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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
[What is a few flights more? Perhaps it will be easy. Darras squeezes her hand, unable (again), to resist that extra contact. Returning to her has always been a novelty. It feels as if it means more this time. Or is that sentimentality working on him? And does it matter?
It's enough that it's real, that they're walking out of the courtyard, together, for the stairs. Darras feels distinctly more jelly in his legs, now; he walks through it, stiff. If he leans more on Yseult, she won't say anything.]
Is saving the report for tomorrow your gift, then? Or is it the hot water? I'd not complain either way. [He's got to look over at her now, an indulgence he's not often denied himself, no matter the circumstances, no matter where they were, with each other--and it's even more of an indulgence now--] But I'll tell you about it. If you want to hear. Everything that happened. In advance of any official part.
no subject
[ She flicks a glance his way, mouth tugged ever-so-briefly into a smile. He's not leaning on her just yet, still safe to tease.
She leads the way through the crowd, the shortest possible path that avoids having to plow through anyone or risk being embroiled in conversation, cutting toward the back and then over, out of most lines of sight. The central tower's not far, and there's no detour required to find a member of staff she can stop and make the requests to. Then it's just stairs, all the way up. ]
If you want to tell me now [ she replies, easy. Her pace up the tower is slow but steady. ] I do want to hear, of course. But you said you're tired, and it can keep. [ One more squeeze of his hand. ] Whatever you want.
no subject
Slow, but steady. Halfway up and Darras begins to flag a little, leans a bit more of his weight on her--trying not to be too obvious; aware, at the same time, that Yseult will have noticed, just as she notices everything, all the little cues and changes whenever they happen around her. Might as well say it.]
I don't need carrying. Back from the dead, it's sort of exhausting, right. You understand. As to telling the tale, s'ppose that'll depend on how I feel once I've had that wash. Could be I just sleep for three days.
[It's hard to banter and keep at the steps the way that they are. Darras keeps on with it, one foot in front of the other, one word in front of the other. Feels important, keeping up both.]
You'll have to tell me of any good speeches I missed. Could be inspiring.
no subject
[ Yseult lets go of his hand only to slip her arm through his, shoulders pressed nearer, the better to discreetly offer support up the last few flights. She remembers only dimly trying to climb back to her room after Ghislain, exhaustion raising blinders and then even that tunnel-vision fading, the final floors a blur--one moment gripping a banister the next waking in her bed. He doesn't seem to be half-dead in quite the same way she was, but this is also twice as many floors. ]
I think someone read a poem. They sang that hymn you hate, 'The Dawn Will Come'. I was thinking-- [ she breaks off, shakes her head ] It doesn't matter now. Thankfully. I bet they'll have everything ready and the tub full by the time we get there, they're remarkably quick with the buckets.
no subject
[And of course she's there, gracefully offering the support he needs without him having to say anything of it, or ask her. Darras puts a measure more of his weight on her, grateful--which is to say that he sags--and there's still stairs to go, though not as many as when they'd started.]
Andraste's tits, but I'm sore. Where was that hymn? I know what you were thinking. By the way. [He tips a glance down at her, as best as he can, given their current arrangement.] That the singing of that one would be enough to raise me from the dead to bring a stop to it, and look, you were right.
As usual.
no subject
[ They're getting there, but it's a ways to go still and he's growing heavier by the moment--not too much to handle, but threatening to be too much to handle subtly. ]
Maybe you need to hear it again now. From here to my door, motivation to make it a short trip. [ she hums a bar in threat ]
no subject
[It's a groan, and enough to mask any more painful groaning he might otherwise give. Darras struggles forward, taking some of his weight from her so he can stagger up the next few stairs.]
No, no no no--I hate it, anything but that, no-- look, I'm going, aren't I? No need for this cruel and unusual stuff. Torture. Don't make me tell your fellow division heads on you--
no subject
[ (The hymn, not torture.) This may or may not be true. Probably not. But who knows? In any event, it's working, so she intones the first note under her breath in the wake of his groan. Her singing voice is serviceable but nothing special, but her imitation of self-serious choir sisters is spot-on, and will follow him up the last flight of stairs to her door. ]