The death watch has ended, and after hours spent in the company of Sina's clan and others who knew and loved her, she's on her own. Somehow, this is so much worse than the tears she shed while clutching to Pel in the corridor outside Sina's deathbed. At least then, there was someone else nearby who suffered, too.
(It wasn't the same suffering. It could never have been the same, for either of them.)
Now it all comes back to her again, and she's alone.
Her face red and splotchy from hours spent in tears, her feet carry her straight to Simon's door. There she knocks, struggling to control her breathing, but it's hard. Everything about this is so, so hard. After only a second of silence, she knocks again, and blurts out tearfully, "Simon, are you there?"
Ordinarily, when a knock comes in the middle of evening prayer, he ignores it--or would, if it happened often enough for him to have a policy for it. The first knock makes him look up from his shrine, but doesn't prompt him to move--but the fact that the second comes so soon at its heels, the fact that the tears are so very audible in Fern's voice, gets him up off his knees without further hesitation. Whatever would make Fern come and seek him out in his room, sounding like that, is worth putting any other business on hold.
"I'm right here," he says, even as he opens the door, "but whatever's the matter?"
Whether he's prepared for it or not, Simon will find himself with an armful of weepy teenage elf in short order.
As soon as the door is open, Fern shuffles the step or two forward that separates them to stuff her face against Simon's chest and bury her fingers in his shirt. Nothing sensible comes out of her for the moment; just tears, and sobs full of heartache.
That is the furthest from reassuring that anything can get, and for a moment he has terrible visions of other templars coming after her, or worse, Seekers--all his speculation steeped in the context of his own worries and fears about her and his guilty conscience, everything he's already afraid might come to pass.
But asking about it would only hurt; he knows what his job is right now, no matter how fiercely it goes against every word of templar training he's ever received. Gingerly at first, he folds her into his arms with an awkward pat to her back, and the embrace tightens gently as she weeps.
"Hush, now. It's all right. Whatever it is, it's going to be all right. We'll fix it somehow--"
The words come at last, choked and heartbroken, and her shaking and crying comes all the harder now that she's being held and comforted as she hasn't been since she left home. Fern buries her face against her hands and his chest--at the same time, somehow--and blurts out brokenly, "She's dead, she's gone, and I don't know--I don't know what's going to happen to her now--"
Jehan, what a can of worms you've opened. (Poor Jehan.)
A dark and very dense can of worms indeed, and Simon's stomach sinks ever lower with each aspect of this that unfolds. It ought to be a comfort that Fern is in no immediate danger, but he doesn't know how to console her even about half of this, even about Sina's loss alone, let alone the theological quandary it opens up.
"I'm so sorry," he murmurs, his hand rubbing numbly at her back as she sobs. "I knew she was in a bad way, but I didn't know--I'm sorry." And he is, truly is; he'd known so little about Sina, but that little had been admirable. 'Sorry,' though, doesn't answer Fern's question, nor allay her fears.
He would have had the same answer as Jehan, if asked not so very long ago. He would have regretted it, would have hated having to say so, but for all his pondering of the Chant, would never have known any real reason to question the simple notion that the faithless wander the Void after they die. But Myr--Myr finds inroads into these things, interrogates bits of the text that Simon has never had to, for his own sake and his family's sake and his people's sake, and it's for this that Simon is now eternally grateful, even if he'd told Myr at the time that he wasn't sure about it at all.
"Listen. I didn't know Sina well, but I know she was a kind soul. Anyone who would make a forest like that as a gift--make it because she knew how we Andrastians had suffered on its grounds, because she wanted to reach out to us even if she didn't believe in our Lady or the Maker--that sort of kindness is what Andraste wants from us all. There's people who sing the Chant every day and make a show of all their grand tithing that Andraste wouldn't approve of the way she would that."
'We Andrastians,' Simon tells her, as though that's a label that still applies to her. A month ago, and she'd have thought nothing of it. Now--now the only comfort it brings her is the knowledge that Andraste will probably be sad about the Maker leaving Sina to wander the Void forever.
What good is it to be the Bride of the Maker if the Maker still doesn't love the people you died for?
That realization hurts--but it isn't Simon's fault, she she knows, isn't his fault that she's come to look at the Chantry with new, jaded eyes. He's offered her these words to console her; the words might not work, but his steady presence is more than she's had since she left the security of her parents' farm behind in Ansburg.
Weakly, she rests her forehead against his chest and says nothing, only sniffles occasionally. Then she leans back, wiping her eyes on her sleeves, and tries for a weak smile. "She was," she manages to say, though her voice is still tight from crying, "she was so kind, and so beautiful, and I've never..."
There, she trails off, and cuts her eyes up to Simon's face with an almost hunted look on her face. She's never spoken to a man about her feelings for Sina before... well, not a human one, at any rate.
There's so much he would yearn to tell her if he knew of her doubts, so many ways he would try to reach her in fear for her soul--even if he would argue that her soul could still be saved, as could Sina's, because nothing the Maker has wrought can ever be lost for good. Sina's meandering journey through the Void would be finite, cut blessedly short the moment she renounced her false gods, and she'd be welcomed into the Maker's embrace where she belonged, to rest at his right hand and be Forgiven. It's so achingly simple, and how could anyone not find comfort in that?
But Fern doesn't ask, and he doesn't volunteer any more. He understands well enough to know that earnest sermons about the Maker's light aren't what everyone wants in their darkest moments. Awkwardly, still as if afraid he might clumsily break something, he runs a hand very lightly over her hair as she presses her forehead against him.
"Never what?" he asks gently. That look on her face is a sharp, firm needle-jab to the conscience--how many apostates like her has he given cause for it before? But even with her description of Sina in mind, even with the vague idea it gives him of the nature of her feelings, he doesn't know why she looks so worried.
"Nothing," she says, rather on instinct than out of any desire to hide something from Simon. It's an instinct born out of heartache, as much as discomfort over discussing her feelings for a Dalish elf girl with a Templar shemlen; talking about how she cared for her is just another reminder of what they can never have, now that she's gone.
She tries for another (slightly weepy-looking) smile instead and adds, "Maybe--maybe later. And sorry," she adds, drawing back enough to look up at his face earnestly. "I'm sorry for just--showing up, I just didn't know where else to go.."
He squeezes her shoulder, the gesture lighter and more casually fraternal than he's been, more like what they're both accustomed to, but no less deeply sincere for that. It makes his heart ache a little that she would so earnestly feel the need to apologize for intruding on his time.
"You've nothing to be sorry for," he promises her. "I just...want you to be all right. You know that, don't you?"
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backdated to the night of Sina's death;
(It wasn't the same suffering. It could never have been the same, for either of them.)
Now it all comes back to her again, and she's alone.
Her face red and splotchy from hours spent in tears, her feet carry her straight to Simon's door. There she knocks, struggling to control her breathing, but it's hard. Everything about this is so, so hard. After only a second of silence, she knocks again, and blurts out tearfully, "Simon, are you there?"
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"I'm right here," he says, even as he opens the door, "but whatever's the matter?"
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As soon as the door is open, Fern shuffles the step or two forward that separates them to stuff her face against Simon's chest and bury her fingers in his shirt. Nothing sensible comes out of her for the moment; just tears, and sobs full of heartache.
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But asking about it would only hurt; he knows what his job is right now, no matter how fiercely it goes against every word of templar training he's ever received. Gingerly at first, he folds her into his arms with an awkward pat to her back, and the embrace tightens gently as she weeps.
"Hush, now. It's all right. Whatever it is, it's going to be all right. We'll fix it somehow--"
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The words come at last, choked and heartbroken, and her shaking and crying comes all the harder now that she's being held and comforted as she hasn't been since she left home. Fern buries her face against her hands and his chest--at the same time, somehow--and blurts out brokenly, "She's dead, she's gone, and I don't know--I don't know what's going to happen to her now--"
Jehan, what a can of worms you've opened. (Poor Jehan.)
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"I'm so sorry," he murmurs, his hand rubbing numbly at her back as she sobs. "I knew she was in a bad way, but I didn't know--I'm sorry." And he is, truly is; he'd known so little about Sina, but that little had been admirable. 'Sorry,' though, doesn't answer Fern's question, nor allay her fears.
He would have had the same answer as Jehan, if asked not so very long ago. He would have regretted it, would have hated having to say so, but for all his pondering of the Chant, would never have known any real reason to question the simple notion that the faithless wander the Void after they die. But Myr--Myr finds inroads into these things, interrogates bits of the text that Simon has never had to, for his own sake and his family's sake and his people's sake, and it's for this that Simon is now eternally grateful, even if he'd told Myr at the time that he wasn't sure about it at all.
"Listen. I didn't know Sina well, but I know she was a kind soul. Anyone who would make a forest like that as a gift--make it because she knew how we Andrastians had suffered on its grounds, because she wanted to reach out to us even if she didn't believe in our Lady or the Maker--that sort of kindness is what Andraste wants from us all. There's people who sing the Chant every day and make a show of all their grand tithing that Andraste wouldn't approve of the way she would that."
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What good is it to be the Bride of the Maker if the Maker still doesn't love the people you died for?
That realization hurts--but it isn't Simon's fault, she she knows, isn't his fault that she's come to look at the Chantry with new, jaded eyes. He's offered her these words to console her; the words might not work, but his steady presence is more than she's had since she left the security of her parents' farm behind in Ansburg.
Weakly, she rests her forehead against his chest and says nothing, only sniffles occasionally. Then she leans back, wiping her eyes on her sleeves, and tries for a weak smile. "She was," she manages to say, though her voice is still tight from crying, "she was so kind, and so beautiful, and I've never..."
There, she trails off, and cuts her eyes up to Simon's face with an almost hunted look on her face. She's never spoken to a man about her feelings for Sina before... well, not a human one, at any rate.
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But Fern doesn't ask, and he doesn't volunteer any more. He understands well enough to know that earnest sermons about the Maker's light aren't what everyone wants in their darkest moments. Awkwardly, still as if afraid he might clumsily break something, he runs a hand very lightly over her hair as she presses her forehead against him.
"Never what?" he asks gently. That look on her face is a sharp, firm needle-jab to the conscience--how many apostates like her has he given cause for it before? But even with her description of Sina in mind, even with the vague idea it gives him of the nature of her feelings, he doesn't know why she looks so worried.
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She tries for another (slightly weepy-looking) smile instead and adds, "Maybe--maybe later. And sorry," she adds, drawing back enough to look up at his face earnestly. "I'm sorry for just--showing up, I just didn't know where else to go.."
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"You've nothing to be sorry for," he promises her. "I just...want you to be all right. You know that, don't you?"