The sound that Wren Cousland made as Duncan firmly grasped her arm could not have been human. She let out the high, desperate wail of a cornered animal, mixed with curses to anybody who would hear. The Grey Warden currently dragging her away was the subject of many, as was Arl Howe. Especialy Howe. She called him names that, under any other circumstance, would have made her lady mother wash out her mouth. For now, her mother only waved, a sad smile on her face and praying that the Maker would keep her daughter safe.

"Goodbye, Pup…" Her father whispered, softly, and nobody could hear him.

-

Wren pushed her face into her hands. What had happened? How many days had it been since Highever had been destroyed? How many days since she had promised revenge on Howe? Everything had happened so quickly… Highever was gone, she became a Grey Warden, King Cailan was killed… And as to what happened at Ostagar, she wasn't really sure. According to the others, her and her fellow Grey Warden, Alistair, had both been shot at the top of the tower.

Waking up in a strange bed wasn't something she liked to do, especially waking up in a strange bed in only her small clothes, the voice of a strange women in her ears.

She tried not to be overwhelmed by everything. Her emotions were tumbling around somewhere in her stomach. Her senses were on overdrive, desperately trying to make up for what her eyes could not see. Maker damn her eyes! She could blink, move them around, and she could feel her eyelids sliding over them, she just could not see. According to her parents, her eyes were white, but what white was, she could not remember.

There had been one point where she could see… kind of. When the mage visited Highever, he had managed to give her sight. For the first time in her life, she had been able to see color. Moving, blurry blobs of color, but color nevertheless. But all that had faded over time.

The women had told her that it was, not the women, but her mother that had saved Wren and Alistair at the top of the tower. Apparently Wren had to go thank her as soon as she felt strong enough to walk.

She tried to speak, but her mouth felt too dry, and her throat hurt. So she simply nodded.

It was only when she rose from the bed and dressed, pulling on the familiar shirt and pants from memory, when she realized, cold dread washing over her: "Where is my staff?"

The women's voice laughed. "It does speak!"

At this point, Wren was, to say the least, getting extremely frustrated. Taking a deep breath, she tried to steady herself. "Yes. I can. Now, where is my staff?"

"Aw, does she need a walking stick? Does her shoulder hurt too much?"

The smirk was evident in her taunt and Wren fought the urge to sit down and cry. "I need help. If you don't have it." Her sentences were short and clipped, sounding strange in her own ears. She held out her arm. Never before had she hated how crippled she was.

This time the smirk and taunting were gone. "What do you mean, you need help?"

"I'm blind."

Around Wren's face the air became very close, and she felt the women's light breathing on her nose. She must have been observing her eyes; indeed she was, taking in the white irises rimmed with pale grey, and Wren's blank staring. After a tense moment, the women leaned back.

"Alright," her fingers tightly gripped Wren's upper arm and dragged her out into the bright light of day. At least, she thought the warmth she felt at first was from the sun. but the light chill that settled in from other sides told her otherwise.

"Here she is," the women said, releasing her grip on Wren. The white-haired girl collapsed to the ground, her hands finding dirt. Heat from the fire flickered close to her face.

"Thank you, Morrigan." The voice was female, but certainly older than the other.

Something inside Wren had withered and died as she walked out of what must have been a house. The two women, the younger one apparently named Morrigan, were talking. Alistair had remained silent. It wasn't the noise that pushed her over the edge; it was her stomach, roiling and heaving until she choked out a sob.

The two voices went quiet. Wren's head dropped onto her knees and her shoulders shook, but she didn't let out any more noise.

After a few seconds of fairly awkward silence, during which Wren tried not to completely fall apart, Alistair burst out, "I don't know why you're crying! What do you have to cry over? What could you possibly be this upset over?"

He didn't know.

Of course he didn't. How was Alistair supposed to know that she was a Cousland, with her white hair and eyes? He probably didn't even know what happened in Highever. Or maybe he did. But then again, she had not inherited either of her parents looks.

"My dearest Pup." Age seven. She had ran to her father crying. She showed him the bruise on her forehead that she had acquired by whacking herself with her sword. He laughed and picked her up, placing a gentle kiss on the mark. She didn't cry for very long.

"My darling daughter." Age ten. She sat through her first council meeting and had demonstrated how she could be a proper lady. Her mother had hugged her, twirling her long hair, and given her a pendant with the Cousland symbol on it.

"I couldn't have asked for a better sister!" Age fourteen. Her brother patted her head and mussed up her hair, a wide grin on his face. She sparred with him, and, for the first time in her life, defeated him. He looked shocked for a moment before dropping his sword giving her a huge hug.

Wren pulled at her hair, desperately trying to make him understand without words. There was no way he would. He probably didn't even know she was blind. Did he? How much had Duncan told him? Maybe she should ask, but Alistair was obviously grieving.

I don't know why YOU'RE grieving! She wanted to scream. Who had Alistair lost? Duncan? Was that it? Her entire family-no, everyone she had ever known-was dead.

It was too soon to even mention any of this to the others. Only half of her attention was directed to the others, and she nodded and answered questions with short, clipped words when somebody spoke to her. She agreed to let Morrigan join their little group without thinking about it.

Usually she didn't ask like this. When she was little she acted out; cutting Fergus' clothes with her dagger when he made her mad and giving the peasant girl who called her a spoiled, bratty noble a bloody nose. Anyone who had ever mocked her for being blind received her fist to their face.

But this time was different. Now she was acting horribly, desperately, Maker-you'll-never-find-me-again in like she never had before. It was a strange feeling; Wren felt as if she were drowning in something thicker than water; it suffocated her, filling her lungs and choking her every time she tried to breath. It crushed her from all sides, threatening to permanently destroy her.

And it probably would have, were it not for the Blight.

It was the Blight that made her keep going and power through. She had and Arl to kill, and was not going to let one measly arch-demon get in her way. So if she had to end the Blight and defeat the demon, so be it.