Geese In Spring, Part I [5/6]
anonymous
June 22 2010, 18:51:02 UTC
I lied. This scene should really be included in Part I here, because there's a larger time jump afterwards. So! Here's a bit more.
Zevran was good to his word, and at dusk, he accompanied the Grey Warden to the clearing where his friends' pyre had been built. He had assisted with this grim work, which the other Dalish had taken on as a matter of respect. The Wardens had wiped out a substantial band of Darkspawn, after all, at the cost of their own lives. They deserved a suitable funeral insofar as such a thing was possible, deep in the forest with no Andrastian clergy, as most of the Wardens would have doubtless preferred. At least Devin could perhaps provide some suitable verses or a eulogy.
He glanced at the sole surviving Warden. The mage had been virtually silent during the walk here, and was now standing before the unlit pyre, head bowed. Zevran figured he might be offering some more personal prayers for his friends, or perhaps asking for forgiveness. He'd seen survivor's guilt before, and was not overly surprised by Devin's behavior, but he intended to keep a close eye on the Warden, in case his grief took a turn for the worse.
Not that keeping an eye on the mage was a particularly onerous task. Even in battle, or in a bleak situation such as this, the man's sharp, angular features had a sort of grace that drew one's attention. It was hard to define; he was certainly handsome, but in Zevran's mind, at least, it was something in the man's character, something evident in his expression, that was the most appealing. Even now, with a grim countenance and a shadowed gaze, the Warden was difficult to look away from. Perhaps it was strength he saw -- the kind of willpower that had helped the man survive the brutal Darkspawn battle -- or perhaps--
"Zevran, was this wise?" The sound of the Keeper's voice, disapproval clear in his tone, made the hunter start guiltily before turning around. He'd been too deep in his own thoughts to hear the older elf approaching.
"He demanded to come, Keeper," Zevran answered with only a hint of apology. The Warden was a guest, after all, not a prisoner, and surely he had the right to see off his brothers-in-arms.
Alarem grimaced slightly as he watched Devin, who was apparently still praying, or whatever it was he was doing. "Hm. I suppose he would. Has he been in a lot of pain?"
The answer to that, Zevran didn't truly know; the only times the mage's pain had been clearly evident was when he made broad movements, such as rising from bed. He suspected that the man was suffering in stoic silence. "Not that he would admit to," he replied.
"Ah." The Keeper understood his meaning, of course, and he regarded the human thoughtfully for a long moment. "If he seems to be pushing himself overmuch, do not hesitate to shut him down, Zevran. He'll do himself no favors if he doesn't give that bone the proper chance to set."
"Of course, Keeper." Zevran refrained from mentioning that he'd already done so today. His knowledge of herbalism was one of the reasons he'd been put in charge of the Warden's care, and he had no qualms about using those skills for Devin's benefit, even if it was without the man's consent.
With a nod of acknowledgement to the hunter, Alarem walked towards the pyre to confer quietly with Devin. The mage nodded once, twice, then stepped back from the structure, seemingly still lost in his thoughts; he glanced up as Zevran stepped up beside him, smiling slightly in a sort of reflexive greeting, before turning his gaze to the Keeper, who had raised his staff as a signal that the actual funeral was about to begin.
The handful of Dalish who were in attendance -- mostly hunters who could either admire martial prowess, or who might have wished to join the Wardens themselves, Zevran suspected -- turned their attention to Alarem, who gave a short speech about how the Wardens had given their lives to defend the people of Ferelden -- all people, including the Dalish. This band of Darkspawn had come very close to their camp, after all; who knew what might have happened if they hadn't been stopped in the depths of the forest?
Geese In Spring, Part I [6/6]
anonymous
June 22 2010, 18:51:44 UTC
After a solemn chant from the Dalish (it was a prayer commending those fallen in battle to Falon'Din, and Zevran made a note to explain it to Devin later), the mage stepped forward. "For those of my comrades who looked to the Chantry, I offer verses from the Canticle of Trials, Chapter One," he said with quiet dignity.
Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, Should they set themselves against me.
Zevran hadn't expected that particular Canticle, but it seemed appropriate. As Devin began to recite, he listened with what he was sure was greater interest than his fellow hunters, the words of the Chant bringing back old memories of the grand chantries and tiny slum churches of Antiva City. He didn't precisely miss the Chant or the chantries, but the sense of nostalgia after so many years in the forest was strange, and not unwelcome.
Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder.
Some of the hunters were paying more attention now, listening thoughtfully to the lament of one near death at the hands of his enemies. None of them had heard much of the Chant before, of course, and had no desire to, but the Canticles had been written before the March against the Dales, and there was nothing in most of the text that the elves would find objectionable, at least in Zevran's mind.
Though all before me is shadow, Yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.
Earlier in the day, Devin's voice had been a bit scratchy with disuse; as he recited, it had smoothed out into a pleasant tenor that would have been welcome in any chantry. Now, though, Zevran could hear grief fraying the edges of the mage's voice, as the words he spoke began to sink in.
Draw your last breath, my friends, Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, And--
Perhaps it was the mention of "last breath", but the mage finally faltered, and before he finished the verse, he fell silent, unable to continue. He did not weep, but the sorrow and anger were easy to read in his posture as he stood there, his head bowed and his right hand clenched into a fist at his side. After a few moments, he surrendered to the fact that he could not go on, and stepped back, nodding to Alarem.
As the pyre was lit, Devin settled into a stance that said clearly that he meant to stay and witness the burning, regardless of what the Keeper might have advised. And that meant that Zevran would stay, as well. He was fairly sure that the mage would have been able to make it back to camp on his own, and perhaps might even have preferred solitude, but he had been placed in Zevran's care, and the hunter had no intention of leaving Devin alone in the state he was in now. Not that he thought the man would do something as foolhardy as throw himself onto the pyre, but the invisible blades of guilt and remorse were always sharper when one was alone...
As he stood next to Devin, the Warden did not outwardly acknowledge him, even after the other Dalish had left, but something -- some energy or tension in the air, perhaps -- told Zevran that he was not unwelcome. For now, he was content with that.
Zevran was good to his word, and at dusk, he accompanied the Grey Warden to the clearing where his friends' pyre had been built. He had assisted with this grim work, which the other Dalish had taken on as a matter of respect. The Wardens had wiped out a substantial band of Darkspawn, after all, at the cost of their own lives. They deserved a suitable funeral insofar as such a thing was possible, deep in the forest with no Andrastian clergy, as most of the Wardens would have doubtless preferred. At least Devin could perhaps provide some suitable verses or a eulogy.
He glanced at the sole surviving Warden. The mage had been virtually silent during the walk here, and was now standing before the unlit pyre, head bowed. Zevran figured he might be offering some more personal prayers for his friends, or perhaps asking for forgiveness. He'd seen survivor's guilt before, and was not overly surprised by Devin's behavior, but he intended to keep a close eye on the Warden, in case his grief took a turn for the worse.
Not that keeping an eye on the mage was a particularly onerous task. Even in battle, or in a bleak situation such as this, the man's sharp, angular features had a sort of grace that drew one's attention. It was hard to define; he was certainly handsome, but in Zevran's mind, at least, it was something in the man's character, something evident in his expression, that was the most appealing. Even now, with a grim countenance and a shadowed gaze, the Warden was difficult to look away from. Perhaps it was strength he saw -- the kind of willpower that had helped the man survive the brutal Darkspawn battle -- or perhaps--
"Zevran, was this wise?" The sound of the Keeper's voice, disapproval clear in his tone, made the hunter start guiltily before turning around. He'd been too deep in his own thoughts to hear the older elf approaching.
"He demanded to come, Keeper," Zevran answered with only a hint of apology. The Warden was a guest, after all, not a prisoner, and surely he had the right to see off his brothers-in-arms.
Alarem grimaced slightly as he watched Devin, who was apparently still praying, or whatever it was he was doing. "Hm. I suppose he would. Has he been in a lot of pain?"
The answer to that, Zevran didn't truly know; the only times the mage's pain had been clearly evident was when he made broad movements, such as rising from bed. He suspected that the man was suffering in stoic silence. "Not that he would admit to," he replied.
"Ah." The Keeper understood his meaning, of course, and he regarded the human thoughtfully for a long moment. "If he seems to be pushing himself overmuch, do not hesitate to shut him down, Zevran. He'll do himself no favors if he doesn't give that bone the proper chance to set."
"Of course, Keeper." Zevran refrained from mentioning that he'd already done so today. His knowledge of herbalism was one of the reasons he'd been put in charge of the Warden's care, and he had no qualms about using those skills for Devin's benefit, even if it was without the man's consent.
With a nod of acknowledgement to the hunter, Alarem walked towards the pyre to confer quietly with Devin. The mage nodded once, twice, then stepped back from the structure, seemingly still lost in his thoughts; he glanced up as Zevran stepped up beside him, smiling slightly in a sort of reflexive greeting, before turning his gaze to the Keeper, who had raised his staff as a signal that the actual funeral was about to begin.
The handful of Dalish who were in attendance -- mostly hunters who could either admire martial prowess, or who might have wished to join the Wardens themselves, Zevran suspected -- turned their attention to Alarem, who gave a short speech about how the Wardens had given their lives to defend the people of Ferelden -- all people, including the Dalish. This band of Darkspawn had come very close to their camp, after all; who knew what might have happened if they hadn't been stopped in the depths of the forest?
Reply
Maker, my enemies are abundant.
Many are those who rise up against me.
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,
Should they set themselves against me.
Zevran hadn't expected that particular Canticle, but it seemed appropriate. As Devin began to recite, he listened with what he was sure was greater interest than his fellow hunters, the words of the Chant bringing back old memories of the grand chantries and tiny slum churches of Antiva City. He didn't precisely miss the Chant or the chantries, but the sense of nostalgia after so many years in the forest was strange, and not unwelcome.
Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,
I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.
I shall endure.
What you have created, no one can tear asunder.
Some of the hunters were paying more attention now, listening thoughtfully to the lament of one near death at the hands of his enemies. None of them had heard much of the Chant before, of course, and had no desire to, but the Canticles had been written before the March against the Dales, and there was nothing in most of the text that the elves would find objectionable, at least in Zevran's mind.
Though all before me is shadow,
Yet shall the Maker be my guide.
I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.
For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.
Earlier in the day, Devin's voice had been a bit scratchy with disuse; as he recited, it had smoothed out into a pleasant tenor that would have been welcome in any chantry. Now, though, Zevran could hear grief fraying the edges of the mage's voice, as the words he spoke began to sink in.
Draw your last breath, my friends,
Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.
Rest at the Maker's right hand,
And--
Perhaps it was the mention of "last breath", but the mage finally faltered, and before he finished the verse, he fell silent, unable to continue. He did not weep, but the sorrow and anger were easy to read in his posture as he stood there, his head bowed and his right hand clenched into a fist at his side. After a few moments, he surrendered to the fact that he could not go on, and stepped back, nodding to Alarem.
As the pyre was lit, Devin settled into a stance that said clearly that he meant to stay and witness the burning, regardless of what the Keeper might have advised. And that meant that Zevran would stay, as well. He was fairly sure that the mage would have been able to make it back to camp on his own, and perhaps might even have preferred solitude, but he had been placed in Zevran's care, and the hunter had no intention of leaving Devin alone in the state he was in now. Not that he thought the man would do something as foolhardy as throw himself onto the pyre, but the invisible blades of guilt and remorse were always sharper when one was alone...
As he stood next to Devin, the Warden did not outwardly acknowledge him, even after the other Dalish had left, but something -- some energy or tension in the air, perhaps -- told Zevran that he was not unwelcome. For now, he was content with that.
.fin.
Reply
Reply
Anon expects you to make good on this threat, you realize. Possibly sexily.
Reply
(Captcha suggests I listen to one of my favorite bands for inspiration, apparently: "modes it")
Reply
Leave a comment