I always thought that it would be likely that CousCous would survive. I mean, I know the odds were against him/her without Duncan's help, but:
In a massacre, one always survives.
Hence, the birth of this one-shot. That line has stuck with me for a while, and after playing Human Noble, I put two and two together. And got five. But that's beside the point.
The title is a little bit eh as well. But I couldn't think of anything better. If there is a better suggestion, I'll change it. This just seemed a little appropriate, given the circumstances.
So, I present Lady Marsail Cousland. Non-Warden in my mind, but the game says otherwise.
Disclaimer: If I owned Dragon Age ... I'm not going to continue that sentence.
She let her eyes linger on the destruction for a moment longer. Just a moment, to let it all sink in. She wouldn't be able to keep moving if it didn't sink in.
How could this happen? The thought had been plaguing her since Dairren had been murdered in front of her. She had watched the arrow heads poke out from underneath his skin, had felt her stomach coil, but had leapt forward with the intent to kill. To avenge the sweet boy.
How could they not have noticed? She had heard the talk about Arl Howe. Of course she had. Many visitors to Highever Castle made a point of talking about Rendon Howe. Her father had always maintained a certain image of him, probably painted from childhood and when life had those fleeting moments of goodness.
The others, they said something in him had broken at the Battle of River Dane. That some part of him had died along his comrades. That he wasn't to be trusted.
As she thought about it, there had been signs all along. His personal guards asking if she was Lady Cousland, the patrols sneaking around the library, that one man outside the larder ... But Howe had remained absolutely impassive, apart from his comments on King Cailan and his son Thomas. She hadn't recognised a certain bloodthirsty emotion in him.
She slashed the neck of another soldier open, giving the elven maids a chance to escape. She hoped they would escape. They had been nothing but nice since bought for service. They may have been talking about her behind her back, but she treated them as best she could.
Her mother was behind her, still weeping for the deaths of Oriana and Oren. Her nephew. He was only six years old. She was barely twenty. And Oriana. As much as they quarrelled for Marsail loved steel and Oriana loved lace, they were sisters, through and through.
And now her sister and nephew lay dead.
She would kill them all.
Marsail let loose a mighty roar, making the opposing soldiers pause. She watched a certain amount of fear fill the face of one man as she ran him through with the Cousland blade.
"Hah!"
She drew it out, and in a wide arc, sliced into the arm of another, bringing him to his knees as she pressed the blade in further. He screamed in pain, and with a small hmph, she drew her dagger across his neck, ultimately letting him choke on his own blood.
They wouldn't give them mercy; she wasn't going to show a sliver of it either.
Her mother fired several more shots, ending the lives of those she had maimed but not killed. The men she had convinced to stay and fight pressed forward. They were so close to the hall. She could hear the commotion.
She hoped to live.
In the hall, she was thrown back out as a whirlwind of ice slapped her face, splitting her heated skin. She shrieked at the feeling, and was blinded by it. Hot blood ran down her face, dizzying her at the intense smell of it.
"My lady!"
She recognised the voice. "Ser Gilmore!"
Thank the Maker. She was a little sweet on him, as he was the one who had initially trained her when she was much younger. If he had been killed, nothing would have stopped her charging in as blind as a bat and just as crazed.
The whirlwind started to die, and through what was left, she saw a mage standing at the doors, clearly exhausted from the pressure of holding such a tremendous force.
Gritting her teeth, Marsail melded with the shadows, sliding around the room to the doors. Casually, she tapped the mage on the shoulder. She watched the mage turn around slowly, horror clearly written on her features at the sight of Marsail and her raised sword. Marsail gave her a disapproving look, and shook her head.
In one smooth movement, the horror-filled expression hit the floor. The magic ceased, and they were able to overpower Howe's men - but only for a few more minutes. She could hear the banging on the door, the furious shouts as they realised that their preferred entry would hold for a little longer.
"Marsail! We need to keep moving!"
"We can't just leave them here to die!"
She saw the looks in the men's eyes. They had committed themselves to serving the Couslands until death. They were going to die for her and her mother and her father, without a single notion towards her protests.
She didn't think she would ever recover from this. If she made it out alive.
She grasped Ser Gilmore's arm, not knowing what to say. What could she say? Nothing entirely pleasant.
He smiled at her, and pushed her away, towards the door. "My lady, it was an honour to serve you."
She nearly cried then. Damn him. She wasn't supposed to cry just yet.
With some more forces making it hard to keep going, she fled, straight into the arms of the Commander. He grinned down at her as he grasped her arms. She could see the look in his eyes, the one that let lead sit in her belly, the one that let her blood run cold. She struggled, and he gripped her arms harder.
His triumph was short, as her mother came around the corner, bow raised.
"Release my daughter, and I'll let you live."
Marsail opened her mouth to protest, but the man compiled, frightened by the look in the older woman's eye. A vicious snarl broke through it all, and Marsail watched her mother, ever docile unless in court, release enough arrows to make a pincushion of the man.
She nodded her approval. "Mother, I do believe I owe you an apology."
She nudged the man with her foot. He was still alive. The Teryna strode past, obviously over her mercy-streak. Thank the Maker.
"Leave him. He'll bleed himself dry."
"I wasn't going to do anything."
Her mother shot her a look, and Marsail allowed herself a smile. If there was an upside to this, because it was highly unlikely she would ever look back with fond memories, it was that this was the most time she had spent with her mother that didn't involve matchmaking and the embroidery on dresses. She knew her mother was born a fighter, she had just never felt a need to show such a streak when her children were born. Although she had insisted that Marsail receive training, in between all the sewing lessons.
"Mother …" she trailed off.
"I know. Let us keep moving."
Her mother didn't believe that they were going to survive. She could see it in her face. She started doubting herself as well.
Howe's men were nothing if not persistent in their capture of them. They tried many a tricks that led Marsail to a fit of laughter. Their traps were so obvious, even the dullest knight following them pointed it out. And, they had not thought about the consequences for setting things alight, which led to travel from both sides being prevented. She stood on the other side of a mass of flames, watching as the men considered walking through. She wondered if they thought they were the Maker himself and was able to survive such intense heat.
After two burnt bodies, they should have learnt their lesson. They didn't.
She would have watched for a while as the soldiers made a mockery of themselves and their kin, but they had made it to the larder.
Marsail saw the streaks of blood on the floor, and her mother had thrown the door open before she opened her mouth.
Her father was alive, but she could see the pools of blood, and the pain on his face. She dropped to her knees in front of him, unsure where to place her hands. Her mother just cradled him, whispering sweet nothings that had once made her blush and protest. Now, she watched them, wishing it hadn't come to her mother comforting her father until he passed on.
"You must leave."
They could hear the men getting closer.
"I can't just leave you two!"
"Marsail, just do this one last thing for us. Please."
Tears were flowing, she couldn't help it. She wanted to be brave, like all the women in the books she had read. The ones who were ready to face death. Even relished the idea. But she wasn't born for this kind of bloodshed. Especially not her own.
"What about Howe?" it was a quiet question.
"If you live, you will get your revenge," her father spoke up, his eyebrows drawn together in a deathly seriousness.
Her heart pounded in her chest. The men were so close. She wasn't going. She wasn't going to leave her parents to their fate.
Her mother picked her up by the arm, and dragged her over to the servants' entrance. "You two could come as well … we could find a healer."
Her mother hugged her, and pushed her through the door, shutting it behind her. She heard the lock click in place and froze.
The door to the larder flew open, she saw as she peered through the keyhole. Rendon Howe was at the lead, a sadistic snarl stretching his face into something that would haunt her nightmares for the rest of her life. His men gathered around, almost blocking her view. When one was pushed to the side, she saw what was happening.
She couldn't hear over the pounding of her heart, but watched as the man her father had called friend made her mother grovel at his feet. Kiss his shoes, his hands, his thighs.
She held back sobs, clamping her hands over her mouth. She shouldn't be watching this. She willed herself to look away, only looking back in time to see Howe thrust his sword through the back of her mother's neck, and up again just as swiftly. It didn't kill her as quickly as Marsail had hoped.
She heard her father's cries and protests. She watched as Howe's men picked him up, and punched him, carved him up, and let him drop to the ground. She watched her father crawl over to her mother, and heard the words he died saying.
"Find the girl. She's around here somewhere. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
Marsail stepped away from the door, tears streaming. The scene played over and over. She slipped back on the steps, tripping a way down before managing to grip the walls.
Her hands screamed in protest, and she looked down at them. In the dim lighting of the servants' entrance, she had torn her nails, cut up her palms. She couldn't feel anything. She was so utterly numb.
She looked up at the door, eyes narrowed. It took every inch of willpower to not march back in and slay the murderer, but her mother's last words struck some sense into the intense feeling.
Someone had to let Fergus and the King know.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, and her heart, before turning on her heel and fleeing into the night.
Arl Rendon Howe wouldn't know what hit him when he learnt that in a massacre, one always survives.
Especially Bryce's little spitfire.