Chapter Text
I.
Rook, as Emmrich was quickly learning, was the type of woman who didn’t think herself above anything.
It did not matter that she was the de facto leader of the team that sought to save the world, that she had faced the Dread Wolf, disrupted his ritual, taken his dagger, and now aimed to tear down the rest of the elvhen gods—Aldwir still took the time to help anyone and everyone who asked. From what he had heard, mostly from darling Bellara, who Emmrich eagerly suspected was going to become one of his most dearest friends, Rook took on all sorts of work from the Crows and the Veil Jumpers. The Shadow Dragons too, or at least before Minrathous had fallen to the Venatori and the blighted dragon. And now, she had added Emmrich’s own Mourn Watchers to the mix, which was what had brought them into the depths of his beloved Necropolis.
“Fuck!” Rook sputtered as the Demon of Vyrantium hauled her up out of a shockingly deep pool of brackish water.
“Do you even try to look where you’re going before you jump?” The assassin said shortly, but Emmrich, even though he had only recently become acquainted with the man, knew enough about Lucanis to know there was little venom to his words.
“Rook!” He bent down at the waist to offer out his hand. “Are you quite alright?” Truly, he had never seen someone sink so fast, almost like a stone.
Cold, wet fingers, oddly reminiscent of the grave, grasped at his wrist, and Aldwir was upright once more. Soaked with water, her typically voluminous hair was plastered flat to her skull, revealing the full extent of her long, pointed ears. It made her seem shorter than she normally was, but then again, Rook was not very tall in the first place. The top of her head barely reached the bottom of Emmrich’s chin, and that was with the illusionary extra inch and a half that her curls added.
“No need to worry,” grinned the elf. A bead of water was slowly sliding down the ridge of her nose, following one of the lines of vallaslin. “It happens all the time!”
Lucanis exhaled sharply, a huffing, bemused noise, and his eyes scanned the gloomy dark of the Necropolis for the restless dead.
“All the time?” Emmrich repeated.
With a shrug, Rook pinched the waterlogged fabric of her armor, which had darkened from a vibrant orange to a subdued brown. “Oh yes,” nodded Aldwir, and then she shivered. “Well, let’s go. I’d love to tell Myrna that her haunting has been taken care of by the end of the day.”
“You’re soaking wet, Rook,” Lucanis said pointedly.
“And?”
Emmrich leaned his weight against his staff and resisted the urge to frown, simply knitting his eyebrows together. “Certainly there is time for us to return to the Lighthouse for a change of clothing.”
“It’ll take at least an hour to get back through the Crossroads!” She protested, gesturing towards the dim passageway that would lead them deeper into the tombs. “I’ll be fine.” Another sudden shiver took the wind out of her sails, and her mouth puckered into a frown. “I am cold,” admitted Rook. “And a bit slimy.”
“That would be the algae,” offered Emmrich. A pause. “You know—I do believe Myrna may be willing to lend you something. At least temporarily.”
Her brown eyes widened. “I couldn’t—she’s so intimidating.” Was she? He certainly didn’t think so.
“Rook,” said Lucanis in the same sort of tone that Emmrich often used on Manfred. Beseeching, and slightly exasperated. “You’ll catch a chill.”
He nodded in agreement. “And we simply cannot have that. Let us go back. It surely won’t cause that much of a delay. Manfred would happily take care of your wet garments, isn’t that right?”
In the gloom, there was a pleased hiss.
“Fine,” agreed Rook at last. Then, she laughed. “But only for Manfred’s sake.”
And so the assassin, the necromancer, and the Veil Jumper went back the way they came. Sheepishly, Rook went up to Myrna, water dripping from the hem of her cloak, and was whisked away by the other woman. This left Emmrich with Lucanis, as well as Spite, but the spirit was presently quiet.
“You said this sort of thing happens often?” He said to make conversation, idly keeping an eye on Manfred, who was attempting to spend some of his allowance with the merchant.
“Falling into water? Yes, all the time,” replied the Crow. “She is a nightmare in Treviso.” An amused smirk softened the lines of his mouth. “One of these days she is going to fall of a zipline and into the canals.”
Acrid magic scented the air, and a few of the particularly sensitive Watchers turned their heads towards Lucanis in confusion. For those who could hear it, Spite’s growling voice echoed, NO. SHE WOULD NOT. FALL! WE WOULD CATCH HER!
“She has earned Spite’s loyalty, I see,” he observed.
Lucanis glanced at him, then quickly away. “And mine as well. Aldwir set us free from the Ossuary. She chose Treviso and fought to defend it.” There was a fond undercurrent to his words, something sweet that caused an anxious gnawing in Emmrich’s chest.
Before he could reflect on that further, Manfred dropped his coin purse on the ground, scattering cons over the stone and into the shallow water. “Oh, bother!” He hurried over to assist, so engrossed in the task that he failed to notice Myrna’s return.
“Manfred!” Rook’s voice sang out as clear and bright as a mourning bell. “Would you mind being a dear and helping me out?”
Emmrich turned and his mouth suddenly went very dry. Aldwir stood with one hand cocked on her hip; the other clutched a bag which surely contained her wet clothing. She was dressed in fresh trousers, although she had kept her boots, and was buttoned smartly into a long overcoat of the order, purple panelling with an inner lining of velvet green. If not for the twin swords belted to her hips and the bow strung over her back, he could have mistaken her for a bonafide necromancer of the Grand Necropolis.
It suited her, he thought, and was woefully unsure what to do with that realization. Rook had slicked her damp hair away from her face and fully exposed the vallaslin tattooed on her forehead, as well as the markings that arched over delicate zygomatic bone. Emmrich stared mutely—once, when they had been very young, Johanna said it took miracles to stun him into silence—and watched as Manfred eagerly stuffed Rook’s laundry into his ribcage.
“Thank you,” the elf said brightly, addressing Manfred with such kindness that Emmrich swallowed. She looked so very lovely in green, in the flickering light of veil fire. Then, her sharp eyes fell upon him, sparkling. “How do I look, professor?”
“Quite charming,” he said honestly, completely composed. One did not spend decades lecturing students only to falter now at the sight of a well-dressed woman. From behind Rook, Lucanis’ eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowing into a squint.
She smiled, clearly pleased. “You think so?”
“We should go.” Clearing his throat, the assassin seemed satisfied when Aldwir looked away from Emmrich to him. “It’s my turn to cook tonight, and I’d prefer to get it started on time.”
“I didn’t take that long to change,” groused Rook good-naturedly, but she obliged and started off towards the staircase below.
Before they descended into the dark, she looked over her shoulder at Emmrich, held his gaze for a fleeting moment, and then winked.
II.
It became a problem. Very quickly, in fact.
“Strife always loved disguises,” Rook had proclaimed. “Does anyone really know what I look like or do they just know to keep an eye out for a Veil Jumper?”
She had returned Myrna’s borrowed clothing, but in its place Aldwir had amassed quite a wardrobe. Diaphanous robes in the Tevene style, rigorously vetted by Neve. Ruby silks with silver fastenings, and thicker linens dyed as red as blood with teal seams for the streets of Dock Town. In Treviso, Lucanis presented her to Teia and Viago, who had returned the elf in layers of stamped leather in rich indigo. Capes and epaulets made of feathers, all black and trimmed with silver.
And for Nevarra, for the Grand Necropolis, for Emmrich—if he dared to be so presumptuous—were frock coats and vests and starched collars that hugged Rook’s throat. It was the flash of gold, of the grave dowry, pinned in the labels, the gleaming buttons. It was green wool with purple piping or a leather breastplate stained a shimmering maroon. Her eyes flashing behind the bottle-green lenses of researcher’s goggles. Emmrich was absolutely, completely, and utterly smitten.
But ultimately, Rook was still a Veil Jumper, and she wore her allegiance proudly when she could. In the Hossberg Wetlands, she was a bright spot of color in the blight-darkened landscape; on the beaches of sun-soaked Rivain, Aldwir glowed against the blue sea and sky; when they came to Arlathan, he had to listen for her laugh to pick her out out from the crowd of people all garbed in vibrant orange and golds.
The colors did suit her. Orange brought out the warm undertones of her dark brown skin and a glossy shine to the black curls that fell riotously around her jaw. Yet, Emmrich privately relished the sight of her in green and purple, Watcher colors, his colors.
“You’re staring,” said Lucanis pointedly, as though the assassin could read his mind.
So he was. It was hard not to. Aldwir’s hands gesticulated as she haggled with the spirit merchant in the Crossroads, her calloused, dextrous fingers hidden beneath the leather of her glove. They were presently returning from another excursion to the Necropolis, hopping from island to island back to the eluvian that would bring them to the Lighthouse, and Rook was a vision in green with a gold collar bar pinned in the hollow of her throat.
“As were you,” Emmrich whispered, a bit flustered. It was rude to stare, even if he suspected Rook would not be opposed to the attention—especially after their excursion into the Memorial Gardens.
“I was keeping watch,” the assassin said quickly.
They were currently standing in the spectral marketplace that had appeared in the ruins near the eluvian to the Necropolis, surrounded by wisps and several more corporeal spirits. Other than the Lighthouse itself, it was likely one of the safest places in the Fade. “How admirable.”
There was an extended silence. Emmrich continued, resolving to clear the air. “Have you and Rook—”
“Are Rook and you—” Lucanis began simultaneously, and they both paused.
“Well, I—”
“—no, we haven’t—”
He cleared his throat painfully, sheepish. “It’s only been some minor flirtation, I’m afraid.”
“I see,” said Lucanis flatly.
“If I have misunderstood or overstepped with your relationship with Rook in some way,” began Emmrich reluctantly, “I can—”
“There is nothing to misunderstand.” Like an ember sparking in a hearth, Spite came to light. WHAT? ROOK IS INTERESTING. WE LIKE HER. IS SHE NOT OURS?
The assassin made a sharp exhale, pinching his brow. “Tell me you did not overhear that.” Then, before he could answer, Lucanis continued. “Don’t listen to Spite. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Rook is not…she is not mine.” A pause. Lucanis met his eyes and there was something there, a glimmer of the roguish charm he had seen on Viago and Illario the last time Emmrich was dragged to the Cantori Diamond. “At least, not yet.”
The implicated challenge lay between them. He laughed, readjusting the grip on his staff. At the market stall, Rook was loading things into her bag; they would be setting off soon. “Gentlemen’s rules, then?”
“I’m a professional, not a gentlemen,” said Lucanis smoothly. “But I’ll play fair—just this once.”
“That’s all I ask,” said Emmrich brightly. He was far too old for this, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be fun.
The Demon of Vyrantium nodded and started towards Rook, his cloak swinging out behind him. “She looks better in indigo, by the way,” he said over his shoulder, before continuing on. Emmrich squared in affronted protest, and followed after.
III.
The game began in earnest after that.
Rook hopped around northern Thedas with the enthusiastic energy of a researcher at the beginning of the semester. Or like a very industrious bee. Emmrich ventured out with her to the dismal landscape of the Hossberg Wetlands and to the hot coastline of Rivain, the sun, sand, and sea nearly too bright of this eyes, used to the dim light of the Necropolis. Other times, she vanished into the eluvian with Lucanis in tow. Sometimes, they would both accompany her, and equally as often Rook would leave both of them behind in the Lighthouse, running off with Davrin and Taash or Neve and Harding, or Bellara.
Courtship came secondary in the grand scheme of things, of course. Even if Emmrich was not out in the field there was an endless amount of work to be done. He had pledged his expertise to Rook’s cause, and was not about to go back on his word. There was research to be done on the increasingly thinness of the Veil, on the mysterious Hand of Glory, and piles of correspondence to get through from his scholars contacts throughout Thedas, experts in the field and former students alike.
Yet, when Emmrich brought Bellara to the Necropolis to introduce her to some of his preeminent colleagues, he took a detour to his preferred jeweler and returned with a lapel pin and chain in delicate filigree. He presented Rook with a set of gloves in Watcher purple, fingerless to maximize the amount of jewelry on display, as was traditional.
Lucanis matched him each time. A fresh blend of coffee beans. From the forge, a new sword for Rook’s off hand, silver and steel. She had been exceptionally pleased with eh blade, which left the assassin chuffed, yet oddly surprised. As though in slight disbelief. He could cook too, which Emmrich thought woefully was a significant advantage.
It would have been maddening. If not for the fact that Rook seemed to enjoy it so much.
IV.
Emmrich emerged from the eluvian to find Weisshaupt completely sideways.
This was true in both a literal and metaphorical sense. The mirror lay flat on the ground, which had made their arrival dizzyingly confusing, and was not, as he noticed idly, in the vault where they had planned on it being. Swearing as they landed onto the cobblestones of the courtyard, Taash turned and helped Harding through.
“Catch up when you can!” Rook shouted, and he looked up to find her standing on the high ledge where part of the tower wall had fallen away. Davrin and Bellara flanked her on either side; from this distance, their features were nondescript and vague, reminiscent of the murals at the Lighthouse, which rendered the Dread Wolf’s regrets with elegance and simplicity.
Taash took an axe in hand. “Which way are we going?”
“North,” said Neve. A palpable chill was emanating from her activated scepter “If Antoine and Evka are anywhere, it would be in the war room. We’ll start there.”
“Come on! Let’s get moving.” Harding took her bow in hand, notching an arrow.
And so they fought through the chaos of Weisshaupt, through its ruined and blighted majesty, through the dead and dying Grey Wardens, blue livery stained black with blood and ash. In a seemingly endless horde, darkspawn stumbled through the breaches in the fortress walls and through burst drains, violent shattered apart by blight tendrils. Had the Fifth Blight been like this? If so, Emmrich spared a sympathetic thought to the two lone Wardens that had to face it on their own.
They did not catch up with Rook. Rather, it was Rook who caught up with them. Neve and Harding were discussing their next move, unable to reach the war room as they were; Lucanis was pacing, while Taash and Emmrich kept watch.
“D’you hear that?” The dragon hunter said abruptly, breaking the suspended silence.
Emmrich could only pick out screaming and distant fire. The roar of the archdemon circling in the air. Steel and the whoosh of magic. “Hear what?”
Taash took a deep breath, then another, scenting the air. Without warning, they wrenched the double door partially open. “Rook!? Get your ass in here!”
With a screech, Assan swooped inside, and three elves followed after, leaping inside. The Veilguard was reunited in the atrium of the library, rushing forward to bar the massive doors shut against the horde of darkspawn. He caught a flash of Rook, orange and brilliant from the corner of his eye, back pressed to the wood and grinning wickedly at Davrin. As soon as the arm swung down to secure the door, Bellara slumped down and slide to the floor.
“Dear girl,” he said, hurrying beside her. “You’re hurt!”
“It’s not so bad,” Bellara smiled wearily, yet when Emmrich gently pulled her hand away from her shoulder, he found the fabric soaked dark with blood. “I can still fight.”
Frowning, Harding dropped down beside them. “I’m sure you could, but that doesn’t mean you should.” One of her red braids was coming loose from its pins, the color dulled with ash and dust. “Is the wound blighted?”
“No,” he answered immediately. While Emmrich was no spirit healer, blight was easy enough to sense. The wound was angry and weeping, but otherwise clean and had not been deep enough to punch through the meat of the shoulder. “I do not believe it is.”
“An arrow?” Neve appeared, leaning over Emmrich to peer down at the elf.
“No, a javelin,” groaned Bellara piteously as Harding pulled bandages out of her belt. “It’s so unfair. How is it possible to throw something that far? It hit me from across the courtyard.”
Distantly, snatches of Rook’s voice carried through the room. “—after me. We trap it, Davrin kills it, and Lucanis…then you take the shot.”
“Just like that?” The Crow’s tone was dry.
“It could work,” was the insistent answer. “We have to try. A lot more people will die if we don’t. Bellara is already hurt!”
“No, I’m just fine,” said the elf in question. Emmrich propped his staff where his neck met his shoulder and fished for a potion in his own bag. “I can keep going. I promise!”
Aldwir came near. “Bells,” she crooned. Rook also looked worse for wear, stained with dirt and gore. “You’re going to stay right there and let someone put you back together.”
With a strained whine of protest, Bellara attempted to push herself up and was immediately held down by three sets of hands—Harding, Emmrich’s, and Neve. “They’re our gods.” Dark brown eyes flitted between Davrin and Aldwir desperately. “Our responsibility! I can’t just stay behind.”
“Peace, Bel,” said Neve, plucking the potion Emmrich had just retrieved out of his hands. “You’re going to take a moment to rest, let Lace and I patch you up, and then you can help us fight a path back to the eluvian.”
Rook nodded. “Exactly,” she agreed, and the detective’s mouth tightened at the corners. “If this all goes upside down—well, more than it already has—the Wardens will need an escape route. They’ll need your bow, Bells.” Dearest Bellara did not protest, but her face fell into an anguished frown. “Taash, go with Lucanis. Make sure he’s got a clear shot.” A pause. “Emmrich, you’re with me.”
A roar cut through the air, so loud that the stone itself seemed to shudder. Assan squared angrily, growling, and Davrin smoothed a hand over the crown of the griffon’s head. “We should get moving,” frowned the Warden. “The trap is this way.”
Emmrich turned and took one of Bellara’s bloodstained hands in his. “I’ll give Ghilan’nain a proper thrashing on your behalf, dear girl.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from the illustrious Professor Volkarin,” she replied weakly, obvious disappointed, but she seemed somewhat consoled as Neve and Harding fussed over her.
As he began to follow after Davrin and Rook, a hand caught his elbow. Firm, and warm. “Emmrich.” It was the first time Lucanis had touched him, and perhaps the second or third time the assassin had referred to him directly by name. “You will keep her safe.”
It was both a question and a command. “Of course,” he said. Anything else was entirely out of the question.
V.
Later, as Davrin mourned and raged in equal measure, the Warden said, “It doesn’t matter if we can’t get close enough. We had our shot. We missed.”
“Say what you mean, Davrin. I missed,” said Lucanis.
Harding shifted in her seat. In the time between their return and gathering in the kitchen, she had washed her face and hair. The red strands framing her face were still damp with water. “Nobody blames you for that.”
“I do.” Rook’s head snapped up at Davrin’s statement, finally looking away from the lyrium dagger in her lap. “He has a demon in him, right? How do we know if we can trust him.”
“I trust him,” said Rook emphatically.
“As do I,” Emmrich offered, and the remark went entirely unnoticed.
Craning his head around Neve and Bellara’s chairs, Lucanis leaned forward, oil-slick and twice as cruel, “And you, Warden? What about the blight that runs through your veins? The same blight that Ghilan’nain commands so effortlessly?”
This was going too far, too quickly. “Just a moment, please—”
Rook shot him a thankful look from the head of the table and echoed, louder, “Stop it. We’re a team,” she stressed. “If we let the gods turn us against each other, then we’ve let them win. Our only hope is to stand together.”
“Aptly put, Rook,” he started, and misliked how his voice fell into the tone he would use while praising a student. “I am certain we are all in agreement on that point. Yet—the question remains: how? We barely survived against one of the gods.”
Frowning, Lucanis folded his arms defensively over his chest. “I nearly had her.”
“Uh-huh,” said Davrin dryly. “Sure you did.”
“You and Spite are in turmoil,” Emmrich continued, trying not to frown as the assassin wilted into his chair. “Both vying for control—it is no wonder that you missed such a rare opportunity.”
To his side, Harding nodded. “I think we’ve all been distracted.”
Emmrich glanced at Rook and Lucanis, and thought that was an absolute understatement.
VI.
“Oh, Manfred. Watch your step by the bank.” A hiss. “I know, my dear, but you heard Rook. The current is strong, and the last thing we want is to have you be swept away.”
His assistant hissed again, but reluctantly came away from the riverbank with foraged plants tucked around his metacarpals. A roaring river rushed by, water frothing white as it churned over moss-blanketed rocks. Warm sunlight filtered through the green canopy of Arlathan, and cast dappled, undulating patterns of light over the forest floor.
Eagerly, Manfred stumbled over and presented his findings, bouncing on his calcaneus bone. Red leaves and stems lay cradled in his delicate grasp. Emmrich hummed, pleased.
“Excellent work Manfred,” he said cheerfully, and was granted an overjoyed hiss in response. “That is indeed spindleweed. I can tell you’ve been studying hard with Harding.”
Another hiss, preening. “Yes, yes,” Emmrich smiled. “We can go show Assan if that’s what you wish.”
Under the guise of reporting to Strife and Irelin what had transpired at Weisshaupt, Rook had arranged a small outing to Arlathan. Yet, seeing how Bellara had already told Emmrich she had written to the Veil Jumpers, he suspected this was more for Davrin’s sake.
The pair of elves were further downriver, still seated on the same smooth boulder where Emmrich and Manfred had left them. Here, the river leveled out and calmed, slowing from roaring rapids to a lively, burbling current. Aldwir’s boots lay discarded in the sunshine alongside a neatly-folded woolen cloak in Grey Warden blue. Their heads were bowed together conspiratorially—Rook’s mouth quirked up in mischief while Davrin rolled his eyes in exasperation.
Assan was splashing in the shallows of the water, lunging at every fish that swam by. At the sight of his companion, Manfred ran forward and the forest was filled with the cacophonous chorus of hisses and squawks. The elves looked up in unison, conversation halting.
“My apologies for interrupting,” he began politely.
“You’re not interrupting,” said the Warden. His mouth twitched up into a smile as the griffon began bouncing around Manfred. “Not at all.”
Rook knocked her shoulder against the other elf’s. Davrin’s just giving me some hunting tips.”
“Is that so?” Emmrich folded his hands together, idly rotating one of his rings. He was exceptionally pleased to notice Aldwir’s eyes follow the motion. “Pray tell, was there some beast I should have been watching out for?”
“Oh no—not at all. My quarry is tall…dashing,” Rook began sweetly; Davrin sighed explosively, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well-dressed—”
“Really? Right in front of me, Rook?”
“—competent, intelligent—” He blinked, a bit flustered. Oh, she really could be quite direct.
“What is it with you and shems with receding hairlines?” Davrin said. “No offense, Emmrich. If it helps, I do prefer you to—”
Abruptly, Rook shoved the Grey Warden off their shared perch, and he hit the soft grass of the bank with a barking laugh. “Davrin! What kind of friend are you?” She whined, affronted. “Dread Wolf take you.”
“Solas’s not my type,” the Warden smirked. Then, his hand darted out, encircled Rook’s ankle, and hauled the younger elf down to the ground.
A shriek. Before his eyes, they scrabbled on the ground like young children, howling with laughter. “Assan! Get her, boy!”
“Emmrich, help!” Rook threw her head back, throat exposed, as a griffon pinned her down in a rush of feathers. Dark curls fanned out over the grass and her brown eyes were the color of honey in the sun.
“My sincerest apologies, my dear,” he said lowly, swallowing. “I’m afraid I must sit this one out.”
VII.
To his endless horror and chagrin, it is Johanna lurking in Blackthorne Manor.
“Emmrich Volkarin,” Johanna began disdainfully, features sharp in the light of her spirit lantern, and her voice became venomous as she looked over Rook and Bellara. “Here in the flesh, and in the company of two young ladies! Have you taken a page out of Dr. Ackermann’s book? You recall how he was with the young and pretty graduate researchers.”
“No!” He cried, absolutely, thunderously infuriated by that comparison. “You know I would ever—how dare you!—you know exactly how I felt about that man! How could you say that?”
She twitched unnaturally, like bones trying to move without sinew, and sneered. “One doth protest too much!”
“Johanna!” Emmrich said again, appalled.
“We’re not his students,” Bellara offered awkwardly, rocking on her heels. “We’re not even members of the Mourn Watch!”
Johanna leaned forward. Although he could not see her eyes behind the green glass of her goggles, the set to her mouth was familiar, the very same as it had been when they were students and she had squinted at a particularly baffling theorem. The incredulous look when a tenured professor who ought to have retired decades ago droned on and on about practices long out of date. She snapped her fingers and gestured too Rook, who stood neatly in a Mourn Watcher’s uniform, complete with a set of safety goggles hanging around her neck.
“Yet that one is dressed like an initiate,” his former colleague observed.
“Oh, this? It’s just to blend in,” said Rook.
A sharp breath. “Playing dress up? Are you a child?”
“No, I’m twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five?” Emmrich repeated incredulously. He knew Rook was young, but he had assumed she was of an age to Bellara and Davrin…not still in her twenties!
“The illustrious Emmrich Volkarin, gallivanting with children.” A laugh burst out of Johanna, cackling and dry and startled, as if it had been a very long time since she had found something truly funny. “May you die pathetically in the Fade, old friend. Know that I certainly won’t mourn for you.”
Then, with a flash of green light, she tore open the Fade and was gone. Twenty-five, he thought. Twenty-five? Oh, why had he never bothered to ask? Emmrich took a deep breath. Escaping the Fade was a priority; he could panic later.
VIII.
There was shouting coming from the library.
Emmrich set down his textbook with a dull thud. Hissing, Manfred poked his head over the railing of the second level of the tower. “No, my dear,” he began. “I’m afraid I don’t know what’s happening.”
A raised voice every now and then was not so unusual—Taash was prone to yelling during their physical exercises—but this had the pitch and frenzy of an argument. Tilting his head, his ears strained, and there was a familiar voice, muffled and panicked. Rook had returned.
Briskly, he crossed the room in a handful of strides and went down the long hallway to the central atrium of the library, lit by the glow of the astrolabe. It smelled strange, like iron, like blood.
“He lost control, Rook!” Davrin’s voice echoed angrily. “If he nearly killed his cousin, then he’s a danger to us all!”
At the other end of the balcony, Taash—oh, and Harding!—emerged, drawn out from the qunari’s by the commotion. Emmrich hurried towards the railing and peered down into the lower level. Rook had placed herself between Lucanis, who stood silent and swaying on his feet, and Davrin, who was straining against Aldwir’s grasp. All three of them were caked with blood, butt not in the way one usually was after battle. It was encrusted into the joints of Davrin’s armor and soaked into the fabric of his cloak, dying it purple. Rook’s Antivan leathers were coated in it as an apple was dipped in caramel. Half of her hair was matted with it, and the blood dried on her face was beginning to flake off in paper-thin strips.
“I am not going to stand here and let you kill him!”
“Rook,” warned Davrin. “You were there. You saw!”
“I saw that Lucanis was fighting to stay in control!” The assassin himself remained quiet. His dark eyes, made darker by the contrast of the blood smeared over his brow, were fixed blankly on a distant patch of floor. There was a tension to his shoulders, a paralyzing shame. “He was trying!”
Between their feet, Assan, who was only bloodied on his talons, was frantically glancing between Rook and the Grey Warden. “What does it matter if he couldn’t pull it off?”
“He’s right,” said Lucanis suddenly, voice quiet. “If Illario had not…I nearly…”
“I told you!” With a grunt, Davrin pushed free of Rook’s grasp. “I told you if he lost control I would cut him down. He agreed to it!”
A new voice rang out as the doors to the library swung open. “Alright, cool off!” Neve said sharply. “I can hear you two screaming from across the courtyard. Get some space and clear your heads. Lucanis is obviously fine now—if you truly want to keep arguing over this, it can wait until you three aren’t covered in blood.”
Cape flying out stiffly behind him, Lucanis fled. Davrin made no move to follow, burying his hand deep into the feathers of Assan’s head, but Aldwir did. She made it only a handful of steps before Neve caught her by the arm, gentle but firm.
“Rook,” the detective said, then again, more insistently. “Viridian, leave him be.” The elf stilled at the sound of her given name, which was used so rarely that even Emmrich startled. Neve studied Aldwir’s face for a moment, and her mouth softened. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Viridian?” Taash whispered loudly to Harding. “I thought her name was Rook?”
Davrin lingered as Neve and Aldwir retreated. As though he could sense Emmrich’s gaze from the balcony, he angled his head up and caught his eye. There was a resolute sett to his jaw, a determined angle to his brow. Without warning, he started up towards the necromancer as a hunter does his prey, plate boots clanking against the stone.
“You have to do something about this,” began the Warden.
“About what? I am afraid I don’t understand,” Emmrich replied. From the corner of his eye, he saw Taash and Harding watching curiously.
Davrin scrubbed his hand over his face, scraping off more dried blood. It was as if they had gone swimming in the stuff, which was a frankly ridiculous mental image. “I don’t trust him around her. It’s not safe.”
Ah. “Even if I did agree with you assessment of Lucanis, which I will not that I do not, Rook can make her own decisions.” He paused. “It’s not my place.”
“She listens to you,” Davrin insisted, a bit desperately.
Emmrich cleared his throat and strategically slipped into his professor voice. “My dear lad, you are one of Rook’s dearest friends. I’d wager your voice would go a great deal farther than my own. And as her friend, I think it is only fair that you try to hear her out.”
Exhaling slowly, Davrin nodded and Assan cooed sympathetically. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I just want her to be safe.” Bumping his head against the Warden’s thigh, the griffon chirped. “I hear you, boy. Let’s get washed up.” And then the elf did something very strange, and clapped Emmrich on the shoulder with firm hand. “Professor, I hope you know I’m rooting for you.”
“Pardon?” Emmrich said, but the other man walked off without another word.
IX.
It happened while they weren’t looking. While Lucanis brooded over Spite and his cousin, and Emmrich buried himself in his research to delay his crisis over flirting with a woman twenty-nine years his junior, Neve began to monopolize Rook’s time.
Circumstances necessitated it. On Illario’s command, Lucanis was effectively iced out of Crow business, which meant there were few reasons to travel to Treviso. The same was true for the Necropolis. Myrna’s hauntings had stalled in a temporary lull; Johanna was lying low, an impressive feat considering her preening, peacock-like temperament. By contrast, the surviving Grey Wardens in Lavendel desperately needed assistance; in Rivain, Taash had uncovered leads on who was blighting dragons for the gods; activity in Minrathous picked up as the Shadow Dragons regrouped, and Neve was attempting to track down a blood mage from her past.
Rook wore red more than indigo, and lamentably, green. More often than not, she was occupied in Neve’s guesthouse, and he repeatedly came upon them at the dining table, heads bowed together the warm, flickering light of the kitchen hearth. Part of Emmrich supposed it was a wonderful development. As Bellara had shyly recounted, Rook and Neve had been very close before Aldwir’s decision to aid Treviso had driven a wedge between them.
And yet, he felt her absence keenly. The Veil Jumper wandered into his tower less frequently, and he realized to his great shame that it had almost always been Rook who initiated their conversations. Apart from his invitation to the Memorial Gardens, when had he last sought her out in the Lighthouse?
But perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps this could be another passing fancy. He was too old; Rook was too bright, too young. Despite his best efforts, the feelings lingered, the discontent at the distance, and they came screaming to the forefront of his mind on an otherwise typical afternoon. Much of the day had been taken up with Bellara, trading theories on the fade, and they were deep in discussion when Neve came strutting through the library arm-in-arm with Rook. The elf had eschewed her typical Tevene disguises in favor of borrowing an outfit that clearly belonged to the detective. All cream and teal, the cut was elegant, layers upon layers of silk that were woefully unsuitable for combat.
“Neve! Rook!” Bellara clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, you two look like you’ve stepped out of a serial!”
“One of the romantic ones, I hope,” laughed Neve. From where he stood on the balcony with Harding, Lucanis turned his head rapidly and made direct eye contact with Emmrich, a brow raised. “Not the kind where everyone dies gruesomely.”
Ducking her head, Rook smiled, surprisingly shy. Half of her hair had been gathered back with a set of pins, fully exposing one of her long, elegant ears. It was devastatingly pretty. “Maybe just one gruesome death. It wouldn’t be a proper dinner party without one.”
“I’ll be sure not to disappoint,” said the detective. “We should be off—my lead is one of those annoying people that always show up early to parties.”
“Have fun!” Bellara waved eagerly before she turned back to him. “Where were we, professor?”
“Call me Emmrich, my dear,” he reminded her once more. Yet, try as he might, he struggled to pick up the thread of their conversation. It did not help that Lucanis was lingering, having wandered down to the bookshelves on the ground floor, browsing endlessly. After another half hour, once Bellara departed, Emmrich gathered up his notes and felt the assassin loom behind him.
“Lucanis,” he greeted, not looking up.
“How long has that been going on?”
An exhale. “I am not entirely sure. Perhaps a few weeks at most, if I had to estimate.”
“Mierda.” A despairing noise. “Teal?”
“It’s not her color,” Emmrich said primly, finally glancing up.
Dark eyes flickering towards the stairs to the eluvian, Lucanis pursed his lips together. “No, not at all.”
X.
As all the good people of Dock Town knew, Neve Gallus was a most formidable foe. She was confident and clever, bold and driven. She also had the unique advantage of knowing Rook the longest apart from Harding, and unlike the dwarf had not set her sights on a certain dragon hunter. After that first confrontation with Solas, it had been Neve who helped Rook toppled the ritual statues, who had been there in the aftermath of Varric’s death and their arrival to the Lighthouse. If not for the detective, Rook would have never come across Bellara, who later brought Emmrich into the fold, nor would she had gone to Treviso and the Crows.
Both he and Lucanis owed Neve for introducing them to Rook; therefore it was only fitting that they had to join forces to compete with her thorough and comprehensive wooing of the Veil Jumper.
“Rook agreed to swing by Treviso tomorrow,” said Lucanis, swirling the coffee in his mug.
“Delightful. If you have the time, could you see if the tea trader has the green blend in stock? I’m running low.” Emmrich began. They had coopted a corner of the dining table for their debriefing, and Lucanis sat with his back to the hearth, thrown in shadow. “Rook and I are scheduled for a pavilion in the Memorial Gardens the next day.”
A snort. “Scheduled.”
“It is a very popular destination! I had to pull tenure to get it reserved on such short notice.” Vorgoth was going to hold that over him for a long, long time, he was sure. “Regardless, Bellara has plans with Neve the day after.”
“So we are covered until Monday,” Lucanis mused. “We should go to Lavendel. Neve hates the wetlands.”
“But I hate the wetlands,” Emmrich said with dismay.
Lucanis leaned forward, trailing a finger around the rim of his cup. “I would go, but if Rook goes to Lavendel, Davrin goes with her.”
“You truly ought to get things sorted with him. I was hoping to go to the Necropolis that day. A jeweler of mine finished a set of earrings that I plan to gift to her.”
“Earrings? You shouldn’t tip your hand to me, Emmrich. Makes it difficult to play fair.”
The door to the kitchen opened. “Play fair? Are you two playing a game?” Rook stepped over the threshold with Davrin in her shadow. Across the table, Lucanis downed his entire cup of coffee in one go.
“In a sense, my dear,” he managed, flushing with embarrassment. How much had she heard?
“Don’t mind us,” said the Grey Warden. “Came in just to grab a snack.”
The ensuing silence was painfully awkward. Humming, Rook dumped a handful of dried fruit and nuts into a bowl, while Davrin fished too apples out of a nearby basket. “Lethallin,” the younger elf said. “Do you think Assan wants something to eat?”
“When does he not?” He sighed, and after a moment’s consideration, he balanced an additional three apples into his broad palm. “If Assan had it his way, he’d eat us out of house and home.”
“Be thankful that Lucanis is footing the grocery bill, then,” teased Rook, winking at the assassin. As she walked back outside, she threw a slice of dried peach into her mouth.
Davrin lingered in the doorway, equally at ease in a linen shirt and trousers as he was under fifty pounds of plate armor. “You two need to be more subtle,” he declared finally. A pause, and then he added. “Aldwir was saying that she needs new socks. In case you were wondering.”
XI.
And so they carried on their work to stop the gods and save the world. Rook hauled them around northern Thedas and through the Fade, swapping between outfits as a Seheron chameleon changed its colors. Teal and red, orange and yellow, indigo and silver and jet, maroons and greens and gold, but never warden blue and silver—she respected Davrin too much to ever impersonate a member of his order.
From Rivain to Minrathous, from the shimmering lights of the Cantori Diamond where he listened to Rook cosmic with Teia and Lucanis bicker with Viago, to Lavendel, and Antoine cooing over Assan while Neve spoke lowly with Evka about the Viper’s chances of surviving his Blight. Emmrich went camping with Lace, and then was promptly kidnapped by Bellara for a research excursion to the depths of Arlathan, where they examined the unravelling weave of the Fade. Somehow, with little fanfare, Lucanis and Davrin privately settled upon some sort of peace, as Emmrich did with Taash. As time marched on, the Lighthouse began to feel like home.
It reminded him a tad of dormitory life, when Johanna and Emmrich and the rest of their cohort were crammed three to a bedroom and five to an office. He had a space of his own, of course, and the meals were far superior thanks to the efforts of Bellara and Lucanis, but there was a similar camaraderie. The simple comfort and convenience of walking out and finding a friend down the hall. There was also the lack of privacy, and Emmrich’s uncanny ability to stumble upon conversations that were not meant to be overheard.
In the middle of the night, or what qualified for night in the Fade, after an evening spent pouring over books in hopes of finding clues to Johanna’s plans, Emmrich stepped out in search of sustenance.
Low voices floated up from the lower atrium of the library, and as he neared the end of the long corridor that linked his tower to the rest of the Lighthouse, the sound of Aldwir’s voice coalesced into words, her tone uncharacteristically hesitant and subdued. “—and he said that he needed to clear his head.” A sigh. “Did I do something wrong, you think?”
“Rook!” Bellara said frantically. Even without seeing her, Emmrich could clearly picture the elf’s earring swinging wildly as she shook her head. “Of course not.”
“Maybe I was too forward? I don’t know. I thought liked me.”
“He does! Or at least I think he does, I suppose he hasn’t actually told me—oh, Rook, don’t look at me like that! Maybe—maybe it’s like in the serials? When the love interest can’t confess to the protagonist because they want to keep them safe?”
“I don’t need to be protected,” said Rook glumly. “Not from him.”
Bellara paused, long enough that Emmrich nearly decided to announce his presence by conspicuously stomping down the stairs. “What about the professor?”
A laugh, oddly wet. “Bells, you too? Between you and Davrin, poor Lucanis has no one rooting for him.”
“That’s not true! I’m not rooting for anyone. I just want my friends to be happy, especially you. Lucanis is my friend. Emmrich too.”
Suddenly, he was seized by the sense that he should leave, and Emmrich promptly turned on his heels and escaped to his quarters, waving off Manfred’s curious hiss. He could wait to eat.
XII.
“Emmrich?” Rook’s curls swung around her jaw as she glanced around the lower story of the tower. Bustling at his workstation, his assistant was carefully measuring out ingredients into a lovingly-wrought set of scales. “Hello, Manfred.”
“Up here, my dear,” he said, feeling the weight of the skull in his palm. Light footsteps started up the spiral stairs. “Just admiring how carefully the Fade is woven into this place. As cultivated as a palace garden.”
As she alighted on the landing, Rook’s face split into a broad smile, her nose scrunching up. “That’s old elvhen stuff for you.” A hand gestured up into the empty air. “Magic everywhere!”
Aldwir was not a mage. The Fade was perhaps the only thing she was incapable of bending to her will, but he admired her tenacity in learning to work around those limitations. Arlathan was exceptionally dangerous—as Taash once remarked, it was like Veil Jumpers needed rescuing from an ancient magical artifact gone rogue every other day—and he imagined it was even more dangerous for those like Rook, armed only with sword and bow and their wits.
“I do envy you, Rook. Consider all the secrets you must have uncovered in Arlathan!”
“Uncovered yes,” she said, shrugging playfully. “But I could never understand them like you or Bellara can. When I was small, I wished I could have been born a mage, but then again I suppose the clan would have made me the keeper’s second and I would have never been allowed to join up with the Veil Jumpers. Or ended up here. Or met you.”
“What a pity that would have been,” he said sincerely. “Still, not to mention your travels with Varric. The adventures you’ve already had! The Watchers seldom leave Nevarra, you know.”
Rook leaned against the railing. Even here, away from combat, she favored orange and, backlit by the golden light, she made for an endearing eyesore. “So? You cut a pretty intriguing figure yourself, professor.” A soft laugh. “You really think of me as some grand adventurer?”
“You must admit that the entire situation is something out of a story,” Emmrich began. “Not one of Bellara’s serials, but more like Varric’s memoir about the Inquisitor. A bright-eyed elvhen hero racing to stop the apocalypse.”
“I’ve met Inquisitor Lavellan. Hard to think she was ever bright-eyed,” she said, but Rook bit down on her lower lip and smiled. “But you’ve forgotten about the dashing and intelligent necromancer though. A very crucial character, he is.”
Emmrich knew he cut a sharp figure in his youth, but it had been a long time since anyone had said so to him directly. “Dashing,” he repeated. “I am fortunate you think so.” A pause, as he mulled the feeling over, and watched Rook’s eyes darken as her pupils dilated. “May I show you something of the greater Fade here?”
“Please,” said Aldwir.
“Come near. Close your eyes. Take a breath.” Obediently, her eyes fluttered shut, but then Rook cracked one open, grinning. “Ah-ah,” Emmrich chided, and they closed once more. He wrapped his fingers around the delicate bones of her wrist, feeling the radius and ulna press against her skin, her heartbeat fluttering at the pulse point, and guided her palm to the skull. Aldwir’s fingers were long, dextrous, and twitched as Emmrich spread his hand atop her own. “Be borne on the great currents, see now as they do.”
The already-overtaxed Fade shuddered and obeyed. Raw magic hung in the air like stars in the night sky, peppered with proto-spirits that were not yet developed enough to be wisps, still small and nascent. Dreams and wishes and desires, newborn to the Fade through death. Rook’s eyes flickered open and shone with wonder.
“When I talk to the dead, their echoes abide with me. Thoughts and passions. Hopes and desires.” Gently, he released the Fade, but it took the skull with it in recompense, dissolving into the air. Rook’s hand lurched at the sudden loss of support and Emmrich caught it in his own, turning it over and running his thumb over her knuckles, and dropped it to her side. “The shades of death have greater depths than you may know, my dear. If your intentions go beyond charming flattery…that would interest me, indeed.”
Rook took a shuddering breath, her eyes boring into his own. A tongue darted out to wet her lips as she nodded. “They do—,” she started, but was cut off by a friendly hiss.
Despite the timing, Emmrich would never be anything butt happy to see Manfred. “You’ve finished the reagent!” He said delightedly. His assistant offered it proudly on a silver platter, chittering. “Excellent work!” Turning back to Rook, he continued. “I must tend to this, but I’d be delighted if we found each other later.”
“Of course,” Aldwir said breathlessly. “Of course!” She smiled at Manfred and nodded encouragingly, which pleased the skeleton. As she turned to head down the stairs, she brushed her hair behind an ear in a seemingly idle gesture and there was a familiar flash of gold. There, hidden by her curls, was an earring of familiar make. A halla’s head and horns in miniature caught the light, a grave dowry, before Rook turned her head away and she vanished from view.
XIV.
Lucanis dropped from the second floor of his tower with a loud thump. Joints clattering together in a percussive cacophony, Manfred squealed in shock and dropped the weavemoss suspension to the floor. Glass shattered into a cascade of tinkling, shining shards. Emmrich jumped and watched in sublime horror as a book from the Towers Age sailed out of his arms. A gloved hand shot out and plucked it from the air; then the assassin began to thumb through Francisca von Karma’s Treatises on the Fade.
“Lucanis!” He managed at last, once his heart stopped pounding. “I have a door!”
“You also have a balcony. And windows.” The Crow politely bowed his head to Manfred, who was distraught on the floor. “Forgive me, Manfred. I didn’t meant to startle you.”
A dismayed hiss. “My dear,” said Emmrich gently. “Why don’t you leave that there and go fetch us some tea? Lucanis caused the mess—he can most certainly clean it up for you.”
A disgusted noise. “Tea?” He complained. Yet when Emmrich reclaimed his book and thrust a cloth and broomstick into the Crow’s hands, the Demon of Vyrantium knelt upon the floor like a scullery maid and mopped up the remains of Manfred’s excellent work. As was only proper.
“If you had let me know to expect you, I would have prepared something else. Alas! You did not.” As Manfred set the table, Emmrich busied himself by putting his notes to order and finding the page he had been reading when Lucanis dropped out of the air. “I was under the impression you were going to Minrathous.”
“That was the plan,” the assassin said, sitting himself down at the small side table. “But Davrin had a breakthrough with his hunt for the Gloom Howler and they’re on their way to some secret warden stronghold with Harding.”
When Manfred had laid the tea set out, Emmrich joined the other man at the table. “Davrin and Harding? She’s in good hands.” Carefully, he watched as his assistant poured for them—Manfred’s fine motor control was improving every day, although he made a mental note to apply extra oil to his humerus. “Do you know what Davrin said to me the other day? He offered to teach me me more about ‘hand-to-bone’ combat.”
“Did you take him up on it?” Lucanis asked, suspiciously eyeing his tea.
“No! Of course not.” Cupping his hands around the porcelain, warmth seeped into his skin. It was a darker blend today, black and strong with undercurrents of citrus. “I hardly need the advice.”
Dark brown eyes flickered up curiously. “Is that so?”
“A man of my age has experience,” he said politely. There was a distant sensation as the Fade shuddered, similar to the soft echo of a shout or faint touch of a raking fingernail, and Spite’s voice quirked in curiosity. LUCANIS. WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? EXPLAIN. “To say such a thing directly in front of Rook, though!”
“At least Davrin encourages you.” Ignoring Spite and having seemingly decided that the tea was not going to kill him, Lucanis managed a sip and made a face of terrible anguish. He was so prone to dramatics from time-to-time, and was well and truly Illario’s cousin in that regard.
“I was under the impression that you both had come to an accord,” began Emmrich. “Am I mistaken?”
He shook his head, jostling the chain that bridged his crow-shaped lapel pins. “We’re civil, but that does not mean he finds me worthy of his dearest companion.”
“We are lucky that Rook has such a devoted friend, even if I disagree with his opinion of you.” He took a small sip from his own teacup, bangles chiming at the movement. “If it is any consolation, Harding cornered me in the kitchen recently.”
“Ah yes, I overheard that from the panty. What did she say? ‘You were in a crypt with your dusty books when Rook burst into your un-life?’”
“Please,” Emmrich managed, voice strangled. “I barely endured hearing it the first time.”
Lucanis laughed, a rough, warm sound, and his dark eyes crinkled into crescents. He had a nice smile, teeth flashing beneath his beard. “I won’t lie. You have it worse. Davrin has called me many things, but a cradle robber was not one of them.”
“Why would he? You are of a similar age to Rook.”
A brow quirked in reply. “What?” He sounded amused. “Not really.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-six,” answered the assassin.
Emmrich did the math. He was eleven years older than Rook…and eighteen years younger than himself. Abruptly, he felt very strange. “I see.”
XV.
When word arrived that a blighted dragon had come to Hossberg, Rook led the entire team out to face it.
Taash spearheaded the charge, their expertise accompanied by Aldwir’s enthusiasm and Harding’s determination. Everyone was else was spread amongst the ranks of the Grey Wardens. And despite Evka and Antoine’s meticulous preparations and Davrin’s unshakeable confidence in his brethren, Emmrich was seized by an unyielding nervousness. Something felt wrong and he could not tell if it was simply the Blight, the low, rumbling growls of the dragon, or something worse altogether.
“You are making Spite antsy,” Lucanis said sharply. “Taash knows what they’re doing. The dragon will be drawn out, and Treviso will have its vengeance. Agonizing over it only makes the job more difficult.”
It sounded as though the assassin was trying to reassure himself more than Emmrich, for his eyes doggedly followed Rook as she approached the tower, a bright spot of color amongst the gloom. “My apologies,” he said weakly, as Taash vanished inside. “I am prone to worry.”
And overthinking, offered a voice that sounded like Johanna. Cowardice, too. Pretension, although nearly all academics were guilty of that sin in their own unique ways.
Whatever Lucanis was going to say in reply was cut off by the warbling sound of a horn. With a sharp twist of his wrist, a knife appeared in the assassin’s hand, steel gleaming; Emmrich tensed and readied his staff. There was a suspended, seemingly endless moment where the world stilled, and then the tower exploded into chunks of shattered stone.
Blighted and blue, the dragon wailed in anger, her body twisted by still-healing wounds and unnatural mutations. The ever-present, murky fog flashed with electric light as flame was spat into the sky. Shouting, the wardens fired their ballista, which glanced off the beast’s pustule-covered hide. A boil burst and viscous fluid sloughed from the skin.
“Aim for the wings!” Taash’s voice carried over the din. “Force her down!”
An arrow notched in her bow, Rook emerged from the cloud of dust and fired, Harding at her heels. Taash leapt into the fray, twin axes in hand, and then all three of them were promptly swept over the side of a cliff by an effortless smack of the dragon’s tail.
“Rook!” He started towards the edge of the wooden battlements, but was caught by a gauntleted hand.
“Emmrich,” shouted Davrin. “She’s fine. C’mon, let’s go! They need us on the walls!”
The second detachment was moving to flank, repositioning their ballista, and he let himself be led away. This was not the first dragon Rook had faced, and she had Taash down there with her. Even so, when the chaos abated long enough to glance down into the barren crater, the sight of Rook, having abandoned her bow in lieu of her blades, darting around raking claws and teeth made his chest ache.
Eventually, between the ballista and Taash, Lace, and Rook’s efforts, the dragon began to flag, slowing. Yet, it found a well of strength and catapulted itself atop one of the wooden ramparts, smashing two ballista and half a dozen wardens beneath its feet. Taash roared, spitting flame in an attempt to lure it back, but Aldwir paused, head canting up towards the sky.
A second roar echoed over the wetlands, and the second dragon plummeted to the ground. Sour like an infected sore, Blight bubbled up from the ground, black and viscous, and tentacles burst through the earth like worms. Ghilan’nain’s gilded armor flashed dully as she manifested before her wounded dragon, and her voice was so loud that it shook rocks loose from the cliff face.
Her words Emmrich paid little attention to. Gurgling and moaning, the sudden arrival of darkspawn distracted him, and it was enough of a task to fight for his life. Davrin lingered near him in the chaos, Assan spiraling through the air above them; he heard Neve shouting as she helped Antoine aim one of the remaining ballistas at the dragon that had ravaged Minrathous, Bellara keeping the darkspawn at bay. From time to time, Lucanis flashed into view, gravitating towards Ghilan’nain, yet unwilling to abandon Evka to hold the front line on her own.
And then there was Rook, fighting with Taash and Lace against overwhelming odds. One of the dragons threw herself headfirst at the Veil Jumper, and the elf missed her timing, smacked roughly to the ground. It was only Harding, who forced a wall of stone up from the poisoned earth, that saved Rook from a blast of flame.
Abruptly, intrusively, it occurred to Emmrich that Rook could die. Not in some distant, nebulous sense, but perhaps here, right now. He froze, transfixed, and a strangled noise worked free of his throat. To think of her, cut down, blood pooling beneath her. Or burned into ash. Or worse, crushed beneath a paw as his parents had been crushed by—
“What are you doing!?” A hand grabbed Emmrich by the back of his collar and hauled him away; a hurlock’s steel-sharp claws sliced through the empty air where he once stood. Glowing, Lucanis’ wings dissipated and dropped the assassin back down to earth, where he quickly embedded a blade into the juncture of the darkspawn’s bulbous head and neck. “Focus! Are you hurt?” He said intently, flinging blighted blood off the blade.
There were no words, not for this type of frantic, panicked fear. Emmrich instead summoned the Fade, noting that the Crow’s dark, wide eyes twitched, and blades of necrotic energy eviscerated a lumbering darkspawn with ease. A throwing knife arced through the air and buried itself into the skull of the hurlock behind it. Pulling another blade free from the bandolier on his chest, Lucanis frowned, as though he wanted to press Emmrich further.
But then came a bolt of streaking green light, slicing through the darkness with enough force to momentarily knock down one of the dragons. Chittering, it heaved back to its feet and shook the bolt fee, yet there was something different about the wound. The blood boiled and smoked, eating away at the surrounding flesh like acid.
“We thought you could use a hand!” A new voice shouted.
“Viago!” Lucanis crowed, face tearing into a sharp grin. “Where’s Teia?”
He laughed. “Am I not good enough for you, Dellamorte?”
In the process of crushing a darkspawn’s ribcage with her war-hammer, Evka yelled, mostly good-natured. “You’re late!”
“Yes,” said the Fifth Talon, “but we brought gifts!” Arm raised, Viago de Riva sauntered onto the battlefield as one would into the markets of Treviso. “Poisoned ballista bolts—guaranteed to solve your blighted dragon problem.”
“What are you waiting for?” Davrin shouted, appearing from the throng of battle. “Fire again! Rook’s still down there, dammit!”
The Antivan Crow’s guarantee was correct. The bolts made short work of one dragon, already worn down by Rook, Taash, and Lace’s efforts. Poisoned and bleeding, the second dragon went down with a death-rattle. Rook stood amongst the carnage, rigid and still, with one hand pressed firmly to her side.
With a wordless scream of fury, Ghilan’nain’s tentacles sundered the earth in the crater. “Your confidence, eagerness. All for naught!” The dragons both quailed as the Blight forced a corrupted life back into their bodies, shuddering as if they too understood the horror of what was happening to them. Roaring, Taash readied their axes; Harding, her bow, but Rook was looking at the hand pressed to her stomach, shoulders hunched.
“The dragons,” Emmrich said, horrified. “She’s reanimating them.”
Without another word, Lucanis broke into a sprint over the battlements towards an unmanned ballista, leaping over dead and debris and out of the reach of the still-surviving darkspawn. “Davrin!” He shouted. “Help me!” And the Grey Warden appeared, tossing down his sword and shield and throwing his weight against the wooden frame to adjust the aim. The assassin lined up the shot, and it was Davrin who smacked his fist against the firing mechanism.
The bolt tore through Ghilan’nain’s torso as a needle did fabric, effortlessly rending through flesh. Her blood came out red, but soaked black and oily into the earth. The dragons fell back down, still at last in death. Davrin and Lucanis whooped in triumph, Assan cheering along. At Evka’s command, the Grey Wardens marched forward. The back of Emmrich’s neck prickled, his gold accoutrements resonated with some unseen charge, and then the world flashed purple with lightning.
Elgar’nan had finally graced them with his presence.
The world stuttered and slowed, but the elvhen gods did not. With a snap of his fingers, the ballista bolt vanished from Ghilan’nain’s torso, and the father of the elvhen pantheon helped his sister to her feet in a corrupted pantomime of familial affection. Below, in the crater, Rook managed a step forward.
As quick as they came, the gods departed, and the world snapped back into motion. The syrupy sensation washed away, the electric pinpricks vanished and the muggy humidity of the swamplands returned, heavy and oppressive. The Grey Wardens who had been thrown by the blast completed their arcs, colliding roughly against rock and wood. Emmrich gasped for breath and stumbled, steadying himself by grasping Lucanis’ shoulder.
The surviving wardens made a strange, aborted cheer, as though they could not decide if this had been a victory or an utter loss. Immediately, Emmrich searched for Rook, the orange of her leathers a guiding star.
Lace and Taash were clambering around the dragon’s corpses, calling out to Aldwir, but she remained silent and still. Slowly, Rook’s bow slipped out of her hands. Then, she swayed unsteadily on her feet and collapsed face-down in the muck.
In truth, he expected her to stand back up, to leap up onto her feet and laugh it off, but Harding landed on her knees in the muck and began to shout. “Help! We need help!”
Was Rook dead? She could not be. Emmrich would have felt it—her explosive and remarkable spirit breaking into the Fade. He was sure of it.
With his wings, Lucanis descended first; Davrin, who had thrown himself down the cliff face in panic, was not far behind. Emmrich and Bellara went hand-in-hand down the precarious path, moving as quickly as they could.
Someone had turned Rook upon her back, and Harding’s hands were slick with blood as she tried to staunch the bleeding. A claw had torn a jagged gash in her lower abdomen, raking from her lower left hip to her right shoulder, and the flesh was torn open enough to expose part of the inner cavity of her torso. Emmrich realized with a start that Rook had been desperately trying to hold her intestines inside her body before she had toppled over from shock.
“Bellara!” Lace barked frantically. “Get down here—we need to stop the bleeding.” Orange and gold had turned dark red with gore, and sections of her armor resembled gradients of a sunset as the blood seeped through the fabric. The older Veil Jumper dropped his hand and fell to her knees, digging through her pouches. “Emmrich, if you have any potions or poultices left, give them to me. Quickly!”
What else could he do but obey? As he pressed everything he had into Lace’s bloodstained hands, he heard Lucanis’ voice, twisted and strangled. “ROOK. DYING. SHE’S NOT ALLOWED!” Spite growled, eyes aglow.
“Hey! Cut it out,” snapped Taash. There was a weariness to them too. A bruise marred their cheek, and blood was smeared over the bridge of their nose. “Bring Lucanis back! We can’t deal with you and Rook at the same time.”
“ROOK. IS. HURT!”
A growl. “I know!”
Ripping his eyes away from Rook, Emmrich turned. “Spite,” he began, in a soothing tone that felt utterly unconvincing. “Bellara and Harding are taking care of Rook. She could not be in better hands. Would you please let Lucanis come back now? The last thing we want is to distract them from their work, yes?”
“BUT LUCANIS. IS. FRIGHTENED,” the spirit said.
“May I share a secret with you, Spite?” He grasped Lucanis’ body by the shoulder, leaned in, and whispered lowly. “So am I.”
The assassin’s body went slack, momentarily boneless, before Lucanis blinked. His eyes were once again a deep, rich brown. Confused, his brows knit together as he surveyed the tableau of misery before them. “Is she—is Rook—?”
“No,” answered Emmrich. “She’s holding on.”
Davrin, who had once been so adamant about cutting the spirit down, had ignored Spite completely. He was kneeling by Rook’s head and had taken one of her bloody hands in his; Assan paced anxiously around the crowd. “Two dragons, Rook?” The warden’s tone was light-hearted, but the corners of his mouth and eyes were strained as Bellara and Lace tried to piece her back together. “You’re just trying to make me look bad.”
“Lethallin,” began Rook pathetically. Her chest was heaving, eyes glassy. “It hurts.”
“I know, as’lin. You’re doing well. Always knew you were strong.”
Neve had her fist in her mouth, biting down on her fingers. “We have to move her.”
“Her guts are falling out!” Harding said frantically. “It’s too risky—“
“Even if you manage to close the wound, it’ll be an infection that does her in! We need hot water and clean bandages. Poultices to clean it!”
“I can’t lose another friend, Neve!” The dwarf snapped, and looked perilously close to tears.
The detective flinched, and when she spoke again her voice was softer. “It won’t be like Varric, I promise. But we can’t keep her here.”
Sniffling, Lace clenched her jaw and nodded. Horrifically pale, Rook murmured something soft that sounded very much like Varric? “Fine. Give us another minute. Bellara, how much longer—?”
“I need something relatively clean,” started the elf. Her cheeks were wet, but there was a wavering strength in her voice as her hands worked furiously. “Something to keep pressure on the wound.”
Emmrich untied the sash from his hips without prompting. Protected by his coat, it remained mostly unmarked by blood and blight and gore. “Here,” he said in a low whisper, surprised that he could manage words at all.
Carefully, Bellara plucked it from his hands and pressed it firmly against Rook’s side. “I’ll hold it down.” Then, to the Warden. “Can you lift her?”
“I’ve got her,” said Davrin, and he gently hooked his arms beneath her knees and back, hoisting her up off the ground. A strangled whimper of pain burst out of Rook, and Bellara failed to choke back a sudden sob.
Head lolling against Davrin’s shoulder, Aldwir’s eyes were glassy. “Please don’t cry, Bells.”
“Viri,” the other elf managed tearfully. “Viridian, you can’t die.”
“I’m not planning on it,” Rook replied, and then she promptly fell unconscious.