|Affiliation||Couslands of Highever; Ferelden; Theirins|
|Gear||Custom heavy chainmail, longsword with the Cousland crest on the hilt, Highever shield|
|Behind the Mask|
Highever was recovering. Slowly, true, but at a faster rate of knots than Fergus was.
It hurt, being back in Highever. Hurt badly. Every morning he woke up to an empty bed, an empty castle - even Sabia didn't stay for long when she visited, and he couldn't blame her. Not in the slightest.
Highever wasn't the home it used to be. Yet here he was, irrevocably bound to it.
Oh, he toyed with the idea of running like Sabia had, just letting the line die out - but Ferelden was short a Teyrn and several Arls as it was. Not only that, but Fergus had put his parents' portraits near the west wing doors just for that extra reminder.
Couslands always did their duty first.
So, he kept busy. Rebuilding Highever, reaffirming old alliances, setting the teyrnir on track to be self-sufficient and prosperous again. Mainly, he kept bust so he didn't have to stop and think - because when he stopped, for however long it may be, he always ended up back here.
He looked in the mirror of the vanity in the quarters where he, his wife and his son had lived before the Blight, where he was sat as scrutinized his face. He straightened his collar (another thing that Oriana used to do for him) and turned his cheek to the right. The scar that stretched down his cheek and over his jaw was well healed, a thin line on his skin, but it cut through the hair on his jaw, making it a bit more obvious.
He could almost hear Oriana teasing him about it, and Oren wanting to see it closer again. He shook his head to try and clear his mind of shadows and ghosts of memories that would never be lived, stood up and shut the door to his old bedroom behind him, locking it with the heavy brass key.
He promised himself he wouldn't go back in there again.
Inevitably, he would return the moment that he stopped being busy.