Hello! Just a quick disclaimer (I don't own anything and I make no money) and note: sorry to all who are following my other story, this baby was just dying to get out! Also, I feel like if both Alistair and Cousland survived everything and Cousland wasn't super pushy (which according to Bioware she would have to be to get the guy), this is the most likely scenario- Alistair + Anora = Cousland + sadness. I feel like it would be the ultimate kick in the face if Alistair and Cousland COULD have had everything, but Alistair was just too pigheaded/whatever to see it. Below is just one angle of my scenario of choice. Constructive criticism is always welcome!
To His Royal Majesty, The King,
My sister was never the type to sit in prolonged silence, unprovoked. Since her adolescence, she was stubborn, strong-willed, and at times, as reckless as the day she was presented with her first dagger. But in the months following the death of the Archdemon, and the end of the fifth Blight, she was as I had never seen her.
Our reunion in Denerim was a day I will never forget, and I remember it with as much joy as I do sadness. I see now it marked the beginning of what inevitably became the end. She was glorious, in her armor, having accomplished more than our father and mother, Maker rest their souls, could ever have envisioned. But I could tell then she did not share in the celebration, as her companions did, your grace included. She looked tired, and drawn, and sick. When I was finally presented with a moment to embrace her, she fell into my arms, too thin and frail to be the woman who had saved us all. I could scarcely believe it, but held her close all the same. She was the only one in the world I had left, following my beloved son and wife's…passing.
I was eager to return to our home in Highever, following the end of the recognition of my sister as the Hero of Ferelden, and urged my sister to follow suit. At the time, I confess to having had some doubts about the condition of her health, but her reassurances that it was nothing that could not be resolved by sleep and a hearty meal sped me on my way. I did, as you know, depart only days before the royal wedding.
I do not claim to know at all the proceedings of what happened before or after the royal wedding. I know only that when my sister arrived, approximately one week later, that it seemed her health had taken a turn for the worse. She was noticeably thinner than when I had last seen her, and dark circles shadowed her delicate face. When I embraced her, she trembled in my arms. I left her only a moment to see some tea brought, and yet when I arrived back, she had gone. I found her some minutes later in the greenhouse, just sitting. Sitting and staring out at nothing.
My sister, as I noted before, was never the type to do such. She was strong, even when grieved, and optimistic, even when defeated. I believed it to be the after effects of war, with which I had seen my father struggle several years before. I seated myself beside her, and she rested her head against my shoulder. She had never done that before—not seriously, at least. That day, we sat there for what must have been three hours, not moving, not talking. Our tea lay forgotten.
In the weeks following her return, I had hoped to see an improvement in her condition, and was not disappointed. The first few days, I found her in the greenhouse as I had upon her arrival, just sitting and staring. But soon, she began taking tea, and not long after, abandoned the greenhouse entirely. When I felt her strong enough, I raised the issue of the Teyrny. My father left the entire estate and his title to my mother first, and then to me. But my sister, having outdone me in every sense of duty, was left nothing but a few hundreds sovereigns a year.
My sister was not without love, on the contrary—in fact, I am inclined to believe she was my father's favorite. I imagine, quite simply, that both our loving parents believed she would be married with her husband's entailment to consider, rather than her own. Indeed, until Howe's betrayal, they had never once considered she would actually be put in a position where she would be required to defend her life, though she was trained since infancy for such a task.
I wanted to discuss with her the option of perhaps dividing the estate, as I no longer had an heir. Perhaps part of me wanted her to remain, as well. I felt that if I could prevail upon her to take some responsibility for our estate, she would stay in our ancestral home. I will not lie—after the death of my wife and son, I couldn't bear to be in Highever alone. My sister's presence, though subtle, and utterly changed from our childhood, was a great comfort to me.
I was surprised by her refusal to claim any of her inheritance, including the few hundred sovereigns mother and father had set aside for her. She was, as you know, by no means poor, but did not possess a large sum to her name. I was curious, but satisfied, as she had assured me she would not be leaving Highever for several months, if not years, to come. It saddens me, in retrospect, to think of the sincerity and resolve in her proclamation. You majesty will come to understand, I hope, as I explain.
In the following weeks, I became quite busy with the rebuilding and repair of our home. There were several variables to be organized, and I confess to spending most of my time either in the study or out with the workers. I am to understand my sister did entertain visitors, among them a mage from the circle and Bann Teagan, I believe. There were no doubt others, but I have noted the afore as they were, similarly, noted to me as frequent callers. Bann Teagan, I believe, began expressing great interest in my sister, as they had met at some point during her travels. I was fortunate enough to meet him, though it was only once, and very brief. He seemed extremely agreeable, but my sister would not comment on the context of their relationship, and after a time, he stopped calling. I believe all correspondence between them dissolved.
It was around this time I began noticing a physical change in my sister. Her dresses did not fit quite as loosely as they had in the days after her return from Denerim—they did not hang off her, in her thinness. I had been fortunate to witness my late wife's pregnancy with our son, and recognized, though not without some initial disbelief, that my sister was, indeed, with child. She met often with the circle mage—Wynne, if I recall correctly—and I once heard them arguing most heatedly through her dressing room door. For such an argument to occur, I knew my sister must have trusted and cared for Wynne a great deal, so I remained hesitant to involve myself in an affair that was bound to be anything but simple. My duty as a brother, not only as a Teyrn, eventually drove me to confrontation, however.
For the first time in the four months since my sister had returned home, I found her in the greenhouse. She was, as before, sitting and staring, oblivious to the ever-present winter chill. She twirled some elfroot between her fingers, twisting and ripping it subconsciously. Her stomach protruded noticeably now, though it was still yet slight. I did not know how to approach the subject delicately, and so drove to the point. I asked her if she thought that I, or anyone else in the castle, for that matter, would not notice the change that had overcome her since her arrival home. I also hinted strongly that her frequent meetings and correspondence with Bann Teagan would no doubt come to light as her 'condition' did. I recall with shame how I shouted at her, in my anger.
For a very long while, my sister did not reply. She just sat, her hands cradling her belly, her eyes staring unseeing at the floor. I sat beside her, resigned to wait for her reply as long as I had to. Your grace will forgive me for writing plainly, though I do not do it without pain. My sister laid her head on my shoulder, and after a deep breath, said only that the child within her did not belong to Bann Teagan. When I asked her who the father was, disgust evident in my voice, she shook her head and would say only that he was honorable, and knew not of the child only because she would not tell him. I was furious, curious, and distressed, as you can imagine, all at once. It was many months before we spoke of the child's paternity again.
The enchanter Wynne returned often, perhaps every few weeks or so, and I gather she functioned as a sort of midwife. My sister insisted on complete secrecy, so I never spoke to Wynne, myself, until after the child was born. The servants seemed to take pity on her, as well, and kept their own speculations at a minimum, at least in my and her presences. There were some days when it seemed she was able to rally her strength and fortitude, and returned almost to the woman I had come to know growing up. Other days, she was irritable and silent, or dejected and slow.
And then, there were the nightmares. I had expected them, given her involvement with the Grey Wardens. Conflict of any nature is difficult to overcome, but to have had to deal with it on such a scale, and in such a state—I truly cannot imagine what she must have felt. She would wake in the night sometimes, screaming. Many times I wanted to go to her, to comfort her as she sobbed uncontrolled behind her bedroom door. But what could I have done? I hoped they would fade with time, but it seemed they intensified, if that was, at all, possible.
I thought, perhaps, some training might help to ease her out of the lifestyle to which she must have become so accustomed. But no matter how hard I advocated or argued, she would not touch a blade. She adamantly refused to enter the armory, and would only enter the family vault when I insisted it necessary. I believe she lifted neither dagger nor sword again.
Again, I must beg leave to write plainly, your majesty. When I observed my sister in Denerim, I believed she held you in some kind of contempt. She addressed you only by title, never looked you in the eyes, and suffered your company only in public, and in large groups of people. I thought this odd, considering you and several others had traveled with her over the preceding months, but resigned myself to remaining indifferent. My sister was never disposed to judging or begrudging others, but I thought perhaps that had changed, along with so many other facets of her personality. I was obliged to question my decision to turn a blind eye, however, during the early weeks of her third trimester.
It had been a long while since my sister had set foot outside our family home, given her condition. I felt, in addition to everything else, this was the main reason she was in such a fiery mood one day. To my everlasting surprise, and curiosity, however, I learned from a servant that she had received correspondence from none other than his majesty, the King. I found her in the library, cradling her forehead in one hand, as if nursing a headache, her other supporting her weight against the mantle. I caught a glimpse of a letter from behind, a few sheets in length, burning in the flames. I do not know if this was your letter, sire, and neither did I ask. When I confronted her, I asked only why she was upset.
"I thought I could escape it—that I could somehow, outmaneuver myself. But I'm never going to get away from it. Not now," she replied, staring into the flames. I remember her words clearly. I can see the sadness in her eyes, the shadows from the flames dancing on her skin, even now. "What do I do?" she asked, tears in her eyes. My heart ached, and I wanted to say something—anything to comfort her. She looked so lost, so utterly out of hope. And even then, she fought it. She fought to suffer her pain in silence, and alone. She would not say more, not then, and not anytime thereafter. But I knew, whatever it was that was destroying her from the inside, had everything to do with that letter, and its writer. I do not know whether this was the only correspondence exchanged with my sister, nor do I wish to. I know only that upon any mention of you, or her ladyship the queen, my sister would excuse herself from company, and disappear, sometimes, for several hours. I can say little else with any certainty.
And now, your majesty, I come to the point—to the answer to your question. My sister went into labor approximately four days ago. The enchanter Wynne arrived shortly thereafter, summoned by one of the servants, and disappeared to my sister's side almost immediately. The memory of my son's delivery was still fresh in my mind, and as I was in no hurry to relive the experience, especially with a bastard child, I retired to my study, resigned to wait as long as was necessary. I confess to knowing only that approximately nine hours later, sometime during the early, dark hours of the morning, Wynne appeared in my study, covered in blood. She told me to write to the King immediately—the Lady Cousland was dead.
I cannot describe that feeling. I cannot put into words the feeling of losing my own baby sister, my only remaining kin. I was in too much shock to comprehend that the woman who had delivered us, all of us, from the archdemon, had succumbed during childbirth. I refused, naturally. I did not understand your connection to my sister. Not until several hours later. And even then, even now, it all seems too much to take in. Forgive me, but I cannot write of the matter anymore.
I see now that my sister, Maker rest her brave soul, had not hate for you, but love. Love that burned and tore at her until the moment she died, giving birth to your son. Her body was burned only yesterday, and yet I still imagine her here. I still expect to see her out of the corner of my eyes every time I see something that she put down, expecting to pick it up at some later point. It is difficult, seeing signs of her everywhere, and knowing she is no longer here—that I will never hear her voice again. I will leave this place, soon. And I do not expect to ever return.
That being said, I will not keep your son from you. He is of Theirin blood, and as I understand it, it is what my sister wanted, in the event of her passing. Part of me believes that she brought the child here to raise him, so she would have a piece of you with her, wherever she went. And whether that be true or not, I know that a part of her will always be alive with you, as shall her memory. I do not claim to know the heart of his majesty, but I pray that you will honor my sister's memory, and tell, at least, the child of his mother—the bravest woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. I must beg this, if only this, of his majesty.
This, my king, is a faithful narrative of the months leading up to the birth of your son, and death of a most beloved sister. I take comfort only in knowing her suffering is finally at an end. Indeed, without an end, there can be no peace.
I remain your humble servant.
Teyrn of Highever,
Fergus Cousland