SPRING
9:32 Dragon
The weather is growing warmer again.
Hawke has still not returned from the Deep Roads.
By Varric's estimations prior to leaving the city, their party should have returned a fortnight ago.
Only Merrill seems to share Lana's apprehension and anxiety—or else Isabela and Aveline make a good show of confidence.
Isabela claims that the Free Marches' wild country can be treacherous to those unfamiliar with it and, while it may have slowed their treasure-laden wagons down, it's likely nothing they won't be able to handle. She urges Lana to be patient, that whatever prizes Hawke may have found for her will come in their own time.
Aveline doesn't have much time to dwell on it, but doesn't seem so concerned that something may be amiss. When Lana tries to track her down one day in the barracks to confide her fears yet again, she's turned away by one of the other guards, who claims Aveline has no reason to speak with gutter rats like herself.
Even Anders doesn't see a reason to worry. He reassures Lana several times that their party was large to begin with, and crossing the country with so many people will be slow-going, claiming that Varric's estimations were very generous.
Lana waits in the courtyard every morning, sitting atop the building where she had bid Hawke good-bye, but he never comes.
It's the first one she's seen since the thaw.
The hart drinks from a nearby stream, his antlers still growing in. The light that reflects from the stream makes his heavy coat look like burnished copper. It's a beautiful animal, but both his pelt and meat will sell for double the regular price this early in the season, and she could use the money after she had spent nearly all of her own on a new bow.
From her position atop a tree, peering through the leaves that are beginning to green again, Lana slowly and silently nocks an arrow, pulling the bowstring taut and aiming for the place where his heart should be.
She loves to hunt. Back in Ferelden, she hunted all the time. They never went hungry with all the wild game so close to the villages. But she had lost her bow in the flood, so ever since coming to Kirkwall, she and Merrill have hunted using her magic or by making their own traps, but little snare traps won't catch something like this.
Just as she goes to loose, someone speaks from down below.
"I saw you and Anders sneaking around the docks the other night."
The statement throws Lana off guard. Her hand slips and the arrow misses the hart completely, startling it. She flushes as it sprints away into the surrounding brush, gone as quickly as it had appeared.
"Dammit, Isabela!" Lana snaps, jumping down from the tree branch and removing the quiver from her back to lay it against the tree trunk, along with her beautiful new bow. "You scared it away."
"You'll see more of them soon enough," Isabela smiles sweetly, cleaning her fingernails with the point of a dagger. "Besides, I'm getting tired of the quiet."
Lana continues to pout, lowering herself to the grass and lying down to stare up at the seemingly eternally grey sky. "That hart would have gotten me a lot of coin."
"For what? To fund Anders' clinic?"
"To feed us, more like."
"How come you never invite him around?" Isabela asks again, looking at Lana over her now-clean fingernails with that same smile. "You're not trying to keep him all to yourself, are you? A handsome man like that shouldn't be caged, my sweet."
"He's just busy, that's all."
She lowers her eyes and plucks absentmindedly at the grass. Truthfully, Lana would be glad for Anders to spend more time with her out of the clinic. There are nights after her father begins to snore that they sneak out to talk a walk around Darktown, sometimes chancing a visit to the docks while it's empty and quiet, but never for longer than fifteen or twenty minutes at a time.
Ever since she had interrupted Anders's private grieving session, the two of them have become far more acquainted with each other the last few months. While he chooses not to speak much of his own childhood or his time at the Circle with Karl, he is fascinated by Lana's own experiences, always asking questions and prodding at her and listening well, remembering little things she tells him about her youth, and she doesn't quite mind confiding in him.
It's easy to talk to Anders, far easier than it is for her to confide in the others. He's far less abrasive than Hawke can be, and Anders's laughter always seems genuine and never condescending.
Isabela lies in the grass beside her, hands under her head, more at ease than Lana has ever been in her entire life. She envies Isabela in that moment. "And he just stays with your father because you ask him nicely?"
Lana blushes. "Well, I—"
"Don't be embarrassed. I know what it's like to be wrapped around a pretty little girl's finger."
Lana sits up abruptly, blushing harder. She's always blushing when she's around Isabela. "Don't mock me. You're misunderstanding."
Isabela's thick eyebrows furrow together, her lips turning into a frown. "I don't know what you mean. I think I understand quite perfectly."
"I—" She struggles to get the words out, feeling very small in front of her companion. "I'm not—he isn't—Anders doesn't think I'm—"
Isabela, with her thick and artful curls, with her golden jewelry and charming disposition, with her lovely dark skin and lovely body. And Lana . . . with her boy's body, flat and lanky and scarred, with her tangle of dark hair and hollow face.
Lana continues to pluck the grass, grateful there is something to keep her hands busy. "I know I'm not pretty, Isabela."
It's something she's never admitted aloud. Being pretty is not something that has ever been a priority for her. She didn't need to be pretty to survive. And if she really wanted company, it was easy to find her way to the nearest brothel. Whores never care what someone looks like.
To her surprise, Isabela only laughs. "Hawke told me about a templar that would heartily disagree."
Her cheeks burn with embarrassment. She's had enough of that today. "Oh, fuck off."
"Not that I've been . . . keeping track, but . . ."
Lana lifts her eyes to look at Anders over her blades. There is still blood caked to them from the last job she had done, when she came across Cullen for the first time since she had arrived in Kirkwall. "But?"
Anders smiles at her. "It's been a year, you know."
"A year?"
"Since you first brought your father to me."
She hesitates. Has it really been that long? She had only been in Crestwood for a few months, and it had felt like home, like they had been there for years. Kirkwall doesn't make her feel at home at all, not even after a full year.
"Have I overstayed my welcome?" she asks warily, waiting for some tell in his face to let her know he's only being polite, that maybe it's time for her to leave.
"On the contrary," Anders replies, kneeling next to her father to give him a plate of some of the now-cooked fennec Lana had brought them. "I'm actually surprised you've stayed here as long as you have."
"Well . . ." Lana smiled weakly when Anders serves her next, the dark meat of the fennec's thigh and leg. The smell makes her mouth water. "I don't want to stay here forever."
"In the clinic?" Anders asks.
"In Kirkwall."
Anders sits cross-legged on the dirt ground, warming himself by the fire before eating his own serving. He seems pensive when he looks into the flames. "Why not?"
Lana scoffs. Surely he must be joking, but there is no trace of humor in his tone or expression when he asks. "The city is crawling with templars. I don't want to live in the dark anymore. I want to be able to see the sun again without having to constantly be looking over my shoulder."
"There's work here," Anders counters.
"There's work in Ferelden, too," she says. "All I'd have to do is stop at the first farm I find."
"Then go back to Ferelden!" he snaps at her, making her tense. Anders won't meet her eyes, picking listlessly at his meat.
"Don't shout at me. What's gotten into you?"
"Forgive me, I didn't mean to . . . you have to do what you feel is best for you, and I . . ."
"Go back to Ferelden?" her father asks quietly. Lana turns to face him, having almost forgotten he is awake and listening to their conversation. His food remains untouched. "With Anders?"
Lana puts some of the food into her mouth, if only to give herself a moment to think. It's tough. It would have been better in a stew. "I thought you wanted to stay here, da."
"Stay," he repeats, nodding and lifting a finger to point lazily at Anders, "with Anders."
Anders catches her eye then, almost expectant, but he doesn't speak. He continues to tear the meat off the bone, his fingertips shiny with grease, not even looking down at his plate.
"We can talk about it later," Lana tells her father gently, and supper is quiet after that.
After her father falls asleep that night, Lana stays awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. She can't hear Anders' soft snoring, so she can only assume he must be awake, as well.
"If we left for Ferelden, would you actually want to come with us?" she whispers, hoping he can hear her from behind his partition across the small room.
For a moment, he doesn't answer, and Lana thinks he's either really asleep or just ignoring her. But then, "You're really putting me on the spot, Lana."
"I'm asking you a question. And you seemed to feel quite strongly about it a few hours ago."
It takes him a long time to answer that, too. But he does, and his reply is soft enough to be nothing but the wind. "I want you to stay here, in Kirkwall," he breathes, adding quickly, "with me."
Lana wishes she could see his face, but she's glad he can't see hers. He would probably laugh at her, seeing her cheeks turn pink.
"But it's not my decision to make, and I shouldn't have snapped at you over it."
She remembers what Isabela had implied several days ago, while they laid in the prickly grass of the countryside.
After a few more moments of silence, she hears his soft snoring fill the clinic.
Truthfully, Lana never intended to stay here for so long. Not just in Kirkwall, but the clinic, as well.
It's nice that Anders has provided her and her father shelter, but part of her does feel as if she's still intruding upon him. She's placed an enormous burden on his shoulders by essentially twisting his arm into becoming one of her father's caretakers.
She feels awful about it, but Maker's Breath had it felt good to live.
"What are you doing here?"
"Can't you tell by the way I'm walking?" Isabela asks, completely unabashed as the door to the clinic closes loudly behind her. Thankfully, she's decided to come after the clinic has closed for the day. "I went to the Blooming Rose. Hi, Donal."
Lana's father smiles at her, flipping through the pages of an illustrated book and showing Lana his favorite pictures.
"This is the third time," Anders sighs, reaching for a green glass bottle half-full of thick liquid. "When will you learn your lesson?"
"Perhaps after the fourth time. I'm a bit more willing to throw caution to the wind when I know I can always come down here to cure myself." Isabela accepts the bottle from Anders. "Besides, the boy was too sweet to refuse."
Lana returns to her work, sewing a patch on the elbow of one of Anders' old tunics.
"Don't you need to give me an exam to see what's down there?"
She looks back up at Isabela's question. Anders is sputtering, blushing hard, but Isabela smiles at Lana instead. "I think I already have a good idea of what's down there."
"Speaking of the Blooming Rose, I heard you and Hawke caused quite a bit of trouble there a little while ago," Isabela continues.
Lana's heart sinks and she looks directly into Anders' face, her stomach suddenly churning of fear. While Isabela surely means to only get a little rise out of Anders, Lana knows this will likely be much more than a little rise if he finds out what really transpired in the brothel. She had killed another mage, and she cannot imagine the spirit residing inside him will take that lightly.
"You and Hawke visited the Blooming Rose?" Anders asks, his voice an octave higher than usual.
"It wasn't like that," Lana answers defensively, hoping to shut down the accusations before they begin. She gives her father a sideways glance, but she doesn't think he even knows what the Blooming Rose is to begin with. "It was for a job. We were only investigating."
Anders raises his eyebrows. "Investigating?" he repeats, sounding as if he doesn't believe her in the slightest. "And pray tell me, Lana . . . what sort of investigating were you and Hawke doing that could have possibly led to trouble?"
"Well, you know Hawke . . ." she answers, hoping he'll stop asking about it altogether.
"Ah, so the violent sort of investigating?"
"I think it's safe to say the Blooming Rose has been well rid of one of their whores," Isabela says, almost cheerful. "Now, if you wouldn't mind dealing with the one who's passing around this bloody pox I've gotten . . ."
"You're telling me you didn't see the pox beforehand? I'm not killing a whore because you made the stupid decision to sleep with a pox-ridden—"
"Maker's—! Lana! You killed a whore?"
"She wasn't innocent!" Lana's heart skips painfully and she leaps to the defensive, glancing towards her cot to ensure her daggers are still sitting pretty there. "She would have killed Hawke!"
"The two of you together couldn't disarm a common whore?"
"She wasn't just a whore—!"
"Stop!" her father shouts at them, his plea going unheard and unacknowledged.
"An undercover whore that was plotting to kill Hawke?"
"I've never heard of an undercover whore," Isabela puts in. "But the Blooming Rose will employ anyone these days."
"No, she—"
"She what?"
"She was controlling us!"
"What? With her charm?"
Isabela chuckles. "Her tits, you mean?"
"Stop!" her father weeps again.
"With blood magic!"
"Blood magic?" Anders frowns, a skeptical look crossing his face. "And you know this for a certainty?"
"How else do you suspect she—"
"STOP!"
In the midst of her explanation, she feels the hair rise on the back of her neck, on her arms, her fingers begin to tingle. There's a sharp CRACK! of that breaks through their argument, the electricity shooting up Lana's spine, spreading down her arms and legs to her fingers and toes. She shouts in surprise and drops to her knees.
"Donal, enough!" Anders cries, moving quickly towards her father, who has one hand stretched towards his daughter, his face covered with tears. "Look! You're hurting her!"
Isabela kneels at Lana's side, wrapping an arm around her while Anders continues to calm her father. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just took me by surprise, that's all."
"Here, let me help you. I'm so sorry, Lana, I . . . Hawke never mentioned . . . I had no idea—"
"It's fine," Lana hisses, her limbs sore and her knees weak.
Isabela looks sympathetic enough; though she is prone to promote violence at times, she stays her hand despite the situation. It makes Lana grateful. Her father being a mage is no secret among Hawke's close friends, but she knows not everyone has the same virtuous and approving opinion about it.
But even Fenris and Aveline, who have spoken several times about the danger he possesses, would not dare turn him into the templars.
Isabela is my friend, she thinks, wondering if that's true, she wouldn't, right?
"Don't look at me like that," Isabela says with a small smile, as if reading Lana's mind. "I'm not going to cause a fuss over all this. You're alive, aren't you? And sharing a room with a capable healer, too. I'd wager you'll be just fine . . ."
Lana is glad that Isabela seems to realize it's time for her to leave. Before exiting the clinic, however, she adds, "Best not let Aveline find out about his outburst, Lana. You'll probably end up getting a scolding."
Lana frowns. "I'd rather get shocked again."
Anders puts slight pressure against her back with his thumb. She hisses, sucking in a deep breath through her clenched teeth.
"Right there?" he asks softly, working by the light of three flickering candles, not wanting to wake Lana's father.
She hums, squirming as he lightly touches the same area.
"I'm just going to roll your tunic up, all right?"
"Can't you do it over the fabric?" Her voice is muffled with her face squished against the smelly old cot.
"Just let me have a look, Lana. I want to make sure you don't have any serious wounds."
Lana doesn't say anything, allowing Anders to slowly push her tunic up her back, exposing the flesh beneath. She can feel his hesitation.
"Are these . . ." His fingers are gentle, tracing patterns on her back where she knows the scars are. ". . . all from your father?"
It isn't just her back. Her entire body is littered with scars—some that can be passed off as battle scars, but others more curious, like bolts of lightning seared onto her flesh, or the ugly discoloration in some places where ice had burned her.
"It's all right," she says quickly. "He never meant to hurt me."
Anders is quiet again for another moment, and then she feels his warm palm upon her back, right where it hurts the most. "Stay still. I can heal these burns."
It is a grey, gloomy, rainy morning when Hawke finally returns from the Deep Roads.
Lana sits upon the rooftop, soaked to the bone and shivering underneath her warmest clothes, waiting for their party to arrive.
Aveline had sent for her only a little while ago, fetching her from the clinic following the news of two Kirkwall scouts having spotted the party making their way.
"Stay out of the way," she had warned Lana in a low voice, "it sounds as if there has been trouble."
She hadn't elaborated, but she hadn't complained when seeing Lana atop one of the buildings.
The rain has kept most civilians in their homes, but there is still a great host gathered in the courtyard providing enough chaos.
Aveline commands the large group of city guardsmen who have come to protect the treasure-filled wains, wanting to ward off any attackers or thieves who may be waiting for a chance to get their hands on something shiny. They surround the courtyard with weapons in hand, giving some room for the entourage to unload.
Cullen is down there, as well, commanding a few templars to join the guard, shouting things that Lana can't hear over the pounding of the rain, pointing this way and that with a mailed hand.
Lana spies Isabela and Merrill out of the way, both of them holding up a single cloak to keep the rain off their heads.
Hawke's mother is also present, standing close to Aveline, huddled under a thin shawl that, perhaps once, might have been a different color than grey.
"OPEN THE GATE!" comes a guardsmen's shout.
The massive iron gate is raised with much noise, a slow process. It feels as if everyone in the courtyard holds their breath collectively until the gate opens fully, allowing Hawke's party entrance.
Something is horribly wrong, she notes.
When Hawke had left for the Deep Roads, he had been accompanied by a party of nearly sixty, including Varric's brother, who is nowhere in sight. There had been a total of five wains carrying weapons, food, drink, bedrolls, tents, empty crates and chests and barrels and sacks to pack their treasure in, everything they might need for an expedition. There had been a dozen horses to pull the wains and to carry more things upon their saddles, feed for the animals and personal belongings.
What returns is a single wain, being pulled by two horses and driven by Hawke and Varric. While it's full and weighed down, there are no carts that pull in after them. Fenris, easily recognizable with his shock of white hair, rides beside the cart on the only remaining horse. Both the horses and the people look beyond weary and frighteningly solemn.
She had expected them to at least be smiling, to be the first to ride through the gates cheering their efforts and success, laughing at and languishing in the attention their return has brought them.
There is happiness or relief written across Hawke's face when he enters the city.
They're missing one. Lana searches desperately for a sign of Bethany. Where is she?
Hawke jumps down from the cart without a word. His mother breaks through the line of guardsmen then, approaching her son, her hands splayed upon his bloodstained breastplate. He utters a single word to her that Lana cannot hear, but somehow, she knows what has been said.
Hawke's mother sinks to her knees, her grief-stricken wailing cutting through the thundering rain, through the chatter and clamor.
For a moment, the noise all stops, but for the rain and a mother's agonized screams. The guardsmen and templars all stop what they're doing, silently watching on.
The city has never felt so quiet.
Hawke looks up at the rooftops, knowing that he will find her there.
He sees her, meets her eyes for a split second through the fat raindrops that impede his view. His mother's screams echo in his head, the blame being laid at his feet even now, with a crowd of onlookers with their solemn and somber faces, unable to look away from the scene.
Her dark hair is plastered to her face, her skin pale as snow.
She stands and hesitates before taking a few steps backwards, suddenly running across the rooftop and leaping to the next, presumably back towards the entrance to Lowtown.
She is quick as a shadow, moving with a certain grace, her figure blurred with her quickness.
Bethany's ghost, here to haunt him for all eternity.
Varric is slumped low in his chair, fingers pressing against his forehead. The fire crackles merrily in the hearth, warming her bones. The rain has not let up all day, and she can still hear it echoing on the roof of the Hanged Man.
Lana holds her cup of hot spiced wine between her hands, waiting for him to continue. It had been Varric himself who had come down to the clinic to speak with her, only to find it full of patients. She had followed him back to Lowtown for some privacy, and it had been an unusually silent walk.
"He betrayed us. Bartrand. My own brother, he . . ." The dwarf looks impossibly tired. Lana is surprised that he had been willing to talk the same day of his return. "Maker . . . what have we done . . ."
He spins his tale for her, but it is far from the light-hearted ones she is used to. Bartrand's treachery had nearly killed them all, trapping them in a thaig and escaping with their crew, not having returned to Kirkwall at all, all over some stupid lyrium idol.
But his tale still leaves one question unanswered, a question that she is afraid to ask. Even so, it hangs heavy in the air between them.
"We were almost out when . . ." Varric stares into the fire, seemingly very far away from this place. "It was the Blight that took her. Whatever Hawke tells you . . . it was the Blight."
This gives Lana pause. The statement frightens her, sends chills down her spine the way her father's shock had done. "And what do you think Hawke would tell me?"
Varric shakes his head. It troubles him deeply. She's never seen him look so unlike himself before. "Hawke will tell you it was his blade that killed her," he answers. "But the corruption killed Bethany before he did."
"I . . ." Lana's throat feels very dry. It closes up on her. She doesn't know what to say or how to comfort him. "I am so sorry, Varric."
"He sees her in you, Lana."
"I'm nothing like Bethany," she says, wishing she had even a fraction of Bethany's goodness. "I don't know what it is he sees."
Varric's answer comes quickly, like it's so painfully obvious. "He sees something to protect."
When she doesn't have anything to say to that, Varric continues, lightening the subject.
"You know, I haven't given you a nickname yet."
"I don't need a nickname," she says.
"Everyone has one."
"I'm not everyone."
Varric smiled weakly at her. There are dark circles under his eyes and he hasn't shaved since leaving for the Deep Roads. He looks more like his brother this way. "I'll let you pick your own, then."
Lana thinks for a moment. There has only ever been one person to bestow a nickname upon her. "My uncle used to call me his little bird."
That makes Varric smile in earnest, making him look more alive. "Why?"
She thinks for a moment. It has been a long time since her uncle had told her this story. "He used to have this dream, he said. In the dream, he and my father would be sitting on the bank of some river . . . or the sea . . . he could never quite tell. But he'd look up and find me, flying over the open water, with beautiful raven's wings upon my back." The thought makes a chill go down her spine. "He says he would watch me for hours, and I would never look down. I would never even notice them, but he didn't care because I was flying, and I was . . . free."
"Do you not feel free?"
Lana thinks on it for a few moments. "I could be free. I could leave this place and go anywhere I wanted to. I have never been shackled by magic. The templars would never bother me." She shakes her head. She's chosen this. She's always known that it was a choice, to keep her father safe, and it was a choice she made willingly. A choice she made to honor her uncle's wishes, to ensure this all of his effort had not been in vain. "I would never be free of the guilt, however. I could never sleep well again knowing that, while I lived freely, mages like my uncle and my father would be rounded up and slaughtered for something they were born with, something they never asked for."
The dwarf is quiet for a long time, considering her, looking at her as if he's never seen her before. "How about Birdy?" he asks her. "A pretty nickname for a pretty girl. Do you like that?"
She tries to keep her smile at bay, but she finds it very difficult. With her lips pursed together, Lana gives Varric an embarrassed little smile, nodding slightly.
"Birdy," Varric murmurs, as if trying to get used to it. "Birdy, Birdy, Birdy . . ."
And just like that, Kirkwall feels a little more like home.
"Thanks for taking care of those bandits, Lana. As promised . . ." Aveline puts a small coin purse in her hand, small enough to wrap her fingers around. It had been an easy job that the guard couldn't be bothered to do, so she doesn't complain. "And I was told to give you this, as well."
"What is it?"
As soon as the purse is tied to her belt, Aveline holds out a small piece of parchment. Lana unrolls it and looks over the letters, flushing when she notices Aveline reading the words.
"Aveline . . ." she sighs, looking over her shoulder to ensure there are no snooping guards around. "I . . ."
"What?"
"I don't know what this says," she whispers, averting her eyes.
"Hawke's script is something awful, isn't it?"
"No, it's . . ." Lana frowns, trying hard to decipher anything familiar on the parchment, but it's useless. "I can't read."
"Oh!"
When Lana finally looks up again, it's to find Aveline's expression going from surprise to confusion to disbelief. "Can you please just tell me what it says?" she asks softly, pushing the parchment back into Aveline's hands.
"Hawke wants to speak with you," Aveline says, her cheeks a pretty pink under her spattering of densely-packed freckles. "He's asked you to meet him at the docks at sundown tonight."
"I shouldn't—"
Aveline crumples the parchment in her hand, tucking it into a pocket. "He knows you've been avoiding him. It's been days now. How much longer are you planning on playing this game?"
Lana scoffs. "I don't know what you mean."
The truth is, she has been avoiding him. She's been taking as many petty jobs as she can, just to stay away from the clinic during the day. She hasn't set foot in the Hanged Man. Everywhere that Hawke might think to find her, she has kept her distance. Even Anders has been helping to cover her tracks, leading Hawke on wild goose chases and frustrating him even further, which Lana knows is wrong after everything that has happened, but she can't help it.
Aveline only looks at her, disappointed, like a mother might. "He's just lost his sister. Have a bit of compassion. Humor him, would you?"
"Please, I—"
"If you won't go, I'll have you detained and let him visit you in a cell, that way you can't run. Your choice."
Perhaps it is the guilt that forces her to walk to the docks that night, the sun hanging low in the sky as merchants are packing away the last of their wares, rolling carts back towards home.
The lingering presence of the Qunari has had an obvious effect on business here; many merchants have decided to boycott the viscount's decision to let them stay by trading their wares elsewhere.
Not that it really matters. All of the same things can be found in Lowtown markets and in the Hightown courtyard, albeit at slightly higher prices.
The Qunari rarely leave their compound anyway, sharing the same disdain towards Kirkwallers as the city feels towards their new foreign guests. Food and resources are brought to them via guarded carts, likely to keep them from wandering the city and inciting panic, riots, and violence.
As much as Lana herself would prefer the Qunari to leave, she knows that more than half the city would call for the expulsion of all the Ferelden refugees, too. They're both unwelcome guests in this forsaken city.
"Lana," comes Hawke's voice from somewhere above her. "You came."
She looks up, surprised to see him atop the nearest rooftop. He isn't wearing any armor tonight, which likely made it easier to climb up.
Lana climbs slowly, her heart beating painfully. Even just hearing his voice has made her feel more guilty. "What are you doing up here?" she asks him, sitting down beside him.
"Watching for you." His voice is low and thick with grief. His greatsword rests beside him, along with a large sack. It's another few moments before he speaks again. "I can see why you like it up here so much. It's prettier when you're looking down on things, isn't it?"
Lana hesitates, wanting to choose her words carefully now, afraid that saying the wrong thing will make Hawke break. "It's not as pretty as Fereldan."
He lets out a breath that might be a humorless laugh. "You're right." His slight smile falls. "Why do you avoid me, Lana? What part of this do you feel is your fault?"
She thinks being honest might be the best course of action. "If you had brought me instead," she says softly, "Bethany would still be alive."
"How do you know that?" Hawke asks gently, far more gently than she deserves. "Even if I had brought you, Bethany would have come with us. What would you have done to prevent the corruption? She could have been cut down by darkspawn, or crushed by fallen rock. Worse, the both of you might not have survived.
"And if I had left her here, who's to say the templars would not have found her? Someone might have cornered her and left her for dead. She could have fallen and hit her head just right."
He's right, of course. Anything could have happened. She and Bethany could have died together in the Deep Roads, and no one would even care about her except her father.
Anders might, she thinks.
"Why aren't you angry with me?" she asks.
"It's not you I'm angry with." Hawke looks out towards the sea. With the sun nearly set, the water looks black and endless, terribly foreboding. It reminds her of the black water that destroyed her home. "It was me who killed her. If I am to be angry with anyone . . . I was the one who took her life."
"You took nothing from her," Lana chides him, remembering what Varric had told her. "You gave her the gift of mercy. You saved her from a terrible fate."
"She begged me," he whispers, holding his face in his hands, "she begged me to give her mercy, for the love I bore her . . ."
The thought is horrifying. For the first time, Lana feels glad she did not go with them to the Deep Roads. She doesn't know that she would be able to sleep again having witnessed something so tender and devastating.
"Not everyone gets the chance to die on their own terms," she continues slowly, unsure if she's making it worse or not. "You were able to provide her that chance."
Hawke lowers his hands. His cheeks are wet in the red light of dusk. Even his eyes look red, swollen and bloodshot. Without answering, he reaches for the sack beside him. It jingles when he lifts it. He holds it out for her, but Lana doesn't immediately reach to grab it.
"Bethany's share of the treasure we found in that damned thaig Bartrand trapped us in," he tells her. "There's more. Enough to live comfortably for twenty years if spent wisely." When she still doesn't make a move to grab it, he gives it a shake. "It's yours, Lana."
She doesn't know what stays her hand.
This is money she's only ever dreamed of, money that could ensure she and her father live out a quiet life, the kind of money she wanted when she asked Hawke to take her along. She could get out of this bloody city, find a plot of land in Fereldan, never have to fight or kill again, this money could get her all the food and finery she ever wanted, she could even split it with Anders, it could be hers . . . if she could only reach out and take it.
It is almost painful to say, "I can't. I can't accept it."
Thankfully, Hawke doesn't insist. He puts the bag back down by his sword. "Are you still living in the clinic?"
"Yes," she says, hoping that their heartfelt evening will not turn into one that will end with her storming off in a rage. "We're safe there, and Anders is good to us, Hawke. He would never hurt me. I know he wouldn't."
"I hope not. I'll kill him if he does."
When Lana makes her way back to the clinic that night, her coin purse depressingly light and her dreams of Fereldan out of reach, she makes straight for the first empty cot she sees.
It's only the three of them tonight again. She likes it that way. It's finally beginning to feel normal, the three of them living together, despite her being in Kirkwall for a year now.
"Where have you been, Lana?" comes Anders's quiet voice through the dark, startling her.
"I was with Hawke." The cot is hard and uncomfortable against her back. The smell of chokedamp is strong tonight, mingling with the smell of charred meat. "He offered me Bethany's share of treasure."
"Good for you." His tone is bitter, and it makes her feel bad.
"I didn't take it. I couldn't." She wants to cry. That money was everything she had ever wanted for her and her father. "I could have gotten us all out of here, Anders. I could have brought us somewhere safe. And now, I . . . I could have taken you and my father away from this place . . ."
It feels like something bursts within her. The tears come unbidden, rolling down her cheeks, hot against her skin. How could she be so stupid as to refuse the money? Hawke had just been willing to give it to her like it was nothing, more money than she'll ever see again.
"You've done so much for us . . . I could have repaid you in kind . . . I could have . . . I could have . . ."
That money had been more than just a way out of Kirkwall and full bellies every night—that money had been freedom. And she had let it slip through her fingers because . . . because why? Because she felt sorry for Hawke?
"I could have kept us safe . . ." She weeps into her palms, trying to keep quiet, not wanting to wake her sleeping father.
She hears Anders shift upon his own cot on the other side of the clinic. She doesn't even hear his footsteps, only the sound of his soft breathing when he seems to suddenly appear right next to her, kneeling at the side of her cot.
"Lana . . ." Clumsily, his hand reaches out to her. His fingers find her hair first, accidentally tangling in the knotty curls at the bottom. He pulls away and tries again, this time finding her shoulder, squeezing slightly. "Treasure, gold . . . none of that matters. All that matters is that you stayed behind and were not forced to suffer the same fate as Bethany."
It doesn't help. The thought is heartbreaking. Or perhaps it's just nice to be touched.
"The thought of you succumbing to such awful corruption, I . . ." His voice is a whisper in the blackness. "I promised I would keep you of you. And I will, Lana. I will."
Lana feels his grip on her shoulder tighten, pulling her closer. Awkwardly, she leans into him, her bottom half still tangled up on the cot, her upper half supported by Anders. She presses her face into his tunic, staining it with tears, his arms wrapping around her to hold her.
One of his hands cradles the back of her head, the other splayed between her shoulder blades.
It has been so long since someone has held her.
He is so warm. His heart beats under his chest—a sign of life, a sign that he is still human despite the spirit residing within him, and Lana momentarily wonders if Justice is part of this, if he is only a witness to such tenderness between them or a willing party.
She closes her eyes. She doesn't know when the tears had stopped, only that time seems to have frozen, and she doesn't know how long she spends in Anders's arms, only that she wants to be here forever, and she doesn't want the dawn to come.
But the dawn does come, as it is wont to do.
When she wakes to the smell of Darktown's morning cookfires, it is to find Anders occupying the cot beside her's instead of his own, the bottoms of his long legs hanging off the end of it.
Lana watches him for a moment. His chest rises and falls slowly, accompanied by his soft snoring, thin lips slightly parted. His hair falls into his face, growing long.
She craves the warmth. She craves his warmth. Maker's breath, had it felt good to feel warm again. The bone-deep chill of loneliness has been all she has known for so long.
She closes her eyes again, afraid he'll wake to catch her staring.
With a large pouch of herbs and medicine cradled in his arms, a young boy nearly barrels over Isabela as he goes to leave the clinic, just as she comes in.
"Sorry, ma'am!" the boy breathes raggedly, flushed in the face, "Good-bye, Lana! Thank you again!"
"You're welcome," Lana calls after him. She looks over her shoulder at Anders, who's taking inventory of all his stock.
They're running low again, but the stores will be easily replenished now that the flora is blooming and no longer covered with late spring snow.
"A first name basis with patients now?" Isabela teases, approaching Lana's father, who helps Anders by peering over his shoulder and touching the herbs when allowed. "Careful, Anders, she'll steal your business from under your feet if you keep her here much longer."
"I'm trying to count, Isabela. Your buzzing about isn't helpful."
Lana and Isabela exchange a quick look, smiling at each other at Anders's sharp reply.
"Seems like someone could use a break." Isabela wanders away from Anders and Lana's father, looking at the organized shelves that have already been completed. "Wicked Grace tonight? Everyone's going to be there."
"Where?" Lana asks distractedly.
"The Hanged Man. We all thought Hawke could use a little joy in his life right about now."
Glancing discreetly at Anders, Lana sees he's stopped his counting, fidgeting with a glass jar of something on the shelf. Her father looks on eagerly, however, listening intently with a careful smile on his face.
"Not tonight," Lana says, looking back at Isabela. "I promised I'd help."
"Anders can join us this time. I'm sure Fenris would love to take money from him."
Lana lowers her voice, blushing furiously. "Da can't be left here alone."
"Then bring him with you, as well," Isabela whispers, moving close enough that the men won't be able to hear them. "And don't tell me it's a bad idea. Your poor father has been cooped up in this clinic for a year now. When are you going to let him live?"
"It's too dangerous," Lana whispers back, knowing that some templars are known to frequent the pub, albeit off-duty. Somehow she doesn't think being off-duty would keep them from striking a mage down in cold blood, however. "I can't risk it."
"We'll all be there to keep an eye out," Isabela says, suddenly looking to Lana's father. "Donal, don't you want to come play cards with us tonight? I'll split half my winnings with you if you help me cheat."
"Cards!" her father exclaims, eyes bright. "Yes! Cards!"
"Lana!" Anders hisses through his teeth, suddenly turning around to face them, likely having heard everything.
Lana shrugs, seeing the wide grin split both Isabela and her father's faces. With a half-smile that's more a grimace than anything, she tries to appeal to Anders. "Just for a little while," she says, "it might be good to get him out of here for an hour or two."
Anders throws Isabela a dark look before glancing back at Lana. "Could we speak about this . . . privately?"
He brings her outside when Isabela quickly takes the hint, distracting Lana's father. Anders's fingers are wrapped tight around her upper arm, only loosening when the door closes behind them.
"This is madness, Lana."
"He deserves to have a bit of fun. He's barely left the clinic—"
"And for good reason!" Anders protests quietly. "The city is overrun with templars. The three of us might be hanged in front of the Gallows by the end of the night if we aren't careful."
"Anders," she pleads, wanting one night of normalcy, just the one. The three of them haven't done anything together besides go for short walks while shrouded in darkness, and she and Anders have never had the opportunity to join their friends together before. "Just the once, please. We can leave anytime we'd like. One hand, that's all I'm asking. Da will have so much fun."
He looks down his long nose at her, considering her for a long time. His expression softens after a moment, and she knows that she's won. "Fine. Just one hand."
The Hanged Man is packed with people by the time Varric deals their seventh hand.
Donal sits at the dwarf's side, learning the game by watching, enjoying the back-and-forth among friends—though friends perhaps isn't the word he might use for this group of people gathered around him.
Half of them accept him only because of Lana's misplaced trust in him, and the other half—namely Hawke, Fenris, and Aveline—still eye him with suspicion from time to time, as if all it would take for Justice to wreak havoc on the tavern is a bad hand and the loss of a few coins.
Lana sits across from him, between her father and Isabela, who occasionally whispers something in her ear. Anders sometimes wonders what her mother must have looked like, for her father shares none of the striking features she has inherited. Her sharp nose and dark eyes contrast her father's own round nose and pale eyes, but when they smile, he sees the similarity there.
Anders has never seen her in this light before, surrounded by her companions, slightly flushed pink from drink, her dark hair—wavy, always wavy as if she's just walked out of the sea—tucked behind her ears, offering more smiles in an evening than he's seen from her in a year. She plays Wicked Grace well, practiced in deceit and cunning, and while he catches her cheating once, no one says anything about it, not having noticed.
There is something awkward about her, he thinks, something almost childlike.
She never laughs first after a joke, but waits for someone else to start in before joining her voice to theirs, but it doesn't make her laughter any less genuine.
She hardly meets anyone's eyes unless they're talking directly to her, but Anders catches her glancing up at him from time to time, always averting her gaze when she finds him looking back.
When Isabela leans close, Lana leans back. It seems as if this habit is done unconsciously, for no expression of disgust or discomfort ever crosses her face when it happens, and Isabela doesn't seem to notice anything is amiss, either.
Anders feels wholly out of place here. A few times he's asked a question, or is prodded about what cards his hand might entail, but they are all much more familiar and comfortable with Lana. She calls Fenris's bluffs, teases Hawke when she wins some of his coin, and is more patient with Merrill than Anders thinks he himself could ever be.
And they love her father. They all love making him laugh and smile. Isabela lets him help her play, and encourages him to cheat often and freely, and no one ever calls him on it when he tries. They buy him whatever food he wants, whatever drinks he wants, and take the load off Lana's shoulders for the night while she continues to drink and be merry, spending time with friends that would rather he go skulk back to the clinic.
Once, Varric even calls her 'Birdy'.
Everyone around the table has a nickname. Varric even calls Anders 'Blondie', the most lackluster name he's ever heard. Most nicknames are not wholly creative, so when he hears Lana being referred to by a name he cannot place, he feels obligated to ask: "Why Birdy?"
Lana only shrugs and blushes. "My uncle would call me 'little bird', but I guess Birdy just sounds better."
"Little bird," Donal repeats, patting his daughter's hand and smiling a proud little grin. "Yes. Little bird."
It makes Lana smile to see her father smile. Anders has always admired the love they clearly share, the bond that transcends language sometimes. But hearing him speak to her is always something special, always words full of pride and adoration.
"Little bird," Donal says again, looking at Anders across the table and touching his neck. "Like Anders."
Anders mimics Donal's movements, touching the makeshift pauldrons on his shoulders, feeling the soft feathers he had sewn into the fabric himself.
The idea of even bringing Donal here at all hadn't sat well with him. A few templars have come and gone ( he feels Justice begin to stir when this happens, but Anders swallows the feelings of rage and keeps his head), but no one has paid them any mind, no more so than any of the other patrons here. And without any source of frustration, Donal does not seem inclined to any accidental magic, and Anders feels almost guilty for not giving Lana or her father more credit for knowing what would be best for them.
His thoughts are broken when Merrill suddenly asks, "Why does Lana get to choose her own nickname?"
"There's nothing wrong with yours," Fenris answers with a scowl, who Varric likes to call 'Broody'.
Time slips away from them, and it's getting late when Lana finally decides to take her father back to the clinic when he yawns. When she tells everyone shyly and sweetly how nice it had been to see them all, she rises to her feet and stretches.
Anders finds himself rising with her, ready for the comfort of his own bed, but Lana only smiles at him, eyebrows furrowing together.
"What are you doing?" she asks, helping Donal to his feet. "You can stay. I think I know the way back by now."
"Oh—!" Anders can feel everyone looking expectantly at him, and sitting back down makes him feel horribly uncomfortable and unwelcome. "I won't be long," he promises her, but Lana hardly hears him. He watches her press a kiss to Donal's head, taking his hand in hers and leading him to the throng of people.
The ringing of a bell is the only way Anders knows she's left the building.
Everyone returns to their game, but Isabela continues to smile knowingly at him for longer than necessary before looking sideways at Hawke's cards while he isn't paying attention.
Without Lana here, Hawke's semi-jovial mood changes suddenly. Staring down at his cards without really seeing them, he clears his throat and quiets all of his friends in an instant.
"I've bought Lana a home."
The reactions are mixed. Merrill seems thrilled, Aveline and Isabela seem to be waiting for the other shoe to drop, Varric smiles heartily (Anders doesn't think it's the first the dwarf has heard of this), and Fenris raises his eyebrows in both surprise and approval.
Hawke continues. "I offered her Bethany's share of the treasure we found, but she refused it." In the moment, he certainly looks very much like a man who has just recently lost his beloved sister. His face is drawn, his eyes exhausted, his hair flat and lank.
"She refused the treasure?" Aveline asks with one raised eyebrow. "She was begging you to take her along up until you left, and now she wants nothing to do with what you've brought her?"
"Yes," Hawke answers, "which is why I've taken it upon myself to buy her a home with it."
"Lana already has a home."
The words leave him before he even thinks about it, and they come out bitter and waspish.
Hawke's expression hardly changes, as if expecting some form of protest. "That rundown shack where you can't even see the sun? You think that place is home to her?"
The heat rises to Anders's cheeks. Everyone suddenly seems very occupied with checking their cards and fingernails, eyes lowered. He should never have spoken.
He gets to his feet without warning, putting his cards down onto the table a bit too roughly. "Forgive me," he murmurs, "The drink has . . . I should be getting back."
"Anders," Hawke calls softly to him, before he can leave the table. "Please don't tell her."
Lana is singing softly to her father when Anders returns to the clinic, the doubt and panic leaving his head at the sound of her voice. It's off-key singing, to be sure, but not so terribly that he would prefer she stop. It's nice that the clinic can know music such as Lana's.
He waits silently for Donal to slip into his peaceful slumber before asking her: "Do you like living here?"
She looks up at him from her father's bedside. "I've lived in worse places." It's not the answer he had hoped for, and he thinks she knows it, because she adds quickly, "Besides, we always have company here, and it seems as if fewer patients have been coming lately, so there's more privacy now than before."
It's true, he knows. The clinic used to be a bustling back alley business that hardly gave him time to rest, but lately, they've only had a few stragglers. It makes him wonder if it's because of the templars cruel ways of population control or if it's simply a growing economy with more trade ships making their way to Kirkwall again following the end of the Blight.
"Why?" she prompts him, after he fails to give answer.
Anders shakes his head slightly, giving her a small smile. "No reason."
"I've a surprise for you."
"For me?" Lana asks excitedly, trying to find something on his person that might be for her. "What is it?"
Hawke smiles at her, but it's a tired one. Anders is still fussing with a few empty bottles behind his simple partition, paying no attention to their conversation, but she suspects that he's listening well enough. "It's in Lowtown," he says. "Get your father ready and we can go together."
Her father seems pleased to be a part of it, already struggling to slip his worn shoes on his feet.
"Would you like to come, Anders?" she asks sweetly, knowing her father would be doubly pleased to have Anders join them.
But his answer is a very curt, "No, thank you," which dampens her spirits, catching her off guard.
Lana looks to Hawke in appeal, but he only shakes his head, silently telling her to drop it.
But she hates to leave on bad terms. "Then . . . we'll be right back, all right?"
"Fine."
Frowning, Lana quickly helps her father get his other shoe on, and they leave without another word.
Hawke keeps conversation light on their way to Lowtown, smiling when Lana tries to guess the surprise—a new weapon, new armor, a pretty necklace, a new friend. Hawke won't tell her what it is, and the suspense makes both she and her father even more excited, though she can't help but wonder if it will have anything to do with Anders's sour mood.
Perhaps she'll get Anders a gift, as well, if only to include him.
They are led to the door of a building in Lowtown, a stone-and-mortar home similar to all the other homes that have been crammed into this section of the city. There is nothing exquisite or lavish about the homes here compared to the estates and manses in Hightown, which are palaces in comparison.
Hawke fumbles with a bronze key he procures from one of his pockets, sliding it in the keyhole.
"Who lives here?" she asks, just as the door swings open to reveal an empty square room just beyond the threshold.
Hawke holds the door for them. "You," he tells her, "if you accept it."
Lana freezes, her heart stopping. "What?"
"Just come have a look, Lana. Donal, why don't you lead the way?"
She doesn't know if it's suspicious or not. It doesn't seem to be a trap, no one seems to be waiting inside for them, and Hawke looks and sounds completely genuine as he urges her through the doorway.
With only two windows at the front of the house visible from this room, there is little light, but it's enough to see what's inside.
The floor is made of dark wood, put together in a way that doesn't indicate it will last centuries, or even twenty more years, creaking underneath her boots with each step. The walls are of the same stone as the exterior, the ceilings nearly twenty feet tall with exposed beams showing at the very top.
A large hearth sits at the back of the room, clean and seemingly untouched for a while, big enough to cook in, and there are two doors that lead to other rooms, one on the northernmost wall and one on the eastern wall. Glass oil lamps are nailed into the walls at certain points, and Lana touches one of them to feel the carvings upon them, never having lived in a home with so much detail to it.
"Lana!" her father exclaims from the room on the eastern wall. "Come! Come!"
She follows him into the room. It's only a little smaller than Anders's clinic, which is by no means anything spacious. There's enough room for a bed double the size of the cots they sleep on now, and room for clothes and personal items (should they have the money to acquire more).
She touches the walls with her fingertips, feeling the rough stone. She is used to one-room homes with thatched roofs and earthen floors, hardly big enough for two separate beds. Barns were even a luxury, when she or Uncle could find work on a farm. At least in barns, there was always hay to sleep on.
Hawke follows them from room to room, keeping his distance, hands held behind his back. Lana would hate it if he had his chest puffed out, proud of himself for being so charitable and kind and for bestowing such generosity upon her.
But Hawke doesn't look very proud. He hardly pays any attention to her at all, instead inspecting the lamps to make sure they're nailed in solidly and pressing at the floorboards to ensure they're not rotting away.
Lana makes her way to the last room, a bedroom larger than the first. There are two small windows here with a view to the alleyway behind the home. There's another hearth in here, smaller than the main one, but big enough to keep the whole place warm through the winters.
"What do you think?" Hawke asks her, kneeling before the small hearth to brush some old ashes out of it with his hand. He wipes his palm on his tunic.
She doesn't know what to say. Her father appears in the doorway, looking around with a wide grin on his face. "This is . . . for us?"
Hawke nods.
"I haven't had my own bedroom since I was a girl." Two bedrooms, she thinks, not three. This place isn't meant for Anders. "But why?"
He shrugs, returning her father's smile with another one of his own.
"But . . ." Something isn't right here. It doesn't make any sense at all. The idea that Hawke would give her something for nothing in return doesn't sit well with her. "You told me that everyone here expects—"
"I know what I said. I'm not everyone, Lana. We're friends." He looks around the room and glances over his shoulder at the empty square room behind him. "There's some furniture from the abandoned place where Fenris has been living. He's willing to part with it."
It all feels too real. If she moves into this place, it will mean a commitment to staying in Kirkwall for a bit longer, and she feels she has already overstayed her welcome in this vile city. But it is a better home than she could hope for back in Fereldan.
"What do you think, Da? Do you like it? Do you want to live here?"
Her father nods eagerly. There are tears in his rheumy eyes, and he pats Hawke on the chest. "Home," he says weakly, his palm resting just above Hawke's heart. "Home for my Lana."
Lana finally finds it in her to smile. Her father hugs her, laughing and crying and kissing her cheeks, holding her hands tight and repeating over and over and over again, home! home! home!
Against Hawke's dark hair, she notices the white flakes. Looking up at the tall ceiling, snow has begun to fall, melting against her skin and settling softly upon the wooden floor.
She meets Hawke's eyes, panicked, but he is smiling to himself, holding out his hands with his palms facing upwards to catch the snowflakes that continue to fall, accompanying her father's bliss.