|Birth Date||9:01 Dragon: 20 Haring|
|Residence||Castle Cousland, Highever|
|Affiliation||Couslands of Highever; Ferelden; Theirins|
|Occupation||Noble; Army Officer|
|Gear||Custom heavy chainmail, longsword with the Cousland crest on the hilt, Highever shield|
|Behind the Mask|
It was the strangest sensation, being unbearably hot and cold at the same time. His skin, his whole body felt like it was on fire, especially the sword wound that gaped across the diagonal length on his back. But it was also cold, his cheek pressed into the mud of the Kocari Wilds, the damp of the marshland and several showers of rain soaking him to the bone.
He took a laboured breath and choked on the stench of death around him. Three men and two women –good men and women – all dead. All because they (including Fergus) had presumed the darkspawn to be nothing more than mindless beasts.
How wrong they were.
The darkspawn attack was swift and merciless and the band had quickly moved on. Fergus cursed them, not only for the attack but for also failing to kill him properly. Instead he was left bleeding and immobile in the middle of the Wilds, with only the dead for company.
Fergus tried to move his arm to reach for his sword. Maybe if he just grabbed it he could pull himself up, maybe... It was a hair’s breadth away, but he just couldn’t move - the pain in his back was too much.
I’m going to die here.
The realization was more agonising than the wound that was killing him. He had so much to do yet, so much to live for. He had to teach Oren how to use a sword, watch his son grow up, be there for him as his father had for him. He had to be there when Aedan finally got married himself, to tease his little brother, be his best man. Flames, he had to be there for Aedan when he took the teyrnir – his little brother didn’t know it yet, but Fergus had spoken to their father about it. It was why Fergus was here in Ostagar and Aedan at home managing their lands. Aedan was the better choice, the more natural leader... but now there wouldn’t even have to be a choice.
Fergus grit his teeth and screwed up his eyes, hot tears making tracks in the dirt on his face. He had to be there for his wife, his amazing, impossible wife, who was so prim and proper in public but so Antivan behind closed doors, fiery, sensual and so damn beautiful. The way the sunlight made her hair shine and skin glow, the curves of her bust and hips, her half smile she had when she was trying keeping a secret...
Before he had left she had told him of her feelings, her instincts –It’s too early to say for certain, she had said, but if I’m right... don’t be away for too long, my love. You might miss it.
Pushing all pain and thought of impossibility aside, Fergus forced himself to move, shuffling forward those few inches to grasp the hilt of his sword. With a hoarse shout he pushed his body out of the mud stabbing his sword into the ground to hold himself upright. He had to get to his feet. He had to move. He had to...
He forced his eyes to remain open as the temptation to pass out crawled through his body. He blinked hard several times to will the feeling away and clear his vision, but it made little difference. He felt like he was on the deck of a ship in a storm, the landscape blurry as it pitched and yawed. He saw some figures coming closer, human in shape... but there were no more humans nearby...
Darkspawn, then, he thought wearily. Clearly this was his time, the beasts here to finish what they started. He prayed that the Maker would watch over his family, that his wife would forgive him for not returning, that his son wouldn’t forget him. That the Blight would be defeated despite his failure. This time he didn’t bother fighting as black crept over the corners of his vision, slumping sideways back into the mud as he fell unconscious.