"I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle beside the King of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!" –King Cailan Theirin of Ferelden.
He hung there, above them, bloodied and bared to the chill and the snow with spears and arrows pinning him in place.
His hips and the lower part of his torso was crushed like a parchment bag in ones' fist, his grey eyes were still intact—the birds kept away from here, the darkspawn's foul taint kept them at bay and stopped them picking at the dead that had been left behind to rot and freeze when the survivors had fled—and staring blankly in death from beneath his loose and bloodstained golden hair.
Kenna swallowed thickly as she stared upwards, appalled by what they done, they hitched him up like a trophy to show off—but she had known for years, had foreseen this before she had even known him—and wrapped her arms around her waist as she stared upwards with a warm shadow—her shadow, always hers—at her back and Lileas at her side.
"Cailan!" the name was almost dragged out of Bran as he stumbled forward, blue eyes wide and agonised as he stared upward—she had argued against Bran coming, had said he shouldn't come, that only death remained and he didn't need to see it, but Bran hadn't listened, he had to come, he had refused to listen even when Kenna had begged him to reconsider and Cait had cautioned him, Bran was a Cousland after all and stubborn when he set his mind to something. "We have to get him down!"
There was a completely wrecked tone to her brother's voice that she hadn't heard since they had to flee Highever and made camp that first night, when it had sunk in that their parents were dead and they wouldn't be seeing home for months, and it made her want to close her eyes in sympathetic pain.
Their family loved deeply, fully and without hesitation. Their love was all consuming, possessive and protective, and Bran had loved Cailan despite the doomed nature of their affair.
Even with Ci—, even with Bran falling in love with his compassionate mage lover more each day, he still loved Cailan—his first love—and she never wanted to see the reality of this moment.
Kenna had liked Cailan, had cared for him, despite her best efforts and her complete certainty that he would die, that he would one day be left as a mockery of a trophy for her and others to discover, and it hurt her to see him like this, to see the reality of this moment.
"Bran," Ci— hesitated, sky-blue eyes conflicted as he hesitated on the verge of moving forward, in offering comfort, but unknowing if his lover would accept it.
"He'll have to wait," Du— said gruffly, a hint of an apology in his tone, as he turned with his battle-axe ready as he stared grimly at the lone genlock at the end of the bridge that was staring at them almost curiously with a hint of a wicked grin on its rotten twisted face. "Because we have trouble."
The darkspawn chuckled, the gleeful sound twisted and wrong in a way that sent shivers down the spine, as it raised one of its hands as dark magic twisted around him, befouling the air around him worse than the taint his very presence held.
Lileas hissed like a disgruntled cat as the bodies of soldiers—partly rotted, partly frozen, blackened with both—across the bridge rose with the movement of the darkspawn's hand, standing with jerky movements of the living undead and picking up swords and such to arm themselves as empty dead eyes turned to them—she bloody hated necromancers, hated fighting against undead as they didn't feel anything, they were empty shells, puppets following the desire of their master, fire and beheading was the only thing that truly worked on them.
"Forgive us, my king," Al— said softly as he shifted and readied for the approaching corpses with a hard expression on his face—familiar, familiar, so Maker damned familiar, she knew that face, had seen other men wearing that face, but where? —"once we've flushed the darkspawn from their holes and brought ourselves some time, we'll be back to see you to the Maker."
Lileas' gem glowed as flames burst to life across the blades of their weapons while Wy— frowned harshly and placed down glyphs with each tap of the butt of her staff against the stone and Ci— turned away from Bran to ready himself, fire curling around his left hand as he held his staff solely in his right.
Bran hesitated, staring up at Cailan with a torn look.
"Bran!" Kenna snapped as she stepped forward with burning swords, one thrust through the corpses' chest while the second hacked off its head, tugging her first sword loose harshly and she met the next corpse with a warm shadow—her shadow, hers, but they haven't made up their minds yet, hadn't yet taken the chances or made the choices that would lead them to her, they were going to keep her waiting, but they would never leave her—at her back ready to flank beside her as Lileas' glaive was thrust forward into the blackened neck of another corpse, taking off the head with one firm tug of her glaive to the side, severing frost-bitten muscle and skin.
Bran turned, tears in his eyes and face twisted with grief and rage as he fell against the corpses with his sword and shield ready.
~ Kenna's Bedroom, Cousland Castle, Highever, 12th Kingsway 9:21 Dragon ~
She woke with a start and twisted as she gagged on the phantom smell of rot and taint that was thick enough she could taste it, her night-dress that clung to her back from her cold sweat that reminded her of early snow and blackened corpses in damaged and rusted armour.
Kenna gagged again, feeling bile crawl up the back of her throat, and near threw herself out of her bed, bare feet padding harshly on the cold floor as she ducked behind the divider on quick feet and almost throw herself on the floor before the toilet just in time for bile to splatter into the water.
"Kenna!" Lileas called out in concern, voice still thick from sleep, before her slim hand was on her back and rubbing in soothing circles as Kenna spluttered and coughed with her hands gripping tightly to the stone toilet and her knuckles turned white from the force.
Kenna groaned, it had been years since she was sick because of her dreams/visions—her father's blood heavy in the air, coating her tongue, the smell as acid and such ate at him, the sight of his guts slipping between his fingers—but it had been awhile since she had seen anything as close to as bad as that.
Sir—whoever she was killing that noble? Kenna had easily shrugged that off because she had felt what the elf felt—rage, disgust, her cousin crying, how dare he!
She had seen her father's coming death so many times that it only made her cry, turn to link her hand with Lileas' and full back into fitful sleep.
The Joining? Tame, it was the feelings that it invoked—Bran chaining himself to the land, poisoning himself willingly in exchange for their safety, the Commander watching with steady and impassive dark eyes, rage and hate at the sound of his calm voice, how dare he, how could he, a milky tea-coloured hand trembling as he took his chance, a mage steeling himself as he damages himself to either instant death or slow poison instead of a brand placed on his forehead, bodies falling, but chest still moving with clear breath.
Seeing the grown and very dead version of who she knew was Pince Cailan—grey eyes staring under bloody golden locks, Bran's wrecked voice, he loved him, loved him despite everything—despite the fact she wasn't going to meet him until sometime either today or within the next few days hung up like a trophy with undead—jerking movements, blackened skin, rusted armour and bloodied blades—under the unmistakeable command of a darkspawn—the legends were true, the stories were true, they weren't gone, a Blight was coming and she would fight against it—was enough to send her stumbling for the toilet.
(An ingenious invention made possible by clever piping and runes, truly a chamber-pot would have made her shudder as she was used to toilet—but why was she used to toilets? She didn't understand.)
Lileas' hand was hot against her chilly skin, hot as she rubbed comforting circles as Kenna leaned her sweaty forehead against the stone in front of her.
There was a creak as the door opened behind them, a curse before the glow-lamps turn on with their dimmest glow as shuffling footsteps head towards them.
"I'm regretting talking with Cadash now," Asaaranda's voice was rough with sleep as they come close. "I am also really starting to dislike your Prince, Lady Spitfire."
Kenna just let out a groan in turn, she was still glad that Asaaranda had left off the little bit when they took on their mother's nickname for Kenna as their own.
"Come on, sit up," Asaaranda ordered as they crouched downside her after Lileas shuffled over to make room.
Kenna did as she told, bleary eyes focused on the Qunari, taking in their messy white braids falling around their angular face before said Qunari almost shoved a small minty sweet at her mouth.
She took it without complaint as Lileas reached out for the runes and making the mess go down the pipes with a rush of water.
"You know," Asaaranda mused idly, sleep tussled, as they rolled another small ball of white minty goodness with their thick fingers almost curiously, "I can't decide if Surgeon Bellerose was a genius or mad to come up with a sweet to help deal with feeling nauseas."
Sweets that Lawrence Bellerose had presented with a flourish and a proud grin soon after Kenna first began waking up from that dream and being sick only to chew on mint leaves in the hopes of settling her stomach.
Sweets that were hard and round and with every roll in her mouth left a refreshing chill of mint flavour and with every swallow around the sweet helped settle her protesting and aching stomach.
"Genius," Kenna decided as she rolled it within her mouth, she had spent too much time chewing on mint leaves in the past to decide any differently.
"You don't have to do this, Asaaranda," Lileas informed them as Kenna decided the Qunari's chest looked like a nice place to rest her forehead against. "You could just leave the sweets here."
"We both know I'm training to keep this one alive and mostly healthy," Asaaranda snorted roughly though their hand was gentle as they cupped the back of Kenna's head. "Besides, you can't really lift her back to bed."
Kenna grumbled without words, she wasn't asleep—Asaaranda had smacked her the first time they had suspected that Kenna was drifting off with the sweet still in her mouth, scowling as they had informed her with a hard glint in their quicksilver eyes that they would continue to smack her if she drifted again because they wouldn't save her if she started choking on the sweet in her sleep—but she was drained, weak and shaky after losing everything in her stomach.
"Bed," Asaaranda decided after a moment, shifting Kenna round until they could easily lift Kenna like a bride, "the stone is too damn cold for this time of night."
"Thank you," Kenna mumbled into Asaaranda's broadening shoulder, sweet tucked in her right cheek.
~ Highever's Harbour, Highever, 12th Kingsway 9:21 Dragon ~
It seemed today was the day that the Ravencrest would once again pull into Highever's Harbour with a royal presence on board.
Kenna was quietly hopeful that it meant she wouldn't have to dream about the Prince now that she was meeting him.
The Couslands—with Oriana firmly added—had made their way down to the harbour the moment a look-out how spotted the ship approaching and was waiting as patiently as possible for the ship dock and such.
Mother was giving a slightly disapproving look towards Kenna at the fact that Kenna didn't bother to change in one of her few dresses and Kenna ignored her from her place between Oriana and Cait.
She was wearing her best pair of trousers—no wear from the training-ground—and one of her midnight-blue tunics that had golden detail of songbirds with laurel leaves decorating it and her pair of boots had been polished and gleamed a dark brown under the sun—so really, in Kenna's opinion, there was no real reason for Mother to complain.
Especially not when Caitlyn was dressed perfectly in one of her beautifully detailed dresses with more discreet armouring around her torso and her golden hair pulled back into intricate braids that were pinned into the shapes of flowers and a trace of black kohl around her bright blue eyes that just made them stand out while one of her handmade balms gave her lips just a hint of colour.
It was obvious in Kenna's opinion, that no one would care about what Kenna was wearing while Caitlyn was beside her.
And especially not with Oriana on her other side with a pale gold dress with a discreet laurel pattern in darker shade of gold, her auburn hair braided into a bun with stray curls framing her face and a brush of gold on her eyelids that helped pick up the hint of gold she had in her dark eyes and made them gleam as she kept one pale olive-tone hand curled lovingly around Fergus' arm.
Really, Kenna was going to be overlooked and she was happy about that, because she really didn't want to know if she would see the Prince's pinned corpse if she laid eyes on him and if she did, she didn't want him to see her pale and almost gag when the phantom smells returned to her.
She was certain that wouldn't go over well and didn't want to tempt fate.
She leaned back on her heels and meet the dark eyes of Thomas Howe—the Howes had arrived when it came clear that Bran was coming with a Royal presence on board—and he made a show of rolling his eyes towards his father as Arl Howe spoke quickly and quietly to both of his children—though neither Delilah and Thomas were paying attention.
Nathaniel Howe—the eldest—had been in the Free Marches for as long as Kenna could remember, and it didn't look like he was coming home anytime soon.
(Cait was of the opinion that Arl Howe send-off Nathaniel because of a brawl he had with his cousin, Audric Bryland, at Kenna's Blessing—Fergus had always looked slightly guilty whenever Cait had spoken about her suspicions because he was meant to be the one watching over them.)
Kenna flashed him an amused grin which made him grin back—three-years her senior, Thomas was her best friend when it came to her fellow nobles though to be fair there wasn't much choice between Thomas Howe and the annoying Habren Bryland (well there was Rory Gilmore, but he was more Cait's age and training to be a Knight in service of the Couslands so he didn't count).
"They are going to be letting down the gangplank soon," Cait told her in an undertone as she nudged at Kenna's shoulder. "Pay attention."
The gangplank was lowered soon enough and Prince Cailan was the first to appear with grey eyes bright and alive and a massive grin on his face as he looked around.
Kenna let out a breathe of relief when there was no phantom of his pinned body. Good, good, it didn't look like Kenna was going to cause a scene from seeing the Royals dead.
Almost as soon as she thought that, King Maric appeared, a restraining hand placed on his son's shoulder with an affection and weary grin, and the breath caught in her chest as she stared.
Golden hair had turned a brittle white as it framed a gaunt face, beard unkept and the blue of his eyes seemed faded. He looked small, the way the skin hung from his once board and healthy frame made him seem so small.
There was blood around his thin wrists, the clothing he wore was old and hanging, and there was an air of hopelessness around him.
King Maric would not have a quick death, it wouldn't be painless, and Kenna couldn't turn her gaze away from the phantom that hovered just behind his shoulder—the silent herald of his death, of his fate, invisible to all, but Kenna.
Kenna was really starting to dislike the Theirin family.