FALL

9:31 Dragon


With Hawke offering to take her on more jobs, Lana begins to make a decent amount of money. It's not enough for a home of her own, but at least there is food in her belly every night, even if it's of the lowest caliber.

She considers, for a little while, buying passage for a ship back to Ferelden. With trade resuming regularly with her home country now that the effects of the Blight have significantly lessened, it would be easy to find a trading galley that would take her home in return for some kind of work aboard the ship.

But that would mean leaving the companions she's made in Kirkwall. She's grown rather fond of her new friends—of Anders especially—and it's nice having help in caring for her father, even if it makes her feel selfish at times, no matter how much Anders insists that she needn't worry.

It's been so long since she's had real friends. Given that she never stayed in one place for very long, it had been hard to make them. Not only that, but the inability to be fully vulnerable and honest with anyone, given her father's situation, had been a terrible burden to bear that weighed heavily upon her shoulders.

And besides, she's starting to learn to really appreciate Kirkwall, despite the shithole it is.

The streets are as familiar to her as the back of her hand by now. She knows the merchants well, which means knowing who she can swindle and who she can charm and who she can steal from and who will give her free food if she asks nicely. She knows the regular patrons at the Hanged Man and knows who is good at Wicked Grace and who she can make easy money off of. She knows the areas to stay away from if she wishes to avoid large groupings of templars, and she knows the refugees of Darktown and who is willing to barter with her.

Despite how much she misses Crestwood somedays, she knows that place is long gone, buried beneath the water that killed nearly the entire village, that nearly killed her.

Hawke even introduces her to several other friends he's made in the time he's lived in Kirkwall.

He introduces her to a brooding elf, a former slave named Fenris, with snow white hair and a heart full of vengeance, who takes it upon himself to be brutally honest about her father's situation, even if his opinion isn't well-received by Lana, but he knows how to find good wine and watches out for her during combat, despite everything.

She can never read him during Wicked Grace, making him a difficult opponent, but there are moments where he seems to take pity on her when he notices her coin pile grow low, and she suspects he lets her win from time to time.

She meets Merrill, as well, a Dalish blood mage from a nearby clan that has since settled into Kirkwall's alienage, soft-spoken and kind and knowledgeable in all things arcane, currently attempting to restore something she calls an eluvian, the very thing that found her displaced from her clan.

Though Lana considers herself a proficient hunter, Merrill teaches her much about the native plants and animals, often helping her collect herbs that Anders requires for the clinic (which he is grateful for, despite his loud protests about Merrill's interest in and use of blood magic).

The red-headed guard that caught her atop the roofs of Kirkwall even joins them every so often. Aveline is not particularly good for a laugh, but she offers sound advice and is willing to hand out jobs from time to time, provided that there is not too much bloodshed involved.

Lana likes to hear her reminisce about Ferelden, and even enjoys the stories about her late husband, who met his own tragic end at the height of the Blight, shortly after meeting the Hawkes.

Isabela happens to be one of her favorites of Hawke's entourage, a Rivaini pirate good with her blades and able to outdrink even the loudest men in the Hanged Man, always prepared for a training session with Lana, and one of the only people capable of softening Hawke's hard exterior.

Her reasoning changes every time she's pressed about why she came to Kirkwall so recently, given the notably cruel treatment of previous refugees, but Hawke tells Lana it's part of her charm and that she shouldn't expect any straightforward answers from Isabela.

Regardless of her growing admiration for her newfound companions, Lana continues to spend most of her time in Anders' clinic, allowing him to teach her about the different medicinal herbs he uses, how to suture wounds and treat illness, and she is a very willing student who learns quickly from such a patient teacher.

Busied with the clinic, her father, and the odd jobs Hawke has offered to her, Lana allows herself to forget about the Deep Roads for the time being. Varric had told her they still haven't been able to make the amount of money necessary to begin the expedition, and she's afraid that pressing Hawke any further about it will kill whatever small chance she has left of going.

But a small part of her still wants it. She can't begin to imagine how rich she would be after an expedition like that. She would never have to work again, and she could spend her time drinking and whoring and celebrating . . . and caring for her father, who likely would find himself depressed all alone in whatever home she was able to buy for them if she wanted to do any of those things.

When thoughts of the Deep Road begin to reach the front of her mind again, she pushes them back.


"Give me a leg up, would you, Lana? I'm not as young as I used to be."

Lana helps lift Isabela up the side of the factory building, accepting a hand up herself so the both of them can sit atop the roof and observe the goings on down below. They stay low and hidden, keeping an eye out for guards or templars.

They shouldn't be here at all, as the Docks have been closed off for the day by order of the Viscount. Lana had heard talk of a ship going down near the coast, and Kirkwall was to house a few foreigners while they did repairs and searched for something lost to them, but these hardly look like the foreigners she was expecting to see.

"What are they?" Lana asks in a low voice, peering over the rooftop and watching giant crates be moved into a gated section set aside for Kirkwall's most recent refugees.

"They're Qunari. You've never seen one before?"

"No, never."

Isabela hums, watching them very carefully as their things are unloaded and moved from the several carts that had been sent out this morning to retrieve the Qunari and their belongings. "I suppose they don't spend much time in Ferelden, especially as far south as you were," she murmurs. "Ferelden is a far way from Par Vollen, but Rivain is closer, and much more frequented by these . . . savages."

"Have you been to Par Vollen before?"

Isabela glances sideways at her, smiling slightly. "It's a beautiful island, full of jungles and pyramids and rainforests. Completely wasted on the Qunari, if you ask me," she replies with bitterness and venom in her tone. "Or . . . that's what I've heard, anyway. They aren't particularly keen on outsiders, and few non-Qunari have ever set foot in Par Vollen in recent history."

Lana can't recall ever seeing anything like the Qunari. They're several feet taller than most humans she knows and double as wide, their skin ranging in differing shades of grey and silver, their hair white as snow. All of them bear horns upon their heads of different sizes and some of their bodies are painted with tribal-looking markings.

"That's the Arishok there," Isabela says again, pointing subtly to the biggest Qunari, an intimidating creature with a scowl and horns that could easily gore a man. "He's the commander, the great brute."

"I heard a city guard say they were looking for something," Lana whispers, tracking two templars with her eyes as they call out orders. "They said the Qunari won't leave until they've found it. What do you think it is?"

Isabela hums again, but doesn't answer the question. "We should get out of here," she suggests, not waiting for Lana to reply. "The Qunari will call for our heads if they catch us spying, and I fear the Viscount is too afraid of them to deny such a request."

Lana takes one last look at the Arishok before she follows Isabela.


She loves the smell of the Wounded Coast.

The air is salty and there's always a cold breeze coming off the water, but it's welcome, unlike the harsh sea air on the way to Kirkwall. It feels fresh against her skin, which is constantly sticky with sweat. Though she's gotten used to the smell of death and decay within the city—particularly within Darktown—the Wounded Coast smells of freedom from the confines of the city walls, and of a scent she can't quite place, but that makes her think of Crestwood.

Hawke knows she likes it out here, and that's likely why he invited her in the first place.

Bethany and Aveline have come along, as well. Hawke had filled them in on the details when they left the city, explaining that he had received a polite letter from someone requesting a meeting on the Wounded Coast.

"Where are you from in Ferelden, Lana?" Aveline asks as they grow closer and closer to their prearranged destination. Though she is merely curious, there's still a slightly suspicious tone in the guard's voice when she asks.

"Well . . ." Lana thinks for a moment, but has been more willing to let her guard down around Hawke's friends lately. "I was born in Redcliffe, but we only stayed there for a few years. I don't recall much of it, but I liked what I do remember."

"And where did you move to?"

"Lothering. Uncle found work on a farmstead, but that only lasted a few years, as well." Her memories of Lothering are foggy, as she had only been a child, but she still remembers the day they left clear as day. "Bandits raided the farm and Uncle fought them off with his magic, but . . . we weren't welcome after that, and the man who owned the farm told us to leave or he'd call the templars in."

"The farmer should have been grateful for your uncle's help," Bethany chimes in, and Lana can't help but agree.

"After Lothering, we traveled with a band of pilgrims to Amaranthine. Some of them were singers, and they would sing the prettiest songs every night so I could sleep," Lana continues, remembering that journey well and fondly. An older couple had been very interested in her, and they loved to play games and entertain her on the long cart rides. "Uncle found work as a fisherman, so he was often gone for days at a time. We were there for three years before Father revealed himself, and we made for Highever with a group of apostates who smuggled us out of the city."

"You're quite the sight-seer, aren't you, Lana?" Hawke asks, trying to break the tension in the air that accompanies Aveline's pursed lips. "And where did you find yourself after Highever?"

"Portsmouth . . . for six months, I think. After Portsmouth was Honnleath for two years. After Honnleath was Gwaren, and after Gawren was Denerim. We stayed in Denerim until Uncle died."

"A nice city, Denerim," Aveline remarks politely, but still with a cool demeanor.

"Aye," Lana says flatly. "I quite liked Denerim."

"You came here, to Kirkwall, from Denerim?" Aveline asks again.

"No, we came from Crestwood. It was destroyed when the darkspawn broke the dam, and we had no choice but to leave."

An unsettling quiet comes over the four of them. Bethany is the one to break it. "Why come all the way to Kirkwall? Why not somewhere in Orlais?"

Lana remembers the woman and her child. She remembers the gored body of the child and the way the mother's eyes popped after hanging upon the tree for a few hours. "We were supposed to meet someone here, but it never happened."

No one asks anymore questions after that.


They meet a templar at the mouth of a cave, one familiar with Hawke, who pleads compassion for some Starkhaven apostates hiding within the caverns before his comrades arrive to, presumably, slaughter them all before thinking to ask any questions.

This is the first time that Lana hears the name 'Meredith', the Knight-Commander who has doubled-down upon the mages within Kirkwall, shortening their already short enough chains. The templar does not elaborate on her specific methods, but implies that her methods are inefficient and cruel, making Lana wonder how long she and her father will truly be safe for.

As they move through the caverns with nothing but a flame issuing from Bethany's staff to light their way, they are all given the chance to voice their doubts and hesitations.

"This sounds like a trap," Lana says first, still wary of the templar calling in Hawke for this particular job, of all people. "And you heard Ser Thrask . . . with Meredith in charge, the mages won't be safe in the Circle. They'll be murdered for punishment. We should let them go free."

"They sound dangerous," Aveline adds, staying close to Bethany's light. "They're willing to attack templars on sight . . . who's to say that we'll be safe from them, as well?"

"I agree with Lana," Bethany whispers, but her voice still echoes quietly throughout the cave. "There's a reason they're holed up in here, and it's because they're frightened, not because they're murderers looking for a fight. They're only trying to protect themselves."

Hawke has nothing to offer, but a simple, "We can't know what they think or want for certain until we speak to them. Let's just keep going."

"Did you send that elf boy to the Circle like Ser Thrask said?" Lana asks sharply, not having known about the elf before hearing it mentioned passively from the Templar.

"It was what his mother wanted," Hawke tells her coolly. "It was either that or send him to the Dalish, where he would know no one and be ignorant of their customs."

"It was what his mother wanted . . ." Lana frowns. "But did you even bother to ask what he wanted?"

The deeper into the caverns they get, the more light there is. Some of the cavern ceiling has collapsed and a few torches are lit. The sun and torches light their way more effectively than Bethany's flame, which gives them some small advantage as the mages' defenses spring to life, skeletons and half-rotted cadavers rising from the ground to attack at a whim, struck down again by Lana and the others and leaving them more and more anxious about what they might find at the end of the tunnels.

It is not the first time she has seen undead come to life at the hands of a mage. Blood magic is a curse upon Kirkwall and its many escaped Circle mages, but she cannot deny the fear that continues to course through her at the sight of them. Adrenaline and the desire to survive and return to her father fuels her, and is the power behind each slash she offers them.

"Blood magic," Hawke says cautiously, looking into Lana's face as if attempting to read her thoughts. "They must have become truly desperate."

"Surely you're not still thinking of just setting them loose, Lana?" Aveline scoffs, folding her arms across her puffed chest. She looks very prideful in the moment.

"Sending them back to the Circle would be a death sentence," Lana tells her, knowing that no templar in their right mind would allow a blood mage to live. "And they might take a few innocent lives with them if they're dragged kicking and screaming to the Gallows."

Blood magic is not something she is particularly knowledgeable about. Lana knows that Merrill practices it, but has never seen proof of it, nor does she intend to. Her Uncle never practiced nor encouraged it among his fellow mages, and she's never seen it be used in Ferelden. She's heard stories about it from people of all kinds, but none of them ever had happy endings.

"Be prepared for a third outcome," Hawke warns them, and it is a solemn thing to hear. "One that none of us may very well like. Thrask asked us to ensure they surrender peacefully, so put your weapons down unless a fight is what you're looking for."

The first mage they encounter holds his hands up at the sight of them, seeing their weapons shouldered and sheathed. He begs to be returned to the Circle and gives them the name of a mage who has already turned to blood magic to protect himself from the templars by raising the undead that guarded the inner caverns.

"You must help them," the mage implores them, his voice shaking in the dimly lit cavern. "They're all still following Decimus, hoping for freedom, and what he's doing is wrong. He's controlling them with fear. I swear, they aren't like him. The templars will kill them all if he isn't stopped."

"Ser Thrask is waiting at the entrance," Hawke tells the apostate grimly. "If you surrender yourself to him, he will not hurt you."

"It's just the one, then," Lana notes when the apostate is out of sight, the sound of his soft footsteps echoing slightly through the caverns. She wonders if Hawke had heard clearly enough and considered that the other mages do not agree with the blood mage.

"Brother—" Bethany begins, but Hawke shushes her and she doesn't attempt to speak again.

As they reach the innermost part of the cavern, the bodies of several dead templars litter the ground already. Some of them are fresh and others have seemingly been here for days, already stiff, their breeches soaked with urine and feces. A few of them may have been here for months, their eyes missing from the sockets and their skin decaying.

"Get behind me!" an older man with a queer accent shouts, his face hardened and fearless. "Templars have come to drag us back to the Circle!"

Three apostates are gathered here, two of them standing behind the man that protects them. His sleeves are pulled up, and one of his wrists bleeds freely.

"Stay your weapon, Decimus," one of the mages says quickly as the man raises his staff, "these are no templars. Look at them."

"We're willing to talk," Hawke calls out, taking a step forward with a hand still tight around his greatsword. "You're in a rather precarious predicament, aren't you?"

"What does it matter?" Decimus continues, slamming his staff on the ground so hard that blood from his wrist sprays droplets all around him. "They've come to turn us in on behalf of those cowards . . . let them all meet the same end as the rest!"

Lana hears the sounds of bones behind her and watches the two mages flee in fear of what Decimus has done. Even as Lana and her friends cut down the undead once more, Decimus continues to stand and watch with a deranged look on his face, his back to the wall as his defenses are defeated one-by-one.

"Lana!" Hawke shouts, busy fighting off two undead very deftly. "He's getting away!"

She turns only to see the back of Decimus. Lunging at him, she's able to grab the back of his robes, kicking his staff away and holding up her daggers as he fumbles with his belt, attempting to find the dagger to slit his other wrist, but Lana puts a blade to his throat as the both of them watch Hawke put down the last two undead.

"Kill him, Lana," Hawke commands her, covered in blood spatters and brandishing his giant sword for Decimus to see, "or the templars will."

But Lana hesitates. Decimus puts up no real resistance, only squirming slightly as her blade thinly slices the skin of his neck. She can feel everyone watching her, waiting for her to do the right thing, but . . . is it the right thing? Hadn't desperation and a desire to be free been the thing to lead Decimus to this point?

"Go on," Hawke says again, growing more and more impatient. "He's a danger to himself and others. Blood magic is unnatural. His own people have turned against him now."

"Do it," Decimus pleads, sounding very much a broken man in that moment. "I refuse to go back to the Circle. I'd rather die a free man."

She's never killed another mage before. She's never killed another apostate. She's traveled with apostates, been helped by apostates, cared for apostates. This particular apostate is only a victim of the templars and the Circle, driven to blood magic and murder out of fear.

What would Uncle do? What would Anders do?

Lana meets Bethany's eyes. There is remorse there, but she does not open her mouth to protest, and perhaps that is the thing that spurns Lana forward.

With a single motion, Lana cuts Decimus's throat.

Warm blood sprays onto her hand and he drops to her knees, clutching his throat as if it might save him. It takes mere seconds for him to fall forward, unmoving and silent.


Hawke agrees to allow the other two mages to escape, telling the templars that they died with Decimus.

Lana is quiet the entire way back to Kirkwall, stopping briefly to wash Decimus's blood off her hands in the sea.

As she makes to part ways with Hawke and Bethany outside of their lackluster home in Lowtown, Hawke asks for a word.

"I know how you feel, Lana," he tells her, sounding sympathetic enough, "but there was no other way."

Lana has a difficult time making eye contact with him. Her hands still shake. "What if it had been Bethany?"

Hawke sighs heavily, glancing over his shoulder to make certain his sister is not listening in from the doorway. "People like you and me . . . it is our job to ensure it does not reach that point for them. I made a difficult choice today, and I chose to have you eliminate a threat. That blame . . . that burden . . . it rests with me, and me alone."

"Then why didn't you do it?" she snaps, looking up into his face. "Why didn't you kill him yourself?"

"I could not let Bethany see me slaughter a mage beset by fear. I am not unsympathetic towards Decimus, but . . . it is important to recognize when someone is too far gone to be saved."


The incident with Decimus continues to haunt her dreams for weeks.

She and Hawke continue to do odd jobs, but nothing is ever mentioned about the apostates they set free, and the both of them continue to pretend that it never happened.

After her exposure to the atrocities people are capable of within Kirkwall and outside the city, Lana only agrees to small odd jobs here and there, not of a mind to undergo a full investigative job that is sure to end in violence and murder at the hands of a blood mage.

Hawke doesn't blame her, and doesn't ask of her anything that goes beyond dispatching a few smugglers.

But these dreams cause her to be more irritable. The cot in Anders' clinic is not the softest or most comfortable bed she has ever slept on, and it's too small to accommodate her thrashing about at night. She doesn't sleep well and wakes nearly every hour, disturbing the others who are trying to rest.

She doesn't know if it's her sleeping patterns that are making Anders more irritable, as well. He's short-tempered these days and prone to snapping at her for the most mundane things, like bringing him the wrong wine or not having enough herbs to make the two dozen potions he intended on brewing, even if he only is one potion short of two dozen.

Of course, she supposes it would be simpler if they both sat down and attempted to communicate with each other. They could start by politely asking what has been bothering them these past few weeks, but neither she nor Anders seem comfortable asking such a loaded question.

For one, she doesn't know anything about him. Despite his insistence, she knows that even his name is false, and she knows nothing about him otherwise. Due to his accent, she can deduce that he's from Fereldan, but he's never spoken of home before, never spoken of a family or a Circle he might have belonged to or what brought him to Kirkwall in the first place.

And besides what little things she revealed while telling him about her father, Anders knows nothing about her.

They have always kept their conversations light, bantering in front of patients to make them feel more at ease and coming up with ridiculous stories to tell her father while he drifts off to sleep.

She's already burdened Anders so much that she refuses to burden him more with the knowledge of what she and Hawke had done with the mages at the Wounded Coast, and if Anders doesn't want to tell her what's causing his current state of distress, then she will not press him about it.


Hawke and Varric complain of running out of time for their Deep Roads expedition. They continue to look for their alleged Grey Warden, desperate for a map that will lead them into the Deep Roads, and it takes up much of their time.

It makes her bitter, but she doesn't bring it up to Hawke. He's been busy with more important things lately, and Lana doesn't think she really wants to know anyway.


There's a knock on the clinic door. It's not unusual for new patients to be slightly hesitant about walking right inside, but this knock is different and frightens both Lana and Anders. It's the sort of knock that a templar might do, commanding and powerful, before barging in to kill them all.

Lana and Anders hold each other's gaze for a moment before she gets to her feet, moving towards the door.

She opens it just barely to see who's on the other side.

" Lana? You lying little . . . ! You're the Grey Warden?"

Hawke, Varric, and Bethany stand casually outside of the clinic, both surprised and happy to see her.

"What?" she asks Hawke, not yet opening the door for them. "What are you doing here? If there is no medical emergency, I'm going to have to ask you all to leave."

Hawke narrows his eyes, glancing around the door, likely looking for a sign. "Lirene said we would be able to find a Grey Warden here." He blinks at her stupidly, raising an eyebrow as he tries to get a glimpse of the inside of the clinic. "Do you live here?"

Lana feels Anders step up behind her, placing his hand atop hers to open the door a little wider. "Get behind me, Lana," he tells her, looking them all up and down before settling his gaze on Hawke. She does as she's told. "I'm afraid if you're here to challenge her to a rematch, she's not interested."

Hawke smiles slightly, glad to see that Anders has remembered him. "Are you the Grey Warden?"

Lana looks up at Anders, wondering why he's never mentioned that. She feels a twinge of betrayal, but shakes it off. Whatever he was previously, he clearly hasn't been doing any work with the Wardens as of late.

Anders allows the three of them to come inside, making sure to close the door behind them. Bethany sees Lana's father in his cot, smiling at him and moving to keep him company.

"Have the Wardens paid you to bring me back?" Anders asks distractedly, reaching for a half-empty bottle of wine left uncorked, pouring it carelessly into a used glass and drinking fast. "If that's the case, I'm afraid I can't comply."

"We're not here to drag you back, and I've hardly any interest in the Grey Wardens in general," Hawke replies, glancing at Lana, who stands awkwardly beside Anders, arms wrapped around herself. "Has Lana not told you?"

"Told me what?" Anders says, turning to face her.

"He wants a map to the Deep Roads," she explains, wondering if she'll be able to use this as some form of leverage. Judging by the way Hawke looks at her, he's likely wondering if she'll be bold enough to say something. "He's been funding an expedition for some time now."

Hawke scowls at her. "Did you know he was the Grey Warden we were searching for this whole time?"

"No," she answers, "and even if I did know, do you really believe I would have told you?"


Despite Lana's private wishes to use the maps as a bargaining chip to allow her a place in the expedition party, Anders had been willing to part with them for a simple favor that involved meeting a Circle mage in the Chantry and escaping with him.

Hawke had advised Lana to stay behind, but Anders refused to part with his maps if Lana did not come along. This struck her as ominous, but decided that perhaps Anders was simply more comfortable with these strangers if he had a mutual friend at his side.

The idea of slaying templars was not something Hawke was fully adverse to, given that he had killed his fair share while protecting Bethany, but he was hesitant until noting the spark in Lana's eyes. In contrast to Hawke, Lana has always been prepared to kill any templar that decided her life was forfeit for loving and befriending mages, and if killing more templars meant freeing Anders' friend from the prison that is the Gallows, she would be more than happy to comply.

They agree to meet that night at the Chantry. Bethany offers to stay behind with Lana's father, should the worst happen and they all become prisoners or corpses.

She has yet to set foot inside the Chantry, easily more than triple the size of any Chantry she's ever seen in Fereldan and more than triple the size of any building in Kirkwall's own Hightown. There is no modesty in the design of this place, casting shadows across the courtyard with its flickering braziers and rustling tapestries depicting the sun of Andrastianism.

In truth, Lana can't say that she's ever been religious. There have been a few times in her life where she sought pity, charity, and food at certain chantries across Fereldan, but she can't remember ever entering one with the sole purpose or desire to pray or receive a blessing.

Lana and Anders hide in the shadows, awaiting Hawke and the others. When she brings up the idea that it may be a trap to lure Anders into the templar's grasp, he refuses to hear of it. The lack of security and templars makes her wary, but Anders is dead set on rescuing his friend, no matter what may happen.

They're forced to wait for what feels like hours for Hawke to arrive. Lana climbs to the lower part of the rooftop to watch for templars, swinging her leg off the side and fussing with her blades, wondering if her father is waiting for their return.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you that I was a Grey Warden," Anders tells her suddenly, leaning against the wall of the Chantry just below her. "I thought that part of my life was over for the time being and didn't think much of it."

"I suppose it's not something that comes up easily in conversation."

He sighs heavily. "Before we do this, I . . . well, perhaps I should tell you something else—"

"Here he comes." Lana jumps down from her place upon the roof, landing beside Anders. "You can tell me when we've finished here." When Hawke approaches, flanked by Varric, she's already irritated that she and Anders have waited for so long. "Took you long enough."

Hawke doesn't bother to give her a reply and Anders doesn't wait for her to continue. Anders urges them to follow and stay behind, offering protection from whatever templars may be lurking inside, and begging them to let him do the talking where Karl is concerned.

But even as they enter the Chantry, it's as quiet and empty as the streets outside, which only continues to strike Lana as unnerving. Each step further into the Chantry gives her a stronger feeling of impending dread.

Karl is found on the second floor, his back to them as he flips through a book pulled from a nearby shelf, very calm despite the reckless and impulsive decision to escape the Circle.

"Anders," says Karl, closing the book with a snap! and placing it meticulously back onto the shelf in its proper place, "I knew you would come for me."

"You asked me to." Anders hesitates, holding out a hand to keep Lana, Hawke, and Varric a few steps behind him. "What's wrong with your voice? Why are you talking like that?"

Karl turns to allow everyone a good look at his face. Lana thinks he must be about ten years Anders' senior, well-groomed and handsome, with a red sunburst marking upon the center of his forehead, half-hidden by a few loose strands of grey hair.

She's seen the marking before, on many of the mages in the courtyards that stand by merchant stalls offering medicines, herbs, and the like. All of them speak with the same lifeless voice, devoid of emotion, their eyes flat and unseeing, but somehow always observing, their connection to the Fade permanently severed.

Anders exhales loudly, taking a single step backwards. "No—"

"The templars knew I had to be made an example of," Karl explains, shaking his head when Anders opens his mouth to protest, "or else how would I ever learn to master myself? You'll understand, Anders, as soon as the templars teach you, as well."

"Lana . . ." Hawke whispers, and when she turns around, she finds templars moving quietly out of the shadows, surrounding them with weapons drawn and armor donned. The moment she hears him unsheathe his sword slowly, she sees fit to do the same. "He led us right into a trap."

"He didn't know—" Lana hisses back, sure of it.

"This is the apostate," Karl tells the templars, gesturing casually towards Anders with not a single hint of regret in his voice.

Anders cries out, a sound that seems almost inhuman, and when Lana glances briefly away from their surrounding enemies to Anders, she freezes.

He drops to his knees, struggling and squirming, holding his face in his hands and muttering into his palms, whining and panting and sounding absolutely desperate, until a burst of blue-white light fills the Chantry. In the second that Lana shields her eyes, Anders has gotten to his feet, but she's afraid that what stands in his place isn't Anders at all.

His eyes flash that same blue-white color, replacing the amber that she's grown used to. The light begins at his fingertips, not quite flame or static, but something more akin to vapor that brightens his arms like veins, running up the sides of his neck and down his forehead.

The voice that issues from him is threatening, low and booming, echoing within her head until her temples ache. It is not Anders' voice that speaks, but another, one she is unfamiliar with and slightly afraid of.

"Lana!" Hawke shouts, and she ducks before his blade makes contact with her head, watching the steel bite into the exposed neck of the templar that was prepared to strike her down.

She can't afford to be distracted. Varric unloads a bolt from his crossbow into the back of a templar's knee, skillfully aiming for the joints that are not protected by the thick and heavy armor they wear. Lana joins the fight, swiping at elbows and knees and necks, dodging swords that reflect the blue lighting that continues to emanate from Anders' eyes and hands as he brings them down and paralyzes them with frightening magic such as she's never witnessed.

The Chantry floor is soon stained with blood, and when the last templar drops to his knees, grasping wildly for his cut jugular, Lana immediately turns back to Anders, wondering if she had imagined the entire thing.

"Anders," comes Karl's voice, cracking with emotion, "what did you do?"

Anders falters, seemingly himself again, but pale and clammy and trembling. "I—"

Karl breathes heavily and quickly, looking at the carnage around him and hesitating before speaking again. "It's as if you brought a piece of the Fade into our world. It's as if . . ." He moves forward with surprising speed, grasping at Anders' shoulders and widening his eyes. "Please, Anders . . . it's already fading . . . I can feel it . . . please, kill me before—"

"No!" Anders counters, grabbing onto Karl's forearms. "I won't! I can't . . ."

"Anders, please, you must, it's fading—" Karl lowers his hands from Anders' shoulder, the emotion in his face fading along with his sudden awareness. "Why do you look at me like that?"

Lana sees the sorrow in Anders' face as he draws a small blade from his belt, his hand trembling violently. It feels as if he hesitates for hours, looking Karl in the eyes and wanting to speak, unable to find the proper words to say.

"I'm so sorry," Anders says tremulously, pale as snow. "Karl, I . . . forgive me."

When Anders grips the handle of the knife tightly, she looks away, but hears it enter Karl's abdomen, hears him groan in surprise as the life is forcefully taken away from him.

She steps away, but no one is paying attention to her. All she can think about is her father, and the horrible thought of templars coming to find them, and the unrecognizable magic that Anders had brought forth, the demon harbored within him and the violent rage it had sent him into.

She flees before anyone can stop her, and doesn't slow until she reaches the clinic.


Bethany jumps to her feet the moment Lana slams the door of the clinic shut. "Lana!" she says, closing the book she had been reading to Lana's father. "Where are the others? Why are you so sweaty? Did you find Anders's friend?"

Lana doesn't answer, grabbing at her satchel underneath the cot she had claimed, throwing whatever things she can inside of it and trying to hurry. "Da, we're leaving," she says, trying to sound confident and calm, but knowing that her voice trembles.

"Lana, what's happened?" Bethany asks again, reaching out to touch her, but Lana flinches and elbows the girl away. "Where is Hawke?"

"Leave," Lana hisses, standing tall and meeting Bethany's eyes. "Hawke is fine. Da, get up, we're going."

Bethany suddenly pales. "Is it templars—?"

"Just go!" Lana shouts, shoving Bethany backwards and immediately feeling guilty. She buries her face in her hands, wanting to scream. Feeling as if she's only wasting time, she packs her father's things and helps him to his feet. "We need to leave this place, da."

"No!" he counters, fighting her grip on his wrist. "Stay! Stay here! Anders! Anders!"

Lana's palm burns hot as fire, and she tears her grip away when her flesh begins to smoke, gasping. She looks down at her palm and sees the blisters appearing almost instantly.

"Are you all right?" Bethany asks, still looking very worried. "Did he burn you?"

The warmth grounds her for a moment, steadying her. Her father looks incredibly guilty, tears welling in his eyes as he realizes what he's done. "I'm fine," she tells Bethany, "it's all right."

Accepting what he's done, her father gets to his feet, reaching out to take Lana's hand, but she pulls it away before their skin can make contact. He lowers his eyes and doesn't complain when she leads him away from the clinic and Bethany.


Lana buys him a hot meal and a drink to keep his mouth and hands busy.

The Hanged Man is relatively empty for this time of night, and the only customers still drinking are likely the ones who are staying in the backrooms.

Her palm is angry and swollen and painful, but she ignores it, tapping her fingers upon the wooden table restlessly.

It must be nearing dawn by the time Varric returns, wholly unsurprised to find Lana there, but wholly surprised to see her father sitting beside her. "What are you doing here, kid?" he asks, but judging by his tone, he already knows the answer.

"We need a place to stay," she whispers, pleading with tears in her eyes. "Please, Varric, I don't have the money to rent a room. If you lend me the money, I swear that I'll pay you back double within the week. I'll do every job Aveline has available, I'll do anything."

It doesn't take him much convincing, and as soon as the key to the room is in her hand, she attempts to put her father to bed, but he refuses to go down without a fight.

It makes her nervous, and she tries wholeheartedly to be patient as he demands to be taken back to Anders.

"Perhaps tomorrow," she lies, pulling the blankets up over his weak and skinny legs.

"No! Now!" he pouts, slamming a fist upon the hard mattress. "Want to go back! Want to see Anders!"

"Tomorrow, I said. Anders is busy."

"Not tomorrow! Right now! Now!"

Something snaps inside of her. "I said no!" she shouts, causing him to quiet. It isn't often she loses her patience with her father. It isn't often that he fights with her to begin with. "I'm sorry, da. It's been a long night."


"You were living there, weren't you?"

Lana winces as Varric wraps her hand with some damp bandages, surprisingly gentle for a dwarf with such rough-looking hands. "Yes. He was the one who healed my father when we arrived."

There's a fire going in the hearth of Varric's room. It's bigger than the room he was able to rent for her and her father, but it seems that Varric has been here for quite some time. There are personal effects all over the shelves and tables, books and candles and parchment and clothing, bolts for his crossbow and coin purses that look full and heavy.

"How does that feel?" he asks her, admiring his bandaging work.

"Better," she answers, turning over her hand to do the same. "Have you spoken to him?"

Varric walks towards a shelf that houses several bottles. He picks up an unopened one and places two cups on the table, filling them both. Lana takes hers with her good hand and drinks. It's the best wine she's ever had. Once he takes his place at the desk again, he sighs.

"He called it Justice," he explains quietly, hardly audible over the crackling of the fire. "A spirit he met outside of the Fade. Perhaps at one time, it was nothing more than that, but Anders' emotions have twisted it into a force of vengeance, I believe."

"The templars might not see it that way," she thinks aloud, and Varric nods in agreement. "They would strike him down as an abomination the moment they caught wind of this . . . joining."

"Regardless of what he is, he doesn't seem an abomination to me," Varric says, shrugging his shoulders. "He's not half as ugly, don't you agree?"

She thinks of the blood mage whose throat she cut in the caverns. She thinks of the sound Karl made when Anders stuck his blade in his belly. "It's unnatural."

Even Varric can't argue against that. "He made good on his promise. He gave Hawke the maps, and . . ."

Lana looks steadily at the dwarf. "And?"

"And told us that, if we found you, to let him know."

"No—"

"He only wants to speak with you—"

"No, Varric—"

"You should at least hear him out. He hasn't posed a threat to you since you've known him, has he? He's been doing good and honest work, and so long as your intentions align, he poses no further threat—"

"And the moment my intentions change, he'll let the demon he houses within him slaughter me in cold blood, is that the way of things?" Lana looks away, watching the fire dance and cast shadows across the flooring.

Why had she cut that poor blood mage's throat? Decimus was too far gone, according to Hawke. He had been a threat to himself and others. He couldn't have been saved.

She had thought of Anders with her blade to Decimus' throat. For a brief moment, she had considered his thought process, his beliefs and values. She had wondered what he might think of her killing another mage.

The subject is soon dropped with the consumption of more wine, and Lana and Varric stay up for hours talking. He's a perfectly capable storyteller, and asks about her life back in Fereldan, eager to hear how she came to Kirkwall in the first place.

Lana doesn't mind telling him. He's the first person in Kirkwall to show such genuine interest in the more mundane aspects of her life. He's a good audience and knows how to react well to her own storytelling, laughing in the right places and groaning in others.

"I like you, kid," he tells her that night, his speech beginning to slur with drunkenness and exhaustion. "If it were up to me, you would be coming with us to the Deep Roads."

Lana scoffs, drunker than Varric. "Tell Hawke that."

"As if I haven't already."


She dreams of the cavern that night, but it's not Decimus who trembles underneath the cold steel of her blade, it's Anders, and he's begging her to kill him because he'll never go back, he will never again be a prisoner of the Circle.

He's a threat. He's a danger to himself and others. That's what her dream-Hawke tells her, over and over again as the seconds grow longer and she doesn't know if she has the strength to do it. There's no other way. He's too far gone to be saved.

She wakes with a start as she drags the blade across Anders's neck, spilling blood.

The fire has gone out, leaving behind only a handful of burnt kindling still smoking. Her father continues to sleep, snoring softly.

The Hanged Man is quiet for the first time in Lana's memory.


Lana wakes to someone knocking at the door.

Her head is still pounding and she only was able to sleep for a couple of hours, having gone to bed so late on the floor of the room while her father slept peacefully in the bed.

"Who is it?" she calls out with a groan, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"There's someone requesting your presence here, ma'am," comes a man's gruff voice from the other side. "Wouldn't give me a name. I can send him away if you'd like, but he seems harmless."

Lana sits up straight, considering it. "I'll just be a moment."

She changes into something clean, checking on her father before leaving the room. The smell of breakfast permeates the tavern and she follows it into the main room, looking at the barman who gestures to Anders, seated at a table in the back corner and picking at his fingernails.

For a brief moment, she considers returning to her room before Anders notices her standing there, her hair a tangled and knotted mess, eyes still bloodshot from all the drink, but he seems to sense her presence and glances upwards, standing at the sight of her.

Instead of waiting for her to approach, he takes initiative. "I need to talk to you," he murmurs, looking around at the other patrons, who pay them no mind, "in private."

Varric is happy to lend his own room to them, though he warns Lana to shout if there's trouble. This puts a scowl on Anders' face, who seems to pretend he hasn't heard, putting his back to them and storming into Varric's chambers.

He paces until Lana closes the door and locks it, leaning against the door and waiting for him to speak.

"How could you do that?" he spits, his pacing coming to an end as he casts Lana a dark look, angry and hurt. "How could you just . . . pack up and leave without even giving me the chance to explain myself? You jumped to conclusions—"

"I did no such thing," she interrupts with equal fervor. "The conclusions were laid bare for me in the Chantry for all to see." Lana sees his jaw clench, anger flashing in his eyes. "You should have told me."

"Should I have?" he hisses, taking three long strides forward to close some of the distance between them. "You were little more than a stranger. What makes you believe you were obligated to that information?"

Lana says nothing. He's right and she knows it. It's a deadly secret that Anders had been keeping, and she doesn't blame him for keeping it close to his heart.

His expression softens, but the irritation is still present in the form of wrinkles between his furrowed brows and at the bridge of his nose. "As it happens," he says, averting his eyes and fixing his gaze on a stack of books, "I was going to tell you while we were waiting for Hawke."

Lana doesn't look away from him, despite how hard he tries to avoid her stare. "And what exactly did you plan to say to me to soften that blow?"

"It doesn't matter what I might have said to you, because you know now," he answers quickly and coldly, looking back at her. "Yes, I am possessed by a spirit of justice. He—"

"He?" she scoffs.

"It," he snaps scornfully, only saying it to appease her. "I. Justice and I are one." He looks mildly deranged, and like he hasn't slept a wink all night. There are dark circles underneath his eyes. "You contented yourself with running away, not bothering to hear me out. Didn't I deserve that much?"

She remains quiet, confident that she had done what any sane person would have done in her situation, but she doesn't want to stoke the fire already burning within him.

Anders moves closer, hunching his shoulders so they're eye to eye. He lowers his voice, speaking through gritted teeth into her face. "I took you in when you had nowhere to go, provided your father medical care at no charge, kept your secret, and took on the responsibility of caring for your father while you paraded around Kirkwall." He exhales loudly through his nose. "And this is how you repay me?"

Lana considers him. He has done much and more for her in these past few months and she will not deny it. She is more grateful than she can say or express, but now is not the time to be giving in.

"I didn't tell you about Justice before that night because the last thing I desired was to drive you away," he confesses, his cheeks pink. "In caring for your father these past months, I have grown quite fond of him, and after losing the person I cared most about, I was forced to return to the clinic to find your father gone, as well."

"I'm sorry about Karl—"

"Don't speak his name, Lana."

"I was frightened," she admits in a small voice, unsure of what Anders wants to hear from her. "I was afraid that my father was in danger from . . . whatever you are."

"You were afraid for your father, or for yourself?"

Lana chews on the inside of her cheek, thinking hard. "Is there any way to separate the two of you?"

"No, not that I currently know of."

Is this what it means to be too far gone to saved?

"Call me 'abomination' if you will, if that's how you choose to think of it," Anders tells her harshly, standing up straight to tower over her. "But you do me a great disservice. Do you truly believe I would do anything to jeopardize your life, or your father's? Is that what you think of me?"

Lana lowers her eyes. Perhaps she had been quick to judge, but he's unlike anything she has ever known, and the unknown continues to frighten her.

"Are you going to turn me in?" he asks.

"Don't be foolish," she scoffs, meeting his eyes again and frowning. "Turning you in would mean a death sentence for myself, as well. I would never do such a thing."

Ander turns around to put his back to her again, walking towards the empty hearth full of ashes and holding his hands behind his back. When he speaks, his voice is steadier. "It matters not how Justice and I came to be, but he is part of me now and always will be," he says, sounding very detached from the idea. "It is no easy thing to understand, but I know you are sympathetic towards the plight, as well. Justice is . . . in simple terms, I suppose Justice is the anger in my heart, a physical representation of the helplessness I once felt against the way mages are treated."

She listens, understanding all too well.

"But I am helpless no more," he finishes, "not with Justice a part of me."

Anders turns to face her and moves towards her once more, hesitating before speaking again.

"But I'm . . . still me," he pleads, placing a hand over his heart. He looks pained, and terribly old and weary with the shadows playing tricks on his face. "And I . . . I have no wish to be alone. Not now after . . . after what happened to . . ."

Lana softens. These words give her a small comfort, a reassurance that he could still be saved from an ugly fate such as Decimus'. Her nightmare had felt so real last night, and it's still difficult for her to look at Anders without the guilt of her dream-actions weighing on her heart.

"That is all I came to say," he says, "and if cannot bring yourself to accept these things, then so be it, we shall part our separate ways, but . . . if you can find it in yourself to have a shred of compassion for me, then . . . the clinic remains open for you and your father."

Lana steps sideways out of his way, allowing him to leave without a struggle.


"I'd be happy to rent you a long-term room here," Varric suggests over drinks that night, but the idea doesn't appeal to her.

"I couldn't ask that of you, but you have my thanks for all you've done already."

Varric lowers his tankard, leaning forward to whisper, "Don't tell me you're going to go back there?"

"What other choice do I have?" she snaps quietly. "My father only wants to be with Anders, and I lack the resources to put myself up here permanently. I will not allow you to support me."

"I know it's not what you want to hear, but—"

"I know Anders better than any of you," she interrupts him, not about to be told what to do by a beardless dwarf. "I've heard him out, like you suggested I do, and I've made my decision. I think I know what's best for me and my father."

But she knows he isn't happy about her decision at all. Varric doesn't seem to be holding any terrible grudge against Anders, but he does seem to think that if templars were to come knocking, both she and her father might find themselves innocent casualties in the resulting mess.

Truthfully, Lana doesn't think she can handle much more arguing between herself and her father. He clearly doesn't want to stay here any longer, missing the 'comfort' of the clinic and the comfort that he associates with Anders.


"I'm terribly sorry, but the clinic is closed for the ni—"

His breath hitches at the sight of Lana and her father standing in the doorway, her satchel slung over her shoulder and her free hand clutching her father's.

"Does your offer still stand?" she asks softly.

"Yes," he stammers, smiling sweetly at them, "yes, of course."