Nike woke early the next morning, still fumbling to reach out for her nephew as he burned and screamed in the middle of the nightmare stable. It took a moment to realize that her fingers were scrabbling over dirt and not scorched wood. Around her, that the cold misty morning around her was not the dark, smoky terror of that long ago fire.

Glancing a bit toward where Tahja lay curled nearby, Nike carefully sat up. She felt stiff and aching. The blanket the elf had draped her with the night before slid into a heap beside her. Nearby in the trees, Holly was snuffing around, searching for either breakfast or a place to relieve herself. By the quality of pearl grey light, the dawn was as newly born as it was possible for it to be.

Her back still toward the rest of the camp, Nike untied her mussed hair. With a grimace she swept the tangled, filthy locks back into some semblance of order, then retied it.

What I wouldn't give for a hairbrush, or a comb, she thought.

She had no mirror either, which was currently a blessing. She had no doubt she looked just this side of a homeless vagabond in rags.

Looking down at her tattered and stained clothes, her mouth twisted. Face it. You are a homeless vagabond in rags.

Brushing a palm over her cheek in an attempt to clear it of dirt, she looked around. The fire was low behind her, little more than embers. Duncan sat awake beside it, but he was not looking at her. He seemed to be poring over some worn, yellow documents. The pouch they must have come in was at his hip.

Over by the leggy mare and her sullen grulla, three other horses had been tied. Their owners were bedded down beside the dying fire, asleep still. One was snoring.

Duncan had known and even seemed to be somewhat expecting the men. Other Wardens perhaps? New recruits? It didn't matter.

Longing for even a nearby stream she could wash her face in, Nike headed over to where the horses stood tethered. The saddles and supplies were stacked nearby, and she spotted a canteen. Just by lifting it she could tell it was close to full. A quick sniff at the lip told her it was not alcohol. She dipped a drop or two out over her fingers and then, satisfied it was water, crouched. She poured a generous splash over her hands and face. Her skin immediately stung with the cold, but she didn't care. She mopped at her face with her hands, then did the same for the back of her neck.

"Apple?"

She looked over to see one of the newcomers was sitting nearby against a tree. He had his knees drawn up and he was coring a small, sour looking apple with a tiny knife. Another three or four apples sat beside him, none of any improved quality. His hair was short and somehow boyish in cut, and his smile at her was affable.

When she only looked at him and said nothing, he said, "What, apple got your tongue? Wait, let me guess. An apple killed your uncle-"

She stiffened at the same moment he seemed to realize what he had said. His face drained of color, his smile vanishing. "I'm…I'm so sorry, I didn't-"

Grabbing the canteen she sealed it up again, slinging it back where she'd found it. The man was on his feet now. The apple he'd been coring was in one hand, the small knife dangling in the other.

"Really, I am…I am so sorry. I wasn't thinking. That was a dreadful thing to say-"

"Who are you?" she asked, and her voice was even icier than she'd intended.

"I'm Alistair," he said. "You were asleep when we arrived last night-"

"You're more Grey Wardens, I take it?" she asked, glancing around at the other two fellows, who were still sleeping.

"I am," he said. "The other two are recruits, like you-"

She fixed him with another look, one that dared him to call her a 'recruit' again. Then, before he could speak, she jerked her chin toward the other apples still laying on the ground.

"Give me one of those."

"One of…oh!" He looked around, then picked up one of the anemic apples. "I'm afraid they're a bit bitter."

"I don't intend to eat it," she told him as she took it from him.

"You're not going to throw it at me, are you?" he asked. She ignored him, turning instead toward the grulla. The horse flattened his ears again and eyed her, but when he sniffed the apple he took it without nipping at her. "Oh, of course. For…for the horse."

She said nothing, not looking at him. Instead, she rubbed her knuckles over the dish in his forehead, the way Duncan had the previous day. The beast seemed to appreciate that. He kept his ears back but they were more relaxed now, not tight flat as they had been. His eyes sank half closed and she could feel him pressing against each rub.

"He's yours then?" Alistair asked. He seemed desperate to make conversation.

"Yes," she said, and she supposed it was true. Mean-tempered and ugly as the animal was, she had more or less claimed him hadn't she?

"He looks…solid," he said, and her gaze shifted back to him. He gave a hopeful shrug. "Sturdy. Bet he could go for miles."

She said nothing, only fixed him with another look, and after a moment he cleared his throat. "What's his name?"

Name? She had not thought of a name. Before she could respond, Duncan interrupted them, striding over.

"We will be departing shortly. We should reach the road by midday, and join a final contingent from Lothering heading in to Ostagar. With luck we will arrive at the ruins by sundown tomorrow."

"Yes, Duncan," Alistair said. "I'll see to getting the horses ready."

As he stepped past, Duncan looked at Nike. "You have met Alistair. The other two gentlemen who joined us are Ser Jory and Daveth. They are both recruits as well."

Still rhythmically rubbing the horse's head with her knuckles she said, "Ser Jory? Is he from Highever?"

"He is," Duncan said. "Do you know him?"

She shook her head. Though she knew he must be well aware, she did not want to confess she had not been sleeping the night before, and had overheard their conversation.

"He served your father at the keep for a few years," he said. "It is unsurprising you do not know him. With so many coming and going, you cannot be expected to have memorized the names and faces of them all."

"They brought some supplies with them?" she asked.

"Yes, a few."

"Any arrows?" she asked, and finally looked at him. The still empty quiver hung over her shoulders. She had not removed it since leaving her parents behind, even to sleep.

"I believe Daveth has a stock," Duncan said with a nod, then turned and headed back to the fire. The two other men had started to stir, sitting up and yawning. Duncan approached the smaller of the two and spoke to him. The other man was large, with the burly build of most soldiers. His rusty red hair was just past the point where it could be called mere thinning. A significant slab of his scalp was visible under the short bristles.

If the smaller, dark haired man was Daveth, than he had to be Jory. She looked at him a moment, but other than a vague possibility of recognition, she felt nothing. If he had served at the keep with her father, a younger Nike had taken no particular note of him.

"Breakfast, milady?" Tahja asked, suddenly at Nike's elbow. In her hands she had a small chunk of cheese, some bread that looked a far sight less stale than the previous night's fare, and what looked like strips of dried meat. At home, Nike would have scoffed at such an offering, but after three days of eating worse or nothing, it looked like the elf was offering her a bounty.

"You're Maker sent, Tahja," she said, and the elf blushed a little.

She went back to her previous spot and sat down after accepting the elf's offering. Holly had returned from her rooting in the wood and sat beside her, eagerly staring at the food as she had the night before.

Duncan came over just as Nike finished, giving the mabari the last tear of jerky. In his hands he carried a dozen arrows. She got to her feet as he approached, wiping her hands off on her dirty trousers.

Putting the arrows into the quiver made her feel better. Just arming herself with a weapon she knew how to use allowed to her let go of some of her misery and grief. It gave her a small sense of power in the midst of the powerlessness she'd felt now for days.

The others were wolfing down their small portions of breakfast as well, as Alistair saddled up the horses. She watched him a moment, wondering why he was doing it. He was a Warden. The other two men were only recruits, and would be under his orders, would they not?

Perhaps it had less to do with rank and more to do with age? Ser Jory was obviously into his middle years, his short bristles starting to gray a little. Daveth, though he had no such gray in his hair, seemed to be much the same. Alistair, though, looked little older than Nike.

As he went to saddle the grulla, she smirked in amusement as the horse made a swift lunge at the man's leg with his teeth. Alistair jumped back, clumsy, and nearly dropped the saddle.

"Well that's nice!" he said as the horse glared at him. It seemed to almost be daring him to try again.

"Here." Nike went over and took the grulla's halter, controlling his head and rubbing at that spot he seemed to like. As Alistair warily approached again and lifted the saddle onto his back she said, "Don't take it personally. He hates everyone."

"Oh, that's disappointing," Alistair said. "I was thinking of naming one of my kids after him. The grumpy one with the funny shaped head."

For the first time in what felt like eternity, Nike let out a laugh. It was brief and quick, the mirth burned out almost as soon as it had flared up. She scowled a little at herself.

Alistair looked at her through the corner of his eye as he bent, buckling the saddle. "It's all right," he said. She shook her head.

"I should not be laughing when the bodies of my family aren't even cold," she said. "While Howe eats at our table, drinks our wine."

"I don't think they'd begrudge you-" he started, but she interrupted him before he could finish, uninterested in his empty consolations.

"Are you finished with the saddle?"

"Yeah," he said after a moment, straightening after giving the buckle a final small tug. "All trussed up."

The horse was letting out little grunts of pleasure at the knuckles against his head. Alistair smiled at her a little.

"Seems he likes you at least."

"No, he just likes having this spot rubbed," she said. To prove her point, she stopped rubbing and released the horse's harness. Immediately, his ears flattened and he snapped at her. Expecting it, she easily kept herself from the bite. "You see?"

"Well, then no problem," Alistair said brightly. "When we get to Ostagar, we'll just send him at the darkspawn. They'll never know what hit them."

Nike got the feeling he was trying to make her laugh again and resented him for it. She knew she shouldn't. He seemed a decent enough man, if a bit of an oaf, and she knew he was only trying to help.

There is no helping something like this, she thought as she went back over to where Tahja was putting out the campfire. Short of sticking a knife in Howe's beating heart, there is no helping.

They started off before the sun was well up, wending in a line through the trees. Tahja was, once again, riding behind Duncan at the lead. Nike was not officially bringing up the rear, but more often than not she found herself there as she got lost in thought. Without real lead, her horse took to wandering behind the others. Holly was usually at her side, but now and again she ran ahead, or disappeared into the undergrowth. Once, she came back with blood on her jowls, and Nike knew she'd managed to catch something for lunch.

Ser Jory tried riding beside her for a time at the outset. Like Alistair, he expressed his sympathies at what had happened at Highever, telling her he had served under her father for a few years and repeating what a tragic, tragic thing it was to have happened. He swore to ride back with her and the King after the mess at Ostagar was resolved, to help her bring Howe to justice. After a while, his energy faded out. He seemed to realize all her responses had been, at most, grunts or pointed looks. He watched her sadly for a long while, then. It was even more irritating than his jabbering had been. Eventually, he went back ahead and left her alone.

Then, nearly midday, Alistair also dropped back to her side. He at least didn't seem keen on reminding her of exactly what she wanted to forget, but instead seemed to just want to chat.

"I hear you're quite a hand at the bow," he said. He grinned at her so affably, it was as if he thought they were on a pleasant Sunday countryside jaunt, with a picnic waiting for them up ahead.

"Who told you that?" she asked.

"Well…Duncan."

"Duncan wouldn't know, would he? He hasn't seen me shoot."

"Oh. So you carry it around then because you're rubbish? Hoping you just need to ride in on your bitey mean horse and throw arrows at darkspawn, and they'll take off with their skirts flying?"

"Darkspawn wear skirts do they?"

"Hey, I don't judge."

She looked at him, appraising . Was he just trying to lift her spirits in a misguided attempt to make things go away that never could or would, or was this just his personality? She wasn't so certain any more.

"How long have you been a Warden?" she asked.

"Oh, not long," he said.

"What made you decide to become a Warden? Or were you conscripted?"

Like me, she nearly added, but thought better of it.

"No, I volunteered. I decided the retirement package was too good to pass up."

She eyed him again. "What did you do before?"

"Well, I was trained to be a Templar," he said. "I ended up joining the Wardens just before taking my oaths."

"A Templar?" This surprised her a little, though why she could not say. Thinking he might take offense at her shock, she added, "Their retirement package not as good?"

He laughed. "Oh no, it's more that I've never been terribly fond about having my face cursed off."

"So getting it ripped off by the darkspawn is a better prospect?"

"Yes. At least with the darkspawn, they've got to get up close to rip your face off. A mage can do it without even getting up from his breakfast table."

"You're joking."

"Yes, I am," he said with a grin. "Honestly, mages aren't that bad. The thing is, I didn't actually make a choice about being a Templar. It was sort of…made for me. I have nothing against Templars, but being a Warden-"

"That at least was something you could pick for yourself," she said, understanding.

"Exactly. Then if it all goes horribly wrong I have no one but myself to blame."

"Are mages not really that bad?" she asked. He looked at her.

"What, never met a mage?"

She shook her head. "No. Not that I was aware of, anyway. You just…hear stories."

"Well, you'll be meeting a few soon. Word is that group from Lothering's got a few Circle mages and Templars with them; reinforcements from the Tower. Mages are just people, they just-"

"Can curse your face off without even getting up from their breakfast table?"

"…yes," he said slowly. "Well, anything sounds dreadful when you look…at the dreadful bits of it. I mean, it's-"

He broke off abruptly, hand going to his sword as he looked forward along their small group. His expression had gone still, his focus intense. Without pause, she snatched an arrow from the quiver and set her bow. Ahead, Duncan had brought his horse to a halt, drawing his own sword. Daveth and Ser Jory were also drawing theirs in reaction.

"What is-?" she started to ask, her eyes scanning the trees around them.

"Darkspawn," he said, before she could finish. He put his heels to his mount's side and rode forward toward Duncan. Nike did as well, passing Jory and Daveth. As she got to the older Warden's side she wordlessly reached out. Catching hold of Tahja's arm, she helped her to swing off the mare and onto the back of the grulla, behind her. If there was fighting to be had, better the elf be out of the way with the archer and not with someone who had to swing a sword.

As Tahja's hands gripped her waist, Nike was still scanning the trees. All was silent, but she could not see any sign of anyone there but them.

Then Duncan said, "There aren't many. A scouting group perhaps. Lady Cousland, fall back. They're coming in from the north."

She looked where he was looking but could still see nothing. Obeying, she drew the grulla back from the others to give her space for her arrows. Holly had gone off into the woods again about ten minutes before. Nike wanted her back but didn't dare whistle to bring her there. If the darkspawn were not aware they were there, drawing attention to themselves would be foolish.

She kept her arrow set but loose, hoping the grulla would be guided with knee pressure and not the reins in case they had to move. Having to rely on a horse whose abilities she did not know made her, not for the first time, desperately miss Caspi and his training.

All sound seemed to have vanished from the world. Even the leaves were not rustling. Then…the distant sound of human voices yelling, animalistic snarls, and clashing steel. It was to the north but some distance off, a hundred yards or more through the trees. She could not see who was fighting or exactly where. There were odd little pops of colored light she could not explain, close to where the sounds had issued.

Strangely, both Duncan and Alistair seemed to relax. The elder Warden turned around and looked at them. "The darkspawn ran into the road, and the group from Lothering. Come. By the time we reach them the matter will be settled."

He sheathed his sword, and as he did, Nike nudged the grulla forward to rejoin the other two recruits, reluctant to stow her bow. Without speaking, they followed the two Wardens forward. In the distance, the sounds and flashes of color seemed to slow, and then finally, to die.