faderift | 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

There's an anger in her heart at even the idea of her friend getting hurt, and it's hard to control that, with the air already thick with it. It was hard to not butt in, return violence with violence, show them that there's a reason you leave the Dalish alone, because they are never truly alone, and they look out for each other. But she's not stupid enough to think that would help. She keeps an eye on the people who did this, memorizes their faces. Justice isn't always violence to meet violence.

Sometimes it's sprinkling certain plants into a bedroll, or maybe a spider. She's met a few while cleaning...

But that will have to wait until later. For now, she keeps an eye on him, and the next time he butts in, and a human scowls instead of laughs, Beleth darts over. The quick reflexes of a woman raised to be a rogue from youth show themselves as she grabs Gavin's collar and yanks, unceremoniously dragging him out of the path of the fist. She then turns to the human, all apologies and those big doe eyes being batted and a few 'sers' and some groveling later, she's pulling Gavin away, still clutching his collar.

"You're going to get yourself killed. What am I going to do, then? What will I write the Keeper? How am I possibly supposed to explain to her that you died because you kept messing with these fucking quicks." The last part was hissed to him, contempt in her voice.

He smiled at her as if nothing at all had happened, even as she dragged him forcibly away.

"I would think it would be easy," he replied, and then tried to take a somber tone: "I'm sorry, Keeper, but he died doing what he does best."

Being an idiot. At least he felt like one, for once, tonight.

She huffed at him, puffing out her cheeks. Because pouting like a five year old is a reasonable reaction for any adult. After she got him into a more private corner, she plopped in a chair, though she leaned to him to keep up their conversation in hushed whispers.

"You think she would buy that? She won't. I will receive a book on how I failed the entire clan, and you know what? I'm going to take it, and I'm going to read the entire thing at your grave, so you can suffer with me. Is that what you want, Gavin? Trying to walk with Falon'Din and you have to listen to me reciting a novel about why the Keeper is disappointed in me. Because of you. I'll do it."

At the least, her little rant seemed to calm her down, enough that she stopped resembling an agitated bird with ruffled feathers. She gave a little sigh, then reached over to let her fingers brush against the red mark on Gavin's face that she hadn't been able to save him from. That was going to bruise. "I'll get you something for that, okay? Just--stop bothering them. They're like dogs when there's a storm brewing. On edge, ready to bite at anything."

He allowed himself to be plopped, though he just kind of looked at her bemusedly, resting his (sore) chin in his palm, leaning his elbow on the table.

"As if she expects me to come home alive at all," Gavin said, the words teasing but the sentiment... may be more honest than perhaps he even realised. He made a face when she touched the red mark, but didn't pull away.

"They're upset, and lost. I'd rather they punch me than kill each other. I'll disappear before it becomes more than I can handle, Beleth. I promise."

"And I would rather them kill each other than punch you." She retorted, reaching out to try in vain to sort out that bird's nest of hair. She didn't comment on the Keeper, because Gavin's statement regarding her was a thread sticking out in a shawl knit of Beleth's worries, and addressing it would just pull the thread, and if she wasn't careful, she'd pull it until it all unraveled.

"Gavin--I don't want them to get used to using you as a punching bag whenever they get upset. This place is a powder keg, you see that, don't you? Tonight is just a spark that's made a few of them even grumpier than usual. They're all itching for ways to make themselves feel better, and if you present yourself as a target, they're just going to get used to taking out their anger on you." She sighed, shaking her head.

"I just--You've only got one face, Gavin. Don't ruin it."

"Why, would you be upset if I ruined it?" Gavin teased her lowly. "I'm fine, Beleth. I know when to disappear. I know I don't seem like I'm made of particularly tough stuff, but I've survived this long, haven't I?"

"Well, you've wandered around without the clan for long enough," She admits, reaching over to flick his nose. "It's not surviving I'm worried about. I have faith that you'll survive a punch. But that doesn't mean I like to see you--And you know what? I don't care if you do ruin your face!" She frowned at him, giving a little huff. "Just don't let the shemlen do it because they can't hold their temper."

After a moment, she sighed, and reached over to clasp Gavin's arm fondly.

"You're my friend, Gavin. I don't like seeing you be hurt. How would you feel if you saw me get punched?"

He laughed at her little outburst, smiling warmly at her. He couldn't help himself. It was adorable.

"I don't think that's a fair equivalent, you have a much prettier face than me," He teased, but he reached out to brush hair from her eyes, giving in. "Alright, alright. I understand. I will do my best not to get punched by shemlen, at least where you can see it. I wouldn't want to cause you worry."

And as we wind on down the road

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