The moon hung high in the sky, but sleep eluded him once more.
He had wandered down from his chambers, traversing the empty, hauntingly quiet corridors of the castle. A week had passed since the hanging, but every day he could see the hanging bodies, struggling, swinging, swaying and shaking, until one by one they each turned blue and grew still.
Fergus had stood on the platform, watching, waiting until each of the seventeen men expired.
The Bastard died first.
One by one, the soldiers cut down the corpses.
The axeman took the heads off each body. They burned the corpses. Fergus had every skull placed in its own box and sent to Amaranthine.
Rendon was dead. Fergus didn't care. His message was clear.
If even one more drop of Cousland blood was spilled, he would not rest until all of the arling was devoid of life, nothing but a wasteland of smoldering ash littered with the bones and bodies of the vanquished.
There were no more innocents.
Fergus sat in the main hall, crouched in the intricate and gilded throne. Every teyrn had ruled this land from that chair, an ancient seat of power that had held a Cousland for hundreds of years.
The Cousland blade stood between his legs, point of the scabbard resting on the ground. His wrists dangled over the crossguard, his hands clasped together, his forehead resting upon the pommel. Fergus rocked back and forth slightly, his mind racing, calling out to the Maker, searching for answers.
There was only silence, an empty void where only he persisted.
There was work to be done. He would need to appoint a new household staff, repopulate the household guard, the city watch and his personal army. He would need to meet with all of the arls, banns and freeholders sworn directly to his house.
He would need to remarry.
To sire a new heir.
To preserve the line.
"I am glad to see your faith has not left you," Mother Mallol's voice said from the darkness. Fergus could hear her steps approaching up the main walkway of the hall, each step echoing loudly in the empty chamber. "It is being tested, now, more than ever."
Mallol had been like a second mother to him. She had educated him from his youth, always been there with a kind word and a guiding hand to shape him into the man he had become. She had been his moral compass and given strength to both his father and mother in trying times.
She was the only one left. Everyone else had been given over to sword and flame.
"I hear nothing but silence, Mallol," Fergus said, lifting his head from his prayers. "Why? Why has the Holy Bride forsaken me?"
Her hands were folded at her waist as she approached with the measured gate of a lifelong service to the Chantry. "We cannot know the workings of Andraste. But she hears your prayers. She knows your anguish, Fergus."
"No one knows!" he snapped, he pulled his hands up, letting the sword teeter and fall to the stone with a loud clatter.
Mallol's mouth turned to a scowl as she approached closer, placing her hand on the top of Fergus' head. It was the same gesture she would make when separating Fergus and Aedan as they squabbled, or to quiet them during lessons. Her long, aged fingers stretched through his hair, holding his head softly.
Aedan had been a better student and a better fighters, but Fergus was the charmer, the speaker and the humorist. Mallol had struggled to instruct him, but she had never lost her patience, only turning her mouth in that same frown she wore now.
Fergus felt nine years old again.
"Do not have so much pride to think you are alone in this," Mallol said in that soft, motherly voice again. "There have been others who have lost as much or more. My heart aches just as raw for your family. Your mother and father took me into their house when I was fresh out of the seminary and treated me as one of their own. I raised you and your brother like my own two children.
"Consider yourself lucky that you were not here to experience the horrors yourself," she said. Her voice wavered. "I sometimes wish the Maker had called me to his side with everyone else instead of leaving me here. But I think he left me here, for you."
Fergus closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. Mallol's touch was soothing, calming. She was right, as always.
"When will the pain stop, Mother?" he moaned.
Mallol stepped closer, taking cradling his head against her hip. "I don't know, child. I don't know it will ever stop hurting altogether, but the hurting will fade in time."
Fergus nuzzled into her hip. When he would get into a bad fight with Aedan or break something or do something he had felt guilty about, he would often run to Mallol to tell her. She would cradle the boy, tell him a story or remind him of the Chant and advise him to confess to his parents. She had often marched him, his hand in hers, to his parents and stood sentinel as he told them of his wrongs.
Bryce would dole out discipline, firm but fair, appreciative of his son's honesty and bravery.
Fergus had grown to be loyal, fair and just because of it.
The executions, those were not the child she had helped raise. The man who brutally stabbed the Howe until he had to be dragged away was not the person she had taught mercy and justice. The man who screamed with wild rage to have them hang was not the ruler she had helped to mold.
"How do I go on?" Fergus asked,
Mallol stroked the side of his head with her hand. She had wondered the same question. Servants were still scrubbing blood from the stone daily. The halls of the castle were nearly empty. Highever sat under an uneasy tension. While the people had reveled in the hanging, the crowd had soured quickly watching so many men hang, all struggling for life as it was choked from their throats.
Many had left in disgust before the deed was done. Some women wept. Parents covered their children's faces and turned toward home. Only a few men, guardsmen, veteran soldiers, family of those who had lost loved ones in the attack stayed to the bitter end.
"I don't know, my child," Mallol said, squeezing him closer. "You are a Cousland, the last of your line, but a Cousland still. You will find your way, in time."
Fergus' hand reached up, grabbing the cloth of her habit, pulled his whole body into her. His chest heaved as he clutched to her, fingers clawing to hold her.
She could feel tears on her hip.
His wailing sobs echoed through the emptiness of the great hall.