My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

"She asked me to..." the girl begged, holding a hand out.

  "It doesn't matter what she asked for. Her health supersedes any foolish requests she might have made."

  Barely keeping up and with a head throbbing, Gavin jammed his way in between, "What is going on here?"

  "Get her out of here," Cullen snarled, the fork back to jabbing at the girl he trapped in a corner. Gavin stepped in front of her, taking on the brunt of his father's ire.

  "What for?"

  "She...she was the one," he kept stabbing the fork through the air as if it too angered him, "She took your mother from her bed, left her outside for hours in the elements. It's her fault!"

  "Ser, please, I didn't mean for..."

  "Stop quivering," his father glared, the full depths of his rage being burned onto a serving gel. "Do you have any concept of what you've done? Of what you could do to her?! She's..." the fork began to pitch from his palms, the metal glinting against the firelight as it tumbled to the ground. His father wrapped both hands around his eyes, trying to hide himself away while he mumbled the truth to himself.

  Gavin turned back to the poor girl. "Alissa," he assessed, her name returning to him despite her face being distorted in terror.

  "I swear, my Lord, I didn't..."

  He cupped her hand gently in his and soothed, "I know. It's okay. It's not your fault. Go on out, it'll be okay."

  Her eyes stared up at him, barely blinking for fear he might suddenly harm her, but she nodded and swallowed. With Gavin acting as a screen, Alissa worked towards the door to freedom. She managed to slip out, but didn't get away before his father roared back to life.

  "I want her gone! She cannot be trusted anywhere near the sick. She'll kill them soon as the blight itself!"

  Alissa yelped, her hands crushing against her cheeks while the tears poured freely. Spinning on his heel, Gavin glared into his father's eyes. "Stop it. She's not being fired."

  "Do you know what she did...?" the man looked almost demonic in his exhausted fury, his eyes burning from the firelight.

  "Yes," Gavin stuck out his chin, "she helped Mom get one last look at a sunset."

  Cullen snarled, "Your mother is... her illness is getting worse because of her."

  "Mom is dying!" Gavin shouted at his father's face, so weary from the lie they kept dancing around. The old lion's anger whipped away from the girl who bore no fault to his son.

  "Don't you..."

  "For the love of Andraste, Dad. It's not some flu she'll walk away from. Mom is dying. You know it. She knows it. She's been telling you for weeks but you won't listen!"

  His father stumbled back as if Gavin hauled off and slugged him on the chin. The fire died in an instant, the raging old general withering to a scared old man facing an abyss before him. "No," he shook his head, the tears finally falling from those locked off eyes. "No," he gasped again, tumbling to his knees. A hand clutched at his chest, and in a quivering voice he gasped, "She can't. She can't again. How do I...?"

  Lifting up, tears languishing on his lids, he stared at Gavin, "I can't do this alone. How do I go on without her?"

  The tears matched his father in kind as Gavin too took a knee. "I'm here," he answered his father when inside his heart said 'I don't know.' Gasping, Cullen clung to Gavin's shoulder. He buried his face into his son, the two coming to accept the truth. Together they cried, fearful of the future neither could barely comprehend. A sunrise without her seemed as impossible as the sun never rising again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Parting Glass

  By the time the tears slowed and both found a stubborn sort of composure, Gavin tried to wrangle some order into the world. "I need to go and speak with Alissa. She's a good worker."

  "I know," his father's voice was hoarse and more ragged than a tattered flag on a battlefield. "I know she is. I should be the one to talk to her. Apologize."

  Gavin eyed up the man, remembering all too well how terrifying he could look when mad. Grief mixed with anger all but turned him into a living monster. "Perhaps that's not wise..." he tried, already thinking of how he'd smooth things over with the washer girl who was only trying to do right by his mom.

  His father turned from glaring at the stone floor. Amber eyes, red as if the sun itself burned them, honed in on Gavin. "No. It was my failure, my outburst, and I must be the one to try and undo the damage."

  There was no arguing with his dad when he was in that mood. With a shrug Gavin stepped back, allowing his father exit. The man was struggling to walk, he'd barely eaten for the past few days, and Gavin wasn't certain when he last slept either. "Dad," he reached over, gripping onto his father's arm, "I'll sit with Mom tonight. You need a break, to get some sleep."

  His father's lips pursed and he stared out towards the darkening horizon. One last tear that hung in his eye from their mourning session glittered by firelight. It wouldn't fall, but seemed to be nesting in wait. "Tomorrow morning. Give me one more night with her, and then I swear you can take over. I might even get some sleep."

  He knew he should argue, but it was hard enough to get his father to admit the truth. Dragging anymore out of him would probably be as impossible as moving a mountain. Nodding his head, Gavin let go, "Okay. I'll be up bright and early to take over."

  "Good. Good," his dad scratched at his head, red welts rising from the light dusting of his nails. His skin was thinning away to nothing from this torment. He needed a break. Sliding out to the door, Cullen paused a moment and added, "Oh, and bring the kettle when you come. You mom might like some lukewarm tea."

  She'd been damn near comatose for two days now, both left with barely any idea how to feed her, but his father was dead certain she'd rise in the morning. He needed to believe it, to cling to that hope.

  Shaking away the tears burning in his eyes, Gavin nodded jerkily, "I will."

  Good on his word, Cullen apologized to Alissa profusely and begged her to forgive his outburst. Then he retired to his bedroom to sit by his wife's side for the entire night. Gavin slid in to try and smooth over the damage but the girl understood.

  "My grandpappy, he...when his husband was real sick, he did the same. Snapped at pretty much anyone who stepped wrong cause the cracks might invite demons or death. I won't hold it against him."

  "Thank you," Gavin sighed, grateful for one problem in this stewing cauldron to be so simple. By the time he got to his old bedroom decked out with terrible drawings he did from age 5 onto 15 tacked to the wall, he tumbled to bed without taking off his shoes.

  Army life plus growing on a farm taught Gavin to always rise before the sun. He'd had a rather restful sleep all things considered, his body exhausted beyond measure from worry which pulled it so deep into the abyss nothing could reach. There were no dreams, it was almost as if he slept like a dwarf. No, there was one. A barely glimmer of a dream. He couldn't remember much beyond a voice humming and a hand gently rubbing over his head.

  It was nice. He missed that feeling, touch of any form really. Save the occasional friendly hug Gavin was an island. He convinced himself it was preferable to the alternative, but at the moment he began to wonder if it was true. Myra...

  Six months had passed since he last saw her, when she was back in Denerim for Satinalia and her birthday. She was still as breathtaking as he remembered, her smile easy, her eyes brighter than any stars in the sky. He didn't get to see her much, his life taking him from any form of an anchor, but she never wandered far from his thoughts. Was that true on her end as well? Her life was with the mages and...she seemed happily enthralled with all the college could offer. There were certainly plenty of male mages running around there as well. It seemed foolish to dare hope.

  He brought a few of her latest letters out with him, thinking that his mother might enjoy hearing about her magical discoveries and research. Gavin paused in stirring a spoon of honey into the teacup. He'd had so many far off plans made in the back of his mind. Dreams that seemed foolish with every breath. So much pinned upon 'one day.' All th
ose hopes of what he'd one day do with his mother, with Myra...

  The honey swirl slowed, barely dissolving into the brown tea that he rightfully kept at room temperature. It twisted through itself, dragging Gavin's focus upon it while his mind played out another life he nearly had. A life he was certain he could never hope to have again.

  Well. He tried to clean the spoon off on the side of the cup and loaded up the tray. There was no reason he couldn't tell his mother about Myra's adventures in the college now. While rounding up the stairs with the tea in his arms, hope crested in his heart. Maybe his father was right. Maybe she would be awake, have another good day for them all to sit around and talk. To speak of many things he shouldn't have put off.

  It was a struggle to get the bedroom door open, Gavin surprised that there were no lit candles. By the sunlight barely breaking through the shutters he could spot his father's shape sitting in the chair but little else. "I brought the tea," he said, sliding the tray onto the old dresser that used to hold all manner of tinctures and potions. "And already added my killer dose of honey. You know Mom's preferred milk ratio and I know better than to add it after..."

  His words trailed away as the stillness of the room struck him. Every mote of dust sang not with a greeting of dawn but a dirge of the soul. Barely able to hide the tremor in his legs, Gavin managed a step towards his father's quiet body. "Dad?" he whispered.

  The man's head lifted but the eyes stared straight through his son. Straight through the world itself, as if... No.

  Gavin swung to the bed. A duvet should lift, barely perhaps, but stir as the woman inside it took a breath. As her loving heart beat. Her fingers were tugged out from under the covers, his dad holding her hands to keep them warm. To keep them safe. To keep her tethered to this world with them.

  But it didn't work.

  A desperate moan broke from Gavin's throat as he tumbled to the ground. Slowly, his father turned to him. The head pivoted back as if even shifting away from her for a second hurt him. "Mom?" Gavin squeaked, tears gushing from his eyes.

  Cullen reached over with his free hand and gripped onto Gavin's shoulder. He returned to gazing at his wife, unable to speak the truth, to condemn her to cross the veil. That tear, the one he'd been holding in his eye all night, bubbled up from inside his lid and streaked down his cheek.

  With one hand on his son, and the other inside the cold fingers of his wife, Cullen screamed into the void and Gavin joined him.

  * * *

  Time blurred like a painting left in the rain. He had a vague memory of stumbling out of the room of death to find someone, anyone to help. Stricken numb, Gavin was able to relay instructions as if he was describing procedures for a dead woman he didn't know. How she needed to be prepared, where to send for a chantry Mother, the best area on the ground to build a pyre. There were other matters to be handled, but as the news filtered through the abbey that their mistress was gone everyone else took over.

  He was eternally grateful at not having to think. Though, he had to be called to pry his father's fingers free. Cullen refused to leave her side as the girls who'd cleaned and prepared bodies for cremation a hundred times over stood dumbstruck. There were so many tears, it was a wonder the foundation of the abbey didn't wash away in them.

  No matter what tactics he tried, Gavin couldn't get his father out of the bedroom. There was a lower cell where they stored bodies before rites could be performed, but he knew there was no chance his mother would be interred there, even for a moment. Anointed in holy oil, she lay stretched out on the bed she died in while her husband sat vigil for one more night.

  The funeral was...he wished he could say it was lovely, but with barely any sleep in him and a throbbing from the back of his skull down to his toes, Gavin couldn't remember much. The old Mother was there, reciting the parts of the chant that ensured Andraste would speak for the departed. She knew his mom, but she didn't know who she was. No one did. There was no talking about how she saved the world, no listing her amazing heroics or deeds, just an assurance that she loved her husband and child very much, and in turn was loved by them.

  With stern determination, Gavin managed to keep the tears at bay. All around him he heard the others breaking at various points. The girls that worked with the washing in particular were a pile of sorrowful blubbering. They were often hand in hand with his mother, learning the ropes of potion making as she taught them without calling it teaching. The boys, especially the stablehands, all had that tuned out look men use. I don't wish to be seen as crying, so I focus on some other trivial matter. It keeps death at bay and my face from crumbling. Strength in distraction.

  Gavin thought he could do the same, until it was time to light the pyre. Doused in nearly all the holy oil they had, it shouldn't take long to send his mother to the embracing flames. He held the torch tight in his hands, the first born chosen as the lighter, but there was a problem. Throughout the whole funeral, even as the Mother called for prayer, his father remained right beside the pyre. His fingers were locked around the still, cold ones of his wife, his eyes never wavering from her face. From the girls work, his mom's hair lay almost in lush, ebony spirals to cushion her head. The light bounced a life giving orange haze against her ashen skin, making it appear as if she was sleeping instead of long gone.

  "Son," the Mother jangled him in the side, clearly growing more uncomfortable by the unmitigated sorrow washing from the grieving widow.

  Sliding forward a step, Gavin reached out to his father. "Dad," he whispered, but Cullen wouldn't budge from his vigil. He'd barely spoken a word in a day, his eyes never leaving hers as if he really expected her to awaken.

  "Dad, please," his fight to keep a steady countenance shattered, the plea trembling in his lips. The tears that were barely held in place broke through once again. Great big drops pooled on his cheeks while he tugged limply on his father's arm. He felt like a small child, terrified of the dark and needing his parents to rescue him. "Dad...we have to say goodbye."

  Something in the tone must have finally reached him as Cullen turned away from his wife and looked right into Gavin's tear stained eyes. The old general's face crumbled, the grit he'd held in his jaw falling slack as reality shattered all around him. Numbly, Cullen nodded his head.

  He moved to step back, but his fingers were yet threaded with hers. The dead arm tugged, causing his mother's body to shift and almost all the mourners jumped a moment. With a sigh of regret blooming from the depths of his heart, his father bundled up his mother's hand. He guided it to lay upon her chest, right above her heart, and tipped down to her face.

  So quiet it was doubtful anyone but Gavin could hear, Cullen whispered to his wife and greatest love, "I will see you at the Maker's side." His trembling lips placed one final kiss to her cold cheek before he rose and stepped back. Now it was up to Gavin to burn his mother to ashes, to release her to the Maker.

  He knew the torch was burning hot in his hand, the flames licking closer and closer to his face, but he felt colder than any winter. How could he do it? How could he burn her? What if they were wrong? What if she could come back? What if...?

  A hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed tight. He turned to watch his father, whose eyes never left Lana, grip once again. "Do it," he said, silent tears raining off his face.

  Numb, Gavin bent the torch to the wood and waited. The oil caught quickly, flames circling his mother in its hot embrace. It didn't look as destructive as he feared. To his eye it seemed more that she was being surrounded by the finest red and yellow silks in Orlais. The Hero of Ferelden spent the last decades of her life as a farmer's wife, a backwater healer. Clothed for death in the same peasant dresses she'd wear while mixing up potions, harvesting rare herbs, or chasing after her wayward son -- as the red fire wrapped around her she was being sent out in the opulence she deserved.

  They stood together and watched, both father and son silent as the flames began to do their dastardly but necessary work. It took a few hours, the dark smok
e covering up the sky until it seemed as if the sun itself was blotted out. As she vanished from view, leaving only ash and the broken hearted behind, the others began to wander towards the dining hall. Gavin and Albert both doused the flames together, the pyre little more than smoking dust which would be too hot to collect ashes off for awhile.

  "Boy," Albert clapped him on the shoulder, no doubt proud of Gavin's resolve. "You should come to the eats 'afore they're all gone."

  He nodded his head, doubting he'd be capable of getting anything larger than an olive into his stomach. Gavin glanced over at his father who hadn't shifted. "Dad," he began, "come on. The Andrew sisters brought some roast, uh, some kind of meat. We should eat."

  The snowy head wouldn't turn, his father's eyes closed tight as if he could still see her. Gavin shifted on his toes, barely able to look at grief personified in his father. After a moment, Cullen whispered, "Go on ahead. I need a minute."

  With Albert all but guiding Gavin to the same dining room he grew up in, the pair left the ex-Commander beside the ash of his wife's pyre. Alone, Cullen was free to grieve for Lana without abandon, the mask ripped freely from his weary bones.

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4egb2gpIg4

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Last Words

  A laugh skirted around the tables. Gavin missed the set up, so the punchline meant little to him as he stirred a mash of gravy around with his finger. There was bread to mop it up properly, but his stomach growled in anger. After so many days skirting by on little more than water and broth, having such a heavy meal was doing him in. Glancing around the spread brought to them -- roast pork, nearly the entire shoulder no less, summer squashes steamed and sliced, and enough desserts to satisfy even his aunt Hawke's sweet tooth -- if he ate all that was offered they'd have to let his armor out.