where: in the sept at duskendale, on the morning of the vigil who: open to all! (3/3)
The Sept at Duskendale was little like the one on Dragonstone, which she had grown too familiar with over the past moon, but it smelled and sounded the same. The chanting Septon, the metallic swing of his thurible and the scent of his incense, which gathered thick enough in the air she might choke on it. It put her in mind of the fire. Everything put her in mind of the fire. Wildfire would not smell as sweet, she reminded herself, as she knelt before the Father's altar, tall black candle in hand. She had not had the head for prayers in days; all that ran through her mind was a wordless plea for something that she hoped the Gods understood, because she did not know how to give it words.
She went from one to the next, stopping before none but the Stranger, with whom she spent a few more minutes. There were songs enough about the Mother's mercy and the Father's judgement, but of the Stranger it was only said that the Smith had forged their scythe, sharp enough it would make no mark and never miss. That was a sort of mercy as well, perhaps. She did not know what it meant to pray for it when the deed was done.
When Cyrenna rose again to turn for the makeshift altar that had been erected at the heart of the Sept, she saw somebody standing there already, watching the few flowers that had already been offered. She offered a smile, somewhat flat; but she was rather poor at offering truer ones of late. "Do you think they can hear our prayers?" she asked softly. "Not the Gods. The ones we light these candles for."