A Final Return Home

The heavy weight of his crown was something Kaedan Cousland left behind as he rode for his childhood home in Highever. Anora, he was certain, was sound asleep at this late hour. By the time she awoke and found his note, it would already be finished. Certainly, she would gain the public's sympathies- the widowed queen who had so tragically lost her Warden husband to his early death.

'Tis most strange... he reflected to himself as he rode on, his russet hair flowing in the wind behind him. How much I grew to care for her. I became fond of Anora, my queen. But I never loved her. He turned hazel eyes upon the starlit sky. That honor belongs only to you, my dark Wilder.

His love had long since left his side, crossed to a world beyond, where he could not follow. She had been wounded by his betrayal- his seeking of another woman besides her. It was never his intent to betray her- he'd wanted Alistair to rule by Anora's side, but he'd granted Alistair the right to carry out the revenge he so longed for. Kaedan had only wanted Howe dead. Loghain, wicked though he was, though Howe was in his pocket, was still a hero to Ferelden. Had he any control over the situation, he'd have stopped Alistair from ending Loghain, but he moved on instinct. Anora would have no husband of the man who'd killed her father. And in truth, Kaedan himself was younger, only barely twenty years old at the time. He would have more of a chance to produce an heir on the throne.

That chance, however, was never realized. Conceiving had proven difficult for him- even more so with the knowledge that Anora was likely infertile. In the interest of avoiding a succession crisis, he'd made it clear in his letter that Bann Teagan was to assume the throne in the event of Anora's death. He will be a good ruler, fair and just.

Highever had become a ghost town in the years since the deaths of his parents and Arl Howe. The only sounds now filling the night were the steps of his horse. Spirits were rumored to walk the streets, the Veil to the Fade torn over this place of slaughter.

Kaedan dismounted his horse as he reached the front door of his childhood home, and pushed it open with a loud creak. It was fitting that he return here as the song of the Old Gods reached his ears at last- for it was here where he felt he truly saw the end of his life. Kaedan Cousland, a lad eager for combat, idealistic and optimistic, yearning for the glory of war had passed away the night the rest of his family was betrayed and slaughtered like animals. The King, the Hero the rest of Ferelden had come to revere arose in his place- a man who would trust no more in the inherent goodness of people, who allowed- and even reveled in- the act of taking sweet vengeance. The firm, but just ruler.

It was rage and hatred that motivated him. It had made him strong in the eyes of his companions and in combat. There was no warrior in the land as fierce as he- greatsword cutting a merciless swath through hordes of darkspawn, the heart of a high dragon beating in his chest, a blood covered god of the battlefield, as the minstrels would have it known.

But truly? He had become tired over the years. His only thrill remained in combat, and now, even that seemed empty. Which is why he chose not to enter the Deep Roads, but to return to the place of his 'death' so many years ago.

He could still remember that night clearly in his mind. How Arlington, his faithful mabari- who had finally passed not a year ago- had awoken him in the middle of the night to warn him of the intruders. How he and his mother, shocked and frightened, had fought to reach his father. The looks upon his parents' faces as Duncan was pulling him away to safety, leaving them to their deaths.

Moisture that was not blood was running down from his eyes for the first time in nearly two decades. Never did he regret his actions as a Warden or as King, no matter how immoral some argued they were. He'd had no choice but to annul the Circle- the mages were too dangerous. The werewolves deserved their vengeance upon Zathrian and the Dales- he'd never cared much for the Dales regardless, the proud savages. The golems were too valuable of a resource to waste. And what little faith he'd once had in the Maker was shattered on that dreadful night- the ashes were of no use to him. But leaving his father and mother behind to become a Warden in the first place, abandoning them when he could have saved them- that was his one regret.

He was in the larder now, where the secret passage which once spirited him away from his home was located. Where his mother and father died in each others' company.

Where I should have perished.

On this night, he wore neither heavy armor nor kingly raiment. Instead, he wore the plain clothes he had always worn around the house when guests were away. The King, the Hero of Ferelden had been left behind in Denerim. Now he was merely Kaedan Cousland. And Kaedan Cousland was prepared at last to die.

Rage filled him like a cup boiling over for the last time. He slammed his fists, feet, his entire body against the cold stone walls. He tore ancient remnants of meat to shreds with his bare hands. Turned wooden shelves into splinters. Even set cracks into the stone as he hit, and kicked, and bashed his head against the wall.

He knew he was shattering every bone in his body, crushing his own skull, but he no longer cared. All he wanted was to rage, to feel alive one last time before his life expired.

His bones were broken past the point of use. His legs would no longer support him. Blood matted his hair, and he lay on the ground, exhaustion finally overwhelming him. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling. After a long moment, he heard his mother's voice, soft and familiar.

"There you are, Kaedan." she greeted, brushing some stray hairs out of his eyes. She looked just as he'd recalled her. "Your father and I have been waiting for you."

"I know..." Kaedan rasped, his breath beginning to still. "I'm... home..."

When Anora sent soldiers to Highever to search for her husband, they could not find his remains. All they found was a wolf howling to the moon as if in sorrow on the cliffs near the castle.