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Entry tags:
- ! open,
- alexandrie d'asgard,
- bastien,
- benedict quintus artemaeus,
- darras rivain,
- gwenaëlle strange,
- isaac,
- james flint,
- john silver,
- julius,
- kostos averesch,
- teren von skraedder,
- yseult,
- { adasse agassi },
- { alistair },
- { anders },
- { colin },
- { ilias fabria },
- { iorveth },
- { leander },
- { merrill },
- { nathaniel howe },
- { romain de coucy },
- { sidony veranas },
- { sorrelean ashara },
- { thor }
open: lol never mind.
WHO: Open!
WHAT: A memorial that doesn’t go as planned.
WHEN: Justinian 1
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Nah.
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.
(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.
no subject
He hadn't thought Adasse was dead, of course, but just the same.
"Vhenan," He says, only weakly, when he finally has the breath to do so. Sorrel doesn't want to pull away, he wants to keep being held and to put his forehead against Adasse's. He wants a bath and a meal and a nap, but mostly just this, "Emma'nehn. Oh, I missed you."
Kostos, look away. Your sweet, innocent eyes can't handle all this emotional nakedness.
no subject
Certainly not without a fight.
"I missed you. Creators, I thought you were gone. I thought you were dead - and I was never going to see you again - " He let out a soft sob, tears still coming down his dark eyes. "I love you, I love you so much. I was going to kill my way through Tevinter ... where were you?"
no subject
"Tevinter," He replies, helpless to do more than spill out the truth, "After we got away, we couldn't get past the border with so many, so the wardens took us down through the Deep Roads. It was awful."
If Sorrel never sees the Deep Roads again, it'll still be to soon.
"That fucking Baron, Deshaies if that's is actual name, sold us out. Creators, I—" His voice cracks and Sorrel just shakes his head, breathes a moment and continues, "We woke up in the back of a slaver's cart. It was really scary. I don't know if we would have gotten free if not for Merril. And we definitely wouldn't have gotten through the Deep Roads without Warden Teren."
no subject
"I knew it - I Knew It. I knew that shem was a fucking liar ... " He shook his head once more, "I'll kill that bastard with my bare fucking hands."
no subject
It ought to have been innuendo, but Sorrel is appalled to hear it come out more like begging. He tries again, or means to; he's missed too many meals, lately, to make a joke out of hunger.
"Bath with dinner?" The wet faces and continual leaking tears don't do the humor any favors, neither. Sorrel gives up and only asks, honestly, "I think I'd kill for a bite of venison just now. I could eat a bear."
He has certainly lost weight. They all have.
no subject
He leaned back, but kept hold of Sorrel's hand, tight as he dared.
no subject
Don't lie, he knows you.
"...You should know, I'm bloody exhausted and much too sore to go up all those stairs to our room. So you won't even have to wait that long, if you don't like."
no subject
"Come on then. I'm going to give you the halla-ride you so need right now."
no subject
Actually, it's quite nice. Like this, he has to put his arms around Adasse's neck and shoulders, and it takes the pressure off his knees, which is nice. And then there's the warm, welcome way it lets him put his face right up next to Adasse's hair, and cuddle close. Quite nice indeed.
"Onward, faithful Halla," He says, deadpan and teasing, "To the kitchens!"
no subject