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Their gazes felt wrong. They never turned away. Rook thought they might go below. But no. They remained. Observed him through that fire in their hollow skulls.
He felt like a bug.
Could they read his mind? Were they? Maybe they were studying his face. Could they see something? What would they do with a bug... wait, that's right. They kept those safe.
It was cold. Treasured them right? That was the Necropolis wasn’t it. Better for the dead. Treasure and care and cold. They were still looking weren’t they? Were they making sure he didn't try to reach Emmrich? Making sure he witnessed? Did they want him to leave? He’d give anything to have them look anywhere else. His heart didn’t pound it jumped. Great leaping bounds he thought it might exit his chest...
Thought caught, gut fell. The pool gathered, the burn began. A lich tilted their head far above.
Rook swallowed hard.
What did that mean?!
Easy. Emmrich was fine. Years. He had years of preparation. It’d be fine. Rook closed his eyes. Put a hand to his chest. Breathed. In from nose, longer…deeper, slow…hold a moment; and out through mouth. Empty the lungs. Again, pull from below.
Again. And Again. And Again. That’s right count as well take a glance…one door..two…fuck that wasn’t helping. In through nose. Out through mouth. The colors he could see…green. Nice, always green. In. And out. The blue of his fatigues muted green here. Touch now, he took a half-step back, fingers brushing freezing slab…jerked his hand away. In through nose. Out through mouth. In through nose. Out through mouth. He had this. He had this.
Shut his eyes and crossed his arms. Pull, deep and slow. Felt at the edge of his clothes, heart still leapt. He bit at his cheek, felt the cold sweat at neck. Could feel them staring. Were they judging him for how pathetically he was handling this? Dammit. Focus. Eyes open. His hand went to a deep pocket, pulled at a stitch that had been there for years. Another lich head tilted. Why did they do that?
The stitch came loose, and Rook pried free a simple stone. His skin prickled at the feel of it, a pleasant shiver. So familiar after so long. He nearly smiled. Examined the well worn oval. Nothing special. Dull flat grey. He held it between thumb and index. And moved his fingers. Deep pull in now. Eyes shut. Slow out.
His oldest possession.
Couldn’t remember the day or age he found it, but he’d liked the shape and feel of it. Hell some other kids had tried to take it for themselves but they’d learned the better.
He could think now. Felt his heart nestle firmly back to chest. Felt the stone between skin.
Hadn’t needed it in hand for years. Kept it there safe after nearly losing it to darkspawn. Rook stopped movements on it, looked down at it pinched there, rolled it round and let it fall into his palm.
This was it. Wasn’t it. The piece he had left. What few books he had would’ve been lost with Weisshaupt. Those were the only…yeah. Rook clenched his fist round the stone. This was enough. And the final lich tilted their head. Why should he care?
Steady now. He’d cut his teeth in Kirkwall. This was nothing. He had jam and toast this morning. What had they? They’d called him Volkarin’s Beloved. Who was theirs?
His head rose, languid, for once taking in the sights around him. He knew the light, the stone, this was Emmrich's home. No place safer in Thedas for him. For them. And then he fixed his warm living gaze on the chill above. The lords looked small so far away.
As one they straightened. And Rook froze.
But a deep gut knowing fueled a heat under skin, it’s rush filled him like a cup overfull. Awash in what they could never attain. Heartbeat strong, firm. No longer leaping. Solid, a bass beat casting protective ward within. It knew. Felt the pull to love beyond. Rook smirked, single brow raising, daring glare locked on the undead pulpit. And drew in a light, even, breath.
Death's doors shuddered.