I do not own Dragon Age, etc. Arella is not mine, either; she belongs to Hermia S, who is awesome and has been supporting me through this the entire way.

I'm not entirely happy with the flow of this chapter, but it had to be done. Redcliffe is next!

BANNHAMMER, I'M COMING FOR YOU, BABY!

Adapt.

It kept repeating in her mind like the Chant; it honestly felt like she was praying to Duncan with his own command. Catherine wasn't accustom to loss, after all, mages just tended to 'disappear'. Death was never actualized in the Tower; there were rumors and speculation and obvious signs, but no confirmation, and that made all the difference.

It was that realization that caused her to appreciate Duncan all the more; adapt hadn't been an order. It was mercy; advice of a man who knew all too well the agony of loss – of duty. Perhaps the thought was cold, but who could blame him? Her eyes were drawn to Alistair as he only just seemed to manage to put one foot in front of the other, gaze not leaving the dirt path leading to Lothering. His usually unbearably chipper demeanor and wide smile had been replaced with a pinched brow and an unbelievably depressing frown. The ex-templar had become so introverted she scarcely believed it was the same man who had blurted out that she was, in fact, a woman within the first minute of meeting him.

Was it better to end up like that? To care so much that it felt like your world was falling apart without that one person? Duncan had told her to adapt; Alistair was doing anything but. Maybe it was odd, considering she'd known her 'rescuer' for less than a week, but she was mourning him, as well. It was a dull ache between her ribs; she didn't care for it much, but for whatever reason it seems to give her focus – a constant reminder of who she needed to emulate and why.

Catherine's gaze shifted to the 'Witch of the Wilds' that had been... volunteered to join the two Wardens. The young mage knew a bitch when she saw one, and Morrigan reeked of ice queen. Power rolled off her in waves and the woman walked with a dignity that made Catherine jealous. Her eyes were an unsettling yellow that seemed to pierce through anything they looked at.

She may not have liked the witch much, but she certainly respected her.

The mabari – Damon, she named him, in honor of the last man she had been with - help cure plodded happily along side Alistair, occasionally bumping into him in an attempt to get a pet or a 'good boy' or some of the cheese that the Warden kept in his pocket. Catherine was more than a little apprehensive about the beast of a dog, but she didn't mind having him along - everything she possessed already smelled of wet fur, anyway.

They had walked in silence for most of the trek out of the swamp, more out of necessity than a real desire for quiet, and now that they had finally made it into what looked to be more civilized country, Morrigan had sped up, gracefully, until she was walking side-by-side with her, while Alistair continued to bring up the rear.

"So," the witch began, looking down at Catherine from the corner of her eye, "I've noticed that you're quite the talented mage. I assume you must be a rarity amongst your fellow prisoners; 'tis the only reason I can think of as to why you all remain as such."

Catherine snorted. "I am a rarity. The only person that could defeat me, without question, was my mentor, the First Enchanter." she paused. "Oh, and there was a delightful little elf, as well. She was no where near as good as me when it came to offense but the dear was quite the little healer." Her hand flew up dismissively and scoffed. "Not that I've ever bothered with such things."

Morrigan's plush lips twisted into a rather icy grin. "Oh, my, but you are full of surprises, aren't you?" Clucking her tongue, her voice took on a rather condescending tone. "You are aware how foolish it is to disregard a school a magic entirely? It is idiotic and irresponsible to ignore healing simply because you cannot master it."

"Oh? Is that what I'm doing?" Catherine replied sarcastically. "Well, thank goodness I have you here to set me straight, Morrigan. Maker knows I should just learn how to turn into a giant spider." She cleared her throat and took on a lilt akin to her fellow mage. "'Tis the only path to true power, after all."

To her surprise, Morrigan actually let out a small titter – quickly stifled though it was. "I doubt you could manage something so complex when you can't even mend a small scratch."

Her eyebrow rose in challenge. "I could waste my time attempting to master something that I know I have no affinity for," Catherine brought a finger up to stall whatever scathing retort Morrigan had planned, " or I can focus on what I am good at. One never truly masters magic; there is always more power to be found and I intend to do just that." Confidant she had made her point, her arm fell back to her side and she jerked her chin up proudly, straightening her posture.

There was a long period of thoughtful silence; she could see Morrigan's brow furrow in contemplation out of the corner of her eye. Finally, she chuckled. It was short and rough, obviously rarely used, but it was a laugh.

"Very interesting. Perhaps this won't be as ghastly as I expected." she murmured, almost too quiet for Catherine to hear.

Just as she was about to respond, there was an indelicate snort from behind them.

"Maker; are you two bonding?" Alistair asked while kicking the ground as he walked.

She and Morrigan looked at each other, eyes running up and down as if they were appraising the other's worth. They shared a not-so-friendly smile and turned slightly so that they could see the sulking templar out of the corner of their eyes.

"Yes." The mages said in unison.

Alistair's head shot up and his eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He visibly shuddered and eyed them warily. "Great. Sodding wonderful. As if I don't have enough to deal with." he muttered, hand drifting to scratch Damon behind the ear. "You'll keep me safe, won't you boy?"

The mabari shook his head vigorously and chuffed, nipping at Alistair's hand.

"Ow!" he whined, rubbing the injured body part. "Andraste preserve me! You're all against me!"

Catherine said nothing, but her lips curved into a sly grin as she nudged Morrigan in the ribs, eyes sparkling with mirth. Morrigan's head snapped in her direction, glaring murderously, but it didn't last long; the stern look on her face melted away and gradually, the corners of her mouth twitched up and she gave her a small shove with her hip in response.

She found herself asking the witch a series of questions, mostly about the fauna and flora of the area, occasionally delving into the shapeshifting magics she seemed so fond of. If Morrigan found it aggravating, she didn't let on; perhaps she enjoyed having someone of a likened mind to speak to – who wasn't a nutty old woman, anyway.

Alistair continued to brood, though he did perk up slightly as they neared the outlying farms of Lothering; Damon finally convinced him to through a stick for him as they walked, and the man even laughed a few times.

Perhaps things weren't as horrid as they seemed.

Catherine could have slapped herself.

See what happens when you start thinking in cliches, Cat?

Lothering was a ghost town, even with most of its population intact.. Fear clung to the town thickly; you could hear sobbing children and the frantic whispering of townsfolk from all sides. Refuse piled on the streets, adding to the already putrid smell of sweat, tears, and pure terror.

Beggars and refugees clawed frantically through the rotten garbage like insects. Merchants bled the poor and confused dry. Templars did nothing to drive off the highwaymen preying on those fleeing from further south, and to top it all off: Grey Wardens were considered traitors to the crown.

People were trying to kill her; whether due to orders, out of desperation, or just stupidity – well, Catherine honestly couldn't tell the difference any longer. She had done her best to help in what little ways she could: a few health poultices here, some silver there. It earned her Morrigan's scorn, and seemed to open Alistair up more, but to be perfectly honest, she just didn't care about them.

Nor did she really care about these refugees; most of them would die, and many more people would join them in the coming months, but she was there and she could, at least, make their passing somewhat easier, maybe even get them started to Denerim before the horde made its pass.

The stubborn town was full to bursting, thus, once they had restocked, Catherine decided that they would camp just outside Lothering – more to just get away from the smell than some altruistic impulse. Not to mention she preferred not to be in a closed space with the two new members of their merry band.

Sten, the qunari, was... otherworldly. For being a cold-blooded murderer of an unarmed family – children and all – he had remarkably soulful but ultimately unsettling violet eyes. Stoic wasn't a strong enough word to describe the giant, but it would have to do; his muscles were corded and thick and Catherine was honestly surprised every time he managed his way through a door frame. If nothing else, he'd certainly scare off any bandits who thought their camp would be an easy mark.

The red-headed lay sister, Leliana, was on the other side of the spectrum. She chatted incessantly about everything and to everyone. The woman was gorgeous with her steely blue eyes and flame-orange hair, petal soft lips and curvaceous figure, and her singing voice had a haunting quality to it that seemed to float about the campsite with a natural ease. Downside was, Leliana had a vision from the Maker that told to 'fight the good fight'.

Catherine hadn't been thrilled at the thought of bringing either of the crazies, but she was no fool. Leliana had proven herself tenfold against Loghain's men, and Sten was a qunari – the latter might seem ridiculous but she was fairly certain his people didn't conquer the northern islands with their ridiculous good-looks and charming disposition.

Things could be worse, she supposed. She wasn't really sure how at this point, but she had no doubt she'd learn quite quickly. Better to be a pleasantly surprised pessimist than a soul-broken optimist.

Both Sten and Leliana seemed to understand how camping out worked. Morrigan set up the main campfire and got dinner started before erecting her own lean-to further away. Alistair and Damon went to hunt, or, barring the need, they gathered firewood. Sten cleaned their weapons and armor, Leliana did the laundry and Catherine set up the tents.

After all their prospective chores were done, they all grabbed a bowl of 'whatever stew' and went to their places; Sten sat away from the campfire, though not as far as Morrigan, Damon laid by Catherine's side, and Leliana and Alistair sat with her.

"He is such a handsome dog, Cat." the lay sister said, gesturing toward the beast gnawing on a bone. She gasped suddenly and let out a poorly hidden giggle. "Dog, Cat. That's so cute!" A bright smile appeared on her face before she took a bite of her dinner. "What's his name?"

The mage smiled at her mabari fondly, he seemed to sense her eyes and attempted to crane his neck so that he could see his mistress without turning. After several attempts, he let out a doggy sigh and went back to chewing on his bone.

"Damon." she replied, patting him on the haunches.

"Oh! Such a strong, masculine name!" Leliana cooed, cocking her head slightly. "Is there a story behind it?"

Alistair quirked an eyebrow at her as well, obviously curious.

Catherine grinned. "It's the name of the last man I was with before I was recruited to the Wardens."

Leliana's eyes widened. "He left an impression, then, yes? Your lover?" she pouted, hands wringing. "Oh, dear, you weren't forced to leave your love behind, were you?"

"Damon? Not at all." she shrugged. "He's the most recent and he liked to use his tongue quite a bit. I thought it fitting."

Alistair's nose crinkled in disgust. "Oh ew. I'm trying to eat here!"

Leliana giggled. "Sounds like Cat's friend was, as well, no?"

"What in the Maker's name are you on about?" Alistair asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

Before Catherine could respond, Leliana dashed over to the templar's side, hitching up her Chantry robes to avoid tripping. She plopped down, rather unladylike, and began murmuring to him while making very animated, very lewd gestures.

It took roughly ten seconds for Alistair to turn beet red and run off in the direction of the nearby pond; Leliana turned her attention back towards Catherine, not bothering to hide the triumphant grin on her face.

The lay sister crawled her way over to the mage's unoccupied side. "So you had no one special in your Tower, Cat?" she asked, tilting her head curiously.

Catherine shrugged, but met her eyes. "I didn't have any lovers, no." A sigh whooshed out of her as she fidgeted with her robes. "I had one friend. Arella. She's an Elven mage; smart kid, if a bit on the prudish side at times." She caught her lower lip between her teeth and chewed. "There was Jowan, too, but... we're not friends any longer."

Whatever Leliana's faults, she knew when a subject was off limits. With the grace of a noble, she drew the conversation away from the Tower and to simple things: flowers, music, food and eventually her 'vision from the Maker.'

Eventually, the sister went on watch, leaving Catherine alone to her thoughts. She laid back, resting her head on Damon's side, looking up into the clear, starry night; a sight that never ceased to amaze her. The stars twinkled back and forth as if they were playing notes in a never-ending song; Catherine found her mind wandering back to the Circle Tower.

She thought of Rell never seeing the sky, of Jowan fleeing for his life, and of Cullen's not-so-subtle glances towards her elven friend.

Freedom cost her much, but she couldn't help but hope beyond hope, that they would someday taste it too.