Chapter Text
A note has been left upon the cover: These writings are taken from a heavily worn journal found deep within the Mourn Watch's archives. No name is attached, and it is unclear how old it is. The journal mentions lichdom—maybe it belonged to one of your own colleagues? I've transcribed it here to the best of my ability. I hope that it can be of some use to you, Emmrich.
I don't know who this is for. Perhaps if I put my musings down on paper, it can do something to ease this terrible grief within me. It is unending, a ceaseless gnawing within my chest, threatening to swallow me whole. Were I a mortal man once more, then sleep could at least avail me temporarily of this anguish. Such things are a dream now. Night and day, I am left alone only with my thoughts for company. Although what is night? What is day? I can hear the stars hum as they move across the sky; I sense the sun as it cycles with the moons. It does not matter. Their light cannot reach the depths of the Necropolis. For me, the passage of time was marked in accordance with her routine: night meant the moments where she slumbered. Daytime was when she was awake. These concepts hold no significance for me anymore.
When M. died, I chose to accept his passing in exchange for ascension. And I did so, graciously, despite the difficulties. But that was different, I reasoned. His death came in the heat of battle, a decision to save us. A sacrifice. Ultimately, does intent even matter? He is gone, and so is she. Another sacrifice. The greatest of all.
I try to remember—was this amount of pain the same for me now as when my parents died? Yes and no. I was so young then that I could barely comprehend what was happening to me. A whirlwind of emotions and new surroundings, a child thrown from one circumstance to the next. One day, a loving father and mother. A warm home. The next, a pair of cold, unfeeling graves as I was ushered into the terrifying embrace of the Grand Necropolis.
All things considered, my upbringing within the Necropolis is what saved me, the rituals and the rites lending some structure and purpose to my grief. Though sometimes I wonder whether my internal fear towards everything concerning death or dying could have been eased or even avoided entirely had I been afforded more time. My caretakers in the Watch allowed me my period of mourning, of course, but that, like all things, had to end, maybe much too soon before I ready. Was I ever ready? Would I ever be? Many many months after their deaths, I would still cry over them. One glance, one look from a senior Watcher in silent judgment made me believe that it was wrong to do so. A Watcher must be accepting of loss, after all. From then on, I saved my tears for the times when I could be myself in solitude.
It is much the same now as it was when I was a boy. The pressures of lichdom—to be above such mortal mundanities, as it were—are overwhelming. That is another reason why I am keeping this journal, to jot it all down in here instead of burdening my friends and peers with my misery. How many times can one speak of their bereavement until others grow weary of it? They may ask how you are and offer sympathy, but for you to express yourself fully? No one wants to see that. In the end, their words are more for themselves than for you. Besides, their expressions tell me everything that I need to know. They would never dare say so aloud, but I can tell from the look in their eyes, how it has transformed from sympathy to a mixture of vindication and pity. "Of course he wasn't prepared. Shouldn't he know better? It was inevitable. He knew this when he stepped through that threshold into lichdom. Was this not part of the bargain?" No, it is best that I keep my thoughts strictly to these pages alone.
Thinking about it now, in a morbid way, it was somewhat of a blessing that my parents' deaths were swift and unexpected. There was no impending sense of dread, a constant fear of mortality. Their deaths were nothing compared to hers, long and drawn out as it was—a death that I understood would come the moment I underwent the rite. When I emerged from that chamber and laid my eyes upon her for the first time, I saw it, the flame of her soul, burning so brilliantly. Like a candle, her body the wick, fragile and delicate, whose time in this world was short and finite. It was then that I realized that she was dying, how all mortals are dying a little more each second, each day that passes. That's what time truly is, another word synonymous with death.
If only I could stop time for her.
I had once read of a Tevinter legend in which the ancient followers of Andraste would keep a black pearl in their mouths at the time of their deaths. It was said that doing so prevented their souls from passing through the Veil. Oftentimes, I wondered if she had ever heard of such a story, and I found myself thinking, "What if?" It seemed quite absurd, but what if I had procured such a thing for her and forced it under her tongue so that she would remain with me, always? What would such an existence for her be like, as ailing as she was? Such a cruel wish of mine to deprive her of her well-earned rest, only to satisfy my own selfish desire.
In my desperation, I remember a promise made years ago, how I would never allow us to be parted. The irrational words of a lovesick fool, clinging to an impossible happiness. She is dead now. Dead and dust. Things are different outside of Nevarra. I will never understand it for as long as I live. That was her wish in the end—the pyre. Not for any religious reason, to join our beloved Maker across the Veil. No. When I had inquired as to why, pleading for her not to, she merely explained that it was for me, that were I to see her, I would be forced to emerge from the shadows of the Necropolis and journey to her final resting place in her hometown. Her greatest fear was my eternal despair, to languish forever within that darkness. In her attempts to ease my pain, however, I am afraid that she has only amplified it.
Could she not see? The body serves as a comfort, a reminder of a person's life. They existed, now here is the proof. An urn full of ashes just reminds one of death, almost no different from the soil and the dirt under which they reside. There are no personal effects that remain, no clothing or jewelry. It is impersonal and indifferent, almost clinical in its ceremony.
Still, I respected her wishes, though there was no worse thing that I could have suffered. There was not. It was like watching her die for a second time. As she burned, I heard the sounds of Chantry lamentations over the roar of the flames. They brought me no relief. These readings from the Canticles are meant to soothe, to reassure us that the deceased now rest in glory beside the Maker. "In the long hours of the night. When hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know. Your Light remains. In aeternum." Those last words being an addition to the verse. "Forever" in Tevene. I noticed that they said it often in the North, usually in remembrance of the dead. A word uttered without knowing the weight behind it, for what mortal mind can fully grasp the idea of forever?
I suppose that I have to learn.
Afterwards came the reassurances and "I'm sorries." Drawn faces and mournful eyes. They wept for her as well. I remember meeting their gazes with a stony one of my own, later listening to their whispers when they thought that I was well out of earshot: "He seems to be taking this better than expected. He doesn't even appear sad." There should be no need to explain myself. Everyone mourns in their own way. But so much had transpired up until that point, I simply had no more tears to shed. I felt thoroughly concussed and—this surprised me—exhausted, both physically and mentally. For the first time in many decades, I just felt so tired. Tired and numb. A lich requires neither rest nor sleep, but that was all I wanted to do. I wanted to stop.
The condolences continued. Constantly, I was told, "She will live on in your memory." Familiar words from a familiar time. A worn sentiment. They said as much to me about my parents. What good is my memory of them when I can barely recall their faces? We had but one portrait together as a family, and that was destroyed alongside everything else in the collapse. Fortunately, many depictions of her exist. Statues and paintings and monuments. Yet none really capture her as I knew her. For how much longer will my memory of her remain truly her, as she was? When will her authentic self be replaced by this idealized image—a falsity no different from these statues? Oftentimes, I find myself peering into the Fade for a chance to glimpse her, just for a moment, in the vain hope that I can refresh this memory anew. And yet, after all of my searching, I must confess: if one day, a spirit appeared to me bearing her visage, I would surrender myself to it in a heartbeat.
Could I possibly see her again? The real her? "The Light shall lead her safely," the Chant tells us. "Through the paths of this world, and into the next." How can we ever know? I have walked through death, and in that temporary limbo, I hovered between this world and the next. I have briefly observed what lies beyond the Veil. No deity awaits us—no grand welcoming of the soul with outstretched arms. Only the cold and the dark.
In the past, I always held onto the belief that those who have passed on somehow still lived, that a part of their souls yet lingered within the bodies they once inhabited. Now, I am not so sure, though there is no body of hers that remains. Even if there was, if I were to speak to her, would it even be her? I want to have faith, but how ashamed she would be of me, of my weakness. Not that I would even deign to call upon her, even if doing so might allow me some measure of respite. What would she say? Cowardice and fear would continue to hold me back, as they always have—a fear of disappointment, of misremembrance. In the end, some things are better left unspoken.
Oh, my love. What must you think of me now, scribbling these sad little thoughts in this sad little journal of mine? Do these writings serve to soothe, or are they allowing me to indulge fully in my despair? It feels good, in a way, to be able to wallow, to stew. It's all about me, of course. My feelings, my sorrow. What about her? Why, she no longer feels anything at all.
For how long must I endure in this fashion? Some moments are better than others. It ebbs and flows. But one small reprieve in the vastness of eternity—it is not enough.
Already, it is nearly time to visit her again. I should bring her something. A flower? She always loved the moon lilies from the gardens, although I am unsure if they can survive outside of the Necropolis. I must try.