"Have you ever played Wicked Grace? It is easy to learn, but difficult to master. You must watch your opponents' moves as carefully as your own." – 'Admiral' Isabella of the Felicisima Armada, friend of the Champion of Kirkwall.
~ The Barracks, Cousland Castle, Highever, 10th Justinian 9:21 Dragon ~
There was a lively beat of music—small hand drums, recorders and a lute—filled the air as off-duty soldiers, knights and retired soldiers shared laughs and drinks.
Smoke from a dozen pipes curled in the air, the smell of the tobacco and herbs thicker than the smell of ale, wine and mead.
It was no place for a Lady, and yet one pint-sized one had waltzed in without a care and sat herself down at one of the tables set up between the bunks for Wicked Grace with the smirking elven-blood boy at her side while her elven lady-in-waiting wrinkled her nose as she leaned against the chair her mistress had taken.
"And what do you think you're doing?" Kenneth arched one thick brow at his young student as the cards were dealt.
"Getting to know my future employees," Kenna smiled at him as she accepted her five cards, looking oh-so dainty next to the bulky soldier to her left.
"What?" Kenneth questioned almost flatly as he shot a look to a smirking Giles as the boy accepted his own five cards—he was almost certain that it was the boy's fault that his young student was here and the way the boy was smirking wasn't helping his case.
"I need a trainer, several actually" Kenna shrugged one shoulder, mismatched gaze flickering up from her cards. "I'm hoping find some that wouldn't mind taking on some students."
"For your Little Birds, right?" Kenneth asked as he glanced at his cards and reached to pick up his lit pipe—Nan had kept him to date with their shared charge, and there was little about what the Spitfire got up to that Nan didn't know. "And what does Wicked Grace have to do with finding a trainer?"
"Don't you know?" Giles spoke up, smug and with the unspoken but still heard 'Bastard Knight' at the end of his question by those that knew him—Kenna, Lileas and Kenneth. "How someone plays Wicked Grace can tell you a lot about them."
Kenneth cocked his brow at the brat and made a point to blow a lung full of smoke directly into his smug face.
His reaction was a delight in Kenneth's opinion; Giles lurched back, coughing with full on watery eyes and a heavy glare as he used his cards as a make-shift fan.
"What the fuck?" he coughed, he spluttered—it was beautiful. "How the fuck did some bastard like you become a knight?"
"I killed some Orlesian pricks and lived to tell little brats like you about it," Kenneth told him almost mildly as he put down his cards so he could have a long pull of his tankard of ale—his third or fourth of the night. "It's how most of my generation got their fancy title of knight, it's how one common bastard became a Teyrn in his own right."
"You have terrible taste in whatever that is," Giles wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, his cards laid face down on the table. "It stinks."
"I like it, brat," Kenneth shrugged his massive shoulders at Giles' disbelieving glare. "Come on, you and your boss have to impress us if you want any trainers."
There was a chorus of agreements from those around them and Giles scowled slightly as he picked up his cards again.
"You are on, Bastard Knight," Giles smirked at him, smug and determined—arrogant little brat, Kenneth had apparently been too kind to him if he was able to be this cheeky with him.
"You better not pick up on the brat's shitty language, Spitfire," Kenneth warned his student, "Nan would tan your hide red and wash out your mouth with soap if you did."
"I know," Kenna grimaced making him chuckle—Kenna had never feared Nan, and he doubted she ever would, she was however rather respectful of Nan and just what she'd do to the young noble if she caught her doing something she didn't approve of.
(Kenna walked away that night several sovereigns lighter, but with several trainers for her Little Birds and priceless memory of Giles making Ser Kenneth snort ale out of his nose after one creative tirade against the man himself that managed to insult not just the Knight, but his manhood, his father, and his grandfather almost in one breath—Lileas had blushed fiercely, Kenna had been torn between laughter and completely awe at Giles' gall, and the soldiers and knights around them burst out in stomach-splitting laughter and one had offered to be one of her trainers as long as Giles and his smart mouth was there.
Giles would no doubt have many smart-ass things to say about Ser Kenneth soon enough if the glint in her mentor's eyes were anything to go by, so Rodrik Hill would not be disappointed.)
~ Caitlyn's Study, Cousland Castle, Highever, 11th Justinian 9:21 Dragon ~
Caitlyn leaned back in her chair as she looked at the boy—young man maybe—in front of her.
Sun-streaked hair—neither short nor long, a medium length she supposed—pale blue eyes that reminded her of the bits of sea-glass that Kenna would pick up on the beach when she was little—Cait still had the collection of 'pretty' stones, shells and sea-glass kept safe in a small wooden box tucked in her bedroom's desk, treasures that Kenna had pressed into her hand with a toothy grin that wasn't tainted by the horror of her dreams, of screams and cries in the dark.
The shape of his eyes were the most noticeably nod to his elven blood—it was remarkably strong in fact considering it was accepted as a common fact that elven-blooded children took more after their human parent—and there was an echo of the fine-bones and small features that elves were known for in his face.
His broadness around the shoulders no doubt came from his human father, the rest of his frame again echoed his elven blood by being almost willowy.
"You're Giles, correct?" she asked as she took in the younger boy—three years her junior, three years her sister's senior.
Alouette had enlightened Caitlyn to just what Kenna was getting up to with her new friend with Lileas a willing aid, something Cait had only the barest inkling of.
Rosina had been surprised—and maybe a bit appalled—by just what her little sister was letting her mistress get mixed up to, while Caitlyn was also surprised, she would be the first to admit she was proud too.
She hadn't thought that Kenna—honest, head-strong Kenna—would be the first of the siblings to gather a spy-network or gain the loyalty of a budding spy master—especially as Kenna hated politics and spies were the most useful for those playing the game of politics—but Kenna always seemed to enjoy surprising people.
Giles was young, ten-years old, and already mixing himself up willingly in the dangerous job of spying in the service of Cait's little sister.
Why? Caitlyn didn't know, and that made her hackles raise, made her want to bare her teeth at him as she protected her Kenna, her little sister—there was a reason that none of Ferelden disputed the title of 'Dog Lords'.
He was newly sworn into Kenna's service, most of his wages had come from Kenna's allowance—before Cait stepped in and arranged for proper accounts for Kenna's endeavour, accounts Kenna should have come to her for when she first thought of her Little Birds—the amount was a mere pittance really so it couldn't have been for money and Caitlyn somehow doubted his loyalty for Kenna was that strong.
(Not that Caitlyn doubted her sister's ability to inspire loyalty as Kenna with all her bull-headed affection, her freely given protection and pure honesty was easily compelling in a way that Caitlyn had to learn to be with a silver-tongue, honey-words and a practised smile.
Kenna inspired effortlessly while Caitlyn plotted and spoke honeyed words to get her way.)
Perhaps for the challenge? Nan had called him an 'arrogant brat' so perhaps arrogance had something to do with it as well as the challenge it presented to his mind as the boy was clearly intelligent—one only had to look at his eyes, sea-glass blue that shone with intelligence.
"Yes, my lady," he nodded, left hand tucked in the pocket of trousers—the deformed hand from what Alouette and Rosina told her.
"How can I help you?" she asked after a beat of watching him as he stood almost at ease in front of her—her sharp eyes noticed the tension in his shoulders, the shift of his weight as he stood, and knew he wasn't as at ease in front as her as he liked to pretend.
"The time of your Cadash," Giles informed her easily, pale blue eyes sharp as he watched her face, and she frowned slightly while Davia actually paused in her writing, Alouette's head tilted towards the boy while she continued to strum her lute almost absently and Rosina looked up from book—it was one of Caitlyn's handwritten books filled with her own recipes for bruise-paste, sleep-aid, pain tonic and such.
"Oh?" Caitlyn raised her pale brows in curiosity and slight weariness, ready to protect the dwarf that had been entrusted to her, "and why do you want that?"
"Boss, for some reason, believes I should come up with a code for the Little Birds with the help of Davia," he almost rolled his eyes, but refrained—he obviously had more manners than Nan suspected if he could restrain himself in her presence.
"Kenna does?" Caitlyn relaxed and Giles' pale eyes narrowed—he had caught it and was confused by it which made something loosen in her chest, Kenna hadn't told him, at least not yet. "Very well, if that is alright with you, Davia?"
Davia frowned thoughtfully, tapping her pencil against her notebook.
"A code easy enough to remember, but hard to crack," Davia mused in interest, gaze distance as she thought, "difficult, but interesting."
"When do you want to start then?" Caitlyn smiled, she could almost see the ideas turning behind Davia's bright golden-brown eyes.
"Uh, now I suppose?" Giles almost questioned as he looked over his shoulder to where Davia was pulling a new notebook out from her pocket and opening it before looking towards Giles expectedly. "Right, now."
He walked over and settled on the divan across from Davia and Alouette turned her full attention back to her lute—"What type of bard would I be if I couldn't play the lute?" Alouette had laughed lightly when she first brought her lute to Caitlyn's study and saw her surprised amusement—and Rosina returned to her book, frowning thoughtfully to herself as she read—mentally making notes, no doubt.
Caitlyn watched for a long moment, taking in Giles as he bent forward and spoke softly with Davia with pen and book in hand, and once again musing that her sister had a strange affinity for strays, outcasts and broken people before she turned her attention to her correspondences.
Caitlyn flicked through her letters;
One from Brother Genitivi about his research into the Urn of Andraste's Sacred Ashes—something he had been interested in for years, but only recently had he decided to fully study and hope to one day find.
One from Madame Vivienne—Grand-Duke Gaspard de Chalons had returned to Orlais as the conquering hero, in prefect position to try for the throne and yet seemingly content to allow his younger cousin to hold it and play the Game, though Madame Vivienne wondered how long that would last (privately, Caitlyn wondered the same).
One from Delilah Howe—her father been a bit too obvious and heavy-handed when it came to his desire for her to marry Bran, and she spent most of the letter ranting about him (her father, not Bran).
And one from a rather radical surgeon that Aldhlean had gotten her in touch with—he apparently disbelieved Humourism, and had other theories for why people get sick, theories that were fascinating to read and rather made sense when he broke them down before he turned to his new and different methods when it came to healing.
Caitlyn already knew she was going to pour over his writings—pages filled with hurried letters and sketches to illustrate his point—perhaps for hours as she took in everything he wrote.
She reached out for some loose parchment and her fountainpen—Kenna had bought several from House Cadash; one for Lileas, one for herself, one for Fergus, one for Caitlyn, and it seemed one for Giles as he had pulled a bronze pen from his pocket when he sat across from Davia—and was ready for any questions she thought of for her letter to him—it would be a long letter, she already knew that.
~ Training Hall One, Lowever, 21st Justinian 9:21 Dragon ~
It was rather startling what Kenna could accomplish with a healthy budget and the fully force of her stubborn will, Caitlyn couldn't help but muse as she glanced around the Training Hall of Lowever and took in just what Kenna had done in such a short time.
Whatever dust that had lingered had been cleared, old training dummies had been replaced with robust new ones, stands had been brought in filled with wooden training weapons in all shapes and sizes, several targets had been put up for learning archery, a long table had put near the end of the hall and was covered in food; cold cuts of meat, bread freshly baked that morning, bowls of fruits, jars of jams and butters, enchanted jugs of milk, juice and water.
A small stool had been set up for the seamstress to measure each child before adjusting one of the already sown coats—made of thick material that wouldn't wear easily, all sized for an adult in a range of dark colours—to their small frames by several young apprentices.
Apprentice cobblers were going through their collection of boots—none up to their master's satisfaction—as feet were measures and boots were given over—a touch too big, need to be stuffed slightly, but that only gave them a longer life on the feet of those children.
The armoury had his own stool ready for the children to be measured—tops were shrugged off without second thought by both girls and boys—and his own apprentice marked down measurements for under-armour.
A rather elegant and sensible solution to making sure the children wouldn't go cold, that they had proper shoes and that they had some protection against anyone that raised a blade against them without removing what made them so successful and overlooked as street children.
Soldiers and retired knights kept an eagle eye on the children as they carefully matched them up with a training weapon—daggers, short-swords, long-swords, staffs.
One knight—retired almost as soon as he was knighted for the burns that twisted right side of his face and partly blinded him—stood towering over a slight elven girl as he led her with hands over her own how to move the staff, her pale blind eyes were narrowed from the force of her concentrated frown as she moved with her teacher.
A woman dressed in dark blue silks sat in a chair like it was her throne, a smile curling carefully painted lips as graceful slender hands gestured accented by the dainty white pipe in one hand and its curling smoke as she spoke to the small group surrounding her.
("That's my mother," Alouette informed her softly, dark eyes assessing as she watched, and Caitlyn looked at the woman again.
Dark hair streaked through with silver pulled back from her face, make-up done with an expert hand and understated in a way that enhanced her looks, intelligent and watchful dark eyes that matched Alouette's own dark eyes perfectly.
With a second look, it was rather obvious that the woman was the infamous Madame Mac Sullivan.)
A trio—two men and one woman—from one of the small Theatre Troupes of Highever had settled themselves on the floor with a spread of make-up near them as they spoke with their own group.
A woman, an herbalist, had carefully laid out a collection of potted common herbs, a stack of books beside her and a bag had untied and unfolded to show of different knives and scissors next to a pestle and mortar.
An elderly elven woman had her own cushion to sit on instead of a proper chain, a stack of books and another stack of chalk and boards were next to her as she spoke to her group of children—the twisting, though faded, tattoos on her face told Caitlyn just who the woman was without even being able to see the sea-glass blue eyes that she shared with her grandson as there was only one ex-Dalish living in Highever.
A small table had been placed almost in the middle of the hall and was occupied by three people; Caitlyn's own Davia Cadash and Kenna's Giles were across from each other with several books and notebooks between and around them—Giles' sun-streaked hair was mess from a hand being roughly run through it and Davia's brown hair was freely flowing down her back and getting in her face only to be brushed away with an impatient hand—while their companion, Lileas Surana, was rather serene in her own sit with her notebook open and several loose parchments as she wrote something with only the slightest frown on her face.
There was over twenty-five children—from the age of five (Alouette's young cousin Benji) to fourteen—dotted around the room with a new golden pins attached to their tunics, a several more elven children were lingering near the door as they watched with curious and considering eyes—no doubt they will soon swear themselves into Kenna's service after this show—all thin, all small, all had glanced at the table as if they had never seen food before in the lifes and was absolutely starving for it.
"What do you think?" Kenna looked up at her, proud and anxious at the same time, back straight in a warriors discipline instead of the lady-like posture that Caitlyn had, golden tanned hands twisting at her dark blue tunic, the small golden studs in her ears had been replaced with studs of a golden songbird clutching a laurel in its talons with the talons and laurels just hanging passed the lobe of her ears—not so sensible as the studs she wore before, but it wouldn't hinder anything with her hair pulled braided and pinned in her usual style, and actually made her mother smile at the thought that Kenna had chosen something so lady-like to wear (she would be markedly less impressed if she learnt it was the personal heraldry that she had chosen for her Little Birds).
"Well done," Caitlyn told her sister as she pulled her close in a hug. "I'm so proud."
Kenna relaxed completely into the hug, arms wrapped themselves tightly around Caitlyn's middle with the strength only daily and vigorous training could give her, and Caitlyn pressed a proud kiss on the top of Kenna's fiery locks.
"However, did you manage to convince my mother to help you?" Alouette asked after a moment, dark eyes curious and assessing as Kenna pulled back from Caitlyn's hug, but remained content in her sister's arms.
"I think I amused her more than I convinced her," Kenna answered thoughtfully, a slight frown to her brows. "We certainly made her laugh."
Alouette hummed, her look more assessing as she looked around the large stone hall.
"You will have a very formidable force under your command in the future," Alouette decided as she glanced at Kenna with her dark eyes. "How do you think you'll manage that?"
"Giles will manage them for me," Kenna shifted until only one of Caitlyn's arms was around her shoulders and spoke without hesitation.
"You trust him that much?" Alouette asked with a hint of disbelief lilting her words, one fine dark brow raised at Kenna.
"Of course," Kenna again didn't hesitate, she spoke with complete faith in Giles before adding in a tone slightly tinted with familiar possessiveness—the same tone that Caitlyn and Fergus used when talking about Kenna, the same tone that Kenna used when she claimed Lileas, a tone that should be alarming, but wasn't because that's how Couslands were (Fortune favours the Bold, Couslands loved deeply, possessively, protectively, and with all the formidable will that once defied a would-be King—Bann Cousland hunted and drove out all the werewolves in their lands in their rage after losing one of their children to the beasts, Teyrna Elethea Cousland had waged war against Calenhad Theirin out of love for her people, had taken in an exiled dwarven House and spent thousands of sovereigns to safe-guard her family and people long after her death.). "He's mine after all."
"I see," Alouette said slowly though it was clear she didn't see.
Fergus hadn't been surprised by the letter sent by Bran that told them he was extending his stay in Ostwick for several more weeks or maybe even a few months.
No doubt his little brother needed more time to brood—think—and Art deserved to spend as much time as possible with his family considering he had sworn himself as Bran's First-mate and would spent his time at Bran's side—at least until Bran turned away from the sea, until Bran reached out for a silver chalice, according to Kenna.
Kenna was taken the time to train her Little Birds—Cait hadn't been impressed that he had known about Kenna's budding spy-network and hadn't told her—and Caitlyn had been thinking about taken on another project considering the Alienage was doing well under the watchful and expert eyes of House Cadash—she was thinking of taking over one of the unused warehouses near the docks and turn into a shelter for the homeless, probably moved after seeing the thin little things that had sworn themselves into Kenna's service for a bit of food and coin and had been given so much more now that Kenna (Lileas) had access to more funds.
Fergus had decided to introduce Oriana to his sisters as he was half-certain he fell in love with the Antivan the moment he had fallen over her.
Oriana and Caitlyn had gotten on well as they were rather alike; both were beautiful, brilliant and bold when it came to getting what they want.
Kenna was a slightly different matter.
Antiva had an idea about women that didn't match up to reality but was still firm in their culture. In Antiva, it was considered 'unthinkable' for women to be taught to fight, to battle and wage war.
Kenna with her soft leather breeches, her midnight-blue tunic and dyed midnight-blue jerkin—something she had only recently ordered made and taken to wearing regularly—that showed off her golden tanned arms from hours under the sun and the firm muscles only regular combat training—training geared towards war—could give her and her fiery locks braided firmly and pinned flat around her head in a crown was far from what Antiva considered proper.
But Oriana had ignored her cultured ideal as she strived to get on with Kenna, and Kenna tried to meet her half-way despite the age gap, the cultural gap and the differences in their interests.
("I can't see her future," Kenna had told him with a hint of frowny pout after Oriana had left, "I know she's going to be my sister," Fergus had flushed and Cait had smiled at him, a wicked glint in her blue eyes, "but I can't see beyond that."
There was frustration, a hint of fear and concern, and Fergus had gathered her close.
"You don't have to know everything," Fergus soothed her, and she had frowned at him harder.
"But what if something happens? What if she's hurt or something, and I didn't see it? It would be my fault," Kenna had told him and Cait had curled one hand around the back of Kenna's neck, squeezing slightly to get the younger girl to focus on her.
"It wouldn't be your fault," Caitlyn had told her seriously, and Fergus had nodded in agreement, tightening his arms around his little sister. "It would never be your fault, it would the fault of whoever hurt her."
"I would never blame you if anything happened," Fergus swore to her, and Kenna relaxed in his hold and under Cait's hand.)
(Years later, Fergus will still believe that when he comes home with the knowledge that his parents and wife's bodies hung from the walls of their home, a home occupied by enemies and once-friends, a home he would liberate.
Will still believe that when Oriana was cut down, her beautiful face was bloated and rotting, her body bare and bloody from the wounds that had turned black with rot, and not the sight he wanted burned into the mind of his son, hated that it was burnt in his.
No, Fergus would blame himself—why hadn't he been firmer? What could he have said that would have kept her safe? Why didn't he make her fully believe in Kenna and her dreams?—and he would blame Howe—how dare he?! He was father's friend! How could he?!)
There is a peace within the walls of the castle;
Father did his duties, Mother split her time between making sure everything was ready for Bran and Art's return and getting to know Oriana with a beaming smile, Caitlyn exchanged letters all over Thedas it seemed and sketched out her plans for shelters for the homeless, Kenna's Little Birds grown and Lowever's Training Hall One formally belonged to them—Giles (Giles Halfhand as he had taken to calling himself to spite everyone that looked down at him as a cripple) even took over one of the small rooms near it as a study, the arrogant little shit—and Fergus worked when he wasn't meeting with Oriana.
Of course, it would be Kenna that broke the peace.
~ Caitlyn's Study, Cousland Castle, Highever, 10th Solace 9:21 Dragon ~
There was a long moment of silence before Fergus turned to Caitlyn with a completely deadpan face.
"This can be your problem," he informed his sister making her grimace as she rubbed her temples.
"Please repeat that, Kenna, I don't think I heard right," Caitlyn said as she rubbed her temples with slim fingers, a hint of desperation in her blue eyes, and Kenna's jaw clenched and tilted in that familiar—damning—way.
"I've kidnapped them," little Kenna informed them with one golden hand wrapped firmly around the thick grey wrist of the 'them' in question and Lileas completely covering her face with pale slender hands and the tips of ears turning red.
Towering over their baby sister, long white hair affixed in braids, twisted back and threaded beads of sea-glass, bits of shell and seabird feathers, dark horns curling like ram horns, quicksilver eyes staring down at the tiny slip of their sister with completely bafflement on their angular grey features and sending pleading glances over their shoulder at the older Qunari that had sprawled herself on one of Caitlyn's divans and was watching with a grin on bisected-scarred lips and the same quicksilver eyes.
"Why?" Fergus decided to ask as Caitlyn closed her eyes in some kind of despair.
"Because they are mine," Kenna informed them simply, possessive and protective, hand flexing around the wrist and the young Qunari gave them a pleading look that just screamed to save them from this madness please while their mother barked out a laugh, sharp looking white teeth catching the light.
Caitlyn and Fergus exchanged a look, a silent look of blame in each other's eyes, before Caitlyn straightened with practised smile that was part wry as if saying 'children, what can you do?' and part apology as if to say 'I am so sorry my sister has decided to kidnap your child, please don't kill her' in a way that only Caitlyn could convey.
"I am sorry about this," Caitlyn spoke to the Qunari, obviously deciding to ignore Kenna for now and trying to smooth over what was happening.
"It's fine," the Qunari grinned, long white hair affixed in the same multi-and-thin braids threaded with beads of sea-glass, gold and silver with bits of shell and seabird feathers, horns covered in bands of beaten gold and silver as they curled like rams horns, wearing a sleeveless tunic under her opened jerkin that showed off her firm and rather large muscular arms covered in bold strokes of black that depicted stormy seas and ships all over them—dear Maker, please let her be a normal sailor and not a pirate, please don't make it so Kenna decided to kidnap a pirate's child—and a fist sized blue crystal hung from her neck by a chain of thick gold and silver interlocking and nestled between her breasts. "It's the first time someone had the balls to tell me bluntly that they were kidnapping my kid and wasn't going to give them because they were theirs now."
Rosina let out a strangled sound behind Caitlyn, who had returned to rubbing her temples as if it could sooth the sudden tension headache she had developed, and Fergus took in the fierce look of pride on Kenna's face as she tilted her chin just so because of course she would take that as a compliment.
"Yes," Fergus coughed, "we'll sort this out—"
"It's already been sorted," the mother grinned, fiendish delight clear in her quicksilver and sharp eyes. "The Little Lady Spitfire informed just how she was going to take care of my kid, I'm quite impressed really."
Fergus felt his heart drop, Alouette's strumming stuttered, and Caitlyn lifted her head to look at the mother.
"Mother," the other Qunari whined, horror and pleading wrapped tightly around that single word.
"It's fine Asaaranda," their mother waved off with one strong hand, that fiendish grin still stretched across her mouth. "She going to let you train as a surgeon, just what you always wanted, and give you a fancy place to live as well."
"You…you're alright with this?" Fergus stumbled over his words and Asaaranda's mother looked at them steadily, grin slipping from her face and replaced with a serious look.
"We're Vashoth," she informed them, "it may not be so dangerous for us as it was for my parents, but the Qun still hate us, still consider us lower than Bas, and Asaaranda's father was Qun—if they figured out why he had tried to turn Tal-Vashoth then they could be in danger. Here they can be safe, safe from the Qun, safe from my enemies, they will have a good life—why wouldn't I be alright with it?" she shrugged her massive shrugs at them as she watched them steadily, seriously. "Little Lady Spitfire already said I could come to visit, that we can exchange letters if we want."
Asaaranda slumped their shoulders—Fergus should really ask what gender they were at some point—and pouted slightly as if finally realising that no help was coming from their mother's quarter.
"I'll protect Asaaranda," Kenna declared in the ringing silence after the mother's words, mismatched raging with the force of the sea, jaw clenched and set and hand tight around Asaaranda's wrist.
The older Qunari studied her for a moment and a smile tugged at scarred lips, small and lopsided.
"Yeah," she spoke, soft and steady as the waves that lapped at the beach, "I think you really would," she turned her gaze to Caitlyn and Fergus, "I'm Asaara Adaar, by the way."
Kenna's heart was beating fast—like a drum of war, like the war that had been bought to her home, their safe haven—as they fought their way closer to the kitchen—the enemy was faceless, nameless to her eyes, but there was no escaping the sting of betrayal as she fought them—and towards the place she had been dreaming about since she was four-years-old—there was crashes from Davia's traps going off, screaming being cut off, Asaaranda was safe in Lowever and ready to tend to the wounded.
Despite herself, she hoped—foolishly, naively—that her father wouldn't be like that—that they hadn't gutted him like an animal—and tried to push away how Gilmore had said he was in a bad way—why didn't he listen? He never listened! Why couldn't he listen for once?
The glow-lamps were dim, the fire had been doused, the moonlight struggled through the narrow windows to show the mostly untouched kitchen—there was profound sense of relief, an easing of her heart, Nan wasn't here, she hadn't chosen to be stubborn and had indeed gone to safety—accept for the drops of blood she wouldn't have noticed if she wasn't looking—hadn't noticed before when she was four and terrified, she had been too close to emotions of the vision—and she swallowed as she noticed the trail led to the partly open pantry door.
There was a glow spilling through the gap, different from the glow-lamps but no less magically in nature, and Mother didn't hesitate a moment to push pass Bran, to open the door and walk through with long strides and a grim sense of determination—part of her knew, she knew what lay behind that door, but she wouldn't shy away from the truth, and part of her couldn't help but hope that she was wrong, that she would walk through and he would be fine, that Ser Gilmore had been mistaken.
"Bryce!" she called for her husband—grief, hope, fury—as she entered without faltering.
Bran faltered just behind Mother, standing in the doorway and staring—he hadn't believed, he hadn't wanted to believe, oh Maker, why? How did they live with this knowledge? How did Kenna cope with seeing this?
"There you all are," Father's voice was weak and wavering—just like before, just like always, why wouldn't he listen to her?—and Kenna couldn't stop herself from moving forward, dodging Cait's hand as she reached out to restrain her—it was easy to dodge Cait's reaching hand, she had done it a dozen times in her dreams—and ducking under Bran's attempt to block the door—he was off-balance, he didn't know what to expect (hadn't wanted to know) and it was hitting him hard, he didn't have the foreknowledge needed to brace himself and it was showing—a shadow of warmth at her back—not Lileas, not someone she knew yet, but important and hers, and waiting for her to find them, they were new, their addition not just solid, not yet final like Lileas was—and a crackle of magic just behind them—Lileas, raging but composed Lileas, Lileas that had shown her cards to all as she pulled roots from stone and barred the way, she gave them time, needed time.
The dark-haired man was there, glowing hands pressed to her father's gut—it couldn't heal him, too much damage, but he could ease the pain—and Mother was already at his side, knees sticking into the pool of blood that was draining her husband of life—Maker, she had hoped, but she knew, she knew it was going to be bad, but not this bad—and she reached out for him with trembling hands to soothe him.
The Dalish was there—she had never noticed him before, too caught up, too emotional, too young—leaning against the wall of the pantry, a shine of sweat making his dark hair cling to his earth-toned skin turning the colour of milky-tea—corruption in his blood, it burned, it was getting worse—and his hand trembled just slightly around his sword—but he didn't drop it, couldn't drop it surrounded by shemlen enemies.
"I feared the worse," her father—her father, oh Maker, oh Maker, why? They had gutted him, they had hurt him so much, if they wanted to kill him so much why didn't they make it a clean kill?—coughed as blood bubbling at his lips and Mother's breathing hitched as she kept back her tears—mask cracking, emotions flowing, more real but distance because of Cait's tea warm in her stomach, she saw more, learnt more, but it would hurt more in the end.
"Don't talk, my love," Mother soothed him, carefully gathering him close and letting him rest his heavy head on her shoulder before she looked at the mage—he was the first sign, Kenna had seen him and she had known, it was tonight, he was the herald of what was to come, the herald of blood and death, of the Blight in the South and war, and part of her blamed him for being symbol of all those things. "Can he be moved?"
The man—mage, recruit, Warden, brother—grimaced as he leaned back on his heels, sky-blue eyes grim as he shook his head softly—damningly—though he didn't remove his hands—he couldn't heal the wound, it was too severe, they had cut and twisted and pulled in a way he couldn't heal, not quickly enough, he was bleeding out and Ci— couldn't stop it, he could do nothing but ease the pain, and he would for as long as possible, he would not feel pain as he said goodbye to his family, Ci— swore to himself.
"Father…." Kenna choked out, strangled by her own emotions—grief, guilt, blame, rage—and she could hear the strangled gasp of Cait behind her, the suppressed retch of Rosina hovering just behind Cait, felt Lileas move to press her shoulder against hers in a vain attempt to comfort her, the shadow behind her—faceless, nameless, genderless, she didn't know them yet, hadn't found them—awkwardly hovered behind, radiating warm and protective vibes.
"Kenna," Father reached out with one blood-stained hand—they had gutted him again, they had gutted him like he was an animal and let him to die in pain, a slow and painful death—and Kenna had to bite her lip bloody, so she didn't scream—she wasn't four-years-old anymore!
Author's Note; Yeah, I was a bit conflicted about adding Adaar here, but I always planned to and I hope you enjoy the Adaar scene. Would love your feedback as this is my biggest chapter ever as I didn't know when to cut it off.