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Denerim smelled like fish.
Rotten fish, fish that’d been lying out in the sun for too long, fish that only a dog would eat and only in the most desperate of times. Dead darkspawn smelled like fish, evidently. Fergus didn’t know how the townspeople could stand it.
And yet there they were, dancing and hugging in the streets, laughing and celebrating the end of the Blight. The Darkspawn corpses had been cleared out immediately, but that awful stench still lingered. On his way to the royal palace Fergus had passed through the festivities, bewildered by how the people of Denerim could celebrate amidst the smell.
Now, he walked through the halls of the palace. Up the stairs and down the hall to the left, Bann Teagan had told Fergus when he’d arrived. Bann Teagan had told Fergus a great many peculiar things. The kingdom as he knew it was a different place now. Piecing it all together was a struggle.
Up the stairs and down the hall to the left. Fergus turned the corner and almost crashed into an elderly woman—red robes and staff in hand marking her as a mage.
“I apologize, my lady, I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s quite alright,” the woman said, smoothing her grey hair back, regarding Fergus as he shifted feet. “Can I help you with something, Ser?”
“I—yes. Do you know which room the, uh—the… ‘Hero of Ferelden’ is in? I was told she was up this way.”
The woman crossed her arms, cocking an eyebrow at Fergus. “I do. And what purpose would you have for looking for her, hmm?”
“She… she is my sister.”
Her eyes widened. “You are Fergus Cousland, then,” she said with a new gentleness.
“Yes.”
The woman bowed. “My apologies, your lordship. One can’t be too careful in these times. I am Wynne, of the Circle of Magi. I’ve been attending to Elissa’s wounds, and I have spent the better part of the past year traveling with her.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Wynne,” Fergus said, slightly mystified by the company Elissa had been keeping. “How bad are her injuries?”
“Not so bad, although the Archdemon certainly gave her quite the beating. Several broken ribs, multiple lacerations. Burns from the explosion. And certainly a concussion, although I won’t be able to assess the severity until she wakes up. She has been healing nicely, however, and I believe it’s only a matter of time before she’s awake.”
Fergus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “So she’ll survive then.”
“Most definitely.” Wynne smiled. “Your sister is a remarkable young woman.”
“I know. I hear she’s had quite a year.”
“She’s in the third room on the right. I’ll be back later to change her bandages.”
“Thank you. For taking care of her, that is.”
Wynne smiled again. “It is the least I can do.”
She moved past him down the hall, and Fergus continued until he reached the door Wynne had indicated. He hesitated. He hadn’t seen his sister in a full year. He’d heard so many wild tales of her exploits he had no clue what to believe; what was truth and what was lie. And their family… their family was gone. That much he knew was painfully, painfully true. Last he saw her, Elissa was little more than a pup, feisty and reckless and untested. Who was she now, with a year between them and just as much hardship?
At last Fergus shook off his nerves and pushed open the door, stepping inside. The room was fairly small but well-appointed, a large window flooding the room with sunlight. A man Fergus didn’t recognize slept in a chair next to the bed, and in the middle of the bed under several layers of blankets lied Elissa. Fergus moved to sit in the empty chair on the other side of the bed from the man. Her chest rose and fell steadily and as if in mere comfortable sleep, and yet even despite Wynne’s assurances he could see the damage done unto his sister: one eye bore a deep purple and yellow bruise, and the bandages around her chest peeking out from the top of the covers were stained brown and deep red. She looked different than he last remembered her, as well. Gone was her youthful baby-fat; instead she sported high, elegant cheekbones and a strong jawline, just as their mother once had. Her hair was longer and the red strands now flecked with gold from spending so much time in the sunlight, and he reached a tentative hand out and stroked it back away from her face.
Yes, this was his sister. A little bloodied and broken, but alive.
Fergus sat back in his chair, releasing a shaky breath. At least there was one person Arl Howe hadn’t managed to take from him.
He now regarded the sleeping man. He was younger than Fergus, probably around the same age as Elissa, and like her covered in scrapes and bruises, although clearly not as badly injured. His wore a rumpled shirt and his hair was mussed as if he’d been sleeping there for quite some time. Was this another one of her traveling companions, as well?
Fergus turned back to his sister and watched her slow breaths, several minutes ticking by as the rhythm of her breathing calmed his unsteady heart.
“Um…hello?”
Fergus jolted forward. The man in the room was awake and looking at Fergus; his eyebrows knit in puzzlement. The two men stared at each other a moment before Fergus finally nodded warily.
“Greetings. And who might you be?”
“I could ask you the same thing, don’t you think? I wasn’t told anyone was coming by here. Are you a physician? Or…” The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to have to call for the guard, am I? Because I really don’t want to do that.”
Fergus snorted. “Save yourself the trouble—Bann Teagan sent me. My name is Fergus Cousland. I’m here for my sister.”
The man’s suspicion was replaced with astonishment and his eyes went wide. “You’re Fergus? Maker’s breath, we thought… I thought you were dead, for certain!” He shook his head, smiling. “Elissa’s going to be so happy.”
Fergus studied the man in front of him; he spoke of Fergus’ sister with familiarity. They clearly knew each other well.
“Oh, I’m, uh… Alistair, by the way. Pleasure to meet you. And—sorry about the caution. Can’t be too careful.”
“It’s fine,” Fergus said. “Good to know someone’s keeping Elissa safe. I take it you traveled with her during the Blight?”
“Yes. I’m a Grey Warden, just like your sister.”
Now it was Fergus’ turn to shake his head, looking over at his sister. “A Grey Warden.”
“What happened to you? Where have you been all this time?” Alistair said. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”
“Far away from here,” Fergus replied, suddenly weary from his trip to Denerim. It occurred to him that as soon as he’d entered the city he hadn’t stopped to rest until finding his sister. “It’s a very long story.”
Alistair nodded. “Seems we all have one of those these days.” The two men went silent, but as Fergus resumed watching his sister he could feel Alistair’s eyes on him. “Do you…” he hesitated, “what do you know of… what happened… in Highever, I mean.”
Fergus’ throat constricted. “I know enough.”
“Ah.” Fergus balled his hands into fists, nails digging into his skin; a reaction ever since childhood to sudden swells of emotion. The pain acted as a distraction. He needed a lot of distraction. “I’m sorry,” Alistair said quietly.
Fergus nodded, once, quickly, desperate to change the subject. Everyone he ran into wanted to offer condolences, wanted to tell him how sorry they are, how terrible Howe was… but none of them knew, really knew what kind of pain he harbored—none except for his sister. “Let’s not talk of this.”
If Alistair looked at Fergus with pity, he could not say. Fergus couldn’t look anywhere but at his shoes. “Then know this: your lands will be restored to you, and the Howes’ will be stripped of theirs and all their titles. I know it won’t bring your family back, but… it’s something, at least.”
Just how was this man so certain? Fergus looked back up at him and found only steel in Alistair’s eyes and found he couldn’t say anything. The two men lapsed back into an awkward silence—Fergus didn’t want his pity; not now, at least. There would be time to mourn later.
The silence stretched on, and Fergus wracked his brain for something less heavy to say to break the tension, other than what he truly wanted to say, which was “go away.” He wanted privacy, but if this man was willing to sleep there while waiting for Elissa to wake up he probably wasn’t interested in leaving anytime soon. And Fergus was too tired for an argument. “So,” he said at last, “I hear we’ve got a new King. Some bastard son of Maric’s kept hidden all these years.”
A strange look passed across Alistair’s face, too fast for Fergus to read. “Yeah, I’ve heard that,” Alistair said, a wry note in his voice.
“I knew Cailan. Good man; I considered him a friend. I suppose we’ll see if this brother of his fares any better… or longer.”
“Well, here’s hoping.”
Fergus frowned. “Something wrong?” He didn’t know what to make of Alistair’s reticence; it was just small talk, after all.
“No, it’s… Uh…” The man hesitated. “Just… hard to focus on much right now. The healers say it could be any minute,” he added, gesturing to Elissa.
“I heard.” So Fergus’ attempt at small talk had failed. Fine then. He sighed, the desire to be alone suddenly overwhelming him even in his exhaustion. “You don’t have to keep vigil over her, you know. You look like you need some real sleep, and I’m sure that chair isn’t doing you any favors.”
“No, no, don’t worry about me; I want to be here.”
Alistair wasn’t getting the picture. Fergus steeled himself. “It’s not you I’m worrying about,” he said, gesturing to Elissa. “She’s my sister, and it’s my job to take care of her. I don’t want to overcrowd her when she wakes up, and forgive me, but I don’t know you. So I’m asking you to please leave us; you can see her when she’s ready for visitors.”
Whether or not Alistair was offended Fergus couldn’t tell; despite Fergus’ best attempt at remaining polite in his request the air had thickened, Fergus’ edginess seeping through his façade. Alistair steadied his gaze on him, measuring his response. “…No, I’m sorry, but…no. I’m not leaving her.”
Fergus took in his haggard appearance; the protectiveness over Elissa; the way Alistair’s face softened every time he looked at her. “Just what is she to you?”
Alistair looked alarmed at the question. “Well—she—uh…”
Suddenly someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” Alistair called.
The door swung open and a servant entered and turning to Alistair, dropped into a quick bow. “Your Majesty, the Arl of Redcliffe requires your presence in the throne room. Urgent matters, he says.”
Your Majesty?
“Your Majesty?” Fergus said, slowly standing.
“Uh.” Alistair, for his part, at least had the decency to look embarrassed as he stood as well. “Is it really urgent? Because I’d much rather be here.”
“He said he requires you immediately.”
Alistair sighed. “Alright. Fine. Tell him I’ll be there soon, but I won’t be staying long because I need to be here for my be—uh… for Lady Elissa, that is.”
“As you wish, my King.” The servant bowed once more and left.
Fergus stared at Alistair, who just smiled back sheepishly. “Uh. So I guess I am going. If Elissa wakes up, please tell her I’ll be back to see her soon.”
“You’re the King? You’re the bloody King.”
“Um…yes? Yes.”
Fergus opened his mouth, but no words came out—this… this boy he’d just tried to kick out was his new King?
“You don’t seem very kingly,” he said at last.
“Yeah, well, I’m working on that.”
Fergus sank back into his chair and ran a weary hand over his face. “You best head to the throne room then, Your Majesty.”
Alistair grimaced. “Just Alistair, please,” he said. “I had hoped when we met—if you were alive, that is—it would be under slightly better circumstances… er, well. I’ll be back later, hopefully when Elissa’s awake. And then I can properly introduce myself.”
Fergus stared up at the king in perplexity. “I will see you later, then.”
King Alistair nodded once before leaving. When the door closed, Fergus laughed humorlessly at the absurdity of it all. A new king sitting vigil by his sister’s side. A wave of grief washed over him (would they ever stop?), grief for all the time Fergus’ lost.
Fergus turned his attention back to Elissa and focused all his remaining energy on watching her breaths. He wanted to collapse, wanted to cry, wanted to rage at the world for what it had taken from him—but he couldn’t, not now. Elissa needed him. He needed Elissa.
For now, all he could do was wait. Fergus stretched his legs out in front of him, reclining in the chair. The minutes slipped by, and soon enough an hour passed, and Elissa kept breathing, and Fergus kept waiting. The seconds kept marching by and just as his eyelids began to flutter shut, the sound of shifting blankets roused Fergus into full awareness.
Two eyes open and staring, and Fergus stared back.
“Fergus?” she rasped.
He surged forward and pulled her into a rough hug, perhaps too rough considering her fragile state, but she hugged him back just as fiercely regardless.
“Are you in pain?” He asked, finally pulling away and leaning back to look at her.
“Not really. It aches to breathe, but that’s about it.” Elissa grabbed Fergus’ hand, tears welling in her eyes. “Um. I thought you were… I thought you were dead.”
“I thought the same of you. I was injured in the Wilds; spent most of past year with the Chasind, healing. I learned what… happened in Highever only a month ago.” Fergus grimaced. “And I’ve heard quite a bit about you in that time, little sister. Don’t know which stories to believe, but I do know this: you’re a hero.”
With her free hand Elissa roughly wiped away her tears. “I killed Howe. Gutted him like a fish.”
“I know. I’m proud of you.”
“I couldn’t stop him from killing—”
“We’re both alive,” Fergus interrupted, “let’s just focus on that. I don’t… I don’t want to think about it right now.”
She nodded, turning her head to look out the window. “‘Lived with the Chasind.’ I’m going to want to hear about that,” she said at last.
Fergus chuckled ruefully. “Perhaps later. What do you remember of the final battle?”
Elissa thought for a moment. “We were fighting the Archdemon on the roof of Fort Drakon, and we brought it down, and was just lying there, thrashing around, and I ran at it with my sword. And… I killed it. And I remember a bright light, I think? Light coming out of it. And then I was in the air… and now I’m here. How long have I been out for?”
“I don’t know. A few days, probably. I only got here recently myself; the mage woman taking care of you didn’t tell me.”
“Mage woman? Was her name Wynne?”
“Yes.”
She smiled and lied back against the pillows, a sigh of relief on her lips. “She’s alive. Good.”
Fergus looked at her, watching the way her fingers thrummed against the blankets; she’d always had trouble sitting still, a trait she’d picked up from their father. As a child it annoyed him, but now it was the most comforting sight in the world. “There was a man here earlier, as well. Sleeping by your bedside and everything. We had a chat; he’s a bit of an odd fellow. Neglected to mention he’s the bloody King.”
Her eyes perked up. “Alistair? Where is he now?”
“A servant came to get him. He told me to tell you he’ll be back later.” Fergus shook his head. “I tried to kick him out of here before I learned who he was.”
“He’s still getting used to it. Probably didn’t even think to tell you.”
Fergus scoffed. “You’d think he would remember to mention it. All he told me about himself was he traveled with you this past year.”
“Oh.” Elissa stopped thrumming her fingers. “Then he didn't tell you… no, of course he didn’t. He was probably so nervous.”
Fergus looked at Elissa quizzically. “Tell me what?”
She looked at her still hands where they rest on the blankets. “Um.” She looked shy then, Fergus thought to himself, shy and introspective and perhaps even a bit embarrassed. “I’m going to marry him.”
If Fergus’ eyebrows lifted any higher they would have been pressed right up against his hairline. “You’re joking.”
“Not at all.”
“And who’s idea was this?” He could feel heat rising in his face, and he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Because they’ll be hearing from me. Mother and Father die and suddenly anyone can use you however it suits them? You're not a bloody fucking political pawn they can use to prop up some royal bastard—”
“Fergus, shut up.” She glared at him, eyes narrowed. “It was my idea.” The heat left his face and he just looked at her, confused. The sister he knew had always shied away from their mother’s machinations to marry her off. “And I’m no one’s pawn,” she muttered, danger threaded in her voice.
“Then—oh.” He laughed then, a hollow sound. The way Alistair, his King, his future brother-in-law looked at Elissa while she slept; the way Fergus used to look at Oriana during the earliest hours of the morning when he was awake but she was blessedly still asleep and he could just lie there and gaze at this marvel of a woman he called his wife. He should have recognized it the moment he walked in Elissa’s room. “And… you want this? Are you sure?”
“I want to marry him, yes.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” Fergus looked seriously at her. “You want to be the queen?”
She was quiet for a long moment, and Fergus wished he could be somewhere inside her thoughts, see for himself what forces drove his sister. She had always been a bit of a mystery to him (though most women were); temperamental, her quiet brooding nature punctuated by frequent fiery explosions, sometimes of anger and sometimes of joy. He suspected that while this may all still be there, over the course of the past year something inside of her shifted; something young and naïve and soft matured into something hard and scarred.
“Yes,” she said, and the way she said it, the puff of air that exited her mouth almost imperceptibly quick as she said the word, made Fergus think that maybe she was just realizing as she spoke that it was true.
He nodded. “Then I’m happy for you. Never thought you’d find someone who can handle you.” She smiled faintly at the callback to the way he’d always tease her back before everything happened.
“I have so much to tell you. The things I’ve seen… you wouldn’t believe it.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“And we need… we need to mourn.”
Fergus picked up his sister’s hand from off the bed and held it, held it the way they used to when they were very small and in need of some sibling comfort. And looking down at her hand, at the new scars criss-crossing across her palm, he thought that maybe in the past year he too had shifted into some other version of himself, someone just a bit more serious and aware and sad.
“We will,” he swore to her. “I promise you, we will.”