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.)

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FUNERAL

There was a little part of Harding that had always hoped the Herald had survived, somehow, had hoped that she would never be found, as there were no remains to find because she was alive. A farmstead they hadn't searched, the ruins of a building where she hid with other refugees, just somewhere beyond the reach of her and the other scouts. There's something very final about seeing a body.

The loss of her stung, especially on a day like today, when it real - that she was dead and would soon be taken by Chantry fire. For whatever she had been to Thedas, the Herald had been a hero to Harding - an aspiration. One who had been called to higher things, and had taken it upon herself to fulfill them, even if the world hated her for it, and dogged her at every turn. The Inquisition had been hers; Leliana and Cassandra announced it, but she had been the one to make it rise. Yet even so, the Herald had been a woman, and human - she had been one of them, a person, not just a hero delivered from the Fade by Andraste. And now no one would really know it, with her immortalised in death by those who never cared to know her in life, in sermon after sermon, because her funeral would also bring a message that the Inquisition was strong, that it would continue in its goal without its leader.

Harding couldn't say she liked that idea very much.

All too soon the pyre is lit and the crowds thin and gradually disperse. Not for a moment has Harding taken her eyes from the Herald's face, not as the fire catches and consumes, not until she's among the last left in a once crowded hall.

"For what it's worth," she whispers, to no one in particular, maybe to herself, maybe in the hopes that if the Herald did return to the Maker's side that she can hear her, and maybe it's all too little too late, but she says it all the same. "Thanks, Trevelyan."

WAKE

It takes a long time for Harding to put in an appearance, lingering with ghosts in the great hall, but eventually she does. She gets a complimentary drink from somewhere, some of the best the Inquisition has, but she doesn't drink. Hours go by with the same tankard still in hand, likely spoiled as the minutes tick by, but Harding stays observant. Someone has to, in case things do indeed become sour, because as with her death, Evelyn Trevelyan deserves better at her wake.

The renegade templar is dealt with easily enough, but the mood is charged after, and any possibilities of Harding relaxing are lost with it. Observers of the observant will catch her in corners, sometimes outside, sometimes exchanging word with other agents, because she still has a job to do which will not stop for one night, and if someone has to be persuaded back to their bedrolls or taken forcefully outside to simmer off, so be it.

WILDCARD?

[Many people mourned the loss of the Herald, but Bruce knew that Harding was one of those who especially felt it - she had spoke and met the Herald several times, and he understood how much Harding liked her. She must be really affected by all of this.

So he lingers around a bit near the entrance of the hall once everyone else had left, waiting until Harding is done and is making her way out of the place. He steps into view, and what he speaks his voice is soft.]

Hey.

[Harding may not want it to be true, but that doesn't mean she won't accept it as a fact - what really plagues her is regret, and weariness, and having spent so long looking for something, someone, and to burn her the next day. It was Chantry custom, but there was so much to think about, to reflect and to mourn, in so little time.

Not much shakes Harding, but today has.

The wait is long enough, but not overly - it's in part the rising smoke that's driven her outside as well as troubled and uneasy thoughts. She's distracted by them, but not distracted enough to not register Bruce.]

Hey.

[There's a delay in her response, inwardly piecing her thoughts together to match the exterior, the same sturdy exterior, though she lacks her enthusiasm and the smile is half-hearted and soon gone.]

You waited?

[Bruce doesn't blame Harding for her somber mood, more than understanding of her situation. He tries to make it up for her with a small, comforting smile of his own, doing his best to keep her going despite what had happened. The entire situation is tragic and sad, but Thedas still would continue on. It wouldn't stop just because of the passing of the Herald and in a way, they all had to accept that.]

It's the least I could do. [He says quietly, then steps aside and gestures towards the general outside area.] Do you want some company? We can go somewhere and just enjoy the quiet.

[No need for talking, to fill in the silence - Bruce just wants to help Harding in whatever way that he can.]

[The dwarf rubs a hand against her brow. She feels drained from the overthinking and that the day seems so long already; the night will not be a short one, and as a member (and a key one) of the Inquisition, she has to keep face, say the right thing and look the part. She doesn't have to do that with Bruce - she just looks weary, that simple question of wanting to go somewhere too taxing for her mind to figure out.

The tavern being overcrowded makes perfect sense, really.]

Yeah. [For as much as she's exhausted, she doesn't want to be alone with herself and her thoughts. She lowers her hand back to her side.] Yeah, I'd like that. Did you have someplace in mind?

Follow me.

[He gives another smile and then starts to walk, keeping his steps slow so that Harding can easily follow him. He weaves through the crowds of people with a calm ease borne from his many years on the road, always making sure that Harding isn't far behind as he leads her to their destination.

Said destination, apparently, happens to be the top area where the main gate leading to Skyhold is - there's barely anybody there at all, everyone else congregating at the tavern or elsewhere at the courtyard. Bruce stops once they're there, turning back to her and giving an inquiring look.]

Is this alright with you?

[It's easy to follow, ducking between people as if this were just any other excursion. His decisiveness helps. Leaders always have to be.

Harding slows as he does, the light wind whistling harder above and tugging weakly at her clothes, but aside from that, the noise is far away, and it is quiet. The other inhabitants of the gate are not here for disturbance; just solitude.

She doesn't answer save to drop down against the stone, back against the wall.]

This is good.

[Bruce smiles a little when he has Harding's approval on the choice of place. In this place few people do come here, if ever. He's pretty sure they'll both have the quiet that they need.

He shifts over to her side (with some space between them) and settles down as well. After a pause he glances over to her and asks quietly,] How are you holding up?

[She doesn't answer at first, head rested against the stone wall, eyes closed. Blackness, nothing to see, because dwarves don't dream, but they do remember. The image of the Herald's body, quiet and holy, being devoured by fire, was an image that wasn't going to go away anytime soon. She would have to fight to remember her alive, rather than that final farewell.]

Honestly?

[It's not a question, not even rhetoric. Harding is always honest about how she feels, but this is different. This is personal, and much, much harder.

She opens her eyes, looking at nothing in particular.]

Even though we knew it was her? I feel like every day we were just waiting for her to walk through the gates. I hoped for that, maybe. Hoped that we'd find something anytime one of us went down the mountains... that we wouldn't find anything at all.

[What's worse? Body or no body?]

If we'd had more time... maybe she would be here with us right now. Maybe none of us would be here. But we are, and it's because of her. We're stumbling along, but is that all we can do? Keep stumbling?

[That one isn't rhetoric. She looks at Bruce, then away, then up to the heavens with a look of ire, that for whatever his plans, the Maker has been cruel. There are still rifts, there is still Corypheus, there are people pouring through from other lands, and their leader is dead and burned.

To actually answer his question, the outside is fine. The inner turmoil is not.]

[Bruce is quiet as he listens to her words, mulling over it himself. He doesn't hold onto the same hope as she had with the Herald being alive, but still the reality of her death was a hard pill to swallow, for so many reasons. She had been the reason why they were all even here, why this Inquisition existed. Her actions had started this movement, and without her, they were all lost and stumbling.

But still they couldn't stop now, even after she was gone. The Inquisition still had to continue no matter what, while Thedas was still in danger and Corypheus was still out there.

He gives Harding a sympathetic look, wishing once again that he could have done more back then when Haven was attacked. That question of what if hung in his mind again - of what could have happened if he tried to stand up instead of fleeing, to try and fight back. Perhaps there could have been a fighting chance somehow. Perhaps he would have died as well.

Death, for him, would be a blessing.]

I'm sure we'll figure something out. [He says instead, because she doesn't need to hear what he thinks. What she needs are words that she wants to hear.] Her spirit lives on inside us, especially with the people who knew her. [Like you, he implies, without saying it aloud.] As long as we remember what we're here for, things will eventually fall into place.

[All they can really do now is to try. Try, because if they don't then Thedas wouldn't have a chance at all.]

[They are the words she wants to hear, but it doesn't give her much comfort. She knows that as long as they keep going, holding her ideals aloft, that they'll do good on her memory, that things will fall into place...

And now? Now, they stumble.]

And what if we never get anywhere?

[She regrets saying it as soon as it's voiced. She doesn't really believe that, but there's a nagging feeling, a niggle that says if the Herald was here we'd be okay and-

Harding lets out a soft, pained chuckle, shaking her head.] I guess she made me believe that we could do anything. That I could do anything - that even a sheep herder could make a difference.

[Uncertainty is only natural. Bruce would be lying if he said that he didn't have any himself; without the Herald so much is left in the air, so many questions left unanswered. They would all need time to recover.]

You have made a difference. [He says, as earnestly as he can, wanting Harding to know because she deserves to know.] You may not see it, but I'm sure that people around, in here and outside - you made their lives better for doing what you do.

[Its probably familiar to Harding because she's said something similar to him once upon a time, when they were in the Hinterlands and Bruce had been uncertain himself. Just as she did it for him then, now he returns the gesture for her.]

[It does give her a little deja-vu, and she smiles absently at the memory. She'd been so driven then, so determined, still quite new to the cause but ready to serve and make a difference. So much time - and so little - had passed since then, and though she had tried, whether her efforts had lasting affect beyond 'Herald, this is what I've found out about this place you're going next, good luck' was something she hadn't stopped to assess - not properly.]

I do want to believe that. Just as Evelyn made us all believe in the first place - all of us, no matter who we were, where we came from.

[Really, who could have imagined such a force mere months ago? It was still fledgling, absolutely, still lacked backing and still had its inner turmoil, but it was something. They could thank the Herald for bringing it together, but it was in their hands to do something with the gift she had given them.

She exhales.] And I'm not going anywhere until this is over. [Not that she'd consider leaving, not even for a moment, not if this lasts long beyond the foe they face. The Inquisition is, and always will be, her priority.]

[So many of them here, all together, a force unlike what many had ever seen before. Bruce knows how special all of this is, which is why its all the more important that they had to keep on moving even after that - to make sure that they succeed in what they came here for. Otherwise, everything would have been for naught.

Bruce gives her a smile at her last words, clearly pleased with hearing that.] I'm sure your excellent scouting skills will be much needed now, more than ever. [Though there may be no more Herald Harding's own work still remains equally important, and people have always benefited from what she delivers. The future will be no different.]

I'm sure someone will have need for them before long. Kinda indispensable.

[Harding smiles. Kind of is an understatement. It's really only by virtue of the funeral being today that she's not joining the scouts down towards the mire, which, for today, she's glad for.

She looks to Bruce, smile replaced by curiosity.] And you, Bruce? How long are you going to stay?

Very indispensable.

[He smiles once again. Harding will always be an important part of this thing, Bruce knows. And in a way, he's glad for her about that. She performs very well in what she does, and no doubt things will improve from there.

At the question, Bruce simply sort of... shrugs.] As long as the Inquisition still has people that need be healed. [Which, he supposes, will be a thing for a while--but of course he knows he can't stay here forever. The most he guesses is once the threats of Corypheus and such is settled. Once the dust clears on that, then he'll see what to do next.]

"She will be lucky if history remembers that name." Cassandra is never described as stealthy, but she has a way of stepping in at opportune moments, emerging out of shadows as if she was lingering there for her cue. (She wasn't.)

She places herself at Harding's shoulder, her arms crossed against her ribs. It is difficult to tell if the evening has affected her as it has others: she is always so rigid and tightly-strung that the stress of the occasion does not show in her posture, and the grim set of her mouth is basically her resting expression. But those who have been with the Inquisition long enough, like Harding, know that the Seeker and the Herald were well on their way to friendship, kindred spirits in their devout belief and their yearning to reform, their acceptance of duty. Few can say that they knew Evelyn Trevelyan as more than the symbol, the leader, the controversy, but here are two.

"The Hero of Ferelden, the Champion. Already people know their stories but have never heard of Cousland or Hawke. The Herald will be the same."

That the Seeker has remained isn't a surprise to Harding - her eyes break contact with the fire long enough to acknowledge her, but she looks away just as quickly. If anyone were to stay in the most final of final moments, it would be those that rallied around Evelyn Trevelyan, the most trusted of members who she went to for advice and who she arrived with however long after Harding had sent her reports to the spymaster; those she trusted and called friend.

Harding almost feels like an imposter to that grief. She knew the Herald, or what the Herald had presented herself as. Not the woman. It was a regret she would carry with her, just as she carried the lament that her gratitude would never be known.

Harding sighs, a long, hard exhale. "But is that really what she would have wanted? She deserves much more than just a title."

"She deserves to be remembered for what she was. A remarkable woman, who did not run from her fate but did what needed to be done when others could not. The histories may capture that much of her, at least." With her hands tucked tightly beneath her biceps, Cassandra shrugs, a jerky movement more of armor than woman. "Or it may call her a madwoman and a heretic and a fraud. It may call all of us such things, if we do not recover."

She turns to look over her shoulder at a knot of others lingering, pilgrims mostly, putting offerings on the pyre, curls of paper turning from prayers to smoke.

"Perhaps Varric will write a tale of the Herald, as he did of the Champion. Hawke was a remarkable woman as well, but he made her seem-- human, at times." Another great hero lost, another Cassandra mourns, though there she is only a fan like so many here, familiar with the subject only through the stories, ready to idolize a woman she has never met. Perhaps she should be more sympathetic to those who come to enshrine the Herald's memory or maybe she should be more sympathetic to Varric's loss. Maybe both.

"She admired your work," she says instead, without looking down at Harding even as she steers the conversation toward her. "When we would travel through rough terrain and bad weather and everyone complained she would say 'Harding has been here for weeks and she still had a smile and a joke for me, so cheer up.' It rarely worked, but she would want you to know that your contributions are valued. Remember her that way and I think she would be well served."

Edited (that semi-colon was totally unnecessary) 2015-11-04 23:14 (UTC)

Harding listens, silent, hands diligently held behind her back as she thinks. Maybe it would do the world good for Varric to write stories of the Herald the way he did for Hawke. She hadn't read much of Varric's work, but... would it serve as perspective, or just another means for strangers to try to get close to the woman they had never known?

It's a hard one. She agrees with Cassandra, whole-heartedly, that the world should remember her acts and deeds. "We'll have a say in that, if we're lucky. If we keep the Inquisition going forward as she would have wanted. And if we succeed."

That's not pessimism, but realism. She knows they have the potential means, the contacts - but it's a long hard road to walk, particularly when that road has had more than its fair share of bumps already. Going forward is difficult when some are contented to go in circles. The Herald had been the one to break that cycle, to try to get the co-operation of two factions to seal the Breach... Harding let that thought trail off.

She's quiet again when the topic shifts towards herself. She never really knew what the Herald thought of her, only knew that the work she did helped, but she was just a scout, not a maker of contacts and broker of peace. It hits something beneath that carefully crafted mask of composure, and Harding swallows.

"Thanks for telling me that, Seeker Cassandra." Her words wobble a bit, voice unsteady until they even out. She had been making a difference, which was what she wanted when she signed on, when the Inquisition had been the only ones doing anything. "Really. Even now, it's- it's good to hear that."

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And as we wind on down the road

lace harding | ota, any format you wish

wildcard?? in between the funeral and wake

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funeral

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