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peopleofthedas2011-05-20 09:54 pm
Trouble & Strife: Chapter Fifty Eight
Much love as always to
bellaknoti the Comma Fairy, who kindly tidies up my chapters. Link to the beginning, for anyone joining us for the first time: www.fanfiction.net/s/6144534/1/Trouble_S
Title: Trouble & Strife: Chapter Fifty Eight
Characters: today we have Alistair, Maddy, Zevran, Philippe, Anders, Ser Bryant, Grand Cleric Leanna and Brother Guido.
Rating: T
This chapter: Those who live and work near Denerim market have a treat in store...
-oOo-
The sawing and hammering attracted a certain amount of attention – mainly stall-keepers wishing to ascertain exactly what was going to be sold on this structure, and whether it might cut into their own profits. The workers shrugged, unconcerned provided they, at least, were getting paid.
“Don’t think he’s sellin’ nuffin’,” one of them said, leaning on a lumphammer. “You’ve seen the posters, right? Sez it’ll be free.”
‘Free’ wasn’t a word you heard much around here, especially since the Siege. Everyone was feeling the pinch. A frisson of excitement began to work its way around those who lived and worked in the vicinity of Denerim Market.
Despite the fact that the hour for the demonstration, splashed across the colourful posters, was some time away, a crowd began to gather. The chippies ignored them, concentrating on getting the stage finished, taking regular tea-breaks, and stashing as much spare wood and nails as they could to carry away when their job was done. The King was paying for this little caper, so it’s not like they were stealing from anyone real.
-oOo-
“A shocking thing, is it not, Your Eminence?” If Grand Cleric Leanna’s white-knuckled grip on the gaudy poster was anything to go by then yes, it was shocking indeed. Sister Letitia smiled inwardly, while maintaining her outward composure. Brother Guido had judged this foolish woman correctly. Not that this surprised his devoted assistant; the good Brother judged everyone correctly. “I brought it to you straightaway; this dangerous exhibition is imminent and I thought you should know.”
“The apostate goes too far, this time,” the word was a vile curse in the Grand Cleric’s mouth, “and the King, also. How dare they plan such a thing without consulting the Chantry.” She crumpled the paper in her hand and stalked to the door, throwing it open. “I want a full troop of Templars ready to march in half an hour. I will see this troublemaker in the Chantry dungeon by nightfall.” Outside the door the Templar on guard struck his chest with his fist and turned to leave.
Sister Letitia jumped in hastily. A full troop wouldn’t suit their plan at all. “Consider, Your Eminence, how that will appear. The Landsmeet vote is tomorrow, and you know how delicate our negotiations with the nobles have been. To manhandle and imprison one of the Grey Wardens, a hero of the Amaranthine crisis, who is acting on the instructions of his King? It would do the Chantry cause a great disservice at this time.”
The pinched, discontented face that Grand Cleric Leanna turned to her did not appear convinced, but at least she waved a hand at the Templar, staying him from pursuing the command as yet. “I will not permit this outrage to occur in Denerim, practically in sight of the Cathedral! They insult Andraste’s law with this… this…” She shook the hand containing the scrunched-up poster distastefully, her body language attempting to express a thing for which no words were bad enough.
“No, Your Eminence, of course you should not permit it. I agree completely. But perhaps we can turn this to our advantage. It would be damaging to arrest him, but think what a wonderful impression it will have upon the populace if you were to make an impromptu personal appearance.” Sister Letitia’s face was rapt, apparently caught up in the splendour of this idea. “The Word of Andraste, preached by the Grand Cleric herself in order to sway the public away from this heresy; surely that will secure us the final votes we need, whilst shaming all those present into rejecting this heinous offer.”
It was a silly speech, which would have fallen flat on its face with pretty much every Grand Cleric in Thedas. When Brother Guido had coached her in it, Sister Letitia had made a rare protest, saying that surely the Grand Cleric would reject it out of hand. Trust me, Sister, he’d said, she will eat it up with a spoon.
Leanna’s plump face had softened significantly in the face of the flattering word-picture painted. A glow entered her dark eyes, suggesting that she was imagining it all: the cheers of the crowd, perhaps their enthusiastic prayers, and, of course, the downfall of the dastardly apostate. Maker knows why the Divine appointed this zealot, thought Sister Letitia. But then it was all of a piece with so many of Divine Beatrix’s decisions of late; like so many of her predecessors she had become strange in her old age, determined to make the Chantry’s mark, her mark, on the world before she died.
The Grand Cleric turned to the waiting Templar. “My personal guard,” she ordered, “to be ready in half an hour.”
“As you command, Your Eminence.”
-oOo-
Anders beamed down at the gathered crowd. A sea of expectant faces was turned up to him, noses and chins reddened by the winter cold. A thin cordon of guards, a mixture of King’s and City Guard roped in for the occasion, surrounded the low stage, holding back the crowds. Beside him, on the raised planks, was Ser Bryant’s solid presence, in full Templar regalia.
Anders, former apostate, Warden, Court Mage and unrepentant user of magic raised his arms high, allowing a sharp, white flare of unfocussed magic to form around his fingers. A grin split his face, wide enough to make his head appear in danger of falling off.
“Hellooo Denerim!”
-oOo-
“Maddy,” Alistair’s protests sounded feeble even to his own ears, and did nothing to stop the busy fingers buttoning him into his best doublet, “for the Maker’s sake, we can’t attend a, a... whatever-this-is today.” He couldn’t bring himself to call it a wedding. This was two men, the idea was ridiculous. “The Landsmeet is tomorrow.”
His wife’s mouth set in a stubborn line. “I do not care. My brother is taking vows before the Maker and we will be there to see it.” She finished the line of intricate silk buttons and smoothed the embroidered fabric over his chest. “You saw him, mon mari.” Her eyes, when she raised them to him, were filled with sudden tears. “You saw what he was like, how he hid his face, how he shied away from even his friends and family. He has been so ever since the attack, ever since Anders healed him. And now…” she took her handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped away the moisture below her eyes, “…now he looks alive again, like my darling brother should.” Maddy tucked the handkerchief away again with a purposeful gesture. “So, if he wants us to see him exchange vows with Zevran, then that is what we will do.”
Alistair could withstand any amount of argument, but he couldn’t withstand his wife’s tears. He meekly allowed her to fuss over his appearance a little longer before ushering him to the door.
-oOo-
Ser Bryant had been dubious, extremely dubious, when the plan had been put before him. For mages to assist with healing was not unknown; a number of nobles had a mage assigned to their estate, solid, reliable mages chosen by the First Enchanter and Knight Commander to be entrusted with such a duty. For a mage to be allowed to assist in towns where plague had struck was also not totally unheard of.
For a mage to offer a public demonstration of free healing in the capital city, to put up posters exhorting the populace to bring their sick and injured relatives to be healed… that was so radical, Ser Bryant had thought it a joke at first.
It wasn’t a joke, not even a little bit.
He hadn’t realised until now exactly how many people needed such help. It seemed half of Denerim had brought someone: babes in arms, hacking and coughing with croup; children with rickets, stumbling on misshapen legs; adults with injuries from their work, burns, gashes, even amputations going putrid under filthy rags.
By some kind of miracle the guards were keeping order, allowing one or two onto the stage at once. Anders’ stamina appeared endless compared to the mages Ser Bryant had known, his grip on the Fade so expert that he could grasp tiny amounts and use it to work marvels, his mind so focussed that the Templar wasn’t feeling the slightest threat from him.
For the first time he truly began to understand what the King was trying to achieve with his reforms; mages like this should be allowed to work, should be encouraged to serve the community, just as Templars and Sisters did. The crowd seemed to agree; to start with there had been suspicion, fear, and Anders initial flashy display had not helped. Now the mood had turned, and each grateful smile and word of thanks, each person who walked off the stage under their own steam, brought a cheer and another surge forward from those still waiting. More observers were gathering, drawn by the prospect of free entertainment. The crowd was now about eight or ten deep in places and growing all the time.
The latest patient was a young boy, an elf of maybe eight years old. The child had a fever, was babbling, barely conscious. ‘Dropsy of the brain’ was Anders’ murmured diagnosis before he plucked energy from the Fade and plunged into a focussed state of healing. The mother stood by, wringing her hands in her shabby dress, obviously intimidated in such company.
When a flash of light hit the corner of Ser Bryant’s eye he thought at first it was magic, overflowing from the healing and sparkling in the air. Turning towards it, he saw instead a familiar sight; the gleam of armour with a splash of colour, yellow and purple on sashes and the sun symbol on the banner held high. Four Templars formed up around the one figure he really, really, didn’t want to see right now, pushing through the outskirts of the crowd, forcing their way to where magic glowed blue over the head of a sick child.
The Grand Cleric… and she didn’t look at all happy.
-oOo-
Anyone looking at Zevran, and quite a few eyes were upon him as he approached the altar, would see only a calm exterior, a façade which fell easily into place, beaten into him by a series of brutal Crow trainers.
Under the surface, fear and trepidation roiled like a bubbling pot above the roaring fire of emotion that had carried him this far. Philippe’s words thundered through his brain.
You will be mine, Zevran, and I shall be yours.
Merciful Andraste, could it be possible? Could such a thing exist for such as he?
All his training was screaming at him to run. He’s weak, a burden to you; a Crow does not risk himself for the sake of another. Flee now, hide, and be safe.
Twice they died. A third time and I die too. To run away from this would be worse than death. There would be no peace in the world, no place he could run where Philippe’s face, his smile, his scent, the touch of his hand would not follow. Better to take the risk, to do his best to keep his gentle lover safe, than to wander the world, not knowing if he lived or died.
The Revered Mother, elderly and frail, who tended the Palace chantry, was speaking, but Zevran could not take in her words. All his awareness was centred on the man stood to his right. Even stood a couple of feet apart, he could feel Philippe’s heat, catch a whiff of his skin; hear the soft certainty in his voice as he gave some ritual response.
All this is not for a whoreson like you.
“The Maker saw in Andraste purity and strength,
Here was one worthy to stand beside him.”
Finding parts of the Chant suitable for an exchange of life vows was not an easy task. The Chant was heavy on blood and thunder, but not so hot on positive affirmations. The Revered Mother had fallen back on the section related to the marriage of the Maker and Andraste; it wasn’t her fault that the words tore at Zevran like knives.
Worthy. He could never be worthy, even if he tried all his life long.
He thinks you are.
And that was the wonder of it, the pure, shining miracle. That was the spur that drove him forward, that allowed him to make his formal responses. That was why he could offer his finger for the bodkin – so strange that the Chantry used something so similar to blood magic in their ceremony – why he could watch the bead of blood well up and mingle it with Philippe’s, proud that his hand did not shake. The face of his lover, his partner for life now, was calm, serene, totally confident. Zevran would die a thousand deaths before he destroyed that confidence, before he saw that beloved face, so beautiful and yet so ruined, crumple with disillusionment.
He heard a little sniffle from the seats behind them where their friends and family bore witness: Maddy, Alistair, Leliana, Kallian. So few, and yet they were a rich abundance to Zevran. But the greatest treasure stood here, smiling gently, while the Revered Mother wound down the Chant.
Philippe, standing there, right hand clasped to his, their blood mingling from the tiny cuts, with such love beaming from his remaining blue eye that Zevran could hardly bear it.
I will protect you marito mio. I swear it in the Maker’s sight.
-oOo-
“O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked
Make me to rest in the warmest places.”
Declaiming the familiar words soothed Leanna’s heart as she strode through the gap created by her Templars. Ahead, she could see the flare of magic, unholy and illegal, bathing the front row in strange light.
“O Maker, hear my cry:
Seat me by Your side in death
Make me one within Your glory
And let the world once more see Your favour.”
The Maker’s children, spread out around her in all their splendour were in need of His grace, their faces turned from Him by the dazzle of the forbidden. The cheers they gave to this monster rightly belonged to the Maker and his Divine Bride. It was her duty to ensure that They received Their due again.
“Cease this abominable display this instant!” Leanna had reached the steps to the stage, her Templars facing off against the armoured cordon that surrounded it. “Let me through! I am the Grand Cleric of Ferelden and I demand access.”
It seemed that the guards hesitated, turning to the stage for instruction. When she followed their gaze, she gasped, outraged. “You, Ser Knight. Yes, you. How dare you countenance this outrage. I will see you stripped of your rank for this.” The Templar, hovering next to where the apostate still worked on his patient, closed his eyes briefly and nodded to the guards. They parted and the Grand Cleric stormed onto the stage.
The apostate continued with his unholy work, utterly ignoring her, and she longed to instruct her Templars to smite him where he stood. Mindful of Sister Letitia’s arguments, she stayed her hand. Once the King’s heretical aims have been squashed, we shall crush them all. Instead, she turned to the crowd, her hand raised in benediction, Andraste’s sacred banner above her head.
She began to speak.
-oOo-
Shadowy figures moved through the crowd, intent not on the mage, or the cleric on the stage, but on the crowd itself. It had taken little effort so far to buoy their mood, to keep them enlivened. Boisterous was the ideal aim, for a boisterous crowd can turn ugly in a second. The arrival of the Grand Cleric had dampened their mood somewhat; many had arrived believing that magic was dangerous and bad, and now here was the Grand Cleric herself reminding them of that fact.
A verbal nudge here and there, a shouted catcall, a little booing put them back on track. The mage has been doing good work, has been helping people. When did the Chantry last do that, eh?
Other clever tongues worked to provide the other ingredient, to create the alchemical mix that would explode into action. Her Eminence has the right of it; a few healed people doesn’t change Andraste’s holy word, it doesn’t alter the reality of how dangerous magic is.
The crowd became restless, the alchemy of conflict fizzing through them. They began to push against the thin cordon of guards, the slender rope that separated them from the targets of their turmoil. At the chokepoint of the stairs, the guards began to buckle under the weight.
-oOo-
Maker, my enemies are abundant.
Many are those who rise up against me.
Her rhetoric having reduced the crowd to a rumbling cauldron of discontent, Grand Cleric Leanna had fallen back on the Chant. Ser Bryant glanced desperately over to where Anders was just finishing the healing. The Templar had been reluctant to intervene, and had done all he could to stay the hands of his colleagues from doing so. Brothers, the child could die if you stop this. Do you want his blood on your hands?
It seemed they didn’t. One of the four, a young blond Templar he didn’t recognise, had removed his helm and stood watching the display with more curiosity than anything else, his gaze flicking between the healer’s intent, focussed face and the Grand Cleric’s angry visage.
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,
should they set themselves against me.
The healing over, Anders looked up. In his face Ser Bryant saw the healer overtaken by the mischief-maker and groaned inwardly.
“Anders, don’t.”
A twinkle and a quirk of the lips was all his admonishment gained him. The mage sauntered forward to where the Grand Cleric still addressed the crowd and stood with his hands on his hips, grinning.
“Tell me, ladies and gents. When did she ever do anything for you?” He jerked his thumb to the woman at his side, who gasped in outrage. Behind him a tearful parent was helping her boy down from the makeshift table; the child looking around, his eyes clear and intelligent.
“How dare you. The Chantry does good works, without needing to flirt with demons to do so.”
He smirked down into her livid face. “All right then, you can heal the next one.” He nodded to the guards to let the next patient onto the stage, just as though the guardians of the Chantry weren’t taking up most of it.
Ser Bryant took one look at where the crowd surged at the base of the steps and shook his head, moving forward. “No! You can’t.”
Grand Cleric Leanna turned her pinched face to him. “At least now you see sense; not that it will save you from punishment. I’ll see you posted to the worst place in Thedas for this dereliction of du-” Her words were cut off by the bodies that pushed and shoved against her.
The cordon had broken and the crowd were onstage.
-oOo-
Up until this point Anders had been finding the whole situation hilarious. An opportunity to wind up the Grand Cleric didn’t come his way every day of the week. He itched to do worse to her than mock, but even he wasn’t daft enough to think it a good idea.
Then, suddenly, there were people everywhere, screaming and shouting. The four Templars formed up around the Grand Cleric, protecting her from the surging crowd. Ser Bryant was by his side, shouting at him to withdraw, his Templar shield raised as a shelter. Anders shook his head, preparing a spell; mass paralysis or sleep would get things under control, he just hoped the Templars wouldn’t see it as a reason to smite him on his arse.
Right on the verge of stepping into the Fade, of grasping the power he needed, he felt something pressed into his hand and his arm was enveloped in a blinding flash.
In the same moment, the Grand Cleric crumpled to the floor, the front of her robes smoking and charred.
All hell broke loose.
-oOo-
“No, no, I didn’t do it.” Anders was shaking his head vehemently, shock written all over his face.
Ser Bryant saw the flash envelop Anders’ hand in the moment when the Grand Cleric was hit, but was certain he hadn’t accessed the Fade. Someone had, but he’d been working with Anders for days, he knew how the Warden’s magic felt.
The combined smites of the Grand Cleric’s guard knocked Anders off his feet, even rocking Ser Bryant on his heels for a moment. He set his teeth and planted himself before the prone mage.
“It wasn’t him!” It was like screaming into the wind, his words only heard a few feet before him, battling against the cacophony. People milled everywhere; whoever the killer was, he or she could too easily escape in this mess. “And you idiots have just incapacitated the one person who might have been able to save her!”
The Templars were obviously torn between wishing to protect the prone body of the Chantry’s leader and wanting to cut down the man they saw as the perpetrator. Two of them, helms hiding their expressions, menaced Ser Bryant, attempting to get past him to reach their prey. None of the guards were near enough to assist. When a third Templar, bareheaded and blond, turned his attention towards them also, Ser Bryant resigned himself to failure and probably death; there was no way he could withstand three of his brethren alone.
“He’s right.” The blond boy formed up beside Ser Bryant; behind them he could hear Anders scrambling to his feet. “You’re right, Ser, it wasn’t the Warden. I was stood right beside him.”
It was two against three now, with one of the three still hovering over the prone woman, holding his shield to ward off the diminishing crush. People were fleeing, and it looked like a good plan to Ser Bryant. Out of the corner of his eye he could see two men of the King’s Own working their way towards where their little drama was playing out. “Good lad. Help me get him out of here and back to the palace.”
-oOo-
The gloomy ringing of the bells in Denerim Cathedral drifted over the entire city, even filtering faintly into Alistair’s sitting room, where a disconsolate Anders and a grim Ser Bryant made their report to the King. What had been intended as a harmless bit of propaganda, an opportunity to garner some last-minute support by demonstrating how mages could help people, had blown up in their faces, literally.
“Someone set me up, Alistair.” Anders opened his hand to show the soot smeared over it. “They shoved some kind of flare in my hand, so it would look like I’d cast a spell. I still don’t know whether she died from a spell or a trap, but whatever it was it looked like a spell and that’s all that matters, right?” His voice and expression were bitter, disillusioned.
“It was a spell.” Ser Bryant seemed adamant, his face set and hard. “I felt the Fade accessed but it wasn’t close by; I think the spell was cast further back, in the crowd. It was clumsy, nothing like the Warden’s skill at all.”
“I don’t get it.” Alistair rubbed his hand through his hair, bewildered. “How could someone set this up? How could they know that the Grand Cleric would turn up personally? And that the stage would get mobbed?”
“It’s simple enough to orchestrate such things.” Leliana’s usually placid face was angry. “If I had been there - I should have been there - then I could have prevented this, turned the crowd.”
“It’s not your fault, Lels; I knew I should have made them wait for their blighted wedding. Having it the day before the Landsmeet was crazy.” Alistair flung himself back in his chair, despairing. “And now it’ll be all over the city that Anders killed Loopy Leanna. I’ll be lucky to hold the votes I’ve got, let alone garner any more. Maker, we’re going to lose tomorrow, aren’t we?” His fingers dug hard into the arm of the chair. “After everything we’ve done, everything we’ve been through.”
She shook her head and stood, brisk and determined. “I’ll get to work; see what I can achieve tonight. Zevran too, even if it is his wedding night, I’ll go get him, put him to work. If there are assassins in town, perhaps he can find them, while I try to undo some of this damage.”
“I have a Templar downstairs, Sire, Ser Kayden, a member of the Grand Cleric’s personal guard. He is willing to swear before the Landsmeet that Warden Anders did not cast that spell.”
Alistair nodded to Ser Bryant. “Well, that’s something at least. Keep him safe; I don’t want any more ‘accidents’ before tomorrow.” He rubbed his face wearily. “I hope the Maker is on our side at the Landsmeet. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”
-oOo-
Slow, heavy bells rang constantly, a dirge for the dead. Brother Guido sat at his desk in the Chantry, his hands clasped before him. On the desk was a single sheet of parchment; it bore no words, merely a wax seal, heavy and black, the stylized spread wings of a bird. Le ali del corvo, the wings of the Crow. His contract was fulfilled, exactly to specification. Even now, those nobles loyal to the Chantry would be visiting with those whose votes may be swayed, tutting and shaking their heads over such a shocking occurrence; the death of the Grand Cleric at the hands of a mage. The vote would be close - too many nobles had a vested interest in the King’s proposal for it to be anything else – but, if his calculations were correct, the proposal would fall.
He stood, moving to where a good fire crackled in the hearth, and flung in the parchment, watching the wax seal flare up in the heat.
-oOo-
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I can't stand the tension woman!!!!!!!!!
(love you)
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And in the middle of all that, the wedding *shiffles* It was lovely :D
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Landsmeet next week, which is the finale to the story. All other plotlines will be tied off in a series of epilogue snapshots.
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Can't say I'm sad to see Leanna bite the dust. I just hope that Guido's plot fails and that everyone of our guys get to live happily ever after.
Um, I should perhaps get some coffee and see if I make more sense later. :D
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I confess I robbed you all. My readers have been howling for Leanna's blood for months, and Brother Guido has managed to twist her death to Chantry advantage. Curse his devious Antivan soul :)
Still, as my beta, bellaknoti, put in brackets after 'Slow, heavy bells rang constantly' Ding, dong the witch is dead
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And you REALLY surprised me with the outcome of that. I was totally floored (in a good way!)
And the wedding was very awww... but my mind is buzzing with "oooh, what will happen now!" over the chantry plot, I will admit.
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And Zev's thought process at the wedding! *hugs him*
Looking forward to seeing how this resolves
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Heh, I had to do the wedding from Zev's PoV. He had all the jitters while Philippe was just floating on a blissed-out cloud.
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Loved how Alistair is still a bit of a boob and needs to be gently pushed around by his wife; Zevran's inner dialogue while he was getting married; the down fall of Loopy Leanna (but poor Anders indeed)...looking forward to the conclusion.
Cheers,
Biff
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Which old witch? The wicked witch.
Ding dong, the wicked witch is dead!"
Yaaaaaaaaaaayyyy! *\o/*
One must admire Brother Guido's skill even while one bites one's nails over the outcome. It'll be interesting to see how Celene reacts to Philippe's marriage. *snicker*
It's good that there are two Templars ready to swear that Anders wasn't responsible for Leanna's death, although I kind of wish he'd be able to heal her. That healing would have been a nice stroke, but yes, would have made things too easy for our heroes.
I have faith in you and will wait patiently for the outcome.
Just a note -- there are three places where you use "stood" when you should have used "stand." Two of them are during the wedding, and the third is...somewhere. I can't find it again right now.
*settles herself to bide in patience*
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All his awareness was centred on the man stood to his right.
That should be 'standing'? Huh. I seem to not really understand how the rule works, because both look fine to me. If you can explain it, then I can aim to improve in future.
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You are describing Philippe's position/place, so you should use either an adjective clause "...who stood to his right" or a the present participle "...standing to his right."
"Even stood a couple of feet apart, he could feel Philippe’s heat,..."
Again, you are describing something and need to use either an adverb clause "Even though they stood a couple of feet apart,..." to describe the verb phrase "could feel" or the present participle "Even standing a couple of feet apart,..." to describe Zevran's and Philippe's positions/places.
"I was stood right beside him."
Here, you are using the past progressive form of the verb "stand" which is created by using "was" with the present participle form of the verb, which is "standing." So, the sentence should read "I was standing right beside him." (Past progressive is used to describe an action which began and ended in the past, but extended over a period of time.)
Clear as mud? Yeah, I know. What can I say -- former English teacher.
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I shall try to add the rule to all the others I've learnt going forward.
Thanks!
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My common-as-muck background creeps in here and there.
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Being a Yank, it sounds very Brit-speak to me. Although it's technically correct to say He was standing... I also find that even if it's not specifically dialogue, I sometimes enjoy these types of idiosyncracies if they fit with what I know of the writer and/or the character.
Instead of it pinging on my grammar radar as wrong, I just think... Oh this is written by a Brit. (or whatever other thought goes along with it, i.e. a southerner, etc etc). It's kind of like a little easter egg to me.
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Not that I can blame you, he's an intimidating one to try your hand at.
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Al is a pain in the arse, is what he is. Also, skin textures make my brain bleed. I discovered this over the weekend... although I do have a hi-res Aedan & Julian nearly done for you &
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