faderift | [open] you'll come back when it's over

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[open] you'll come back when it's over

WHO friends and family of Sina Dahlasanor
WHAT: post-mortem interactions
WHEN: the evening of 7 Haring and onward
WHERE: the infirmary and elsewhere
NOTES: CW for death and illness. Apart from the main post I will not be tagging in. This thread is for wake/funeral/burial arrangements and anything else you guys want to play out pertaining to Sina's death, so feel free to make top levels or do whatever else!

It was the evening of the sixth when Galadriel paid her visit to Sina, after which the girl became mostly unresponsive. Still breathing, she slept through the night and day, waking up in the late afternoon just long enough to reach for Nari's hand and whisper something to her before falling away again. The candles grew dim and the shadows long before she stirred again, pulling in a last rasping breath, her lips moving soundlessly to form two unknown words as she exhaled and fell still.

It was hardly ten minutes later when, witnessed by friends and clan, the glowing green patch of magic that had plagued them all for the last couple years simply... vanished from the elf's sternum, as though it had never been there. Lying small and wasted away, destroyed from the inside out, anyone who looked at Sina for the first time would not understand what had killed her.

The room was then vacated by all but Keeper Thalia and Sina's parents, a balding large-eyed man with a quivering chin and a plain, sandy-haired woman, neither appearing all that much more vital than their late daughter. It was they who prepared the body for the resulting rites, silent and weary, their miracle baby laid to an untimely rest.

Out in the hall, Nari found herself surrounded in a collective embrace by a sea of russet-haired Dalish, her family. Even in a time like this, being with their daughter and sister brought comfort, and they hoped she might find some as well.
Sedi and Nymii stood as sentries on either side of the door, permitting only mourners and scowling down otherwise unrelated onlookers.

At last, at long last, it was over.

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i. telling the bees
There is a tradition, in the Marches, of telling the bees: Whatever major event betook a household--a death, a departure, a wedding, a birth--the hives must be made aware, else the bees might grow ill or depart. On farms, it fell to the master's wife; on estates, in the Circles, to the beekeeper or her apprentice.

So it had come to Myrobalan in Hasmal. Often enough he'd told the bees there of failed Harrowings or apprentices made Tranquil, of transfers and Enchanters lost to war. Now he brings the Inquisition's losses to its two tiny colonies, following a tradition as old--or older--than the Chantry itself.

a. the Gallows

"Sina is gone, my friends."

His breath puffs out white in the cold winter air where he stands with a hand on the little skep tucked into its niche in the wall. A black cloth drapes the top of it; the bees have been put into mourning with the rest of the Gallows.

"You know Sina--her Keeper's First, bright of mind, warm of heart--who tended the garden to your delight. She is dead, as we all die; remember her to the Maker and leave us not in our distress."

There's more he could say--of lunches shared and bee-lore and sunny afternoons on the Chantry steps--but bees have short memories and not everything important need be spoken aloud to be remembered.

b. the Chantry forest

He goes to the forest hive singing, clear tenor voice lifted up in the words of a lullaby common to Dalish and city elves alike (though the Elvhen escapes him; he sings it as he learned it, in Trade). In light of the guard standing hawk-eyed watch about the place he'd requested an escort of whoever would come, to lend official Inquisition weight to the expedition.

It's a small thing but it's an important one, to bring the cloth and a gift of small cakes to the snug wooden box Nari had made, to knock gently on those whitened boards to draw the attention of the hive's slumbering inhabitants and tell that, at last, their other keeper had gone.

ii. ...and comfort those that stand in need of comfort

In those bleak days following, it seemed sometimes as if the Gallows entire were convulsed with mourning over Sina. Life limped on without her--so many had only known her as "that dying Dalish girl"--but enough of the Inquisition took to their cups--or their beds--with grief to leave everything just a little off-kilter.

Myr grieves, in his way, silent and tearless; brief as it had been, Sina's friendship was point of light and warmth in the chaos outside the Circle. But--grief is a burden he's accustomed to carrying without being overset, and he's always found it easier to shoulder if he has someone else to help.

He's among those bringing food to the ones who've missed meals, ready with a quiet word or kind smile for friend or stranger alike. If there's errands that need running or tasks that require only a pair of hands and not a pair of eyes, he's there to offer. No man can be everything to everyone--and he'd be a fool to try--but for now he can lay his other work (other griefs) aside and focus on this.

Edited 2017-12-12 10:23 (UTC)

The sound of Inessa's approaching footsteps might not stand out on its own, but the heavier tread of an adult mabari might be more noticeable. This is particularly the case when it's accompanied by a mournful whine, following Myr's announcement. As Garahel pads right up to him, his mistress remains mindful of personal space and pauses a little further away.

"You...told the bees? I don't quite understand, but you're kind to mention her nonetheless." Her voice is soft, tired, less stoic and professional than usual. Sina's death is a reminder of why their project is so vital...and why, at this moment, it feels like a failure.

"They'd grow sick, otherwise, or leave the hive as soon as it's warm enough to fly," Myr replies, speaking of it with the same steady faith he uses for matters of the Chant: This has happened; I have witness of it. "And it's as much for us as it is for them."

He gives the skep one last gentle pat and turns from it rub Garahel's ears in silent empathy; him, too. "How are you holding up in all of this?" The answer's obvious from her voice, he thinks, but this is part of the mourning ritual too.

"I see. It's a ritual I can appreciate." Inessa pauses, then heaves a sigh. "...we failed her. It's as simple as that. In two years, you would think more would be discovered, something which could aid her. But she declined, and we still know little more than we did when the Breach first appeared. Will we fail the others?" No one else has a shard in their chest, it's true, but Sina's condition and news of the future has them realizing those people are living on borrowed time.

"We failed her."

Myr has no ready response for that, neither comfort nor hope for the future--because neither of those hold much of a candle to the truth. They had failed Sina, and he is willing to shoulder a part of the blame for that for all he's been with the Inquisition scant months. There is always more they could have done-- But. "Often it's not the length of time we've had to study the problem for but whether we've the fortune to stumble across a critical piece of the solution," he says quietly. "When it comes to learning the theory behind things no one on Thedas has ever seen before. And those insights are something no one can force."

He gives Garahel's head another pat before stepping away, moving cautiously toward his owner. Not quite hugging distance, but close enough one or the other of them could reach out. "We failed her," he echoes, owning it. "But if we failed her while doing our utmost, then there's only so heavy the blame can rest on us. If not--then we've got cause to strive for better and beg her forgiveness. That's something I'd leave to you to judge for all of us, though I know--I've been distracted from my duties more than is my wont."

If the anchor shards were the only mystery they had to study, if the only urgency lay in saving the shardbearers, if there weren't half-a-hundred other things to pull him away from his research (if he could still read), it would be so much easier.

Grateful that Myr doesn't try to shift blame away or provide meaningless platitudes, she listens, unable to deny the truth of his words any more than he could her own. They could study the anchors all day, but without a critical revelation, the fears of the future would come to pass regardless. Garahel grunts as Myr pets him, and as he steps forward, Inessa reaches out to rest a hand on his harm.

"You've done all that I asked of you, Myrobalan. I have not had cause to complain once since asking for your support. You're right, though; we must strive for better, before more succumb. Simply reacting is not enough; after the new year arrives, I think it time for a round-table discussion as to how we can be more proactive."

He won't argue with the reassurance, frustrated as he might be with himself; if Inessa's judging his contributions worthy, then it's his own self-assessment that requires gainsaying. (Even so, he promises quietly, I'll do better.) The hand on his arm merits a wan smile from him. "That's a wise idea--and I think we ought to be planning more experiments like the magister's. For all his didn't come off so well."

A small vindictive part of him wants to suggest they keep Atticus on that particular track of study--but it's a petty impulse, quickly squashed. "With one of our own taking the lead; Maker knows why he volunteered for it in the first place, but if he wasn't dissuaded by a concussion..."

He lets that trail off. They've discussed how much there is to mislike about the magister's eagerness before; no sense in rehashing it.

"That magister is technically part of the project now." And yes, she doesn't bother to hide her distaste. He is -was? still is?- a Venatori, why should they trust him in any respect? It grates at her, but the decision is ultimately not her call. "But yes, I would prefer another take the lead in such matters. That can be brought up in the discussion as well, though if you have any recommendations ahead of time, I'll take them."

"Don't remind me," Myr mutters, rubbing briefly at the bridge of his nose. (Though it's less the fact Atticus is their coworker and more the role he played in leashing the magister so he could be a coworker that he doesn't want reminding of.) But--the man's a resource even so and there's no point refusing that out of unease. He heaves a brief sigh and sets the thought aside.

"I'm afraid I've not much else to offer." It's been a miserable month for simply sitting down and thinking the way he'd like on the subject of shards--but one particular recent bit of that misery tickles at his memory suddenly. "--Except--mm. When--when Sina died, her shard went out, didn't it?"

A little ghoulish to ask now, but he's been caught by an idea and they're so often slippery.

"It did, yes. I wasn't there to bear witness, but I spoke with others who had seen such. They said it was as though it had never been there at all, afterward. One would never know what had killed her." Garahel whines at that, and Inessa pauses to stroke him, comforting the mabari.

If Myr had any trace of doubt left about how much the mabari knew of what went on around him, that whine would dispel it. "Me too," he says quietly in reply, reaching out to brush fingertips against Garahel's short fur. He's felt exactly that way often enough in the past few days--but there wasn't sense in indulging it when so much remained to be done. (Later. Always later.)

He nods for Inessa's answer, though, and is silent for several seconds as he fits pieces together in his head. There's no way to guess the timing of dreams, when something might've happened in the Fade relative to something that happened outside it, but...

"I think," he picks up, once his thoughts are in an acceptable order, "we'll want a closer study of what happens to shardbearers in the Fade. When they're dreaming or--otherwise."

Garahel rumbles quietly and gently leans into Myr for a moment. Inessa's quiet, listening and considering. At length, she speaks up. "That is a fair point, and one which I'll be certain to mention. Perhaps mention of that should be added to the survey, once we hammer out exactly what should take place. I don't want to request anything without giving full disclosure from the beginning."

"Good thought." Myr's silent a moment then, tucking his hands into his sleeves against the winter chill. "...It's too easy to get impatient with how careful we've got to be," he finally confesses. "Even knowing we'll do more harm that good if we simply run roughshod over the shardbearers rather than let them have a say in the process.

"But knowing now how little time we might have--" He cuts himself off, shakes his head, and dismisses the maundering with a wan smile. "--well, we'll make the best of it without making ourselves into Venatori. We've got to."

"It's a frustrating balance that we must maintain, to be sure. At some point, we will need to risk more...but I want to be certain that when we do, it's done because we have educated ourselves as thoroughly as possible, not out of impulse." That time hasn't come, but Inessa knows it will. It's just a matter of preparing beforehand.

"We have some time, but I don't want to take any of that for granted. In fact--" She stops herself, noting his movement and likewise feeling the chill. "Would you care to join me inside? I have a sudden desire for some mulled wine by the fire."

It's a tempting offer--and now that the bees have been told, there's no reason for him to stick around outside in such inclement weather. "I'd like that very much," Myr admits after a moment's consideration. "Certainly easier to talk plans when our teeth aren't chattering."

He slips his staff from off his back, doing his best not to expose his hands overmuch as he does. "Lead the way."

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circleprodigy - 2018-01-02 15:58 (UTC) - Expand

She was fine--in a way--up through the funeral and wake. Beleth held on, because she had to, because it was necessary. She bottled everything up and set it aside to deal with at a later point in time. But that point in time came, and Beleth abruptly cut off all contact, turned off her crystal, and stayed in bed.

When Myr knocks, there isn't an answer right away, until he states who it is. Muffled noises follow, and shortly thereafter, the door swings open, Beleth staring haggardly out. Myr gets to miss what a mess she looks like, but there's an undeniable weariness in her voice as she greets him.

"Myr--Hello. I--Sorry." It's embarrassing to be seen--well, you know--like this, especially by him. But not enough for her to do much besides open the door and step out of the way. "Is everything okay?"

He's brought food, because: Of course he has. Food is love and always has been since the alienage, when sharing it meant parting with the promise of a full belly in order to spare a friend (a cousin, a brother) from starving. With so many of Sina's friends and family too grief-stricken to keep their lives straight, missed meals were inevitable, and Myr's old instincts said part of caring for them meant keeping them fed.

"As okay as it can be," he replies gently. "And I'm sorry to get you out of bed, but I wanted to make sure you got this." 'This' being a paper-wrapped packet that smells of fresh-baked bread and soft cheese; he holds it out to her as one might to a skittish animal.

"If you're not in the mood to eat it now, I'll understand."

It's incredible, the similarities between the Dalish and their city-born kin. Food is important to both, for it is not always plentiful for either--because of money, or because of the effort of gathering it. That was how a society that cared about each other worked--feeding those who can't feed themselves. Either because of physical issues, or because, in Beleth's case, the idea of walking all the way to the kitchens was simply too daunting.

So it's with appreciation that Beleth takes the packet. She doesn't want food, doesn't want to eat it, but she knows that she has to, anyway. And she knows that Myr is doing it out of kindness, and consideration.

"Thank you, Myr," And her words are tired, but genuine. "I'll have it later, if that's alright." She takes the package over be left on the table, before returning to him. Ordinarily, she might offer to share it with him, have a meal together. But that would involve having to eat right now, and she'd rather not.

And...what now? Her social graces are a mess. She doesn't want to just grab his food and boot him out, but she has no idea what to say. Finally, what comes out is an absentminded ramble, with little thought put behind it. "...It amazes me, sometimes, Myr--I should say, you amaze me. That someone as kind as you can exist in a world that's so unkind."

"So long as you do." It's a worn-familiar conversation in many ways, though it had been six years before coming to the Inquisition since he'd had the worst version of it.

This is not the worst. And he trusts Beleth means it when she says she'll get to it later--so he leaves it on the ritual response, the quiet expression of concern. The next step is the request--veiled or otherwise--that she be left alone, and as hard as it always is for him to hear that (isn't there something more I could do, some way I could make this easier?), he's braced to turn and go once she returns to the door.

Except--that's not what she does; prepared as he is for a farewell, Beleth's musing catches Myr by surprise. I've had it easier than most, he does not say, nor: Not for want of the world's trying. Instead: "It's what we're here for, isn't it? To make things easier on each other." He graces the words with a shadow of his usual sunny smile. "The burdens we've all got are lighter for sharing them."

“I don’t feel like I’ve done much for your burdens.” It’s a hallmark of her anxiety over friendships, that she’s aware of and tracks how many times she’s helped her friends, as opposed to them helping her. She doesn’t like the balance to not be in her favor—if she’s not helping them enough, they’ll leave, once she stops being a convenient friend. Once Myr gets tired of her constant helplessness.

“You helped me in the nightmares, too. You were so brave, standing against my clan and my mother,” At least that’s confirmation of who the woman was, “and you didn’t hesitate. I just...cried. It was so stupid, it was such a stupid nightmare.” She frowns, crossing her arms and scowling off to the side. “I don’t think my family is going to try to kill me...” If course, there are various ways that could be interpreted, but. Details.

And she’s making it about herself, again. She turns back to Myr, fidgeting with her sleeve. “What about you? How are you doing?”

He's empathy enough he knows how a startled laugh would sound here, and bites it back before it's more than an idea. "You're Scoutmaster," he replies, a little of his gentle bewilderment leaking through in his tone. "And you've taken the lion's share of planning for Sina's funeral--and Maker knows what else you've been doing these past few days. You've burdens enough--and someone you've helped is sure to help me, down the road. It's not all tit-for-tat; it never is, when we're at our best."

Impulsively, he reaches out at the mention of their shared nightmare, a hand outstretched to take one of hers--if she'll accept the gesture. "Nothing stupid about it; it's given to fear demons to know our inmost hearts like that. All the same I'm glad I won't really have to stand them all down for you."

Because he would, of course. And probably get himself feathered for the trouble, since he can only deflect arrows he can see-- But there they were.

The question both is and isn't what he's expecting, and it makes his heart contract in his chest to hear it. "I can't say 'fine,' given the circumstances," given all the circumstances, many of which he couldn't bring himself to talk about even if an enumeration were appropriate, "but I'm holding up."

While she can't deny what Myr's pointed out, she can't help but think--But none of that was helping you. But she understands what he's saying, that it doesn't need to be that she's directly helping him. It's a good thought, and one that makes sense, even if it's hard to fully accept in her heart.

There's no hesitation when he offers his hand, she takes it and gives it a quick squeeze. Despite herself, she lets out a bark of a laugh when he talks about having to take down her clan--it's a half strangled, weak thing, but it's a laugh, and it's the first one she's felt in a while. "I know my family loves me. And I'm sure they'd like you. Most of them do--You kind of met Sorrel. I'm sure he was impressed with you saving me and everything." Maybe not Deheune, but Beleth doubts that Deheune really likes anyone.

She listens to him, sympathetic. It's the same for so many people, right now. "Holding up is sometimes the best we can do," She tells him, then leans forward, and softly bumps her forehead against his, a little show of affection usually reserved for her family and closest friends. But Myr's done more than enough to earn his way t here, by now. "Thank you for helping me, Myr. I'm glad to have you as a friend. And if I can help you, let me know. I know I'm kind of useless right now...but I'll try."

There's the laugh Myr had been hoping for; score one for madcap courage. He squeezes her hand with both of his in turn, firm and warm with affection, before letting her go. "I did meet him. Though I'd be glad of another introduction in less dire circumstances." Which, given all that's happened-- Well. Whenever the opportunity arose, he'd take it.

The forehead bump comes as a surprise, but a welcome one; leery as he is about initiating contact with anyone (who knew who might be watching, what conclusion they'd draw from casual touch, in the Circles), he's a glutton for friendly touch and not shy about appreciating it. "That's so," he concedes through a wan smile. "And even the Maker won't ask more from us than our best."

He's no idea if the Creators might be so kind with the Dalish, but he suspects as much from how she's spoken of them. "You're always welcome to whatever I can give, Beleth. And once this is all over--there is something I'd like to ask your help with, though right now the best help you could be to me is to look after yourself."

It's a tall order, he knows from grief; he smiles a little wider to soften what he know might sound an unreasonable order. "That is my dear friend you're taking care of, after all."

"I'll see if I can arrange a proper meeting, then. At some point before he leaves." Her voice drops slightly, posture slacking. "He, um--I asked him to come, for Sina. But, well. He has duties as the First." She looks up, a dry, thin smile on her face. "...I told you that before, didn't I? Maybe one of these days he should actually get to see the lessons I've been taking for him."

And she'll need to warn Sorrel that she might have used him for an excuse to get to know the cute shirtless elf waving a staff around. Whoops.

She straightens a little when he mentions that he has something he wants her help with. She wants to quiz him on it right away, see what he needs, and what she can do--but there's a fatigue she feels at the idea, and she knows that he's got the right of it, wanting to wait. She's certainly not going to be able to give him her best at the moment. And at worst, that fatigue could turn to irrational irritation, if she tries to force it.

She ducks her head when he says that, and there's the muffled noise of her talking while covering her mouth, that she does whenever Myr manages to fluster her. "Alright, alright. You have odd taste in friends, but I suppose I'll do what I can. Though I think right now, what I can do is...nap, maybe. Not very exciting, I'm afraid."

"Thank you. I'd appreciate it--but I'd understand if he's to return shortly." The man had lost his wife, after all, on top of whatever other duties he had; Myr can appreciate keenly the need to be back with family, somewhere familiar, after a loss like that. Sina was only (only) his friend and he'd wanted to crawl back home to Hasmal to grieve in a familiar setting--how much more her bondmate. "Though he should have a chance to see that before he goes."

It goes without saying he'd be glad to provide the opportunity.

He cocks his head to one side at the muffled quality of her voice, intuiting the hand and smiling just a little wider for the thought of it. Oh, Beleth. "I beg to differ; I've excellent taste in friends," he retorts, gentle and warm. "And if a nap is what you need, then a nap you shall have, and I'll leave you to it. Unless there's anything else you need from me now."

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[open] you'll come back when it's over

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The Gallows

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ii

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