Work Text:
Lucanis was no stranger to pain.
Under the critical eye of Caterina Dellamorte, it had been his most ardent tutor. Trained, punished, and bled until he could take a dagger between the ribs without flinching. The Ossuary had been a lesson in pain anew; a torture so brutally careless and coldly calculated that he felt as if he’d been unravelled and stitched together ten— twenty— a hundred times over. And maybe he had.
So when the ancient stone column finally crumbled — not under the weight of time, but the heft of an enormous cleaver — Lucanis bit down on his snarl as it fell upon him, crushing his leg and pinning him to the hard temple floor.
Choking back the pain and the sting at the corners of his eyes, he hastily searched the room and spotted Rook at the far end of the ruined elven cella, dual-wielding his blades on a high ledge against a tide of snarling darkspawn. Yet Lucanis could only watch, helpless — useless — as his fellow Crow stumbled back and the ledge gave way beneath him, plunging the elf down into the yawning chasm below. Several darkspawn and an echoing cry followed, before quickly fading to nothing.
“Rook!” The panic-stricken cry crested the tide of blood and blight. Lucanis caught Emmrich’s eye through the squall, wide and frantic; it was quickly becoming clear this was not a fight they were going to win — or survive. In that breath between heartbeats, the room suddenly felt too large, too full of dark spawn and blood mages, and far too little hope.
He was still watching, still useless, when the unseen bolt of arcane magic slammed into Emmrich's chest. No sound escaped him as the impact drove the air from the mage’s lungs and hurled him back into the shattered remnants of a statue. His stave skittered across the stone floor and out of reach; the necromancer collapsed among the rubble, pale and deathly still beneath a settling veil of stone-dust.
Perhaps it was cruel irony, that what truly pained Lucanis Dellamorte was being forced to witness the suffering of others.
“Emmrich!” Lucanis roared, the sound raw and desperate with the echo of his demon. Twisting under the weight of the collapsed stone, his nerves screamed with every lance of white-hot pain that shot up his trapped leg. He could feel bones grinding together — bones that shouldn’t have been touching — but he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, not while the necromancer lay defenceless surrounded by blood-hungry mages and darkspawn.
“o̸͙͊n̵̲̊l̵̠̉ý̴̝ ̶̠͝ý̶͕ö̷͚ű̶̙ ̸̫̈ǹ̶͚o̸̺̎w̶̖̉,̶͍̚ ̷͎͆l̴̞̐i̸̮̓t̷͖̃t̶̫̉ḽ̸̉ė̴̘ ̶̟́d̷̝̀e̴̥͐m̶̲̀o̷̭̿n̶͖̓”
Only you now, little demon
The voice resonated through the stone — a guttural, slurring growl steeped in ridicule. Lucanis froze where he lay, his jaw tightening as his gaze rose slow and sharp to meet that of the creature looming above him. Perhaps it had once been Antaam, or Venatori, or a grotesque amalgamation of both. But now it was simply a blight against nature; a hulking grotesque thing warped beyond recognition.
Tusks, protruding from malformed limbs, curled through muscle and sinew as if its own body had tried and failed to contain them. Half-grown limbs sprouted like tumours across its sides and thickly corded shoulders. Where its eyes should have been were instead two empty pits, leaking an endless stream of black ichor that trickled around a gaping mouth torn wide at the corners and crammed with too many rows of jagged, uneven teeth.
It was an unholy creature that should never have existed. And yet, here it stood — breathing, speaking, dragging its immense cleaver behind it with the grating rasp of steel against stone.
Such a monstrosity could only have been borne of Ghilan'nain's hand.
All around them the chaos of battle had fallen into stillness, as though the creature’s unearthly voice had signalled its end. The surviving Venatori stood victorious among their snarling darkspawn underlings, a mocking triumph in their shouts and jeers.
Even Spite, shrieking and clawing at the edges of Lucanis’ mind, could only thrash his wings against the floor with flickers of violet fire, unable to summon a strength Lucanis did not possess.
g̴̞̐h̵͍̓i̸̪̅l̸̹͝ą̵̋n̵̏ͅ'̷̨̑n̸̼͛ȁ̷͙i̶͍̎n̸͓͑ ̶͍̓y̵̖̍ê̷̙a̶̝̎r̴̗̓n̷̹̈s̷̛̖ ̵̬̔t̶͖͋ô̸̞ ̷͔́g̶̥̾r̷̤͂a̶̜͘f̴̭͌t̶̟̐ ̴̞̋y̴͔͌õ̶̲u̶̼͘r̸͘͜ ̶̦͂p̸͖̓i̴̞̎t̸̮̽į̵̒f̵̣̚u̵̮͆l̵͕̎ ̷̡͌ḿ̴͕õ̵͕r̷̮͝t̴̛͓á̸͕l̸̮͂ ̴̰̾f̶̛̙l̸͚͝ȩ̶́s̷̠̽h̶̠͂
Ghilan'nain yearns to graft your pitiful mortal flesh.
The words pierced Lucanis like splinters of ice across his skin, seeping into his marrow and giving rise to a sour, metallic taste at the back of his throat.
He had suffered under the hands of the Venatori; their agonising, inhumane experiments, their ritualistic cruelty that stripped away sanity layer by layer. Yet this… this was far worse. It was neither pain nor death, but a desecration — a profane defilement offered like a gift.
His fingers closed slow and tight around the hilt of his concealed dagger. It would do no good against the towering monster before him, but… for himself?
Just a quick glide across the throat…
...his hand trembled.
Y̴͎̓ô̵̧u̴̳̚ ̸͈̀ŵ̷̳ị̴͗ľ̸̖l̴͉͛ ̸̬̃b̸͇̐e̶̱͌ ̸͎͝m̸̾ͅō̵ͅl̵͔̽ḏ̸̐e̷͚͗d̴̮̄.̶̨͠ r̴͚̉ë̶͕ṁ̴͚ȃ̷͖d̸͖͠e̷̢͋.̴̖̕ ̵̖͆i̵͔͗n̸̹̚t̷̤̋o̴̬͆ ̷̫̐p̷͓͐e̵̝͗r̴̫̕f̵̬͒e̵̗͐c̴̦͆t̷͠ͅi̴̡͂o̷̥̒n̴̠̏
You will be moulded. remade. into perfection
As the creature reached out a large foul hand with too many twisted fingers, Lucanis unsheathed the dagger with anguished resolve. The blade’s edge was sharpened to such fine point that he barely felt its deadly kiss against his neck.
“No. I should think not.”
Lucanis went still, blood welling up from the shallow cut he’s managed to make against his throat. The voice was familiar, so achingly familiar that it both steadied and unmoored him with an unsettling discordance.
But it was wrong.
The warmth and compassion that had once defined the man behind it had been stripped away, leaving only a chilling athymia in its place.
The creature lumbered to a stop, its hand still outstretched as if its body lagged several seconds behind its mind. Lucanis realised then that the looming monstrosity has become nothing but a blackened silhouette — shadowed by the sudden sickly green light that ignited with the fury of an oil-fed fire. A low thrum of powerful magic pulsed through the ancient temple, making the air taste of ice and lightning, and as the monster lurched around to face this new threat, Lucanis couldn’t suppress his sharp intake of breath.
The memory of Emmrich, bleeding and motionless amid the rubble, was burnt in Lucanis’ mind, but it was no longer the reality before him. The necromancer hovered above the platform, lifted by a maelstrom of magic; his hair whipped up in the torrent and his eyes aglow with a venemous green light. It cast erratic, flickering shadows across his features, sharpening the severe lines of his cheeks into something gaunt and spectral, as if he were carved from bone.
This was not the delicate, almost artful magic Lucanis had come to associate with their gentleman necromancer. This was something different. Something darker.
The Venatori, shaken from their premature victory, scrambled to gather their own magic; fighters unsheathed their curved blades, but they didn’t make it a step closer. With his arms thrown wide, Emmrich released a pulse of raw magic so powerful, everything in its path was shoved back; even Ghilan’nain’s towering monster staggered under the force.
At Emmrich’s feet, a thick green mist began to gather, coalescing from nothing. It spilled thickly over the edge of the platform and spread in slow rolling waves across the temple floor. As it curled over shattered stone and strewn corpses, Lucanis couldn't help but liken it to an eerie tide reclaiming the dead. A chilling aura radiated from it, leeching the warmth from the air, and within its depths, shadows flickered, ephemeral and shifting as though something half-seen writhed just beneath the surface.
As it crept closer, Lucanis caught the faint trace of a whisper — a chorus of indiscernible voices, like a distant rhythmic murmur. The sound washed over his skin, causing every hair on his body to prickle with unease. Then the mist coiled around the legs of the first living darkspawn and Venatori. For a heartbeat there was nothing, only a tense, eerie silence.
Then they screamed.
They were not cries of pain, but soul-deep howls of torment unlike anything Lucanis had heard before. The mist fettered each victim, crawling over the darkspawn as they thrashed and shrieked — nightmarish sounds ripped from the very bowels of their wretched forms. Despite their struggle, they began to stagger and twitch oddly, their twisted bodies growing brittle and cracked as though their very life force was being bled away. One by one, they were dragged down into the mist’s suffocating depths.
The Venatoris’ screams were piercing — raw, visceral cries of terror as they were snared by spectral chains. Lucanis could only watch in horrified silence as they begin to waste away. Weapons slipped from newly frail hands, and decaying fabric hung from the withered husks that crumpled into the mist; atrophied before his very eyes.
At last the deadly mist reached Ghilan’nain’s monster, swirling around its twisted legs. The creature snarled in pain-laden fury, lashing blindly into the mist in confusion. In turn, the mist began to climb the monster’s massive form.
For the first time, Lucanis saw what truly lurked within the fog. Skeletons — but not the rattling piles of bleached-white bones he was familiar with. They were not physical creatures, but spirits; malicious and hungry. They merged with the shifting mist, their green-tinted limbs clawing at the beast and leaving withered decay in their wake. The monster thrashed wildly, desperate to escape their deadly touch, and all the while the hellish chant persisted — eternal whispers from the dead and the damned.
So unnerved by the effortless ruin around him, Lucanis didn’t notice the mist’s continued advance until was nearly upon him, their chant a cacophony in his ears. His heart lurched as he tried to retreat, biting back a shout of pain when he remembers his leg was still trapped,. The pain lancing up his body was a sharp reminder of his immobility.
In his mind, he hoped — prayed, to the Maker he didn’t believe in — that the mist would part; that Emmrich was not so lost in the unfathomable depths of his own magic that he would sacrifice Lucanis’ life in his retribution. But the mist did not slow, nor did it part. It rolled forward, unfaltering and inevitable, and Lucanis closed his eyes and braced himself for the cold, agonising end as death finally took him.
As the mist settled over him like a shroud, for a fleeting moment there was nothing. Where he expected the icy touch of the abyss beyond death, he instead felt a soothing coolness, like the drag of silk against heated skin. It rolled over him like a pleasant rain-shower, easing the pain in his leg and the various cuts and scratches earned from the fight. Even the whispers began to lessen, fading into a quiet, indiscernible murmur at the edges of Lucanis’ consciousness. Distantly he heard the dying howls of Ghilan’nain’s monster, but it grew hazy, soft, like falling into a dream. As the fear and the battlefield slipped away, Lucanis could only murmur a quiet thanks to Emmrich for granting him a peaceful death — a mercy no Crow would ever dare to wish for.
——
“Lucanis?! Lucanis!”
A gentle hand on his shoulder jerked the assassin back to consciousness, and he hissed between clenched teeth as his leg throbbed in protest. His dagger was in his hand before he even registered the action, struggling to clear his vision as muted shapes and colours bled into one another.
“Emmrich?” he muttered, blinking hard until the mage finally sharpened into focus, crouched over him with his hands hovering uncertainly. The first thing he noticed was the oppressive stillness — an unearthly silence broken only by the faint crackle of relit sconces, their warm glow flickering across the room. Then his gaze locked onto the thin red rivulet trickling from Emmrich’s nose and down over his lips. “You’re bleeding.”
The necromancer touched his lip in mild surprise, smearing blood across the tips of his leather glove. He gave it only the barest glance before offering Lucanis a small, reassuring smile, the wrinkles around his eyes softening with relief.
“Merely a trifle, compared to the alternative, my dear,” he assured the assassin, his voice once more laden with that familiar gentle compassion. “Are you alright?”
Lucanis didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes slipped past the necromancer to take in the slaughter sprawled out behind him.
“Mierda.” The mist was gone — whether dissipated or sent back to whatever pocket of hell Emmrich had summoned it from, Lucanis didn’t know — but its presence was lasting. The cella was littered with the remains of Venatori and darkspawn alike, their corpses reduced to brittle husks, drained of blood and life. Ghilan’nain’s monstrous creation lay in a motionless heap, its gaping maw frozen in a twisted, silent howl — aged and withered by the necrotic force Emmrich had unleashed.
“I did not expect such magic…”
…from you.
The words go unspoken, but they hang heavy in the air between them. Emmrich's hand, still hovering over Lucanis’ arm, withdrew quickly, as though afraid of the reaction should he dare to close the distance.
“There is a dark unpleasantness to all things,” Emmrich said quietly after a long moment, “Death, and the magic surrounding it, are no different.” Lucanis watched him closely, trying to discern what wasn’t being said — what lay hidden beneath the surface of Emmrich's polite words and the distance he put between them. There’s contrition in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable. Lucanis recognised it then, startling and clear; shame.
Emmrich. SAVED. Us.
Spite railed from his conspicuous silence, and for once Lucanis was in full agreement with the demon.
“I was ready to put my own blade to my neck rather than become Ghilan’nain’s next plaything; you prevented that.”
For a moment, Emmrich’s expression flickered — shock, horror, and perhaps even despair — then the man was taking his jaw in a firm yet delicate hold, tilting his head to reveal the self-inflicted wound across his throat. Emmrich drew in a sharp breath, the sound deepening the heavy silence between them. His dark hazel eyes locked with Lucanis’, filled with a quiet, mournful sorrow.
“Oh, Lucanis…”
Before either man could say more, another voice cut through the strained tension between them.
“I’m fine too, thanks for asking!”
Emmrich’s hand recoiled as if burnt. He rose to his full height and brushed his palms down the front of his waistcoat, leaving behind streaks of partially dried blood on the patterned fabric.
“Of course you are, Rook; you’re never anything less,” Emmrich laughed. Despite the levity in his tone, there was unmistakable relief as the young elf scrambled up and over what little remained of the temple wall. He was dirty and scraped up — frankly terrible presentation for a Crow — but even Lucanis couldn’t help the relieved laugh that escaped him.
“Fuck me, what happened here?” Rook muttered with an expression of disbelief, his brow furrowing as he surveyed the scattered husks of what had once been a small platoon of darkspawn and Venatori. His gaze eventually landed on Emmrich.
“We won. Now, can you get me out of here?” Lucanis growled from the floor, cutting off any further questions. Both men hurriedly apologised before setting to work prying the rocks off his leg; when the last one finally shifted with the aid of Emmrich’s staff, Lucanis wormed his way free with a muttered curse.
“What’s the damage?” Rook asked, offering Lucanis his hand. In one fluid motion he’d hauled the injured assassin to his feet and slid Lucanis' arm over his shoulder to take his weight.
“Not broken,” Lucanis grunts, voice tight and barely masking the wave of pain as his foot made contact with the floor.
LIES. BROKEN. SHATTERED LIKE GLASS.
Spite hissed with a sneer, and Lucanis clenched his jaw, fighting the instinct to flinch under Emmrich’s sharp stare. He refused to meet the mage’s eye, and Emmrich sighed after a moment of tense avoidance.
“Make sure he keeps that leg elevated,” Emmrich instructed Rook with a tired authority, and the elf nodded with a barely contained snort of amusement; he didn’t need to be able to hear Spite to know the demon had snitched.
With a weary groan, Lucanis allowed his companion to take more of his weight as they began to navigate out of the temple ruins with Emmrich leading the way. The mage’s magic was never far from his reach, the eerie green light still shifting around him like an aura — a mere whisper of the power Lucanis now knew he possessed. For a moment, he had been certain that same magic would kill him too, wrapped in a mist that writhed and whispered with the echoes of the dead. A part of Lucanis — instinctive and long-conditioned — urged him to be wary, to fear the power Emmrich had kept hidden from them. It reminded him of how close the mage had looked to succumbing to the headiness of that power.
And yet… It had spared him. Protected him. And as he watched Emmrich now, wielding the faintest echoes of that power in case of further danger Lucanis couldn't help feeling something else entirely.
Safe