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“Here, papa?”
“Just so, my darling. We can leave the flowers right here.”
Emmrich crouched next to their daughter, his big hands over her tiny ones, adjusting the bouquet at the foot of the memorial. Embrium and gladioli — to remember the dead and the strength of friends long lost. Their sweet smell drifted toward Rook, tucked by the entrance.
Months after the Battle of Minrathous, Dorian — now the Archon himself — had converted the original throne room into a memorial, a towering pillar at the heart of the palace, names etched on every side. Crows and Wardens, Watchers and Shadows, Veil Jumpers and Lords — all had a place atop the obsidian monolith, a testament to the might of Thedas united.
Or at least that was what they told her. Rook had never seen it up close.
Even now, several years later, a few days shy of the anniversary of their victory, her feet stayed stuck to the threshold, unable to bring herself any closer. Legs like lead, refusing to move even when she bade them, frustration bubbling in her chest mixing with something dull and sharp all at once.
Grief — she had become acquainted with it well enough. It ebbed and swelled, but never failed to greet her year after year like an old friend.
They were lucky, all things considered. It could have been her name etched on that obelisk, Emmrich laying flowers by himself, heart aching for the rest of his life. Would he have cried? If there had been a body left, would he have taken her to the Necropolis himself? Would he have visited her grave every day?
Rook knew the answer. She saw it in the way he held their daughter's hand, pointing to the names, helping her trace the letters with all the patience in the world.
“This is—”
“Auntie Lace!”
“Very good!” Emmrich was quick to praise, peppering kisses to the top of her hair as she giggled. “Oh, Lace would have loved you so much, I'm sure of it. Did you know, darling, she once told me…”
Lace.
Varric.
Rook knew their names were there, Emmrich told her when she'd asked just after it was built — but to know and to see were two different things. She didn't know when she'd be ready to see.
Eventually, Emmrich took their daughter by the hand and guided them both back. He pressed his lips to her temple, lingering for a second as Rook's heart finally settled and the yawning pit in her stomach closed.
“How do you feel, my love?” His voice was gentle, compassionate.
She only gave a noncommittal sound in return.
“One step at a time.”
Maybe next year. It was what she told herself every year.