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.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Alistair emerges from the tavern late--after tempers inside have already boiled over and been brought back down to a tolerable simmer--but unscathed. Their armor can't protect them from scorn or fear or untimely death, but it does usually keep people from trying to fight with them. Even the Antivan Crows were reluctant to harm Grey Wardens.

So: unscathed. And mostly sober. It's exhaustion more than liquor that makes him drop heavily onto the ground beside Sabriel when he spots her, although the half-full tankard in his hand makes it obvious it is a little bit both.

"I thought about threatening to conscript them all if they didn't shut up," he announces without preface, "but given the givens..." The impending doom, the fugitive status, the fact that they've already got two unhappy conscripts along with them. Those little things. He hasn't forgotten--but this is how he copes. He smiles. "I thought would Warden Sabriel approve? and practiced restraint. I hope you're proud."

Sabriel looks to him as he sits, her expression shifting to attentive listener more than a smile, but it does creep in. It's a change from how she reacted with uncertainty when he used to make light of things, now she knows him better.

"I wouldn't have blamed you if you had," she says. Now she does smile, vaguely. "But I am glad you didn't."

She has her hands full with two reluctant kids, don't pass along anymore. The masses think they do just throw conscription around as they fancy - likely best not to spread that view in a place as influential as the Inquisition could become.

"The Inquisition needs them more than we do."

"I suppose," Alistair says, as if very reluctant to admit it.

But it's true. This isn't a Blight--probably--and if all goes well, or at least its usual levels of not-well, there won't be another one for a hundred years or more. The world doesn't need more Wardens. It just needs the ones it already has to not do anything colossally stupid while they wait.

He rubs his face, extra rubbing around his eyes, trying to wake up a bit more, and says, "We shouldn't get involved, you know. We can't really be a part of this."

Shouldn't. Already the Inquisition is about more than only closing a Breach; it's about religion, and politics, and the politics of religion. There are dignitaries and murmurs about the empty seat in the Grand Cathedral. But there are also refugees here and people in need of assistance out there, and Alistair doesn't know Sabriel that well, but he knows enough to recognize the ways in which they're alike. Shouldn't; probably will.

Shouldn't, probably will is the right of it. Her face is complicated, a muddle of emotions, and she doesn't quite meet his eye, because Alistair is correct. She's thought as much herself; if she were solely Sabriel, mage of former-Perendale, she would be involved, unwilling to sit back and wait for her Circle to die - or anyone else, for that matter - because it was the right thing to do. She would be uncertain, but she would do it.

But she was Warden Sabriel, and by being a Warden, and though she had done and seen so much than she could have thought, the world harsher than she suspected, this was denied - she would not get involved with politics or religion or the makings of the world, even if she felt more than ever that it was wrong, because she was a Warden. This wasn't a Blight. They should leave, go elsewhere, defeat darkspawn, stay out of it.

Sabriel sits a little straighter, arms folded against the chill. "My father always said that a Warden helps. And if I were only me--" well, Alistair probably knows. She doesn't need to elaborate that point. "But isn't saving the world what Wardens do? At large, or smaller, with those that are vulnerable and those that shouldn't be involved in all this, those that should be happy and safe but are not. The Inquisition does what our Order won't. It will hurt so many people."

She loves the Order likely as much as he does, and what they did broke her heart. She wanted to help; had wanted to help all her life, had not flinched when they told her it was her turn, her time, and then, they told her she would be better served shackled and bound and possessed. But she would not falter from what they stood for - what they should stand for.

"And the Inquisition may not just save the world, but change it, too, yet... I cannot take the Inquisition's charity, their sanctuary, without doing something in return, Alistair." She exhales the breath she hadn't quite realised she was holding, along with all the thoughts that suddenly came tumbling out. "I cannot do nothing to aid them, the world, in its time of need. I won't."

Those are a lot of words. They're all very nice words, and Alistair listens to them, and the silence on his end is weighty rather than bored, even though he is very tired and slightly drunk.

When she stops, he says, "Yeah."

He means it, though. Yeah, doing nothing isn't an option. He's walked away from disasters before--he walked away from Kirkwall while it was literally on fire, because he had orders. But now the orders are unconscionable, and they would be standing by to no particular end. Letting more people die on principle. He isn't a fan. So it's a very serious yeah, and he lets it hang there for a serious few seconds of silence.

Then, "I'm still in trouble with the First Warden for Orzammar," he says, "and the Landsmeet," even though that was in every way the opposite of his fault, "so if a few years from now Thedas believes the Grey Wardens are using the Inquisition as a puppet for their own ends," like they do everything else, "I'm letting you take that one."

Leadership.

At least he knows, and he isn't telling her not to. Not that she's seeking permission - just that he knows of her intent. After so many years of hierarchal structure, it's hard to break the habit, and if anyone were to understand, it would be him.

She is not wrong.

"If there are still Grey Wardens left to blame," she says, softly, "I will."

And she means it. If Thedas survives, and the cost is her reputation, alright - she will wade through every consequence if she can live knowing she did the right thing.

She half smiles. "You don't have to follow me."

Alistair swivels his head to answer her with a look: the look involves both a smile and one skeptical raised eyebrow. He isn't sure about following her, but he isn't leaving.

"There will be Grey Wardens," he says. "Whatever is happening, it isn't right. We'll stop it."

He doesn't entirely believe that. When the song first reached him, before he knew everyone was being called, he thought, all right, that's it, good run. It's early for him, ten years in, but not impossible. Not with how much corruption he's been exposed to. But for Sabriel--and Rafael and Scipio, and even for Sigrun--it's too soon. And if there isn't a way to stop it, it's still his job to keep them believing there might be.

Well, she has to set an example somewhere. Might as well be this.

"I hope so." It's more than an idle hope, more a staunch belief that she will do everything in her power to try and save the Wardens from themselves, but there's so many variables, so much that could go wrong. Failure isn't an option, but nonetheless, it is a possibility. They could stop the Wardens, discover the cause of the Calling... and it could be. They could be wrong.

But those are darker thoughts she doesn't want to entertain for too long, so she pushes them away. She believes in herself, in Alistair, in Sigrun, even Scipio and Rafael, if they put their minds to it. That is enough.

"I suppose I should practice an apology speech for when we do, just in case."

"Yes, you should," Alistair says. He reaches over to pat her knee--a flat-palmed attagirl slap, nothing weird--and leans back on his elbows. "And include two or three mentions of how I said it was a bad idea. For the First Warden."

Sabriel hums, her voice a mock presentation. It starts serious. "Warden Alistair, despite leading us to Skyhold after we left Montsimmard, insisted we not get involved. Repeatedly." She pauses. "But as we were practiced at turning against command, we did not listen?"

"I like it," Alistair says. "And right off the cuff, too. You're going to go far, if we aren't all permanently demoted."

Or dead.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

And as we wind on down the road

wake!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject