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

He was blushing- he couldn't help that, really, even if he knew better. Reactions were the point of saying those kinds of things. But he couldn't help natural reactions.

"I-it- well..." a deep breath. Okay. "Okay, first. It's- can you read?"

The blush made it worse, of course, an made Peter a target for future flirting, but the smile faded slight at the question.

"Ah- yes. Well, no. Sort of, but not really." He looked sheepish. "The runes get all jumbled up."

Peter paused- somehow, he'd secretly held the hope Gavin was just having them all on. Mocking people with the stereotype that elves- well. So maybe he'd been biased. All the elves he knew were mages. Ones in a tower at that, and that came with a certain skill set.

To give proper weight to his answer, Peter attempts to have a solemn moment. One where he firmly closes the book he'd been idly reading to show he's turning his full attention to the matter at hand. Except that slamming the book shut sends a plume of dust into his face that makes him cough, making the next words wheezy at best.

"That- we need to fix..." Maker he was dying, "That. Reading. Fix."

Gavin couldn't help but laugh - as kindly as possible - reaching out to pat Peter's back as he tried to gasp through the dust.

"I think we may need to fix you a drink first," he said, offering a grin. "You alright?"

The reading thing was - well. He'd be open to trying again, but he knew it would probably just end with Peter being disappointed in him.

He shook his head, but couldn't reply for a moment as he braced his hands against the desk and had a brief, but thorough, coughing fit.

"Water....Then. Books."

"Right, I got it," Gavin said, patting him on the back one last time before dashing off. Luckily, the kitchen wasn't far, and other than a growl from the cook and a (missing) swipe from her spoon, Gavin returned unscathed with his prize.

He held out the water for Peter. "Here. Easy now, or I'll have to tell everyone you perished because of my ravishing good looks."

He wants to laugh, he tries to laugh, and it just makes the coughing worse. He settles for a scowl before gulping down the water. Maker, that was so much better. He wiped he mouth with the back of his sleeve and left the mug to (also gather dust) on the desk.

"It's cruel, making a dying man laugh."

He laughs for him, because he can't help it, and pats Peter's back through the worst of it.

"I'm not sure I agree with that," He grinned, "I think it's a mercy, really. You alright?"

"Mages have endured worse."

He wipes at his mouth one more time, making sure the moisture is all gone. And then it's back to a more serious expression.

"Is it just the writing? That's the problem."

Of course he hadn't forgotten, that would have been too lucky.

"Ah - the reading is worse. Writing at least I can draw pictures when I can't think of the words, but reading just... hurts, if I try to do it for too long." He slid himself up onto the desk, the dust billowing around his bum as it imprinted itself onto the desk. "It doesn't seem to bother other people nearly as much, so I couldn't tell you why."

"Maybe all that falling..."

It's an obviously teasing comment- one made after he's taken a step back to avoid his new enemy: the dust clouds. His hand comes up to cover his mouth as an extra precaution as he makes his way back over to the moldy bookshelf. It would be too easy for a children's book to be tucked away down here, but there may be something a little better than the treaties on magical theory he'd been flipping through.

The tease makes Gavin laugh as he tries to wave away the dust cloud on his friend's behalf.

"You could be right. Maybe we should just try tossing me off the battlements until I learn how to read again."

He shook his head at that, then frowned slightly as he confirmed, yes. There were no appropriate books here.

"That'd be the easy way out. But we'll have to wait- I don't know how much made it out of Haven, but the merchants have to have something we could use..."

Or he could get Remus to write up a primer. Remus was always a natural at teaching people things. A fact Peter knew better than anyone.

"That's alright," Gavin agreed, somewhat relieved. "We'll set up a date and time, and I'll come and even try to behave while you rectify my flaws," Gavin said with a grin. "In the meantime, what do you say to raiding the kitchen for some more cheese, I'm still starving..."

And as we wind on down the road

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