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

[dreadinquisitor]

"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."

[slipshot]

"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.

[dreadinquisitor]

"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."

[slipshot]

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.

[dreadinquisitor]

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.