"We are Couslands, and we done what must be done." – Teyrn Bryce Cousland of Highever.
Eleanor was meant to be the mother of four—brave Fergus, adventurous Bran, intelligent Caitlyn and bold Kenna—but she hadn't felt much like a mother of four for years, hadn't felt like Kenna's mother for years.
Kenna had been her precious youngest, the one child she could keep when Fergus got married, when Bran went off to sea, when Caitlyn chose a husband and ruled through him.
She was meant to be able to keep Kenna, keep her close and loved, to be free, but still close to her.
(She was so tiny, so much smaller and seemingly more fragile than any of her siblings before.)
But that was a dream she had when Kenna had been pinked-faced and freshly swaddled when she was placed in her arms, a dream that was dashed.
The first break came the night after Kenna turned four, when she first woke up screaming.
Eleanor knew screams, she knew screams of rage, of pain, of the dying, of the grieving.
Screams were the lullaby of her childhood, the background of her early adulthood, and while Nan may have thought Kenna screamed like she was being murdered, like she was dying, Eleanor knew better.
Her daughter, four-years-old, screamed like someone was dying in front of her, screaming the scream of the grief-stricken.
Whatever dream she had, whatever night-terror troubled her sleep, it had started the cracks in their relationship.
(It was a habit—a response—build in her childhood that made Eleanor wake almost immediately when the scream broke the silence of the night and for her to jump out of bed, head clear and sharp, hands reaching for weapons she no longer slept with.
But it was Bryce who figured out whose scream it was, it was Bryce that was first to the door and down the hall towards the girls' shared room, to where Kenna was screaming.)
It started cracking when Kenna screamed harder when Bryce reached out for her, when Kenna cried harder and choked when Eleanor had attempted to sooth her.
(Bryce reached out for her, frantic with worry, and Kenna flinched like she had been hit, like she had been stabbed, her scream raising ever higher, her face red and her eyes wide, and Eleanor pulled her husband back, fearful that Kenna would tear her throat with her scream.
Eleanor moved forward, hands held out and face filled with worry, and Kenna choked on a sob, scrambling back as her breathing hitched and stopped through her tears.)
It cracked again when Caitlyn stepped forward and Kenna had turned to her—teary eyed, red-faced, scared—and called out in a trembling teary voice that pleaded.
("Cait," Kenna called, voice thick with tears, trembling and pleading, and Cait softened in love and hardened in determination.)
And Caitlyn didn't hesitate, she moved forward and was able to comfort Kenna in the way that Eleanor couldn't.
(Cait climbed on the bed, met Kenna's reaching hands, and pulled her close, let Kenna hide her face in Cait's neck, and held her close, soothing her with words.)
And Eleanor had felt jealous of her own daughter, had been hurt that her other daughter refused her, wouldn't accept her comfort.
It cracked further when Fergus was able to comfort her, comfort her in a way that neither Eleanor nor Bryce could.
(Eleanor watched from the partly opened doorway, watched as Fergus hummed slightly and rocked with Kenna perched on his hip, her arms looped around his shoulders and her face buried in his neck.
One hand—when did his hands get so big? When did they become man's hands?—rubbing Kenna's back, soothing each hitch and tremble as Caitlyn folded down the covers for when Kenna was ready to return to bed.)
Eleanor had pulled away, and Kenna had clung tighter to Fergus and Cait, turning towards them first before anyone else.
(Kenna yawned, tired from her disturbed sleep and from her new training with Ser Kenneth, and she stumbled on heavy legs and half-lidded eyes.
Eleanor would never admit how much it hurt the first time when Kenna walked passed her and towards Fergus—she would never admit to how much it continued to hurt as she was slowly replaced by Fergus and Caitlyn in her youngest's life.
She reached up with a pleading look, and Fergus smiled as he swept her up, perching her on his hip as easy as breathing, and just continuing with what he was doing as Kenna dozed against his shoulder.)
Even Nan had picked up on it, turning towards Fergus and Cait more than Bryce or Eleanor when it came to Kenna.
("Your sister is trouble," Nan informed Caitlyn with pursed lips, almost completely ignoring that Eleanor was there apart from the greeting nod towards her.
"What did she do this time?" Cait sighed, rubbing her temples.
That was all the opening Nan needed to rant about the latest thing that Kenna had gotten into.)
Eleanor had thought—hoped—that Bran returning would change things, would return things to how it was before perhaps.
It had been naïve, it had been unrealistic, and it had been unfulfilled.
(Bran watched, wary and curious, Kenna continued on, free and determined, Fergus watched back, smiling and protective, Caitlyn plotted, wary and protective, and Eleanor stood back and watched it unfold, watched the tension ebb and flow.)
Bran went to Ostwick, had extended his stay as he dealt with what had changed in his absence, and then fought of raiders and caught the attention of the King and Prince of Ferelden with his actions—fifteen like she had been fifteen when she first captured an Orlesian war-gallery.
Meanwhile, Fergus had found his bride and Oriana—lovely, Oriana that Eleanor was delighted to welcome to the family, truly she was—made a place for herself with Fergus, Cait and Kenna, had wedged herself in in a way that Eleanor couldn't—never tried too—and they let her.
(Oriana smiled, loving and warm, running an absent hand down Kenna's back while the young girl curled into Fergus, dozing with one hand stretched across Fergus' middle and interlocking with Lileas' hand on Fergus' other side, most of the young woman's attention focused on the book in her other hand.
Eleanor envied the easy touch, the ease that Oriana had wedged herself in, and cursed herself as a coward for unable to do the same.)
It was maddening, it was heart-breaking, it was her own fault, Eleanor knew.
Then Bran came back with a Prince hanging around his shoulders, a friend, and a new tension had developed between her children for a while before it was resolved without Eleanor knowing how or why.
And Eleanor still didn't know how to reach out towards her youngest, towards Kenna, and she didn't know if she would ever.
(Eleanor cupped the jaw of Kenna, her precious youngest, tears brimming in her stormy green eyes as Kenna stared back at her, grieving but unsurprised by her decision, tears brimming, but not falling.
"I love you, my darling girl," Eleanor told her, a tremble to her voice as she greedily took in the face of her daughter, her free hand smoothing fire-coloured hair, wishing she had more time, that she had been braver.
"I know," Kenna replied with quiet certainty, a hitch of rage and grief to her voice, "I love you too."
"Live," Eleanor told her, begged her, cursing herself for waiting so long to reach out. "Live long, happy and strong."
"I will," Kenna swallowed as she promised, "I'll make them pay for this."
"I know you will," Eleanor bared her teeth in a grin that earned her the name of Seawolf, fierce and blood-thirsty that Kenna echoed easily. "Go now."
Kenna pulled back, nodding, and reached out for Cait, and Cait—who never once hesitated when it came to Kenna, who had never pulled away like Eleanor had—took her hand and pulled her close, a comforting almost mothering arm wrapping around Kenna's middle and while it still ached, Eleanor was comforted.
Kenna wouldn't lost and alone as long as Caitlyn was around.)
Kenna dreamt, she dreamt of the future and sometimes of the present—she wondered if she would one-day dream of the past—no matter the Wards that Lileas learnt to put up to keep out demons and spirits, no matter how much tea she drank.
She dreamt of the future;
Of blood pouring down Cait's face, the slice just missing her eye.
Of guts, pink and glistening through the gaps of blood-stained fingers.
Of her father's voice trembling with pain and relief.
Of sky-blue eyes turning grim as a dark head shook.
Of golden eyes gleam with a sense of knowing, a curl of jaded lips.
Of her mother standing tall and proud, bow knocked and ready.
Of ruins echoing with the sounds of dogs, soldiers and the Chant of Light.
Of a conch shell horn echoing in the sudden silence.
Of hands reaching for a poisoned chalice.
Of an army of monsters appearing from the mist.
Of a golden King falling.
Of animalist golden eyes gleaming, long leather cladded legs moving with a stalking grace.
Of blood-red hair, crystal blue eyes and a lilting voice.
Of prays spoken solemnly, cold iron bars, a cage built from guilt.
Of snarls and growls from the shadows of a deep ancient forest.
Of mages laying broken, clawed and bloody.
Of a rose held out, a crooked smile and loving dark eyes.
Of a cocky smirk, gleaming eyes framed by dark feathers.
Of a stone face, lyrium blue eyes, a drone tone.
Of the dead walking, a child's cry of fear as a mother wept.
Of two stone Kings circling and two shadow Queens plotting.
She dreamt of the present;
Of maddening silence that crept in, that made him want to scream.
Of the aching loneliness as they watched him with cold eyes.
Of the sense of fulfilment, of victory, in his chest as he fought with shield and sword.
Of olive-toned hands running across the spines of leather-bound books as he searched for more knowledge.
Of sky-blue eyes narrowed as he weaved spells, a feeling of pride unfolding deep in his chest as his mentor looked at him with pride.
Of the arch of his throat as he laughed fully, one arm wrapped around his friend, unaware of the envy beginning to seep in, the desperation that would leave him weak to whispers.
Of hair gleaming a deep red under the sun as she raced after her cousins, a stolen moment of happiness.
Of golden eyes gleaming like a cat's under the dark hood pulled down to shadow her face as she glided across the roofs under the light of the moon.
Of dark hands curling around the hilts of twin daggers, the weak light threading through the holes of the old warehouse as she moved and twisted.
Of stalking through ancient forests with bow ready and dark eyes watchful, ears ready to pick up any sound of moment.
Of controlled breathing and careful stillness as he kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore the steady pricks across his face as he became a man.
Of disappearing from sight in the woods, a flash of white teeth as he leapt down and on the back of his unaware blonde friend, a moment of childish foolery that he only indulgence with him.
Of sapphire blue eyes watchful and keen as he listened quietly to warring nobles without drawing notice to himself, learning as he listened.
Of strong hands picking up his two-handed sword, his every moment controlled as he pushed his younger brother through his paces.
Of anger stirring in his heart as his older brother began to look at him with suspicion, ignoring the throb of deep pain as he felt their bond of brotherhood begin to break.
Of the smell of the sea that signalled freedom, the movement of his ship under his feet and his cousin at his side.
Of velvet grey eyes staring down at him heatedly, pale hands cupping his jaw and pulling him into a kiss.
Of bright blue Cousland eyes watching, wary, curious, as his fiery-haired sister went through her daily training with all the grim determination of someone decades older.
Sometimes it frightened her, how she had gone from a silent and unseen witness to being able to feel what they felt or hear what they were thinking.
She knew them, knew them in a way that was invasive, in a way she shouldn't.
She knew what it was like to kill a man filled with such seething rage and hatred that one could almost choke on it because of S.
She knew what it was like to use the rooftops under the light of the moon to get around Denerim because of the elf too.
She knew what it felt to be surrounded by others and still so utterly alone because of Al.
She knew what it was like to stalk through ancient woods with a bow ready and a line of rabbits hanging over her shoulder because of Ar.
She knew what it was like to fade into the forest and guard the clan from Shem because of the Dalish as well.
She knew what it was like to reach inward, to the well-spring of power in her, because of C.
She knew what it felt like to be hit by a Silence, the smothering feeling deep within and the sudden weakness that made knees tremble as one desperately reached for power that wasn't there because of the mage too.
She knew what it was like in the Deep Roads, the invading darkness, the chitter of giant spiders, the sense of wrong from darkspawn because of D.
She knew what the Shaperate looked like, history actually written into the stone and gleaming with lyrium because of the dwarf too.
Because of Bran, she knew what it felt like to stand on the deck of a ship, the way it was never still as it rocked under foot.
She also saw herself in his eyes, felt his wariness and concern and cautious curiosity as he watched her.
Kenna worried about the bleed-through that could happen—that was already happening.
She worried she would become something less then herself if it continued on, if the bleed-through continued.
She worried about the future, about things that she could change and things she couldn't no matter what she decided or tried.
Like her dreams of her father's death, of betrayal and war coming to her home, she couldn't change it, could never change it.
She thought about telling him, of tell them, but it didn't work, it wouldn't work, they wouldn't believe.
Nothing changed, nothing would change, it was a fixed point, she supposed.
And Maker did it hurt, to know that she couldn't change that, that she couldn't stop death coming to her parents, to her home.
There was some relief though.
One person she knew wouldn't die, that she would be able to protect, that she had known the moment she held him, all chubby cheeks and a head of dark hair.
She would be able to save her nephew, Oren would be safe, and she supposed she would have to be content with that.