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Cousland is tired. She looks at the towers of Ostagar, majesty and finery now crumbling and ruined, and thinks she knows how they feel. There's blood all over her armour, she has burns in places she didn't know existed, and...
Gone. All of them. She can't think about it too long; if she starts remembering faces, her vision will start blurring, and before she knows it she'll be leaning against a pillar and half on the ground, some guard having found her with tears streaming down her face, nearly crumpled in the dust... (Not the place for a Cousland. Never the place for a Cousland. Their family are honourable; they don't surrender easily, even to grief.) She remembers the man nearly tripping over her on the fringes of the camp, all concerned eyes and meaningless reassurances, and feels ashamed of herself for such a loss of control. She is better than that.
There is a stinging behind her eyes. The quartermaster is staring at her, and she's afraid of losing herself again; she shuts her eyes with a heavy exhale, opening them to focus on the swords in front of her. Find a weapon. Find the last recruit - the mage - and then Alistair. Things are simpler in lists; ordering things, focusing on the little goals, means she doesn't have to think. Thinking is dangerous at the moment. If she can just keep putting one foot in front of the other, maybe she'll be able to clear the fog in her head.
Find the recruit and Alistair. Right.
That plan has to be changed when the mage finds her first. There are a few quiet, shuffling footsteps behind her, a small, "Excuse me," and the first Warden recruit, turning from the weapons, sees the fourth.
Cousland turns, and the mage, seeing the state of her - blood everywhere; hair in a thousand directions; wild, sad eyes - trips over the hem of her robes in shock. Cousland's had several similar reactions from people now, but none quite so... tactless. She sighs, easily catching the mage; said mage, waving her arms around rather unnecessarily, reaches out to steady herself, her hand landing on Cousland's cheek. Cousland feels something warm and pleasant emanating from the misplaced hand, and it takes her a moment to recognise it as healing energy.
The mage manages to detach herself, stepping back in embarrassment, her eyes on the floor. She's wearing the telltale yellow robes of the Magi; they clash with red hair, a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. With a small clearing of her throat, she finally manages to look at Cousland, her cheeks as red as her hair. She crosses her arms over her chest, giving a hasty bow, and blurts in a rush, "Amell. Uh, Josephine Amell. Mage of the Circle and..." A pause. "... well, that's about it."
Unsure whether to laugh or cry - she think she may still be slightly in shock - Cousland cautiously returns the bow. "Diana - " she begins. She's about to say "Cousland," but the name won't come; she can't afford to think of her family if she wants to get through this, and besides... noblewoman she may be, but she thinks she has little dignity left, after what has just happened. "Just Diana," she finishes, ignoring the mage's slight frown. She shrugs. "That's about it."
Recognising the words, Josephine looks up and gives her a slight smile; Cousland suddenly thinks that now those brown, long-lashed eyes aren't constantly trained on the ground, it would be easy to get lost in them. She swallows, pushing the thought to the back of her mind. More important things to do. "We should get moving," she tells her, and they do.
It takes a little searching before they find... well, an argument. Josephine's footsteps pause behind her, and Cousland hears a muttered, "Oh, bollocks."
Cousland turns her head to see a very bothered-looking Josephine staring at the robed, self-important figure a few feet before them and asks, "Something wrong?"
"Enchanter Vesey," Josephine replies through gritted teeth, a wince accompanying her answer. "Hide me."
Cousland looks at her in disbelief; this is going to be a fearless Grey Warden?
She only catches the tail-end of the argument between the two men, but the disgruntled mage turns and storms down the path, heading straight for them. Josephine quickly steps into the space between Cousland and the wall; she puts a hand on her shoulder to move round her, and Cousland, even through the haze of frustration and grief, finds herself far too aware of it for her own sanity. Then it's gone, and Cousland can feel her cowering. Vesey glares at Josephine as he passes, opening his mouth to say something, but promptly shuts it again at the look Cousland gives him.
Good, she thinks. At least she's not utterly useless today. She hears a breath and a rustle of clothing as Josephine straightens, then the two of them make their way up the slope and...
Honestly, the Maker must hate her. Cousland's heart sinks as she recognises the guard that found her earlier. He obviously remembers her too, frowning and beginning, "Are you - ?"
"Would you be Alistair?" she interrupts, in an attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere.
He gives a reasonable attempt at a smile. "That'd be me." With the look of a man trapped in unpleasant memories, he asks her, "I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"
She raises an eyebrow. A throat is cleared, and Josephine steps forward to join the conversation, raising a hesitant finger. "Well, actually..."
The Grey Warden before them winces.
The Korcari Wilds are covering her robes in mud. Jo looks down, grimacing at the state of her boots, then sends another fireball spinning out to finish her last hurlock. She hears the meaty sounds of steel taking flesh, and looks to her side to see her fellow recruit. She can't help the swift exhale, the stopping of her breath; even bloodstained and desperate, for a moment, "just" Diana is dancing, and she's the most gorgeous thing Jo's ever seen.
She wants to wipe the blood and the bruises away - see the face underneath - and she can't for the life of her explain why.
She realises that she's staring; her face heating, she hastily looks away. She dusts herself off, preparing to ask the Grey Warden to collect the needed vial of darkspawn blood, when she hears the clanking of chainmail and, "Josephine." She looks up.
Diana comes to stand in front of her. "Not bad," she says, with a nod and a hint of a smile - the first Jo's seen her wear.
Embarrassed at the compliment, all Jo can really do is give her a sheepish grin and reply, "You're... not too bad yourself."
"Thank you," Diana says, seeming in her own way just as unused to compliments. The smile fades; her thoughts seem elsewhere, her eyes sad and looking through her surroundings rather than at them. She turns to catch up with the others.
"My friends call me Jo." It's blurted out suddenly, without grace.
Diana pauses, looks over her shoulder, and the hint of a smile turns into a full one, bright and genuine - it's the first one Jo has seen her wear. "Jo. Right. I'll remember that."
As she watches the tall, graceful warrior, following her to the small recruiting party, Jo hopes that's a promise.