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Averna Mercar, prior to her departure from the Minrathan circles and prior to her joining the Veilguard, was known among the Tevinter Magistocracy as an exquisite professor of the elemental arts. Truly an individual of unmatched prowess, it was the Sabine Principle that caused mages to think mathematically about the consumption of lyrium and the alchemical interactions of each of the six arcane elements (fire, ice, lightning, light, dark, and necrotic). It had been a passion of hers, when she was still Sabine Aurelius, to teach; though she never held the rank of Magister, not a politician, Professor had been her favored title, though her students were always welcome to call her Miss Sabine, or simply Miss Aurelius. Any sort of noble title was lost on her, and as she aged gracefully, so did her students, each of them coming back to thank her for her contributions. Some fell to the temptation that Tevinter Magistocracy had, and they would meet her again under the guise of night, when the Dragon inevitably roared from its cage, but others left Minrathous, going to Nevarra, Orlais, Antiva to continue their work in academia.
All that to say, when a second professor joined the Veilguard, Averna had been ecstatic.
Emmrich Volkarin was a pleasant friend to have and good company to keep, and on the days when Averna eluded Solas' influence by way of failing to sleep, Emmrich was happy to keep her company, hearing her opinions on arcane theory and sharing his own about necromantic ones. Spirit work wasn't something Averna was familiar with at all, though Emmrich had never thought to ask why someone of her intellect and magical prowess hadn't even so much as thought about dabbling in necromancy or even trying to use necrotic magics with her own practice. Averna never brought it up, either, but in the conversations that followed, Emmrich was certain it had something to do with her sensitivity to lyrium and the giant Lichtenberg figure scar that started at the base of her temple and traveled all the way down the left side of her body. A part of him was curious, truly, but he had resigned to leaving it a mystery; if she wished to share the origin of it, she would.
And she never did, of course, but Emmrich was not the first to notice her hesitance towards using lightning magic, how her attacks and her spellcasting were much slower when Bellara so haphazardly attuned to the electricity of the machines around her, as if she was dodging attacks from enemies and allies alike. It wasn't until Lucanis — whom their Rook had taken quite a liking to — offhandedly mentioned something about it that Emmrich put the pieces together.
She does not sleep well when it is raining, Lucanis had said one morning when Emmrich noticed his Antivan ally pouring twice as many cups of coffee as usual during an overnight stay in Dock Town as the rainy season had rolled in. The necromancer himself had taken great comforts in listening to the rolling thunders, the backs of his eyelids brightened by the striking of the lightning. The natural world and all of its specialties were so delightful to indulge in, and Dock Town had made for such a pleasant landscape despite its Blight-afflicted background that he hadn't stopped to think that not everyone believed the same way.
Averna was afraid of lightning.
Emmrich had wanted to kick himself for not noticing it sooner, as he had most other things, but Averna's walls were so expertly raised that even someone she kept close to her heart had a hard time scaling them (and Lucanis was quite the dexterous one, he had observed). He had wondered if it was a fear she was even conscious of, or if it was something she didn't want to resolve, but he figured that in the calm natures of the quiet evenings at the Lighthouse, when so few pattered around, he could inquire. She hated having her weaknesses exposed, so Emmrich took every precaution.
When they were at the dinner table, he was sure that they were not alone, yet they were not surrounded by everyone, and so at the table still sat he and the object of his evaluation, alongside Lucanis, who had just finished putting away the dishes that once held a delicious meal craftted by his hand, and Davrin, one of Averna's more-trusted confidantes, who whittled away at a tiny wooden skull, occasionally asking Emmrich for his opinion on its likeness to one Manfred, wanting to give the bauble as a gift. (He had already made one for himself, he had explained, and despite his rough demeanor, he did wish to familiarize himself with Manfred and his personage, especially if they were going to work together.)
"Professor," Emmrich had started, addressing Averna by her title — a pair of nicknames the two had given one-another out of their shared love for academia, to which she replied in response:
"Professor?"
"Might I ask you a question of a more personal nature?"
"Sure," she replied, leaning back in her chair, sipping the wine that she had been brought alongside a rich piece of chocolate cake (her sweet tooth only developed more and more the longer she kept Lucanis' company; Emmrich presumed it was because of his enabling, forever the provider). It was on the sweeter side, she had previously appraised, but it was enough to keep a sleepy look to her eyes, as if she was truly relaxed with simply a glass of wine and a piece of cake. "You know I'm an open book."
"I couldn't help but notice you were… uncomfortable in the presence of our dear Bellara's magicks," he began, and Averna tilted her head to the side, almost like a curious hound who could hear something that no one else in the room could hear. Whether it was a doubt in his voice, a hesitance in even opening this dialogue, or whether or not she was feigning ignorance to the issue at hand, he was unsure, but he was content with being the one to push the envelope, to truly understand their leader who seemed to refuse to let anyone in. "I was… well, forgive me for my impoliteness, but I couldn't help but wonder if that had any relation to your facial scarring."
"Ah," Averna nodded, chuckling, "Keen eye, Professor. Yes— I suppose I have a bit of a fear of lightning. And thunder, as a result, since it always follows after. It's not a conscious fear, mind you, but… it's still there, no matter how many times I try to rationalize it."
"Would you like to talk about it?" He offered, and he couldn't help but notice the distinctly different reactions the other two men had at the table: Davrin, who very quickly busied himself more intently with the finer details of his skeletal figurine and Lucanis, who leaned against the stone wall, listening in to better understand the woman who had obviously stolen his heart without making his learning obvious.
"What a polite way for you to ask me what happened to make me that way," she laughed, and Emmrich's cheeks grew red, his hand rising to the back of his neck—in a way, he looked like a child with his hand stuck in the cookie jar, but the evidence written across his face made it obvious that his awkwardness was driven from the hope that he wasn't coming across as insensitive to Averna, or that perhaps he had come on too strong and upset her. All the same, a manicured hand rose with a pleasant little hum as she began to weave her story.
"When I was still an adjunct professor, so someone who hadn't yet completed all of their academic training, and was still reporting to a supervisor of sorts, I had to complete some research before I could be fully-certified at the institution I wanted to work with. The Circles in Minrathous had rigorous training exercises, you know, and we were always expected to be researching and furthering our studies more. Professors would take sabbaticals to write books and papers and do field research, but as an adjunct, we had to… well, adjust to whatever the other senior professors wanted to do. So that was a lot of lab work."
Emmrich empathized — his own Nevarran institutions were not set up similarly, but between the studies of the Mourn Watch from a respectful and almost pseudo-medical aspect, such as preparing the bodies for funerary practices and furthering necromantic research for practical applications, he was always writing something or another. It was easy to imagine a younger Averna, dressed up in eccentric Tevinter robes, hunched over a desk with a quill in hand, taking notes after observing an arcane reaction. In another life, he would have been her supervisor or senior professor — but the dead always have their ways, and Averna was best settled in her work. A pity: she would have fit right in with the Watchers.
"I was partnered with one of my colleagues," she continued, her hand on her unburnt cheek as she talked, gesturing with her dessert fork with her free hand. "We were studying the reactions of different Tevinter machineries and powering them via electric magic, but… my colleague was significantly more egotistical than his practice allowed. He struck the apparatus with electric magic, as he was supposed to, but he didn't refine it as he should, and it recoiled off the metal and struck me. Electrocuted me down my spine. I was unconscious for days."
Lucanis white-knucked the cup he was holding, and though Emmrich swore he could hear Spite say something in agreement with him, he was unfortunately not close enough to hear the spirit's verbiage. Davrin shook his head almost in agreement, as if he could empathize with taking battle wounds in the name of passion as often as Averna was expressing. Regardless of whether or not it bothered her, Emmrich wouldn't be able to see it written across her face, hidden behind a stellar poker face and a layer of expensive cosmetics that led credence to a noble upbringing.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Emmrich replied, tutting quietly.
"Oh, it's alright," Averna replied, "Everyone's afraid of something. Mine's just got a sob story."
"Mine's spiders, for the record," Davrin chimed in, trying to lighten the mood, "Not the giant spiders, though. I can handle those with my sword. It's the little spiders I don't mess around with. The minute I lose track of those things, they're a threat to me."
"Thank the Maker there's no spiders in the Fade, then, huh?" Averna laughed, and she turned back to Lucanis. She went to make a joke, as if she was going to ask Lucanis what he was afraid of, but some shared microexpression they might have had with one-another silenced it, and Averna turned back to Emmrich, chuckling. "I can't imagine a professor of your acclaim is afraid of anything, though, are you, Professor?"
"Oh, yes," Emmrich chuckled, waving his hand dismissedly. "Mm, I'm frankly quite terrified of death. My own death, specifically.
That drew a thoughtful look to Averna's features, interlocking her fingers together and resting her chin atop the backs of her knuckles. "But you're a necromancer."
"Indeed," he hummed, and though he was unwilling to get into the specifics of anything in the same way she had, he was fine to extrapolate on his own thoughts. "An academic such as yourself understands the safety of surrounding yourself with knowledge regarding your fear, yet a woman of your emotional maturity also understands still being afraid of it."
"That, I can," Averna hummed, nodding. "Though, as your friend, I hope you're able to conquer your fear of it. There is a lot about death that I don't understand in the same way you do, but I don't fear it. It comes for us all in the end, either prematurely or otherwise."
He didn't have the heart to tell her yet that he had no intention of facing the void and walking forward into it, or that he would be willing to let gentle death take him in such a way at the end of his life. That the Watchers allowed him one chance at Lichdom, that once his work in investigating these disruptions was over, he would be considered for the highest honor he could be allowed: to be a Lich Lord. With how some of the others treated his work as it was, however, he was unwilling to share those aspirations, especially in front of Davrin and Lucanis. Perhaps the next time he and Averna could speak alone, he would share those with her. But only her.
"Yes, but when gentle death comes, we lose the ability to fall in love with the world over and over again, do we not?" Emmrich asked, pleased with the banter that was starting between the two. Rarely is it that he and Averna disagreed on something, but when they did, it was always done with academic debate that both of them walked away from with no hard feelings. "We lose the ability to be remembered by those we love. Disappearing completely, being lost to the void… that is what I fear the most about the concept I love so deeply."
And then, something happened that Emmrich didn't expect. Something that shook him to his core. Something he would never forget for the rest of his days.
Averna laughed.
She laughed at him — openly and loudly, a harmonious thing. She was a beautiful woman, even down to the sound her soul made, but the way it was pointed against him made it feel disingenuous and shallow, broken and discordant. He hated it in that moment, hated the way her face contorted into joy, something amused and laced with humor. He did not hold any malice — no, he lost the ability to be angry with his friends ages ago, only disrespected or insulted — but rather disappointment in his colleague and friend's reaction. It seemed that even it was out of character for the others to witness as well: Davrin's face contorted into something shocked and mortified, as if he was embarrassed on Averna's behalf, and Lucanis, despite having a stoic and tired expression, eyes deep with sleep deprivation, pushed himself off of the wall, as if to intervene in Averna's behaviors. Before he needed to take action, however, she had ceased her laughter, wiping a tear from the side of her eye.
"Forgotten?" She asked, the joy in her eyes replaced with confusion now as she pointedly looked at Emmrich. "However could you be forgotten, Emmrich?"
"Averna, I am not one the greats—" He began, his voice pointed and terse, as if he was preparing to snip the threads of this conversation into pieces, leaving her at the table to discuss with herself what she had done.
"—you don't have to be, Professor!" She smiled at him, and in that moment, he was not looking at one of his colleagues. Not an ally, the middle daughter of House Aurelius, not one of the High Professors of the Tevinter Circles, not even the prestiged and reknowned leader of the infamous Veilguard. He was just looking at Averna. A friend. Someone who never looked at him with concern or distrust; she had looked at him and his magic with curiosity and spoke out of turn on occasion due to an ignorance in his practice, sure, but this was a woman who always apologized whenever she was able, who put a pin in the hurtful comments of some of the other, less-altruistic members of their group. In just a few seconds, she had gone from laughing at him to being the only person in the room. "You do not have to be."
"You are a professor, are you not? You have students?"
"I am. I do."
"You change every single one of their lives, whether or not you know it. I mean, hells, Emmrich, you said it yourself — you were the teacher of Dorian Pavus! The leader of the Shadow Dragons! My friend! You surely have touched the lives of people more and less important; without you, there would be no greatness. A piece of you lives in them now, for they will teach their students and their friends in the same way that they've taught you. I carry that with me. I live with the fact that pieces of me live on in my teachings, for better or worse. How many Tevinter mages have flocked to Nevarra to learn the ethical practices of death? How many times have you and I potentially crossed paths by way of another body without so much as even knowing? And now, here we are."
He watched her as she spoke, and yes— Emmrich could envision it easily. Averna, as she is now (not younger, not as Sabine), up on a pulpit, teaching about elemental reactions and speaking with the same passion and care she had in her voice now. He could imagine her in her office, a quill stuck in her hair as she read a student's paper and revised it, how she could write letters of recommendation and mean every word she said. (He understood now why Neve told him that Varric had picked her for this job, specifically.) It was so easy to like Averna, despite her walls, and when Emmrich left this weird little trance of his, appreciation for his friend leaving his heart in droves, he leaned back, and Lucanis and Davrin had stepped away, giving the two of them some space.
"Think of Manfred," Averna echoed, pulling Emmrich's attention back to her. "You and I have both seen it; how he follows your steps like it's the Chant of Light. How he… carries that silly little stick around, waving it around. I know you've noticed that he looks a lot like you when he tries to mimic how you cast your spells, even if he isn't proficient. When you die, Emmrich, who will be there to tend to your body as you have tended to so many others? Because I think it'll be Manfred."
The notion that someone would be preparing his body made him sick; to the point where almost, almost he could see himself revealing the truth of his intentions to Averna in the here and now. But he can't — he doesn't — not yet. Not after she laughed at him like that. (He knew she'd understand, later, when he added on this truth.) In many ways, he was still a boy, hiding from the unknown and the fear of not having control of his own life, of yearning for something just outside of his reach. But when he envisions Manfred doing it, gloved skeletal hands working with intricacy as he has observed Emmrich doing a thousand times over now, it didn't feel so scary to imagine his own body upon a stone slab, embalming fluid replacing the blood in his veins, his heart stopped. (He was going to be sick.)
"What is a legacy, Emmrich, if not immortality?" She asked, and for once, he didn't have an answer or flowery commentary. "When you leave this earth, and Manfred is here on his own, because he will be, you will exist in him. He will swing that silly little stick around and hiss and it will sound like your name. When he is preparing bodies, he will be doing so in the way that you taught him, and the flowers he carries in his little bag will be your favorites, just like they are right now. And the Watchers will have him teach other undead, or other mortals, or whatever the lot of you do, amicus meus, for I do not and will not ever understand how the Mourn Watch operates, and then you will live in each of them as well. And they will teach their successors and so on and so forth. And you will not need to be great to be remembered, because you'll never need a thought to be remembered."
In a moment almost far too fitting to not be predestined, the door to the kitchen opened and in scurried Manfred. If a skeleton could be grinning mischeviously, he would have been, approaching Emmrich with his hands full of strange little metals, splaying them out on the table for Emmrich to observe. Pulling his eyes away from his friend, he looked down at his ward, a slender hand instinctively rising to gently scratch at the ivory of his skull in appreciation. Green eyes lowered to the table to see what had been brought—
Drachma.
A relic of Old Nevarra — and how Manfred knew these would be needed or wanted in future funerary practices was beyond him. Confused yet enamored, Emmrich laughed, gently squeezing the skeleton's clavicle. Averna got up from where she was sitting, leaning over the table to examine the coins with a look of confusion that definitely did not match that of her academic companion's.
"Forgive the interruption, Averna," Emmrich laughed, wiping away a tear from the side of his face, almost identical to how Averna had wiped a tear away from her own. This tear was not brought about by comedy or mirth, however, but rather affection, love pouring out of his still-beating heart for the undead creature to his left. How beautiful curiosity was, and how delightful Manfred's company was. "I believe Manfred overheard me saying something about one of the spirits of the Crossroads recently—but, Manfred, where in the world did you get these?"
Recognizing the joy on his companion's face, Manfred only hissed in glee, pointing excitedly to the outside, as if to imply he perhaps might have found them in the Crossroads themselves. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility, all things considered, for Manfred's explorations to bear fruit; often, he meandered around the safe districts of the Crossroads with his fellow spirits, helping others where he could and offering spiritual currency in exchange for goods and services — not unlike the services that Emmrich and his fellow company provided in exchange for promises of alliance and trustworthiness.
"What are they?" Averna asked, tilting her head, "Coins?"
"Ancient Nevarran currency, dated… ah, perhaps around the time of the Glory Age, when Nevarra's ruling class changed hands frequently. It is a mix of different coins, so the rulers are not the same from piece to piece, but the purpose is still clear: to be given to the dead for safe passage. Some historians believed it to be a cultist practice, but others believed it was the only time some Nevarran dead would hold this much currency in their hands. It's a dead practice now, for the most part, but… ah, well, I'd come across a distressed spirit who needed soothing but could not be without drachma. I was lamenting to our dear Bellara a few nights ago when she came over for tea, but… it appears that Manfred has solved our problem."
Again, Manfred hissed, as if to say Yes, I did it!
"So, now you can go help that spirit?" Averna asked, and much to Emmrich's appreciation, he nodded.
"Yes, and I believe if you don't mind, I will go do that immediately."
"Please, by all means— let me give you something before you go, though." And Averna stood, her arms parted with a smile, laughing as Emmrich rose to meet her. Having to hunch over to hug the much shorter woman, Emmrich embraced his friend, feeling the warmth of her skin under his hands, pleased. The embrace sang of so many emotions, so many feelings, and when Emmrich pulled away, he couldn't help but notice the glow to Averna's eyes—another aftereffect of the accident, it seemed. Perhaps that was the lyrium sensitivity she was describing, or perhaps the natural magics of the Fade were overwhelming to a fellow mage of the arcane. "Thank you."
"Whatever for?"
"Oh, for asking. I'm not stupid. I know Lucanis wanted to know, too, which is why he got so quiet. Davrin didn't want to see us fight, either, so he cut in with a joke. But you always care so much. And I'm going to carry that piece of you with me, if and when you go."
If and when. There was no way she could know of such practices, could she? Lichdom was a Nevarran secret, most sacred to the Watchers, and prior to the Veilguard's creation, Averna seemed to be unaware of what the Watchers — and especially the mortalitasi — were. No, he was certain that she couldn't know, but he knew one thing: he could tell her the truth. Not here, but perhaps in the Necropolis Gardens, when he knew her own grief seemed to swell to the surface far too much to handle. Something more reverent and respectful of a friendship as pleasant as hers (exorbiant reactions to silly statements notwithstanding).
"And I will do my best to carry with me your knack for making everyone feel welcomed, you know," Emmrich responded, pulling away long enough to take a look at her, his hands on her arms as he observed the scar in its entirety. "I apologize if my line of questioning made you uncomfortable. I only wished to know the sensitivity of the matter, or if we should reconsider sending Bellara out with you on tasks."
"Mm, no, I'm fine. I have to get over it one of these days. Bells is my friend, too, and I don't want her to change for a weakness of my own. It's no one's responsibility to endure but my own."
"Either way," Emmrich said with a smile, "Your words today have stuck with me. It's a shame this world doesn't have room for heroes who can teach lectures consequently. You are welcome as a guest speaker in my classroom anytime."
"I'll take you up on that, when we survive all of this." Bumping him with her hip, Averna moved to collect her empty wine glass and her plate from the table, nodding to Manfred. "Now, Freddie, you keep him out of trouble out there, do you understand me? Don't let the spirits keep him out too late. This young man has a curfew."
RAAAAAH! Manfred had hissed in return, which basically translated to You can count on me!, and Averna laughed in response.
Emmrich turned to leave the kitchen, his head turning back over his shoulder to observe his friend once more, but by the time he had chosen to do so, she was gone. How swift she was, entering and exiting people's lives without so much as a passing glance. As a small smile played onto his lips, Emmrich brough his hand to his pulse, feeling it swell inside him. Taking a moment to remember that he was alive, and that despite the knowledge that he would be remembered in the wake of his death, there was little to fear today.
And, so long as he was surrounded by people who loved him, there would be little to fear tomorrow, as well.
For what was immortality, if not being known?