'People fear, not death, but having life taken from them. Many waste the life given to them, occupying themselves with things that do not matter. When the end comes, they say they did not have enough time to spend with loved ones, to fulfil dreams, to go on adventures they only talked about….But why should you fear death if you are happy with the life you have led? if you can look back on and say, 'Yes, I am content.' It is enough.' –Archmage Wynne of the Tower of Magi of Ferelden, Representative of the Aequitarians, Veteran of the Fifth Blight, friend to the Grey Wardens of Ferelden.


~ Highever's Harbour, Highever, 20th Bloomingtide, 9:16 Dragon ~

Eleanor Cousland sighed as the sea breeze tried to undo her greying fair hair from the braided bun that she had placed it in.

Never before had she felt sadness when confronted by the sea—she was a daughter of the Storm Coast, the sea was in her blood, she had been raised on warships—but today she felt sadness, a sense of lost and a heavy-heart as she stared at the ship that would be taking her Bran away for several years.

Her precious Kenna was bawling, the toddler clinging to her elder brother with all the strength in her chubby limbs.

"Mother…" Bran pleaded towards her, a tanned hand rubbing his youngest sister's back in a vain attempt to soothe her, his blue eyes screaming a plea of help.

"Stay!" Kenna wailed, snot and tears marring her face that she then buried into her brother's neck making him grimace and look desperately towards his mother. "Bran! Stay!"

Eleanor took her wailing toddler, ignoring her flailing limbs as she attempted to keep hold of her brother, and held her close.

Kenna turned her sadness into fury, screaming a battle-cry that made Eleanor wince, and balling her fists up as she glared furiously around her—Eleanor was somewhat relieved that Kenna didn't lash out in her tantrums, that she may scream and shout and cry, but she never lashed in the violence when overcome with her emotions.

Eleanor looked towards her youngest son, her darling Bran, and tried to commit every detail to memory. The way the breeze tugged at his dark hair, his Cousland blue eyes staring sadly at Kenna, his tanned skin from hours spent outside and on the little row and sailboat that her father had given him to learn the very basics of sailing.

He would be different when he returned, older and taller. A true raider of the Storm Coast, even a captain of his own ship, no longer her little boy.

"You have to write letters," Caitlyn, her beautiful eldest daughter, demanded her elder brother. "Every week if possible."

"It takes about a week to get a letter from the Storm Coast to Highever," Bran argued against his fair-haired sister making her sniff in almost disgust

"That's only if you use courier," she informed him smartly. "Grandfather has several ravens trained to deliver messages."

"Important messages," Bran remined her making her glare up at him with her own Cousland blue eyes flashing with warning.

"And are we not important? Isn't it important to reassure your family of you continued health and happiness?" she asked him sharply making Eleanor smile slightly—her little politician in the making, she thought almost fondly.

"You're impossible," Bran sighed as he tugged her into a hug.

"Thank you," she informed him primly as she pulled back, tears brimming in her eyes as she stepped back from Bran in an attempt not to delve into tears that would rival her younger sister—eight years-old and already believing herself to be grown up, Eleanor thought to herself with a hint of bittersweet pride.

"When you return I'll be a knight," Fergus, her bold Fergus, promised his brother. "And I will still be knocking you on your arse, no matter what you pick up when you're gone."

"Fergus!" Eleanor chided as Bryce chuckled from beside her making her give him a short glare—he was not helping!

"When I come back," Bran began almost mildly, "I'm going to knock you on your smug ass and laugh at the look on your smug face."

"Brannon!" Eleanor chided again as Fergus grinned at his brother.

"You can try little brother, you can try," he taunted, and Eleanor shook her head in disbelief.

"Little boys, I'm surrounded by little boys," she despaired quietly as Kenna rested her head wearily on her shoulder, worn out by her fierce emotional upheaval. "I suppose I'm lucky I have two daughters to balance it out."

Bran grinned back, the fierce power of the storm just there in his blue eyes—by the time Bran came back, Eleanor knew, the power would be there in full force—and Caitlyn leaned into her mother for comfort as Bryce stepped forward for his own farewells.

"Stay safe," Bryce told him as he pulled his youngest son into a hug. "Learn all your taught but remember to have fun. Know we love you and we will be here to welcome you home happily."

"I know, Father," Bran told him, clutching his father hard for a moment. "I love you."

"And we love you, my darling boy," Eleanor told him almost tearfully. "Go before we all delve into tears."

Bran smiled at her, a teary little thing that made her want to pull him into her arms and never let go, before turning on his heels and almost running towards the ship that would take him to the Storm Coast.

He didn't look back, Eleanor didn't expect him to, looking back would have made him want to stay and he couldn't stay, everything had already been arranged and Bran had been so excited before the reality of his leaving had sunk in this morning—part of Eleanor felt angry at her father, her father who had cheerfully promised to make her darling boy into a proper Stormer seemingly without thought towards his own daughter's feelings towards having her son taken from her for several years.

(Five years, Fearchar Mac Eanraig had told them, five years and he'll come back a captain of his own ship and on his way to gaining a moniker, her father promised them.

Fifteen, like Eleanor had been fifteen and captaining her own crew and ship though thankfully he wouldn't be expected in taking down Orlesian warships, not like Eleanor had and did with great skill.)

Kenna gave one last wail as her brother disappeared up the gangplank, a tired and mournful one as she sniffed into her mother's neck.

"It's okay, Kenna," Fergus told his little sister, "when he's back you'll be able to knock him down in the Training Grounds, that'll cheer you up, huh?"

"Fergus," Eleanor sighed, both resigned and fond—honestly, did Fergus ever think beyond training and fighting? Sometimes Eleanor wondered. "Come on Kenna, don't you want to wave to Bran? You don't want him to remember you crying, now do you?"

Kenna sniffed as she raised her head, little soft face red and wet from tears and snot.

Bryce had thankfully thought to bring a handkerchief and reached out to clean their youngest's face—to her protests of course.

"Come on, Pup," he told her softly, "it's not forever, now is it? No need for all these tears now."

Kenna huffed at her father as she turned so she could see Bran standing at the rails and waved at him, looking very put-out all the while making Eleanor smile slightly as she raised her own hand towards her son.

Bran waved back at them as the sailors began to shout as they got ready to sail—sail away from Highever, away from the only home that Bran ever knew, away from his parents and siblings—and kept waving until the ship began to leave the pier and out into the harbour itself.

"I'll read out every letter he sends," Caitlyn promised her sister. "And if he doesn't do it regularly, then I will send Fergus to kick his ass until he does."

"Caitlyn!" Eleanor let out a gasp as she stared at her eldest daughter while Kenna seemed appeased by her sister's words. "Honestly, this is your fault Bryce."

"I didn't say anything!" he protested, a hint of merriment dancing in his blue eyes.

"Just give the word, Cait," Fergus grinned, and Eleanor gave up.

"You're all impossible," she declared as she turned on her heel and began to march back to the castle, Kenna giggling at the look on her face as she did. "You will grow up to be mannered even if it kills me."

"No," Kenna told her happily, a big grin showing off her all her baby teeth and dual-coloured eyes dancing—the grief of Bran leaving having fled her mind for the moment. "Won't, won't."

"We shall see, we shall see," Eleanor told her making Kenna just laugh—Eleanor had a feeling she was fighting a losing battle, but her father had no raised her to shirk from a challenge even if the challenge was making sure that her youngest daughter had some manners in her.


~ The Sea Maiden, Storm Coast, 23rd Bloomingtide 9:16 ~

Bran's first thought of the Storm Coast? It was wet.

Storm Coast had the type of constant rain that seeped into your clothes and even into your smalls and gave you the chills.

It was a miserable rainy place, and Bran missed home so much that he almost didn't want to get off the ship.

His grandfather was waiting on the pier, seemingly unbothered by the rain as he watched the sailors begin the process of docking the ship with sharp stormy green eyes and his large arms crossed across his equally large barrel like chest.

Huddled beside him with a coat held miserably over their head was a young person—he couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl, but he could tell they felt as miserable about the rain as he did.

"Alright boy," the Captain stood beside him, "off you get, we'll unload your stuff so don't worry about that."

Bran nodded and hunched his shoulders under his coat as he made his way to the gangplank that was being lowered.

"Bran!" Grandfather's bearded face split into a massive grin and he almost plucked Bran up before he was fully off the gangplank and into a massive hug that made him choke. "Have a good trip?"

"Yes," Bran coughed when his grandfather put him down making the young boy—he could tell now they were basically face to face, and realised he was about his age, maybe a year younger—gave him a sympathetic look that spoke of his understanding of the crushing affectionate hug that Grandfather seemed to excel at giving out.

"Right, Brannon," one massive hand slapped down on his shoulder, "this is Arthyen Trevelyan, your cousin," the other massive hand slapped down heavily on Arthyen's shoulder making his cousin stumbled. "Your Aunt Emogen sent him over to learn as well."

Aunt Emogen, Bran didn't really know her. She was his mother's only sister, the youngest of his grandfather's children, and she had only visited Highever twice in his memory as she lived in the Free Marches—Ostwick if he remembered correctly—and thus couldn't visit as often as his uncles and other cousins could—they only had to borrow a ship (often their own ships) and sail for three days till they reached Highever instead of the almost two weeks between Ostwick and Highever.

"Nice to meet you," Bran told him, meeting stormy green eyes—his mother's eyes, Fergus' eyes, the eyes of the Storm Coast, not the blue he saw in the mirror, not his father's eyes, not Cait's eyes, not the Cousland blue—staring out an unfamiliar deeply tanned face.

"Nice to meet you too," Arthyen told him, a grimace twist on his lips as he tried to keep part of his coat over his dark hair. "Call me Art though, Arthek is a mouthful."

"Only if you call me Bran," he quirked a grin at his cousin making him nod and a ghost of grin twist at his lips before a fat raindrop plopped onto his nose. "Can we get out of the rain now, Grandfather?"

"Hah," Fearchar Mac Eanraig grinned at them, a grin of fierce amusement at their plight, "you'll get used to the rain soon enough."

Both boys gave looks that said they weren't looking forward to that making their grandfather laugh.

"You'll feel better once there is some food in your bellies," he told his grandsons with a grin as he turned towards the path that would take him to the Stormer's Keep. "Come on, we don't have all day."

The two cousins shared a look before stumbling after their grandfather.


Kenna's heart was beating fast as they fought their way closer to the kitchen, closer to the pantry, closer to where Father should be.

What if they were too late? Gilmore had said he was in a bad way, why didn't Father believe her?

The glow-lamps were dim, the moonlight was struggling through the window, the kitchen laid almost untouched—no victims for the soldiers to butch—and Kenna felt some small relief that Nan hadn't been stubborn and stayed behind instead of going to safety of Lowever.

The door to the pantry was open just a jar, a glow spilling from the gap, and Mother didn't hesitate as she crossed the kitchen in several long strides and pushed open the door.

"Bryce!" she called for her husband and Kenna moved forward, ignoring Caitlyn's out-stretched hand and Bran's attempt to block the door.

"There you all are," her Father's voice was weak and wavering, and Kenna was hit by the understanding why her elder siblings tried to keep her back, to let them go first.

A dark-haired man was crouched over her father, glowing hands attempting to heal him as her father—HER FATHER—laid in his own blood and her mother dropped to her knees, blood sticking to them, and reached out with trembling hands.

"I feared the worse," her father coughed as his wife reached out to soothe him.

"Don't talk, my love," her mother told him as she gathered him close. "Can he move?"

The mage grimaced as he leaned back on his heels, blue eyes stared grimly into the Teyrna's eyes as he softly shook his head.

"Father…." She almost choked out, stumbling forward and slapping away Bran's hands as he attempted to stop her.

"Kenna," he reached out with one blood stained hand and she could see her father's guts—they had gutted him, had made sure he couldn't be saved, had made sure he died in prolonged agony—and Kenna felt a scream build in her throat—


~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 18th Cloudreach 9:18 Dragon ~

Kenna bolted up in her bed, screaming as hot tears ran down her face.

She screamed and screamed as the glow-lamps flared to life, screamed as Caitlyn scrambled out of her bed, screamed as the door slammed open and her father stood there, screamed as he reached for her and all she could see was blood—his blood, he was dying, he was dying, they killed him, they had gutted him like an animal, they had left him to die in a pool of his own blood—until Caitlyn grabbed her, fingers tangling in her sweaty red locks and pushing her face into Caitlyn's shoulder, cutting off her sight.

Kenna choked and coughed before she sobbed brokenly into her sister's shoulder, hands fisting the back of Caitlyn's nightdress.

She knew without looking that Fergus would be stumbling through the door in any moment, he would reached out and pull her from Caitlyn's grasp, holding her close and swaying like she was still a baby while her parents—he was dying, he was dying, they killed him—would back away, knowing from experience that they made things worse.

All the while, Kenna would be sobbing as images of her nightmare—the future, something in her hissed—continued to assault her.


Caitlyn leaned against the closed door of her parents' room; ear pressed near the keyhole as she listened.

"It's been over a month," her mother pointed out, a waver in her voice. "It's getting worse."

"Nightmares are something all children go through," her father tried to reason.

"Those aren't nightmares!" her mother hissed, "those are terrors! Nightmares don't cause children to scream like they are being killed, nightmares don't make children flinch away from their own parents! These are not simply nightmares Bryce!"

"Then what do you expect me to do? What can we do?" her father was frustrated; she could almost picture him rubbing his hands over his bearded face.

"We need to write to the Circle, get a mage or a Templar or both," Mother told him quietly making Caitlyn strain to hear. "Perhaps they can help."

"You think Kenna's a mage?" Father's voice was thick with disbelief. "Because of some dreams?"

"You can't make light of her dreams, Bryce, and you know it," Mother snapped at him. "Yes, maybe they are a sign she's a mage, or she's being tortured by a demon for some sick reason, I don't know. All I know is every night I wake up to the sound of my daughter screaming, screaming like she's being killed, and I can't take anymore. I need to know what's wrong, I need to know that we can fix this, that we can help her."

"And what if she is a mage? Are you ready to let them take her away?" Father asked sharply.

"If they can help her, if it is best for her," Mother seemed to hold in a sob, "I will."

"Eleanor…." Father sighed, "I'll write first thing in the morning, Maker help us."

Caitlyn didn't need to hear any more, the ten-year old carefully got to her feet and padded softly back to the nursey she still shared with Kenna—she'd be moving out as soon as she got her moon's blood and the nursey would be transformed into Kenna's own room instead of the shared nursey—and only opened the door wide enough for her to slip in—the door creaked if it was opened to far.

"Well?" Fergus asked her impatiently as he turned to her; Kenna was perched on his hip, face buried into his shoulder, breath hitching in slightly troubled sleep.

"They think she's a mage," Caitlyn told her elder brother softly as she crossed over to him, placing a hand on Kenna's back. "Father's going to send a letter to the Circle in the morning."

"Kenna? A mage?" Fergus scoffed as he swayed slightly when Kenna murmured in her sleep. "Pull the other one."

Caitlyn glared up at him; he was just fifteen and already almost matching Father's height, glaring had become a chore to her neck, but she still went through with it.

"That's what Mother thinks, she thinks the dreams are a sign," Caitlyn told him making Fergus shake his head slightly.

"If Kenna was a mage, we'd know about it," he insisted, "this dreams don't mean that."

"That what do you think they mean? You know what she sees as well as I do even, what do you think they mean?" she demanded making Fergus clench his jaw.

Only they knew what Kenna kept dreaming about, she couldn't bring herself to tell their parents and they didn't know how to tell them. How does one tell their parents that every night their little sister dreams of their father's death?

"Aldous told me about Rivain," he began slowly, "they have these women they call seers, perhaps Kenna is like them."

"If she is…." Caitlyn trailed off as they shared grim looks. "We should wait to see what the mage or Templar says."

"Cait," Fergus reached out with his free hand and grabs her arm, "Cait, if what she's seeing is true—"

"We don't know that," she hissed at him.

"—then you and Bran have to take care of her," he finished like she had said nothing, "we know I'm not there for whatever reason, so you need to take care of her."

"It's not going to happen, Father going to be fine," she insisted as tears gathered in her blue eyes, "no one is going to attack us!"

Fergus just watched her steadily and a bit sadly as if he already decided that Kenna was seeing the future, like that made more sense then having some demon messing around with her dreams.

Caitlyn hated him slightly in that moment, she also hated herself as she realised that she believed like he did.

"I'll keep her safe," Caitlyn promised as she stroked Kenna's back, "I promise."

Fergus nodded, a hint of relief in his stormy green eyes.

"We should get her back into bed," he told her, "don't want her to wake up in pain after all."

Caitlyn stood back as Fergus carefully set Kenna back into bed, covering her up and pressing a kiss to her still slightly sweaty forehead without a grimace—he would make a good father one day, Caitlyn dimly realised.

Fergus straightened and gave her a soft look, he didn't move to hug her in a vain attempt to reassure her—they both know that would just make her cry and Caitlyn hated crying—before he left and shut the door behind him.