faderift | And as we wind on down the road

And as we wind on down the road

WHO: Open to all
WHAT: The Herald of Andraste is laid to rest, and the remains of the Inquisition try to put on a good face for their visitors. Some of them try, anyway.
WHEN: Harvestmere 26
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: n/a

The day after the mysterious strangers from the rift arrive, the Herald's body is delivered back to Skyhold. At first, there is doubt-- the timing is convenient, finally found the very day the funeral is to take place, and many still cling to hope that the Herald has somehow survived. Most, but not all, are appeased by news that the Inquisition's chief advisers have all confirmed the identity of the deceased. Preparations are accelerated: what was once to be a symbolic memorial now requires actual rites, and while some prepare the body others break down whatever can be spared for the pyre, constructed in the center of the main courtyard by another crew.

The funeral itself is a somber affair, as funerals generally are. The Great Hall has been cleared and swept but little else-- all attendees stand, and they are lucky it is a clear day, since the late afternoon sun streams in through the gaping holes in the roof. The service proceeds along strictly traditional Andrastian lines, stately and stiff. Mother Giselle provides the service and the sermon, focusing on duty, sacrifice, and the Maker's plan and concluded with a recitation of Transfigurations 10:1 by the whole assemblage. It is all very predictable, but sincerely delivered. Cassandra and Cullen lead the honor guard. It is a mismatched collection of visiting dignitaries, suspicious observers, pilgrims, colleagues, and companions that slowly process up to pay their silent respects as Evelyn Trevelyan lies in state. Some may notice that the body has been carefully arranged to disguise the fact that her left hand is gone. As night falls they light candles and then the pyre, and as the flames catch and lick up toward the star-washed sky, Mother Giselle sings a haunting version of the Chantry hymn The Dawn Will Come.

The wake that follows is less staid. It seems as if every table and chair in the castle has been dragged into The Herald's Rest and the courtyards and every hidden store of fine wine and food has been dug out from Josephine's secret stores to impress the more exalted visitors. This isn't just a funeral, after all, but a political occasion, an opportunity to demonstrate that the Inquisition lives on beyond the loss of its first symbolic leader, and that it can still be a force for peace and unity.

That impression is dented as the night wears on, and opinions and stories get shared more and more loudly. Someone hops up on a table to give their own little eulogy and others follow suit. Of course eventually it turns sour-- a templar gets up and starts blaming the mages for killing the Herald just like they killed the Divine, and mages at the next table shout back. He's hauled down before things can escalate, but grumbling and dirty looks are unlikely to be the last of it.

The event carries on into the wee hours, and noise echoes around the stone walls loudly enough to make it difficult for any to sleep early. One team of Inquisition scouts and soldiers comes out of the barn to complain more than once, and eventually move their bedrolls down into a basement hall, growling about how they have to be up at the crack of dawn to head out on a mission to scout some Maker-forsaken bog of all the places. (Mire, one of them corrects.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

one. post-funeral, early in the evening (before the disruption)

[The funeral is somber, and although there's no rain it feels like even the sky itself does grieve for the passing of such a great woman.

Bruce doesn't stay close to the main procession, sticking to the sidelines as he watches the whole thing. The Herald of Andraste, now lost to them for good, and this entire thing was the proverbial nail in the coffin on whatever last hopes that other people might have had on her being alive. Bruce, of course, had lost whatever hope he had long ago - and although the people who were holding out were suffering now, he envied them, in a way.

It must be nice, to still have that much hope inside.

The crowd mostly disperses into smaller crowds once the main event ends; many people start to break out the drinks and drink for the Herald, but Bruce doesn't do that. He doesn't drink, not when drinking reminds him of things he'd rather not recall, of people he doesn't want to remember.

Instead he trails back to the groups of refugees, throwing himself back to what he came here to do, focusing on fixing up people and patching them up even as he quietly listened to their tears and sorrows over the passing of what had been many people's beacon of hope.]

two. late into the night, a good amount of time after the disruption

[Its because of you mages now that the Herald is dead!

You murdered her!

Abominations!

The words weren't for him, Bruce knows, but they sting all the same. Murderer. Abomination. Monster. It echoes inside him over and over again, never stopping, and as most of the people fall asleep from booze or exhaustion or both Bruce finds himself unable to rest. Not when he closed his eyes and would only ever see the shadows of his guilt, the blood on his hands.

Evelyn Trevelyan was dead and Bruce did not know her, but yet he felt the weight of her death so much more than all the other deaths he had caused by his hand. If he had tried to help instead of protecting him, did something instead of running like a coward, could something have changed? Would he have saved her, somehow? Would the people still have their Herald? The answer was probably no, perhaps, but now the question would always haunt him. The question of what if despite knowing better, and with that the guilt of knowing that he could have done something but didn't. Now, another good person had died while he himself was still alive.

Bruce looks up into the sky from where he sits under a tree so far away from everyone else, staring unblinkingly at the moon and the stars and the clouds. If there was truly a Maker, some god above that allowed all of this to happen, then he really must be a truly cruel god. To give him this life, and to let everyone here suffer like this.]

three. wildcard
[Make up your own stuff! Feel free to just tag in or PM me if you want to hash out stuff.]

Edited 2015-10-27 08:44 (UTC)

[At some point in the night, Gavin appears at the tree, standing at Bruce's shoulder, staring up at the sky. Without saying anything, he held out a cookie for Bruce, and took a seat down beside him.]

[Gavin's almost sudden appearance, as surprising as it is, is also entirely welcome. His head still hurts a little from the blow he had taken earlier but its nothing that company wouldn't make worse, and gratefully accepts the offered cookie.

Although he doesn't eat it just yet. Its only when Gavin settles down beside him then does Bruce does anything to the cookie. He breaks it in half and shakes it with the elf, speaking softly as he holds it out for him.]

Here. You probably could do with some, yourself.

I'm always happy to share if offered. Thanks, Bruce.

[The smile he offers then is nothing but fond, and he gratefully accepts the cookie and starts munching on it. How are you? He wants to ask. Is everything alright? Do you need anything?

But all of those questions are too close to letting on to his own feelings, so instead he simply says:]

I hope the flavour is alright. To be honest, there's not a lot of choice when it comes to baked goods, up here. Going to have to see if that can't be rectified. We at least need chocolate.

I'm sure something can be arranged once things are more settled.

[Although when that happens exactly, Bruce can't say for sure. Things are going to take a while before they quiet down, that much he knows at least.

He takes a slow bite from his half of the cookie, taking care not to rush it. His head is better but it still hurts quite a fair bit, and moving his jaw kind of makes it worse sometimes.

After a pause he glances over to Gavin.] How are you feeling? I know a lot of people here are being unreasonable now, but they should be better in time.

Oh, I'm alright. Just got a little knocked about.

[Though he frowns as he notices the slow, careful way that Bruce is moving.]

Did you get hurt too? Let me see -- [He shifts over to lean out and grasp Bruce's chin to try to get a better look at his face, as you do. (You're not a doctor, Gavin, you're not even a nurse).]

Ah--

[Bruce can't quite stop Gavin from doing what he wants to do, and at the new angle the bruise is barely visible, hidden by the darkness. Bruce himself winces when his head turns, a new sting of pain running up the side of his skull. Pel had tried to heal a bit but Bruce hadn't patched up the rest himself just yet.

He lets Gavin look at it for a while still before he gently eases the elf away, giving him a small smile.] It's nothing much, don't worry. I'll be fine after getting some sleep.

[Gavin made a face as if he didn't completely believe Bruce, but he let go as Bruce moved, and sat back.]

'Nothing much'. Who hits a doctor?

[It was a rhetorical question, and Gavin frowned as he ate his half of the cookie.]

Next time just call me over. I'm good at taking punches, as the evidence suggests. [He flashed a quick grin at Bruce - not a hundred percent felt, perhaps, but he had decided the situation needed more levity.]

Some angry Templars who were about to hit somebody completely innocent.

[It may be a rhetorical question but Bruce answers anyway. He continues to smile and nibble a bit more on his cookie half, taking another bite and slowly chewing on it.]

Seriously, you don't need to worry about me. I wouldn't have decided to come here if I knew I couldn't take a punch or two.

Just because you can doesn't mean you should. Pretty sure that if we made a list, of who should get punched and who shouldn't, we would be on opposite sides. Mostly because then you'd be around to make sure I didn't die of getting punched.

[But he was pretty okay with just the fact that Bruce was smiling - which was a good enough sign that he was relaxing a bit.]

Though I'm pretty sure everyone is innocent, tonight. None of us killed the-- [a hitch in his voice, his own smile growing slightly strained] -- Well. There are better people to be angry with, is all I'm saying.

[Bruce doesn't say anything to the brief hiccup of Gavin's words, only doing his best to keep the smile on his face. It was a very hard time for everybody, and while Bruce himself wasn't going to get better any time soon, the least he could do was to try and make others feel better.]

Everyone has different ways to express their grief. [He says, as gently as he can. It's not that he's saying that Gavin doesn't understand, but sometimes just talking about it helps.] We all just need some time to understand.

[He didn't say anything, at first. Letting the moment lapse into thoughtful silence, before eventually leaning over to rest his head against Bruce's shoulder.]<.small>

You're a kind man, Bruce. Though I still think you should let me take punches for you.

[Bruce stills at first, very clearly stunned with the sudden closeness. It wasn't even anything big, yes, but this--the elf--

For a long moment Bruce finds himself stuck, entirely unsure how to respond or react. He didn't even know if anybody was ever this physically close to him before; there was his Circle life, and then life on the run after that. Being trapped with crowds was one thing but this--]

You-- [He starts then stops, hesitant, still so unsure. His mind is a whirl and its over something he understands to be so simple but yet doesn't feel as such at all to him.] You...

[He takes a breath and forces himself to stay perfectly calm.]

You should take care of yourself better. [He manages out after what must seem like a very long pause.] There's only so much poultice I can spare for you.

Bruce no-longer-Banner | ota - prose or brackets are both a-ok

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Post-Funeral

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