And as we wind on down the road

[faderifting]

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.)

Comments

funeral

[cicatrices]

"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."

[lacere]

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."

[cicatrices]

"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."

[lacere]

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."