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It feels odd, coming home like this. He half-expects the grounds to be ruined, the place to be silent and covered with corpses; but no - the birds are singing, the sun shining brightly. It's an absolutely beautiful day, and that makes coming here so much worse.
It's only when his horse gets nearer the castle and he sees that the Cousland flags are missing, that there are burned patches of grass and marks on the stone, that he understands. He swallows, bile rising in his throat, and makes himself continue. He is a Cousland; he has a name to uphold, and he refuses to bend under the weight of his grief. His men are behind him, newly recruited and coming from Denerim. They were provided by the king - and oh, that's a whole other story, one he can't bring himself to dwell on lest he lose his composure.
Not yet. Not here.
The castle is all shadows and greys against the bright colours of the surrounding lands. He supposes that suits: it should be ominous, if there's any justice. A site of so much death should reflect the blood spilled within its walls.
He dismounts as he reaches the entrance, patting Betsy to quieten her, and then opens the large wooden doors. It takes him and four other men; this castle was never made for just one man, every bit of it screaming family and servants and life at him until he puts his hands on his ears to try and block out the din. Cedric, walking next to him and the only man not sent from Denerim, looks at him oddly, probably wondering what in the Void he's doing, and he drops his hands, feeling self-conscious. It reinforces the fact that his men should not be seeing this - this is simple, private.
He walks the halls in a trance, painting the walls in memories as he goes. (This is where Elissa was when she got her mabari, Canny, for Satinalia. This is where he proposed to Oriana.) He's afraid to focus on the grim reality of this place in case he loses his mind. He's glad, at least, that there's room to pretend: there aren't scattered bodies, the smell of blood doesn't linger. Howe and his men were probably occupying the castle and so made it comfortable for themselves. The thought angers him, but he's ashamed to admit that it also relieves him; he's not sure he could handle the evidence of what took place here. There are occasional burn marks on the walls, though, and one thing bothers him: it's too dark here, even with the light spilling through windows - there were always candles, before, always warmth and light. He's glad when the men, some of them carrying torches, light the way. It isn't the same - isn't nearly enough - but the pretence helps.
The corridor they reach looks familiar; he blinks, twice, and then knows. He swallows, goes to the second door, and softly pushes it open. "Leave me, please," he tells Cedric, the man next to him, and by extension the rest of his men - the soldier will pass on the message. "It's been a long journey. Take a break for food and organizing of rations..." He trails off, any authority he tries to muster crushed out of him by the weight he's attempting to bear. "...and such," he tries vaguely.
Cedric, Maker bless him, says nothing, just nods and looks at Fergus with understanding in his eyes. "Yes, Teyrn. I, er, thought you might need this." He passes Fergus the torch he has been carrying through their grim little expedition.
Fergus manages to numbly accept the torch. The term of address takes the breath out of him, twists his heart in his chest. He prays it doesn't show in his face. "'Ser' is more than enough." He is not his father. The echoes of his parents haven't quite faded away yet.
Cedric nods. The man is making to tell the rest of their small army when he pauses, his eyes meeting Fergus'. "I lost a sister as well, ser. If you don't mind me saying. In the... the massacre. She worked in the kitchens."
Fergus remembers a girl with the same bright, laughing eyes as his lieutenant's, a similar habit of off-key whistling when attending to chores. "Ah. Yes, I remember. Eleanor?"
"Yes, ser." Cedric's eyes widen slightly, then fall to the ground.
"Lovely girl. I once spent a rather funny half-hour with her when she was chopping carrots. I'm very sorry."
Cedric nods, once - "Thank you, ser" - and then has turned to speak to the others.
Fergus waits until they turn as one, retreat from the corridor, the sound of clanking armour and thudding footsteps fading. When they're gone from his sight and the sounds are distant, he opens the door with one hand, slowly, and thinks as he does so. (Everyone remembers the Elissas and Alistairs of this world - the heroes, the kings - but the Eleanors, the Orianas? They're just footnotes in the texts, easily forgotten by the people and the historians alike. Who will speak of his wife, his son, in the schoolrooms and at the grand celebrations?)
The room, like all the others, is dark - but worse, also windowless. It smells of dust, he notices, as he walks across the room and to the writing desk. He lights the candle, still on its stick on the desk, from the torch, blowing the larger flame out as he does so and placing the wood a little distance away from the candle. He makes his slow way over to the bed. It's half habit, half necessity. He slumps to sit on it, the mattress creaking under his weight, and that old, familiar sound breaks the dam. Suddenly he is crying. He is crying with great, shuddering breaths unbefitting a Teyrn or indeed, a grown man. He cries for his son, and for the hours and minutes Oren never saw; he cries for Oriana and the fact that he is the only one on this bloody uncomfortable bed; he cries for Mother and Father, the real Teyrn and Teyrna Cousland; he cries for his sister - for the fact that she never got the reward she deserved, and the look in the king's eyes at the coronation. It was the look of a man utterly and totally bereft, and Fergus was unsurprised when the letter was quietly pressed into his hand at the end of the ceremony by Ferelden's newly crowned ruler.
That thought breaks Fergus out of his fugue. He has matters to attend to. He inhales a desperate breath. Then he wipes a hand over his face, suddenly ashamed of himself, and stands. He waits for his vision to stop swimming and his breathing to steady before he tries once again to walk to the writing desk. He takes a seat and stares at the wood of the desk. This was his father's before it was ever his, and it has remained in this corner, steady and watchful, through his childhood and all of his adulthood so far.
His hands go to his belt, and he takes out the letter, unfolding it tentatively. He hasn't been able to bring himself to look at these words - the King's words - yet, but now he does, his eyes adjusting to the light.
I am deeply sorry for your loss. I knew a little of Howe's actions from Elissa's stories of them, and I can't begin to imagine how you must feel.
I can only speak of Elissa. She is - and here something is furiously scribbled out - missed, and loved dearly by my companions and I. Though I know it is of little comfort, what she did was for Ferelden, and saved thousands of lives that might otherwise have been affected by the Blight.
The letter is stilted and formal, even with its mistakes, and as a note between two of Elissa's loved ones. (But then, Fergus is speculating; perhaps no such thing ever took place between the two Wardens... No. It was enough to hear the king speak of her.)
The last paragraph is simple enough, until Fergus reaches yet another hastily crossed-out word. This one, however, is just readable, if he strains for it.
I will never love know another woman like her again. If you are anything like she was, I'm sure you will be one of Ferelden's most valuable - and fair - teyrns. I look forward to seeing you at future Landsmeets, but do not hesitate to call on me if there is anything you need.
Fergus refolds the letter, takes a breath to steel himself, and then walks down to the dining hall, where he knows Cedric will have led the men; he prays that his moment of self-indulgence doesn't show on his face. It wouldn't do for the men to know their teyrn is weak before his tenure has even truly begun. He walks past the long table he is used to seeing his family and guests eat at - soldiers are never normally allowed here, but these are exceptional circumstances - and pauses when Cedric turns in his seat to regard him. "Will you be taking the master bedroom tonight, ser?"
Fergus considers it for a moment, but shakes his head at the sheer wrongness of the idea. "No. My old room, for tonight, while things are still in disarray."
That all-too-knowing look crosses Cedric's face again before he clamps down on it. "I see. Ser," he adds quickly.
Fergus nods and walks on, to the castle's open doors. He breathes in air that seems different, now, from the way it was before Ostagar.
The letter arrives at Denerim three weeks later.
Your Majesty,
I thank you for your assistance, your men and your condolences. I am grateful for all of them. My sister was loved by many, and it is an honour to count a king as one of that number. Thank you for your offer of further aid - I doubt I will need to impinge on your hospitality any more than I have, but it is sincerely appreciated.
Fergus Cousland,
Teyrn of Highever
P.S.: Work on rebuilding Castle Cousland has now begun. Progress is slow, but it is habitable. Highever will recover, and it will stand behind you.
For now, the postscript is enough.