"In the south you have Alienages, slums both human and elven. The desperate have no way out. Back home, a poor man can sell himself.
As a slave he can have a position of respect, comfort and could even support a family. Some slaves are treated poorly, its true, but do you honestly think inescapable poverty is better?" – Altus Dorian Pavus of House Pavus of Tevinter, Agent of the Inquisition, Tevinter Ambassador to the Inquisition, Founding Member of the Lucerni.
~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 18th Cloudreach 9:24 Dragon ~
"You know, I was foolish enough to be pleased when Guard-Captain Kane sent me to the army," Fergus informed his wife, pacing and gesturing angrily with one hand as the other cradled the chubby form of his infant son to his chest, "I had the misguided belief that it meant I wouldn't have to deal with anymore paperwork. But what do I have to deal with Oriana?"
"Paperwork," Oriana offered as she hid her smile behind a sip of citrus tea as Fergus gave an aggrieved gesture with his free hand.
"Paperwork!" he agreed with great feeling.
Oriana reminded herself that she shouldn't laugh, but truly it was hard to keep her giggles in as Fergus descended into another rant about the evilness of his most dreaded enemy—paperwork.
She made the mistake of laughing once, and the pout that Fergus fell into was adorable, if annoying at the same time.
It was remarkable how much a grown-man could look like his infant son with one pout, she mused as she watched as Oren tugged at one of the golden buttons of Fergus' jacket with his chubby little hands while said man was distracted by his own rant.
"—the forms, Oriana! The forms!" he bemoaned pitifully. "I should have known something was up, I should have realised the trap. Waters smiled at me before I left! I should have taken that as the warning it was! She knew!"
"I'm sure she didn't," she soothed, though she was ignored
Oriana was fairly certain that Guardsman Waters had been well aware that Fergus wasn't escaping paperwork with his leaving the City Guard, and Oriana was also very certain that the other woman had been greatly amused by Fergus' ignorance.
"The handwriting some of them have, Oriana! The handwriting!" Fergus slumped into himself as Oren gave a gummy smile when the button in his hand gave a little under his strong tug. "How am I meant to understand it?"
That was Oriana cue to stand up and sweep her son away before he pulled the button off and placed it in his mouth—again.
"Don't worry my love, you will soldier through this," Oriana brushed a kiss against Fergus' cheek as she adjusted Oren in her hands.
Oren gave her a pout at his fun being taken away when she stepped back, the pout that she knew came straight from his father.
"I need to thrash some idiots," Fergus decided, "particularly idiots that can't fill out a form clearly."
"You make them regret it, my love," she smiled at him as Fergus straightened.
"I will," he declared as he picked up his great-sword from the stand and marched towards the door of their room. "I will see you at dinner."
"Your father, Oren, is very silly," Oriana informed her son after the door closed behind her husband as she pressed a light kiss to his nose.
Oren wrinkled his nose, dark eyes going slightly cross-eyed in the attempt to see where she had kissed him, and Oriana smiled.
~ Caitlyn's Office, Cousland Castle, Highever, 18th Cloudreach 9:24 Dragon ~
Caitlyn smiled her thanks towards Rosina as the elf finished placing the cups and saucers—it was a delicate white china set with a pattern of Cousland blue roses that Bran had commissioned for Cait's fifteenth birthday—on the desk before turning her attention to Dain Cadash across from her.
Alouette was doing her best to figure out the cords for a song that Kenna had taken to singing absently these last few weeks—Cait wasn't sure if her sister had made it up herself, because it almost sounded like she was remembering it though Alouette had never heard of it before.
Her fine dark brows were frowned somewhat as she tapped a pencil against her notebook, curling her torso around her lute as she hummed to herself before scowling and humming a different tune.
Davia had once again taken over the low table, had spread out books and notebooks and was sat on the floor as she sketched something in one notebook, and only pausing to jot down a quick note in another.
Rosina stepped away from the desk and took her own seat somewhere in the middle of her two friends and picked up her knitting-needles—knitting was the one craft that Kenna actually didn't mind doing and something that she bounded over with Rosina—and continued with her project—a jumper, Caitlyn believed, in midnight blue wool that meant it was either for Kenna or Lileas.
"How is the progress with the Alienage?" Caitlyn asked after letting Dain decide if the tea was to his liking.
"Exceeding my expectations," the dwarf admitted after a small hum of pleasure at the taste of the tea. "We may be finished in another three years."
"Impressive," Caitlyn commented, meaning it wholeheartedly as shortening the ten-year timeline into six-years was impressive.
"The elves had proved themselves to be impressive," Dain agreed, he had been slightly dubious of the number of the elves that signed up to help—more than he was expecting, but almost none with any experience—but they had proved themselves over the last three years.
"Has there been any problems constructing the gate?" Cait asked after a sip of her tea.
"No," Dain shook his head, the cup looking almost comedically delicate in his large hands, "Davia's plans were easy enough to follow."
"Good," Cait smiled, pleased.
The Alienage would be a visible safe-haven in the future, near-impossible to be breached from the outside, and would stop enemies looking for Highever's defenders as they would believe the Alienage shielded them.
Unaware of Lowever, unaware of just how many tunnels and passage-ways were hidden throughout Highever, unaware of just what type of hell they had walked in thinking they could take Highever as their own.
Caitlyn may not know who was going to attack them, who was going to betray them—it was a betrayal, Kenna was clear about that, the feeling of betrayal in her chest, of rage and grief making it worse—but she was making sure that she did her own part to defending her home while she was otherwise engaged.
(Caitlyn does her best not to think about the fact that she's going off to fight against the Blight, a Blight that most people are convinced will never happen and a Blight that Cait wished she didn't know was coming while at the same time she was happy that she got time to get used to the idea.)
"I've been thinking about expanding our food-stores," Cait informed the dwarf and he looked at her in interest over his cup of tea, "is that something you can help with?"
"I'm always willing to lend a hand when it comes to a friend," Dain informed her, a slight smile on his lips.
Caitlyn smiled back and set her cup down on the matching saucer before leaning forward; "Shall we plan?"
"Let's," the man agreed.
~ The 'Nest', Lowever, Highever, 18th Cloudreach 9:24 Dragon ~
The Nest—something the Little Birds had dubbed the room like they had dubbed their personal dorms the Roost—was a room near Giles' office and in the part of Lowever that the Little Birds had claimed in their Lady's name, and was filled with soft divans, over-stuffed chairs, plump cushions and thick blankets that Kenna had picked personally—all in shades of dark blue.
It was a room that Asaaranda preferred to curl up in while they read the tomes Surgeon Bellerose assigned them, a fountain-pen tucked behind one ear and their personal notebook next to them for any interesting notes.
"How's the healing coming? Can you heal?" they asked Lileas as she came in and slumped into one of the nearby chairs, their hands pulling their cornrows braids back and tying the lot into a high-pony-tail to keep the white braids out of their eyes while being careful of the pen tucked behind their right ear.
"No," Lileas answered, a frustrated note to her voice as she tucked an errand lock of ashy blonde hair behind one long pointed ear. "My magic isn't made for it apparently."
"Your magic is hard and sharp, not soft and mending," Kenna spoke up from where she was sat in the middle of one of the divans, her legs crossed, her elbows balanced on her knees and her hands locked together as she balanced her chin on them with her dual-coloured eyes gazed into the middle of the room with that distance look that she sometimes got when she saw things others couldn't, "it's meant for spears of ice, bursts of scorching fire, and raging storms. Its shields humming against the skin, roots entangling limbs, earthen armour diamond hard. It's fierce protection and battle-rage."
"So, I am stuck being the only one keeping Lady Spitfire alive then," Asaaranda sighed heavily, electing to ignore what Kenna had said—she'd probably forget that she said anything considering her state. "Hope you don't mind scars, my Lady."
"No, scars don't bother me," Kenna narrowed her eyes almost thoughtfully, her attention focused on something neither of others could, "not Cait's scar or Fergus' and not yours either."
Asaaranda looked up with startled quicksilver eyes and exchanged a look with Lileas.
"Who are you seeing?" Lileas asked as she sat up straight, lips pursed in slight concern.
"I don't know," Kenna replied, a slight scowl of frustration appearing, "but he's mine, he wears my symbol."
And he did, as a golden stud in his left ear and in bold black lines across the left side of his throat was a stylised song-bird and a laurel.
He stared steadily at her, still and silent, with pale eyes that looked a greyish green from the distance she was viewing him from and looked paler because of the deep olive-tone of his skin.
His hair was a dark, inky black, cut almost military short with a few stray wisps that curled across his forehead. A dark scruff clung to his strong jaw and stopped under his sharp cheeks.
He wasn't dressed in Kenna's colours, not really, as his main colour seemed to be black; black trousers tucked into black boots, a black tunic and a long black leather coat that was especially designed not to hinder his movements or even close at the front.
The only spot of colour was the subtle difference between the black tunic and the midnight blue leather vest he wore over it with several belts of throwing knives strapped to it and the slightest glint of dull mental of the chainmail he wore under the vest.
The throwing-knives weren't the only weapon he wore openly, there was a sword belted to his left side, a coil of weighted chain on the right side and two daggers sheathed in his boots—she had the feeling that those weren't the only weapons he wore.
But the thing that stood out the most to Kenna? The silvery scars that covered most of the right side of his face, down his neck and taking a chunk of his right ear—mostly the lobe.
It was like something had clawed at his face, splitting his right thick eyebrow twice, over the eye—not seeming to have damaged it—down across his cheek to his jaw in three jagged lines.
There was two smaller scars, one that seemed to go straight through the line of his lips and one starting just under his lower lip and stopping near his chin, and his throat looked slightly clawed too.
"I don't know you, but you are mine," Kenna scowled at the future-phantom, and the left side of his lips twitched up in a small and short smile. "Who are you?"
He brushed one hand large hand against the tattoo on his throat as if it was an answer to her question, a flash of a scar encircling his wrist shown with the motion, and Kenna narrowed her eyes.
"….Shadow?" she asked tentatively, they were the only one she could think of, the only one that was hers that she was missing.
The man, tall and board-shouldered with surprisingly delicate wrists, gave the small twitch of a smile before fading from her sight with a bow of his head.
And Kenna knew.
A warm shadow at her back, a knife thrown over her shoulder at an enemy coming at her while she was distracted, a strong hand on her shoulder, a muscular chest under her cheek, the rhythmic sound of a whetstone across a blade, a large body curled around hers protectively, pale eyes watchful and cautious, long olive-toned fingers curling around her wrist with ease, a head resting on her thigh, her fingers threaded through short inky locks.
(Pale eyes wide, face looking strangely young in shock and grief, knees buckled as he dropped down next to her, big hands with long fingers trembled as he reached out to touch her face.
A wretched keening sound pulled from his throat as his fingers brushed against cooling skin, board shoulders bowing under grief as he collapsed over her, almost sheltering her from the rain pouring from the summoned storm.
Asaaranda's hand, strong, on his shoulder as they squeezed in an attempt to comfort him, to anchor him, Lileas' screaming, screaming as she ripped apart the battleground, as roots and ice, and the raging storm tore at her enemies for her as she stood unmoving in front of the still form of her Lady, her friend.)
Her Shadow with a face, but no name.
Her Shadow that was close and she needed to find him.
~ Alleys of Highever, 18th Cloudreach 9:24 Dragon ~
"And how long as he been here?" Giles asked curiously as he leaned against the mouth of the alley and peered down to the little hidey-hole the 'he' in question had made for himself.
Not that he could see the guy from where he stood, what with Souren sat in front of him and blocking his line-of-view.
"About a week, possibly longer," Itha informed him, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, grey eyes focused on where her twin sat.
"And you only now think to inform me?" Giles asked with a tone thick with judgement, brows raised as he glanced at her.
"You'd have scared him off," Itha shrugged without apology as she glanced at back at him. "He's only now become comfortable enough with us talking to him."
"Why should I want him?" Giles asked after a moment, catching just a glimpse of short dark greasy hair and the hint of a deep olive-toned forehead.
"He's quick, he's clever enough to know when and which stalls to target to get his food, and he looks strong," the elf shrugged lightly.
"The stall owners have gotten lazy in the last three years," Giles snorted dismissively.
"He's been trained to fight," Itha told him, looking at him with sharp grey eyes. "It's obvious he is from Tevinter even without the shackles still around his wrists.
He was resourceful enough to get from there to here, he hasn't caused trouble, hasn't attacked anyone, kept his head down and only stole enough to feed himself and even then Benji swears he saw him feed some scraps to one of the dogs which shows he has a heart.
He's quick on his feet, gave us the run-around when we first noticed him, and it's obvious that he's strong, I doubt his muscles are for show."
She paused, sharp eyes scanning his face briefly before adding the last thing.
"And I'm pretty sure he's mute."
Giles' eyebrow arched in interest without his permission as he looked down the alley.
"You're an arsehole, you know that?" Itha stated more than asked, her lips pursed with mild disapproval, but no surprise. "You find out he's maybe mute and then you are interested."
"Got to protect my Boss and her secrets," Giles told her airily.
"I think he'd be good at protecting Boss," Itha told him, "you've been complaining about trying to find someone to play body-guard for her. Well, ask and life delivers."
"We'll see," Giles decided as he pushed off the wall and walked down the alley, towards the guy that Itha was convinced could protect Kenna.
He wasn't convinced, not yet.
Pale eyes—a greenish grey with flakes of blue and brown—flickered to him as he neared and the guy tensed—board shoulders that spoke of training, muscular arms—though Souren just gently squeezed the hand in hers—iron shackle with just a hint of cut chain hanging from it was firmly wrapped around both thin wrists, bloodied by attempts to pull it or bash it off.
"It's just Giles," Souren soothed, aiming a smile in the vague area of the guy's face, "he's mostly harmless."
"Especially up against you, I believe," Giles smirked, sharp eyes taking in the guy's face, the pink and red scars that covered the right half of his face, the strong jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the strong line of his nose and the thick brows, a hint of patchy scruff—the other guy had to be about a year or two years older than Giles was, fourteen or fifteen at least.
"You look like you could take me out without breaking a sweat," Giles cocked his head, cat-like and his smirk widened, "not that it would be much of an achievement as I'm not really a fighter."
He stepped a bit closer, and that strong jaw clenched as the other guy watched him closely but said nothing.
"But you, you look like a fighter," Giles mused, pale blue eyes fixed on him, "though why Tevinter would train their slaves to fight, I don't have a fuckin' clue as it doesn't seem smart to give people they abuse and supress the means to fight back," was that a vein pulsing in his throat? Hmm, struck a nerve perhaps, "but I suppose they don't think they have to worry being mages and all."
Still not a sound passed his lips as he watched Giles with distrust.
"Not going to say anything?" Giles asked, a slight taunt slipping into his tone, "can you even understand what I'm saying?"
He squeezed Souren's hand once, his eyes not leaving Giles.
"Yes," she said, glancing over towards Giles with her unseeing eyes, "we worked out a system, one squeeze for yes, two for no."
"Huh," Giles' eyes tranced the scars—thick and still red—that marred the right side of his throat and almost crossed over his Adam's apple, maybe he was really mute after all. "Has anyone told you about our Boss?"
"Yes," Souren answered after he squeezed her hand.
"We told him about her, Giles," Itha added as she hovered behind him.
"I care about her a great deal," Giles continued after a moment, "she's different compared to most nobles, and she has a habit of involving herself in trouble. Like I said before, I'm not much of a fighter and I need someone that is and that can keep up with her, can keep her safe. For some reason, they think you would suit her," he paused as he watched the other guy, "but I don't know. How do I know you won't try and hurt her?"
"No," Souren said after he squeezed her hand twice quickly.
"Why not? Because you care about Souren and Itha?" he asked with raised brows making him squeeze the elf's hand once. "Think you could care about our Boss?"
"Yes," Souren smiled as she answered for him.
"Come on, Giles," Itha huffed behind him, "we both know you're just being an arse now."
"Hmm," Giles studied the young man for a moment, eyes considering, "I suppose we'll have to see what Boss says, won't we?"
Whatever Giles had been expecting when the runaway followed him into the Nest to see Boss, it wasn't Kenna's face lighting up as she stood.
She stood up and walked over without a trace of worry, a grin on her face as the young man stared down at her with confused pale eyes.
"You kept me waiting a long time, Shadow," she informed him, sounding too damn fond for Giles' liking and reaching out and cupping his right cheek. "Welcome home."
Dark lashes fluttered as one big hand reached up and held her hand close to his cheek, his whole face softening under her gentle touch and easy acceptance.
"I told you he'd suit her," Itha elbowed Giles in the side and he hissed, affronted, and glared at the elf.
"I hate and blame you for this," he waved his clawed hand towards where 'Shadow' slumping into the much shorter Kenna.
"What's he doing?" Souren frowned towards the vague direction of Kenna's voice—"Asaaranda, can you come and look him over? Lileas? Could you get a bath ready and some spare clothes? I'll need to get the seamstress here, and the cobbler, oh, I should let Nan know to get a room ready for him."
"Currently?" Itha smirked, smug in a way that made Giles want to hit her—he wondered if that's how Boss felt when he smirked and was suddenly more understanding of the way her hand sometimes twitched like she was going to hit him. "He's purring under her touch and staring at her with full-blown devotion, she's adopted him fully, named him and everything."
"He's like a starving mutt been given food," Giles snorted, glaring unhappily.
"Jealousy doesn't suit you," Itha informed him, still smirking, and Giles sneered at her.