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By the time Fergus made it to Denerim the Blight had long since ended. Of course he had heard the rumors of a young Grey Warden with a fiery temperament and a sharp tongue to match, but he couldn’t believe it. Not until he saw her for himself.
The first mention he heard of her was also how he learned of their family’s fate. He was sitting at the bar of the first inn he made it to. As he was nursing a pint of ale, his first in months, he overheard a conversation between two men.
“The Grey Warden who spoke at the Landsmeet? I heard she’s that Cousland girl.”
“A right shame what happened to her family. They were good people.”
“That they were.”
Fergus’ back straightened at this. Maker, he had been gone for so long. What exactly did he miss? With a weary heart he picked himself up and made his way over to the table where the two men sat.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m a traveler who’s been away on business for the past year. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and was wondering if you could fill me in on all that’s happened while I was away. It seems I’ve missed quite a bit.”
Oriana, ever his conscience, would have reprimanded him for lying. However, considering the subject matter he thought it best to keep a low profile for the time being. In any case, the two bought his story and invited him to sit at their table.
And so, their story began. He had to struggle to keep a neutral expression as the details of his family’s murders were made known to him. He interrupted once to ask if there were any survivors. There was one. The Teyrn’s daughter managed to escape with the help of a visiting Grey Warden. It’s said she joined the order. It was her who spoke so passionately at the Landsmeet in favor of the Wardens, garnering the army she’d need to fight the Blight. He listened in awe at the strangers’ chosen embellishments:
“And then she said, ‘I don’t give a fuck about Orlais! The Blight is what we should be concerned with!’”
Fergus had to place a hand over his mouth to keep it from hanging open. Surely Rosalind would never use such language, would she?
The story ends there in the present as the Wardens and their accumulated armies march on Denerim to end the Blight in an epic final battle.
Fergus’ original plan after having recovered from his injuries was to make his way back home to Highever, but it seemed his plans had changed. The fate of his family weighed heavily on his conscience, yet Rosalind’s survival was a blessing, the hope he needed to continue marching forward. And so, he made for Denerim instead, and hoped his sister would still be alive when he got there.
His journey there was slow going due to his lingering limp. When at last he arrived, the fighting had already ended. Funeral pyres were built in the streets to help send their dead off. The Darkspawn carcasses were dragged into less respectful piles where they were set aflame, away from the innocents they slaughtered. The smoke that proceeded them left a putrid stench in the air, forcing the living witnesses to breathe out their mouths.
He wandered the streets unsure of where Rosalind might be. He flagged down one of the locals asking where he can find the Warden. He was told he might be able to find them in the market district handing out food rations. He arrived to find the market packed with desperate families seeking aid. The street was so crowded he wouldn’t be able to spot her even if he tried. He approached a woman with her family, the children eating their rations gratefully. He asked again where he might find the Warden. She pointed out a man with blond hair wearing gold armor. Not the person he was looking for, but he looked official, he might know something.
Fergus approached the young man. He appeared to be in the middle of giving orders among some men, but took pause when he saw Fergus, his limping, teetering gait was hard to go unnoticed.
“Please,” he said to the man. “I’m looking for the Warden. Have you seen her?”
“I’m a Warden,” the man said. “What can I help you with?”
“No, you don’t understand,” Fergus said. “I’m looking for my sister. Her name is Rosalind. She has long, red hair; blue eyes. She’s about yea tall.” He lifted a hand as a means of approximating height.
Recognition dawned in the man’s eyes as well as something else Fergus couldn’t quite place. “Maker, you’re—.” The man spoke under his breath then abruptly cut himself off. He spoke louder this time, “Wait here. Don’t go anywhere.”
The man turned and disappeared into the crowd. He neither confirmed her whereabouts or if she was even alive before he left. Fergus could only hope he returned with some good news. He took the opportunity to look around while he waited. Whatever bodies or debris that littered the market square had been disposed of. Any damage done to homes or shops were in the process of being repaired. All around him families were being provided with food and warmth. Rosalind had to have helped make all this happen. She could never sit around and watch when there were people in need. The very thought filled him with hope.
Then he saw her. The crowd parted slightly revealing his sister, her hands clasped over her mouth. The man from before had his hands on her shoulders, whispering something in her ear. It made for an intimate looking scene, but he would think of that later. For now, he was just happy to see her alive.
He called to her. “Rosie?”
A heart wrenching wail escaped her lips as if she were releasing all the heartbreak she had held onto until now. The sound was enough to break his heart twice over. He made his way over to her. She set of at a run, meeting him halfway. An audible oof left his mouth when she collided with him, her arms clinging to him for dear life. He returned the embrace in kind.
“Easy there,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m still a little bruised.”
“I thought you were dead,” she sobbed.
“I know,” he said regretfully.
“I should have looked harder for you,” she cried. “I should have looked harder. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have never left Highever. If I had been there, Mother and Father might have…”
“No, it’s all my fault,” she said through hiccupping breaths. “I wasn’t strong enough.”
Fergus pulled away. Holding her face between his hands he looked her in the eye and said, “Nonsense. You did all you could.”
“Rosalind?” It was the man from before. “The tavern is open if you’d like a moment alone together.”
Rosalind looked at him and nodded. “That sounds like a grand idea.” She sniffled. “Can you handle everything while I’m gone?”
The man smiled. “I think I can manage,” he drawled.
“Okay.” She took Fergus’ hand and said to him, “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
She led the way through the throng of people and to the tavern where they took a seat in a more private section of the pub. They sat across from each other, their hands clasping desperately to each other on the tabletop. Looking at her now he could tell she had changed. She looked older now, more mature. Her bearing seemed more regal. When he had left her, she was still but a child, and since he’s been gone, she had grown into the woman she was always meant to be.
“I’m so sorry about Oren and Oriana.” Her voice cracked. “I promised you I would take care of them, and I couldn’t even do that.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” he said. “That is my burden to bear. As a man it is my duty to protect my family. And where was I? Off fighting another man’s war.”
“There are different ways to protect someone,” she said reassuringly. “When you left that’s what you thought you were doing.”
“I know,” he said. “But I made the wrong choice, and now I must live with it.”
She was silent for a moment as she looked down at the table. At length she said, “What happened to you, Fergus? Where had you gone?”
He told her about his scouting party getting ambushed by Darkspawn. Most of the men under his command were killed, but he had only been injured. Gravely so, as he woke up two weeks later in the home of a Chasind tribesman. By the time he was strong enough to make it on his own Rosalind and her armies had already begun their march on Denerim.
“I’ve heard a lot of stories about you on the road, you know,” he said. “How you united all the peoples of Ferelden to fight for a common goal. You’ve really grown into your own. I’m so proud of you. Father would be proud of you.”
She smiled shyly. “Thank you.”
“And what’s this about you getting married?” he asked. “How exactly did that proposal come about?”
Rosalind’s cheeks flushed a bright pink. “Well, I made Alistair king, and I announced that I would be his queen.”
He barked out a loud raucous laugh, and he was surprised at how natural it felt, like they had never been apart to begin with. “Of course you did,” he said. “And I’ll be damned if you don’t always get what you want.”
Her blush deepened. Pulling her hands away from his, she obstinately folded her arms over her chest. “Not always,” she said.
“And how did you and this Alistair meet? Don’t tell me you only just met him and decided for him that you two would wed,” he said, his tone teasing.
“No, we met at Ostagar,” she said uncomfortably. “We were the only Grey Wardens to make it out alive.”
Realization dawned on him then. That man he met earlier must have been him. His voice took a serious tone as he said, “And he helped you survive, this Alistair?”
“Oh, yes,” she said emphatically. “Without him I wouldn’t have made it this far.”
He took her hand in his again. “Then I owe him my gratitude.”
She smiled at him. “I know he technically doesn’t need it now, but if you could give him your blessing that would really mean a lot.”
“Then I shall,” he said warmly. “In the meantime, you must tell me of your journey. It sounds like a grand story to behold.”