Open: The Wake of Sina

[writteninblood]

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.

Comments

II. Funeral

[judgemewhole]

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."

[arlathvhen]

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.

[judgemewhole]

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.

[arlathvhen]

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.

[judgemewhole]

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."

[arlathvhen]

"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.

[judgemewhole]

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."

[arlathvhen]

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.

[judgemewhole]

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."