How could anything be normal with her dad dead?
Gliding past Myra being comforted by her husband, the Divine moved towards another table of her flock, when Reiss suddenly reached over to grab onto her hands. Leliana paused and looked down at the crushed woman. With a slow breath, Reiss turned her head to the woman and whispered, "Thank you for orchestrating the service, your Perfection."
Bundling her hands around the elf's, Leliana tipped her head to Reiss. "Alistair was a force that will not be forgotten from this world. Nor the next, I fear." Reiss snickered at that, a tear rising in her eyes. "He was a friend, even during dark times to rather unexpected people. And by all accounts he adored you dearly. It is colder with his passing."
"But he sits by the Maker's side?" Reiss insisted causing Myra to blink. Her mom was not really the chantry going type. She didn't go into it with her daughter, but there was some bad blood when Reiss was a girl and that was enough. Myra didn't much care, she liked sleeping in when she could. And then you went and married the son of a templar. Well, at least he didn't insist on attending services every day like the fervid flock.
The Divine paused and tipped her head. She said all the right words during the ceremony, about how beautiful it was when a soul was called across the veil to be with the Maker. How we must carry on his name but not wither in pain. Take joy in the memories and other aphorisms that were pretty but pointless. At least it made everyone else feel better. Myra did her best to not growl with each one.
"Knowing Ali, he's probably already caused the Maker to groan at least once at his terrible puns."
At that Reiss laughed, a real one instead of the polite chuckle she'd managed for the past week. After thanking the Divine again from the bottom of her heart, she let Leliana return to her rounds of comforting the masses. People were upset because people got upset at funerals. They reminded everyone that we're not immortal. One day we're all gonna die. But not everyone was upset about the man they put to the torch. Not everyone here collapsed to their knees when a stuffy little toad of a messenger squatted on their porch and read off the news.
Not everyone cared.
Duncan shoved away Myra's hands and quickly wiggled his way off of the bench. Once under the table, he made a beeline for the staircase that led to the upper states rooms. "Young man," Gavin called to his son who seemed to be on a mission.
He managed to waddle around all the legs and tables and had one foot on the stairs, a hand gripping to the railing, before turning back to his father. "Where do you think you are going?" Gavin's voice boomed over the din of people eating their pain away. It was light hearted, to watch as the toddler tried to escape his parent's evil clutches.
With a big smile on his face, Duncan practically shouted at the top of his lungs, "Find Gampy!"
Silence collapsed on top of them, heads tumbling to chests, silverware hanging limply off fingers instead of scraping over plates. Myra whipped her eyes over to Reiss who was struggling in a breath. She reached for her mom, her hand trying to soothe away the eternal reminder that he was gone. Leaping to his feet, Gavin dashed over to the boy who looked peeved that he couldn't head out on his mission. "You can't."
Quickly gathering him in his arms, he yanked Duncan back who kept asking, "Why?"
"Mom, I'm so sorry," Myra sputtered. "We tried to explain it, but I don't think...he's so young, and..." Her lips trembled, tears bubbling again because she had to face the reminder too. There was no father waiting at the top of those stairs for her either.
It took a moment before Reiss lifted her head. Her eyes were bloodshot, but she forced on a smile while patting Myra's hand. "It's okay." She turned to Gavin and reached out for Duncan. "Here, let me hold my grandson."
Gavin glanced to Myra, uncertain if it was wise, but she shrugged. If it was what her mother wanted right now...
When Duncan fell into his grandma's lap, Reiss wrapped her arms tight to hug him. The boy picked at the table's edge, even as he kept asking, "Why? Where Gampy?"
"Cupcake," Reiss whispered to him, "you can't see your Gampy anymore."
"Why?"
"Because...because he's sleeping."
Myra didn't realize she was bawling silently until Gavin dug into her shoulders. Instinctively, she reached to grip onto his hand to tug him tighter.
Turning from the table, Duncan eyed up his grandmother a moment. "When we play with Gampy?"
"Not..." Reiss pressed her lips to his forehead, smoothing down the curls with her kiss, "not for a long long time. But you'll see him again, one day. And he will play and play with you as long as you want."
The green eyes that passed from Reiss, to Myra, to the boy in her lap watched the broken woman. He reached for her trembling cheek and pushed inward. It lifted Reiss' lips, giving her half a smile which Duncan giggled at. After making his Gammy feel better, he nodded, "Okay," and spun back to sit before the table.
Myra's heart pounded like someone filled it with gravel. She choked on the dust that was once her soul while stumbling to her feet. Both Gavin and her mom looked up and she realized she had no explanation beyond needing to get out. Needing to do something beyond sitting around waiting for it to get better. This stupid pain was never going to get better.
"I, uh..." in whipping her tear-stained eyes around she spotted her sister wandering through the back tables. She hadn't sat nearly the entire time since the funeral ended. "I'm gonna go talk to Rosie," Myra put on a fake smile.
"I will join you," Gavin announced in that there's no arguing with me, and even if you tried I'll be a stubborn ass and follow anyway. He was malleable as clay until that worry streak flared awake then it was like wedging open a mountain. Nodding in defeat, Myra accepted his hand sliding along her shoulders to try and keep her upright. Before she left, she pecked a kiss to her son's head.
Already weary of the sappiness, Duncan wiped it off and got back to playing with his grandmother's silverware. At that Reiss sighed, and tried to keep the really sharp objects away.
By the time Myra made it around the stacks of people growing more inebriated with every hour, Rosie had been stopped up by one of the older Arls. They all looked like white haired prunes to Myra with noses that bulged wide as a potato, but that would be impolite to point out. And somehow her sister could recognize them all on...well, it couldn't be sight. Maybe by smell?
"Myra," her exhausted eyes traveled up to her sister and she bowed her head. The Arl skedaddled away, perhaps aware that Myra was the black sheep of the royal family. No father, no point in keeping her around up here. Certainly no reason for the fancy nobs to humor her existence anymore.
"Did you try the ham?" Rosie asked, struggling to find any topic that wouldn't cause them both to burst into tears. It was a small list.
"Yeah. Tasted like the cook shared a jug of wine with the pig after it was slaughtered."
"I did wonder about the rather acidic flavors," Rosie tapped a finger to her chin, her black gloves leaving a smudge she must have missed on them.
"I was more concerned about the grey ash clinging to the ends. Who'd they get cooking for this? An Antaam?"
Her sister blinked a moment, not having been around enough qunari to get the joke. Scrunching up her eyes a moment, Rosie glanced over to Gavin. "How's your son holding up?"
"Good," Gavin stuttered. He was often working under the Princess, but somehow kept her forever at arms length. The concept of work spine versus downtime collapsing onto the chair was beyond him. "Though, he's already torn though both changes of pants we brought."
Rosie snickered and scrubbed her face, "Wait until you can begin taking him out of the diapers. That is an experience on its own."
"We've started, a bit. He can sometimes figure it out, but then has a habit of waiting to ask until it's too late," Gavin said, easily falling into the small talk trap of the young parent. They didn't want to talk about their dad, or death, or sadness in general. So, talk about how annoying kids can be. That one everyone can relate to.
> Myra shook her head, trying to will herself into the light banter, "Once, Dunny pulled down his pants and pissed on a pile of brimstone."
"Oh Maker! Is that...dangerous?" her sister's eyes opened wide in shock and Myra laughed.
"Nah, causes a massive amount of black smoke to go rolling out once water's added to it though. Looked like our son went full evil and scared the ever loving crap out of a customer at the time. You know, I don't think I have seen him back since."
Dad laughed and laughed when she told him. So hard there were tears in his eyes while he bounced his little acorn in his lap. Myra spent more time at the palace than she ever had as a kid because of Duncan. He adored his grampy and that grandfather loved him back just as hard.
Fallen sullen, Myra bunched a fist up against her stomach and shrunk back. She wasn't aware she was crying until Gavin's warm arm wrapped around her shoulders and tugged her safely into him. Maker's breath, when would this stop? Why did every damn happy memory have to end in her crying? Couldn't she have those at least?
"Hm," Rosie turned away from the crumbling pair and began to strike up a conversation with one of hundreds of red robes that were circling to keep things moving. "Yes, yes," she nodded, drawing her fingers over a dozen pieces of parchment before giving her okay. "That one will be fine. And we can determine the rest later."
When they all waddled off, Myra snickered, "Picking which country to invade?"
"Coronation decisions, in particular the cut of official invitations..." She said it whimsically, the same way Myra would talk about picking out a pair of shoes for Duncan, but Myra sneered and bundled her hand tighter into a fist.
"You couldn't wait," Myra's head shot up, her veins filling with venom as she glared at her sister. "It's been, what, an hour? Two? How cold can his ashes even be?!"
"Myra," Rosie raised up her silencing hand as if that would ever work on her, "lower your tone."
"Ha, right. My tone is the problem here. Not you, practically giddy to finally get your mitts on that crown. To sit your ass on the throne and be free to tell everyone what to do."
Myra's voice cracked as she screamed, "Our dad is dead! And you don't even care!"
In a shocking move, Rosie lashed out and grabbed onto Myra's wrist. "Of course I care. How dare you! He was my father just as much as he was yours!" She couldn't help herself, Myra let a laugh escape at how damn certain Rosie was with that sentence. They all knew the truth in their little stitched together family. What was the point of pretending?
Rosie flung her hand back, her fingers pinched together like a fat spider. "Is this another one of your acts, Myra? Making a scene and drawing every eye to you because you aren't getting enough attention?"
"Oh for fuck's sake," Myra groaned. "Not the Maker damn party dress all over again." She could feel Rosie bubbling, wanting to insist that a five year old Myra spilled that paint on purpose in order send an eleven year old Rosie scampering up the stairs in tears. But she wasn't having any of that re-hashing of history. "No, your Majesty," Myra flung her arms out as if she would bow. As if that would ever happen. "It's all about you, dry-eyed, marching around with your nose in a snit, while you slobber over the crown. Your birthright and you finally get it. All it took was our dad keeling over. Bet you hated that he recovered from that sickness and hung around for another two years."
Her sister's hand sliced through the air, clearly heading to strike against Myra's cheek. She didn't react to it, just closed her eyes and let it come, but only a soft breeze glanced instead of the slap. Taking a peek, Myra spotted Gavin with metal fingers wrapped around the crowned princess' wrist. She wasn't straining against him, but Rosie was fuming at his involvement.
"Let's not do anything we will come to regret," he said in a low gravel.
"Too late," Myra sneered. "I should have known better than to come here. To ever come back here again. My whole life you told me where I belonged, and it's not in some gilded palace. The only reason I ever set foot in this place is ash now. So...damn it, I have nothing to end on!" Screaming at herself, Myra spun on her heels and marched towards the door.
Behind her she could hear her husband attempting to clean up her messes, as always, "Your majesty, please forgive..."
Rosie obviously rolled her eyes wide, probably crossed her arms and harrumphed, "Myra acting mercurial? I don't know why I would have expected anything better from her."
Stomping to feel something up her legs, Myra kicked open the door and bumbled into the hall. She wanted to hit something, to hit a lot of somethings and...and watch it bleed. Maker's balls, how long had it been since she last took a job from her mom? Not since Duncan. Her fist closed, the softened skin and polished nails folding tight. Pain registered far away from her digging in, as if her mind was locked in another tower somewhere.
Suddenly a hand grabbed onto her arm. Myra swung up, ready to bash in the skull of whoever touched her, when she spotted amber eyes glaring at her. "Come with me," Gavin growled looking more angry with her than he did his toddler in the midst of a tantrum. Accepting she had no recourse, Myra let him drag her out of the mass of people drifting in and out of the great hall. He practically lived at the palace now, and found a quiet closet off the side and under the stairs.
Gavin didn't speak a word until he shoved her inside and slammed the door. After taking a slow breath, he honed in on her, "What was that?"
"Calling Rosie on her shit before she gets too big for it," Myra said, struggling to cling to her perch. It was made of sand to begin with and the continual rains were eroding it to an inch.
Her husband didn't spit at her, or scream. No, he just narrowed those pinprick candles for eyes and glared. She lied to her son, because that damn sneer still worked on her.
"Fine. I'm the worst person in thedas. Okay. Because she's planning on, on what to wear and how the flowers will look for her great coronation on the day we put my dad to the pyre!"
"Myra," Gavin sighed as if her name was too heavy for him to cart around. "You know she's grieving just as much as you are."
"But she has to hide it, because she's Queen. Oh, all shed a tear for poor, put upon Rosie. Life simply isn't fair. It makes her a beautiful princess, gifts her ample opportunities, gives her children, and then a throne. Truly, I shall light a candle for her sacrifice every day," she snarled, needing to take her venom out on anyone and her sister seemed the easiest target.
"You're upset..."
"No fucking shit!" Myra shouted.
"But not at her. Nor at me," he began in that infuriatingly calm way. Just because he'd been through this before didn't mean he could sit around acting like-like the Professor of Death. He had no idea what she was going through.
Myra scrunched her hand up to her stomach and groaned. Tumbling back in the closet, her back bounced against the wall. He had no idea. "I'm the worst person in thedas," she whispered, her voice full of sincerity as the tears began to burn.
"It's okay," he insisted. "She'll be upset, but in time I'm certain you can..."
"Not about that!" Myra screamed, her moods on a pendulum anymore. "It's my fault. It's all my fault!"
"The fight...?" her slow husband jabbed a finger back out the door as if her kicking up shit with Rosie was anything worth crying over. They did it all the time, they would for years to come.
Ramming the palm of her hand in her eyes to try and smear away the tears, Myra bit down on her lip. "Maker damn it, I'm pregnant!" she shouted to her husband whose lips hung slack and arms fell down to a thud.
"You're..." Gavin stuttered in a breath, "you're pregnant? As in with a child? Truly?"
Glaring death at him, Myra snarled, "Because that's a thing I'd lie about."
He reached over to her, his palm cupping against her arm and trying to pull her into a hug. But Myra felt disgusting, like she had maggots for skin and weeped pus. She didn't want anyone to touch her, not anyone she loved. Gavin let her remain a distance, but didn't let her go either.
"How long have you
known?"
"Two days..." she said, her words drowned in sorrow, "two days before Dad..." She couldn't stop the tears now, both eyes washed in them. "It's my fault he died!"
The truth burned inside of her hotter than any rune she could conjure and she'd been trying to swallow it down on her own for a week. She tried to shake it, to hide from it, but it clung to her every waking thought. She killed him, just as sure as anything else.
"Myra," Gavin gasped, "it is not your doing..."
"Yes it is! Because I got stupid. I thought I'd be clever, and make it special. Do something I hadn't even decided yet to tell him, to tell everyone. And I waited, and then he died!" Her lips couldn't stop trembling, her shoulders practically lifted up to her ears as she tried to hide away.
But her husband, her stupid, trusting husband wouldn't let her go. "Meadow flower...it's not your fault. He had a weak heart."
"It happened before," Myra shouted at his face, wishing he'd do what she deserved. Yell back at her. Hate her. Give her the punishment she had coming. Maker, how was she going to tell her mom that she let dad down? "Duncan, he brought dad back from the brink. Gave him a reason to live. I find out I'm pregnant just in time to save him again and I don't."
She'd found out an hour before meeting with her father. He'd even noticed something was off, maybe a twinkle in her eye, or a lightness in her step, to the point he asked if she was hiding something. In true stupid Myra fashion she just shrugged and said "Maybe" while he bounced Duncan on the spring horse.
Then he died. And she could never tell him.
Her body deflated, dragging Myra to the floor. She wanted to be consumed by it, to have the ground split apart and swallow her whole the way the sorrow did. The guilt. Gavin followed beside, dropping fast to his knees while he kept trying to lift her fallen head.
"Myra, you didn't cause him to have a heart attack. It was already weak, from the illness." His palm cupped against her cheek, her acidic tears staining his perfect hand. She tried to shy away, but he wouldn't move. "It's not your fault."
My Love Page 383