Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rook was at breakfast. The Lighthouse was quiet. 

Everyone else was everywhere else. Bellara had run off to Rivain to look at some fascinating artifacts for Isabella. 

Harding and Taash had gone to visit her ma in Ferelden and get a first hand look at the damage washing over the south. 

Davrin and Rook had gone to Hossberg to show off Assan’s new talents to Antoine and maybe get some measurements for griffin armor. But Rook had returned early, giving the Grey Wardens time to reminisce, and herself to have a much needed bath. 

Neve and Lucanis were here…somewhere. 

Emmrich had gone to Nevarra. 

Only six days, Rook told herself.

One to traverse the Crossroads, two to consult with the Watchers, one to set things in motion for Manfred’s new studies, and one to: “plunder my library, answer correspondence, and tie up some coursework. Dull tasks, Rook. You’d be bored to tears. Manfred’s help will be more than adequate. You will be far too busy helping Davrin to notice my absence. And I really don’t want to spend another week in the Wetlands, Darling. Not before I’ve gotten the last bit of blighted mud out from under my fingernails, please.”

 Rook didn’t want to pester. She needed to give this-whatever it was between them-room to grow. 

So she went to the Wetlands and played with Assan until her skin itched. Then she came home and scrubbed the mud off to stop it. But it didn’t vanish in the bathwater. 

So she talked with Varric, named the fish in her room, and learned how not to burn toast from Lucanis when she caught him leaving the pantry. 

The itch remained, between her shoulder blades, just under her skin. 

One day left, she thought, and munched on her toast. 

She heard Neve’s footsteps behind her, and rolled her shoulders to try and rid herself of the persistent itch. 

But Neve didn’t approach the table, or say anything about the jam that Rook had slathered onto the table in an effort to get it onto her toast. 

It wasn’t until Lucanis came out of the pantry to greet her (Maker he had better hearing than a griffon) that Rook turned to look. 

Neve had stopped just in the doorway. Arms wrapped around herself. Her steely gaze fixed on Rook, but not in disapproval, or question, or even amusement. 

The toast went cold in her stomach like a stone. The itch prickled. 

“Rook,” the detective said. “Can you come now to the Eluvian?”

She shot to her feet and was flying down the steps, Lucanis to her left, Neve to her right. 

“...there’s no reason to panic yet. We don’t know what happened. Fred looks okay.”

At the foot of the great glimmering Eluvian Manfred sat hunched. He looked up as they drew close and waved his left hand. It looked strange and for a second Rook couldn’t tell why, until she realised it was detached and he was waving it like a baton in his right. 

“Rooooook!” The skeleton wailed and hissed like a teapot. His apprentice’s coat was torn and scorched in several places. His bones were scratched and coated with dust. Dead strands of blight wove in and out of his ribs. His gloves were nothing but charcoal rags hanging from his wrists, as though he’d set both his hands aflame in a panic.

There was no sign of his pack. There was no sign of his new staff. There was no sign of…

Neve was still speaking behind her. Lucanis was closely examining the marks in Manfred’s coat. 

“That blight’s been dead for a while. But he looks like Assan dragged him backwards through a bush. Maybe Emmrich sent him on ahead?”

Maybe. 

Maybe they were returning early, and Emmrich had sent Manfred to alert them. He had been talking with Davrin about giving the wisp more independence. And what a perfect opportunity. The trek between the Converged city and the Lighthouse was very safe. It was just Manfred’s luck that he ran into the only spot of trouble between here and there. Emmrich would fuss. He would lecture the poor wisp at length. He would watch him like a mother hen for days…

There was something in Manfred’s hand. 

In the left one. 

He was still hissing, not his usual croaks or warbles, but a low, continuous keening.

Rook reached out and tugged the scrap of cloth from Manfred’s detached hand and held it up  to the dim light of the Eluvian. 

It was a face cloth, red, Tevinter, and very very familiar. 

Neve fell silent, and Lucanis’ eyes flashed violet as he lost control of Spite. 

“Venatori,”  the demon growled. 

------

They searched the Crossroads for hours. Manfred’s arm tucked away in Rook’s pack. The wisp was leading them along the desolate stone pathways, trying to recreate his trail. 

At least, they hoped that was what he was doing. His speech, which had been growing in leaps and bounds, was disjointed, monosyllabic, and interrupted by frequent hisses, wails, and growls. 

Lucanis shuffled his feet in agitation as Manfred stopped to check yet another outcropping of rock with slow precision. 

“Why couldn’t he have been a spirit of urgency?” the Crow muttered. 

“Fred’s doing the best he can,” Neve soothed. “You’re just agitated because Spite is feeding off your worry.”

“Stop reading me.”

“Stop projecting.”

“Stop fighting in front of my kid, please” Rook sighed, earning both of their attention, “You’re upsetting him.”

Manfred hissed in agreement, and picked up a piece of wilted plant that had been crushed under a stone. He pressed it against his goggles, whimpered and threw it off the sheer drop to their right

Rook felt the other’s looks of concern, making the points of her ears burn. She knew she sounded…detached. They weren’t fooled, but they weren’t going to push it either, thank the Maker. She didn’t think she could have dealt with Harding’s healthy awareness of feelings right now. Not if she didn’t want to shatter into a million pieces.

‘Concentrate,’ said the Varric Voice in her head. ‘Think of the next step, the next breath.’

“Where even are we?” Lucanis asked, looking around him in distaste. He hadn’t made a study of the Crossroads like he had every other place they’d been to. It shifted too much. 

All three of them looked around, trying to orient themselves. They’d been almost too focused on Manfred. 

“Maybe…halfway to the Converged city,” Neve said.

“So, they could have encountered the Venatori coming or going from the Necropolis,” Rook finished her thought. 

That wasn’t good. That was the most important question right now. When had Emmrich and Manfred encountered Venatori? If it was on the way back from the Necropolis, then it had only been a few hours, maybe a day. 

But if they had met the Venatori on the way, that meant whatever had happened to leave Manfred injured and wandering had happened days ago. 

Five days. 

She stepped up behind the skeleton, watching as he lifted another stone, held it close to his face, and gave a satisfied little hiss. 

“I don’t want to press you, Manfred,” she said quietly, and his skull swung to look at her. “But, this is important. You know that, right?”

Those bottomless green crystals studied her.

“Yes,” he hissed, “Emm-rich.”

She nodded, “We need to find him. Quick as we can.”

“Quickly!” Manfred croaked. He shot to his feet and marched on with new purpose. 

------

They stumbled on it, in the end. Or rather, Lucanis did, not seeing the body that lay sheltered under the lip of a rocky step down. 

He sprawled, swearing for a moment before they realized as one what he’d stumbled over. Then Neve was bending over the figure, while Rook crept up behind her with Lucanis’s hand on her shoulder.

She watched the mage turn the corpse onto its back, pull the robes off its face. 

It wasn’t him. 

The face exposed to them was young and Tevinter with coarse black hair, and coppery skin. It could have belonged to one of Rook’s neighbours growing up. A foolish youth drawn in by promises of acknowledgement and power. Of being special. 

The relief was momentary, there was something else. Something Neve had already seen. 

“He’s been dead for days. I don’t know precisely how this environment might affect the body, but it’s already showing signs. It’s been a while. And he didn’t die easy, either.” 

She ran a gloved finger along the rictus of the youth’s face, showing the distinctive black burns of necrotic magic. “There was a fight, and it was intense. This blast wasn’t controlled. It was sloppy.”

Not like Emmrich’s fluid, almost effortless manner of fighting.  

“Let’s fan out,” Rook murmured, “see what we can find.”

Neve stood up, but Rook froze as the hand on her shoulder clenched painfully, fingers digging through her armor into her skin. Her yelp of surprise was cut off by the rasping tones of Spite. 

“Smells like moss and parchment, but WRONG.”

“Wrong?” Neve pressed.

“Buried under poisoned stone. Muffled. Silenced.”  Lucanis’s body jerked as the violet light drained from his eyes. The Crow’s face was slightly green. His eyes trailed to Rook, they were rimmed with white. 

“What?!” She felt her legs shake with the need to do something or collapse.

“Lucanis, what is it?!”

The Crow took her hand, he threaded their fingers together and cradled it as he led her. 

It was only a few steps away, maybe seventeen, hidden behind a large talon of rock that speared into the sky. On the very edge of a steep drop several more bodies lay. All dressed in the same manner as the first, lying in pools of old black blood, weapons in their hands, every one of them marked by necrotic magic. 

The dust around them was layered with footsteps in every direction, interrupted by large swaths of clean sand left by spells. 

In the center of the spider’s web of battle was a staff. It was shattered. Faint green light spilled feebly from the broken mouth of the skull that had once proudly stood atop it. 

Something under Rook’s foot rang like a little bell and she moved her boot to see the soft sparkle of shattered glass, several bottle’s worth. 

“Magebane,” Lucanis explained. “Smells like corrupted Lyrium.”

“They planned this,” Neve hissed. “They prepared for him.”

There was more blood around the staff, sprayed and pooled. It had soaked into the dirt days ago. 

Five days…six now.

‘Breathe kid!’  said the Varric voice. 

But she didn’t have lungs, or a body. She was a silent observer as she read the ground. She could see it happening. The graceful curves and spins of the staff dancing as Emmrich blasted Venatori after Venatori. They had fallen one after another, heavy bodies splashing bright red against the gray ground. Too many. 

Three pieces of polished white bone stood out starkly against the edge of the cliff. Phalanges. Finger bones she had not noticed were missing from the arm in her pack. She peered over the edge and saw several rocky outcroppings below, one holding Manfred’s bag. 

One of them must have gotten through the defense and gone for the wisp. That would have been enough to distract him. 

“Rook! Rook, listen to me,” Neve’s voice came over a great distance.  “They’ve taken him alive. Magebane is good. They would have left his body for us to find if he was dead. Or they would have gloated about it. Do you understand? He’s alive.”

Alive.

Emmrich alive, his heart beating beneath her ear, his chest rising and falling with the deep breaths of sleep. 

Five days. But why?

‘You know why, kid.’

The pieces clicked in her head as she recalled, unwanted, the memory of terrible voices heard in the Crossroads; ancient ones that had made her sweat, waking from sleep. 

‘You will have new subjects, in recompense. Whatever you wish.’

‘Rook’s necromancer. An excellent subject to test how long one could go back and forth between life and death.’

‘Inspired!…Consider it done.’

Chapter Text

In Rook’s earliest memory she sat on her father’s lap at a table filled with maps, and what looked like little toy men that she wasn’t allowed to touch. She fidgeted until he handed her his helmet. It shone in the torches lighting his tent. The plume of its feathers were soft and silky in her little fingers. 

He and the other, less shiny, people around him were laughing and eating. They called him ‘Legatus’ and they were ‘Tribune’. It was obvious to Rook that the man holding her, with the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, was in charge. 

That was good. He was safe. He wrapped her in his warm cloak, carried her when her feet were red and cold, and let her grab anything she wanted from his plate. When he spoke his deep voice rumbled through his whole chest and into her bones. 

“Minrathous,” the Legatus said “is a rat’s nest, however much we try to polish it. A man can go there, turn a corner, and never be seen again, Maker help us.”

Rook remembered looking up at his face and listening carefully as he imparted this wisdom to his Tribunes, who laughed and argued. Even  when she grew and left home for the capitol she remembered.

And now it haunted her. 

Because the Venatori had disappeared into Minrathous, and they had taken Emmrich Volkarin with them. 

“You’re sure?” Rook asked again, watching Neve crouch beside one of the fallen Venatori and sift through their possessions with expert precision. 

“Without a doubt,” she indicated the corpse’s outstretched hand, fingers futilely clawed into the dirt. “You see that tattoo? I’ve had several cases of missing persons circle back to that marking. They specialize in procurement, and they work exclusively out of Minrathous.“

“Slavers?”

Neve looked up at her grimly. “An arm of the Venatori. Usually illegal grabs. Not that that makes much of a difference. From what I've been able to find out they have an agreement with the Minrathous templars. And the Thread looks the other way, unless they start messing with their people. By the time I joined the Shadow Dragons I was positive about the connection.”

“So,” Rook swallowed and tilted her head back to look at the not-sky. “They specialize in slaves for sacrifices?”

“…for blood magic, or people of special interest.”

“People like Emmrich.”

“People like Emmrich,” she agreed.

“Emm-rich!” Manfred chorused, and ground his teeth together. 

It was not a habit she’d ever noticed before, and probably not one Emmrich would like him to develop. 

Rook handed him the finger bones she’d collected from the side of the cliff. She and Lucanis had made a rudimentary attempt to retrieve his bag from below, but almost immediately gave it up. It was too steep. 

Manfred, after catching hold of the cliff, must have lost his grip, and his fingertips, before sliding down to the bottom. Luckily he’d only snapped off his arm in the fall, but it had clearly taken days to find his way back up. Days they couldn’t afford to lose, and already had. 

“We’re going to get him back,” Rook reassured, as Manfred shook the bones in his hand like dice. 

The wisp gave a long, low, menacing hiss and shook them harder. 

“We will,” Neve agreed, but did not elaborate. 

Six days was a long time. 

“Anyway, I think we’ve learned all we can from them.” The mage said, nudging one of the Venatori with her foot.

“Bad!”

“Yeah, Fred, the worst. But not only that. The dust on this one’s boots indicates he was in the northwestern docks just before coming to the fade, eating fried herb bread. That shade of mud is unmistakable. Also this group favored a blacksmith I know of by the name of Araventi, not a bad man, but he’ll need some persuading. This one has a family, and two—no, three kids. Maybe we can find his widow and speak with them.”

She smiled at Rook, who remembered to close her mouth. 

“You can read all that?”

“Yep, and much more. Varric didn’t just recruit me for my pretty face. Your mage did good, Rook. I can’t corpse-whisper these, but he left us a whole wealth of clues that I can see.”

Well, Rook smiled, her father had never met Neve Gallus. 

Footsteps made them turn as one, hands on their weapons. Lucanis trotted into view, agitated and sweating. 

“They covered their tracks! I can’t follow any further. I’m sorry, Rook.”

Neve spoke again before her heart could fall. 

“Don’t be. We can’t go that way. They’ll be guarding whatever passage brought them here. We need to take the pawn shop entrance and come at this sideways.”

“I would have liked to get my hands on them more directly,” Lucanis muttered as they all began walking. There was no talk of going back to the Lighthouse, or going in search of the others. There was no time. They would make do with what they’d run out of the door with. 

“We all would.”

Manfred growled, “Bad! Dead!”

Lucanis’s face softened, “Manfred, would you like to talk with Spite?”

The wisp turned eagerly with an inquiring hiss, using his most correct posture, which was a macabre comedy with only one arm. 

The Crow’s eyes bled violet, and they were treated to a bizarre conversation of hisses, shrieks, and scattered words as they walked.

-------

Minrathous was as grey and drizzly as was usual for that time of year. The entirety of the capital was suffering from the power struggle taking place within, and the blight eating away at the edges. But on the streets, life continued. There were just as many beggars crouched below the gallows, as there had been beneath the shop signs. 

Well…maybe one or two more, Rook thought, stopping yet again to scatter a few coins into a clay bowl. 

She winced as a few more items clinked loudly after her coins and the beggar looked at them in astonishment. 

“Sorry! Sorry. Not those!” She scooped up the finger bones and left another 3 coins in replacement. 

“Maker bless you?” The poor man said, but did not object, scooping up his windfall and scurrying off. 

Lucanis chuckled as Rook turned and fussed with her companion. 

“No, Manfred, we give them coins. Not those. You have to keep those hidden, or you’ll give away your disguise.”

“Disguise,” the wisp said in delight from the depths of the hood. 

“Yes,” agreed Rook with a sigh, straightening the drape of the concealing cloak he wore. They’d picked it up directly after exiting the ruins of the pawn shop. It was too much of a risk that a passing Venatori might recognize the little skeleton from the battle on the cliffs. 

“VORGOTH!” 

“Yes, you do look a lot like Vorgoth.”

A pleased hiss. 

“Emmrich makes it look so easy,” Lucanis teased as Rook tried not to adjust the hood again. 

“It's fine. This is no problem,” she said, catching the wisp‘s arm before he could pet a dog that was sniffing his leg bones with far too much interest, and drool. 

“If you three are done playing,” Neve interjected, appearing from nowhere, startling even the Crow, “I found a lead.”

“How?” Lucanis growled, falling into step with her. 

“I’m a detective.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. You enjoy making me jump.”

“The leg you mean? I can make it quiet if I want. But usually I let it alone. It's part of my character now.”

“Not your leg. Your leg is a beautiful piece of work. How do you sneak up on me at all? Do you know how long I trained to sense the slightest sound or movement?”

“I think you need to learn to do that in an environment that isn’t a silent Antivan rooftop.”

“I had not considered that.”

Rook let herself drift to her friend’s banter, the familiar atmosphere of Minrathous washing over her. Occasionally she would reach out to redirect Manfred. 

It was easier to be like this. Banked, like the coals of a fire, lying in wait. let Neve take point for now.

It stopped her from curling into a ball in the street, or stabbing the random groups of Venatori guards they passed. Maker, their control of the city was so patchwork. There was an operational city guard outpost not three streets away. The lack of military strategy would have made Charon Mercar sick.

It had already been a long day, and was now nearing dusk. The Blacksmith was a washout. He knew who he was selling his wares too, but didn’t ask questions and so pointedly knew nothing. 

Following the lead of the fry bread on the northwestern docks they found the widow, and the three, now fatherless, children rolling in the muck of their yard. Whatever sort of lies the dead man had been told to make him sacrifice everything, Rook hoped it was at least in an effort to make things better for his family. They left with a location and with their coin purses lighter. 

Now on their way to the location in question; a tavern frequented by the dead husband, Neve stopped to follow one more lead. 

“Lenci is a fraud,” she said, leading them inside a low-ceilinged shop tucked in between a cobbler and a charcoal burner. “He’ll sell you the nose off your face if he can. Specializes in fake charms. But he’s shrewd. If anyone knows what’s going on in this part of Minrathous, he does.”

It was smokey from the charcoal next door, but neatly kept. Lenci’s shop made a good showing. Pleasantly arranged shelves held amulets, charms and magical tokens. Used clothes and linen filled racks near the back. Expensive “artifacts” filled the glass cases near his money box. 

“Well if it isn’t Neve Gallus!” said the man in question, making his way up from the back room. He waved away his shop assistant who vanished discreetly “What are you doing all the way up from Docktown?”

Neve smiled, “Oh, you know. Just staying ahead of trouble.”

“Is that so?” The man’s dark blue eyes lighted on Lucanis, Rook, and lingered on Manfred’s cloaked form. “That’s not what I hear about the company you’ve been keeping lately.”

“Oh?” Neve folded her arms and leaned on a case that held jewelry. Some of it looked like it might actually be worth something “Heard any other interesting rumors, lately?” 

“Might’ve. What are you interested in, Gallus? And how much are you interested?”

“I imagine my curiosity will cost me quite a bit.”

“Well times are tough. What with the Venatori trying to rule the streets these days.”

“What have you heard about them?”

“Busy, busy bees. They’ve been collecting.”

See this was why she would never be a proper Shadow Dragon. She couldn’t make nice with people like this. The best she could do was hover at Neve’s elbow, and try to look a little menacing. Not the easiest feat considering she was a whole three inches shorter. 

The most she could settle for was ‘scrappy.’

“Suppose they’ve picked up something that didn’t belong to them.” Neve said, and a small, jingling bag appeared in her fingers.

Lenci played at rearranging a brass statuette of Andraste on the counter, and Rook looked back down at the contents of the glass case to hide her impatience. 

Actually, that stuff was mostly gold. 

“You’d have to take it up with them.”

“And where could I find them?”

“There’s a tavern down by the docks. The Leaping Dog I believe it’s called. If you want to have an amiable conversation about mislaid property that’s where you’d want to go.”

There were rings, and bangles, bracelets, and a large cuff that looked like it would cover your whole wrist. 

“And who would I talk to? No good having a conversation if I don’t have a face to speak to, Len.”

There was a soft clink as Rook felt more than saw Manfred come up beside her. The wisp had laid his bare-boned hand against the glass of the case. 

“You’re looking for Beata,” Lenci said, then scowled at them. “Oi! Don’t touch that!”

It isn’t often you hear a skeleton scream, and it’s not something you forget. Rook and her team had heard it in the Necropolis a few times, so they did not jump when Manfred shrieked like the nails of his finger bones against the glass, but Lenci did. 

“Holy Andraste!”

Manfred left several gouges in the surface before Neve pulled him away, speaking in calm, measured tones. 

Rook stared down at the glinting bands of gold, nestled in old, worn, sea silk cushions. They were newly polished, and shone butter yellow. Green stones and black opals winked at her from the rings. Delicate symbols of the Mourn Watch wove in and out on the surface of one of the bracelets, denoting the bearer as a full Watcher. A delicate bangle held tiny roses in the style of Orlais. 

Rook knew their stories. Every one of them. They’d been told to her on a warm night, camping on the beaches of the Rivain coast. Taash had just finished telling the story about her missing horn. It opened a surprising opportunity for them and Emmrich to bond. The very thing Rook had been looking for.

“Emmrich, got any stories about your jewelry?” the dragonslayer asked. 

“Every piece!” Emmrich looked delighted, his whole face transforming as he started to explain the meaning and care behind a Watcher’s ‘Grave Gold.’

“They are the stories of our life, our accomplishments and experiences, things we would like our remains to have a connection to in the afterlife.”

“Makes sense,” Taash replied. “The Lord’s of Fortune do something similar. Only, ours isn’t as important.”

Emmrich frowned. “Taash, your customs and culture are just as significant as my own, and one of the many threads that make up the rich tapestry of our world. From what I've seen, the Lords are magnificent storytellers, and take great delight in displaying and sharing their accomplishments.”

Taash leaned closer into the circle they shared around the fire. 

“Really? You don’t think we’re just being flashy?”

“Not at all. It’s very purposeful.”

They smiled and pointed to one of the bangles, “What’s that one mean?”

“Oh! This one is from a friend I met on a journey to Antiva!”

Rook sat back, listening in satisfaction. It was like sharpening the edges of a good blade. Smoothing out the burrs of both sides like her father had taught her. “Until they work as one.They’re not effective unless they can meet at a point.”

She hadn’t known how to help Emmrich and Taash to find their meeting point at first. They had seemed such opposites. But then, steel and iron were both needed to make a strong blade too. Not like bone. Poor Manfred, the scratches in the glass were deep. He’d probably hurt his fingers doing that. Maker, now Emmrich was going to have to repair both of his hands. But that would be alright. Emmrich had clever, quick fingers. Rook could picture them turning and holding each piece of the Grave Gold as he explained them to Taash and traded stories, firelight warming his skin and the color of the soft metal. 

Rook looked up at Lenci, who was already pale, watching Neve console their distraught skeleton. He paled more at whatever expression Rook had on her face. Maybe he recognized her. She hoped so. There had to be some benefit to being in charge of saving the whole damn world. 

“There’s a ring missing,” Rook said. 

Lenci lifted his hands, palms out. 

“Look,” he said reasonably. 

Were those the hands that had done the polishing? Did he think of how much he would make on each one as he finished it and set it aside? 

Rook’s stomach twisted. No one should be handling them like that, let alone someone who understood nothing of their value.

“There’s a ring missing,” Rook repeated. “Older than the rest. Red stone.”

“Beata wouldn’t sell me that one!”

Rook considered. Manfred really had damaged the case. She rubbed her knuckles, picked up the little brass Andraste, then smashed it into the weakest point. 

The glass gave a satisfying crack that drowned out Lenci’s protest. It took two more good whacks before a section finally shattered enough that Rook could worm her arm through. She was dimly aware of Lucanis wrangling the shopkeeper away from the counter.

She snagged a handful of the bangles, and pulled them out, she threaded them onto the opposite arm and went in for more. They were cold. She’d never known them to be cold, because she’d never seen them off of Emmrich’s arms before. She went in for more. 

“Rook. Rook! Rook, stop! Here. Mierda.” Lucanis, hurried over and gently maneuvered her arm out. He inserted a little key attached to a chain full of keys. The case swung open soundlessly. 

With quiet thanks Rook reached in and pulled the rest out one by one. She carefully cultivated them, slipping them onto her arms so she wouldn’t miss any.

The rings were too big so she moved to slip them into her pocket and stopped as she saw the stain her hand left on the fabric of her tunic. She held her arm out. It was covered in gashes and bleeding profusely. She’d left fingerprints all over the bracelets.

Moving carefully not to get blood on it, Rook took the last cuff from the case. It dwarfed her arm, so she handed it to Manfred who was a silent shadow behind Neve. 

“How much did you pay for them?” She asked Lenci, calm as the storm blue waters had been that night on the Rivain coast.

“Which one?” Lenci frowned, shooting Lucanis a nervous look. 

“All of them.”

Silence reigned in the shop, save for the soft drip of Rook’s blood onto the floor. 

“600,” Lenci muttered. “And 50 for the case.”

Rook counted out 300 worth of her own coin. 

“They’re covered in blood,” She said, staring into the man’s dark blue eyes until she was certain that he understood her perfectly. When he did, she added 50 more and pushed the purse Neve had been offering to join it. 

Lenci scurried over to scoop the money across the counter and into a drawer. “Keep that maniac away from here, Gallus!” He shouted as Neve used a few frost spells to disintegrate any traces of the blood. Rook wrapped her arm in her cloak so as not to drop more. That had been clumsy. It was dangerous to leave your blood around Minrathous. 

Lucanis leaned over the case one last time. “This is not the sort of gossip you would want to repeat.” He smiled at Lenci, who went one final shade paler, then they all left the shop in a hurry. 

The air was beautifully clear in the street and Rook took it in as Neve towed her to a corner and unwrapped her arm, sealing the cuts with magic. 

Lucanis kept watch. 

Manfred was back under his cloak, but his bare hand was turning the cuff over and over, rasping softly, bone against gold. 

“Sorry, Neve. I didn’t mean to get blood all over your coat.”

“Meirda!”

Neve sighed. “It’s fine, Rook. You’re fine. Just let me finish questioning them next time.”

“Did we get all we need to?”

Neve finished with the arm, turning it this way and that to be certain. 

“We did alright. More than alright,” she gently touched the gold with one finger. “Feels like we’re getting warmer.”

“I think we’ve earned ourselves a drink,” said Lucanis. 

Chapter Text

It was full dark. Stars peeked feebly through the light veiling the city. Faint mage lamps fought to illuminate the brass sign of a hound that seemed to be leaping over the entry to the tavern they approached. 

“Not bad,” Neve murmured, leading them through the door. She smiled back at Lucanis. “I bet they even do a decent coffee.”

Lucanis narrowed his eyes at the dim interior, “We shall see.”

Rook could see what Neve meant. It was a good spot for their purposes, and the Venatori’s. Dark and busy enough for anonymity. But it had quiet, intimate tables for private conversation, and a clear look at who was sitting across from you and whatever weapons they carried. 

It was a simple matter to settle at a table while Neve went to the Tavernkeep and asked after a patron named ‘Beata’. 

They watched the tense discussion from a distance. Clearly the man was used to giving his clientele a certain level of discretion. When Neve leaned forward and whispered something in his ear, jerking her head in their direction, the man relaxed and nodded. He moved away to surreptitiously scrub at the bar further down. 

“What did you tell him?” Rook asked as Neve returned to her seat. 

“The truth. That I’m acquainted with an elf that causes me some trouble.”

She frowned, “Okay, clearly there’s more to it. What else did you say?”

“I may have implied I wanted to sell you.”

Lucanis choked on his drink. 

“That’s not funny,” Rook said, with a raised brow. 

“It’s not meant to be,” Neve said. “But it’s the easiest way to get their attention. Apparently sales like that aren’t uncommon in this place. Dangling someone like you in front of them is practically a guarantee.”

“Someone like me?”

“An elf,” she said simply. “That hasn’t changed with their new gods. I may have also implied that you were showing latent magical abilities.”

“Fasta vass.”

Lucanis shook his head, abandoned the mediocre coffee, and rose to keep watch from the shadows, “Tevinters.”

“He’ll be back,” Neve said.

“He loves us,” Rook agreed. 

“Better pass me your weapons. We want to make this look real.”

Rook obligingly undid her sword belt, and laid it in the pile that already held their other gear, then turned her attention back to Manfred. 

The wisp had a new satchel, courtesy of an outdoor stall vendor, who had been eager to get rid of the strange people that accosted him just as he was closing for the night. Piece by piece Rook slipped the bands of gold from under the cover of her cloak, and held them out for Manfred to rub clean with a soft cloth. They would need to be properly polished again, after Rook had bled all over them. But somehow that idea only cheered her. The thought of callous hands preparing them for sale made her skin crawl, a little like attending a slave market. Better that they were cleaned again, their ordeal washed away. 

It would have been a difficult task with only one arm, so elf and wisp worked together until Manfred was satisfied with the result, and tucked each piece gently into the satchel that they had lined with a soft cloth. Bit by bit the Grave Gold was nestled just under Manfred’s ribs, glinting from the depths of the bag like a tiny dragon’s hoard. 

More than anything it appeared to be giving the wisp some sense of peace. He had not said a word since his outburst in the shop, only fussing at Rook’s arms, making little moans at the sight of the blood on the gold. 

He was not really a child, Rook knew, despite her jokes. But from everything she’d learned of a spirit of curiosity, the similarities were there. She had seen enough traumatized children to know that some semblance of control and normality would do much to settle their state of mind. 

Their peace was interrupted by the approach of two tavern patrons. 

From first glance, you would not have been able to tell that they were Venatori, but they moved too cohesively not to be some sort of unit. And when Rook looked up at the woman, who was presumably Beata, she smiled at the elf in a way that reminded her of all the times she’d been out with her family as a child, and been referred to as a ‘good investment for the children.’ Charon Mercar had not liked it then, and Rook did not like it now, but she held her tongue and played her role. 

Neve sat back comfortably in her seat, channeling all the arrogance being a mage in Tevinter could muster you, and viewed their visitors with an unimpressed look. 

The man–presumably a mage from the orb and dagger in his sash, but a Laetan from the cheap quality of his clothes–looked at her suspiciously.

“Aren’t you, Gallus?”

“Disappointed?” Neve asked. 

“Confused, I didn’t think you went in for this sort of thing.”

“A lot of things have changed since the dragon. Suddenly people are a lot more cautious. Don’t want to trust strangers with their problems, let alone part with their coin. How else do you suggest I make a living?"

“You do what you have to," the mage shrugged. He looked directly at Rook. "This one seems very mild."

"She knows what's good for her," Neve answered. “But that doesn’t mean she’s not powerful.”

“We’ll need a demonstration of that, of course.”

“Of course,” Neve sat forward. “But not until we’ve discussed terms.”

“Oh go on, Sergus,” Beata said, smiling again at Rook. “You and Gallus go talk about money, and opportunity. I’ll keep our little friend here company.”

“My agent will stay,” Neve nodded at the hooded form of Manfred, using his anonymity to their advantage. 

“Not a problem for me,” Sergus said, and stood back, gesturing for Neve to proceed him. They headed for one of the more private booths near the back. 

No sooner were they out of sight, then Beata had a hand twisted in the collar of Rook’s cloak, and the pinprick of a blade in her side. 

Her mouth was in the elf’s ear, whispering “You think I didn’t recognize that shambling charnel pit following you around? Sergus is a blind fool, but I know you for what you are.”

“Oh?” Rook asked innocently.

Beata pulled her from her seat, ignoring the anxious hiss from Manfred. She steered Rook in the opposite direction the others had gone. Navigating expertly around the tables she pushed them out a backdoor and into a quiet rear yard that was walled in on three sides. It led to a sort of alley, lined with broken crates, barrels, and all the refuse the city had on offer. 

“You are the defier of our Gods,” her attacker said, “the pawn of the Wolf! Using his stolen magic to try and delay our new and glorious purpose.”

“Yeah, actually, that’s pretty accurate,” Rook coughed, yanking on her cloak to ease the pull on her neck. “I’m really not keen on your version of Tevinter, or the world for that matter.” 

“Watching you and your little friend’s efforts is like watching rats scrabble at the insides of a bucket; pitiful and fruitless.”

“You know, if you have to explain a metaphor it isn’t really that effective.”

The knife sank a fraction into her side, she felt the warmth of blood. 

“If Lord Elgar’nan did not want you alive, I would enjoy ending you here. But your fleeting life is not worth the loss of his recognition.”

She pulled brutally on the cloth. Rook felt her lean back, using her body weight to keep her captive off balance. 

“Ohhhh, trust me, you don’t want his attention,” Rook croaked. “Not that it matters, you won’t be able to stop me.”

“Why is that, Rattus?” Beata scoffed.

“I’m too unpredictable.”

“Oh?” the woman laughed. She gave the cloak an extra twist and Rook regretted getting the extra good wool as stars sparked in her vision. 

“Squeak some more, little elf.”

“See, that’s my secret,” Rook’s hand clawed at her throat, searching through the folds of strained fabric. There! Her fingers found cold metal.

”I don’t actually know what I'm doing.”

She undid the clasp holding her cloak, sending her attacker crashing to the ground. 

Bent double coughing, she turned and kicked the dagger away, just in time for Beata to rise roaring from the ground and plow into her stomach. 

Rook liked to think that if Varric ever wrote this he would do it as a poetic battle between a clever antagonist and an evil assassin, something with flowing capes, dancing knives, and stunning dialogue. 

‘Sure, kid. You don’t give me a lot to work with, but I'll do my best.’

It wasn’t poetic. It was like all the other quick and dirty fights Rook had gotten into during their search for Solas, in a dozen different taverns just like this. It was one of the primary reasons she had learned to talk her way out of situations. It just wasn’t worth the damage, or the laundry bill.

But it would be lying to say she didn’t take some satisfaction in driving her fist into the Venatori’s face, and then her side. No one ever remembered to protect their liver. 

A second knife –’ Maker, kid! Always assume they have another!’ -scored a cut on Rook’s brow, blinding her with blood. 

Then it was all a retreating dance as Beata swiped at her wildly, catching her on the chin, on the arm, even shallowly on the chest. Rook tried to swipe the blood from her eyes. 

“You’re angry,” The Venatori laughed, blood coating her teeth. “You should be. Your ally was a disappointment.” 

Rook twisted under the knife, and jabbed her in the gut again, but her aim was off. 

“An Mortalitasi from the Grand Necropolis itself,” Beata said with some reverence in her voice.

Her knife found a perch on Rook’s arm again, crossing the first line in a crude X. Rook caught her wrist in a steel grip.

Beata smiled, “All that power, all that knowledge , and he falls because someone tripped his little bone pile off a cliff.”

Anger came to Rook very differently in battle. She felt like a serene pool of water, cool and still as she twisted the Venatori’s arm in a movement she had practiced with her father a thousand times. The knife fell into her free hand, and a kick to the back of the knees unbalanced Beata. By the time Manfred and Lucanis came crashing through the back door of the Tavern, Rook and the Venatori were in a perfect mirror of their original predicament and only a few minutes had passed. 

“Look at that,” Rook wheezed, “poetry.”

“Did she hit you in the head?” Lucanis said, looking concerned. 

“No! I’m fine. Just fine,” she added to Manfred, who’s cloak was smouldering where his hand clutched it. 

“Rook!” The wisp scolded, in a manner that reminded her so much of Emmrich her heart wrung itself like a rag.

Speaking of–

“Speaking of violence,” Rook said, twisting the Venatori’s arm a little, “You took our mage. Where is he?”

The woman laughed, “Miss him, do you. Took you a while. Are you sure you want him back?”

Rook breathed as a few ripples ran across her serene pool. 

“Right now I'd rather spend my night saving his life than taking yours, but I think I could find time for both. Where is he?”

“You know, I always keep a few tokens when we take the important ones. Like this here.” Beata raised the hand not twisted behind her back. Emmrich’s ring adorned her third finger, the missing one with the red stone. “Thought it must be important. He asked me to let him keep it, like we were having a conversation. My father gave me that, ” Her voice rose a mocking octave. 

“And the skull pin. That one I just thought looked cute.”

“You’re a piece of shit. Tell me where he is.”

“Rook,” Lucanis said, trying to keep her level. His eyes were fixed on Beata’s face, reading her weaknesses. 

‘You can do this, kid.’ Cool, calm, serene waters. 

“You don’t have to die for your new gods. I can get you smuggled out of Minrathous, even Tevinter, with enough coin to start you on your way.”

“He had a cool head, I’ll admit that. Even after the fight was over, he kept trying to talk. Right up until we dosed him with the magebane. Nothing personal, standard protocol. We take a lot of mages, you understand.”

She tilted her head, pursing her lips in thought.  ”I’ve seen different reactions to the stuff. It’s always worst the first time, being cut off from your magic like that.”

Rook tried very, very hard to feel nothing at all.

“We had to drag him! He couldn’t walk after. Kept trying, staggering and vomiting everywhere.  Almost fell over the cliff after his little friend. Guess they keep their mages soft in Nevarr—“

Suddenly she was silent. 

“Rook!”

What? She looked down. 

Oh. 

Kaffas.

Beata probably shouldn’t have blood bubbling over her lips. 

Or the knife in her stomach. 

Emmrich wouldn’t like it. 

She obligingly left the blade in place to stem the flow of blood, and lowered her to the floor. 

“Talk fast!” she said, trying to press against the edges of the wound. 

But at last the Venatori had nothing to say, her face was blank with shock as she felt herself dying. 

“Tell me where he is and we’ll save you,” Rook lied. The most talented healer couldn’t stop this. The blade must have nicked something important. 

Beata looked at her incredulously. 

“Where is he?” Rook pleaded. 

Her face remained frozen in an expression of disbelief.

The muffled noise of a lively city at night descended upon the alley. 

“Dead,” declared Manfred. 

“Meirda,” Lucanis ran his hands over his face. “Are you alright?”

“No,” Rook pulled the ring off the dead woman’s finger with shaking, bloody hands. She unclasped the pin from her sash. It’s little hollow grin seemed to smile at her in recognition.

“Some are like that,” the Crow sighed, crouching to lift the body under its arms. “They think the world is their stage right until they trip off of it and break their neck. But it would have been better to give Neve a chance to crack her.”

Oh. Kaffas.

“Don’t tell Neve!” she begged. 

He dropped the body with a thump and spread his arms wide, “I think she’s going to notice!”

“Notice what?”

Vishante Kaffas.

Neve stood at the entrance of the alley, Sergus peering over her shoulder. She took in the blood, Rook’s cut up face, and the body Lucanis was valiantly trying to hide behind his boots. 

“Oh, Rook.”

------

It worked out. 

Beata was more useful to them in death, then she'd ever been in life. Sergus, who clearly had more to lose as a mage in Tevinter than Beata had as a devotee to a death cult, gave them a location and booked it to the nearest ship out of Minrathous. 

“He appreciated having someone to talk to. Apparently watching several of his friends have their souls ripped out by a single Necromancer was a bit of a revelation for him.” Neve said, leading them through the nearly silent streets of the shipping district. The faintest rays of morning cast everything in a colorless light. 

“Of course it was. I bet Emmrich’s look of disappointment didn’t hurt either,” Lucanis muttered. 

No one disputed this. They had all been the receiving end of that look.

“The dragons and the blight freaked him out too. Rook going feral on his partner was just the final straw,” 

“Not feral. How certain are we he was telling the truth?” 

Neve held up an amulet with a glowing red crystal. It looked a bit like the ones the Venatori used for shielding. “He gave us the key. Either that or this is an elaborate trap and he’s a better liar than I am.” Her expression said just how likely she thought that was.

“He named names, a lot of them. And they all check out with my records. He’s in it almost up to his neck. This is his last chance to get out and he knows it.”

“And we’re going to let him go?” Lucanis asked.

“Emmrich’s life in exchange for his?” Neve sniffed, “A bargain. Here we are.”

She gestured at an older storagehouse, perched right on the edge of the water. It was nondescript sandstone, surrounded by fisheries and ropemakers; the smell of entrails and tar alone would keep most people away. It was the perfect spot for such an operation. 

Lucanis growled in satisfaction, and drew his blades, there was a distinct scent of ozone in the air as Spite made himself known. This was, after all, a Venatori prison. 

Rook turned to Manfred. The wisp knew he was to hang back. It was his usual position whenever he accompanied Emmrich on their missions. But so many things had happened, and his behaviour had been changing so rapidly.

“Can you stay behind Neve when we’re inside? You’re injured and we will need your help when we find Emmrich.”

Manfred hissed in apprehension, but nodded, pulling his hood up and falling to the rear, “Yes!”

“Thank you.”

Rook felt calm again as she filled her hands with the familiar weight of her sword’s hilts. They rang softly as she drew them, like old friends calling out in greeting to each other. She took one last breath of the night air, a breeze from the ocean washing away some of the stink, replacing it with salt, and with spices from the nearby market. She thought of the way Emmrich looked at her, tucked that nameless emotion against her chest, and fell into step with Lucanis.

By now they had fought together long enough that they could fill each other’s gaps. They flanked the front door of the warehouse, and Neve followed up, magic spilling at her fingertips, opening the door with a burst of light from the amulet. 

The stink was far worse inside the building. It smelled of sweat and fear and unwashed bodies packed too closely together. It spoke of rooms that had been hidden so long from air and light that the smell had seeped into the stone itself. 

It wasn’t a large building, and the first thirty feet or so were taken up by rows of barrels and crates that were covered in dust, and clearly never moved. Tools and ropes rotted in positions meant to mimic a productive work space, to give any visiting templars a plausible excuse to ignore the horror that sat only a few feet further in. 

The dimmest, cheapest mage lights Tevinter had on offer cast the place in a sickly hue. Rook could see two levels of storage rooms rising above the facade in front of them, connected by rickety wooden stairs and walkways. 

A hissed warning from Lucanis alerted her to movement to their right. 

A dog, trained to move silently and subdue, nearly took her leg out before Neve mercifully froze it. Rook broke apart the body with a thrust of her sword. 

That was all the consideration they had time for before two more dogs came threading through the stacks. Another nearly silent frost spell slowed them in their tracks enough that Lucanis and Rook could dispatch them quickly, but less kindly than the first.

Murmurs of alarm rang out as the guards finally roused. A light spilled out of one of the storage cells on the ground floor. Of course, the only thing worth guarding was at the back. 

Lucanis signalled Rook to go right, as he melded into the shadows on the left. Neve stepped back into the entryway waiting. 

Rook crept silently, sliding through the haphazard stacks, listening. There were two on her side. A large guard with a pole-arm, and a smaller, slighter figure with a pair of Kama. Kaffas, she hated those things. 

She stalked them, her heart calm, her breathing even. This was an equanimity she had fought long and hard for on the training grounds, and the streets of every city in Tevinter between here and Ventus. 

Her first strike was perfect. A blade to the leg of the one with the Kamas. Slowed before the fight even began, the Venatori shrieked with pain and rage and turned, swinging their weapons wildly at the air where Rook had been a moment before. 

She circled them, scoring a hit on the bigger one’s arm before the polearm, a glaive, was raised. There was no time for calm now, or thought. Her mind surrendered to the flow and memory of her muscles as she dove in, under the pole, slashed once, twice, three times, before rolling away at the last second. Sparks from the blade burned her face as it met with the stone floor. 

Kama was there, moving faster than she’d hoped with such a wound. Rook was dancing backward for the second time that night, swords up, in full retreat from the rapid succession of blows. Then the Venatori spun and left a fraction of time for Rook’s blade to come up, catch her Kamas just so, and drive her second sword into the gap left below them. 

The Venatori staggered and fell to one knee, and Rook finished her. 

The glaive flashed on the edge of her vision, but slowed as a burst of ice magic dulled it’s edge. She ducked again as the guard swore and met the glaive as it came down, guiding it to the left with one sword, and slashing with the other. It was a sloppy blow, she felt it, but it served it’s purpose. It cut straight through the flimsy leather of the helm. The glaive hit the ground and the second Venatori clutched at their face. Rook finished them as well and moved on. 

She found Lucanis near the back. He had abandoned all semblance of stealth, wings out, eyes and blades alight with Spite’s magic. He spun and dove and twisted in and out of four more Venatori. Rook parried a sword aimed at his back, exchanged blows with its owner, and slashed his throat. 

“Well done!” Lucanis rose from the body of one of them in time to meet a second, and Rook engaged with the third.

Then an arrow sprouted in Lucanis’s shoulder. 

“Kaffas!” Rook parried her opponent as they were sheathed in an entire film of ice. She broke away, turned on her heel, and headed for the stairs. 

The splintering wood creaked wildly under her rampage. The air grew worse. Only the tell-tale pluck of a bowstring, and a cry from Neve below kept her attention from wavering to the dark, cave-like interiors of the cells she passed. 

Her heart was beating rapidly now with the effort of the fight, with apprehension about the cells. She found the archers, twisting sideways as one of them spotted her. An arrow skived off her thigh before she could reach them. 

Rook sacrificed safety for speed. She felt a vague twinge of pity as she cut her way through the flimsy defense of the first, then slashed at the second wildly enough that they fell. It was a short, but brutal fall to a stone floor and they were too dazed to move as the Demon of Vyrantium mercifully finished them. 

The only sound in the sudden stillness was her own stuttering breath as she shook from adrenaline.

“Neve?”

“I’m alright,” the mage answered and did not sound it. 

“Lucanis?”

“I have her.”

Rook clumsily swiped her hand across her forehead, not surprised to find blood. She couldn’t account for all the blows that had been exchanged in that fight. Maker, poor Neve was going to have to heal her a third time today. 

Trembling, she wiped her blades clean on the Venatori’s cloak and sheathed them after a few tries. She should circle the area, make certain it was really over. She should go down and see to Neve, and make sure Manfred was alright. She was the leader. 

She turned numbly back down the stairs and gained speed as she moved until she was stumbling and tripping in her haste. 

She shot a glance at Lucanis bending over Neve, who was seated on a crate, holding her side. 

“I don’t need two nursemaids,” the mage said and winced when Manfred hissed behind her. 

“Sorry, three. ”

Lucanis turned his head briefly. “Go, Rook!”

Rook went. 

She flew into the empty guard’s room and turned, searching until she found a set of keys. She tore them down from their peg on the wall and went to the first cell. 

The keys rattled in the lock and she forced herself to slow down, forced herself to breathe. 

The first room was full of children.

Four girls and a boy were huddled against the far wall. They looked like they ranged in age from painfully young, to just under twelve. They were unchained because how could such skinny, hollow-eyed little beings ever be a threat to anyone?

Rook swallowed bile and anger. She stripped off her cloak and water flask. She set them on the ground a few feet away. 

“You’re safe,” she said. “We’re Shadow Dragons. Have you heard of us?”

A light lit behind the glaze of fear in the little boy’s eyes. 

“Stay here, okay? I have to check the other cells.”

He nodded. 

Rook turned away from the sight, tearing her heart in half as she went. The other two cells–aside from the one converted to a guard-room, were empty on this level, their doors ajar. 

She went back to the stairs, barking as she passed Lucanis wrapping a bandage around Neve’s middle. “Bottom one first, on the left.”

The second level was full. One room held two Veil Jumpers, who shot to their feet when they saw her. 

“Rook!?” 

She didn’t know their names, but she remembered their faces from a recent visit with Bellara. They must have been on the list of those presumed lost in Arlathan. 

“Can you help?” They looked mobile, though clearly they had seen better days. 

“Of course!” Rook made quick work of their chains, and they followed eagerly as she searched cell to cell. 

The next cell held an elf, two humans, and even a large Qunari, who spoke trade only haltingly. All of them stared at Rook like animals ready to fight, uncertain of anything but more pain to come. Crude iron chained them to the walls, all of their cheeks were sunken, all of them sported bruises and welts. 

She would help them. She would help all of them. But first she had to find Emmrich. 

Rook unlocked each cell, the Veil Jumpers trailing in her wake offering reassurances and taking names and stories. 

Rook’s eyes flew from face to face, hoping for that jolt of recognition, of relief .

They found three Shadow Dragons that had been saved from execution only to be condemned to sacrifice. They found a senate administrator who had seen one too many important papers. 

They found no less than three mages all of whom were suffering the effects of magebane, struggling to focus or rise from their cells. 

They did not find Emmrich. 

She turned to the nearest captive, a stout elven woman with sharp black eyes that one of the Veil Jumpers was helping to take a drink. 

“Did you see a tall man, a mage? He should have been here a few days ago.”

“The kind man?” a soft voice interrupted.

She turned to see the boy from the first cell, standing with his arm around one of the smaller girls. She wore Rook’s cloak like an Archon’s robe. 

“He had greenish eyes?” Rook prompted, “and silver hair?”

The boy nodded, “They took him into the mirror.”

‘Rook. Breathe.’

“Show me.”

The boy turned, and trotted out into the large empty room, past Manfred, Neve and Lucanis.

He stopped in front of a set of large wooden cargo doors. They slid open soundlessly at Rook's touch.

They weren’t real.

They led to an expanse of wall.

It was empty, except for the Eluvian that rested at its center.

Chapter Text

The Eluvian was active. This changed everything. They couldn’t afford to stay a minute longer than necessary. The Veil Jumpers, the Qunari woman, and everyone else who was mobile followed Neve’s direction to help the others who were not. There were over thirty people crammed into that terrible prison. And all of them were suffering from their prolonged imprisonment.

Even the daylight was a threat. They only had an hour before the streets were full of people and Venatori patrols.

Rook sat,  feeling like a stone amid a swift current, as people moved around her. The boy, Meir, was a wealth of information.

“They said I was helpful,” he told Rook while he split the bread and dates she gave him with his younger sister. “They told me to do things and I’d do ‘em, like clean and bring food for them. And sometimes the other slaves.”

“Like the kind man?” Rook prompted. It was like waiting for someone to read a book aloud to you, but slowly, page after agonizing page.

Meir nodded, and his sister, tucked under his arm, mimicked him. “They told me he was important, so to make sure he got food and water first.”

“Did you see them bring him in?”

A shake of the head, “They must have brung him at night. They did that a lot. It makes us scared, coming in the dark like that.”

Yes, that checked out. Anything to keep your captives ignorant and uncertain of their circumstances.

“But I saw him the next morning when I got him food.”

“How was he?” Rook asked, trying not to startle him with her anxiety, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

“He was sick,” the boy took a sip of water and passed the cup to his sister, who was watching with wide, dark eyes. “But a lot of the mages who come in are sick because of the stuff they make them drink. He wasn’t awake the first time I brought him food. But he was the next time.”

“And he spoke to you?”

Another nod, “He was very angry, I thought it was at me. But he wasn’t. He asked what my name was and where I was from.” Meir laughed. “He was surprised when I told him I didn’t know. I told him he didn’t know a lot about slaves. And he said the place he comes from doesn’t have them.”

“Nevarra?”

“Yeah. He told me stories about it. I liked listening to him. And he asked a lot of questions too. About the other people here, about the other kids.”

“Did you tell him?”

Meir hesitated, “Yes..”

Rook gave herself a moment to breathe and watch the movement of the others around them. They only had a few minutes at most.

“What did he do, Meir?”

The younger sister’s hand gripped her brother’s tunic, he grimaced.

“They give the mages that stuff in their water, so they have to drink it. But he was only here for a few days.”

“You told him about that too?”

“He asked me. He knew about a lot of things.”

Rook sighed and relaxed her position, trying to appear calmer than her racing heart was.

“He didn’t drink the water?” she guessed.

Meir’s head drooped. The girl, Alicia, was suddenly animated, shrill voice loud with amazement.

“He made light come from his hands!” she exclaimed. “I saw! He threw one of the guards into the ceiling.” She illustrated with her fingers splayed, complete with crashing noises.

“And it didn’t work!” Meir said, pulling his sister’s hands down sternly. “He was still sick! And they made him drink it anyway. And then they hurt him.”

Rook closed her eyes.

“How bad, Meir?”

“Not bad,” came his shaky reply.

“Did anything else happen? Did you hear about where they were taking him?”

“They said they were taking him to the lady. They made a lot of jokes about how he was ‘important’ and ‘useful.’ They said he was a present from her brother.”

Rook looked at him. The weight of years lined that young face, experience deeply etched.

“Did you see them take him?”

Meir nodded, and Alicia was quiet.

“Was he walking?”

Meir nodded more strongly. “He was better. He was still angry.”

"How many days ago?"

"Three."

“Okay,” Rook sighed. She gave his shoulder a little squeeze and got to her feet.

The boy scrambled up with his little shadow.

“I’m sorry!”

“What for?”

“I got him into trouble,” Meir admitted, with the air of someone who had committed a grievous betrayal.

Rook knew exactly how Emmrich would react to this solemn child, who was destined for a short life on short rations, taking responsibility for his actions.

She took his shoulder again, “the kind man, Emmrich, is responsible for himself. You’re right. He knows about a lot of things. He would have tried to stop the Venatori even if you didn’t talk to him. And he wouldn’t want you to feel guilty because they took him, or hurt him.”

The boy looked skeptical, but the girl was staring like Rook had hung the moon.

“The only person you’re responsible for now is you and your sister,” she told him. “You listen to my friend Neve. It’s my job to worry about Emmrich. You were very brave to help him, and to help me. Thank you.”

“What do you mean, listen to Neve?” Neve asked, from where she stood at the doors, preparing the group to leave. The detective was still holding her middle and bent over because of it, though she tried to straighten when Rook looked at her.

“I mean you’re the most informed and connected Shadow Dragon here. If anyone can navigate these people through these streets to a safehouse, it’s you. And you need to get that arrow wound looked at by a dedicated healer, or at least a mage with a knowledge of anatomy.”

“Rook…”

“As soon as you can, get word to the Lighthouse. Try to see if some of the others have arrived. Lucanis and I are going through the Eluvian.”

“And me!” Manfred insisted, turning away from where he’d been watching Lucanis sharpen one of his knives with rapt fascination.

“No,” Rook, and Neve said together.

“Manfred go!”

“We don’t have time to argue,” Rook turned to the wisp, “You’re injured. You take care of Neve and get her back to the Lighthouse.”

Manfred hissed like a cat arching it’s back.

“You are right,” Lucanis said, sheathing his knife as Rook adjusted her own weapons. “We do not have time to argue. That is why we should take him.”

“Yes!” Manfred pointed in triumph.

“It’s too dangerous. We don’t know what we’re going into.”

“Manfred has more right to go into danger for Emmrich than even you do,” Lucanis countered, his brown eyes earnest. “He has done that already and proven himself. We know what we will find. Like in the dread wolf’s visions of the past. Like the Ossuary. It will be a place where the dark, twisted imaginings of Ghilan’nain are brought to life. We must move quickly and silently.” He emphasized, looking at Manfred who hissed his most quiet, and nodded.

Neve sighed, straightening slightly, “He has a point, Rook. Manfred knows what’s at stake.”

She couldn’t deny it, even though she wanted to. The wisp had already sacrificed everything for the Necromancer and been brought back. But that was also why she didn’t want him to come. What would she tell Emmrich if they got him back, only to lose Manfred a second time, this time beyond recall?

“Rook,” Manfred wheedled. “Emm-rich. I go.”

“Okay,” Rook conceded. “Okay, Manfred. Just, try to stay safe. Alright? Emmrich will need you.”

“Yes,” Manfred agreed quickly.

She turned to Neve, the detective sighed. “You’d better come back. I’ve spent too long trying to keep you out of trouble. Don’t you go do anything stupid the moment my back is turned.”

“Same for you,” Lucanis told her. “I owe you a coffee. I expect you to be there.”

Neve smiled slightly, and turned to the wisp, “Look after them for me, Fred. One of you needs to show some common sense.”

Supported by one of the Veil Jumpers, she led the group from the storage house into the dim morning light. Only a few fishermen and sailors stopped to glance at them before hurrying on their way. Lucanis and Rook closed the door behind them and barred it. Then they joined Manfred before the glowing Eluvian.

“Ready!” the wisp crowed, and they stepped through.

------

They could not say where the Eluvian led them. Another ancient elven ruin, certainly. The whole place seemed to hum with latent magic. Crumbling stone walls rose on all sides strangled and mostly swallowed by trees. The ancient dead things seemed to have overtaken the ruins years ago, twisting and arching into the tumbled ceilings like Halla antlers, offering only the meagerest glimpses of sky. The only life present was the blight that seeped through the stone and lined the trees, pulsing red and ominous.

It was not as guarded as the Ossuary. Between their arrival and the first twenty minutes of searching, they only encountered four guards, all showing signs of severe blight.

Lucanis wrinkled his nose in distaste as he rose from the body of the fourth. “Poor fool. It is a mercy to end their suffering.”

“Why haven’t we encountered more?” Rook asked. “It makes me nervous.”

Manfred growled in agreement, he held a small palmfull of Veilfire, lighting their way, but otherwise kept his promise to stay back out of harm’s way.

“There is no need,” Lucanis gestured at the pulsing veins of blight and the dark that surrounded the passages they had already come from. “No one but madmen would dare to come here.”

“Thanks, I can always count on you to give me the honest truth. Are you sure you want to be here?”

The teasing smile fell from his face. “I owe you, Rook. And I will not leave Emmrich to rot here in this terrible place.”

Rook nodded, her heart easing a little. It never failed to amaze her how quickly and warmly the others had joined their little ragtag team.

They continued through the passages, most rooms appeared to be empty or filled with blight veins and pustules. But slowly they became more populated. One held ghouls, gibbering and fighting amongst themselves behind a locked door. Another was full of hurlock’s in various states of dissection and decay on tables, surrounded by tools and puddles of blight on the floor. They passed an ancient library that stretched endlessly into the darkness, two thirds of the shelves swallowed by pustules. A passage that broke away sharply to the left held glowing red trees that seemed to move and creak on their own. They encountered two more guards, ending them as silently and cleanly as possible.

Much as she had in the warehouse, Rook looked into each room, terrified of missing something, but also grateful when she never recognized one of the poor wretches inside. Each glance revealed horrors that were the result of Ghilan’nain’s meddling with nature. The worst being the carcass of a dragon in a large, otherwise empty room, its skull glowing red with the blight inhabiting it.

In most of these places they glimpsed attendants, the devout of Ghilan’nain. Venatori, elves and even some Antaam, moved about, caring for her creations. All were blighted.

There was a moment of fear when they stumbled into a guard who had hidden himself in a dark corner of one passage, but he, apparently asleep, had been as startled as them. Manfred swallowed his hiss of alarm, shoved the Veilfire into his face and blinded him long enough for Lucanis to finish him off.

"Well done, Manfred!" the Crow whispered enthusiastically, and the wisp vibrated with joy at the approval.

At last they saw light ahead. And emerged into something of a Rotunda. The ceiling opened so wide that even the spears of trees couldn’t block the view of the grey, foreboding sky. Water pooled around their ankles, saturating the ruined fresco floor depicting a scene of Halla running through a forest.

Four large entrances lined the structure, and it was in the second one that Rook saw a familiar light. A wisp.

She reached for the little used thieves tools in her belt pouch and had the ancient lock opened in moments. Thankfully the door swung near silently and she slipped in, followed closely by Lucanis and Manfred.

The strange wisp lingered in the entryway, bristling and muttering. It flew to Rook at their approach and traveled up her arm, making all her hair stand on end.

“It seems…agitated,” Lucanis said warily.

“Yes,” Manfred agreed. He had gone two steps into the entry then stopped, pressing his skeletal body against the wall. He pointed further down the passage. “Bad.”

A faint light shone ahead, down a set of steps that curled away from them.

“Stay here, Manfred.” Rook asked, and to her surprise the wisp nodded in agreement. She and Lucanis continued on, stepping quietly.

This chamber was different, it was larger, like the one that had held the dead dragon. Only a few tendrils of blight had managed to make their way along the walls, as though repulsed by some force. Placing her hand on the damp stone, Rook swore she could feel it, humming through the walls themselves. The stairway ended abruptly at a platform made of newly constructed wood, before descending abruptly on the right side to the floor of the chamber itself.

The room was the most intact of any they had seen, with several arches supporting a ceiling with only a minor crack allowing sight of the sky. Several more wisps floated there, bearing witness to the horrors below. Torches lit with Veilfire lined the walls and six ancient stone sarcophagi were perfectly placed in a circle. Some sort of ancient burial chamber then. Around them bones had been piled like bundles of lumber, creating a small forest of remains. In the center was a large stone table, covered in ancient elven writing and symbols, inlaid with gold that Bellara would have been captivated by.

The floor surrounding the table had been newly inscribed with more recent magical writings. They were crude, hurried, and held none of the reverence of the ancient elven trappings of the room. They glowed with potent, magical light, joining together to create a circle that spiraled and converged on the stone table.

On the table itself was a body. It was an Antaam, and had clearly been there for some time. It was putrid, past the stage of stiffening, and now bloating and rotting from the inside out. The smell of it filled the chamber, almost choking. It was painted with more symbols that had partially flaked away in the damp. The whole thing spoke of a ceremony that had not been finished.

At the foot of the table a chain had been driven into the once pristine stone. From this anchor, two cuffs were secured, holding the arms of a second body. It sprawled half against the table, and half across the floor. Its face was turned away, tucked into the V created by its arms. But Rook did not need to see the face to recognize him.

His boots were the most intact part of his clothing, still covering his feet though they were filthy and scuffed. The rest of his clothing had fared far worse and showed rents and stains until their original color and condition could not be guessed. Through the threadbare shirt Rook spotted the strained ribcage rising and falling.

Faster than thought, Rook started to vault over the wooden railing, but was stopped by Lucanis’s iron arm across her middle.

He dragged her back, covered her mouth, and pointed.

Just to the right of them, tucked into an alcove of the room, a man sat hunched over a desk that was strewn with books and parchment. He wore the red robes of the Venatori, but his head had been shaved, and was covered in what looked like bastardized Vallaslin of Ghilan’nain. it not only covered his face, but curled around the back of the head, and down the back of the neck.

As they watched the man sighed, put his quill neatly down on a piece of blotting paper, and turned to look at the table.

“You only make this worse for yourself the longer you resist,” he said in a silky voice. “The body has gone cold, spoiled. It will be of little use to the Gods now.”

Evidently he did not expect a response, because he went on without a pause, rising from his seat.

“You only delay the inevitable,” he said kindly, holding his hands before him like a beneficent priest. “We must all come to serve eventually. You are one of the privileged few who has been called early and with specific purpose! You will restore life. To bring back the soul to its original vessel!”

He spoke with such enthusiasm that it was clear that he actually believed his words. The resistance of his prisoner was baffling to him.

He shuffled forward through the bones, stopping just at the edge of the glowing circle. “But Lady Ghilan’nain is a patient teacher. And a learned man such as you will understand her lessons in time. I have faith in that.”

This time he paused, waiting for a reply.

There was none.

He sighed a third time, and shook his head. “Let us try again.”

He drew a knife from his sleeve, small and innocuous looking until he used it to pierce his palm alongside a dozen, similar cuts.

Crouching, he pressed his bloody hand against the closest symbol.

The result was immediate. The light of the circle flared, the body on the table arched, dragging unholy breath into its rotten lungs. The chains rang terribly as the prisoner also came to life and pulled at them violently, trying to disconnect himself from the ceremony.

A whisper rose from the hedge of skeletons, it grew steadily until it was a shriek from a whole chorus of voices. Their grinning mouths opened in wordless screams.

Wisps flooded into the room, through cracks in the walls, out of the sarcophagi, from the skeletons themselves. They gathered like a flock of birds, flowing restlessly above the circle. They dove down alone, or in pairs, trying to reach the prisoner. But the instant they touched his skin, they dissolved from existence and the circle glowed brighter.

The body on the table began to move, legs bending with cracks of bone, and bursts of rotting skin. The arms pushed its torso up, its head fell back grotesquely on what was clearly a broken neck.

It was blasphemy. It took every sacred practice of the dead, both in and out of the Mourn Watch, and twisted it into a ceremony of abomination. Suddenly Rook understood. ‘An excellent subject to test how long one could go back and forth between life and death.’ Ghilan’nain had not meant Emmrich’s life or death, but his ability to bridge the two. He was being used as a conduit. A method to ferry unhappy souls back into their expired bodies.

The wisps were trying to help him, to protect one of their watchers, but it was destroying them.

Only a moment had passed, and Rook’s hand was already on the railing again when it suddenly ended.

With a cry from the prisoner the circle flared again, but this time it exploded outward in a wave. The remaining wisps fled through the hole in the ceiling, startled. The skeletons were silenced. The body on the table fell lifeless once again, and the prisoner collapsed in a heap against it, the chains rattling as he shook, his arms folded to shelter his head.

The Venatori staggered backwards, and when he rose, his mask of kindness was gone.

“Stupid!” he spat. “Pathetic, stubborn fool! You could have everything! We could have everything!”

Rook landed on top of him.

She heard bone crack, but he wasn’t finished. She hadn’t really practiced killing from a height like Lucanis had tried to show her. The Venatori twisted beneath her like a serpent and she saw his eyes, glowing with rage, with banked red blight.

He spat something, a command in Elven.

“Rook!”

She looked up to see Lucanis leap from the platform and barrel into a body that had shambled from another alcove.

It was another Antaam and had obviously been dead once. Its eyes were milky white, and parts of its skin hung in rags. A large, empty wound in its chest attested to how it died. It moved with a grace and energy she would not have expected, catching Lucanis’s second blade in its unfeeling hand and tossing him against the wall.

Evidently they had succeeded in their ceremony once before Emmrich could foil them, these were not regular undead inhabited by spirits from the fade.

Twice, Rook amended as a second body, this one of a lithe elf also emerged from the shadows.

It drew an arrow from its torso into its bow and sighted it at Rook.

She threw itself, and the Venatori to the side at the last second, and he laughed as they crashed into the base of one of the sarcophagi. Blood flecked from his lips and his breathing rasped. She must have broken one of his ribs.

“You cannot stop, what you cannot kill,” he hissed, and stabbed at her with the little knife.

Rook caught it, but he was surprisingly strong. It wavered between them while another arrow shattered over their heads.

“Rook?” Lucanis called again, as the sounds of steel echoed in the chamber.

“You don’t have to if it's already dead,” Rook replied and stabbed him in the Maker-damned throat.

He fell off of her, and she rolled to the side just in time to avoid a third arrow. The previously dead archer slunk to the left, keeping her in sight.

Rook dodged behind the sarcophagi, and piles of bone, trying to get to Lucanis, who was stumbling backward, driven by the powerful, relentless blows of the Antaam.

The Venatori had a point. Could these new undead even be killed? How were they different from the ones she had fought previously?

Another arrow. Rook ducked behind her improvised shelter. If she could draw her own bow she could fire back, but would an arrow stop the archer, or the Antaam?

Probably not. She vaulted over the stone instead, headed for Lucanis, swords in hand.

The Crow was slashing wildly at the Antaam, he managed to slice a tendon bringing it to one knee.

Rook stopped a blow from its ax and the force of it drove her back.

Lucanis surged up and slashed at its arm. Rook ducked behind and sunk her blade into the meeting between arm and shoulder.

The arm fell limp, and it dropped the ax. Its free arm reached behind, trying blindly to find Rook.

Lucanis laid his blades on either side of its neck and in one smooth motion, severed the head from the body.

It crashed forward to the floor.

An arrow cut a furrow in Lucanis’s lower back and he cried out. They both turned to see the archer, standing atop the table, another arrow already knocked to its bow.

Green light flared suddenly around it.

It froze, held in place for a long moment. Then its eyes caught fire and with a terrible moan it tumbled forward off the table to crash into the piles of bone.

Emmrich dropped his hands with the clinking of chains, the light of his magic fading rapidly from them.

Lucanis was still standing. Rook dropped her swords and tripped back through the skeletons, making a horrible racket in the now silent chamber.

The light of the circle had faded dramatically, and there was no reaction as she stepped over it.

She sprinted the last few steps, stumbling over her own feet, falling to her knees.

He had folded himself back up again, arms wrapped around his head, slumped against the stone  

She hesitated. She had found him once, at the Lighthouse, following the sounds of muffled cries through the shared wall of their rooms. That was the night she discovered where his bed was, as Manfred had been hovering anxiously at the entrance to the hidden room.

She had touched him then, to bring him out of the night terror she’d found him in. And he had not reacted negatively to it.

But this was different, and he had experienced a week of unprecedented violence.

“Emmrich,” she said instead, shuffling closer until they were near touching.

His hand reached out, catching hold of her, drawing her close so he could wrap both arms around her, like he was afraid she would escape.

She felt the scratch of stubble on his cheek as he buried his face against her, and the wetness of tears.

She wrapped her own arms around his chest, surprised by how tightly he held her.

“It’s alright,” she told him. Maker, she could feel his ribs too easily. “We’re here, Emmrich. We found you, Sweetheart.”

He sobbed, his voice was a wretched croak, stripped raw by his ordeal.

“Rook.”

“I’m here, Emmrich,” she reached up to run her hand through his filthy hair, reveling in the feeling of every precious strand of it. He was here, living, breathing against her.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped.

“What for?!” she tried to pull away, to look at him, but he held on.

“What for? Emmrich? What’s wrong?”

He pressed cracked lips to her forehead, like a blessing, like a goodbye.

She pulled back, and took his face in her hands, feeling the tremble of exhaustion and pain running all the way through him. 

She couldn’t make out his features, not until he clenched his eyes shut. His face was drawn with suffering, covered in numerous healing marks, including a wicked cut across his nose. Dark shadows circled his eyes, and one of them was deeply bruised and swollen. He was unshaven, and his hair was falling into his face.

But none of this was what concerned Rook.

Gently, she pried open his unswollen eye and had to blink as she was met with the ethereal, green-gray light of the fade, shining out like a lantern.

She let it go, and he closed it again.

“I think,” he rasped, gripping her hands where they still cradled his face. “That we should go to the Necropolis.”

Chapter Text

“Emmrich, stay awake,” Lucanis prompted gently, holding part of the chain in one hand, and positioning a small vial in the other. “I do not want to try and piggy-back you out of here.”

Rook watched warily as the first drops of acid hit the iron and began to hiss and spit. Emmrich’s hands were trembling too much to try and dissolve the locks on the cuffs themselves. And there was no point in looking for a key, they had been soldered shut. A fact Rook was careful not to think too hard about, because she had more important things to do than march from this room and kill every remaining Venatori in and out of Minrathous.  

“I’m awake,” he mumbled against Rook’s tunic. Whatever energy the ritual had gifted him was spent.

“It’s hard to tell when your eyes are closed,” the Crow teased.

Emmrich obligingly opened his good eye and bathed their friend in a pale green light.

“Better?”

Lucanis shivered theatrically. “No! Worse. You are perfectly creepy without the eyes.”

The ghost of a smile showed on Emmrich’s lips and he let it fall shut again.

They had decided this was not the place to discuss what had been done to him. Emmrich’s mind was mired in terror and exhaustion, speaking took energy he did not have, and his voice was painful to use. Their long-winded professor had been reduced to short, barking words and sentences. And the fewer times he had to relive the ritual by telling it, the better. They would save it for the Necropolis.

Right now it was enough for Rook to sit and listen to him breathe, to run her fingers gently along the planes of his face. He was a real, warm weight, wrapped in her too short cloak, his boots sticking comically out of the bottom. For the first time in days it did not feel like her heart would fly out of her chest.

“Rook.”

She looked up to meet Lucanis’s disapproving face.

“I said keep him awake. Not soothe him to sleep.”

Kaffas.

Rook straightened and pulled the necromancer up with her, his head lolled.

“Emmrich?”

He groaned in protest. Maker, even that sounded painful. She reached for her waterskin.

The moment she let the water dribble between his lips, the second before his eyes flew open, she realized her mistake.

But it was too late. The vial of acid flew out of Lucanis’s hand as the chain snapped taut. Emmrich was at the end of it, choking and gagging. He couldn’t go far, it wasn’t more than three feet in length.

Rook had scrambled back, the cloak forgotten on the floor, in awe of her own stupidity.

“Emmrich!”

He coughed harshly and wiped his mouth on the back of his shaking hand. He squinted, the ghostly green light partially refracted by tears.

They stared at each other in fear.

“I’m sorry,” Rook whispered.

Emmrich looked at the spilled waterskin on the ground like it was a freshly killed snake. He pinched his eyes shut.

“Maker, Emmrich. I’m—“

He shook his head, emphatic. Still coughing he shuffled back over the faint arcane symbols and reached for her again.

His hand continued to tremble.

She went, wrapping her arms around him like a third, fourth and fifth chance. His hand steadied itself around her wrist.

“Rook,” she raised her face from Emmrich’s hair to see Lucanis shaking stray droplets of acid away from his mercifully intact gloves.

“That was my last one.”

“…oh,” Rook twisted awkwardly for a moment, Emmrich shifted to accommodate her. She pulled a matching vial from her own belt and passed it over.

“Thank you,” the Crow said in the exact same tone he’d used when she passed him the salt last week at the dinner table.

The chain jangled as Lucanis took it up again, and the sour smell of melting iron hit their nostrils.

“Ha!” he said in triumph when it broke a few, long minutes later. It came apart with a clink in his hands and he pulled it through the anchor ring, and then through the cuffs with more gentle hands. Emmrich watched it, mesmerized for a moment until the horrible thing that had held him captive for three days was tossed carelessly to the ground.

“Good,” said Lucanis with all the enthusiasm owed to freeing anyone from Venatori captivity, let alone a dear friend. “Now, can you stand up? Or has that position bent your absurdly tall spine into a permanent Nevarran pretzel?”

Emmrich unfolded himself from Rook’s embrace and took Lucanis’s outstretched hand.

Between the two of them they got him standing. He had never been heavy, and he certainly wasn’t now. But his usual, lean strength was gone, they would be carrying most of his weight. The fact he was a full head taller than them made it less than ideal.

Still, the Watcher straightened his back with a near blissful moan and several loud pops before subsiding into the support of their shoulders.

“Wonderful,” he sighed, voice creaking like the last, desperate timbers of a shipwreck impaled on a reef.

Lucanis nodded in satisfaction and started to lead them from the room, but Emmrich stopped him.

“Papers,” he coughed, pointing at the desk in the corner. “For Myrna.”

Rook left them for a moment to open her bag, toss out anything not of immediate need, and shovel the books and papers in. She could tell Emmrich winced from the slight glow around his features, but he offered no objections.

When she resumed her place under his arm he spoke again.

“Leaving the circle…” he waved his hand vaguely towards his closed eyes. They were quickly growing used to the light, but he seemed reluctant to expose them to it. “I’ll be affected.”

“Affected how?” Rook questioned. Leaving explanations for the Mourn Watch was one thing. But his condition worsening on the way was another.

He peered at her, his brow furrowed with all the worries he wasn’t telling her.

“Be honest, or I'll kill everyone in this dungeon, and then bring Myrna here instead.”

His mouth twitched.

“…and Vorgoth.

His eyebrows flew upwards, casting bizarre shadows in the light from his eyes. He relented.

“I’m uncertain,” he rasped, carefully choosing his words.  “Weakened...probably lose focus.”

Well, she had already expected that.

“And Myrna will know what to do?”

He coughed again and nodded.

“The Necropolis,” he insisted.

“The sooner the better,” Lucanis urged them, and they made their way up and out.

------

They did not make it to the Necropolis. 

They were out of the burial chamber before the first surprise.

The stairs had been an ordeal to get up, and they were all short of breath by the time they made it. As Emmrich crossed the threshold a strange whine built in the passage behind them. It circled down the staircase like a drain, cold air pulling at them gently before it popped like a bubble.

He gasped and stumbled. A fine mist, matching exactly the glow from his eyes, seemed to rise out of his very skin and hover for a moment before dissipating.

“What was that?” Rook asked. “Emmrich?”

The Necromancer shook his head.

“Parameters,” he rasped, and took another step forward. “No consequence.”

The second surprise was Manfred.

He had been waiting in the passage.

Now he was not.

Rook looked for him frantically, not wanting to stop Emmrich’s momentum until they were out of Ghilan’nain’s stronghold, but unwilling to leave the wisp behind.

They were halfway through the rotunda when she finally spotted him. He hovered ahead of them in the shelter of the passage forward, his goggles glinting and twisting in the darkness.

He saw them coming and stepped back, hissing faintly.

Lucanis shot her a silent look of confusion.

Rook shook her head. Whatever was wrong they would deal with it. But they had to keep moving.

They continued, Manfred keeping out of reach ahead, while they followed.

It was faster going out than coming in had been. They did not stop to investigate any of the many chambers that lined the halls, there had not been a change of guard yet, so they had only to step past the dead bodies of the ones they’d already cut down.

It was an almost perfect infiltration. One any Crow would be proud of.

At last, after what seemed too long—but Rook knew could not have been more than half an hour—they reached the entrance hall. The Eluvian shone ahead of them out of the grim, swampy darkness.

They increased their pace, Rook sighing in relief at the sight. The first part, the hardest part, was almost over.  

Then the air around them grew unnaturally still. Rook felt all her hair raise on end. Every instinct within screamed at her to run, to hide, to make herself small.

She had felt this before. Several times.

The halls behind them echoed with the long, piercing shriek of an angry God.

“Run,” she said, pulling her companions forward, “Emmrich, run!”

He did, somehow, keeping pace with Rook and Lucanis, more falling forward than actual running. They crossed the hall in under a minute as vibrations grew behind them.

They were in no position to fight her, or whatever creature she was sending. Even if Lucanis could somehow find his way close enough to use the knife at Rook’s belt. They were all wounded, they were all exhausted, and Emmrich would not survive it.

Manfred hovered by the Eluvian, hissed as they passed, then turned and screeched an answer back at the darkness that billowed behind them, Beginning to take form, to coalesce.

There was no time to do anything but grab the wisp and shove all four of them forward through the glimmering mirror.

They landed on the floor of the storage house in a twisted heap. Rook turned over to see a shadowed form rising on the other side of the glass, looming upon them. She tried to fight free as tendrils crept over the edges of the frame and inside.

Emmrich, partially upright in Lucanis’s arms, cried out in abject terror, and the sound froze Rook’s heart.

Just as before, a miasma of Fade light rose from him like a second skin, his eyes blazed, he threw out his hand, magic uncurled from his fingertips.

The Eluvian shattered.

Rook and Lucanis flinched back, but the glass filtered through the light and landed around them in drifts of the finest sand.  

The few tendrils that had managed to eek through were severed, and lay twisting on the floor before falling lifeless in little pools of blighted blood.

Lucanis gaped. “...was that?!”

“I don’t know!” Rook got to her feet and belatedly marched over to the empty frame of the Eluvian, clutching her sword. “It doesn’t matter if it was her, or one of her creatures. We have to go!”

“Right!” He moved to haul the necromancer to his feet and stopped.

“Emmrich.”

Rook turned at the change in his tone. The mage was limp in the Crow’s arms, his eyes not clenched shut, but fallen like they no longer had the strength to hold themselves open. His skin, which had been pale and drawn before, had taken on a sheen like wax. It reminded Rook of the cadavers Emmrich cheerfully examined on the slab in his rooms. It made a map of the bruises and veins just under his skin, like little mountains and rivers.

His chest rose and fell, too shallow and rapid, his heart raced like a caged animal under her fingers. Sweat beaded on his face, but his skin was cold, like his body couldn’t decide what temperature to be.

“Kaffas! Emmrich?” She cupped his face again and ran her thumbs along his cheekbones, trying to rouse him.

His bruised lids twitched, his brows furrowed piteously.

“Please, Emmrich?”

With visible effort his eyes cracked open.

They were dim, and what should have eased Rook’s mind only made it race with questions. The glow had softened to the point that she could see the movement of his pupils beneath.

“You’re sick,” she said, brushing her thumbs over his clammy face again. “What should we do, Emmrich? What do you need?”

He swallowed, and she heard his throat click.

“Necropolis,” he whispered.

Rook looked at Lucanis.

“We need to leave here,” the Crow insisted. “Help me, Rook.”

They slipped under his arms again and stood. This time he stumbled immediately, folding against them like a structure without supports.

“Manfred,” Rook looked to the Skeleton, who had gotten to his own feet and was staring unerringly at Emmrich, but making no move to get closer. “Can you check if the door is clear?”

The wisp hissed agreement and stepped away, his skull fixated on the necromancer for as long as possible.

After three dragging steps Emmrich’s feet began to move, scraping across the floor. And by the time Manfred’s hissed confirmation of  “Clear,” came, they were walking steadily, but much slower than before. Emmrich seemed unaware of what was going on around them, his head slung low between his shoulders.

They were greeted by heavy, gray clouds, far more than the usual drizzle. The day seemed not even really to have begun with how dark it was. That was a relief. Rain and darkness brought cover. Even the most devout Venatori or templar was more likely to hide under an awning than patrol the streets in such weather.

Even if, as Rook dreaded, Ghilan’nain sent an emissary and troops to the storagehouse to see what had happened, they were unlikely to find them in the ‘rat’s nest’ that was Minrathous in the rain.

Everyone else seemed of the same mind. Fish vendors, who had finished pulling in their catches an hour ago were already unrolling tarps and awnings across their tables. Others were covering and stowing their boats. Everyone seemed too busy to notice three staggering people, and the cloaked and hooded shadow that followed behind them.

They trudged for another hour through the streets, leaving the northern docks behind them, headed for the central part of the city that would lead them to Docktown. When the clouds finally broke and rain began to lash down the small crowds that were inhabiting the markets and streets broke and ran for cover.

They were soaked in minutes, which led to a very interesting visual when Manfred’s cloak clung tightly to his bony frame. The wisp let his bare-boned hand hover under the drops so that they hit him with a rattle.

Emmrich stirred, raising his head briefly to let the rain fall on his face, before dropping it again with a sigh.

They stopped in a doorway as thunder rolled angrily overhead.

“How much further?” Lucanis asked, pitching his voice.

Rook glanced around to get her bearings.

“At this rate? Four or five hours at least.”

Lucanis frowned at the man slung between them, He was covered in Rook’s cloak, but still made a sorry sight.  “Rook, he cannot go for much longer.”

“We have to get him to the Necropolis.”

“It is no good if we kill him trying to get there. We should stop and rest. Half an hour. He should drink something.”

 "And what if we’re too late because we stopped to get him some nourishing broth? Or someone sees us? We don't know what's wrong with him, Lucanis. Manfred won’t go near him. Even Spite hasn’t shown his face since we found him."

The Crow looked about unhappily. "We should at least get a carriage. It will not look suspicious in this weather."

Not a bad idea, but even if they found one available, would they have enough coin to buy his silence?

"Are there any Shadow Dragons in this area?"

Rook considered, “Alive? I don’t know. Neve did, that’s why she left to lead the others.”

They watched as Manfred tilted his head back, fully exposing his bony face to the public. The rain plinked on his teeth like a tiny piano. 

“Let’s stop and I’ll find a carriage,” Lucanis insisted after a minute. “At worst, Emmrich will have a rest, at best, we will save a few hours and get him to the Necropolis sooner.”

‘It makes sense, kid. Don’t be stubborn just because you’re afraid of making a mistake.’

Easy for you to say. You’re tucked up in bed in the Lighthouse. 

Maker, she wished that’s where they were now, with Emmrich safely in the infirmary, and Varric telling her that all her crazy decisions were actually necessary. 

Instead she was standing in the rain, exposed on the street, and unable to do a damn thing. 

“Okay,” she said, tightening her grip on the necromancer as he slipped a little. “We’ll be quick.”

They found a little hole in the wall, a restaurant that Varric had told her about some time ago in passing. 

‘We’ll go there when this Solas thing is over.’

It was warm, and dark, and crowded; perfect for their needs. They pressed themselves into a corner table among the thirty other drenched patrons and let the drone of the crowd wash over them. 

“I will be back,” Lucanis said, squeezing her arm and checking over Emmrich again. The mage was settled against Rook, his head on her shoulder, face turned away from the sight of others. “See if you can wake him, get him to drink something. Anything. A nice Antivan Red would probably help.”

He hesitated a moment longer. 

“He will be alright, Rook. We will make sure of it. I owe you.”

She nodded, sandwiched between her strange family of necromancer and skeleton, who still hadn’t so much as touched Emmrich.

Then the Crow slipped back into the crowd and was gone. 

The walls of the little dive seemed to tuck in around them. Rook’s world was reduced to the uncomfortable feel of her wet clothes, Emmrich’s breath whistling in her ear, and Manfred’s bony elbow digging into her side. 

When her heart had settled after a few seconds she turned to Emmrich. She ran her hands through his wet hair, arranging it more neatly into something resembling its usual style. She tucked his cold hands, still adorned with the iron cuffs that were doing him no favors, under her tunic against her warm stomach. She rested her head atop his and hummed. Her repertoire of Tevinter songs consisted entirely of lullabies, military marching songs, and whatever she had picked up of an evening drinking in a tavern. There had been a summer when her adoptive aunt had attempted to teach her to sing some pretty ballads, but those never really stuck and tended to run together in her mind; all about maidens waiting faithfully for their tragic lover’s body to be carried back from Seheron so they could weep over it, or about flower picking. 

But she had picked up a few others over the last two years. Varric was a wealth of songs, many from the Inquisition, others from Kirkwall, all of them irreverent. Lucanis knew a lot of romantic songs and would gladly sing them if you found him in the right mood. 

Rook hummed a variety of these, and any tune that Emmrich had ever mentioned. He knew some haunting ones, but they were pretty, and made you kind of glad to cry, especially on rainy days such as the one outside. 

She had just finished one about the souls of little children playing in a Necropolis garden when she glanced down, and saw a faint green light shining across the metal parts of her armor. 

“Hey,” she said, pulling away a little and brushing Emmrich’s hair back again. Only the faintest Fade light showed he was conscious at all. “We’re safe, Em. We’re going to the Necropolis.”

She thought for a moment. It didn’t matter what Lucanis said. He might believe a good beverage could fix anything, but to Emmrich it was poison. And she didn’t know how to undo the damage the Venatori had done to something as fundamental as drinking. Maker, Emmrich didn’t belong here. He was the last person to deserve what had been done to him. The way he spoke to perfect strangers was sunshine incarnate…

Oh. That might work. 

“Manfred,” she turned to the wisp, who had been examining the jar of candles on the table with great interest. “I need you to take care of Emmrich for a moment.”

A high-pitched anxious hiss. The Skeleton rocked forward so that he had a clear view of Emmrich on her other side. 

“Baaaad,” he said softly. 

“No,” Rook insisted. “He’s still Emmrich. I promise, Manfred. Please. Just for a minute.”

Manfred ground his teeth, shifted in his seat, then nodded. 

“Thank you,” she pressed a kiss to both their foreheads, carefully transferred Emmrich’s weight to the cushioned seat and Manfred’s reluctant embrace and slipped from the table. 

It was a bit of push and shove to the bar, especially because she refused to take her eyes off her table for more than a second and thus bumped into far more people than usual. 

But her order was simple, and she was back with a small bag of fruits, including a few oranges, and a pineapple.

They were still there, they were safe. And in her absence the wisp had wrapped his arm over Emmrich’s shoulders, sharing the disguise cloak. 

Emmrich had—either consciously or unconsciously–- poked his fingers through Manfred’s ribs. 

Rook had seen stranger comfort blankets.

Well, she hadn’t, but no one would ever dare say anything about this one to her face. 

She set the bag on the table, and pulled out her belt knife to cut the fruit when Manfred let out a friendly hiss. 

Lucanis had slipped back in the door, more drenched than Rook thought anyone could be. From his relieved look it was obvious he’d found a carriage. 

Good. They would eat on the way.

Except Manfred was hissing in alarm. He was being pulled from the seat, down to the floor as Emmrich slid there, clutching at his chest. 

Rook followed them, grabbing the necromancer as he curled over himself. 

Lucanis was at their side, shoving the table back, pulling them all up and ushering Rook and Manfred towards the door as they supported Emmrich. 

Quite a few people looked their way, but no one followed as they stopped in the entrance among the forest of cloaks.

Emmrich sank to his knees again, he was bone white, his face twisted. There was a horrible sound, like water circling a drain. His fingers clenched around Manfred’s ribs and the poor bones creaked. 

“He’s trying to breathe,” Lucanis barked, trying to examine him without much luck, “What did he drink?”

“Nothing!” Rook insisted, “it’s not poison.”

Manfred hissed urgently, and Lucanis’s hand suddenly glowed violet against Emmrich’s chest. 

“Stay!” commanded Spite and the demon’s power was absorbed. 

Emmrich gasped and coughed. He breathed once, twice, again, and again until Rook stopped counting them. He fell back against her, his eyes nothing but shadows, his breaths were shallow and light. 

Spite’s eyes bored into hers. “He is. Confused. Lost.” 

“What do you mean?” Rook asked, wrapping her arms tighter around Emmrich as though she could keep him there physically. 

“The Fade. Too much. Too far.” 

Lucanis snapped back and pulled his hand from Emmrich’s chest. The cloth underneath was scorched, the skin slightly blistered in an almost perfect replica. He took in Spite’s handiwork, and the Necromancer slumped like the dead against her. 

“Rook…he won’t make it to the Necropolis.”

“But–” 

“It’s still hours away, even with a carriage. I felt Spite…give him some energy but—.”

Rook swallowed her objections. 

He was right. Whatever was happening to Emmrich was killing him fast. They could not wait until the Necropolis. 

But they needed it. Emmrich had been so adamant. Whatever that Ritual had been, it was complex and creative, twisted and inventive. They needed more than just a necromancer, they needed a powerful one, an academic that had studied with the Mourn Watch, and they needed one now!

And then the Maker smiled on Rook and she sprang to her feet. “Come on!” She lifted Emmrich from the ground, and Lucanis scrambled to grab his feet. “I know where to go.”

------

Rook did not know quite what she expected as the door opened, but it was not the master of the house himself, wearing robes that showed signs of recent battle. 

”Ah,” said Magister Pavus as he looked them over; their soaked, seared, and bloody clothes, their badly bandaged wounds from the last two fights, the one-armed skeleton clutching a bag of pulpy fruit, and Emmrich Volkarin, unconscious and barely breathing in their arms. “I see it’s been an eventful day for all of us.”

He set his staff beside the door and stepped aside, “Come in.”

Chapter Text

House Pavus was nearly empty.  Dorian had sent most of his people off to Ventus after the dragon attack. Everyone who remained was either working with the Shadow Dragons, a refugee on their way out of the city, or, as Dorian said when a young servant came in to water the plants as though Minrathous was not being slowly swallowed by blight, “Too damn stubborn for their own safety!”

“Do you need anything, Magister Pavus?”

”Not at the moment, why don’t you join the others in Ventus, and flock some sheep or something?”

“You don’t have any sheep, Magister.”

“Go and buy some then. In. Ventus.”

“I’m not a shepherd, Magister.”

”I’ve no doubt you could make a decent job of it if you turned your mind to it. The same way I can tie my own boots without your help, Felice.”

“Not in my experience, Magister.”

“Festis bei umo canavarum!”

He closed the heavy door behind them and bolted it himself, despite the fact a competent looking man with a halberd stood at the ready, chatting with the wayward Felice, who was sprinkling water onto a delicate looking orchid.

Once in the light of the interior, Pavus turned to get a good look at Emmrich. 

“Maker’s breath, what on earth have you been doing with him?” (Rook didn’t answer on account of being out of breath for which Dorian would have been thankful if he’d heard what she wanted to say).

A glow lit on his palm and he laid it over the older mage’s forehead. 

His face, when he raised it after a long, breathless moment, was the most serious Rook had ever seen it, which was saying something. 

“Bring him this way, quickly.” He said and led them at a near run through the ostentatious entry hall, past lavish rooms, up a gilded staircase and towards the private rooms at the back. Their hurried footsteps echoed—squeaking and sliding due to the continuous rain—in the empty rooms that had been crowded with magisters for centuries.

———

“Are you going to explain?” Rook asked, watching Dorian read from the book floating in front of him. With one hand the magister chalked careful runes into a new circle several feet wide around them. With the other he wove his fingers through the air, conducting an amulet that spun in time above Emmrich’s bare skin. Beneath it the necromancer's chest rose and fell with calm, mechanical precision. 

Dorian frowned at the rune he’d just made. He consulted the book again, rubbed it out, and redrew it. 

He spared her a look. “Stop wiggling your fingers, for the love of the Maker.”

Rook shifted uneasily In her seat, but kept her fingers threaded with Emmrich’s. In any context it should not have been difficult. But she could feel the strong currents of magic running through the string Pavus had wrapped around their clasped hands. It had been normal, physical silk at the beginning. But now it prickled and moved like a fine little snake, flossing between their fingers. 

Dorian watched her for a moment as though judging her competency. 

“You were right about the nature of the ritual,” he said. 

“About restoring the soul?” 

Dorian nodded and shook out his left arm a little. Emmrich’s breathing deepened. 

“You know when a necromancer raises the dead It is with a spirit from the fade, one who often has a semblance to the departed due to their sympathetic energies, or the residual echoes connected to the body?”

“Like in corpse whispering.”

“Just so,” Dorian resumed chalking the floor. 

“What your false gods were trying to achieve was nothing short of reaching past the final veil, plucking a person’s soul from its eternal rest at the Maker’s side—or whatever awaits us in the fade—and stuffing it back into its own original body. A very different proposition.”

“Kaffas,” Rook muttered, rubbing her face. What could Ghilan’nain have achieved with that? You could bring back whoever, or whatever you wanted, the archdemon, the dead Shadow Dragons, Emmrich’s parents. Had she tried to tempt him with that?

“Indeed. Far, far beyond what any necromancer in their right mind would ever attempt. Even one as talented as our Professor.”

She looked at Emmrich’s battered face. Against the soft pillow and clean sheets, the violence of his condition was stark. She didn’t understand how anyone could bring themselves to hurt him outside the heat of battle, let alone to subject him to what she’d witnessed.

“So how did they do it? If it's supposed to be impossible?”

Pavus finished the circle, connecting both ends neatly. He summoned one of the diagrams Rook had taken from the desk in Ghilan’nain’s stronghold. It hovered before him and he began another set of ruins, this one crossing the center of the circle, bisecting it. The fingers of his left hand continued to weave through the air. Emmrich continued to breathe. 

“It’s straightforward enough. The spiral around the burial chamber you witnessed was designed to draw energies in, and direct the spell’s power towards the fade. The ambient magics in the chamber enhanced it. The ancient elves were very competent in their efforts towards the ‘preservation of the dead’ and the ‘direction of the soul.” 

Rook made herself ignore how cold Emmrich’s fingers felt in her own, and the tickling feeling of the thread, winding and wriggling. She watched his breathing to steady herself, in and out, as gentle and predictable as a wave. 

“So, it was like a drain, or a whirlpool, drawing it all into Emmrich and the body on the table?”

Pavus nodded, a pleased smile at her comprehension. 

“The blood magic by the priest was the catalyst, but the circle powered itself on the ambient magics and used them to connect directly to the fade. Once that was done it could sustain itself interminably.”

Maker, he really had been taught by Emmrich. 

“What about the wisps? The screaming skeletons?“

“Sympathetic side effects to the Professor’s power being…abused. No doubt they sensed his disquiet upon being forced to connect with the fade. They were consumed by the spell upon touching it, as any living person would have been had they touched it while it was active.”

Dorian finished crossing the circle. He went ninety degrees further around and began another line, quartering it. 

Rook tried to find her serene pool, but it was beyond her reach. She set her free hand onto her sword hilt and twisted. A habit she’d tried to break as a teenager.  

“Why him?”

All signs of levity left Pavus’s face. He paused his chalking to look at her.  

“They wanted him for his corpse whispering, and his experience. His years of channeling spirits, and exploring the fade gives him a very unique connection to the dead. They perverted it, and forced his magic past boundaries into the fade that most necromancers are well aware of.”

Rook choked, and throttled the hilt of her sword. She could not have been more breathless if it was her actual neck that was being strangled. 

How dare they? How dare they take the things he held with such reverence and gentleness, and use them to harm the beings he had dedicated his life to protecting? How dare they use him to do it?

“Rook,” said a voice and it was said in such a familiar manner she couldn’t tell for a moment if it was real, or the Varric voice in her head. 

She raised her eyes and saw that it was Dorian. He offered her a smile that they both knew was inadequate. ‘I know you are tired.’ It seemed to say. ‘I ask you to help me anyway. Because no one else can.’

She had seen the same look on Varric’s face many times, and recently on the Inquisitor’s himself. 

“Okay,” she said, and blinked away the tears splintering the lights at the edge of her vision. 

Dorian nodded, summoned another dusty volume, consulted it, and resumed quartering the circle. 

Rook cleared her throat, “Is that why Emmrich’s like this? His glowing eyes? His energy draining?”

”Partially,” Pavus relaxed with the continuation of academic explanation. “Our problem now, and our solution, is twofold. Have you ever seen a person’s hand when it gets caught in a dwarven construct?”

Rook shuddered. She had indeed. A soldier in her father’s legion had gotten part of his hand mangled in a complicated trebuchet. 

”This is much the same. Professor Volkarin is a living being of flesh and blood. Using him as a component in this ritual has wreaked havoc on him physically. Being made to channel fade magic and spirits continuously has conditioned him to it.”

“But…mages use the fade,” Rook said. “The Lighthouse is in the fade.”

“And the sun is pleasant until it burns your skin to a crisp. There was too much of it. And in the absence of rest or nourishment his magic attempted to keep his body living with the only energy available to him.”

“The fade.”

“And the spirits,” Dorian agreed. “So much so that his eyes glowed with it. I understand that you and the Professor recently encountered Johanna Hezenkoss? Volkarin wrote to inform me of her.”

“We stopped her. She’s not a threat anymore.”

“No, but her research is, and the Venatori had access to it.” Dorian gestured at the papers still spewing out from Rook’s bag onto the nearby desk. “Did Volkarin explain to you about her condition?”

little shivers of ice ran through Rook’s blood, “A little. He said she was a failed lich. She didn’t prepare properly.”

Dorian nodded, “The magics employed in their little ritual has forced his magic to preserve his existence along the same lines.”

“Emmrich’s undead?”

“Not quite. He is alive. But his magic has been reconfiguring itself around that concept. Eventually, if he remained in that position, it likely would have resulted in that. I imagine it was a solution that Ghilan’nain would have found acceptable.”

“So…why is he dying now?” Rook asked, gripping his limp fingers “What happened to the power he was using?”

“In this context he was a conduit, not a source. His own energy and magic were exhausted long ago. When you removed him from the circle that new source was cut off. And shattering the Eluvian used what was left.”

“So…his body needs fade magic to survive, but he doesn’t have it?”

“His body thinks it needs fade magic to survive. Much in the same way a Southern Templar needs lyrium. It’s conditioned. But we can break that conditioning, and give it a little push back into living.”

Rook breathed, scattering thoughts of Emmrich stuck between life and lichdom from her mind. Of going mad in a rotting body like Hezenkoss had. 

Dorian finished the circle, stood and gathered the books and papers from the air. He stepped carefully over the chalk lines that held the cot and chair that Rook and Emmrich were occupying. 

“You said our problem was two-fold,” Rook recalled. 

“Yes. I’m afraid that the damage to Professor Volkarin’s soul is not so straightforward.”

“His soul?”

“Mmm,” the magister looked troubled, sifting through the books and papers on the desk In a one-handed search. “I cannot find anything detailing what Ghilan’nain did to him before installing him in the circle. There are only vague references to ‘enlightenment’ and ‘glimpses of eternity.’ I would guess some sort of vision intended to persuade him. Whatever it was it took his natural inclination towards communicating with the dead and opened it.”

“Opened it?”

“Wide open. Like tearing a door off its hinges so it can no longer be closed. When the professor began Corpse Whispering as a child it’s likely that he had to have a great deal of training in order to control it fully. Magic in children is uniquely strong, but often unpredictable. Without the protection of training it's not hard for a mage to be overwhelmed and consumed by his talents. It's one of the reasons possession is so rampant.”

“So she erased his training?”

Dorian shook his head. “She couldn’t destroy that without affecting his abilities. I believe she’s masked it. He’s adrift. He’s lost hold of the fine lines he constructed between this world and the fade. Then everytime the ritual was performed his soul was forced beyond the veil in search of the original dead. Again and again. A little like the opposite of being made tranquil.”

“An excellent subject to test how long one could go back and forth between life and death,” Rook intoned.

Dorian looked impressed, “Exactly.”

Rook closed her eyes.

“How do we fix it?”

“We have to strengthen the tether between his soul and his body. That’s where you come in.” Dorian crossed back over the chalk and gently tapped their joined hands. The little silken snake twisted in response, tightening its coils and loosening them again. 

“I’m not a mage,” Rook said stupidly. 

”No,” said Magister Pavus with a touch of condescension. “You’re going to be his anchor. You and he have a strong emotional bond. That will give him the best chance.”

“Of what?”

“Of staying here with us instead of being lost fully in the fade. In order to do this I’m going to need to pull his soul from where it’s become entrenched between the two. A bit like unshelling a snail. A raw experience I imagine, not particularly pleasant. He will be disoriented and uncomfortable. Your job is to persuade him back to us.“

“Would Manfred have a better chance? They’ve known each other longer.” Rook asked as Dorian stepped around the circle, examining it minutely and fussily making adjustments. 

“His wisp?” Dorian looked surprised. “Not in this case. Manfred is a creature of the fade, he can’t act as an anchor to the waking world. And he can sense the death of the spirits on Volkarin. That’s why he’s rattling his bones whenever they get close.”

Oh. That made sense. Manfred’s only experience with this sort of destruction of spirits was with Hezenkoss. What must the wisp be thinking? Spite too.  But they’d still helped. 

As though summoned, the door to the room burst open, and Lucanis came in followed by Manfred. Both were loaded down with all manner and styles of candles and candelabras, gold, brass, iron, Tevinter snakes, Nevarran skulls, even one shaped like a Ferelden dog holding the candle impractically sideways in its mouth. 

Their entrance startled Dorian, and for the first time since they’d laid Emmrich on the bed his left hand faltered, and the amulet stilled. 

 Emmrich’s breath caught. It tore like raw silk, rasping in his throat. 

“Dorian!”

The magister swore and flicked his fingers. The spell flickered, sparked, stabilized. 

Emmrich shuddered, and breathed again; in and out, in and out. 

“Apologies,” Pavus gasped. “We should begin sooner than later. This is rather tiring.”

———

Dorian’s large study was hardly lit by the candles they had placed at intervals around the circle. But he still shut off the mage lights casting the Mabari candle holder in a much more sinister mein. 

“We need the light to be centered on the circle,”

He said. “We might not be able to see him otherwise. Lucanis, if you would.”

The Crow handed him the first of three phials of lyriumlined up on the desk amid the snowfall of papers spiling from Rook’s bag. 

“You are certain this will work? Because I'm not above taking my own contracts.”

Pavus tore the stopper out with his teeth and downed the potion like a campaigner. He tossed it over his shoulder heedless of where it landed.

“Ah. No. Mr. Dellamorte. It is a possibility we could all perish in attempting this. But you’re welcome to come and hunt whatever is left of my corpse in the aftermath should that happen.”

He cracked his neck and took up another staff from among the many he had displayed against the wall. 

“Now, if you would be so kind as to remove yourself and our skeletal friend from the room, please.”

Lucanis stiffened, “Why?”

“Because if either wisp or spirit remain here and are consumed or interfere then I’m afraid this will almost certainly fail.” 

Lucanis glared, “You are aware why I am called the Demon of Vyrantium?”

“Oh yes. Splendid Job. Big fan.”

“I owe Rook.”

“And I owe her father, who will be only too happy to stomp another Magister into the mud should I give his Soporati boots the excuse.”

Lucanis grunted, mollified, and gently took Manfred’s hand. 

The skeleton went rigid. 

“Manfred,” Rook said from the chair. “It’ll be alright, go with Lucanis.”

The wisp ignored her, ignored Lucanis and strode back to the cot. 

Dorian began to object but hesitated as Manfred peered down at the chalk markings, hissed thoughtfully and took care to step over them. 

They watched as the wisp hovered at the edge of the bed, considering.  He took Emmrich’s free hand and settled it carefully on his chest, away from the amulet, then he turned and with a little difficulty tugged the boots off one by one. He hissed at the sore skin revealed, and set the boots neatly together at the foot of the cot. 

He drew the three fingerbones from his pocket, rattled them, and tucked them under Emmrich’s pillow. 

This strange ritual done, he turned to Rook. 

“Rook.”

“Yeah, Fred?”

“Find Emm-rich.”

It was not a request. 

“I will.”

The wisp hissed in satisfaction, looked at Emmrich’s face again, then hissed at Dorian for good measure. He picked his way back out of the circle and followed Lucanis from the room. 

“He’s a character,” said Pavus in bafflement. 

“He’s worried and confused. He’s been through a lot.”

“I knew another spirit like that,” Dorian said. “I’m not sure who I would consider better-adjusted.”

“Well, Manfred knows how to set a full dinner service.” 

The magister’s brows rose, “Really?”

“Oh yeah, and which fork to use for dessert.”

“Fascinating…Shall we begin?”

He checked the silken string around their hands once more, glanced over the chalk circle, the candles and adjusted one half an inch with his foot. 

“Don’t move from the circle until we have him,” Pavus cautioned, his face lit eerily in the darkness as the monsoon outside rolled into its peak. ”Once we start I cannot break my concentration to intervene. It would be catastrophic. You will be alone. Do you recall what to say?”

“Yeah.”

“Off we go then.”

He dropped the spell from his left hand. The amulet fell to the floor. At once the necromancer’s breath began to weaken. 

Dorian breathed deep and evenly, preparing his magic. Rook saw it gather in his hands and along the staff that he centered before him. He raised it a few inches off the floor before smashing it down at the edge of the circle.  

The result was far more peaceful than the ritual in Ghilan’nain’s stronghold had been. 

The base of Dorian’s staff lit a spark of amber light that spilled across the circle, illuminating the symbols he had drawn. They seemed to glow like the banked coals of a fire, pulsing with warmth and life. 

It spread until the circle was closed, then traveled to the lines crossing in the center, first one way and then the other. 

At the point of their crossing Emmrich‘s body jerked, his head turning. 

Dorian held his staff in place, the knuckles of his hands white. 

“I open the gates between Life and Death,” he intoned, and his voice flowed like the magic across the circle, amplified and echoing in the large room.

The circle flared again, flames licking at the runes, along the toes of their boots. 

Dorian raised the foot of the staff and Rook saw that from the circle, dozens of tiny threads of light clung to the tip of it. They stretched like strands of honey and Pavus’ face was a mask of effort and concentration as he began to swing the staff, weaving an intricate pattern as he paced slowly from one point of the quartered circle to the next. 

At the second point he stopped, centered himself, and smashed the staff down again. 

The circle flared, and the light he had woven sprang up above Rook like the arches of a small temple. 

“I seek the silver thread between the Soul and the Body,” Dorian continued, solemn and serene, though she could see the tip of the staff shake when he lifted it a second time and started another, unique pattern to the next point. 

Now halfway around the circle he took a moment to breathe again. Rook could see his face was glistening with sweat, outlined like silver in the darkness. He spared a look for her that was both reassurance and command. Then he refocused his eyes on the spell and smashed the staff down with enough force she heard the tile crack. 

The cathedral of light above them grew with the new patterns. It was both a shelter and cage arching and twisting, enclosing them both. 

On the cot Emmrich began to shake, the whole frame of the bed rattled with it. She felt it through his hand. A low, distressed whisper of breath reached Rook’s ear. 

“Dorian—“

The magister shook his head sharply once in rebuke. 

“I bid the soul of Emmrich Volkarin to wake.”

The words rang through the room like a bell, echoing in her ears, shuddering visibly through the air. 

From Emmrich’s body a fine mist began to rise. It was not the green of the fade, or his glowing eyes. This time it was soft, grey light, almost lilac. 

It hovered over the necromancer’s skin, and Rook’s hand. It was like its own small storm, churning and twisting. 

Pavus was shaking now too. His whole body trembled with the effort to keep the movements of the staff fluid enough to spin the next lines of the spell. 

When he was three quarters of the way around the circle, he raised the staff again and it quivered like a tree in a storm. His eyes met hers, and he brought it crashing down on the tile a third time. 

The lines of the web above them flared, achingly beautiful. It was a house made of fire. 

Rook filled her lungs, and her own voice rang as she spoke, a clearer, lighter bell, to Dorian’s boom. 

“I come as an advocate.”

Abruptly the thread around hers and Emmrich’s hands tightened. The coils of the little silken snake held on for dear life as a third hand, composed of nothing but smoke and air, light in liquid form, twisted and struggled.

FEAR.

Rook recoiled but there was nowhere to go. The silk dug into her skin, her hand clenched tightly around Emmrich’s.

Dorian was gone, the dome of light enclosing them was filled with the mist that boiled against the edges, blocking her view. Sounds and sensations rang chaotically against its confines. It grew to a storm, cracking against the light to mimic the lightning outside, desperately seeking to escape. To break its cage. 

Except it wasn’t an ‘it’ at all. It was a he. It was Emmrich. The soul, he had said, was infinitely more complex than a spirit of the fade. 

What Rook had expected was a pale imitation of a human body, colored and blank-faced like the spirits of the fade she had witnessed throughout Thedas. 

What she got was an indefinable storm of unending consciousness. Emmrich’s thoughts and emotions fought wildly for definition in the open space. He was anchored only by the ghostly hand bound to her own. 

“Emmrich!”

The storm howled. Images of grasping hands, red crystals, and the taste of blood filtered through her mind.

“Emmrich, can you hear me?”

Rook.

Her own face flashed before her at an angle she’d never seen, laughing, spattered with blood, slack with sleep. 

“It’s me,” she squeezed her hand around his own.

The storm churned. She saw Manfred lose his grip on the cliff in the Crossroads, Meir’s skinny body thrown against the bars of a cell, a torrent of wisps disintegrating in his hands making them tingle.

Grief, so potent it choked her. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

Smothering tendrils over his face. A vast emptiness. A certainty that this was death. FEAR. 

Rook!

“I’m here, Emmrich. Come back. You have to come back.”

His hand came alive in her own, grasping, merging with its ghostly visage. 

She pulled. 

The storm was clearing. She could see Pavus drag the staff back to the first and final point. 

He let it fall.

In an instant the intricate lines of the spell burned away. A dark image of the careful chalk circle had been burned into the once beautiful floor. The staff clattered from Dorian’s trembling hands as he staggered to the desk and snatched up one of the lyrium phials downing it in one. 

On the cot Emmrich surged upward and clattered over the side, dragging Rook with their bound hands. 

“Dorian!” 

The magister snatched up the final phial and joined her. The potion had stilled his hands to a fine tremor. He lifted Emmrich’s head from the floor and tipped the final lyrium down his throat. 

The older mage choked, he gripped Dorian’s wrist.

He wasn’t strong enough to stop Pavus from snapping his fingers, alighting them with magic, and drawing a last intricate rune on his forehead. It sank beneath the skin. 

There was a flare of wild, uncontrolled magic and a crack, like a branch breaking. 

Dorian howled and pulled away, cradling his wrist.

“Kaffas!”

Rook stopped Emmrich from smashing his head against the floor. 

“What happened?!”

“He broke it,” Pavus hissed, eyes streaming with tears of pain and surprise. 

“What?”

“Vishante kaffas! Never mind. He has his magic. Check his breathing.”

Rook looked down. 

She hadn’t noticed Emmrich’s free hand come up to grip her tunic. She hadn’t realized she could hear him wheezing and gasping, or feel his heart pounding. Because that was normal. That was what a frightened person did when they were alive. 

Alive and panicking. 

“Hey,” Rook said. She pressed their bound hands against his chest, her other supporting his shoulders. “Easy. easy, Love.”

His eyes flew to her face, and it was awful. The swollen one looked more like a ripe plum. The other was red with burst blood vessels, almost overpowering the beautiful hazel.

It was the most awful thing she’d ever seen.

“Hey,” she said again, wetly– soggy , really. She hadn’t meant to cry. She hadn’t realized she was crying. But the Maker-damned tears were dripping all over. 

A tear landed on his forehead so she kissed that away. His fingers unclenched from her tunic and touched her chin where it rested on his head.  

He kept breathing, but still too fast, too shallow.

“Slow,” Rook told him, and he blinked up at her. “Deep.”

The corner of his mouth twitched and she kissed that too. 

Chapter Text

Only two days, Rook told herself. 

It had only taken them two days to find Emmrich, and get him to Dorian. 

And now he lay on the cot in Pavus’s study, sleeping like the dead. 

“A success,” the very satisfied magister told her as he coaxed the bones of his own wrist to knit beneath his glowing hand. “His body is alive, his magic is functioning, and his soul is in place. Not bad for an improvised ritual of restoration in the middle of a warzone.”

Rook ticked her eyebrows up at the opulent ceiling. “Pretty lavish still, for a warzone.”

“Well,” Dorian smirked. ”This is Minrathous. Maker, I’m really not going to be able to tie my own boots tomorrow. Felice will have a field day.”

He grimaced as something fixed itself with a distinct grinding sound in the wrist in question.  

“I’m sorry,” Rook said. 

Dorian flicked his head, dismissing the apology outright. “It was self-defense. I should have thought of it. Venatori have been forcing magebane down him for a week. And then he wakes, disoriented, to yet another Tevinter bastard feeding him lyrium. It's a wonder he didn’t snap my neck.”

“I should have told you about the magebane and his aversion to drinking.”

“As I recall you did. I rather forgot it in the excitement of academic pursuit,” Pavus reached for the roll of bandaging on his desk and Rook took it, moving to wrap the wrist, which he accepted. 

“I don’t think I’ve said ‘thank you’ yet, for saving his life.”

“It was my pleasure,” Pavus smiled and she was instantly warmed by it. Somehow in the course of using necromancy to cross the line between life and death they’d changed from uncertain allies to friends. This was becoming a pattern for her. 

“But you do yourself a disservice, Rook. Had your presence not been enough of an anchor, our little endeavour would have been an abject failure. Brilliant spellwork aside, he came back because he felt safe with you. That is not a small thing, to be entrusted with one’s soul.”

Her own doubt fought against his words. But it was Emmrich who had studied her face while his breathing settled. His heart had slowed to a gentle rhythm while she spoke. His arm clung to her shoulders as he let her help him back onto the cot. And it was his lips that brushed the inside of her wrist before falling into an exhausted sleep. 

“He was missing for six days,” Rook said, because that was a fact she could not change. It had taken less than two days to save him, but he had been missing for nearly six. 

“They threatened him, and then they took him the moment my back was turned, right there in the Crossroads. They tortured him for six days, and I didn’t even know.”

Pavus sighed, “What do you want from me, Rook? Castigation? Magister is just a title. I find no fault with your actions. You are repeatedly defying the will of three self-proclaimed gods while possessing no god-like powers yourself. You are not omniscient. What are you going to do? Tie a string to Volkarin’s wrist? Keep him tethered like a child? He is an experienced and powerful mage that has been taking care of himself for years longer than you’ve been alive. I’m sure he’d love it.”

It was an absurd image. Rook smiled briefly before sobering, “What if they try and take him again?”

They sat in silence for a moment looking at the evidence of the world’s cruelty and their hard won victory snoring softly on the cot. 

Dorian broke it with quiet words. 

“They won’t. Elgar’nan is insane, but not a fool. He won’t waste any more of his limited influence on retrieving his sister’s lost plaything.”

Rook’s eyes stung at the bluntness of the descriptor, but she couldn’t deny it. 

She tied off the bandage in a neat knot. 

“See?” said Dorian with a smile, holding his bound wrist out for admiration. “Good as new.”

------

It would take some time, Dorian said, for Emmrich’s soul to reacclimate inside his body, and for his magic to settle. 

Actually, what he said was, “Corpus regulation post-animatransduction is further complicated when the subject is a spellcaster with valences that need to realign themselves, let alone an innately talented Susurrator Cadaverum,” but that’s what Rook got from it. 

He said this just before admitting that the lyrium drafts he’d taken were wearing off, and he would need Lucanis’s help to get to his room. 

“We’ll hold off with any extensive healing, don’t want to overwhelm anything. The lyrium potion, and the renewal I spelled on his forehead should sustain the Professor for now. He needs rest to let everything shift back into place. Just, keep an eye on him. Let him sleep. Ask Felice if you need anything. She’s not as scary as she looks. And if his condition changes drastically, come and fetch me.”

Felice was, in fact, much scarier than she looked, and informed Lucanis, after helping him bundle the magister into bed, that she would happily murder him if he dared wake Dorian before tomorrow. 

“Her exact words were ‘It will be so clean and so sudden that it will put the house of Dellamorte to shame’,” the Crow told Rook. 

“Is she an assassin?” she asked incredulously. 

“She was a slave at a tavern  before Dorian freed her. Her job was to appease unhappy customers. She brought us blankets, and raided the kitchen for some fruit,” he showed her the small bowl of fresh produce

“I can live with that,” Rook said, noting with pleasure the prickly top of a pineapple sticking out among them.. “Where’s Manfred?”

Lucanis looked pensive. “He is out in the gardens tending to Dorian’s neglected flowerbeds. I think he finds them comforting. He would not come in, not even for Spite.”

Well, it wasn’t like he could catch a cold in the rain, but he would definitely get muddy.

“I should go out and get him.”

“Why? So he can pace around in here and wake up Emmrich? He’s found something that relaxes him, Rook. He will come in when he is ready. We have done everything we can. Now is the hard part. Now comes the waiting.”

Waiting was not something Rook was good at. She wasn’t tired yet, so Lucanis slept first on a bed of blankets on the floor,  while she took the chair by the cot. She browsed the bookshelves for something to read and was surprised to find a copy of ‘All This Shit Is Weird,’ by Varric Tethras. It was a signed copy no less, ‘To Sparkler, you still owe me 50 crowns.’

It was fun, but a little dramatic, and Rook found her attention wavering from the pages to the room more often than not.

She was an hour in when she looked up and nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of Spite’s violet light shining out of Lucanis’s eyes.

The spirit frowned, “You are doing it. Wrong.”

She blinked, “What?”

“Read. It. Aloud.”

“Oh! Um…” Rook fumbled with the book for a moment, and Spite watched her expectantly. 

“…‘quite a lot of snow, isn’t it?’ Said our intrepid leader with all the enthusiasm of a mabari with a bone. The mage was not so amused. ‘Mountains!’ He sneered, ‘Cold! Let’s bring Dorian!’...”

“No! Do. The voices.”

Rook sighed, “I’m not good at voices, Spite. Not like Emmrich.”

Spite narrowed his eyes, “I helped.”

He had. Under the small heap of blankets the handprint was still there against the mage’s pale skin. Undeniable proof that the spirit was not dismissable as just a demon. 

“Yes,” she said thickly, “You helped. You really did. Thank you, Spite.”

Spite grunted in satisfaction, “Voices.”

Rook sighed, cleared her throat, and then put on her best Altus imitation.

“… ’Mountains!’ He sneered ‘Cold! LEt’s BriNg DOriAn!’…”

It must have been acceptable, because Spite watched her like a cat with a mouse as the hours of the night trickled into the morning. 

The gaze grew from unnerving, to comforting. Having the demon’s company was preferable to being alone with her thoughts. In her comfort she slumped down more casually in the chair, kicked off her boots, and slung one of her legs over Emmrich’s. 

That way, she felt it when he suddenly shifted.

“…’Cole, you should be careful dancing around with those daggers when I'm throwing fire.’ Dorian cautioned. But the spirit was as unbothered as a summer breeze. ‘It won't hurt me. It's friendly fire’…”

She stopped and Spite growled, the parts with Cole were his favorite, but she ignored him. 

She’d felt Emmrich roll onto his side. He was watching her, but he seemed hazy, not fully cognizant. The lids of his eyes still drooped with sleep. 

“Hello, Amatus,” she leaned forward on the edge of the chair until she could rest her arms on the bed. 

Emmrich’s hand fumbled under his pillow. 

“Cole?” he whispered. 

Rook nodded, “I think he’s real. Hard to tell sometimes from Varric’s writing. He seems a lot like Manfred. When this is all over we should meet him.”

She’d expected maybe a little interest, but if anything Emmrich’s expression seemed to fall. 

He dragged his hand out from under the pillow. 

It was clutched around something. 

An unexpected tear rolled down his cheek and hit the bed. 

Oh shit. 

“Emmrich…”

She pried open his fingers and found the bones Manfred had left there.

“…saw him fall,” the mage mumbled. 

“Emmrich, Manfred is fine.” she curled his fingers back over the bones, and he held them listlessly. It was like he couldn’t understand what she was saying. “He made it to the lighthouse. That’s how we found you. Spite, can you go get Manfred?”

“Curiosity will not come.”

Kaffas!

“Stay with Emmrich,” she moved to leave. 

The Necromancer’s hand struck like a viper, wrapping around her wrist, the finger bones trapped between them, digging into her skin. 

He clung to it, his eyes tight closed as though hanging from the edge of a cliff.

Rook froze. She didn’t know what to do. She felt young, and stupid and thick-headed from tiredness. She needed Emmrich. Almost from the beginning of this adventure she started to rely on him. But he was in pieces on the bed and even his own fear wouldn’t let him rest when he needed it most. And the only other person who could help him was wandering outside in the rain like a ghoul.

‘Don’t freeze up on me, kid.’

Lucanis startled her by taking the book from her hand. Spite was gone, leaving the perpetually tired assassin in his place. 

The Crow perched himself on the edge of the cot and started to read. 

He didn’t do the voices, but Rook and Emmrich listened until the grip on her arm loosened with sleep, leaving the finger bones embedded in her skin.

------

Rook slept too. At some point Lucanis pressed a cup of Cioccolata Calda into her hands, and then pushed her onto the bed he’d made up on the floor. She remembered feeling the press of the hard tile under the soft wool and then nothing. 

She’d never had a hard time sleeping in unusual circumstances. Charon Mercar always joked that because he’d found her on a battlefield she could sleep like a legionnaire; anytime, anywhere, and ready at a moment’s notice. 

“Careful,” said a soft voice nearby, far enough away she could tell it wasn’t speaking to her. “Take it slow, easy. There is no need to push yourself. Safe. Stay.”

There was light coming through the windows, accompanying the soft patter of continued rain. She felt like she’d been infused with lead. Every limb was comfortable and heavy with sleep. She couldn’t even feel the hand squashed under her cheek. 

There was a dry, croaking sound. Manfred?

She turned her head and saw three pairs of boots.  One set was her own discarded on the floor. Another was polished black, and tooled in such a way that the soles were nearly silent; Lucanis. 

The third set was crumpled, empty, covered in dried muck and in need of a cleaning. 

Manfred was not in the room. 

Rook sat up.

Lucanis was in the chair, his eyes big and brown as he looked down at the cot with concern.

Rook’s mind snapped the pieces together.

Emmrich was awake. 

“Maker!” She scrambled to her feet before sleep had fully left her. 

The swelling had gone down a little over Emmrich’s shiner, and both his eyes were open and beautifully clear. They shone with comprehension, with intelligence. Emmrich was awake!

“He’s alright,” Lucanis reassured. “Just a little confused, yes?”

That was one word for it. Emmrich gripped the edges of the cot with white knuckled hands.  He’d gotten one elbow beneath him before Lucanis had placed a hand on his chest to stop him, and now it trembled with the effort of holding himself up. He didn’t seem keen on lying flat again. His brows were twisted in complete consternation. His mouth was ajar with all the questions he couldn’t voice. His eyes flicked around the room, taking in the rich Tevinter furnishings, and the shelves weighed down by books and paraphernalia.

Then he saw Rook and just like that, all the effort he’d been putting into flight drained away. 

She caught him before he fell back on the bed, and his arms wrapped tightly around her again.

“Rook,” His voice cracked, like it was bleeding. “Rook, Rook, Darling.”

She nearly broke on the last word. She didn’t realize she’d been missing it like a heart until it was put beating back into her chest. 

“I’m here,” she said against his skin and kissed the line of his jaw to prove it. She was going to kiss Dorian Pavus too, right on both of his smug cheeks. “Can’t be rid of me, Amatus.”

Emmrich laughed. She felt him laugh, a nearly silent explosion of air that echoed in her chest and breezed past her face as he kissed her cheek, her hair, all the way to the tip of her ear like he couldn’t bear to stop touching her. 

Then the crude iron cuff that still circled his wrist caught on her skin and he froze. 

When he didn’t move she caught his hand and brought it to her face. She’d seen his wrists at the burial chamber when she’d examined the locks. She’d seen they were in a state, but there had been no time to stop and really consider them. She’d been worried about his life, and then about letting him rest. 

Now she looked at them, and saw again that they were raw and scabbed. Some of the wounds were deep, even partially healed. It would have taken a lot of repeated fighting to make them like that in a short amount of time. 

His eyes were closed again, as though he could ignore them out of existence. Or because he didn’t want to see her reaction to them. Rook decided right then and there that they were coming off. She kissed his battered knuckles before reaching into her belt and taking out the last vial of acid. She maneuvered in his arms so that her back was to his front. 

He wasn’t shaking like he’d been yesterday, just a light tremor. She brought his arm around and wrapped his hand over her thigh until his fingers gripped the material there and steadied themselves. Then she took one of the fine wool blankets and wrapped it as closely around the cuff as she could, gently tucking the edges in and wincing as Emmrich hissed, making sure that every inch of skin nearby was covered. 

She sensed him open his eyes and watch her, intrigued despite himself. 

“You’re from Nevarra, Emmrich,” she reminded him, and with more focus than she’d ever given anything in her life, she unstopped the little bottle and let tiny drops fall into the soldered lock on the cuff. “There are no slaves in Nevarra.”

His face settled on her shoulder, and she felt tears soaking into her tunic that he couldn’t afford to lose. 

It took a little time, because she was unwilling to risk spilling any of the liquid on Emmrich’s already shredded wrists. But there was no hurry. She let herself absorb the warm intimacy of the room listening to the rain on the windows. Every movement was unhurried and precise as she put to use the most valuable skill the Shadow Dragons had ever taught her. She felt him relax, absorbing the air of practiced calm. 

Finally, when she felt enough of the iron had drifted away on the air, she handed the bottle to Lucanis, took both ends of the cuff, and wiggled it. It came apart with a sharp snap, and another hiss of breath from the necromancer. 

Rook let the terrible thing drop off the side of the bed and returned Emmrich’s arm to him. He promptly wrapped it around her waist and watched as she took his other wrist and repeated the process. 

“That’s better,” Rook said, letting the second cuff thunk to the floor. She took both his hands in her own and turned them gently this way and that. He let her, content to sit draped over her with his chin on her shoulder. 

His wrists looked almost worse with the shackles gone. She could clearly see they were swollen, and removing the cuffs had caused them to start sluggishly bleeding in a few of the deeper cuts. In one terrible place she thought she might see the white of bone. 

Lucanis broke their odd, horrified peace. Returning from somewhere with a silver pitcher and three crystal cups on a tray. 

“Now, we know you are curious, Emmrich,” said the Crow sitting back down on the chair. “But also thirsty. So why don’t we all have a drink, and we will explain.”

He made a performance of lifting the pitcher several inches above the cups and pouring the water into them in a visible cascade, somehow managing not to spill a drop in the process. It was a lure, an invitation, and even Rook felt thirsty watching it after not really caring for herself yesterday. She couldn’t imagine the effect it was having on Emmrich. She shifted slightly to the side, so that he would have more room to move. 

“I admit that I am immune to a lot of poisons as that was part of my training.” Lucanis said as he offered a choice of cup first to Rook, and then to Emmrich, keeping the last for himself. “But two things I am not immune to are magebane, and Bellara’s cooking. But we will keep that last one between ourselves. It would not do to have my weaknesses spread among the other Houses of Treviso.”

He took a long drink from his cup and paused theatrically. After a moment he gave a satisfied sigh and set it down again. “No. It is safe.”

Rook hurried to follow suit but her performance was not needed. With only a moment of hesitation Emmrich raised the cup to his lips, sloshing a little because of the unaccustomed weightlessness and overcorrection of his wrist. 

He took a drink, carefully swallowed, and lowered the cup quickly like it was a weight. 

“Thank you,” he said, and his voice hissed like a burning field that someone had finally doused with water. The relief was palpable. He gestured indicating the pitcher and the cups. “But not necessary.”

Rook watched him deliberately raise the cup again and take another drink with only the finest shiver of his hand. She wanted to give him a medal. 

“It is not a problem,” Lucanis said. “Sometimes you must be shown you are safe, not just told. How do you feel?”

“Alive,” Emmrich said incredulously. He drained the cup and Lucanis refilled it. 

“Go slowly,” the Crow cautioned, amused and pleased that his ploy had worked too well. “Ask your questions.”

“This is not the Necropolis.”

Lucanis shook his head. “No, we did not make it to the Necropolis.”

“Where then?”

“What do you remember?”

Emmrich furrowed his brow trying to recall.

“The chamber, that terrible man, the maligned bodies,” He went a little too far back into the darkness. The cup trembled and Rook captured his hand. “You were there.”

“We found you,” she supplied. “We got you out.”

He nodded, fixing that fact in his mind. 

“I shattered an Eluvian?”

“Mhmm,” Lucanis agreed. “Very impressive. But you took a turn for the worse."

“You were very sick,” Rook added, and his eyes flicked to her, regret in their depths at having worried her so. As if that mattered. “We didn’t have time to take you to the Necropolis. So we came here for help.”

Emmrich took in the room again.

“A necromancer?” he asked, looking around warily, noting the skulls dotted throughout the room. 

Rook snorted. 

He blinked, “What?” 

“Just...I never thought you’d ever sound so Ferelden using that word.”

He huffed and took another drink, “So gratifying to amuse.”

“Well, this is going to amuse you more,” Rook said. “Our best option just happened to be Dorian Pavus.”

Emmrich sprayed a mouthful of water. 

Lucanis, with Spite’s reflexes, managed to shift out of the way, but the mage still looked mortified, coughing and covering his mouth with his hand. 

He handed the cup to Rook. 

“Young Pavus?” He choked. 

“Emmrich, he’s forty-one.”

He cleared his throat, which sounded more like a shovel-full of gravel in his current state, “What did he do?”

Rook tried to think which detail would be the most relevant and least distressing about the night’s excitement. “A…lot.”

“Show me?” He pleaded urgently. 

It might not have been the wisest course. They were sitting on what had almost been his deathbed. He was still using Rook for support just to sit up, and he was visibly tiring just from that.

But she knew all too well the feeling of being trapped by your own weakened body and he had been trapped enough already. 

So Rook helped him stand, and then crouch, examining the burned etchings around the cot. It was still surrounded by the assortment of candle holders, and Dorian’s staff leant haphazardly against the desk, its tip cracked and blackened.

Emmrich seemed torn between admiration at the creativity of the spellwork, and horror at Dorian’s sheer disregard for protocol. 

He kept saying things like: “The intricate latticework of the sigils compensates for the complete lack of space in the chamber's resonance. Remarkable.”

And:

“See here, he cut the need for multiple spellcasters by disregarding the full flux of the Fade’s energies, but that left it dangerously susceptible to time distortion. He risked interminable damage to this corner of the continuum.”

But his biggest reaction came when he found the severed remains of the little silken cord that Dorian had used to tie their hands together. Supporting him as he knelt, Rook was more preoccupied with how long his strength might hold out under his enthusiasm and outrage. It took a long moment for her to realize that the mage had grown very still and had been examining the same little pieces of string for a few minutes.

He ran the longest fragment through his fingertips several times before he looked at her. 

“Did Pavus explain to you the level of risk your role in this involved?” He asked thickly, though it might have just been the amount of exertion he’d been putting on his nearly shattered voice. 

Rook blinked, at the time it had not honestly occurred to her. Dorian’s warnings of ‘perish,’ and ‘catastrophic,’ were secondary to Emmrich’s continued breathing.

“Was it more dangerous than dragging you into a battle with not one, but two blighted dragons?”

Emmrich’s mouth thinned, “Dearest, this is different…”

“I don’t see how.” Rook interrupted, not something she did to anyone, let alone Emmrich. She wanted to understand people, especially him. And generally the best way to do that was to listen. But she needed him to understand this. 

She pressed her hand against his chest. “Seems to me that the dragons in here are just as difficult a fight as the ones out there. And just as important.“

“I’m not talking about personal problems,” he said, voice a little more sharp. “I’m talking about you taking risks that are not in the course of saving the world.”

“Emmrich,” Rook said and leaned close until their foreheads clunked softly together. She had an advantage here and she used it, looking into his eyes grown dark with emotion. “You are the world.”

She watched his grand mind slow to a halt as it usually did when he was presented with evidence that she loved him. 

When he kissed her this time it was as though he could hardly bear to touch her at all. So she wove her fingers into his hair and made up the difference.

Chapter Text

“Alright,” said Lucanis. “That’s enough of that.” 

Rook jumped back from the necromancer, tucking her hands behind her, “What?”

“We weren’t doing anything,” Emmrich rasped innocently, but the spots of color on his otherwise ghostly face said different. 

Lucanis’s expression was the picture of long-suffering sainthood, “No? Then what is that you are hiding there, Rook?”

She shifted, and wished that Varric had schooled her better at Wicked Grace like he’d promised. 

“...I always hold my hands like this.”

“Do you?”

“Ask Neve.” 

Lucanis sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Neve is not here. I am here. And I think that I have been very patient with you both.”

Rook softened at once, feeling her heart overflow with gratitude, “Of course, Lucanis. Without you I wouldn’t have been able to–”

The Crow cut her off, “I am not talking about the last two days. Running around Minrathous, killing Venatori, infiltrating a secret lab. That is all fine. A contract is a contract. I am talking about the last hour .” 

He turned to the mage, “I understand that you are feeling agitated, Emmrich, after everything you have been through. Believe me, I know.”

He pointed at the elf, “And you are so relieved to have him safe you want to do anything you can to make him happy. I understand.”

The Crow took a deep, calming breath, reached behind her, and took ‘Siegfried Fisk’s Guide to Astral Fade Phenomenon,’ out of her hands. “But if you give him one more book I am going to burn down this library.”

Emmrich looked horrified. 

“It’s only a small one,” Rook protested, trying to reach for the dusty tome. “Look, it’s half the size of the last one!”

“And the writing is only a third as big,” Lucanis shook his head, placing the book on top of two already confiscated volumes. “I am not fooled by your deceptively compact academic treaties. You said a short look at Dorian’s spellwork. Half an hour later I have to help you haul his ass back into bed because he nearly passes out trying to get a closer look at the floor.”

“I’m right here.” 

“No more books,” Lucanis told Rook sternly. “No more research. Not until he has had more rest, something to eat, and been looked at by Pavus. He only just woke up. Mierda.”

Emmrich huffed, “I’m trying to understand what Dorian was attempting to do when he twisted the fifth line of scrollwork back into–”

“Ah, ah!” Lucanis held up a silencing finger. He glared. “No more. Take a nap.”

“That's rather rich coming from you,” said the mage peevishly. 

“And yet, I am still right,” the Crow said, and sat back down at the desk to recommence preparing the asparagus. It would have been easier to do in the kitchen. But after the second book confiscation, Felice had helped him move the operation to the study. It seemed they had reached an understanding. Possibly over the unhealthy habits of mages. Or the Risotto. 

Rook sat on the edge of the cot in resignation. Actually, it felt rather nice to sit down. 

The necromancer fretted, resting his head against her hip, “Thank you for trying, dearest. I don’t know how he can possibly be so insouciant about this.”

“Unbelievable,” she agreed, although she felt her own body calm a little seeing him finally lie still on the bed under threat to Dorian’s precious books. She wasn’t as bothered about the academics. It was magic, after all. And it had worked. And she didn’t precisely know what ‘insouciant’ meant. 

“I would like to know, In case Dorian overlooked something.”

“Absolutely,” she commiserated, even though, as she had already said, ‘Young Pavus’ was over forty, and an accomplished scholar in his own right. 

“I just want to check.”

“Yup,” because surely an exhausted, barely not-dead mage would see something the rest of them had missed. 

“I’ve already slept the better part of a day.”

“Being unconscious is not the same as sleeping. And you’ll sleep some more if you know what’s good for you,” interjected Lucanis, gesticulating a little too energetically with the paring knife. 

“Couldn’t possibly,” Emmrich grumbled.

Rook nodded in sympathy. She brushed her fingers over his scalp in the same way she had seen Davrin calm Assan. 

“Perhaps…perhaps if I just run it through my mind…a few times,” He murmured. 

“You could tell me about it,” she offered kindly, counting slowly back from ten in her mind. 

After a few minutes of peaceful silence it became clear he wasn’t going to. Not for a little while at least.  

“Thank you,” She said to Lucanis. 

Lucanis shook his head incredulously, “For the leader of a group of highly specialized and dangerous individuals trying to stop the end of the world, you are so soft.”

------

The rain had finally slowed. It only drizzled now in the warm afternoon light. For Rook it was as though the world had been transformed. Her chest felt lighter than it had in an age, before Nessus, before Solas, before any of this. It was like someone had given her back a handful of years. It was all due to the lump that moaned and emerged from under the blankets when she pecked him on the cheek. 

“Darling,” Emmrich complained, scrubbing at his face, pulling his mind from the mire of sleep. “I’m flattered that you can find me agreeable under any circumstance. But I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at her with amusement, but there was something else under it; a strong desire, almost a desperation. 

“I mean that I feel as if my skin is about to get up and crawl away without me.” He touched the growth on his face self-consciously. 

Oh. 

“I think there are other priorities,” she admitted. “Lucanis just told me to wake you, he’s bringing you something to eat.”

Rook’s happiness dimmed slightly as a new look crossed Emmrich’s face. Suddenly he was conflicted. It seemed the appetite that had been suppressed by his ordeal had returned with a vengeance just at the mention of food. 

She was very familiar with that burning, hollow-eyed, sallow-cheeked look. She’d seen it on dozens of faces as she helped the Shadow Dragons guide them through the catacombs of Minrathous. Seeing it on Emmrich made her want to return to the shipping district and ask him to reanimate some cooling bodies just so she could kill them again. 

But that wasn’t helpful to him.  

And he’d never agree anyway. 

“Food first,” Rook reassured. “Then Felice is going to fetch Dorian, and–”

He groaned. 

“Can’t that wait?” He pleaded. “I’m not going to fall apart, Rook.”

“According to Dorian you nearly did. He kept talking about yOU fitting together like pieces of a puzzle, and realigning vallances…”

“Valences.”

“That.”

“A vallance is decorative.”

“Good to know. You’re hurt, Emmrich.”

He sighed “I know you’re worried….”

“I can see bone in your wrist. It’s been exposed for days. Whatever protection the fade magic was giving you is gone. We can’t wait. We can’t do this the fast way.”

He scrubbed at his face again. 

“Dorian says we can’t heal you with magic until you can handle it. He needs to check.”

“Rook, I don’t care what Dorian says.”

“We need his help…”

“I need a bath! ” he snapped, running his hands through his bedraggled hair. His fingers were claws of tension. When they pulled free the hair had enough grime in it that it stayed in place. 

‘You’re not listening, kid.’

Rook paused. She extinguished the little flame of hurt and fear that licked at her insides, this wasn’t about her. Varric was right, and Emmrich’s reaction told her two things. 

One, If he could focus past even distracting hunger to feel this ill at ease about himself then he was feeling better, and that was good. 

Two, this was not a desire. This was a need. He wasn’t just filthy, he felt as though his skin was going to “crawl away.” The memories of the terrible places he’d been confined–the warehouse with its cells of packed people, and the burial chamber with the rotting bodies–were potent. If they were haunting her, what were they doing to him ? He needed to scrub away more than just dirt.

“Okay,” she said soft as cotton, as he took a settling breath. “I’m sorry, Amatus. What do you need first?”

He looked at her, “If Lucanis has already prepared a meal I wouldn’t want to waste his efforts.”

‘...always finish your plate. Always first to meals.’  

For the third time in as many minutes Rook fought down the need to stab someone. 

“Food first?” she said again, like a peace offering. “Then you can get clean?”

He nodded, relief slumping his shoulders and she resolved to do better. He shouldn’t have to waste his strength fighting against the people trying to help him.  

“Is there anything else you want? Anything at all?”

He considered a moment. 

“Yes,” he raised his head. “At the soonest opportunity we need to locate…”

He swallowed and started again, his voice like a physical weight he had to carry.

“We need to find Manfred’s remains.” 

The idea rebounded in her mind. It didn’t make sense. 

Because she’d told Emmrich already. She’d told him last night. 

Except he hadn’t heard, had he? And she’d been too tired to remember, until just now. She’d been too worried about him to think to check on Manfred either. 

The fingerbones sat in her pocket where she’d placed them in the early morning, weighing like stones. 

“Emmrich,” she said, and he listened in concern to her reaction. “Manfred is outside.”

He was perfectly still for a long moment, then he moved all at once, throwing the blankets aside, swinging his feet to the floor, gripping her arm to pull himself upright. 

She objected, even as she took his elbow and helped him to his feet. “Emmrich, you shouldn’t–”

He didn’t pause. This was not going to be a discussion, or a negotiation. He was going. She could help or not. 

She chose to help. 

“Where?!” he demanded. He took a step forward, barely allowing her time to duck under his arm and keep him from folding like a vellum scroll. She wasn’t sure that would have stopped him. 

“In the gardens,” she supplied, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

As they careened out into the hallway she realized she didn’t actually know the way to the gardens so she turned them left, trying to aim for down and to the back of the house. Why did magister’s always have to make their houses so big? What was the point of all this space for such a small family? Maybe to get away from each other?

Emmrich placed a hand on the wall for balance, he was running on adrenaline without the reserves to support it. 

‘Just hang on and make sure he doesn’t run into anything, kid.’

The stairs were more of a graceful fall with the mage sliding along the banister, but neither of them broke their necks.

‘Good job.’

“Manfred’s alright,” Rook told him, hoping to slow his momentum a little. It didn’t. 

“How did you find him?” 

“He found us,” she fought a smile at the expression on Emmrich’s face. It was the conflicted look of a parent watching their child dive off a high rock into a deep pool. “He found his way back to the Lighthouse.”

“Was he injured?”

“HIs arm came off. But I have it in my pack. And his fingers.”

She recognized a servant’s entrance and took it to a smaller, more practical hallway. It was easier to travel with empty walls to lean against and no decor to trip them up. 

“He came to get help, Emmrich. He’s the reason we found you.”

His face hardened and softened at the same time. It was something to do with the eyes and the jaw. 

They found themselves in what had once been a boot room, lined with benches and cupboards. It must have been very useful for the slaves and servants in Halward Pavus’s day. Now it was lined with weapons, packs and baskets of supplies, ready for the more revolutionary ideas of his son. It had two entrances. One that led to the street, and another with a glass window, displaying the green of the gardens just outside.

It was unlocked and they emerged into a golden afternoon, warmth peeked out through the clouds and the still dripping rain. 

Dorian’s garden’s weren’t just neglected, they had taken a beating. The tiles of the courtyard had been flooded with soil and plant debris. The flower beds were pools of mud from which the flora waved feebly for help. 

It was only when her foot squelched several inches into the swampy lawn that Rook realized both of them were barefoot, and Emmrich was only wearing the loose Tevinter shirt and trousers they’d slipped him into the night before. 

The necromancer failed to notice completely, releasing her and taking a few steps further into the ankle deep mud. He scanned the dense bushes, the high walls, and the towering trees covered in vines and moss. 

“I don’t see him,” Rook muttered. Even if Manfred had left some sort of trail it would have been washed away in the rain. 

Emmrich took a deep breath. 

“MANFRED!”

Rook jumped. 

There was no answer, just the murmur of the city beyond the walls, and a yowl from a disturbed cat that had been sunning itself nearby. 

“What is he doing out here?” the necromancer muttered more to himself than to her.

“He came out here after we started Dorian’s spellwork. It was too dangerous for him.”

He took another breath and shouted, his still healing voice splitting on the word. 

“MANFRED?”

They turned at the sudden jingling of armor as a man wearing the livery of House Pavus came jogging around the corner holding a drawn sword. 

“What’s going on? Is everything alright?” he asked, apparently recognizing them and lowering the weapon. 

Emmrich, who had drawn back at the sight of the guard, summoned as much dignity as he could while wearing ill-fitting clothes and ankle deep in muck. It must have been something he had practiced before, because the effect was quite notable. As he drew himself up, he was every inch the authoritative Mourn Watcher, and the guard straightened subconsciously.

”My ward is missing.” 

Fasta Vass,” the man said. Turning his head to look. “How old is the boy? Has he been out here long?”

“All night,” Rook admitted guiltily.

“I’ll get some help.”

“He’s a skeleton,” she clarified.

“He’s a spirit of curiosity,” the mage corrected and started marching off into the garden, stumbling until she caught him under the arm again. “And he’s probably very nervous.”

The man blinked, then recovered. “...right…I’ll just…I’ll just get some help.” He hurried away.

The gardens were not that big, but their path was uncoordinated, trailing vaguely in the direction they felt Manfred might have gone. 

At one point something hissed from a tree but it was only the cat they’d disturbed earlier. 

“Venhedis.” 

The cats of Minrathous were familiar with all the swear words, and it hissed again at Rook, deeply offended. 

“My dear, now is not the time for picking fights.” 

They stopped at a little pond of fish that had broken its banks and flooded into the surrounding fig trees. The colorful creatures swam in and out of a dark forest of roots. They were engaging, and she could see them holding Manfred’s attention, but there was no sign of him. 

Emmrich leaned against one of the trees to catch his breath. 

'He really shouldn’t be out here, kid. Not yet.'

“There’s something wrong, Rook,” the necromancer interrupted her thoughts. “Manfred can barely be persuaded to leave my side at times, let alone fail to respond if I call for him. Something must have happened.”

Oh how perceptive he was, and how sometimes, she wished he wasn’t. 

“He hasn’t been himself,” she admitted. 

“Since the Crossroads, I imagine not,” Emmrich’s face softened and hardened again. “I saw him fall, Rook.” 

She was as silent as the garden.

His fingers rubbed idly at one of the smallest branches of the tree. A tiny twig just showing new growth. 

“That’s not why, Emmrich.”

She went on before the pain in his face could stop her. 

“He came with us through the Eluvian in the warehouse. When we brought you out he wouldn’t go near you. He’s been keeping his distance from you since we found you.”

In her periphery she could see the necromancer raise a hand to his face. 

“Dorian said it was because of—”

“The wisps,” he finished. 

“Yeah.”

“Of course.”

He took a few breaths as though preparing to cast. When he spoke again it was in the measured tones of a lecture hall. 

“Spirits are often confused by death. Especially when it is one of their own. Manfred would have been able to feel it. So many spirits, and so deeply infused into the spell, into me. It must have been overwhelming. How could he possibly have recognised me under so much dark, convoluted magic? He must have been so frightened.”

She approached him carefully. 

“Emmrich, it wasn’t your fault. You aren’t responsible for those deaths. Anymore than we were responsible for the suffering of the spirits you freed in Blackthorne manor.”

“I know,” he said quickly. 

“You weren’t given a choice.”

“I know that,” he said again. “I know, Rook. I endeavoured to stop it. Every time I–”

His hand tightened on the little branch as though to snap it. But he didn’t, because of course he didn’t. He carefully removed his hand from it. 

“I learned to stop it,” he told her. “I was in the very heart of that spell. I learned its intricacies. After a time I discovered how I could halt it, hold it indefinitely until they grew…frustrated.”

To her dismay he began to absently rub along his wrists. She caught his hands and he looked at her. 

“It didn’t matter, Rook. The wisps came anyway, as is their nature. I could feel them. They heard me. The poor things. And I couldn’t stop them.”

She understood. She’d felt the heart-curdling grief during Dorian’s ritual. He had been used to destroy the little helpers of the Mourn Watch because they answered his cries. And he had felt them. When Emmrich connected to spirits of the fade he felt the desires and emotions they carried. He’d felt them snuffed out. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t his fault. It still affected him, just like it had affected Manfred. 

He stared hollowly at the fish as he spoke. 

“As a Mourn Watcher, how am I to explain that betrayal to Manfred? To the spirits I’m meant to protect? What sort of mark has this left on me? Can they sense anything beyond the bad–”

“NO!”

They turned as one at the sharply hissed word. 

Against the wall, just beyond the fig trees, stood a little stand of rose bushes. They were completely overgrown. The whole arrangement gave an air of neglect that bordered on distaste, as though Dorian had deliberately ignored it. Perhaps some bad memories. But the result was an excellent, concealing little fortress. 

“Not bad!” came the voice again. 

Emmrich pushed away from the fig tree and went to stand in front of the bushes. 

“Manfred?”

The bush was very quiet. 

“Are you alright?”

The bush rustled with an inquiring hisssssss .

“Rook said you dislocated your arm.”

“...yes.”

Encouraged, the necromancer lowered himself to a crouch.

“Would you care to come out and show me?”

There was a whole series of distressed hisses that reminded Rook of a teakettle again.

The necromancer’s face fell. 

“Of course you were afraid. You have every right to be afraid. Death is a frightening prospect, Manfred.”

A sad little croak.

“Well you have rather more to lose now, don’t you? You can do so many more things now.”

“Yes! Speak! Fire!”

“Yes,” he agreed.

There was silence for a moment, then a little cry, like something in pain. 

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Emmrich said thickly. “I’m sorry I did that. It wasn’t my choice, Manfred.”

The bush rattled and the wisp emerged. He was scratched and muddy from the knees and elbows down. He had mud on his face like a Dalish child playing at having a Vallaslin. Greenery stuck between his bones and inside his ribcage. 

“Not bad!” he declared. 

The mage settled back on his heels.

“You heard us speaking.”
“Yes!” The wisp walked up to him and poked him in the chest. “Not bad!”

Emmrich rubbed the spot tenderly. “I know I'm not. But I am so very sorry.”

Manfred made a soothing noise. He rattled forward and carefully wrapped his bony arm around the mage’s head, pressing his face against his ribcage. He was heedless of the leaves and twigs sticking out of him. Emmrich had to gently brush a few of them away from his eyes and mouth before returning the embrace. 

“Mourn Watch,” the wisp said firmly. 

Rook sniffed, and felt that it wasn’t entirely necessary for the sunlight to reflect her own feelings back at her quite so ardently. 

"Have you been playing in the the horticulture all night, Manfred?"

An excited hiss.

“Rook says you found your way through the Crossroads."

The wisp stepped back. 

“Manfred gone!” he said, very upset. 

The mage frowned, “What do you mean?”

Manfred explained at length, hissing and interjecting with everything except coherent words, including sound effects. 

Emmrich sighed, “Oh, I see. My dear, that was not your fault. You didn’t go anywhere. You fell. They hurt you.”

“Emm-rich, gone!” the wisp insisted. 

“You could not have stopped them, Manfred. You did exactly the right thing. You brought Rook to me. What a brave spirit you are.”

“Me?”

“Yes, indeed.”

A pleased hiss.

Rook picked up the sound of approaching footsteps, raised voices, and the slosh of mud underfoot.

“Emmrich,” she said. “I think our search party is finally here.”

The necromancer sighed and pushed himself to his feet. 

“Well, somewhat lacking in promptness,” he said and wavered. 

And then his legs gave out.

“Prompt!” repeated Manfred in alarm. 

------

“Maker’s patience,” said Dorian Pavus, clapping a glowing hand on Emmrich’s forehead. “What did you think you were doing?”
The older mage sulked at finding himself once again back on the cot in the study. 

“Fulfilling my duties as a member of the Mourn Watch.”

“Don’t give me that,” Dorian muttered, most of his attention on reading the spell. “Your wisp is a personal business. And last I heard it's not in the tenets of the Mourn Watch to decorate a magister’s garden wearing nothing but your small clothes. At least the ground was soft.”

“First, I was not in small clothes. Second, his name is Manfred. And third, what did you think you were doing folding the fifth line of scrollwork back into the matrices like that? Without proper closing of the inversion?”

“Saving your life, that’s what. No time for formalities.” Dorian held the spell for a minute longer, then ended it with a sigh. “No serious damage done. But you’ve put a strain on your whole system. Intensive magic is out of the question, until it’s sorted itself. I’d better do those wrists manually. What were you thinking?”

“It was important.”

“Ah! Of course, the gravest of emergencies, because Manfred is a vicious demon that was about to kill us all and not a mild mannered wisp that you’ve given the ability to prepare tea. Or perhaps my mother’s roses were going to eat him alive.”

“Me!” Manfred crowed. He was seated in one of the chairs, watching Emmrich with rapt devotion.

“Please, don’t be flippant, Dorian. I wasn’t traipsing about!”

“Your flippancy towards your own condition is going to kill you, Professor . You were half-dead for three days. Literally, not figuratively. You are recovering from mana exhaustion, magebane poisoning, and a whole host of other ills. If you have any respect for the fundamentals that you taught me yourself, you will rest.”

Lucanis cleared his throat. 

“And eat something,” Pavus added. 

“I’ll go,” the Crow said and disappeared. The fate of the Risotto was unknown. 

Rook shifted and Dorian’s eyes snapped on her like a trap. 

“Mercar, do you remember when I said ‘magister’ is just a title?”

“Yup.”

“I lied. It means I’m in charge. Professor Volkarin is a sick man and is not to be played with.”

Emmrich sputtered and started to push himself up off the cot. Dorian pushed him back down without taking his eyes off Rook. 

“Okay.”

The magister got up to fetch something from the desk and Emmrich looked miserable which reminded her of promises made. 

“Only…”

Pavus turned, his brows rose promptingly. 

“I thought an Altus would give his guests a chance to clean up before dinner?”

Dorian glanced at his patient and a look of chagrin came over his face. 

It was a sound play. Of all the people she knew, Dorian Pavus not only appreciated personal comfort the most, the rules of hospitality had probably been drilled into him as a small child. Whatever mother had cultivated those roses would have seen to it that her son was just as presentable. No wonder they were in such a state. She felt a touch of guilt as the younger mage returned to the cot, offering a hand up. 

“Of course. My apologies. Would you care to avail yourself, Professor? Or would you like to keep those mud samples you’ve collected?”

Emmrich sighed and relaxed. He clasped Dorian’s hand. “I would be most grateful.”

Chapter Text

Bathing in Ferelden was a chore. 

Bathing in Tevinter was an indulgence. 

Even if you were relatively poor, you could usually find accommodation at one of the local bathhouses for just a few coppers worth of coin. 

Rook had once enjoyed a bath with oils that smelled of peach blossoms from Seheron, and with bubbles spelled to all different colors. That had taken a couple of gold. 

To date she had never seen how an Altus bathed. 

“Maker’s Holy Smalls,” she breathed. 

“What?” asked Dorian, straightening up from where he’d been fiddling with the taps. “Did you expect me to ask Felice to haul water up here with buckets?”

Rook, who loved life, would never dream of such a thing. 

Emmrich, who had not yet formally met Felice, apparently had. “Is that heated?”

The magister shot him a bemused look. “And here I thought the freezing baths in Nevarra were an eccentricity meant to encourage you to contemplate your unique relationships with death. Yes, it’s heated. And there is soap as well, just over there.”

By soap, Dorian apparently meant the extensive selection of fancy bottles to the left. Rook spotted the familiar style of bottle that held Seheron Peach Blossoms and wondered how hard it would be to persuade Emmrich to try it. 

But Volkarin was still stuck on the idea of steaming water blasting out of the faucet into a solid marble tub. The whole room was accentuated with marble, with nine pillars sunk into the walls, and frescoes depicting Horses frolicking in a foam white sea.

“Rook, you know how that all works.”  Dorian said, gesturing carelessly at the modern magical marvel that was indoor Tevinter plumbing. “I’ll return in a while.”

He paused at the door and fixed them both with a look, “Please note that I didn't say go outside and have a mudbath first.”

“Dorian!” Emmrich barked. 

The younger mage scurried from the room. 

Bathing in Tevinter was also a much more public affair than in some other countries in Thedas. When she started traveling with Varric, Rook had learned to accommodate other’s need for more privacy. It was certainly true for Nevarra, and she wanted to give Emmrich a chance to regain some of the privacy that had been lost to him in the past week. So without asking she shut off the water, turned her back, and began messing with the bottles of soaps and oils. 

“This peach one is good,” she said, all innocence, listening in case the sounds of shuffling and rustling turned into the sounds of falling. Dorian would kill her if that happened again. 

“Oh?”

“I tried it once. Nice. It’s pretty fragrant though.”

“Are you picking a soap for me, Darling?”

“Would you like me to?”

“Maybe something a bit more subtle?”

Regretfully she set aside the peach and found a few that she thought were more suited to Emmrich’s taste. She was just debating between a sandalwood from Vyrantium, and something that smelled a little more of green and growing things when she heard a yelp and a splash. 

She spun around, ready for Ghilan’nain herself. But the necromancer was seated in the water, with a sheepish look and a brush of color across his cheeks. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted, which told her he was decidedly not. But she took care not to rush over, picking up both bottles and taking a seat on the intricate marble bench beside the tub. 

She saw the culprit almost at once. Along with a layer of grime, several tendrils of pink trailed into the water, from his wrists and a few other wounds. Most of them were partially healed, either through time, or perhaps as a side effect of the combination of fade and spirit magic. But one of them was significantly worse. Its scabbed edges had reopened, a gash along his left side that he covered with his hand. 

“The effect of the temperature took me by surprise,” he said. Which Rook thought was a pretty dismissive way of saying ‘Vishante kaffas, that scalding water really hurt!’ or any variation thereof. 

A wound like that should have been treated when he got it. Not just with a quick bandage and some salve. It warranted healing, or at the least stitches. Even if you were a prisoner. Especially if you wanted someone to be kept alive. 

It was large enough, and healed enough that he must have gotten it in the fight in the Crossroads. It was probably the blow that had dropped him. 

“Rook…Rook, Darling.”

A wet hand closed over her own grip on the neck of one of the bottles.

She looked up to see Emmrich watching her closely. 

“I’m alright, Rook.”

He wasn’t. The clarifying lights in the bathroom accentuated the bruises that littered his face and his torso. They were becoming more colorful as they healed and she could see the reasons why he had been moving so carefully. Someone’s boot had connected with his ribs. Someone’s fists had been driven into his stomach. There were fingerprints everywhere, on his arms, on his neck. The swelling had gone down over his eye, but that didn’t stop half of his face from looking like it would burst into a glorious sunrise. 

He wasn’t alright. 

But he would be. 

She crafted a reassuring smile and offered him the second bottle that smelled of moss, and the cyprus trees that grew in Ventus. 

“I think this one has some elfroot. Give that a try.” It would probably be better if the bath had some to help disinfect. 

His hand lingered on her own as he took the bottle but he gratefully let the subject drop for now. 

“You like this one?” he asked, measuring some out and rubbing it into his skin with a cloth. 

Rook felt her own face coloring a little, and it was not just because of the man in the tub. 

“It smells like Ventus,” she told him. 

“You told me that’s where you’re from,” Emmrich said, attacking his other arm with the cloth. The water grew progressively grey, and Rook realized with some surprise that the necromancer’s skin was actually a shade paler than she’d remembered. 

“I grew up there,” she took the open bottle and smelled it again. “There was a line of Cyprus trees on the road to our house, and some woods in the back. I spent a lot of time climbing there.”

Emmrich smiled, “Did young Rook perhaps indulge in the fantasy of being a Dalish elf?”

She shook her head, “No. At the time I hated being an elf. I wanted to be like my family. Most of our neighbors knew me, and they were alright. But if we went out then the best I could hope for was to be overlooked.”

Emmrich nodded. He started to reach for his back, but paused at the pull it caused to his side. 

On impulse, because she had bathed publicly before, and because she didn’t want to see him hurt, Rook reached for the cloth to help. She barely had the presence of mind to pause and ask, “May I?”

He gave in, leaning forward to give her access. 

Compared to his front and sides, his back was relatively untouched. Apparently the Venatori only enjoyed tormenting him to his face. 

Rook added some more of the soap to the cloth and scrubbed in circles, trying to be gentle, but firm enough to clean the stubborn dirt. 

“I think I can relate,” Emmrich said. “Being in a different social class from most of my peers at the Necropolis was much harder when I was young. Children can be so cruel.”

“And some never seem to grow up into adults, do they?”

“Indeed not.”

She paused scrubbing his shoulders as the necromancer twitched. 

“I’m sorry, did that hurt?”

He shook his head quickly. “Forgive me, no. With my height…the position I was in…there’s some tension.“

Oh. Well. 

Rook set aside the cloth and dug her thumbs into the hard knot of muscle there.

Emmrich groaned. 

She smiled, “Alright?”

He nodded, head falling forward in bliss as she continued.

“Can I ask you a question, and if you don’t want to answer…”

“My dear,” the mage moaned. “Right now you could ask me anything.”

Rook’s fingers tingled against the feel of his warm skin and the acrid soap. It took her a moment to remember the question, or why it had seemed important. 

“How did your corpse whispering manifest? You said it was after you were orphaned.”

The question seemed to sink past the hazy comfort he was falling into. 

“…the period between my parent’s death and being taken in by the Mourn Watch was very lonely and confusing.”

Rook felt the muscle give way. She moved to a new spot. The poor man had as many knots as a tree. 

“Our district council was speaking for me. I lived temporarily with our neighbours as they decided what to do with me. It was not a wealthy quarter,, no one could really afford an extra mouth to feed in the long run—Maker, Rook. Would you be kind enough to move a little to the left?”

She did, and the sound he made would have gotten them thrown out of a chantry. His hands braced against the sides of the tub. 

“Long run?” She prompted. 

“…yes. No one had any reassurances for me at the time. My only consolations were the neighbour’s pig, Lucy, and visiting my parent’s temporary graves at the cemetery.”

“You spoke to your parents?” She was surprised, and then not. It was an obvious solution. 

But he shook his head. It sagged as he relaxed, lolling with the motions of her hands on his back. 

“In my mind my parents were gone, you see. Even if I had control of my magic I wouldn’t have expected them to answer. I spoke to their graves, but I began to see spirits about the yard and spoke to them as well. I didn’t realise what I was doing until one of them led me back to the skull they were attached to.“

So the spirits had found a lonely little boy and began to talk to him. Rook’s heart softened until it was so much mush. 

“Were you afraid?”

He was nearly boneless, almost falling forward into the tub. Rook pulled him back with a grin. She’d never seen him this pliable before. 

“No. My fears had already become more abstract by that point. I didn’t fear the spirits. I feared what surrounded them.”

He meant death, its trappings, and the complete lack of control he must have felt over his fate in a suddenly hostile world. No wonder he’d said the Mourn Watch saved him.

“I’ve never been afraid of what’s going to happen to me,” she admitted. “Everything has always felt a bit…temporary. I wasn’t really my parent’s child. I wasn’t really meant for any of the futures they planned for me, maybe I was already resigned to fate when Mercar found me.”

“I doubt they saw it that way,” Emmrich said warmly. “How did a human Tevinter family come to adopt an elven child?”

“My father found me on a battlefield,” she said plainly. It was the founding fact of her life, after all. 

Emmrich’s reaction was not as blatant as some other people’s had been. But there was still surprise in his eyes when he half turned to look at her. 

“That does explain, somewhat.”

“What?” she asked.  

“Your optimism in the face of hopeless opposition. Your lack of self-preservation,” he smiled at her. “You started at rock bottom, I suppose that is a good foundation for a life where all you can go is up.”

Face burning in earnest and with nowhere to hide it, she indulged in one long, sweet kiss to distract him.

She picked up the cloth again, wrung it out and grimaced at the filthy water that emerged. 

“Perhaps we should refill the tub.”

The necromancer readily agreed, and after pulling the plug turned the knobs himself until an agreeable temperature came pouring out. 

“The frivolous use of magic in Tevinter will never cease to amaze me.”

“We have a lot of mages,” Rook said, fetching a fresh cloth from a cupboard.

The tub refilled and she was relieved to see Emmrich luxuriate in it. The simple joys of being comfortable and clean seemed to take the edge off of the anxiety that had been gnawing at him all day.

“Who came from the Mourn Watch to fetch you as a child?” she asked as he lathered his hair with visible relief on his face. 

“Vorgoth.”

She hissed in a breath.

“The poor dear was most patient and kind. They have a very tender heart for our youngest members. But I don’t believe I uttered a word to them for at least a week.”

There was a knock on the door. 

Emmrich sighed and ducked under the water to rinse his hair before emerging, wiping at his eyes and reaching out blindly.

“Would you please, Rook?”

She handed him a towel. 

“Thank you, my love.”

The door opened a moment later, and Dorian entered, his arms loaded with supplies. 

“Ah,” he said in approval at the sight of Emmrich seated on the bench beside Rook, now clean and draped in towels. “I wondered if Rook had dragged a person in here or a druffalo.”

He offered Volkarin a small leather kit that unrolled to reveal a straight razor, a soft brush, and a funny little pair of scissors. 

“Hopefully that should resolve the matter,” Pavus said.

The older mage’s eyes were so full of gratitude that he didn’t even rise to the bait.

As Emmrich made use of them, with Rook’s assistance and amusement (the mirror would not hold itself and apparently the little scissors were just for shaping mustaches), Dorian set out the supplies on a beautifully carved, teak table that stood against the wall. 

There was a comfortable set of clothing more thoughtfully chosen than the loose things Volkarin had been wearing before. There was a bottle of some Tevinter wine so nice Rook had never heard of it and three glasses. There were clean cloths, rolls of bandages, a bottle of elfroot salve, a pair of tweezers, a curved needle, and strong thread on a spool. There was also a delicate looking little knife, and a bite stick. It was wrapped in leather and looked exactly like the ones Rook had seen used in her Father’s medical tents far too often when the Legion’s healers had run out of mana. 

Just as he had in those urgent hours last night during his ritual, Pavus caught her eye over Emmrich’s back. Once again his look was both instruction, and reassurance. 

This was going to be difficult. He needed her help. It would be alright. 

When he was finished shaving, Emmrich looked so much lighter and more himself that Rook felt bad for ever silently agreeing with Harding that a few days roughing it wouldn’t hurt him. His smile was at home on his smooth chin adorned with his neat mustache. If they survived all this she would make it her personal mission to make sure he never had to be without his brush and razor again. He shone with contentment. 

When Dorian handed them each a glass of the rich, plum-colored liquid, Emmrich’s eyes finally flicked to the table, and Rook saw the light crumble out of them like wet cake. 

“To your health,” Dorian said, pulled up a stool, and drank from his own glass. Rook sipped from hers. 

Emmrich downed his. 

He seated himself more comfortably facing the magister and offered his left arm, palm up. It was perfectly still. 

It did not remain so. 

Chapter Text

The morning Rook was found as a child, a full quarter of her father’s legion were brought wounded or dying from the battlefield.

Her tiny ears rang with the cries of injured soldiers long before she knew what the sounds meant.  

Now, with someone else’s cries echoing around her, she wished with all her heart for a return to that ignorance. 

“Dorian?” She pleaded, as the magister bent over his work. His face hardened with resolution. 

“Keep him still, Rook.” he answered, patiently. “It’s almost done.”

This felt a lot like betrayal. Because the truth was, if Emmrich really, really wanted to break free, they couldn’t stop him. The confining arm she wrapped around his chest was just a token. Pavus, clever bastard that he was, had realised something Rook had missed. She was the last person Emmrich would allow to come to harm by unleashing his unstable magic. She was the hostage for his self control  

They’d ended up on the floor, slumped against the tub, his body cradled between her bent knees. His left arm folded against his chest. 

“Do you hear that, Emmrich? Just a while longer.” 

She felt him nod. 

It wasn’t fair. They hadn’t counted on it being this bad. Emmrich made it through more than half a dozen stitches without flinching before Dorian exchanged the needle and thread for the knife. The soft bandages on his left wrist brushed against her own. They hid rows of black stitches that Pavus had already completed, wounds they had already cut into. 

Now Emmrich fought. A keening wail built in his throat and escaped past the stick lodged firmly between his teeth. 

His right hand flinched against the marble bench where Rook and Dorian held it, fingers grasping for escape. Pavus brushed them back. 

The magister had ensured the knife was almost sharp enough to whisper unfelt through the skin. It was the “finest edge Orzammar could produce.” But no one’s hand or eye were perfect enough for that. And the wounds were too messy, and too deep to clean easily.

After a few, long moments of Emmrich’s gasping sobs in her ears, Rook saw Dorian pause and dared to ask again. 

“Is it done?”

He shook his head and gently rotated Emmrich’s arm with her help.

“There’s dead tissue, Rook.”

“More?”

“Ghilan’nain’s spell disrupted the natural healing processes of the body. We have to do this. The professor agreed with me.”

It was true. Emmrich had grown pale, his hand had begun to shake, but he‘d told Rook that Dorian was correct. There was no point in closing the wounds until they were clean.

But stitching a wound was one thing. That could be handled, numbed with ice and elfroot salve. They had no way of helping Emmrich beyond that, not without magic, not without magebane, neither of which he could tolerate now. No healer worth their salt would approach an active mage with a knife like this. There were too many stories of patients accidentally setting their medics on fire.

But what choice did they have?

“It has to be removed, Rook. If I leave it, it will fester. And then, in two days time, when Emmrich is burning with fever and out of his mind we’ll do this all over again. He’ll probably boil our eyes in our skulls without meaning to. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“Then help him. Let me work,” Dorian implored.

He started again.

Rook closed her eyes. She didn’t dare look at Emmrich. She didn’t dare, or she would take that knife and stab Pavus through the leg with it. And Maevaris would never forgive her if she did.

Probably.

Instead she whispered into the shell of Volkarin’s ear. 

“Emmrich, he’s almost done.”

It was a lie. She was helping and betraying him in the same breath. 

“It's almost over, Sweetheart. And then you get to rest. You get to sleep, and eat, and read as many books as you want. I’ll lock us in the library for a week if that’s what you want.”

His head turned on her shoulder, listening.

“We can pack up the best books from the Lighthouse and take them to the Necropolis. We’ll make an expedition of it. We’ll take Harding, and we’ll go get you one of those potbellied pigs they have in the Hinterlands. You can call it Lucy II. Manfred would love it.”

Was it her imagination, or could she sense magic lurking beneath Emmrich’s skin like sheets of lightning?

“Just breathe, Emmrich–“

Rook heard an audible scrape as the knife in Dorian’s hands struck bone.

Emmrich gulped in a breath to scream. 

Rook broke. 

Anguish spiraled her mind into one thought. The same one she’d had on the streets of Minrathous just yesterday.

She wanted to be safe in the Lighthouse with Emmrich, with Varric. 

And suddenly, they were. 

------

They were propped up against one of the narrow elven beds, dressed in the leisurely clothes they usually wore around the Lighthouse. 

The familiar walls of the Infirmary greeted Rook, and a familiar voice as well 

“Kid? What happened?”

She noted Varric scooting off of his bed and coming closer, but her attention was on Emmrich. 

He was colorless and shaking like he’d fallen into meltwater. 

“Woah.”

The dwarf knelt with difficulty on the ground and tried to catch Emmrich’s eyes. 

“Easy, Watcher. You’re fine. Just fine. You need to breathe though.”

His thick hand caught Emmrich’s and pressed it against his own chest above the bandage.

“Breathe with me. Okay? Slowly,” Varric said and exaggerated the movement. 

Emmrich gasped for breath. 

“Good,” Varric said. “Try again. Deeper.”

The mage tried, his eyes pinching shut with the effort. 

“Varric?” Rook asked, staring at the walls. “What’s going on?”

“You tell me, Kid,” Varrric said, a wry smile on his face. “You’re the one who interrupted my nap. What happened to Spooks here?”

There was something wrong, but Rook couldn’t put her finger on it. She was too distracted by the wash of relief that flooded through her. Varric was right. Emmrich was fine. There was no trace of injury or hurt on him. Every hair was untouched. 

So why was she so worried? 

“I don’t know,” She said. 

“That's okay. Take a minute.”

The dwarf turned back to Emmrich. “How about you, Watcher. You okay?”

The mage peered at Varric. He shivered harder. 

“Shit,” the dwarf said. “Looks like shock. Get him up onto one of the beds, Rook.”

She did, bundling him into the one beside Varric’s. He curled up immediately, hugging his chest. Rook found a few blankets and covered him in all of them. 

“Is he gonna be okay?” She asked. 

“He’ll be fine, Kid. You got him here alright. He’s safe.”

Rook sat on the edge of Emmrich’s bed, her hand on his shoulder. 

Her legs felt like warm jelly. She was sweating. And her eyes burned. What had she done? Why did it feel like she was unraveling like a badly woven rug? 

“Gods, Varric. I don’t know what I'm doing.”

Varric sat on his own bed with a grunt. 

”I thought we already discussed how that’s one of your greatest assets.”

“Is that why you recruited me?”

“Eh,” he shrugged. “It’s always nice to have someone around who talks less than I do. Makes for better conversation.”

“I talk plenty,” Rook sniffed. 

“Oh!” Varric stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Is that why you’ve been swaning after a professional lecturer that chatters with the dead?”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

“Nothing wrong with playing to your strengths, Rook. You listen more than you talk. That’s one of the reasons you’re a good leader.”

“I’m not!” She protested. “Varric, I’m not. I keep messing up.”

He watched her fiddle with the blankets for a minute. 

“What’s up with you, huh? You never used to worry like this. I thought you were happy to roll with the punches, resigned to fate.”

Rook shook her head emphatically, “Not his.”

“Oh. You’ve really got it bad, Kid.”

Tears finally loosened from her eyes and spilled down her face. She didn’t pay them any attention, it would only encourage them. 

“I can’t lose him, Varric. I’m so afraid. I’m gonna mess up and lose him.” 

“Rook,” Varric said seriously, “You go around thinking like that and you’re only going to poison the whole thing. It’s a package deal.  Enjoy the good things while you have them. Don’t spoil it by worrying about what could happen.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. 

“Aww,” Varric grinned. “My little shadow’s finally learned to love.”

“Shut up.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while listening to the fade around them, as Rook's mind calmed. For someone who claimed to talk too much Varric was very good at comfortable silences too.

At last Emmrich’s eyes opened and he stared at Varric. 

“Master Tethras?” He whispered.

“Yeah,” Varric asked him. “How are you feeling?” 

“I hurt,” the mage mumbled, mostly to himself. 

“I know,” Varric said. “But you’re done with that for a bit. You’ve done enough. Just rest. You’re gonna be fine.”

Emmrich fumbled for Rook’s arm, squeezing as though to be sure she was real. 

“I’m confused.”

“Yeah, there seems to be a lot of that going around.”

“Am I dead?”

“No. Don’t go down that path, Spooks. Not right now. You’ve got enough on your plate.” He slid from the bed and stepped close, patting Emmrich on the hand over his Grave Gold.  

Rook pulled her legs up, curling into a ball. She watched Emmrich for a bit. 

“Thank you, Varric.”

The dwarf grunted, “That’s what I'm here for.” He winked at her, and turned to Emmrich once more. 

“Listen, Watcher, I need you to do a favor for me.”

“...yes?”

“Tell Solas from me…”

Then he leaned close and whispered something that Rook did not hear. 

------

“Rook! Mercar!”

She jolted, scrambling for a moment. But nothing had changed. Emmrich was still in her arms, Dorian’s hands were still bloody. Even the warmth from the hot water of the bath still moistened the air. 

Why had she expected it to be different? And why did the back of her eyeballs taste like blood?

“What?”

“You didn’t answer me,” Pavus said. He had white around his eyes, and his voice had a touch of hysteria to it. “I worked for several minutes in complete silence before I realised. How long has Volkarin been passed out?”

Oh, right. Unconscious mages had no control over their magic. It was dangerous to do things like cut into them with knives like Dorian had been doing. It had been her job to keep him focused. What had she been doing?

“I don’t know,” she looked down at Emmrich. 

He didn’t look like he’d passed out. He looked like he was asleep, at ease, the bite stick was slack in his mouth. 

She took it out. 

He was breathing deep and evenly. 

Pavus must have clocked her confusion. He came closer and crouched down, giving the older mage his own examination. 

He came to the same realization, sharing the same look with Rook.

“He’s asleep.”

“He is,” Rook said.

The magister laughed incredulously, He pressed his palms into his eyes and gave a deep, relieved sigh. “How on earth…? It must be some side effect of his magic being on the fritz. Self-preservation. Unless you did this, Mercar? Is this some ancient elven technique? Are you holding out on me?”

Rook snorted, wiping the inexplicable tear that escaped from the corner of her eye. “Don’t be an ignorant ass. I didn’t do anything. I don’t know what this is.”

Dorian peeled back Emmrich’s eyelid briefly, and felt his pulse. 

“He’s deeply asleep. I don’t think we should waste this. Especially if his magic is cooperating. I’m finished debriding his wrist. Help me turn him on his side, we’ll take care of that ugly wound under his ribs before he wakes up. Come on. It’s not like we haven’t been courting boiled eyes this whole time. We can suture and bandage after.”

Rook hurried to help him. 

“You have such lovely thoughts,” She said.

Dorian smiled at her, “Like little jewels.”

Neither of them noticed when Emmrich did wake up. 

The ugly gash on his side was done. Rook had been taking the opportunity to cover the smaller cuts and abrasions with elfroot salve.  

Dorian was mostly finished with his right wrist, when a froggy voice alerted them to his consciousness. 

“You were never this proficient at suturing in class.”

Rook snorted. Pavus smiled. 

“You want to rib me about my classwork now? Now?”

Emmrich swallowed to clear his throat. His eyes followed Dorian’s hands as they worked to bring the ragged pieces of his skin together like cloth. 

“It seems relevant now,” he started to sit more upright and Rook helped him. He was groggy, waking from what had clearly been quite a deep sleep. 

“Fair point,” the magister conceded. “I admit I never saw much purpose in preserving corpses long term. They were just going to be consigned to the funeral pyre, or destroyed in battle.”

“Such a waste. I worked with you outside of class,” He scrubbed at his face carefully with his free hand. “What happened?”

“You fell asleep,” Rook said. “Your magic did something fiddly.”

He processed this, then let his hand fall from his face. “Oh yes ,” His voice warmed. “Fiddly.”

“Impeccable timing,” Dorian said. “We’re nearly finished. And you worked with everyone outside of class. You only had six students. Lucky for me, really, to have a teacher that taught me knowledge—even knowledge I don’t intend to use—is valuable.”

He finished the last stitch with an air of satisfaction.

“And lucky for you, I had reason to gain proficiency during my years with the Inquisition. We were forever running short of potions and proper healers.”

Emmrich examined his wrist with the appreciation only a necromancer could possess.

“This is very sound,” he said, and Rook was treated to the sight of Magister Pavus genuinely coloring at the praise. 

“My pleasure,” the younger mage said, he pulled out the jar of elfroot and hummed impatiently until Emmrich returned the wrist to be covered and bandaged. 

“How do you feel?” Rook asked. 

The older mage breathed, feeling the extent of the bandages wrapped around his waist. 

“Tired,” he admitted. “But much improved, all things considered.”

“Would you feel better with some proper clothes and food?” She watched the light return to Emmrich’s eyes, like someone had kicked over a log into the banked coals of a dying fire. 

She spoiled his no doubt clever answer by swiping some elfroot over the cut on the bridge of his nose. 

He sighed with an air of wounded dignity. 

As dignified as one could be with a streak of blue/green paste across one’s face. 

------

The clothes Dorian had selected fit surprisingly well. 

First a pair of Harding’s knitted socks that Rook persuaded Dorian to throw in. Then there was a set of grey Tevinter style trousers in a soft, thick material that gathered from the calf down to the ankle. Over that, an undyed collarless shirt of a fine Imperial weave that covered the hips, the sleeves of which Rook rolled once or twice to keep them off the bandages. And finally a knee-length quilted robe that looked more suited for leisure than for a visit to the Magisterium. It was of a deep violet-blue, with little golden peacocks embroidered at the edges. 

Rook raised her eyebrow at Dorian as she belted it in the middle for Emmrich. His hands were understandably stiff for things like knots at the moment. 

“Antivan silk,” said the Magister. “From a friend. Never had much opportunity to wear it, but she would be pleased to see you in it, Professor.”

“It’s most comfortable,” Emmrich said, fingering one of the little peacocks. 

He seemed a little overwhelmed, so Rook targeted Dorian. 

“Really, Pavus. You didn’t have that made yourself?”

The magister blinked, almost taken aback. But he was clued in by the name and diminutive tone. “I would never think to spoil myself in such a way.”

“But you’d spoil Emmrich?” Rook raised a hand to her mouth and allowed her act to descend into farce. “Is that how you graduated from dark scary magic school?”

“That’s quite enough,” Emmrich said. 

“I don’t think it is,” Rook said. “Apparently someone has been holding a candle to you for quite a while. Apparently I have some competition.”

“Me?” Dorian clutched his chest. It was the only time in the history of Tevinter that a magister had managed an air of such complete innocence. 

She narrowed her eyes, “Is it because he was your professor? Do you think that’s hot?”

“Rook!” Volkarin complained. 

“Don’t worry, Emmrich. I won’t let the evil magister have you,” she said, slinging her arm gently around his ribs. Never mind that said evil magister helped support from the other side, and Emmrich seemed very glad to lean on someone closer to his height. 

The room Dorian took them too was private, but comfortable. It had shuttered windows that opened onto the back garden, and the skyline of Minrathous. It was nightfall, and the city was still just visible. 

There was a bed, a real bed. Not a cot that had been shoved into a study. It was large and comfortable, with freshly laundered bedclothes. 

Bookshelves lined the walls in a move that Rook was certain was a deliberate kindness on Dorian’s part. 

Against the windows was a low, round table surrounded by cushions for sitting and on the table was a simple feast. 

Lucanis sat comfortably, pouring a thick, steaming drink into four cups.

He smiled and his large brown eyes filled with emotion seeing Emmrich seat himself across from him. 

“You look better,” he said. To which the mage did not respond. He couldn’t. His eyes were riveted on the dishes before him. 

Rook was hungry after only two days of eating whatever came to hand. Emmrich had reportedly been too sick to eat the Venatori’s meager offerings the first day, and whatever they’d given him after would have been tasteless and inadequate. It seemed unlikely that they had bothered to feed him much at all in Ghilan’nain’s stronghold. 

“Start with this,” Lucanis pushed the tray of cups towards him, letting him choose one first. 

Steam wafted up from the thick, muddy orange liquid within. Emmrich wrapped both his hands around the ceramic, letting it warm his fingers. 

“Where did you get the recipe for this?” He asked. 

“Felice knows a lot of drinks,” the Crow said. “I had to make a couple of substitutions, but it should be acceptable. Drink it, Emmrich. It's not just for looking at.”

“What is it?” Rook asked, taking her own cup while Emmrich sipped his. 

“Wassail,” Lucanis said. “A Nevarran drink made from spiced fruit juices.”

Rook sipped her own and was startled at the rich combination of flavors that flowed over her tongue. It was thick and apple based, but there were others, some tangy, some sweet. The fruit was offset by sharp cinnamon and the rich scent of cloves. 

It was a good choice, a comfortable, familiar drink that was nourishing, but too hot to gulp down at once and potentially make one sick. 

When the four of them had finished the drink, Lucanis shared out portions of flatbread and hummus with olive oil, followed by a light soup of lentils and vegetables. The main course was a creamy dish of cheese, tomatoes and noodles. And they finished with some chilled fruits: melons, oranges, and pineapples. 

Emmrich managed to eat some of everything, because Lucanis insisted he try the next thing before finishing the last. Rook kept the wassail topped up. 

They kept the conversation light too—discussing the merits of spirits interacting with the mortal world, and the most efficient way to dispose of/preserve bodies—so that by the time Emmrich’s appetite began to flag, his energy had only just started to flag as well.  

Dorian excused himself, gripping his former mentor’s shoulder before leaving. 

Lucanis cleared the dishes onto a tray to carry away with him and said, “Dorian’s house is very safe, but I have been resting all day. So I will likely be around if there is any trouble.”

Emmrich murmured his thanks and raised his head too slowly to see the Crow vanish into the hall. 

“Come on,” Rook said, pulling him up by the least hurt places. “Lie down before you fall down.”

She helped him to the bed and he lowered himself face first onto it.

Rook laughed softly and struggled to free the covers out from under him. 

“You like that robe so much you’re going to sleep in it?”

As she settled the covers over him he mumbled something, mind dulled by a full stomach. 

She leaned closer. “What was that, Love?”

His eyes were closed. She didn’t expect an answer but he gave one. Or at least part of one.

“…saw him, Rook.”

She frowned, not understanding the meaning. But it was a small consideration compared to what the end of the day had brought her. 

Chapter Text

“Mercar.”

She’d been having a dream, about Manfred and Assan gondola-ing down a canal of wassail. 

“Mercar.”

What the hell, brain?

“Rook.”

She sat up. She was so fuzzy with the comfort of sleep she didn’t even mind dragging her head from the pillows Dorian had apparently swindled hundreds of birds for. 

Felice was peering around the door frame, her voice soft, but firm. 

“Mffmmgh?” Rook asked eloquently.

“Magister Pavus says that you should take your time, but he has breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea waiting for you when you are ready.”

What? Why so many meals?

She glanced at the shuttered windows. 

The sun was past its zenith over Minrathous. 

“Fasta Vass!” they’d slept through the night, and into the next day. She hadn’t even really meant to sleep much. She wanted to guard the room in case someone got past Dorian’s people, or Lucanis, or in case she was needed.

She scrambled off the bed and snatched up the fresh-yesterday tunic Dorian had given her from the floor, along with her boots and sword belt. Felice left and closed the door, satisfied with her movement. 

Emmrich stirred at the jostling of the bed. 

Emmrich. 

Rook stopped and circled to his side. She sat down on the edge of it. 

Maker, had he even moved? Patterns from the bedding had left impressions deep in his skin. 

He groaned as he put pressure on his hands, pushing himself up and over.  

He looked okay. The bandages were clean, his color was good, not bright or pale enough to indicate fever. She checked anyway, moving slowly to place her hand on his cheek and then his forehead, his eyes followed her.

“I’m alright, Rook,” he repeated his mantra. His voice was better too, groggy with sleep, but a lot of the rough edge was smoothed over. She’d missed that voice. 

“I know,” she said. “Just admiring.”

He blinked, and smiled thinly. She’d have to improve that.

“Do I look better?”

She hummed in affirmation and leaned close enough to kiss his cheek which was just stubbly enough to need another shave. 

“...and smell better.”

“Thank you, Darling,” he said in mock affront.

“You’re welcome,” she turned away, hastily pulling the tunic over her woven shirt and doing up the ties.

“Are you going somewhere?” came Emmrich’s voice in an attempt at casual, and the anxiety he utterly failed to hide stomped all over her heart.

She turned back and cupped his face. She kissed him for real, and finger combed his frazzled hair back into something resembling his usual style. 

“No. No, no, no, Amatus. If I go anywhere in the next week, you can come with me. Okay? I just want us to get up and get something to eat.”

The promise of her company, and of food, headed off the fear in his eyes.

“Alright,” he agreed. 

“Okay.”

She resumed dressing more slowly, and he pulled himself to a proper sitting position. 

When she turned back again he was holding his hands out in front of him, inspecting the bandaged wrists and his battered knuckles. 

He did look better, so much more like himself, but there was something very obviously missing. Until they found Manfred in this too big house Rook decided she wanted him to have a piece of it. 

“Emmrich.”

He looked up. 

“I have something for you.”

She tried not to be obvious, but suddenly the itch to hand it to him, to see his face, was almost overwhelming. She shifted on her feet. 

“Oh?” He asked, his head lilting on his shoulder, and that familiar gesture was not helping her stay calm at all. 

“Close your eyes,” she said, trying to hide the grin that threatened to burst, like the feelings for him teeming in her chest. “It’s a surprise.”

“Rook,” he laughed, picking up on her lightness. Maker, it was so good to hear him laugh. 

“Close ‘em,” she insisted. He did so with a put-upon sigh and a smile of his own tugging at his lips. 

She took his hand, careful of the bands of white, stained green with elfroot. She was going to have to remember to change those later. 

She reached into her pocket and took out the ring with the red stone. The only piece of Grave Gold she hadn’t given to Manfred to safeguard.  

She let it thump gently into his palm so he could feel the weight of it. 

His eyes opened in surprise. 

He actually gasped in astonishment. “ Rook!”

She let the grin loose as he held the ring in his fingers, in both hands, like he was afraid he would drop it. She’d done good. 

“ How did you find this?”

“Tracing you through Minrathous. Neve, mostly,” she said, because that was all the detail needed. She didn’t want him considering the fates of those who had taken him, and stripped him of his autonomy. Not today. 

She’d tried to clean it up, using Lucanis’s second best handkerchief and some water and vinegar from the tavern. It was free of blood, but still pretty smudgy. Emmrich didn’t seem to care. 

He rubbed the little polished stone with his thumb and rotated the ring slowly, like someone checking their child for damage after a dangerous stunt. 

When he glanced up at her his eyes were glossy, and—

“Oh, Emmrich,” she faltered at the sudden change of mood in the room. She crawled back onto the bed and pulled him into her arms. 

He was crying. Oh gods, he was crying. She’d broken him. She’d felt and seen his tears a number of times already. Who wouldn't get teary over what he’d been through? But this was different. They were teeming. They overflowed the banks and streamed down his face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and kissed the top of his head. She didn’t know if she was apologizing for making him cry, or for not having the emotional intelligence to help him deal with it. Why did she have to be dramatic? She’d broken him. “I’m so sorry, Love.”

That only seemed to make it worse. He pulled in a short breath. His shoulders shook. 

Maker, he was weeping. 

His father’s ring was still clutched between the fingers of his left hand. It was so small. He wore it on his pinky. How long had he been wearing it? Had it moved from finger to finger as he grew?

Another, terrible thought came to Rook, unbidden. 

How long had it been since he was held while he cried?

His own mother? Surely not. Any of his partners or mentors could have comforted him multiple times before Rook. Even Johanna—no. Maybe that art critic from Orlais? Orlesians were reputed to be emotional. Perhaps Vorgoth? Why did she get the impression Vorgoth was a good person to cry on? Was it because they were essentially a large blanket with no judgement on their face?

‘Kid…shut up, and hold him.’

She did, wrapping her arms around him more tightly. That’s what you do when someone is falling apart, you hold them together. 

She carded her fingers through his hair and kissed his brow. She rocked slightly. Maker forbid, if Emmrich’s mother was the last person to hold him like this Rook was going to make it up to him. 

“I’m sorry for what happened, Emmrich,” she told him. “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

He sobbed. 

She wanted to take that pain, that fear away from him. She wanted to go back and stop it from ever happening. Pointless, gutless wishes.

“It’s over. You’re safe,” and this time she was going to make sure of it. The gods had kept their promises and so would she. 

His tears were slowing, losing strength as his emotions exhausted themselves.  

“You’ll be alright, Amatus,” she promised, and kissed his bruised eye. 

“Dragonslayer,” she kissed the crusty elfroot salve on his nose. 

“Spirit Watcher,” she kissed the tears from his other eye and followed the trail down. By the time she made it to his mouth he was laughing again. 

“Really,” he protested wetly. “Dearest.”

“Sweetheart,” Rook answered with a smile, and tugged him gently back onto the pillows.  

------

“Have you ever done this before?”

Rook carefully pulled the razor out of its handle. She grimaced at Emmrich who sat with a towel around his neck and his lower face covered in lather. Dorian’s borrowed shaving kit lay open on the bed beside him, along with a bowl of warm water, courtesy of the bathroom Rook had nipped back into unseen. 

“Is it that obvious?”

He tilted his head again, the better he felt the more he seemed to emulate his old self and gestures. 

“Only a little. I admit you are very talented with a blade, My Dear.”

She smiled at the praise, “Never against you though.”

“Ah,” he gestured her closer and gently repositioned her hand on the slim instrument. “Hold it here, like so. Three fingers atop, little finger on the tang, thumb below. Let the handle hover above.”

His wrists were still stiff from yesterday, and the bandages were thick, making his hands a little clumsy for this particular activity. Rook, who had watched her own father shave as a child had always wanted to try. And the idea of shaving Emmrich, an intimate activity to say the least, was appealing

He had readily agreed to her proposal and Rook discovered she had underestimated that appeal. 

She held the razor as he showed her and felt it gave her a firm, controlled grip. Good. she wasn’t going to let the necromancer spill another drop of blood for a long while, accidental or otherwise. 

“Do you have it?” he asked calmly. There was no apprehension on his face about this, just a watchful eye. Not overstepping, just ready to lead or intervene if necessary. Maker, he was a good teacher. Maybe she’d been too hasty to tease Dorian yesterday. 

“Yes,” she said a touch too quickly. 

He smirked, probably not understanding exactly why she was flustered, but enjoying it all the same. 

“Excellent. Start here,” he turned his head slightly and tapped his cheek just above the lather. Pull the skin taut. Angle the razor like you’re sharpening the blade, thirty degrees or so. Then pull down lightly, and smoothly. Let gravity do most of the work.”

Rook breathed out like she was handling a bow and used her free hand to smooth out the elasticity of the skin on Emmrich’s cheek. Then she set the very sharp blade just beneath her fingers and let it glide down as he’d instructed.

It gave off a satisfying rasp against the hair growth, and in its wake clean, smooth skin was exposed. 

“Very good!” Emmrich praised automatically and Rook had to fumble her grip on the razor before she dropped it on one of their feet and they lost a toe. 

She covered by sloshing the blade in the bowl of warm water to get rid of the gathered lather. 

“Thanks, you explain it really well,” she adjusted her grip and finished going down his cheek to his jaw. 

“Everyone is more competent than they feel with proper instruction,” he lectured, turning his head at her prompting. “Although, in this instance, your experience certainly helps.”

They fell silent, it was easier to get the angle on his skin right when he wasn’t speaking, and it was easier for her to concentrate on the unfamiliar task as well. 

Beneath the soft lather, his skin was warm and she basked in that fact. The days at the Wetlands, before they knew what had happened, she had missed the warmth of him. Davrin had teased her about it while she put on a pair of fleece lined-leather gloves after a bout of sword practice. 

“Missing a certain someone’s hand, Rook?” he asked, flashing her a grin that outshone his armor.

“Maybe,” she admitted, tugging the other glove on. They were soft, and comfortable, but they were nothing compared to the soft skin and long fingers that wove between her own and cradled her palm like it was something to be treasured. That happened more often in Hossburg than anywhere else. As though he could tell she didn’t like the cold of the Anderfels, being Tevinter born and accustomed to more balmy climes. He noticed little things like that almost constantly. Not just for her either. He was forever showering little favors or words of advice on their companions courtesy of his consideration and experience. 

“They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Davrin said, sheathing his own sword and absently petting Assan on the head. The little griffon was done being patient for their practice and now demanded attention. “But I think in your case it’s just turning it to mush.”

“How would you know?” she countered. “You’re only love would abandon you for a trufflewort.”

“Ooh!” Davrin clutched at his chest and winced theatrically. “Now that did wound my heart. Okay, I get it. I know some of your pain now. You pine all you want to after that old man, Shortstuff. don’t let me stop you.”

“He’s not an old man, Davrin. He’s just older than you,” Rook knelt in the mud and gave Assan a good, sound scratch. The griffon thrummed deep in his throat and closed his big eyes ecstasy.

“Is that why you’ve overlooked me?” The warden continued teasing. “You want someone with the right experience?”

“No!” she laughed. “I’d take him younger.”

“What is it then? The necromancy? You want someone a little freaky? Or is it all that gold he’s dripping with?”

She punched him in the shin.

“OW!” he hopped and Assan squawked in alarm. “Ow! Rook! That was mean.”

“So are you,” Rook growled, then grinned when the griffon trilled in confusion. “I’m sorry, Buddy. You’re dad’s a berk.”

Davrin sat on a stone and rubbed his shin rapidly trying to alleviate some of the pain, hissing. 

“Gods! You’re touchy when you want to be. And abusive when none of the others are here to witness it.”

“And you’re a big baby. I’ve seen Antoine hit you harder than that during practice.”

He reached out and scratched Assan in a secret spot behind his ear that Rook could never manage to find. The Griffon abandoned her affections and collapsed across the warden’s lap. 

He smirked.

“I just wanna know, Rook. And I have to admit. I don’t understand the attraction between you two. You’re really different in a lot of ways. Why are you suddenly chasing each other like the sun and the moon? What is it?”

Rook picked at her glove, considering the question seriously. 

It was too simple to have a real answer, and she looked up at Davrin with a shrug. 

“It's just him ,’ she said. “That’s what I want.”

The simplicity of that answer hadn’t changed. She could list a dozen things about him she loved and it still wouldn’t explain why she needed to touch him, like flowers were touched by sunshine. 

She laid her hand on Emmrich’s chin, smooth and warm from the water and lather and felt her heart ease. The smell of his soap from last night had mostly worn off, leaving the particular scent of him beneath and in his hair. It brought her closer to the feeling of home than the cypress trees ever had. 

She had almost lost it. 

“Chin up?” she asked and Emmrich obliged with a contented smile, tilting his head back so that she had access to his neck. He bared it, trusting the steadiness of her hands, the intent of her concern for him. 

Rook took a second to compose herself and ran the razor over his throat with almost reverent care. He really didn’t have anything to fear there. Nothing in this life or the next could compel her to harm him. 

When she finished he lowered his chin and toweled his face, running his fingers over the smooth skin. 

“This is beautiful work, Rook! You could open a shop.”

She grinned and turned to put the razor away to hide her blushes. It was true though. She may have missed a tiny spot or two, but she hadn’t nicked him once.

She put the razor down on the leather roll and hesitatingly picked up the mustache scissors. 

“Ah ah!” he plucked them from her hand. “Now that I don’t trust you with. Far too delicate.”

“Emmrich!”

------

“Emm-rich!” Manfred’s happy hiss rang in the little garden dining room. Fresh air, and green things were allowed to invade into this in-between space. Low, broad archways opened invitingly into the grounds that were still covered in mud and puddles. Luckily, Manfred was not. 

The skeleton had been cleaned of muck and was now seated at the large table with his detached arm and finger bones on a tray before him. Dorian was gently poking and prodding at the scapula and empty socket. 

There was also covered dishes, tableware, writing implements and a wealth of documents that the magister was probably finding an excuse to ignore. 

Pavus looked up as they approached.

“Ah, yes. Emmrich indeed. You’re looking far more recognizable this afternoon, Professor. How are you feeling?”

Volkarin’s arm was set heavily across Rook’s shoulders, as a “steadying influence.” His face was perhaps a little pale. His hand caught the back of one of the chairs and Rook waited until he’d lowered himself into it before getting one herself. 

“Hello Manfred,” she smiled at the wisp. “Did you enjoy your time helping the Shadow Dragons last night?”

Emmrich’s head whipped around, Dorian’s query forgotten. “He what?” he gasped, still catching his breath.

“He was helping Felice with inventory,” the magister interjected. “She kept him occupied after cleaning him off. She’s taken quite a shine to him. I thought it best you had a chance to rest after the… trials of last night, speaking of which—”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Emmrich answered. 

“Really?” Dorian sat back, his eyebrows an artist’s rendition of skepticism. “You suffered through a brutal, amateur surgery by my own hand and you’re ‘perfectly fine?’”

“I’m better,” Volkarin conceded. “The incisions and the stitches are very sore, Dorian. But you did an excellent job. As far as I can discern, I have full feeling and mobility.”

Pavus bit the inside of his cheek. 

“And your magic?”

“Is dormant but present.”

“Any other symptoms? Dizziness, fever, nausea?”

Emmrich sighed and shifted in his seat but he answered dutifully. 

“I have something of a dull headache, some persistent dizziness, a little shakiness, but no severe signs of mana exhaustion, or of that abominable poison.”

Dorian hummed, satiated for now. “We’ll need to look at your wrists. And you know better than to use any spellcraft for the foreseeable future, yes? Your being is still knitting itself back together. Any major disruption could still–”

“You really do need to discuss that with me,” Emmrich interrupted. “Not only because I was the subject, but the implications are groundbreaking! For instance, how did you intend for the confluence of spirit magic and residual fade effects to set off the…”

Oh gods. He was back up to full speed again. She might as well be sitting between him and Bellara, if Bellara and Emmrich were slightly antagonistic towards each other. Rook smiled, watching both necromancers launch into a full blown throw down of arcane debate. Manfred watched as well with his perpetually cheery grin. How much was he following?

She reached for the covered dishes and found a steaming bowl of spiced porridge, a tray of sliced and assembled fruits, an egg dish mixed with green onions and other vegetables, some sweet cakes dripping with honey and a pot of tea. She filled a plate with a bit of all of it, filled a cup, and pushed the lot in front of Emmrich. She nudged his elbow. 

“Eat,” it was like a magic word, and Rook hated it, because it suddenly had the power to stop Emmrich’s brain in the middle of discussing academics of all things. He accepted the silverware she passed him with quiet thanks and tucked in hungrily.

“Where’s Lucanis?” Rook asked the now silent Dorian instead.

“Gone to find what’s become of Neve and the people with her, I believe. He left word with Felice that you’re not to worry. That he knows you will anyway, and to remind you that he is First Talon of the Crows.”

Ugh, that was all true. Damn him. 

“He’s right, we need to regroup,” Rook pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the real world start to seep back into their little sanctuary. They couldn’t stay here forever. “Some of the others are probably on their way back to the Lighthouse by now, and they’ll be wondering where we are if Neve hasn’t gotten word to the Caretaker. Also, we may need to help get some people out of Minrathous and into Arlathan, or maybe the Lords could take them. Also, did you inform the Mourn Watchers when you would be arriving at the Necropolis, Emmrich? They might be wondering what’s happened.”

He shook his head, finishing the tea his nose was currently buried in and setting the cup down. 

“I’m afraid I didn’t…things might have turned out rather differently otherwise.”

She could imagine that the Watch did not take kindly to slavers stealing their people, even if it was across borders. 

“Alright,” she said. “First—”

There was an almighty crash from inside the house, as though doors had burst open. Dorian was on his feet in a moment, the staff he’d left leaning against the wall in his hands as he rounded the table. 

Rook’s sword was already drawn before she registered moving. Her other hand gripped Emmrich’s shoulder as she planted herself between him and the slightly ajar door. Manfred hissed anxiously, the mage was halfway out of his seat. 

The sound of raised voices reached them, along with more crashes and bangs.The voices got louder as they got closer. 

“...Where!?”

“Don’t think for a moment that you can just come in here!”

“I can and I have!”

Rook relaxed only marginally when she realised that those were not the sounds of battle. Nor did Venatori argue with the people they were trying to kill. 

“Let’s just be calm for a moment. I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Rook knew that voice. That was Maevaris Tilani. 

“I am calm. I’ll show you how calm I’m being in a minute if you don’t take me to him. I know he’s here. Where have you put him?!” And that one…

Felice was the first one through the door, backing in with her arms spread wide, like she could physically block the magister and his guests from view of the invaders. 

Maevaris came alongside, her hand placatingly on the arm of a larger figure. 

The third person froze in the entrance a moment before surging forward. 

Dorian moved to intercept but Mae stopped him with a gesture. 

The person bearing down on them barely acknowledged Rook. They pushed her gently aside to get to Emmrich.

The necromancer grunted as he was swept up, cradled under the arms and legs and off his feet. 

Their attacker squeezed him gently against their armor, lowering their horned head to complete the embrace. 

“Taash?” he wheezed.

Taash was silent for half a second, their face still hidden, before there was a suspiciously large sniff. 

“You’re a death mage,” they growled to the man squashed in their arms. “You’re not supposed to die, that’s stupid. You’re a death mage.”

Emmrich breathed out all the anxiety and fear that the tight hold on his ribcage would allow. His hand came up and gently touched the top of Taash’s head. 

“I’m not dead, Taash.”

Lace Harding came huffing and puffing into the room, looking put out, “All you long-legged people,” she muttered in disgust. She softened when she saw the scene before her.

“Hey Rook. Mae said we’d find you here. She said some other pretty alarming things too. About Emmrich.”

“Neve Gallus was in contact,” Tilani clarified from the corner where she was consulting with Dorian. Felice was already gone. “She told us your necromancer was in a bit of trouble, and you’d gone after him, Rook. Your friends found me just an hour ago.”

“We thought you were dead!” Taash declared angrily, but their face softened, and they looked back down as Emmrich tapped their horn and spoke softly. 

“We found the bodies in the crossroads, and Emmrich’s staff,” Harding said. “We were on our way back to the Lighthouse. We followed your trail to the Docktown Eluvian. We assumed the worst. Hey Emmrich. I brought some dumplings.”

“Hello Harding. Taash, are you going to put me down?”

Taash sat on Emmrich’s chair instead and squeezed him gently again, earning another grunt. 

“In a minute,” they conceded. 

“...maybe.”

Chapter Text

“Emmrich, where the hell is all your gold?”

Rook choked on one of Harding’s dumplings, but no one noticed. Harding was too busy being surprised at Taash’s blunt question, and then looking at Emmrich curiously for the answer. 

It was a fair question, seeing the necromancer without his Grave Dowry was a bit like seeing him naked. You almost felt a bit ashamed to catch a glimpse of him in such a state. 

Unfortunately, the only one in the room who knew the answer to that question was currently asphyxiating on delicious bacon filling and fried dough. 

Well, almost the only one. Out of the corner of her watering eye, Rook saw Manfred give a very excited hiss, and skitter away at high speed. She could hear him still hissing in high pitch as he vanished into the main house.

Emmrich watched him leave with a curious brow, then turned to Taash. 

After being persuaded to put him down, the dragonslayer had claimed the seat just to the right of him. They’d been hovering there ever since, like a wyvern mantling over its kill. 

“Did those Bastards take it off you?” they asked. 

Emmrich softened at their concern. Rook thought he was rather touched by the fierce protectiveness being shown him. 

“I’m afraid they did, Taash, yes.”

“Vashedan,” they mumbled and worried at their lip. “If you want, we can try to track it down. I’m itching for a chance at those guys anyway. Or, I could get a hold of some new stuff for you, from the Lords. I know it wouldn’t be the same, but it might be a start.”

The necromancer took another sip of his tea and considered. “Thank you, for the offer. I fear you’re right though. It wouldn’t be quite the same. It’s not something that can just be replaced. However I would be deeply honored to accept a new piece from yourself.”

Taash perked up, “really? You want me to choose? You mean something I think would be good?”

Emmrich smiled, “something to remind me of a dear friend, perhaps.”

Taash’s face looked painful for a minute while they schooled it to careful blankness. 

“Cool.”

“Aww,” said Harding, but stopped short of actually saying the word adorable. She was very considerate that way.

“Wonderful,” Dorian interjected, walking back into the garden room and interrupting their extended meal. “Mae is on her way to contact Gallus now that she knows the hounds are not about to descend on us. She’s sending word that your friends and your newest batch of strays should join us here tomorrow so we can plan what to do with them. Soon everyone will be together agai–are you alright, Rook?”

Rook nodded quickly over the glass of water she’d been struggling with for the last minute. 

“Yeah,” she rasped, “just…good dumplings.”

“Fried with the kind of homemade love you can only get in Ferelden!” Harding said proudly.

“Mmm,” Pavus agreed. “Stomach aches included.”

The magister neatly dodged the kick the dwarf sent him with a grace that spoke of long experience. “Before we’re invaded again tomorrow, or have any more excitement, Professor, we should see about your dressings. Would you like to do it here, or without an audience?”

“I’m not–!” Taash began to object, but stopped and looked at Emmrich apprehensively. Harding did her best impression of being an unnoticeable tree stump on her chair (a skill that had gotten her out of several tight places before.) 

Volkarin carefully did not notice this. He took a fortifying sip of tea, set down his cup with finality, and began to pull off his borrowed robe. “I think here is very pleasant.”

“It is,” Harding said, planting her elbows on the table, and her chin in her hands so she would have a better view. “It reminds me of my room in the Lighthouse, all these green and growing things invading. It’ll be good to get back there.”

Rook nodded, “have some proper rest.”

“Are my beds not comfortable enough for you, Mercar?” Dorian asked, steadily de-mummifying Emmrich’s wrist, it was a bit of a process considering how thoroughly the elfroot salve had sealed the layers together. 

Rook shook her head and held her hands dramatically palms out, “forgive me, Magister Pavus. Your beds are perfectly decadent.”

“Thank you.”

“But you haven’t experienced the ultimate sleep until you’ve had a fade nap.”

“Fade nap?”

“Oh yeah!” Harding agreed enthusiastically. “You should come try it, Dorian. It’s incredible. The dreams are insane.”

“What?” Dorian unwound the last of the bandage and cast it aside. “You’re dreaming Znow, Harding?”

“Oh!” the dwarf’s eyes widened. “You haven’t heard! Now that’s an interesting story.”

“One I should like to hear, I think!” the magister said indignantly, then glanced down and frowned. 

“What is it?” Rook asked, instantly alert. 

Emmrich was looking too, his mouth thinning. 

“Dorian, you’re making that face you used to make when Trevelyan scrambled off the path in search of plants every five minutes,” Harding said. 

“I don’t know how we ever managed to close the sky the way that barbarian used to scrabble about in the dirt,” he said fondly. “It’s a wonder he cleaned up so well. I am less accustomed to dealing with these matters mundanely, Harding. Perhaps you’d like to take a closer look?”

“Oh by all means, I'll be the evening’s entertainment,” said Emmrich sardonically while Harding crawled halfway onto the table to see. 

The dwarf considered it, and her face grew pale, but when she looked up she’d plastered a little smile over her shock. 

Oh. 

She hadn’t actually seen the wounds before this. 

“What the hell did they do to your arms!!?” Taash growled, confirming Rook’s thoughts. 

“How old are these stitches?” Harding asked.

“A day,” Dorian informed. 

“Well it’s not the best outcome, but with injuries like these it's hardly surprising, is it? No matter how clean they are now, they were probably exposed to all kinds of stuff before. Where were you, Emmrich?”

“A burial chamber,” he mumbled quietly. 

“Oh yeah, that’ll do it.”

“I’m gonna…i’m gonna walk around for a while,” Taash got up from their chair and headed for the garden.

“What’s wrong?” Rook asked, leaning forward herself. The injuries looked okay. They were discolored by the elfroot, but the stitches were holding. 

“It looks like a mild infection, but that’s really a normal part of the healing process. There’s a little redness and swelling,” Harding said. “It’s kind of impossible to avoid with injuries like this. Even with magic. Speaking of—“

“Not an option at the moment,” said Dorian. 

“Oh,” Harding shrugged. “Then we keep them clean and covered. You’ll probably get a bit of a fever, Emmrich. But my Ma just so happened to send me with some remedies as well.”

Pavus grimaced, “lucky you.”

Harding shot him a dirty look which he imperiously ignored.

“I’ll get you one,” she hopped down and went to rummage in the packs they had slung against the wall. 

Dorian pulled out the jar of salve. And a new roll of bandages. 

“Let me do that?” Rook asked, reaching for it herself.

Pavus stopped her, “show me your hands.”

Face burning she held them out, palms up. 

They weren’t bad. But the mage still smiled, pretended to delicately pinch a bit of lint off of them, then cast a mild spell that tingled with heat over their surface.

“No need to court more sickness with common Soporati fingers,” he said and moved to unwind the bandages from Emmrich’s other arm. 

Rook snorted and took the supplies. She turned to Emmrich and gently took his wrist, opening the salve and applying a thick layer with her newly cleaned fingers. 

Now that she was holding his arm, she could feel the mild heat coming off the skin. And they were sore as Emmrich had said, because his arm flinched, and he sucked in a breath as she started to apply the paste. 

“I’m sorry,” Rook said automatically and moved her hands more lightly. 

Emmrich planted a soft kiss on her brow and said nothing. 

She knew he wasn’t used to this. Emmrich wasn’t the one that was fussed over. He was the one that did the fussing, for himself and for others. In the many months since their group had been formed, he had not only declared himself their de-facto physician, he was their counselor. Since he accompanied Rook on almost every one of her missions, he had first hand knowledge of what was going on. He had input on every action they should take as a group, and on what every one of their companions needed. Perhaps it was because it was a natural role for him to assume as a Mourn Watcher, or because of his experience. Either way, his role had been wildly reversed over the past week. 

He bore the ministrations to his arms patiently, twitching or hissing when a particularly bad spot was passed over with the cold salve, until the ugly wounds were once again hidden under layers of gauze. 

“Now your side,” Dorian said determinedly, and Rook helped Emmrich out of his shirt just as Taash came back in. 

Their youngest member stared in open dismay as Dorian began unwinding the bandages around Emmrich’s middle, revealing the hungry outline of ribs, the bruises that had only grown more colorful and defined as they started to heal, and finally, the gash along his side, held together with near twenty stitches.

Kaffas. Rook began spreading the salve with the same touch she’d once used to handle a baby bird. 

Taash reached out to brace themself against one of the arches, framed by the beautiful green plants and with the pleasant chirping of birds in the background. 

A large chunk of it gave away beneath their hand in a small shower of stone and tile. 

“Taash,” Emmrich said, reaching out towards her, “Dear, it’s not–” he broke off with a sharp cry as Rook crossed over the lip of the wound with the salve.

“Kaffas,” she hissed. But Taash was already moving towards them. They stopped halfway, mouth opening and closing, looking uncertainly at Emmrich with his head bowed over Rook. Then they changed course and grabbed one of the axes from their pack. 

“Dorian, do you like those sad rose bushes out back?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good,” Taash cast one last devastated look at Emmrich, and then surged back into the garden. 

“Kaffas, kaffas, kaffas,” Rook hissed, moving her fingers numbly over the wound, trying to cover it with salve without actually touching it. This didn’t work, of course, so she pressed a little harder. 

Emmrich gasped, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Emmrich, you have nothing to be sorry for.” she said incredulous, distracted by her task. 

“I didn’t mean to upset them.”

“You didn’t do anything, Emmrich.”

‘ Just finish it fast, Kid.’

“It rather hurts,” he admitted, like it was a failing, and the simple statement broke her heart again. There wouldn’t be a single recognizable piece left at this rate. “I didn’t mean to.”

“They’re handling it, Sweetheart,” Rook reassured, and made herself finish off the thick coat of paste despite his flinching.

She wiped her hands on a spare bit of gauze and then used another piece to wipe his face. He reached up to take it from her. “It’s okay. you didn’t do anything. You’re not responsible for this. Remember?”

But Rook understood. He wanted to be responsible for it. Because if he was, that meant it was controllable. That meant there was merit behind the meaningless suffering that they had inflicted on him. That was easier to bear than the truth about their blatant, and impersonal cruelty.

He nodded, and braced his elbows on the table as Dorian began winding the final roll of gauze around his middle. 

Rook looked at Harding, and the dwarf understood her, scooting closer to the mages. 

“So,” she said, filling the dreadfully still air with her cheery voice. “About those dreams I've been having. Yeah, you two aren’t the only magic people in the room anymore…”

Rook left, and felt ashamed at the flood of relief that hit her with the evening sun. She wanted to be Taash. She wanted to grab her sword and hack her way through fields of foliage until she was far enough away she could scream and scream and no one would hear her.

“Taash?” she called, treading over the slowly drying ground. 

She was greeted by the expected sound of hacking and slashing. 

A few of the bushes were already mostly gone, just their trunks clung stubbornly to the earth. Taash was on their knees, chopping at them ineffectively. 

“Dragon,” chop, “vashendan,” chop, “sons of,” chop, “motherless,” chop, “corpses,” chop, chop, chop, chop…

“Don’t take off your hand, we need the bandages,” Rook said. 

Taash whipped around. “That’s not funny!”

“You sure?” she asked, walking up and kicking at one of the mangled trunks with the toe of her boot. 

“I’m gonna kill them!” She tossed down the axe.

“They look pretty dead to me, Taash.”

Taash got to their feet and towered over the elf. Rook did her best to stand unbothered and unmoved. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill them!” they roared and then paced away, gripping their horns with their hands, sobbing. 

“Get in line,” Rook answered. “So far I’m pretty sure Lucanis has dibs. But maybe he’d let you take out her second torso.”

Taash turned back.

“Why would they do that?!”

“Because they’re pieces of shit.”

“He was just going home,” Taash wailed and paced past her again. “He and Manfred were going to visit his home, and they took him. And I found the bodies! He killed so many of them, Rook. He kicked their asses! And they still took him and did that to him.”

Rook’s own heart threw itself against the prison bars of her ribcage. 

“I know, Taash.”

“Why?”

Why indeed?

“Because they’ve got a great big effoff hole right through the middle of them, Taash. They’re scared shitless of it. And they’ve got nothing to fill it with. Not like you do.”

Taash sat right in the middle of the rosebush massacre. They were covered in scratches from the thorns, and stray leaves stuck to their hair and armor. 

“It hurts,” they echoed Emmrich. “I thought he was dead, Rook. I came here to see his body. And then he was alive, but now he’s hurt. It’s like…he’s too soft. You’re all too soft. And I can’t hurt anymore. It’s too much.”

Rook sat beside them and let her taller friend lean against her, bearing their weight. 

“This is gonna sound dumb,” the elf told them. “But the fact it hurts is how you know what you’ve got is keeping the hole filled.”

“It does sound dumb,” Taash sniffed. 

Rook nodded, picked up a rose and started shredding it. 

“If you want, I’ll ask Lucanis to share.”

“...okay.”

———

When they went back into the room, Emmrich was dressed and just reaching for the comfy robe. He was composed and smiling at an anecdote that Dorian and Harding were animatedly sharing. He paused as they came in. 

“Taash,” he started. 

But the dragonslayer beat him to it. They crossed over and picked the robe up, putting it on his shoulders. Then they lifted the basket from Harding’s Ma and opened it, pulling out several wrapped packets. “Is it dinner time yet?” They asked. 

“I don’t think we ever ended breakfast,” Rook admitted. 

“Whatever,” Taash said and started unwrapping the packets, pulling out a whole berry pie and various cheeses. “Let’s keep going.”

They started slicing up the pie and set an enormous piece in front of Emmrich. 

His eyebrows rose. 

“Taash, I don’t think–”

“You don’t have to finish it,” Taash said quickly. “I know you always finish stuff. But you don’t have to finish it. It’ll keep. You should start building up again, though. You won’t have any energy reserves if you don’t.”

They sniffed, and turned to Rook, “You too. I bet you lived on bread and dried dates while he was gone like you usually do when you’re busy. Lucanis is right. You guys are malnourished.”

Rook opened her mouth to object that she had eaten fresh fruit just yesterday, thank you, but was interrupted by a cheerful whistle. 

It sounded like a bird blasting on one note, or a child’s flute. 

“What the—“

Rook never remembered who asked the question. It could have been any one of them, so baffled were they. 

What she did remember, and pictured fondly, was the image of Manfred, bursting through the door, his mandibles hanging open as his ribcage heaved up and down in a nearly forgotten mortal memory of running and excitement. 

His green eyes glittered with a lustre that she hadn’t seen in a week, and every bone of his spinal column was proud and straight. 

In his hand he held aloft a wooden tray used for carting dishes, and on the tray, displayed on the most splendid dishcloth in Felice’s linen closet, was every missing piece of Emmrich’s Grave Gold. 

It glistened like the spilled insides of a pineapple, polished clean of the grime and grunge left by their trek through the city, and Rook’s bloody fingers. 

The wisp had probably been working on it since yesterday evening.  

“Surprise!” he crowed, and set the tray down on the table with a slight rattle of excitement. 

Emmrich gaped. So did everyone else. 

Manfred bounced on his heels. 

“…how…” the necromancer croaked.  

“Rook!” the wisp declared with the certainty of a six year old declaring the sky was blue. 

Emmrich turned his gaze to her. 

She held her palms out helplessly. 

“Surprise,” she repeated. 

———

Emmrich did not put on all of his Grave Dowry. After incredulous laughter, tears, and embraces for the deserving Manfred they retired to a comfortable sitting room inside. 

Dorian and Felice set up at one end of a low table, going over important reports and intelligence. Harding snoozed against Taash on the sofa, and Taash themself watched with a tired, soppy face as Manfred extrapolated at length about his adventures disguised as ” Vorgoth ” and his part in Neve’s ”‘vestigations .“

Emmrich was so touched, and enraptured, that he didn’t bother to correct the wisp’s grammer. Which was just as well. Only about twenty percent of the story was in words, the rest was a combination of actions, sound effects, hisses, and spirit emotions that no one but Emmrich could hope to pick up on (though Rook was very careful to follow his lead and gasp or boo in all the right places.)

All the while the necromancer’s hands fondled and gently rotated each piece of the gold on the tray. 

A few select pieces he slipped onto his fingers with his father’s ring, or over the bandages. But the majority he carefully placed inside the satchel Manfred had been carrying them in. They were simply too numerous, and too heavy to be borne at the moment, especially the large cuff. 

When he reached the bracelet that he had been presented with upon joining the ranks of the Mourn Watch, there was a flicker of hesitation. 

Rook reached across and took it from his hands. 

He let her, his attention wavering from Manfred’s story for a moment. 

With the same level of focus and serenity Rook had used to melt the shackles from his wrists, she now returned the bracelet in their place. 

She turned back to Manfred’s retelling, and smiled when Emmrich’s fingers wove with her own. 

It felt too good to last.

When the five members of her team went to bed—quite early, they were all exhausted—and bid goodnight to Dorian, Rook couldn’t shake a feeling of apprehension. 

It was like an itch between her shoulder blades. 

Like persistent mud she hadn’t been sble to wash off. 

Without a word being spoken, she went with Emmrich, and settled on the bed while he collapsed into it as he had the night before. 

She shed her boots, and belt, but sat fully clothed against the headboard, with her weapons nearby. 

‘You won’t get old if you don’t get a bit paranoid, Kid.’

Very well. Rook chose a sleepless night based on the feeling that something was going to happen. 

And it did. 

Just not in the way she thought. 

Emmrich had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. That was one of the only benefits to being sick and injured, Rook supposed. Unfortunately his exhaustion didn’t have the courtesy to numb his mind all through the night. 

Sometime, in the painfully early, wailing hours of the morning, when it was still too dark and fragile for life to have a chance at taking hold, Emmrich began to shake. 

Rook felt the tremor through the sturdy bed, and cast aside her sword, because this was not the enemy she had expected. This was not one that could be slain by a blade. 

The necromancer shook and his teeth rattled against each other before locking tightly on a muffled scream. Rook turned him by the shoulder and saw his pale face beaded with sweat, and high color on his cheeks. The promised fever Harding had warned them about?

“Emmrich,” Rook said and flinched as he thrashed, his legs trying to push against the bed, shoving all the covers down to the foot of it. His hands clutched at an invisible stranglehold on his neck. A sound built in his throat, rising in pitch and volume until it howled past his clenched jaw. 

He kicked fruitlessly, the bed rattled. 

“Emmrich!” Rook said and brushed his hair back with her other hand. 

He jumped, and his eyes flew open, and for a terrible moment they looked at Rook, white with mindless terror. 

Then understanding flooded them and somehow that was worse. His hands rose together, like part of a hinge and his palms ground into his eyes as though to erase some terrible vision. 

“Kaffas,” Rook said helplessly, and realized that, fever or not, the momentary peace that had been granted to Emmrich Volkarin was over. The real world had crept in, along with their companions and talk of plans. The terror had returned to exact its payment with a vengeance. 

Rook wrapped around him as he wheezed with lungs frozen numb from shock. 

“You’re safe,” Rook told him, as if that was a magic spell that could change anything. 

Emmrich breathed, and shook with the after effects of adrenaline and horror. 

“I know,” he whispered, as though that made any difference to his racing heart.

Rook lay with her arms locked around him, her ear pressed against his back as he breathed. She felt like a prey animal, crouching in the brush, waiting for something dangerous to pass them by, unnoticed, safe. 

Gradually she heard his heart begin to settle into something resembling its normal beat. 

“You’re safe,” she repeated, because now at least, he would have a chance of believing it.  

That was just about the time every window of Dorian Pavus’s house exploded inward in a glorious blaze of light. 

Chapter Text

There wasn’t a child in the Tevinter Imperium who didn’t know what it was. Rook’s adoptive grandmother who called her “your father’s knife-eared bastard,” used to tell her about it.

“Now you eat all your vegetables, or the lights from above will get you!”

“Don’t you talk back to me, or the Archon will melt the flesh off your bones!”

“Bad children who come home after dark get snatched up by the floating palace and used for blood sacrifices!”

Not the kindest woman, but she had also gifted Rook her first knife, so…

Yeah. 

This was not the first time she had crouched, petrified in bed, waiting for the Archon’s palace to come get her. 

It was just the first time it had come true. 

The blast of light cast everything in a surreal contrast of blacks and whites, like an instant painting burned onto Rook’s eyes. The glass that blew inward and rattled against the closed shutters was deafening.

She clung to Emmrich like Assan clung to the door frame that time Davrin tried to make him take a bath. She didn’t breathe, she didn’t move. She didn’t think she could. 

Rook missed the part where it ended. Emmrich moved first, fighting against her death grip, removing her fingers from his clothes and skin so he could turn over. Maker, she hoped she had done less damage to him then Assan’s claws had done to that doorframe. 

His hands framed her face and they were still shaking from the nightmare. Or was it her? Or was it the house?

She blinked, but that only sent a shower of lights across her vision. Had she gone blind?

His hands left her face and trailed up, over her head, through her hair, checking. 

Why wasn’t he saying anything?

His hands cupped her ears. 

Oh. Either her ears had begun to cry, or they were bleeding, judging by the hot liquid trickling down from them. 

“…rook…”

There was something! Distant and muffled, like being underwater. She shuddered at that. 

“…Rook!…”

Rook held Emmrich’s hands and tried to blink the lights away. They coalesced in her view like wisps. 

“…Darling!…”

Well if the Archon had finally come for her rebel ears at least she would hear one of her favorite sounds before she died. 

“…silly girl!…staring at it?”

Or not. 

Rude. 

She scowled, but Emmrich paid no mind. He was tugging her, pulling her with him and she crawled after him. Deaf and blind she would follow him. 

When they reached the edge of the bed he pressed something into her hands, her boots. She pulled them on. Her weapons belt was next and she gratefully strapped it into place, familiar habit making it swift and easy. 

He towed her upright and she stumbled, unbalanced, she felt the crunch of glass underfoot. 

And then an iron bar wrapped around her middle and she lost hold of Emmrich’s hand, and she was being dragged away!

She kicked, hitting something, she drew her dagger. 

They stopped, whoever had her, immediately, and Emmrich’s hand caught hers, halting the weapon. 

Something moved in her vision, the dim outline of a person. 

A shorter person. 

“…Taash!” Emmrich’s voice reached her ringing ears. 

Oh. 

Whoops. 

She resheathed the dagger. 

Taash started forward again, and Rook pliantly  allowed herself to be half carried as they followed Harding’s form through the gray mist of sparkling lights and snatches of vision. It was like a very strange fade dream. 

Then the ground shook beneath their feet, and Rook was pulled protectively against Taash’s chest as they crouched. Emmrich’s hands covered her ears. Everything was chaos, she thought she might have screamed. 

Then Taash dropped her, and Rook blinked to find the ground half an inch from her face. A lot of her sight was still sparking and fuzzy, but she could make out the elaborate weave of Dorian’s fancy ass carpets. 

Emmrich’s hands were torn from her ears violently, and Rook surged up, long dagger in her hand. 

She could make out his tall, thin form struggling with someone significantly bulkier and half a head shorter. 

Good enough. She stabbed them, aiming for the kidney, and her blade skidded off a rib, making her teeth grind at the sensation. 

The attacker whirled on her, and she stabbed them again twice before they could escape Emmrich’s grip. 

They fell away and her mage dropped to his knees, cupping her ears again, the dim outline of his face appeared, wrought with concern. 

“…see me?…hear me?”

She flattened her hand and wiggled it in a kinda-sorta motion. That apparently satisfied him because he pulled her against his chest kissed her forehead, and stood, taking her with him. 

She couldn’t tell who was leaning more on who at this point. Emmrich led them forward and she saw Taash throw someone over a railing, Harding fired off her bow once, twice, then she turned and gave them a thumbs up and stalked forward again. 

Okay. Rook could work with this. She pressed her dagger into Emmrich’s hand and he hesitated only a second before taking it. 

Rook drew her sword and focused around the edges of Harding’s form, waiting for any more surprises to emerge. . 

Her vision came back in fragments as they went. She saw shattered ceiling tiles on the floor, cracks in the plastered walls, fallen tables and decor, shattered vases, and trampled flowers. 

Dorian’s house was in utter shambles, and suddenly she was very grateful he had sent almost all of his people to Ventus. 

But not everyone. 

They were headed down the main staircase when they finally found the others. E

A bolt of magic engulfed an indoor tree to Rook’s left. And she saw Felice, frantically backing up the stairs towards them, holding a shield that glimmered with enchantments, and bashing It into the face of any Venatori that got too close. 

There were a lot of them. The four on the stairs were just the start. On the ground several more struggled with a number of the Pavus Guard and a few shadow dragons. The friendly man who had tried to help in the search for Manfred was holding the front door shut with everything he had, but an arm was already forcing its way in. 

In the center of the front hall stood Dorian, only half-dressed in his armor, buckles undone, spinning wildly, fire flying from his fingertips. He stabbed a Venatori mage in the throat with one end of his bladed staff and strengthened someone’s magical shield with the other.  He was a blur, a testament to the obsessive breeding and magical training of the Altus class. 

And he was flagging. That level of constant casting was unsustainable. He stumbled and someone got a slash in across his shoulder. 

It was eerie to see him shout, to see the whole battle playing out with only the faintest snatches of sound. 

Taash barreled ahead of them all, past Felice, into the four attackers on the stairs. Gravity helped a little, but Taash’s grief and anger was what sent them all sprawling, to be flattened underfoot, and bashed with shield and axe, staining the marble steps permanently with their blood. 

Harding hurdled the railing and got off a shot before landing squarely on the shoulders of an enemy mage who cracked their skull on the tiled floor and never rose again. 

Rook slipped out from under Emmrich’s grip. His hand grasped briefly for her before she tore away. Her thoughts clung to him though…

She skidded down the stairs and found herself face to face with a brute wielding a great, two-handed sword. 

…Emmrich, who had spent six days among the desecrated dead and people he was helpless to save…

She ducked under the swing of the Venatori’s blade, severed the tendons behind his knee and came up on the other side. 

…Emmrich, who she had witnessed suffering more in the past two days than in the past year at his side…

As the giant stumbled, Rook stepped on his folded leg, drew her belt knife and dug it into his armor so she could climb. 

…Emmrich, who was unbearably kind, and touched her with soft hands and softer eyes. 

She stepped on the man’s shoulder, ignoring the hands reaching for her. She lifted her sword high and true, and drove it down into the muscled neck beneath her. 

He fell, and she fell with him. She surged to her feet again, and did not realize she was screaming until she felt the burn in her throat. She didn’t realize she had spilled his blood until it speckled hot on her face. 

She turned in time to meet another kama wielder, their arms recklessly raised, giving her ample space to drive her sword deep into the soft area below the breastbone. They slid off of the sharpened blade and she turned to the next one. 

It was a mage, who had the mind to step back from her, but not the intelligence to run. She absorbed the feeble streak of lighting into her vambrace and mercifully cut their throat before throwing herself at a trio of archers sighting into the melee. 

They had little time to draw before she severed the strings from their bows, and the fingers from their hands. She felt an arrow pricking her collarbone through her chainmail, but she brushed it off irritably before she turned to the next, and the next, and the next, and the next…

She was dancing. She flowed through the blades, with the blades, like she never had before. She was so angry, so very angry, but it wasn’t hot, it was cold. It was a rage that spread like frost through her chest and the rest of her body, freezing the tears in her eyes, icing over her little serene pool of water. 

She had never felt such peace, such purpose. It wasn’t hatred, it was serenity.

She would stop them. 

She would climb to the Archon’s Palace itself if need be. 

Rook whirled and drove her sword towards the next Tevinter face she saw.

Her blade stopped a bare inch from Dorian Pavus’s eye and froze, poised and quivering. 

The magister flinched, and held his hands out, placatingly. He was speaking, but she couldn’t hear him over the roaring in her ears. Was that still the aftermath of the magic from the palace? Or was that just her heart finally starting to beat now that her rhythm of death was ended?

She dropped her arm to her side and stood, muscles trembling. The hall was littered with bodies, all Venatori except for three. One of the Shadow Dragons, and two of Dorian’s men lay fallen on the beautiful, blood-splashed mosaics, unmoving. The other guards tended them briefly, closing eyes, folding their hands, and drawing their bodies away from the Venatori. 

The door had been barred. Taash was leaning against it, Harding was slumped on the stairs…Emmrich…

She looked around and bumped her nose against his chest as he came up behind her. He was speaking to Pavus, who’s tired eyes suddenly cleared with understanding. He stepped forward carefully, with a playful smirk, and cupped her ears in his warm hands. 

The tingle of magic, and suddenly Rook’s head spun, as sound assaulted her from every angle. 

“--I don’t think we have much longer. The whole place would already be rubble around our ears if my great grandfather hadn’t been a paranoid old bat. That wardrobe there is full of his loadstone wards, Taash, if you want to shove that up against the door. We won’t be getting out that way.  At least we know for certain now that Archon Radonis was assassinated on the night of the dragon attack, poor, stupid fool. We spent far too much time on him, even before the Lucerni was disbanded.”

“Look at me, Rook,” Emmrich turned her, and checked her carefully, holding back her eyelids, tilting her head to look into her ears. Maker, she loved him. 

“Do you think they’ll try to hit us again?” Harding asked. 

Dorian ran a shaking hand over his shoulder, halting the bleeding there. 

“Oh yes. Now that they’ve found an appropriate target for their new, little toy I imagine the Venatori won’t stop until it’s dust, or they run out of power. But honestly I have no idea how much magic that thing takes to run. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll drain it dry, and it will fall from the sky like a brick.”

There was a clatter of bones and Manfred came out from one of the back rooms. He slipped on the blood and skidded into Rook. She caught him and kissed his skull. 

“Hey Fred.” 

“Safe,” the wisp replied. 

“Yes,” Emmrich agreed, checking him over briefly too. “Well done, Manfred.”

“BOOM!” he elaborated, looking up like his green goggles could see through the ceiling straight to the Archon’s throne room. 

“Yeah,” Rook said, she took a breath, and grasped a handful of Venatori robes to clean her sword blade before sheathing it. She steadied her hand on the hilt. “We need to move. Where do we go, Dorian?”

“They’ll try the gardens, and the side door to the street next, Magister Pavus,” Felice said. 

The mage gave her an incredulous look, “Felice, you don’t have to use a title. I think this means they’ve rescinded my magisterial seat.”

Felice paused only a moment, “You’re probably right, Altus Pavus.”

“Festis bei umo canaverum.”

“We’ll need to go through the carriage house,” said one of the Shadow Dragons. Rook didn’t know her by sight. But that was often the way with their group. Smaller units meant less chance of being wiped out in one sweep. “It’s closest to the catacombs and the sewers. From there we can reach the Tilani estate.”

“If it’s still safe,” Rook reasoned. 

Without warning, another storm of light and sound descended on them, and this time Rook covered her own ears ahead of Emmrich’s hands. The effect was much less here in the heart of the house, but the building shook to its very foundations, and when it had passed the whole construct moaned ominously. 

“Well,” said Dorian with a bemused look around at the shambles of his family’s Minrathous holdings. “I suppose that's that. How lucky I held off having the guest rooms repainted.”

“Poor little princeling,” Harding simpered. “Whatever will you do now with only a country estate?”

“Maker knows, Harding. Purchase some sheep, I suppose,” Pavus sighed. “The heart bleeds. Grab what you need. Let’s go.”

There was some scrambling as everyone gathered whatever supplies they had pulled with them out of bed. Harding and Taash secured their packs and weapons. Emmrich tucked the satchel that contained his grave gold, and Manfred’s arm, more carefully under the comfy (and now rather bedraggled) peacock robe. The only thing that remained of his original kit were his boots, which had been cleaned and repaired.

Dorian went to a side room hastily, fastening up some of his numerous buckles. When he re-emerged he was holding a second staff. This one was black, and rather subdued for the ex-magister’s usual taste. It was bladed at the bottom, and atop it crouched an intricately carved little dragon, its tail curling down the wood, its claw’s, wings and little mouth curling around an open skull, like it was trying to eat it. 

He held it out to Emmrich with a little ceremony in his manner, and the older mage accepted it, running his hands over the polished ebony.

“This is lovely, Dorian.”

“Mmm,” the ex-magister smiled. “And deadly. Please use it as a weapon for now, and not an instrument of magic yet, yes? Now, if we follow our friend here—”

There was another explosion of light and sound. But it was not from the Archon’s palace. 

It was against the door, rattling wildly on its hinges as what sounded like several bodies crashed into it accompanied by screaming until all was ominously quiet. 

Everyone stared at it warily. 

Then a familiar accented voice came through the door, slightly muffled.

“If someone would open the door, it would be much appreciated.”

“Woah,” Taash said, and hauled the wardrobe aside again, pulling open the door to reveal Lucanis, violet shadow wings folding slowly into his back as he rose from a crouch atop several bodies. 

He hastily joined them inside, helping to rebar the door before turning and viewing their own bloodbath with raised brows. 

“I am a little late, I see,” he said.

Chapter Text

House Pavus fell in a thunderous roar. The rubble was mercifully contained by the wards still around the property but dust spread for several streets in all directions. 

The only living beings left were Dorian’s horses that Taash had released into the back garden, whinnying and galloping around in fear. 

“I wonder if they’ll have a funeral for me,” Dorian mused, staring at the column of smoke illuminated by lights from the Floating Palace. “We left enough bodies behind. Some nameless cultist might be interred in a grand tomb, lying in state in my best robes. While roughly one tenth of the Magisterium mourns my passing with thoughts and prayers, the useless bastards.”

“Pretty sure your best robes are on fire,” Rook said, “or shredded.”

Dorian clutched his heart dramatically.

“Still, I'm not one to waste such an opportunity. If the Venatori want me dead, let’s let them think I am till they’ve finished sifting through the rubble. We need to get word to Mae.” He turned to Felice, pulled a heavy bag containing reams of documents off his shoulder and slung it over the young woman’s far narrower one. 

The former keeper of House Pavus stumbled, and stared at him in alarm. “Magister—“

“Ex,” Dorian insisted. “I’m a wanted man now, my usefulness to our cause ended with my public face. I won’t endanger what remains of our network by fleeing to their bosom. Get these to Mae, tell her what’s happened. Take our people and use the tunnels.”

She looked deeply unhappy and cast Rook’s ragtag team an unimpressed glance. “You need someone to watch your back.”

“No,” Pavus said with a touch of sobriety. “I need someone I trust to inform Maevaris Tilani of my plans, which only you know in detail. And Harding will dog my footsteps. Won’t you Harding?”

“Like a tick on a mabari.” 

“See?” The ex-magister said brightly. “Now shoo, before they spot us and this wonderful opportunity for deception is spoiled.”

Felice’s most stubborn look crumbled off her face, and whatever emotion replaced it she hid by seizing Dorian in a fierce hug around the middle before pulling away and fleeing towards the entrance to the catacombs. The Shadow Dragons and the retinue of House Pavus followed her with hardly a backward glance. 

“Don’t you fucking die!” She called back, before disappearing from sight. 

“Same to you,” Dorian answered, looking delighted, and turned back to the rest of them.

“You are way too happy about this,” Rook said, though she was smiling. She had never seen mag–, ex-magister Pavus looking so lively. Years seemed to have been smoothed from his face. An undefinable slump had been lifted from his shoulders. For the first time she could really envisage him as the rebel Tevinter who had enlisted with the Inquisition and scandalized their whole nation. 

Her father had collected the newspaper clippings. 

“Mercar, spend ten years trying to reason with a room full of detached, affluent, bigots without giving in to your desire to punch them in the face, and then you can criticize me.”

“We have to get to Neve,” Lucanis interrupted with a glance at the slowly lightening sky and vanishing stars. “She is preparing everybody to move, but I came ahead to see if it was safe. We were worried. The Venatori are up in arms through the city. She and I scouted out the warehouse yesterday, by the docks. It’s gone, Rook.”

A cold shock ran through her, and beside her she felt Emmrich stiffen. 

“Gone?” she asked. 

“Without a trace,” the Crow replied. “I do not think She is very happy.”

Emmrich’s hand slipped into her belt and tugged her a hair closer. His face was white, but composed. 

“Are the people with Neve the ones from the slave quarters?” He asked. 

Lucanis’s face softened, “Yes.”

“All of them?”

“All of them, my friend.” 

“Then we must go,” the necromancer said with an insistent look at Rook. 

She glanced at Taash. 

“You ready for more?” she asked. 

“Yes! I thought you’d never ask. Let’s go. I still have to catch up to Emmrich’s headcount,” and they led the way down the alley, trailed by a failed Shadow Dragon, the First Talon of the Crows, two former members of the Inquisition, a one-armed wisp inhabiting a skeleton, and an indignantly sputtering Professor of metaphysics on sabbatical. 

———

Lucanis’s fears were not unjustified. The courtyard outside of the little safehouse where Neve was hiding was filled with Venatori. There were around twenty in all, with at least three mages. They chipped away at the barrier of ice she had erected around the building. The cracks across it were slowly growing. 

So intent were the Venatori that they paid no attention to the slinking figure of Rook, draped in a stained and very bedraggled woolen cloak until she was almost upon them. 

Their sentry, lazy and bored because they’d been at this well over an hour, finally drew his sword after the unknown person passed him. 

“Stop there!”

Several more of them turned at his shout, hands going to their weapons, but they relaxed almost at once. One of them laughed. 

“It’s just a bit of street trash. Get out of here you beggar. We have nothing for you!”

“Someone kill it!”

“We could have some fun!”

“Why waste good blood, let’s add it to the pot.”

Rook paused under the cloak, considering her options. Well, it had worked before, and if a method wasn’t broke, why fix it?

She pulled the hood from her head, revealing her pointed ears.

That riled them a little more and now everyone was looking, except for two of the mages maintaining the resonant crystal that was cracking Neve’s barrier.

“It’s a rattus! Now we have to use it. It would be hypocritical not to!”

“I don’t care what you do with it,” barked one of the mages, probably the leader, “Just do it quickly, this thing is about to come down!”

Rook cleared her throat, “I have a message for our new gods.”

There were several hoots and jeers in the crowd. They were circling around her, closer, and closer. Excellent. 

One of them poked her with the end of his pike, “you think to appeal to our Gods, rattus? What could you possibly know?”

She fought instincts that had been part of her upbringing, whispered into her ears by her father, his men and her mean old grandmother. ‘If you get into trouble with the likes of them, run, don’t try to fight,’ ‘They don’t think of you as human,’ ‘they’ll peel the skin off of you as soon as they would a grape.’ Their bodies crowded around, the stink of them and their incense and oils cloying the air. Their teeth flashed like wolves, their eyes shone with malice. 

Rook gave in to her urge to crouch, to bend, to make herself small. Egg them on. Let them think it. 

“I know where Magister Pavus is,” she told them. 

The sounds of the pack changed. A current of excitement ran through them. Rook had guessed right. Word of Dorian’s status as a wanted man had already spread to the lower ranks. He was a juicy target. Far juicier than a little rattus found in the street in the unhealthy hours before dawn. 

She felt another poke with the pike. 

“Where is the blood traitor holed up, little rat? Tell us and we’ll take you to meet your new Gods.”

Oh, she bet they would. 

Another poke, this one sharper, impatient, knocking her back two steps, practically into the arms of the ones behind her. 

“Where is Pavus?”

In the space Rook had just cleared, Dorian stepped in a swirl of magic. 

“Here!” he said cheerily, and melted the face off the poor bugger holding the pike. 

They shouted in alarm as the man screamed and fell. Swords and spells rang out as Dorian spun, grabbed Rook, and raised a barrier of his own, a fraction of a second before lightning and fire smashed against it.

From behind Rook there was a roar as Taash came charging in. The Venatori had a bare moment to look up before the crowded group was enveloped in a gout of fire hotter than most of them could produce with magic. They fell away, screaming, tripping, rolling to put out the flames. Taash raised their axes and went after the ones still standing.

Several of them tried to crawl away around Taash’s feet and flee into the alley. Arrows sprouted from their backs as Harding’s silhouette appeared on the rooftops against the pale morning sky. She drew and loosed with practiced ease, pacing along the slates of the roof. . 

Lucanis leapt from the same rooftop in a shower of shadow and sparks, wings mantling on his back as he buried both daggers in the mage powering the resonance crystal. They fell, and it shattered. Neve’s barrier stood, groaning under the weight of its own ice, but it was intact. 

Dorian dropped the barrier and released Rook. He let off a few spells before one of the other mages rounded on him, screaming bloody murder and stabbing at him wildly with her dagger, a barrage of ice flying from her focus orb. Pavus dogdged, and blocked, looking slightly amused. “You haven’t been out of the circle long,” he asked pityingly, “have you?”

She redoubled her efforts and he grinned ferally, stepping back, matching her footwork, like it was a lively dance.

Rook drew her own weapons and took out one of them trying to flank Taash, then moved onto the next.

It had been shortsighted of the Venatori, and lucky for her, that they had cornered themselves in a bottleneck. Her team couldn’t afford many more encounters like this. None of her people were fresh, especially after their trek across the city. They had left Emmrich across the street, sheltering in a doorway with Manfred watching over him. She could almost see them from where she fought. The necromancer had kept up admirably, but part way here he had staggered and would have toppled if Taash hadn’t scooped him up and over their shoulders like an ungainly scarf. 

“I can walk!” he squawked.

“Pff! Yeah, like a baby animal with a broken leg.”

“How am I to get stronger if you continuously carry me?!” he grunted between Taash’s quick steps. 

“We’ll work on that later,” they promised him. 

 “Manfred next!” said the wisp, ecstatically trotting behind.

“Sure thing little guy.”

Emmrich groaned and hid his face in one hand, but he held gamely on and their progress had been swifter after that. 

Rook grinned at the memory. Despite her concern, it was hard not to feel elated, or to pick up on the other’s enthusiasm. They had been outnumbered nearly three to one. And now the Venatori were clawing at the walls trying to get out and away from them. It was only a matter of—

Pain erupted in her back and Rook fell to one knee with a yelp. She had been thinking too much. She had been sloppy. The others were on the other side of the courtyard. She saw Lucanis look up in alarm at the sound and shout her name, sprinting towards her. 

She looked back over her shoulder and saw the shadowy form of a Venatori, trained in the same arts as her and Lucanis. They withdrew their dagger just as swiftly and Rook screamed, throat burning. It was more painful coming out than it had been going in! How was that fair?!

She scrambled for the sword and dagger she had dropped in her surprise, but she was too slow. Pain and shock were taking their toll, dulling her senses. The assassin pulled back to deliver another, deeper blow. An arrow shattered on the stone wall behind them. Rook was going to be too late to block. Lucanis was going to be too late to cross the courtyard. 

Her attacker staggered backward as a sharp blow from a staff took them on the chin. 

Rook turned her head in time to see the staff spin and deliver a blow to the assassin’s back, driving them to their knees. The blow to the chin had left them dazed. They wavered where they knelt, helpless to stop the wickedly sharp blade near the end of the staff from slitting their throat with anatomical precision. 

Emmrich dropped the bloody staff end back to the ground, and leaned on it, panting, his left hand bracing his side. 

From across the courtyard Taash whooped loudly, their voice ringing. “Yeah, Corpse Guy! Way to use your muscles!”

His already red cheeks flushed a little more as he dropped down beside Rook. The last of the fight was wrapping up. One more Venatori ran past them and fell with Harding’s bolt in his neck. Neither of them paid him any mind. Manfred stepped cautiously over him. 

“Oh, my Dear,” Emmrich said regretfully. 

“I was sloppy,” Rook hissed, trying to reach for her own back. “Taash is right. Look at that. You’ve only been out of bed for a day and you’re kicking so much ass.”

“Shush,” he said, laying down the staff. And placing gentle hands on her back to assess the wound. His fingers were cautious, and gentle, but fire still erupted across her skin as he probed, pulling away the ruined armor and cloth. 

She squirmed and hissed. Ow. Ow, ow, ow!

“Rook, you’re making it harder,” Lucanis snapped from where he suddenly crouched beside the necromancer. 

“It hurts!”

“That means you’re still alive!”

“Shush!” Emmrich said with some impatience. “Lucanis, would you lend me your knife?”

The Crow handed one over, and Emmrich used it to widen the gap in her clothing. He examined the wound in silence for a long moment and Rook struggled not to fidget. everything was a little muffled, a little far away. She could feel hot blood flowing from the wound, hopefully not as much as she feared. 

“I don’t believe it’s struck anything vital,” the mage said shakily. “Their blade entered the Latissimus Dorsi and stuck there. I can just—”

“Not with magic, you can’t,” Dorian interrupted, stepping past her view to crouch with the other two. “Let me.”

“Be careful,” Emmrich said, moving aside with some reluctance. He circled around in front of Rook to give Dorian room. His large hand cupped the back of her head, tucking it against his chest. His other braced her shoulder above the wound. He smelled of dust and sweat, but mostly himself. “Make certain you align the fasciculus fibers properly, or she’ll have trouble raising that arm.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Dorian mumbled impatiently. “I’ve done this before. Lucanis, will you hold that fabric back?”

“Ugh,” Harding said from a little distance away. “You’d think with all the people we’ve killed I'd be used to this sort of thing.”

“It’s different when it’s your friend and they’re alive,” Taash said wisely. “One time, I had to cut an arrow out of this guy’s knee–”

“This is not a spectacle,” Emmrich said waspishly. 

Rook gripped his forearm away from the bandages, running her thumb along the little embroidered peacocks on his sleeve. 

Dorian’s hand, cold and tingling with magic, laid itself smoothly over the wound. 

She gasped, and let her head dig into Emmrich’s front, her tears soaking into the Antivan silk of his robe. His fingers tightened. 

It didn’t hurt, precisely. But it stung like alcohol on a wound, like ants crawling under her skin, dragging the fibers Emmrich had mentioned and fusing them back into place. It was hot, and then cold as her body objected to the supernatural intervention and rapid healing. 

Then the euphoric lack of pain soaked deep into the torn muscle, and a lassitude fell over her as she slumped against Emmrich’s chest. It wasn’t fully healed. She could still feel a raw soreness where Dorian had left the outer layers of the wound to take care of themselves in an effort to conserve his flagging mana, but that was distant. Whatever had been wrong deep inside was resolved. 

“Better,” she groaned. 

Pavus laughed, “I couldn’t ask for a more accurate assessment of my skills.”

“Would you care for one?” Emmrich asked him. 

“No,” said Dorian quickly. 

“We need to get inside,” Lucanis got to his feet. “Rook, when we are back at the Lighthouse you and I are going to do several hours of additional training. That was—“

“Sloppy,” Rook admitted against the fabric of Emmrich’s robe as he helped her to stand as well. She was dizzy again, and cold. Healing didn’t automatically undo bloodloss. 

“Very,” the Crow said with disapproval. “Caterina would have strung me up by my own thumbs.”

“I have my own horrible grandmother, thank you very much,” she said, and bravely pulled away from the safety of the necromancer’s arms. 

Harding handed over her weapons, wiped clean of blood. “What’s wrong with you people?” The dwarf asked. “Grandmothers are supposed to be warm and kindly.”

“Not in the north,” said a voice, and they turned to see Neve emerging from her slowly thawing barrier, trailed by several wary individuals from the warehouse. “In the north her job is to keep you alive.”

“Neve!” Harding called in greeting, as the detective strode to join them. She looked as weary as Rook felt, but collected as ever. 

“It's about time you got here, Lace. You were missing out on all the fun. We—“

She saw Emmrich, and a rare flash of emotion crossed her face. Closing the space in a few steps, Neve rose on her toes to gently wrap her arms around his neck. He returned the embrace. 

“Hello, my Dear,” the necromancer said softly. 

She sank back down and wiped a stray tear from her face. “You look alright,” she said, hands on his shoulders, her eyes assessing. “You doing okay?”

He nodded, “better and better.” 

“Okay,” she smiled warmly at Manfred. “Good job, Fred.”

The wisp hissed, pleased. 

“We’ll all talk later,” the detective continued, regaining her composure. “But we need to leave Minrathous. Something big is going to go down, and soon.”

“Here?” Rook asked. 

Neve shook her head, “in Arlathan.”

Chapter Text

“Emmrich,” said Harding, her face was adorably round from the effort not to laugh, eyes dancing and cheeks bright. “You’ve picked up some ducklings.”

Without breaking stride or missing a beat, Emmrich smiled. “Yes,” he said, “have you ever seen a finer bunch of fowl, Harding?”

Several giggles sounded behind them.

“Of course, one must put up with their noise,” Emmrich said, pitching his voice. A round of quacks broke out in response, followed by more giggling. 

“And their beaks,” Harding joined in. 

Little fingers pinched and tugged at the back and sleeves of the slightly tatty peacock robe. The giggles were turning into snorts of laughter.

“I can take some off your hands,” Taash offered, coming up behind Lace. 

There was a chorus of disapproval.

“No, I’m sorry, Taash,” the necromancer shook his head solemnly. “I couldn’t bear to part with any of them. They’re quite attached.”

“Aww,” Taash visibly drooped. “None of them?”

Emmrich shook his head with finality, “Not even one.”

“Not even this scrawny one?” Taash looked down at the gaggle of children and pounced. 

There were shrieks as Meir’s sister, the smallest of the group, was plucked from them and suddenly held aloft.The children jumped and tried to grab for her as Taash held her out of arm's reach. 

“Nooooo!”

“Put her down!”

“Let me go!”

“Are you sure you want her?” Taash asked, running their fingers along the little girl’s sides until she was crying with laughter. “She’s pretty wriggly.”

“Meir!” The girl screamed and her brother came to her rescue at once, using the scales and spines of Taash’s armor to lever himself up until he could grab his sister’s ankle and begin a tug-of-war with the dragonslayer. 

“Oh no!” Taash declared as the others joined in, pulling and tugging until they sank to one knee. “They’re too strong. I’m overpowered.”

The whole lot of them collapsed in a pile atop the warrior, boneless and breathless with laughter. 

Harding had given up and was now doubled over on the path with laughter. Dorian stepped carefully over her. 

“Mercar,” he said, falling into companionable step beside her. “I think your team is fatally cracked.”

“Oh?” Rook giggled herself, looking back to see Taash hauling two of the girls along, one attached to each leg. 

“Of course it’s hard to tell in the fade,” Pavus said, glancing around at Crossroads and it's weird amalgamation of semi, and otherworldly furnishings and features.

Rook glanced around as well. This place had become familiar to her over the months they had been traveling it. But it felt like forever since they’d been here last.

It had been five days.

Five days ago they had left the Lighthouse in a frantic race to Minrathous. Her toast was probably still perishing on the table, part of an abandoned breakfast she would never finish. Her heart had been too shriveled with dread to beat, she had forgotten how to breathe. 

Now her heart felt too big inside her chest to breathe anyway. They were returning along the same path they had taken in their frantic chase, and it could not be more different. Neve’s refugees thirty-seven including the five children–trudged along in tentative, but happy freedom. Their limbs moved with awkward lightness. Their eyes shone as they talked and freely ate the food Taash pressed on them. The antics of the children and Rook’s team seemed to lift everyone’s spirits as they journeyed, becoming more and more relaxed the further they went from Minrathous. 

The children had been shells at first, hiding amongst the adults like little ghosts of maturity. But then Meir had spotted Emmrich, and the shriek he’d let out surprised everyone out of their statue-like states.

The necromancer recovered well, turning and kneeling as the boy approached him, with a hand over his mouth, horrified at the sound he’d made, and trying to muffle the tears that flowed down his face. 

“My little partner in crime,” Emmrich said, “What a wonderful surprise.”

The boy looked stricken, his stoic face was shattered, like he was witnessing a haunting. He peeled his fingers away from his mouth, snot and tears in abundance. 

“You came back,” he declared in disbelief.

“I did,” said Emmrich, gently, brightly. 

“People don’t come back!” Meir said, and his tone dropped to outrage, to anger. How dare this kind man appear and then disappear in his wretched little life, disrupting all the rules the boy lived by to stay alive, promising safety and then proving the Venatori’s threats to be real. But then coming back again. 

Taash crouched beside them, and Rook had no idea how the warrior made their big frame seem so small and unintimidating. 

“Nuh-uh,” they interrupted, and pointed a finger at Emmrich. “Not this one. He always comes back. Didn’t he tell you? He’s a necromancer. He doesn’t die. That would be dumb.” And then they were gone and Emmrich sputtered as Meir gaped. 

“That’s not exactly—”

“You came back,” the kid said again, and now he was properly crying, and Emmrich could do nothing but hand his staff off to Rook and let the boy get snot and tears all over Dorian’s borrowed robe while he patted the thin, little shoulders and stubbly head that had been recently been shorn for lice. 

“Yes,” he admitted, “I did.” And that was how Emmrich had found himself with a string of ducklings for the day. 

“This certainly brings back memories,” Dorian interrupted her musings.

“What, fighting with a group of dumbasses?” Rook asked.

“Helping people,” Pavus said, and the smile he returned to her was disconcertingly genuine. “Mae was right. It’s so easy to become detached. I’d forgotten what it was like to actually be here. To see the difference you can make.”

“Did a lot of that with the Inquisition, did you?”

“It was constant,” Dorian admitted, “I think Trevelyan’s magic was unconsciously searching for waifs and other unfortunates for us to help. The stream of humanity going into Skyhold was unending.” He smiled fondly at the memory, lips and moustache curling in accord.

“Careful,” Rook said, “You’re turning to mush.”

He sighed, “too late, I’m afraid. That process begins the moment you set foot in the South. Most things turn to mush down there; the cooking, the boots, the brains…”

“Explains a lot about Varric,” Rook teased.

The jovial air around them abruptly cooled as the ex-magister’s face fell. 

“I was very sorry to hear about that,” he whispered after a moment. “We were close in the Inquisition, he and I. We kept in touch.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent it,” Rook admitted, “but we wouldn’t have been able to change his mind.”

Pavus nodded, “surprisingly optimistic and stubborn, that dwarf.“

“Yeah,” Rook said, smiling at the thought that she would see him soon. She hoped he had done alright with everyone gone. They hadn’t stopped to tell him what was happening. Still, it wasn’t the first time, and Davrin or Bellara should be back by now. Dorian would probably be a welcome surprise.

“Still, we made out alright in the end. Neve, Harding and I got this team together. And Varric deserves to rest, I think.”

Pavus nodded heavily, “That is one way of looking at it,” he said, and dropped the subject in favor of watching the bizarre landscape in front of them.

------

“They can’t go any further, Rook.”

It had been more than several hours since they had left the Eluvian. And even though the Crossroads had no concept of time, Rook could tell that it would be approaching dusk soon. They had stopped to rest numerous times for the sake of everyone’s endurance. It was as Taash said, most of their party had no energy reserves. They had been starved, and immobilized for too long. The majority of them were stumbling and exhausted. The food was almost gone since Taash and Harding had been goading everyone to eat as much as they could during rest stops.

So the last time they all staggered to a stop, Taash put their foot down.

“We need to stop for the night,” they said. “They’re gonna start falling off to the side. ”No one’s going to complain to you, because they’re used to keeping their mouths shut.”

“I know,” Rook said, torn between the tired faces of the people kept carefully downturned, and the promise of the Lighthouse ahead of them.

Taash was right. They had just barely made it to the edge of the Converged city. At this rate they might make the Lighthouse tomorrow.

“We can make a comfortable camp here,” Harding said. “It’s a good location. There’s walls, and a little stream down there.”

“Almost everyone has a bedroll,” Neve said. “Maevaris sent us supplies before the Venatori attacked.”

“I can go ahead,” Lucanis offered, “Let the others know we are coming.”

Rook considered, then shook her head, “no. You’re tired too. You’re right. We’re all tired. And I’d rather we have all eyes for watch tonight. We’ll camp here.”

There was a pleased murmur of agreement, and everyone broke apart to start the different tasks needed for the night’s stay.

Taash, and the Qunari woman began directing people to set up bedrolls in an alcove formed by two tumbled walls against a natural rock formation, arguing amiably in common and Qunlat. Lucanis immediately took over the cooking pot and directed Harding to gather together what food they had left for a meal for the night. The scout cheerfully organized some of the more lively people, mostly the teenagers and Veiljumpers, to help her. Neve went about reassuring, answering questions, and doing a little more healing since her magic had had a chance to recover.

Speaking of…

Rook turned in time to see Dorian join Emmrich where the older mage had seated himself on a large, flat stone. He’d finally shed his young followers and looked as weary everyone else from the warehouse did.

“I don’t think I even need to check,” Pavus was saying. “It’s too soon.”

“Dorian, please,” Emmrich insisted.

“It’s hardly been two days!”

“Three,” the older mage said, holding up fingers for emphasis. “It’s been three full days.”

“And you’ve spent them collapsing in my gardens, fighting Venatori, and now on a forced march through the fade!” Dorian exclaimed in exasperation.

“Now, now, boys,” Rook said in her best Varric manner. “Let’s not fight. Shake hands and be friends again.”

They did stop arguing, but it was to fix her with twin looks of disdain.

“Someone is getting a little big for their boots,” Dorian said.

“And someone is forgetting they’re an ex-magister,” she retorted.

Pavus instantly brightened, “You’re right I had.”

He turned back to Emmrich, his face radiating good cheer.

“Look, Professor. If I check the state of your magic tonight, my own spell risks misaligning the valences further. Especially as I am unfamiliar with this environment.”

Emmrich twiddled his staff between his hands. “…yes, I had not considered that.”

“If you can wait until tomorrow morning,” Dorian urged, “that will give me a chance to finetune my own magic against the background energy here.”

He waved his hand vaguely at the strange, colorless sky.

“And another night’s sleep might just be enough rest so that Dorian doesn’t have to give you bad news anyway,” Rook pointed out, laying the lack of her hand against his forehead.

He was sweating, which was good. It meant he’d been drinking regularly. But the low-grade fever Harding had predicted was definitely present.

Emmrich’s eyes softened at her concern and he took her hand,

“Ugh,” said Pavus.

“What?” Rook asked.

“Nothing,” the ex-magister grumbled, getting to his feet and picking imaginary lint off his bloody, torn robes. “I’m just not sure how I feel about my apprentice being with my teacher, is all.”

Emmrich had time to grab Rook as she lunged for Dorian. But it was a near thing.

“Ex apprentice!” Rook snapped as Pavus danced away. “I was kicked out. Remember?”

“Ex magister,” Dorian pointed at himself as though he’d won a contest.

“Go heal someone!” Rook ordered. Pavus swept her his most courtly bow, and went to join Neve.

------

It was not a very peaceful camp. Exhaustion carried most of them off into sleep under the careful watch of those assigned to guard duty. But sleeping in the fade, in Rook’s experience, required some acclimation. There were frequent disruptions, bitten off cries or thrashing from nightmares, shuffling footsteps, low conversations around their fires from those too keyed up to even try and rest. 

The susurration was so strong that Rook barely noticed when the person to her left jerked awake in their bedroll with a gasp. She’d laid her own blankets out alongside Emmrich’s when they went to sleep, enough that her back was pressed against his side. She must have moved away from him in her sleep, because she only dimly registered the struggle of feverish limbs fighting to free themselves, or the frantic gulps for air from whoever they belonged to. 

She didn’t come properly awake until her ears and nose registered the signs of someone being quietly sick. The acrid smell battled against the petrichor scent of the fade and pulled her fully from her slumber. 

Rook lay with open eyes, listening to the person pull in several thin breaths before being sick again. Her hand trailed out and found Emmrich’s empty bedroll, the wool of the blankets still wicking sweat. 

She had thrown back her own blankets to rise when she heard a voice and froze. It was a strange voice, but Spite’s voice was always strange. 

“You are not well.”

Emmrich sobbed, short and ugly, before coughing on the bile that must have been coating his throat. 

“You need to drink. Where. Is your. Waterskin?”

 Lucanis’s form entered Rook’s vision, violet eyes singularly focused on Emmrich’s bedroll, hands fumbling before the spirit found what he was looking for and rejoined the necromancer. 

She heard Emmrich take several long draughts. 

“Your sleep was broken. You should tell Rook.”

“...no,” Emmrich’s voice was hoarse. 

Spite growled with discontent. “But Rook helps.”

“She helps too much,” the mage said. “I won’t burden her with this as well.”

Nope. 

Nope, nope, nope. 

Rook rolled over and propped herself on her elbows so she could see Emmrich and Spite crouching not ten feet away, furtively whispering over the puddle of sick and the waterskin clutched in the mage’s hands. 

“That might be the only truly dumb thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Rook told him as his face fell. 

“He smells like fear, Rook,” Spite tattled. 

“Yes, thank you,” Emmrich hissed, doing his best to push sand over the evidence with his foot as she approached. “I think we can all smell plenty, Spite.”

His speech was blunt, and Rook saw the way his fingers were nearly throttling the waterskin just below its silver rim. It wasn’t dark, though this part of the Crossroads was dim in the shade of the rock they had settled against. She settled beside him and picked up at once on the current running through his whole body. His forehead shone with sweat and he had gone from pale to a more greenish tinge this time. 

It probably wasn’t all the nightmare. The fever had probably peaked once he finally let his body rest for a few hours. But she didn’t want to reach out and check without his permission. She knew what it was like to wake from a fear so bad that your body tried to expel it in every way. 

There was another hiss, this one soft and inquiring, as Manfred toddled over from some unknown errand.

Rook was very careful not to laugh at the fact that the necromancer had not one, but two spirits trying to mother hen him. Now was not the time. 

Instead, she gestured to the waterskin. “That’s new,” she said. 

“It is a gift,” Spite said proudly. 

Emmrich nodded, his hands still wringing the life out of the poor thing, “Lucanis picked it up in Minrathous,” he whispered. 

“Makes it safe to drink,” Spite said, turning Lucanis’s features into a very smug expression. 

Rook looked to the mage for clarification. He gestured at the silver band with its little sigils, not eager to explain or teach for once. It was hauntingly unlike him. 

“There’s an enchantment in the band,” he said, voice short. “It detects poisons.”

Rook wanted to cry. Lucanis was proving far too adept at helping Emmrich through his bout of imprisonment. Of course he would think to find something like this to help conquer the persistent fear of laced water. And it had worked, Emmrich had shown no signs of dehydration from their forced march the previous day. How many other little tics did he see that Rook missed? How many lingering effects of Lucanis’s time in the Ossuary had Rook failed to recognize and help?

“Considerate,” Rook said. 

“Would that all my fears could be so easily smoothed over,” Emmrich said waspishly. His mouth settled in a bitter line. And it was all so unlike him, so different from the person who had laughed and defended her from Venatori yesterday. He was hurting. He was like Spite had been. 

“You had another nightmare,” she stated the obvious, trying to drag it gently into the light. “Was it the same as yesterdays?”

Emmrich looked at her, his eyes dark and hidden, fathomless.

“You shared your old fears with me in the Memorial Gardens,” Rook nudged softly, and watched some warmth and life stir in those depths. 

“Maudlin,” Manfred agreed. 

The necromancer considered, “Perhaps…you would accompany me to the Converged city? We can fetch the supplies Lucanis will need for breakfast. I don’t think I'll be getting anymore rest.”

“Walk and talk?” Rook asked and handed Emmrich his staff, before fetching her weapons belt. “Perfect. It isn’t the Gardens but it will have to do. We’ll just tell Harding where we’re going. She’s keeping final watch.”

Despite his prickly exterior, Rook noted that Emmrich was careful to tuck the waterskin into his robe, along with the precious satchel. 

“That sounds most pleasant,” he said in a weak approximation of his usual aplomb. “With some light refreshment at the end?”

Rook smiled and linked her arm with his. “Splendid,” she drawled.

Spite and Manfred trailed after them, whispering in ghostly voices to each other. 

Chapter Text

Harding didn’t let them go alone.

“Yeah,” she said sarcastically. “Like I'm going to be the one waiting around to tell Dorian, Neve, and Taash that you guys decided to go traipsing through the fade alone to pick up some breakfast pastries.”

“We have Spite and Manfred with us,” Emmrich gestured at the spirits deep in bizarre conversation just ahead of them.

Harding watched them for a moment, then looked back at Rook and Emmrich.

“Riiiiiight. Look, I’m not trying to intrude,” she winked. “I just wanna make sure you don’t fall down a hole or set fire to yourselves. So I'll walk ahead a little bit out of earshot and join…” she flapped a hand at Spite, who appeared to be laughing wildly at something Manfred had said.

“…whatever that is. You two enjoy yourselves.”

She walked up the path, whistling loudly until she was greeted by an exuberant hiss of “Harding!”

After a moment of hesitation, Emmrich followed, and Rook fell into step beside him.

She gave him the opportunity to speak first, listening to his staff clack against the stones, but he didn’t take it.

Okay, Varric’s method it was to be then.

“You know, Varric’s the one that called me Rook,” she said. ”After Wicked Grace.”

The silence returned, and Rook’s patience was rewarded.

“You prefer ’Rook’ to your given name?” Emmrich asked. The man could not resist personal histories.

“No. I wasn’t given one.”

The staff clacked twice more, then stopped.

“Pardon me?” the mage asked, sounding a little bit offended on her smaller self’s behalf.

She smiled, Emmrich was usually so well put together. She enjoyed the opportunities to take him apart a little.

“Maker’s truth. I don’t have one. Well, technically, but ‘War Orphan,’ is kind of a crappy name. Don’t you think?”

The necromancer frowned, “your father had a…rather callous sense of humor?”

“No,” she insisted and resumed their walk, Emmrich followed her lead. “He’s just forgetful. He got me Tevinter citizenship on a technicality, by listing me on his report as a ’war orphan.’ Usually that’s only reserved for kids of known families, but there’s no hard and fast rule. That way he was able to claim me into his regiment instead of foisting me on a slave market. And by the time he realised he hadn’t listed a name on the paperwork it was too late. He didn’t want a lot of questions asked. So, I collect nicknames.”

That surprised a short breathy laugh out of him.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to—“

“No, it's funny,” Rook said, lightly bumping into him. ”Varric laughed for like an hour. He said, ‘Kid I don’t know if that’s a clever origin story, or one of the dumbest I've ever heard.”

The mage’s face softened. “You are very close with Master Tethras.”

“Yeah,” Rook smiled again, “I was kind of in a bad spot right before he recruited me. Questioning my life’s purpose. I'd just lost my place in the Shadow Dragons.”

“He’s a very stabilizing influence.”

“Exactly.”

Emmrich nodded, looking thoughtful.

“We all need stabilizing influences,” Rook added.

The mage said nothing.

“People we can talk to.”

Some of the tension crept back into Emmrich’s shoulders.

“Emmrich…”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Rook,” he burst out, and the staff was clack, clack, clacking again.

“I just want you to talk. You were doing really well before the dreams,” Rook pressed. “But now they’re shaking you up bad, and i’ve seen this before. They’re not just going to stop.”

Emmrich looked at her. No, he sneered at her. “How would you know?” he asked, “at your age? Maker, Rook. You’re so young. You’re too young to be burdened with all of this. I’m not going to pile my nightmares, or the aggravation of my old familiar fears atop it.“

That stung. Rook wasn’t immune to the self doubt that would creep into her mind sometimes when others called him ‘Professor,’ or when he called Dorian (who was nearly ten years her senior) ‘Young Pavus.’

Gods, sometimes she would be admiring the subtle, experienced movements of his hands, or the silver streaks catching the light in his hair, and she would wonder how on earth she could be enough for someone like him.

It stung, but Rook remembered the feeling of his fingers in her hair, and the closeness of his breath in her mouth. She found her serene pool of water and waded deep.

“See,” she said, “This is how I know it's affecting you so badly. You’re being cruel. You’re not cruel. Even when you’re angry. Even to assholes like Johanna. And to answer your question; I know because soldiers in my father’s legion experienced this kind of thing all the time. It's really common. But some of them hid it. They would sleep outside of the tents away from the others, and hide the fact they would wake screaming, or vomit, or piss themselves in fear. Eventually the despair and exhaustion would get to them. A few killed themselves, Emmrich.”

He was stiff as a board, his eyes pinched closed.

“…Rook…”

“I’m not going to let you do that to yourself,” she said. “Not even once. And neither are any of the others. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. You’re right. I’m young compared to you. I don’t know a lot of things, and it’s okay. But you could talk to Lucanis, or Neve, or Harding, or even Dorian if you two can stay on task. Combined they’ve seen just about everything there is to see. You’ve talked to other people about your fear of death. You can discuss this too.”

They’d stopped again. In her periphery Rook saw Harding casually shoo Manfred and Spite up the path and out of sight around a corner. Emmrich was leaning against the ravine wall, as firmly as if she’d pinned him there. His face was pointed downward, hiding, trying to close her off. But Rook suddenly found she couldn’t stop. She was shaking. She couldn’t save him from the Evanuris and the Venatori just to lose him to nightmares. She couldn’t lose him. Not like she’d lost–

”I know you’ve somehow gotten it into your head that you don’t want to ‘burden’ anyone. But aside from the fact that everyone here loves you, you’re part of the team that’s saving the world. And we need you.”

“Enough,” he protested.

“Talk to Neve. She’s seen the most and she knows to keep her mouth shut.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” she stepped closer.

“Because I don’t know what happened!” He screamed at her, so loudly that Rook’s heart skipped in fear.

He blanched and turned away, one hand over his mouth like he would be sick again. The other clutched at the stone wall.

The Varric Voice sighed long and slow in her mind.

Rook was silent.

He was right. She was young. She was young and stupid and selfish, and somewhere in the last few minutes she’d stopped speaking out of concern, and started speaking out of fear. She was a bully, and she wanted her own way. It didn’t matter that what she wanted was for Emmrich to be okay. Not when she’d  confronted him like this.

She should go get Harding before she made it worse.

“Emmrich–”

Her answer was a long, thin, wail of anger, pain and frustration, muffled in Emmrich’s hand, as he gave in to the shaking of his legs and let himself slide down the wall, and sink to the rocky ground. The staff clattered one final time as it dropped with him and rolled away.

His eyes were still pinched shut, but that didn’t stop tears from escaping the corners and trailing down his gaunt cheeks.

Gods, what should she do?

She took one step towards him and one step away towards Harding, who was just barely in sight, glancing back between them, and the bend in the pathway.

‘Kid, you are still not listening!’ the Varric Voice insisted sternly, and the gibbering fear inside of her quieted for a moment. Emmrich’s words finally penetrated.

“Emm, what do you mean, ’you don’t know’?” she asked softly.

He peeled his hand away from his mouth. “I can’t remember,” he said, and his voice was sharp with horror. “I can’t remember, Rook!”

Guilt, and fear disintegrated from her like sea foam to a breeze. He called and she went, crouching beside him, clutching his hand. Gods, his voice could call her back from the fade itself, she thought.

“I don’t know what happened!” He continued, and the words were spilling out of him. “They took me through the Eluvian, and then nothing! Nothing until I woke chained to that wretched table.”

His eyes met hers and in them she felt the weight of the burden he’d been talking about.

“Whatever she did shattered me, Rook,” he grieved. “There are swathes of my memory missing, and I can only recall them with my unconscious mind while I'm sleeping. When I wake…”

His voice broke, and gave way to the sobs that seized his chest, ransoming his breath with grief and anguish. 

He carelessly let his hand wave through the air like he was sifting grains of sand. His meaning was clear to her. When he woke, he had nothing but fragmented, fearful emotions slipping through his fingers. How was he supposed to talk about it? How could he reason through something so terrible his own mind wouldn’t let him touch it?

“How do you stab a cloud?” Rook mused.

Emmrich scoffed, but his anger and fear were spent. He let himself slump against her while she absently brushed his hair back. Gradually his shudders slowed and became breaths as he regulated himself through the patterns that he had long since memorized. His hand played with hers, his thumb running over roughened knuckles.

“I suppose you wait until it forms into something more substantial,” Rook thought aloud. Wasn’t that what Lucanis had done to Ghilan’nain? Hadn’t they made her bleed a few times by this point?

Wasn’t Emmrich’s mind slowly drawing the memories out like poison? Hadn’t they just talked about it?

“Kaffas,” she said, because it was. The whole thing.

“Is that sufficient?” the necromancer asked. “May we shelve this topic for now?”

She fixed the mess she’d made of his hair. “That depends. Do you feel better?”

He nodded, and even if he was lying, he was feeling well enough to lie about it. Or she was too weary, and too young to think of the answer.

------

By the time they caught up with the others, Lucanis had taken the lead from Spite. Manfred had acquired a few baskets from somewhere, and Lucanis was filling them with various goods from the busy, semi ethereal market around them.

Rook was gratified to see Emmrich relax noticeably in the presence of so many spirits. He seemed instantly more at ease. They would have to spend some time here over the next few days, if they didn’t just go to the Necropolis outright.

“Shopping,” Manfred said, lifting his basket for them to admire.

“Splendid, Manfred,” Emmrich said and joined him, poking through the selection of fruits, pastries, and other goods that seemed to coalesce in this spot from all around Thedas.

Several wisps drifted over, chittering. Emmrich stiffened and greeted them quietly. The line in his shoulders melted like warm butter when they showed no hesitation flowing over and around him and Manfred before their short attention drew them away towards a stall of shiny trinkets.

"You don't understand," Harding argued lightly with Lucanis, "everything can be a sandwich."

"Why would you make anything a sandwich that doesn't have to be a sandwich?" the Crow countered.

"It's easy and convenient!" the scout said indignantly.

"Food is supposed to be experienced and savored,” Lucanis retorted. “How can you fully enjoy something that is framed between two slices of stiff bread?”

“I dunno, by gripping it with your hands!?” Harding said, and threw up said hands in exasperation.

Lucanis just looked sad. “You should not ‘grip’ your food.”

“Oh I dunno,” Rook said, paying for some kind of meat wrapped in fried dough. She bit into it and spoke with her mouth partially full. “Don’t you sometimes just want something substantial to gnaw on?”

Lucanis looked pained.

“Why do I bother to try?”

“Because you are a martyr,” Emmrich said, slipping up behind and taking him by the arm. “There’s some amazing fruit juices, over here, Lucanis. Come and see.”

They passed a pleasant, early morning, walking among the stalls, gathering foodstuffs, and more to Rook's taste, information.

The news of unrest from Minrathous had already spread this far. Spirits were not bound by the same rules of physics after all. By all accounts their other allies were safe; the Wardens, the Lords, the Watch, and the Crows. Only Artlathan seemed ill at ease at the moment. As Neve had told them yesterday, the Venatori had been spotted there in substantial numbers, and there were reports of whole Dalish clans missing.

"What are we going to do, Rook?" Harding asked, and Lucanis and Emmrich paused in their argument over a flask of orange juice to hear her verdict as well.

Maker, their brief period of peace really had ended.

“We need to get our people to the Lighthouse,” she said, focusing them off of the unknown and back to the task they had already decided on. “I’m hoping that Davrin and Bellara have already returned, and if they haven’t, then we need to reach out to Wardens and the Lords and get them back. When everyone is safe we’ll set out immediately and make contact with Strife and Irelin.”

“I assume that will be within the week we spoke of?” Emmrich asked her, and she remembered the promise she’d made him in Dorian’s house. That she wouldn’t leave his side in at least that long, or she would allow him to go with her.

She opened her mouth, to agree, to protest, to persuade, it didn’t matter, because she never had the chance to finish.

There was a sudden, violent wave of unrest that rippled through the spirits like water. All of them felt it, but her. Lines of violet fire erupted on Lucanis’s back. Manfred clutched the basket to himself, and Harding gripped hers like a weapon she was ready to swing. They all had a connection to the fade, including Emmrich, who looked stricken, listening to the chatter of the spirits and wisps around him. 

“What is it?” Rook asked, and belatedly realised she was pitching her voice like they were in a storm or a battle, even though the unrest was mainly spiritual, and only semi-formed of sound. 

“Death,” Spite told her, “A battle. Has been lost.”

“Who’s death?” she asked, her hand playing over the cold pommel of her sword. She felt blind in this atmosphere.

Emmrich spoke next, sounding a bit like he’d been punched in the gut. He broke off listening to a small, female spirit who fled with the others to the edges of the market. 

“The Caretaker,” he said in bafflement. 

Rook’s heart jumped, and her blood changed directions so suddenly it rushed in her ears. 

“The Caretaker? Of the Lighthouse? Of the Crossroads?” she asked, and the necromancer nodded. 

But that was impossible! They’d only been gone five days! The battle for the Crossroads had been going well when they’d left for Minrathous. But even as she thought it a niggling doubt wormed its way in. If the Crossroads had been so secure when they’d left, how had the Venatori managed to capture Emmrich so cleanly, so close to the Lighthouse?

“How?” Rook still found herself questioning. She attempted to reach out and seize one of the fleeing spirits and demand answers, but of course her hands passed right through it. 

“Rook,” Emmrich said and took her arm. “They’re terrified. Don’t–”

She turned to him, he was her fade expert, her guide to spirits, her counselor. “Emmrich, how could this happen? The Caretaker is–was a powerful being. They can inhabit any part of the Crossroads they want to, can’t they? How did anyone kill them? What battle?”

He was holding both her arms now, like he was trying to brace her, his mouth open as he considered what to say. Lucanis, Harding and Manfred hovered anxiously behind, the Wisp hissing mournfully as he felt the same impact that the other spirits were. 

“The Caretaker’s power was seated in the Lighthouse, Rook.” Emmrich said. 

“So they should be able to recover, shouldn’t they?” she protested. The Caretaker had been a benevolent, almost comforting presence in their lives for months now, nearly a year. It was reassuring to have their formal voice, and steady presence always at her back. Manning the doors, the barges, commanding the guardians who patrolled the Crossroads themselves. 

They couldn’t just be gone. 

“No one would be able to destroy them if the Lighthouse was still standing,” Emmrich told her. 

Behind his back, she saw Harding’s face grow pale and fall, and Lucanis’s drop to a mask of perfect blankness. 

Suddenly the chaos around them made sense to Rook. 

The Caretaker had fallen. Which meant the Lighthouse had fallen. 

The Lighthouse. 

Their home. 

Their haven after they had released the Evanuris and nearly fallen in the aftermath of Solas’ ritual. 

It was gone; Emmrich’s books, Davrin’s carvings, Harding’s plants, Johanna’s skull…and…

“Varric!” Rook twisted in Emmrich’s hands, fighting one arm free and dragging him off balance as she started forward. She couldn’t help it. Her heart was leaping forward. She had to go. Now. Maybe he wasn’t lost. Maybe she could pull him in the rubble and flee with them to Hossburg, or the Necropolis. They had allies who could help, and places they could shelter. But she had to get Varric. She couldn’t leave him there!

“Rook. Darling, stop! Stop! Listen to me…”

She couldn’t, not even for him. She loved Varric, she couldn’t leave Varric. Her very blood pounded with it. She could feel it crashing in her veins, in her skull. 

“I have to save him, Em. Let me go, I’ll come back. I swear. Go and tell the others what happened. Harding, you go with him. Lucanis, come with–”

Harding was frowning at her, face drawn with sorrow and shock, but something else as well. Something that jangled in Rook’s mind, like an off key string on an instrument. 

“What are you talking about?” her friend asked. 

“Lace!” Emmrich turned to the dwarf, and his voice dropped all softness and sweetness. He was stern, warning. “Don’t say anything.”

But they were all in shock. Emmrich was the only one who had substantial experience being surrounded by hordes of uneasy spirits. Harding was off-footed, as was Lucanis. She acted like she barely heard Emmrich at all. 

“I’m talking about Varric! He’s still at the Lighthouse,” Rook said, growing aggravated at Harding's strange behavior. Why was she looking at her like that? Why wasn’t she helping? Didn’t she care about Varric? Maker, Rook’s head was pounding like a dented bell, clanging just a little out of tune, out of note. Echoing in time with the pounding of the blood. She could taste it on the back of her eyeballs.

Emmrich turned back to her, he captured her face, trying to draw her attention. “Dearest, I need you to focus on me. Can you do that?”

She tried, she wanted to. She wanted to do anything for Emmrich. But she didn’t have much time, or focus. She had to get to Varric. He wouldn’t be able to hold out long. He’d been so terribly injured…

…for such a long time.

And Harding’s white face appeared under his arm, looking at her in concern, “Rook…”

Emmrich twisted, trying to keep his hold of Rook, and confront Harding at the same time, “Lace! Be quiet!”

“...Varric’s dead.”

Rook had once been kicked by a horse, right in the gut. It had been the strangest combination of burning pain and numbness that she’d ever felt. 

It was like that again, at the base of her skull. Molten fire seemed to sprout there and spread, flowing through her veins, pulsing with her blood, and making her feel oddly distant at the same time. 

She was kneeling on the ground. When had she fallen to the ground? There were hands all over her, and voices all around, but she couldn’t place them over the poor animal that was keening in her ears. It was in pain, the worst sort of pain. And its cry evoked the most primal urge in Rook’s heart to end its suffering. To make it stop. 

Rook Mercar knew only three things. 

She wanted the pain to stop. 

The Lighthouse had fallen. 

And Varric Tethras was dead. 

Chapter Text

“Get Dorian!”

“What’s wrong with her?!”

“Something I can’t fix alone! Go get Dorian, NOW!”

Rook thrashed in the dirt. She felt disconnected, apart from the rest of the world. It had all taken a backseat to the sensation of needles shooting down her spine, and the glass in her veins. It seemed to grow worse with every frantic thump of her heart. 

She had to clear her head, just so she could see what she was dealing with. She tried to shake it, and blink the haze from her vision. 

Pain, indescribable, unbelievable, roared down the back of her neck, coiled behind her eyes, and made her cry like a child.

“Varric,” she croaked, because he had just been here, hadn’t he? She had just been thinking about him. He could help her…he was…

No. Bad. Thinking of Varric was bad. It brought more pain, more tears. Why, why, why…

“I’m sorry,” someone was saying against the aching skin of her brow. “I’m so sorry. Try to stay calm.”

“Nuh!” she protested, she wanted it to stop. Please, Varric, Maker, gods, make it stop. 

It didn’t. An interminable amount of time passed, and it got worse. 

It circled in and out of her head with her heartbeat, depositing silt behind her eyes. It spread the sharpness like sand under the skin, at the roots of her hair, in her fingertips. 

It built and built until she cried out and someone cradled the back of her head, pressing her face into something soft. Whoever it was rocked. 

“Please, darling girl. You’ll be alright. Hold on. Hold on.”

Someone was pacing beside them, back and forth, back and forth, in a rhythm that clashed with her heart and the rocking. The discord of the percussion was going to burst her head like a rotten fruit, and all she could do was croak in protest. 

But it elicited a stream of soft words. “Dearest. Bravest. Stay here with us. Stay here. It’s alright.”

The voice was lying. It was not alright. It grew worse with each beat of her heart and throb of her head. But she listened anyway. It made her feel better

Harsh footsteps interrupted them, charging from a distance, accompanied by shouting. They skidded to a stop on the grit strewn ground. She flinched, but the arms held her. 

“What happened?” someone panted.

“Blood magic,” said the lovely voice, suddenly urgent and hard. “It’s gone wrong!”

“When has it ever gone right?!”

“No, it was Solas.”

“I thought he was in the fade.”

“Mierda. He means something has happened to Rook’s connection with Solas.”

Rook’s heart leapt at the cacophony of voices. Her head spun. She sobbed and everything was mercifully silent for a moment. 

“I need my magic, Dorian. I need your help,” the hands on her tightened. “She’s been seeing Varric.”

“Varric?!” 

“Solas has been altering her perception, her memories. She had no knowledge of his death until a moment ago.”

“You knew this?”

“...I saw him. She took me with her.”

“Mierda!”

“...We can’t just undo a blood curse of that magnitude. I need time. Supplies. I need to consult manuscripts.”

“It’s already unraveling,” the lovely voice protested. “I don’t propose we undo anything. I propose to recreate what she did before and ease the knowledge as it reintegrates into her memories. I just need to protect her mind from the recoil, and the shock of the residual beguilements.”

“You can’t possibly handle something of this caliber so soon. I meant for you to try lighting a candle today.”

“That’s why I waited for you.”

There was another silence, followed by a sharp sigh. 

“You and her are a pair of self-sacrificing idiots, passing your survival back and forth like children with a ball. Disgusting that my genius for invention and improvisation should be wasted on you when you’re going to throw everything to the wind like this.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m going to write to the Necropolis. Professors should not be encouraging dangerous experimentation among their students.”

“I thought that was your specialty.”

“It is, but I'm a cautionary tale, not an example. Move over here, a little out of sight. Lucanis, can you keep watch?”

“Always.”

“Hold her tighter if you possibly can, Professor. This is going to hurt.”

“I’m sorry. I know you prefer not to dabble in blood magic.”

“I’m happy to toe the line if it’s to undo more of that wolf’s mischief.”

The arms cradling Rook tightened, and for the first time in what felt like an age, she opened her eyes. She could smell petrichor in the air, and feel the hum of magic inches away. 

A set of handsome fingers filled her vision, manicured and well formed. They settled on her face, digging into her skin. 

And Rook forgot the aching of her head, and the sharpness of her blood in the exquisite agony that followed. 

It was like someone was spinning part of her mind into fine threads and then drawing them out. She thought that if she could somehow manage to open her eyes again, she would see scarlet string pinched between the fingers. At least she was certain she didn’t scream. There was no physical sound that could properly articulate the sensation. 

And then it was gone, abruptly as it had come. 

Rook was pulled, wrenched to the left. But it wasn’t actually left. It was a direction that didn’t feel real. It was just…sideways. 

She was suddenly, blissfully free of pain as she tumbled to the ground. 

Then someone was lifting her, hefting her into their arms with a grunt. She hung like a ragdoll as they jogged, her legs dangling, her head bobbing against a shoulder. 

Maker, she was so tired. 

Her carrier increased their pace, breathing heavily, they jostled her as they trotted up a set of steps. 

“Tethras!”

Rook’s eyes slipped open at the voice. She knew that voice, though now it was tight with strain, and panting with effort. 

“Varric Tethras!”

She looked up. Emmrich was carrying her. Her head spun in silly circles and she giggled. 

He looked down at her in alarm. 

“You're tall,” she explained. “I’m so high up.”

His face twisted in different expressions of emotion and settled on something deeply lined and complicated. 

“I won’t drop you,” he said. 

“I know that,” Rook huffed.

He started running again, looking ahead, so she looked too. 

They were at the Lighthouse…or what was left of it. The sky was a wash of muddy gray. There were the beheaded remains of the Fen-Harel statue. Emmrich stepped carefully onto the scattered pieces of staircase going down, passing over the endless fade beneath. 

The doors to the main building were hanging like broken fingers around the shattered entrance. 

The necromancer charged straight through them, and stopped in a sea of charred, torn books, and chair legs. The room looked like a great explosion had taken it. Both staircases were shattered, and the astrolabe lay in pieces at their feet. 

Emmrich caught his breath for just a moment, before calling again. 

“Master Tethras!”

For a moment his voice rang in the empty room, and Rook’s head, and she was afraid that Varric wasn’t there. 

Then she heard the uneven tread of Varric’s gait. 

“Maker’s moldy smalls. Hang on. I’m coming.”

Emmrich sank to the ground. Still clutching her to his chest.

A distant bell of alarm rang in Rook’s gut. She had seen the mage sit on the ground a total of two times. Even if there were no chairs available, he wouldn’t just give in to gravity like that. He must be exceptionally tired. He certainly was breathing heavily, like he’d spent a great deal of energy to get her there.

But her concerns took a backseat as Varric finally emerged, gingerly picking his way down the ruined remains of the left-hand staircase. 

”Spooks,” he said in surprise. “What are you doing back here?”

Whatever Emmrich had been planning to say died as he frowned in sudden consternation. 

“Spooks?”

Varric took the last few steps carefully. “Ugh, just like Sparkler. You necromancers and your precious dignity. All that death and gloom, you need to lighten up a little.”

“I have no time for flippancy,” Emmrich said. 

“Funny. Time is all I seem to have nowadays.”

“You’re not just a figment of Rook’s mind and some blood magic. Your own blood spilled at that ritual site. You’re a tethered wisp of Master Tethras’s soul. I could feel it before. That’s why I can see and speak with you. That’s why Solas was so successful in his deception against Rook.”

Varric settled on the remains of an overturned bookshelf. 

“Got it in one. If the matter is too urgent for flippancy, Watcher, it’s too urgent for formality. Call me Varric. And answer my question. You risked a lot to come back here, in more ways than one. You and Dorian didn’t exactly pick a safe spot to perform some blood magic.”

“No,” Emmrich shifted his grip on Rook, and she set her head against his shoulder. She quite liked being carried by him. 

“Well, what is it?”

“You have to help her.”

“I can’t.”

“You must!”

“You aren’t listening, Watcher. I can’t. Rook’s mind is already sorting itself out. You’ve mitigated the damage by getting her here. All I can do is what I've always done; provide some commentary.”

At this pronouncement all the stiffness left Emmrich’s spine and shoulders, causing him to sag over Rook like a soggy scarecrow. 

Varric hauled himself up and limped over, patting the necromancer comfortingly on the shoulder. 

”You, on the other hand, are headed for some real trouble if you stay here. I’m no prognosticator but I can see that.”

The mage leaned down and pressed a kiss to Rook’s brow. He brushed back some of her hair, arranging it neatly in ways she never did. Rook murmured in pleasure as his fingers ran over her scalp and traced her cheeks.

 “If I leave I can’t be sure she’ll be alright.”

Varric snorted. “If you stay you can be sure she’ll be spitting mad when she’s in her right mind. Don’t hurt yourself for her out of guilt, Spooks. That’s a short road to a sore jaw and a bruised butt.”

Emmrich scoffed. But he stirred himself, and with great reluctance, he eased Rook onto the floor off of his lap. Her hands clung to his robe, right alongside the little embroidered peacocks that hung by desperate threads to the very battered Antivan silk. 

“You’re leaving?” Rook moaned plaintively. She didn’t want him to go. He was warm, and soft, and his voice eased the ache in her head. 

“I must, darling,” Emmrich said. “Apparently you’ll be very cross with me if I don’t.”

That didn’t sound right at all. She frowned, “I could never be cross with you.”

Their faces were only inches apart. Their eyes could almost sink into each other, Rook thought with another dizzy spin in her head. 

“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” her necromancer said. 

Rook searched her mind, but she couldn’t remember. Really, everything just ached, and she was so very tired. 

“Still not cross,” she settled on. And smiled at him. 

“Dear girl,” Emmrich mused, scanning her face closely. 

Then he kissed her lips, parting them with his tongue, so that warmth shot through her, and she let him ease her fingers off of his robe and pull away. 

“Who said you’re not good at Wicked Grace?” she complained. 

He smiled thinly, “rest, my Rook. Stay with Varric. Come and find us when you’re finished here.” 

He had a point, she thought, her eyes slipping shut against her will, her mind drifting so that she barely glimpsed him shuffling backwards, onto his feet, and out the ruined doorway. 

“Hey Spooks, you remember what I said, about Solas?”

“…I remember. I am sorry we did not meet on the other side of the veil Ma-Varric.”

“Watch yourself,” Rook heard Varric call after the Mourn Watcher, who groaned at the pun and was gone. 

Rook lay there for what felt like a long time. 

She didn’t sleep. She rested, her mind turning over pleasant thoughts as the ache in her head and muscles eased, and her blood remembered how to flow in one direction.  

Until at last Rook Mercar came properly awake. 

She came properly, widely awake, in ways she hadn’t been since she’d bashed her head, and spilled her blood at the ritual sight in Arlathan.

She sat up and looked at Varric, who leaned against the banister, staring at her. 

“You’re dead,” her voice trembled with unshed tears. “You’ve been dead all along.”

“Yeah,” Varric said, shrugging his coat comfortably onto his shoulders, all trace of injury and weakness gone. “Sorry about that, Kid. Looks like we have some stuff to talk about. And then you need to hightail it out of here.”

“Why?” Rook sat up straighter, she remembered that something had happened. Something big. Something bad. 

And She had the sense of a lingering kiss on her lips that now felt cold. 

“Mmm,” Varric said, “I think you might be in for a spot of trouble.”

Chapter Text

“Come on kid, what are you afraid of?”

“…You’re gone, Varric. This time, you’re really gone. And it’s all up to me now.”

“Shoot, kid. It’s always been up to you.”

Varric’s last words rang in Rook’s mind as she opened her eyes. 

Her head ached, but it was the ache of muscles slowly rebuilding. She remembered everything, all the conversations. She could recall in vivid detail Varric, writhing at the foot of the stairs at the ritual site. 

She remembered the feel of blood, still hot from his body as he tore Solas’s dagger from his own chest. 

She’d been trying to stem the flow of blood, calling for Harding and Neve at the sight of the desperate wound. 

That was only moments before the recoil from Solas’s ritual had snapped, and thrown her against a pillar like a ragdoll. 

There was nothing she could have done, nothing she could have said to change Varric’s mind. He said so himself. 

“I’m sorry, Varric.”

“For what?”

“Because I couldn’t save you.”

“Aw, hell! Haven’t I taught you anything? It was my choice, my decision, my sacrifice. And you don’t get to take that from me.”

That didn’t change the fact that he was still dead. In the end she hadn’t even seen him actually die. She’d been too distracted trying to save him. He’d slipped away unwitnessed in her arms. 

And all this time she hadn’t even known he was dead to mourn him. 

That had been stolen from her. 

Now Rook pried her eyes partway open, and saw Varric’s face before her, faint, painted like a thin veneer. A ghost over the background of dust and stone before her. 

She groaned. Her body ached.

‘Shh, kid. You’re not alone,’ said the lingering wisp of Varric Tethras, nothing but a wraith against the bleak world before her. 

She blinked her eyes, wondering if he would wash away with the rain pattering down on her, but he didn’t. 

Rain?

Rook blinked again, and looked up at the sky of the Crossroads, wheeling overhead. It was like it had been torn violently open. Stars and violently black clouds, fought for space as lightning crackles angrily between them. Cold, mournful rain fell, soaking the ancient dust of the byway. 

It was raining in the crossroads. 

They were mourning for their fallen Caretaker.  

There was a sound of shifting rock to Rook’s left and she saw several Venatori huddled around a magical flame, under the bare shelter of a bit of stone. 

It looked like a ruined archway. They were still in the converged city. The ruins of the converged city. 

Maker, what had happened after she lost consciousness? 

Her answer came as she shifted against the bare stone under her back. As she moved, her hands did as well, and they were accompanied by the chorus of iron links, clinking against one another. 

Her eyes came fully open at that. Someone had seen fit to chain her hands together, but nothing else. Apparently the blood magic had done quite a number on her if she looked so bad that the Venatori wouldn’t even bother chaining her properly. 

With fingers frozen almost numb, Rook reached for one of the many picks that she had concealed in the seams of her clothes. The wraith of Varric chuckled.

‘Atta girl,’ he said and watched as she took the pick out, and with minimal movement freed her hands. It took a few moments longer than her best time, due to her cold hands and the weakness of her body. But her persistence paid off, and the cuffs fell from her wrists with soft thunks to the wet ground. 

They hadn’t seen fit to leave her weapons on her, curse it all. But the slim blade she kept in her right boot was still there. 

She felt slightly more confident as she slipped away from the faint edges of the firelight and into the shadows of the surrounding debris. The dim rain, and the dust of this ancient place, was really providing her with the perfect cover. Her footfalls were as muffled as though she walked on rich carpet. 

And the Venatori really were not concerned with her at all. They must have thought her near death. They hadn’t bothered to move her under shelter, or secure her bonds with any sort of magic, or place any guard on her. It was like she had been discarded. 

But if that was the case, why hadn’t they just finished her off and moved on? Why had they set up camp here at all?

‘So many questions and you haven’t even taken a proper look around,” Varric complained, following her like an eerie speck of dust in the corner of her eye. ‘Your quick thinking is a boon, Rook. But sometimes you have the opportunity to gather information before you act. This is one of those times. Take advantage of it.’

Of course. God’s, what was she going to do without him? Who would remind her when this last bit of him inevitably faded as well. 

‘For someone as besotted with their friends and love as you, you sure do default to being “alone” easily.’

It was true. That had been her default before Varric. That was the reason she couldn’t follow father’s intentions for her to join the army. Before the others she’d been…

Oh Gods.

“Varric!” she hissed, not quite above the hiss of the rain. “Where are they?!”

‘Easy, kid. Take a look around and see.’

She tried not to scramble over the sea of fallen stones and the shattered remains of stalls. Making herself move with care she circled around the periphery of the magical campfire, catching snatches of conversation as her stiff muscles slowly awoke and protested the movement. 

“...sure they’ll be here?”

“They said they’ll be here, they’ll be here. Dunno exactly what we’ve caught but if it’s not worth His time then surely it will be worth Hers. The Gods are patient, and so must we be.”

“I don’t want to be patient. This place gives me the creeps.”

Rook’s foot hit something more solid, and she looked down to see the body of one of the messengers who had taken to navigating through the Crossroads. She probably knew their face, but it was unrecognizable in the dim light. Rook made herself step over them and continue. She didn’t bother to reach for her serene pool of water. It was gone. She could feel every raw tremble of her muscles and every emotion as she clutched her boot knife.

More Venatori spoke on the opposite side of the fire, there looked to be about seven of them. Rook’s feet knocked against several more red-robed bodies that had been carelessly gathered into a pile. 

Apparently seven was what was left of them. 

“I’m telling you, it’s him.”

“Can’t be him. He’s dead. I saw the ruins of his estate. The whole place is a wreck, a pile of bricks and mortar.”

“Well Veritus will know for sure. When the others return with him.”

“And then you’ll owe me 30 silvers worth of coin, because I'm telling you. He’s dead.”

Rook’s heart tried to move up her throat as she continued her circle at the edges of the light. She didn’t know how to calm herself, not anymore. She would be fighting against her own body just as much as any enemy if it came to a battle. She would be worse than alone.

Except the wispy remains of Varric continued to linger at the edges of her vision, his smile and his eyes warm despite their lack of substance. It offered her strange comfort. It was like turning back to wave at someone after you had already bid them goodbye. He was lingering long enough to smile and watch her being alive. 

Or maybe he’d been there all along. Maybe her mind was irreparably damaged from the curse. Maybe she was mad.

Didn’t matter. She could still walk, and she could still stab things. It would have to do for now. She kept moving…

…and stopped as her legs almost gave out beneath her. 

On the opposite side of the gathering at the fire, were three more figures. 

One, wearing the tattered remains of a cloak about his neck, and with the rain visible between his bones was instantly recognizable. Manfred sat, glowering at the Venatori. His hands hadn’t been chained, but an iron collar sat about his neck, and was attached by a chain to the wall behind him. 

In his lap another figure lay, covered in a cloak, and from the possessive way Manfred crouched over them, it could only be Emmrich. 

Beside them, slumped against the wall, his face drawn and grey with fatigue, even in the light of the fire, was Dorian. From this distance, Rook could not make out the precise state of him. 

Kaffas. 

How had they gotten the drop on Dorian, as well as Emmrich? And where was Lucanis? 

Manfred shifted and hissed something softly, but whatever it was was lost in the snap of the rain in the fire, the clanking of chains, and the murmurs of the Venatori.

Rook’s still numb body, numbed further, though she hardly noticed in the cold of the drops falling on her. It was like she was pulling away a little, observing the ridiculous situation from the outside. 

They had come through so much, just to circle back around right back to where they’d started off, in the hands of the Venatori. 

Vishante Kaffas! She was so sick of them. She was so sick of listening to their murmuring, muttering voices. She was sick of their cruel, hard, blood driven magic. 

She was done with their thoughtless cruelty.

She was done being kind. 

‘Woah, woah! Come here, kid,’ Varric’s wraith laid his hand over hers, and led her gently to the seventh Venatori, the only one not engaged in conversation. They were, in fact, mildly asleep, head bowed, bow and quiver set off to the side. 

The knife shook in Rook’s hand as she fought against fatigue, and numbness, and fury. But she followed Varric’s lead, took a hold of the bow and arrows and slid them soundlessly from the ground and into her hands. She retreated back into the darkness.

Rook liked the bow. It was the weapon that had always come easiest to her, though she didn’t use it nearly as much as her blades.

There was something about the way you drew the string back, loaded with the arrow. It was like breathing. Like the bowstring was a muscle in her own body that she was pulling. A string of her heart, and when she let it loose–for a brief moment–her heart knew what it was like to fly. 

The first arrow was silent in the rain as it embedded itself in the heart of its owner, never even waking them from sleep. Perhaps Varric’s wraith had given Rook the grace to make such a shot. It was much better than her usual. 

Her second shot was not so graceful, the string twanged painfully against her arm as her muscles protested the activity. But the arrow still found its way into one of their chests. He fell backwards with a cry and his companion screamed, first in alarm as the third arrow missed her, and then in pain as the fourth arrow sprouted in her neck. 

Two of the last four were on their feet and rushing forward before Rook could string another.

‘Run!’ Varric barked, and Rook did, skidding away through the darkness, firing loose arrows back at her pursuers. She heard them cry out, but did not stop to check whether her shots were true.

She stumbled over a body, one of the stall minders, dead among their stock of armor and weapons. 

Rook’s hand scrambled for an axe that was too heavy and unwieldy for her fighting style, and she wished fervently that Taash was with her. 

The first of her pursuers ran into her almost headlong as she slashed wildly, catching them shallowly in the side. 

The woman hissed and pulled back, clutching the wound. The second one slowed. 

“Little rat,” he spat as he drew near, his hands glowing with magic. 

Kaffas. A mage. 

“We thought you were going to die. But your people are like that. Cockroaches, you’re never certain whether they're finished or not.”

“I’m from Tevinter, just as you are,” Rook snapped back. “The only difference between us is that I'm trying to save it, and you’re trying to poison it.”

Lightning ripped through Rook’s muscles, freezing them for a moment before she dropped the axe and crumbled to her knees. She twitched and flinched at the pinching sensation of the currents still playing over her skin. 

“The differences between us are innumerable,” the mage said, stepping past his wounded companion and approaching Rook. “And I am perfectly happy to illustrate them to you.”

The crack of thunder in the sky mirrored the mage’s spell perfectly, as it struck Rook again, dark purple with lustre and power. For a long moment, her numb body was even less her own as it was stolen from her. Her limbs locked and her breath trapped in her throat unable even to voice her pain. 

“I could go on about history, and the rise and fall of empires. I could talk about blood, and magic, and inferiority. But I think I'll keep it simple, so that you’ll be sure to understand.”

This time the crackle of electricity was so powerful that it filled Rook’s ears, and made her back arch off the ground. Blood seeped into her mouth as she bit her tongue. And Rook didn’t care that it hurt. She could barely feel it above her own fury. But there was no way to fight this. 

‘Hold on, Kid!’

“Your value is perfectly equal to your usefulness. You are alive because it made your friends more compliant. Now that they are subdued, and you are redundant. Do you understand?”

The statement was not immediately followed with more lighting. Rook lay, taking sobbing breaths into her burning lungs. Listening to the woman she had tried to gut off to the side, hissing as she dabbed at her wound. 

The ozone of magic and the storm overhead filled the air, and Rook just wanted to lie there and let the rain wash over her. 

But she didn’t. Instead, Rook spat blood and dust from her mouth, turned her head to glare up at the mage. 

“If that were the case,” she slurred with her swollen tongue, smiling one of Varric’s best smiles. “You wouldn’t feel the need to explain it to me.”

As the mage bristled with fury, and more magic built in his hands Rook looked for Varric. 

She couldn’t see him anymore. Her last image of him had been the wrinkle between his forehead as he worried for her. 

It was nice to be worried about, she decided, even if it was only a bit of madness that worried for you. 

Lightning cracked the air again and Rook flinched, bracing herself for more pain. 

A long moment passed as her wish came true, and she lay, letting the rain wash over her aching body. 

Rook opened her eyes. 

The Venatori lay beside her, staring blankly up into the sky, his eyes wide with shock, and his skin scorched with lethal lightning magic 

Rook pushed herself up on muscles that trembled, and spasmed, as a figure emerged from the gloom and approached her. 

They were tall, built more as a warrior than as a mage, though their hand crackled with magic as they shook it out. It creaked slightly. 

“Oh, he’s not going to be happy about that,” said a familiar voice that spoke in a soft burr, and with a permanent fatigue that came from carrying the weight of the whole damn world on your shoulders. 

The new mage crouched heedlessly beside her, his manner casual and familiar, as though he felt at home anywhere. 

He smiled, one of Varric’s best smiles. 

“Hello Rook,” said Trevelyan. 

Chapter Text

At any other time, Trevelyan would have commanded Rook’s attention. It wasn’t everyday the former leader of the Inquisition saved you from an ignominious death. It was even possible that Rook was just insane. She’d been seeing Varric all day. She’d been seeing him for nearly a year. Why not the bloody Herald of Andraste too?

But the truth was, Rook barely had the energy, or attention to spend on him. The arm he helped her up with might have belonged to any one of a hundred people she’d fought on battlefields with already. It could have been anyone’s arm helping her hobble over the rain-soaked, ruined streets. At that moment it didn’t matter to her. 

Trevelyan didn’t seem to take offence, he took his cue from her urgency and only asked a few pertinent questions. 

“Can you walk?”

“Yes.” 

“How many of them left?”

“At least two.”

“Where?”

She pointed. Speech was a waste of breath that could be better spent retracing the steps of the frantic flight for her life. The Venatori camp wasn’t far, just through the ruined market and up a slope. They had probably heard the lightning striking from that distance. 

Trevelyan paused only long enough to press the bow and arrows back into her hands, mercifully dispatch the gutted Venatori woman, and draw the simple hilt of a sword from his belt. 

There was no blade attached to it, and as they marched up the side of the hill, Rook saw why. As soon as they reached the summit, the Herald slashed it through the air, and magic—pure, and humming with menace—ran from the hilt in the ghostly semblance of a blade. 

It lit the particles of fog around them, lending herself and the former Inquisitor an unearthly glow. 

Trevelyan released her to walk on her own and stalked forward in a manner more befitting of Davrin or Taash, than a mage. Cries of alarm preceded his entry into the camp, and Rook barely had time or strength to fit an arrow and loose it at the first Venatori to throw themselves at him. 

The arrow gouged a shallow cut in the Venatori’s side as his sword met the Herald’s in an explosion of ethereal flame. Trevelyan threw him back, shoved a fistfull of lightning into his face, and turned in time to run his spirit weapon through a second warrior. 

The reinforcements that the Venatori had been muttering about must have arrived, for two more emerged from the gloom, and Rook forced her trembling arms to draw another arrow and loose it into one of their chests. 

She followed in Trevelyan’s footsteps, drawing and loosing, and stabbing with muscles that felt like they’d been shredded by magic. The Herald’s defense was solid, and instead of a shield he supplemented his blade with spells, highly favoring the lightning. 

A distant part of Rook’s brain noted that he must have been taught the sword at a young age, before his magic had manifested. It made sense if his people bred their children for physical combat the way magisters designed their own lines for magic. 

When they had waded closer to the fire there was a familiar hissing, and a cry of pain. 

Dorian’s voice drifted over to them, laughing sharply. 

“You really are a glutton for punishment aren’t you? I told you not to touch him if you don’t want to get bitten.”

Trevelyan started in surprise, and his opponent scored a shallow cut across his flesh arm. He cursed and returned his attention to the fight, pressing forward with Rook at his heels until the shallow alcove where Dorian, Manfred and Emmrich were sheltering came into view. 

One of the guards from before was struggling with the skeleton, his arm firmly clenched between Manfred’s teeth. Dorian was taking the opportunity to wrap his own chains around the Venatori’s neck. He pulled them taught with a grimace, and a flash of blood stained teeth. 

Trevelyan cut down the warrior he’d been fighting with. “Dorian!”

The chains slackened as the ex-magister looked up in astonishment, his eyes comically wide and mouth slack in his grey face. 

“...Amatus?”

Now was not the time, but Rook was too busy to scold them. She dropped and spun, hamstringing a mage who ran up behind Trevelyan with a fistful of fire. Every muscle in her body was burning, and her lungs were sobbing for relief. But she couldn’t stop. She didn't’ dare stop…

Luckily Trevelyan was no fool, and having seen that Dorian was alive, he refocused his efforts on their enemies. 

Eight Venatori, including the two Rook had left alive before, lay dead around them (or mostly dead. Manfred was still munching on his). Two more turned to actively flee to the edges of the camp. 

Trevelyan surged after one of them, catching him with a string of lighting around his ankle and severing his head from his body. 

The second peeled away to his left, down the same slope they’d just come up. He was running full tilt, and Rook did not have to hear the Herald’s shouted warning to know that letting him get away was a bad idea. 

He would report to Ghilan’nain, or Elgar’nan, whichever of them was responsible for the decimation of the Crossroads. Rook’s people did not have the strength to fight off even one more assault. Anonymity and speed would be their only defense until they found shelter. 

That defense would be shattered if the Evanuris knew where to find them.

Rook had already failed so many times that day, and the day before. She had let her promise to Emmrich be broken, that he would be safe. 

She would not let it happen again. 

She drew her bowstring back to her ear with the last tearing breath in her lungs. She held that burning coal in her chest so that her hands grew still for the split second she took to sight down the bow. 

When she loosed it this time it was like a string of her heart really had been plucked, for the last of her strength went with it. 

She watched, crouching in the dust, as the Venatori—now at a fair distance—staggered to a stop, dropped to his knees, and then to his face. Her arrow stood like a flag from his back. 

For two burning breaths she watched him for signs of life, but he did not rise to his feet. He was ended, and so was Rook. She turned her back on him, dropping her bow and arrows in the dirt, her bloody knife falling from her hand. 

She scuttled back into the camp, barely cleared the edge of the firepit, skirting around Trevelyan, Dorian and Manfred alike. 

Emmrich was lying where Manfred must have dropped him, his head pillowed on the remains of the Vorgoth disguise. He was grey, much like Dorian, and it took Rook a moment to see that he was breathing. 

She reached for where his hands were splayed limply beside him, but she couldn’t take his pulse. The bandages had been ruined and pulled out of place by another set of cuffs that had been secured around his wrists. 

Rook laughed. 

She hadn’t meant too. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at all. But the sound burst out of her and rang eerily in the fog around them, accompanied only by Manfred’s anxious hisses. 

After everything they’d been through, after all the care they’d taken, Emmrich had landed right back in his nightmares. 

She continued to laugh, out of irony and disbelief. Of course. This was the way of Tevinter. You stepped over one pile of muck, only to trip and fall face first into the next one. She’d learned that lesson well, over the years. She knew it. 

But Emmrich didn’t. Emmrich was too kind, and gentle, and decent for the world Rook had grown up in. Rook should have known better. She had dragged him right into the middle of it. 

She had drawn Ghilan’nain’s attention to him. The gifs had taken him because of Rook. 

Because she loved him. 

It was starting to hurt, the laughter. Her shoulders and chest ached with it after so much archery. They begged for relief. And perhaps Rook sounded a little in pain because suddenly Trevelyan’s arm was around her shoulders. 

Rook laughed harder at that, because she was being held by the blessed Herald of Andraste and getting snot and tears on his cloak. 

Oh. she wasn’t actually laughing, was she?

She tried to stop. 

But she couldn’t. Her heart was bleeding out into her chest. She was a wreck, clinging to the safe harbor that Trevelyan offered. 

They were practically strangers. Only a few letters and meetings had been exchanged between them. Except for the one profound way in which they were exactly alike. 

“You cannot control everything,” he told her with that world-saving weariness, voice calm and steady. “You cannot save everyone, or prevent every pain and disaster. That’s not your job.”

Rook choked on a sob because she was in enough pain without him prying open her mind like this. 

“Varric chose you for this. He helped me prevent the end of the world. He knows what’s required to do a job like that...”

Trevelyan broke off. He lifted his head and spoke over her. After a moment he shifted and pulled away, and Rook broke anew as a different set of arms replaced the Herald’s. 

He must have heard her crying. Somehow it must have disturbed him more than the sounds of battle and Venatori dying around him. 

Arms that clinked with chains and gold, and trailing bandages, wrapped themselves tightly around Rook. A hand—moving so carefully she ached—framed her face like it was something precious, and gently lifted her chin. 

Emmrich sighed in relief and rested his mouth against her brow as he spoke. 

“You’re alright.” 

And that was all he seemed to care about. 

Rook laughed again, and this time it was real, even if it was very wet.

She pulled away enough to see that his eyes were alight. They were joyful. 

He was alright.

“So are you,” she said, and he laughed too.

Chapter Text

Every moment that passed was a reassurance to Rook. 

Maybe it was the sudden reality of Varric’s death giving her a new appreciation for the details. Or, maybe it was because her mind was finally free of blood magic for the first time in nearly a year. Everything from the sensations under her fingertips, to the colors in the wet stones caught her attention, worthy of notice. 

Except it wasn’t just that, because her attention was captured again and again by someone in particular. 

She let Emmrich’s voice wrap around her like a warm blanket as she knelt beside him, trying to keep his hands still enough for her to work the pick into the lock of the cuffs around his wrists. They weren’t soldered shut this time. 

His hands weren’t shivering or trembling this time either, they were waving, gesticulating, expressing. 

“Will you stop?” Rook said with exasperation that was more fond than real. She couldn’t help it. Emmrich was pleased with himself. His smile came so easily, like a sunrise after a long night. 

Maker! Having Varric in her head for so long really had colored her speech. 

Whatever. It was like something in her Necromancer had clicked back into place. Like using magic to pull her back from the edge of oblivion had healed something in him that Neither Dorian, nor Rook could see. 

“Forgive me, darling. It’s not every day that I have the opportunity to examine the natural flow of the fade around a former conduit.”

“You shouldn’t be examining anything at all,” Dorian said, a little grumpily. Rook didn’t blame him. He’d taken a rather nasty wound to the leg and was too drained to do anything about it. The bloodloss and mana exhaustion had left him gray, cold and shaky. And his only set of robes was fairly ruined. 

And instead of fussing over him, Trevelyan was sat beside Emmrich, holding out his prosthetic arm for examination. 

“I didn’t think there would be any traces left after the mark was removed,” the former Inquisitor said, all his boyishness coming to the fore as he submitted to the examination of a mage who could quote libraries of knowledge beyond his own limited experience. 

Gods, Rook thought, no wonder Dorian was able to charm him so quickly. 

Emmrich took no notice. He was so caught up in his own enthusiasm that Rook had to tug his arm back down into her lap to finish picking the lock. 

“Oh yes! The traces are irreversible. If it helps, think of it as a permanent scar around this part of your being that follows you through the fade. Although it is more like a memory than physical tissue. The metaphysical realities don’t translate as directly as all that–”

Trevelyan looked a little worried. “It wouldn’t open up anything again…would it? After all this time?”

Emmrich shook his head, “Oh, no. The vein of energy that powered it was thoroughly severed by Solas’s efforts. But much like a scar I can see the original manner in which the original mark operated. A bit crude, but very effective. It’s such a shame I never got to see it in action.”

“It would have been nice to have you around,” the Herald said. 

“Yes,” Dorian mused. “It would have been nice to not be the only competent mage in Skyhold.”

“Aww,” Trevelyan gently reclaimed his hand from Emmrich and crossed over to him. “I know you’re only saying such hurtful things because you spent the night out of doors.”

“You don’t think it’s the great gaping hole in my thigh?”

“No,” Trevelyan smiled at him. “You’re always a monster after you sleep outside.”

It was only Manfred’s concerned hiss that made Rook realize that she had stopped picking the locks. Face burning a little, she continued as Emmrich turned his attention to her instead. 

“Rook,” he curbed his enthusiasm, and Rook could hear the underlying fatigue that had colored his voice ever since his visit to her Varric vision. “Are you alright? Truly?”

“Of course I am,” she squeezed his free hand and turned her attention to the second one. “You healed me, right? I’m fine.”

Manfred was leaning so close he rivaled the attention Rook was giving to the shackle. She was going to have to teach him to pick locks before he went and started getting himself into trouble. Better he learn from her than from Spite. Rook fixated on the fissure patterns of his skull as Emmrich’s free hand entangled itself in her hair. 

“That both is and isn’t what I meant, my dear.”

The lock snapped open and Rook’s excuse to have her attention elsewhere was gone. She tossed the shackles aside and saw that the state of the bandages was poor, but there was no sign of new blood underneath them. They would definitely need to be changed, but the stitches were holding. 

Maybe Emmrich was well enough they could be healed outright. 

Rather than goad her into speech—as Rook herself had done—Emmrich said, “It is cruel of us to ask you to go back into battle without proper time to mourn your friend.”

Finally, Rook looked up at him. 

How was it possible that she loved him more now than she had two days ago? Is that why her chest felt painful? Her heart was trying to grow past its allotted space? Was it a Mourn Watch thing, that he knew what to say to console her and acknowledge her grief? Or was it a ‘knowing Rook’ thing?

Don’t be silly, kid. It’s always both . 

“I’m tired,” she told him suddenly, and his hand stilled in her hair, like he was afraid to spook her. “And numb. And my fingers hurt from firing a bow with frozen hands.”

“Ah,” Emmrich reached out and cupped her fingers inside his. There was a sneaky bit of heat that magically soaked from his hands to hers that Rook was certain Dorian would have scolded him for. 

She should scold him as well, but Rook had a suspicion that the “thing” that had clicked into place in Emmrich might just be his magic. 

------

Trevelyan had not come alone, not entirely. As soon as they had looted enough and healed enough to hobble out of the Venatori’s camp, he gave a low whistle. 

Something snorted and Dorian sighed and titled his head backwards. 

“You didn’t.”

“I did!” the Herald said with delight. 

“Did what?” Rook asked suspiciously, tightening her hold around Emmrich’s ribs. 

“Bring the other half of the circus,” Pavus said resignedly as two more figures came trotting, actually trotting, out of the thick fog. 

Rook started, because what she had initially taken to be two horses, was only one. The other was not a horse.

At least…not anymore. 

Manfred hissed and stood protectively in front of Emmrich even as the necromancer took an eager step in the direction of the creatures. 

They stood quietly as the Herald greeted them, cooing softly and patting their noses. Both dead and undead alike. 

The horse on the left was an unassuming brown beast that was covered in almost as many scars as Trevelyan himself. The one of the right was covered in a mummified black hide that clung to the outlines of bone and sinew beneath it. It butted it’s head against the Herald’s shoulder, nearly impaling him with the horrible rusty sword that stuck through the bottom of it’s skull, right out the top.  

Rook gaped, “It looks like a–”

“She’s a bog unicorn,” Trevelyan said, and from the way he puffed up a bit, and Dorian wilted, Rook had the impression that this sort of introduction had happened before. “Her name is Marigold.”

Emmrich looked a little like he might be in love. 

“She’s wonderful!” he said, oblivious to Manfred’s disapproving gaze. “Dorian, did you do this?”

“No,” Dorian said indignantly. “If I was going to reanimate a mount for the Inquisitor, it wouldn’t be this sorry bag of bones.”

“She joined us in Skyhold of her own free will,” the Herald said, letting the beast nibble at his chin with what was left of her lip. “She fell in battle an age ago, and her valiant spirit wouldn’t rest until she finished her fight against evil.”

“Do you know how many times he’s given that speech?” Dorian implored them.

The normal, living horse twitched its tail and lowered its head in search of grass, thoroughly unimpressed. 

“Look,” Rook told both necromancers, one enamoured, the other very much not, “We have to find Lucanis and then the others. We don’t have any more time to waste.”

“My thoughts, your words,” the Herald agreed. “Dorian, do you want to ride Mar–”

“NO.”

“I do,” Emmrich volunteered. 

Without the facial features to do so, Manfred pouted thoroughly. 

------

Rook had never properly appreciated the natural shock absorption of living horses with an abundance of cartilage. 

“Emmrich?”

His arms tightened around her middle. He did not seem to be as bothered by the jarring gait of Marigold as she was. 

“Yes, dearest?”

“When you get Manfred’s teeth examined, do you think they could look at mine as well? They’re rattling around like dice.”

“Keep your jaw loose,” he advised, and sighed as he looked ahead to where Manfred sat behind Dorian on the spare horse (The wisp had utterly refused to ride Marigold.) The former inquisitor walked beside Pavus, somehow conversing and keeping stride at the same time. 

“I don’t know whether to be proud of Manfred, or to scold him. I do hope it doesn’t become a habit again, this biting. In the beginning he was constantly putting things in his mouth as part of his exploration.”

“Yeah,” Rook said, letting herself lean back into the necromancer a little and feeling him shift in response to support her. “That’s the way most kids are when they’re small.”

Emmrich gave a gentle scoff as he usually did when she implied Manfred was his child, but he offered no objection beyond that. 

They hadn’t been riding long, but it was enough for the Good Will that Rook had been feeling start to fade. They were traveling in increasingly wide circles in the hopes of finding Lucanis, but so far there was no sign of him. 

What if they didn’t find him? Or worse, what if they found him too late?

What about the others? Neve and Harding and Taash, all the former slaves including Meir and the other children. What if they had been captured as well? Would the Venatori have taken them alive?

And how long could Rook and the others keep this up for? Rook found herself genuinely questioning. Even as she shifted her weight forward again, she could feel Emmrich leaning on her as much as she had on him. And her own legs had begun to complain just from staying astride their mount. 

The only one who was even remotely fresh among them was Trevelyan, and he had apparently traveled without sleep to arrive here if Dorian’s scolding was anything to go by. 

And if–when they found the others, what would they do? Where would they go? They couldn’t go back to Minrathous. The Lighthouse and the Caretaker were gone. Her heart ached at the thought. Another person they didn’t have the time to properly mourn for. 

They could go to Treviso, but that would put a strain on the already besieged city. The Necropolis would be a safer option. And Rook would be lying if she said the idea of seeing Emmrich safe there wasn’t a factor. 

She opened her mouth to ask him, to question whether Myrna and Vorgoth would be willing to take them in and possibly draw a greater target on the Mourn Watch, when a terrible howl broke her thoughts and echoed through the mist ahead of them. 

“Kaffas,” Rook said softly and tried to slide out of the saddle. 

Emmrich’s arms locked firmly around her waist and though he was too drained to really hold her there, Rook wasn’t about to fight against him and maybe worsen his injuries. 

What a pair they made. 

She relinquished the reins to him instead and drew her sword still in the saddle. The blade was light but felt too heavy for her exhausted, lightning ravaged muscles. 

Dorian had drawn a dagger from his belt, and Trevelyan took a few steps ahead of him, his spectral blade already lighting the mist ahead of them. 

It was unnecessary. 

Familiar, violet light challenged Trevelyan’s magic rising like twenty foot wings against the backdrop of the fog. A shadowy form grew beneath them, until Lucanis’ form came stumbling into view. 

But it wasn’t Lucanis, not quite. 

He moved strangely, with an almost puppet-like quality. It was obvious from his glowing eyes that Spite was in control. But it was also obvious that something was not right. 

Dark, dried blood decorated the side of Lucanis’ face, and as Spite brought their body closer he let out another howl and pointed at them wordlessly.

He was running, and the reason why quickly became obvious as Rook heard the familiar crackle of electricity, and the clanking of four crossroads guardians behind him. 

Rook wilted, even as she watched Trevelyan square up, preparing himself as Dorian pulled a lyrium potion from one of the saddle packs. It wasn’t fair. This was going to be too hard of a fight for the state they were in. it was going to take everything they had left. 

She moved again to slide from the saddle, and this time Emmrich let her, reaching for the staff he’d secured to his back, even as he leaned on the pommel to keep himself upright. 

Behind Dorian, Manfred summoned the biggest gout of fire he’d ever managed, startling the ex-magister. 

Spite kept running until he was only a few paces away from Trevelyan, then he slowed, and stopped, dropping to his knees. His arm still held out, pointing at them as he glanced backwards at the guardians. 

As Rook watched, they slowed and stopped as well, like a tiny army, following Spite’s signals. 

Then something moved on one of the guardian’s backs, and Rook let out a breath that was more of a sob. 

A voice rang out from the constructs, clear and bright, like a bell. 

“There you are!” said Bellara, “We have been looking for you everywhere!”

Chapter Text

"Bel!” Rook exclaimed, and attempted to climb down from the saddle. Unfortunately her tired body, the stirrups, and Emmrich’s long legs all conspired against her and she would have fallen on her face if Spite hadn’t appeared, like a wraith, to catch her. 

“Oh!” she heard Emmrich, Bellara, and Trevelyan cry out in collective dismay to the background of Dorian laughing. She called him something very vulgar and childish in old Tevene, but her attention was occupied by Spite. 

The spirit was twitching, and sweating in Lucanis’s body. His eyes burning so feverishly they were more white than violet. And there was a ragged gash across the front of Lucanis’s forehead. 

“Spite?” Rook asked, bracing him as he held her up. But he avoided her hands, and her gaze ducking away the moment she was stable. 

“He’s been like the whole time he’s been with me,” Bellara said anxiously, dismounting from her construct as it knelt on the ground, saving her from a nine foot drop. “He wouldn’t let me get close enough to look. Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick! The Lighthouse is gone, Rook! And so is the Caretaker! The Crossroads are in chaos! The constructs have gone rogue, except these ones I managed to tinker with. There’s Venatori, and Antaam everywhere. You look awful. Are you okay? Sorry, stupid question. Of course you’re not. Neve told me what’s been happening. Emmrich! Are you okay!? What is THAT you’re riding? Is that a horse?”

She drew closer with each question, until Trevelyan stopped her with an upraised hand in an attempt to forestall more questions. 

“Ohhhh!” she stopped and seized the hand examining it minutely. 

“You know,” the Herald said resignedly, letting her turn it this way and that. “It draws less attention in the south where people view it as an act of the Maker and not a magical marvel.”

“We can replace it with a pointy stick, if you like,” Dorian offered.

Emmrich dismounted beside Rook, catching himself on her shoulder, and hissing a little as various wounds pulled at the motion. 

“Bellara,” he said. “How long have Spite and Lucanis been with you?”

The elf raised her head, her eyes a little distant. “Huh? Oh! About four hours. It took a while to understand what he wanted. He’s not talking. Not really, just sort of…” she gestured to where Spite was crouching, clutching his head and moaning. 

“...that.”

“Kaffas,” Rook muttered. Watching carefully as Emmrich left her and approached the spirit. Her instinct was to help; him and Lucanis both, but her good sense told her to stay put. She would only be interfering at this point. The other mages agreed, all three of them attentive as the Necromancer drew close. 

“Spite,” he said, bringing the spirit up short when he would have flitted away again. There was the mildest hint of an echo to his voice, the smallest glint of veilfire on his fingertips. 

“Professor,” Pavus cautioned.

“I won’t overdo it, Dorian,” Emmrich tossed back over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Spite. He stopped some feet away, and the spirit swayed in front of him, clenching and unclenching Lucanis’ hands. 

“Spite,” he said, and held out his hand, “Come here, please.”

Lucanis’s teeth gnashed in a snarl and Spite tore at his hair, another howl emerged and Rook’s feet were moving, but Emmrich was faster. He slashed the glowing hand down through the air and with an exhale the light died in Lucanis’s eyes. He dropped like a stone. 

Emmrich caught the crow and stumbled, falling to his knees on the ground as the others reached him. 

“It’s alright!” he forestalled them, a little breathless. He was brushing Lucanis’s matted hair back from the gash on his forehead. “Trauma to the head. A concussion at the very least. It’s likely that he lost consciousness and Spite took control, but was unable to fully make use of Lucanis’s body due to the damage. He’s very upset. But I’ve put him to sleep as well.”

“You can do that?” Bellara asked. 

“Everything needs rest. Even spirits. Speaking of—Manfred, would you mind?”

The wisp had come up behind them almost unnoticed. Now he hissed softly in worry, not over Emmrich, but the motionless form of Lucanis. He pulled the limp body from the Necromancer’s arms with Rook’s help. 

“Not dead,” he hissed. 

“No, my dear, only injured. We should be able to help them.”

“Sleeping,” the skeleton agreed and started hauling Lucanis towards Dorian’s horse. Trevelyan hurried to help him, leaving Rook free to join Bellara in pulling Emmrich to his feet as well. 

“Okay,” Bellara said, “good, that’s good. Now we can take him back safely. We need to catch up with the others. 

“Others?” Rook said feeling her heart ease back behind her ribs a little “You said Neve–”

“Yup,” Bellara said cheerfully. “Oh boy do they have some things to say to you…”

Emmrich giggled, and Rook charitably decided that it was because he was just giddy from mana exhaustion. 

It was one of her favorite sounds anyhow. 

------

There was no going back. The Converged city had been leveled, and the spit of land that led to the Docktown and Necropolis Eluvians had been overrun just as thoroughly as the Lighthouse had been. Rook only had the barest memories of how their home had looked in her Blood-magic induced vision with Varric, but it was enough. 

“I’m sorry,” Bellara said, as though the destruction was her fault, and she hadn’t miraculously saved all their necks through her “tinkering.” Rook felt a wave of sadness as they sped effortlessly through the air in the Caretaker’s boat, piloted by one of the constructs. Gods only knew how Bel had managed to find it, let alone persuade it to do her bidding. No doubt Emmrich would question her later. But right now he was mostly passed out with his head on Rook’s lap, a victim of his own overuse of magic. Again. 

Not that she was much better off herself. Rook was pretty sure her spine would never be straight again, with the way it was slumping. But she couldn’t fully relax either. Not with Lucanis bundled up in blankets on the seat beside them, and the former Herald of Andraste huddled opposite them with the former Magister Pavus. They were all so tired. Even Bel’s enthusiasm had cooled. Only Manfred was unphased, and he had fallen into one of his disturbingly quiet moods. 

“Maker’s breath,” Emmrich muttered in rare blasphemy, “Dear girl, whatever for?”

“I had no idea what was happening this whole time,” she said, her voice a little too high in pitch for the sleepy passengers. “We were all supposed to meet back up after a week. Okay. We didn’t actually have a time limit. But it was kind of unspoken that we would, right? But there were so many interesting things the Lords had stored up, and I thought they would be useful. And…I might have been enjoying the time away from the Nadas Dirthalen. But all this time you were all in Minrathous, and…”

“Please don’t, Bellara,” Rook interrupted. “We were all caught off guard. I didn’t know what was going to happen either. I was at the Lighthouse making toast. Actually, I was asking Lucanis to teach me to make toast.” Her throat caught at the admission, at the memory, as though the same toast was stuck down her gullet. She felt Emmrich’s hand squeeze her knee softly. 

But her words had the desired effect, and Bellara bit her lip to stop a laugh. “Rook…you need to learn to feed yourself.”

“That’s what I was trying to do!”

“Good! That’s good!” the other elf encouraged. “Just…maybe after the world isn’t ending anymore. I’ll teach you myself.”

------

Small comforts had always meant a great deal to Rook. She was occasionally teased or ribbed for it, first by her father’s legionnaires when she was young, and then by the Shadow Dragons, and finally by her own team. 

“It’s easy to win Rook’s loyalty,” they said. “Just give her a good meal and a place to sit.”

She didn’t really mind the teasing, because it was true on some level. She had only the vaguest memories of being hungry, cold and alone from when she was young. But it was enough to leave a permanent key to unlocking her heart. Charon Mercar had won her undying affection with a warm cloak and a soft piece of bread. It wasn’t too hard for others to do the same. 

Which is why Rook was close to tears when  they stepped through the Eluvian into the Hall of Valor in Rivain. 

By the time they docked on the spit of land that held the Eluvian, everyone, even Bellara and Trevelyan, were done in. The Crossroads had begun to rain again. They were pelted with cold, hard drops that somehow felt resentful, angry, as though this part of the Fade was working through the stages of grief after its loss. 

They were all shivering, their clothes and cloaks soaked through, trudging with feet too numb to feel the stones they tripped over, and legs too tired to lift their feet higher than the stones anyway. 

Rook was concentrating so hard on moving her feet that she didn’t notice when they finally stepped through the Eluvian, out of the rain, and into the warm air of the coast.

Not until there was a roar, and a flame mere feet from her face. Incredulously, Rook’s body prepared her in that second for a dragon fight. Adrenaline she didn’t know she had coursed through her, her heart thundered like a battle drum, and every hair on her body (as well as her ears) stood straight up in an effort to show the dragon how big and terrifying she actually was. 

But it wasn’t a dragon. It was a crowd of loud, warm, smiling faces, holding torches and shining with gold. Taash and Neve were with them, looking worried and relieved. 

A warm mug of a hot liquid was pressed into Rook’s frozen fingers. Well meaning hands draped a blanket over shoulders and patted her back. She didn’t have the chance to speak or give instruction before the others were taken and given the same treatment, all cared for, all absorbed into the mass of helpful, well-meaning Lord’s of Fortune. 

And that was definitely enough to reduce Rook to tears. 

“What the hell?” Taash was saying. “How come everytime I take my eyes off any of you you just keep getting into the worst trouble? Who’s this?”

“I’m Trevelyan.” 

“Oh, nice. Rook, how did you manage to get into trouble with the freaking Inquisitor helping you?”

“He was late,” Dorian quipped.

“I was not.”

“Inquisitor!”

“Scout Harding! Now it really is a party!”

And astonishingly, it was, of a sort. The crowd carried them in their wake to a series of enormous fires that had been set up along the foundations of the ruins, right alongside the beach. There, Neve, Muir and the refugees from Docktown had all been busy settling themselves among the crumbling walls and roofs, setting up temporary shelters and makeshift beds among piles of gold, and bundles of goods. 

Food was being made at each of the fires in abundance, more mugs of hot drinks were being poured and passed around. There were too many faces and greetings for Rook to keep track of. Briefly there was Isabella, offering further reassurance, and a plate of food was waved in front of her face that Rook snatched immediately. 

By her fourth or fifth bite, she became conscious that she was seated in front of a fire, with Taash on her left, and Emmrich at her right, with Manfred at his shoulder. Neve, Harding, and Bellara all stared at her anxiously through the flames, backed by an impossibly clear sky filled with stars. The pale light of dawn crested over the waves of the sea behind them. Lucanis and Spite’s still form was lying next to Neve, her narrow hand on his chest. They were here. They were all here. 

All but two. 

“Are you alright, Rook?” Bel asked anxiously, which was fair. Rook felt as though part of her had been far away for a long time. 

“Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

“Anything you want us to do?” Taash prompted. 

Rook looked at them with the understanding that Varric had gifted her, taking in Bellara’s raw, nervously moving fingertips, Taash’s fire-hoarse voice, and the fact that Emmrich was swiftly fading, his forehead already tilting towards her shoulder. Neve and Harding pinned her with the same pinched expressions and drawn eyes that they had on the day after the Evanuris were released. The morning after Varric had died, and she had stepped up, because his wraith, or the blood induced hallucination of him, had told her to. 

And that may have been a lie, at the time. 

But it wasn’t now. 

“Tonight—today, we rest,” she said. “We’re no good to anyone if we can’t stay on our feet. Later, we’ll talk. We’ll make new plans. Ghilan’nain has changed things. We need to find Davrin, and help Lucanis. We’ll do that. But right now, we’re okay.”

They were nodding. Her words were simple, but they were key. Rook watched the tension bleed out of them  once permission was given. As though the simple act of talking had somehow changed their circumstances. 

“We’re safe here,” Taash agreed. “Isabella says we’re welcome. Nothing is gonna get past the sentries. Not today.”

“We’ll be able to take in things better with a clear head,” Neve said. “Get everyone up to speed.”

“I have lots of news,” Bellara nodded. 

“Then we’d better get some rest,” Emmrich raised his head again with an effort. “So we can keep up with you.”

Losing the battle to be dignified and objective, Rook curled a hand around the back of his neck and laid her face against his. She had to shuffle up, and crane her neck to do it. But she couldn’t help it. There had been horrible, vivid moments when she thought he would never sit in on one of their councils again. 

But he was. 

Here they were. They had done it. 

They had defied the gods once more.

And now Rook was going to make them pay. 

Chapter Text

The first time Rook had awoken in the night needing someone else’s help, she had been just under two years old, seeking out the comfort of Charon Mercar in the military tent where she slept on a cot beside his own.

The bed had been much too big for a tiny elf, and Mercars cloak wrapped around her five times as a blanket. No, her little mind had decided. It was much better to squeeze her way under the Legatus’s arm, secure in the knowledge that her source of food and safety was not going to vanish in the night. 

It had been a few decades since then, and it was not the middle of the night judging by the rays of the sun stretching lazily across the sand and sea. But Rook still felt like a child as she knocked frantically on the doorframe of the little makeshift room that Isabella had directed her to. 

She didn’t want to be here, and judging by the groan of the occupant inside, they didn’t want her there either. But it didn’t matter. It was of secondary importance. She wasn’t here for herself.  

“Dorian,” she said, rattling the flimsy wooden door. 

The groan started again, and continued, and grew to a conscious complaint, but Rook was done listening. Her self-conscious nostalgia was overridden by the fear burning in her veins. 

She pushed open the door, letting in a wave of fresh sea air and light to the dark private space that had one of the occupants diving for cover on the rather opulent bet with an indignant yelp. 

The Herald of Andraste pushed himself up on his elbows, hair sticking up at odd angles, smallclothes and rumpled bedsheets offering him a modicum of decency as he peered fuzzily at Rook. 

“Whose problem is this?” he questioned, not to the elf who’d just burst into his room, but the lump in the bedclothes beside him. 

“Clearly yours!” complained the lump. 

Trevelyan, blinked himself a little more awake, looked at Rook shifting anxiously on her toes, and then addressed the lump again. 

“But she’s asking for you ,” he objected. 

“Fasta Vass!” Dorian emerged from under the blankets just enough to glare at their intruder with every bit of authority his imperious eyebrows could muster. “Rook, go back to bed.”

“I messed it up again,” Rook said. Maker, would there be no end to this? She cursed whatever cold-hearted force of nature it was that kept putting her in these situations. She tried to stop her hands shaking and her breath quivering in her chest, but she couldn’t. “I screwed it up.”

“No you didn’t,” Trevelyan rumbled, without any knowledge of just what Rook had done. He rolled out of bed and reached blindly for his trousers. “What’s wrong?”

“I just thought he was tired,” Rook said, quietly continuing her breakdown, and that was enough. Dorian swore and streaked from under the covers to his robes draped over a chair in the corner, while the Herald scrubbed the last of the sleep from his face. 

He placed a calloused hand on Rook’s shoulder and let her ramble, while Dorian threw on his clothes. 

“Everyone was tired,” Rook said, “You and Dorian were hurt. I should have been paying attention. I should have noticed. I’m supposed to be looking out for him. I’m supposed to be looking out for everybody. I should have seen he was taken care of before I slept. I was so tired.”

She let her head fall into her hands with the last statement, and Trevelyan gave her shoulder a bracing rub. 

“I’m pretty sure that recovering from–what was it, Dorian?”

“Prolonged blood magic induced trauma to the brain.”

“ That I'm pretty sure is a decent excuse to miss a detail here or there. Will you speed it up?”

“I’m trying to find where you tossed my other sock, Amatus. ”

“It’s up there.”

“Vishante Kaffas! Alright, forget it. Let’s go,” he leaned heavily on Trevelyan, still favoring his left leg. “Tell me what happened.”

Rook did, keeping up a rapid diatribe as she led them to the canopy that she and Emmrich had collapsed under in the early morning. 

“I tried to pick a good spot,” she said, weaving around a cookfire and someone industriously slicing vegetables. “I knew it was going to get hot. He doesn’t really like the heat, and I wanted him to rest. He was so tired.”

“As were you,” Trevelyan reminded her as they all carefully stepped over a fishing net stretched out for repairs. 

“But then I woke up covered in sweat. It was stifling. I thought the sun must be bad. I went to wake him up so we could move.”

Rook broke off, stumbling through a pile of firewood before the Herald could stop her. 

It had been only moments ago, but it was already replaying as a vivid memory in her mind. Emmrich’s arm was wrapped around her middle, so she lifted it and rolled over and found him awash in sweat, his skin flushed and glistening with it. His eyes were pinched in discomfort. His limbs were heavy and unresponsive as she shook him. 

She only managed to get one real reaction out of him. 

“Rooook,” he complained, pushing at her as she shook him awake. Then his eyes flickered as she brushed back the sweat soaked locks from his forehead. 

“Hot,” he’d grumbled, “too hot.”

Now he only groaned as Dorian ducked under the canopy and laid a careful hand on his forehead. 

“Go get a healer, Amatus,” Pavus ordered, and the Herald of Andraste obeyed him without a word, slipping away with more quickness and grace than he usually seemed to bother with. “Rook, come here.”

She was glad of the direction, her brain was still too painful for complicated tasks. She dropped down beside the ex-magister. 

Dorian was carefully working Emmrich’s arms out of the sleeves of his soaked shirt. He pulled it over the older mage’s head, leaving his hair in messy spikes. 

“Firstly, this is not your fault,” Dorian told her, “and you’re not to waste any more time saying so. This whole thing has been a debacle from the beginning. What Professor Volkarin deserved was a speedy, and supervised recovery under the care of his own physicians in the Necropolis. What he got was a well-meaning magister in a warzone occupied by Venatori, running on lyrium, and a very threadbare belief in the Maker.”

The shirt was tossed to the side, revealing an abdomen that was still too hollow with missed meals, and still awash in colorful bruises. The bandages around Emmrich’s middle and wrists were just as damp with sweat as the shirt had been, and tattered from their frantic flight through the crossroads and the subsequent capture. 

“We work with what we’re given, Mercar. And sometimes our circumstances are less than ideal. Volkarin emerged from the clutches of an ancient gods emnity and we pieced him back together. We’re not going to let a simple fever take him.”

“I thought it peaked already,” Rook grieved, watching Dorian like a Mabari ready to move at the slightest signal. 

“It’s possible that his magic has been trying to fend off infection before Harding even spotted it. It kept him alive for a week before we got to him. The fact that he feels safe enough, and healed enough for his body to start taking over natural processes again is a good sign. He really needs the opportunity to get his magic consciously in hand. Let’s see he gets it, yes?” the ex-magister ducked under the older mage’s right arm, and Rook mirrored him on the left without a thought. 

Emmrich jolted to some measure of consciousness as they pulled him upright, blinking and shuffling in the sand to get his feet positioned. 

“You’re alright,” Dorian reassured in a gentle singsong voice that belied the anxiousness of the situation. “We’re going for a swim.”

Volkarin winced in discomfort as they started forward, shuffling like a crippled six-legged creature out from under the canopy and into the afternoon sun. 

He hid his face from the rays, and ended with his nose in Rook’s hair. 

“Rook can’t swim,” he mumbled, and she didn’t know whether to be heartbroken over the fact that he recognized her just from that, or not. 

After stumbling for the third time she forgot to do anything but concentrate on her feet, and keeping a hold of his slick skin. 

“Well she needs to learn,” Pavus said. “It’s our luck that she hasn’t needed to swim to save the world so far, but that could change. We’d better teach her. And you’re the best teacher I know, so why waste time? Yes?”

“Yes,” came the tired answer in a puff of air against Rook’s scalp. 

Dorian grinned. “Yes, you’re the best teacher? Or yes, we desperately need to teach Rook this life skill?”

“...um.”

“Stop teasing him,” Rook said, feeling indignant on his behalf. “It’s not fair.”

Pavus grinned unrepentantly, “My dear Rook, it’s never been fair. The man you’re currently dragging through the sand is one of a handful that can outthink me. I’m just trying to repay a term's worth of mental gymnastics.”

“You don’t believe that. You’re cheating.”

“I cheat because I have no work ethic. That’s why I'll never reach my full potential.”

Rook’s retort was cut off by the sudden sensation of coolness on her toes. They’d reached the edge of the water under the shade of several large palms, and Pavus wasted no time, marching both Rook and his patient directly into the water until it hit their calves. 

Emmrich sighed, his brow unknotting. He sank down so readily in search of the coolness it drew a startled laugh from Dorian. 

“That’s it. Just soak for a moment.” the ex-magister encouraged, helping Rook to lower the older mage to a seat in the lapping waves until they washed over his chest. He folded forward over his bent knees until the water just touched his chin. 

“Don’t let him drown, Rook,” Dorian said, crouching beside them and cupping both hands to pour more of the water over Volkarin’s neck and back. 

For several minutes they sat there in the surf, and with each wave moving over them, Rook felt a little more of the helpless fear flow back out with them. 

Finally, Emmrich tipped his head back, away from the water. 

“How does that feel?” Dorian asked. “Good?”

Volkarin nodded. 

“Are you back with us, Professor?” Pavus asked.

Another nod. 

“Words please. You scared all the swears out of Rook.”

Emmrich squinted, apparently a headache accompanied the fever, and the reflective water did it no favors. He spotted Rook, and closed his eyes again.

“Vishante Kaffas,” he said very unconvincingly, and in an awful accent. But it earned a snort of laughter from Rook, and that made Volkarin smile. 

“That doesn’t really help me,” Dorian said. “All it proves is that you could still be off your head. In any case, listen. We’re going to sort out your wrists and side.”

The manner in which Emmrich stiffened sent a sympathetic jolt of dread through Rook’s body. Under the water one of his hands sought out hers and latched on. She could see awful anticipation in the line of his neck and shoulders, directly against the calm, assured way Emmrich usually carried himself.

Pavus saw it too, because he sat back on his heels, looking older than Rook had ever seen him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, with cultivated gentleness. “I’m sorry. That was a careless way to put it. I have no desire or intent to repeat that treatment. We will not. We’ll use magic. The Inquisitor is coming with the best healer the Lords have on hand.”

Concentric rings ran through the water away from Volkarin, and his hand did not let go of Rook’s.

“There is no need to repeat it,” Dorian said softly, and Rook got the impression that he was reassuring himself as much as his patient. “We accomplished what we needed to. It set the wounds to healing and bought us time for your magic to realign itself. Yes?”

“Yes,” Emmrich parroted tightly. 

“Your magic survived a trip to Rook’s mind, it can handle a complicated healing. Well done on that, by the way. I can only imagine the fortitude required to navigate that mess.”

Volkarin squinted at him.

“Rook’s mind,” he said, “Is a marvelous labyrinth of surprises. Which has proved invaluable in this fight against the elven gods.”

“Labyrinth, mess, they are by nature the same.”

Emmrich’s fingers purposefully loosened around Rook’s hand. “To the layman, perhaps.”

Dorian’s mock affront was interrupted by the splashing of footsteps. Trevelyan approached, his brows stormy with concern, and behind him came one of the Tal Vashoth whom Rook had seen about before.

“All well?” the Herald asked, helping the ex-magister to his feet. 

“Provide me with a suitable breakfast, Amatus,” Dorian said “And then we’ll see.”

—------

Rook remembered all too well the moist, heated air that had surrounded them in Dorian’s bathroom in Minrathous. The sound of Emmrich’s pain echoing off the fine marble had been etched into every inch of her pointed ears and made the tips curl even now. 

The atmosphere they found themselves in now, could not have been a more comforting contrast. 

The healer, Vallas by name, had a series of rooms not far from the Hall of Valor. This ease of access was purposeful for the battered and wounded who limped their way into the healer’s care. 

But the rooms were private, and airy, with ruined archways that opened directly on the cerulean sea below them. 

Pleasant candles, scented with lavender and chamomile burned in reflective sconces, shining brightly where needed, and dimly when rest was desired. 

Clean, gauzy curtains hung between comfortable beds to give privacy to the sick or wounded. 

It was on one of these beds that Emmrich sat opposite the healer, who had settled herself on a canvas stool. Dorian sat on one of the opposite beds, resting his leg as an excuse to oversee the healing. Trevelyan leaned against the wall between the beds in steady quiet. 

Rook perched on the foot of Emmrich’s bed like an ungainly bird and watched Vallas’s horned head as it bend over the necromancer’s wrist. 

“I am sorry that we did not have this seen to already,” the healer said in a soft accent not uncommon in Rivain. “There have been many patients, and I was unaware of your condition.”

“There is no need to apologize,” said Emmrich with a nervous breath. His body was tight with lines of tension again. His speech was forcibly polite. Rook had the impression he was using his manners as a shield. 

“I regret that you have suffered,” Vallas clarified and whispered some words, touching her fingertips to her lips and bringing the fingers and the soft grey light that trailed them down to the ruined bandages. 

The light soaked through the bandages with another whispered word, and Emmrich sighed out a small sob of a breath, stiffness bleeding out of his back like someone had removed a sword from it. Rook did not realize how rigidly he’d been holding himself until that moment. 

“I need to remove the bandages to see what condition your wounds are in,” Vallas went on, with no remark about Emmrich’s reaction. “But I will do my best to make it painless. The soaking has helped to loosen them already so this should be quick.”

Emmrich nodded his assent, his free hand gripping the blankets by Rook’s bent knee. The cool water in the sea had helped stave off the worst of the fever, but his skin remained flushed, and sweat was still beaded on his brow. 

With his permission the healer worked the knot of the bandages loose and began to unwind them. 

Dorian had spoken to her briefly, and Rook was grateful to note that she had not produced a blade to simply sever the knot. Instead extra effort was taken, and with each painless turn of the bandage, Emmrich relaxed by degrees. 

Flakes of dried elfroot salve, and crusted dirt fell free as the linen was peeled away and removed. 

Silence accompanied Vallas’s movement, as she drew away the last of the bandage, crumpled it into a ball and let it fall in a waste bin at their feet. 

Then she held the arm gently in both hands. 

The few pieces of Grave Gold Emmrich had been wearing were gently clasped in Rook’s hand were he had deposited them minutes earlier. 

The only thing that adorned the necromancer’s thin, pale arms were the black, condemning stitches that stuck out like wicked roots around the wrist. They had done their job, the edges of the wounds were still aligned, and had begun to close in areas, but the sharp red of infection ran between them, heating Emmrich’s skin there as well as the flush on his cheeks. 

The healer took her time examining the marks, rubbing her thumb and fingers together, and whispering more words as wispy light followed their movements. 

At last she looked up with a sorrowful look. 

“I am grieved that you have suffered so,” she repeated, ghosting her hand over the terrible wounds. 

Her face softened then, and she smiled. “...but I believe this is something I can fix.”

Another knot in Rook’s chest loosened. 

Chapter Text

“I don’t know anything about healing, other than I shouldn’t do it,” said Trevelyan. 

“Really?” Rook asked. That was certainly not what the Minrathous papers had claimed. But they claimed a lot. 

“Truth,” agreed Dorian. “He tried to stop a scout bleeding out in the field once. All he managed to do was seal the wound up, poor bugger. Lucky thing Varric recognized the signs of internal bleeding.”

“Made it rather awkward when people would come to Skyhold with some ailment or other, hoping for a miraculous healing from the Herald of Andraste,” the Inquisitor laughed softly. “But, it was worth it when I suggested they see Dorian instead.”

Rook snorted, “you played up the evil magister bit, didn’t you?”

“With great aplomb,” Dorian twirled his mustache. “Morale was low. I like to think I instilled some caution in them, as well. Magic is still woefully misunderstood in the South. They see it either as a pustule of blight waiting to pop, or a cure all that can vanish all their problems. Healing is subtle and requires at least a rudimentary knowledge of the body.”

“The South has plenty of healers,” Trevelyan said, “I just excel at other arts…”

Pavus grinned up at him wickedly. “Oh yes, stab, stab, magic go boom. A thing of beauty.”

Trevelyan crossed his arms and bent his head closer to Dorian. “I didn’t hear any complaints from you when it was the giants in the Graves going boom,” he said softly. 

“When do I complain?”

“Constantly,” Emmrich interjected. “As I recall you once stepped out of class because a cadaver was too warm.”

Pavus made a face. “Firstly, shush, you’re injured. And secondly, no one wants to work on a warm corpse–unless it’s fresh–that means it's been ‘left out.’ I prefer my specimens chilled, thank you.”

“Dealing with a body in a natural state of decay at room temperature is a fundamental skill for a mortalitasi.”

Dorian wrinkled his nose, “You might as well ask me to imbibe wine that’s been sitting in the sun all afternoon.”

Vallas paused in her work, looking from her patient, to Dorian and back. 

“You are both necromancers?” 

“What gave it away?” Trevelyan asked. 

“That’s not a problem, is it?” Rook asked. She had grown comfortable in the past year as her team and allies had slowly accepted Emmrich, Manfred, and the Skull Collection. But it was not too difficult for her to edge back into wariness nowadays. 

She needn’t have worried. 

“No,” Vallas said easily. “But it explains some things.”

The bandages had all been removed and discarded, revealing the rest of Dorian’s careful stitching. The wound in Emmrich’s side was further along in its healing than the lacerations on his wrist. But even that wound was strained and swollen with exertion, and the heat of infection. 

“For instance,” the healer continued, taking up the steaming basin of water she’d summoned earlier, and a stack of clean cloths, “This pattern of stitching is used most often on the dead, and not the living.”

“Oh,” Dorian said belatedly, and Trevelyan grinned. 

“It served its purpose very well,” Vallas reassured him. She looked to Emmrich for permission, then traced some of the more ragged lines on his wrist in demonstration. “Connecting the skin here would not have been easy for a regular stitch. And I can see that in certain places, you have taken measures to remove necrosis.” Her eyes told Rook that she knew exactly what had been done, and the rough, improvised surgery that had been undertaken. 

“It was a…an unusual circumstance,” Emmrich stumbled through the words. 

“A ritual,” Dorian clarified, his own voice deceptively light. “Significant enough that it disrupted the healing. Stopped it completely, really. We had to start again in some spots.”

Vallas nodded, her eyes not leaving the checkered pattern of healing, as though she could read the events herself. 

“It has served its purpose,” she reassured again, making a few subtle gestures over the basin that reminded Rook of the surf washing over the rocks on the shore below them. Instantly the herbs that floated in the water seemed to bloom anew, sending a fresh, clean scent through the room. 

Vallas dipped one of the cloths in the basin and set about cleansing the remainder of the old blood, salve and other debris from the injuries. Rook glanced at Emmrich’s face but the careful movements resulted in little pain. There was only a slight tightening of the crows' feet at the corner of Emmrich’s eyes.

“I cannot promise how much scarring will remain,” the healer said. “That is not my specialty, usually the Lords of Fortune are happy to have more scars, not less. And these wounds are old, deep, and uneven, not ideal for a clean or quick healing. but I can close them, and they will not trouble you.”

Rook wanted to protest. Emmrich took great pains with his appearance. His wrists especially were the canvases where the vast majority of his grave gold was displayed. They were inextricably linked to his never still hands, conducting spells through the air with a musician’s grace. It wasn’t fair for him to be scarred from his ordeal, to have to look at them every time he looked at his own hands. 

But he was either too weary, or too feverish to think that far head. They had only slept for a bare handful of hours before Rook had awakened. And now that Vallas knew the extent of the task before her, she moved with efficiency. 

“I will need fresh water,” she looked at Trevelyan, who straightened away from the wall. “There is a spring that I use for my spells, in a cave a few levels beneath us. If you would bring me a steady supply of buckets, please. If you are not a healer, then today at least you can work as a healer’s assistant. You must have the approval of the spirit who dwells in the cave. They are a compassionate, but prideful being, who takes great pains to protect the spring. Show them respect and you should have no trouble.”

“Oh,” the Herald said, then nodded, as if a stranger asking him to run an errand was exactly what he’d planned to do for the afternoon. “Certainly, make myself useful, shall I?”

Dorian watched him go with a grumble about druffalos. 

“We should start with easing the infection,” Vallas said, and she gestured at Rook and Emmrich. “This will not be painful, but it may take some time. It would be better if you are comfortable so that I do not have to stop.”

The necromancer seemed reluctant to relax, and Rook did not blame him. Being healed always made her edgy. And this was not a routine healing. Nor were these injuries easy to dismiss. He looked a little like an animal with it’s foot in a trap. 

But something held her back from offering physical comfort. The last time his wrists had been operated on she had been holding him. And the stricken look she shared with Dorian told her that she was not wrong in her intuition.

He didn’t need–probably couldn’t abide–physical comfort at that moment. So Rook would just have to offer another type. 

“Varric liked you, you know,” Rook said, and leaned behind Emmrich to fluff up the pillows, adding one more to the stack. He blinked in confusion at her abrupt change in topic, and shifted as she prodded him in the shoulder to lie back.

“...he did?”

Rook nodded, all frankness and earnestness, as she shifted to sit beside him, her hip bumping his shoulder, and her hands loose in her lap. They weren’t in an infirmary, and she wasn’t there to restrain or hold him. They were seated casually around a campfire, she had to convince herself of that enough to project it bodily. 

“We had a long conversation after you left, in the vision. Would you like to hear about it?”

Emmrich hesitated, but he was sick, and his body and mind wanted to rest. Rook sat as casually as could be. ‘Look at me,’ she tried to say with her crossed legs, her head tipped ever so slightly back, ‘there’s nothing to fear here. Just lay back and look at the stars with me as I ramble.’

‘ People are like cats, Rook,’ she remembered Varric telling her as they relaxed around an evening’s fire. ‘ Either puffed up or crouched down. Talk to them until they realize you’re not a victim or a threat. That’s how I deal with them.’

Absently she turned Emmrich’s Mourn Watch bracelet between her fingers, letting it catch the soft light of the candles in the sconces. Numerous little skulls grinned at her from the surface, between the Nevarran inscription, reminding her of Manfred’s smile. 

“He said you didn’t like your nickname though.”

Behind Vallas, Dorian perked up, “nickname?”

“He mentioned yours,” Emmrich threatened. 

“I liked it,” Rook said, watching out of her periphery as Vallas began to weave water, and magic over Emmrich’s left arm. The necromancer turned his head to watch the healer work, but inevitably turned back to Rook as she continued speaking. 

He was too curious. Too much like Manfred, or rather, Manfred was too much like him. 

“Spooks?” Emmrich asked, voice incredulous, almost whispering in an attempt to keep it from Pavus. 

Rook shrugged, “he had a gift. He’d probably say some bull about how you’re whole thing is spirits, and that can make people uneasy. But they’ll never know for sure if you mean them harm unless they overcome that fear. 

Emmrich contemplated that for a moment. 

“You said that Varric called you ‘Rook’ after Wicked Grace?”

Rook smiled, tilting her head in a shrug. “He kept changing his reason. ‘You’re a cheat, Rook. I bet you kill at Wicked Grace. Sometimes you have no subtlety, Rook. You just charge forward like the chesspiece. Stop staring at me and go to bed, Rook, you keep hovering like those freaky big birds.”

“Personally I think it’s the sound of your lovely voice, Mercar,” Dorian said. His amused gaze slipping from them, to Trevelyan as he hauled in a pair of buckets. “so melodious.”

“You know that Minrathous will throw me a parade if I kill you now, Pavus?” Rook deadpanned. 

Trevelyan set down the buckets. “Everything normal up here I see,” he said.

------

It was partially because of her own weariness, but that afternoon passed in a haze for Rook. At some point her stories about Varric had become less about distracting Emmrich, and more about giving voice to her own loss. And Emmrich, a consummate Mourn Watcher, had listened. 

And then she had lost his attention to Vallas’s unique methods of healing.

“Our bodies are largely composed of water,” said the necromancer as he watched the healer direct little streams of the infused water from the spring run in and out of the lacerations on his wrists. “This is a wholly novel method of promoting healing magic in the body, using the natural affinity of water to help it run its course.”

Within an hour the infection had been turned back and after a brief rest and some food, fetched again by Trevelyan, they continued. 

“Usually I would do something like this over some days,” Vallas said in apology to their tired eyes and flagging attention. “But these injuries have gone unhealed long enough, and I do not want to lose the ground we have gained.”

“By all means,” Emmrich encouraged, blinking far too long and slowly to be entirely alert. The need for distraction was gone, chased away by the healer’s gentle manner, and his growing weariness as his body worked to heal itself with her magic. 

A few more hours passed during which Vallas drew out the stitches, and gently scoured the injuries for any remaining debris or infection. It was a process that involved the streams of water once again, and while it was not truly painful, it still left Emmrich twitching and hissing in discomfort. 

They rested again, and this time, Rook drifted too far. She ended up with her head against Emmrich’s hip, and barely roused at all when she felt him move, and heard the murmur of his voice mixed with the Vallas’s. 

“...that is all I can manage for now. With a day of rest I should be able to do more.”

“This is more than enough. Thank you.”

“I am pleased with the outcome, but that is not all the damage that you sustained. And my efforts will come to nothing if you do not follow your friend’s example and sleep.”

And he must have, for the next thing Rook knew, was the scent of him close beside her, cut through with the smell of cool, clear, water. 

------

Free of blood magic and meddling elven gods, Rook slept like the dead of the Necropolis. And like the dead of the Necropolis, she stirred when Emmrich’s voice called to her. 

“...Rook?”

She snorted and mumbled at the morbid images that brought to her mind, still half lost in nonsensical dreams. 

“...No, I’m not going to bury you. I’d rather we left that line of thought behind entirely if you don’t mind. Would you like breakfast?”

Oh. She’d been talking out loud. She awakened by another degree and felt soft blankets and smelt wonderful foods, and salty air and…

…and sand in her teeth. 

Spitting, Rook rolled from her front to her side and forced open her equally sandy eyes. 

They were still in Vallas’s infirmary, and Emmrich was perched on the bed beside her, looking like a vision. And it wasn’t fair that he was able to do that, make himself so immaculate in a make-shift camp on the Rivain coast, while she awoke in a small tide pool of drool. Not that she didn’t enjoy how he looked. His hair was pushed back, his jaw shaven, his skin clean and unblemished and–

Rook came fully awake and tossed aside the blankets. Emmrich flinched as she reached for his face, but he allowed it. 

He was patient as her fingers brushed over his hollow cheek up to his eye and the pink, healthy skin there. Her touch drifted over to the bridge of his nose, where only the faintest red line marred that proud arch. Rook bit her lip, because she’d cried just yesterday, thank you, and Emmrich had breakfast for her, shouldn’t that make her feel less like crying?

“I would have kept the color if I knew you liked it so much,” he said. 

“Don’t be stupid, I like your face ,” Rook said, and gently touched the corner of his unblemished eye. “And these don’t need any competition for color.”

“Oh?”

Emmrich smiled, he liked flattery, and Rook loved flattering him. The simple normality of this moment, sand in her clothes, breakfast cooling on a tray, and the way he tilted his head to tease the compliment out of her, softened Rook almost to the point of tears.

“They’re alive,” she said thickly, emotion coating her throat. “It looks like they change color, but then if you get close enough…” Rook shuffled so that her knee slotted between his, and their faces were inches apart. 

“...you realise they don’t change, they’re just different colors all at once. And they’re alive like growing things, green things emerging from warm brown earth, with flecks of golden sunlight caught in the branches.”

He stopped. 

She loved this. There was something joyous about taking a man with so much experience by surprise, making him miss a step. 

He recovered quickly, clucking his tongue and framing her face in his hands to gently swipe away the pinpricks at the corners of her eyes. 

“It was not my intention to turn yours red,” he objected. 

She scoffed and gripped his wrists affectionately to—

This time, Emmrich was watching for her astonishment, and the smile that lit his eyes as he saw her expression was writ wide across his face. 

Rook drew his hands away from her face so she could see his wrists. 

They were bare, free of shackles, stitches and bandages. His Grave Dowry was missing as well, but Rook realized that must have been purposeful just for this. Because Emmrich had wanted her to see. 

The terrible lacerations were gone, replaced by lines like shallow little riverbeds, wending their way around his wrists. There were scars, for certain; sections of thin white line that had once been white with bone. But the majority of the markings weren’t raised, or stiff with scarification. They were pink, with healthy new growth. The little riverbeds seemed to promise to fill, and disappear entirely. 

“Is that a yes, to breakfast?” Emmrich asked. 

And this time, Rook realized, she was the one staring in dumbfounded astonishment. 

“Darling?” he prompted. 

Rook tugged on his wrists until his arms drew around her properly. She kissed his lips, lightly until they warmed, and opened with a delightful sound of pleasure and surprise. 

She pulled away. 

“How’s your side?” she asked. 

“Perfectly adequate,” he said and drew her against him, the breakfast tray forgotten. 

------

Rook munched on her cold toast and let her toes drag in the wet sand, leaving gouges in the sludge. A second later the tide washed over her feet, eliminating the marks entirely. 

She trailed behind Emmrich and realised that for the first time since her last slice of toast, that she didn’t know how many days had passed. She’d lost track, and it didn’t bother her.

Somewhere her necromancer had acquired a fresh set of clothes, light and made primarily of linen, perfect for the heat of the coast. 

He’d forgone his boots to walk with her barefoot along the shoreline. The loose shirt was open at the neck, and rolled up at the sleeves, leaving his wrists with the few bangles of Grave gold he wore bare to the elements. 

As soon as she found out who had acquired the garments for him, Rook was going to kiss them. The ensemble included a loose overtunic with the hint of a ribcage, like bleached bone against its blue surface, and around his waist he’d tied a golden yellow sash in the manner reminiscent of his usual attire. 

He looked so light, Rook would not have been surprised if he stopped leaving footprints in the sand. 

He turned and smiled at her, walking backwards. 

Rook tugged self-consciously on the sleeveless tunic that she had been left for her by the same anonymous source. 

It fit astonishingly well, and even though it was made of yet more, light, airy linen, it hugged her frame, and draped nicely over her trousers to kiss the top of her knees. 

There was still much to do, they needed to check on Lucanis and the others. Emmrich wanted to repair Manfred’s arm and check on Neve’s refugees, especially the children. 

They needed to find Davrin, and somehow get word to their allies. 

They needed to find out what was happening in Arlathan, and what chaos they’d left behind in Minrathous. 

But not yet, Rook thought, taking Emmrich’s outstretched hand, and stumbling in the sand as the rising sun leached away a little more of their weariness. 

Chapter Text

“Oh dear,” said Emmrich, and took off at a run. 

“What?” Rook didn’t have time to finish her thought. She didn’t have time for questions. She could only scramble after him before his long legs carried him out of sight. 

They stumbled and skidded over a dune, and a patch of rocky tidepools before she saw what had made the Necromancer bolt. 

There, on a long sandy stretch of beach, several figures moved frantically, and scattered across the glowing sand were several pieces of bleached bone. 

“Kaffas!” Rook swore, and regretted it as the little breath she had was used up and her lungs complained mightily at trying to keep pace with the ridiculous beanpole man. 

But she wouldn’t have stopped in any case. She recognized the familiar green glint in the eyesockets of the little skull that sat, disembodied on the sand. 

Shock made her cold, despite the sun now fully risen. Her mind did not want to believe what her eyes were clearly showing her. 

Manfred. In pieces. 

Manfred discarded across the sand in the heart of the Lord’s stronghold like pieces of driftwood. His head was lying, carelessly left, by someone unaware of the intelligent, tenacious little spirit that inhabited it. They had no idea of the knowledge he’d gained, or the strides he’d made, the language he was mastering. 

A sob rose, threatening to choke the last of the air in her lungs when the skull turned suddenly, the goggles glinting like the sun on the waves ten feet away. 

The disconnected hand rose and waved at them in greeting. 

Rook smacked into Emmrich–who had stopped–and doubled over, heaving for breath. 

“Andraste’s flaming knickers!” she wheezed, leaning against the necromancer who steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. He was breathing heavily too, and his face was blank with shock and relief. 

The figures–the small figures–moving around on the sand barely paused in their work. They used shovels and hands and bits of driftwood to bury Manfred’s legs so that only his feet, and then his toes were sticking out of the sand, along with his arm and head. Meir, looking a little sun-peeled, but very pleased with himself, saw them and waved with a little grin. 

“Are you alright, Manfred?” Emmrich called. 

The skeleton hissed in pleasure, and wiggled his toes. They were still very much connected to the rest of his body under the sand. 

“Yes!” came his adulant voice, and a few of the children giggled, reburying the pieces of him that had wriggled free. 

Emmrich groaned and sagged, and then his hand against Rook’s shoulder was more to steady himself than her. 

“I hadn’t planned on resuming my morning exercises just yet,” he said. 

“Could have fooled me,” Rook straightened up, “have you ever considered competing in footraces?”

His eyebrows pinched together, “No?”

“It’s a crime, with those legs of yours.”

He blinked, “What are you saying?”

Rook stretched her arms out in demonstration, “Long. Long boys.”

“My legs are perfectly proportional,” he scoffed. 

“Yes, to a palm tree. Speaking of, do you want some dates? I think those are date palms.”

“What?” he looked up. “We just had breakfast.”

But she was already backing away towards the stand of trees, looking up at the fronds, sizing up the trunks. “Come on, Emmrich. We both need to fatten up a bit,” she said with a grin at his hesitant expression. “Fresh dates. Have you had any?”

“With Neve, in Docktown,” he said, following her like a cat trailing a bird. 

“Then they weren’t as fresh as these,” She said and took a running leap at the tree. 

She heard him exclaim in alarm but she was already a good ways up the palm, shimmying up the trunk like a caterpillar, legs locked. “It’s fine!” she called down to him. 

“Are you sure? You’re supposed to be resting. You still have a healing laceration in your Latissimus Dorsi, and you could grow dizzy from the after effects of the blood magic.”

“It’s fine,” she repeated, although, in truth, it was a lot harder than it should have been. Rook looked down and smiled at Emmrich standing at the foot of the palm, arms folded in disapproval. “You can use your magic to catch me if I fall, yes?”

“That’s not the point. There is no earthly reason for you to be doing this.”

“Fresh dates!” she insisted and shuffled further up the tree, feeling far more at home among the scratchy fibers and plates of bark than she ever had in Dorian’s fancy house. “That’s the point! I used to do this all the time as a kid.”

“Just…be careful,” and Rook’s heart curled like a cat in pleasure. Because what Emmrich didn’t know was that she was. What a wonder it was to hear concern and love for you in someone else’s voice like that. She would take care of herself. She would take better care of herself than she ever had, because of that concern. 

But it was true that Rook knew what she was doing. Every movement was practiced and familiar. She reached the top in very little time and only a little out of breath. She took a moment to rest and looked down again at Emmrich’s diminutive figure, leaning against the tree now like he would start up after her. 

“Not so tall now,” she said and smiled when he scoffed again. 

It was a treat to draw her knife and sever a bundle of the fresh, ripe dates. She let them drop to the ground and followed after at rapid speed. 

She landed on the ground, plucked up the dates and presented them to the necromancer, who had rapidly stepped back from the missile. 

“What do you think?” she asked, a little breathless. 

“I think that you are feeling very silly after a good night’s sleep, a languid morning, and the scare Manfred just gave us,” Emmrich said, approaching and taking the offered dates. He pitted and ate one. His eyes closed in appreciation. 

“I feel good,” Rook said, refusing to be cowed by his pragmatism. “And I know for a fact that you feel good as well.” 

She drew closer to him, looking up the tall length of him to his face. “And that’s very good,” she said, rising on tiptoes to kiss him again. The sweetness of the date lingering in the sweetness of his lips. 

It was spoiled as the small crowd of children, joined by Manfred, all made gagging noises, the ungrateful urchins. 

But Emmrich only hummed in appreciation, his hand coming to rest on her lower back to keep her body pressed against his. 

“You’re right,” he said in a repentant tone that made Rook immediately suspicious. “You did that very well. You were very skilled and not in any real danger at all.”

“Thank you,” Rook said. 

“Which is why I would like to reopen a topic we were discussing earlier, with Dorian.”

“What topic?” she couldn’t remember anything specific.

“You, learning to swim,” he said with another kiss. 

“Kaffas,” she muttered as their audience chorused her with loud exclamations of disgust. 

------

Rook’s fears had painted a terrible picture of Lucanis, laid up in bed, his head swathed in bandages. 

He wasn’t. They found him in a hammock in the shade, a cool cloth over his eyes, and Neve seated beside him. She’d dragged a table over from somewhere and had a wealth of notes, maps and books spread out before her. 

She looked up and smiled as they approached. She smiled wider to see Emmrich’s face healed of cuts and bruises. 

“There you are, professor," she said, jotting something down absently. “I wondered if you were going for a more roguish look with that shiner.”

“Not in the least,” the necromancer said. “How are our patients?”

There was a dramatic groan from the hammock. 

“Want. Coffee.” the invalid said. 

Rook frowned, “has Lucanis not woken up yet?”

“No, that was him,” said Neve with a roll of her eyes. 

“I. Can hear. You.”

“Spite appears to be enjoying a well-earned rest,” Emmrich reported. “It took quite a bit of energy for him to pilot Lucanis’s body so far to find Bellara.” 

The necromancer stepped nearer to the hammock and spoke in a soft voice. “How are you feeling, Lucanis?”

One of the Crow’s eyes opened as he lifted the edge of the cloth. “Like my head has gone for a swim, and Taash is pounding on it at the same time. Both of which could be solved with coffee. ”

“You can’t have any until you can walk in a straight line,” Neve said without taking her eyes from her notes. Lucanis moaned like a dying man. The detective absently reached out a frosty fingertip and laid it against the Crow’s temple. 

He sighed and subsided, letting the cloth fall back into place. 

“I’m fine,” he waved his hand at them. “I will be up later.” 

“We’ll see,” Neve murmured. 

“With coffee .”

“We’ll see.”

“Have you seen Bellara?” Rook interrupted.

“She’s with Harding, and I think Trevelyan, in one of the loot sheds. She said something about a very important project.”

“For Bellara that’s not a lot to go on,” Rook said, absently taking Lucanis’s hand and giving it a squeeze. She was gratified to find his fingers warm as he squeezed back affectionately.

“I couldn’t make heads or tails about this one,” Neve said. “You know how she is when she gets an idea. I think she’s been going a bit stir crazy with all of us gone. She could probably do with a bit of your company, Rook.”

------

Rook was uncertain what she had expected this time, but it wasn’t this. 

“Lace, can you hand me some of those bluebells? I think we need a bit more color over here.”

“Bluebells coming right up.”

As she and Emmrich watched, Harding passed the requested flower to Bellara from where she stood on a tall stool against the Inquisitor’s scarred brown horse. The animal was munching happily on the hay that had been strewn around the empty loot shed in an effort to make it into more of a stable. He had been groomed until his old hide shone like a polished chestnut, and Harding was currently braiding a veritable garden of blooms into his mane and tail. 

He looked ready for a parade. 

So did the Herald’s other mount. 

“Maker,” Rook breathed. 

“Oh that’s simply beautiful,” Emmrich exclaimed and Bellara beamed at him. 

“Do you like it? I was going for yellow, at first, because, you know. Marigold. Trying to be on theme here. But I think the blue really brings out some of the more rainbow oily tones in her coat. And it’s a nice contrast against the rust on the sword.”

Emmrich abandoned Rook in favor of the bog unicorn who was now bedecked in more blooms, some of them appearing to grow right out of her eye sockets. 

She spotted Trevelyan off to the side, looking supremely bemused. She joined him and waved at his arm which sat detached on the table, surrounded by a myriad of tools. 

“When Neve said Bellara was involved in a new project I thought she meant—”

“Oh, she did,” Trevelyan said, gesturing to the half-realised workshop. “She has ideas for several improvements, a few of which I think I will take her up on. But I needed a break, and then Harding came back from exercising the horses for me–she still thinks this is the Inquisition–and one thing led to another.”

Rook sat down beside him. There was something muddying his air of calm weariness, of pleasant resignation, and it took her a moment to put her finger on it. 

“I don’t think I've said thank you yet for saving me from the Venatori.” she said, watching Emmrich stroke the nose of the undead horse and coo to her in tones he reserved for only the most magnificent of Manfred’s drawings. 

Trevelyan hummed and smiled, “I don’t wait around for thanks, Rook. And neither should you.”

“Still, we wouldn’t have made it without you. And I know things are difficult in the south. Helping hands are a big deal right now, and you don’t exactly have a spare.”

He looked at her with wide eyes filled with mirth. “Did you really just say that?” he said in a voice strained from holding back a laugh.

“I did.”

“Harding warned me you had hand puns.”

“I do.”

“And you’re not afraid of fatally offending Andraste’s Chosen?”

“Not when he lets Bellara cover his war horses in a perfumier’s whole supply of flowers, no. It hasn’t been acting up, has it? Is that why Emmrich was examining it so closely the other day?”

Trevelyan swallowed his laugh. Whoever had taught this man composure had done an excellent job. 

“First, it may interest you to know that I do, in fact, have a spare or two. That’s not my only one. And second, no. It’s not painful. Not anything like it used to be. But the memories tied to it are fairly sore right now.”

Rook rested her chin in her hands. “Solas?”

“On the nail,” Trevelyan reached over and took a drink from one of the clay cups on the table. “He’s my friend, Rook. I know he might come across as a bit of a megalomaniac right now. Driven, obsessed even. But he’s a good man. He helped seal the breach. He was the one to stabilize the mark on my hand after I was foolish enough to pick up an orb spitting with unstable magic. He’s been trying to fix his mistakes from the very beginning. And I want to help him. I just need to keep him from making another one.”

“That’s what Varric thought too,” Rook said, watching his scarred face carefully.

When Trevelyan glanced at her again a mask had dropped. One so subtle that Rook hadn’t realised it was there. Fear and grief flashed across his visage, and only she saw it. 

“I’m so sorry about Varric, Rook,” he said. “He loved you. Wouldn’t stop talking about you in his letters. I know that what Solas did to you was terrible. But you shouldn’t let that shake the confidence that Varric had in you and your abilities. He was prouder of you than a Fereldeon dog lord is of their prize Mabari.”

“Is that a compliment in the south?” Rook asked thickly. 

Trevelyan winked and got to his feet. 

“I think it would be a good idea to discuss the matter of Solas while I'm still here,” he said. “Dorian and Harding will both provide valuable insights, and now that his curse on your mind has been lifted, he might be a little more willing to listen to reason.”

Trevelyan lifted his prosthetic hand and patted her on the shoulder with its inert fingers. 

Chapter Text

Manfred needed a new humerus. There was nothing else for it. Emmrich had examined his detached arm at length and finally gave up on the bone in despair. 

“I’m sorry, my boy,” he said, setting it down with a sigh “It simply won’t do. The greater tubercle is cracked free of the head completely. We’ll just have to get another.”

This was met with a great, deflating hiss. The poor skeleton looked very put upon indeed. First he had been called away from his new friends and the sand in order to get a thorough examination. And now getting his arm refitted was proving to be more complicated by the minute. The upper bone and three fingers had to be replaced. 

Also there were no Necromancer’s tools to be had here, save for one bone threader that Taash had sheepishly found in the bottom of their pack. They’d had to beg, borrow and steal tools from Vallas, the blacksmith, and some of the rogues that worked for the Lords of Fortune. 

“Taash,” Emmrich called to where they sat, braiding some leftover flowers into Harding’s hair. “I don’t mean to disturb you with a matter you might find distasteful, but do you happen to know if there are any…remains close by? Unclaimed would be best.”

“Remains?” Taash shook themselves out of their pleasant haze. “What do you need remains for, Emmrich? It’s still kinda early to be doing corpse stuff, isn’t it? Vallas said–”

The necromancer gestured impatiently, “No, thank you, Taash. Not for reanimation. It’s for Manfred.”

“Manfred?” Taash looked over at the wisp who was hunched, cradling his empty shoulder socket. “Oh!”

The dragonslayer got to their feet, accidentally unseating Harding with a little yelp of surprise. 

“Yeah, we’ve got just the thing, come on!” 

Everyone at the table–and Harding on the ground– shot to their feet and followed them away from the beach and deeper into the ruined fortress that the Lords called home. It was an impressive place that Rook would have loved to spend weeks exploring. Each new corner turned revealed hidden nooks and passageways, often lined with the sparkle of gold.

“One of the reasons the Lord’s settled here was because of the catacombs,” Taash was saying, stopping at the entrance to one of these passageways and casually picking up a torch and lighting it. 

“Catacombs?” echoed Emmrich with far too much interest.

They clocked his enthusiasm with a laugh. “Well, we call them that. But they’re not really tombs or anything. Just a series of underground caves we’ve been using for storage. They were already filled with some gold and stuff when the Lords got here, so we just added our own loot.“

They were all plodding single file down a winding staircase now. It was carved from the cliffs that formed the base of the fortress, and the right side opened abruptly into a wide open cavern where Rook could hear the crashing of waves and smell the musty scent of damp earth. Manfred’s hisses of “dark!” and “big!” echoed through the space. 

“I’ll say,” Harding agreed, reaching out to touch the stone, her hands glowing with empathetic light. “It’s old too.”

Taash shrugged, making the light of the torch bounce off of the stalactites and moist rocks. “There’s a lot of stuff here, from a lot of different eras, it looks like. Could have all been washed in, who knows.”

They stopped at the bottom of the stairs and raised the torch to illuminate the area properly. 

Everyone stood on level ground now, and before them stretched a series of small caverns, filled with an assortment of boxes, barrels and piles of gold, junk and…

“Bones!” said Manfred happily, striding up to a skeleton that had been speared on a stalactite, and still held a rusted cutlass tightly in its fist. 

“Yeah, they were all here when we found it. So I’m told. A few of the Lord’s were a bit superstitious about moving them, so we left them.”

Bellara, who had been silent up to that point save for a few squeaks of excitement, squeaked again, “I just finished an adventure story that starts out exactly like this!”

“Oh! I read that one too!” Harding said with glee, approaching another skull that had been embedded into the dark rock wall. “Emmrich, would you consider talking to one of these guys for us and finding out if there’s a secret underground pool nearby?”

Emrmich turned from his examination of Manfred’s skeleton friend, his face twisted with incredulity.

“What?”

“Inhabited by mermaids,” Bellara said with a wispy look. 

“And filled with magical treasure,” Harding added with a wink. 

“No,” Emmrich said, voice high with exasperation. “But feel free to ask them yourself. I’m sure you’re just as likely to get the answers you want that way.”

“Spoilsport,” Rook said, joining him as he shook his head and turned back to the skeleton.

Emmrich huffed and pulled his dignity around him like a much bedraggled cloak. Bellara and Harding stomped off, muttering mutinously and giggling. 

“Hmmm, this one is rather weathered, Manfred. I don’t trust the integrity of it. Let’s examine some others.”

“Okay,” the wisp rattled and joined in on the strangest scavenger hunt Rook had ever been a part of, save for the hunt for the Dreadwolf himself. 

In the end they found only three skeletons that were up to scratch; the first was very old but extremely well preserved sticking out of an air passage near the top of one cavern wall, and that Taash had been kind enough to tug down for them with a shudder. 

Another second newer skeleton looked as though it had been part of an unfortunate shipwreck some months ago, but was partially covered in barnacles.

The third they found lashed to the remains of a ship’s wheel, its hands still clutching the wood as though determined to steer its crew to safety. 

“That one!” Manfred said, pointing insistently. 

“Are you certain?” Emmrich said, looking closely  at the older skeleton. “Taash was kind enough to fetch this one for you. And it’s by far the driest.”

But Manfred shook his head. 

“No,” he said, and jabbed his hand emphatically at the third corpse. “That one. Brave. Strong.”

It was by far the most words he’d said in a row since this whole misadventure had begun. And when Rook looked at Emmrich she could see he was just as moved. 

“Alright, Manfred,” he said, and approached them. His eyes fixed keenly on the chosen skeleton. “Just give me a moment.”

The necromancer settled himself before the ruined helm and steepled his fingers together, he took a few deep, settling breaths before he waved his hands and green light erupted from them, trailing in the air. 

“From the damp and darkness, I call you. By the flame that stoked you, I bid you return and speak!”

The hairs on along the back of Rook’s neck stood up as the last words of command rang through the cavern, carried by Emmrich’s voice, and the unmistakable ring of magic that accompanied them. 

Taash, Harding, and Bellara all stopped their rummaging and turned to look, eyes wide as sparks of green, necrotic energy exploded in the skull’s empty sockets. 

There was a rushing of air in the cavern, like an indrawn breath, and with several loud clacks the skeleton moved left and right, turning the wheel in vain as it came up sharply against the rocks. 

“Lost!”  wailed an eerie voice from within the depths of the corpse. “Lost and gone to the depths of the sea! Too late! Why do you call this one too late?”

“I am sorry,” Emmrich said softly. “Your ship is lost and your fate is sealed. But you may still be of service in some small way in death. You seem to have been very dedicated.”

The green light of the eyes flickered, and the wheel turned again, click, clack, as though considering. When the voice spoke again some of its emotion had flattened into resolve. 

“What use could this one still be to you?”

“My ward, Manfred has lost his arm in battle, and would seek to inherit yours, as our enemy is not yet defeated. You have no need to hold on to your post any longer. Your duty is done.”

“Yes,” Manfred interjected eagerly. 

There was silence, save for the wheel turning one final time, smacking hard against the rock. 

“This one is willing,” it said “Take the arm, and send the rest to my companions below.”

Emmrich nodded and waved his hands again, brushing the light away from its eyes with a gesture, “rest now.”

With a sigh the skeleton fell limp against the wheel, just as Emmrich sighed in satisfaction and let his hands drop. 

Taash sighed too. 

“For the record…that counts as reanimating.”

—

“Nice small clothes, Pavus,” Rook snipped. 

“Would you rather I swam naked?” Dorian retorted pleasantly, not the least bit ashamed of his silky drawers. Why in Maker’s name were those fancy?

“I would rather you not be here at all,” she insisted, hugging her chest, standing waist deep in the cool water as the late afternoon sun beat down on them. “I thought you get seasick.”

“Yeeees,” Dorian drawled. “But this isn’t exactly the sea, is it? It’s a nice calm pool, adjacent to the sea. And besides, I can handle a few little waves for your sake.” He laid on his back and floated past her with an insipid smirk. 

Rook looked for Trevelyan, thinking to ask him to intervene. But the Herald of Andraste was currently sitting on his useless arse in the sand, building a castle with Manfred and Bellara. It was fairly impressive with turrets and a full on moat. Manfred was putting his new arm to excellent use. 

Emmrich and Dorian had spent the better part of two hours affixing the new humeral bone, and fingers with great success. The bones might have been made for the wisp, they fit so well. Rook would have felt much happier about it if Pavus hadn’t stuck around afterwards and followed them down to the shore. 

“Ignore him,” Emmrich said. “Just focus on me, darling.” and ohhhh, Maker’s breath, how unfair was it that Rook couldn’t even appreciate Emmrich being shirtless, or the dusting of storm grey hair that spread from his sternum down to his drawers?

“Rook?”

Right! Water, swimming. 

Emmrich was holding out his hands to her so she took them. The still healing lines on his wrists drew her eyes, as did the ugly scar on his side that Vallas had been able to close, but not smooth over. His chest was green and yellow with faded bruises that he hadn’t managed to vanish as well as the injuries on his face. 

Rook had no business showing fear in front of those marks. Not over some water. 

Besides, Emmrich was right there, smiling at her, and Dorian—obnoxious as he might be—was floating close by. The Inquisitor was playing in the sand not twenty feet away. 

Why should she be scared of some water?

But then Emmrich stepped back, drawing Rook in further, the water rose up her chest and…

…and she clung to him like a barnacle, like a tree she was trying to climb. She was breathing fast, oh maker, could she breathe? Was she drowning? Everything suddenly sounded distant…was she under the water?”

But then a patient, repetitive sound that was not the ocean, or her breathing, became recognizable. 

“Rook…I have you, Rook. You’re alright. I won’t let you drown. I won’t let you go. You’re just fine.”

She was? 

Rook looked down at the water, rippling around her ribs as they went in and out, making little lapping waves. She listened to her own breathing. Most of all she felt the warm arms around her middle. She wasn’t drowning. 

“Don’t let go!” she gasped. 

“I won’t,” Emmrich reassured her, his wet hands against the skin of her back. “Not until you’re ready, darling. I’m not going anywhere. Are you alright?”

Rook nodded against his chest. 

“Alright, I want you to do something for me. Can you try to touch the bottom with your toes?”

She didn’t want to. She wanted to go back to the shore and insist Dorian make her one of those colorful drinks with the fruit. 

Rook uncurled her leg and stretched her toes until they came into contact with the soft sand. The silt gave away almost two inches to her foot, but then it held. 

“Good!” Emmrich praised and that almost made it worth it. “Now, I'm going to hold you, and we’re going to try and do some leg movements, does that sound alright?”

“Can I dump Manfred’s sand bucket over Dorian’s head when we’re done?” she asked him quietly.

Emmrich glanced left, presumably at the other necromancer. 

“With my blessing,” he said.

Chapter Text

“Dearest, you’re struggling.”

“You can say that again.”

“No, no! You’re doing quite well. I meant that you’re fighting too much against the water. It appears you’re trying to murder it.”

“Well it tried to murder me first.”

Emmrich made a little ‘tsking’ sound, “The water did no such thing. It’s a neutral element, like gravity, or magic, or one of your daggers. You have to flow with it, not grasp it by the blade.”

Rook looked around at the deceptive water. It was painfully blue, and definitely murderous. 

“Which part is the blade?”

The look he gave her was flatter than a piece of paper. 

“Fine,” she muttered, “fine, fine. Flow with the water. Okay. But I think you’re being very free with your metaphors.”

She pulled herself from the water and up onto the stones she had jumped from a dozen times already. They had been at this long enough that her hair was stiff from sea salt and drying repeatedly in the sun. Her fingertips had shrunk to prunes. 

But she could do it. Rook could kick, and stroke, and paddle. She could stick her head under the water without inhaling it in a panic. And she could float. 

That had been the hardest to learn, no matter the support of Emmrich’s arm, or how many times he corrected her posture, Rook had sunk like a stone. It wasn’t until he’d made her close her eyes and picture a child’s ball, floating on the waves, that something had clicked in her mind and she’d become buoyant. 

Now she stared at Emmrich, some distance out in the water, his arm outstretched as always, waiting for her. 

“Once more, darling,” he said, noting her weariness, or perhaps feeling his own. “Once more, and we’ll stop.”

Rook stepped back, painful grits of sand between her bare feet and the warm stone. She took three running steps and threw herself into the water. 

It was easier that way, without any time to think. Once she was in, she let the rising panic power her choppy, inelegant movements through the water to Emmrich’s side. He was right, it was a struggle, but it worked. The panic never overtook her before she reached him. 

In fact, she felt like she should have overtaken him by now. She raised her head enough to look and spotted him just out of reach. 

Rook put her head down again and plowed forward. It was a good thing they weren’t in open water, she’d probably attract sharks with her crippled seal impression. 

A long moment passed, she looked again in confusion. 

Emmrich was the same distance away as before. 

He was moving back! What was he trying to do? Rook gulped air and struck out harder, faster. This wasn’t a game she cared for. 

Another glance showed that he had moved yet again, and this time indignation sprouted in Rook’s chest, burning along with her lungs

She swam fiercely, fighting the water for every inch, she didn’t bother to look and slow herself down.

Dimly she registered that this was farther than they had practiced before. The only thing keeping the fear from seeping between her ribs was the furious need to get to Emmrich. 

…and murder him. 

Surely the water was truly deep by now. She wouldn’t be able to touch the bottom. Would she even be able to see the bottom? What if–

A hand caught hers, and the only thing that stopped Rook from shoving Emmrich under the surface was her need to cling to him again. She wrapped her arms tight around his neck and shoulder and tried to catch her breath. The hurt of the betrayal leaked out of her eyes to mix with the rest of the saltwater. She became aware of the torrent of praise being heaped on her head. 

“Wonderful,” Emmrich said, planting a kiss on her stiff hair. “You did wonderfully, my dear! A beautiful job. You are fearless, darling.”

Rook didn’t feel like she was. Her heart was thundering, and she couldn’t tell if it was the water or her own blood rushing in her ears. 

She freed one arm enough to splash a large wave of water into Emmrich’s face and he sputtered, and laughed, holding her tighter. 

———

The bonfires had been lit by the time they rejoined the main camp again, dripping, and shivering. They’d been in the water so long it felt almost bizarre to be back on the land, muscles bending in odd ways. 

Lucanis met them coming, a bandage on his head, and hot drinks in his hands. 

“Oh,” Emmrich shivered, looking pleased. “F-feeling better?”

The Crow sighed and pressed the first mug into the necromancer’s hands, and the second into Rook’s. Then he dragged them bodily to the fire where their circle of friends sat, already tucking into a small feast of baked fruit, fishes and breads.

“I will feel better when you look less like drowned rats,” he said, guiding Rook to sit close to the flames. Emmrich fairly collapsed beside her, and Lucanis clucked, plucking a blanket from a pile and draping it over him. 

Taash passed them both plates looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Dorian, can’t you and Trevelyan keep your eyes off each other long enough to keep an eye on these two?” Lace grumbled. 

“Not my job,” Dorian said, plonking himself down to drape comfortably against the Herald’s shoulder and steal food from his plate. “It wouldn’t make a difference in any case. And we’re not here to discuss my shortcomings as a nursemaid.”

“What else would we talk about?” Neve said with a smirk and a raised brow. 

“Solas,” the Inquisitor declared, and the warmth that had been building in their circle abruptly dropped. 

“Solas?” Taash said, “I thought he wasn’t a problem anymore. He’s in the fade prison. And he’s out of Rook’s head.” They added a steaming helping of sweet potato to Emmrich’s plate. 

“If there is any way for him to interfere or put himself back in the game, he will,” Dorian said. “We shouldn’t discount him.”

“What can we do about him?” Neve asked. “Even if that prison won’t hold him forever, we still can’t reach him.”

Emmrich hummed excitedly through a mouthful of sweet potato, and swallowed, gesturing with his fork. “Actually, I believe we might be able to.” 

“How, and why?” Lucanis challenged, he looked from Emmrich to Trevelyan. “Why deal with him before we need to? We already have two elven gods we need to kill, and now that Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain are appearing together…”

“Actually,” Bellara interjected. “That may not be so true at the moment.”

All eyes turned to her, and she sidled nervously at the attention. 

“What do you mean, Bel?” Rook encouraged. 

Bellara straightened, “When the Lighthouse was attacked, a lot of the spirits here in Rivain felt it. Some of my artifacts went off as well. I went looking with some of Isabella’s people to see what was happening, and we ran into some of the Veiljumpers. More spirits as well.”

The elf’s eyes flicked to Emmrich and she cringed, almost apologetic. 

“Ghilan’nain is responsible for attacking the Crossroads,” she said. “She acted alone, actually she acted directly against Elgar’nan’s wishes.”

Beside Rook, the necromancer was carefully composed, his breaths came and went in a calming rhythm, practically a pattern. 

“And Elgar’nan is furious with her,” Bellara went on. “He’s in Arlathan, doing something with his Venatori, but a lot of them went with Ghilan’nain, along with most of her blight creations. She’s completely out of control, and her army is bleeding troops. I didn’t know why at first, but from everything you’ve told me I think losing her archdemon…and then losing Emmrich has driven her a bit mad.”

He was definitely breathing in a pattern. Rook recognized it. He’d taught it to Bellara on a sunny afternoon not long ago. 

“She’s been wanting to take the Crossroads for a while now,” Rook said, “we heard them talking about it in Solas’s tree.”

“We heard a lot of things from that tree,” Emmrich said. 

“She won’t touch him again!” Taash snarled, setting a pot back down on the flames, releasing a cloud of sparks. 

“We won’t give her a chance,” Lucanis’s voice was calmer, but there was just as much menace in his tone that made Rook’s blood run cold. “If she and Elgar’nan are divided, now is the time to strike. She is occupied with the Crossroads, she won’t see us coming. She’s expecting us to hide like rats.”

Emmrich looked at Rook, and the light of the fire shone eerily on his pale face. 

“I think we’re done hiding,” he told her. 

“Good,” said another voice from outside the circle. The fire flared wildly in a boisterous wind, heralding a bundle of feathers, talons, and beak that crashed at Rook’s feet, upsetting most of the dishes  

“I was never very good at it,” said Davrin, stepping from the darkness into the light.  

Chapter Text

Ignoring their questions and exclamations for the moment, Davrin slung his pack and shield to the side and sat himself next to Taash, reaching for a plate of food. 

Assan turned in a circle, chirping apologetically as he trod on everyone’s dinners. The little griffon grumbled and squawked, and made a point of greeting them all individually. He nuzzled Neve and Bellara, whipped his tail in Rook’s face, circled Lucanis with a low rumble, and pressed his beak against Harding’s palm. 

Then he saw Emmrich. 

A strange sound left Assan’s throat, a sort of  clucking interspersed with high squeaks and whistles. He slung himself low to the ground and started stalking towards the necromancer. 

Emmrich braced his hands against the ground. 

“Davrin, what is he doing?” 

Davrin didn’t look up from the sweet potatoes he was shoveling into his mouth. 

“How should I know? Am I the world’s leading expert on griffons all of a sudden?”

Emmrich shuffled back as Assan advanced on him. “Given that you are in possession of one of the only living griffons in existence, yes, you are!”

“Oh,” Davrin glanced up with a smug little smile “Sorry, I dunno what he’s up to. But the last time he made that sound he was trying to make a nest in Lucanis’s coffee beans.”

“Davrin!”

There was nothing to be done. Assan stepped carefully onto Emmrich’s chest, and slowly, inexorably, his weight pressed Volkarin flat onto the ground. 

The griffon’s noise changed to a pleased trilling, and he curled up, folding his feet beneath his chest in contentment. 

“Oh dear,” said Emmrich breathlessly. 

“Seems he was worried about you,” Davrin said, scraping more potatoes from his plate. “Not that I blame him, after what we saw in the Crossroads on the way to the Lighthouse… what was left of the Lighthouse. Anybody want to tell me what’s been going on?”

Everyone around the fire—including the Herald of Andraste—seemed hesitant to speak. 

Lucanis got up from his seat, “My headache is back.”

“Making. Coffee.” Spite announced. 

“Anybody want some?”

Several hands went up. 

“Rook,” said Davrin, his voice stone and his face unflinching. “What happened?”

Rook rubbed her mouth and brushed aside a sudden desire for Varric, what would he say to make this conversation easy? What words would knit the team together into a unit so they could make proper plans?

“Emmrich tried to take on Ghilan’nain singlehanded,” Rook said, “It didn’t go well.”

She felt several pairs of eyes start on her in surprise. Dorian snorted some wine up his nose and began having a fit. Neve’s eyebrows flew upwards. 

There was a noise of adamant protest from beneath Assan, but the griffon resettled himself and it was cut off in a sputter of feathers. 

Davrin’s fork paused, “What now?”

Rook planted her chin on her fist, “I guess you could say that Ghilan’nain tried to take on Emmrich. Either way, it didn’t end well. A lot of Venatori are dead, Taash is going to kill more of them, and we’ve divided the Evanuris in half. Sounds like a win to me.”

Harding hid her face in Taash’s side as her shoulders shook. Bellara’s eyes grew wide with a murmur of “Ooh, I like that.”

“The Lighthouse has been leveled,” Davrin objected “and it’s crawling with Darkspawn. We saw it. Didn’t we boy?”

Assan chirped in assent, and purred as Emmrich’s fingers dug into his coat in an effort to shove him off. 

“It’s destroyed,” the warden fixed his eyes back on Rook. 

“But nowhere else is,” Rook countered. “We lost our base, but we don’t have another D’Meta’s crossing on our hands. And if Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan aren’t working together, then we only have to deal with one half of the problem at a time.”

Trevelyan looked up from his efforts to resuscitate Dorian, “That’s an interesting way to reframe the problem. Can I offer a suggestion?”

“Who’s this guy?” Darvin asked.

“Just some guy we met in the crossroads,” Rook said. “What’s your suggestion?”

“If you concentrate on Ghilan’nain, that leaves Elgar’nan free to carry out his plans in Arlathan unhindered. There is a way you can deal with both problems at once. ”

Rook frowned, The Herald of Andraste did not strike her as a cryptic sort of person, the fact that he was trying to be put her on edge immediately. His guileless face was pleasantly calm. 

“I don’t think we should split so soon,” Rook said, and was almost drowned out by the chorus of outrage. 

“I just got here!”

“Screeeeeeeeee!

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Try it!”

“Absolutely not!”

“Say what you mean, Inquisitor,” Neve interrupted calmly, accepting a cup from Lucanis. “We’re all a bit tired for games. And I’d hate to have to spoil your surprise myself.”

Trevelyan looked chastened at that, and nervous. He was chafing his hands together, skin and steel. “You have a powerful ally at your disposal, Rook. And you have a significant advantage over him.”

…Oh no.

“...If we can just persuade him.”

Rook’s mind spun with images she’d been trying to shove down the last few nights. Painfully raw memories of the blue dagger that was still tucked into Lucanis’ sash because she couldn’t stomach looking at it. She could see thick, red blood, life blood, from the heart, running down the edge of the ethereal blue blade. 

No. No, no, no, no, no.

“No!” for a wild second, she thought the word had come out of her own mouth, but it was Dorian. Pavus shot to his feet, pulling away from Trevelyan, his face as stony as it had been the night she brought Emmrich to him. 

The Herald reached for him, but Dorian slapped his hand away. 

“Are you mad?! Have you forgotten the reason we’re in this mess is because of Solas’s efforts to bring down the veil in the first place?”

“Dorian…” Trevelyan started. 

“Dorian, what? What could you possibly have to say? Oh Dorian, he’s not so bad, really, just misunderstood. But Dorian, he didn’t mean to cut off my hand and almost end the world, I’m sure of it. It doesn’t matter that he’s the Dread Wolf, and lied to us for years, Dorian. He’s just a loveable puppy really. Is that what you want to tell me?!”

The ex-magister was blistering with indignation, hands clawed like he didn’t know whether to tear out his own hair or strangle the former inquisitor. 

Rook was dimly aware that everyone was silently watching the exchange like she was. Even Assan had stopped purring and was sitting straight up on Emmrich’s chest allowing the necromancer a clear view. 

“He’s my friend, Dorian,” Trevelyan answered at last. 

Pavus let his hands drop to his sides, rolled his head with disgust, and started marching off into the dimming light. 

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to walk into the ocean until the Maker either cures me of my affection, or allows me to drown!”

Bellara grimaced, “he wouldn’t actually…I mean, Maevaris would be upset.”

Davrin jerked his head at Assan, “Go with him, boy.”

The griffon vacated his bed and leapt excitedly after Pavus, allowing Emmrich to sit up. The necromancer gingerly rubbed his chest. 

“I think—” he started, and cut off with a wheeze. He grimaced and thumped his diaphragm a few times, clearing his throat. “I agree with the Inquisitor. I think the idea has merit.”

“Merit?” Lucanis said, “What about what he did to Rook? We just finished cleaning up his mess in her head. How can we trust someone who is willing to use blood magic? on. Rook!”

“What about Varric?” Harding asked, “Inquisitor, he killed Varric. Even if it was an accident–which he could be lying about that too–it proves he’s capable of killing any one of us to accomplish his goal.”

“And what then?” Neve said. “If we somehow get Solas out, and he turns on us, then we have three elven gods to deal with, not just two, and we’re worse off than when we started.”

“I mean, he is the god of lies, treachery and rebellion,” Bellara added, “depending upon the story. Our gods have already caused the world enough trouble. The last thing I want to do is add to it.”

“What is the harm in just talking to him?” Emmrich insisted, “If nothing else we might be able to get some answers.”

“I wouldn’t trust a thing that snake said,” Taash growled. 

“What do you say, Rook?” Trevelyan’s soft voice cut through the heat like a breeze off the sea, “You’re the one he wronged, you’ve known him in his real identity the longest.”

Was this how the Herald had gotten the southern half of Thedas to follow him around like a bunch of Mabari? With this gentle entreaty, this unflinching search for the best of people? The bastard’s eyes were sifting her soul like sand, and suddenly Dorian’s desire to strangle him was perfectly understandable. 

The others were right, Solas was responsible for Varric’s death. He had lied to her and poisoned her mind with blood magic. He had used her grief to steer her like a piece on a chessboard. How could she step back from that?

‘He’s my friend, Rook.’ The memory of Varric’s voice echoed the Herald. If she ignored that, did that mean he died for nothing? Was she throwing away a friend, an ally that could change everything?  

Rook looked around at all of the anxious faces, pinched with a year’s worth of battles. Her eyes stopped on Emmrich. He was calm. He trusted her. He felt safe in her decision.

“We’ll talk to Solas,” she said. 

------

Rook found Dorian a ways down the beach, throwing stones into the water for Manfred and Assan to chase in the surf.

He looked up when she approached, then down again. 

“Well there was never going to be any other outcome, was there?” he said. “When are you going to embark on this madness?”

 Rook bent and selected a stone of her own, smooth, and green, that caused a splash large enough to make Assan to sneeze.

“In the morning, then we’re leaving to find Ghilan’nain, no matter the outcome.”

“Wonderful,” Dorian said testily, and threw a final pebble that bounced off of Manfred’s leg with a clatter. 

“Ow,” said Manfred without inflection. 

“Oh, you’re not hurt,” Pavus insisted, ignoring Assan’s indignant screech. “It was an accident. And we’re all apparently in such a forgiving mood, aren’t we?”

“I want you to come,” Rook said. “You, Trevelyan, Emmrich, Davrin and me.”

“Davrin?”

“He’s more of an elf than I am,” Rook shoved her hands in her pockets. “I’m too corrupted by Tevinter to fully understand all the elfy-ness.”

Dorian scoffed, “You’re the example of what I hope Tevinter will one day become, Rook. What about Bellara?”

“She has to stay behind with Neve and maintain the spell, she and Emmrich have it all worked out. We’re going to use Solas’s own methods against him and use the dagger as a connection.”

“Oh, so we’re going to do this the Somniari way, are we?” Dorian asked. “I must say, I like that better than trying to break into his prison outright. You realize that might not even be possible, even if you did decide to trust him?”

“Emmrich seems to think that won’t be a problem.”

He looked thoughtful, “How so?”

“He said something about the inherent whatits matching the frequencies of internal somthings that anchor the prison to sentient permanence in the fade?”

The look he gave her was only a little bit disgusted. “I’ll ask Volkarin later. Did Trevelyan tell you of our own plans?”

“He’s accompanying you to Ventus?”

“Yes,” Dorian said. “I’ve left Mae alone to fend for Minrathous too long. I need to contact some reinforcements awaiting us near the coast. Now that we know the Archon is dead, the magisterium is completely compromised. If we come in strong the other magisters will have no choice but to side with us against the Venatori. It will be a chance. If we play our cards right it could lead to a permanent change. Maevaris could take the position of Archon, or myself. Asher and the remainder of the Shadow Dragons should back us up.”

For a moment his eyes shone with excitement and Rook felt her own lungs seize at the idea. They had always wanted this, the Shadow Dragons. But it had seemed like a distant, gritty slog up an impossibly large hill sometimes. 

The idea that it might change so soon, with Dorian or Mae at the head of it, putting an end to slavery, the oppression of the magisterium's rule…it was breathtaking. 

“At least one good thing has come of this mess,” she said. 

“My profile isn’t as sharp as it once was,” Dorian admitted, and framed his face with his hands. “But I still think it will look good in marble…maybe on a coin. What do you think?”

A large splash of seawater from Manfred’s bucket interrupted him and completely ruined the effect. 

------

It was proper dark by this time, and everyone was readying themselves, packing gear, replacing lost weapons and armor. Bellara was crawling all over her constructs making sure they were in good order. 

After visiting all of them, Rook found Emmrich in the makeshift stable. She passed Trevelyan on the way in, and he offered only a smile before vanishing to find Dorian. 

“Swapping necromancers,” Rook muttered. 

“What was that, darling?”

“Nothing,” she sauntered over to where Emmrich was standing with the bog unicorn again. He had ahold of her bridle and was stroking his fingers gently over her nose. 

“How are you going to bear to part from her?” Rook teased. 

She expected a rise out of him, perhaps a snippy remark, or look of tomblike dryness. 

But his eyes never left the mummified black coat. “There’s no need,” he said. “Trevelyan gave her to me.”

Rook had heard a lot of things she wasn’t expecting too tonight, but…

“He what now?”

Emmrich met her gaze and, yes, he was still absolutely infatuated. He looked as though he’d just gotten everything he’d ever wanted for Wintersend since the age of three. 

“He said that she’s getting a little worn out for all the work he’s demanding of her. She needs some care and preservation. And that she’ll draw too much attention where he and Dorian intend to go next.”

Perhaps that was all true, but it could not be the only reason. Tonight the Herald had proven that he was far more perceptive than he allowed others to believe. 

“Dorian is going to be overjoyed,” Rook laughed. 

“Dorian is never going to let me hear the end of it,” Emmrich cooed, “He’s going to rant about cliches, and image, and maintaining the dignity of our calling. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Marigold whickered eerily through her hollow nose bones. 

How on earth, Rook thought, letting Emmrich take her hand and guide it up to scratch the ‘Temporomandibular joint,’ had she become the odd one out in their spooky little family?

Chapter Text

“You have failed!” booted feet paced back and forth beside the chasm that separated them. Solas’s face was as hard as the stone fingers that grasped from the depths, frozen in their bid for escape. 

Indignation, confusion, and grief all bubbled up inside Rook as she stood, staring obstinately. She wasn’t a child, and this was not her god. Sometimes she was barely an elf. Who did this ancient being think he was, lecturing her about choices, about failure, when it was his mistakes that had put them into this trouble in the first place. 

“What do you mean?” she snarled back. She couldn’t recall the last task she’d been doing. How had she failed?

“You have given in to weakness, and the Evanuris exploit it.” Solas pointed to Rook’s feet, and there was another hand she’d not noticed before. It grasped at her foot and she jerked back before she realised who it belonged too. 

She knelt and grasped the leather clad shoulders. 

“You will never win the war unless you are willing to make the necessary sacrifices!” the Dread Wolf said, just as Rook turned the body in her arms. 

A shriek froze in Rook’s throat, her arms locked in terror. The familiar face was a ghastly nightmare, drawn skin over a grinning skull, pockmarked with rot. Silver hair hung dull and dry, breaking away in her fingers. A clawlike hand reached for her face, shreds of skin hanging from the exposed bone at its wrist. The sunken eyes shone with eerie green light from the depths of their sockets. 

Rook's mind fled the terrible images and threw her back into the waking world, gasping for air. 

Her ears were ringing, but the scream was still caught, unvoiced in her throat. She was half buried in the scratchy straw, fibers of it clung to her sweat drenched skin. The smell of sawdust and horse filled her nose, grounding her. 

That had not been Solas. It wasn’t real, and he had no access to her mind. 

But she reached out, patting the empty ground beside her, searching, just to know, just to be sure. 

Her hand brushed against a piece of steel that vibrated, like a sword blade that had just been struck. Her ears rang a second time as a hoarse shout stirred the dustmotes in the moonlight, and the steel rod thrashed beneath her fingers. 

Kaffas. 

“Emm,” still heavy with sleep, Rook pushed herself up. 

Beside her he cried again and his long limbs fought against demons made of straw bedding. 

Rook rolled over almost on top of him, still covered in the sweat of her own nightmare. Perhaps a terror spirit had visited them both in the fade. His bones pressed into her skin, making her think of the nightmare until she shook it from her mind. 

Limbs still clumsy with sleep, voice dragging an octave, Rook cradled his head against her chest. “Emm?” 

Veilfire sprouted along his hands and fingers. The inquisitor’s horse and Marigold snorted in surprise. 

Vishante Kaffas. 

She loosened her hold a little. “Emm, amatus, sweetheart…”

His hands gripped her arms and they were painfully tight, they were bruising. She would have imprints of his thin fingers in her skin for sure. She pressed her face to his salty cheek, she put her lips beside the shell of his ear.

“It’s Rook,” she said. 

The necromancer jolted, his eyes flew open and they were milky with terror. They were somewhere else entirely, sweeping the room for prison walls that were not there. 

His hands tightened painfully, making Rook swear and her arms tingle. Emmrich’s breathing, which had been fast and ragged, grew shallow and thin. 

Rook propped him up to make breathing easier, but his lips were already dusky. She’d seen him this bad only once, after the fall of Weisshaupt. 

Her eyes searched the interior of the rough shed and fell on the black, oily hide of Marigold. She dug her heels into the straw and shoved, and pulled Emmrich’s bulk until they both fell against the undead beast’s side. She snorted hollowly but made no further fuss. 

The earthy, sour smell of peat filled Rook’s nostrils. It acted like a restorative and Emmrich sucked in a substantial breath, blinking in surprise. 

“You’re safe,” she told him, stroking bits of skin that she could reach with numbing fingers. “You’re alive. Try to breathe, sweetheart.”

He choked, trying to remember how. Rook took a slow exaggerated breath against his back. 

“You had a nightmare,” she told him, trying to give his spinning brain something to latch onto. “It’s not real, Emm.”

“No,” he wailed and the sound of his voice cut through Rook’s composure. It didn’t sound like him at all. If she didn’t know the feel of him in her arms she would have sworn it was someone else. 

He took a few more desperate breaths, and they were better and deeper, but they were changing into sobs. His body shook with them as the rictus around his lungs slowly loosened. 

“It’s real,” He gasped and his hands crawled up her back as he turned, burying his face against her neck like he would like to crawl inside her skin, pry apart her ribcage and hide within. “It happened.”

“I hear you,” she reassured. “It’ll be alright, amatus. Breathe.”

He did, hanging on her like a storm beaten coat, trying to regain enough of himself to speak. 

But Emmrich was undone, he muffled howls against her shoulder and soaked it with hot, violent tears. There was too much grief, anger and hurt in it to be from a nightmare. 

Gods, what had happened?

“I remember,” he managed after a time, answering the unspoken question that ached in her heart. “I remember what she did.”

Rook breathed in and out. She centered herself on the form in her arms, the feel of his scalp against her cheek. 

“Tell me,” she said. “It’s okay.”

———

Rook waited just long enough for Emmrich to fall back to sleep, curled against the bog unicorn so tightly that he looked small to her for the first time. She had never pictured him as a boy. It seemed impossible that he’d ever been anything but a dignified, grey-haired professor. But she saw it now. He didn’t even stir when she pressed a soggy kiss to his forehead. 

He was enjoying the well-earned sleep of the truly exhausted and Rook was grateful, because she had to risk slipping from the stable, to a stand of date palms to dry heave until her stomach was wrung out.

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the soft footfalls behind her. 

Trevelyan’s hand lit with a soft magelight, illuminating his craggy face. 

“Are you alright?”

Rook tried to ease her heart out of its nauseating position in her throat. She spat bile into the dirt and pushed herself to her feet, wiping stinging palms against her thighs. 

“What a surprise,” she said. “The inquisitor just happens to be taking a walk in the middle of the night.”

He snorted and set the glowing ball in the branches of a tall fern, seating himself on a rock. “If you really think that, kid, then Varric might be a little exasperated with you.”

Rook chose to stand and pace softly, her feet crunching in the soft crust of sun dried sand. 

“You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? That’s the reason you gave him Marigold.”

Trevelyan’s head tilted in non-committance. “I have seen a great many people crack with the fallout of facing a god, Rook. But also, Marigold is getting old. Dorian says there is no hand on earth more suited to preserving her than a master of the Mourn Watch.”

Rook ignored the flattery for the man asleep in the stable behind them. She was much too worried about the state of his mind. 

“He told me,” she said. “All of it, from the moment they dragged him through that Eluvian straight into her waiting arms.”

“Dorian told me his speculations,” Trevelyan said, following her progress back and forth across the ground, but making no move to interrupt. “He was right?”

Rook nodded, her arms folded across her chest. It was stupidly neat, how accurately Dorian had been able to predict Emmrich’s torture at Ghilan’nain’s hands. Sometimes her magisterial friend had a disturbing amount of insight into the hearts of evil men. 

“She showed him visions,” the elf confirmed, and knew how inadequate that description was for the amount of raw fade Ghilan’nain had tormented Emmrich’s mind with. She’d shown him countless deaths, until his oaths to the Mourn Watch lost all meaning. She’d blinded him with promises of immortality and resurrection.

And even that had not been enough to bring him to her side. He’d clung stubbornly to defiance, dangling like a toy in her grip while she cooed over him. 

“She made him relive his parent’s death,” Rook said, flatly, “And consider the possibility of bringing them back.” 

Frustrated by his stubborness, Ghilan’nain had used the memory to tip Emmrich over the edge, and begin the endless round of dark ritual that had been his life for the following three days. He dragged two souls back through the veil to their bodies before he found the strength to fight back. 

The experience had been so severe he’d awoken in the ritual chamber with no memory of it. 

Maker. 

Rook turned and wretched into the trees again, gripping the rough bark for reassurance. She didn’t know what to do, she wanted to go back inside and curl up next to Emmrich, and let the world go to hell. She wanted to hurt everything in sight, the trees and Trevelyan’s sympathetic face included. She wanted to walk until she reached the edge of the earth and leap off of it. 

The Herald sighed, “When we were still new to the Inquisition, just barely set foot in Skyhold, some fool tried to poison Dorian, which didn’t work because that’s child’s play to him. I drove myself insane with worry though, looking for assassins around every corner. I didn’t sleep for days. I nearly broke my neck falling down those damn spiral stairs and it finally knocked some sense into me.”

Rook looked at him, making no effort to hide her torment. 

“You will be no help to Emmrich if you focus on shadows, Rook,” he said kindly. 

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Rook said. 

“Rest is the great healer,” Trevelyan told her, and raised a glowing hand. “ and while I can’t heal, I do a mean sleep spell. Go back to Emmrich. You’ll deal with the real threat soon enough.”

Rook struggled with an objection she couldn’t voice. Maybe it was the stubborn desire to poke at the raw memory of Emmrich’s ordeal like a loose tooth. Surely being able to forget it, however briefly, was a cop out. 

Maker, Trevelyan was right. It was guilt that would serve no one. Regret she had to learn to live with. 

“Alright,” she said. And the Herald relaxed, bringing his softly glowing hand to her temple. 

“Maker help the poor fools who fall in love with necromancers,” he intoned. 

———

Rook was inclined to forgive Trevelyan’s scheming. At dawn she was not only well rested, but the anguish she’d been drowning in last night had receded. She had to dig in that dry riverbed a while before she found the little diamond of incandescent rage that had formed in its place. 

She tucked it away for the appropriate time and turned her attention to the mages instead. 

Most of their party had left their little breakfast of fruit and charred fish to go and make the last preparations for their departure from Rivain. It was a melancholy morning which suited the mood. Grey skies banked over choppy waves, with hints of pink along the edges. Rook was sad to leave their haven, but eager to be on the move for other reasons. 

She went to stand beside Davrin, who was rolling his bedroll—an endeavor made more difficult by Assan— and watching Emmrich, Bellara, and Dorian all speaking  in highly technical terms that Rook didn’t bother to try to recreate in her mind. 

Davrin whistled lowly, “Do you think they know what they sound like?”

“I think they get a kick out of being hard to understand,” Rook answered. “Like those weird Orlesian cheeses.”

Davrin shook his head, “it's supposed to be blue, right? Pretty sure it is.”

“Exactly.”

“Right over my head,” Trevelyan agreed, passing them to hand Dorian his staff.

Pavus broke from the conversation to scowl at the Herald. “I’m very cross with you. You’re a mean man and I am not inclined to forgive you sooner for playing the fool.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” said the Inquisitor with a pleasant, guileless look. 

“We still have preparations to make,” Emmrich interrupted briskly, rolling up a scroll and slipping it into a case. “I don’t know how long this may take, but we’ll want to be in the Crossroads and on our way before we’re too tired to set up wards.”

He hesitated, and referred to Rook. “Does that track with you, Darling?”

Yes, she was definitely inclined to forgive Trevelyan. The crows’ feet at the corners of Emmrich’s eyes were deep with anxiety. Rook could feel a little of the guilt that weighed on his mind whenever he looked at her. He had not forgotten their nighttime conversation. 

But his gaze was sharp. He was present in a way he hadn’t been since before Minrathous. It was like the final piece of a puzzle had slid into place. 

There was Emmrich Volkarin. It was a relief to see him whole, instead of the parade of Bits and pieces that she had been watching for days. 

“That tracks, Emm,” Rook told him, and sat back to let him fuss everyone in position around the simple glyph Dorian had drawn in the sand. 

“Oh this is exciting. And a bit nerve wracking,” Bellara said. While Emmrich placed the glowing blue dagger in the center. “Are we still sure this is a good idea?”

“No,” Dorian pouted. 

“Yes,” Emmrich said. “We must try to use every resource available to us, Bellara—Trevelyan sit down, please. Davrin, you there—Now. Are we ready?” He sat beside Rook and gave her hand a squeeze. 

“Ready,” Bellara said, taking her cue of confidence from him. 

The air filled with Dalish chant, words that Rook could never hope to understand, but flowed smoothly from Bellara’s lips and brought an ease to Davrin’s face. 

It was not like the other times Rook had conversed with Solas. There was no fog or sensation of her mind being pulled. 

Instead Rook was aware of following a sharp blue light, encouraged along by the warm grip in her own. 

When they emerged into the familiar black and white plain, split by the chasm of stone hands, the clarity continued. Everything, including Rook’s companions, stood out in much sharper relief to her eyes. 

“Spooky,” muttered Davrin with distaste. 

“Dramatic and yet drab,” Pavus snipped, glowering down at the chasm. “Just what I’ve come to expect from him, really.”

“Dorian,” said a mocking voice, and it was sharper too, coming clear to Rook’s ears,and not at all from within. 

Solas stepped out from behind a leaning pillar of stone. 

“Where on earth did you get that haircut?”

Chapter Text

“Solas,” Dorian said, his voice laden with emotion as he delivered the name. “Don’t you think that’s a bit rich, coming from you?”

“You would not think so if you knew the origins of that particular hairstyle. Yet another thing that Tevinter stole from the ancient elves.”

“Oh, forgive me,” the fade seemed to flare around the ex-magister like a dramatically flourished cloak. “I forgot who I was talking to. It’s Fen’Harel, is it? It does go so well with the waves your counterparts have been making recently. Or do you prefer the common vernacular? Dread Wolf has such a very eerie ring to it, so colorful. I recall hearing that name a lot when we were traipsing about the Exalted Plains, looking at pretentious wolf statues. You must have been laughing yourself sick!”

Solas sighed, and his resolute stance seemed to fade a little, “peace, Dorian.”

“Peace?” Pavus snarled and he marched right ukp to the precipice. “Peace! You have the audacity to say that when you threatened to end the world by bringing down the veil? When you unleashed Corypheus on us with your little toy and let Trevelyan play with the mark until it fried the nerves of his hand from the inside out inside out? And you played us the whole time, you treacherous, bald-faced liar–!”

“ Dorian,” Emmrich’s remonstrance cut through the tirade and Pavus snarled again, dropping the staff he’d pulled from his back with a clatter. He spun on his heel and paced away. 

Solas’s eyes left the troubled magister and snapped to the other Necromancer. 

“Professor Emmrich Volkarin,” he said. “The spirits speak well of you.” 

“And of you,” Emmrich returned like it was the other half of a formal greeting. Perhaps it was. “But we’ve not come to exchange pleasantries.”

“Of course,” Solas scoffed and folded his hands behind his back, like he was an ever patient teacher, speaking with recalcitrant students. “I’m certain there is a growing list of wrongs you wish me to answer for. Is that why you have come in force?” 

“Not today. There are matters of import we need to discuss.”

“Indeed,” the elf’s face grew grave, ancient with all his weary years. “I sensed the fall of my stronghold in the Crossroads, the loss of a loyal and unique spirit.” His eyes trained themselves on Rook. “Have you fallen so far in your efforts against the Evanuris that they advanced all the way to your door?”

The bottom of Rook’s stomach dropped out. It was a swoop she had genuinely not been expecting. Anger she had expected. Solas had tricked and lied to her. He was responsible for Varric’s death. He had been instrumental in the destruction of the titans, and the creation of the blight. 

But Emmrich was right. Solas could be a powerful ally, possibly their best hope for defeating the Evanuris. For that reason she could put aside vengeance and personal grievance. 

At least, she thought she could. 

“I’m sorry,” words sprang from her mouth, hot and angry, and totally unexpected. “Are you blaming me?”

“Rook,” Emmrich tried to step forward, either to shield her from Solas, or chastise her like Dorian.

“I gave you what tools I could to bring them down,” Solas said, focusing on her entirely, they might as well be back in one of her dreams. “Or have you forgotten that I am trapped in this prison thanks to your meddling?”

“Your meddling is what got us into this mess in the first place!” Rook argued pushing past Emmrich’s arm, she couldn’t stop. “And the  half-truths you gave me were hardly ‘tools,’ not when you were masking my mind with blood magic.”

“That was regrettable, but I was desperate,” Solas appealed to her. 

“You set my brain on fire!” Rook said, “I did my best for you!” And damn, now tears were streaming out as well as the words. She narrowed her eyes, refusing to let them fall. “And you know what the worst part is? I was excited about it. I wanted your approval. I wanted to prove myself to the Dread Wolf. Bellara is always going off about ‘our gods’ and ‘our history’ but I've never felt a thread of connection to them until—“

Silence fell between them, and Rook’s unfinished thought was reflected in Solas’s eyes. She was surprised to see regret there. Real or feigned, it didn’t matter, Solas understood her. 

After a time, the ancient elf broke the emptiness. “What did you expect, Rook? I am the god of lies, treachery and rebellion. I’m not the savior of our people.”

“You could be,” said a new voice and all eyes turned to Davrin, who had been standing quietly in the back all the while. 

Solas frowned in confusion. “Dalish…you are Davrin, I presume.”

“Well that’s one thing you’re right about,” he stepped closer. “I have to admit. This is something I never thought I'd be doing, talking to the Dread Wolf. I used to have nightmares about you as a kid.”

“Flattering,” Solas said. 

“It should be,” said the Warden. “It takes a lot to scare me.You should be happy that the lies Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan told about you lasted more than a thousand years. It means they were scared of you too. Otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered turning our people against you.”

“It is not a legacy I can build on,” Solas said. 

“Yes it is!” Davrin countered. “Our gods returned, the ones we’ve been worshiping for centuries, and it was all a lie. We’re questioning every tradition we’ve ever had. Now is the perfect time for Fen’Harel to appear and show his true colors.”

“It would be a fitting bit of justice, Solas,” Dorian added, finally calmed. “You led a rebellion once. Why not again? The Evanuris have taken control of Minrathous. We can destroy them and the Venatori. We can end the legacy of slavery and oppression that has plagued the Elvhen for millenia.”

“Oh, Dorian,” Solas sighed. “Why are you here?”

“To return a favor, you fool. You drove me,” the ex-magister insisted. “You made me face the hypocrisy of my homeland. ‘If you wish to make amends for past transgressions, Dorian, free the slaves of all races who live in Tevinter today.’ That’s what you told me. That’s been my mission for the last decade, to change Tevinter. Help me finish it!”

Heartbreak and longing, writ itself large across Solas’s face. He looked younger, more like a man, and less like an ancient god. But the line of his mouth was firmly set. “And after that? Should I abandon the world to its broken state? Leave the Veil in place? When I could restore it, when I could fix everything?”

“There are those of my countrymen who would restore the Tevinter Imperium to its former glory,” Dorian said. “They would remake it to their ideal and damn the costs.”

Solas flinched like he’d been dealt a blow. 

“And what of the cost so far?” he asked. “What of the lost knowledge, and the spirits. What of those I've wronged? To stop now would be to dishonor them.”

“Even if they asked you to stop?” Trevelyan asked. 

Solas turned, somehow in the attention from the others, the elf had missed him. 

“Inquisitor.”

“Hello, old friend. Quite a pickle you’ve gotten yourself into isn’t it?”

“A pickle,” the elf shook his head. “Must you always understate the direness of our predicament?”

“In my experience people tend to work themselves up too much,” Trevelyan said. “The world is already healing. Something new is already growing from the ruins of the old. You would be tearing a sapling out by the roots. Please, Solas. Is that really what you want?”

Solas stood silent for a long moment. “I failed my oldest friend. She died for it. And now Varric. It would be for nothing, the things I did…”

“...you did not do alone,” Emmrich intervened, “We have been searching out your exploits in the Fade. We have seen the sacrifices and the choices you made, the compromises with Mythal. We understand. It is not up to you to save the world alone.”

The Dread Wolf’s shoulders were hunched, as though to protect himself from the barrage of verbal attacks, or the truths of the past. Emmrich leaned forward, making himself smaller, commiserating. 

“I have a message for you,” he said, “from Varric Tethras.”

Solas looked up. 

“He says that you are forgiven, by him, and the hearts of stone,” Emmrich told him. 

A snarl broke out on Fen’Harel’s face. “How could you possibly–?”

“He says he will be waiting for you,” the corpse whisperer finished, “whenever you are content to join him in the sun.”

There was silence, save for the ragged breaths of the ancient elf. Solas dropped to his knees, he stared at the giant stone hands that reached for him in frozen appeal. 

“How do we start?” he asked. 

------

“Don’t you die,” Rook said, and kissed Dorian Pavus on his smug cheek. Her friend's arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace before pulling away. 

“What’s this, Mercar? Tears? Such a crude expression from a Soporati.”

“I’m serious,” Rook said. ”Felice would kill me, and then Mae, and then Trevelyan. In that order.”

Trevelyan shook his head as he strode past them to mount his horse, “I blame Dorian’s failings on no one but himself.”

“And this is the affectionate man I risk my life for again and again. Are you ready, Amatus?”

“I await your summons breathlessly. Goodbye, Rook. Good luck. Not that you need it. You already have everything you need.”

It was the wisest course of action, they were going to Arlathan to scout out Elgar’nan’s forces ahead of Solas’s release. And from there to Ventus to secure support for the Shadow Dragons in Minrathous. 

But as Rook stepped from the Caretaker’s ferry onto the crumbling island of the Vi’Revas, she couldn’t help but wish Dorian and the Herald were still with them. 

But she didn’t need them. Not really. 

She had her team, and they were ready. The gaps in their gear had been outfitted by the Lords of Fortune giving them a more piratical appearance than before, but it suited the desperation of their circumstances in a poetic sort of way. They’d been set a drift, their stronghold destroyed. They had to make due with that they could now. Ghilan’nain’s death was the key to everything; Solas’s release, Emmrich’s safety, and Elgar’nan’s downfall. 

She felt them at her back, as always, ready to follow her orders. And this time it was her. 

No Varric. No Solas. Just Rook. 

She licked dry lips and drew her bow, knocking an arrow. “Harding? Can you scout ahead? Signal if you spot anything? We want to avoid being seen for as long as we can.”

“You’re the boss,” Harding said brightly, and slipped into the gloom and dust that had settled over the island like a cloak. 

“Lucanis, you go just behind her, make sure she’s alright,” she instructed and the Crow vanished without protest. 

Taash, will you bring up the rear?” the dragonslayer grunted and fell behind Bellara’s constructs, and Manfred atop Marigold, where he’d been instructed firmly to stay. 

They picked their way swiftly through the ruins of arches and distinctive pathways, destroyed under the onslaught of Ghilan’nain’s forces. Twice they fell back at Harding’s whistle, narrowly missing groups of Antaam and Venatori, and once the harsh caw of a crow had stopped them from walking headlong into a cluster of mindlessly swaying darkspawn. 

It was going well, too well, and Rook was growing tightly wound with anticipation of their first difficulty when they finally stumbled upon it. 

Harding and Lucanis were waiting for them, because the path ahead was an immovable wall of living, breathing blight. Pustules as far up into the fog as they could see and out to either side. It spat and stank as they stood before it. 

“We have to go through it,” Harding said. “The Vi’Revas is just beyond it, and there’s no way around it nearby.”

“Will she be able to sense if we try to cut through it? Neve asked Davrin. 

The warden shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe. Nothing acts the way it’s supposed to anymore, especially the blight.”

“We’ll have to risk it,” Rook said, and started towards the wall of rotting ichor. The mad dreams of the Titans made manifest. “Bellara, Davrin, Neve, watch our flanks. If we’re attacked before we break through, hold them off.”

“You got it,” Bel said and turned the constructs to face the rear, Neve’s staff crackled with ice and Assan mantled his wings protectively while Davrin drew his shield. 

“Why would she seal this off?” Lucanis wondered aloud. 

“Because we’re the only ones capable of using it,” Emmrich clarified with a significant look at the glowing blue dagger still strapped to the Crow’s belt. 

“Ah,” Lucanis smiled at him. “An entrance for us, a weak point for her. One wonders how she reached the Lighthouse without it.”

“We’ll find out,” Rook said, “Taash, could you burn through this?”

The dragonslayer loosened their shoulders obligingly, “Hold your noses, this is gonna stink real bad.”

The smell was unholy, and they choked on the smoke from it. Taash’s flames ate through the Blight wall with precision, cutting a black trail through that was several feet thick. It curled away from them with shrieks and hisses of steam. But there was no further reaction. 

Not until Rook stepped through and a tendril of Blight burst out of the charred wall and curled around her foot. 

“Kaffas!” She hissed and surged forward, chopping left right and above as more of the tortured mass reached through and tried to seize them. The others followed her lead, rushing through as more of the ash began to flake off and fall on them. The walls began to pulse inward, closing in on them, smothering. 

Behind them they heard the gibbering shrieks of darkspawn and the mechanical whir of Bellara’s constructs. Rook hesitated and Lucanis seized her arm, shoving her forward. 

“Go! Go!” someone screamed and it may have been Rook herself. It was too late to turn back now. The only way was out. Taash burned away more of the growth that threatened to close before them. Marigold surged forward, imbued with green necrotic magic, and burst out into the open air, followed by Emmrich, Harding, Taash, Lucanis and…

Rook looked back, the wall of Blight was almost closed behind them. Two of Bellara’s constructs had positioned themselves like beams on the inside, keeping the mass from collapsing in on them. Neve was coating the walls with ice, but her spells were buckling. Davrin brought up the rear Assan between his legs, clawing at the arms of Darkspawn that reached in through the closing gap after them. 

“Bel!” Rook called and her friend responded, tearing herself away from one of the hopelessly tangled constructs. Two of them followed her, crawling on hands and knees. Neve came after them, freezing the walls and tendrils…and Davrin. 

Their warden backed slowly up the tunnel, taking blow after blow from an ogre that had forced himself partway into the tunnel. The Blight was tangled hopelessly around all of them even though Assan was ripping and tearing at them with furious energy. 

Hands wrapped around Rook and pulled her back out of the tunnel as it closed. 

“Davrin!” Rook fought against the hands. He and Assan were so close, almost in reach!

But the sounds of battle had not ended, she tore her eyes away from the Blight hedge to see that the space around the Vi’Revas was also blighted, and a small army of darkspawn had made camp there. 

Neve had thrown up a dome of ice, but several were inside with them, and Rook was immediately pressed into fighting them as Lucanis and Harding released her. 

They were quickly dispatched with Taash and Bellara’s constructs, but the remainder were battering at Neve’s shield. Cracks were already beginning to form. 

“I can’t hold this for long, Rook!”

The Blight wall had completely closed off, sealed without a sign that their passage had ever existed. The Vi'Revas stood like a beacon with a few dozen darkspawn separating them from it. 

“Let it crack!” Rook said “Let some of them slip through so we can trim down their numbers!” 

Neve nodded and changed the integrity of the ice, allowing some of the cracks to widen and break. The smaller darkspawn forced their way only to be cut down by blades, arrows or magic. 

“Harding?” their dwarven friend tore her gaze away from the fight, bow loose in her hand. “The stone under the wall, can you shift it?”

Lace looked at the ground and grasped the meaning at once. She dropped her bow, knelt and placed her palms on the dirt. Her eyes glowed. 

Rook turned and staved off the claws of another darkspawn. She had to trust her friend. She had to keep them off her long enough to work her magic. 

Around them more and more of the horde was eeking through the cracks in Neve’s ice. Taash and Lucanis were a blur of knives and axes. Bellara was perched atop one of the constructs firing off countless magical bolts from her wrist. Bolts of necrotic magic flew around the battlefield from Emmrich’s hands. 

From outside of the dome there was an almighty roar and an enormous shadow charged and slammed into it. 

Neve cried out and the entire structure shuddered. Several chunks of ice the size of a fist rained down around them. They would not survive many more like that. 

Rook turned back to Harding. The ground was shifting before her, bubbling like water in a pot. It began to give way before her, cracking in a line that cut straight into the Blight wall. 

Rook had to help. She cut into the blight with abandon, chopping away at it like an errant hedge, bursting pustules with little regard to keeping proper distance. 

There was another roar, a crash and Neve’s ice shuddered again. 

“Rook!” Taash called out in warning, slamming two of the darkspawn against each other when the elf glanced back at them. 

“Give me a minute!” they called cutting into the growing gap as the Blight tumbled and fell into the little chasm created by Harding. She was almost there. They had been so close. 

But there wasn’t a minute. There was a third roar, and the ice shattered with a shriek, falling down around them as the hoard surged forward. 

Harding turned, sending a shower of loose stone shards into the darkspawn. Rook stabbed her shorter sword into the blight pushing forward, fingers grasping, searching. 

A crushing grip closed over her wrist, the wall began to pulse and buckle. Rook pulled backward, heaving with all her might. 

An arm drenched in ichor emerged, followed by a shoulder, a face with wide white eyes,  a feather bundle pressed to a chest. 

A hand still clutching a staff wrapped itself around Rooks’ middle and dragged her back, pulling Davrin and Assan with them. Emmrich clung to her as their friends closed around them in a close formation. Just beyond their little circle the ogre that had shattered Neve’s shield struggled against the two remaining constructs. 

“We have to get to the mirror!” Rook shouted above the din, uncertain if she was heard, but it didn’t matter. Their direction was obvious and as soon as Davrin saw their intent he relinquished Assan to Rook and pressed forward with his shield, backed by Taash. 

He screamed back at the darkspawn out of a mask of black blood, and they fell before him like locusts, scrambling to get out of his way. 

Slowly, surely, they cut a path to the mirror. They reached it just as the last construct’s helmet was crushed in the ogre’s fingers and it fell lifeless to the ground. 

Bellara went to the glass, claiming the dagger from Lucanis’s hand. She pressed her palm flat against the surface. 

The ogre turned and fixed its eyes on the Eluvian. It lowered its great horned head, jaw agape in a roar that made Rook’s ears ring. It charged, and it was going to cut right through their little line of defense. 

Rook tore loose from their circle and intercepted the creature. Seconds before her face crashed against its knee, she twisted her body and torqued the bloody blade of her short sword up into the soft flesh of its leg. 

The beast crumbled and sent her tumbling. It came to rest on several of its fellows, crushing them into oblivion. 

Rook rolled over several bodies to her hands and knees. She heard a triumphant shout from Bel just as Taash’s iron arms scooped her up from the ground. 

Bellara’s joy was accompanied by a growing din of noise from the circle of Blight as it began to bubble and boil, giving way to more solid forms behind and inside of it. 

“Go!” Davrin said, urging them all in through the growing Eluvian. Taash ran through, and Rook glanced over her shoulder to see Davrin followed by Bellara. They had a glimpse of the Crossroads, and the wall of blight bursting like a ripe fruit, releasing a whole host of darkspawn, before the Veiljumper brought Solas’s dagger down in a slashing motion and the mirror went dark, sealing the darkspawn out. 

And themselves in.

Chapter Text

So many times when Rook and her companions had stepped over the rim of the Vi’Revas, it meant peace and safety, and an end to their troubles. The Lighthouse had been their home, a living breathing presence, filled with magic and wisps and the constant whisper of moving stone. 

Now the hall that housed the Eluvian was dark and cold, silent but for the ragged breathing of their party. The mirror stretched from floor to ceiling, dark and lifeless as the room around them. They lay in a pile before it, armor and weapons askew. 

“Is everyone alright?” Rook gasped between her own haggard breaths. 

She was met with a chorus of groans, swearing and affirmations. Her heart–which had been beating a bloody pathway out of her chest ever since the wall of blight had closed on Davrin–calmed at little. 

“Got sticky there for a second,” Davrin said with a hysterical little laugh. Blight covered him from head to toe. Assan walked a little distance away and shook himself wildly, spraying the wall with reddish-brown droplets. 

“Do you mean that literally, or figuratively?” Harding asked, “Because the way I see it, you and the griffon both need a bath.”

“We could go to the bath chambers first,” Lucanis teased, smoothly extricating himself out from beneath Taash, and reasheathing some of his daggers. 

While the fear was being dissipated through the familiar patter of their banter, Rook pulled herself out of Taash’s arms and crawled over to where Emmrich lay sprawled on his back. He was flushed, and his eyes were closed. Sensing her presence he opened them and saw her hovering over him like a patient vulture. One corner of his mouth ticked up at the expression of worry she must have been making. 

His free hand caught her vambrace and gave it a little shake. 

“Just catching my breath, darling.”

He looked alright, a little more wrung out than usual after a skirmish like that. But that was to be expected. She would only be shooting herself in the foot if she tried to keep one eye on him at all times. She was reminded vividly of their first encounters in the Necropolis, where she had made several near fatal mistakes because she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of him. 

Emmrich was smart, and cautious. Rook had to trust that he would take care of himself, stay near the back. And that the others would look out for him too, especially Taash–

“Hey,” said the dragonslayer in question, “we don’t have time for you two to make out. Let’s go.”

“Need a hand old man?” Lucanis called from up ahead where he already scouted.

With a huff of amusement, Emmrich pushed himself up and pulled Rook with him. “I’m quite fit,” he said with a lofty sniff and fell into step beside her as the rest closed ranks and left the Eluvian room, Manfred bringing up the rear still atop Marigold. 

The full extent of the damage did not hit them until they emerged into the library and Bellara gasped before clapping a hand over her mouth. 

Rook didn’t blame her. The beautiful room that had made up the very center of the Lighthouse, with its floating shelves and books, was in shambles. 

Countless pages carpeted the floor like the floor of an autumn forest, dyed brown, red and orange from the blood and Blight that wound its way up the walls like ivy. The astrolabe was speared through with a great tendril of the Blight, as though it was a heart. Its rings still twitched ineffectually, sparking with magic and seeking to move. 

“Vashendan,” Taash exclaimed in a choked voice. Emmrich put a hand on their arm and stepped forward, taking in the destruction with wary grief. 

“It is monstrous,” he agreed, “But we mustn’t let it stop us. That is what Ghilan’nain wants. To dishearten us. We need to find her and end this as quickly as possible.”

“Are we even sure Ghilan’nain’s still here?” Harding said. 

“Old blood and madness ,” hissed Spite under Lucanis’s breath. He took the Lyrium dagger and pointed it towards the doors which hung in shreds from their hinges. 

“Huh,” Neve tilted her head. “What exactly does madness smell like, Spite?”

“Time for questions later,” Rook chided. “We need to focus. Harding, Davrin, forward with me. Everyone else come behind.”

They listened to her, falling into place with hardly a murmur and Rook felt their confidence behind her like a wave, pushing her to shore. 

Harding slipped ahead cautious with her bow drawn, her small stature flitting like a sylph from stone to stone until she stood at the very doors themselves and could peer through the crack. 

Rook and Davrin stepped quietly behind her. 

“How’s it look?”

“Hmm,” Harding wrinkled her nose in dissatisfaction and squeezed through the doors themselves and out into the courtyard. 

Rook peeked into the gap she’d left. She could see storm clouds gathering, and hear the rumble of thunder. It seemed that the storm that had overtaken the Crossroads had not ceased during their time in Rivain. But there was something else to it. The clouds themselves had a strange eerie cast to them. 

“Rook, you’d better come out and see for yourself,” Harding called through the door. Rook crouched and followed her. 

Wind whipped into her the moment she left the shelter of the doors, strong enough that she had to brace her arm in front of her so she could see. Storm had been an understatement. Great black, roiling clouds filled every inch of sky. Lightning split the air in an almost constant dance around them, striking various stones and high points. Out here the thunder and the wind was almost deafening. And overall there was a miasma of sickly yellow and green light

It was like this corner of the Fade was trying to tear itself apart. 

And before them, all across the courtyard the blight spread, dozens pustules glowing read like the magma of Kal Sharok. Their veiny tendrils leading back like umbilical cords, past the doors towards…

Rook turned and took two steps back to look upwards. She got one look before Harding hissed and yanked her back down to cover. 

“Crazy!” the dwarf hissed at her, but she was too astonished to be insulted. The building they were crouching in, the one they had come through was draped in blight. Vines thicker than the oldest trees in Arlathan rose and twisted above their heads towards the light of Solas’s tower. 

“What is she doing to it!?” Rook hissed. 

“The courtyard is full of darkspawn, and Venatori, Rook,” Davrin cautioned, crouched on her left “Stay in cover.”

Focus kid. She shook herself and peeked over the barrier of fallen stone they crouched behind. Davrin was right. She’d barely noticed in the overwhelming change to the environment, but dark, hulking shapes moved around the pustules. And beyond them were campfires, around which tents, and slimmer figures moved. She could even see lights coming from the kitchen, and felt a thrill of outrage at the idea of Venatori pilfering through Lucanis’s carefully cultivated cooking supplies. 

“Back inside,” she hissed and led them both back into the doors and the relative shelter of the library. 

The rest of the team crouched their anxiously, awaiting her with pensive faces. 

“Ghilan’nain is doing something to the Lighthouse,” Rook answered their silent question. She pointed up to where the tendril of Blight pierced the astrolabe and continued on through the ceiling. “Some sort of magic. It looks a bit like a Fade tear. There’s blight winding all up the tower.”

Emmrich and Bellara paled. 

“She’s trying to tear it open. The Fade prison where Solas’ trapped the rest of the blight,” the Veil Jumper said. 

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” the necromancer agreed. “Why else would she be drawing so much power towards that singular point? And we know that it was the seat of Solas’s power while he dwelt here.”

“That explains why this place is abandoned,” Neve said. “I wouldn’t want to be underneath that thing while it goes. Can she even do that?”

“This deep into the Fade, with an already unsteady environment?” Emmrich wrinkled his brow. “It’s likely. Though the outcomes could be unpredictable. She’s just as likely to destroy herself and the Lighthouse in the process.”

“There’s also a small army just outside the door,” Harding added. “They’ll overwhelm us before we can climb to the top of the Lighthouse tower to stop her.”

“Um!” said Bellara and bit her lip to stop herself interrupting. 

“What is it?” Taash insisted to her. 

“Well…” the elf said and the level of excitement from her was almost palpable. “There is another way to the top of the tower. Or at least. I think there is.”

“Where?” Neve prompted patiently. 

“Under your room,” Bellara said. “I was making a close study of the Lighthouse before…before we all left. And that little area under Neve’s room always made me curious. I found a journal from someone who lived here, and they made reference to ‘tending the light’ at the top of the tower. They made a portal, a gate, because it was such an arduous journey to the top if you go the normal way. And the gate was faster. They hid it down there so people wouldn’t wander into it by accident.”

“That is all the way across the courtyard,” Lucanis said. “Where the army is.”

“Yes,” Bellara said. “But it’s faster, and Ghilan’nain won’t be expecting it.”

“The element of surprise is always good,” Neve said with a look at Rook. 

“It’s worth a try,” Rook agreed. “If we split into two groups, and half of us drew the army off, it might also draw Ghilan’nain’s attention away from the ones going into the gate.”

“It’ll be risky,” Taash said. “These are tight quarters to fight in.” 

“But not impossible,” Davrin insisted. He looked enthused at the idea of a battle plan. “If we can take the dining hall, or my room, we could hold them off indefinitely. The others would have plenty of time to make their way to the portal.”

“It could work,” Harding agreed. 

Silence fell, and Rook sat with the impossible decision. Feeling the weight of precious lives in her hands, the friends she had just barely gotten back, the team that was about to be split apart once again. 

“Rook,” Emmrich said, his voice calling her back to them, to him. 

Her shoulders rose in a breath, “Here’s how we’ll split…”

------

It turned out there must have been an Antaam or two among Ghilan’nain’s little army, because an explosion rocked the left side of the courtyard, courtesy of a barrel of gaat’lok. 

Rook and the others didn’t take the time to do more than glance before they hurried across the spaces left empty as the Darkspawn and Venatori moved in that direction with shouts of alarm. It was still risky, She and Lucanis were slitting more throats and stabbing more backs as they slipped through. They ducked behind what cover they could find and sprinted from spot to spot, trying to remain unseen as little as possible. 

The strange storm helped to cover them, masking the sound of their movement, even that of Marigold clattering over the cobblestones with Manfred rattling around on her back. 

The few who tried to raise the alarm of their passing were met with a quick blade or burst of magic. Rook had never seen Emmrich and Bellara so cold and calculated before. Their two, bubbly mages understood better than anyone on the team the gravity of what Ghilan’nain was doing to the fade. 

From the way they had tried to explain it to her, whether or not Ghilan’nain failed or succeeded, it would not be much better than Solas tearing down the Veil altogether. 

The sky above the tower crackled and snapped with lightning, and an ever widening tear of virulent yellow light. 

Finally they made it to the foot of Neve’s room and they climbed carefully down into the undercroft of it. Manfred hunching on the bog unicorn’s back in order to fit. 

“Here it is,” Bellara said, her voice discernible as they gained some shelter from the wind. “Now we just have to activate it.”

Rook looked around at the stretch of blank stone wall before them. 

“How?”

“These,” Bellara gestured at the little copper braziers that stood at each corner. They were similar to the ones that burned on the balustrade of each staircase, but the bowls of these were cold and long empty. “We light them with Veilfire and…”

“There are only three,” Lucanis interrupted, looking at the corner that was conspicuously empty. 

“Yes,” Bellara wilted a fraction. “It should still work with some adjustments. I know what runes to imbed into the stone. We just need something to burn the fire in.”

Manfred let out an enthusiastic hiss and reached into one of the saddlebags. His hand emerged holding a large, golden chalice.

“Manfred!” Emmrich gasped, “Where on earth did you get that?” 

“Lord’s!” the skeleton grinned and mimed drinking from the goblet. “Isabella!”

The necromancer sighed at this sign of no doubt unwanted influence, but Rook seized the cup and brought it to Bellara. 

“Will it work?”

“That should be perfect! Good work, Manfred!”

A delighted hiss.

Under Bel’s direction, Rook set the cup at the base of the fourth pillar, and Emmrich helped her magically inscribe runes of Veilfire into the stone. Lucanis watched the courtyard anxiously, listening to the sounds of further explosions and battle that reminded them they did not have too much time. 

When it was done Bellara stepped into the center. 

“Here goes nothing,” she said, took a steadying breath, and began weaving magic with her fingers, intoning in the language of Ancient Arlathan. 

The magic leapt from her hands to the four bowls, and became bright Veilfire. Bellara’s eyes glowed, her voice rose, a Venatori appeared before Lucanis and after a brief struggle was sent flying over the edge. 

“Hurry!” the Crow called as voices rose beyond the light of the braziers. 

“Ghilas!” Bellara finished in a ringing voice, and before them on the blank stone wall, a circle of blue, swirling magic sprang into sight as though it had always been. She cut off her casting with a smirk that shone eerily as the light in her eyes died. 

“It worked!”

There was no time to crow about it, no time to praise her. The Ghilan’nain’s horde was surrounding the little shelf below Neve’s room, cutting off all escape. The hair on the back of Rook’s neck stood up as she heard Tevene curses, and the gibbering of darkspawn right at their backs. 

“Go!” Lucanis snapped, herding them forward like fledglings directly into the portal. 

It hissed and died behind them as the magic blinded Rook’s sight for a long moment, and then her feet met solid stone again. 

Solid in theory. In reality the block she stood on teetered the moment her weight settled on it, and it was only Manfred’s bony hand on her wrist that stopped her from plummeting as the stone slipped from its place and fell into the Fade far below. 

They were standing on a delicate ledge, just as crumbling as the one they had come from. It must have once been part of a larger platform as there were railings and decoration stretching out over abyss like alien branches of a tree. 

“Oh wonderful,” Rook huffed, clinging to the straps of Marigold’s saddle, and staring down at the neverending fall at her feet, “a new phobia.”

Bellara snorted and tugged her forward onto a larger section of ledge, Emmrich reaching to help. The pathway wound away from them, and Rook realised that it curled around the tip of the Lighthouse tower, cleverly carved into the crenelations that made up the design of it. Blight tendrils twisted all about them and dug into the mortar of the stones, further destabilizing the structure. 

Just above them the sharp crackle of the Fade tear, and the lightning striking it could be heard, along with the echoing voice of Ghilan’nain, Chosen of Anduril, and Mother of the Halla. 

The hackles on Rook’s neck rose again, but it was not from fear. She pulled back layers of sorrow and grief like she was unwrapping a package, and found there a bed of coals so hot with rage they would have been ideal for a blacksmith’s forge. Her hands remembered running through Emmrich’s filthy hair, the feel of his bones under his sweat-cold skin, and her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword. 

“Lucanis,” she said, “ disappear please.”

“With pleasure. Rook.”

The Crow did so, Spite’s wings sprouting from his back to carry him silently up to the top of the Lighthouse to wait for his moment. 

Rook didn’t need to kill Ghilan’nain. That was the assassin’s job. She just needed to create a distraction while Emmrich and Bellara watched her back and kept her from being ground into powder. 

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t make the god hurt, the way she had hurt Emmrich. 

“Try to stay clear of her reach, and the Blight,” Rook told the mages, though her eyes were almost entirely on Emmrich. 

He was pale, of course he was, but his mouth was pressed in the firmest line that Rook knew was Emmrich’s version of suppressed rage. The kind he reserved only for the worst desecraters of evil…and plagiarism in end of term papers. 

Her necromancer gripped his staff, looking roguish and a little desperate in the borrowed Lords armor, and nodded to her. “To the fight,” he said firmly. And Bellara grinned beside him. 

Manfred and Marigold hung back, the rusty sword on the bog unicorn’s head a deadly promise of support from the cavalry. 

So , Rook thought as she climbed the last few steps to the top of Solas’s tower, locked blades with a Venatori brute and pitched him off the edge as he was entangled with necromantic magic. She stepped up onto the gentle slope that led to the utmost point of the Lighthouse. The monstrous figure of Ghilan’nain hovered before her, tending to the gaping tear in the fade like a hearthkeeper tending their fire. She floated back and forth, her many arms and tendrils twisting behind her. So, Rook thought, this is what it means to be incandescent with rage. 

Rook suddenly understood Solas utterly and completely, because when she threw herself at Ghilan’nain, it was with her teeth bared, her hackles raised, and the bloodythirsty snarl of a wolf on her lips.