"Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature." –Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds, Mother of Vengeance, Asha'bellanar.
~ Highever's Harbour, Highever, 12th Kingsway 9:21 Dragon ~
Kenna clenched her jaw as the Royal Party—consisting of King Maric, Prince Cailan, Lady Anora Mac Tir and Bann Teagan Guerrin—descended down the gangplank with Bran and Art and torn her gaze away from the pale phantom.
She wanted Lileas, she realised as she flexed her left hand and glanced over her shoulder where Lileas stood quietly back with Rosina, Alouette and Nan at a 'respectable' distance from their noble employers.
She wanted the other girl beside her, to hold her wrist as she centred herself and turned away from the King's future-phantom, wanted to wrap her fingers around a pale wrist and have the slender form press against her side in comfort.
She wanted Asaaranda looking at her with concerned quicksilver eyes and a frown to their lips, a rough hand cupping her jaw and a mint-sweet shoved into her mouth as a distraction.
She wanted Giles with his smug smirk as he whispered bits of gossip into her ear or ranted about the 'Bastard Knight' in undertone, one arm tossed casually around her shoulders with his crippled hand tucked out of sight and his pale blue eyes watchful of everyone around them.
But because of this Royal visit—a great honour, Nan had informed her and Cait had agreed, an honour for Bran's actions—she couldn't have them, couldn't have her own beside her.
Lileas was an elven-servant and needed to keep her distance, something that meant that for the first time Lileas—and thus the others—wouldn't be allowed to sit at the head-table as they dined.
Asaaranda had decided to make themselves scarce and descended into Lowever, they were going to spent most of their time studies as they didn't think the Royal Family would be impressed with a Qunari in the employment of one of the oldest and most powerful families in Ferelden—second only to Theirin family in age and power, and next to the still new Mac Tir family in power—and while Kenna had personally thought that was stupid, others had agreed.
(Asaaranda was going to come back stinking of blood and the pure alcohol they used to clean their tools, it would bury their scent of the sharp mint and something that reminded Kenna of thunderstorms, and Kenna already hated it.)
Giles was no doubt directing the Little Birds and somewhere he could see the line of servants that the Royal Party had brought—no doubt to see which he thought he could recruit or at least become friendly with to find out the happenings of Denerim.
Kenna already hated all this, it wasn't helped by her dreams—grey eyes staring from under loose bloody golden hair, Bran's wrecked voice, undead eyes staring at them—and now the King's phantom—blood on pale wasted wrists, a gaunt face, brittle white hair, pale bloodshot blue eyes.
That was without going into the awkwardness that Kenna could already feel at the sight of Lady Anora Mac Tir—while Kenna had never met her, it was obvious who she was when she tucked her arm around the Prince's with familiar ease—heading down the gangplank beside her betrothed.
Kenna's first dream about Prince Cailan—tanned hands cupping a paler cheek, lips brushing, a breathless laugh, a cut off moan of pleasure, warm grey eyes, tanned lids fluttering closed over Cousland blue eyes—took place in Bran's bedroom with her brother not looking older than he was currently, which meant they would no doubt be developing their relationship that way during this Royal visit—if they already hadn't—and with the Prince's betrothed around—Cait was going to have a fit as she tried to run interference.
Kenna wanted to groan, she wanted to tug at her hair in the hopes it would relieve some of the ache, she wanted Lileas, she wanted Asaaranda, she wanted Giles, she didn't want to spent the next month or so surrounded by the Royal Party, she wanted…she….
Kenna moved, ignoring the Royal Party as they stepped onto the harbour and the look both Cait and Mother were no doubt shooting her, and reached up in front of Fergus.
Fergus didn't hesitate, he pulled his arm from Oriana and was quick to sweep Kenna up and perch her on his hip in a way he had done since Kenna was four and woke up screaming her throat raw and choking on her sobs.
"What's wrong?" Fergus asked as he cupped her face with one rough hand, his other arm keeping her in place by tucking it under her bum.
Kenna clenched her jaw and shook her head as she looped her arms around his neck—Fergus was safety, he was comfort, he was Fergus, and the only one she could have now.
"Fergus," Mother hissed, "put her down."
"Kenna's not feeling well," Fergus immediately said, defended, as Kenna rested her aching head against his throat, feeling the vibration of his voice and the motions of his throat. "It's better if I hold her, unless you want the King and Prince to see her wavering on her feet?"
Kenna could almost feel the look Mother was sending them, but she said nothing as Oriana reached out and softly rubbed Kenna's back in soothing little circles.
Kenna liked Oriana, she hoped that just because she didn't see her future that it didn't mean something bad would happen.
(A scream caught in her throat, trapped behind clenched teeth, as Oriana fell with dark eyes already dim in death—Maker, why couldn't she see that coming? Why couldn't she change that? Oh Maker, Fergus, I'm sorry—and she lunged with her blades ready and tears in her eyes at the bastard that murdered her sister, murdered Fergus' Oriana with her Shadow guarding her back as she cut a bloody-path through the enemy.)
"Perhaps you should try to have a nap when we get back?" Oriana asked softly. "You don't look like you have been sleeping well recently."
Fergus' hand tightened briefly on her, she could almost feel him looking at her with renewed concern.
"Thomas…" Kenna began, and Fergus pressed a quick kiss to her head to silence her.
"Thomas can wait," he told her firmly, "you need your rest."
"Your Majesty," Father greeted formally, cutting off anything else and the family bowed—Fergus carefully with Kenna perched on his hip and Kenna bowed her head.
"Teyrn Cousland," King Maric greeted with an almost waned smile as he held out one strong hand that Father took. "It has been a long time, hasn't it?"
Kenna watched him as best as she could with her head almost nestled in Fergus' neck.
There was something familiar to his face, she thought with a slight frown, though she wasn't sure what it was with the carefully groomed beard.
"It has been some time," Father agreed with a smile.
"You remember my son, Cailan, and his betrothed Anora Mac Tir?" King Maric introduced as he stepped back and Cailan stepped forward with a cheerful grin and his hand outstretched with Lady Anora on his other arm.
"Of course," Father smiled as he shook Cailan's hand and bowed his head slightly towards Lady Anora, "though it has been some years and His Highness has grown rather a lot and Lady Anora has gotten more lovelier."
Kenna frowned as she stared at Cailan's face, eyes focusing on the curve of his jaw, the line of his nose and the arch of his cheekbones as Lady Anora smiled at Father with the slightest duck of her head that suggested she was blushing.
She thought of a pale hand, Cait's hand, cupping the jaw of the man she loves, the familiar curve, she thought of Cait's thumb rubbing against the arch of the cheekbones, of the line of nose that buried itself into Cait's golden hair.
Oh, she realised as she stared and took in the familiar features, features that echoed his father, echoed who had to be his brother, a brother she had dreamt about long before him.
"He'll crown her with a circlet of gold and silver roses," she muttered almost to herself as she stared, "that makes sense now."
Fergus twitched slightly but didn't ask as she switched her gaze to Lady Anora—a future Queen that would one day lose her husband and throne, her husband to death and the throne to Kenna's sister.
Well, this made things even more awkward.
Kenna firmly decided she wasn't going to deal with this now and buried her face in Fergus' neck without further ado and just listened as introductions were given.
~ Cousland Castle, Highever, 12th Kingsway 9:21 Dragon ~
Bran barely had the time to notice that Cait was perched on Fergus' bed with her hair down in golden waves before Fergus slammed him against the bedroom door and closing it with the force of Bran's body.
"What the fuck?" Bran gasped as his head bounced against the solid wood and his vision briefly blurred.
"That's what I should be asking," Fergus growled, his fists clenched tight around Bran's tunic and he shook his brother, "what the fuck are you doing? What the fuck are you thinking? Have you completely lost your mind or are you just stupid?"
"Fergus," Cait sighed from the bed, rubbing her temples, "calm down, please."
"How can I calm down when our brother is being so fucking stupid?" Fergus snapped, glaring, and Bran pushed at him off and back.
"Why are you calling me stupid? What the fuck is wrong with you?" Bran demanded as he took a step forward with his own glare making Fergus snarl at him.
"You!" his older brother snarled, "You are being stupid! Fucking the Prince and being so Maker-damned obvious about it in front of his fucking betrothed!"
Bran felt like he had been doused in icy water, he stumbled back against the door his brother had slammed him against and stared.
"H-how did you know..?" Bran stuttered and trailed off.
"Fergus!" Cait's voice raised in a cold snap and stopped their brother in the motion of opening his mouth. "That is enough."
Fergus closed his mouth and turned away from Bran, rubbing the scruff as he scowled at nothing.
Caitlyn pursed her lips as she turned toward Bran.
"You are lucky that most would just write off your interactions with the Prince as an especially close friendship springing up," Cait informed him, her tone cool and her eyes—a rich, bright and deep blue that belonged solely to the Couslands, the mirror of his own eyes—were as sharp as a blade as she stared at Bran, "as neither are of you are at all subtle about sharing affection and looks."
"How did you know?" Bran's voice was weak, his heart was beating too fast in his chest, he felt dizzy and cold as he stared at his sister.
"You have questions about Kenna," Cait said and Bran stared because what has Kenna have to do with this? "She's how we know that you are…"
"A sword-swallower," Fergus piped up with when Cait trailed off.
"Yes, that," Cait agreed with a mild grimace, "though your relationship has to do with your own actions."
"Explain," Bran demanded, pleaded, and they do.
Head spinning, Bran didn't even know where his feet was talking them until the door was opening in front of him.
"Bran?" Cailan asked, confused as he stared and reached out with a warm affection hand.
And Bran realised he didn't want to think, not now, not when it was still so fresh in his mind, not when Cait's voice—low and grieved—still echoed those damning words;
"She saw Father dying, Bran, she dreamt it so often, and I believe her,"
Bran stepped forward, his hands cupping Cailan's jaw and the back of his head, his fingers tangling in golden locks, and he pressed forward as he pulled Cailan's head down and pressed a desperate and hungry kiss on Cailan's lips.
"If you were here, if you had seen her, you would believe too,"
Cailan made a muffled sound of surprise, but he didn't resist, didn't push Bran away. No, Cailan pulled him close with one arm wrapped around Bran's waist and his free hand tangled in Bran's dark locks, pulled him tight against him so they could feel all the hard lines of their bodies and the growing want pressed against each other's hip.
Bran moaned as he rolled his hips and Cailan groaned in response as he dragged Bran backwards, briefly releasing his grip on Bran's waist to slam the door shut behind them.
"She knows things, Bran," Fergus' voice joined Cait's, an echo of words he was trying to ignore, "knows things about people that she shouldn't know, like she knew about you."
For the second time that night, Bran found his back against the door, but this time for a better reason as Cailan pulled away from his lips when air became a pressing demand before placing open-mouthed kisses along Bran's throat between pants.
"Make it so I can't think about anything apart from you," Bran panted as he rutted forward, he could feel Cailan grin against his throat as he rolled his hips back, so their arousal rubbed against each other.
"We believe her, will you believe us?"
"Done," Cailan informed him all cocksure, teeth tugging at the lobe of his ear briefly before he was pulling Bran back towards the bed. "I'll even make you forget your own name, how does that sound, love?"
Bran groaned, aching, desperate, wanting, and Cailan laughed—that breathless laugh that was solely Bran's—as he turned them and push Bran back on the bed with a soft thump.
For a moment Bran lay there with heat curling in his belly as he stared up at Cailan.
Golden hair hung loose and messy to his shoulders, velvet-grey eyes were staring at him with a heated look, a smirk curled at reddened lips as Cailan pulled his tunic off in one quick movement and Bran swallowed at the expanse of pale skin and firm muscles displayed before him.
Bran sat up, shrugging of his own tunic without any grace and throwing it to the side, he pulled at the ties of his trousers as Cailan almost prowled forward.
"Impatient?" Cailan asked with that smirk as he knelt on the bed, moving so he was almost hovering over Bran.
"Yes," Bran hissed as he reached up and fisted those gold locks in one hand, pulling Cailan down and into another deep kiss.
Yes, he was impatient. Impatient to forget, to not think about anything but how prettily Cailan flushed in arousal, impatient to touch, to taste, to feel.
Impatient to forget about the feelings churning in his stomach, the ache in his heart as he believed like his siblings did.
Impatient to drown himself in Cailan, to push away those thoughts, those feelings, that belief, until he was filled with pleasure, lust and such.
Filled with Cailan, having him buried deep in him, the taste of him on his tongue, the feel of him in him, around him.
And as Cailan pressed him down, warm skin under his hands, greedy lips devouring his, a hard cock against his hip, Bran found it easy to forget everything apart from Cailan.
Kenna should be asleep, the tea still warm in her stomach and the heaviness of her eyelids told her that. But she didn't want to sleep, not yet.
It wasn't because she was afraid of what she would see, fear would do nothing to stop the dreams and would only make things worse for her when she did wake up.
No, she didn't want to sleep because she wanted to take some time to savour this.
The feel of Lileas curled around her back, her legs tangled with hers and her face buried in the back of Kenna's neck.
The hardness of Asaaranda's shoulder as her pillow, the easy and calm heart-beat under the palm of her hand.
The sound of Giles' snuffled breathes from Lileas' bed below.
It was comforting, to have all of hers in one place and safe—not all, not really, her Shadow was still not here, still yet to find her.
It would give her strength in the days, weeks, to come as the Royal Visit dragged itself out.
Kenna just dozed, not allowing herself to fully fall asleep as she hoarded the feeling of hers with her as she let her mind wander and her 'gift' unfolded, showing her scenes and things without overwhelming her, without dragging her down into the abyss.
"You are the Herald of Change," a wizen—familiar—voice spoke to her, echoing in her mind, a voice that brought to mind ancient and inhuman golden eyes and a mane of white hair arranged to look like dragon horns, a face both old and ageless at the same time, "what changes you will bring is the question I'm eager to see to answered."
"Whatever change is best for mine," Kenna answered softly, sleep thick in her voice as Lileas tightened her grip around Kenna's waist for a moment.
There was a cackle of laughter that echoed, like the woman heard her response and was delighted by it.