No Fang, No Sevarra, again. Alistair set his mouth into a thin line. She'd taken to roaming in the evenings with just herself and the dog since the events at Kinloch Hold and Castle Redcliffe. She spoke only when necessary and otherwise remained silent. He suspected the reasons why and felt no need to pry.

Two miles away, Sevarra planted her behind on a tree stump and buried her face in her hands. She sobbed as quietly as she could manage. No way in hell was she going to allow anyone, especially Morrigan, to see her like this. Wynne would just cluck like a hen and offer some platitude. She was in no mood to deal with anyone who could talk back.

Is this what the Lothering survivors felt like? she wondered. Her band of misfits had found the village in ruins on their way east from Redcliffe. No living creature had stirred in what remained of the settlement's buildings.

Unlike Lothering, there were still living people at Kinloch. Most of them templars, but living people, none the less. She could put a name to every dead human and elf her group had found during their search for survivors in the tower. Mere months ago, those people had been walking, talking, studying, planning for the future. Because of one man, all of them were no more. It hurt, even if she hadn't been fond of many of them.

Uldred had paid for what he had done. She'd delivered the killing blow herself. But it felt hollow. He was dead, but so were the majority of his victims. Even if she survived this Blight, home would never feel like home again. Where, if anywhere, would she go?

Fang whined and pawed at her leg. Time was up, they needed to return. The mage gave the mabari's ears a scratching before beginning the stroll to camp. Everyone but Alistair had retreated to their tents for the night by the time the war hound and his mistress arrived.

"Fang needed fresh air and a walk," the mage said.

"He's needed a lot of it lately, it seems." came the reply.

"At least it keeps him from chewing Roland's leggings. Again."

Fang whined. He knew he'd been ratted out.

She wanted to say more, about almost anything, but her tongue felt weighed down in her mouth, refusing to form words. Instead, she nodded to Alistair and retreated into her tent, her mabari following moments later. After fighting off her boots and neatly folding up her clothes, the mage curled into her bedroll, hoping that sleep wouldn't prove as elusive as it had the previous night.

Instead of sleep, her subconscious thought it would be a good time to stir up memories of a certain templar by the name of Cullen. For years, she'd stared at him yearningly, smiling shyly, taking roundabout paths in the tower just so she could catch a glance of him. Once in a while, she caught him staring back from the corner of her eye. Finding him alive during the search for survivors had made her far happier than she dared to show. Finding out that the infatuation had once been mutual was both joyous and heartbreaking. The things he'd said while caught in that magical trap... well, a sword in the gut couldn't have hurt any worse.

A sin. That's what he'd called his feelings. Why was liking someone a sin? Was it because she could use magic? Why did that make her forbidden fruit? She bled red just like everyone else.

Walking the Fade and stumbling over a demon was never fun. Walking the Fade and looking for demons on purpose was even less enjoyable. Yet, she'd done that, too. Freeing Alistair, Sten, and Zevran from their nightmares hadn't been as difficult as escaping her own. She'd lied when questioned what her nightmare had been. She told them she had been in the libraries of Weisshaupt with Duncan. What she really had to wrench herself away from was the illusion of a Cullen confessing his feelings and offering to run away together. The trap had almost worked.

Sevarra pulled her pillow over her head with a frustrated growl. Maker, why couldn't these thoughts just go away, or at least not torment her when trying to sleep? She'd have to see about making a sedative if this kept happening. The only thing was, blood lotus didn't grow anywhere nearby. So much for that idea.

Two nights later, as she was heading back to camp with Fang from yet another session alone in the wilds, the pair were intercepted about halfway by Alistair.

"Needed a walk so you won't chew on leggings, too?" she teased. She hoped the night hid her reddened eyes. She'd given up on wearing kohl for a while, otherwise, it would've been smudged into oblivion by her crying jags.

"I'll leave that to the dog, he gets more fun out of it than I do," he replied. "What's been eating you? You vanish every night."

To the point. Not like him. Only one attempt at a joke.

"Oh, I'm just peachy. Other than seeing the only home I've ever known get invaded by demons and abominations. Oh, and finding out that half the people I grew up with are dead. Kind of a letdown, that." she tried to sound glib.

He winced. "Right. Right. Not crawling with undead, but still just as.. horrifying."

She hung her head, remembering Redcliffe Village. She wasn't the only one to see their home torn to bits. But at least Redcliffe still had people to rebuild. There were so few mages left alive in Kinloch.

They walked in silence for several minutes. Both were reluctant to break the quiet, recent hurts stirred up once more. A few yards from the outskirts of camp, she balled her hands into fists and sobbed.

"What if we'd been too late? For Connor? What if we had gotten to the tower a day too late and failed to find Irving in ti-"

Panicked at the sight of a crying woman, Alistair floundered about how to react. He went with the first idea to occur to him and pulled her into a hug.

"We weren't too late. That's what matters," he said.