Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Lucanis takes note of, is the cold and earthy scent in the air, faintly spiced with incense, like the sort of thing one might light in remembrance of a happier time. Faint notes of tea leaves and old paper. Rich vellum, a lingering hint of dust. The air is warm. He feels the heat of sunlight across his body. Sunlight that he shouldn’t be feeling at all if he were still safely tucked away in the pantry. His back is stiff and one of his hands has gone numb for how he’s laid upon it. His face is buried in feather-down pillows. The mattress beneath him is firm but not the hard and unforgiving sling of a threadbare pad on a cot. Even without opening his eyes, Lucanis knows he’s not where he’s supposed to be.

Thus, the panic that grips him sees him shooting up from the bedding with a sharp inhale, from barely conscious to fully alert in the span of a heartbeat. He’s upright, on his knees on the bed, hands held up to defend himself while he wobbles to maintain his balance, eyes wildly darting to take in his surroundings. Shelves upon shelves of books, a spiral staircase beyond the view of a gauzy canopy hanging around a four-poster bed. A balcony that spills bright, forever sunset (or is it sunrise?) across the floor, through the gaps, lighting his surroundings.

Most notably, the face of a very startled necromancer at the landing.

Emmrich?

He’s… In Emmrich’s room?

There is a beat of silence in which they merely look at one another, Emmrich’s hands clasped around a book and a bottle. He’s undone. Vulnerable. Vest left somewhere else, collar pin put away, shirt unbuttoned enough to expose throat and clavicle, decorated with further grave gold that drapes against his skin and catches the light from outside. And Lucanis is here to witness it.

Recognition slowly dawns on him as Emmrich recovers and takes a cautious final step up off the staircase and strides closer to the bed, though Lucanis notes the semi-circular path he takes that allows him a wide berth.

“Welcome back,” Emmrich says, with his usual, jovial pleasantness, as if nothing is amiss, when something clearly is. Lucanis’ muscles burn with the rigidity of readiness as he takes stock of himself. Spite. He’s been sleepwalking again. But here? His bewilderment must read on his face, plain for Emmrich to see. The necromancer makes his way toward the small bedside table and sets down both bottle and book, drawing himself up to his full height while pressing his palms together in front of himself.

His poise is strangely settling. Lucanis lowers his hands and sinks to sit on his heels, looking around once more. As strange as it all is, the strangest thing yet, is realizing Emmrich has a bed. He’s been in these rooms before and never seen it. Where… Does he keep it? Lucanis winces, rubbing a hand against his brow, working at the gathering headache there that pulls nerves and blood vessels taut. Caffeine will help. He must have been out for… a while.

“I’m sure you have questions, but it feels most pertinent to say, everything is perfectly fine. Spite sought me out to ask after Manfred and I thought it better to keep you both here under some manner of supervision. I… assumed you’d rather be contained than left to wander around without your knowledge.” Sensitive subject matter. Emmrich is making an effort not to be offensive or upsetting, and Lucanis can tell. It’s—mostly appreciated. As is the effort to keep him here, well away from the Eluvian.

“He didn’t… Hurt you? Break anything?” Lucanis asks slowly, carefully, eyes flitting over the length of Emmrich’s long frame before him, looking for any signs of damage.

“Not at all. He was quite content to sit in on one of Manfred’s reading lessons and have a cup of tea. Which he wasn’t very fond of, I might add. I had wondered if that was your own preferences bleeding through, given the nature of—” Emmrich stops himself, a wince, glancing away toward the balcony, hands wringing together as he lets out a breath of a nervous laugh, bowing his head in contrition. “Apologies.”

No fear. No irritation. Lucanis doesn’t understand it. Not really. Emmrich should be more cautious around the demon, yet as ever, he treats Spite with an oddly similar regard to how he treats Manfred. Lucanis’ skin prickles with goosebumps. It’s nonsensical and that makes it unnerving. He slowly rises from the bed, eyes briefly sliding to the bottle and book. A vintage port and an Antivan Tragedy. He feels the dent of a furrow form between his own brows and it stabs at his skull like an ice pick. He cards his fingers back through his hair, squeezing a handful at the base of his own skull, tugging the roots, trying to lesson the tension he feels.

“No need, Emmrich. I’m the one who should apologize. I’ll try to be… more. Careful. About Spite.” He can’t bring himself to look the necromancer in the eye, but in his periphery, he sees what looks like a deflation. Emmrich’s spine sags, one hip cocking to the side as he relaxes his posture. His voice carries a tone of concerned disappointment.

“I’m here to help, if ever you need, Lucanis.”

Lucanis inhales deeply and lets it out slow through pursed lips.

“I know.”

And then he takes a swift exit, shame nipping at his heels for such a blatant loss of control that could have cost the team dearly. He locks himself up in the pantry and tries to stay awake.

His hands are wet.

Sticky. Warmth. Throbbing behind his eyes. Throbbing in his palms. His heart thuds, heavy, racing. It feels like coming up for air, like he’s nearly drowned. Every time, the disorientation of waking feels like clawing his way out of deep, dark, suffocating waters, his lungs burning and chest tight with the strain of holding his breath so long, so fiercely, thoughts beginning to race, panic setting in.

His head swims as the world slowly forms before his eyes, one blink at a time. Too slow but overwhelming just the same. The haze of coming to consciousness starts as a dark vignette at the edges of his vision, the center all blurry shapes and impressions, forest green and rich oak, golden light, glinting on golden objects in his periphery.

His ears ring, muffling sound all around him, like the aftermath of a blast. Dazed, anxious, he flexes his fingers and tries to make sense of them as he looks down but there’s a touch against his face, urging him upward, stopping him from looking. A pair of hands. The scent of leather and freshly turned soil, petrichor, palo santo, rose, musk. Metal, cooler than his skin but not cold, brushing his cheeks. A grip that’s firm but not forceful. Hands, cradling his face, stopping him from looking down at the mess in his hands. The mess that feels like--

“Lucanis—Lucanis, can you hear me?”

Barely. Lucanis blinks a few more times and finds himself staring into a pair of hazel eyes beneath knitted brows. A furrow, age lines, crows feet, perched at the corners; Lucanis’ eyes dart down to a frowning mouth beneath a tidy moustache, and up once more. Emmrich. Why is Emmrich here?

“What--?” Lucanis tries to speak and turns his head downward to look at his hands, pulling against the guidance of Emmrich’s grasp, defiant of what it wants for him. Sticky, wet, dark red. His breath snags and a surge of nausea rips through his gut. Spite took his body for another walkabout. And this time. This time. Lucanis begins to inhale more shallowly, sharply, with new rapidity. This is what he is now. What he’s become. What was forced upon him that will only ever be a danger. He looks at Emmrich, looking for signs. An injury. He can’t apologize. He wants to ask for a solution. He doesn’t know what to do. A split-second view spilled into a thousand thoughts that lead nowhere good.

But Emmrich only softens, brows tenting upward as he tilts his head, eyes so warm with sympathy.

“Everything’s alright. It’s just ink. Spite merely gripped the bottle too hard when examining it. I know how it looks, but nothing happened. I would, however, like to make sure you weren’t cut on the broken bottle,” Emmrich’s voice is steady, calm, low and oddly soothing. Ink. Lucanis’ mind skips over the detail.

What was he doing before this? What was Spite doing? His eyes dart around and he realizes, once again, that he’s in Emmrich’s room, standing among his many antiquities. This time, Emmrich is holding onto him rather than giving him space. The shift in familiarity feels foreign and his nerves burn with the contact against his face, too gentle. Undeserved. Emmrich smells like magic. Like earth. Like a cabin in the woods on a cold winter evening. His touch is light but unwavering. The leather of his glove is supple from years of wear and careful care. Every shift makes his grave dowry clink so quietly. Lucanis swallows. Details. So many details.

This can’t keep happening. Someone is going to get hurt. And it would appear the most likely candidate is the necromancer before him. What if it goes too far? What if Spite does something with his hands that he can’t take back? It’s only gotten worse as time has gone on. Lucanis keeps count of them all. A red ledger in his mind. Loss after loss. His parents. His childhood. His freedom. His city. Caterina… What else might he lose? Why is this happening? It’s so hard to breathe.

“Lucanis… I know this is troubling for you, but I assure you, everything is alright. I gave you my word, didn’t I? That I’d do my best to look after you both.” Emmrich’s earnestness also feels undeserved. No one should extend such kindness to an abomination. Lucanis looks at his fingers, dripping ink onto one of the many beautiful rugs that line the floor. At best, he’s a nuisance, at his worst… When he lifts his gaze again, there’s a smile waiting for him. Much closer than he’s expecting. Close enough that Lucanis can smell the floral notes and subtle hint of oil in Emmrich’s aftershave. How is he so calm? How is he not afraid? Not even once has he ever flinched.

“Why?” Lucanis’s voice is little more than a croak. Emmrich pulls back, balking, brows lifting to his hairline as if the question is somehow a shock to him. It seems only reasonable to Lucanis. Why should Emmrich be the one to look after him? He understands why Rook is so adamant about his wellbeing, but Emmrich? Emmrich who can’t seem to leave well enough alone, who asks him questions that feel invasive, who would probably sooner like to study Lucanis’ condition than care for him—Like Zara. Calivan. Experiments. Selfish gain. Intrigue. That’s the only thing that makes any damned sense. Lucanis yanks his face out of Emmrich’s grasp and watches the mage take a few steps back, holding up his hands, trying to placate him. Fool.

“Why?” Lucanis asks again, sharply this time, voice full of gravel and frustration, casting a glare as he wipes his hands down the front of his trousers, caring very little for the stains it leaves behind. The pressure brings a sharp sting and he hisses through his teeth, an inhale as he realizes that there is a cut in his palm. Emmrich’s expression twists, a stormy shadow passing over his eyes as a dent forms between his brows once more and he props one hand on his hip, gesturing with the other as he speaks.

“Is it really so hard to accept that I care about your wellbeing?” A palm, thrust pointedly toward Lucanis, precise and it’s just enough to make him flinch. His facial muscles contort, a sneer that pulls at one side of his face, baring teeth that he clenches through his reply.

“You don’t know me.” His fists curl, tightening, the wound weeping into his fingernails, the pain like a spark over gasoline. “You and I? We’re colleagues at most. I’m not some pet specimen for you to study and to prod at. Putting a veneer of compassion on all of it—it’s insulting.”

Emmrich’s face slackens and that moment of surprise, however brief, brings the smallest pang of discontent. A simmering heat beneath Lucanis’ skin, a swimming pressure behind his eyes. He can feel Spite clawing at him, hissing: ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong! Lucanis. Is always. WRONG.’ And Emmrich’s eyes narrow, shock becomes offense as he brings a hand to his chest, head pulling back, shoulders square, drawing up to his full height as he turns his cheek to look sidelong at Lucanis instead.

“A veneer of compassion?” Irritated disbelief. Lucanis’ teeth squeak as they grind together, he thrusts an accusatory finger toward Emmrich.

“You look at me like the subject of a thesis!” He barks, so loud, warning Emmrich off. Away. Go away. Let it be. Leave me alone. I’ll only bite you. And there’s a long pause during which he can only avoid Emmrich’s gaze, but he feels it on his skin. A tangible weight.

If only he’d left on that note, in the wake of such shock. But Emmrich takes a step closer and has the gall to implore him with that soft-hearted tone of his.

“Lucanis, I—”

“No!” Lucanis throws up his hands and stumbles back. He looks toward the exit and realizes that Emmrich is in the way. Standing between him and an escape from the confrontation he’d started. Standing with a look of sour disappointment, all Emmrich’s patience he’d usually have has clearly worn thin, becoming brittle. Broken. He holds up a hand the moment Lucanis opens his mouth to demand he move aside.

“That’s quite enough. You’re hurt. Let me help.” From gentle cajoling to the firmness of a father who is not only mad, but disappointed. Lucanis hates it. For a moment he thinks he might hate Emmrich.

“I can take care of it myself.” It’s only a cut. Lucanis has handled far worse, and he takes a step to the side but Emmrich matches him, both hands risen now, as if he’d dare to physically tangle with Lucanis to prevent him from leaving. Lucanis watches a muscle in Emmrich’s throat tense, traveling toward his jaw, a clenching flex. His nostrils flare with a deep breath that seems to calm him. Lucanis watches his hands, watches them turn, palms offered up, held out to him, pleading now?

“Maybe. But what of Spite? Whatever unflattering perspective of me you may have, the fact of the matter is, I can help you.” Emmrich insists upon it and Lucanis scoffs, folding his arms across his chest, turning his face away, away, away. He doesn’t want to look. Or listen. But Emmrich’s not done.

“Not as a professor studying a subject, nor as a colleague, but as someone who would very much rather we be friends if we’re to face the end of the world side by side.” Gentler. Softer. He’d have made a fine politician. He almost sounds convincing. Lucanis grits his teeth once more and closes his eyes. He hears Emmrich take a step closer, all that gold giving away his every move.

“And friends,” Emmrich’s voice is just barely above a whisper now. Forcing Lucanis to listen. Truly listen. “Friends look after one another.”

What a preposterous notion. Lucanis’ throat feels hot. Too small to swallow. Too tight. Friends. He’s never had many of those. Just one. Just… one.

“You… want to be friends. With me?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

Lucanis’ head turns back, a sudden snap as he looks up and realizes just how close Emmrich has come yet again. He looks… sad. Lucanis opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, arms relaxing with the sudden wash of confusion that grips him. It could be such a convenient excuse but Emmrich’s sincerity shines in his hazel eyes in a way that’s utterly undeniable. Lucanis can only give a small shake of his head.

 “You hide away in the pantry and brood, carry your burden as alone as you can manage, but I see you, Lucanis.” Emmrich says, gently, as gentle as the hand that reaches for Lucanis, coming to rest on his shoulder, the other gently reaching for his wounded palm, urging him to uncurl his fingers. Emmrich’s eyes fall to the wound and his expression twitches with discontent. But when his eyes lift, there’s nothing to see except certainty.

“I see you take into consideration the dietary needs, not just of myself, but of everyone on this team when you cook. I see you make special trips to ensure that it’s done. I see you quickly brewing coffee before Neve can, just so she has something better to drink.” Emmrich’s grip at his shoulder squeezes, and Lucanis feels trapped in the olivine gaze that bores into him. Emmrich looks and he sees.

“I see you latch on… to every romantic element in the books we read,” the necromancer continues, unhindered, uninterested in holding anything back as far as Lucanis can tell. Lucanis holds his breath, barely able to fathom any of it. “And I see you working very hard at avoiding attachment. I believe it’s because you’re afraid of yourself. Afraid to lose anything else. And that’s understandable. You’ve lost everything. Nearly all of your family. I’ve seen that too. But more than anything I see… A very kind young man who could use a friend. And that’s something I can certainly relate to.”

Such painful honesty is like squeezing infection from a wound. Lucanis feels whatever fight he had left drain away, but his heart is still racing. Still trying to break free of his ribcage. Is that really all there is to it? Could it be so simple? That Emmrich really does want to be his friend? All this time, Lucanis has taken every moment of observation like a chip, ever deepening, on his shoulder. Would it be so bad to consider he’d been wrong? He clears his throat and breaks the heaviness of eye contact.

“Been… Considering this for a while, have you?” Lucanis asks, chancing a brief glance Emmrich’s way. There and gone again. The necromancer sighs.

“I suppose denying it would be counterproductive? Perhaps even pointless.” There’s something charming about his exasperation, Lucanis decides. He sounds like a professor. Lucanis takes a moment to internalize it all and can’t come to any kind of reasonable conclusion.

“I don’t understand you, Emmrich.”

“You could try.” Emmrich says, and if there’s a tiny thread of desperation in his voice, Lucanis can be kind enough to not point it out. “Maybe… After we clean the ink from that cut.”

“Alright,” Lucanis sighs. “I’ll… Try.”

A sudden jolt of pain brings Lucanis back to himself. Without warning, stabbing, a tooth cracking against hard stone—

“Spite—no!” Emmrich’s sudden panic startles almost as much as the feeling of a chip of enamel breaking free of his molar. Lucanis pulls the offending object from his mouth as Emmrich rushes to his side. There’s a curious, gurgling hiss and Lucanis realizes he’s staring at Manfred, whose gemstones swivel in their sockets to track the movement of Lucanis’ hand as he lifts a stone chess piece to examine it.

“Don’t move. Don’t swallow. It sounds like you might’ve broken a tooth,” Emmrich sighs, and then his gentle grasp encourages Lucanis to turn his head, and his field of view is filled with the strangest of sights. Emmrich looks tired as he carefully encourages Lucanis to open his mouth with one hand cupped under his jaw and begins casting, cool mint green light wafting and weaving around his fingers. The dull throb of discomfort in his tooth becomes a background sensation as his eyes take in the sight of Emmrich clearly dressed down for bed. His hair is soft and hanging against his brow, his eyes are a little bloodshot, his jaw darkened by a shadow of stubble. It’s late. Terribly late.

Guilt is a familiar, cold weight in the pit of Lucanis’ stomach. But Emmrich doesn’t hesitate. He simply fixes Lucanis’ tooth and lets out a sigh of relief, slumping into an empty chair beside the table Lucanis and Manfred are occupying. With a game of chess, apparently.

“I’m sorry,” Lucanis says, immediately, though it hardly feels like enough. Emmrich waves his hand in a flippant gesture, brushing the notion aside with a weak laugh and a shake of his head.

“No need. I wasn’t sleeping when Spite arrived. This business with Hezenkoss has been… Weighing on me.” Emmrich slouches. Actually slouches. And Lucanis isn’t sure what to make of it. He’s never seen Emmrich look so out of sorts before. It feels as if he’s seeing something far more private than he ought to. “Honestly, teaching Spite to play chess, or at least attempting to, was a welcome distraction. Manfred certainly appreciated the company.”

A happy, affirmative hiss from the skeleton ward draws Lucanis’ eye for a moment, but then his gaze is pulled back. Back to open buttons and a better sight of what must be yet more grave dowry hanging against Emmrich’s chest, draped like the incision of an autopsy in a fine dusting of dark grey hair. Lucanis looks away. He stares at the chess board. Spite was losing. They’ll have to work on that.

“Did you… Want to talk about it? Hezenkoss, I mean,” Lucanis asks, slowly, carefully, reaching to touch the top of a rook on the board. The cold stone beneath his fingertip is smooth and a lovely shade of jade green. It does look a little bit edible. Like sugar. Lucanis tongues his mended molar. Not a single chip to be found. No pain at all.

“There’s not much to say, really. We were friends once. And I can’t help but wonder… If we’d remained friends. If I’d have… Felt differently. About what she’s doing.” Emmrich’s musing bears the weight of his sleeplessness. Lucanis looks at him again and finds him holding his head in one hand, elbow propped on the arm of his chair, brows pinched and eyes squeezed shut. A visible struggle is happening behind those closed eyes. Racing thoughts of what might have been. Lucanis knows those kinds of thoughts. He has them often.

“I don’t think so,” Lucanis replies.

Emmrich’s eyes crack open and as he looks at Lucanis, one brow lifts in silent question, eyes half lidded, narrowed, showing signs of disbelief. Lucanis shifts in his seat under such heavy scrutiny. His hands fidget together in his lap as he considers his words more carefully now. His response had come from the gut, but now, he needs to speak from the heart.

“You’re a good man, Emmrich. Very… Empathetic. Just because you understand her, because you cared for her, doesn’t mean you’d so easily be swayed away from who you are, at your core, or find yourself ever agreeing with her. You might doubt yourself, but for what it’s worth, I don’t.”

Emmrich makes Lucanis sit with his own words for far too long. Long enough that he starts to wonder if he’d said the wrong thing. It’s an awkward silence, one that makes him look away, shift and squirm while he waits, seconds guesses, but eventually, Emmrich lets out a small sigh.

“Thank you, Lucanis.” There is a smile in his voice and when Lucanis looks, he finds it. It’s a good smile. Kind. So soft around the eyes. Lucanis swallows.

“Don’t mention it.”

Lucanis feels the weight of something soft and heavy across his chest. Something firm but yielding beneath his head. He feels plush cushion supporting his spine. He feels a breeze across his cheek. Sleep clings to his limbs and the soft sound of a crackling hearth, and a voice, speaking quietly, with intentioned rhythm, keep him lulled and lax where he lays. It’s happened again. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know precisely where he is. He keeps them closed, and selfishly swallows his guilt, just to listen a little longer.

“…and in her eyes, he saw the notion of spring, but an ill omen of spring, if ever there was one. Pale lilies rested, ‘neath the thin and barren branches of her brows. She pressed her hand to the windowpane, a specter of something old but familiar. Her palm was smudged with ash and when she opened her mouth to speak, not but dust and decay fell from her bloodless lips. ‘Let me in. Please, Nicolai.’ But her mouth did not move, her voice was amongst the wind howling, the house creaking in the raging storm, all around, everywhere and nowhere. Her voice was a memory inside his head, rasping and faded, but still there. The night was dark, cold, and lifeless. As lifeless as she who begged him to let her love him again…”

Emmrich is reading to him. Or to Spite, more specifically. The moment feels like a theft, encroaching on Emmrich’s patience and good will by allowing it to go on unhindered now that he’s come back to himself. Lucanis listens to the shuffling of a page, and the book closing, set aside on some nearby surface.

“You’re growing quite needy,” Emmrich says with a sigh, but he doesn’t sound bothered. It sounds wistful. Fond, maybe. “I doubt Lucanis is going to be at all pleased about this. I just set those wards…”

Words for Spite. Words for the demon that keeps dragging him here. Ever since his failed attempt to walk Lucanis out of the Lighthouse, this… has been where Spite has taken him. Lucanis has wondered about it, wondered if it’s even worth asking Spite: why here? Why Emmrich? Of course, the first and most obvious reason that came to mind, was Manfred. Curiosity. But Manfred is always about, always visiting, leaving pens in Lucanis’ room that have to be returned to Emmrich. Each time he apologizes profusely for the invasion of Lucanis’ space. Yet here Lucanis is, invading Emmrich’s.

There is a clink of gold on gold and Lucanis feels a gentle brush along his brow, hair swept back and aside. He can’t help the flinch that comes of it, idle tenderness so unexpected, and overly familiar. Emmrich’s hand pulls back, sudden, flighty, Lucanis hears the rattle of his many bracelets. He holds his breath.

“Lucanis?”

Lucanis exhales. There’s no hiding it, is there? He gives a soft grunt of acknowledgement, mouth twisting to one side in a crooked frown while he stubbornly refuses to open his eyes. Emmrich’s sigh buffets through the air—less a sigh. More a laugh. Lucanis feels a prickling heat in his cheeks, cold anxiety climbing up his spine, a twist of uneasiness in his gut. Embarrassment. But the clink of gold comes just before that same hand falls across his brow once more. Soothing. Steady. Fingertips and expertly cared for nails raking through the front of his hair.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Emmrich says softly, and then his hand is gone and Lucanis finds himself immediately missing it. It’s been decades since anyone was so gentle with him. Not since he was a child. It’s an innocent want. To hear someone reading to him. To feel a hand in his hair. Is this why Spite comes?

“Is fine,” Lucanis mutters. And then a fresh wave of humiliation rolls through him as he makes note of how thick and slurred his words came. If Emmrich has any reaction, Lucanis is blissfully unaware, eyes shut, lids heavy with exhaustion. It would be so easy to just drift off again. Right here. But the proximity, the comfort, where Emmrich’s voice drifts from. Above, so close. He can’t remain ignorant to where he is. Laying somewhere, covered in a blanket that smells of lavender soap, head propped on a pillow wedged against Emmrich. Positioning would suggest his thigh. It’s odd. Too intimate.

“I should… Go back. I’ve… Disrupted your night enough,” Lucanis tries, making a point to annunciate each word as best he can.

“You really don’t have to. If you’re comfortable, rest here for a while. I somehow doubt you’d do so once back in the pantry.” The all too knowing and mildly amused nature of how Emmrich says this makes Lucanis’ nose wrinkle, a defiant little grimace overtaking his tired features. And Emmrich laughs.

It’s such a bright sound.

Lucanis lets out a longsuffering sigh, affecting the most put-upon air he can.

“If you’re truly so concerned…” he grouses, though he thinks, perhaps, Emmrich’s seen through his ruse. Lucanis is usually better at this.

“Oh-ho,” another laugh, like a summer breeze. “I am, I assure you.”

Lucanis’ throat feels so tight. He fights the tug at the corner of his mouth. The urge to smile. It refuses to be denied. A crack in his veneer, a flash of teeth.

“Then I’ll stay. A little while longer. For your sake, of course.”

Lucanis paces the pantry floor, rubbing a hand against his bearded jaw, watching as Spite sniffs at the wards on the door. There is a vicious glare, a baring of teeth, and a frustrated growl before Spite’s head snaps toward him, staring him down.

‘You. Can’t keep us here. You promised!’ Hissing, growling, gnashing teeth. Lucanis has become accustomed to hearing that voice come from a twisted version of his own face as time has gone on, but still, it nags at him. Spite rarely makes much sense, yet he keeps saying this. It makes trying to communicate with him nearly impossible.

“I kept my promise,” he replies, reaching wearily for his coffee cup, fingers shaking. How many has he had today? “What I did not promise was that you’d be allowed to take my body wherever you please whenever you please.”

Spite surges closer, cinder and sickly purple light, feathers and sparks fluttering, stinging the air, choking it with the scent of burning fury. Lucanis flinches back, stumbling until his calves it the cot but Spite gives him no quarter, peering up at him, all uncanny angles and wide eyes.

‘I will. Get out. I will. Let me see him. You won’t keep your promise, so give me something else. New contract. Let. Me. See. The DEATH MAGE.’  This is the first that Lucanis has heard Spite try to bargain. His grip on his mug slips, the metal clunking to the floor as he leans back from the oppressive lean of Spite into his space. Nose to nose. Unflinching. Unyielding. Spite’s brows lift, tenting unevenly, questioning, and for a moment he looks almost desperate.

“Why? Why are you so—fixated? On. On Emmrich? I don’t understand and-- and you have to know his patience is not limitless. He will get tired of your antics, Spite. This isn’t a—”

Pain cracks across Lucanis’ face. A slap that sends him sprawling onto the cot, the taste of blood in his mouth, head spinning. Reeling. Stars in his eyes. Spite is there, in his face once more, crouched down beside the cot as Lucanis spits blood on the floor and takes a shaky breath.

‘No. That’s YOU. Your thoughts. Your feelings. He likes me. I like. HIM. I like Curiosity. I don’t. Like liars. You. Are a liar. Lucanis.’

Again, the accusation comes, snarled and spat in his face. Lucanis pushes himself upright and Spite follows, looming over him while Lucanis rubs his sore cheek, staring back and quietly wishing he could return the favor of a strike to the face. Just once. But Spite isn’t truly tangible and Lucanis won’t waste the effort only to embarrass himself. He takes a few more breaths, and then asks:

“How have I lied to you? How?”

‘You keep us here. Trapped. Always trapped. Always lonely. Broken promise. Broken! You won’t free us. I need something. Give me something. Patient. Kind. Sees me. Talks to me. Teaches me things. Emmrich is safe. You—Are a jailer.’ The juxtaposition of such sincere attachment and such vehement disgust makes Lucanis feel as if he’s been struck a second time. This seems… dangerous. Spite developing a fixation… an obsession. With Emmrich. It could spell trouble. Trouble for a mage who doesn’t deserve it. He shouldn’t have allowed this to get this far.

“Maybe I am,” Lucanis hisses back, gritting his teeth. “Neither of us had a choice in this, but that doesn’t mean I can let you do whatever you want with my body.”

It’s not the answer Spite wants. There is a crackling noise, like teeth splintering under pressure as Spite roars his displeasure and rushes into Lucanis’ space, the full force of his energy connecting with Lucanis’ skull.

‘I want. To see. EMMRICH.’

Lucanis feels his spine bow backward with the impact and a sudden sensation, like his head is being squeezed, vice-tight pressure, and he reaches for it, gasping, desperate to alleviate the sudden intensity plaguing him. But in an instant, he finds himself alone, standing in the darkened corridors of the Ossuary. Trapped. Lonely. Jailed. He’s unconscious and Spite is in control. Incensed and desperate. The wards… The wards won’t hold, will they? Spite has gotten through them before. But Lucanis doesn’t quite know how to get out of here. And maybe here is where he ought to be. Illario betrayed him, Caterina is dead, Treviso is in ruin, blighted and broken, overrun by the Antaam and Venatori alike.

Maybe it’s safer to let go. Let Spite run him into the ground. Let his friends put him down like they should have ages ago. All these losses, all these choices, all these failures… This. This might be the best outcome he could hope for. An abomination. A mistake. Useless. Lucanis wanders the broken pathways of the Ossuary, down into the deep, door after door, past his accusers, until he finds the epicenter of his pain. And there he stands, in the place where Rook granted him his freedom, and he thinks maybe… Maybe he wasn’t really meant to be free. Is this what Spite meant?

Is this… Where they’re stuck? In his regret? What would breaking free of it even look like?

Lucanis doesn’t know.

And then Lucanis isn’t alone.

“Lucanis!”

He turns and sees Emmrich there, with Spite at his side. Emmrich. It doesn’t seem possible. It shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be here.

“Emmrich?” He feels weak in the knees, even with the confines of his own mind. A rising panic making it hard to look, to see Emmrich approaching him with certainty and with such confidence, as if he’s finally found precisely what he was looking for. The groan of the Ossuary is an oppressive reminder of where they are, what this is, and everything quakes under the weight of this unexpected appearance. But Emmrich doesn’t falter. Lucanis shakes his head.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Emmrich should go. Should leave him to this fate. Spite growls his frustration and Emmrich holds up a quieting hand.

“From the looks of things, neither should you. Spite came to me and asked for my help. To find you.”

‘Talk sense. Make. Him. Leave.’

The demon points, spits, shudders with barely contained rage. Lucanis looks away. Leave? For what? What is there left for him to do, when he cannot even reign in his personal demons. Not Spite, not his regret. Nothing. Useless, useless, useless. But Emmrich is there and he’s so calm, so soft spoken, yet utterly sure of every word he speaks.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Spite. This place, while adjacent to the Fade, is composed within and by Lucanis’ mind. He has to want to leave.”

Spite growls his irritation, wings fluttering as he throws up his hands and offers little but disdain in Lucanis’ direction. Emmrich rests a calming hand on his shoulder. A touch that Lucanis can feel. They’re interwoven, tied together, tied here. This… This is what Spite meant.

“I can’t…” Lucanis tries to speak but the crack in his voice makes him stumble. Hesitation makes his breath come short. “I can’t leave. Perhaps it’s better that I don’t.”

“I must politely disagree,” Emmrich states, plain and unapologetic with his position. It’s enough to make Lucanis flinch. How can he be so sure, when Lucanis is so uncertain? Doesn’t he see just how broken Lucanis is? How little he can do because of it?

‘Polite. Pah. No politeness. Tell him. Teach him.’

Lucanis finds himself looking, watching Spite shifting, antsy with impatience for a result that’s not forthcoming. Emmrich is quiet. Composed. He doesn’t stand with a straight spine or folded hands. He is at ease. Not a professor. Just a man, trying to speak to another. He gestures, pleading with his hands, his face, and his words.

“Lucanis… I cannot force you—And I wouldn’t. Because I understand what it is to be afraid to move forward into the uncertainty of the future. As painful as it is, regrets are a known and understood agony that is easier to exist within, because it’s familiar. But you…” Emmrich steps closer. Too close. Too familiar. Why does he insist on reaching for Lucanis when all that’s promised is pain? “You deserve to heal from this. All the unforgivable things done to you in the Ossuary. The betrayals and abuses you’ve suffered. You deserve a future after all of it.”

No. No that can’t be true. It’s not right. Emmrich is blinded by his compassion. Doesn’t he see? Doesn’t he realize? Lucanis’ shoulders hike toward his ears, jaw flexing as he casts his gaze aside. He can’t look into those kind eyes, nor take in the face full of caring they’re set within.

“Deserve? I—I have failed. I failed this team, I failed Caterina. The Crows. Everything I cared for is gone, because I was not… Enough. I’m an abomination. Emmrich. What sense does it make, to keep going like this?”

Emmrich’s warmth emanates from him unhindered by Lucanis’ doubts. He reaches. He reaches for Lucanis with an upturned palm, offering him a lifeline. Offering him acceptance. Offering to help him take that last step toward true freedom, into the unknown future that awaits them both.

“You’re not what anyone made you, Lucanis. You’re not a failure, and you’re not an abomination. I’ve seen true abominations. People I considered friends, shaped by demons. But Spite is no more a demon than Manfred is. And if you would let yourself see that, make peace with this, you will continue to survive because of your bond. You will succeed in anything you put your minds to, so long as you do so as one.”

Lucanis looks from Emmrich’s hand to the set of his jaw to his wide, hopeful eyes. And he wants to believe. He wants to believe Emmrich so badly--

“How can you be so sure?” Lucanis asks, whispers, hope finding its way up through the cracks, blooming, reaching for sunlight amidst suffocating adversity.

“Because I know Spirits,” Emmrich says. “And I know you.”

Lucanis smiles, weak, so self-conscious.

“Know me? We’re—colleagues. At most.”

“I prefer the term ‘friends’.”

Lucanis takes his hand.

Emmrich’s room is warm. As Lucanis looks around, seeing the familiar trappings and belongings that the necromancer brought with him, all the curious trinkets on his shelves, all his books, and his skeletal ward, making tea by the fireplace, he lets go of a breath he’d not been aware of holding. Emmrich’s hand is still there, wrapped around his own.

“Welcome back,” Emmrich says, giving Lucanis’ hand a squeeze. “Would you like to sit down? Manfred was just about to make some tea. I found the most interesting blend in Minrathous, a black tea that promises notes of toffee, campfire smoke, and scotch.”

Lucanis isn’t much of a tea drinker, but just this once, he might have to make an exception.

Chapter Text

It’s impossible not to notice that Lucanis seems more rested now. His instincts seem sharper in the field, his mood generally more level, a smile resting on his face more often than a scowl. And it’s been a while since Emmrich has entertained a certain determined spirit at some unreasonable hour. Of course, it makes sense. Spite has come to understand a great deal about his and Lucanis’ situation, and while they are not yet completely aligned, there is more harmony than before. Less of a need to take control for a reprieve from the prison within Lucanis’ mind that Emmrich can only hope no longer exists. But… It’s a bit quiet, without Spite coming around.

His own sleeplessness hasn’t waned. The mounting pressure of what Hezenkoss might do is never far from his mind, driving him to consider a great many things in the quietest hours when the rest of the team is sleeping. The ever-present dread is a companion he wishes he could part from, yet it’s there, whispering in his ear, calling him a coward, calling upon him to consider what it would mean to simply no longer exist, stirring up anxiety, making his hands shake, his breath grow short, and his vision dim around the edges. The walls of his own room feel stifling, so he takes to the courtyard for a walk. A breath of temperate air. The great expanse of light and floating debris all around is usually a boundless wonder to behold, but he finds it hard to focus on any of it. His eyes slide over the beautiful vistas, gossamer clouds, and golden light without really seeing. No appreciation to be found. His legs carry him up the stairs, numbed by over-burdened nerves, into the shadow of the dining hall and kitchen, the light above the door still and dim. With nothing better to do with himself, he slips quietly inside.

The emptiness that greets him is at least warm and familiar. The hearth is always crackling, the scent of herbs and coffee always in the air. It’s a strange marriage of smells, and one he’s come to associate with a feeling of community. Friendship. His eyes flit toward the closed door to the pantry as he makes his way slowly across the floor toward the seats nearest the fireplace. His chosen chair he takes in hand and pulls back from the table, the lightest sound of wooden feet scraping across the stone floor all too homey for a place that technically isn’t his home at all. He eases down into it with a small sigh, closing his eyes to better focus on the wafting heat of the fireplace at his back.

Tension melts from his spine as he simply breathes. Exercises. Counting beats between held breaths. He grounds himself, pressing his shoulders against the wood to feel it, running his fingers across the surface of the table to commit the texture of the grain to memory. He listens to the crackle of the fireplace, the wind whistling through gaps in the door, the creak and groan of the structure settling, and breathes again. Focusing on the tangible helps a little, though lately not as much as it used to. With death an ever-present threat that he faces each day, it’s hard to ever fully escape the pressure of it.

He sighs and tilts his head back, resting it against the chair as he slouches, legs splaying as he tries to let it all go and find some sense of peace amidst the darkness clouding his mind. It’s difficult to bear the shroud of heavy uncertainty, dark and clinging, that doesn’t wish to be lifted. Fear is a mind killer, again and again. Fear distracts and poisons, slipping so quietly between the ribs, a blade tipped with a reservoir of toxic doubts.

“Can’t sleep?”

Emmrich’s entire nervous system jolts as if struck by lightning at the rasping sound of a low, quiet voice to his left. He turns his head, a rapid snap as his eyes fly open to spy the source of it. Lucanis stands in the open doorway of the pantry, leaned against the frame, looking more comfortable than Emmrich can ever recall him being. Bare feet on the cool stone floor, an open shirt and trousers without a belt or hidden blade in sight. He looks like he feels… Safe. What must that be like, Emmrich wonders as he presses a hand to his chest, trying to will his runaway heart into a steadier, calmer beat through the weight of his palm alone. He laughs at himself, ducking his head, his smile feeling crooked and uncomfortable on his face, like more of a grimace that contorts his features into a rarely worn expression. But it’s an honest one. After what they’ve shared it would feel disingenuous to hide all of his discomfort.

But just the same, he doesn’t want to worry Lucanis over something that can’t be fixed or helped or even reasoned with. He clears his throat and gives a small shake of his head.

“I’m afraid not. I hope I didn’t wake you,” Emmrich turns away, eyes landing on the table, avoiding looking directly at such a vulnerable view. He hadn’t heard the door open. How long had Lucanis been standing there, observing him? He doesn’t hear Lucanis’ footsteps across the floor but catches the faint sight of movement in his periphery.

“No. My sleep schedule is a disaster. Still trying to get used to the idea that I even can sleep again,” Lucanis admits with a shrug. Emmrich feels him pass behind the chair and turns his head to watch Lucanis make his way over to the nearby prep area. His movements are slower than usual, less crisp, like he’s moving through molasses as he rifles along the shelf to bring down a tin of tea leaves and measures carefully into a pot, a little bit escaping onto the counter top. Lucanis might have lied, Emmrich realizes. These are the movements of a sleep-drunk man, a little clumsy, a little distracted. Even if Emmrich hadn’t woken him, Lucanis had most certainly been asleep just a few moments ago.

He's making… tea.

Emmrich pulls his gaze away and stares at the table again. He stares at his hand that rests against it as he rubs his fingertips against his thumb and taps them together, counting beats while trying to put distance between himself and the anxiety that makes his breath come shorter than it should.

“I imagine it will take some time to get used to it, but I have faith you’ll find your stride again, soon enough,” Emmrich says, putting effort into sounding sure and kind and confident. It’s not all that difficult to don airs of a man far more put together than he is. He’s been doing it for so long it’s reflexive by now. At his age, it’s so ingrained even he could nearly believe it. Lucanis hangs a pot of water from a hook in the hearth and then joins Emmrich at the table, a seat right beside his own. An unexpected lurch follows, Lucanis’ foot hooked around the leg of Emmrich’s chair to scoot him at an angle to better look at one another.

What does it say about Emmrich, that he is quick to avert his eyes anyway?

“You don’t have to do this, you know. Pretending you are fine when it’s clear you are not. You haven’t been for a while, Emmrich.” Lucanis’ tone isn’t what one could call gentle, but there’s an earnestness to it. A question between the lines conveyed in tone alone. What’s wrong? If only Emmrich had a good answer. He props his elbow on the table and turns his mouth into the heel of his hand. Avoidant.

“Am I so obvious?”

“To me? Absolutely. Comes with the territory. If I couldn’t pick up on these things I wouldn’t be very good at my job, would I?”

Even though his answer could be considered cheeky, there’s a look on his face, a dent between his brows as he commits himself to a conversation that Emmrich would rather not have. Lucanis runs his thumbnail into the woodgrain of the table, back and forth, idly picking at it. Emmrich forces a smile.

“Your capacity for empathy never fails to astonish, Lucanis.”

“Ah. Thank you, I think… But…” His expression only pinches further as he looks up from beneath the shadow of his brow to observe Emmrich, wrinkles of concern forming at the corners of his eyes, frown lines deepening around his mouth. Emmrich can’t hold his gaze. He looks away once more, focusing off into the middle distance, compartmentalizing that expression that seems so disappointed. Lucanis sighs.

“I didn’t sit down to talk about me while you look anywhere else,” Lucanis states. Emmrich’s cheeks twinge with the downward twist at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t look. Still can’t. His shoulders rise and fall as he tries not to be outright dismissive of the concern being shown him. He may be a coward, but he’s not cruel.

“I’m not sure what you’d like me to say. The problems remain ever the same… And I fear the solutions just as much as I fear what they’ll spare me from.” His confession brings a beat of silence after and tension begins to wind the muscles of his back like a screw being turned. His skin feels too tight, pricking with pins and needles, his vision dims around the edges. Old, familiar panic.

“You mean… immortality,” Lucanis hums, piecing it together slowly, though for whose sake, Emmrich can’t be sure. Emmrich’s mouth thins, a tight, uneven smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Immortality. To no longer fear death at all, he needs only face it the once. Just once. But… It could fail. He could die. He could simply cease, leaving nothing behind but a body. He wishes he could will it away. He wishes this fear had never visited itself upon him as a boy, then simply elected to never leave. He wishes he were stronger.

“Johanna was never beset by these sort of fears,” he says. Because it is seeing her, knowing what she’s made of herself, that has made these feelings so much more palpable. He can’t ignore them. He can’t ignore how he wishes, in some dark, ugly corner of himself, that he had her courage. “She’s never held herself back from anything she’s wanted. And I, being her friend, someone who trusted and cared for her, gave her the keys to this kingdom. One I’m afraid to claim for myself. All this… business with her lantern. Her… plans. It’s stirred up that feeling—The terror I can’t ever seem to escape.”

Lucanis already knew this, of course. It’s not been a secret, but that it recurs again and again, that it seems to only grow stronger with the passage of time, is a fresher confession found between the lines. A subtext that he allows for, because some part of him wants to be understood, even if he can’t bring himself to admit directly how much worse it’s gotten. He knows this panic well, and it’s thriving. It’s keeping him awake at night. It’s stealing his breath. His fingers curl against the table and silence stretches between them for a long while, only broken by the whistle of the kettle.

Lucanis leverages himself up from his seat and tends to it. Steaming water poured over leaves that send soft floral notes wafting through the air. Chamomile. It might help. It might not. Lucanis takes down a mug for Emmrich and stands at the counter, heels of his hands pressed against it. It’s only when his back is turned that Emmrich can find the bravery needed to look at him. The line of tension down Lucanis’ spine makes Emmrich’s jaw clench. Lucanis drags a hand through his hair and lets out a grating exhale.

“I don’t understand what it is you’re so afraid of. Everything dies. Each season, flowers wither. Friends and loved ones pass away. People die. Empires. Ages.” It’s rare that Lucanis gesticulates when he speaks, but the passion is so emphatic in his speech it overtakes him, hands moving in sharp, harried gestures. He turns to look at Emmrich, eyes a little wider than they ought to be, brows tented with worry. So much worry. But why? Emmrich drags his teeth over his lower lip, finding a spot on the floor between them to look at.

Everything dies.

“The idea that—That the person I am could simply stop being… I…” Emmrich’s voice hitches, words coming more frantic as the fear gets away from him. “I know death. I am surrounded by it. And a long to connect with the beauty of it as my fellow Watchers do. This divide between intellectual respect and heartfelt fear has ever been my problem—Why should I fear death? The great leveler that comes for kings and criminals, paupers and princes, without remorse. A simple force of nature. But I… For life to simply. Stop… I can’t…”

He's at wits end, pressing his brow into his palm as his eyes slip shut. He listens to the sound of Lucanis pouring tea into a cup, the pot coming back down with a muted thunk on its trivet, and the shuffle of bare feet coming closer.

“Can I be honest with you, Emmrich?” Lucanis asks, and Emmrich’s answer is automatic. He doesn’t even open his eyes to speak it:

“Of course.”

“I’m serious. You might not like what I have to say.”

That hardly feels like a reason to avoid hearing it, in Emmrich’s opinion. If there is a possibility for an answer or relief to be found within Lucanis’ words, it’s worth the risk of feeling upset by them to find out. And, in some strange, cosmic sense, it feels fair to hear him out.

“I have walked the darkest corners of your mind, Lucanis. And never asked permission. Only forgiveness. I can handle a little… brutal honesty. I think we’ve perhaps reached a point where such a thing could be considered normal between us.”

“Fair enough,” Lucanis says as he sets a steaming cup in front of Emmrich and retakes his seat. “Then… I’ll say it plainly. I think you’re trying to fool yourself. This idea—becoming some sort of eternal undead. It won’t make the fear of life as you know it ceasing without warning go away. If anything, I think the being that lives forever might find himself more afraid of death than anyone. You would outlive all that you know, all that you love, and the world would change around you into something unrecognizable. Somewhere that there may one day, no longer be a place for you. What sort of life is that?”

Emmrich’s hand falls from his brow, his fingers curl around the warm cup, eyes dropping to the dark liquid within as he considers it. It’s not as if he hasn’t thought about it before, in passing. And he’s always had an answer, one that springs to his lips—

“A chance to learn something new. Make new friends… I don’t think I should ever… tire of that,” he replies, but it feels hollow. Lucanis makes a grumbling noise from the back of his throat. Frustration. Disagreement. Emmrich’s mouth twitches as his frown deepens.

“New friends. Again and again. Watching them age without you, experiencing the fullness of their own lives while you stay in the shadows, hiding your face from the waking world, never able to touch that kind of warmth again, only observe it for eternity?”

Emmrich’s throat shrinks and he closes his eyes, wincing, wishing he’d told Lucanis ‘no’ and that he didn’t have to hear such a direct assault of his life’s work. But it’s… needed, isn’t it? It feels like a flush of salinated water in a pus-riddled wound. He detests how it burns but he knows that it’s for the best.

“What else… Do I have?” he asks, desperate for an answer that satisfies. His life is half over already, beyond his prime with little left to offer anyone. He’d always dreamed of love, marriage, a family, a life like the one he can only recall in rose-tinted memory. His parents. Crushed beneath the weight of death. Unforgiving and inscrutable. He feels his eyes well behind closed lids.

“You have Manfred. Your friends. You have… me.”

Emmrich’s eyes flutter open, a sudden shock as he feels the warmth of Lucanis’ hand slipping into his own, fingers curling tighter when Emmrich nearly flinches away, holding him there in this precious moment of connection. He looks down at their joined hands, watches Lucanis’ calloused thumb brush over his knuckles, and the up. Up to follow the line of his arm, up to find a pair of wide, warm brown eyes staring at him, pleading with him. There is a request in Lucanis’ gaze that Emmrich can feel resonating, somewhere deep… past the heart.

“I…” His voice cracks with the false start and Emmrich swallows, his gaze a little blurry with unshed emotion. He looks away, takes a breath, tries to find some kind of firm ground to stand upon but his whole world suddenly feels as if it’s in free-fall. He can’t mean—He can’t. Emmrich’s chest burns with it. He wants to reject the notion outright, but Lucanis presses him, not allowing him a moment longer to doubt the sincerity of what he says.

“Look at me, Emmrich. Please.”

And he does. Emmrich looks, unable to stop himself or think better of it. Their eyes meet and Lucanis pulls, drawing him closer, forcing him to bend his back and close the distance between them. Lucanis’ unoccupied hand comes to grasp his face and draw him in. Closer still. It feels as sudden and unexpected, yet as spectacular as witnessing a star shooting across the sky on a cold winter night. Lucanis’ lips are warm. They’re soft and inviting. The brush of his beard as their mouths meet in an unforeseen, yet somehow completely natural kiss, sends a little shiver down Emmrich’s spine. He abandons his grip on his cup, favoring the feel of long dark hair between his fingers as he sinks his grasp into it, cradling the back of Lucanis’ head to bring him in for another. Lips parting and closing, breath drawn sharply through the nose, and the softest noise, so plaintive and full of longing buzzes against Emmrich’s lips, drawn from Lucanis’ throat.

Parting comes slowly, so hesitant, and Emmrich bumps his forehead against Lucanis’ brow, nose sliding alongside crooked nose, brushing against his cheek. Intimate. Telling. Lucanis asks so much of him without speaking a single word and Emmrich is tempted to give it to him. One more kiss, softly lingering in the space of shared breath, the taste of coffee still clinging to his lips when they pull away.

“Are you… sure…?” Emmrich asks, his voice a hoarse whisper. Lucanis huffs at his insecurity.

“Completely. I have…never felt more certain of anything… Or anyone… in my life.”

Emmrich swallows a knot in his throat and his smile, though frail, is full of hope. He takes a leap. He dares to want. He allows himself a chance, as frightening as it is.

“Come to bed with me?”

Lucanis answers him with another kiss.