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“What the fuck just happened?” Taash’s horrified whisper was loud in Emmrich’s ear, the sky rumbling above them just as Rook blinked out of existence, Lucanis still prone on the ground but breathing.
“I don’t know, but we need to get out of here — now!” Davrin pulled Emmrich by the arm. He resisted, trying to reach the spot he last saw Rook. Davrin tugged him harder. “Come on!”
“Rook, she— The rift—”
“We’ll figure something out. She won’t want you stuck here.”
Neve and Taash helped Lucanis up, gripping him tight as he leaned heavily on one side, gritting his teeth. Taash’s hands were shaking, Neve’s mouth set into a grim line.
They ran, the sky spitting fire above them as Elgar’nan raged at his sister’s death. Emmrich could scarcely remember how his feet carried him — Davrin or Neve or Taash or someone, he couldn’t even recall who, steering him through the Eluvian as his heart lodged itself into the pit of his stomach.
Behind them, Solas stepped out of the rift, lyrium dagger in hand.
Bellara. Harding. Rook. His Rook. Just… gone. How could this be?
His companions argued around him.
“Solas is in Minrathous?” Taash was furious. Emmrich could almost see the smoke coming out of their mouth.
“Last I heard. The people are even calling him a hero, defending the city against Elgar’nan’s forces.” Neve's hands were tight around her cup. “Funny that.”
“How did he get out of the prison?” Davrin asked.
“Rook, I think.”
“No.” Taash’s voice was hard. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does. Think about it.” Neve placed her cup on the coffee table, legs crossing on the couch. “Rook disappears, then we hear Solas is out and about waltzing in Minrathous. There are reports he’s using a dagger made of lyrium — the one we last saw Rook pulling out of Ghilan’nain at Tearstone Island.”
“He used his connection to Rook, pulling her into the Fade so he could escape,” Emmrich concluded, voice subdued, the icy hands of fear and regret gripping him. The fool he was, spending his last conversation with Rook arguing. Emmrich should have told her he loved her, should have spent the night mapping out apologies on her skin until she was breathless. Would that have made this heartache better or worse? There was little point wondering now, but he could not help himself.
“Yes.” Neve turned to him, face softening. “Emmrich, I’m sorry.”
Emmrich did not answer her.
It had been a week now. Emmrich had stopped drinking tea by the third day, needing something stronger to keep him awake. He switched it for a copious amount of coffee, whatever Lucanis had available in the kitchen, taking a pot for himself and spending the day holed up in his laboratory.
He left the Lighthouse only once — traveling to the Necropolis and digging through his personal library, grunting in frustrating at the useless things. Papers upon papers on etheric flows and transfusions, sub-astral navigation, autotelic bonds, and a thousand other things that could not help him now.
It took an hour of fruitless searching before he made his way to the Necropolis main library instead, eyes darting from one title to the next, fingers full of paper cuts as he skimmed through tome after tome for something, anything useful.
And still — he was no closer to finding Rook.
When he returned to the Lighthouse, face in his hands, Emmrich wept. Nails bit into the skin of his forehead, palms pressed into his eyes as he broke down quietly, one shuddering breath after the other stolen out of his lungs. He allowed himself a few useless minutes of wallowing before he went back to work.
Even Johanna let him be, for once, a silent watcher.
Sometimes, Emmrich felt guilty for not caring more.
Not for Rook, no. The heavy stone of guilt had settled deep in his gut, desperation gnawing on his bones like fate’s favorite chew toy.
But for Harding. For Bellara.
Dead and missing. Taken from their little group just as easily as Rook had been.
Neve visited Bellara’s room every day, sipping coffee and staring at the gadgets and artifacts strewn about. No one was quite sure what system of organization it followed, but Bellara could always make sense of the mess. Flitting about like the hummingbird her brother called her. The silence was far too loud in her absence.
Meanwhile, Taash rarely left their room now. On the few occasions he would pass by, he would hear grunting, the sound of steel hitting the floor again and again. And when they did go, it was off with Davrin or one of the others, only to come home smelling like blood. He didn’t dare disturb them.
Three souls for the price of one so-called god.
Was it worth it?
Were the scales balanced in whatever cosmic game they were in?
Did the Maker, in all his knowledge and in all his silence, deem this fair?
Emmrich tried not to think about it.
One day, he found a letter on his desk, a wisp hovering near it curiously. His name was embossed on the back in Rook's curled, loopy handwriting.
He opened it without thinking.
Emmrich,
If you're reading this, then something terrible has happened. I hope you can only forgive me. Know that I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. There was so much I still wanted to do with you.
I wanted to celebrate our victory, pop open a bottle of your best Antivan red and get drunk on my couch. And once the hangover wore off, I wanted you to take me home, show me your books, your collections, your bed. I wanted to plant lilacs in your garden. Then I wanted to marry you, exchange our gold in the big Chantry in Nevarra City or our living room, it wouldn't have mattered. Then we'd have a baby. Or two. Or three. My hair, your eyes.
It would have been perfect.
And perhaps it’s selfish of me to say this, especially now, and I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me for this too — but I'm glad I went first. I died in love, and I will stay that way forever. Even my last thoughts were of you, I'm sure of it, and I do not have to live in a world where you do not exist. I am so grateful for that.
I love you, Emmrich Volkarin.
The Veil separates us now, my love, but it is thin. Press your hand against it and know I am always reaching back, my love against yours. I hope that is how you remember me — the woman who loved you, who will love you still, even across death.
When your time comes — and I pray it doesn’t for a long while yet — do not fear it.
It will be a joyful reunion.
With enduring affection,
Your Rook
P.S. Please make sure they don't set me on fire. Cremation doesn't suit my complexion.
No.
No, no, no.
Emmrich balled the letter in his fist, gritting his teeth, inexplicable anger rising to the surface before he tempered it. He smoothed out the letter, gentle this time as if in apology, reading it again. And again. And again.
Rook was not dead. This letter should have never found its way into his hands, and a steely determination gripped him. He was going to find her.
Emmrich had a plan — a breakthrough, one could call it — and the answer was lyrium. A staggering amount of it.
He outlined his plan to the group. Rook was in the Fade and they needed a way to get her out. Among the most reliable ways to do so was to create a Fade tear, a rift just large enough to pull her through in a place where the Veil was thin and where she would likely be on the other side. He had already found a few powerful spirits in the Necropolis willing to help search for such a place. They had always been fond of Rook.
But to create the tear itself, they needed something powerful. Blood was what the magisters of old used to enter the Black City. That was not an option. Neither was Johanna’s method of trapping spirits in her Gloaming Lantern. That left two other things — Solas’ magic and lyrium.
While they did not have Solas himself, and he doubted the man would be willing anyway, both Bellara and Emmrich kept detailed notes on the dagger — drawings, potential schematics, outlines of the etched runes, the etheric flows, materials they could identify.
It should be enough to recreate it — create their own lyrium dagger.
(Ambitious, he thought to himself, and he could almost hear Johanna taunting him about recreating original sin just for a paramour or some other nonsense. But for Rook, he would gladly do so.)
Neve was quick to agree — it was their best bet, and the rest came around quickly. Davrin helped source the lyrium from Kal-Sharok, the dwarves willing to lend their aid, both in Harding’s memory and in return for all of Rook’s help.
Emmrich was immensely grateful and, for the first time in what felt like eternity, his chest lightened by a fraction, a small seed of hope planted.
It took another week and a half to recreate the dagger as close as he could — unrefined, unstable, but not useless.
Emmrich gripped it tight, hands shaking so much he was almost afraid he’d drop it. Where would they be if he did? Another week wasted, perhaps. He leaned heavily on his desk, one hand clutching it for balance, the wood almost creaking under his fingertips. He could only stare at the dagger — it was pretty, he admitted, though the blue glow of the lyrium was more subdued than the real thing and it buzzed uncomfortably in his hand like electricity ready to pop.
Unrefined. Unstable. But not useless. Emmrich repeated it in his head until the words lost their meaning and the world began to blur around him. He shook it off.
It would be enough.
He prayed it would be enough.
The ritual site.
“This damned place,” Neve said under her breath. “Where it all started.”
Neve, Emmrich, and Lucanis spread out — finding the place where the Veil was thinnest using their magic or, in Lucanis’ case, Spite. Davrin and Taash stayed close to the mages, weapons out, watching for any sign of trouble.
Emmrich climbed the stairs, one hand gripping his staff, the other stretched out, pressing against the Veil. He remembered Rook's letter — he would find her reaching back to him, he was sure of it.
Then — a snag, a place his fingers could nearly pass through, his magic flaring, itching under his skin.
“This way. It’s thinner here!” he called out to the others.
Taash was beside him, readying their axes in case something goes wrong. “You better be right.”
He nodded, grim, then he took the dagger from his belt.
Raising it high, he poured his magic into it, following the lines etched under its surface, willing it to do as he bade. For a moment — nothing, just the buzz of magic in his ear, powerful and potent, amplified by the dagger until he nearly went deaf.
Then it caught, notching into an unseen barrier, digging into the Veil. Emmrich felt it, resonating deep in his bones, making his teeth clatter, and he pulled down with all his strength.
“They’re waiting for you.” Emmrich heard a distant voice, unable to recognize it. “Just take it one step at a time.”
“Goodbye, Varric… and thank you.”
Rook! It was Rook’s voice and Emmrich felt his heart soar, pounding hard in his chest, blood rushing around his ears.
Lucanis came up behind him, the quickest of them all, hearing the voice as well. His breath hitched. “Rook!”
Then Emmrich saw it — something bright, a shape of a woman and a dwarf. “There! A light.”
Lucanis called to the others, hands on top of Emmrich’s before thrusting both their hands into the tear, the dagger flying behind them and hitting the ground with a clatter. They felt an arm latch onto theirs. “We've got something. Get ready,” Lucanis shouted.
Taash threw their axes to the ground, seizing Rook’s arm and pulling. Neve and Davrin were behind them, arms around Lucanis and Taash, pulling at their signal. “Heave!”
The Fade tear resisted, unwilling to give Rook up for a heart stilling second, before abruptly giving way — and the entire group came tumbling down to the ground, Davrin catching Neve as she nearly fell down the stairs.
And Rook.
Rook.
Rook.
She was in Emmrich’s arms, gasping, and he narrowed to just the feel of her, Emmrich turning blind to the rest of the world.
“Rook, darling, oh, my darling.” He clutched her cheeks, drinking in her face, the cuts and bruises from Tearstone Island still somehow fresh. He would have to inspect those closer later — but now.
Now, the universe righted itself again, and he crashed his lips into Rook’s unheeding of the rest of the team that wanted her attention. This he would be selfish in. This he needed more than anything or anyone. The inelegant clash of their teeth, lips smushed together as wetness poured down his cheeks.
“Emmrich, Emmrich.” Her sweet voice grew distant. He panicked as the edges of his vision blurred. “Emmrich!”
The strain of the last fortnight caught up to him, the dagger having drained the last of his reserves. Emmrich swayed and the world tilted around him. The last thing he saw was Rook’s face — though he couldn’t say he minded that one bit.