Gwenaëlle is the same age, now, that Morrigan had been when she’d clung to her skirts in Skyhold and filled them with her confidences. It’s given her a new appreciation for her friend (mentor, idol—); seeing herself echoed in the faces of young women now looking to her the same way she had, feeling like a veteran and like a child. And not having had one, either, to contend with the raising of,
she thinks of them often. Observations she wishes she could make to Morrigan other than in a letter, where she might have forgotten half of it by the time it comes to send, and Kieran for whom she’d felt so responsible, a lever ruthlessly applied by Coupe in a way that still stings in memory. More people than not here in Kirkwall would hardly recognise the young woman who had banned all Wardens from the Hightown mansion except Alistair. It doesn’t occur to anyone, probably, to send word to Captain Baudin in the field to expect Lady Vauquelin’s past charge, so she isn’t expecting it when she’s hauling off glove, gauntlet and cloak headed up the stairs to her office to see Kieran, grown, presumably coming down the stairs from the library.
Down an eye (its replacement gold and blank), nevermind what she is and isn’t recognisable as: she knows him immediately. Depth perception, nothing; Morrigan and Kieran are family.
“Oh, Maker, you’re taller than me now—”
Gwenaëlle hears the words even as they come out of her mouth, and pulls a face. Probably, with effort, she could have chosen something stupider to say.
wildcard. per discush.
she thinks of them often. Observations she wishes she could make to Morrigan other than in a letter, where she might have forgotten half of it by the time it comes to send, and Kieran for whom she’d felt so responsible, a lever ruthlessly applied by Coupe in a way that still stings in memory. More people than not here in Kirkwall would hardly recognise the young woman who had banned all Wardens from the Hightown mansion except Alistair. It doesn’t occur to anyone, probably, to send word to Captain Baudin in the field to expect Lady Vauquelin’s past charge, so she isn’t expecting it when she’s hauling off glove, gauntlet and cloak headed up the stairs to her office to see Kieran, grown, presumably coming down the stairs from the library.
Down an eye (its replacement gold and blank), nevermind what she is and isn’t recognisable as: she knows him immediately. Depth perception, nothing; Morrigan and Kieran are family.
“Oh, Maker, you’re taller than me now—”
Gwenaëlle hears the words even as they come out of her mouth, and pulls a face. Probably, with effort, she could have chosen something stupider to say.