open: lol never mind.

[cozen]

WHO: Open!
WHAT: A memorial that doesn’t go as planned.
WHEN: Justinian 1
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Nah.

The ceremony takes place in one of the side courtyards that’s been converted into a garden, where the oppressive architecture is offset with flowers and trees. There’s a small pyre, for those whose traditions call for pyres, but no bodies to burn. Instead there are tokens, flowers, favorite foods, treasured possessions—not yet lit.

(For the others, the Dalish and Nevarrans and anyone else with a different wish, their friends and family will have made different arrangements alongside the pyre, probably, if they aren’t universally reviled.)

Anyone who wants to speak, whether it’s a prepared speech or a single spontaneous sentence, can do so. The tone is respectful but only so solemn. It’s been more than a week. For many, the worst of the shock has passed, and the sun has continued to rise and set, and there’s room between bouts of misery for fond memories and occasionally laughter. The memorial is a door that’s closing—slowly, kindly—and tomorrow, on the other side of it, the war will continue.

Today, on this side, the only people judging anyone else for crying are the assholes.

***

Across the harbor, more than a dozen filthy and tired people come to a stop on the docks, and the loitering ferryman pauses to take stock of them, then starts laughing. There isn’t even any local mythology about ferrymen and the dead. It’s just that funny to him on its own, that he’s been rowing miserable people around all week, and here’s the source of all that misery, dirty and tired but significantly less dead than believed.

When he stops laughing, he offers to dunk everyone in the harbor before rowing them over. For the smell, you know. No one is going to be happy to see them if their eyes are watering too much to actually see them. Then he laughs some more at his hilarious joke.

But he does eventually load up his boat—and maybe there isn’t room for everyone all at once, maybe some dramatic reunions will be delayed, maybe some people will be even more fashionably late to their funeral than the others—and carries everyone across the bay, still chuckling intermittently.

***

In the courtyard, the speeches and anecdotes (and singing, perhaps) wind down to long silences peppered with murmurs or sniffling. Someone is preparing to light the pyre. And then the gate creaks open.

Comments

[swordproof]

The relief Six feels when she sees the dead return is not something she can put into proper words. She had been mourning, despite not knowing too many of them on a deep, personal level - save John, who knew more of her than she did of him, who had accepted memories of her past without too much of a flinch, who had been there to accept her apologies and offer her kindness. She had been mourning that as much anything else, her heart sore in her chest.

She had been praying for hours, but she did not feel the numb ache in her knees. She could not allow it, not when words were to be said and offerings to be given.

Stoic and tall, she steps forward as she watches people mill around, her heart beating fast as she realises that she was wrong, that all is well, that the relief she feels can be accepted and given into. It's a rush and she almost, almost smiles, fighting the urge. It might be improper.

"John," she says, voice soft, her hair, for once, tied beautifully and properly. "It is good to see you."

[hornswoggle]

It's a relief that so much of the attention is directed elsewhere. John is here, content to remain mostly out of sight until it serves him to exist otherwise. (The only show that matters it the one he puts on when he sets foot on the deck of the Walrus, his presence in the courtyard carries a different sort of weight.) He expects nothing, and desires nothing but for his continued existence to be noted. That is, after all, what had propelled him to join this mission in the first place. To be noted, to be useful, but not essential.

And then Six materializes from the crowd and John finds himself wrong-footed. He is at a loss for a long moment, uncertain what to do with the relief on her face. To have been missed, it still strikes him strangely.

"Hello, Six," he replies, taking a few ungainly steps to close the distance between them. There's a pause, then—

"You've done up your hair. What's the occasion?"

[swordproof]

"It is a funeral."

It's said wryly, at least, even if she looks a touch uncomfortable. She's not wearing more than she might normally; her armour is shining, however, newly cleaned, and she even appears to have taken a bath using smelling soaps rather than her usual plain kind. Clearly, she has made an effort to appear more like the knightly figure people imagined her to be, even if she looks a touch discomforted by it.

Moving forward, her hand rests gently, carefully, on his shoulder, looking him up and down before she breathes in relief.

"I imagined for a moment that you might be a spirit."

[hornswoggle]

"No, just blessed with opportune timing," John tells her, tone still light. He is unsure of what to do with this relief. What is there to be done with such a thing when there's no use for it beyond simply the pleasure of a reunion?

In a way, it's a blessing to weather this now before he has to stand before the crew of the Walrus. Six is doing him a service, letting him prepare. After the loss of his leg, John had been sequestered in Flint's cabin, recovering. After his return from the sea, there had been a battle looming ahead of them too soon for celebration. This return to Kirkwall is different. He is going to need to steady himself much more quickly now.

"They truly thought all of us dead?"

Which, obviously, but in all their discussions during the journey no one had quite considered that as a viable option.

[swordproof]

"I am glad to hear it. I did not enjoy being there to witness the promise of your death." Not that she and John are the closest of friends, but they have worked together and she has stood at his side. Six knows that giving herself over to her emotions does not come easily to her, but she is doing her best to manage herself - John knows much of her already, truly.

She steps back to give him some space, some room to breathe, and she manages to offer him something of an easier smile. She does not wish for him to feel under pressure, not when he has so soon returned - and he likely needs a bath and a rest both.

"We did. A group went to find you when we thought you only missing and we found nothing other than your personal possessions and what we imagined to be your remains."

Which makes her look rather pained.

[hornswoggle]

"It seems I'm rather hard to kill."

Which is either a boon or an inconvenience depending on who you ask.

"I'm sorry for all of it. It seems that this mission was a failure on many levels."

As John says this, he reaches carefully to touch her elbow. It's a comforting gesture, or so he intends it to be, even if he isn't being entirely truthful in the moment. Yes, this mission was some kind of failure. They hadn't accomplished what they were meant to do. But it's a boon for John. At the very least, his reunion with the crew will make placating them all the easier in the coming weeks.

"I can at least promise you I have no intention of dying any time soon."