'I do nothing that is not worth doing with all my heart.' –Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, Hero of Orlais, Right Hand of the Divine and Agent of the Inquisition.
~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 13th Bloomingtide 9:21 Dragon ~
Nan felt something in her chest twist as she stared at the girls entwined on the bed.
She knew that position; a face buried into a pale neck to block out the world around her and the images in her head, a white-knuckled grip on the back of the nightgown to ground her in the now, pale fingers entwined in copper locks and cupped the back of her head, a protective arm wrapped around the waist.
The only thing different about it was the fact it was Lileas and not Caitlyn that was comforting Kenna in that position—and perhaps the fact that Kenna wasn't four-years old anymore.
There was an echo—a memory—of a scream building in the back of her mind; a terrified, painfilled scream full of dread.
A scream that no child—especially not one of her chargers, not one of her children—should utter, a scream that she hadn't heard since the Rebellion when the Orlais bastards ruled over them and hunted down any of those still loyal to the Theirin bloodline—which was anyone with a shred of dignity and honour in them in her opinion.
It was a scream she hadn't heard for years, not since Caitlyn had got her tea right and Kenna began drinking it every night.
Nan supposed she should feel grateful that she hadn't heard that damning scream in the night despite the fact it was more than obvious that her dreams had returned with a vengeance.
Yet still not as bad as before, she firmly reminded herself with mild self-disgust as she walked over, cocking her head slightly as she took in the lingering puffiness of the visible part of her charge's face—she had been crying, hopefully not the full on sobs that choked her as she attempted to muffle them.
A pale green eye slid open under her gaze, arm flexing around Kenna's waist and her hand firming on the back of Kenna's copper head—a protective gesture, Nan noticed, it felt strange that it was Lileas making the protective gesture for once instead of Kenna.
"I will let the others know that you will not be having lessons today," Nan told the elf gruffly, but quietly. "If I see that brat skulking around, I send him off to Ser Kenneth—let him deal with the little brat for the day."
"Thank you, Nan," Lileas' voice was as quiet as ever—soft in a way that Kenna wasn't—but was filled with a sense of quiet confidence that made Nan's brow arch in mild curiosity—had this…..relapse help the little elf feel more secure at Kenna's side? How odd.
"Sleep," Nan ordered almost sharply as she turned to leave, glancing over her shoulder when she heard a sleepy and mildly distressed noise come from her charge.
"Shhh, I'm here," Lileas hushed as she pulled Kenna closer. "I won't let anyone hurt you."
Kenna's grip on the back of Lileas' nightgown tightened before relaxing slightly as she was pulled back into a deeper sleep—away from reality, away from her dreams.
Lileas hummed slightly, almost tunelessly, as she closed her eyes and relaxed—she didn't fall back to sleep, Nan noticed, and she suspected the little elf wouldn't until she was convinced that Kenna had been soothed properly.
It didn't matter though, Nan reminded herself sharply as she had duties to do—like making sure her older charges didn't whip themselves into a worried frenzy and direct a certain Knight towards a certain troublesome brat that seemed determined to find every last hidden passageway in the Castle.
Kenna—for today at least, she grudgingly allowed—was in safe hands.
Long dark red wine hair was pulled back as small dark hands carefully adjusted her grip under patient golden eyes.
"That's it, Sir—," the woman spoke with a proud smile—her mother that she took most of her looks from though the redness of her hair came from her father, her mother that she loved and looked up to, her mother that taught her everything she could, her mother that was going to die by human hands. "Just like that, now, do you remember the stances I showed you before?"
"Yes, Mama," Sir— grinned, golden eyes flashing—golden eyes flashing in rage, in disgust, as he dared attempt to buy her off, attempted to use coin to blind her to the fact that her cousin was laying on the floor with her dress a mess and tears on her face, golden eyes flashed as blades lashed out, how dare he?! How dare he?! More blood stained her dress, a trembling hand reached out as her cousin's normally brash voice waveringly asked to go home.
Sir— shifted, moving into almost flowing stances enhanced by the blades she held in her hands—they leered at her, they were going to beat her down and touch her, but So— came and he gave her a weapon, they felt fear fill them as she held the blade with ease, they felt fear when she cut them down, she would make them regret standing by and allowing this to happen, she would make them regret helping that monster with his sick enjoyment, she would kill them all, she would make them regret it, and she would not regret this.
Bran was brooding, though Art would argue that he was sulking.
Things hadn't turned out like he had expected them, Art figured, and things were more different than he expected so he was sulking.
Which meant as his best friend/cousin/first mate, Art would have to keep away any well-meaning family members while Bran figured out his thoughts and feelings—something he was actually quite used to.
It was different doing here in Highever, Art thought to himself, as it was both easier and harder—easier in the terms there was less people (family) that would tease or bother Bran if they noticed and harder because Art didn't know these family members like he knew his cousins and such back on the Storm Coast.
Aunt Eleanor was rather easy to distract from her son's sulking as she was happy enough to hear all the little stories that Art could remember from growing up in Ostwick and any scrap of memories he had about his mother—Art was certain that Aunt Eleanor rather missed his mother and wondered if he should mention the possibility of a visit when he and Bran visited Ostwick.
Uncle Bryce didn't need distracting, he had greeted Bran happily enough before he turned his attention to his breakfast and the few letters that had been placed beside his plate—though by the smile on his face and how his head was tilted towards Aunt Eleanor, Art was certain that he was also listening to what Art was saying and was happy about the happiness clear in his wife's voice as she asked questions.
Fergus had come striding into the hall dressed as a City-Guard—the fact that Uncle Bryce allowed his heir to be a common City-Guard still shocked Art somewhat as he couldn't picture his own father allowing Lorcan to become a Guard—and yawning slightly before he took his chair and tilted it so he was facing one of the long tables and could chat to the group of soldiers and Knights while he ate his breakfast—he didn't do more than glance towards Bran's sulking position before he sat down.
Caitlyn had come into the Hall flanked by Davia Cadash and Rosina Surana—if Art remembered their introductions right—in a dress that while very pretty, Art was almost certain was also properly armoured—and not just decoratively armoured despite the golden and silver roses and laurel leaves on what was unmistakeably an actual breast-plate.
(He didn't even know armoured dresses were a thing, though he was certain that his sisters would enjoy learning it was a thing and would start wearing it, especially Melwyn if she was still into becoming a Templar like she had been talking about before he left—though Father didn't seem impressed with the idea of allowing one of his precious daughters to enter the Templar Order despite the close-ties the family had to both the Order and Chantry as a whole.)
However, when they sat, they didn't sit flanking Caitlyn, but Davia Cadash which he thought was rather odd, until he noticed that Davia seemed to completely missed the fact it was breakfast as she immediately pulled out her notebook and took a pencil from her bun and was way with writing something.
Rosina in between eating her own breakfast would push a slice of fruit or a piece of bread to Davia's lips, which the dwarf would absently eat without looking up or pausing in her writing. A fond smile would curl at the edges of the elf's own lips in response.
Caitlyn had glanced over a small pile of letters that had been placed by her plate before she began eating her breakfast, glancing over at what Davia was writing and sometimes nicking one of the pencils in Davia's bun to jot down her own note in Davia's notebook.
Davia, unlike what Art had expected, didn't seem put out by Caitlyn's actions as she would pause, read what Caitlyn had written with a frown before nodding with a thoughtful look before she continue her writing, perhaps using whatever Caitlyn had written in her work?
It was fascinating really to watch, and he almost wanted to know what Davia was so focused on, but he had a duty to carry out—Bran owed him for this, again may he add.
There was two empty seats at the main table for Kenna and Lileas—Rosina's younger sister with almost snowy blonde hair instead of the strawberry blonde of her elder sister, but both sharing the same pale green eyes that trailed behind Kenna more often than not from what Art had noticed yesterday.
"Where's Kenna?" Bran abruptly asked, blue eyes—Cousland blue, Art had come to recognise—piercing as he looked up.
Art tensed, worried that the strange tension would appear like it had last night, and Caitlyn and Fergus exchanged looks across the table.
"She should be up by now," Caitlyn frowned slightly, concern clear in her gaze as she looked at the empty chairs and the untouched dishes.
"Yesterday was an exciting day," Uncle Bryce cut in, reaching out for Aunt Eleanor's hand though he kept his gaze on his daughter. "Perhaps Nan allowed her to sleep in?"
Speaking of the demon, and they shall appear, Art thought to himself as he caught sight of Nan striding into the Hall with a scowl creasing her features.
Her face seemed to tighten as she noticed the attention of the main table was directed at her, but she ignored them as she headed first to an elder man in scholar robes, she leaned down to whisper something to him that made him frown slightly and nod, before she strode towards where the Guards and Knights were surrounding Commander Ser Kenneth Nolan.
Ser Kenneth actually scowled as he listened to what Nan whispered to him, before he nodded firmly and stood—showing off his truly massive size that almost matched Art's grandfather.
"Fergus!" Ser Kenneth almost thundered in his naturally booming voice. "Don't you have a job to get to?"
Fergus had stilled, a calculating light to his eyes that remembered Art strongly of Bran, before he let a thin smile curl at his lips—ah, Art thought almost absently, they had the same smile when unhappy.
"Oh, am I going to be late?" Fergus asked lightly, his voice pitched to carry easily, and he stood in one easy movement. "I best get going then, unless something is wrong?"
Nan pursed her lips, but Kenneth didn't even blink under Fergus' look.
"Job, boy," Ser Kenneth repeated firmly, and Fergus' eyes narrowed before he nodded sharply and left with almost stomping footsteps—almost, somehow Fergus had stopped himself from fall-out stomping like an irate child despite the fact Art suspected he would dearly love to.
Ser Kenneth watched him go before nodding almost shortly at Nan;
"I will keep an eye out for the brat," he informed her before bowing his head slightly towards the main table and leaving with actual stomping footsteps—though that was the actual sound of his footsteps and not out of any emotional distress—with several Guards and soldiers following him.
"Nan?" Caitlyn asked almost sharply, blue eyes focused on her old nanny.
"Kenna is taking a rest day," Nan spoke after a moment, "too much excitement for her yesterday."
Lie, Art noted mentally as he took a sip of his drink and both Bran and Caitlyn frowned.
"I told you," Uncle Bryce kept an almost forced light tone.
Well, things had taken another curious turn, Art acknowledged to himself.
"Well done, Ci—," an older mage spoke as he clasped a proud hand on Ci—'s small shoulder as he leaned forward to peer at the pale scar left on pale skin—he was proud, and he would be still be proud, but grieved when Ci— would have to leave. "What do you think, Wy—? Doesn't he have great potential?"
"Bragging about your student again, Irv—?" Wy— chuckled as she walked over to the 'test subject' and reached out with gentle hands to hold the previously injured arm. "Any lingering pain?"
"No," the bland and calm tone of the Tranquil answered as he looked with detached curiosity at his own arm—a tone she never wanted to hear leave Lileas' lips, a brand she never wanted to see blazed on Lileas' pale forehead. "Ci— numbed it before he healed—it was quite an interesting experience."
"Did he now?" blue-grey eyes glanced at the young mage, a spark of greater interest in Wy—'s eyes. "Most don't bother with that when they heal, you know?"
"But why leave them in pain when I can do something?" he asked, confusion on his young face—he was compassionate, was it compassion that would drive him to place his hands on a wound he couldn't heal, would it be compassion that made him numb the pain as her father spoke his last goodbyes? Would that compassion haunt him? Was it his compassionate nature that would draw Bran's gaze to him? Was it compassion that drove him to break those rules? To aid in such a stupid plan? To not see the truth until the blood flowed and the Templars fell, when everything he had every achieved was going to be stripped from him?
"Sometimes the pain is good," Wy— informed him, "letting them feel it will help you make sure you haven't done something wrong, do you understand?"
"Yes, Enchanter," he nodded, but there was a glint of stubbornness in his sky-blue gaze—a stubborn compassion that would cause his downfall, that would make him have to leave everything he knew and reach out for a silver chalice, damning himself like Bran would damn himself for them.
Giles didn't even have time to do more than yelp before a massive hand was clamped down on the back of the neck and dragged him through the halls of Highever.
"What the fuck?" Giles spluttered as he attempted to squirm away.
"You're late," a deep voice informed him bluntly and Giles twisted until he saw it was Ser Kenneth Nolan that had captured him—Boss' teacher/trainer and Commander of Highever's Land Forces.
"What do you mean?" Giles almost wanted to snarl as he used his right hand to claw at the hand that was dragging him along though the older man didn't even flinch or twitch from the way Giles dug his nails in.
"A month, a month you've been hanging around my student," Ser Kenneth told him, "and you haven't once shown your face."
"For what?" Giles tried to dig his feet into the unrelenting stone under him.
"Training," Ser Kenneth informed him bluntly, seemingly unbothered by the boy's squirming like a kitten in its' mother's grasp.
"I'm not exactly the fighting type," Giles flung up his disformed left hand and really wished he could glare at the brute dragging him along.
"You have one good hand and two good legs," Ser Kenneth pointed out flatly, "using one shitty hand as an excuse, you're just being lazy."
"Fuck you!" the boy snapped, temper completely lost as he hissed. "I'm not lazy!"
"Good," Ser Kenneth rumbled in almost approval. "Let's hope for your sake that you prove it."
The Dining Hall was filled with Wardens—filledwith dead men and women, with people that had taken in the tainted blood and damned themselves, men and women that would die fighting and be branded as traitors in death—as they ate, forks and spoons scrapping against their plates or bowls.
One of the Wardens—a new recruit, taint still fresh in his blood—sat slightly apart from the others—he had not thrown himself in brotherhood like Al—, he kept slightly apart and watched with hard sapphire blue eyes until Al— would try to drag him in close with a laugh and a joke—and was slowly eating as chatter and laughter filled the hall.
"Mind if I take this seat?"
Sapphire blue eyes glanced up at the dark-skinned elf before him; she grinned at him, dark-red hair newly cropped short and golden eyes gleaming like a cat as she almost patiently waited—they had gone through the Joining, bound by the same tainted blood, they had drank from the same chalice, wore the same tainted blood around their necks,both were much more jaded then their blonde Warden-brother.
"Help yourself," Du— shrugged as she took the seat across from him, placing her bowl filled with stew on the table with a slight thump.
"So," she watched him, a curious tilt to her head, dark slender fingers toying with her spoon. "Did you really kill your brother?"
The dwarf halted with his spoon part way to his mouth and gave the elf a level look—she would be the only one that would have the guts to ask, to ask him bluntly if he had committed the dark sin of kin-slaying and he still would not answer, his brother was dead either way and he had a hand in it.
"Did you really slaughter a manor's worth of guards and three nobles?" the dwarf asked in return as he lowered his spoon.
"Yes," there was no hesitation in Sir—'s voice as she answered—blood ran through the Arl's of Denerim's halls, his son left gutted, and golden eyes burned as she helped her cousin limp home. "Do you regret your brother's death?"
"Tr— was an arrogant arse who would have probably made a poor King," he almost sighed, "but he was still my brother," he looked at her slightly curious, "do you regret what you did?"
"I regret I didn't feed the puffed-up cowardly noble his own cock before I gutted him like the worthless creature he was," she informed him evenly, easily, with a hint of a smile curling her lips—there was fury, there was grief, there was the knowledge she had to get them all home, so she strikes out, she kills them messily, but quickly despite the fact she wished she could take her time to unleash all her fury, to make them feel all the fear and pain that they had made her cousin feel.
~ Training Grounds, Cousland Castle, Highever, 14th Bloomingtide 9:21 Dragon ~
Kenna panted, sweat stinging her eyes, but she only paused to catch her breath for a moment before she went through another flurry of blows at the dummy as the sky lightened as dawn became morning.
(Lileas was curled up under some blankets by the fence, bleary pale green eyes watching her silently)
She needed this, she need to focus on something as she fought to regain some balance to herself. The repeated blows against the dummy served as a distraction and good training as she wielded her blunted training-swords in both hands against the dummy.
She couldn't sleep, not after all those dreams yesterday, not after they had changed, and she needed something to take her mind off her worries.
She didn't understand why her dreams had changed, why her ability had changed twice in several months when they hadn't changed since she was four and first started dream.
It didn't just worry her, it terrified her. Her dreams caused her more internal conflict and confusion as thoughts—that were hers and yet not at the same time—echoed in her mind and she didn't know what was going to happen next, she didn't know if her ability was going to change once again or if it had settled.
But she had to push those emotions, had to settle herself, and that was why she was training at the before the crack of dawn with only Lileas as her silent company.
She couldn't lose herself to her dreams, she wouldn't allow herself to.
She had things to do, things to prepare for, she had to focus on the here and now to prepare for the future, not lose herself to the future and not doing anything.