Kenna remembered a few months ago, remembered Lileas in the hallway and hearing the click in her mind as she stared at the elf, when she hadn't had the time to wait for dreams, when she was forced to make a choice then and there—there hadn't been a choice, not really, not when the phantoms of Lileas was either dressed in her colours (wearing her personal heraldry, unquestionably hers in a way that no one could deny) or dead/Tranquil—when her choice was either to ignore or for her to hold on with everything she had—she hadn't hesitated for a moment, she grabbed hold with all the tenacity that made people call her Spitfire, and she would never let go.
She thought of that click, the mental image she had of a key turning in a lock, and mentally looked for the door, the door to her powers and she focused solely on that door, focused on opening the door and stepping through, and—
She was falling.
Falling into nothingness, into everything, falling into a whirlwind of voices and images.
Is this what being the Three-eyed Raven is like? The absurd and nonsensical thought crossed her mind as she fell, because she didn't know why because what did that even mean?
(It was not the first time some bizarre thought crossed her mind, like she was remembering something she read about or heard, and she doesn't know, and she doesn't think she'll ever know why)
(Gasping for breathing, a wet sound to each exhale, Lileas' face twisted in horror and grief, the ground trembling beneath them, pale hands pressed against her.
Asaaranda beside her, barking orders with their hair piled back into a braid bun, a large hand gripping her chin, hard and burning quicksilver eyes staring straight at her.
"Don't you fucking die on me!" Asaaranda almost roared the order.
Black taking over her vision, stealing away her air, a numb coldness taking over her limbs. Familiar in a way it shouldn't be.
Oh, I've died before, Kenna thought in a moment of clarity before she was gone, deaf to the tears and wails, ignorant of the spikes of earth that encircle where she had fallen, the fire breaking through the ground, the creeping frost and the storm raging as Lileas almost loses herself fully to her grief.)
"We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment…..and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly." A woman's wizen voice called out, drowning out the whirlwind, giving her something to anchor herself to.
This abyss was her mind, was her power, and she wouldn't surrender to it, wouldn't let it break her, she was Kenna bloody Cousland, and she was going to bloody-well soar!
She landed, not with a crash, not with broken body, but on her own two feet and tried to focus on her breathing, keeping it even and calm as she remembered this was still her mind, she hadn't really fallen for what seemed forever—she could wake up at any moment if she wanted to.
It's a roar that broke her from her breathing, she turned and gaped as she realised what was happening.
An ogre—flesh blackened and twisted, large horns twisting upwards, dressed in blackened and roughly beaten armour with skulls hanging from its belt—was charging across the ground.
A woman—young, short black hair and familiar sky-blue eyes—lunged out of the way and Kenna blinked as the scene distorted.
One second it was a young man—short black hair and the same sky-blue eyes—ready to defend his mother with his board-sword.
The next it was a young woman—dark hair curling to frame her face, golden amber eyes like a bird of prey—with a staff in one hand and the other calling forth fire.
The ogre either blocked the sword with his metal around one arm or it ran through the fire without notice.
Either was it ended the same way, the person grabbed and smashed into the ground as fragile bones break loudly making Kenna cringe as a mist of foamy blood was pushed out of pale lips in one last surprised and painfilled breath.
A mother's scream, the woman from before—face twisted with grief and rage and tears in her sky-blue eyes, but not falling—leaping on to the ogre's back with twin daggers ready, of the other person moving to flanking them—tears coming from golden amber eyes and pale lips opened in a silent scream, a scowl creasing his strong features as sky-blue eyes burnt with hatred and grief—and then it was over, the beast slayed and the sibling still dead.
Kenna blinked and the mother was cradling her dead child, calling their name with a wretched pain, the surviving sibling—surviving twin, something told her—comforting her and then the eldest sister began to reach out.
"We can't stay here anymore, Mother," her voice was thick with tears as she spoke their name, "—wouldn't want you—"
"What I want is my child alive," the mother snapped, grieving rage twisting her face as she glared at her eldest, "this your fault! How could you let this happen?!"
The mother turned back to her dead child, gentle hands cupping their face, not waiting for an answer and ignorant to way her eldest recoiled from her like she had been stabbed, fresh pain blossoming across pale features, a reaching comforting hand falling limp at her side.
"Can I change this?" Kenna asked into the air thick with grief, with blood and taint because it was obvious she was shown this to change it.
Kenna blinked and the scene changed around.
She was in the ruins of some great fortress, people in armour walked swiftly around and even through her—like she was nothing, but a ghost, like one of her future phantoms—and Kenna turned to take it all in; the sound of dogs barking, of the Chant of Light falling from Reverend Mothers' lips, the distance pained groans and the wails of the injured, of soldiers nervously checking their weapons and armour, the sight of humans, elves and dwarves walking around with purpose, of bright tents, of the phantom tingle of magic against her skin.
And then she stopped and stared.
There was Lileas—older, dressed in an armoured jerkin under a thick leather jacket, leather leggings and a flare of a skirt with no front that stopped at her calves and a glaive strapped to her back—walking beside someone that was unmistakeably Kenna.
Older, taller than Lileas—which meant she wasn't going to be small all her life—and dressed in thick—but moveable—leather trousers, a studded leather cuirass over a thick midnight blue tunic and under a thick leather jacket—all dyed the same midnight blue as Lileas', her shade of blue—with twin short-swords belted across her back, a small knife strapped to her belt and a hilt of a dagger peeking out of each sturdy boot.
There was a shadow at the other hers' back—choice not yet made, chances not yet taken—and then the other her was reaching out, gloved hands wrapping around the arm of a passing soldier causing his companion to halt too.
The other her glances her way, almost directly at her, and Kenna moved forward quickly, realising it was the young man—blue eyes burning with hatred and grief, blue eyes blank in death—and his elder sister beside him—grief and rage battling on a pale face, tears almost falling from sky-blue eyes—as she got closer.
"What?" he scowled at the other Kenna, looking down at her with his superior height—she still wasn't the tallest person, but she had years of growth in her, Kenna reminded herself.
"Lady Cousland?" the elder sister questioned, her tone confused as she hovered protectively over her brother, fine dark brows furrowed over familiar sky-blue eyes—not so defensive as her younger brother, but still ready to defend.
"You shouldn't confront ogres head on," the other her told them bluntly, her voice still hers, but different, deeper perhaps? More mature obviously. "Flank them, attack from behind, blind them if possible, don't let them grab hold of you."
"Why are you telling us this?" the sister demanded, baffled as her brother scowled at the other her in confusion and some suspicion.
"Because it may save yours or your twins' life," the other Kenna told the brother more than the sister with none of the tact Cait would have shown, and Lileas gives that little sigh—as if she was asking the Maker, why—as her hands twitch as if she wanted to bury her face in her hands like she had done several times already because Kenna has done something, well, Kenna-like.
He almost ripped his arm out of the other Kenna's grasp, pale with burning distrustful blue eyes as he stared at her, and his sister stepped forward, mouth curling into a snarl and the same blue eyes burning with fierce protectiveness, a question of dark red lips.
Kenna blinked and the scene changed again.
An ogre roared as it charged.
The mage pushed the mother back as they retreated from the charging beast, the brother lunged away, and the sister rolled.
Fire directed at the eyes, daggers flashing as the sister leapt, a board sword sinking into tainted skin under a raised arm.
The beast slayed, the siblings lived, the mother relieved, and Kenna watched it all with an air of satisfaction and mild confusion.
"Why is she important?" Kenna asked, mismatched gaze focused on the elder sister, the one that survived both times, because she had to be important in some form or another.
Kenna had fallen into the abyss of her own mind, had been buffered by the whirlwind that was her own power, and when she had decided to fly, it had been here, to this sister and her grief, that she had be brought.
So, there had really been one question, the question of why.
Why should Kenna care for this stranger with familiar sky-blue eyes, with a short raven mane to frame her face that was fiercer then soft and pretty like her younger sister's face? Why should she care about her grief? Her pain? Why did she have to see and what to change things?
People died every day, her parents were going to die, a war was coming against monsters from history, and Kenna couldn't really afford to care about everyone, couldn't care about those that weren't hers, because it would rip her apart, it would make her break in a different way to what her powers would because she wouldn't be able to save them, not all of them, and Fergus had told her—again and again—that she couldn't save everyone, that it wasn't possible.
The future Wardens were important, they would be kin to Bran and thus family, Cait and her friends were family, Fergus was family and he would be fighting to free their home, Lileas, Giles, Asaaranda and her Little Birds were family.
This young woman with sky-blue eyes the same colour, the same shape, as Bran's future lover's eyes, the mage that would kneel beside her father and attempt to help, the mage that had been torn between loyalties, had been forced to choose, and still had to leave despite making the right—if painful—choice, wasn't family to Kenna even if she was family to him, so that had to mean that she would be important.
She blinked and the scene changed once again, ready to show her why.
A grand hall with steps leading up to a dais, the décor influenced by Orlais. There are half-a-dozen Qunari standing on the dais that are letting weapons drop from their hands, a grim look of dissatisfaction on each face as Templars moved to take them.
Below them stood the woman, bloodied and victorious, older and burdened, over the body of a Qunari with several majestic horns with blood still wet on her twin daggers.
A crowd of nobles are huddled together, relief settling on pale faces and some cry quietly as they hug and stare with pure gratitude towards the elder sister.
"Well," an older woman marched forward, a Templar of high rank with sharp blue eyes and blonde hair, a twist to her mouth that could be seen as a smile, blue eyes taking in the woman, assessing and reassessing, "it looks like Kirkwall has a new Champion."
The Hall rings with cheers as the Templar looked at the sister like she was a new threat and the sister looked around at the hall as another burden was placed upon her shoulders as she was handed a title, a burden, a chain around her shoulders and affixed to her neck, as the woman that named her looked at her as a potential enemy.
The sister looked at the Templar, sky-blue eyes fierce, and tilts up her chin in a mockery of a proud motion—there was no pride in her eyes, she had just killed someone she hadn't wanted to, had saved a city to protect her family and friends, had another enemy ready to circle her and those she loved while pretending to hail her, this wasn't the time for pride.
"Yes," her voice was pitched to sound easy, to sound proud and in control, to inspire confidence in the relieved nobles, "I suppose it does."
For her family, for her friends, she would be Kirkwall's Champion.
Kenna looked at this Champion of Kirkwall; fierce sky-blue eyes, a pale face with a sharp jaw and cheekbones, lips stained a red almost deep enough to match the blood red parts of her buckled black and red armour, short raven wispy hair framing her face.
A Champion of Kirkwall, a champion of a city-state across the sea, and somehow she was important. Perhaps Kenna would go to Kirkwall one day, meet this Champion.
Kenna opened her eyes.
A stone ceiling greeted her gaze, the stone table under her leeched at her warmth, her head ached horribly, and she felt tired.
"Huh," Kenna blinked as she rubbed at her temple before she turned her head to the side and reached out mentally to the hint of an itch that was familiar.
The Champion of Kirkwall appeared in front of her after a breath, standing before the table and staring at her with those familiar eyes, and Kenna took in the woman curiously.
The phantom of the Champion was older than the young woman facing the ogre, older than she was standing over the corpse of that Qunari, and there was something about her, the look in her sky-blue eyes, the shape of her dark red lips, that made something in Kenna to itch, made her uncomfortable.
The Champion, she looked tired, Kenna decided after a moment of staring, studying, taking in the dark shadows under once fierce and burning sky-blue eyes, there was something brittle in them, a slump to proud shoulders and downward twist of dark red lips that looked pale under the stain of red.
The future, Kenna decided, would do its best to break the Champion, and Kenna couldn't tell by looking at her phantom-self if it succeeded or failed, but came very close.
Kenna considered the phantom before her—worn and weary, tired and burdened, a crack in her strength, a weakness to her that wasn't there before—and let her fade with an almost bitter taste in her mouth.
It didn't seem right, Kenna thought, to see the Champion look so defeated.
But, she reminded herself firmly, a Champion was a Hero and heroes never had a happy and carefree life.
Kenna decided with firm certainty that she never wanted to become a hero.
(One day Kenna would be considered a legend.)
Ostwick was different, different from the Storm Coast and more importantly it was different from Highever, something that made it easier for Bran to think—brood, according to Art—about his family, about Fergus and Cait and Kenna in between meeting Art's family.
He had vague memories of Aunt Emogen from when she had last visited when Cait was around four, but those didn't really match the woman he met.
She was thicker around the hips and stomach than Bran's mother was, the evidence of birthing six healthy children compared to Mother's four and looked rather short standing next to her towering husband that proved that Art didn't inherit his height solely from Grandfather.
Her blonde hair—streaked with silver—seemed to have a darker shade than what he remembered Mother having and the blonde that Cait had inherited, a darker blonde that only her second daughter, Jenifry, had inherited—a wheat shade compared to Cait's pale gold.
Her smile had almost been blinding with the overwhelming joy it held when Art stopped before her and she had done her best to break the ribs of her second son with the force her hug—the force enough that made Art wheeze slightly as he hugged back so she was part way to breaking his ribs, Bran thought.
Bran had gotten used to feeling short next to Art and his grandfather, but he had never felt short next to a woman before he met his female cousins—Anwen, Jenifry and Melwyn—that inherited both their grandfather's and their father's height—Anwen and Jenifry were just shorter than Art and Melwyn matched Bran's height despite being several years younger than him.
Anwen had smiled down at him, long dark hair framing her rather pretty face, while Jenifry had almost mockingly cooed at him with her wheat-blonde hair pulled back in a braided bun—"Isn't our little cousin cute, An?" Jenifry had cooed as she wrapped one strong arm around Bran's shoulders and looked over at her sister with gleeful stormy-green eyes, Anwen had smiled fondly and a bit mischievous as she had replied; "You're right, Jen, he is rather cute."
(Ewan, seven-years old and the youngest, had gave him a look of deep felt empathy and sympathy as he hovered next to his mother—he was more than a head taller than Kenna, something that would no doubt annoy his little sister if she knew that her slightly younger cousin was still taller than her—as he was obviously used to having the force of his sisters' attention focused on him, though his sympathy and empathy was slightly tainted by the relieved glee dancing in his stormy-green eyes as he watched Jenifry pinch Bran's cheek with that mocking coo of hers while Anwen watched with a smile.)
Melwyn hadn't bothered to give him more than a glance with familiar stormy-green eyes—eyes that all the Trevelyan siblings shared over their father's dark golden-brown eyes—before she was challenging Art to a spar—she had tossed her head back angrily, dark hair pulled back sharply in a thick single warrior braid, when she complained that her father was still denying her the possibility of becoming a Templar as she near badgered Art to agree to a spar.
Lorcan, the eldest and heir, had greeted him with a rather startling quiet voice compared to his size—he was taller than Art, but not as muscular, more tall and slender than tall and board like Art.
It was nice, really it was, meeting his cousins, talking with his uncle, catching up his aunt about how his mother was doing, watching Art be welcomed back into the fold.
But it also highlighted just how different things were with Fergus, Cait and Kenna and their parents.
Things were different than what Art remembered, but that didn't stop him from settling back in, there was no secrets kept from him, none of his siblings looked at him like he was a danger.
And yeah, Bran may have been a bit pissed off as he thought about the look that Cait gave him, the warning that Fergus uttered, the fact that Kenna was too 'busy' for him to get to know again.
But watching Melwyn train, watching his cousins train, Bran had noticed something.
Kenna trained every weekday, she only had the weekends off, and she spent hours in the yard everyday getting her ass kicked by Ser Kenneth and her tanned skin bruised, but she didn't give up, didn't whine or cry, she just got back up and kept going.
There was a sense of desperation to Kenna's training, a look in her eyes that was determined and fearful, and it was something that was completely absent in his cousins' eyes, in Bran's and Art's eyes when they trained.
Kenna trained like she was preparing for war, trained like if she didn't then she was going to die.
She was seven-years-old, she wasn't meant to be that aware of how fragile life was, she wasn't meant to be training for war when Ferelden was at peace—fragile and still new though it was with Orlais.
She wasn't the only one though.
Bran remembered coming across Caitlyn with her bow and how she spent several hours every over day practising with her bow, twisting and moving, learning to shoot while moving.
It had been startling, it had been something that stuck in Bran's mind, because Cait had never had much interest in weapons training when she was younger, she had preferred her more scholarly studies to learning how to handle a weapon.
But she now she was putting time in it, putting time in learning how to handle her bow with combat in mind instead of just using as an exercise to keep her skills sharp.
She had her lady-in-waiting, Rosina Surana, learn to fight with daggers and not just to defend herself, but to actually fight and kill.
That meant something, it all meant something, and Bran was missing something.
Something, he thought almost grimly, he would have to actually ask Fergus about.
He wondered if that something was connected to whatever reason Kenna had for 'kidnapping' a Qunari child.
Somehow, he got the feeling that it did.
Bran would sit down with Fergus and ask the moment he got home.
So of course, his return home would be delayed, of course the moment he decided to sail for home some raiders decided they were going to prey on the ships crossing between the Free Marches and Ferelden, and of course Bran couldn't help from leading his crew against them.
He was successful, had captured their ships, and caught the attention of the Crown as he did it as word spread about him with the moniker of the Storm Raven.
Home would have to wait, apparently Bran had to go to Denerim first to be honoured by the King and Prince.
(In Highever, Kenna woke up with a gasp and a heavy blush on her face as she firmly pushed away her dream.
She did not want to know what her brother and the Prince was going to get up to behind closed doors, she never wanted to see that much of her brother again and would frankly prefer a different warning of the future, please and thank you.
Firmly ignoring her last dream, firmly ignoring the way her cheek were burning hot, Kenna curled around one of her pillows and firmly closed her eyes—she better not have to deal with a dream like that again!)