"Garahel always used to say that heroism was just another word for horror, and maybe a worse one.
A hero always feels that he has to do what's right.
Sometimes that leads to tormenting himself with doubt long after the deed is done….or herself…" –Amadis Vael, Princess-Captain of the Ruby Drakes, Lover of the Grey Warden Garahel, alive during the Fourth Blight.
Battle was chaotic.
It was furious battle-cries, and the clash of steel.
It was the punched-out sound of the dying, and cries of pain.
It was blood, and instinct, and death.
There was no distance, no time to stop and collect oneself, to think and plan.
And it reminded Caitlyn exactly why she had picked the bow out of all the weapons available to her, and that was because she liked the distance, the ability to think and calculate, to plan, and to simply breathe.
Close-combat was instinct and reflex, something that Cait wasn't suited too.
She was pinned in by the walls, by the press of enemies that had made it this far in, by the others around her.
She didn't have the space needed to retreat, to breathe, to pick off her targets one by one.
Rosina was good at making sure Caitlyn had some space, that her ability to fight wasn't completely hindered, but she couldn't be everywhere, and Caitlyn still wasn't the best with the blades on her bow—especially designed by Davia.
It wasn't a surprise that Cait left herself open, that she hadn't been able to defend herself fully from an enemy that was trained for close-combat, but it still shocked her, startled her.
His blade coming towards her face, her bow trying to block or parry, her face burning as it was split apart from cheek-bone across her mouth to her chin, hot blood—her blood—slipping down her neck, and she flinched away.
Kenna was there, lips curled up in a snarl that showed blood-stained teeth, a bruise already darkening on her cheek, and one of her swords pierced the man's out-stretched arm, he cried out as he dropped the blade—Cait skipping back, eyes wide and breathing shaky, as she twisted and fired at the enemy coming at her back, getting him in the throat, a killing blow—before Kenna's second blade slashed across his throat.
There was no time to stop, to assess the damage done to her face, to seal the wound with her pastes, not yet, not when there was still enemies alive.
Kenna pulled her sword free and herded herself back, pressing her back against Cait's just as Lileas and Shadow weaved closer, ready to flank, and Rosina retreated back to Cait's side—strawberry-blonde hair braided and pinned back, daggers dripping with blood and a spray of crimson across her armour.
Bran was further away, keeping close to where Oriana was dodging and ducking with all the grace of a dancer and lashing out with thin cuts from her poisoned daggers, as he fought with a sword and a dagger—the family sword (freshly cleaned and sharpened after Caitlyn took it from the Vault earlier—a Vault that would be emptier than Howe was no doubt expecting) tied and sheathed across his back for now, he would give it over to Kenna before he underwent the Joining to become a Grey Warden.
Mother, furious and white-lipped, had planted herself in the doorway of her bedroom with her bow in hand and Father nowhere to be seen.
Almost as soon as it started, it was over, the soldiers were dead and they were given a brief moment to breathe, to assess, as the Bells kept ringing and whatever forces had been left behind under Ser Kenneth's command mounted their defences somewhere.
"Oriana, where's Oren?" Mother called out as she stalked closer, green-eyes narrowed and furious.
"Safe," Oriana informed her as she peered at her blades while Rosina swiftly sheathed her own and began to spread the blood-clotting paste across Cait's wound.
"It looks like it'll scar, my Lady," Rosina informed her softly making Caitlyn nod with acknowledgement, not yet risking saying something.
Her lips had been split open, the scarring would change the shape of her mouth somewhat depending how deep the blade had truly cut.
Speaking now without giving the paste time to work could make it worse, and really, for once, Caitlyn didn't know what to say.
"We need to find Bryce," Mother declared as she glanced over her children, an expression of guilt briefly twisting her features—she hadn't believed them neither and Caitlyn knew that would haunt her mother.
"He's in the pantry," Kenna told Mother without looking up from wiping off the excess blood from her swords—furious and grieving, her words almost bitten off with the force of her emotions, her jaw clenched to not spit out words that she would regret. "He'll be in a bad way."
Mother pursed her mouth but didn't question her youngest.
"Stay close," Mother told them, "and keep each other safe."
Kenna let out a strangled sound almost as soon as they stepped out of the family quarters and she rushed forward, swords gripped tightly in her hand with Shadow close, but not dogging her heels.
She ignored the dying and dead forms of Howe's men, her gaze focused solely on the man that had defeated them, had given his life to defend theirs, hers.
"Ser Kenneth," she knelt, blood-staining the knees of her trousers, and she hovered uncertain, not releasing her swords because she knew, she knew, it was too late, and a heavy hand—warm, as familiar as her own—landed on her shoulder, Shadow squeezed it in silent comfort.
He was propped up against the wall, covered in blood and his eyes still open.
Blood had seeped from his mouth, frozen in bittersweet grin of victory.
"Please…" the word was gasped wetly from behind her, and she moved, twisting from under Shadow's hand, before she thought about it, before the impulse could transition into thought.
Her sword buried itself in the enemy soldier's chest, his body jerking just once as his eyes dimmed and he was gone, dead, dead like Ser Kenneth.
It hadn't been an act of mercy, it hadn't been a kindness, and it wasn't to lessen his suffering.
No, Kenna had been furious grief, had been enraged and seething with hatred that he had dared to beg, beg for mercy or help, when he was one of the reasons that Ser Kenneth—her mentor, her teacher—was dead.
It had been a cruel action.
Perhaps she should feel bad, should feel regret and guilt, and perhaps she will later, when they have escaped the smoke-choked remains of her childhood, when they have put enough distance between them and the men that wish to kill them.
Perhaps then she will be overcome with guilt, with regret. Perhaps she be sick, sickened by her actions and the blood on her hands, perhaps she will cry, cry for the lives lost and the lives she has taken.
But that is worries for future-Kenna, because at the moment, in the present?
Kenna couldn't feel anything apart from twelve-years-worth of grief, rage and spite, those burning emotions that boiled down to questions, to demands, of 'how could he?' and 'how dare they?'.
She pressed a kiss on the bristly cheek of Ser Kenneth, a kiss of farewell, a kiss of thanks, a kiss that said she would remember him.
She turned to the soldier with her sword shoved in his chest, piercing his heart, and braced one foot on his still body as she levered her sword out of the corpse, and looked up with hard and wet eyes.
Caitlyn was looking back at her, her own blood drying on her face and throat, the deep red of paste thickly applied to her wound, bright and deep Cousland blue eyes creased in worry and shadowed by her own grief and anger, one hand bundled into a fist at her side as if she was restraining herself from reaching out, reaching out and gathering Kenna close like she was just a little girl needing her comfort.
"Be at the Maker's side and at peace, Ser Kenneth," Mother intoned, a hitch to her voice, and Kenna looked away from her sister before she did dive into Cait's comforting arms like a little girl.
The luxury of childhood was gone now, she couldn't act the part of child anymore.
"We should hurry," Bran said, his jaw clenched, and his brows furrowed.
There was an explosion in the distance, that made the stone underneath their feet tremble slightly.
"What in the Makers' name was that?" Mother demanded, and Rosina smiled, sharp and brittle.
"That would be Davia's additions to our defence," the elf informed them with a proud glint in her pale green eyes and a bloodthirsty twist to her smile.
"We may not have a castle left to defend if they are all like that," Mother muttered as Bran took point.
"Castles can be rebuilt," Caitlyn spoke carefully, trying not to move her lips overly much. "People can't."
Mother pursed her lips, a hint of chagrin colouring her otherwise pale face, but said nothing.
Lileas brushed her shoulder against Kenna's, and Shadow's warmth was a comfort against her back as they headed towards the sound of fighting.
More blood would be spilled, more deaths would be dealt, and old nightmares would be confronted.
Clashing of swords and shields, the twang of the bows, it was chaos, it was battle.
Death lingered, watchful and cold, and Kenna's blood was pumped hotly through her veins by the war-drum that had replaced her heart.
The force that Fergus had left behind was small, outnumbered, but they weren't unprepared, they hadn't been caught off-guard, and they fought back fiercely, making the enemy pay for each death of their own.
Howe's men had been prepared to fight unarmoured, unprepared, soldiers and the shock of facing furious, armed and armoured opponents kept them unbalanced that they didn't even notice them coming down the corridor and flanking them.
They crashed into them, blades flashing and digging through leather as Cait and Mother kept their distance and fired arrows at their enemies, hitting them in the eye or throat or pinning their legs.
There was a tingle in the back of her mind, a warning, and Kenna turned, too late, and could only clench her teeth to stop the scream as Oriana fell back with blank and forever startled dark eyes.
"Oriana!"
Cait had seen what Kenna had, and Kenna locked on the archer that had taken Oriana, her sister, Fergus' wife, Oren's mother, from them and began to cut a bloody path to him with Shadow guarding her back.
Shoving one of her swords through his throat didn't bring Oriana back, it didn't suddenly make things better, but there was a grim sense of justice to watching him slid limply off her blade and onto the stone floor.
It was that grim justice that she would have to comfort herself with, or at least attempt to.
They couldn't stop, couldn't take Oriana with them, had to leave her there with her killer and enemies like they had to with Ser Kenneth, and Kenna had to clench her jaw to stop the burning in her eyes turning into proper tears as she jerkily followed Bran towards the Main Hall.
She didn't look back, couldn't look back, and she hated, Kenna hated so much.
Why couldn't I have seen it before? Maker, why? Why couldn't I save her? How am I meant to tell Fergus that I failed him?
Howe had brought a mage into the Castle, had brought a mage into her home, and Lileas thought he considered himself clever, that they wouldn't have a defence for magic.
Lileas could have been the one that fought her, could have matched her magic against the intruder's, could have used everything that Mirwen had taught her and crushed the other mage with her own magical might, but she didn't need to.
Shadow honed-in on her with narrowed eyes and dark furrowed brows almost as soon as they entered the fray, had used his weighted-chain to wrap around her throat and pull her so she impaled herself on his sword, too panicked or unused to not invoking spells out loud to defend herself from her coming death, hands still reaching up and trying to loosen the bands of chain wrapped around her slim neck.
He had dropped her, a deride curve to his lips when he unwrapped his chain from around her purpling neck, looking almost dissatisfied by how quickly she was taken out before he turned and flicked out his chain, entangling it around the sword heading for Kenna's back, and pulling harshly till it was almost coming out of the other man's hands.
Kenna turned at the startled shout, the man trying to hold on to his sword, and buried both of her swords in his stomach, twisting as she pulled them out, ignoring him and letting him bleed out as she went for another one.
Mirwen would have scoffed, called her a pampered Tower-brat, Lileas thought to herself with some dark humour as she twisted around enemies and allies alike, jabbing and impaling with all the skill Ser Morgan had instilled in her.
It was a quick battle, they were enclosed in one room and the doors were guarded by their people so more couldn't stream in.
"The door! Don't let those bastards through!" Ser Morgan shouted out almost as soon as the last body dropped, and soldiers and knights almost threw themselves at the door, pressing bodily against it and keeping out the rest of the enemy.
"Ser Gilmore!" Teyrna Eleanor called out and the young Knight turned towards the other woman, a look of relief spreading over his face.
"Teyrna Cousland, you're safe," he let out a sound of relief as he let his gaze skim over the Couslands gathered in the room. "We were worried, some got through."
"More then just some," Brannon informed him grimly.
"Have you seen my husband?" Teyrna Eleanor demanded, and Lileas winced when Ser Gilmore hesitated, glancing over his shoulder towards Ser Morgan as if hoping for her to rescue him from having to break the news.
Ser Morgan, though, was blind to his hopes as she listened to Brannon's account of their flight from their quarters to here.
"Ser Gilmore," Teyrna Eleanor repeated almost impatiently, a light of fear in her stormy eyes, "where is my husband?"
"The Pantry, my Lady," Ser Gilmore hesitated, "it's bad, my Lady. The Grey Warden Mage was doing his best, but—"
"Thank you," the Teyrna cut him off, her lips trembling just once.
"You need to get out, all of you," Ser Morgan broke away from her conservation and pinned them with her dark gaze, "we'll hold them back for as long as we can."
Lileas glanced towards Kenna, taking in the way she clenched and unclenched her jaw as she watched the tiring defenders press against the shuddering door, ready to give their lives to give them time.
She briefly met Shadow's pale gaze, the furrow of his brows as he hovered next to Kenna and heaved a sigh as she slipped her glaive on her back and strode towards the corpse of the mage that Shadow so easily killed.
This was her home, these were her people, and she had trained for this.
"Lileas?" Rosina called in confusion as Lileas reached down for the discarded staff.
Lileas ignored her sister, bracing herself and testing the feel of the staff in her hand.
She shuddered as the staff's own magic reached out eagerly towards hers, mixing and amplifying—she had never gotten used to using a staff, had never liked using the staff that Mirwen had hidden away.
"Get ready to move," she called out to the men as she gripped the staff with both hands and raised it, she waited for their nod of understanding before she brought it down.
The foci-crystal around her neck and atop the staff flared with power—hers, theirs—as the butt of the staff slammed into the ground with all her might.
The floor rumbled, shuddered, centuries-old flagstone crumbled as larger roots burst out and lunged towards the door, the men jumping away cursing, as it slammed into the shuddering wooden door, roots twisting, turning upon themselves, anchoring with the doorframe and floor, twisting in a spiral and forcing the door closed, barring the way to their enemies.
"Maker…." "She's a mage?" "Andraste's mercy," "Did you know?" "How did she hide it?" "Lady Kenna—"
A hand clasped around her elbow, steadying her, a hand as familiar as her own—golden tanned, long fingers and a rough palm—and Lileas glanced up, slightly winded but exhilarated at the same time, at Kenna.
Kenna looked at the twist of roots as hard as Iron Wood, and the look on her face warmed Lileas.
There was no surprise, no shock, just satisfaction and pride because there had been no doubt in her mind, of course Lileas would able to pull iron-hard roots from stone.
Kenna looked at her and smiled, filled with pride for Lileas, filled with affectionate for Lileas.
It was like being warmed by the sun, Lileas thought as she smiled back and ignored the whispers, the shock behind her.
"I saw who you would become, brilliant and beautiful, and mine—my friend, my confident, mine." Kenna's declaration repeated in the back of her head, and for the first time, Lileas believed in it whole-heartedly, believed it—her—with all her heart and soul.
"Thank you," Kenna told her as she squeezed her elbow, and Lileas shrugged lightly, helplessly, a slight sheen of sweat on her brow as she had put as much magic in the roots as she could spare.
Like I could do anything else, Lileas thought but didn't say.
"Now that's sorted out," Lord Brannon called out, only looking a little bit surprised and thrown by Lileas' actions. "Men slaughter the bastards that have already broken through, grab some supplies—I don't know what my sisters have arranged, but more couldn't hurt—and get down to Lowever. Our people will need you to defend them in the coming days."
"You heard Lord Brannon," Ser Morgan snapped when the soldiers and knights lingered, still dazed by Lileas' feat of magic. "Get to it now."
They no longer hesitated, hasting to fulfil the command of both Lord Brannon and their new Commander as Kenna and Lileas walked back to the others, the staff laying forgotten and unneeded behind them.
"What are you going to do?" Ser Morgan asked quietly as Shadow took his place at Kenna's back with a twitch of a smile and a nod towards Lileas.
"We're going to find our father," Lady Caitlyn carefully spoke, the paste had hardened on the gash across her face, kept it together, but she still needed to be careful not to cause it to crack.
Lileas felt a pang of regret that she had never been able to cast even the most simplest of healing spells.
"We won't be back for some time," Kenna added, warning Ser Morgan as Lileas avoided Rosina's searching gaze, "there's a Blight to be fought and defeated of course."
Ser Morgan's lips firmed, but she wasn't surprised, was probably well aware of the packs tucked down the tunnel waiting for them.
"We'll keep these bastards on their toes till you can return," the knight promised them.
She glanced over the hall, pausing at the roots for a brief moment, before she nodded at them and turned to leave.
She paused and looked at them, serious and firm.
"Don't die out there," she told them, commanded them, before she stalked out of the Hall with her sword and shield in hand.
Kenna wasn't sure if it was worst or better that she knew what was coming as they hurried towards the Kitchen and to the Pantry where Father was.
Her heart-beat was fast, a drum of war in her chest, that didn't slow as they fought the few stragglers that made it this far, didn't slow as they came ever closer.
It seemed to beat louder then the cut off screams from further away, from the crashes and booms of Davia's traps, of the crackling of fire that licked hungrily at her home.
Kenna almost felt like she could fall into a dream-like daze as she followed the route burned in her mind, but it wasn't a dream, wasn't a nightmare.
No, now it was reality, and she no longer attempted to lie to herself about what she was about to find, about the state of her father, a father she had been mourning for twelve years already and was mourning anew for.
The door to the kitchen was open, the glow-lamps were dim, and the fire had been doused.
Moonlight struggled through the narrow windows and tried to illuminate the empty and mostly untouched kitchen—no servants, no Cook, no Nan—something that made a knot loosen in her chest—they were safe, they had listened, they hadn't tried to be stubborn.
There was a trail that glistened sinisterly in the moonlight and led towards the partly open pantry door.
There was a familiar glow spilling through the gap, the glow that foretold magically healing instead of glow-lamps, and Mother didn't hesitate, wouldn't hesitate when the man she loved with all her heart was finally in reach.
"Bryce!" she called for her husband, grief, hope and fury battling in her tone as she entered the pantry with hard eyes and a heavy-heart.
Bran faltered, just like he always faltered in her dreams, as he came face to face with the reality he hadn't wanted to face.
He just stopped in the doorway, staring inwardly and Kenna didn't have to look at his face to know how devastated he felt, she had heard the sharp inhale as he was hit with grief, strong and real.
"There you all are," Father's voice came, weak and wavering, dying, and Kenna moved, following the script.
She ducked under Bran's arm attempting to bar the way, Cait didn't try to reach out, and Shadow and Lileas was right behind her as they entered the pantry.
Ciarron Amell—friend, brother—was there beside Father, pressing glowing hands close to his sweeping stomach, ignoring the blood and guts, as he focused with a grim set to his mouth.
Mother was beside Father, not seeming to notice the blood sticking to her knees as she pressed him close, allowed him to lean on her in his moment of weakness.
Kenna kept her gaze from drifting down, from seeing her father's guts being held in with his own hands and help of a mage that could only ease his passing.
Arian Mahariel lingered in the shadows, leaning against the wall with sword in hand—he looked worse in the dim light then he had at dinner.
His skin was washed out, milky-tea with black veins hidden under arm, and dark hair clung to a sweaty face, eyes standing out and reflecting the little light in the room.
"I had feared the worse," Father confessed, wheezing from pain as he turned his face into Mother's neck.
"Don't talk, my love," Mother soothed him, a hand brushing over his hair as she allowed him to rest his head on her shoulder, gaze looking towards the mage with dread and hope. "Can he be moved?"
Ciarron grimaced as he leaned back on his heels, his sky-blue eyes grim in the light of his healing magic, and he shook his head once making the hope in Mother's gaze shatter quietly and resignation to take its place.
"Father…." Kenna spoke, her voice strangled by the surge of emotions at the sight of him—grief, guilt, rage, blame—as Bran finally moved on heavy legs, leaning against the wall and allowing Cait and Rosina to follow them in.
Rosina gave a suppressed retch as the smell and sight hit her while Cait let out a soft strangled gasping cry.
Lileas pressed a shoulder against hers and Shadow pressed closer to her back.
"Kenna," Father reached out with one blood-stained hand, and Kenna bit her lip bloody as she stumbled forward and took it. "I'm sorry, I should have listened."
"I know, I'm sorry," Kenna didn't cry though her breathing hitched as Caitlyn carefully lowered herself down beside her.
"Father," Cait gave a hitching soft cry, tears in her eyes as her hands hovered uselessly.
"I should have listened to you, my clever girl," Father wheezed painfully making Mother pressed her lips together tightly.
"Where is your Commander?" Bran asked Ciarron and Arian, unable to listen to Father's regrets.
"We are here," Warden-Commander Duncan spoke from behind, sheathing his blades with Warden Sirena Tabris stalking at his side with feline grace.
"Duncan," Father spoke up, weak and trembling, "please, you face to get my family to safety."
A chill made its way down Kenna's back as she looked up to see the placid look on Duncan's face while Sirena stalked over to Arian and let him lean on her.
"I came for a recruit," Duncan reminded Father mildly, "and I can't leave without one."
"Duncan.." Ciarron's gaze jerked up, shocked and horror-struck, but Duncan ignored him.
"What has happened tonight pales to what horror the Blight will bring," Duncan informed Father.
"How dare you…" Kenna whispered as Caitlyn's muscles all seemed to lock up.
"You….want…one of my children?" Father's eyes, Cait's eyes, were a fading shade of deep blue as his gaze flickered.
"With your permission," Duncan inclined his head and Mother hissed through clenched teeth.
"And you'll save my family?" Father pressed, "and keep them save?"
"You have my word," Duncan bowed his head almost humbly as Sirena's mouth took on a jaded twist.
"I'll do," Bran stepped forward, glaring at Duncan before turning to Father, "I'll do it."
"With my permission," Father nodded weakly.
"We should go now," Duncan straightened as he looked over his shoulder, "I'm sure Howe's men will have found another way in by now."
"Eleanor," Father pulled his hand from Kenna's to reach for Mother's cheek.
"I'm staying," Mother told him firmly, "you can't make me leave you, I made a vow and I intend to keep it."
"I am so sorry," he told her, breathing hitching.
"We had a good life," she told him in return.
"Mother," Cait almost whimpered and Bran placed one hand on her shoulder.
"Go, you must all go," Mother told them firmly, resolved.
"Bran," Father reached out and Bran took him while Mother took her chance.
She cupped Kenna's jaw with one hand and stroked her fire-coloured hair with another, drinking in her face with calm eyes.
"I love you, my darling girl," Mother informed her with slight tremble to her voice.
"I know," Kenna replied with quiet certainty, a hitch of rage and grief, but no surprise. "I love you too."
"Live," she almost begged her while commanding her, "live long, strong and happy," she looked at Cait then, "both of you."
"We will," Cait promised, eyes wet.
"I'll make them pay for this," Kenna promised.
"I know you will," Mother barred her teeth in a grin, the same bloodthirsty grin that earned her the name of Seawolf, a grin that Kenna echoed easily, without thinking. "You need to go now."
Kenna pulled back, nodding, exchanging a silent goodbye with Father as she reached for Cait, and Cait—who never once hesitated when it came to Kenna—took her hand and pulled her close, a comforting arm wrapped around her as they got to their feet.
Father groaned as he was propped up against the wall while Mother stood and readied her bow.
"I love you," he told her, wheezing heavily, and Mother gave him a loving smile.
"And I love you," Mother replied easily as Bran herded them for the tunnel with a clenched jaw, "it's up to our children now, and they will be glorious."
"Yes," Father wheezed out a light laugh, "they will be."
And the hidden door to the tunnel closed tightly behind them, Lileas conjuring an orb of light—their mage-light—into being.
Caitlyn clutched her tightly as they walked, forcing their feet forward, and refusing to look back at the empty darkness behind them.
