faderift | Open: The Wake of Sina

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Open: The Wake of Sina

WHO: Sorrel, the Dalish Clan(s), and all else who would attend
WHAT: Sina's funeral/wake and her burial
WHEN: Backdated: Mid-December/Haring
WHERE: The Gallows, and The Plains
NOTES: The first log of 2018, and the last for Sina

i. The Burial
"Death - the last sleep? No, it is the final awakening."
-Walter Scott

The ceremony was an old one, inherited from the rites of the old Dales and the words, half-remembered, passed down in secret from ancient Arlathan. Perhaps they now bore no resemblance to those rites, too worn down by younger hands, as shaped by the intervening centuries as wet clay, but nothing had changed about their purpose.

Death is an event. It happens to you, once only. These things, the gentle, holy words, the soft little shape, curled up in its hollow, and the tree... they are for the living. They are alive. It happens like this:

The pit is dug, deep and round, to protect that which once housed her life, to nourish the new life that will call this place home. Handfuls of soil are put over the body, tears and prayers, and words to the spirits, to Sina, who may be beyond hearing, or may not. The words are as much for those to speak as for any who listen, after all. Tall and fine, the elves of Arda pass their gift to the Keepers, a seed from their home, a token of their love for Dahlasanor's lost daughter. The Dalish mages join their magic and voices together, and the seed grows from shoot, to sapling, to a fine young Mallorn tree, silvery and strong. It will survive the winter that Sina never saw, and many more thereafter. Here, on hallowed ground, made sacrosanct by elven lives lost and elven blood spilled: the tree called Siuona.

(The funeral is mostly a Dalish (and Fern, ect) party only. It happens on the plains at the site of the Dahlasanor massacre. Feel free to thread out or handwave whatever you like for this part!)

ii. The Funeral
"Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them."
-George Eliot

Not long after, when the clans have parted ways with those who's obligations pull them back to Kirkwall, there is another kind of gathering. There is a room in the Gallows that was once several rooms; earlier renovations have knocked down walls and combined the space into something more suitable for a meeting-hall, for drinking together, for speeches, and memories, and the needs of an organization like the Inqusition. And their need tonight?

Drink! Drink and song and stories, memories of Sina Dahlasanor, with laughing and weeping to follow. Good, simple food, abundant wine, free-flowing tears, and the embarace of the mutually aggrieved.

So, drink up, friends! Give a toast, tell a story, tell everyone how Sina touched all your lives, all that she did, all that she was to you.

Tonight, we drink for Sina.

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Korrin is there, of course, not about to pass up the chance to honor her fallen friend. She brings with her some dandelion wine, hearth cakes, and bear-hugs. Though she desperately wants to give a toast, every time the Vashoth woman steps forward, that lump in her throat prevents her. So she'll settle for a shoulder to lean on for anyone who needs it. (This does double for Sorrel, Beleth and Nahariel; if they need her then everyone else will just have to wait.) Given the circumstances, she's understandably subdued, and might attempt to slip away every now and then if she feels the need to pull herself together in private. But she's never gone for too long, not planning to leave until the wake is properly finished.

The Burial

Now is the time for weeping, for keening, but that is not how Pel longs to express her grief now. So many tears have already been shed, so many wails smothered by her own pillow, the clenching of her gut, the dryness of her mouth, the pounding headaches, reddened eyes and nose and lips, a trembling weakness, the taste of salt. And at the end, an empty feeling of melancholic serenity, surprise that the world is still unchanged after so much pain and grief. The only thing different is the absence, as if Sina left to visit her clan.

But her clan is here now, and there can no longer be any mistake or pretense as they lay that fragile body in the ground. Weak and shaking, Pel kneels to press her hands to the ground and deliver some of the magic that grows this beautiful tree, as special a tree as can be found, a surprising gift from outsiders. After, she stands, picks up her daughter from the ground, and takes a deep breath. But she does not keen or weep.

She sings.

Pel has only ever sung for three people in her life: Merrick, Sina, and da'Sina, and no one else has been privy to it. Her singing voice is breathy but supported, sounding almost like pan pipes, but on pitch nevertheless. The song is the same as Sina sang for her daughter when she became ready to meet the rest of the world, four days old and with her young de facto Keeper bathing her in milk of the halla. It is a prayer to Ghilan'nain, a plea for the navigator goddess to be her guarding eyes and guiding hands now that she cannot see or reach her. A prayer for Sina to find light and love in the arms of the Creators. And one supplication for the singer: that she can let go.

The longer she sings, the breathier her voice becomes, the more stuttered the meter, as she remembers the image of Sina passing under wisteria and into a bright field, laughter in her voice, without even the memory of pain in her body. By the end of the song, there are loud sniffles coming from Pel, her pitch wavering, until she cuts short the last word and breaks down in hushed sobbing.

The Funeral

The baby has been put to bed, some friend has promised to look after her so Pel can attend the wake. She feels numb enough that she drinks too much without realizing. She makes no toasts and tells no stories. Her song at the burial was the only secret she wanted to share. She can't bear to laugh, but it's even more painful to cry anymore, as if either one would be spoiling the spirit of this event. She finds herself talking to Sina's parents at some point, then to Sina's Keeper, then to Keeper Deheune. There is real solace in the fact that so many people loved her the way Pel did, and does.

You may find her talking to one of these people. You may find her sitting quietly and staring into a half-full cup. You may find her standing and stumbling toward the door, clearly upset but too drunk to walk a straight line.

When they reach the Plains to lay Sina's body down to rest, Fern is beyond tears. She has been for quite sometime, instead quietly riding her obstinate mule behind the procession of Dalish that escort Sina's body. If spoken to, she isn't cold or distant; on the contrary, efforts to speak to her make her smile and open up in a way that a girl her age likely needs in order to better cope with this loss. She's grateful that the questioning looks she receives grow fewer and far between as the days go by; maybe no one quite knows how to describe her relationship with Sina (or prefer not to), but she seems welcomed by the People, and her affection for Sina and grief over her passing are respected.

At the graveside, Fern listens to the songs and prayers sung and spoken in elvish, listening for the names of the Creators that Sina had spoken to her one cherished afternoon in the Chantry garden. When she is invited forward to toss a handful of soil into the grave, she does so, but pauses on the threshold to stare down, expression blank and numb, at the wrapped body of her friend. Lethallan.

"Goodbye," she says softly at last, eyes misty, and lets the soil trickle loosely through her fingertips. Then she steps back into the fold and watches the gift from the Arda as it is carried forth, placed into the ground, and coaxed to tremendous new life by the power of the Dalish mages around her.

Adasse had only ever snuck into Sina's tent, to bring her gifts. He had seen that a wreath of leaves from the Kirkwall vhendahl had gone with her, to her fina resting place. Honestly, he was only here to help Sorrel and Cyril -- and to tell one story.

"...and suddenly there were trees - trees filling that giant basin of death and destruction. Trees that gave us all firewood for cold nights, or food for those who starve in Darktown. Branches to make bows and arrows from for hunting outside the city. What Sina did was bring life to the parts of the city that haven't seen light in a long, long time."

i. the burial

Beleth feels like the winter around her, cold and hard and incredibly heavy. She watches most of the ceremony without a word, silent tears running down her face, until she can dab at them. She keeps an eye on her brother as it progresses, gently leading him where he needs to go, making sure that he's there and doing what must be done.

After the old songs are sung, Beleth has a new one to share. Except this song only new to this world, it is far older than any song the Dalish have, older than the Dales, maybe even older than Arlathan. A song brought by Galadriel and shared in Beleth's clear soprano, unwavering in this singular task. She owes Sina that much.

During the rest of the ceremony, if she isn't prodding Sorrel around, she stands as still and distant as a statue, staring at the grave blankly. Even her mother shows restraint in approaching her, using soft words, and uncommonly soft touches to coax her into speech.

ii. the funeral

It's almost over. Beleth's job of handling everything that had to be handled is nearly done, and all that she must do is nearly completed. Even here, surrounded by celebration, she's cold and hard. She doesn't join in food or drinking or any talking, and instead stands to the side, watching everyone with an intense gaze, like she expects them to make a fool of themselves, or Sina's memory.

The distant, chilly stare might unpleasantly remind those who know Beleth's mother of Deheune, shoving aside unnecessary emotion to do what must be done.

The few times she isn't glaring after everyone, her harsh gaze turns off to the distance, and there is a look of deep, indescribable fatigue. She is so tired, and so close to being able to let go of everything. Just a little bit longer, and she can leave all of this, and just. Rest. For a long, long time.

The distant, chilly stare does not scare away one Knight Commander, who appears at her elbow with bread, cheese, and a full bottle of Antivian brandy. He hands her the plate without any words, and then pulls out the cork of the brandy with one pop from his knife.

At the baleful look that he is likely to get, he says quietly, "Sina would not want you to fall over for lack of food. We both know this."

A baleful look is exactly what he receives, and Beleth is unsure whether she's more miffed that he's trying to help, or grateful for it. A bit of both, and the uncertainty does nothing to smooth over her mood.

"What about what I want?" But she can't quite summon the sharpness of tone to make the words really biting. She's made plenty of terrible, self-destructive choices lately, trying to deal with her inability to handle her own emotions, and mostly just sabotaging herself. She should try not to make this tentative...whatever it is, between them, one of the things she ruins. If she hasn't already.

So, she accepts the plate, and frowns at it instead, like it's done her a personal wrong. "Maybe I don't want to eat. Maybe I do want to fall over." But she takes a nibble from a piece of bread, anyway.

He arches an eyebrow at her, and keeps it arched, as she finally takes the plate and gives him a death glare. He takes a swig of the brandy, then passes the bottle over to her as he answers frankly.

"I do care about what you want, Beleth, but I happen to know you well enough when you're just going out to start a fight with me. I don't mind taking the hits, but you might feel better if we just sparred physically instead of verbally."

Get out some of her grief, and anger, and tired frustration on a target who could take quite a few hits. Maker knows that's how he's dealt with a lot of his own anger issues.

She takes another few bites of the food, and then accepts the bottle, taking a long sip of it, before handing it back over. There are more things she can think of to say to him, pick at him and needle him with her words. She could do it. She's good at it.

But he doesn't deserve it. And it'd be proving him right, anyway.

"I'm not good at sparring. I'm just an archer. And you're bigger and stronger than me, anyway." She tells him instead, tone petulant, which is better than venomous. "Though--I suppose it'd be up for debate if you'd even be willing to hit me." She glances up at him thoughtfully. "You don't strike me as someone who likes hitting women who are smaller and weaker than him."

Which...is a compliment, really.

He took the bottle back and took another healthy swig. He could use it today. She needed it more, though. So he was going to keep this bottle well at hand for the time being.

"I do not. I only hit women if they hit me first with the intent to kill me - or we are sparring and they are trying to put me into the ground." He answered honestly. "Even then, it is with the weapons provided and not with my hands. I ... do not feel right about that."

His lips twitch. "I could always stand somewhere with my shield up. You could take pot-shots at me."

Edited 2018-01-03 14:49 (UTC)

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say it, even if I already knew it." If only he'd managed to pass that line of thought down to Certain People while he was their boss. "For the record, I have no intention of killing you, nor putting you into the ground." Isn't that the same as killing? No--Humans don't bury their dead. It's probably a metaphor for something else that she isn't planning on doing.

"And taking pot-shots doesn't sound very appealing. Hurting you wouldn't make me feel better." She frowns at her plate, tearing the bread into little chunks. Hurting bread is different, after all. Take that, bread.

"I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to stop having everything be terrible, all the time. I want to stop feeling like everything is falling apart all the damn time and I can't do anything to fix it." Now she's tearing the cheese apart. "Or maybe this is just what things are like now, and I should just get used to feeling miserable constantly. That as soon as one thing seems to be resolved, something worse will always come up. Maybe that's just life."

She takes a moment to stare at her eviscerated food, and then shoves a chunk of it in her mouth with a frown, because it's either being angry or crying in public.

He had tried, and failed, to get that across to Multiple People in his care. Enough that it made him wonder why he bothered at all. Yet he knew, just like he knew the answer to Beleth's question, rhetorical as it was. He let her tear and rend at the bread because at least she wasn't hurting herself.

Not herself, not anyone else, and that was good. He would take a grumpy Beleth over an angry one, any day of the week.

When he finally speaks, his tone is softer, "You know very well that things are not always like this. We rise, we fall. That's the way of life -- but we all know what the world would look like if we lost all the time. Right now it's not perfect, but at least it's not in pieces."

He offers her the bottle again. "Things are ... not good right now, for you, but if it cheers you at all ... I am here, for as long as you want me to be."

A few more bites of food, and she accepts the bottle again, taking a long drink from it. He's right, she knows he's right, but it's so hard to believe that what feels like a constant decline will ever stop. Because it sure feels like everything is in pieces right now.

Except she knows its not, in the rational part of her mind. Even now, she's lucky. She has her job, her brother, she has caring people in her life, who worry about her. Like the one right next to her, making sure she's eating, and trying to keep her from wallowing in her misery. It's enough to make her eyes burn with the threat of more tears, as if she hasn't shed enough by now.

So instead she just leans against him for a moment, head pressed to his shoulder. It is, in her opinion, more comforting than trying to beat him with a sword, or whatever. "What have I possibly done to deserve a friend like you?" She mutters softly, eyes staring resolutely down at the ground. So much for being the cold, hard intimidating overseer of this funeral.

He exhales, as she leans against him once more, before he takes the plate and bottle away from her and puts them aside. Then he gently wraps his arms around her, so she could just burrow her face into that shoulder. His voice is quiet, when he finally speaks.

"Clearly, you've done a lot of things that make the world a better place." He pauses, mentally tells himself to get over himself, and strokes his hand over her short hair. "You're one of the people who despite how bad things are - keep fighting for a better future. So yes, you deserve to be happy, and have hope, and ... to be you. That is how good of a soul you are, Beleth."

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Open: The Wake of Sina

The Funeral

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i. the burial

The Funeral

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II. Funeral

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