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Lady Mac Eanraig,
I hope that you do not find me rude, either for this unsolicited letter or my previous lack of correspondence. As you know, I have been traveling from Denerim to South Reach and back to Highever, recovering my father’s body and transporting it to the Cousland home. After the high spirits of our victory at Denerim Harbor, this has been a sobering and lonesome errand.
Since I am accompanied only by a handful of my men, we were able to ride hard on the journey south, forgoing a carriage and changing horses several times to keep up our pace. The weather was not in our favor—rain seemed to chase us from the sea—so between the miserable cold and wet, our breakneck pace, and my own grief, I have been sleeping heavily and not in a mind for correspondence. Luckily on arriving in South Reach we were able to secure a carriage and a cart for the journey back and have been taking a (slightly) more leisurely pace.
I know we spoke of my father in my time aboard the Mistral and you know how highly I regarded him, so I will not belabor the point except to say that I cannot imagine returning to my family without him. Seeing him lain out upon a bed, cold and slack, was a great shock even after preparing myself for the sight. Every moment since that letter arrived feels like a nightmare. I keep thinking that I will jolt awake in my berth, the bell signaling the changing of the watch and another bright day at sea ahead.
Is it odd that I still felt the deck tilting under me for days after making shore? A few mornings I did wake up and, imagining that I felt the movement of the ship, thought that I had finally broken out of the dream. I was disappointed to discover otherwise.
When we reach Highever, I intend to restore my family’s title as Teyrn. That may be a long process, depending on the current allegiances of the local Arls and Banns, but at least it will be something to occupy me. I wish you could join me in Highever to offer your wise council, but I know you are still needed elsewhere—and, of course, not subject to my own whims. I do miss our conversations and your refreshingly straightforward advice.
But enough moping—here is something humorous. I overheard a couple of soldiers singing a shanty in a South Reach tavern and I stopped to listen, wondering whether it was one of the colorful songs my soldiers learned from your crew. Imagine my surprise when I heard the men singing of the Seawolf and one of Maric’s soldiers! It was the tale of our first meeting, told with many unflattering details about my manners.
I wonder if you remember our first encounter in such an unfortunate light? By my memory, it is true that I did not recognize you, but I asked you to bring a message to your father on the assumption that you were a member of his crew, not a serving girl—and if my footing did slip for a moment, it was only on the stones of the beach as we were lashed by sea spray and a driving wind, and not at the crumbling cliff’s edge as this song relates. Is my memory faulty, or has someone exaggerated the story in its retelling? I wonder…
I send my best wishes for your good health, and for the health of your father. Despite the dismal tone of this letter, I am well and at least feel equipped for the work ahead of me. Any reply will best reach me in Highever as we make a good pace and expect to arrive within the week.
Kind regards,
Bryce Cousland
Lord Cousland,
My father and I are well and glad to hear from you. My father offers his condolences, and I add mine. I cannot imagine the adjustment from shipboard life to such a journey. Hopefully the familiar terrain of Highever and the allies you have there will bolster your spirits.
Your absence is felt aboard the Mistral. Another company of men has been brought aboard to supplement the half of yours who remained, and their commander is not nearly so exacting in his discipline. It’s fortunate that the worst of the sea warfare has passed, else I would be seriously concerned for this crew’s ability to fight. This new fellow is a much worse conversationalist to boot.
How odd our differences in memory regarding our first meeting! To my recollection, you turned up your nose at me and refused to speak with anyone other than my father. As you turned on your heel to stalk away, you lost your footing on the slick rock and would have fallen a dozen feet into the water were it not for my steadying hand.
Of course, the real story hardly matters to the bards who have picked up the tune and spread it across Ferelden. Nor could such a petty disagreement come between two friends.
I must apologize, for between my rustiness in correspondence and my limited time, this letter is short and clumsy. It did bring me great happiness to read your letter and to hear that your determination is as strong as ever. Though I am a poor correspondent, I hope that you will continue writing, and I will respond as I can.
Please take care and don’t overwork yourself,
Eleanor
Lady Mac Eanraig,
No need to apologize—I am pleased to receive any reply at all, considering how busy you must be. I am sorry to hear that the new soldiers aboard the ship are being unruly. Do make note of their commander’s name and discuss it with their superior when you next find yourself ashore.
Your reminder not to overwork myself was timely, as I opened your letter after a long day of meetings with some of the local nobility. It feels absurd to be pouring so much time into work when my father is so recently dead, but the work is there nevertheless. I will write a bit first, but then in the spirit of your advice I think I shall walk around the walls of the keep.
I am unsure whether you have ever visited Highever Keep, so here is a little description. The keep itself is not right at the sea, but rather on a steep cliff that tapers to a hill near the shore. The city spreads around the keep and down a gentler hill just to the west, with the fish market and docks of course at the water’s edge. Like the Storm Coast, we enjoy the benefits of rich forests to the south and everything the Waking Sea can offer—their combined effect is a beautiful cold, clear breeze that smells of salt and pine.
The keep is not unlike Denerim Palace in style, although of course much humbler. When not engaged in political meetings I have been devoting most of my time to its upkeep. The stone walls are already much improved by the Fereldan heraldry which now adorns them. Everywhere is the sound of hammering, hammering, hammering—it can drive one quite mad, though I know it is by my order. In my family’s absence, entire rooms were stacked with unwanted furniture and closed off to fall into disrepair, so I have also brought in carpenters and historians to determine what can and must be preserved and what may be salvaged for new furniture. The constant bustle of cleaning and repair and moving can grow irritating, but at least it prevents the place from feeling empty. It is only in the solitude of my own rooms that I am left to stew in my thoughts.
Now that I have waxed poetic about Highever and its charms, I have few updates to relate. The pain of my father’s loss is still fresh, though I am glad to be home. Politics are politics. I would note that your head for diplomacy is much better than mine, but I think I will leave my more subtle praises of the Teyrnir to convey the fact that I continue to wish for your company.
Your recollection of our first meeting is interesting. If I remember correctly, I approached you and said “Lady Mac Eanraig, I have heard tell of your great seafaring exploits! Would you please do me the great favor of delivering this missive to your father so that we may coordinate our next offensive against the Orlesian navy?” You turned up your nose at this overture, and, turning to walk away, lost your footing on the cliff fifty feet above the raging waters below. You slipped and were hanging by your fingertips before I managed to haul you back over the side. But, as you say, the real story isn’t important—a minor difference in memory is nothing between friends.
Wishing you fair seas,
Bryce Cousland
Teyrn Cousland,
I know the title has not yet been formally applied, but I think you should start growing accustomed to it now. Your vigorous efforts will no doubt be rewarded soon.
Highever does sound very pleasant. Perhaps someday I will be able to visit you there—no doubt my father will need to make a political visit, and I may accompany him then. I am glad to hear that you are keeping yourself occupied. In my experience, while it is important to make time for grief, wallowing in it is the worst possible course of action. To endlessly reiterate a point we both make in every letter, I wish we were able to talk through things together. I miss our rambling conversations. Although perhaps it is egotistical to think that my conversation would improve your spirits--!
Now that the fighting has settled, the Mistral is docked at Denerim harbor for the time being. I have been spending some time in the city market and visiting friends but most of my time is still spent aboard my ship. It is much emptier now with only my own crew aboard. Despite the quiet, I am still busy as a bee with the extensive repairs she needs after so much action these last months.
Your description of our first meeting made me laugh, because what actually happened was this: you turned to me and said “Bann Mac Eanraig has sent a mere wench to deal with me? This is an insult to the Cousland line!” And in the process of a series of very rude gestures, you tripped over your own feet and tumbled two hundred feet into the crashing surf below. Your survival was a miracle! I am surprised you forget such an event.
My caulker is calling me, so I must end this here. Please tell me more about Highever in your next letter. Have you seen any family? Has the weather been fair? Despite my brief replies, I do look forward to your updates with great pleasure. I hope that I may see you in Denerim soon if business brings you here before it brings me to Highever.
Be well,
Eleanor
Some months later
Eleanor,
How funny the mind is. Today I took a walk along the wall of Highever Keep and tried to recall our first meeting. I half remember a conversation on a rocky beach, a small faux pas on my part, a light disdain for me and my soldiers on yours. But the longer I looked out at the grey expanse of the Waking Sea, each tiny distant wave cresting and spraying in the wind, the more this image faded from my memory. Instead, I remembered another moment.
I remembered the deck of the Mistral slick with mingled Orlesian and Fereldan blood. I remembered the dreadful silence after the battle and the moans of the injured. I remembered wiping my sword clean and sheathing it, picking my way carefully across the forecastle just as the cry of “Captain!” went up among the men. You were nowhere to be seen. Cold dread twisted in my stomach as I helped to turn over bodies, hoping with every breath not to see your pale, still face. After a few tense minutes, you emerged from belowdecks where you had been tending to your injured lieutenant and a cheer sounded along the deck.
Today, I rested my hands on the crenellations of the keep wall and looked at the sea and remembered. Most of all I remembered your cold gaze sweeping the deck and coming to rest on me, and your curt nod of acknowledgement when you saw that I too had survived. Even the memory of that rush of relief—joy, friendship—was enough to make me smile.
All this to say, if I may be forward, that I very much look forward to seeing you at Maric’s coronation next month.
Your servant,
Bryce