is wrong with you?" Hawke snaps at her, scoffing loudly and folding his arms over his chest. "We're here to find Keran, remember?"

"See?" Idunna smiles, moving closer to Lana, whose cheeks burn bright red the closer the whore gets to her. "Your friend has the right idea." Undoing the top string of Lana's leather armor, Idunna does her work deftly, locking eyes with Hawke. "Why don't you do me a little favor while I have some fun with your friend, yes?"

Hawke seems to stiffen at their eye contact, but Lana looks away from him the moment Idunna pulls apart her undone armor, exposing the dirty and sweaty tunic beneath. It's been so long since she's been touched like this, and the whore knows exactly where to put her hands.

It almost reminds her of the boy.

"Draw your blade . . ." the whore tells Hawke, punctuating her request by pressing full lips to the crook of Lana's neck. Hawke doesn't question it, pulling the small dagger at his belt from its sheath.

The boy? Lana asks herself, too distracted by the way Idunna kisses her jaw softly. The way she kisses her . . . it's familiar, but her thoughts and memories are foggy, and it's difficult to think of anything except for Idunna.

"Hold it up to your neck now . . . good boy . . ."

What did his face look like? What was his name?

"Now draw it across your neck," Idunna whispers to Hawke with a sly smile, stroking the side of Lana's face with slim fingers.

The whore captures Lana's mouth with her own, and it is wet and warm and just like—I remember!

"No—!"

Suddenly able to move her own body, Lana breaks free of whatever binding she had been under, shoving the whore away from her and turning towards Hawke, who has the edge of his sharpened blade against his jugular. She reaches for the dagger and pulls it away from Hawke, wrestling it from his fingers and turning to find Idunna scowling, shrieking at them, "No! How did you—!"

Afraid, Lana sticks Hawke's blade into Idunna's abdomen, pushing it with such force until it breaks through the flesh on her back. She watches the blood spread quickly across her faded purple shift. With a groan, the light leaves the whore's eyes. When Lana jerks the blade free, Hawke seems to snap out of whatever spell the girl had him under.

"Lana!" Hawke's hands touch her shoulders, ripping her away from the corpse of Idunna, now crumpled on the ground, leaking blood onto the carpet and out of her mouth. "What are you doing!"

"She—she—I don't—" Lana drops the blade, taking several steps back, looking upon Idunna's body in horror. "I couldn't—you were going to—she told you to cut your own throat, I—"

"Blood magic," Hawke murmurs gravely, glancing about the room to ensure no one is watching. "We need to leave. Now."

He takes her by the hand and drags her hurriedly into the corridor, down the stairs, and towards the entry hall. Just before they reach the door, there is a bloodcurdling scream.

That's the second mage I've killed now, she thinks to herself, what have I done?

They run.


Hawke and Lana are able to find Cullen lingering a few blocks away from the Blooming Rose.

Still frantic and shaking from the incident, the templar is able to coerce an explanation out of her. She certainly catches the way his face darkens when she mentions blood magic being involved, but he has little to say about it.

"I'm glad you're all right," he chooses to say instead, sounding genuine about it. "We'll take care of the mess at the Blooming Rose. Perhaps it would be best if you stayed away for a time."

"That'll be easy," she answers, making Cullen smile.


The templars take over the investigation with Cullen leading them. After searching Idunna's room, they had found maps and letters leading them to a hideout below the city.

Cullen had urged Lana and Hawke not to accompany them after the scene in the brothel.

"All those mages . . . they're all going to die because of me," Lana murmurs to Hawke afterwards, sitting in the back of the Hanged Man, unable to stomach the drink he had bought her. "The templars are going to slaughter them, all because I killed Idunna."

Hawke says nothing for a moment, watching her carefully. Perhaps he knows she's right. "You've killed many times before. Why drown in guilt over it now?"

"I've never killed mages before coming to Kirkwall." Lana doesn't feel ready to return to the clinic. She's been away all day, but returning to her father and Anders after what had happened . . . she doesn't want to tell him the truth. She can't. "Before, I . . . I thought killing meant something. I thought I had to in order to survive, or to protect my father."

"We all tell ourselves lies in order to sleep better at night," Hawke says gently.

She looks up at him. This is a side of Hawke she's never seen before, a side of Hawke that she knows understands her.

"It doesn't change the fact that we're killers." He sighs, leaning back in his chair. "This city is a blight unto itself, trapped in a brutal cycle of savagery and slaughter. Even if the mages lived . . . more would die, and the templars will fight back, and even more will die . . . it is the way of life here, an endless war that will lead only to an empty and hollow victory once either all mages or all templars have been slain."

"I don't want any part of it," she confesses. "I don't want to be part of their war."

"But we are," Hawke replies. "So long as Bethany and your father live, we are a part of it."

Lana lowers her head again.

"You had no choice but to kill Idunna," he continues. "You saved my life."

"Well . . . we're friends, aren't we?"

Hawke smiles a small little smile at her, nodding slightly. He lowers his voice. "When I return from the Deep Roads, I intend to stop the cycle within myself. I want no more part of Kirkwall's constant bloodbath. I want to live, as I have never had the luxury to."

She doesn't even bother to ask again. She knows Hawke will still refuse to take her to the Deep Roads. There is no point in pressing the issue any further.

"Lana?" he says again, waiting for her to look at him before telling her, "I told you, I take care of my friends. I will never let you go hungry."

It's a small comfort, but not enough to make her feel much better.

"Shall I look for you tomorrow morning when I leave?"

Lana hesitates, averting her eyes, but nodding all the same.


Hawke, Bethany, Varric, and Fenris depart for the Deep Roads at dawn the next morning.

Lana watches, alone, from the rooftops.

Hawke's mother is there, a thin and wispy woman with grey hair, howling with grief as she begs her son not to take Bethany with him. Her voice echoes throughout the quiet courtyard. Even when she falls to her knees, Hawke does not change his mind, but Bethany comforts her with words that Lana cannot hear.

The gates to Kirkwall are opened for them. She watches Hawke glance around the courtyard. And then, he looks up.

He scans the rooftops for a few seconds before Lana stands, making herself visible to him. She can see him smiling weakly at her, one hand to his face to block the rising sun from his eyes.

He holds up a hand in farewell. She does the same.


"I know you wanted to go to the Deep Roads."

Lana sighs, scrubbing her tunic harder, watching the water turn black. "It doesn't matter."

"Don't lie to me." His tone is not unkind, but she can't bear to be patronized right now, not after she's been dwelling on it for days since Hawke left. Anders kneels down beside her, his face very close. "I can always tell when you're lying."

"No, you can't."

"You don't think so? Go on, then, try and tell me a lie."

She looks sideways at him, catching sight of his expression. It makes her smile in spite of everything, even though smiling is the last thing she feels like doing.

Glancing at her sleeping father in the far corner of the room, she says, "If I had gone to the Deep Roads, my father and I could have left Kirkwall forever. I could have found a place that no one would ever find us."

"Now why would you possibly want to leave this . . . beautiful city?" he teases, gesturing around him at the interior of the clinic.

Lana frowns, releasing her tight grip on the tunic and turning to look him full in the face. "I thought it would be different here," she admits softly. "I feel as if I've sentenced my father to death by bringing him here."

"We've kept him safe so far, haven't we?"

The guilt of everything makes her stomach churn. She feels as if guilt has plagued her ever since she stepped off the ship into the Gallows. "You have done so much for him," she whispers, "and for me. Why?"

"Do I need a reason?"

Lana hesitates. He smiles at her reassuringly, but she isn't so capable of sniffing out liars as he claims to be. "Hawke told me that everyone in this city expects something in return."

Anders' eyebrows knit together as he thinks for a moment. "I enjoy your company."

"That's all?"

"What's so wrong about wanting a friend, Lana?" Anders asks her, looking so deeply into her eyes that it makes her blush. "I care about you. And your father. Does that surprise you?"

She examines his face, trying to search for any tell, for anything that might reveal his true nature.

Anders gets to his feet suddenly, stretching. "I used to have a cat, did you know?"

"No," she answers, caught off guard by the rapidity with which he changes the subject.

"I called him Ser Pounce-A-Lot. He was very sweet."

"That's what you named your cat?"

"What? Do you not like it?"

Lana smiles again. "No, I do," she tells him, returning to her washing. "It's endearing."

"Endearing," Anders repeats, looking down at her and smiling to himself. "Yes."


Feeling particularly reckless one cold morning, Lana decides to take her father for a walk around Lowtown.

He has yet to see the city proper, while not dying from plague and dragged quickly around through alleyways.

Her father loves the city and takes in everything with overdramatic responses—loud gasps and laughter, wide smiles and misty eyes. She's never quite seen Lowtown in the beautiful light that her father seems to, and she tries to admire the rough buildings and packed dirt streets with its blood stains that never seem to go fully away.

It always seems cloudy in Lowtown compared to Hightown and people still beg on the streets for coin, but at least there aren't as many templars in Lowtown. A few guards sweep the streets every so often to break up any fights, but the templars keep to Hightown for the most part, their armor shiny and rich, all for show, all to remind the people who truly runs the city.

"Stay in Kirkwall?" her father asks her brightly on the way back to Darktown and the clinic.

Lana cannot deny the prospect makes her wary. There are blood mages and templars everywhere, Qunari setting up residence in the Docks, a dangerous Circle more akin to a prison, and they are nothing but foreigners in a strange land where Lana would likely not survive on the run, unfamiliar with the surrounding towns and roads and country.

Her desire to return to Ferelden has only increased since Hawke departed for the Deep Roads. She almost feels as if there is nothing left here for her anymore except for a few odd jobs that pay less than a desperate farmer might back home. Aveline has been helpful in procuring tasks for her, but the city guard doesn't pay outsiders as well as the mercenaries that Hawke often finds work with.

But her father is happy, and Anders is here to keep him company while she goes off and fights for a handful of coin.

A few more months couldn't hurt, however. She'll need to save up the coin for passage back to Ferelden, and she'll need some coin leftover for traveling and settling when she arrives.

"For now," she answers, and it's good enough for her father.


"I don't understand why he treats me like I'm . . . important to him," she tells Isabela one night at the Hanged Man, drunk off ale and victory after the two of them had helped Aveline shut down a budding crime ring earlier that afternoon. "The benefits outweighed the risk for me tenfold. Anders would have taken care of my father if something had happened, but . . . Hawke was so concerned that I might not return to my father at all."

Isabela listens attentively. She hardly blinks, staring at Lana with the corners of her full lips turned upwards, her hair a mess and still matted with the blood of the mercenaries. She sets her drink down and sits up straight, the smirk never leaving her face.

"He had a brother, did you know?"

Lana can't recall Hawke ever mentioning anything about a brother. "No."

"Bethany's twin brother, Carver," Isabela explains. "They were on their way out of Ferelden when the darkspawn killed him." She takes a long swig of her drink, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "His mother blames him, I think."

"I'm sure it's misplaced."

"Of course it is. Just let him fawn, kitten. Let him be your hero, or your savior. He's tired of the blood always being on his hands."


"I was twelve when I was brought to the Circle."

"How did they find out?"

It's freezing at the Docks. The wind carries off the briny water, making the tips of their noses bright pink, though the cold here is nothing like the cold in Darktown.

Anders has his thick cloak wrapped around him and Lana huddles underneath a fur pelt, a reward from a recent hunt she and Merrill had recently gone on at the base of the nearby mountains.

Merrill had been kind enough to offer to stay behind with Lana's father today, always eager to leave Kirkwall's alienage whenever possible.

"I accidentally set a barn on fire," Anders tells her, observing a few of the ships that had docked only this morning, carrying cargo meant for the templars. "It was my own father who called the templars. I suspect I gave him quite the fright."

"Your own father?" Lana asks, slightly horrified, but Anders only smiles at her expression.

"Harboring an apostate is a crime. Surely you know that." He looks back out to sea as they continue their walk. The Docks are busy today, and a few Qunari are out in pairs inspecting the place. "I'm not sure whether he was just frightened, unprepared, or unwilling to get tangled up in that potential mess. I never spoke to him again after I was taken away."

"What about your mother?"

He smiles again, fondly. "My mother was a very loving woman. She criticized my father's choice to call in the templars, but alas . . ." His smile flickers. "She wrote to me often, and was remorseful up until the day she died."

Lana is quiet for a moment. "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what it must have been like."

Anders hums, but says nothing more on the subject. "Tell me of your uncle."

"What do you want to know?"

"You told me he had a crucial understanding of his magic, did you not?"

"Oh." That was months ago. Lana had not imagined it might be something Anders would continue to think about or even remember. "He was interested in Dalish culture, especially. Uncle always had an appreciation for their preservation of ancient magic."

"In what way?" he asks her, sounding genuinely curious.

Lana blushes. "I couldn't tell you. I always thought it was quite boring, to tell you the truth." She averts her eyes when Anders chuckles. "He rarely ever used magic in front of us, anyway. Perhaps he appreciated the Dalish's reverence of magic. Uncle thought his magic was more of a curse than a gift, but he . . ."

Anders waits for her to continue, but she doesn't for another minute or so. "But he what?"

She smiles, thinking about the memory with tenderness in her heart. "Sometimes he used to make it snow for me. Father liked it, too. We would sit in our one-room home and catch the snowflakes on our tongues. Uncle only ever did it very rarely, but it was the only time I ever saw him look pleased by his magic."

"I've always loved the snow."

Later that night, after everyone has left the clinic for the night, Anders locks the door and smiles at both Lana and her father.

He lifts his hand up, his palm facing the ceiling, and his long fingers wiggle slowly.

"Snow!" her father cries delightfully, sitting up in his cot and grinning, his neck craned back so he can look up towards the roof.

Sure enough, Anders has made snow fall upon them just like Uncle used to. Lana slowly gets to her feet, holding her hands out, the icy snowflakes melting the moment they touch the heat of her palms. They fall on the tip of her nose, on her cheeks, on her hair, on her eyelashes.

Her father begins to laugh, sticking his tongue out to catch the flakes in his mouth. Even Anders smiles at his efforts, letting the snow build upon his broad shoulders until he gives himself a shake and it falls off him like dust.

Anders looks away from her father to catch her eye, the smile never leaving his face. He looks pleased with himself.

"Thank you," she whispers, unable to remember the last time her father laughed.


"Lana, sing," her father says one day with a smile upon his face.

Their bellies are all full to bursting. With nothing else to spend her money on these days, Lana likes to buy as much foreign food as she can, wanting a taste of everything she comes across.

They're the only three in the clinic tonight. With the weather changing so rapidly and illness spreading, it's rare to have a night alone to feast without sharing.

"Not now, da," Lana tells him, touching his hand and shaking her head. "Perhaps when it's just us."

But Anders is interested and his eyebrows are raised and he smells a little like wine. "Can you sing, Lana?"

"Anyone can sing."

"Forgive me, I'll phrase it differently," he replies with a smug expression. "Can you sing well?"

Lana opens her mouth to answer bashfully, but her father speaks before she gets the chance to. He squeezes her hand and tells Anders, "Sings very well."

She scoffs. "You're just being polite, da."

"Favorite song," her father continues to plead, and even Anders joins in on the fun, and the two of them beg and beg and beg until Lana holds her hands up in surrender, her cheeks stinging.

"All right. Just the once, and don't laugh at me."

So she sings.

She sings her father's favorite song, the Ballad of Ayesleigh, a song her uncle used to sing to them when she was just a little girl, a song about the Grey Warden's final stand during the Fourth Blight. Uncle said his father used to sing it, and his father before him.

It is silent in the clinic as she sings. Her father and Anders hang on her every word, an eager audience, and when she finishes, they both clap enthusiastically.

"Warden," her father says, grinning, "like Anders."

"Yes, like Anders," she repeats, watching Anders puff his chest out.

And to Lana's great surprise, her father takes Anders' hand and kisses his knuckles lightly, squeezing very hard.

"Like Anders," her father says once more, never letting go of Anders' hand. "Love Anders."

"Oh!" Anders hesitates, but doesn't pull away or show any sign of disgust. Instead, he pats her father's hand and smiles. "Yes! And I—er—I care very much for you, Donal."

Lana can't remember her father ever showing affection or admiration for anyone other than herself or Uncle.

Anders glances quickly at her, looking rather aloof and embarrassed, but he's smiling.

Lana smiles back, but is unable to form a coherent sentence to properly express her warm feelings.


Her dreams are full of fire and screaming.

The cot is itchy against her cheek when she opens her eyes, taking a moment to remember where she is. Her father is snoring softly on the cot beside her, and the fire has burned down to embers, giving little light to the clinic.

"Anders?" she whispers, unsure as to why this is the first word that comes to mind.

Lana sits up and looks towards the corner of the clinic reserved for its owner, but no one is lying in the cot.

At first, she assumes the worst, but if someone had come to forcefully take him away, she would not have slept through it. There is no sign of a struggle, and his cloak is missing, so he had time to put it on.

She reaches for the daggers hidden underneath her cot. It would be foolish to walk around Kirkwall unarmed, especially at this time of night.

He'll be fine, she thinks to herself, wondering if she should leave her father alone here, but what if he isn't?

Darktown is asleep, though some fires still crackle and burn to keep its residents warm through the night. The smell isn't as bad, but Lana thinks it's only because she's used to it by now. A lot of refugees have died since she first moved underground here, and with less inhabitants, it's slightly cleaner—but only slightly.

She isn't certain she knows where Anders would be. The Hanged Man is closed for the night to patrons with a thirst, and the only public building open in the middle of the night is the Chantry. Lana doesn't think he would dare return there so soon after the events that transpired, so she doesn't bother making the trek to Hightown. She doesn't mind it—the chances of a templar catching her wandering around Hightown in the middle of the night is likely high, and she looks rather suspicious with a blade on each hip.

Her feet take her automatically to the Docks. They've been spending a lot of time here, cherishing the freshest air they might get here in Kirkwall. It still smells of fish and rotting meat, but it's fresher than Darktown.

She likes the sound of it at night. She likes the sound of the water lapping at the docks and the occasionally splashing of fish breaching the surface of the water. There's no way to hear those sounds during the day, when the merchants are crying the day's catch or throwing cargo off their ships. Even the Qunari Compound, hidden behind tall gates, is quiet.

Lana finds him at the end of a long unoccupied dock. It's easy to recognize his silhouette, and the dark feathers around the collar of his cloak give him away easily.

When she takes the first step onto the wood, Anders jumps and turns around so quickly that he nearly falls backwards into the water.

"You're so damned quiet, you know," he scolds her, but it's half-hearted, and he turns back around to face the sea as she approaches.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, sitting down beside him. "Force of habit." It's hard to see his expression in the darkness. "I woke up and you were gone."

Anders looks down into his lap. "I just needed to be alone."

Lana blushes. "Forgive me, I'll leave you. I was only worried."

She goes to stand, but Anders moves quickly, cat-like, wrapping thin fingers around her forearm. "No," he says, "you can stay."

Lana hesitates, but sits back down. He releases her arm once he is certain she means to keep him company.

"Karl was funny, did you know?" he asks her, as if she's known Karl all her life. "He was very quick-witted. . . always so dry, but . . . he always had something clever to say."

There's nothing she can think of to say. She allows him this moment of grieving, afraid that she's accidentally intruded upon something very private.

"I tried to escape the Circle many times . . . dozens of times, but when Karl came, I . . ." He laughs bitterly, a soft thing that seems to escape him without his permission. "I loved him so much that I was happy there, for a time. I was just happy to be with him."

Lana wonders about it. She wonders how it might feel to love someone so much. She can't say she knows the feeling well . . . not in the sense that Anders is implying.

When they had lived in Denerim—she, her father, and Uncle—there had been a brothel called The Pearl, a place by no means as nice as The Blooming Rose in Hightown, but an impressive establishment nonetheless in such a city full of crime and dishonor.

The first time she had tried to visit The Pearl, she had been no older than six-and-ten, and the owner had tossed her out the moment she set foot within. Lana had only been curious and tired and hungry and in want of wine, and she had screamed and kicked on the door of the brothel until a weary guardsman had picked her up over his shoulder and carried her away, and told her with an exasperated sigh about a less reputable brother in the underbelly of the city.

She had taken his advice to heart and found the brothel he had described. The people there were friendly and warm and they served her food for a cheap price, filling her with wine until her stomach turned and she couldn't help but vomit into a nearby bin.

And after she had emptied the contents of her stomach, the woman who had fed her led her to the back of the establishment, asking for a small price in exchange for a night with a 'knife-ear'.

That's where she met the elven boy. It was always elven boys. They always knew what it felt like to be alone, and Lana wanted someone to commiserate with more than she wanted someone to sleep with.

He was handsome and so sure of himself, quick with his nimble fingers and always pressing sweet kisses to her face. When he laughed, it had been magic, and Lana felt half a fool falling for a whore in some back alley brothel that, judging by his age, could barely be considered a man, but he loved her like one.

She still remembers how it felt to run her hair through his curly brown hair, and the glow in his wide green eyes as he hovered above her, telling her that it was all right to touch his ears, he didn't mind, they were sensitive and open to gentle touch.

They had met under the cover of darkness night after night, always in the same alleyway, always outside of the brothel where he refused her money, making love against rough walls and whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears afterwards, always holding onto each other for as long as they could before duty called them both away again.

He had even asked her to marry him, but no matter how many deep kisses he had given to her, pressing lips to her neck and chest and between her thighs, he could not convince her, no matter how badly she wanted to.

Uncle would not know about this proposal until years later, when Lana had thrown it in his face after he had claimed she was not doing enough for their family. He had been both humiliated and furious upon the learning of this knowledge—furious that his niece was sneaking out to brothels in the dead of night and humiliated that she would believe the promises of a whore.

Uncle had died a few weeks later, probably from heartache.

It's been a long time since she's thought of the elven boy. She had left Denerim not two months later after an incident with her father, and she had never seen him again.

Had that been love? She's never felt anything like it since then.

Getting to know people and maintaining any sort of relationship has always been difficult for her. There was never any point in making friends when she would be gone a few weeks or months later. Even now she still feels out of place and awkward around Hawke and his companions who call themselves her friends.

Anders doesn't say much afterwards. He is silent, until the grief overwhelms him and he holds his face in his hands, crying quietly.

She wishes she knew how to comfort him. She isn't certain that's what he wants at all. Perhaps he wants her to leave, but leaving now would seem insensitive and uncaring.

Lana leans closer to him, embarrassed. It feels like the wrong thing to do. She rests her cheek upon his shoulder, just enough contact for him to understand what she wants to say, but is unable to speak.

Anders cries for a few more seconds before going quiet again, wiping his face angrily with his palms. He doesn't shake her off, the both of them looking out at the black water, wondering what it might be like to leave Kirkwall and go back home.

Eventually, he places his head atop hers.

It's the first genuine, intimate physical contact she's had in a long time with someone not her father, and that isn't violent.

It feels so good, and it makes her want to cry.


Winter slowly begins to come to an end.

The snow begins to turn to freezing rain and the sun comes out from behind the clouds again. More ships are beginning to dock again as the sea calms and defrosts, and the cargo begins to change with the changing of the seasons, as well. The streets seem busier, and the merchant square in Hightown is booming with business once more.

They don't need a fire going all night in the clinic to keep them warm, able to find comfort in bundles of blankets. Providing Anders with herbs and plants is easier, now that the snow in the foothills has melted and wildflowers are starting to grow freely again.

Spring is just around the corner, and Hawke still has not returned from the Deep Roads. No one seems to worry yet and seems to think it will mean a bountiful return, laden with more treasures and gold than anyone will know what to do with.

Sometimes Lana sees Hawke's mother visit the entrance to the city, waiting for her remaining children to return to her. She grows greyer and thinner by the day, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and stains on her clothing. Lana chooses not to introduce herself, watching from a distance, but feeling sorry all the same.


The clinic buzzes with excitement.

The few patients—along with Anders, Lana, and her father—have been eagerly awaiting the day to come for an elven woman to give birth.

Labor had started a day-and-a-half ago. The woman had spent that time whining and groaning, tossing and turning on her cot as Anders occasionally offered words of encouragement.

In preparation, Lana had been able to craft something for the babe to wear and be bundled in, made from pelts she had bought in Hightown's market, something to keep it warm in the cold underground below the city.

Anders has kept a fire going to keep them all comfortable, stoking it every so often with a few lazy waves of his hand, amazing Lana's father each and every time. She suspects, upon seeing Anders flourish his wrist once or twice, that he's showing off, but she gives him his earned praise and it keeps his spirits up.

But today is the day, and even the sickest patients are sitting up straight on their cots to see the babe pulled from the womb.

Lana drapes a warm blanket over the woman's legs as Anders props her feet up with two thick logs that serve their purpose well. When Anders encourages her to push, the patients begin to encourage her themselves, and Lana pats at the woman's forehead with a handkerchief, keeping the sweat from dripping into her eyes.

The clinic is filled with screams as labor continues, but Anders never falters, all professionalism as he holds his hands steady, prepared to catch the babe.

"I can't do it—" the woman whimpers, holding onto Lana's hand with a grip so tight it might crush her finger bones.

"You're doing wonderfully," Anders tells her with a smile. "You're almost there—I can see the head. A few more pushes . . ."

The woman lets out one last blood-curdling scream, her body tense as a bowstring until going completely limp, her chest heaving and eyes fluttering closed as harsh cries take over and the patients begin to coo.

Anders moves quickly, wiping the blood and other fluids off the little elven boy with a clean cloth before wrapping him in the furs Lana had procured. All the while the babe cries for his mother, and when Anders places him at his mother's breast, he begins to feed instinctively and goes silent.

The babe is the talk of the clinic for a few hours until everyone decides to catch up on the rest they had missed out on while the woman kept them awake with her cries and moans.

Lana is one of the last ones awake, remaining seated beside the woman and her babe. His fingers are so little, one thumb in his mouth and the other curled against his chest.

"What will you name him?" Lana can't help but ask, admiring the golden-blond hair upon his head. His face and eyes and ears look slightly too big for his head, but she's certain he'll grow into them.

"I'm not sure yet," the woman confesses with a smile. "All this time, I thought he would be a girl."

Lana smiles in return, holding her index finger close when his eyes open briefly. He wraps his hand around her finger and the connection brings her unspeakable warmth.

"Would you like to hold him?"

Jerking her finger away, Lana hesitates. "Me?"

"Go on," the woman says sweetly, passing her newborn awkwardly to Lana. "Here, make sure you support his neck . . . yes, just like that, there you go."

It's nerve-wracking at first, but the babe stays still and makes himself comfortable into the crook of Lana's arm. She smiles down at him in disbelief, looking up to find Anders smiling back at her, watching the scene with an unbelievable tenderness.

"Look, da," she grins, twisting slowly in her seat to face her father, "I'm holding a baby."

Her smile flickers when she catches sight of her father's face.

He looks joyous, for lack of a better word. He bares his crooked teeth in a wide smile, one hand held over his heart, his cheeks wet with tears as he takes in the scene silently. His mouth opens and closes a few times, but he can't seem to find the words to say.

Instead, her father pats his heart with his palm and nods slightly, his expression full of—what could only be—pride for his daughter.