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

And then the pity. Maker, that was always the worst part, when they realized he'd hoped for something more. A hot color crept up around his collar - harder to see in the dark, thankfully - and he worked to bring up a smile, trying to make it better.

"It's alright, Gavin," he said. "You don't have to worry about me. If there's something else you'd rather-- I'm sure I can find a way to occupy myself."

He saw the smile, but it didn't reach his eyes, and for a second Gavin thought that he'd managed to make everything worse, again, but he let out a breath and finally did reach out, sliding his arm into Maxwell's and pulling him up so that he could bump their shoulders together.

"I'm not worried about you," He said, lying utterly, "But now that you're here you can't escape, you'll just have to spend time with me and we'll pretend we're not miserable together."

Maxwell looked down at him, remembering then why he'd come up to the battlements in the first place. He'd wanted to make sure Gavin okay, and he wasn't. So, maybe, he couldn't help, but he could stay and keep him company until whoever or whatever it was Gavin really wanted came along.

Taking a breath, he nodded, and bumped Gavin's shoulder back.

"Well, when you put it that way," he joked lamely. "But no spitting, huh? I'm not sure I could take any more bruises."

"Alright, alright. No antagonizing the templars. Understood." It was awful, how forced Maxwell's voice sounded, and Gavin couldn't for the life of him put the conversation back together to figure out where it had started. But it had been before this, that much was sure. They'd had a few easy conversations, but they always seemed to have an undercurrent to them. Was he imagining it? Was it just the weird kick his guts got whenever Maxwell's smile faltered that did it?

He squeezed Maxwell's arm almost thoughtlessly.

He should be leaving him alone, really. He didn't want to force his presence on anyone. But on the other hand, he could hardly leave Maxwell to look so miserable, even if it was his fault. (Even if part of him whispered run, run, run.)

He pulled him down to sit on the edge of the battlements, overlooking the yard below, where a fight was breaking out of the tavern. But that's when Maxwell's words actually sunk in, and he looked up abruptly. "Wait, bruises? Are you alright?"

Maxwell followed the tug down to the stone, dangling his legs over the side, shoulder close enough to scrape Gavin's as he shifted and rested his weight on his palms.

"I meant yours, Gavin," he said, eyes flicking over the elf's face, lingering for several moments. "I don't especially like seeing you hurt."

"Oh," Gavin said, looking legitimately surprised, the slight tint coming to his hears helpfully hidden by the night. "Ah - right," he added, before laughing sheepishly. "I'd almost forgotten, to be honest." He'd been too distracted with worrying about Maxwell.

"I'm alright," He said, honestly, his gaze out over the castle rather than meeting Maxwell's gaze. "It was always going to - well, it was always going to be a shit time for everyone, to put it bluntly. A few bruises, I can live with."

Bruises were easy, compared to what most of his friends had gotten out of Haven. He chuckled, darkly, dipping his head and kicking his feet. "Would have preferred something less painful, sure, but I'll take what I get."

"I'd rather you didn't have to," Maxwell added softly, turning to look away when Gavin didn't turn back. "Everyone's grieving. But most aren't throwing punches at my friends, or anything else that moves."

He turned his eyes away from the tavern and up to the sky, following the stars.

"...You know, if you want to talk about it - her - I'll listen."

"Yes, I'd really rather they were giving out back rubs instead, as well," Gavin said, a half smile coming to his lips. He couldn't take his own sorrow seriously.

"There's nothing to say, really. It isn't as if I knew her." A careful dismissal, but a hesitant one - because it was true, he never really knew her. But that didn't explain the hole in his chest. "I just worry about all of them." He waved a hand vaguely out over the courtyard. "I thought I'd--" He cut off. 'Found a place here' was the end of that sentence, but the truth of it was bitter and hard in his throat and refused to come out, so he chuckled and sighed instead.

"Ah, well. Tomorrow, we can focus on fixing it. And tonight, we can all make stupid mistakes that we'll probably regret in the morning." He looked over, and offered a sideways, sad, smile.

"Just because you didn't know her personally doesn't mean you can't mourn. I only knew her through the stories, and now that." He nodded toward the pyre, still burning, smoke curling up into the night. "But you saw her. And Haven and what she did."

He paused, lips slightly parted, his eyes finding Gavin's face again.

"You know whatever you need, if I can help, I'm happy to, Gavin."

Gavin watched him, and smiled slowly, a sort of sadness coming to his eyes, but he reached over and put his hand over Maxwell's, fingers sliding into the gaps, and rubbed it gently.

"... Thanks, Maxwell. Just sit with me a bit? I'll be myself again soon, I promise."

He turned his gaze away, but left his hand there, palm warm against the back of Maxwell's hand.

Maxwell wasn't entirely sure what he expected, but the gentle touch of Gavin's hand was at once less, and more. (He'd pictured both, in those few short heartbeats: Gavin turning to him sad and weary, and just wanting the comfort of a willing body; Gavin laughing and turning away again.)

"...There's no where I'd rather be," he murmured quietly, almost more to himself.

He followed Gavin's gaze away, and back up to the stars, to the Herald's embers, climbing into the inky black. But his hand turned, and held him back. A gentle, but warm, pressure.

There, for as long as Gavin wanted him.

And as we wind on down the road

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