Work Text:
When Emmrich had informed them of a masquerade to celebrate their defeat of Hezenkoss, Rook had almost expected to be received by just Myrna, Vorgoth, a bunch of skeletons that happened to be close by and maybe, if they were very lucky, at least one of those Lich Lords because, well, Emmrich was sort of one of them now. This, they had not expected. But it was what they deserved. Saving Nevarra while also fighting to save Thedas from some blighted figures their birth mother might have believed in. Truth be told, they deserved it. And yet…
Rook's eyes shifted from the long hallway before them to him. Emmrich, who was about to 'debut' his new look. They turned their head to him, one dark lock slipping from behind their ear where it meekly swung before their eyes.
Emmrich titled his skull. The turquoise fire almost sprang from his eye sockets, creating a tinted sheen on the golden headpiece which accentuated his cheekbones. Rook smiled in return, quickly raising their hands to sign. “I hadn’t expected this many people to show.”
The flames licked the rims of their shadowy homes as he nodded. Why, Rook, we saved Nevarra and, quite possibly, all of Thedas. Some congratulations are in order.
Their hand shifted to the back of their head just above the spot where it connected to their neck. They still were not used to it. His ‘voice’ crawling inside their brain, worming through its soft tissue. Emmrich, on the other hand, seemed not to have needed any time getting used to it at all.
Bangles danced around pale, withered flesh as he swung one arm around their shoulder and placed a bloodless hand upon Harding's. I cannot wait to see you try true Nevarran cuisine.
Harding signed something about food in response as they passed another veilfire torch. Its ethereal green light danced across the silver of her mask, representative of the sheep she used to herd for her ma. Each reflected flick of the flame was only broken up by strands of her ginger hair which gently caressed the animal’s solid curls.
Rook pushed the lock of black hair back where it belonged as they neared the large double door decorated with thick patina lines. Each skeleton they neared placed a fist against the centre of their rib cage and slammed the blunt end of their spear upon the colourless hexagons that made-up the floor. Dust flew with each hit on the stone.
Their feet—clad in flat, open shoes—halted before the barrier between them and their own celebration. Rook placed a golden brown hand, cool-toned in the light of the Grand Necropolis, upon the left door. The life of the party—voices and music presumably—thrummed through the wood. A short rhythm of one-two, one-two, one-two-three. They brought their hands to the sheer grey fabric that shaped the beak and blended in with the dark feathers attached at the ends of their mask. A rook. Fitting. They slightly adjusted its position upon their nose.
Lowering their hands, they turned to the flaming-eyed skeleton standing beside the oaken doors and nodded. It nodded, slamming the bottom-end of its spear onto the floor and sending waves of air skidding across the tiles and the bridge of their feet. Warmth joined the mix as the Grand Necropolis’ eerie light seeped through the ever-widening line between the two doors.
Crossing the threshold, a grand room filled with people greeted them. To their right stood long tables covered by rich purple tablecloths. Silver platters carrying bite-sized pieces of food ranging from sweet pastries with red jams to the savoury with what appeared to be leaves of cabbage rolled up and stuffed with something a bit more colourful. On a raised platform in the centre of the left side of the room stood a group of musicians, only three of whom could be counted among the living. A woman in the centre whose arms spread through the air as she threw her head back with her mouth wide open. And two men beside her, each holding some kind of blow instrument. One held a bagpipe pinned between his upper arm and chest while his round cheeks were burning red with effort. The other had an unevenly shaped, pale flute pressed against the bottom of his lips. Behind them, three skeletons were running their finger bones over golden strings. And ahead of Rook, people were dancing. The skirt of a woman’s dress billowed around her legs as she swirled around her dance partner, plump flesh holding onto dried skin sticking to bone. As the tips of her heeled feet halted on the snout of one of the many red dragons adoring the mosaic floor, she bowed and placed a kiss upon the back of the hand. A yellowish knuckle tore through the remaining flesh.
Rook turned to Harding. She appeared to be as astounded as they were. While the sheep covered most of her face, including the blush she had brushed onto her cheeks, the silver could not hide her hazel eyes which had grown as wide as the dwarven shields Rook’s parents used to make. Emmrich swivelled around, arms wide open as his jaws—presumably incapable of producing speech now that he lacked a tongue and vocal cords—opened up. Magnificent, isn’t it? The dead and the living revelling in each other’s company.
A skeleton, bones utterly bare save for the metal contraption screwed onto its skull, pushed a platter in between them. Triangular glasses with a bubbling liquid and tiny puff pastry cups filled with a bright cream upon which burned spots jiggled. A waft of citrus tickled their nose. Rook licked their lips, their eyes moving from the platter to the skull. Was it not wrong? To bind a spirit, be they the reincarnated dead or a mere wisp, to a corpse with nothing but eternal servitude for reward.
The remains of Emmrich’s bloodless flesh wrapped around one of the pasty cups. With his other hand, he grabbed Rook’s wrist and placed it in the palm of their hand. A soothing warmth radiated from the dough, offsetting the cold seeping from the points where the new lich’s fingertips touched their skin.
There is no need to be shy, Rook. Have a bite. Eat, eat.
Rook bit into the cup. Flakes of dough broke apart as the sweet cream spilled into their mouth. They smiled, swallowed, and nodded as Harding took one for herself. They popped the remainder in their mouth, signed an excuse—exploration—before Emmrich could drag them to the table to try everything else.
Walking across wings in all shades, they passed another one of the dead, although this figure wore thrice more wealth on their bodily remains than a Lord of Fortune did after successfully infiltrating an Imperium tomb. Gold and silver rings ran up all the way of their throat and matching bangles consistently bumped against each other with each move of the arm. Short puff sleeves were attached to an emerald bodice covered with pearly beads, golden thread, and crushed gems. The skull had been carved with a matching pattern of lines interrupted by sharp corners.
Their voice scratched their way up Rook’s spine. So, you are the lich’s underling? I had expected you to be…
“Taller?” Rook signed. Most people seemed to have this painting in their head of Rook heroically posing before a chest bulging with treasure, their dagger pressing into the throat of a Tevinter noble trapped in the shadow of their towering body. The way people’s lips would form the perfect ‘O’ once they revealed their elven heritage was generally quite amusing. Save for the times when their conversation partner decided that the appropriate response would be to go an anti-elven tangent.
The flames carried by the dead Nevarran's skull dimmed as they turned around and shuffled away without inserting another word into their brain. Was it because they had used Common sign language instead of Nevarran? But the only other one they knew was Rivaini with a little bit of Ferelden.
Rook placed their hands on the ocean blue fabric of their pocket-less dress. Emmrich had assured them that their notebook wouldn’t be necessary. The dead did not have much else to do with their spare time save learning and not everyone’s mind was as ‘open’ to communication. They ought to have ignored that advice. What good was it doing them now? Then again, would they still be as equally willing if the words were born through pencil and paper as opposed to noise?
A heavy touch tapped them on the shoulder. They spun around, only to be met by the tenth figure bearing a dragon’s mask. Each scale was painted an individual colour, and the horns which aligned with the eye-sockets cast shadows which hid the eye in the ballroom’s soft lighting. Before the man could open his mouth, Rook spelled out the word “Hello” with their hands.
On cue, the man dropped his hand and passed them by.
Rook swallowed. It seemed that the Nevarran elite were not interested in ‘entertaining’ their deaf guest. This left only Harding, Emmrich, Myrna, and Vorgoth—wherever the latter two were—to talk to. Was it truly too much to ask to converse with one who cared not for vocal cord produced sounds? One who appreciated their embodied conversing?
Side-stepping another bare skeleton and their silver platter, Rook moved between the empty, migrating river that ran between the dancing couples. The edge of the ballroom loomed before them. Not a wall with giant mirrors as from the Orzammar tales described by their parents, but a balustrade providing a peek at devouring darkness. It offered a view of the shrouded dead which lined the walls, each becoming fainter the deeper one’s eyes went. And hanging high in the centre were the bones of a dragon. Small flames leapt from the sockets as it uselessly moved the remains of its wings. Perhaps it was a good thing that Taash had been too busy educating Davrin on dragons that day. If they were ever to see this, the Grand Necropolis would never survive. Or, at least not the Mortalitasi who inhabited it. The sentient building might just survive the onslaught.
Slinking forward, they spotted a figure who appeared rather out of place. Whereas other guests wore darkened rainbows and sparkled in the veilfire flames, this figure wore a moss-green cloak whose end rested upon the floor. Matching gloved hands were placed upon the marble balustrade. White, flowing fabric met cuffs wrapped tightly around the wrists. Pinkish ear tips stuck out from the slits in the cloak’s hood. An elf. The only elf they had seen so far.
How long had the elf been standing, staring at the nothingness of it all? They had not seen the figure move through their drift between dancers, so it must be while. Nothing escaped their eyes. They kept the Fortune medallions to prove it. Though, should they not have seen him stand there sooner? Perfectly unguarded.
They straightened their shoulder. Everything that had occurred lately was too distracting. And what leader would not tire from having to deal with the fate of Thedas? The Inquisitor, no doubt, let things slip past him during times of hardship. They shifted their mask once more as if it needed any adjustments. There was only one remedy for what Rook was going through, and that remedy was called relaxation. A good talk with a stranger, whose hidden face they could pretend was maybe the most handsome thing of all, would do just that.
Forcing a slow breath out between their lips, they moved towards the elf. The figure was tall, Rook had to give him that as they placed their forearms upon the balustrade, its soothing touch seeping into their bones. They let their eyes roam across the dark before landing on him. His white shirt was covered by a waistcoat which was, perhaps, the only thing he had in common with the others for it was golden. Its shine, though, was dull and it neither sparkled nor screamed for the attention of the eye. A deep, blood-red thread swirled across the fabric in elegant patterns of waves and curls. The horns of the halla were similarly depicted in the book their birth mother had left behind. The black snout of a wolfs hid most of his face, leaving only his faintly scarred chin bare for others to see.
They struggled to keep their face smooth. Before this, Rook had only ever met one tall, wolfish elf, and if it wasn’t for him being imprisoned in the Fade, they might have accused the poor man of being him.
The black snout shifted towards them along with eyes that appeared greyish within the Grand Necropolis’ light. His hands lifted up from the balustrade and moved through the air between them as he signed, “Defeating Johanna Hezenkoss was no small feat. This celebration is well and truly deserved.” His slender fingers wove through the air, fluid and unhesitating. A man comfortable with their language. Perhaps he was like them, though what were the odds? Then again, what were the odds of meeting an elf here?
Heat crept up their cheeks as their heart burst forward. Had the universe read their thoughts? They smiled as they lifted their arms. “I had a little help.”
His hands exaggerated their movements for emphasis, lips slightly curling upwards as his cheeks moved to hide underneath those of the wolf. “Only a little?”
They spread their arms wide apart. “A lot…” Their hands hovered through the air, uncertain of their next words. “Truth is, the real hero isn’t even here.”
His grin fell as he tilted his head to the right. “Professor Volkarin’s assistant?”
“Manfred.” Rook added. Little glove-wearing, always packed Manfred, who would dance around Assan and who would stand outside, waiting for a game of rock, paper, scissors. The way his bones lay upon the dark floor, no spark behind those diamond goggles. It flashed before their eyes. “He sacrificed himself for us.” And what had that gotten him? Emmrich being ‘blessed’ with enteral life?
They glanced around the room. None of the other guests seemed to near the balustrade. The servants appeared to avoid the space too, their naked bodies moving through the colourful sea of dresses and suits to provide nourishment for the thirsty and hungry. Those who cannot even bother to give them more than a single glance.
“Even if he were alive, I am uncertain if they would bother to honour him.”
“Because he was a wisp?” Rook wondered his nature had played a role in Emmrich’s decision. As if it could justify trading him for immortality. Or explain anything that they had seen so far. Rook stepped away from the balustrade as cool air touched the bit of skin that peeked through the slit in their skirt. “The Mortalitasi claim to love them, yet I have only ever seen them make spirits perform manual labour here. Except for the ones inhabiting wealthy corpses, it seems.”
The wolf followed along. “Then what will you do about it?” He held up his land to his side like the other leading dancers did.
“Will?”
The man pulled his hand back. “When the hero sees injustice, is it not their task to intervene?” His hand returned to the place of invitation.
Rook placed their right hand against his. The leather of his glove felt… unusual. Neither warm nor cold, as if no temperature inside or out had ever touched it. They moved a couple of steps further away from the balustrade and Rook followed as he made the first move backwards. In slow circles, they moved at a pace similar to the others, albeit slower. The others were moving as if their lives depended on it, sweat glistening on the necks of the living. What will they do?
The gentle grasp of two fingers on their chin turned their gaze away from the crowd, the eyes of their owner all consuming.
Rook ran their tongue across their lips as they moved their hand from his to respond. Assuming that 'will' referred to right now… “I will free the dragon trapped to the ceiling. In the ensuing chaos, I will guide the servants to the Elu”—wait, they should not mention that part—“I will guide the servants out of the Grand Necropolis and bring them to my base.”
“But what if, in its fear, the dragon turns against you?”
“I have my companions with me.”
“What if the remains of Volkarin do not agree with your actions?”
Remains? Rook frowned. “I know his weak spots and convincing Harding will be no problem.” The Inquisition’s scout carried far too much heart to go against their cause.
“You are very certain of yourself, are you not?” A glimpse of his pearly teeth broke through as a new grin tugged at his lips.
“As are all fine leaders.” They found their lips mirroring his. “And what will you do?” The dancers behind were nothing now. A smear of shifting colours interchanged by the void of the balcony. When it had happened, they did not know. Their legs were moving faster, speaking at a rhythm that could not have arisen from the singer’s slow-moving mouth and the musicians’ crawling fingers.
“If I could, I would offer you my aid with this endeavour. Alas, I cannot.”
Rook wanted to move their fingers. To ask what he meant. The leather-covered hand wrapping around theirs prevented them from doing so. In spite of the grip he held upon them, there was a lightness to his touch. They had felt something similar before back home.
Their breath hitched as their lips spread apart for some unknowable reason. Perish the thought, for it could not be. The man before them inhabited a body, one made of flesh and bone, the same as their own. A spirit he could not be. It was… Yes, it was the environment that was throwing them through a loop. The spirits, the walking dead. Him being the only guest besides their teammates willing to talk with them. Truly talk, fingers, arms, face, and all.
And he tugged them closer, their chests pressed against each other. Blue with a touch of pearlescent collided with red stitched upon gold as their heart sought a way out. Out of their chest. It thumped against their ribs as if it sought escape from wolf jaws snapping at its heels. And it faded. All of it. The colours. The light and shadows. The floor. All of it. A cloud was what they danced upon, too soft to notice underneath their feet as the elf before them was all there was.
The wolf lowered his head. They blinked away the familiarity of the crisscrossed scarring around his lips as they raised themselves on their toes. They closed their eyes, plump lips brushing against thin lips, bumping against the wolf’s snout.
A hand let go of theirs as the snout moved itself out of the way. Lips pressed deeper into theirs. Something danced in their throat, shifting backwards and forwards as their mouth opened up. Hungry teeth found their mark, pressing into the soft flesh of their lower lip.
Heat rose from their chest, flowing between them as their lungs screamed for air. Holding on for one second, two seconds, three… Rook opened their eyes as they pulled back, lowering themselves.
The hood of his cloak must have fallen back when he had shifted his mask. The black thing now covered one of his ears, leaving the flat nose they were forced to stare at whenever they meditated bare.
Their jaw sank as warm iron seeped onto their drying tongue. Their fingers slipped from his, fluttering up to create the sign of the wolf.
Rook, what are you doing there all by yourself?
Their gaze shot over their shoulder as they aimed a finger like a dagger at Solas. Emmrich’s skull lazily turned to the Dread Wolf as Harding tilted her head and frowned. The scout raised her firm hands, fingers proclaiming, “There is nothing there.”
Rook swivelled their head right back, black curls flinging before their eyes as their gaze roamed where he had stood. But there was just nothing. Just them standing alone on the mosaic floor, their feet surrounded by Nevarran dragons.
But he had been there. They took a deep breath and motioned once more at the empty space. “Solas was right there.” They ran their tongue over the inside of their bottom lip. Their flesh was raised where blood poured. They took a deep breath and motioned once more at the empty space. “Solas was right there.” That was all they needed to know. Their team did not need to know that they had chosen to…
Rook shook their head. It had been a trick. Yes, a dirty trick. To appear at a masquerade like that and… But wasn’t that the point of a masquerade ball. Being able to hide among the others.
They dropped their arms and marched away from the balcony, pressing their hands into fists. Their next meditation session wasn't going to be a fun one, and they were going to make sure of it. The Dread Wolf was going to learn the hard way to play with Rooks. He was going to pay for that little mark he had left behind.