Chapter 1: Sudden Stop
Chapter Text
The most difficult part is the one that Emmrich has struggled with the longest. True acceptance. As much as a man can know a thing to be true, understand its nature, and its place in the grander picture, accepting it is a task left to better, younger, more changeable men than himself. Now, as he stands alone in the quiet aftermath of his cluttered parlor, trembling fingers brushing over the battle-scarred motif of a griffon on a shield, returned to him by the Wardens mere days ago, he is forced to confront what he never thought he’d have to. Unavoidable conflict has come for him, with the thing that, no matter how commonplace, how normal, how inescapable, how worthy of respect it might be—The thing he knows intimately, in practice and in theory, yet never like this.
This thing, this one, specific, horrible thing… was not supposed to happen. Not now. Not after all they’d endured. All they’d survived. All they’d accomplished. All of it, all of it, all of it—This wasn’t supposed to happen. Prior experience had not been enough to prepare him to face it, to confront how it feels to lose everything. Again.
“We wanted to do this personally. We know what you meant to him.” Evka’s eyes shone bright with kindness as well as regret as she hefted it upward and showed it to him. Emmrich had seen the back side of this tower shield more than the front, as the one he loved so deeply and unexpectedly had stood between him and the thing he’d feared most. This shield, in the hand of its owner, had protected Emmrich from death. And now it was here all alone, with out an arm strong enough to bear it.
“This gesture means a great deal to me,” Emmrich replied, but the words numbed his tongue, bland, tasteless, useless to him but perhaps to her it might be some small comfort. Respecting her efforts is the least Emmrich can do. This loss is not his alone, but the whole of Thedas. And most importantly, one that belongs to those they’d come to count among their friends.
Emmrich expected a great many things when the world didn’t come to a sudden end. Outliving his Rook was not one of them. He’d seemed so young and sturdy when first they met; a warrior hardened and wizened by horrors untold in the later part of his prime, someone with a sense for people as strong as Emmrich’s own sense for spirits, and a warmth that came from living in a world too cold to survive without it. It took months of building trust and sharing one another’s company for Rook to even tell Emmerich his given name, or how young he’d been when he’d become a Warden, a gift he’d not granted the others for reasons that Emmrich thought he’d understood at the time. And yet, obscured in all the honesty that Emmrich alone was offered on their journey to stop the gods, there was one piece Rook had left out. An insidious lie of omission that was always waiting in the wings, there from the very start.
“He said you might want to try and recover his body. He… Gave his consent, but we must warn you that there may not be anything familiar of him left to find. The Blight is not as it once was, yet it still remains, ever changing and searching for new influence. If you wish to go through with it, with finding him, The Grey Wardens will be there in whatever ways you might need.” Antoine’s earnestness struck at a soft, tender part of Emmrich’s heart. He was too gentle a soul to tell Emmrich that it would be a fool’s errand to look, but not so gentle as to tell Emmrich it couldn’t be done and let him grieve. Kindness could be a cruelty to some, and as he stared down at the shield in Evka’s grasp, too heavy for Emmrich to lift on his own, his eyes brimmed with tears he refused to shed.
What a cruel fate it is to suffer, to look back and see the cracks in the edifice of love so clearly now that it’s been lost. They’d never really settled their argument, had they? Rook had let it go, his broad and gentle palm settling over Emmrich’s knuckles and squeezing his thin hand to reassure him. There had simply been too much pain, too much uncertainty, and when the fight was over, all that mattered was going home. A home that Emmrich has now neglected for days, books tossed, empty wine glasses left about, the curtains drawn, darkening the shadows in every corner of his home. A home that he’d shared with Rook for a period that now feels far too brief.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Emmrich asks, running bare palm across the scuffed face of the shield. His hair falls in his sleepless eyes as he awaits an answer from the dead that isn’t forthcoming. What Rook has left him to do is the cruelest thing imaginable, but there is no one better suited to the task than Emmrich. He sucks in a breath that stutters along his ribs and catches wetly in his throat. “Was it because of my concern for you or… my insecurity… about me, I wonder?”
There is only one way to be certain of the answer, and Emmrich doesn’t know if he has the strength to carry it out, but he has strength enough to see one thing through. The important thing.
“Manfred—” The name catches between his tonsils, choked by the grief he cannot contain. “We’ll need to send word. To the others. Could you please…”
His knees feel so much weaker than they used to, always threatening to crumple. Four days he’s wallowed in this ugly feeling, so cold and hollow in his chest. It’s as if when Rook left, he scooped out everything that made Emmrich warm and took it with him. The affirmative, hissing reply sounds muffled, as if Emmrich’s head is underwater. He’s never experienced the terror of nearly drowning, but this might be what it feels like. Sucked under into all this cold, dark nothing. Rook couldn’t swim.
“You always seem so fearless, my darling.”
“Oh, I’m plenty afraid. All the time. Of a lot of things. Don’t let the calm and collected façade fool you.”
“Well of course. Wasn’t it you who told me that a little fear is normal? Good, even? But you can tell me your fears, you know. A burden shared is a burden halved, as they say.”
“Do they now? They say a lot of things it seems.”
“Always so cheeky.”
Rook paused, his easy grin melting into something a little softer around the edges, more vulnerable. He took a breath and Emmrich’s brows twitched closer together, ever patient as he waited for his love to decide what he wanted to say next. His admittance came with a self-effacing smile, more a grimace, but his too-wide mouth was always a little upturned at the corners, bearing a smile in the face of pain, anger, embarrassment, or even in moments of sorrow.
“Water, actually.” Rook shrugged, looking away, his mane of dark chestnut hair falling across his shoulder to obscure his face. “Can’t swim. Trotting around in all this armor… even if I’d ever learned, it’s a death sentence more embarrassing than any monster.”
“Really?” Emmrich hadn’t meant to sound so surprised. Rook looked back at him, the dimple at the left side of his mouth deepening with the way it stretched crookedly into a smile that was completely impenetrable.
“Yup. Really.”
The location chosen is an appropriate one. Much as Emmrich would have loved to have everyone come together under his roof, in some other place and time, where the reason for such a reunion was not so grim, there is nowhere more fitting. The Lighthouse stands and its energy still carries the warmth of Rook’s presence, soaked into every Fade-touched brick. The Lighthouse had molded to him, reflecting his past with effigies to the Grey Wardens that seemed to appear overnight after the siege of Weisshaupt. To stand in the library once more, beneath the glow of the astrolabe above, and feel the touch of Rook’s departed spirit, even briefly, is a quiet agony that Emmrich suffers with a tense swallow.
Manfred visibly slouches beside him, deflating as he makes a noise of commiserating sadness, little more than a growl. When Emmrich looks at his ward, he sees a choice Rook made with his heart, not his head. He convinced Emmrich to give up everything he’d worked for, and for a time, they were a family because of it. A fair trade, in the end. Emmrich can’t imagine a world where he chose differently. And now he knows, more than ever, that Rook was and is the reason that Emmrich is not suited for immortality. For lichdom. The sorrow runs in deep, frigid fathoms of black water, and would that he could, Emmrich would reach out of this current and grasp his love with both hands, dragging them together once more.
Manfred wanders by and looks at the books, the roving wisps, chittering with them in a way only he can; he makes floating motes of light to dance and play with the wisps. For a moment, Emmrich can feel Rook at his side and see his smile in the periphery of his vision. Arms akimbo, eyes half squinted in amusement, and that warm, easeful expression of contentment he’d often worn when it was just the three of them. A trick of his mind, Emmrich knows. A trick of the Fade. If he turns to look, Rook will vanish. He holds his breath. He holds on to that feeling a little bit longer.
The eerie pressure of another person stepping through the eluvian below makes the air feel thinner, and in the wake of it, the urge passes Emmrich by. He schools his emotions into something acceptably put together; he dons the air of a proper Mourn Watcher. Somber, but unbroken by grief for the departed, only accepting. Whether the redness of his eyes or the weariness of his smile will give him away, he can’t say, and he doesn’t want to know.
“Emmrich?” The call bounces off the stone staircase, the sound of Lace Harding’s gentle, musical voice, followed by another, deeper, more hesitant.
“Y’here, Pops?”
Together. Harding’s light-footed steps masked by Taash’s heavier gait. Emmrich clears the congestion of emotion from his throat and calls back, as bright as can be managed.
“Up here, in the library.”
Whatever else he might be feeling, their faces are a sight for his weary eyes to behold. Harding looks well, her hair longer now, her plaits intricate and woven with golden beads. She looks well matched beside Taash. Their influence and closeness are shown so plainly in the subtle changes in Harding’s dress. Little glimmers of gold here and there, a healthy tan on her freckled face. Treasure hunting, among other things, seems to be suiting her well. And for all that they struggled to get on and understand one another, the awkward, crushing hug invited upon him by Taash, one of the few who can tower above Emmrich in height, is a welcome sensation. They give off such heat from within, warming his frigid bones as much as squeezing the air from his lungs.
“O-Oh—Good… To see you both,” he wheezes, under the rib-creaking pressure of the embrace. Taash steps back, a jerky motion as they look up and off to one side, clearing their throat and sniffing pointedly.
“Yeah. Same to you. Wish it were… For a happy reason,” Taash grunts. Emmrich’s throat shrinks to the size of a pinhole and his smile thins.
“Ah, but what is a memorial, if not a celebration of life lived. An occasion such as this can be both happy and sad. Sad for what we’ve lost, happy for the memory of all we shared and how it brings us together. There is even peace in the knowledge that our friend is no longer suffering.”
Harding’s mouth twists into a frown, tugging at the scar on her cheek as she fixes him with a look he glances away from. He scans the room, the banners and statues, the signs that Rook’s own spirit had changed this place so deeply that his influence still lingered. The signs that should have warned Emmrich from the beginning. He always knew, but he’d thought there was more time.
Fickle.
Time is so very fickle.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Harding says, so gently that Emmrich barely hears her. “You were closer to Rook than any of us.”
“Was I?” The reply springs from his lips faster than he can stop and think better of it. There’s a crackling bitterness in his voice that catches him by surprise, a sudden icy grip in his gut following, skin prickling with cold, harsh embarrassment. He clears his throat, turning to face her. “You’d known him the longest. I think perhaps we’re on equal footing.”
His smile doesn’t fool her.
It feels forced, and he knows it shows when her frown deepens in the face of it. Silence stretches and Taash shifts their weight from foot to foot, folding their arms over their broad chest. Emmrich’s spine straightens, and he presses his palms together, holding his taut smile in place, not for the sake of his friends, but for himself. This is his life’s work. This is what he’s always done. The aftermath of loss is as old and familiar to him as his own reflection. Manfred makes a nervous little noise, and all eyes turn to him. There is an uncanny sadness to his demeanor, despite his lack of facial muscles to express such an emotion.
The intense hum of the eluvian makes the room flex and breathe.
Two sets of footsteps bounce off the cavernous stone below, coming closer, drawing attention away and for only a moment, Emmrich lets his expression falter. With no one looking at him, he exhales, whisper quiet, feeling the contortion of disquieting emotion in his face that he quickly forces smooth, into the placidity of an acceptance he doesn’t feel.
“Sorry we’re late,” Neve says as she comes up around the bend, Bellara on her heels. “We got caught up letting the Veil Jumpers know and helping them with preparations for their own rites in Rook’s honor.”
Bellara is uncharacteristically silent, her face drawn and brows tented, eyes downcast to the floor as she sticks close to Neve’s side, knuckles brushing before slipping her fingers between Neve’s to hold on tight. Squeezing. Tethered by companionship. Grounded. Emmrich is glad to see that no matter how much things change, some remain the same. He shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand.
“No apologies necessary, this is all intended to be quite informal, as was Rook’s preference when it came to funerary customs.” That was always a point of contention; one that they’d never settled into an agreement on. It sits like a stone in Emmrich’s belly now, and the knowledge that the body is out there, that he could go look for it, that the Wardens would assist, intrudes on his attempts at peaceful steadiness for the sake of his friends.
“He would’ve been happy. To see us all together again. I think,” Bellara adds, not looking up from the spot she’d chosen on the floor, her voice soft as a spring breeze.
“Yeah. Big softie. Always calling us a team even though he meant family,” Taash nods in solemn agreement, brows drawing tight and casting a shadow across their eyes. Family. The word echoes within Emmrich’s mind, bringing to the forefront, the memory of standing in his quarters, here in the lighthouse, when Rook for the first time, said that they were one. His gaze drifts to Manfred who is hovering nearby, saying his own hello to everyone that barely registers over the noise in Emmrich’s head. The group breaks into chatter, Never and Bellara catching up with Taash and Harding as if no time had passed at all. Emmrich can see their mouths moving, hear the muffled tones of their speech, but he absorbs nothing. He stands silently, looking on at the living, breathing remainder of their group.
And then Neve looks at him, a sharpness to her voice matched in her gaze.
“Lucanis isn’t here yet?” She asks, and Emmrich’s brows lift as he ponders the question. Now that he thinks on it, it seems strange that she’s asking him. If anyone should know where Lucanis is, he’d think it would be her. The one Lucanis had given his heart to on their journey to stop the gods.
“I’m sure he won’t be long,” Emmrich soothes. “He’s been quite busy since becoming First Talon, hasn’t he?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Neve replies.
She’s always been a little distant, but this bears an edge of coldness that makes Emmrich want to step back a pace, out of the wintery winds of whatever it is she’s feeling. Things must not be going as well as they were when they’d all parted ways. It’s not Emmrich’s place to pry. He’d prefer to pretend he hasn’t noticed but there is a ripple of tension that passes through the room. Bellara grimaces, mouth drawn to one side. An awkward silence prevails and Emmrich refuses to let it linger long.
“If you’d all like to head to the dining table, I’ll wait for Lucanis. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing food and drink. Please,” he gestures toward the door with a sweep of his hand. “This was our home once, after all.”
His friends exchange looks that Emmrich does his best not to read into, favoring retreating further into himself and the familiar comfort of professionalism in the face of tragedy. His smile, however tense, remains firmly in place as he watches them all file out with some varying levels of reluctance. Taash pats his shoulder with a heavy hand as they pass, and Manfred gives a quizzical hiss.
“Stay?”
“No, Manfred. You may go. You should spend time with your friends. It’s been quite a long time since you’ve last seen them.”
That his eternal ward seems hesitant to listen is unsurprising. Ever since the incident at Blackthorne manner, he’s been more willful, more certain of his own choices. A child, growing and coming into his own. Their child. Emmrich shoos him on and turns away, looking up at the Grey Warden banners and armor stands once more. He listens for the heavy clunk of the door creaking shut before he lets himself exhale. His legs are weak again, urging him to take a seat in his chair.
So many times he’d sat in this very chair, looking to his right at Rook, watching him puzzle through their growing problems and contemplate strategies, information, everything they had in order to come up with a plan. He can almost smell Lucanis’ coffee, feel the weight of his presence and Spite just behind his shoulder. He can see wood shavings piling on the floor from Davrin’s constant, obsessive whittling. He can smell musk and fire from Taash’s terse interjections. It feels so close, like the memory is alive. Or like he’s slipping into a dream. It would be appropriate, given the location.
He closes his eyes and thinks about the last time they all gathered here, around this table, beneath the cold, blue light above. His ears pop as the eluvian hums one last time. The sound of dashing footsteps follows, stairs taken two at a time. He opens his eyes just as Lucanis rounds the bend of the staircase and stumbles into the library proper. He looks the same as he ever did, dressed as though he’s just come from a job, knives strapped to his person, hair a bit of a mess, cheeks reddened with exertion, but a look of embarrassed frustration painted across his features.
“Sorry—I got. Caught up on my way here. More refugees from Kirkwall arrived this morning, it’s been absolute chaos. The triage alone…” The excuse is a perfectly valid one, but it dies a brittle death on Lucanis’ lips as their eyes meet across the library. The quiet that settles is heavy.
“It’s good to see you, Lucanis. Spite.” Emmrich inclines his head in greeting and leverages himself up out of the chair with hands planted against the arms. His limbs feel watery, but he stands, he smiles, he folds his hands before himself and puts on the brave face of a man accustomed to death. Lucanis opens his mouth to speak, a single inhale taken, but nothing comes. Instead, his dark eyes flit down and then up, scanning with the assassin’s precision that Emmrich has come to know well from their time fighting side by side and living together. When he does speak, it’s to the point:
“You haven’t—shaved. In… Two weeks. By the looks of it. You’re thinner, too. Not eating. Why did you not reach out to me sooner?” Lucanis widens his stance, gloved fists planted on his hips as he gives Emmrich another once over with his gaze. The sternness of his concern is more refreshing than the softness of grief-tinged support he’s received thusfar. It grounds him. Centers him enough to steady his own breathing as he reaches for a reason to give, filtering it through his practiced smile, keeping his tone light and even.
“I know you have your hands full. And besides. I have Manfred.”
“Emmrich—”
“I’m fine.” Emmrich holds up a hand to stop the terse admonishment he knows is waiting for him behind Lucanis’ clenched teeth. He adds a little more, for Lucanis more than himself. A dash of vulnerable honesty, but not enough to increase the pressure to break down once more. “As much as anyone can be after suffering such an unexpected loss.”
Lucanis looks at him from beneath the shadow of his unevenly furrowed brow, dark eyes flitting over him again, assessing before he lets out a heavy, scraping sigh and drops his arms. His shoulders slacken as he pushes his hand through his hair and looks anywhere else. The quietude doesn’t help the feeling of tension abate, but Emmrich is still glad that Lucanis seems to have given up on scolding him. He’ll take his wins where he can. When Lucanis looks at him again, all soulful brown eyes and pinched frown, Emmrich’s heart thuds against his ribs out of time.
“What happened?” he asks. Emmrich wishes he had a good answer for that. The truth in its entirety doesn’t paint Rook in the best light. Digging through all his journals, trying to find some scrap of sense in all the senselessness of pain had left Emmrich with a piece of information that only complicates his feelings of grief. Alongside it sits a sense of betrayal. But it’s his betrayal alone. No one else’s. There’s no sense in muddling the memory of an otherwise good man.
“The Calling,” Emmrich croaks, startled by the thin frailty of his own voice as he says it. He clears away congestion with a small cough and rubs at the front of his throat. “Despite his proximity to Elgar’nan, it seems he was not wiped clean of the Blight like Neve… Perhaps it was simply too deeply rooted after all these years.”
“The Calling.” The layered sound of Spite’s voice adds an acerbic edge to Lucanis’ own. Emmrich nods, pressing his palms tightly together as he glances around at all the Grey Warden regalia decorating the Lighthouse. A Warden’s fate, to feel the pull of the Titan’s madness, the Blight in their veins and a song of untethered pain, wailing in the deep, drawing all of itself home. Understanding what it is should make Emmrich feel better, shouldn’t it? He heaves a sigh.
“Antoine and Evka came to me to deliver the news. He’d instructed them to wait a while before telling me.” When Emmrich says this, Lucanis’ face contorts into a small, frustrated sneer of twisted mouth and wrinkled nose. There is a brief pause between them in which the unspoken understanding of such a measure festers.
“You mean to say… He didn’t—”
“No. He didn’t tell me.”
Lucanis lets out a soft growl, indignant, frustrated, and wipes a gloved hand over his face, lingering around his jaw as he casts his gaze aside and takes a moment to collect himself. It’s an unfortunate thing to have to process. No two were closer to Rook than they, with whom he spent the most time in the field. Lucanis takes a breath, looks at Emmrich, and it all rushes out of him again. At a loss. Emmrich smiles weakly, an expression that cannot bring light to his eyes though he tries. Lucanis takes a step closer and reaches for him, a hand pressed against the outside of Emmrich’s arm. Steady. Emmrich’s face twitches, threatening to crumble.
“I’m sorry, Emmrich.”
“As am I.” He can’t fall apart now. He won’t allow himself that. He clears his throat yet again, trying his damndest to be what he’s meant to be. A friend who knows grief. Who can offer guidance. Comfort. Support. But it’s not easy. Not natural in this moment. Forced. Just like his voice from his throat as he tries to move on from it. “The others are waiting in the dining hall. We should join them.”
Lucanis shakes his head, his grasp slipping down to the back of Emmrich’s elbow and then falling away. The look he gives Emmrich, narrowed and full of concern, forces Emmrich to turn his face away. He can’t—He just can’t. Lucanis lets out another heavy sigh.
“Just a moment more, if you please,” he asks, and Emmrich nods.
“Of course.”
As they remain, Lucanis pulls away from him, moving about the library, looking from the astrolabe to the banners, to the armor stands. There he lingers, gloved fingers brushing over antique plate, feeling out the shape of the griffon etched in the surface. Quiet contemplation overtakes his sharp features. As Emmrich observes him, Lucanis seems a bit gaunt himself. Worn thin. His beard is not as tidy as it could be and the crescent shadows beneath his eyes seem especially dark. Deep. In these last several months, Treviso has been tasked with taking on more than her share by the King and the capital city. Refugees from the south are pouring northward from the Free Marches. Nevarra is similarly burdened by those who are fleeing Orlais after the fall of Halamshiral to the Blight.
And amidst all of this, people are still dying. The reverberations of what the gods had done are still echoing across Thedas. And her greatest warriors are tired. Some of them are gone, entirely. Lucanis looks exhausted, which in his case must mean he feels even worse. It pains Emmrich to have to trouble him with such bad news amidst the responsibilities that were thrust upon him whether he wanted them or not. They’ve all been stretched thin on the ground, entrenched in their various locations, keeping touch as they can while trying to aid a slow going recovery that feels like it will never be fully completed.
And Neve… Emmrich frowns, unable to consider it for long before Lucanis turns to him and speaks again, pained and incredulous, gesturing sharply between himself and Emmrich.
“We traveled with him for every errand,” he says, as if pleading, and Emmrich straightens in the face of it, frown lines deepening across his face. “More than anyone else. I believed he trusted us.”
It’s not at all difficult to understand why Lucanis is so unsettled. After all they’d been through, one would have thought Rook would have bothered to mention. Give them a chance to say goodbye. Anything at all. Emmrich feels it twist in his gut, a knife turning, eviscerating him, and it’s so hard to remain calmly collected, to keep himself distant from the truth he’d found when sifting through Rook’s journals, trying to grasp why he’d made the choice he did, only to discover the reality of just when The Calling first began.
“He did trust us,” Emmrich says, and it feels like a lie. It needs qualifying. His throat burns around a hard swallow as a knot forms, bitterness choking him. “With everything he thought we could handle. That was his way.”
In their time working as a team, with Rook at the helm, he’d always been carefully distant with his past, his affection, who he really was beyond the one leading them. A friend but not someone they really got to know or understand. Emmrich had thought he was different. He’d thought things changed when the gods fell and they finally went home. But--
“He should have told us,” Lucanis’ harsh delivery, pained snarl, and frustrated gesturing make Emmrich flinch. “All of us, but especially you. At the very least.”
Even though Emmrich agrees, it feels like a fruitless train of thought to wander down. He’s already been there and found nothing of comfort waiting for him. He shakes his head, shrugging one shoulder as he looks into Lucanis’ eyes and finds them glossy with unshed tears.
“What would it have changed?” Emmrich asks.
Lucanis’ nostrils flare around a hard exhalation as his mouth presses into a terse line. Emmrich watches him, watches the flicker of violet rage behind those damp eyes, watches a single tear spill from the waterline and cut a path down Lucanis’ cheek to vanish within the thick scruff of his beard.
“Maybe nothing,” Lucanis rasps, rubbing at his chest, over his heart, expression twitching and twisting away from anger and into agonized defeat. “Or everything.”
There’s nothing good that can come from examining what might have been. All they can do is accept what is and try to move through the grief. Carry on. There’s still work to be done. But this time together, this moment to share in the grief, it is a break that must be taken. One that Emmrich hopes will offer some measure of relief at the end of it all. Even with no body to bury, no ceremony to give structure and sense to the senselessness, they at least have this.
“Death comes for all of us eventually. Better not to dwell on what cannot be changed, and instead… Celebrate… The life that was lived. And take comfort in knowing Rook is no longer… suffering.”
In silence, alone, never once telling them—
“Is that really good enough for you, Emmrich?” Lucanis asks.
It’s not.
“Are you ready to join the others?” Emmrich asks in turn. Lucanis observes him for a long, uncomfortable moment, and then takes two swift steps forward, reaching and taking hold of him, forcing his spine to bend and his center of gravity to falter. An embrace. A hand to the back of his head, dragging him down into the cradle of where neck meets shoulder. Soft, cared for leather that smells of santal and a faint tang of sweat. Grounding and human. An arm around his shoulders, holding fast. Lucanis is on the balls of his feet to meet him part way and Emmrich stalls there, hands lifted and tense as his mind races to catch up to the moment. When it happens, he falls apart, arms winding tight around Lucanis in turn as he breaks down and a sob claws its way up his throat.
It is neither the first time he’s wept for this loss, nor does he think it will be the last, but within the tight grasp of Lucanis’ arms, Emmrich shudders, fracturing, his breath snagging and stuttering in and out of his lungs as he feels the gut-twisting knife yanked free and so much pain gushing out of him all at once. Lucanis shushes him, whispering against the side of his jaw, close and humid connection—
“I’m sorry. I’m so… sorry… Emmrich.”
Emmrich nods, his face feeling numbed by the overwhelm of emotion.
“Me… Too. I’m sorry, too.”
Chapter 2: Softly Aching
Notes:
Hellooooo friends. I am very very humbled by all the support you left on the first chapter of this journey of a fic I've been working on. I really appreciate it and it helps keep me motivated to write more to know people care about this kind of story and want to see more of it. There's something very vulnerable about writing grief and loss. I think it can be beautiful and cathartic to explore these universal emotions that we're all destined to feel in some way or another. And what comes from loss can be equally beautiful. That's my hope for this story. ;w; So thank you, for being here. I hope you enjoy this next installment.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Gatherings like this one are familiar to Lucanis. Funerals in Antiva are a time for airing grievances, getting drunk, sharing stories, and letting the heights of emotions take you wherever you might need to go to move beyond the loss that’s been suffered. A rowdy, passionate affair. The last funeral he’d attended had been for Davrin. The one before that, Caterina—though that had proved unnecessary in time. And now Rook. Once more, Lucanis finds himself surrounded with a cup in hand, and no body to bury. No closure. It feels hollow. There’s no wake, no chance to look upon the face of one so cherished and say farewell. No matter the laughter, tears, or intoxication, there is something left to be desired by this exercise. The dining hall is warm, but the feeling of it stops just beyond the threshold of his skin. It doesn’t sink into his nerves and allow him to find any sort of comfort. There is a futility in the very air that only one other person seems to notice, and it is he that Lucanis would have expected to be most unsettled by the state of affairs.
Emmrich looks tired in a way that Lucanis has not seen him since Rook was swallowed by the Fade. His hair falls across his brow, grey flecked with white, a dark streak that seems darker in the low light cast from the hearth beyond the table they’re gathered around. His jaw bears the stubble of days without shaving, a prickly shadow that only emphasizes the wan state of his cheeks. His hand trembles every time he reaches for his glass, and he drinks in sips, not once refilling so far. He’s not even swallowing. No one else is looking closely enough to have noticed, but Lucanis sees, attuned to the details as he sits and stews in contemplative silence, barely hearing Taash regale them with a story—something about fighting the ghosts of lost pirates with Rook while searching for treasure.
It does not take a master assassin to see that Emmrich is withholding some dark, painful thing. It’s right there, lurking behind his teeth, right upper canine chipped— mild crowding, overlap of the left lateral and central incisor along the bottom jaw, a flash of metal on the second molar, left side, gold, softly glinting when Emmrich forces a laugh from faintly wine-stained lips, full, bitten and chewed, tender hints of redness—Lucanis looks away, gaze attuned to the fire as he lifts his own cup and swallows wine that deserves a finer vessel than this old pottery. He can’t pry the truth from Emmrich. It wouldn’t be fair, and everyone has painful realities they’d rather keep inside.
He feels Neve looking at him. Every time her eyes brush across him, he feels it. He knows she’s looking because Spite knows. Spite sees all of it and that observation comes to Lucanis as innately and effortlessly as breathing through their bond, where soul is intwined with demon. There’s nothing to be gained in addressing it. It’s been two months since last they spoke, and they had not parted on good terms. Only parted. He hopes she feels as though a burden has been lifted. He hopes she’s sleeping better. He hopes that she smiles and laughs and that Dock Town is still recovering, on its way toward being the home she remembers, only better.
He hopes that the resentment between them can wither without fertile ground and constant watering.
“What about you, Emmrich? You’ve gotta have some stories,” Harding presses. Lucanis’ eyes dart toward Emmrich as he hears the dry, rasp of a laugh that’s more polite than cheerful. Emmrich looks down into his cup. Still full. His slender fingers tap against the side and his brows draw inward; his smile is soured by the too-fresh feeling of loss. The tacky glint of tear tracks dried on his high cheekbones catches Lucanis’ attention. He chews the inside of his cheek and forces himself to look away. It hurts too much to know he can do nothing about this. Any of it. His hands ache for something to do, to be busy with anything other than the cup in his grasp whose bottom with only give more emptiness when he reaches it, not the sense of finality he wants.
“Perhaps. But at least one of you was there for most any of the ones I could tell,” Emmrich deflects, gentle as a spring breeze. He’s always been so good at that. Deflecting. Lucanis had watched him dance around committing to Rook, vague confirmations here and there about exploring potential, enjoying one another’s company, never admitting what was painfully obvious to anyone who looked at them until moments before death seemed all but certain. Love. Lucanis had watched their very real, not at all storybook romance unfold, compelled by the view and longing to know what that felt like, even as he and Neve grew closer.
She was comfortable and safe, never digging into his insecurities, never questioning why he was so reticent at first, nor did she spurn the growth of his affections, receptive, reactive, calm and accepting. Seeing him but never challenging his choices. Not like Rook and Emmrich. Emmrich, who would spiral in and out of fits of melancholy and uncertainty, confessing over too many glasses of wine shared between them just how much he feared Rook coming to their senses. He couldn’t understand it. For Lucanis, falling in love had been the easiest thing in the world, but when he watched Rook and Emmrich entertain it, all that ease, all that romance, was a veneer on the surface of a messy, uncertain thing. Love that was far more complicated. Love that couldn’t overcome all the odds on its own merit.
Why was it so different? Why did Emmrich try so hard to soften the reality of what he wanted so much? And how did they find themselves here?
Harding shakes her head, gesturing with her glass and a shrug, long plaits spilling over her shoulder as she leans forward against the table, closer, the first signs of inebriation showing themselves in a flush on her freckled cheeks and a glassiness in her eyes. Bold. She’s grown bolder since Lucanis first met her. That little girl who’d been so concerned with being liked now more sure of herself and where she stands, able to be bigger than ever before. It’s positive growth, but it makes her bigger than Emmrich, big enough to crush him beneath the weight of her curiosity.
“No, I mean… What was Rook like at home?”
Emmrich is quiet and Spite stirs. There is hesitation, Emmrich’s mouth opening, tightness in his jaw so present one would think you’d hear the joint creak as he snaps it shut again and sighs, giving Harding a grimacing smile. There’s such an obvious discomfort and no effort is made to rescind the question. Only patience, awaiting an answer. Spite growls and rumbles, made restless by Lucanis’ frustration and desire to end the line of questioning on Emmrich’s behalf. It brings the determined demon closer to the surface, a swirling discontent like a howling wind in Lucanis’ chest. He winces and chases the feeling with another mouthful of wine he swallows too quickly. He presses a hand to his sternum, rubbing, as if he could sooth the demon as much as himself.
He knows Emmrich can hear it. He’s grateful Emmrich is polite enough not to give him a single glance. Not once betraying what swirls beneath the cage of Lucanis’ ribs. Emmrich’s tongue and teeth drag over his lower lip while he shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other, body language tensing and closing, and only Neve seems to take notice of the change. Lucanis catches her brows dipping into a concerned furrow, but Emmrich speaks before she can.
“Messy,” Emmrich says, whisper quiet. “It wasn’t any surprise to me to realize he was something of a clutter bug. You all remember how he was constantly picking things up on our travels and setting them about the Lighthouse. It never stopped. Even at home. And… He would sketch in his free time. Fingers constantly stained with charcoal. He frequently talked in his sleep. Which he could do anywhere. I once found him propped on a pillar outside my lecture hall, sleeping while surrounded by a group of curious undead.”
Lucanis grimaces, sinking deeper into a feeling of gratuitous offense that such private pieces are being pulled free. Emmrich doesn’t sound ready, or maybe it’s Lucanis himself who isn’t ready to speak of Rook in the past tense. It could be Lucanis that doesn’t feel entitled to know these parts of Rook that he chose not to share with anyone but Emmrich. He sets his cup down a little harder than necessary on the table and there is a jolt that runs through the group, eyes turning toward him, but he ignores them all, focusing only on one pair. Hazel, copper and olive green reflecting the light of the hearth, wet with unshed tears. Emmrich looks at him with a tilt of his head, brows tented, gaze wide and bewildered.
“Lucanis?” His voice is so kind. So gentle. So practiced at offering comfort while never taking it for himself, as if he isn’t bleeding internally, hemorrhaging sadness that Lucanis can swear he smells in the very air. Spite growls even louder, a sound that’s carried by Lucanis’ vocal cords that makes everyone flinch or squirm where they sit, discomforted by the sound. He stands abruptly, hands flat against the table as he pushes his chair back with his thighs, then forces himself away.
“I need some air,” he states, and then his feet carry him out, leaving the group behind to revel in the past. Parts previously unknown. Parts Lucanis would have laughed to hear in life but finds himself troubled by in the wake of grief. In death. The ruthless, undiscerning end. Rook would never sketch again, never bring home another memento of his travels, never mutter under his breath while napping some place strange. He would never. That he could best the gods themselves and face down the very end of the world, live to tell the tale, only to die quietly, in agony, somewhere beyond the reach of those who loved him most, alone--
Lucanis’ boots click across stone floors as he slams his palms into the doors and bursts through them out onto the terrace. Endless daylight blurs in his vision and his breath comes in uneasy snatches. The Fade is always a little chilly. The air here is reminiscent of early spring, bearing a breeze that smells like electricity before a storm, prickling across his face. He breathes deep as he puts more distance between himself and those heavy doors, down the stairs, around the Caretaker’s workshop, and out to a ledge, standing at the precipice of broken stone and a fall that lasts forever.
‘Not fair.’ Spite hisses. His voice reverberates within Lucanis’ skull and the vehemence with which the demon feels that emotion, one they share, burns hot in his chest. He grips at his sternum, fingertips pressed hard into the soft wool of his sweater beneath the sharp angles of Antivan leather he’s forced to wear most often for the role he now plays.
“No,” Lucanis grouses, “it’s not.”
It’s not fair at all. This agonizing, all consuming feeling of loss. Lucanis is exhausted with it. Losing things. He would scream into the endless nothing if he thought it would bring any relief at all, but he knows it’s a waste of effort waiting to tear up his throat. He’s not supposed to crack. He sucks in a breath, holds that sound that so wants to escape close to his heart and swallows it down. Why is he even angry? It’s not his place. They are not his stories. Not his memories.
Loss colors the world in shades of grey. Diluted and abysmal and the feeling of his gut being yanked downward, ripped from his core to splatter across the ground brings a wave of sickly, despairing nausea that makes it harder and harder to breathe with each passing moment. Minutes pass where he gasps and tries to find some sense of stability while teetering on the edge of nothingness. The sound of the ocean roars in his ears, pulse pounding while the very fringes of his vision distort and darken, shrinking while reality refuses to be reckoned with.
But a voice calls for him. Still soft, painfully kind, reaching across the gap.
“Lucanis… Please step back,” a splash of warm, forest green, swirls of deep lilac, the glint of gold meant for the grave that’s so inescapable. Lucanis sucks in a hiccupping breath and turns, finding his hands occupied by another pair, slender fingers leading him step by step away from the ledge until he’s found a place to sit on the steps before the great library doors. Emmrich sits beside him, grave gold clinking when he moves, the softness of its musicality as familiar now as Treviso’s own salt-scented breezes. Lucanis shakes like a leaf and shakes his head and shakes enough to rattle Emmrich’s hands in his own. Agonized, twisting, Lucanis can just about picture Rook there, striding past them on the stone steps to approach the Caretaker. He can see broad shoulders and a wide-set smile. He can see a Warden running drills in the empty space before him and hear the booming quality of his laugh and he knows it’s gone. Never to be known better, never to be heard again.
Rook had saved him.
Rook had saved everyone and now…
“I can’t—” Lucanis chokes on it. It’s thick and heavy and suffocating as it clogs up his throat. “I can’t do this. Sit at that—table and talk about him like this. He was just here. He was only just here.”
Emmrich is soft. The swish of his long, dark robes, cover like a blanket as he turns on the steps and surrounds Lucanis with his wiry arms, holding on to him, keeping him tethered to a place that feels too painful to bear.
“You don’t have to, Lucanis. You don’t have to force yourself to partake of any of it if you’re not ready,” there is a practiced quality to Emmrich’s delivery. A quiet distance in his tone, emotions reserved and set aside to fill a role he shouldn’t have to play when he’s suffering the same loss they all are. Only worse. Only closer. More intimate. And they dare to ask it of him. To ask Emmrich to open himself up and give intimate views that Rook didn’t share with them in life, only further solidifying the reality that he’s… He’s gone.
“It’s not… It’s not fair,” Lucanis says again. Spite swells and manifests, growling and whining his own feelings of frustration and confusion. Emmrich shushes them both. His fingers are gentle as they rake through Lucanis’ hair. He lingers, softly, sweetly, the kindest of gestures he can offer, cradling Lucanis as if he were no better than a child with a skinned knee.
In Antiva, funerals are a time to air grievances. A time of big emotions and bigger outbursts. Drunken scuffling and screaming at the injustice of it all. The nearly inscrutable nature of death, who plays no favorites. A phrase Emmrich had used once, when discussing the Nevarra’s long dead gentry, that surfaces again along the currents of thought surging through Lucanis’ mind. He doesn’t know another way, beyond this. Emmrich’s quieter grief is baffling and infuriating. It’s cool and calm, like the surface of an undisturbed lake in early morning. The depths beneath it are dark and terrible. Lucanis turns into him, presses his brow to Emmrich’s collar bone and weeps.
Ugly, wet, gargled sobbing, clinging to Emmrich, the only port to be found in this particular storm, Lucanis coughs it all up until he’s exhausted, spent of tears and of the energy required to grieve. It leaves his face tingling, his fingers numbed, his body no longer strong enough to even tremble under the strain of such heavy emotions. And Emmrich holds on, patient and kind, so horrifically kind, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulders that Lucanis can barely feel through his sculpted armor and finery. But it’s there. Contact and comfort offered without expectation or hesitation and it’s so much more than Lucanis has ever had before.
When he finally lifts his face out of the security he’d found tucked beneath Emmrich’s chin, a sudden flare of embarrassment rips through his nerves and he flinches, grimacing away as he pulls himself from Emmrich’s arms and hunches over. Elbows planted on his knees, head cradled in his hands, Lucanis takes shuddering breaths to try and recover some part of himself. It’s slow going, his sounds of sadness surrounded by a greater silence than he’s ever known. The Lighthouse is empty without purpose to fill it. Rook is gone and he’s never coming back.
“I’m sorry,” Lucanis croaks.
Spite snarls.
‘Not sorry. Angry. Should be here. Rook! Should be. Here. Who took—Who stole. We find. Make them pay. For Rook. Bring him. Back!’
Emmrich lets out a sigh so quiet and frail, this pained, breathless sound that wrenches at the softest parts of Lucanis’ heart. Of course, Spite would struggle to grasp it, this sudden loss with no body to bury or burn or mourn. No chance to find closure in a farewell to the dead. It’s even more unfamiliar to the demon than it is to Lucanis, and he doesn’t have the strength to explain it.
“He—He gave his consent… To go looking for his body. But the Deep Roads are vast and complex. It’s… A fool’s errand. No one stole Rook away, Spite. He left. And I’m afraid this is all we have,” Emmrich’s whisper quiet explanation snatches the whole of Lucanis’ attention, his head snapping to one side to look and take in the view of the necromancer beside him, draped in gold and black, robes suited for mourning, draped like long swaths of the darkest night, his dowry glittering like stars on his hands, and the wetness of grief in his eyes, that reflects the everlasting daylight of this part of the Fade, shines. There is a depth to his pain that Lucanis fears reaching into, asking it of him, but it’s actionable. Amidst all this, there’s something Lucanis can do. Somewhere to put the frenetic energy of complicated feelings.
“We have to try,” Lucanis says. Emmrich doesn’t look at him. His face twitches, eyes wincing, narrowing, tears spilling over his gaunt cheeks to drop onto the tanned stone beneath polished boots. Resistance in the flex of his jaw, the subtle sound of crowded teeth clenching and grinding against one another. He wants to say no. But why?
A secondary emotion claws its way to the surface of Emmrich’s expression, something that lurked beneath anguish identifies itself in deep contortions that set grooves of discontent into his face. Emmrich straightens his spine and sweeps a hand back, pushing errant strands of hair out of his face as he closes his eyes and steadies his deep, shuddering breaths.
“What difference would it make, Lucanis?” For the second time, Emmrich asks. He dons the armor of futility to guard against some unknown pain that Lucanis doesn’t feel entitled to, but cannot avoid digging at all the same. Because it doesn’t make sense. Not at all. It’s not like the Emmrich he knows.
“How can you… Of all people. Say such a thing? So defeated already—Is it not how things are done in Nevarra? I have watched you pale at the sight of bodies left to rot, bodies burned, and you shy away from retrieving this one? The one belonging to the man you love?”
“Because I don’t want to lose anyone else in the process!” Quick, a strike like a blade flashing through the air, a sharp gesture from Emmrich’s gold laden hands that clatters and cuts Lucanis off at the knees. Lucanis flinches at the sudden lift in volume, stunned into temporary silence as he watches Emmrich reign himself in. Refusing to let it run its course. But it needs to. Doesn’t it? Emmrich takes a deep breath. “It would be far too dangerous.”
“We’ve killed gods!” Lucanis bites back, refusing the excuse given. But his flaring anger comes with consequences that sting like salt in a wound.
Emmrich shrinks away from him and Lucanis regrets it. Too forceful. Too sharp. Too soon. He tries to reel back; he wants to withdraw the violence he’s enacted by being so unrestrained in his approach. He tries to breathe and think and bring himself back from the ledge of his mind just as he’d stepped back from the ledge of the Lighthouse. The jagged edges of his own grief shouldn’t be turned on Emmrich, poised to cut deeper into wounds already suffered. But an apology doesn’t come easy. It’s stuck between Lucanis’ teeth as he wrestles with the reality that there’s something he could be doing with his hands when they suddenly feel so empty. Why would Emmrich bring it up if he was only going to discourage such a course of action? Lucanis twists, fixes him with a wet, sidelong grimace.
“You… You want to. You would have kept it to yourself, otherwise.”
Emmrich sags under the weight of Lucanis’ scrutiny, avoiding eye contact that he’s always been so generous with. He stares toward the dining hall, mouth trembling as he presses it into a tighter, thinner line, biting down. Grit teeth and dug heels, resistance to the truth they both know exists in between the lines of resignation Emmrich offered.
“Maybe so… But I… I also… Don’t.”
Conflict. Internal and ugly. Emmrich’s expression morphs and shifts, agony giving birth to an anger that looks too heavy to be borne alone. There it is again. The thing that Emmrich’s hiding. Something held back. A deeper pain that Lucanis reaches for, reckless and terrified in equal measure. He closes the distance between them, scooting closer, a reach, hand closing around Emmrich’s thin wrist to tug, to urge him to face Lucanis and look at him with those bloodshot eyes.
“Talk to me, Emmrich. You can always… Talk to me.”
Is that the truth? Lucanis had done so much to spurn Emmrich once, wrenching away from his kindness like Emmrich is pulling now, twisting weakly to free his hand, throwing both up, anguished as he lets out a noise like a frightened animal, trying and failing to strangle something that begs to be set free. The hidden pain doesn’t want to remain there. Emmrich’s boots scuff the ground as he gets up, tries to get away from it. From Lucanis.
“I don’t want to— I don’t want to sully the memory of our friend. Don’t ask this of me, Lucanis, I can’t. I simply… Can’t." What Emmrich holds onto seems akin to broken glass in bare palms. If he could only release it from his grasp, he might stop suffering the worst of it. The digging shards of something that hurts beyond words seem so obvious the longer Lucanis looks at Emmrich where he stands, shuffles, cards both hands through his hair, gripping at roots a little grown out, a little unkempt. Lucanis pushes up from the steps and follows, pulled by the tether of friendship that was so hard won between them.
“You can. You helped me, once. Helped me see that what I had become wasn’t something I needed to be so afraid of, yet did everything you could to soothe my fears anyway. You accepted me when everyone else looked at me like I was a monster. I care for you. Spite. Cares for you. Let me… Help you. I can’t do anything else. I need… I need to do something. Let it be this.” Lucanis pleads with open, upturned palms, reaching again and Emmrich flinches back, hand covering his mouth as he sucks in a breath that sounds like air being sipped through a hollow reed. It hisses, it’s laborious, and Emmrich stands there, silently tearing himself apart while Lucanis is left with nothing but a pair of empty hands and a heart too full to beat properly. Why is loss so goddamned hard? Why does it turn people to animals? Why does it feel like this?
Emmrich’s fingers slide away, arms dropping limp to his sides as he breathes and breathes and breathes with no end in sight to the near suffocation his weighty burdens cause. Quiet, but resounding. Emmrich doesn’t want to say and Lucanis can’t make him. They stand at an impasse, the light of the Fade seeming impossibly grey for the silence of mourning, like a dark cloud passing in front of the sun. All the warmth blocked out. Emmrich hiccups a breath, lets out a weary sigh, and gives up. A visible shudder becomes a slump of total defeat. His lips part and close, then part again, intaking air so softly, just enough to speak a single word.
“Weisshaupt.” Emmrich says it quietly, a confession in one utterance that takes a moment for Lucanis to fully grapple with. Weisshaupt. A siege that took so many lives, a point of failure on their journey that they barely survived. An archdemon killed, but overshadowed by losses, personal failings, frustrations. Weisshaupt. Rook’s death… Delayed. Lucanis feels sick. He doesn’t want it to be real or true. He doesn’t want to think of Rook as capable of it, of something so selfish and horrible. But what Emmrich implies with that single word, the name of a time and place that left deep scars, within the context of the grief they are now crushed beneath the weight of, refuses to be ignored or denied.
“What?” Lucanis’s voice is a weak croak and Emmrich lifts his head, turns his weary eyes on Lucanis, expression crumpling into furious heartbreak.
“I went looking for an answer. To all this. For some kind of comfort. In places I should have known better than to look. Rook’s journals. I have all of them. He first heard The Calling… After the fall of Weisshaupt. And didn’t tell… Any of us. Didn’t tell me.”
Lucanis feels every bit of air vacate his lungs as the weight of that statement crashes into him. Rook was fighting it all that time. He pursued Emmrich, knowing how numbered his days were, and somehow, despite the Blight withering in the presence of Elgar’nan’s defeat, he was unable to escape it. There’d been no knowing that would even happen, it was not expected or guaranteed. But they’d all thought… Yet it was too deep in Rook to be driven away, and he knew. He knew. He knew what would become of him and still pulled Emmrich close. That hard won, complicated love never truly resolved itself to become easy. Even in death, still they struggle.
“Emmrich—”
“Don’t. Please don’t… Give your condolences. Don’t apologize. Don’t try to make sense of it for me. I am not ready to capitulate to the idea that it was worth it to have loved and lost. Not like this. Not right now. I’ve already tried to reason with it, and there is no reason to be found at all.”
Anger. So much anger.
Lucanis’ chin trembles as he comes to grips with it. That Rook allow Emmrich to love him like he did, knowing how close at hand such devastation truly was. It must feel like a betrayal. He’s angry for Emmrich. And he doesn’t know what to do. What could anyone hope to do in such a senseless situation? He sits there with it while Spite cows and whines his confusion.
‘Rook. Betrayed? Love… Why? Lucanis.’
There was no explanation that Lucanis could hope to give and Emmrich laughs. It’s so cold and so bitter, unbefitting of him. It’s a sharp, withering sound that cuts deeper than any blade. Lucanis watches him cup a hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking with the sudden bout of mania-induced laughter that gives way to a strangled sob and a hissed exhalation.
“Why does anyone do anything?” Emmrich wheezes one more sour laugh. “People are complicated creatures. There’s no knowing why. Not this time. And frankly… I don’t want to understand it. I just wish… To be done with it.”
Lucanis doesn’t know how to comfort him. How to help Emmrich with this particular manifestation of his mourning. He’d not expected it. How could he? How could any of them? To know that Rook chose to bear this burden alone, telling none of them, while he shouldered the burden of encroaching madness without aid, leaves Lucanis at a total loss. And Emmrich. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t given a chance to prepare for it. He wasn’t given a choice in whether or not he wanted it. But if he had known, would he have chosen any differently? Would the knowledge that their time was so limited have ever stopped Emmrich from loving Rook?
It's not his place to ask.
Lucanis makes his way closer on nervous, shuffling feet, taking off his gloves, dropping them carelessly to the ground, reaching out to take Emmrich’s hand. Step by anxious step. He’s so thin in Lucanis’ grasp. Slender fingers that are better suited to penning papers than killing. Laden with heavy rings. One that leaves a cast on his skin, softly green. A gift from his father. Fake gold, but still precious. Sentimental. Lucanis winces and closes his eyes.
“Then let’s be done with it. We’ll find Rook… And put him to rest. If not for him, then for you.”
Emmrich doesn’t answer with words but after a moment his chilly fingers curl around Lucanis’ own and squeeze back. Whether it’s acceptance or defeat doesn’t matter. When Lucanis opens his eyes and find’s Emmrich’s he sees the reluctance melting, giving way to a deeper exhaustion than any he’s ever seen in Emmrich’s gaze before. He sighs and, after a moment more to hesitate, Emmrich gives a single nod. Agreement.
“Alright…” Barely above a whisper, but certain. “Alright.”
Lucanis lifts his other hand to cover frail knuckles, grasping Emmrich tighter, stepping a little closer to peer up at him from beneath tear-soaked lashes. He sniffles and digs deep to find the tenacious resolve that will see him through. He can’t fix it. He can’t bring Rook back and make it right. But this much he can do. He can put his hands to work helping Emmrich, helping them all, find the closure they’ll need. The world is still turning but its problems will keep for the time it takes.
“I can tell the others. You… Should rest. You don’t need to carry this alone, Emmrich.”
That bitterness remains and Emmrich shakes his head, looking away, out into the ether. It looks as though he’s spent himself of tears, but the feelings of regret and betrayal are etched into his proud, Nevarran features. Lucanis feels as though he could cut himself touching that face, so he clings all the more to a gentle hand, as long as Emmrich will allow him. As long as Emmrich might need.
Notes:
This chapter brought to you by:
- chinese takeout induced euphoria
- several nap-dreams
- not showering for three days while in a fit of hyperfixation
- Arizona Raspberry Iced Tea
Chapter 3: Tender Breath
Notes:
I. AM. IN. MIIIISEEERRRYYYY.
Hello friends. ;w; This pain train is still rolling.
I have to say I am just. Utterly blown away by all the comments you've left on this piece. It means the world to me to know there is support and appreciation for a story like this, so heavily personal, with such a focus on grief. Grieving is not linear and so complicated and personal and has its ups and downs. I just. I'm so so appreciative of y'all leaving feedback. I promise my goal is not to make every chapter a tear-jerker. I swear.
As a slow burn enjoyer I think this might be the slowest burn I've ever attempted to tackle. ;A; I JUST WANT THEM TO KISS ALREADY AND BE HAPPY. We suffer together. askjdhfkljhdfljk. Anyway. I hope you enjoy the update.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There is a crisp chill in the air, and though the view is breathtaking, Emmrich feels as though his eyes slide across it without taking any of it in. Snowy mountain caps scrape the golden sky while Emmrich feels as though he’s already miles below the surface. Harding hefts her pack off her shoulder and interlocks her fingers, stretching her arms out before her as she moves ahead of the group. She looks even smaller when standing at the edge of the cliffside path with the brilliant afternoon sun beating down on her, and the world beyond the shape of her seems to stretch on forever. It’s formless nothing. Color and impressions of shapes that don’t strike awe as they should. Emmrich watches her take in a lungful of the clean, mountain breeze and then sigh.
“I can see the entrance from here,” she says, twisting at the waist to look back at them. They are a rag tag group of mourners, dressed in leathers, furs, and heavy cloaks, carrying heavy packs with supplies and rations that they hope will see them through the perilous journey ahead. Emmrich’s hands feel numb where they wrap around his staff, leaning on it for support as Taash jogs over to examine the view at Harding’s side. In the company of friends, and unwelcome dread, Emmrich glances over at Lucanis, watching him fiddle with the edges of his gloves, pulling them more securely down onto his hands for the fourth time in as many minutes. Fidgeting. Antsy. Looking away while Neve looks at him. Brief near misses, glances back and forth that add to the growing weight of tension that ripples through the group every time they stop to take a breath.
“Good lookin’ out, Lace,” Taash murmurs, leaning dangerously over the ledge to look where Harding points. There, in the distance, down in the gulch below, is a rickety scaffolding that descends into the earth, dark, cavernous, and deep. It’s so close now yet still feels so far and so fruitless. Emmrich breathes deep through his nose. The chill sinks into his bones, it hurts the tips of his ears, biting through his leather. What could have been refreshing is bracing instead. He closes his eyes and tries not to succumb to the desire for solitude. Life pauses between the beats of his heart, and grief stretches seconds into lifetimes.
Why would Rook do this to him?
The crunch of boots on stony ground snaps him back to the moment, eyes fluttering open in time to see Harding turning away from the view. There are dark circles beneath her eyes and her expression pinches, tugging at the scars on her brow and cheek.
“We should rest here for a bit. We’re gonna need our strength for that climb,” Harding steps back from the ledge, drawing the fur of her stole a little tighter around her neck as she comes back to the group with Taash trailing just behind. Emmrich nods and watches the group break and move, taking up seats on the stones or their packs to breathe and take the weight off their feet for just a few minutes. There’s still such a long way to go. Emmrich’s knees lock and his staff digs into the earth as he leans a little harder, jaw twinging with the hard set of his teeth against themselves. He looks at the sprawling vistas and tries to find the will to move.
“You’re shivering,” Lucanis’ voice is soft, barely above a whisper at Emmrich’s left. It’s not sudden but still gives Emmrich a small start, his head whipping toward the sound of exhausted concern. Lucanis looks up at him and reaches out, placing a hand against his bicep.
“You should have worn a heavier cloak,” he says, eyes drawn over Emmrich’s frame, down then up, kindness and earnestness warming his expression enough to break through the frigidity that’s gripped Emmrich to the core. It’s not the cold alone that makes Emmrich shake, but he doesn’t have the strength to admit it.
“Once we’re underground it’ll be less of a problem. The altitude hardly ever does me any favors,” Emmrich replies. Lucanis makes a low, rumbling noise.
“I have something that will help. In my pack. Give me a moment,” he pats Emmrich’s arm and steps away to rifle through his things while Emmrich is left to watch, left behind to consider whether or not it’s caring or pity that makes Lucanis so inclined to look after him. Emmrich catches Neve in the act of staring yet again, her dark eyes on Lucanis, a small frown dressing her face in discontent. And she catches Emmrich in turn, looking at her when Lucanis makes his way back over. She’s quick to avert her gaze, turning to take a waterskin from Bellara and drink.
Lucanis offers up a small amber bottle to Emmrich, the label old and peeling, but still legible. Emmrich laughs aloud at the sight of it, startled yet again by the sound of his own voice as it leaves his throat. His surprise at the gesture is enough to bring the start of a smile to his face, along with a healthy dose of scrutiny.
“What a sensible solution,” Emmrich says, words ruffled by an airy chuckle. “Fire water to warm the bones before a perilous descent down the side of a mountain.”
Emmrich looks toward Lucanis and sees him sheepishly shrugging with his face as much as his shoulders, quick to turn away while scrubbing a hand against the back of his neck. There is something about him, in this moment, that Emmrich finds charmingly boyish. Such a thing gives further reason to smile, and for that smile to broaden the barest bit.
“A nip won’t hurt. You may have fooled everyone else, but I know you’re the only one who could nearly drink Davrin under the table,” Lucanis mutters. There’s a fluttering sound, like feathers ruffled, and the whisper of Spite’s amused snickering.
‘We saw. You embarrassed the Warden. Do you think it fell forever? When he was sick over the side?’
“Spite. It’s impolite to speak of the dead in such a fashion,” Lucanis huffs, giving the most contrite, wincing glance Emmrich’s way. It’s… endearing. Emmrich finds himself laughing once more, a barely-there chuckle as he pulls the cork from the bottle and lifts it as a salute of gratitude in Lucanis’ direction. Emmrich tips the sweet, spiced liquor into his mouth, savoring the burn of it all the way down his throat, and how it sprawls through his chest. It doesn’t fix the problem, but it does help, just as Lucanis said. One more sip for good measure. Emmrich doesn’t flinch, only clears his throat as he offers the open bottle back.
“I don’t know,” Emmrich sighs, “I think there’s something cathartic about reminiscing in such a fashion. Focusing on memories that aren’t quite as loaded with regret as the last we have of him. I think I prefer remembering him falling to his own hubris and a hangover, instead.”
Instead of those final moments. Instead of how he was lost and to who. There’s something Emmrich finds deeply crass about pretending that the dead were perfect, to ignore the things that made them mortal, tangible, and lovable, flaws included. To remember them for something other than virtue is important. There’s comfort in it. Emmrich watches Lucanis swirl the bottle, grimacing down at it before knocking back a hard swallow with a wince and his favorite swear. Mierda. He shuffles his weight around, leather creaking as he rolls his shoulders and regards Emmrich with a wary, sideways look.
“Rook took it hard. Losing Davrin,” Lucanis says, his gaze lasting for only a moment, then it’s gone. He bumps the bottle against Emmrich’s thin knuckles to be taken once more. Emmrich looks down at the offer, and then up again. He follows along with Lucanis’ stare as it stretches out into the distance. “I heard him saying goodbye, in Davrin’s room. And that whole time…”
Emmrich’s mouth begins watering, his jaw tingling, eyes feeling hot. He takes another swig and swallows down his heart along with the alcohol. The beat of silence feels too heavy to bear.
“I appreciate your discretion, Lucanis. And I’m sorry… That I burdened you with it.” The truth was only barely easier to carry now that a second set of shoulders was bowed beneath its burdensome presence.
“How did we miss it, I wonder? It’s what I keep asking myself.” Lucanis scuffs the toe of his boot against the ground, kicking a pebble and watching it skitter away to disappear over the nearby ledge. Emmrich can hear the hushed chatter of their friends behind them. He can hear his own heart beating. He can hear his stomach complaining about the sweetness of the booze settling heavy where food ought to be. He passes the bottle yet again.
“From what I gathered in Rook’s journals… It was Solas,” Emmrich whispers. “Solas helped him keep his head. Suppressed the influence of The Calling so he could keep going. The Dread Wolf couldn’t let his most valuable piece to be knocked off the board too soon, after all.”
Lucanis snarls and spits on the ground.
“I would not have been so merciful with that—that—” Lucanis growls, leaving any number of suitable insults unspoken but heavily implied, and Emmrich feels a chuckle bubble up in his chest; his cheeks ache with his smile for how rare they’ve become these past few weeks.
“Rook wanted to believe everyone was capable of change. That everyone deserved a second chance to be better than what they were before. He had so many regrets of his own, perhaps he just wanted to believe that he too could somehow be forgiven and given a chance to atone.”
Emmrich’s smile sours, a deep, dark bitterness overtaking it, teeth sliding together as he bites down, twisting with grief. How could Rook do this? How could he just leave? How could he exit Emmrich’s life after talking him into living it, with so much left unsaid? What right did he have to go stepping out of their home with a bright smile, acting as if he’d be back in a few weeks? He’d made it look so easy, as if there was effortlessness in pretending everything was normal, all while knowing it would be the last time Emmrich would ever see him smile at all. It hurts. The cold outside Emmrich’s skin feels less invasive, but what radiates from within can’t be beaten back with a few meager mouthfuls of cinnamon flavored whiskey.
“We’ll put him to rest, Emmrich. We’ll find him. I promise.” Lucanis presses the bottle into his hands one more time, covering his grip, squeezing, urging him to keep it. He looks up with those warm eyes of his; they’re narrowed with sympathy, brows drawn with regret, expression shining with unshed emotion that would only feel frigid on his cheeks if it escaped his thick, dark lashes. Emmrich beats back the very same urge, the very same expression of sadness, tipping his head back as he closes his eyes. A quick, jerky, weak-willed nod is all he has left to offer.
They’ll need to get moving again soon, but in the time they have left, Emmrich breathes deep of the thin, mountain air, and chases the cold with the taste of Lucanis’ simple gesture of support, letting it coat his tongue with something sweeter than grief.
The ominous crackling and creaking of the rickety scaffolding pricks at Emmrich’s nerves. Each groan as they take the ladders down into the cavernous belly of the earth brings visions of plummeting to the unforgiving stone below; a swift and painful death, buried in the wreckage that sounds keen to give up beneath their weight with every step they take. There is little but silence among them, as if a single breath would be enough to blow the whole structure over. It takes too long. Emmrich is dizzy and sick with anxiety. It takes too damned long. Somehow, it all holds, giving one last rumble of discontent when Taash leaps off the ladder five rungs before they reach the bottom, landing with a scrape of boots against stone. Above them, the light of the setting sun seems so small, barely penetrating. Every movement echoes into the tunnel ahead, bouncing off the stone to fade away in a fashion that Emmrich is, at the very least, familiar with.
So much of his life spent in the lower levels of the Necropolis works in his favor here. The familiar scents, sounds, and damp of being deep beneath the earth could almost be mistaken for home if he closes his eyes. Neve steps out ahead of them, waving her hand to light her lantern, casting its orange glow down the length of tunnel that descends on a gentle, sloping decline. The light doesn’t carry far enough for them to see anything beyond blackness that stretches onward, in a way that looks like forever. Neve whistles, low, long, giving a small shake of her head.
“Long way to go. Harding, you have the map, right?”
Harding shuffles up to stand beside Neve, pulling out a map that was sketched and marked for them by Antoine and Evka. It’s as much of a record of these tunnels as the Wardens have been able to scrape together over the years, which is better than nothing. She unfolds it and taps the map.
“We entered here. It looks like this goes down a ways. A few kilometers. Then we should find the lift that’ll take us into the deep roads. It’ll be less… dark down there and there’ll be an old encampment we can use. Bed down for a few hours. Get some sleep before Maker knows what else.” They’re all expecting the worst. This is where Wardens go to die. A final journey that with begins beautiful mountainside vistas, and descends into the bowels of the earth. Rook came here and was swallowed whole, fighting to his last breath far away from anyone who might be harmed by the call of the taint in his blood and how it inevitably changed him.
It's a grim thing they’re doing. Antoine had warned Emmrich that there might not be anything recognizable left of Rook if they find him. If. They can’t toil away down here in perpetuity. Lucanis is the first to move, setting out down the slope with purpose as the others light their lanterns and follow suit. Each step taken sees the air growing more humid, underground waterways echoing in the distance beyond the short distance that light travels from their group. The return of conversation does little to ease Emmrich’s ever-growing anxieties. He doesn’t spare any of his attention toward the hushed communion that eases their journey, only made vaguely aware of it by the lulls that emphasize the quietude of delving deep underground.
The lift can’t hold them all, forcing them to travel down the dank shaft in two groups to reach the bottom where the pressure of darkness gives way to an eerie blue glow. At the base of the shaft, the view is a sprawling, glittering maze of wooden walkways and jagged stone, threaded with lyrium, like bolts of lightning frozen in time, luminous in the distance. Being this close to this much lyrium has its drawbacks as a mage, the feel of its magic humming in the air so thickly presses up against the back of his throat, making his mouth flood with saliva and his stomach churn uncomfortably. He can feel it beneath his skin, calling to the magic inherent in his blood. He takes a shaky breath and tries to quell the urge to be sick as best he can. He’ll adjust in time, just as he has before, but the initial wave has never gotten easier to contend with.
At the landing is, as Harding said, a serviceable encampment. There are tables and chairs, a low brazier for a fire, tools and rusted weapons hanging on racks, and maps tacked up to the walls of the hollowed-out alcove. As they break apart to begin setting out bedrolls and lighting a fire, Emmrich finds himself still drifting, thinking about the work ahead. Locating Rook in those sprawling tunnels beyond this threshold seems less likely now that they’re down here, faced with the magnitude of the space. Foolish. It’s grim and it’s foolish and yet there’d be no turning back or deterring anyone from trying. Even with the promise of darkspawn the deeper they go, the promise of the changed Blight that could be controlled by anything or nothing at all…
“Breathe, pops.”
Taash is there, kneeling beside him where he’s paused over his pack, frozen by fear that grips like a vice. His startled jerk is delayed as he looks up at them, finding a stern glower cast his way. The way they show concern comes in the barest narrowing of their eyes and a hand that stalls on its path toward his spine, ensuring when it finally makes contact, the touch is gentle. Emmrich takes a shaky breath and tries for a smile. It feels as brittle as a thin sheet of ice on a deep lake. Easily broken. Easily sent into the depths of sorrow below it with minimal pressure. The grief comes in in and out like the tide. The terror is bolstered by it. Mortality is such a fragile thing. Taash takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out slowly while maintaining eye contact. Emmrich tries. He breathes with them, following along and they nod at him, urging him to keep mirroring. Keep breathing.
Their hand is steady, rubs circles between his shoulder blades, pressing more firmly to give him a little shake as his shoulders come down a fraction and some of the anxious energy bleeds out of his muscles. A pat against his spine, one that jostles his lithe frame, and finally a smile.
“Everything’ll work out. We’re all together. Some darkspawn and some tunnels are nothing compared to what we’ve already done.”
Emmrich bows his head and defers to their reassurance, trying to feel it. To cling to it. If only the potential for violence was his lone fear down here. Beyond it, finding Rook, if they do… He’s not sure he’ll be able to stomach it. Antoine’s words still rattle around his head, clawing at the backs of his eyes, a constant, twinging pain that colors every single consideration for what’s coming.
“You’re not wrong. The old… terror simply doesn’t know when to quit, though, does it? Not at all logical. Can’t seem to be reasoned with,” he says, knowing that there would be no telling just how much he’s deflecting away from the more tender fears that have gripped his heart. Taash shrugs.
“I’unno. I don’t like bein’ underground like this. Closed in. I think a little fear is pretty logical. Just can’t let it stop you from moving. Or breathing. Breathing’s important.” Their deadpan delivery is enough to bring the softest chuckle to Emmrich’s lips and he nods his agreement.
“Yes. Breathing is… most certainly important.”
Taash lingers long enough to assist Emmrich in laying out his bedroll and then moves toward the fire to help Harding with preparation of some kind of food. This mostly consists of Taash taking the task off Harding’s hands entirely and asking Lucanis for his input while telling Harding to just ‘sit there and look pretty’. It’s a return to form that makes the morose absurdity of their location seem a little less soul-crushing, though as Emmrich settles down and removes his cloak, he finds his focus drawn yet again, to the divide that’s become more obvious as time has gone on.
Lucanis and Neve haven’t spoken a word to one another, not that Emmrich has observed. At first, it had seemed circumstantial, but now, after so many hours of sharing space and traveling, it is obviously intentional. Neve stays close to Bellara, their usual rapport acting as a buffer that dulls the tension that seems to intensify any time Lucanis or Neve so much as glance toward each other. It feels an inappropriate time to ask either of them what exactly occurred to cause such a breakdown, but Emmrich wonders. He can’t help but do so when he considers just how hopelessly in love Lucanis had been. As far as he’d been able to tell, it seemed that they were well suited to one another. At one point, Lucanis had admitted he was simply happy to be around her.
But now.
Now Lucanis stays close to Taash and keeps his eyes downcast on the task, pointedly looking away, staying silent, stiffening whenever he hears Neve speak. An unresolved issue hangs over them both and Emmrich’s sure he’s not the only one who’s noticed.
“I’m gonna do a little stone shaping, give us some cover just in case,” Harding announces, jogging away from the fire toward the outcropping to raise walls all around them, high enough to be trouble for darkspawn to scale, thick enough that if anything were to try and crash into them it would make for a difficult task. Enough so that they’d have time to get up and ready themselves for a fight. It’s a clever choice, a welcome form of caution.
Conversations carry, the group continuing to catch up on various events, Neve detailing the work in Dock Town and the recovery within the Archon’s palace with her usual degree of dry distance. The seat of Archon is now occupied by Dorian Pavus. The Shadow Dragons are rebuilding their numbers, with a new focus on rooting out Venatori resistance still hiding in the city, as well as restoring the neighborhoods lost to the destruction of the gods. All of Minrathous is still wounded but recovering slowly. Neve’s resolve seems unshakable, but her harder edges seem sharper than they’d been when they were all still occupying the Lighthouse.
Bellara animatedly explains the restoration projects the Veil Jumpers are endeavoring to see through, building up the home that was lost with knowledge saved from the Nadas Dirthalen. Better than before. Her excitement is a palpable lift to the evening, one that tries to clear away some of the gloom that clouds the air. Arlathan and old Elvhenan is to be a haven for elves in a way it never was, but welcoming to all who are willing to work at building a home and reclaim lost history. The Veil Jumper ranks are only expanding, giving Bellara a chance to teach new recruits and share her knowledge. She has hope for the ruins that are being repurposed into a real city, something that’s only possible now that they’re more able to stabilize the wild magic of the many artefacts scattered throughout the forest.
Lucanis only briefly, and rservedly touches on the complicated situation in Treviso. His update is a few clipped sentences, informing out of a sense of obligation, that Treviso is still taking in refugees from the South, recovering from the Antaam occupation, and that the Crow politics have only gotten worse after the stunts Illario pulled. The Venatori, though largely de-fanged, are still a threat to be dealt with amidst the strain of offering aid to Orlais and The Free Marches. There are looks cast his way, obvious questions lingering in the air, but he keeps his head down, refusing to look or give a chance to deeper conversation about any of it.
In an effort to keep things moving, and to spare Lucanis anymore scrutiny, Emmrich chimes in. It’s easy to expound on the work he’s been doing with the Mourn Watch. Their goals are not all that different from before, endeavoring to monitor the many disturbances across Thedas in the wake of the gods havoc. What has changed is just how often they are sending Watchers out into the world as needed, all to deal with existential threats in ways they never have before. The seclusion of his order has been broken, out of necessity. In times such as these, no one can be idle, though Nevarra is, as it always has since obtaining its independence, maintaining its borders to keep out the encroaching Blight from the southwest.
He cannot bring himself to talk more about how Rook was assisting them, nor what he was doing with the Wardens when he had the time. The thought occurs, to mention him, but his name gets stuck in Emmrich’s throat and he keeps his silence.
All their talk passes the time, giving them all a chance to comfortably situate themselves while Taash and Lucanis prepare supper. They dish out bowls of rice, re-hydrated vegetables, and bits of stewed jerky, though they’re careful to keep things separated out of respect for Emmrich’s own dietary restrictions. Despite the many months that have passed, the patterns of their rapport seem to pick up where they left off, and whatever discomfort exists stretching across the wide berth Lucanis and Neve give one another is mostly ignored, though for how long that can truly last down here, Emmrich isn’t so sure.
Lucanis takes a seat beside Emmrich on his bed roll at the far edge of the encampment, inviting himself to lean back against the stone wall and poke at his food. The deep trenches of exhaustion in his face and the dark shadows beneath his eyes only seem deeper today. It is like a glimpse of the man he’d first met, tangling with the loss of more of his autonomy, a thing he’d had so little of to begin with. It pains Emmrich to see him like this, drifting through existence, slumped beneath the weight of so much responsibility that seems heavier when he doesn’t have anything to do but sit with it.
But at the very least, he is not sitting alone.
Emmrich leans, lightly bumping his shoulder into Lucanis’ own, urging him to look up with the subtle contact that comes easier with their familiarity. Despite many months apart, the strength of the bond they’d formed remains intact, and Emmrich calls on it now in the hopes that he might draw Lucanis out of his own head, where he’s prone to sit and stew, over-thinking things when left to his own devices.
“When you used to seek me out it was because you wanted to talk,” about Spite, mostly. Those first weeks Lucanis had spurned Emmrich’s offers of support and assistance, but in time, the late evening calls at his door began. Lucanis would timidly approach with requests to talk when Spite became to much for him to contend with in silence on his own. Each night, each moment, became a fertile ground for trust to grow. Trust that is a boon now, amidst so much sadness. Lucanis grimaces, making a soft growling noise of confirmation as much as discontent.
“It’s uncomfortable,” Lucanis says, whisper quiet, “I know the others must feel it. I think Bellara even knows… That we’re not… Neve and I…”
Lucanis’ pinched expression slackens into something more morose, eyes falling to his food, brows drawn up and inward, creating a prominent groove of regret. Emmrich watches Lucanis take a bite, chew, sigh nasally, and sag more heavily against the stone wall.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Emmrich replies, wishing there was more he could say, but knowing it’s better to let Lucanis take his time with it, and keep talking. He offers a weak, sympathetic smile before turning to tuck into his own meal.
“Me too,” Lucanis says. “It’s… It’s my fault. I just wish we’d had a little more time to… I don’t know. Settle things better. Before all this. But death is rarely interested in what’s convenient.” Lucanis’ wooden spoon scrapes along his bowl, and he turns away from Emmrich and stares down into it, as if somehow it might hold some key to resolving this thread of tension that stretches from one side of their encampment to the other.
“Rarely?” Emmrich echoes, and Lucanis rasps out a laugh.
“When you’re dishing it out yourself, sometimes it can be,” he states, with a meager lilt of amusement that’s ultimately humorless. Emmrich gives a soft ‘ah’ of understanding, laughing weakly with a small nod. For a little while he sits with this confession of strife, making his way through his meal with his eyes downcast at his own bowl.
“It was hard,” Lucanis says, at length, voice going whisper quiet once more. The softness conveys his desire for privacy that contrasts with the pressure he feels to say something, to get any of this burden he holds off his chest. “After everything that happened there was so much work to be done in both cities. Minrathous was almost destroyed completely by the gods. Treviso was still on shaky ground after the occupation and the unmasking of Ivenci. And then came the calls for aid, the refugees from the south, and the Crows were-- are in shambles… I could not be two places at once. How does one split their time between two great, undeniable loves, and ever make it feel like enough? Is it even possible?”
Emmrich hums, taking the bare-bones details into consideration as he sets his bowl aside. Life rarely gives one easy answers, just as death rarely waits for an opportune time to strike. Existence is rife with complication and unfair choices. No Win situations. Emmrich’s eyes land on Lucanis again, watching him struggle with it, guilt contorting his features, his meal half finished in his hands. Emmrich has far more familiarity with relationships ending rather than enduring. He knows what it is to have held love and feel it slip through your fingers. After enough false starts, the concept had burned him badly enough to stop looking for it.
Until Rook.
“Life can sometimes pull people away from each other. Through no real fault of their own.” Emmrich can understand, from the vague explanation, why Lucanis might feel at fault, but Emmrich has the advantage of an objective perspective that he hopes Lucanis will take into consideration. “First Love very seldom becomes forever. Even if it came late in life. It takes work and compromise. The wonder of romance only carries one so far and it’s never as effortlessly or poetically enduring as novels make it seem.”
Lucanis sits there, thumbnail digging back and forth across a groove on the lip of his bowl, staring at the stony floor, the dent between his brows slowly intensifying.
“You think perhaps we were doomed from the start?”
“I want to say no,” Emmrich confesses. “But I can’t say for certain. What I can say, is that circumstance seems to have made finding the required compromises more difficult.”
Lucanis’ jaw flexes, teeth setting against themselves as he pushes his spoon around and takes another bite, barely chewing before swallowing, his eyes lifting slowly from the floor, then darting to look at Emmrich. When their gazes meet, the harder edges of Lucanis’ contemplative expression soften once more.
“She wanted me to be more present, but I couldn’t. I could not bring myself to step away from Treviso to be with her as often as she wanted. I was the one who refused that compromise. I… I wanted to be there, but how could I leave for weeks at a time when my home—” His voice cracks and Emmrich sees the telltale shine of Lucanis’ heart in his eyes. Always so close to the surface and so tender. He could put on a brave, near unshakable front, but only at first. In time, it became so clear that Lucanis was not able to hide the softness of his empathy, the swell of his love, for his people, for his city, for his friends, for Neve.
“Lucanis…” Emmrich reaches, taking the bowl from his grasp to set aside. Lucanis reaches, shaky, like a child grasping for comfort from someone he trusts. Older, wiser, someone who can make sense of his feelings for him. Emmrich draws him into the circle of his arm, letting him slump into his side with a shaky breath and a hiccupping sigh. The rawness that loss wrought upon all of them makes contending with the more expected griefs that life provides all the more difficult. Emmrich has seen it many times before, when comforting mourners. Sudden confessions of interpersonal strife, overwhelming emotion over simple inconveniences made so much bigger by the death of a loved one, and it’s unsurprising to him to see Lucanis crumple beneath the weight of it all.
“You say I should not blame myself, but how can I do anything else?” Lucanis gasps out between shaky snuffling and quiet sobs. Emmrich glances up at their group, spread out across the space, and sees eyes turning their way, all bearing urge to come to Lucanis’ aid and comfort him, but one. The perception of what has caused this particular breakdown is obvious, and Emmrich gives a small shake of his head, warning them away, giving Lucanis a few more moments of something like privacy to feel the depth of his own grief, for so many things.
A hushed conversation, whispered secrets, gentle reassurance. Emmrich tries. He has to try.
“I don’t have a satisfactory answer for that. But, the truth is, that when things fall apart, it’s more comforting to find someone or something to blame. Giving a face to the pain is easier than admitting that some things just don’t work out. It doesn’t make that blame true, or right. And it won’t bring you any sense of closure or comfort. In time it will get easier. It will hurt less.”
Lucanis sucks in a damp breath and lets it out in a shuddering rush, reaching up to rub his fingertips into his eyes, wiping away tears as he tries desperately to regain some of his composure. Arduous seconds pass as Lucanis catches his breath, settles the sniffling unease he’s gripped by, and finally, exhales, stilling beside Emmrich, eyes slipping shut. One last pass of the heel of his hand over his cheeks clears away the tears.
“All of this is so much harder than it should be. We saved the world and now what? More work. More… Pain. It feels like climbing a muddy hill in a hailstorm.” The wry tone and embittered laugh press up against Emmrich’s own tender heart. He’d done so much to shield it, to tuck it away behind a wall of practiced distance and Rook had dragged it out across the floor, whether Emmrich wanted it or not. And now it’s here, a pulpy mess, bleeding for Lucanis. He seems so defeated.
“There are better days ahead, Lucanis,” Emmrich soothes, rubbing his bicep and squeezing him a little closer. Lucanis stares at the floor and sniffles once more.
“I’m not so sure,” he mumbles. “But I have to hope.”
Notes:
This chapter brought to you by:
- Several 5:30 AM wake-ups
- Donkin Dunts America Run No Dun Dun Gimme That Espresso Baybeeee
- Galaxy Braining my way through a 2 day migraine
- Laughing in the face of joint pain
- Spite (my love for him and my refusal to let my disabilities stop me)
- The creamy, poppy sound of my modded keyboard holy shit
Chapter 4: Chiseled Out From Stone
Notes:
Shout out to my fellow Spite Fans.
This chapter took a lot longer than the previous ones for how utterly fucking sick I got. The flu, then sinusitis right after, an RA flare that made my hands swell up like crazy, augh. What a nightmare. But! Finally. It's here.
I love these simple, tender moments. This chapter was a challenge to write. Anyone else ever have to cut like 500 words they thought they liked because they wrote themselves into a corner somehow? Lol. God I hate editing. ;w;
Thank you to everyone for your kind comments as always, they were a big spark of joy while I was sick and truly help keep me motivated to write. It's good to be back. Thanks for your patience c:
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
What comes as some surprise is how heavily he sleeps. The exhaustion of the day drags Lucanis down into the darkness of dreamless unconsciousness, where his mind is nothing but an empty expanse to exist within. But Spite stirs, discontent, never fully resting himself. He itches and twitches behind Lucanis’ closed eyes giving sleep a texture, a cold burning flame licking at his spine, making it anything but restful by the time he wakes. For a moment he simply lies there, staring up into the gloom, the last embers of their fire gently smoldering in the brazier nearby, the stone floor bleeding its chill through his bedroll and into his back. His mouth is tacky and his head is congested. It’s quiet. Those underground currents are a gentle white noise in the distance, along with the whooshing of air moving through the passages.
When he sits up, he thinks he’s the first awake, but it’s not so. There, at the edge of their encampment, looking up past the stone barriers Harding had raised for them, is a lone, tall figure, cast in the cool blue light of lyrium veins. He stands there, wrist clasped in opposite hand behind his back, still as the stone itself. From this distance it looks as though he’s not even breathing. Lucanis moves slowly, leveraging what strength he can to get up from the ground and patter across the stone floor toward Emmrich. It comes unnaturally, each step feeling stiff and awkward for how he’s trying not to move as silently as he usually would, not wanting to startle the contemplative necromancer who doesn’t see him coming. An intentioned scuff of his toe against the floor pulls Emmrich’s attention. It’s a backward glance over his shoulder, that ambient glow dappled across his features, highlighting the brightness of his eyes and the gold that rests around his neck.
Lucanis stops just short, a few paces away, tired eyes blinking hard as he tries to shake off the last of the grogginess of sleep as he peers across the meager distance between them. A few feet, nothing more. Close enough to make out the fine lines around Emmrich’s mouth that frame his small smile, and the winkles across his brow that betray his own deep well of thought. Lucanis swallows and it rings in his ears, seeming so loud in the tense quiet before the rest of their party wakes. Emmrich turns slowly, the scratch of his own bootheel against the stone floor echoing off the lofty ceilings.
“Good morning. I hope you slept well despite the accommodations, and that I didn’t wake you,” Emmrich greets. There’s nothing amiss in his hushed tone, so placid and welcoming that Lucanis could almost believe nothing was wrong. But everything is. The wrongness in their world is overgrown, stretching beyond the bounds of a manageable bush and into a sprawling tangle that’s swallowed up everything else trying to climb toward the sun, only to blot out its light. Lucanis feels withered. Spite rumbles and mutters beneath the gentility of Lucanis’ smile.
“Of course. You didn’t wake me, no need to worry,” Lucanis says.
‘No rest in. Dark places. Dreaming. Of dark nothing. Don’t lie, Lucanis.’
Emmrich’s expression creases along the fringes, body slouching, hips tilted and cocked as he brings his hands forward and gesticulates while he speaks.
“Spite, it’s impolite to tattle. But… He’s right, you know. You don’t need to lie. Not to me. I’d hoped by now you would know that.” There’s something distinctly musical about the motions of Emmrich’s hands, how he gestures toward Lucanis, fingers splaying in a flourish when he shrugs, and there is always a light in his eyes. It seems to find them even in the dark. Lucanis sighs through his nose, mouth pressed into a fine line as he props his hands on his hips, readjusting his weight. He favors a view of the floor rather than those eyes. Emmrich, who sees, hears, knows so much. It’s a gaze that feels like it peels back far too many layers of obfuscation too easily, a consequence of knowing each other as well as they have come to.
Spite tattling doesn’t help.
“I did sleep,” Lucanis replies. “It… just wasn’t very restful.”
“Ah. A lie of omission then.” Emmrich chuckles and Lucanis feels like squirming, but he keeps himself still. Steady. “It’s… Understandable. Our predicament hardly lends itself to truly restorative slumber.”
‘Emmrich can read? To us. Sleep better.’
Lucanis is unable to keep steady. He does squirm, shifting from foot to foot, shoulders hiking a fraction as he continues to pointedly avoid looking at Emmrich. But still, he sees him, through a pair of eyes that aren’t his own. A tall, pale shape in his periphery. Too thin. The shadow on his jaw is deeper than it should be. Smudges of pale, billowing linen around lean arms, and a pair of high-waisted trousers. Barely dressed. Open vest, exposed sternum, a rarity. Barely decent. A glint of gold that reflects lyrium light, dipping beneath his collar. Lucanis can suddenly recall a warm library, a soft chair, and Emmrich’s voice, an injection of twin memories overlapping. A sense of wonder, so vivacious, belonging to Spite. A sense of comfort and gratitude, belonging to Lucanis himself. He sees Emmrich through Spite’s ever-present gaze like a flicker of more memories forming as each second passes.
Emmrich looks so painfully fond.
“He misses being at the Lighthouse,” Lucanis says, and Emmrich takes a step closer.
“I’m afraid I didn’t bring any books on this expedition of ours,” he replies. Lucanis feels taken aback by the puff of air that leaves his own lungs. It’s a laugh, one that crept up unexpectedly. A tiny glimmer of lightness in the oppressive dark. It feels nice, no matter how sudden its appearance may be.
“It’s fine—”
“But I have a few stories I’ve committed to heart. The restless dead enjoy stories. Perhaps that will suffice… You need your rest, after all. It may be a while before we are afforded soft beds. A few days, possibly more.”
Lucanis’ head snaps upward, eyes widening a fraction as they land on Emmrich. No matter how many times it is offered to him, Emmrich’s gentleness can still catch Lucanis by surprise. Such a freely given resource that seems so precious was never afforded to Lucanis as a child. What he’d often found instead was a cold cane where a soft hand should have been. It is this gentle disposition that inevitably drew him to the necromancer over time; Emmrich’s refusal to offer up anything other than kindness, even when everyone else looked at Lucanis with discomforted fear for what he might be capable of with Spite riding beneath his skin. It was so foreign once, enough to be worthy of his suspicion. But now?
Lucanis feels his stomach flip and he swallows against the feeling of nerves prickling to life. Hair raising on the back of his neck. Goosebumps and heart palpitations. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to be extended so much care.
“You don’t have to go out of your way for us, Emmrich. You spend all this time offering comfort to others, but who comforts you, hm?” Lucanis’ brows knit unevenly over his tired eyes and Emmrich glances away, smiling crookedly while giving one of those little shrugs of his head and shoulder. A quirk. Observable patterns of behavior.
“You do, don’t you?” Emmrich asks, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Warm hazel eyes land on Lucanis once more, a single, well-manicured brow lifting, just barely. “Or am I mistaken?”
It catches Lucanis by surprise to hear it, though perhaps it shouldn’t. He hadn’t really thought about it all that hard. He’s supporting Emmrich, keeping secrets for him, looking after him, but… Comfort? Was that part of it? It’s a little startling to realize that yes, perhaps it is. Instinctual. Muscles that hadn’t atrophied no matter how little Lucanis had been allowed to use them throughout his life. It’s second nature and somehow, he’d missed it entirely. Emmrich’s smile thins, becoming such a brittle little thing, but Lucanis sees a glimmer of hope in the tenting of his brows and the shine in his gaze. Lucanis wants to believe in that hope. They need it down here in the gloom, more than ever.
“You tend to do that, you know. You have a habit of taking care of people and then minimizing the impact it truly has. I’m not worried about me. You worry more than enough for the both of us,” Emmrich reaches out to give Lucanis’ shoulder a squeeze as he shifts and moves to pass him, heading back toward camp. Lucanis twists to watch him go, seeing the first stirrings of the rest of their companions beginning to sit up. It’s a slow-going process for each of them to find some kind of wakefulness in the earliest hours of morning that they can only feel in their bones, rather than see in all this darkness.
The thought Emmrich leaves Lucanis with is one that nags at him. That Emmrich feels comforted by Lucanis’ efforts, and that he’s unflinchingly entrusted such a thing into Lucanis’ hands without a second thought, is both heartening and nerve wracking. He knows the worst is yet to come, given what they intend to find down here. He hopes that whatever he can manage will continue to be enough when the time comes. Someone as kind and as gentle as Emmrich deserves a soft place to land, and while Lucanis has never considered himself a particularly soft person, he’s willing to give himself the benefit of the doubt. He’s willing to try.
Breakfast is a brief affair, a flurry of movement around camp while Harding brings down the walls and they go over the map of the sprawling catwalks and tunnels. A wrinkle forms on her brow as she sits there, peering at the marked-up vellum in her lap, fingers tracing paths before stopping. A stillness overcomes her, and she glances out toward the expanse of stone beyond the edges of their little encampment.
“I think… I think this path. I feel like this is the way to go,” she says, tracing her fingertips along the western descent on the map. A gut feeling when deep underground from Harding sounds to Lucanis like one worth following. The distance in her gaze makes him wonder if she hears something she isn’t sharing, if the stone is speaking, or if a Titan’s heart is beating for her, calling her toward its center. What he knows of what she went through is limited at best. It’s understandable, in his mind, that there are some things she still would rather keep to herself about the experiences she had when she became so intrinsically linked to a Titan. It’s never been something Lucanis has needed to understand, all too familiar with sudden changes like hers, new magic, voices echoing from inside your own mind, a presence that isn’t you, but also is.
She’d softened herself for all her life, and kept her struggles close to her chest, but she doesn’t seem to be struggling anymore. An agreeable little girl in a world of big, judgmental humans no longer. She’s sure of herself and of the direction they’re heading as she packs up her things. Taash seems content to follow Harding’s instincts, clapping her partner on the back and conferring with her in hushed tones at the edge of the group. Quick nods of understanding, an exchange of tense smiles, and then Taash turns to address the group.
“Let’s move out.”
The rest have no reason to argue. All of this had been a shot in the dark to begin with, taking on a task akin to finding a strand of hay in a needle stack, so any direction at all for any reason is good enough for the group, for now. Lanterns are lit and packs are shouldered, the pressure of progress beckoning them to move quickly, and move together.
Lucanis’ eyes are drawn back to Emmrich to watch him as he gathers his things and swallows mouthfuls of quickly cooling coffee from a tin cup, multi-tasking by the light of a few lanterns and the last embers of their fire. The shadow along his jaw and the gauntness of his cheeks seem especially stark today, even with more light to see them by. He’s harried; his hair is barely combed back from his face with a rake of his fingers through it. His movements are stiff. The usual fluidity of his demeanor has grown stilted and slowed. The cold hard ground hasn’t done him any favors and Lucanis files these observations away as a potential concern to contend with in the coming hours, possibly days. His greatest hope is that they succeed, and that it’s soon. He wants to get Emmrich out of here. He wants to get all of them out of here, but the one who seems to be the frailest weighs heavy on his mind.
‘Don’t like it down here. Walls feel… Too. Close. Too confining. You are worried, Lucanis. Too worried.’
Spite’s usual patter in the back of his mind is strangely settling. What once had felt like an invasion and a burden on his autonomous personhood has become something of a comfort. The daily expectations that are met by merely hearing Spite’s general observations or even his whining complaints is now as normal as breathing. Rook helped him get out of his own head enough to accept what Emmrich had told him from the beginning. They’ll survive together. Always.
“I like to think I’m worried the right amount,” Lucanis mutters under his breath as he begins to pack up his own things. Spite’s scoff rubs up against the backs of his eyes and all this lyrium makes the nerves in Lucanis’ teeth itch, but he’s sure of himself in how he proceeds. Pack slung over his shoulders, he turns to the group, watching them arm themselves and adjust their armor. The deeper they go, the more certain the promise of violence. Darkspawn and deepstalkers, most likely. Why couldn’t it be wyverns? Just this once…
‘Wyverns are in Ferelden. We go soon. Right, Lucanis?’
“When there’s time, Spite. I promise.”
Harding takes point at the front of the group, and Lucanis is happy to bring up the rear, watching Emmrich in the middle of the pack where the mages of the group are gathered, well protected on the outside by Taash. It’s a good marching order that gives Lucanis a decent view of everyone else as well as space from the heavy weight that hangs in the air between himself and Neve. Listening to the ambient chatter that kicks up among the magically inclined members of their group feels like old times.
Etheric flows, wards, a book that Emmrich will lend to Bellara, a dig at the Magisterium, a joke that goes over Lucanis’ head. It’s familiar and lulling, allowing him to focus without thinking too hard about what he’s doing as they make their way down a craggy decline and across wooden planks, deeper into the deep roads. The air pressure is different as they descend, enough to make his ears pop and spark an uncomfortable yawn, but largely, the time passes without incident. It’s easy to get lost in the rote momentum of one foot in front of the other for hours at a time until Harding’s boots scuff along the ground and she grinds to a halt in front of them, throwing up a hand to alert the group.
Silence.
She’s listening for something and Lucanis strains to hear. Is it something tangible or is it the stone whispering to her? The echoing nothing tells him what she hears might not be so different from what the Wardens hear. Is that possible? If the Blight is also in the stone, in the Titans… Thinking about it makes him shudder. What a horror that must be. He hopes it doesn’t hurt her. He’s not the only one.
“Everything okay, Lace?” Taash asks, their voice dropped to a comical stage whisper. Lucanis glances their way, watching them tense against a clear urge to close the distance to be at their partner’s side. Lucanis knows the feeling all too well. He misses it. Neve glances toward Emmrich and Emmrich shrugs back at her. No answer is forthcoming, a long beat of total quiet from Harding as she turns her head as if to point her ear toward a sound. And then she gestures—
“This way. We need to go down that shaft.” She points to a small opening up ahead, a faint glow from within on the left. It looks narrow, just large enough for Taash to slip into, but only barely, which means that Rook, in all his armor, could have made the journey. “But there are bound to be darkspawn. I can feel… The lyrium. It’s Blighted down there. Feels weird. Like—like the stone has heartburn.”
She rubs at her own sternum and picks up her pace, jogging toward the opening without hesitation.
Very much just like old times. Lucanis has always appreciated how much Harding favors action over caution, though the big scary Blight hole in the ground is still unnerving to consider, even if it might take them closer to what it is they’re looking for.
‘We are burrowing like nugs— they have little hands, Lucanis. Little people hands.’ Spite snickers and Lucanis rolls his eyes. Harding bends to look down the shaft, her hand braced against the edge, an expression of consternation denting her features and pulling at her scars.
“Are you sure about this? This thing wasn’t marked on the map,” Neve asks, and the thready quality of uncertainty in her voice tells Lucanis all he needs to know about where her head is at. She’s thinking about all the ways this can go horribly wrong. That was always part of their problem, wasn’t it? The ways in which Neve could see the relationship falling to pieces from the moment Lucanis told her he loved her. A twist of the knife. Now really isn’t the time.
“I trust Harding’s intuition,” Lucanis says as he moves, passing Neve by, glancing her way. When he looks, when he sees her, he’s struck by the surprise awaiting him in a gaze that one held so much fondness for him. It’s the first thing either of them has managed to say to each other in all this time, but it doesn’t behoove them to ignore one another down here. He refuses to hesitate now, favoring Harding’s boldness over any sort of reticence to follow. He moves to crouch down by the opening, taking Harding’s hand in his own, braced to help her sink down into the space and find a proper foothold.
“Is it intuition or is something else calling you, Harding—Please tell me you’ve thought this through.” Neve comes to kneel at the other side and Harding looks up at her, jaw set with resolve.
“You don’t have to trust the stone; you just have to trust me.”
Lucanis could swear that he hears Neve’s teeth creaking under pressure. The tension in her own jaw brings out the line of corded muscle down the sweep of her throat and he forces himself to look away, to keep himself focused. Help Harding. Help the others. Keep moving. Lucanis trusts her. She’s a good scout. She’s got good instincts. And she’s no longer afraid of upsetting people and instead, owns just how good she is at what she does. If she can hear some shred of evidence of where Rook might have gone--
“How do you know this is right?” Neve asks, but she’s already moving in, following Harding down and Lucanis offers her his hand to steady her descent until she’s dropped to solid ground. He turns toward Bellara next to offer out his palm. His shoulder twinges and his arm strains with the angle of helping her lower her weight through the passage. What the hell did she put in her pack? The whole of her artefact collection?
“I just. I feel it.” Harding’s insistence bounces off the rocky walls, reaching his ears as he watches to make sure Bellara lands with both feet on the ground, stable and sure-footed. “Where Rook walked. The stone remembers, so I—I guess, I remember? I don’t know how else to explain it, but I know this is right. I know it is.”
One after the other, Lucanis assists the remaining members of their party to descend down the shaft to a lower level, then slips down after them, landing lightly on his feet after a short drop. It’ll be scalable for the return journey, if a bit challenging while carrying dead weight. But doable. Being deeper within the stone, however, brings its own feelings of anxiety. Entrapment. What did Rook feel when he decided to jump through, if he did? Lucanis hopes that whatever Harding feels is correct, and that it will make shorter work of this journey into the earth. The promise of danger ahead does nothing to deter him, but there is a new weight across all their shoulders for it.
The vigilance they feel intensifies and heightens, becoming a tangible additional presence among them as they make their way down the narrow path, dropping off rocky outcroppings onto lower levels as the light of the lyrium takes on a deeper hue. Red. Angry. Blighted. Solas couldn’t cure the Blight but had made some sort of promise to try and soften it all somehow. To bring it under control. It wasn’t enough. The bit of Blight that was in Rook still claimed him in the end. It feels so painfully unfair to know that after all they’d done, all Rook had done, he was still just a man. A man with an unavoidable fate.
Fate is such a cruel concept. It runs in opposition to the idea of free will, as far as Lucanis is concerned. The notion that all choices are leading somewhere pre-determined isn’t of any comfort to him. As he looks around their group while they march toward Rook’s final resting place, he wonders if the others feel the same. He hopes, somehow, that all this will be worth it in the end.
“Hey—” Lucanis curls his fingers around Emmrich’s white knuckle grip against his staff. The scent of sweat and blood and the detritus of too many skirmishes is thick in the close, humid air. Underground, in the damp, in the dark, there’s no escaping it; it’s thick and oppressive. Emmrich is shaking. By Lucanis’ count it’s been three days. Maybe four. It’s hard to say. Only ever sleeping in snatches, an hour or two here, another there, eating dry rations and passing around waterskins while the compounding pressure of duty, determination, and exhaustion wear them all thin. None quite so thin as Emmrich. It’s so hard to know just how much time has passed as it’s all begun to blur in the dank darkness, but it’s all over the necromancer, coloring him in shades of filthy, agonizing struggle.
“I know we’re close—I can feel it,” Harding huffs, her hand braced against the stone wall near an angry red vein. The lyrium glow has made Lucanis’ eyes sore from the strain. It casts angry shadows across the faces of his friends. Emmrich grits his teeth and Lucanis can see that same red reflected in the shine of emotion in the necromancer’s bloodshot gaze. The scruff on his jaw is matted on one side with blackened blood, dried and clinging around a cut that Neve healed hours ago. The aimless, scrambling packs of darkspawn have been thinning out as they descend through the winding stone corridors, but even without something directing them, even without purpose, each fight has felt like a hard-won victory. Too many close calls. Too many scrapes and cuts and bruises.
The only good sign they’ve come across has been the appearance of rotting darkspawn littering the stone corridors. Someone else has already walked these paths, fought and killed here before, and kept going. They all know who it must have been. It’s an odd kind of thing to find hope in, but they’d all taken it, run with it. Run themselves right into a wall of enervation. So close. Emmrich looks up the winding hall, into the stretch of shadows and vile blighted glow. Lucanis watches him with a twisted grimace pulling at his mouth. He watches Emmrich look toward the destination that’s still unknown. Near but far. He feels the pain of uncertainty like a radiant wave coming off Emmrich’s dirt-smudged skin.
Haggard, dirty, defeated. Emmrich shouldn’t look like that. All his poise and composure have been chipped away, bit by bit. They’re all roughed up by the journey, but Emmrich wears it the worst. Lucanis pries Emmrich’s fingers back, forcing him to release his stress grip, quick to catch the staff in his other hand before it clatters to the ground. He turns Emmrich’s palm over, looking for himself to see bubbled blisters along the meat of his palm. Pinkened and angry. If they burst there’s a risk of infection. Lucanis lets out a heavy sigh and looks up again, seeking Emmrich’s gaze but it’s downcast, to the side, staring at the floor.
“You need to rest.” Lucanis speaks softly, feeling as though even the slightest lift in volume might be enough to shatter his exhausted friend. He can only imagine what Emmrich must be feeling in this moment, having heard from their scout that the end is within reach. All the more reason to take the time to recover, as far as Lucanis is concerned.
“Harding, can you get some cover for us?” Neve’s voice is eerily calm. She’s used to working on little sleep and with fewer resources. Lucanis finds himself grateful for her in this moment as she takes charge of everything and everyone else, allowing him to keep his attention where he feels he most needs to. Rook belonged to all of them, but Rook broke Emmrich’s heart. Betrayed him. Decided that this pain was something Emmrich could weather. And every second that this is dragged out, Lucanis can see it dragging Emmrich down deeper into a kind of despair that will be hard to come back from. This chosen fate that Rook gifted his love is like a great bird of prey, digging its talons into Emmrich’s back, bending him, threatening to break him, send him crashing into the dirt in total collapse. But they have to have hope. And this—This is Lucanis’ job. The one Emmrich entrusted to him. He’s allowed to worry for Emmrich, because Emmrich clearly isn’t in any condition to worry for himself at all.
It's not like the necromancer to be so cavalier with his own wellbeing. It’s not like him to ignore painful wounds. It’s not like him to be seen with his hair a mess and his face weeks unshaven. Emmrich sucks in a shaky breath, coming out of whatever deep, dark reverie held him hostage, finding his way back to the moment, back to Lucanis, enough to meet him, eye to eye.
“I… want to be done. With this part.” Emmrich’s confession comes from chapped lips, every word colored the melancholic shades of grey that come from such sadness and total fatigue. Spite makes a noise, a growl, rife with discontent.
‘We can do it for you. You stay. We go? I don’t like this. Don’t like seeing you sad. Suffering. This is HIS fault. Rook did this—but we can fix it. Can’t we?’ The incomprehensible noise, all Spite’s frustration drowns Lucanis’ senses for a moment, eyes rolling back and a wheeze leaving his lips with the sudden strain of Spite reaching for purchase within their shared body. It’s been such a long time since Lucanis has felt it, the scrabbling, incessant push for control. But Emmrich’s hand moves, coming to rest against his face, fingertips brushing against his temple, along his hairline. A whisper of something soft and sweet curls around Lucanis’ head, the scent of a cool fresh spring, and lilacs in summer sunshine. Soothing. Emmrich’s magic. His touch. His way with Spirits. It’s soothing and Lucanis feels the breath in his lungs rush out of him.
“No, Spite,” Emmrich says, and with such patience. Such kindness. Softly lulling. “I have to do this. But we can all… Rest. For now. Please.”
Lucanis’ mind is more at ease for the effort, and he’s reminded of just what Emmrich is. What he always has been. He’s never overstepped before, never used his magic in such a fashion, and had it come at any other time, Lucanis might have been less relieved and more angered to feel it. But right now, it’s like a breath of fresh air. It feels like home. Maybe not even his own home, but a home worth occupying. It eases aches that exist somewhere deeper than the flesh that Lucanis hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. Spite’s aches. Spite’s pains. Spite rumbles more quietly, softly cajoled into compliance with words and a touch that Lucanis knows reached beyond him, straight to the demon beneath his skin. The demon that Emmrich would never call as such.
Lucanis takes Emmrich’s wrist in hand and draws it away from his face, leading him toward the stony wall to take a seat. It’s slow going, helping him sink to the floor, setting his staff up against the rocky surface beside him, and finally taking his place at his side, kneeling against unforgiving stone to take his hands and inspect them a little closer.
“Neve—We need some healing over here,” Lucanis calls, reflexively reaching for the familiarity of her presence. Bellara could do it. Harding has tonics. But even after all that’s happened, the name that leaves his lips is hers. A longstanding habit formed over the course of their fight against the gods and the recovery efforts that came after, the very same that still continue. To her credit, despite their interpersonal struggles, she doesn’t hesitate, coming to join him where he’s knelt on the floor, touching his shoulder to urge him aside so she can take Emmrich’s hands in her own.
“Maker’s breath, Emmrich… You should have said something sooner,” her movements are so much more precise than Emmrich’s when she casts. There is something sharp and methodical to her manner. Decisiveness. The glow of cool blue light, tinged with mint green, wraps itself around Emmrich’s hands and sinks into his blistered palms while he stays slumped against the wall, as if he barely notices it’s happening at all. His eyes are vacant, shadowed by the furrow of his brow.
“Thank you… Neve,” Emmrich says, so softly it’s as if he hasn’t spoken at all. Neve rubs her thumbs over Emmrich’s palms, across slowly callousing skin, frowning as she glances at Lucanis. He doesn’t know what to do or say, only nods, hoping she knows he’s grateful. And, despite the strangeness of it all, he’ll take it from here. Spite is there, a manifested presence that hunches down, grimacing as he inspects Emmrich from peculiar angles, upward, a sudden burst of wings that flutter and wrap to cover him but they’re not tangible in a way that Emmrich can really feel. Yet, still the light in his eyes seems to brighten. A weary little smile makes itself known on his tired face.
“I appreciate the effort,” he says, his voice rasping like sandpaper from his throat. Lucanis reaches for his waterskin, pulling the cork to offer it up and Emmrich doesn’t hesitate to accept, taking it with his shaking hands for a much-needed drink.
‘Curiosity would be sad. He would not want to see Emmrich like this. Not taking care of himself, pah—Can’t keep going on ignoring things. Bad for you. Bad for everyone,’ Spite grumbles and grouses, but there is no mistaking the care and concern in his tone. Only a year ago, such a tone would have been unthinkable to Lucanis, but now it brings a measure of fondness and relief to hear. He’s not the only one worrying for their death mage.
Hearing Spite’s concern-- Emmrich snorts. Lucanis can’t recall a single time he’s ever heard Emmrich snicker like that, and his eyes widen as he takes in the look of wry amusement that contorts Emmrich’s handsome features.
“Astute as always, Spite,” Emmrich laments, tipping his head back to rest against the stone. Lucanis eases closer, taking a seat at Emmrich’s opposite side, glancing at the glowing shape that both is and isn’t him. Spite sneers and rolls his eyes, but he stays where he is, growling under his breath while feathers ruffle like a blanket over Emmrich’s frame. It’s a little miraculous, or maybe even more than a little.
“If you’d have told me when we met that you’d one day earn the friendship of my personal demon, I probably wouldn’t have believed you.” Lucanis tries for a smile and Emmrich laughs again, dry and shaky, but there’s a warmth there, deep down. Something old and familiar. It reminds him a bit of when Rook was lost in the Fade. Those weeks had been a special kind of hell. Everyone felt that loss while propelling themselves forward, trying so hard not to lose hope. Emmrich had seemed exhausted then, too. Stretched thin. But still determined. Here and now the difference is stark. Emmrich both does and doesn’t want to succeed.
Lucanis wishes there was more he could do. If only Spite’s solution was the right one. It would be so much easier to take on the task in its entirety, to send Emmrich home and let him rest so he doesn’t have to carry this burden. But it’s not Lucanis’ to take or to own. His hands feel restless, his heart even more so. He takes a breath.
“You don’t have to say anything or… talk about it. I know—well. I can infer what might be going on in your head.” Lucanis glances, quick, nervous sidelong looks. Speaking what’s on his heart and mind shouldn’t feel quite so nerve wracking. His pulse quickens as he tries anyway. For Emmrich’s sake, he has to try. “I think I’ve gotten to know you enough to make an educated guess. And, I promise you, after some proper sleep, we’ll finish this.”
Emmrich shifts where he sits, face crumpling as he nods his understanding. There’s so much pain there, etched into his expression, aging him with how deep it all cuts. Pain that Lucanis doesn’t know how to soothe. Back home, they’d be drunk by now, yelling and carousing, speaking ill of the dead with fondness. But Rook has delayed closure for all of them. Emmrich perhaps most of all.
“My parents died in… In a building collapse. Buried. It feels like… history repeating in a way. Digging down to recover what I’ve lost.” Emmrich sucks in a shaky breath and lifts a hand, wiping at the corner of his eye with the heel. His mouth trembles. He’s holding on so tightly. Lucanis nudges him, shoulder to shoulder.
“I won’t stop again until we’ve finished it. You’re not digging alone. Not this time,” Lucanis says, hushed, delicate. “But if I’m to worry about you enough for the both of us, then I will admit I am worried. Mierda, even Spite is worried. None of this is worth anything if you run yourself into the ground for it. You’re still alive, Emmrich.”
Lucanis tries to be gentle with his tone, but in the end, he thinks he might’ve been more frank than anything else. But, even if it’s a little rough around the edges, Emmrich seems to relax a fraction for it. His shoulders come down, head lolling to one side against the stone wall as he fixes Lucanis with a tired, but much steadier gaze. He’s there again, present within his own eyes, that persistent light turned on Lucanis once again. It brings the tiniest shred of relief to see it.
“You’re right. I am. I’m alive. And what good would it do me… to bury myself with the dead?” Emmrich offers out his hand to Lucanis, healed palm upturned and waiting. Lucanis’ heart thuds painfully against his ribs, stomach knotting in on itself. He reaches back, taking that hand in both his own, squeezing it in his grasp.
“None at all. We still need you here. Don’t drift so far away that you forget.” Lucanis’ own voice has dropped to a careful whisper, a prickling unease crawling up his spine as he realizes he doesn’t want to be overheard. It’s not a secret but somehow it feels like one. Something precious, worth safeguarding. Emmrich’s fingers are weak but they grip Lucanis a little tighter than before.
“I won’t forget, Lucanis. And tomorrow… If it is tomorrow. We’ll finish this.”
Finality. It might just be the only relief they really get in all this. Lucanis nods and scoots closer still, offering up warmth in the only way he can. He’s there. That’s comfort, isn’t it? Emmrich slouches and tips his head to the side, eyes slipping shut as his cheek comes to rest atop Lucanis’ head. With their fingers entwined and Emmrich’s weight bearing down against his skull, Lucanis’ breathing comes a little easier. He stares at their fingers, interwoven, wondering how they’d arrived at such a place, that they could hold onto each other without hesitation like this. All they’d been through had galvanized this bond, hadn’t it? It’s only then and there, as he listens to Emmrich’s breathing even out with the swiftness of unconsciousness overtaking him, that Lucanis realizes just how much he’d missed this. How had he managed to carry on without it?
Treviso, much as he loves it, suddenly seems such a lonely place to return to once all this is over.
His eyes lift from their joined hands, and he watches Harding shape stone to block the tunnel on either side of them, leaving a small enough gap for air but nothing more. He watches Taash rifle through their things to pull out rations, passing them around. He watches Bellara summon light and create veil fire for them to cook with. And then he looks at Neve, and for a moment she looks back. Her dark eyes dart over him, where he’s slumped into Emmrich, feeling the clawing grasp of exhaustion coming to claim him, too. His chest is squeezed by her scrutiny. And then she turns away and Lucanis can’t keep his eyes open anymore.
He trusts the others more than enough to slip away, back into the dark.
Notes:
This Chapter Brought To You By:
- The detailed daydreaming that only being forced to lay in bed for days at a time can bring me
- Dominos Pizza
- The Kindness of Strangers on the Internet
- 28oz of Coffee
- Lemon Pączki my Beloved
- My bestie being the bestestAs an aside, this concept would not have come together for me quite as well as it has if not for my dear friend RPing it with me first, though our RP had some very notable differences (Treviso wasn't saved, Lucanis was never with Neve, lots of things happened differently). Being able to do that helped me really harness Emmrich's voice and none of this would be possible without them. c:
Chapter 5: To Hash Out Doubts
Notes:
HELLO. *collapses*
God okay this is a longer chapter. And very dialogue heavy. And I cannot believe I finished it as quickly as I did.
Something, something, the intimacy of sharing a couch and a bottle of wine with someone who sees you...
I have nothing I can say about this chapter except we're starting to dip into some of the overarching plot and some headcanon territory about the nature of spirits as well as the Necropolis itself. Please enjoy Emmrich and Lucanis drinking together and having a moment of catharsis.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Nothing could have ever truly prepared him for it. None of his life experience, no horrors he’d seen prior, no words of wisdom passed down from mentors or kindness offered by friends in the preceding days would have ever been enough. His calloused palms and aching fingers feel weak against the staff in his grasp when he sees it. The world dims around the edges, a deafening roar in his ears drowns out the sounds of his companions, and everything shrinks down to one, solitary point. A shock of crystalline blue cutting through the ground, in a sea of glowing red. Fully encased and preserved, captured like an insect in amber.
“Oh my god—Is—is that--?” Harding’s stuttering realization echoes. Emmrich’s ears ring with the sound of it. She’s running forward but Emmrich’s entire world seems to be slowing down, a long, arduous crawl across the stone floor where his knees strike unforgiving ground.
Rook.
Harding’s hands glow as she presses up against a makeshift coffin, inexplicably formed around the one they’d come looking for. Cracking. Crackling. There’s light pouring from her skin, veins as alive and bright as the lyrium around them. She chokes out a sound. A sob.
“It covered him… Like… like it didn’t want him to be… Alone,” she rasps. Her voice cracks like the sone beneath her palms. There’s such anguish as she lays her hands there against the surface and chips away at it, pries it apart, feeling it all. Feeling what the stone knew as if living its memories in that precise moment. Emmrich hears her weeping. He’s too numb to reach out and comfort her. Shock, he realizes, has seized him completely.
“He wasn’t afraid,” Harding sucks in a shaky breath. “The stone… Comforted him.”
In his final hours, somehow, despite everything, some form of compassion found Rook in the dark. These mountains he once hailed from. These deep roads he’d walked before. The reach of a Titan’s bleeding heart came around him to keep him safely cradled, for eternity. Or until someone could come to bring him home. It seems such an impossibility but it’s there and Emmrich wants to reach for it. To touch. He almost does but there are hands grabbing his own, pulling him back.
“Don’t—” It’s Bellara, drawing him away, shushing him as he lets out a strangled noise of discontent.
“But he—He’s right there, I have to—” The words don’t even feel like his own, but Emmrich hears them in his own voice. He shapes them with his lips and tongue. His protest is real but he’s outside his body more than he’s in it.
It’s a scrambling mess of movement. Taash is in front of him, holding his face in their hands, steadying him. They shake their head, eyes wide and wild with concern, shining with tears that slip over their cheeks. Bright, wet rivulets; they drip to the stone floor and Taash doesn’t even seem to notice them.
“You can’t touch that stuff. You guys have already been exposed to enough of this. Don’t make it worse. We’re not carrying two bodies home today,” they insist, startling him out of his despairing shock enough to understand reason. Raw lyrium. Better to not touch. Better to leave it to Harding’s capable hands. Better to rest.
Days of scraping, clawing, fighting, barely sleeping, whispering stories in the dark and collapsing, slumped against stone, with only the briefest snatches of comfort found within the grasping hand of a friend, the heated gaze of another, the certainty of direction. Emmrich is sick with it. Overwhelmed by it all. He lets out a wretched sob and lets himself be hidden from the excavation in the cover of Taash’s powerful arms. He doesn’t look even though he wants to. He knows if he does it will only prolong the process of grief, exacerbate this feeling of true and total finality.
Lucanis stands aside, stock still, eyes wet and jaw locked tight.
Everything he’d promised is finally coming to fruition. They’ve found Rook. They’ll bring him home. Emmrich didn’t have to dig alone. As Harding finally works back the last of the lyrium with an echoing crunch of stone, freeing Rook from his makeshift coffin, Lucanis steps forward. Emmrich watches him place a hand on Harding’s shoulder, relieving her of her duty.
She scoots back on her hands, on her heels, until her spine hits the wall of the tunnel, and she lets herself suck in breath after shaking breath while the lyrium within her pulses and settles again. She’s pale. Just as sick, maybe worse. And only when her light finally goes out, does Taash leave Emmrich’s side to look after her. Neve kneels beside them, offering water and gentle hands to brush hair back from Harding’s sweat slick face.
Nothing could have prepared him for it. Emmrich had no idea how much it would gut him to see it and finally come face to face with the true, undeniable reality that Rook is dead.
He looks like he’s sleeping at first glance, but on the second it all becomes so painfully real. Emmrich’s seen as many dead bodies as living in his time. He knows what death looks like. Rook’s rich, golden-tanned skin has gone pale, blood pooled and settled into bruises along the back of his neck, he’s limp in a way only a corpse can be, limbs askew against the ground, heedless of any comfort a living person would shift toward. Emmrich knows what he’d find when removing Rook’s armor, what he’d see when preparing the body. Lucanis kneels, hands resting against his thighs, fingers curled into tight fists as he stares down at Rook and confronts it.
“His hair…” Lucanis observes, his voice sounding distant and strange, like someone has stripped him of the ability to convey emotions. Emmrich sees it, too. The hastily shorn head that once bore long, chestnut hair. Hacked away without a mirror, likely done with a knife in the dark. Emmrich takes a breath and closes his eyes.
“Probably forgot his comb again,” Emmrich croaks. “He was always—forgetting the bloody thing no matter how… How often I…”
Emmrich laughs and he doesn’t really know why. It’s so absurd to be so angry at Rook for forgetting it. If Emmrich looked through their things, he’s sure he’d find it in the cabinet, right where Rook last left it. So simple. So foolish. So very human. Lucanis rumbles a small noise that sounds both pained and bemused.
“Mierda… And I thought his beard was bad. It’s a good thing I never took him up on the offer of helping me trim. This is a shoddy job, Rook. Tsk.” Lucanis admonishes him, as if Rook could hear him. And another sudden, airy burst of laughter leaves Emmrich’s chest. Manic and completely inappropriate. But it happens and it’s infectious in a way. Bellara waves her hands.
“Guys come on—That’s so—Augh. I feel like I shouldn’t be laughing,” she fights it, wiping at tears at the corners of her eyes. She’s crying, too. Emmrich scrubs a hand through his hair and a wet, choking sob of a laugh catches on the back of his throat. It’s done. The hardest part is over. It’s real and it’s here and they’re all together. He digs deep, reaching, rallying for any sense of strength he can still muster beneath the exhaustion.
“I’ll take laughter, no matter how morbid, over the sound of one more screeching deep stalker any day… let’s… Let’s get out of this place. And get Rook home.”
Home.
Getting Rook back to the Necropolis is an easier task than tracking him down could have ever hoped to be. The path Harding had led them down, in the end, ended right beneath The Cauldron. The stone sang true and guided them to a destination that seemed specifically chosen to make things simpler. Whether by fate or by design, it doesn’t matter in the end. What does, is that they’re able to make it back to the surface in a day’s time instead of needing to backtrack through the same winding tunnels and brave the scaffolding up the mountainside once more, all while carrying a body. Not to mention fighting presumably more dark spawn and deep stalkers.
It’s a blessing, truly, given their proximity to an eluvian once they resurface, as well as the proximity to Wardens who can help move the body more safely. The most important of all is the proximity to ending this ugly chapter so that the next might begin. In the end, getting home is a simple, straightforward affair; it’s a windfall of good fortune that eases some of the pain of loss they carry so heavily between them.
An agreement is made in the Crossroads to meet back in Nevarra at the Necropolis, in three days’ time, after cleaning up and resting. The grime of their excursion might take that many days to truly scrub away and everyone seems keen for a few nights of proper rest in their own beds. They all go their separate ways, save for Lucanis, who escorts Emmrich and the accompanying Wardens all the way to the morgue in the lower levels of the Necropolis.
It isn’t until he sees Emmrich to the door of his apartment, once Rook has been handed into the care of the other Watchers, that Lucanis seems to decide that he’s done everything he’d set out to do. There is a contentedness that overtakes him and colors his exhaustion. He makes a promise to be back soon, to help Emmrich prepare before the others arrive. It’s a promise given close to his ear, during a tight embrace that reaffirms just how much Lucanis cares.
“Try not to wallow too much until I get back,” Lucanis teases, but there’s such a depth of warmth and affection in it. Emmrich very nearly can’t make himself let the assassin go.
What follows Lucanis’ inevitable and necessary departure is two days of listless drifting through a routine that could almost be considered normal. Save for the part where he can’t bring himself to do what he was trained to. What he’s done for so many others. He can’t do it for himself or the one he loves. He can’t bring himself to take off Rook’s armor and prepare him for embalming. He can’t be the one to clean and dress the body for burial. Too painful. Too burdensome. In the end, Emmrich can’t even return to their home, favoring his apartment in the Necropolis for the distance it grants him from the agony of Rook’s memory.
The familiarity of the life he’d lived before he met Rook brings its own odd comforts. Cleaning up in his old washroom, shaving, putting himself back together before a mirror he’d always liked but left here, visiting the library to speak with an old friend, bickering with Johanna… Tea with Myrna. A quiet evening with Manfred over a game of chess. Walking the markets. It all helps prepare him for the long walk back to the eluvian, down to the lower levels of the Necropolis to greet Lucanis the evening he’d promised to return.
He’s there, awaiting Emmrich on the Necropolis doorstep, backlit by glimmering glass. No leather armor, no pomp or circumstance. Cleaned, beard trimmed, in tunic and trousers, with a dark woolen cloak draped over his shoulders, looking soft and comfortably casual. Not at all like an assassin, let alone the leader of an entire order of them. Lucanis comes instead, as a friend and nothing more. He comes bearing a gift in the form of a single wooden box, and within is a bottle nestled in rich velvet. A familiar shared pastime for them laden in Lucanis’ arms. Wine and conversation. Emmrich manages a small smile and a sigh of relief at the sight of all of it.
“I thought you might like to unwind a bit,” Lucanis says, an old and familiar warmth in his expression that reminds Emmrich of late nights when Lucanis would turn up at his room with a bottle in hand. In those days, seeing him comfortably seated in one of the armchairs in the hidden bedroom behind the bookshelves, legs tucked under a blanket, wine glass in hand… Looking back, those had been some of Emmrich’s favorite moments. Offering Lucanis companionship, comfort, and distraction during their harrowing race to stop the gods had given Emmrich a sense of a specific kind of community that he’d lost touch with over his years working in the Necropolis.
To revisit that same quiet comfortability sounds like a balm for his sore heart. It’s the most welcome of gestures he’s received since returning home with Rook’s body. He smiles and it aches in his cheeks for how real the expression is, as well as how rare it has become in the preceding days.
“Your instincts are a sharp as ever.” Emmrich offers Lucanis his arm, in the spirit of companionable closeness. “Shall we?”
Lucanis accepts, looping his grasp around Emmrich’s elbow to follow along through the crowded and narrow halls, across raised walkways, up and out of the underbelly, into the apartment blocks and markets above. Emmrich monitors his gait, keeping a gentle pace so as to not force Lucanis to walk more swiftly to keep up with his long-legged stride. Falling into a rhythm together comes easily, as effortlessly as drawing breath.
Nevarra is always temperate in late spring, despite the rain, but the Necropolis has a will of its own when it comes to weather. The humidity of the sprawling halls and the chill in the air are a byproduct of the magic that dwells within. The deeper one goes, the cooler it gets, but up among the apartments, it’s warm and dry. It functions like a city, with halls serving as streets full of vendors and stalls. For a place dedicated to the preservation of death, the Necropolis itself bustles with life in its’ above ground corridors. There is chatter and movement and color. The clink of coin and the call of criers trying to draw patrons closer to buy papers. In the walkways there are even buskers performing poetry and playing instruments in brightly colored garments meant to catch the eye.
Lucanis’ gaze never stays in one place for long, darting around to take in all there is to see.
“I took a few jobs here in Nevarra. Not a lot. But a few. Never here in the Necropolis. From outside, this place always seemed impossible. Impenetrable.”
‘I like it. It. Feels—homey.’
“The Fade is close here for the concentration of spirits.,” Emmrich says. “I’m not surprised you find it comfortable, Spite. Just as I’m not surprised Lucanis wasn’t foolish enough to take on a contract here within the Necropolis.”
Lucanis’ smile is crooked, nose wrinkling as he gives a small, nasal laugh. There are many other foolish contracts that the Crows have taken for Nevarran nobles that aren’t likely to stop any time soon. A quick exchange of glances is enough to recall their many conversations on the topic. Whether or not Emmrich ever drunkenly confessed the truth of King Markus’ astonishing health can’t be said for certain, but there’s amusement to be found in the morbidity of it all. It’s something he and Lucanis have always had in common. A need to scoff and laugh when so surrounded by death, both in their careers and their cultures.
“When we talked about the fiscal boon this place is to the Nevarran economy… I had only hazarded a guess. But seeing it?” Lucanis’ appreciative tone, the quick dart of his gaze that lands on Emmrich once more, lend themselves to lightness that’s sorely needed. “This place. It’s like a city within a city.”
“In a way, yes. It is because of this sustainability, how contained it all is, that many Watchers never leave.” Emmrich gesticulates toward commerce and culture all around as he speaks. It’s hard not to feel some level of pride puffing out his chest as he looks at it all again. Home. “At least, they didn’t before the first tremors a few years ago. Before the Evanuris wrought their havoc on Thedas.”
Emmrich draws Lucanis down another hallway, quieter, where the crowd thins as they reach the residential corridors. The many doors are recessed in alcoves, affixed with mailboxes, decorative knockers, plaques, and mats along the stone floor. Some have candles burning out front or exotic plants bursting with life on the small stoops. The hustle and bustle from the main thoroughfare drift through the air and Lucanis’ expression pinches.
“In your last letter, before all this, you said the Mourn Watch was planning diplomatic expeditions? I didn’t get the chance to write you back—”
‘Curiosity! Where is it?’
“Patience, Spite,” Emmrich chuckles. “He’s at my apartment. We’re nearly there—Ah. But. Yes. The Watch has asked me to head up these expeditions or appoint people. There is a great deal of unrest throughout Thedas and the reverberations of the Blight echo in the Necropolis.”
“That sounds… Ominous.” Lucanis frowns, fingers gripping Emmrich’s arm a little tighter. He places his hand against Lucanis’ grasp, rubbing his thumb against his knuckles until the white knuckle grip loosens a fraction.
“You recall the hauntings we dealt with on behalf of the Watch?” Emmrich asks, and Lucanis gives a mute nod, eyes still swiveling about, watching every dark corner they pass, every passerby that waves to Emmrich; he’s surveying their surroundings for potential threats, Emmrich realizes. It must be a difficult instinct to turn off after all these years.
“It’s more of the same, but… Worse,” Emmrich continues. “So much death all at once has consequences. And the Blight itself is still alive. Still changed and spreading in various places throughout Thedas. The South especially, as you already know.”
“And The Mourn Watch is keeping an eye on this? On the Blight?”
“Yes. With Rook and I being so close, it seemed only natural for us to share information, and things progressed from there.” All those times Rook was away for days, sometimes weeks… Emmrich’s lips purse and he gives a small shrug. “The Mourn Watch has been in frequent contact with the Grey Wardens these past several months. Given that existential threats are our area of expertise, and such threats are the most likely thing to influence the Blight…”
It’s only a logical progression. Changing with the needs of the times they live in has never been part of how the Watch operates, but desperation brought on by recent events has called for them to be more agile about how they deal with present threats. Ones that are only growing across the whole of Thedas in the wake of so much death. The sheer magnitude of it isn’t something that Emmrich feels the need to burden Lucanis with. Not when he has problems of his own in Treviso.
“Yes, I suppose that makes sense,” Lucanis concedes, though there’s a grim little downturn at one corner of his mouth and a dent between his brows that tells Emmrich he’s thinking more deeply about it than his words might imply. They walk a few meters in companionable silence before Emmrich finds a way to carry on, the words tumbling somewhat clumsily from his lips.
“I would love nothing more than to take some time off, but it seems unlikely to happen any time soon. With Rook gone, the task of ambassador to the Wardens falls to me. Among other things. Saving Thedas resulted in quite the promotion.” It’s something he’d not expected, and the word promotion draws out a dry chuckle from the assassin. When Emmrich looks Lucanis’ way, even briefly, he sees a glint of something almost mischievous in his unevenly squinted gaze.
“You sound about as happy that as I am to be First Talon.”
“It does make one long for simpler times, doesn’t it?” Emmrich lets out a dramatically put-upon sigh, a bit of theater well worth the laugh it earns him, softly buffeting past Lucanis’ lips. “So much change and so much responsibility.”
“For now, perhaps we pretend such things don’t exist,” Lucanis says, nudging Emmrich in the ribs with his elbow. “There is no better time to slack off than when mourning the death of a loved one. No one can hold you accountable when you’re drowning your grief.”
“The Watch would likely beg to differ, but I think I’m inclined to embrace your idea of mourning over theirs for the time being.” Emmrich gestures to a stoop up ahead on their left. Simple, unassuming, a small welcome mat out front and a nameplate on the door reading ‘Volkarin’. “I think it’s what Rook would have preferred, anyway.”
Emmrich steps away, forced to release Lucanis’ arm so he can unlock the door to his apartment and stand aside to let Lucanis through. They shuffle over the threshold, into the warm interior that smells of tea, palo santo, and rose hips. Dusty vellum. Faint spices from cooking. The richness of a fire crackling in the hearth. The scent of a lived in space and the ones who occupy it. Emmrich breathes deep, finding comfort in the familiar intimations of home. A different one, less confounded by grief.
At once there is a surge of spiritual energy as Spite catches sight of Manfred milling about just beyond the entryway near the fireplace.
‘Curiosity!’
A quizzical hiss comes first as Manfred’s skull whips away from the dancing flames in the hearth he’d been tending. Though he lacks the facial muscles to convey much, his entire body seems lighter for the presence of his friend. Gloved hands clasped together, shoulders hiked.
“Friend! Lucanis! Come sit—Come sit.” He waves and gestures and Emmrich exchanges a glance with Lucanis, finding an affectionately exasperated smile awaiting him. He reaches out to relieve Lucanis of the box bearing the bottle he’d brough and stands aside to make the pathway between the spirits clear.
“Please. Come in. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll open this and get some glasses for us.”
Inviting Lucanis into his home of so many years feels natural. Watching him take off his boots inside the door and hang up his cloak on a hook, moving into the interior with his hands in his pockets, smiling for Manfred, allowing the spirits to reacquaint themselves properly when they didn’t truly have a chance when they last met, feels like old times.
Despite the chaos and danger of their situation, there had been warmth and hope and joy to be found in the simple desire that Manfred and Spite had to know one another, always drawn by some measure of familiarity. Pens left behind in rooms, late night visits from a pair of wide, violet doe eyes, questions, answers, observations, playful envy. Lucanis’ grating sighs when he’d come back to himself and find his hands occupied with chess pieces or a mug. They’d grown comfortable with one another over those many months in the Lighthouse and despite the distance since, it seems easy in some ways to pick up precisely where they’d left off.
There is a known pattern to this visit. If he doesn’t think to hard, Emmrich can forget what brought Lucanis here long enough to appreciate the nostalgia of simply having him in his private spaces to relax and converse while their charges mingle in a way only spirits can.
Emmrich slips away to the kitchen to uncork the bottle and let it breathe, pulling down a pair of wine glasses, though not the ones Lucanis had purchased for him. Those are sitting on a shelf in the house at the heart of the residential district of the city proper. It feels a shame not to have them here, but wine from any other glass will taste just as good.
He arranges a small array of snacks, fruits and nuts and cheeses on a tray to accompany their libations and brings it all to the parlor where Lucanis has taken up a seat on the sofa. The sound of flowing conversation between Manfred and Spite is ever present, a chattering background noise that defies language or reason. The intimate passing of knowledge and familiarity between spirits is a dialect all its own. It has a musicality to it without words or context. A rushing current of sound like a babbling brook cutting through a brightly lit glade. It’s nice to hear. Settling.
Emmrich places the tray on the coffee table and takes up a place a polite arm’s length away on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other as he leans back and relaxes, letting out a low, quiet breath of relief. He cannot see Spite but Lucanis’ gaze is focused, as is Manfred’s, on a space that Emmrich can feel the churlish being occupying. Hearing Spite, sensing his presence, had once become something of a comfort to him. That pattern continues as Emmrich’s spine relaxes into the cushions and his shoulders come down to something less stately and dignified. He’s unguarded and at ease, enough that Lucanis’ voice gives him a small start.
“Can you understand them? When they speak like that? I’d always wondered but never really thought to ask. I was… preoccupied at the time.” Lucanis leans forward to pour their glasses, passing one to Emmrich with a sidelong glance. Emmrich hums a thoughtful note and listens closely to the whispering ambiance that surrounds.
“In a manner of speaking.” The wine is as rich and velvety on the tongue as the very velvet it had been nestled in. He rolls the complex bouquet of sweet fruit and subtle notes of peppercorn across his palate while examining Manfred, and the empty air he communes with that isn’t so empty at all. “I can get impressions, but spirits don’t really need words to communicate with each other. Even though the more sophisticated and evolved a spirit is, the more likely it is to use language, I imagine it’s easier for them to simply commune as they would naturally within the Fade when speaking to each other.”
Lucanis folds one arm across his chest, hand tucked into the crook of his elbow while he cradles his glass beneath his nose, breathing in the scent of fine vintage before taking another sip. His own eyes haven’t left Spite and Manfred, and his head gives a quizzical tilt, eyes squinting, discerning what he can. The little divot between his brows and the crinkle of his crow’s feet draw Emmrich’s eye, and then his gaze flits to the little dark moles and beauty marks across his brow. Constellations of uniqueness.
“What kind of impressions do you get?” Lucanis asks it with a scrape of a sigh, but his smile is ever present, if still exasperated. His dark eyes turn toward Emmrich, one brow raising slightly. “Should I be worried?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Emmrich replies easily, near automatically as he swirls the wine in his glass and looks his own ward over, noting the excitement in his posture, sensing the joy coursing through him like a springtime breeze. Emmrich’s cheeks are sore with the dimpling of a broader smile. “Spite and Manfred have a rapport not dissimilar to our own, I think. They’re friends who have grown close, and picking up where they left off seems to come naturally to them. What I can infer from the tones and the whispers is that they are… happy. To be around one another again.”
For a few moments, they listen together, taking in the flow of conversation that bears no words, but so much meaning. Lucanis takes a sip from his glass and shifts where he sits, settling deeper into the squashy comfort of the sofa.
“I can feel it sometimes. Spilling over from Spite. The things he feels or sees. Sometimes it’s like—double vision.” Lucanis snorts as he lifts his glass yet again, pausing before his next swallow to add: “Like after being struck on the back of the head.”
Emmrich laughs. He still can’t fully fathom what it must be like to be possessed in the fashion that Lucanis is. In his time at the circle he’d seen two failed Harrowings, two true possessions. The way malign spirits behave, shape, and twist a mage is uniquely horrifying but when he looks at Lucanis there is naught but an ever-growing balance to be seen.
“You two are so intrinsically bound, intertwined in a way that’s far more harmonious than it used to be. I’m sure in time that will only grow clearer.” Emmrich chases his observation with a mouthful of wine that lingers on the tongue. Lucanis snorts.
“I’m not sure that I’m looking forward to that.” For as flippantly as he says this, it forces Emmrich to think back. He winds the clock hands in reverse and his mind plays for him memories of conversations had in hushed tones. Shaking hands in Emmrich’s own, the sweat of panic and nightmares making skin clammy, and Lucanis’ pupils dilated to pinpricks. Those early days were the worst. Spite’s determination to break free, breaking through Emmrich’s wards to try and wander away from a cage that no one else but Lucanis knew existed, had ended time and time again with them kneeling on the floor in front of the hearth.
Rook found them like that once. Lucanis had been in such a state he’d never noticed Emmrich’s gaze lift to meet the Warden’s own where he stood silently in the doorway. He’d come for Emmrich only to be turned away. Some things took precedent. Emmrich’s tongue feels loose. Wine settles heavier on an empty stomach.
“Are you still afraid to lose some part of yourself?”
Lucanis pauses, glass held just before his lips, eyes widening a fraction. Emmrich winces as he realizes just how direct he’s being. He shouldn’t have asked.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Honestly?” Lucanis cuts him off and Emmrich holds his breath. “No... I don’t think so.”
Lucanis looks at him, twisting slightly where he sits to better face Emmrich, giving him time and patience in abundance to recover from his misstep. Emmrich looks down into his glass and sees it’s nearly empty. It happens so quickly when one isn’t looking. His tongue feels clumsy.
“Oh… Well. That’s… Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
Lucanis hums something that sounds like agreement but the silence that follows invites a level of discomfort that Emmrich can think of no better way to deal with than polishing off his glass and pouring another. He’s gone back and forth on it. Drinking over his feelings. It’s easier to do alone than with company. Too much too quickly with too little to eat had been a poor choice on his part, yet the tray of snacks he himself prepared suddenly lacks any temptation for him as he swallows against his discomfort.
Grief is always like this, isn’t it? Grasping at whatever threads of normalcy one can find only to feel them slip through one’s fingers. It’s a wonder he’s held onto anything. He closes his eyes and decides on a piece of rich, nutty cheese, just a bite’s worth.
“I think what I most fear now is Spite outgrowing our situation,” Lucanis states. The reintroduction of conversation, one that’s honest, brings Emmrich back from the razor’s edge of tension. He opens his eyes to look at the man beside him, listening intently as he speaks. “He’s learning and changing… All the time. So I think to myself: What if there comes a time when he wants more of a life than what we can really have? I feel beholden to him in a sense. To try and… give him that. Does that make… Sense to you?”
Emmrich nods and Lucanis drinks. Manfred falls quiet. Emmrich’s tongue darts nervously over his lower lip and he takes a breath. All in a beat. He inhales to speak.
“Yes. It does. You two have bonded and grown close, so of course you feel some sense of responsibility to Spite. But sharing your body has obvious limitations.”
‘I am content. Lucanis is home enough for me. So long as we can still see Curiosity.’
The sudden injection of Spite’s voice startles Lucanis, but it sparks a smile on his bearded face that Emmrich could only describe as gentle. Lucanis’ expression, so full of softness as he looks at Spite is truly a miraculous sight to behold, given where their relationship started. Gone are the days of cold sweat and panic. In their place is comfortable fondness for a thing they’ve both grown into.
“You are welcome to visit any time you wish, though Manfred does leave often now. His independence is ever-growing,” Emmrich says, and Manfred gives a chipper nod of agreement.
Lucanis takes another drink and settles back more comfortably against the sofa, sighing, eyes slipping shut. He looks utterly at ease and Emmrich is grateful to see it. It is an intimate view of their friendship; a hallmark of deep running currents of trust that allow a trained killer, who is always in some manner of danger, to simply close his eyes. He watches Lucanis grow lax, melting against the upholstery, his loose but steady grip against his glass, the evenness of his breath that makes his chest rise and fall. His breathing is slow and stable. Emmrich finds his own falling in time.
“If not for Rook, I don’t think I ever would have reached a place where I believed you. About Spite. About us,” Lucanis admits, apropos of some internal thought process Emmrich isn’t privy to. “It’s a complicated feeling. I’m grateful to you both, of course. But at times I feel as though I did you specifically a disservice.”
It had not been easy, convincing Lucanis that there was hope for some sense of stability and self still available to him. At the time, Emmrich only saw a man drowning and himself standing on the correct shore to throw him a lifeline. Not once did he ever consider the possibility of Lucanis failing to come to grips with it. He had faith in what he knew and understood of spirits. Faith that grew as Emmrich became more intimately aware of Lucanis’ own capacity for empathy. But trusting in the words of a mage when it was mages who harmed him to begin with was never going to come easy for Lucanis. Emmrich hadn’t expected him to take his word for it from the moment they met. It only made sense to simply be consistent and never give up.
“You’re entitled to your feelings on the matter, but I’ve never seen it that way. I had no expectation that you’d trust me. But neither was I willing to simply leave you twisting in the wind.” Emmrich looks down into his glass, watching the long, sticky legs of the vintage crawl down the crystal walls, brows twitching closer together as he dives deeper into recollection. “When—When we first met. When you and Rook came to the Necropolis, and you expressed such despair when I told you it couldn’t be done…”
“I needed to hear it.” Perhaps Lucanis could sense the apology Emmrich was working himself up to, given how swiftly he cut it off at the knees. Emmrich looks to the assassin at his side and finds nothing but acceptance in the gaze that looks back over the rim of a fine crystal glass.
“Maybe so,” Emmrich says. “I only regret that I didn’t say it more delicately.”
Lucanis lets out a huff, some kind of derisive sound of amusement that’s not quite a laugh, and his head tips to one side, dark eyes darting down and then up again, taking stock of Emmrich in a way he’s done so many times before. This time, however, Emmrich feels particularly seen.
“Emmrich.” How can he make Emmrich’s own name sound like an admonishment? Heat rises in Emmrich’s cheeks to hear such a tone from Lucanis’ lips.
“Yes?”
“You didn’t need to be delicate then. And you don’t now.” Completely resolute. No room for argument. The sort of tone Emmrich’s heard Lucanis take with Spite on more than one occasion. “I would rather hear the unvarnished truth any day, over gentle platitudes that try to soften the blow.” Emmrich has no idea what to say to that. In the end he says nothing, blinking at Lucanis as he internalizes it all. After a beat, Lucanis’ stern expression breaks like clouds parting for a sunrise.
“And you were a lot gentler about it than I think you’re giving yourself credit for. Even if I wasn’t ready to hear it or accept it.” Lucanis raises his glass in salute toward Emmrich before tipping it back for another swallow. Emmrich fidgets slightly, grave dowry clinking as he readjusts himself where he sits, fingertips running around the rim of his glass.
“Well… I… I’m glad. I’m glad you’ve found a sense of harmony. With Spite.”
His non-acknowledgement of Lucanis’ assessment of him earns Emmrich one starkly arched brow and a half-lidded gaze that is unimpressed at best. Emmrich’s tongue feels too thick for his mouth. Another sip of wine might help.
“Is there something on your mind Emmrich?” Lucanis’ voice lilts upward, a leading done, needling at Emmrich. It’s a baited hook and Emmrich tries to be cautious of it but it’s hard not to trip and fall right on it when he does open his mouth.
“Of course. Though, I rather wish that wasn’t the case. As of late my mind has felt overburdened with thought. Johanna has been keen to remind me throughout our lives that I spend far too much time thinking, and not nearly enough time doing. But in this case, there’s nothing left to do but wait.”
“You mean for the funeral.”
“Mm.” Emmrich nods and finishes off his second glass. He stares at the bottle and considers the merits of a third. He can feel Lucanis looking at him. His gaze has a tangible quality that even the resumed chatter of Spite and Manfred cannot distract Emmrich from. In his periphery, Emmrich sees Lucanis lean forward to set his glass aside. Lucanis’ hands are so deft and decisive; he reaches out with a confident grasp to relieve Emmrich of the empty vessel in his own hand. Strong and steady arms move, and Emmrich watches with rapt attention and shallow breath as Lucanis decides for him.
“In Antiva, we tend to use this time to drink and yell,” Lucanis says as he picks up the bottle and pours another generous few ounces into Emmrich’s glass. “And then we do more of that at the funeral, too. You should have seen Caterina’s. Viago came close to throwing Illario down the stairs.”
Had Emmrich joined by then, he might have gone. He sometimes wonders if things would have gone differently, had he been pulled in to join the group sooner. He wonders if—If he’d been able to see the Ossuary with his own eyes and do a bit of investigating, if he might’ve drawn a different conclusion about Lucanis and Spite’s condition. But it wasn’t meant to be and so instead, he only gives Lucanis’ a skeptical look, receiving a small, nasal sigh in return.
“I think there’s something to be said for the expelling of your emotions,” Lucanis elaborates. “Getting drunk and loud. Expressing your feelings whether anyone likes it or not.”
Lucanis offers up the refilled glass to Emmrich, brows raised with unspoken expectation. Emmrich looks at the glass in Lucanis’ calloused fingers, then back to his face, taking in the unflinching certainty of the choice being made that he finds there. Emmrich’s own brows rise in surprise.
“You think I should try it?” Emmrich gestures toward himself, hand to his chest as he lets out a disbelieving laugh that Lucanis is unmoved by. “You want me to get intoxicated and belligerent?”
A crack forms in Lucanis’ expression; he reaches with his empty hand to take Emmrich’s, pressing the glass into it once more while a crooked grin crawls across his face and settles in.
“I would pay good money to see you belligerent at least once.” Lucanis looks all too pleased with himself when Emmrich concedes and brings wine to his lips yet again. Emmrich watches the way Lucanis’ dark eyes track the path of filled glass to lips, then down again. His gaze lingers there for a moment, then flicks back up to bore directly into Emmrich’s own bewildered stare. “You spend so much time being so damn considerate, but at what cost? I know you get angry. I’ve seen it here and there. But you always hold something back.”
It’s no surprise to Emmrich that Lucanis has taken notice of such a quirk of his personality. He takes great pains to not lose his temper, though Taash had managed to get deep enough under his skin to manage making him do so on more than one occasion. Emmrich taps his fingertip against the bulb in his hand and gives a waffling little shrug of head and shoulder.
“I think it’s simply ingrained in me after so many years. It’s hard to explain what it does to you; growing up poor, orphaned, but talented and surrounded by nobles, that is.” Emmrich holds that eye contact for as long as he can stand, but there is something intimidating about Lucanis’ narrow-eyed focus above such a self-satisfied smirk that forces Emmrich to look away. He swallows a flood of saliva, clears his throat, takes another hasty sip— “Granted, when I was younger, I at least had my looks to help soften people’s opinions of me, but I had to be so careful. The gentry could have ruined me if they really wanted to. Some of them even tried.”
“As far as I can tell, you still have your looks. And I’d be willing to wager that anger suits them.” Lucanis plucks a few grapes from the tray with one hand and his wine with the other. “So.” Lucanis tosses a grape in the air and tils his head back to catch it in his mouth. Emmrich’s throat shrinks, and his mouth feels dry.
“What makes you angry, Emmrich?”
“Plagiarism,” Emmrich blurts, startled by the thinness of his own voice when it leaves his throat.
“Ha! No. Be serious, here. Humor me. Consider it a—a thought exercise.” Lucanis shifts his position on the sofa, bracing his back against the arm as he settles in far more casually. Intimately. There it is again, that display of trust and comfort. Lucanis nudges Emmrich with his foot. “What really makes you angry?”
‘Anger is fuel. Wood for the fires of momentum. Moving through anger. Propelled by it. Anger is living. Anger is surviving. If the world wishes to hurt you, get. Angry.’
Spite’s interjection gives Emmrich a chance to think about something other than the look of Lucanis reclined across from him, a little smug, eyes wine-brightened, tossing back grapes without any consideration for decorum. What is said is such a raw expression of Spite’s own nature, his instincts, where he came from and what he was formed into.
“I’m angry… At Rook.” Saying it so pointedly out loud feels wrong. Weird, even. Emmrich’s tongue tingles with the strangeness of the truth.
“That I already knew,” Lucanis says. “And it’s fair. But, take it further this time. Why?”
Why indeed. There are so many reasons, all of them vying for first place in the world’s worst kind of competition. Rook left him. Rook let Emmrich love him and then left him with it. A thought never to be finished. A moment in time come to an end far too soon. It hurts and it’s ugly and Emmrich hates it. There are moments he thinks he hates Rook, and after a quick swallow of wine, he finds the wherewithal to say it.
“Because he hid this from me. He hid that he was suffering the entire time. There was something wrong from the very beginning and not once did he give me the opportunity to help.” It hurts to know Rook suffered, even if Emmrich is angry, that Rook quietly coped with such a thing alone… that pains him beyond explanation, but Emmrich tries. “He knew he was going to die. He knew this would devastate me. He chose again and again not to tell me the truth. He signed me up for heartbreak and I don’t know why. I can only assume it’s because he didn’t want to lose me and that level of selfishness—I can’t understand it.”
Lucanis nods slowly, his eyes turning toward the hearth, toward Manfred who shuffles uncomfortably in place and worries his gloved hands together. Emmrich’s jaw feels tight. His stomach grows sour. The things he wishes he could say to Rook pile up behind his teeth, so he bites down on them and swallows. There’s no catharsis to be found in holding onto all this anger but it’s what Rook left him. It’s what he has.
“You feel betrayed by love,” Lucanis says, his voice just above a gentle whisper. “He kept you on the hook and then cut you loose. You have every right to be angry. Mierda, I’m angry. I’m angry for you.”
Emmrich feels conflicted about that fact. Should he have kept it to himself? Should he have shielded Lucanis from the truth and let him mourn without knowing what Rook did? Manfred gives a low, hissing sigh.
“Rook loved Emmrich. Rook loved all of us. Rook wanted to die in love. Makes sense. Still sad. Still bad.” The clattering shuffle of his bones as he shrugs at them, his whole frame going slack with his own grief, sands down some of the harsher edges of Emmrich’s anger. Spite’s swirling frustration starts as a growl before words form, crisp and decisive.
‘Mortals. Always hurting the ones they love. I don’t understand it. Happens all the time. Caterina. Illario. Rook. All give pain, but why?’
“Complicated,” Manfred replies. “I talk to them sometimes. Other mages. Fall in love. Fall out of love. Cheat on love. Confusing. Don’t understand, either.”
Emmrich grimaces and swallows down another mouthful of wine. Hearing the perspective of spirits that don’t understand it any better than he does forces Emmrich to collect his thoughts and reflect. Love is messy. Complicated. The chances of it working out are often slim. There was always a possibility that this would fall apart eventually. That chance exists for all things, all relationships. Emmrich finds himself contending with anger’s rising tides once more, but this time at the simple concept of relationship entropy.
“None are as impulsive or foolish as those swept up into the whirlwind of love,” he says. But for his own benefit, or Manfred and Spite’s? “Especially new love. It takes from you, stealing away all sense and reason.”
Harding had warned Emmrich about this. He should have done better to listen to her.
“I’d looked for it again and again, only to find myself alone time after time. I was rarely without suitors or interested parties, but none who wanted to make something of our relationship. Our time. Everything was always finite, and I was… Am. Tired of it.” Emmrich presses his lips together, grasp tensing against his glass. It had been so much easier to live when he didn’t have this hope for something more burning inside him. Hope that Rook had ignited with his affection and dedication. “Years before I met Rook, I’d given up. I—It’s not just the heartbreak of losing him. It’s the thought that all the hope I’d had, the thought that maybe it was possible to have something that could last… That I could believe in it once again… I feel like a fool for having that hope. Even if it isn’t true how can I help what I feel? I’m—I’m too old for this.”
The concept of love. Romance. Happy endings that are really just beginnings of something better. It feels like something he should let go of. He wishes he could. He closes his eyes tightly and lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. A scraping exhalation leaves his lungs as he tries not to think about just how ridiculous he must sound. He feels a nudge at his hip. The ball of Lucanis’ foot. It urges him to open his eyes and look.
“You’ve life left to live, Emmrich. You’re still alive. Don’t bury your hope for love with Rook. You don’t owe him that.” Lucanis’ frown digs deep lines into his face, the subtle wrinkles beneath his eyes, the heavy shadows of decades of long nights seeming deeper for what Emmrich realizes is concern. He wants to rail against that notion, and the hope it implies. There is truth in what Lucanis says but there’s also a noose awaiting Emmrich in the concept proposed. Just enough rope to hang his heart with.
“No. I don’t. But it feels like he took it with him when he left. Hope. Hope that I might have… I…” Emmrich wants to blame the wine but then again, there’s some greater part of him that knows this is Lucanis’ plan at work. In action. Emmrich expelling his feelings in a rush so that they aren’t burdening him anymore. He flexes his jaw and works his way around it. That prevailing thought of what he wants but seems doomed to never find. “When I was younger, I always thought that I’d get married someday. Have a family of my own. Beyond accolades and scholarly acclaim—It’s the thing I wanted most.”
“Lots of people want that. And lots of people find it late in life. I did not have my own first experience with love until last year and I’m nearing forty, myself.” Lucanis shrugs and knocks back the remaining drops in his glass before leaning over to set it aside on the table. When he relaxes again it’s with a shrug and his arms folded across his chest. “Time passes. Wounds heal. People find each other. It’s all possible.”
“Perhaps. It doesn’t… Feel that way right now.” Are they arguing? Is he being stubborn? A fool? Trying to refute hope again and again? Emmrich can’t help it. He gesticulates with sharp yet erratic movements of his empty hand. “I—I proposed to him, Lucanis. I had planned to spend everything, every bit of time I had left at his side, and when he turned me down, he knew.”
“Emmrich…”
No. He’s not done. Just a little more. Vitriol, spat out like poison. A bad taste in his mouth. If Lucanis wants him to get it out, then Emmrich will get it all out.
“I suppose that’s the one kindness he did me. He didn’t make me a widower.”
As uncharitable a statement as it is, Emmrich feels… a little better. Just to have finally said it. To have gotten the angry, noxious feelings out into the open so that they might breathe and dissipate. All those bilious feelings had to go somewhere eventually. Better out than buried so deep that they calcify in the core of his heart. Emmrich deflates.
Now he’s done.
“It’s a kindness he did the world,” Lucanis corrects. “You’re going to make someone happy, Emmrich. Someone who can appreciate all of you. Your kindness and wit. Your—peculiarities. You have so much to offer, and it’s wasted on the dead.”
Emmrich glances over at Lucanis and is relieved to see him smiling, no matter how tiredly. He wants to believe that, but he’s not quite ready yet. Even so, he won’t spurn the kindness of a dear friend. Especially one who took the time to help him get it all out, every ugly, painful bit of it.
“Thank you… For saying. And for listening.”
“For you?” Lucanis chuckles, soft and strangely sweet. “I will listen as often as you like.”
Notes:
This Chapter Brought to You By:
- Finally these fucking headaches got less awful
- Sitting on Hold with Radiology for 20 minutes.
- Forgetting how to spell minutes just now-- I think this chapter actually microwaved my brain.
- NUGGIES. (The chicken kind. From my freezer. Not... Not nugs with their lil people hands.)
- Rule #37 (Mentors) by Fish in a Birdcage on Loop Thanks
- New Cup For the Beverage Gremlin (it's pink.) (i'm the beverage gremlin.)ALSO THE EMMCANIS DISCORD SERVER. I started a small server for emmcanis and am giving out invites over at my tumblr until February 14th, 2025. If. You would like an invite shoot me a message there. I'm trying to keep things small for now, we've got some very cool people already. If you've got a lot of love for emmcanis or are an emmcanis creator please come join us! It's super chill. ❤️
Thank you all again for being here. Every comment this fic gets fills me with new life. It means the world to me. <3
Chapter 6: Played it Safe
Notes:
And so we come to the close of what is, ostensibly, Act I of this fic. ;w; Holy canoli. I am so grateful. The outpouring of support and love for this fic has been such a positive thing for me. Every comment has lifted my spirits throughout the stressors of day to day life. I am so terribly grateful. You all are absolutely lovely and I can't wait to dig into Act II and all the PINING that's about to happen.
Please enjoy this update, and the baby chapter that follows it. <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Emmrich’s cheeks are ruddy. Lucanis has seen it before, the way wine settles in his cheeks, a flush of life that emphasizes the height of his bone structure and pinkens his complexion enough to make those little moles on his face just a bit less noticeable. His feet feel warm, comfortable, rested against Emmrich’s lap. It’s always been a little bit of a shock, just how warm Emmrich is. It’s not just his demeanor, but his body. His circulatory system functions well, making the touch of his hands always far more inviting than his lithe appearance and chilling occupation might imply. This close, a tangle of wine-buzzed comfort on the sofa, that natural heat feels radiant. Or is that the second bottle talking? The one they opened when they finished the first. It’s a lovely port that settles in Lucanis’ belly with a gentle weight that effuses a feverish tingle across his skin. The bridge of his nose. A pinch of drunkenness in his vision. Everything is hazy around the edges, gilded in the golden bloom of firelight.
Manfred wandered away some time ago. Duties down in the lower levels, he’d said. Back later, he’d promised. Spite seems content with this. Content to wait in the farther recesses of their shared skull, offering Lucanis a kind of peace he hasn’t enjoyed very often in recent months. Emmrich’s right hand rests against his shin, the idle movement of his fingertips as he vaguely gesticulates with them while he speaks, are a pleasant little distraction. Tapping of slender fingers against his bones. Lucanis could imagine those fingers striking the keys of a piano or plucking the strings of a harp. There’s always something about him that begs Lucanis to picture him among an orchestra. Does Emmrich enjoy opera? The opera houses of Treviso are beautiful. It’s been a long time since Lucanis last attended.
He'd never appreciated the opera as a younger man but as he stares at Emmrich in profile, he can imagine him there, in a private box up in the balcony, dressed in rich finery, jewel tones and grave gold, dripping, a puddle of silken robes at his feet, peering through a pair of opera glasses, sleek gloves on his hands, a playbill spread across his lap, fingertips tapping idly—idle, idle, idle. Lucanis’ mind lulls into sleepy, comfortable quiet. Emmrich’s supple eloquence and sotto voice are a rich and delicate indulgence compared to all the sharp urgency back in Treviso.
“…but I suppose—Oh. Lucanis?”
Lucanis’ eyelids flutter and he opens them wide, muscles pulling tight through his back as he stiffens where he lounges and sucks in a sharp, nasal breath.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” he says, the words jumping to his lips on reflex. Emmrich stifles a laugh, and it comes out as a single burst of sound through his nose, lips pressed tightly together to hold the bulk of his obvious amusement in. Lucanis’ face was already warm, but it only gets warmer. They share a look, Emmrich’s brows unevenly lifted, lips crookedly upturned at the corners while Lucanis gets his bearings, knowing he must look like a fool. Bleary-eyed and sleep addled. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but Emmrich’s expression leads him to believe it’s at least endearing. Which is good. Probably.
Emmrich clears his throat and pulls his bright eyes away. Lucanis misses them the moment they become hidden beneath a thick curtain of dark lashes. Lucanis’ cheeks throb while his mouth twists into a pursed pout and his heart stutters in his chest. He presses his hand to his sternum. Too much wine, maybe. Too much everything. He glances at Emmrich and then away, letting out a breath while Spite snickers up against the backs of his eyes, the sound like a distant and discordant echo in a dark room.
“Why don’t I show you to the guest room,” Emmrich suggests, rubbing Lucanis’ shin. “I hardly need to prattle on all night. Tomorrow promises to be long and… busy.”
Tomorrow. Right. Funeral. Lucanis had lost track of his purpose for being here somewhere around the point where Emmrich detailed for him a story about a bawdy party he’d attended in Orlais. His mind had snagged on every breath and word when Emmrich mentioned he met a man who keeps wyverns as pets at that party. After the bulk of ugly grief had spilled onto the floor, the evening had progressed with such familiar ease that it was easy to forget what really brought them together again after so many months apart. Lucanis straightens up, his legs sliding off Emmrich’s lap, socked feet hitting the rug laid out across the cool stone floor. His toes curl into the plush pattern and he scrubs a hand against his beard, looking into the fireplace, watching sparks dance upward from the slowly dwindling flames.
“That… Would be good, I think. My apologies for drifting off. I must be more exhausted than I thought.”
Emmrich stands slowly, but steadily, not so much as a wobble or flinch, and Lucanis’ is reminded of just how well the man can maintain his composure even when he’s been drinking in excess. He offers a hand out to Lucanis with a shake of his head.
“There’s no need to apologize. It’s heartening to know you’re comfortable enough to nod off in my presence. You used to fight such impulses so vehemently. I’ll never be offended to see you snoozing on my sofa.”
Emmrich’s hand is as warm as ever, his smile sweet as apple grenades. His compassionate support, both physical and emotional, is a rare indulgence that Lucanis wishes he could have more of. He wonders as he gets to his feet and, unfortunately, wobbles—if Emmrich’s many upcoming diplomatic excursions will include Treviso. Was that in his letter? Lucanis’ memory is slippery. But Emmrich’s hand is dry and soft, save for those little callouses along his palm from his staff. Lucanis wants to rub his thumb across them but Emmrich’s hand leaves his own before he can try, finding a place between his shoulders, against his spine, steady pressure guiding him toward the staircase.
It’s a slow walk up a short flight to the second floor of Emmrich’s apartment. The narrow hallways are lined with paintings and various décor. Articulated skeletons of small animals and beetles in shadow boxes. Oil lamps that light themselves sconced along the walls. A simple wooden door awaits him and Emmrich ushers him inside. The room his cozy and quiet, the thick walls of the Necropolis deaden sound from the outside world. It’s nothing like his palatial bedroom in the Dellamorte Villa. There are no windows offering the rush of oceanic air, no sprawling marble floors. It’s an over-stuffed mattress bursting against the bounds of a four-poster canopy. Big, fluffy pillows and beautifully lush bedding, it’s tapestries hanging from the walls and candles at the bedside table. It’s the scent of incense in every corner, the same that always lingers on Emmrich’s clothes giving hints of palo santo and rose. Why those scents, Lucanis wonders. Flowers. Woody. Earthy. He sways where he stands, eyes tracking Emmrich’s movements around the small but well-maintained guest bedroom.
Emmrich turns down the heavy duvet and fluffs the pillows, moving toward Lucanis again with an outstretched hand.
“Come on. Let’s get you into bed. You look like you’re about to nod off—like a horse. Standing up.” There’s amusement in Emmrich’s gentle coaxing and Lucanis only nods his assent. If only the room didn’t nod with him. He really should learn that he can’t keep pace with Emmrich when drinking. His backside hits the mattress and he slumps forward, brow brushing against Emmrich’s middle while those long, music-worthy fingers curl around his shoulders.
“Are you alright? Should I fetch you a bucket?”
Teasing. Emmrich is teasing him.
Lucanis grumbles, a sound more noncommittal than anything else, and allows himself to be nudged and cajoled until he’s comfortably on his side in bed. The weight of the duvet being lifted over him feels nice. Cozy. The sheets smell clean, with the faintest hint of dust in the air around him. Lucanis curls up, fingers digging into the bedding to bring it more closely around his shoulders while his eyes slip shut. Long, slender fingers, a clink of gold bangles—Lucanis sighs at the feel of Emmrich’s hand pushing the messy tangle of his hair away from his face.
“Sleep well, Lucanis.”
And that is precisely what Lucanis does.
Sleep.
Had Lucanis not spoken with Emmrich about it before, he might have been surprised by the wafting aroma of breakfast awaiting him when he drags himself by his fingernails out of bed and down the stairs the next morning. A hangover feels appropriate for a day like today, and the pinched discomfort along his brow makes every sound he hears scrape across the inside of his skull like The Viper’s gaudy metal claws across a stone slab. But the smell of tea and coffee and fresh baked bread and simmering vegetables and freshly sliced fruit—There’s never been anything more divine, of that Lucanis is certain. Emmrich is in his kitchen, and Lucanis follows his nose through the quaint apartment to find him.
Emmrich moves around his own spaces with such flowing, artful ease. Swaying over the counters, arranging things on platters, a bounty of beautiful food awaiting Lucanis. But nothing is so enticing as the peculiar apparatus of glass bulbs and brass plating that promises coffee. The syphon itself is utterly gorgeous. Nevarra is known for their craftsmanship of this particular brewing apparatus, so much so that it became popular in Antiva. He approaches slowly through the open doorway, coming to stand at the broad table in the center of the kitchen, his hands shaking like leaves in a summer storm as they come to brace against the woodgrain.
Emmrich turns and jolts when his eyes land on Lucanis, a hand flying to his heart as a small burst of sound—a startled little yelp leaves him. The surprise melts into laughter.
“I should have known you’d sneak up on me,” Emmrich points a finger, gently accusatory, but his smile is ever present on his face. Lucanis doesn’t have the mental fortitude to banter just yet. He only shrugs, unapologetic as Emmrich reaches into a cabinet and pulls down a mug, sliding it across the table toward him.
“You are a king among men,” Lucanis mumbles, accepting the mug with a bow of his pounding head. Coffee. Emmrich turns his back and it’s always such a comfort for Lucanis to see. Not once had Emmrich ever hesitated to show Lucanis his spine. In spirit or otherwise. That’s not something everyone else afforded him, save for Rook. They’d all been wise to be cautious, he’d never held it against them, but knowing that Emmrich had never feared him and still doesn’t is… well. In a word, nice.
“The others should be arriving within the hour. Myrna was kind enough to oversee preparations for the wake, so that everyone might have a chance to say their goodbyes before the burial ceremony. But there’s no rush. If you’d like to wash up after breakfast, I doubt anyone would mind.” Emmrich’s voice is muffled by the sizzle of eggs hitting a hot pan. Lucanis pulls up a stool and pours himself a cup, enjoying the scent of coffee mingling with all the different food laid out in artful displays. Strawberries carefully cut to look like tulips, slices of fresh bread arranged in a tantalizing stack beneath a heavy cloth in a woven basket, sauteed vegetables in copper pans on trivets, bursting with color.
“Thank you, Emmrich.”
His gratitude gains him a glance, Emmrich’s smile over the curve of his shoulder as he looks back.
“Of course. Please, make yourself at home. And eat something. Man cannot survive on coffee alone.”
Lucanis might beg to differ on some occasions but he’s happy to be served eggs and dip warm, fluffy bread into the yolk while sipping his coffee. Nevarra’s habitual need for pageantry and beautiful displays like this feels familiar, in a way. Antiva is not so different. When they sit down together to eat, Lucanis does make himself at home. Everything about Emmrich’s apartment feels cozy and lived in. The warmth of his demeanor fills out the spaces and the gesture of a generous breakfast spread after a night of drinking cures all manner of ills.
Lucanis is happy to simply spend the time eating, drinking a second cup of coffee, washing up, getting dressed. The occasional patter of conversation that he and Emmrich fall in and out of as they both ready to face the day adds to a sense of comfort. It’s just like old times but somehow better for the location and lack of world ending threat hanging over their heads. The apartment feels more like a home than the villa Lucanis grew up in. And, even if they both must don funeral attire, there are still smiles to be had amongst the sadness.
Lucanis has seen dark colors on Emmrich before, but never so much black. Black and gold. Long robes that sweep the floor, tailored trousers, all his dowry, layered over his high collar, the long bishop sleeves. Emmrich looks like an elegant ghost, haunting his own home with a weary smile that settles around the corners of his eyes before their friends arrive, wandering in behind Manfred, brought up from the lower levels of the Necropolis.
Manfred pulls Emmrich aside to pass a crumpled letter into his hands with a somber hiss. Lucanis watches, though is quick to avert his gaze when he hears Emmrich’s breath hitch. Spite has no qualms in looking. Watching the way Emmrich runs his fingers over the stained parchment before he tucks it into the breast of his robes. It’s obvious in an instant just what that parchment is, who it’s from. It must have been found beneath Rook’s armor, on his body. A final word for Emmrich. Lucanis focuses on their other friends, asking after their recoveries to help keep everyone else engaged while Emmrich collects himself once more.
It's a far more formal affair this time around, everyone convening at Emmrich’s apartment for refreshments before they all head down into the belly of the Necropolis. Lucanis observes the area they’re in with a keen eye. It’s clean, gleaming black, polished basalt columns and walkways. Torches cast eerie green light. There are rooms upon rooms arranged for mourners to say their final farewells to their dead, though most are unoccupied. Emmrich leads the way to a room prepared for Rook. Myrna waits at the door and offers her condolences.
The room itself has a raised altar in the center. Upon entering, one could say the Warden seems peaceful, laying there in soft navy linens, with a white drape over his lower half, hands folded together against his middle, and his head of shorn (though much more tidily now) hair resting on a satin pillow. One would never have known just by looking that only days ago there was filth and blood and evidence of Blight all over him. His face is lax and Lucanis feels a brief stinging twist in his gut when he realizes just how much he wishes he could talk to Rook one last time. Ask him why. Why?
They take their time, one by one, approaching that altar to whisper farewells and converse with a man who once was so full of life. It’s harder to be angry when facing the reality of what’s before them. They carried this body here. And Rook’s not in it anymore. Emmrich doesn’t cry. His eyes aren’t even wet. Not yet, anyway. He’s quietly withdrawn into the recesses of his mind as he watches over the process of farewells. Lucanis can’t bring himself to stay and watch the whole time. He steps into the hall for a breath. The air is so cool and dry down here. He rubs at his sternum while Spite swirls with his own discontent.
A hand comes to brush up against the back of his shoulder and Lucanis lurches away from it, twisting to find Neve there, in her dark jacket, black lace fascinator covering her eyes, but not enough that he doesn’t see the wealth of concern there in her gaze.
“Are you alright?” she asks. Lucanis’ throat folds over on itself when he swallows. A discomforting sensation of being turned inside out. He tries to speak but at first, nothing really comes. A wheezing exhalation. He swallows again, tries again.
“As much as I can be,” he admits. Neve nods, head tilting away, her gaze falling to the floor as she fidgets, her hands worrying together in front of her, picking at her gloves. He watches the way her faintly painted lips purse and curl downward at the corners.
“It’s not fair, is it? Being blindsided like this when we already won. Life never really stops finding ways to kick you in the gut when you least expect it.” Her dry delivery comes in the same, performatively distant manner it always has and Lucanis scrapes out a sigh, nodding his agreement. She looks at him and he avoids making eye contact, feeling a subtle chill wash down his spine. His heart is racing.
“I know you and Rook were… Closer,” Neve says, voice quieter now. Gentle, even. Lucanis’ jaw aches, teeth setting more stiffly against one another at the sound of it. “I tried not to hold things against him. Same as I didn’t hold it against you. But it made things… harder. Trusting him. I didn’t want to.”
Neve folds her arms across her chest as she looks somewhere else, a time and place that’s already passed, her expression withdrawn and distant. “Lately, I’ve been wondering about it. If I’d gotten over it, been able to be more empathetic toward him, would I have recognized the signs?”
The trailing uncertainty of guilt rakes against Lucanis’ need to pick things apart, to know and understand. Why does Neve feel that way? Why is she bringing it up now? What is the point of this sudden conversation, the first they’ve had in months? His gaze narrows to a concerned squint, shifting a step closer to her, tilting his body to one side in the hopes of connecting. Real eye contact. Even if it makes his stomach churn and his heart palpitate unevenly, he seeks our her eyes, to look for some kind of answer. A truth she’s toeing toward.
“What do you mean,” Lucanis asks, “when you say, ‘recognized the signs’?”
Her mouth twitches, stretching into an angled slash across her face, crooked and thin. She doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t do or say anything more, focus still elsewhere, moving slowly toward the doorway where their friends are still visiting with Rook. It lingers there and Lucanis watches her jaw flex as she grinds her teeth. A bad habit they share, but her smile has never suffered for it. What he wouldn’t give to see one of those smiles now. Not this sharp and wry thing she’s wearing that he knows is a harbinger of discomforting news.
“It’s my job to notice things,” she states, finally turning her head to look at him properly. “Rook used to have these moments. Little instances of staring into the distance or losing track of what he was saying. They started after Weisshaupt. It seemed like sometimes he’d forget where he was, especially if he thought no one was watching.”
Her face falls, one hand lifting to rub at her temple as she closes her eyes, sighs, shoulders going slack. Exhaustion and guilt and grief. Lucanis can see this weighs on her but he doesn’t know how to lift the burden. Would it even be his place to anymore?
“But I saw a lot from my windows in the Lighthouse,” Neve adds, softer. “Maybe too much.”
“He had a lot on his mind then. The weight of the world,” Lucanis says. It’s an attempt that falls flat, and he knows it when Neve’s smile returns as she opens her eyes to look at him; it’s a stare that’s a little too pointed in what it knows, narrow around the eyes, tight around the corners of her mouth. She shrugs, gesturing vaguely as she speaks.
“Rook planned this. He cut a path through the deep roads that led him beneath the Cauldron. Antoine and Evka told me that he handed over his shield to be delivered to Emmrich. He didn’t leave it behind. I don’t know when he started hearing it, but it’s obvious to me now. He didn’t tell Emmrich about The Calling. He just left. And I think… You know that.”
Lucanis holds steady, forcing every muscle in his face to relax. It’s not his place to say anything about what Rook did. A secret, kept in confidence between himself and Emmrich, was going to remain as such. No matter how right she is, Lucanis can’t give her a straight answer.
“Neve…” His tone is bland and she throws up her hand to stop him.
“Look, I just… I want you to know you can talk to me about it. If you need to. Whatever we were, I’d like it if we could stop dancing around each other and be friends.” Her hand comes down slowly and Lucanis’ stomach roils as he tries to digest her words. “We made good friends, Lucanis.”
He can’t blame the hangover for how it lands so sourly, how it makes him feel sick. A tic in his jaw betrays him. He sees her notice it. Sees her bracing, eyes flitting over him and assessing. Always assessing.
“Whatever we were?” Lucanis’ voice is a weary croak. He can’t blame the hangover for how his heart breaks again. So many times over it’s broken now. “I love you. This—Flippancy about it doesn’t… Work for me. I’ve never loved anyone else. You were it for me. I’m not--”
“Never loved anyone else?” It’s a snap, cutting him off at the knees. “Are you sure about that?”
“Don’t.” He doesn’t have time for her sleuthing. He doesn’t want to know what she’s getting at. No. No—Now isn’t the time for her cleverness, no matter how it endeared him to her in the first place. “Don’t try to play this off as if it wasn’t as serious as it was.”
“I’m not playing anything off. I just mean—“
“You ended things.” Firm. Unyielding. Lucanis’ brows draw as he stares her down and watches the way she recedes into herself, face wiped clean of emotion, shoulders curling inward in the wake of his sudden burst of anger. “I wasn’t present enough. I understand that. But I need a clean break, Neve. To sort myself out. I’m not so sure I’m ready to be friends again. Not yet.”
“I… ended things? We agreed this wasn’t going to work, and now you’re mad at me? Blaming me?” Neve scoffs at him and Lucanis thrusts his fingers back into his hair, letting out a long, nasal sigh as he tries to collect himself with a grip at the roots. Spite is uncharacteristically silent and for once, Lucanis wishes he wouldn’t be. He’d welcome the distraction.
“No, I’m not—Mad at you. I don’t mean—” Except that he is. He’s a little mad, at the very least, and he doesn’t want to lie about it. But the timing of it all leaves him feeling cold and sickly. Rook is a dead body on a slab just a few paces beyond a doorway. Emmrich is suffering. He’s counting on Lucanis to be here for him. They’ve already hashed this out so much, so many times. “This… Do we really need to do this? Right now? We are burying our friend today.”
“Well when is there ever going to be a good time for you, Lucanis?” Neve seethes, staring him down, refusing to be dismissed and for that he can’t blame her. “Because I’d love to be penciled in.”
But he can be angry.
“Don’t.”
“Right. Don’t.” Her laugh is acidic, her dark eyes boring into him. Is it judgment he sees or disappointment? Perhaps it’s both. “That’s your answer for everything, isn’t it? Can’t get through a single difficult conversation without you running away.”
“It’s not so easy for me as it is for you.” Lucanis throws up his hands, volume dropping lower, a hissing whisper to prevent himself from yelling. He doesn’t want to yell at her. He doesn’t want to be that kind of person. He doesn’t want to attract attention. But the thready heat coursing through his veins, the simmering anger, it doesn’t want to dissipate. He jabs a finger in her direction. She doesn’t flinch. “You knew that, going into this. You knew what responsibilities I had, and you knew that I was not experienced but willing to try.”
As ever, Neve is stoic in the face of his quiet rage. She stares at him, still as a stone while he throws his arms out to his sides, shrugging, shaking his head, feeling the fidgety, frenetic energy of a foul mood dancing across his nerves. His face feels too warm and his stomach over-full with bile and ice. He grimaces at her, at all of it.
“Can you not cut me some slack, while I try to deal with my feelings? I still love you and that makes talking to you feel impossible. Because it colors everything—Everything I want to say. And it would not be fair. Not to you.” His plea earns him a disgruntled sneer.
“I’m not going to wait around forever for you to figure it out, Lucanis. I won’t hold a space in my life for you if you can’t do the same for me. That’s not fair.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“No. You wouldn’t. But you need people. Just maybe not me. Maybe this was never going to work. But if trying and failing is enough to dissolve our friendship, that’s on you.” She points back; a single finger gestured in his direction. He flinches. All the fight bleeds out of him, and her hackles come down, a drop of her shoulders, a sigh. “I’m trying. It wouldn’t kill you to put in a little work, too. Discomfort is part of life. Adjust. Move on. Or miss out.”
It would have been easier if she’d simply slapped him. His heart plummets into his stomach and the chill there begins to pervade every inch of him. Tingling numbness in his fingertips, across the bridge of his nose. The only warmth he feels is the damp that gathers in his eyes as he begins to cave under the weight of it all. Enervated and breathless. He swallows and feels it in his ears. Congestion and emotion so thick and difficult to choke down. He looks at the floor and tries to will foolish those foolish tears to remain where they are. Glistening but unshed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Neve’s prosthetic clunks against the stone floor, her boot scraping quietly behind it. She comes closer. Close enough to place a tentative hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t look up. He can’t. His neck muscles burn as he stiffens where he stands. Her voice is so close and soft and low and he can smell sea water, fried fish, and something sweet like tonka bean and vanilla on her skin. These things were a comfort once, weren’t they? “Do better. If not for the sake of our friendship, then for yourself. I still want you in my life, no matter how insufferable you can be. I think you want the same thing. This doesn’t have to end here. Take your clean break if you have to. Buuuuut you’ve got two more months at best before I start forgetting your name.”
Lucanis huffs a tired laugh and nods. Maker what a relief it is to hear her humor, dry as it is. That little olive branch. He grasps it tightly. Looks up. Shaky breath—She’s looking at him with one brow raised, head tipped to one side. Her fingers squeeze into his shoulder and fall away.
“Generous,” he rasps. “I’ll… I’ll do my best. Thank you… For trying. And understanding.”
“We’re not that different,” she replies, giving a breezy shrug of one shoulder. “It’s not hard to understand you. I see a lot of myself in you, if I’m being honest. Only difference is, I went through this phase a lot earlier.”
“Are you going to shame me for being a late bloomer?”
“Never. I was thinking of having a little plaque made to celebrate my involvement in your blooming and subsequent deflowering.” Neve lifts her hand, gesturing for each word and their placement on such a plaque, a far more genuine smile pulling up the corners of her mouth. “Here Lies the Romantic Innocence of Lucanis Dellamorte: First Talon of the Antivan Crows – Defeated by Neve Gallus 9:52 DR… I could hang it right over the headboard. What do you think?”
Lucanis wrinkles his nose, but Neve’s smile is infectious.
“A little wordy.”
“I’ll workshop it a bit more and send you some options then,” she says, giving a nonchalant wave of her hand, punctuated with a quick wink. Lucanis is surprised to find himself snorting a laugh at the thought.
“I had no idea an epitaph to my virginity would be so important to you.”
Neve laughs too, bright and clear, like a bell.
“See. I’ve always liked that about you. You’re so unbothered it’s charming. Refreshing, even.”
“What’s with all the giggling?” Taash asks as they step into the hall with Harding at their side. Lucanis casts a glance between Neve and their friends coming to join them, smile stretching into an outright grin as he scrapes out a put-upon sigh.
“We were discussing a memorial for my virginity.”
Neve chokes on her next laugh and Harding’s eyes widen, her face turning bright red. Utterly scandalized. Taash sputters, swiftly lifting a hand over their mouth to muffle it as they cast a glance toward the wake they’ve only just stepped away from. As ill-timed or inappropriate as it all might’ve seemed to an outside observer, for the few moments the shared fit of amusement lasts, everything feels like it might just be okay.
The Memorial Gardens seem quieter and grander than Lucanis remembers. As they take handfuls of dirt and sprinkle them over a beautiful stone casket, one after another, he considers the times they’d passed through here before. They’d never lingered long. Lucanis hadn’t even known, until he saw the headstones beside Rook’s, that this is where Emmrich’s parents had been laid to rest. Names carved in granite, lined up in a row to rest for all eternity. Rupert Volkarin, Elannora Volkarin… And Petyr Thorne. Rook. People die. Everything dies. It all ends here, in dirt and stone and rot. It feels unnatural for Rook to be gone so soon, half a year after he’d finally gotten what Lucanis was sure would be his happy ending. What he’s left behind… It couldn’t have been easy.
For as angry as he is at Rook, as he stands over this grave, knowing it’s all come to an end, and that moving on is what happens next, he can’t help but feel a nagging sadness for what Rook knew all along that he was going to do. All that time spent suffering in silence and smiling for the people he cared about, writing letters, making the most of the time he had—Rook understood what this would be. What it would do to Emmrich, to Lucanis, to all of them. In a way, it was an attempt at kindness; something he did for all of them. Refusing to let an impending doom loom over every single good and happy moment. He doesn’t agree with the methodology, but in a way, with the clarity of seeing the body, burying it, he is grateful. Maybe in time, they all will be.
Tears are shed once more, and likely not for the last time, as grief has a habit of visiting itself upon people for years after a loss. There are times when Lucanis still weeps for his parents. His mother. Despite how little he truly remembers them, the grief is still there, a pinprick of vantablack darkness in the shadowy recesses of his heart. But there’s catharsis in this moment. In seeing Rook’s coffin covered in shovels full of dirt by skeletal attendants while Mourn Watchers whisper blessings over the grave. Whatever Lucanis might think of these traditions, what matters most to him is that they’re of some kind of comfort to Emmrich.
He looks over Emmrich, who has become a dear friend. The shape of him is thinner for the dark fabric of his clothes. There was a time when Lucanis wouldn’t have thought twice if someone offered him a contract on Emmrich’s life. A mage who raises the dead and commands such unspeakably esoteric power over spirits, the Fade, the departed. It would have been an easy contract to accept without hesitation.
Emmrich could have spoken to Rook, if he wanted to. Corpse whispering. A rare gift that could surely make him an asset to the Crows or a danger to anyone who killed to cover their secrets. It’s a strange thing to consider. All the ways things could have been different. But now, all Lucanis sees is a man who has been discharged from love and into his care. Rook and his damnable contracts. He couldn’t even give him this one to his face? Lucanis sighs at the grave and mutters under his breath.
“It’s always something with you… Mierda.”
Manfred shuffles, bones clattering as he stands aside, looking somber, and Spite hovers beside him, grimacing with a kind of nervous uncertainty that doesn’t look at all natural on the face he and Lucanis share. Emmrich’s eyes are cast down into the filling grave, the green light of veil fire reflected in his damp eyes. It’s not long that they linger in silence there. Eventually, Emmrich shakes himself out of his gloomy reverie and invites everyone to come back to his apartment for a meal and drinks before departing. A proper celebration of life in the aftermath. A do-over. Lucanis shuffles along with the group as they converse, trading further tidbits of relief, reminiscing as they walk, and this time it feels a little easier for Lucanis to accept.
Rook is gone and they’re all moving forward. Finality, for all the heartache it might bring, flushes the deep wound of loss and allows for something a little lighter. Easier. Especially once they’re all gathered around Emmrich’s table, as if no time has passed since they last enjoyed supper together.
“Why didn’t you ever cook anything other than breakfast back at the Lighthouse?” Taash asks, spearing charred root vegetables and practically inhaling them. Lucanis can’t be sure they’ve chewed at all this entire time. “This is delicious.”
“I didn’t have the skill necessary to meet everyone’s dietary needs,” Emmrich sighs. “You might’ve been alright with more vegetarian meals, but I didn’t want to deprive others. I’m terribly out of practice with cooking meat, and at the time, nutrition and familiarity both were important.”
“I would take a vegetarian meal over that one time Rook tried to make a roast,” Neve says with a soft chuckle, lifting her wine glass for a sip. She hums, something warm and content from the back of her throat as her eyes roll up toward the ceiling, getting stuck there for a moment. When her gaze drops back to the table her smile grows. “Thank the Maker for Lucanis’ skills. I still don’t know how you managed to salvage the leftovers into something edible.”
“I… Didn’t. Actually. I lied to spare Rook’s feelings,” Lucanis finds himself admitting. There are no feelings to spare anymore. “I went to the market and bought another roast.”
The looks around the table waffle between surprise and barely contained laughter. Laughter that doesn’t want to be held back. There is a burst of brightness around the table as they all devolve into giggles, and Bellara’s fit is so strong that she bends over, covering her head with her hands as she wheezes. It’s a good laugh. A good moment. One that lends itself to the idea that they’ll all make it to the other side of this loss.
“He told me about your little taste test,” Emmrich says, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes with slender knuckles. Tears of joyful amusement this time. They suit Emmrich so much better than sorrow. His expression lights up his face, the contours of deep smile lines and dimples guiding Lucanis’ gaze over his features as he speaks. “He came to my room in quite a tizzy to re-enact it—‘Mierda. What did you do to this, Rook?’ mimicking your shock. He was so… nonplussed.”
Lucanis can’t recall ever having heard Emmrich swear before, and hearing an imitation of his own accent from those lips sparks a little flutter of embarrassment. Heat floods his cheeks and he shrugs.
“I think perhaps Rook’s taste buds were ruined from an early age. Too many salted meat rations over his years of service to the Wardens. You’d think he boiled the thing in sea water,” Lucanis adds, and Harding snort laughs, shaking her head. A laugh at the expense of the departed feels more hopeful and loving than wallowing in despair. It’s good, Lucanis thinks. It feels like this is what Rook would have hoped for in those final days. That they’d all come together again and poke fun at him, find reasons to be happy amidst the sorrow.
“To Rook never poisoning us again,” Taash huffs, their tone undeniably fond. Lucanis raises a glass to that notion as a murmur of agreement ripples through the group. They drink and they share and the moments pass easier for all that no longer hangs over them.
At the close of the evening, after dinner coffee and an extraordinarily rich slice of hazelnut torte, Lucanis volunteers to help Emmrich clean up while Manfred escorts the others back to the eluvian. Embraces and farewells come with promises to be better about keeping in touch, but the quiet that settles in once it’s just the two of them, Emmrich and Lucanis, is a welcome comfort. The air feels clearer now, though the silence of contemplation that overtakes Emmrich doesn’t go without notice. Lucanis watches Emmrich dry dishes and put them away from his place, forearm deep in a basin of warm water.
“How are you feeling, Emmrich?” Lucanis asks, and Emmrich pauses, plate and cloth in hand, staring straight ahead while his brows knit closer together.
“I… better. Still conflicted, but better,” he eventually says, and he casts a small smile Lucanis’ way, “I can’t thank you enough for all your help.”
“You needn’t thank me. I’m happy to do it.” Lucanis lifts a clean plate and passes it into Emmrich’s hands, the rhythm between them just as easeful and innate as fighting together had been. Emmrich rubs it dry but his eyes flit over Lucanis, one of his furrowed brows lifting.
“I don’t mean the dishes, Lucanis.”
Lucanis pauses, straightening his spine to turn toward Emmrich, watching him place the plate in its rightful place in the cabinet, so delicately it barely makes a sound.
“I know. I know what you meant, and I assure you, my answer remains the same.”
Even if Emmrich hadn’t implied how much he needed it, Lucanis can’t imagine a scenario in which he didn’t offer all of himself in support. Emmrich worries the towel in his hands, a little divot forming between his well-manicured brows once more. A single lock of steely grey hair has fallen over his brow, a careless little sign of a long day, one that Emmrich doesn’t correct. Lucanis’ eyes get stuck there. He feels his smile, how settled it is on his face, and he feels Emmrich step closer as much as he sees it. Radiant warmth coming closer.
“I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve saved my life. Trekking all over Thedas, through the Fade, facing down my personal demons… Literal and figurative. I want you to know that even beyond all of that. All we did and suffered. It’s these moments I treasure most. I am… So glad for your friendship.”
Emmrich’s smile is strangely melancholic and Lucanis’ heart skips over a beat, bashing itself against his ribs as his breath stalls in the back of his throat. This close, Lucanis is forced to tilt his face upward to look Emmrich in the eye and he feels that warm strain in his muscles sink down into his toes.
“I… Don’t mention it,” Lucanis says, unable to find better words as his eyes meet Emmrich’s own. They’re hazel. A ring of gold around warm, olive and forest tones of green. So alive in the nearby lamp light. It’s no wonder Rook was taken with Emmrich from the moment they met down in the crypts. Lucanis can clearly recall just how much Rook had tripped over himself at the sight of Emmrich. There is something distinct and magnetic about him. A charm that makes Lucanis want to keep looking, and when he looks away, it tempts him back to look again.
This close, he can smell the subtle tang of sweat and garlic on Emmrich’s clothes from cooking. He can smell his after-shave, something warm and vaguely oily. He can see the smattering of freckles across his cheeks that are so subtle, a less observant eye might miss them. Emmrich’s hand, as it comes to rest against Lucanis’ shoulder, makes his skin prickle. Goose bumps. Hair raising. Shiver inducing.
“Would you like to share one more glass before you return to Treviso?” Emmrich asks, airy and kind as anything. Lucanis only nods, tearing his eyes away to look into the now empty basin.
“Yes. That sounds nice. One more glass.”
It would be nice to spend one more evening in Emmrich’s presence. There’s no telling when he’ll get a chance at such a thing again.
Notes:
This Chapter Brought to You By:
- my own impatience i need these nerds to kiss already
- the dopamine rush of a good deal at the thrift store
- the additional dopamine rush of deleting my twitter account
- tiny gengar twins grinning at me all the damn time
- robin's eggs. the malted milk candy, not the... not the kind you find in a nest. i really like malted milk.
Chapter 7: The Letter
Chapter Text
Emmrich,
I’ve been struggling lately. Debating again and again whether or not to send this with my shield when I hand it off to Antoine and Evka. By the time you’re reading this, you’ll know better than me whether or not what I believe about myself is true. That I’m a coward, deep down. Probably always have been.
I’m sure if you’re reading this, no matter how much time has passed, that you probably agree, but you’d be too kind to say as much. You know fear better than most. I always admired that about you. You could voice it. I never really could. It’s frowned upon in the Wardens to admit it. My position in our ragtag group of god-hunters wouldn’t allow for it. But truthfully, this scares the hell out of me. Not just the obvious. The Calling. It’s also this choice. I can’t stop tearing myself up wondering if I’m making the right one. I’ve made a lot of choices in such a short span of time. All my life, I’ve been called a creative thinker. Decisive by people who like me. Impulsive by people who know me. All these things related to choices I’ve been forced to make, because if not me, then who? It’s been like that for as long as I can remember.
I don’t resent that a lot of the time, all of it was on me. Not really. I like to think I’ve always been able to make hard calls, mostly because I’m too stubborn to sit and do nothing. That’s how I got involved in all this in the first place. I told you some of it. How I became a Warden young because I made some bad choices. Did something I’m not proud of. Something I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for, no matter how much I try to atone or how many lives I save. I kept all of it vague, not because I’m embarrassed of it, but because it was just too painful for me to think about. It still is, but I owe you so much. More than I can give in this letter, so I want to try.
Even if words are hard to conjure over all the noise, this damnable song, I have to try.
I have a younger sister. That’s the part I didn’t tell you when we talked about it back at the Lighthouse. And before you get mad, please remember. I’m a self-professed coward. I didn’t want to tell you about her, or my parents, or any of it. There are a lot of things I just didn’t say because when it came to us, and where we were, what mattered in our relationships, it just wasn’t relevant. Not enough to dig into old wounds that never really healed right. Maybe you’ll think that’s unfair, because you were so honest with me. And maybe you’re right about that. I can’t change what I did or didn’t do. In some way, I hope this makes it right.
I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Sometimes I think I hear her. Hannah. She had a voice like a songbird. When we were kids, she would sing a lot. This little ditty about a wishing well. A song about posies. Old lullabies. Sometimes she’d sing the things she did, just to do it.
The Calling is a song. I know you saw Wardens pained by it. You saw me collapse under the sheer magnitude of the Blight and its noise. But truthfully, it’s so agonizing because of its sweetness. It’s sorrowful. A haunting melody and a cry for help and a song that covers everything in these tones, these notes that beg to be heard and followed to their source. Knowing what it is now, where it comes from, I think it sounds lonely. Like a frightened child, in a way. It sounds so much like her.
It’s so hard not to get lost in it. I can’t help losing focus sometimes. Stuck somewhere else, inside my head but also not. Sometimes, when it was too much, I’d just pretend I was sleeping and hope you wouldn’t ask and I’m sorry. Emmrich, I am so, so sorry.
I’m sorry that I lied to you. I’m sorry that I hurt you, because I know that I did and even if I had my reasons, it wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry that I was selfish. That I couldn’t let you go. That I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you sad or pulling away from me in what time we had left. But I’m not sorry that we fell in love. I’m not sorry that you know you’re worthy of it. That it’s possible. I’m not sorry for talking you out of Lichdom. I’m not sorry for spending the last of my life with you. I’m not sorry for any of the things we shared. Not at all. You had given up on it. And I could see it so clear as day. You have so much love to give, and I’m not sorry that I got to bask in it for a while.
I’m not sorry for the love. And I know you’ll find it again. Hell, you already have it. I’ve always had to compete for it, just a little bit. But I didn’t mind. Still don’t. Don’t make the living compete with me, though. That’d be pretty silly. Keep loving, Emmrich.
It’s so easy for me to lose my train of thought these days. I hope that you understand. I need you to try. For me. To make sense of this because I don’t think that I can anymore. Honesty is such a brutal yet brittle thing, isn’t it? I’m scared of what I’ve done. And where I have to go.
I was maybe fourteen or fifteen. It was so close to my nameday (sorry again; I refused to tell you when that was because I really hate big celebrations in my name and you would not have been able to resist) that I don’t remember exactly. It was a long time ago. But I had a nasty habit of picking fights with kids who thought they were better than me. Which was all of them, really. Poor son of a shit farmer with a drinking problem, and a mother too inattentive and timid to do anything about it. Pa had this nasty habit of taking a lot of frustration out on me, and I thought, if I can take that, maybe I’m invincible. We both know how that turned out.
I was small for my age, too. Not so much anymore but back then I’d probably blow over in a strong breeze. Probably malnutrition. We couldn’t afford to keep much of our crops.
It was the Alderman’s son. He was a real piece of work. He used to pick on my sister. Stupid kid things, pulling her hair, pushing her in the mud, making fun of her songs. I didn’t really think about what I was doing that day. I just knew I’d had enough. Like so many things in my life, I found my limit. How much I could tolerate. And decided I was done tolerating him.
I chose to push him.
And I regret it.
Cracked his head on a rock and that was that. It was the Wardens or the noose. I was too old to be treated like a child and the Alderman had social sway. Money. Influence. Men in power stop seeing people as human, I think. Maybe that’s why I was never afraid of Elgar’nan. I’d already seen that kind of monster before, when he threatened to hang me. I was a child. I was only a child and I didn’t mean to kill him. But I did. And I was no better than scum on his boot.
My father disowned me and the last thing I saw was my sister, crying as Jowin helped me onto a horse. Ma ushered her back inside. Hannah never got to say goodbye. I never learned how to do goodbyes, now that I think about it. Maybe that’s why.
The sun was bright that morning. That’s honestly the last thing I remember, before the Joining. Couldn’t tell you about the ride to Weisshaupt, or meeting anyone, but I know that happened. I know I was there for days before the ritual. I know there were other initiates, but I can’t recall their faces or their names. The Blight has a funny way of messing with your mind. Your memories. The more it spreads the hazier who you were before it becomes.
I didn’t want to be a Warden, but I was good at it. Not so sure if I still am. Not sure if it counts anymore. Really wish I’d punched that prick, Jowin. But I didn’t. Because some lessons stick with you. Sometimes, the easy path, the one that’s oh so satisfying, isn’t the right one. I’ve tried to make good choices but when all you’re offered is bad ones, you have to pick the best of the bunch. Or just follow your heart when your head can’t make up its mind. That’s why I did this. I know that doesn’t make it right or better or even understandable but that is why.
It’s why I picked Treviso. I don’t know how I feel about it anymore. In the end Minrathous got swallowed whole, would it have mattered if I chose differently? All those people, dead, hanging in the streets. But I’ve seen what happens to vulnerable populations when the Blight sets in. When it gets in the water. In my heart, in my gut, I couldn’t choose anything else. It had to be Treviso… I’ve thought about it again and again and again. Tell Neve I’m sorry. Please.
I thought you might want to know. The song sounds prettiest when I’m with you. Knowing what it is, it’s almost comforting. Like I’m being led home. But you’re my home. So it breaks my heart a little bit. Away from you it sounds like a funeral dirge and that only makes me miss you more. I’m homesick.
The truth is, it’s hard to keep my thoughts together these days. I put it off as long as I could. I told myself that you knew this was coming, one way or another, and tried to ignore the fact that you expected me to outlive you. So I guess this is where our argument finally ends. We never really did talk about it. But this is it.
Live, Emmrich. Please. Savor every second you have. Don’t hide yourself away with the dead. Do a favor for me, and spend your time well. For both of us. Spend it with people who care about you. And people who need you. Because they do.
I failed a lot. Failed to be selfless when I saw the truth. Failed to let you go for someone who could love you better and longer. But it’s not too late. Don’t linger here with missing me or being angry at me or trying to pick up the responsibilities I can’t carry anymore. Move on and maybe you’ll see I never meant to leave you alone, and I don’t think I did.
I used to get jealous. I knew I could count on you and Lucanis. Your professionalism, but also your rapport. You never looked at him with fear or with pity and I wanted you close. We worked well together, didn’t we? I probably should have given you both more days off, but I can’t say I regret my choice. There are no two people I’ve ever trusted more. And I’m glad you two could be what you are to each other.
That might not be a bad place to start. You understand him in ways no one else can, and he was always honest with you in ways you needed someone to be. Ways I failed to be. I think you might need each other, even now. Call it a Warden’s intuition. I know that there’s something there worth holding onto and keeping close. Help him change things for the Crows. The refugees in Treviso. Help him see his dreams come true, and maybe let him help you too. There’s a lot of gentleness in him that I wish I’d been able to see more of.
Please don’t grieve me too long.
The song is really beautiful, when I think about you.
I’m sorry we couldn’t get married, Emmrich. It would have been nice to die a Volkarin. It’s a good name. Regal. Not noble. Those are different things. Tell Harding for me. I couldn’t think of the word at the time and I was too busy enjoying the sound of your laugh to look for it too hard.
Give my love to all of them. Our friends. And don’t lose touch. Taash, Harding, Neve, Bellara, Lucanis—I’m sorry I couldn’t see the world change for the better with them. With you. We were getting there. It’ll get there. No matter how sad the song sounds, I know that it’ll get better, Emmrich. Because it has to, with or without me.
I love you. Always will. Sorry this letter is such a mess. These days my thoughts are really scattered. Sometimes I can’t keep it all straight.
Forever Yours,
Rook
Chapter 8: Separate Lives
Notes:
Epistolary Prelude. Yearning. Aching. Exposition...
This is a small update, I know. A bridge between Act I and Act II.
I hope you enjoy it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dear Emmrich,
I hope that this letter finds you in good health.
I have thought often about what I might say to you in a letter. I can’t express why it feels strange now. Perhaps because we only just saw one another a few short weeks ago. Our previous correspondence had been so sparse but I do not want to lose touch so easily again. I hope that isn’t presumptuous of me.
Things in Treviso remain largely unchanged. The number of refugees that come from the south has finally stabilized and many of our quarantine zones are in the process of being repurposed. My decisions have not been entirely popular among the Crows, as we are more accustomed to taking lives, not preserving them, but as you well know, there is no one better suited.
We are still waiting on the Crown to appoint a new governor, but it has fallen to the wayside. As you can imagine, lack of communication from the throne as well as the merchant families of Antiva City is irritating Viago most especially. Or perhaps you can’t imagine. I don’t know if it ever came up, that Viago is one of the king’s illegitimate sons. He’s not precious about this fact but doesn’t speak on it often. Viago himself holds more power and sway to effect change in our city than the king and it needles at him.
Speaking of Viago. Did you know he was exchanging correspondence with Vorgoth? He’s a braver man than I. I still find them unsettling. “Oh, no one knows what Vorgoth is.” What an appalling thing to say so casually. You are a remarkable man, Emmrich Volkarin. And remarkably unnerving at times. Yet, I have come to appreciate it. Even miss it. It is an undeniable part of your charm.
I hope that you are not stretched too thin, given all that now rests on your shoulders that you never truly asked for. I can certainly relate. Though, more often than not, I feel like a figurehead. Caterina makes many decisions on my behalf, even now. All this power and I am still subject to the whims of others. But you don’t need to listen to me complain. It’s not as if I am unaware of my relative privilege.
I know you detest the nobility while they still live. Would it be wrong to assume you’ve made an exception for me?
I hope to hear from you soon. Be well, Emmrich.
Warmest Regards,
Lucanis
Dearest Lucanis,
What a delight it was to receive your letter. Allow me to first say, you are an exception to a great many things from whom I have learned a great deal. You know I looked deeper into Antivan puppetry and I never really got the chance to say, but I understand now what you meant when you compared the dressing and raising of our dead to such a practice. I had no idea that it was such an important pastime for political commentary in Antivan culture.
The situation in Nevarra is also much the same as it was when you were here. I have been preparing and selecting my entourage for the upcoming journeys I will be undertaking. To sit before kings and ambassadors and advisors and request that Mortalitasi and Nevarran soldiers be allowed to step foot on their soil is no small task, but given how much devastation there is in our world, there is no better time for us to go beyond our borders and help our fellow man.
While I expect my visits to Rivain, Tevinter, and Antiva to be tedious, it is Orlais that I am most concerned about. And Orlais may be our neighbor most in need. We still have not received word from within Halamshiral, though there has been no news pointing to the death of the Empress. We assume she still lives but is deeply entrenched wherever she might be sheltering. In times such as these, it’s likely fear of potential assassination that has made her so hard to reach. It would not be the first time such an attempt was made during a time of great strife in Thedas.
Nevarra’s relationship with Orlais is tense at best, given our borders and that our armies guarantee mutually assured destruction. When Nevarra ceded the Tevinter Imperium and grew into the nation it now is, the land we claimed was won with blood. It is fortunate for both nations that the era of land conquest has come to an end. But those tensions feel ever present.
There is a great darkness in the heart of Orlais near Val Royeax that disturbs the Veil. The Fade has grown so close and the dead roam. Malign spirits, too. We don’t know for certain what it might be, but after all we’ve seen, I am prepared for the worst. It is hard to face this without Rook, but I have been breathing a little easier these days.
On top of everything else, deciding what to do with the house. Our house. It sits in the back of my mind like a leaden weight. I am trying to be well, but the process of grief is not at all linear. If not for the support of my friends, I don’t know that I would have the strength to face it at all.
I miss your company, too, by the way.
I leave for Rivain at the end of the week. By the time this letter reaches you, I will likely already be there. Stay strong, Lucanis. You have a good heart and a sharp mind. I know that whatever ills Treviso faces, you will stand up for what’s best for your city. It is a good thing you’re doing, having the Crows aid refugees from the Free Marches. Maker willing, Treviso will be stronger for their presence in the end.
Manfred sends his regards to you and Spite.
Until Later, Best Wishes,
Emmrich Volkarin
Dear Emmrich,
I cannot imagine the weight upon your shoulders, contending with the needs of so many nations. I can barely contend with what’s occurring within my own city, and Caterina is telling me what to do half the time. While I know it is not ideal, I can think of no one better suited for such a task. You are a compassionate man, a trait I deeply admire. I hope that those you must speak with and sway to allow Nevarran occupation within their borders can see that as clearly as I do.
I am writing to you with a pen that belonged to you. I found it among my things I packed from the Lighthouse. Do you remember how Manfred kept leaving them in the pantry? Like a little magpie leaving shiny gifts for Spite. Spite must have hidden this one away so I couldn’t return it to you. It only just resurfaced among my things, on my desk this morning.
I have noticed, as of late, that Spite can influence small objects now. Not only pull things from the Fade but nudge cups or lift pens, flip the pages of books. It’s made his momentary tantrums a bit more explosive. He continues to evolve and so must I along with him. This development has come about only in the last week. He’s quite pleased with himself. He said ‘Emmrich. Would be. Proud.’ In his usual way when he’s feeling something emphatically. I don’t know if proud is the word I would use. Fascinated, perhaps. When next we meet, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to show you all the new ways he’s found to drive me mad.
I hope the weather in Rivain is temperate and treating you well. It is a rainy season there and I know how your joints trouble you when contending with storms. I have sent along a balm of eucalyptus and diluted wyvern venom. It is quite useful for dealing with aches and pains of that sort, I use it on my knees and ankles quite frequently. But don’t ingest it or get it in your eyes. The venom is fine for skin, but it will make you quite sick if ingested and eucalyptus burns the eyes.
Give Taash and Harding our regards. I’m sure they’ll be unavoidable once you arrive. It’s good to see how far you and Taash have come in the time you’ve known one another, finding common ground. Rook would be happy to see it. And I know you and Harding get on like a particularly adorable housefire.
Good luck out there. Spite would like a seashell, if you have time to walk the beaches at all. Better yet, if Manfred could choose one, that might grant me a few hours peace.
Yours in Gratitude,
Lucanis
To My Friends Lucanis & Spite,
I have found myself largely locked away in meetings upon meetings discussing the terms of Nevarra’s aid here in Rivain. The tedium of drawing up a treaty is far more daunting and mind numbing than I could have ever imagined. Six hours yesterday without recess. You would think I was haggling to purchase the entirety of Rivain out from under the crown. Given their history with Orlais and all the Exalted Marches here, I do understand their concerns, but Maker help me… Even my patience has its limitations.
But, I have managed to get out here and there. The Lords of Fortune have been acting as mediators for me, and the late evenings, when I can escape Isabella’s insistence that I come drinking with them, I am able to walk the markets and the beaches. The accompanying parcel bears some spoils from myself and Manfred.
And I thank you, kindly and endlessly, for your thoughtful gesture. The balm you sent has been of great help. With all the writing and re-writing we’re doing my hands grow stiff quite quickly. The scent of eucalyptus is so calming. I can’t help but notice, however, the name on the jar. ‘Hand-le With Care Cream’. Groan worthy.
I’m afraid I can’t be overlong, I’ve so little time to myself to write. I wish I had more to give. I hope that things are well in Treviso. I am certainly excited for Spite and his growth, though my heart goes out to you for how that must complicate things. Perhaps a constructive exercise. He’s keen on fire. Have him blow out candles. Or, perhaps he can assist you in the kitchen if he gains enough control. Participate in cooking by passing you things. It’s fascinating to hear he’s grown in this way, and I am proud. Of you both. Such a thing wouldn’t be possible if you were not growing together.
Taash and Harding have insisted that you should take a vacation soon, and come to Rivain. I don’t disagree, but finding the time is ever the problem, isn’t it? Maker willing, we’ll find such a thing soon. I could do with some peace. I haven’t had much of it since you came to visit. Even under such circumstances… Another evening like that could sate me for a year, I think. Try to rest when you can, Lucanis.
Faithfully Yours,
Emmrich Volkarin
Emmrich,
How you can tolerate such long-winded meetings is beyond me. Despite your statement to the contrary, I must say that your patience is enough to put any sister of the Chantry to shame.
Beyond that, Spite and I would like to extend our gratitude for the gifts. The seashell was deeply appreciated. Spite loves it. And we have both enjoyed the chocolate. They may not know wine in Rivain, but their chocolate is something worth savoring. Most especially with a cup of coffee. Perhaps I could learn to make pan au chocolat. You’ve mentioned before, your enjoyment of Orlesian patisserie. I could use a new challenge. And Spite might find using a rolling pin to be amusing, if he can master it. We can try. Even if such delicate pastry is tricky, these days the only moment of peace I can find is within my kitchen. I long for another quiet evening such as the one we shared in your apartment.
Not to be vulgar, but Spite put it in words I feel are quite accurate to the situation that continues to progress here in Treviso: I cannot even visit my own chamber pot without Viago following close behind. His paranoia is only getting worse as of late. Of course, you can surely understand why. Tensions have only risen and there are complaints among the Crows for how little coin there is to be had when in service to the greater good.
Threats have begun to crop up around the city. Calling cards. A murdered refugee was found on the Cantori Diamond’s steps three nights ago. The investigation is still ongoing, but the message left behind is clear. Those lower on the ladder are becoming impatient with us. Discovering which Crows are dissenting is an easier said than done task, and we must move on it quickly.
I miss the simplicity of an easily identifiable enemy with a stabbable face. I miss taking contracts and completing them and having a moment to myself to breathe relief after a job well done. This position feels thankless and it’s lonely in a way I cannot begin to describe. Spite is on edge. He worries, even if he will not call it worry. He misses Manfred, too, I think. I did not know a demon could become so melancholy. But the position we are in isolates us and he feels it as much as I do.
I’ll continue to keep you abreast of the developments here, so long as our messages can remain secured. I hope you’re able to do the same. I am not so paranoid as Viago, but it is hard not to worry for you, knowing what’s at stake and the dangers that seem to be growing in number each day. Good luck on your continued travels, Ser Ambassador, Political Darling of Nevarra. Give our affection to Manfred. Spite says he’ll know if you don’t.
Your friend,
Lucanis
Dearest and Most Esteemed First Talon Lucanis Dellamorte,
I’ve just come from dinner with the inimitable Archon, Dorian Pavus, where our mutual friend, the detective, was in attendance. She asked me if I’d heard from you lately and gave me the most peculiar look when I’d said we’ve been writing these past three months with some regularity. You’d think she’d just caught a lead on a case. But, she politely requested that I pass on her well wishes as well as an offer of assistance with the investigation in Treviso, should you need a fresh set of outside eyes. She has time and insists that you write her soon. Neve cares a great deal for you, you would be remiss not to take her up on such an offer, I think. She’s as sharp as they come.
Things are stable in Minrathous for the time being, largely thanks to her and the new Archon. Shortly after I arrived, I met The Divine, and after conferring with him for a while I am happy to say he has made a miraculous recovery from whatever illness befell him that caused him to leave the Chantry for so long. His return has become something of a beacon of hope for the people of Tevinter.
Ser Tarquin seems a bit displeased to have been moved to the Divine’s personal detail.
I can’t imagine why.
Allow me to extend my sympathies that you’re under such scrutinizing pressure from your peers. While it is understandable, given the recent events in Treviso, some things ought to be sacred. Personal time is important for a clear mind. I hope that you are able to escape to the kitchen more often, and with that in mind I have enclosed a blend of spices popular here in Minrathous, to add to your ever growing library of culinary delights. I know it cannot make up for the feeling of isolation that you now contend with, but I hope it brings some measure of comfort in these most trying times to know that you are ever on my mind, and I am with you in spirit, even if we are far apart.
I look forward to hearing of your trials and likely successes with pan au chocolat, as well as Spite’s possible mastery of a rolling pin. Just keep him away from anything sharp, perhaps, if he’s feeling concerned for your mutual wellbeing.
Manfred insisted on drawing a picture for Spite, to remind him of their friendship, and hopefully make him feel a little less lonely, too. I think you’ll find it quite sweet. The strange red stain is from an errant bit of jam, and for that I apologize. He was so excited to show it to me he dropped it in my breakfast.
For all the difficulties you are facing, I know that you are capable enough to overcome them. Trust yourself. Trust Spite. And know that if ever you should need us, your friends are here for you.
With Affection,
Emmrich Volkarin
Greetings and Salutations Illustrious Professor Volkarin of the Mourn Watch, Revered Ambassador to the Throne of King Markus, who is notably robust and spry for his age:
I regret to inform you that I am unbelievably bad at lamination.
I refuse, however, to be defeated by pastry, even if it presents a greater challenge than corrupted elven gods ever did. My first attempts bled butter everywhere. Keeping it cold seems to be the issue and as summer continues to march ever forward, the ever present humidity of the canals seems determined to make my every attempt a disastrous exercise in futility.
Spite insisted we frame Manfred’s portrait. Your ward is quite good with those charcoals of his. I have hung it in my private parlor, for safe keeping, where it can be rightfully admired when I sit for coffee and to knit, when I find the time. I’ve been keeping my needles close at hand in preparation for the turning of the seasons. Autumn will be upon us before long. Would you prefer a plum scarf, or perhaps that of a phthalo green?
From your last letter, it sounds as though things are going more smoothly in Minrathous than they did in Rivain. It pays to know people, I’m sure. Social capital is often more valuable than actual gold. I could use some of the former myself. I fear Viago’s concerns for me are coming true.
I cannot share details here, but know that I am doing my utmost to protect myself, as ever, though I sorely miss having an accomplished mage watching my back in times of strife. There is poison in my well I cannot rightly draw out on my own. I hope your travels bring you to Antiva soon.
I could use a friend.
All the best,
Lucanis
Notes:
This Chapter Brought to You By:
- A bout of insane hyper fixation
- Writing Sprints ;w; Yay
- Girl Scout Cookies. So many Girl Scout Cookies.
- Getting bitten a bunch by my cat.Until next time! (SOON.)
Chapter 9: Trouble Me
Notes:
I wrote a good chunk of this after starting an insane round of steroids and antibiotics to cure a stupid infection in my face but I had fun with it. I love PLOT and I love DRAMA. I think this is one of my favorite chapters to date. CW for wound descriptions in this chapter. It's a lil gross in here, but it's not a lot and doesn't linger long.
This chapter I think really sets the stage for what to expect out of Act II and I really hope y'all enjoy it. I spend a lot of time thinking about the various threads of interesting concepts that never really got to see the light of day in Veilguard for how streamlined the storytelling is. I have thoughts and plans and things I really wanted to explore here to try and better envision those implications because Canon Is Ours Now lol. I can do what I want with it.
Big Thank You to my peeps on discord who have been such awesome supporters, and to all of you who leave kind comments on my updates. As ever, you guys keep me motivated to keep going and make this story in my a head a reality. I'm so glad I get to share with all you awesome and super cool people. ;w;
Enjoy the update!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Lucanis’ boots click against the stone floors, the cloying scent of decay and the stench of effluence pressing in from all sides as he strides down the hall. The stone is glossy and slick with oceanic humidity, the air so heavy with it he wonders if he could wring it from his shirt upon leaving. The drip of burning oil from passing torches adds to the perfume of despair that clings like a film. All over the walls. Beyond every locked door. On Lucanis’ skin. A stench that digs deep troughs of guilt into his tender heart. Had he not already lost the contents of his stomach over the edge of the docks, he’d be ill all over again for this long walk down dingy corridors. The clinging taste of bile in his mouth is background noise. The pound of a headache is a distraction he has to ignore. The clammy state of his skin may be worsening, but this is far from the worst he’s ever felt.
It's close. But not the worst.
He pushes his gloved fingers through his sweat damp hair, gripping the leg of the small wooden stool he carries just a little tighter in his opposite hand as he rounds the bend to traverse the final stretch to his destination. A lone cell containing the most carefully guarded prisoner in all of Velabanchel. A metal door, etched with wards, no barred window, only a latching metal slat through which trays and small cups of water can be delivered three times a day.
The guards look as invested in their post as a pair of teenagers smoking pipe weed behind a schoolhouse, but when their eyes land on Lucanis it’s all business. Straightened spines, squared shoulders, tight posture. Can’t appear to be slacking in the eyes of the First Talon. Lucanis’ can’t even manage a sigh for the obviousness of it.
“Move,” Lucanis grinds the word between his teeth, lacking the patience for it today. He’s just gotten off a very boring boat ride surrounded by people who hate him. He’s here to face more of the same in the cell he marches toward. From within the pouch at his hip he digs out the key, and a small parcel wrapped in stained linen. To the guards’ credit, they move. Lucanis doesn’t pay them a single bit of attention more as he jams the key in the lock and twists. With a screech of metal on stone the door swings inward and Lucanis yanks it shut behind him.
A wide cell, a single barred window with a view of the overcast sky, a chamber pot, a cot, and a man. The one and only. Lucanis sets down the stool with a snap of wooden legs against the floor and sits down. He looks. No matter how much he doesn’t want to, no matter how nauseating the sight, he looks because he chose this. It is the least he can do, to not shy away.
Illario has seen better days. After all this time in captivity his body has thinned from malnutrition, his beard is unkempt, his hair a wild, untamed tangle around his head, but his eyes are ever the same. Big, wet, blue eyes, bloodshot from poor sleep, shadowed beneath with faint wrinkles that are a family trait. His legs are sprawled before him, all askew against the floor. He sits there, slumped against the wall, staring right back at Lucanis, recognition dawning slowly. So slowly. And with that recognition comes a spark of life, Illario straightens up against the wall, drawing his knees up to sling his forearms atop, closing his posture, his body, away from the man who put him here.
“You look well,” Illario spares Lucanis none of his trademark sarcasm, though his voice remains soft. “The title of First Talon must be suiting you.”
Lucanis’ brows draw down and inward as he stares ahead at Illario. The unsubtle dig doesn’t miss its mark, but Illario was always good at that. Needling. Manipulating. Pressing sharp sticks in the softest and sorest of places. Lucanis didn’t want this. Any of it. But time and time again, those around him have forced his hand. The title, the position-- they suit Lucanis because they have to. Because no one ever gave him another choice. Because there is no one else. He has no say in the matter. Or he didn’t. He hopes that he has a choice here and now.
He lifts the stained linen. Dark rust-colored splotches. With a flick of his wrist it unfurls and the blade contained within goes clattering to the floor. Small, stiletto, with a reservoir at the tip for carrying a toxin that was meant to be deadly. It would have been, if not for Viago. But this was only the first of what Lucanis expects will be many more attempts.
“I’m bringing you home,” Lucanis states, his throat scraping with each word he speaks, dry despite the tepid humidity that pervades everything around him. The clamminess of his skin has only grown worse, but he feels parched. Every swallow is a battle he is rapidly losing; his mouth still tastes acidic, coated with the remnants of sickness and coffee. Illario’s eyes stray lower, away from Lucanis’ face and to the weapon on the floor. The handle curves and swirls, twin serpents. Tevinter make. Or an exceptionally good copy-cat.
“You’ve never been good with people, cousin, but I did not expect you’d become so unpopular so quickly. Especially since you are a glorified puppet.” For a man who’s just been told he’s about to leave prison, Illario’s tone and expression show a severe lack of gratitude. Lucanis wasn’t expecting any, but it certainly leaves something to be desired. No matter how much time passes or how many visits Lucanis makes that prove him a fool for hoping, he still does. He wants Illario to soften, to realize the severity of what it is that he’s done. Rook was the one who suggested he imprison his cousin, and Lucanis had trusted that advice.
But. Mierda if it hasn’t made things difficult.
“It would seem that the Venatori are not gone from Treviso, and they’ve made their intentions quite clear. As have some of the Crows who believed your bullshit speeches about making the Crows stronger with their assistance.” Lucanis’ teeth screech against one another, a laborious swallow following as his eyes dart between Illario and the blade on the floor. “I can’t in good conscience leave you to be watched over by people whose loyalty cannot be guaranteed. You should be happy, Illario. You just might get what you wanted all along.”
Their eyes meet and Illario’s nose wrinkles, eyes narrowing to slivers on Lucanis’ face. It is a tangible sensation, the way Illario picks at him, picks him apart, taking in the view of sweat beaded on his brow, the depth of the shadows beneath his eyes, the queasy pallor of his skin. The evidence is right there, and that single shaft of pale light shines on it all like a spot on a stage. Lucanis knows what Illario sees.
Lucanis sits there under that scrutiny, tense, trembling fingers curled into fists against his thighs as Illario slowly unfolds himself and crawls on hands and knees across the floor. He lopes like some great predatory feline, closer, staying low to the ground while reaching his bruised and scuffed fingers toward the blade between them. His bright blue eyes dart up from the floor to stare into Lucanis’ own while his hand hovers there, over the blade. They both know what he could do with just a few drops of blood, or at least attempt, but Lucanis is willing to risk it. He needs to know. He needs to see for himself if anything has changed at all.
Hope is a noose, and it feels tighter than ever.
“It sounds to me… as though you have a coup in the making, ah? Venatori and Crows working together.” Illario’s fingers curl around the hilt and the sound of metal scraping lightly across the stone floor feels as loud as Qunari canon-fire in the tense silence that falls between them. Lucanis watches Illario examine the blade, sniffing the reservoir, grimacing as he glances back to Lucanis once more. His eyes are open, alert, staring at Lucanis with more intent than before, a tic of muscle visible near the hinge of his jaw as he grits his own teeth.
“And no one knows more about what that was meant to look like than you.” Lucanis can’t help how it sounds. An accusation as much as an observation, spat with all the bitterness he still hasn’t been able to resolve within himself. The fight to subdue Illario had not been enough. They’d never truly had it out, had they? Like brothers ought to. Illario scoffs out a single, unenthused laugh.
“I doubt the plans are the same. I killed Zara, after all.”
Spite howls. Growls. Lucanis’ jaw tingles and his vocal cords hum with the surge of energy that comes to claim them. Used, but Lucanis does not disagree with what his mouth says at Spite’s behest.
“We killed Zara. Together.” Credit where it’s due. Lucanis winces and watches Illario slowly rise to his feet, just a few paces away from him now, watches him test the weight of the dagger in his hand while reclaiming control of himself and his voice from his inner demon. Spite’s discontent doesn’t recede. It is a cold burning fire behind his sternum, an itch in his gums, a desire to bite, bite, bite—Lucanis bites down on the urge to lash out. “And yet somehow you remained in their good graces long enough to ambush all the Talons at your coronation, use the Venatori to keep Caterina captive, you—Had sway. And I put you away. I don’t think you betrayed them when you were trying to cover your tracks. I think… They’ll still listen to what you have to say.”
And then there’s the matter of what Illario can do. Blood magic. A trade of a few drops for power Illario shouldn’t possess. Something Lucanis still doesn’t understand. Mages can’t be made—But here Illario stands. The pair of them, anomalies in their own right, bound by blood and bizarre Venatori machinations. Lucanis sees the moment what he means to suggest begins to dawn on Illario. It’s a lurch of movement, the distance between them closed and a knife thrust under Lucanis’ chin. For the second time, this blade presses cold and unforgiving to his skin. Lucanis holds his breath.
“What? Are you mad, Lucanis? You want me to what—Come out of prison and be your informant?” Illario lifts Lucanis’ face with the edge of that blade, forces him to look and Lucanis remains as still and as calm as he possibly can with a demon roiling behind his eyes. A dagger to his throat. Wedged under the edge of his jaw. He has to believe Illario won’t do it. Spite is not so confident.
‘End this—Too risky, Lucanis. Let me, let me, let me—He threatens us! Threatens you. And you. Are. Mine. Mine to protect!! Your body. Is. Our body. Keep your promise. Can’t keep your promise if We. Are. Dead.’
Lucanis doesn’t move, only flinches as he breathes slowly through his nose, willing without words, begging Spite to trust him. He’ll see Curiosity again. Lucanis keeps his promises. He has to. He clings to these little things, something to live for that isn’t this cursed job or all this violence. Things were so much simpler once. He longs for it. Wants to go back to it. He can make that happen. He has to believe that he can—He needs Spite to believe it, too. Please. Just trust me.
Lucanis lifts his palms slowly, a show of docility and surrender that earns him another animal scream from the devil in his shoulders. He can see Spite pacing, feel his ire, Illario drags the tip of the blade downward, pressed against a delicate artery instead. Waiting. Lucanis takes a shuddering breath, looking into those familiar eyes with intention.
“If you do this for me. If you help me rid Treviso of this threat, get the houses in line, and set it all to rights, then I’ll name you First Talon.” Lucanis waits a beat, waits for that offer to truly begin to sink in, waits in the treacherous clutches of Hope’s jaws for any sign that the boy he grew into a man side by side with is still in there, and wants the right things, deep down. “You can have the title. I liked my job. I like being an assassin. Contracts and pay days and simplicity. Time to knit and drink coffee in—fucking peace. I didn’t want this one. Prove to me that you really do care about something other than power. That you’re going to do what is right for Treviso and the Crows. We can wipe the slate clean.”
“Just like that? After I betrayed you? How can you trust me after keeping me here for over a year, Lucanis? What if I betray you again? What if now, I want revenge?” The threat of that blade presses harder against Lucanis’ skin and he sucks in a breath, sharp, nervous, but refusing to cave to the instinct that begs him to disarm Illario. It would be easy. The gulf of physical capability between them will have only grown wider with Illario’s imprisonment. Even in his current state, Lucanis knows he can best his cousin. But—That wasn’t the point. If he has to show his belly to get his point across…
“I’m willing to risk it. Because we were brothers once. And because even if I can’t trust you, I know what you want. What you really want. I can trust that. It’s more important to you than the short term satisfaction of getting back at me.”
Lucanis looks at the blade in Illario’s hand, and barely breathes, barely flinches as Illario slides it down to rest against his clavicle, the point still lightly pressed to his throat. Lucanis remains there, still as a stone, holds Illario’s gaze, and waits. All this waiting. Patience, while never his strong suit, is all he has. Illario’s jaw works, a flex and roll, head tilting side to side as his eyes flit across every viewable inch of Lucanis’ person.
“I could kill you right here and take it from you,” he says, but there’s a telling lack of heat behind those words. His voice drops to a whisper halfway through, growing weak. It’s a small crack in the cold edifice of Illario’s pride, but Lucanis only needs a crack. Just enough room for him to wriggle his way in deeper. His brows tent and he implores with his gaze first, for Illario to see sense and reason.
“What would that prove, Illario? You have a chance to make a legacy for yourself. To climb out of disgrace, come back with a vengeance, destroy the Venatori threat, root out our traitors, and be named, rightfully… And then I can go back to doing what I do best, and you… Will have earned back the respect you lost. And my trust.”
Illario is quiet for a long while, seconds passing to the sound of dripping condensation, the not-so-distant roar of the ocean, and gulls crying out overhead. The palpable uncertainty that comes with this extended silence, so motionless and heavy, twists as sure as a blade in Lucanis’ gut. Hope is a noose. Illario exhales, shaking his head, pressing in again, yanking Lucanis closer with a quick grab at the straps on his armor, looming more intensely as the blade pricks Lucanis’ skin.
“Caterina… Would never approve. You can’t promise me that.”
Lucanis’ throat bobs with a hard swallow, eyes darting to one side, away, staring at the wall. It is his turn to linger in silence. Caterina. It was her influence that saw them arrive here. Her failings. Is it really Illario’s fault that he went as far as he did? Yes. But not his alone. She made them what they are. This—This was inevitable but if he’s learned anything this last year and a half, it’s that fate is something you make. Rook banded them together to bend gods to their whims, humbled Solas, saved everything. They can beat this. They can beat the fate that Caterina gave them.
Lucanis had once thought her to be so strong, so clever, so utterly above the rank and file but he knows better than ever that their grandmother is just as human as they are. A frightened woman who thought beating them was love, who thought pitting them against one another would make them stronger. She failed them in as many ways as she assured they would survive. He… Doesn’t want to fail Illario. He won’t make the same mistakes their grandmother did. He can see Illario, even if she refused to, and isn’t that what Illario has wanted all along? Lucanis’ eyes drop to the floor, shoulders flagging under the weight of so much responsibility he never asked for.
After one last moment to gather his composure, he looks up again, meeting Illario’s suspicion head on.
“That… Won’t be a problem,” Lucanis replies. “She’s no longer fit to make such decisions. And she never made the right one in the first place. I will not fail you as she failed us both. You have my word, Illario.”
Illario’s arm goes slack, fingers gripped around the strap of Lucanis’ armor unclenching to let him go as he takes a step back. Lucanis doesn’t want to look at him anymore. He drags his gaze down to the grimy floor, favoring that to whatever might be awaiting him in Illario’s expression. Beyond what he promises, this is also a confession of a failing he’s already suffered. He would not begrudge Illario any anger he might feel. Disappointment. Lucanis knows he failed to protect her properly—
“Lucanis… What… What exactly—What’s happening in Treviso right now?” More than anything, Illario sounds scared. There’s a tightness to his voice, a vulnerability that reminds him of all those nights where the only thing they truly had was each other.
“There’s far too much to explain. And this place makes me sick.” Lucanis’ wets his chapped lips, taking a preparatory breath, bracing to look up again and finding a wealth of uncertainty in wide, blue eyes. “I will tell you all on the way home. Do we have an agreement?”
Illario stands there, seemingly bewildered as Lucanis offers out his hand. The blade is still in Illario’s grasp, a present threat glinting in the shaft of cold light that pours through the barred window. But he doesn’t use it. He reaches back for Lucanis, hoisting him to his feet with a firm grip around his forearm. Chest to chest, looking up into Illario’s eyes, Lucanis sees a glimmer of the brother he once trusted there, in the creases, in the grim lines, the frown, and the vivid blue of his gaze.
The noose finally loosens.
“We do,” Illario says. “Get me the hell out of this shithole.”
My Dear Lucanis,
The Archon has given me leave to depart Tevinter for a much-needed bit of time off to address some personal matters. He and I will reconvene to finish our discussion at a later date, after I have attended to a much more urgent matter. With any luck, I can make effective use of this time and will be able to see a dear friend in the process. I certainly hope I’ll find him in good health upon my timely arrival. If not, I’m certain I can assist.
Yours,
Emmrich Volkarin
Villa Dellamorte is abuzz with activity and has been since Lucanis left six days ago. It is the new normal, no matter how much he longs for a moment of quiet. It helps, or he tells himself it helps, if he doesn’t look at the many sets of eyes that follow him across the grounds. He knows well it’s not only him they’re following. Haggard as he may be, Illario walks beside him, strutting really, proud as a peacock despite the circumstances. The letter in Lucanis’ hand is held in a stress grip that refuses to release. He feels that clench of tension all the way up his arm, into his shoulder, radiating into his jaw. It does not take the keen mind of an assassin to read between the lines and again, Lucanis finds himself hoping. It’s a gut churning terror as much as it is a heart-fluttering anticipation to know Emmrich might already be here.
“I get the feeling that no one is happy to see me,” Illario observes aloud, and the tiny thread of amusement within his tone isn’t enough to earn an eyeroll, but the little princely wave Illario offers to the staff as they make their way toward the main manor house absolutely is. Lucanis’ reaches over, swatting Illario’s hand down.
“Mierda, will you cut it out.” The cold sweat down Lucanis’ spine nags at him, as does the headache behind his eyes. So tired. He wants to lie down and sleep for a year but the sound of crumpling parchment in his hand as his grip intensifies yet again holds something he wants even more.
“You seem tense,” Illario says. Lucanis glares, nudging a hard elbow into thin ribs.
“I’m not tense.”
Illario only puffs out a breath and clicks his tongue at him.
‘Lying is okay. When it is… Illario.’
“I’m. Not.”
Spite hasn’t settled since they stepped foot off the ship and were handed Emmrich’s letter on the docks. The incessant swirling of eager hope intermingling with so much uncertainty only bolsters the thundering palpitations of Lucanis’ heart. Illario elbows Lucanis back, hard enough to make him stumble to the side a step and trip over his own feet.
“There’s a saying about protesting too much...” Some things never really change, do they? Lucanis utters a low, rattling growl.
‘Is it here? The letter—Lucanis. Is. It. Here.’
Every step they take that brings them closer to the main house only heightens the clawing sense of urgency that refuses to be ignored. Lucanis’ skin is so clammy, but not only for the discomfort of what’s still to come. He feels the rising gorge of nausea and irritability like a hot stone in the back of his throat and his mouth floods with saliva. It forces him to slow his pace and breathe hard through his nose. Think about something else—Anything else.
Emmrich’s letter likely arrived days ago, but there’s no telling how quickly he was truly able to disentangle himself from the needs of Minrathous. Lucanis needs to avoid twisting himself up in knots over this. There’s simply too much at stake.
“What you’re ‘not’ is doing yourself any favors,” Illario oozes every word, like he’s trying to cajole a wild animal into lowering its hackles. “Relaaaaax, cousin. What’s the worst that could happen?”
‘Death. Dismemberment. Our mage—Curiosity. Not here. That would be bad. Lucanis—Don’t ignore me. Where is Curiosity—’
The way Spite hisses ‘our mage’ sends a tremor down Lucanis’ spine.
“Would the both of you please, for the love of the Maker… Shut up.”
Not a moment’s peace to be found, apparently. As they stride over the threshold, through the palatial, arched doorway of Villa Dellamorte’s grandest abode, there are far more guests awaiting them than Lucanis would like. A murder of Crows is gathered around, likely still investigating and securing the house. Lucanis can’t even be sure if he should trust them. But there are two among the cloister of leather-clad assassins he does trust.
Viago and Teia are standing in the grand foyer beneath the sparkling light of the crystal chandelier above, speaking in hushed tones, but all conversation halts when they spot Lucanis and Illario making their way over. There’s a brief glance exchanged between them, and Viago throws up his hands, shrugging, then he plants those hands on his hips and stares at the floor, a deep groove of contemplation between his brows.
“Lucanis,” Teia sighs, sounding relieved. Did they have so little faith in him? “You made it. Good. Your necromancer arrived at the Diamond a few hours ago. He’s with her now.”
“Thank the Maker,” Lucanis could compare the rush of goosebumps and the prickling of his muscles unwinding a fraction to a hit of strong, Kirkwall whiskey. It’s an instantaneously numbing and warm feeling that carries him forward the final steps to stand close to his fellow Talons.
Viago’s focus, once it lifts from the floor, finds itself weighing on Illario. There is a discontent in the set of Viago’s jaw, misaligned, molars digging into one another, and his eyes are narrowed with ire as much a suspicion. Illario seems more interested in digging grime out from under his nails than acknowledging his fellow Crows. Three long seconds pass during which no one says anything and Lucanis wonders if he might get sick on the floor, but Viago’s tense speech cuts through the silence and Lucanis swallows that urge down.
“Would it not be wiser to keep him out of sight?” Viago looks to Lucanis and Illario lifts a hand to wiggle his littlest finger in his ear, grimacing as he takes a deep nasal breath.
“Did you hear something? That sounded like complaining. You haven’t even said hello, and I am standing right here—”
“Not now,” Lucanis snaps, throwing up a hand to halt any bickering. His pounding head cannot take it and there are far more important things to attend to. “I need to go see Caterina. You two, get Illario to his room and ensure that it’s secure. I trust you vetted the guards I requested.”
Viago opens his mouth, but Illario is quicker on the draw.
“I thought I was no longer a prisoner?”
Lucanis’ eyelid twitches and his dark gaze slides sidelong to look at his cousin, finding himself faced with an arched brow and a sneering facsimile of a smirk.
“The guards aren’t to contain you, they’re for your own protection, idiota.” Lucanis waves his hands around, venting his exasperation with sharp gestures that allude to how much he’d very much like to take Illario by the throat and shake him. “Were you not listening to a word I said on the voyage back?”
Illario puts his hands up, rolling not just his eyes, but the entirety of his head with a shrug of his shoulders. Lucanis can feel Teia and Viago watching them and toys with the idea of letting himself be sick all over Illario. It might just be cathartic enough to be worth the embarrassment.
“Alright, alright… Though you can admit that it’s a bit of both,” Illario sighs, and then, with a lilting hint of teasing: “I won’t hold it against you.”
Lucanis holds up his hand once more, looking away, closing his eyes as he pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep, girding breath.
“Mierda… Just. Behave. Please.”
Lucanis marches past Viago and Teia, boots striking the marble flooring with each hurried, percussive step. He feels as though these hallways are longer than ever, the stairs more arduous to climb as he takes them two at a time. He stalls at the door, out of breath, and all that relief he’d felt at the knowledge Emmrich had made it here has dwindled away to nothing. Lucanis is jittery, like he’s had too much coffee, heart like a jackrabbit, hands shaking as he rakes them through his hair to smooth it down. The pause he takes to collect himself isn’t enough. Nothing would ever really be enough, he thinks. He reaches for the handle and pushes the door open.
Oh, how much can change in four months.
There, bent over Caterina’s bedside, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles slipping down the bridge of his nose, is Emmrich. He looks up at the sound of the door, those bright hazel eyes reflecting nearby candlelight. Surprise widens his gaze, but in an instant, as recognition takes hold, every feature softens. He smiles for Lucanis and it’s so good to see that Lucanis’ knees grow watery beneath his weight, threatening to give out entirely. He could weep for relief at the sight. That near-need to collapse morphs quickly into something else as Lucanis’ leg muscles twitch, convulsing with a sudden urge to run toward Emmrich, a jerky start and stop motion, a single, stumbling step. His heart leaps and Lucanis suddenly can’t breathe.
“Lucanis,” Emmrich says his name like a warm greeting, smile lines creasing his cheeks, crow’s feet resting delicately at the corners of his eyes as he straightens his posture and steps away from the bedside of Lucanis’ slumbering grandmother. He makes it three more steps before Lucanis caves to impulse. Long strides, swiftly taken, and Emmrich opens his arms up to him without a moment’s hesitation. In an instant Lucanis is crushed into a familiar embrace that smells of rose, palo santo, and something earthen, oily, sweet. The subtle tang of sweat that clings to Emmrich’s robes is just as welcome. Grounding. Painfully human. Lucanis’ fists curl into rich, heavy wool and soft silk, clinging tightly. Emmrich’s back has to bend to accommodate the ferocity of Lucanis’ embrace but he doesn’t complain, only laughs breathlessly.
“It’s so good to see you,” Lucanis says, reluctant to part but he knows he must. He takes Emmrich by his biceps, placing an arm’s length of space between them to look him over properly. All the subtle differences alongside the whole person who is exactly as warm as Lucanis’ memory claimed him to be.
His hair a little longer and thicker than Lucanis remembers, a coif having fallen over Emmrich’s brow, making him look elegantly disheveled. His jaw bears a shadow of long travel days without his shaving kit, his moustache a little longer, curling around the corners of his wide-set mouth. There are dark circles beneath his kohl rimmed eyes, but a healthy tan enlivens his skin and makes him seem more youthful. Those freckles are deeper now, too… Emmrich’s rich, Tevinter finery tells a story, the rumpled edge along the sharp angle of his high, flared collar that frames his face, the structured taper at his waist askew, sash looser than it should be, the smudges of dirt on his sleek black boots, the ink stain on the heel of his hand.
He’d dropped everything. He’d come straight here as soon as he’d penned his reply.
“I came as quickly as I could. Your letter—”
“Yes. I—I tried to be careful.” It’s a bit miraculous, Lucanis realizes, and he feels a knot of emotion ball up in his throat alongside the choking discomfort of spit and bile. “You understood.”
“After all these months of correspondence, what sort of friend would I be if I couldn’t tell something was wrong?” Emmrich reaches up to swipe those thin spectacles from his face, tucking them away somewhere in his robes, which seems a shame in Lucanis’ mind. They suit him. But the resulting dedication of eye contact, and how Emmrich steps even closer to rest a soft hand against his shoulder whisks any other thought away. Lucanis tilts his head back to meet wide, richly olive and goldenrod eyes. A little bloodshot. A lot tired. But so full of concern. It floods Lucanis with a feeling of warmth that sinks to his toes. He can’t be sure of why his heart begins to race even harder or his stomach begins to turn itself inside out, fluttering and clenching with something other than the burn of upset. Is it time again already for another dose? Emmrich says something, it’s muffled, and Lucanis blinks a few times, head twitching back a fraction.
“Sorry, what?” He asks, and Emmrich’s brows draw into a tighter furrow, that hand on Lucanis’ shoulder lifting to press against his brow. His palm is pleasantly cool against Lucanis’ skin, and it takes true effort to keep his eyes open and not lean into that delicate pressure.
“I said your handwriting seemed off, it’s not like you to press so hard—” Emmrich’s hands move, cupping his face as he examines, eyes flitting over Lucanis’ features while a frown creases his own. “And the contents… After all you’ve said these past few months. I feared—It was you I’d find, ailing and in a bed upon my arrival.”
A hand at his throat next, two fingers dipping beneath the collar of Lucanis’ shirt and armor to press against his pulse. Lucanis holds his silence and watches Emmrich focus, waits for him to assess whatever it is he’s suddenly so adamantly trying to look for. He can’t possibly know just by looking, can he? Lucanis audibly swallows as Emmrich pulls his hand away and takes a single step back, eyes raking over Lucanis from head to toe.
“I’m sorry to have worried you,” Lucanis croaks. His throat suddenly feels far too dry despite the heaviness of the air. Too small. Weak. “And that I pulled you away. I know what you’re doing is important.”
Emmrich’s focus snaps to Lucanis’ eyes, holding his gaze, giving a single shake of his head.
“Please, never apologize for asking for help. I want you to. I want to be here for you.” He’s so adamant and so sincere, a rarity for Lucanis to encounter these days with all that goes on within the city limits of Treviso. His gratitude is immeasurable, and he could weep with relief to know he needs not feel quite so helplessly alone in all of this. For as steadfast as Teia and Viago are, there are so many others who are not. It is a thankless effort, trying to keep all this together with his trembling hands.
“I… Thank you. Truly.” Lucanis can’t quite get a full breath to speak, each word forced through a pinhole of welling emotion. “You’re the only one I know who has experience in this area. The only one I’d trust, anyway.”
Lucanis looks to the shallow rise and fall of Caterina’s chest where she lays in bed, deathly pale, but still alive. Emmrich’s eyes follow, the downturn at the corners of his mouth saying so much without a single word.
“How is she?” Lucanis asks, feebly taking a few steps closer to the end of the bed where he braces a hand to steady himself against the footboard. Emmrich’s footsteps are quiet as he comes closer to stand just behind him, looking over his shoulder at the fallen Dellamorte. She’s never seemed quite so small and frail in Lucanis’ eyes as she does right now, and no matter how complicated his feelings about her are, she is his family. She loves him and he loves her. That will always be true, above all else.
“I believe I can help her,” Emmrich replies. “Viago’s antidotes have slowed the toxin, but even if I cleanse her blood completely, she might never fully recover. This particular toxin... The nerve damage is extensive, and given her age, how much she must have ingested over time. I’m… so sorry, Lucanis.”
Her hands are so thin, her skin so pale, face sunken. Months—And they’d not known. Dose after dose without any idea. How could this have gone on for so long? It’s his greatest failing to date and it is eating Lucanis alive. But he has to believe she’ll survive it. Emmrich can help her. Even if she never walks again, that mind of hers is sharper than any blade Lucanis has ever touched.
“Don’t be. She’s stubborn…” Lucanis looks back, over his shoulder, finding a wealth of sympathy and concern awaiting him in the deep grooves set into Emmrich’s face. “If anyone could recover from a nerve toxin slipped into their tea, by force of will alone, it’s her.”
This would have never happened if he’d listened to her, but time marches on, choices were made, and there are only more choices to come. Emmrich sighs through his nose and his face relaxes a fraction as he gathers his composure and offers Lucanis the steadfast nod of a consummate professional.
“Viago is having a theater prepared for me to perform the procedure. I will do what I can. The rest will be up to her. She’s an indomitable woman. If you have faith, then so do I.” Emmrich places a hand against Lucanis’ back, right against his thoracic spine, too close to the throb in his flank. Lucanis barely contains the urge to flinch away, a subtle facial twitch the only indication he offers of his own pains. But Emmrich, clever, observant, caring Emmrich, sees right through him. Hasn’t he always? “But what about you?”
“What about me?” Lucanis tries, his crooked smile doing nothing for Emmrich’s obvious worry.
“You’re favoring your right side. You have a fever. Your pulse is elevated. You’re pale. I’m a great many things, Lucanis, but not a fool.” Emmrich lists Lucanis’ observable symptoms in such a direct, and thoroughly unimpressed manner that Lucanis’ puffs out a laugh. He should have expected as much.
“You and your damned… keen eyes. I… I’m alright.” Lucanis waves him off. And it’s foolish. He knows it is. But part of him feels as though he should simply deal with this consequence. Emmrich’s eyes wince, narrowing and his brows furrow.
“Spite?”
Oh. Oh no—Lucanis’ expression slackens with surprise, and he hears the rasping, rattling voice of his personal demon speaking into the air, sees him in his periphery. Annoyed. Antsy. Flitting about and pointing accusatory fingers Lucanis’ way.
‘He lies. Examine him more! It aches and aches.’
“Traitorous little…” Lucanis mutters a slew of curses beneath his breath and Emmrich lets out a long-suffering sigh, planting his hands on his hips.
“Lucanis, please. I came here to help you. Let me have a look.”
“Fine but… Not here. Come with me.” Lucanis gestures for Emmrich to follow him and starts a trudging path back into the halls, leading him through corridors that he could navigate with his eyes closed for how often he ran through them as a child. Hide and Seek could while away hours in this cavernous manor, and at times it was possible to never be found at all, if Lucanis decided he didn’t wish to be.
‘Good. Fix him so we can work. But. When do we see Curiosity?’
“Ah. Manfred returned to Nevarra on my behalf to collect some necessities for me that I will need to attend to Madam Dellamorte. He should be here by nightfall.”
Spite grumbles his impatience and Lucanis finds himself smiling faintly. It’s a bit peculiar how attached Spite has become, even with the distance between them. But perhaps not so surprising, when Lucanis takes the time to consider it again, how little Spite had when ripped from the Fade. It’s good that he has a friend of his own.
“She loves that you call her that,” Lucanis says, rather than risking riling Spite further by discussing Manfred’s absence. Emmrich keeps pace with him easily as they turn down another hallway and ascend a flight of stairs.
“Really? It seems only polite. The few times I happened to see her we didn’t really speak beyond formal greetings. It would feel strange to me to call her anything else.” Emmrich’s hand is so light on the railing, rings bumping lightly against the cool marble. The sound sticks out to Lucanis, reminding him of another place and time, dragging his little wooden training sword along the rungs below.
“My grandmother has a deep and abiding appreciation for formality. Crows can be… Less than respectful. Depending on the house and where they fit into the pecking order.” He slips down another hallway, and the light of the early afternoon sun pours through windows flung wide open to let in the breeze. Drifting curtains flutter toward them as they walk and the scent of the ocean floods Lucanis’ senses anew. “Do you know what most of them call her?”
‘Ha!’
Lucanis glances over at Emmrich, a little curl of wry amusement forming at one corner of his mouth while Emmrich lifts his brows in silent question. Lucanis shrugs.
“The Crone.”
“That’s appalling!” As appalling as Emmrich claims it to be, Lucanis finds himself chuckling just the same. He shakes his head as they continue up one last flight, to the topmost floor, drawing ever closer to their destination.
“It’s also fitting,” he admits. “She can be very disagreeable. She knows this. No one is ever brave enough to say it to her face, of course.”
“I should hope not,” Emmrich says with a scoff. “That would be terribly rude, not to mention it seems… Well. Unwise to insult a woman like her.”
“I doubt she would actually have anyone killed for such an offense, it could potentially be considered a sign of vanity—an obvious weakness.” Lucanis recalls her many lessons about appearances all too well. He has the scars along his back to prove it. “But most are not stupid enough to risk it. Ah—Here we are.”
Lucanis comes to a stop before a door, unassuming in the grand scheme of the house’s layout. He opens it with a quick jerk of the handle, ushering Emmrich into the privacy of his own quarters. A collection of rooms that are sparsely decorated, but comfortable. He watches Emmrich’s eyes rove over the space, taking in the view of a small, personal parlor. There is no fire burning in the hearth, but the air is warm, windows open, balcony doors wide, sunlight glittering off the marble floors and making the whole place seem aglow.
“How would you like me?” Lucanis asks as he makes himself at home. With the door shut behind them he’s quick to take off his gloves and toss them onto the sofa, undoing the heavy belt hung with blades to join them a moment later.
“Pardon me?” Emmrich asks in turn, his voice pitched an octave higher than before. Lucanis stops and twists, facing Emmrich once more and the view of him here, aglow with the beauty of warm, summer sunshine stalls his own thoughts, eyes flitting up and down to take him in. It reminds him of the many occasions he’d come to join Emmrich on his balcony at the Lighthouse for a cup of coffee and conversation, just to get out of his own head for a while. To process the ongoing agony of learning to share his body with Spite.
“I can sit on the sofa or lie down. What would make it easier for you?” Lucanis finally clarifies. Emmrich clears his throat and inclines his head a fraction to show his understanding.
“Ah. Yes uhm… That rather depends on the severity of your wound. Lying down would probably be most comfortable.”
“This way, then. My bedroom is just through here.” Lucanis points to the doorway on the left and heads in. He can hear Emmrich trailing after him, every step light and cautious. Lucanis’ bedroom is still in disarray. Glass scattered across the floor, blood and signs of struggle, a large gash through the canopy that hangs around it. Emmrich stalls in the doorway as Lucanis makes his way to the side that managed to remain undisturbed.
“I wanted the staff to stay away for now. Sorry for the mess,” Lucanis says as he begins to peel out of his leather armor, wincing and hissing a breath through clenched teeth. Emmrich seems to materialize from across the room in an instant, there with steadier hands and a gentler touch to help Lucanis ease his arms out of his jerkin, then the linen of his shirt up and over his head, pausing to inspect the large, dark, oily stain along the right side from where Lucanis bled through his bandages, all pus and plasma and dark splotches of toxified blood. Emmrich stares at the stain with a wrinkle along his brow and then looks at Lucanis, those wide, bright eyes making him feel utterly naked in a single glance.
“What happened?” Emmrich delicately places the shirt on the nightstand and Lucanis eases himself down and back to lay against the rumpled bedding, letting out a breath of relief as his own lids flutter shut. The sudden reprieve that comes of no longer holding himself up makes his entire frame go lax, his eyes slipping shut. The pain in his head recedes just a little with less light flooding his vision, and he trusts. He trusts Emmrich so completely that he doesn’t need to watch as he feels those deft and gentle hands begin to untie the bandages around his middle.
The stench of the poison grows stronger as Emmrich carefully pulls back the first layer then the next, helping Lucanis shift each time he is forced to unwind the gauze holding the wound’s edges together. It’s the packed padding that feels the worst, sticking to Lucanis’ skin from how the stitches weep near constantly. It stings and it hurts and it’s ugly— Hot to the touch. He has to fight through the fog of discomfort to find the words he needs to explain himself, his tongue feeling thick behind his teeth.
“They scaled the wall, came in through the window. An… Ambush. It was meant to look like Venatori, I think. The blade was Tevinter make, but I know there are those among the Crows who are suffering a great deal of discontent. The halt on contracts to aid the refugees has left a bad taste in many mouths,” Lucanis explains through shaky breaths as Emmrich’s cool fingers press here and there, an abdominal examination that nudges at Lucanis’ over-wrought nerves. Emmrich is quiet for a long while, his fingertips trailing along delicate edges, testing for swelling in Lucanis’ internal organs with pressure that makes him wheeze and shudder. A fresh wave of nausea grips him, and he begins to perspire again. He’s sure he’s going to be sick for a moment, but Emmrich chooses that exact one to still and stop his exam, giving Lucanis a much-needed chance to catch his breath.
“Do you know what they used? The poison?” Emmrich asks, and his voice is a little off. There’s a quavering to his words that Lucanis is not accustomed to hearing. It forces Lucanis to open his eyes and look up. Seeing Emmrich there, looking back at him, Lucanis forgets to breathe. Emmrich looks so… Sad.
“Emmrich?”
Emmrich doesn’t answer, lips pressing together in a tight line as he looks Lucanis over, fingertips so close to the edge of the slash along Lucanis’ right side, eyes tracing the dark lines that appear like signs of infection radiating outward from his stitches and the dark, sticky slash that refuses to start healing. It is a nasty thing, sickly green, angry red, deep yellows, purple stains, black veins. Emmrich’s eyes are shining with thick, damp emotion. But he says nothing. In the quiet, Lucanis can feel a pressure building, begging to release and he sees Spite at Emmrich’s side, looking at him with a curious little furrow between his brows, baffled by the sudden silence and motionless state of their friend. But the bubble of painful nothing bursts.
“Don’t you have mages?” Emmrich finally asks, exasperated, voice reedy and shaking. He’s not just sad. He’s angry. Tooth gritting and an adamant avoidance of eye contact. Emmrich won’t meet his gaze, favoring a stare-down with the gash that wants to claim Lucanis’ life, even now. Lucanis wants to sink into the mattress and disappear as he feels the weight of Emmrich’s upset come crashing down on him.
“None that I can trust. Viago concocted an antidote, and I have been taking regular doses,” Lucanis replies, but his answer doesn’t appear to satisfy. Emmrich shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut as he lifts his hand away from Lucanis’ skin to rake through his own hair.
“Maker’s breath—You impossible man,” he hisses. “I… I can fix this for you. But you need to rest.”
“I wish I could. I’ve wanted to do nothing else, but someone must—”
“No. You can lead from a bed, but you cannot lead from the grave.”
Lucanis balks at the sharp refusal. Emmrich has rarely ever interrupted anyone before. His manner never seemed to allow for such a thing. But it’s happened and it leaves Lucanis speechless, staring up at Emmrich as a sudden rush of heat floods Lucanis’ cheeks and his heart gives a weak thud against his ribs. There is some part of Lucanis that thinks he ought to fight more, push back against being silenced, but he can’t find the will to do so. Whatever pride Lucanis has doesn’t come into play, and he knows Emmrich is right. He holds his tongue, stuck in a strange emotional stasis, unsure of what it is he’s feeling, but knowing that he doesn’t hate it.
If anything, it relieves Lucanis of a burden he’d not wanted to carry to begin with.
He watches Emmrich shrug himself free of the outer layer of his robes, long sleeves and draping silk stripped away, only to be gently spread over Lucanis’ shivering frame. The fever is getting worse. He knows he’s due for another dose now, one he’s put off for just a little too long, but he can’t find his voice to explain this. All he can do is stare dumbly up at his friend and take it all in. All he can do is take in these jagged, frustrated edges that bring a different side of Emmrich to the forefront. The way Emmrich presses his fingers to his brow and props a hand on his hip, collecting himself and reigning his own emotions in is a new sight, a new facet. Lucanis’ eyes burn and he realizes he needs to blink.
“You are the expert,” Lucanis says, and he feels a little stupid saying it but there’s nothing else that springs to mind. Emmrich rolls his sleeves to the elbow and removes much of his dowry, stacking precious gold atop Lucanis’ gore-stained shirt. Each movement is crisp and precise, and eventually, their eyes meet again. Fondly irritable is a unique look for Emmrich. Not bad. Only different. Lucanis feels small where he lays beneath the comforting scent of Emmrich’s perfume.
“That I am. And until you are well, I’ll be your physician. We need your chambers cleaned, and I need a look at this antidote of Viago’s. When Manfred arrives with my things this evening, I’ll see to Madam Dellamorte, and then to you. For now… Rest.”
Lucanis can see no reason left to argue. He doesn’t want to. Emmrich stalks away from his bedside, pausing in the doorway with long fingers curled around the frame. His eyes dart over Lucanis where he lays sprawled on the cleaner side of the bed. A small grimace pulls at one corner of Emmrich’s mouth and he lets out a puff of air through his nose, giving another shake of his head.
“Spite. Make sure he stays in that bed until I return. I’m going to have a word with some of the staff and bring some things back with me.”
Lucanis’ brows twitch closer together as he looks between Emmrich, and Spite, who hovers close at hand, suddenly appearing far more determined than before. The demon speaks and nods, adamant as he takes on this task he’s been given with the vigor Lucanis has come to know all too well as a shared trait between them.
‘You have my word, Emmrich. Lucanis… Will. Rest.’
Seemingly satisfied with that, Emmrich nods, and then he’s gone from view, leaving Lucanis to wonder a great many things, but no thought presses itself up against his mind more keenly than this: Asserting control suits Emmrich a great deal, and Lucanis doesn’t mind suffering it at all.
Notes:
This Chapter Brought To You By:
- DRUGS.
- The legal kind, I swear, my insurance covered them and everything.
- Post Maloneos.
- Trouble Me by 10,000 Maniacs
- Filing my nails down to a more manageable length so they stopped getting caught in my keys.
- The Allure of All The Hurt/Comfort Coming Next Chapter
- ALL OF YOU!!! <33333Until Next Time!!
Chapter 10: Promise Enough
Notes:
Oh MAN this chapter. It's our longest one yet. I am full of emotions. This was a beast to edit, too. CW for some Vomiting this chapter. It's not terribly descriptive or a long scene, but as someone with emetophobia myself, I know I usually appreciate a heads up beforehand lol.
I am just. I have. A lot of feelings. About these two. And this fic. And writing it is just. It makes me giddy most of the time. But there's always a weird mid-point when I'm working on a long fic where I get that Creative Imposter Syndrome and worry about all the choices I'm making. This chapter was that moment for me, of just, wanting to roll around on the floor and wail for a while, but now that it's done I'm really excited about it. ;w; I really hope you all enjoy it because augh. AUGH.
Also I love hearing which lines stick out to you folx it's so lovely when y'all copy-paste things back to me because I go "Ah! That thing I wrote!!" and it's so. Affirming. Thank you all for being so so cool and supportive. I am so so grateful.
I hope you have fun reading this update. It was a labor of intense love. <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Emmrich feels the cold sting of dread at his back as he retraces his steps through the winding halls of Villa Dellamorte, back to the main foyer where he hopes he can find someone to assist him. He’d expected trouble upon his arrival, but Lucanis being so cavalier with his own wellbeing had not even occurred to him as a possibility. In their time apart, Emmrich had worried often, so many late nights spent pouring over parchment, trying to carefully pick his way through each detail and reap whatever he could of the situation in Treviso. Lucanis had to be so careful with everything he did in his position. Each bit of correspondence, every choice for the city, every choice for the Crows, but the thing Emmrich wishes Lucanis had been most careful with is himself.
After all Lucanis had done for him, it seems only fair to Emmrich that he throw himself at the task without hesitation, knowing well that there are few better suited to dealing with the pressing nature of deadly poison than he. The bloat around Lucanis’ middle is a ghost against Emmrich’s fingertips, warning of what still might be possible, what threatens Lucanis every second that passes them by. If Emmrich had arrived any later… He shudders to think.
He’s not interested in such dour thoughts. It doesn’t serve him to consider it, resolving instead, to not lose anyone else. Not now. Not after all this effort. Emmrich’s heart throbs and aches; the slick perspiration on his palms is an expression of his fear. He sees Teia standing alone in the foyer, overseeing a shipment of goods being brought through the house to the kitchen, each crate stopped for her inspection as it passes.
“Dame Cantori,” Emmrich calls out, pulling her focus away from her work. As she twists to look at him her lips are already pursed in a smirk, brows arched unevenly over her rich brown eyes.
“Maestro Volkarin,” she greets back, turning more fully, hands placed on her hips as she peers up at him. He comes to stand before her, giving a deep bow of his head while plastering on as charming a smile as he can possibly offer, given the circumstances. “Did you manage to get that stubborn boy to lie down for a change?”
“I have. His room is in quite a state. I’ll need some assistance getting the glass cleared up and fresh linens for the bed. He needs water, and I would like to have a look at the composition of Viago’s antidote. I could have done with a bit of a warning, you know.” Emmrich presses his palms together, tilting his head at her as his gaze narrows the barest bit. She gives him a decisive up and down glance, chin tucking toward her chest as she lets out a tittering scoff of a laugh, placing a hand to her chest in mock offense.
“And deny you the pleasure of inspecting him yourself? Never.”
“My lady—” Emmrich huffs, feeling a twinge of embarrassment zip through his nerves, alighting on his cheeks in a healthy flush that warms him across the bridge of his nose. His utterly aghast tone and wide eyes only make her laugh more, something bright and full.
“Please. Emmrich. It is no great secret around here how the two of you have been exchanging letters since spring.” She hesitates, glancing away as her brows tent inward above her smile, and she sighs through her nose. When Emmrich finds himself beneath the weight of her gaze once more, it intensifies, wincing around the edges with a hint of mischievousness. “No one would begrudge you such affections, though I would be careful not to let them show so plainly on your face.”
Emmrich stares back at her, mouth falling soundlessly open as he tries to make sense of her playful accusation. Expert that she is, she’s drawn him up short, woefully so. He looks away, straightening his spine as he takes a bolstering breath, aiming for cordial and landing somewhere closer to defensive.
“Lucanis is a dear friend, I’m not sure what you’re implying.”
She nods slowly, arms folding beneath her chest as she shifts her weight and assesses him, her lax posture and flattening expression displaying how blatantly unimpressed she is with his reply. He pretends not to notice.
“Mm. Of course, a dear friend. I have one of those. You might’ve met him?” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder toward a nearby hall. “His name is Viago.”
Emmrich’s expression smooths out, falling to something equally unimpressed, though the heat in his face refuses to dwindle away. The stalemate lasts a few heavy seconds before she tosses her hair, shaking her head with a shrug of her shoulders, giving in first with the cracking of a wide, toothy smile.
“I’ll have Viago meet you upstairs with the antidote. I believe Lucanis is overdue for another dose as it is. Is there anything else he needs?”
Emmrich takes the opportunity to move on with both hands, nodding his understanding while he gathers his thoughts once more. Lucanis had looked so sickly when Emmrich laid his eyes upon him.
“I would like to ensure he eats something soon. Something fresh and light on the stomach. What fruits are in season?” The nutrients will do Lucanis a world of good, hopefully enough to keep his ailing constitution afloat until Emmrich can attend to things more thoroughly. Teia glances to the many crates being brought in behind her and then to Emmrich once more, ticking off a list on her fingers.
“Peaches, plums, grapes, strawberries… Will those do? I can personally see to that. Anything to help our illustrious First Talon regain his strength.” For all her teasing, Emmrich knows she’s worried. Lucanis’ presence is one they need now more than ever. Merely making his way from the Cantori Diamond to Villa Dellamorte had proved a toilsome task of wading through refugee camps and holdouts of Antaam trying to scramble for purchase in the absence of direction. Things are markedly worse here than Emmrich had thought, and that’s only the problems they’re facing outside these walls.
There’s another insidious one contained right here, within.
“That’ll do nicely,” Emmrich assures her with a gentler smile. “I’ll need a small paring knife and whatever looks freshest. Water for a bath, too. He’s weak, but this is a manageable problem, I assure you. I’ve handled far worse.”
“I’ll have someone get on that as well. But—Bathing him? Goodness, Emmrich, you’ll never dispel the rumors that you’ve a soft spot—"
“Once I’ve seen to Madam Dellamorte,” Emmrich cuts in, firmly. “I can cleanse Lucanis of this rot as well, and he should make a swift recovery. A few days at most.”
Teia snorts and throws up her hands in surrender.
“We should keep you on retainer. You’re a useful man to know, ah? Thank you, Emmrich. Is there anything you need?”
Less allusions to some kind of untoward inclinations would be nice, but Emmrich will settle for support. It’s what’s most important.
“Secrecy and a wide berth. I don’t want anyone to get too close to what’s going to occur here this evening. What I must do is not… generally appreciated. Among most of civilized society.”
He doesn’t need to explain himself further. Teia knows all too well just what blood manipulation and magic looks like to anyone not well versed in the nuance of these arts. He’s sure she and Viago aren’t without skepticisms of their own, but they have no better choice, and it would not be the first time the Crows have called upon a necromancer to save a life. Even so, it’s a delicate situation for all involved; if anyone were to find out that such rituals were taking place here, being performed on the Dellamorte family, it could make things considerably worse for Lucanis. His reputation is on shaky ground as it is.
“That can be arranged,” she says, firmly as she reaches out to grip his arm and offer the light pressure of her support. “I will ensure the main house is clear of anyone non-essential.”
“Thank you, Teia. I appreciate it.”
“Of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me… Work to be done.”
With those matters settled, Emmrich doesn’t linger any longer in the foyer, far more concerned with the possible risks of leaving Lucanis alone for too long. If the antidote is wearing off, then of course his symptoms are expected to worsen. They already are. And Emmrich expects that he’ll find more of a bandage within the composition of Viago’s tincture than a cure.
He’s seen his fair share of poisonings over the years and how quickly they can take a turn for the worse sees his steps quicken across the marble floors. Stairs are taken two at a time by long legged strides, cutting a determined path back through the Villa that is abruptly stopped short. As much as Teia and Viago had told him about Lucanis’ plans, Emmrich had not anticipated seeing the result of them for himself quite so soon.
Illario stands in his way on the second floor, arms folded, hip cocked, as if he’d been awaiting this exact moment all along, expecting what Emmrich did not. An air of self-assurance and something foul lingers around him, oppressive enough that Emmrich’s footsteps slow until he comes to a halt. He stares across the few meters of distance between them, eyes darting over a notably weathered visage, only barely made passable by clean clothes that must have fit Illario perfectly at one point in time, but not so anymore. The ragged state of his appearance beneath ill-fitting finery, all scruffy beard and grown out hair, reminds Emmrich a great deal of the version of Lucanis he’d first met. Imprisonment is a thing that clings like a film. It isn’t so easily shaken; Illario bears the mark of the time he’d spent behind bars.
In the belly of Velabanchel.
“So it is true,” Illario’s voice always holds an oozing quality to it, something oily and thick that reminds Emmrich of days long past when he frequently found himself dealing with less talented mages of more noble bloodlines at the College in Cumberland. Illario presents himself with the vainglorious air of a man who thinks he’s better, above it all, slippery and full of judgment. It would be easy to dismiss him if not for a single consideration that crosses Emmrich’s mind: perhaps for Illario, it’s less belief and more a defense mechanism.
“If you’ve something you’d like to say, please be direct. I have pressing matters that require my attention,” Emmrich replies, keeping his tone crisp as he allows himself to be examined. There are a pair of Crows leaning against the nearby wall, clearly meant to be guarding Illario’s chambers, though they seem less than interested in the task. They watch without hesitation, looking the part of loitering loaf-abouts more than professional assassins.
“Yes, yes. I’m aware of why my cousin asked you here,” Illario gives a limp-wristed wave of his hand, bootheels clicking against the floor as he takes a few steps closer. “It’s unlike him to ask for outside help, but desperate times… They do call for the most desperate of measures.”
Standing before him, within arm’s reach, Illario is nearly at Emmrich’s eyeline, but what meager difference there is between their heights seems non-existent for how Illario peers down the length of his nose at Emmrich. The wincing of his gaze and the drag of his eyes over every part of Emmrich’s person brings to mind the many such inspections suffered at the hands of equally wealthy and self-important men Emmrich has suffered through over the years. Emmrich holds himself rigid, with a straight spine and a flicker of disdain expressed by the downturned corners of his mouth.
“Hm,” Illario tilts his head, lifting a hand to stroke over his beard, twirling and twisting the dark hair on his chin around his fingers.
“If that’s all, I’ll be on my way.” Emmrich says with a rough exhale while making to step to the right, but Illario is there, twisting to snatch him by his bicep. The sudden scuff of Emmrich’s heels against the floor and the rattle of what grave gold he still wears is impossibly loud, bouncing off the lofty ceilings of the cavernous hallway.
“Do you believe he’s made the right choice?” Illario asks it so softly, and Emmrich’s eyes are drawn to the curl of malnourished fingers around his arm first, then to Illario’s face, searching a field of Prussian blue, set in sunken and shadowed sockets, for some kind of explanation for this borderline hostility.
“Pardon me?” Emmrich pulls his arm, but Illario’s grasp only tightens, a vice clamping down hard enough to dig into a tender nerve, vulnerable veins, and his jaw follows suit. He speaks through his teeth, low, hissing words, yanking Emmrich closer to him, enough that Emmrich can smell the stench of Velabanchel still stuck to him. Iron and damp and sickly despair.
“About me. Do you think… he’s made a mistake?”
Emmrich looks again to where Illario has him held hostage, a deep furrow forming as he slowly casts his gaze pointedly upward once more to meet Illario’s own. From beneath that severe ridge of his dented brow, Emmrich glares. Nose to nose they stand, while the nearby Crows whisper amongst themselves, tittering voyeurs to a moment he’s certain the Talons would not stand for. It begs the question—why are they so idle?
Emmrich feels a prickle of nervousness along his spine, up the nape of his neck, goosebumps breaking out across his skin as he realizes just how on his own he is. Trapped in this interaction, faced with the unknown element that Illario has become. He can hear the squeak of molars sliding back and forth behind the tight press of Illario’s lips, see a madness in the widening of his eyes as he stares back, locked in place, bleeding a sense of foreboding from every single pore. Emmrich is not afraid of Illario, but he is afraid of what this means.
The last time he and Illario where this close, it was with a blade pressed up against Emmrich’s staff, locked in combat. He still carries a scar on his collar bone, the tip of that sickle having nearly struck true. His life had been a thread on the edge of that blade but somehow. Somehow, this quiet nothing, with a bruise-tight grip around his arm, feels far more dangerous than the weapon Illario had once shoved as close to Emmrich’s throat as he could manage.
“Lucanis has my support in his decisions,” Emmrich rasps, and then swallows, doing everything he can to maintain his composure. Careful breaths, slow, measured, feet planted firmly on the ground. Steady on. “He makes the best ones he can with whatever information is available to him. If he believes you are—”
“No, no, no.” Illario clicks his tongue and shakes his head, a slow, oscillating movement, like the head of a serpent, and his eyes are everywhere, leaving no inch of Emmrich’s face unmolested by their prying. Where they linger, where they do not, these things stick out in Emmrich’s mind and his pulse quickens, breath coming shorter as he notices what Illario’s looking for.
Weak points. A lingering glance at his throat. Emmrich pulls and Illario’s grasp finally slackens, but he doesn’t move away. Illario rubs his hand against Emmrich’s arm, then begins to pluck and prod, pulling Emmrich’s collar into proper position, smoothing out the robes across his chest.
“Don’t do that, please,” Illario croons. “You are a mage of esteemed standing, Professor Volkarin. I learned so much about you prior to my imprisonment, and I am asking if you think it is a mistake. Knowing what you know of me.”
Illario shifts his position, placing himself more fully in front of Emmrich, but he remains far too close for comfort, fiddling with Emmrich’s collar-pin, fondling the richness of the wool that covers his chest with thumb and forefinger, eyes flicking up to meet Emmrich’s own, expectant of his answer. Emmrich’s swallow is a harsh, audible thing. His eyes burn with the need to blink, but no part of him wishes to cooperate, his ribs barely expanding to accommodate a single breath. Shakily, his tongue darts out to wet his lips and he gives the tiniest shake of his head.
“I don’t know.”
Illario’s expression twists, all narrowed eyes and crooked mouth as he finally takes a step back and gives Emmrich room to breathe. He smooths a hand over his hair and casts those piercing blue eyes elsewhere, off to one side to stare out the open windows at the warmth of the summer sunlight across the sprawling grounds beyond.
“That’s not at all comforting,” Illario says with a small sigh. “Don’t tell Lucanis that. I doubt he’ll suffer it well. He’s always been soft.”
Emmrich grips the front of his own robes with both hands, giving them a sharp, downward tug as he collects himself, keeping his own gaze trained on the unpredictable element still standing within his path.
“Are we quite done here?” Whatever politeness or patience Emmrich did have has long since run out. Illario looks at him again and Emmrich wishes he wouldn’t.
“No,” Illario replies. “I have a favor to ask of you, professor. You… Know blood magic, do you not?”
Emmrich can’t allow himself to balk at such a direct address of something so utterly forbidden. He looks at their disinterested audience, knowing well they’re likely listening in and have someone to report to. Emmrich’s not sure he wants to find out who, least of all because of this.
“Academically speaking. Certainly.” That’s all he can say without implicating himself further, but even this much feels a step too far. Illario nods and opens his palms to Emmrich, upturned, supplication offered in gesture, in a sudden softness around his eyes, a heel turn that seems so effortless for Illario, but not so for Emmrich. His stomach lurches with the shift.
“Then will you examine me?” Illario all but pleads with his tone and with wide blue eyes.
“What?”
Illario doesn’t waver, only gestures emphatically as he speaks, big sweeps of his arms, all dramatics and insistence that Emmrich stumbles back from by a single pace, losing ground to the incensed mad man before him.
“I want to know what was done to me,” he insists. “By Zara. Perhaps we can both make our minds up about it all. Whether or not Lucanis has made the wrong choice.”
What was done to him?
Emmrich blinks and his eyes drift out of focus as he thinks back to that time. Inspecting her body. Rot on a cold slab. Lucanis’ grimacing discomfort. He recalls what came before that. What happened to Lucanis when a single drop of blood was spilled from Illario’s hand. Not a mage. But able to perform blood magic. Zara did that. Zara… tampered… with Illario. Of course he’d known that, but once Illario was behind bars there were so many other things that required their focus. It was a fact that slipped through the cracks and now it’s festered. While they all moved on, Illario could not.
Emmrich’s brows knit as he drags his eyes across the man before him. Beyond the unnerving behavior, his aura is completely unremarkable. There’s nothing there that Emmrich can sense of an obvious magical nature. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t something deeper. If anything, the fact that he senses nothing is deeply unsettling. There should be something, shouldn’t there? Illario is… wrong. Different. Somehow. But who wouldn’t be after so much time in such a horrific place as Velabanchel? Emmrich swallows the flood of nauseated saliva that comes with these considerations.
“You think that she might have corrupted you?” Emmrich asks, and Illario scrapes his fingers through his own hair, exhaling a harsh breath through his nose as he squeezes his eyes shut. There is a visible struggle, a yank against some kind of invisible force that bears no etheric signature. Illario pulls against it, body wrenching to one side as he takes breath after shaking breath, letting out a growl that is so reminiscent of the very same ones Lucanis utters in moments of frustration.
“I know that she did. But I am not sure the corruption was hers. Nor that it died with her.” Illario’s every vitriolic word, squeezed out through his clenched jaw paints a picture rife with further complication. He’d not known until he arrived that Lucanis was going to pull Illario out of Velabanchel, and regardless of what Emmrich thinks of the prison’s reputation, there are obvious risks to such a choice. Risks that seem to be mounting in number by the moment.
“Well, that is cause for alarm, isn’t it?” Emmrich’s voice barely carries his concern, so thin as he glances toward the windows, toward the gossamer clouds above. Such a dismal discussion under such a bright and beautiful sky. The juxtaposition of darkness and light is ever present in their lives. As good as it is to be here, all that Emmrich has found since arriving is more reason than ever to worry for his friend.
“If you wish to protect Treviso,” Illario starts, emphatic, bordering on unhinged. “Protect Lucanis—”
“I don’t need any ham-fisted appeals to my empathy, I will do it,” Emmrich snaps. He looks at Illario and finds himself satisfied by the way that flapping jaw snaps shut. “Once I have ensured Madam Dellamorte and Lucanis are both on the road to recovery. Then… And only then. I’ll get to you.”
The tendons in Illario’s neck flex and flare as he forces his face to relax, rolling his shoulders as he pulls back. Reeling in his dramatics. Favoring a quieter, more subtle approach. Emmrich has been warned already that Illario can be manipulative, seen it himself in the past, but this is all a bit much. If anything, he seems desperate to make sure Emmrich doesn’t understand him or know what to expect.
It is, unfortunately, effective.
“A true professional. I can appreciate that. Then I will await your availability, professor. And together we shall see what I am.” Illario gives a polite bow of his head toward Emmrich in deference, yet those eyes are on him once more, still so sharp and piercing, cut gems in a haunted setting. “But… There is the matter of… Privacy.”
Of course. Of course Illario doesn’t want Lucanis to know about this. And why he doesn’t matters a great deal to Emmrich. Enough to play along and find out for himself.
“For now, I will keep it between us,” Emmrich agrees, tucking his wrist into the opposite hand behind his back as he holds himself with the poise needed to cover his own anxieties. “I cannot promise I won’t report my findings to Lucanis when all’s said and done. It rather depends on what we find, doesn’t it?”
“Fair enough. I’ll be out of your way, then,” Illario says, stepping to one side and swinging out an arm toward the hallway beyond. “And good luck. He can be quite stubborn when he’s feeling poorly. Never was very good at sitting still.”
Emmrich’s gaze lingers on Illario as he passes, his steps just a little quicker than before. He can feel the way Illario’s own stare follows him until he disappears from view, around a corner, and up yet another flight of stairs.
The final trek back to Lucanis’ side gives Emmrich just enough time to think himself in a few unpleasant circles. An assassination attempt on Caterina, an even more violent one upon Lucanis, Illario out of prison and the walking definition of came back wrong… The world outside the borders of Treviso is still unstable but here, at the heart of his friend’s world, there is so much sickness and it’s only going to spread. Panic is yet another dear friend, but it’s not for Emmrich’s own life that he finds his heart racing. It is for Lucanis.
Precariously seated in the balance, Lucanis faces more threats than can be numbered, from places both known and not. Some within his own house. What can one necromancer really do to help? What can he do to keep Lucanis safe?
Emmrich stalls before the bedroom door to take a deep breath.
Once more, into the fray.
He crosses through the parlor and back into the bedroom, finding the view before him largely unchanged in his absence, save for a small handful of drifting shards of glass, jaggedly swirling through the air while Lucanis’ lays there, listlessly watching the sunlight catch along the slowly spinning surfaces. Spite. Emmrich lingers in the doorway, enamored with this tangible sign of the spirit’s presence.
“I told you.” Lucanis’ voice gives Emmrich a small start. “He’s getting better with it.”
‘Keeping you safe. Also. Threats are effective at keeping you. Still.’
Lucanis lets out a wheezing snort that Emmrich is fairly certain is a laugh but it’s unlike any he’s ever heard from the man before. A quick glance tells him that feverish delirium has taken over, and the bright shine to Lucanis’ eyes is more a symptom than a welcome sign of life. Emmrich crosses the bedside in quick strides, stumbling to a stop when the glass shards shoot across the room in quick succession, whizzing wildly to pierce the upholstery of Lucanis’ well-appointed sofa. None close enough to catch Emmrich in the line of fire, but the shock rattles him just the same.
He can feel as much as hear the snicker of glee that echoes in the room and after a moment to gather his wits, Emmrich’s lips purse and he frowns disapprovingly at the open air, uncertain of precisely where Spite might be residing but hazarding a guess that it’s some where close, between Emmrich and his intended destination.
“Now isn’t the time to show off, my dear,” he chides, albeit gently. “But very good show. I’ve some exercises for you to practice once Lucanis is no longer on death’s door.”
‘Finally! You teach fi—”
“No! Nooo.” Somehow, despite how unwieldy his limbs are, Lucanis manages to start sitting up, seized by the pure paternal panic of his spiritual stowaway harnessing something he considers worse than flinging shards of glass. “No fire.”
“Lucanis, please… Save your strength,” Emmrich reaches the bedside in two more quick steps, taking a seat along the edge. He reaches out to press a hand against Lucanis’ chest and ease him back down into the mattress. Lucanis hardly seems to mind, mollified in an instant by the gentle brush of Emmrich’s thumb against his bare sternum until he’s safely nestled once more amongst his over-stuffed pillows.
Where he lays now is such a far cry from what Emmrich had always known Lucanis to favor. His small, stiff cot and threadbare bedding in the Lighthouse had been such a purposeful choice, and one that often led to unexpected naps in Emmrich’s own armchairs, along with stiff muscles that needed soothed. Seeing Lucanis like this, while so ill, makes him seem so small and soft around the edges. As soft as the bedding he rests again.
It's decidedly better to see him lax against feather-down, until Emmrich takes note of the rapidity of Lucanis’ breath, the tension that ripples through his frame, and how his eyes begin to dart back and forth, too quickly to be tracked by Emmrich’s own gaze. He’s dizzy; the room must be spinning. Emmrich sighs and braces a hand against Lucanis’ cheek while Spite makes a noise of discontent behind him.
“Lucanis?”
‘Not good. Not good!’
“Not—to alarm you but I think I might—” Lucanis’ whole body gives a single, wretched convulsion when he tries to speak; it brings his shoulders curling up off the pillows and his torso lurches unevenly, hands scrambling to move Emmrich away as Lucanis’ nostrils flare around a hard breath. Emmrich is quick to scoot aside, helping Lucanis with a steadier hand, bracing him by a spread palm flat against his collar so that Lucanis can haphazardly lean over the edge of the bed as a chamber pot skitters across the floor and smacks into the bedside. Another casual display of Spite’s new ability, though this one far more appreciated.
Emmrich just barely manages to align it properly with his foot before the meager contents of Lucanis’ stomach can hit the floor. Emmrich sighs and looks away, carefully pulling Lucanis’ hair back from his face and with a light touch, before his fingers move on to rub a steady back and forth against Lucanis’ spine. The single splash turns to horrific dry heaves, evidence of Lucanis’ poor appetite and underhydration that are likely contributing to just how foul he feels and how dangerous his condition has become. The spell of nausea lasts for only a few minutes, but long enough that Emmrich starts to worry.
“Easy… Easy, Lucanis. Try to breathe.”
Lucanis only groans back at him, but it’s a start. Irritability is better than suffocating on his own body’s inability to settle. Emmrich will take whatever improvements can be had. Water. Viago’s antidote. Something easy to digest. Each step that must be taken in order to get Lucanis stable aligns itself in Emmrich’s mind, a list he mentally checks and rechecks while Lucanis slowly regains control of his faculties. Somewhere in all of it, there will definitely need to be a bath, but for now, Emmrich pulls out his own handkerchief and passes it into Lucanis’ trembling grasp so that he can at least wipe his mouth.
Shaky fingers dab the fine, embroidered linen over chapped and cracking lips. The rate at which Lucanis is deteriorating presents an ugly picture. Emmrich’s chest is hot and tight, a small sigh passing his lips whether he means it to or not. Dirty hair tumbles forward over Lucanis’ shoulder as he hangs his head, his arm shaking beneath the weight of his upper body where it’s braced against the edge of the mattress.
“Sorry,” Lucanis mumbles.
“For what?” Emmrich asks, equally quiet. Lucanis pushes himself more fully upright and his eyes swivel in their sockets, reeling to catch up with the room around him before they land on Emmrich’s face. Despite the delirium, he manages to focus in long enough to look, expression pinching and eyes squinting as he frowns deeply at Emmrich.
“Don’t be… that,” he huffs, and Emmrich find’s his mouth twitching, the temptation of a smile tugging at his lips as he sifts through his vocabulary.
“Obtuse?” He offers. Lucanis’ scraping sigh comes with the weakest shove of a shaking hand against Emmrich’s chest.
“Aye, mierda, not now with your… clever mouth, Emmrich.”
“My schedule’s quite flexible. When would be preferable?”
There’s a crack in Lucanis’ tetchy expression. A smile beginning to take form along the line of his mouth as he slowly rights himself. Emmrich doesn’t flinch away from helping Lucanis ease back, scooting close enough to arrange Lucanis’ pillows behind him so that he can sit up just a bit more. The subtle bite of acid and the musk of stale sweat in the air registers as little more than background noise, the uneven cant of Lucanis’ brows taking all of Emmrich’s attention as they sit close and look at one another.
Emmrich gives the pillow behind Lucanis’ back a pointed fluffing, holding eye contact while Lucanis’ mind churns and turns visibly behind his dark gaze.
“You’re particularly… cheeky. This afternoon,” Lucanis observes between heaving breaths.
“Well, given the choice between continuing to be cross with you for neglecting your health or teasing you, I think this is the far more palatable option, don’t you?” Emmrich fluffs Lucanis’ pillows a little more, creating a nest of down around his head and shoulders, eyes flitting down to examine the weeping wound in his side. His field of vision is invaded by a hand, shaky but certain, coming to rest against his knee where it’s wedged up against Lucanis’ hip on the bedding.
“I said—I said I was sorry.”
Emmrich looks up and finds the view particularly unfair: Lucanis’ wide, soft eyes, all wet and bright and so full of vulnerable, boyish emotion. The pout of his lips is especially egregious. Emmrich scoffs and shakes his head, looking toward all that scattered glass on the floor and the flutter of torn drapes around the window that lets in a breeze whether it wants to or not.
“I know. And I also know you did what you felt you had to, given the circumstances. But after all that’s happened this year I…” Emmrich can imagine Lucanis’ justifications. Rook had them, too. It all becomes so fresh in his mind once more. A poison spreading through someone he loves while being pointedly kept in the dark. It stings.
Lucanis has always been the sort to go out of his way to try and soften the worry of others. It struck Emmrich as an ingrained habit, more than a lack of desire to be helped or cared for. With a little prodding, Lucanis has always softened to a tender, caring hand.
“I imagine you had your reasons to try and keep this from me,” he tries again, “but I think we both also know you were doomed to fail at that task from the start.”
When Emmrich looks at Lucanis again, it is resignation he finds etched across those angled features.
“I… Yes. I suppose you’re right,” Lucanis concedes, shrugging his shoulders with a whisper of linen against bare skin. Emmrich arches one brow at him, leaning a little closer to look him more squarely in the eye.
“Generally speaking, that does tend to be the case.”
“Ha!” Lucanis’ body jostles with the sudden bark of amusement. He winces and squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a slow breath through pursed lips. “You are… You are very cross with me.”
“Alright, perhaps a little.” Emmrich is not so cruel as to carry on pretending. He fiddles with the duvet across Lucanis’ lap, arranging it carefully just below the cut of his hips, eyes dragging across the infected source of Lucanis’ discomfort, fingertips drifting just behind around the hot edges. “But if you let me take care of you without complaining, I’m sure my mood will improve in no time.”
Their eyes meet again, slivers of exhausted mahogany locked in and focused on Emmrich.
“I can agree to those terms. It would be truly unfortunate if you spent the entirety of your visit upset with me.” Lucanis’ own tone takes a turn for the cheeky, and Emmrich takes what joy he can from the spark of life present in that little sign of cognizance. It’s just enough to lift some of the encroaching dark while they lapse into silence together. The sound of scraping bits of glass and the distant ocean filter into the room, the distant caw of crows bounces along the rooftops, gulls call from far away. Summer will be at an end soon, but for the moment the present signs and warmth are a boon in an otherwise abysmal situation.
Emmrich’s throat flexes around his next swallow, tightening as he considers it all again. He mentally lists the present threats and steps to be taken. The sight of Lucanis laid so low festers in Emmrich’s chest as sure as the poison in Lucanis’ own veins. Discontent rests like a hot stone in Emmrich’s belly. Hope is as fickle as candle flame.
As much a he knows he was asked here with the expectation that he’d prioritize Caterina, when Emmrich looks at his friend, her condition seems less pressing. It’s impossible not to see the clear consequence of Lucanis trying to be an island unto himself amidst a sea of troubles. It’s good that he reached for help when he did, but Maker does Emmrich wish he’d done it sooner, maybe then it wouldn’t be so difficult to put the Madam Dellamorte at the forefront of his mind. Instead, his heart is clenched in a cold, cruel grip, every beat smothered by the terror of possible loss.
He could have been too late. He wasn’t but he could have been. And Lucanis almost let that happen. He winces at the sudden flicker of heat that licks at his sternum while easing off his many rings and setting them aside, resting a small pile of grave gold atop the discarded and dirtied shirt, the bandages. He rubs at his own hands, massaging his joints, staring at his own fingers, knobby, aging, slightly swollen. The memory of eucalyptus, a scent so cold and fresh, drifts across his senses.
“You do understand why that is, right?” Emmrich asks, breaking the silence between them abruptly enough to cause Lucanis to startle. “Why I’m upset?”
Lucanis’ jaw works as his mind limps along through thought processes and their conversation, mouth clicking and tacky when his lips part to breathe and answer.
“You said it is because I neglected my health. And I think that’s a matter of perspective.”
He would. Emmrich’s wry smile is reflexive as his hands drop into his lap, stilling as he looks up to examine Lucanis again, watching the way his eyes evasively dart away the moment Emmrich glances toward them. Emmrich is familiar with the concept of justifying one’s own stupidity to oneself. It’s a mental path he’s walked often enough to consider it well-trodden ground. But it doesn’t need to become a trench that either of them digs themselves into.
Never again.
“Then allow me to give you mine,” Emmrich says, reaching out to take both of Lucanis’ hands in his own. “The Illustrious First Talon, Lucanis Dellamorte, is a very dear friend of mine and his wellbeing means a great deal to me. Therefore, anyone who mistreats him… Well, I feel as though it’s only reasonable that I be cross with them for such an offense.”
Lucanis’ eyes widen and his fingers twitch in Emmrich’s grasp.
Emmrich flinches as he hears an expected knock at the door. Finally.
“Even if the one mistreating him is Lucanis himself,” Emmrich adds, getting up from the bedside with a small, backward glance. He offers a gentler smile. Lucanis looks sufficiently cowed by his words, chin tucked toward his chest and gaze cast aside, fever red cheeks seeming a shade darker than before in the golden afternoon sun. As Emmrich makes his way to the door the drifting mutter of Spite’s voice follows behind.
‘Do you like being in trouble? Why are you smiling? Pah! Ridiculous.’
Emmrich opens the door and finds a rather harried looking Viago on the other side. His hands are laden with the handles of a broad silver tray, upon which there is a fresh pitcher of water, an array of fruits, and a bottle of something thick and viscous that Emmrich can only assume is the antidote he’s been giving Lucanis. Emmrich steps aside with a smile and a sweep of his hand to invite Viago in, relieving him of the tray once the door has been closed behind him.
“How is he?” Viago asks, his voice a harsh-edged stage whisper. Emmrich moves to set the tray on the nearby coffee table, brushing his hands together as he examines all that’s been brought up. Teia managed to ensure Emmrich got everything he’d asked for. Plums, peaches, some grapes, a handful of bright red strawberries. The small paring knife and a cup. A pair of plates. He sighs through his nose as he glances over at Viago.
“Not well at the moment. Exhaustion and the toxin have taken their toll. But he’ll be alright, I assure you.” Emmrich picks up the bottle, looking over at Viago who rakes a hand through his tousled mane of waves. “Care to tell me a bit about this?”
“It’s less an antidote, more an antibiotic. For the infection,” Viago confesses in a rush. “It’s not perfect, I know.”
“Not perfect?” Emmrich echoes, with some degree of incredulity. “Viago, it isn’t working. Tell me you made that clear to him and tried to get him to pursue other solutions.”
Viago fixes Emmrich with a stare that’s withering and utterly exhausted. The directness of eye contact and the deep grooves of his grimace play back the sentiment Lucanis had shared with Emmrich upon his examination. There’s no one they trust. How can that be?
“It’s slowed the decay,” Viago says with a vague gesture of one hand while propping the other on his hip. “What’s in Lucanis isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before. I don’t know what the composition was, nor what the long-term effects might be. I am doing my best, but Lucanis...”
Lucanis doesn’t listen. Lucanis is stubborn. Lucanis doesn’t trust. The unspoken sentiments are becoming an all too familiar wax cylinder, played back for Emmrich again and again since his arrival. Emmrich can understand and sympathize with what must be a very frustrating position to be in. Lucanis is a hard enough man to deny when he isn’t, ostensibly, your boss. Viago and Teia can only do so much. So Emmrich will pick up the slack.
“I’m sure that you are,” Emmrich says with a gracious nod. “What’s in it? I need to know.”
Viago rattles off a list of ingredients that Emmrich knows to be useful curatives, but none are strong enough to detoxify whatever is slithering through Lucanis’ system. That much was painfully clear from the start. If only Royal Elfroot were truly the magical curative many southerners praise it to be. Not perfect is putting it lightly, but for the time being it will be enough to lighten Lucanis’ symptoms. Gauze for a broken leg.
“Mm. Alright,” Emmrich rubs at his temple as he takes a step toward the door. “That will be all, thank you Viago.”
Viago doesn’t move to leave upon dismissal, leaving Emmrich feeling suddenly wrong footed when he looks at him. Viago pivots to face him as he tilts his head and fixes Emmrich with a pair of lifted brows and a bemused slash of a smile. There’s something knowing about the way that expression cuts across his regal features.
“Getting comfortable already, Professor?” he asks, and Emmrich bristles, shoulders squaring and tensing. Embarrassment claws at his spine as he realizes just how dismissive he’s being. His apology comes by way of a shrug and a shake of his head, letting some of that decorum of professionalism and authority slip away.
“Whatever gave you that impression?” Emmrich laughs, quiet, barely amused at all. “I’m quite stressed, actually.”
Viago snorts and nods as he takes the first of a few loping, casual strides toward the bedroom door.
“Aren’t we all.” Understatement of the age, by Emmrich’s estimations, but he can’t find it in himself to disagree with Viago in the slightest. “Look, I… If there is anything you need. Anything we can do. We already lost Lucanis once, and we cannot afford to lose him again.”
Viago comes to stand beside him at the threshold of the door, hand resting against the handle as he lingers long enough to bore his gaze into Emmrich’s own. Whatever he’s looking for in their steady exchange of eye contact, Emmrich doesn’t know, but he’s growing swiftly accustomed to this strange feeling of being picked apart by the eyes of career assassins. He’s not sure that’s a good thing.
“You won’t be losing him.” Emmrich dares to reach out, giving Viago’s shoulder a squeeze that he hopes is reassuring. “Not on my watch. I don’t intend to bury anymore of the people I care about. Have a little faith in me.”
Viago claps his hand atop Emmrich’s own, applying pressure in turn. Solidarity. Emmrich’s chest feels a little less constricted for it. Viago’s gaze, unevenly narrow as it is, rests above the smallest of crooked smiles.
“It’s not in my nature, but I’ll do my best.”
Emmrich nods as they part, seeing Viago off with a wave before he heads back into the bedroom with the tray in hand.
Lucanis’ eyes loll in their sockets to find him upon hearing his approaching footsteps. He blinks slowly, blearily, watching Emmrich set the heavily laden tray atop discarded his grave dowry and Lucanis’ own stained shirt. As delicately as Emmrich takes his seat on the edge of the bed, the subtle dip is enough to make Lucanis cringe. Emmrich sighs through his nose and pours a cup, lifting it to Lucanis’ chapped lips for a much-needed drink. Water. Then medicine. Lucanis gulps the first mouthful and Emmrich tuts at him, pulling the cup back the barest bit.
“Ah… No, no. Careful. Small sips. I’d like to avoid any further heaving if we can. You’re in rough enough shape as it is,” Emmrich’s voice comes out in a soft coo, paired with the gentle touch of his hand raking through Lucanis’ sweat-damp locks. He waits for Lucanis to show some sign of understanding before he brings the cup back and keeps it steady for a few sips. One little mouthful at a time, pausing to breathe, to let his stomach settle, until Lucanis gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Emmrich exhales relief.
“We’ll give that a moment and then you can have a dose of this antidote of Viago’s.”
Lucanis hums a thin and reedy acknowledgement while his eyes flutter shut, body going limp against his pillows once more. His every breath is slow and shallow, and Emmrich finds his fingers wandering, one hand clasped around Lucanis’ wrist to feel his pulse beneath his touch. In his head he silently counts every sluggish little beat, while his other hand brushes Lucanis’ hair back from his face, then combs gently through his beard, trying to sooth away some of that clinging agony.
Every touch he offers comes easy, and Lucanis tilts into it, face chasing the brush of Emmrich’s caring caresses. Anything that might help, anything he can do, Emmrich wants to, though it hardly feels like enough when he looks at the crumpled state of Lucanis’ brow and the splotchy fever pallor all over his skin. He’s so hot to the touch, yet clammy, and he’d tried not to let it show. Emmrich’s throat burns. For one horrible, unwanted second, he thinks about Rook again. In pain. Hiding it away. Not telling him. He recoils from his own thoughts, glad that Lucanis’ eyes aren’t open to see it.
“How did you hold this all back? You shouldn’t have boarded a ship anywhere, least of all a place like Velabanchel in such a state.” It isn’t his place to scold, but Emmrich can’t help himself. It hurts to see Lucanis like this. To feel as though he’d nearly missed it entirely. Lucanis’ lips purse and his brows screw tighter together, eyes squeezed shut so vehemently, an expression of pain as much as it is an expression of self-consciousness.
“I had no choice. Besides… I have… Kept going in worse condition.” Breath after laborious breath, words stilted with discomfort and exhaustion, Lucanis makes speaking look arduous. Emmrich opens his mouth to quiet him, but his voice dies in his throat when he hears the airy laughter of his friend escaping on sour breath.
“You should… Let me tell you about the… Wig Maker job… Sometime,” Lucanis says, his voice barely there between his shuddering inhales. “Viago’s antidote does help. Not perfect… But it was enough.”
“It wasn’t enough,” Emmrich protests, and his own voice cracks with emotion he wishes to hold at bay. It’s useless. He can’t change who he is, at his core. A man of great feeling who never knows quite where to put it all. “But it’ll do until I can heal you of this. It won’t be pleasant.”
A close-mouthed, nasal chuckle comes next, Lucanis’ eyes cracking open once more to look him over, brief before the light becomes too much for him and they slip shut again.
“Mm. A little torment as payback for the stress?” How can Lucanis sound so amused? Keep things so light in the face of all of this? Emmrich’s smile bears the weight of his conflict, crooked and framed by tented brows, so pained and concerned.
“I would never.”
“Oh, but you would,” Lucanis huffs. “I know all about… How you operate… Sinister necromancer.”
Emmrich finds himself chuckling, in spite of himself.
“I’ll never live those headlines down, will I?”
“Nor what Neve told me about the charm merchant.”
Emmrich shakes his head. You scare a man straight one time…
“I reserve such tactics for the truly deserving.”
Lucanis’ eyes flutter open again, his gaze glassy but suddenly so much more focused. Emmrich feels his spine straightening of its own accord under the weight of the intensity he finds there in the rich, brown depths. The slow rove of eyes that see a great deal, the trained regard of an assassin, even made hazy and slow by a fever, is razor sharp and totally precise. It peels back layers of propriety, striking straight at the heart of Emmrich’s being. There’s a languid, lazy curl at one corner of Lucanis’ mouth, his fingers fumbling, finding Emmrich’s wrist, his grasp fond in how it curls around, holding on. It’s not at all tight, but there’s a gravity to the touch so delicately placed there, against skin, fingers slipped between his golden bangles, fitting neatly, as if made to do so. Emmrich glances down and looks at trembling, calloused fingers, darker in hue, circled around the slimness of his wrist.
“And what about me?” Lucanis asks, his voice now little more than a hoarse scratch against Emmrich’s senses. Emmrich’s eyes lift from where they are joined, hand to wrist, and Lucanis’ own gaze is more alert, more intent on absorbing something of importance from this exchange that he isn’t asking for directly. Emmrich’s lips part but no sound comes out as he stalls over the simple inquiry.
“What do I deserve?” Lucanis asks again, more clearly, but there’s a wavering in his voice when he speaks. It’s a subtle twinge of something weaker, something frightened, and it’s a glimpse at the young boy who grew up in this villa. Sickness has a way of revealing the most intimately fragile parts of oneself. Lucanis deserves his dignity. He deserves to live a life of his own determining. He deserves better than a nasty gut-rotting wound and a chamber pot full of bile. Emmrich’s jaw throbs, mouth flooding with a sudden rush of saliva as his own stomach twists and his heart hikes its way up into his throat, lodging itself there. What did Rook want from him? Was this it? Was this what Rook saw when he looked at Lucanis?
He wishes he wasn’t thinking about Rook right now.
“To be happy,” Emmrich croaks back. “With someone who cares for you.”
It’s an answer that comes too easily, a haunting within the narrative of Emmrich’s life. All these strange moments, all this happenstance, all of the loss and the potential for more of it. What does anyone really deserve? It doesn’t have to be anything more than that, does it? Emmrich squeezes Lucanis’ wrist.
“That is a tall order for someone like me,” Lucanis sighs, eyes slipping shut again. It’s so painfully flippant and Emmrich feels an argument springing up, waiting behind his tonsils, begging to claw its way forward, past his teeth, but he chews on it.
“Nothing worth having ever truly comes easy, does it?” Emmrich offers, instead of all the insistence to the contrary that Lucanis could be happy if he only chose it. Lucanis doesn’t—He doesn’t owe these people anything. Not really. He’s given enough. Haven’t they all given enough?
Lucanis hums a soft, plaintive note.
“I suppose not. But maybe someday… When all this is… Behind me. Happy… with someone who cares for me. I like that sentiment. I think it could be nice.”
It could be.
Emmrich sits with him, watching over Lucanis as he begins to drift, and decides to let him sleep a bit. Just a little while. Then the antidote. And there will be time for more talk later. A bath, a small meal, something to bolster his strength. Even though Lucanis slips away, Spite seems far from interested in drifting too far, let alone settling. Emmrich can feel him in the very air, so close, like breath against the back of his neck and fingers around his shoulders. His presence is so weighty and so intense, made more so by the sudden loss of Lucanis’ mind into unconsciousness.
‘He is better when you are here. No one sees him. He won’t let them. But he needs. Seen. Needs to be looked after. Lucanis is mine… Mine. To protect. But I can share. If you share Curiosity.’
“You drive a hard bargain, Spite,” Emmrich puffs out a laugh as he speaks, closing his eyes while letting himself feel the weight of a spirit’s touch. “You’ve come such a long way. I think you both deserve it, you know. To be happy. With someone who cares for you.”
‘We have. Half. You care.’
“Yes. Yes, I do.” He cares so much he feels sick with it. Is it even wanted? Really wanted? There is a hunger in him that has never truly been sated. A desire to care with all that he is and be accepted for it. For that caring to be appreciated. Fleeting connections, dwindling into the wind. You’re too needy, too clingy, too quick to fall in love—Johanna used to taunt him about this soft, hungry heart of his. All these years and nothing has changed.
‘Curiosity. Cares.’
“Yes, he does. Manfred adores you,” Emmrich assures. He smiles as he considers it. Two spirits drawn together by circumstance. It’s so simple for them. No confounding complications that come with social ties and responsibilities. No expectations. They are what they are, and they are undeniably fond of each other. “He has grown so much and speaks of you often. Asks after you. We should teach you to write… You can send him letters of your own.”
Spite makes a noise, something giddy, a burbling trill, like an excitable feline. Emmrich’s mood lifts at the simple sound of joy and anticipation that brushes across his senses.
‘You would do this? For me?’
“There is… Nearly nothing I wouldn’t do, I’m coming to realize.” Emmrich watches the rise and fall of Lucanis’ chest as he sleeps, draped in Emmrich’s own robes, nestled in pillows, looking so painfully delicate. So young and so fragile. So…
‘I would like this. I will learn to read and write. Not as good as fire… But good enough.’
That, in Emmrich’s estimation, is the best that they can hope for.
Good Enough.
Notes:
This Chapter Brought To You By:
- At least One session of car karaoke.
- Donuts.
- Re-reading comments and crying a lot.
- Insomnia Brain Rot Hours.
- The Concept of Pining.
- My bestie helping me finally take down my fucking Christmas Tree and freeing up mental space so that editing became a much less Sisyphean task.I will see you all next time! <3
Chapter 11: Divide Before You
Notes:
*SCREAMS*
Hi wow I am sorry this took almost an entire month to get finished. Life is a bitch lemme tell ya.
(I'll spare you the details actually but seriously life decided to tear me a new one and I am doing my best.)
This chapter was challenging to write and I'm glad to have finished it finally. Most of the work I've done on it happened in the last two weeks, after having to start over from scratch on it. But we've made it. We're here. It's happened. ;A; Big thanks to my bestie Jescalin who helped me with some beta reading of my rough draft so I could keep going and get this puppy finished.
I hope you enjoy the update. Hopefully the next one won't take me a whole month but I make no promises on that front as life continues to be utter chaos. Thank you for your patience. I look forward to hearing y'all's thoughts!
ONCE MORE, INTO THE FRAY.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
From the inky depths of unconsciousness, Lucanis feels the softness of touch. A hand through his hair. The gust of a sigh. He aches and shivers, skin feeling tacky, eyes glued shut from all the feverish watering. He can’t quite gauge the passage of time. It’s all so nebulous, consciousness grabbed in snatches of gossamer cloud dreams and deep, gloomy nightmares bathed in red. But there’s a hand in his hair, knuckles against his brow, a sensation of familiar closeness and comfort. Lucanis mumbles, throat feeling bone dry, cracking when he tries to speak.
“Emm…rich?”
The gentle laugh that greets him isn’t Emmrich’s, but it is one Lucanis knows. Maybe too well. One that’s brushed against the shell of his ear or along his cheek a few too many times in the past. Too intimately familiar to ever be forgotten.
“Sorry to disappoint,” she says, her deep, rich warmth, like sweetened coffee, makes Lucanis wonder if he’s still dreaming. If he’s still wrapped up in a nightmare. “You were calling for him earlier, too. But he and Fred are with Caterina right now. I said I’d take a shift. Make sure you don’t asphyxiate on your own vomit.”
There’s a fond annoyance in her voice and Lucanis knows she’s barely holding back the urge to call him an idiot. And she might even be right to do so. Lucanis forces his eyes open, but the film of a long, restless sleep covers them and makes his vision blurry. It doesn’t matter. He’d know the shape of her anywhere. She’s seated in a chair pulled to his bedside, a notepad on her lap and a pen in hand.
“Neve?”
“Oh good, you remembered!”
He lets out a weary little scoff and closes his eyes against the low candlelight. The full body throb is heavier in his head than ever. But… The fever seems to have waned. He tries to recall, and has the vaguest of memories of Emmrich lifting his head, giving him more antidote, but it feels like something that happened to someone else. A view from an outside perspective. Probably Spite’s.
“What… are you doing here?” Lucanis knows he sounds ungrateful, but Neve is as cool and collected as ever, replying with a kind of casual cordiality that’s comforting in its own way.
“I came with Fred,” she says, and Lucanis can hear the shift of fabric as she adjusts herself in her seat. Maybe she’s shrugging. Lucanis can picture it behind closed eyes. Fred. Manfred? Lucanis sighs as she continues.
“When Emmrich tore out of Minrathous, I had to ask Dorian what was going on. Apparently, Emmrich only said ‘personal emergency, a friend in trouble’. I headed to the Necropolis, only to find out he’d come straight here.” Was that a titter of amusement he heard in her voice? There’s a vibration that carries her words. Something small, easily missed if one didn’t know what to listen for. Lucanis’ brows furrow and his head thrums with a fresh wave of pain. His brain feels swollen inside his skull, pressing up against the boundary of bone as he follows the trail she’s left for him in her words.
“So you followed him here,” he states, forcing his tone to be as deadpan as he can manage. After all that’s happened, he finds himself more than a little surprised that she came so readily. It had been such a sticking point before, yet here she is.
“I had the time to spare. Not a lot, mind you, but enough.” Neve pauses and Lucanis can’t find the words to answer her. It stings, and she must know that. The gentler pitch of her voice as some part of her soft center unveils itself could never be gentle enough for how she’s reopened this wound by simply being here.
“Emmrich and the Mourn Watch have been a big help in Minrathous, tracking down more existential disturbances and working on clearing out remaining Blight so we can keep rebuilding. The Shadow Dragons have been able to focus a bit more on what we’re best at.” The more she explains, the more Lucanis sinks, feeling a disquieting unease and a desire for escape from this conversation grow exponentially. If he were well, if he had all his faculties, if he and Neve weren’t once close enough to be so vulnerable. So many variables. He doesn’t have the fortitude for congeniality.
Feeling this unstable is a waking nightmare.
“Treviso could use some of that,” Lucanis mutters, and he knows his tone is unfair. It’s pointed; a harsh glimpse at how bogged down he is. Assassination attempts, dissent, refugees, fucking Illario. Neve doesn’t deserve to feel the sharp chill of his frustrations, but he delivers them into her lap with only the briefest moment of hesitation. She’s quiet for so long that he finds himself wondering if she’d been a figment of his over-worked mind all along. One that’s now vanished without so much as a parting breath.
The scrape of her boot and her prosthetic tell him otherwise, the sound alone setting his nerves on fire for an instant. He can’t brace against it hard enough.
“I’m sure it could,” she states, quietly distant. The withdrawal of familiarity is both burden and boon. Lucanis can breathe a little easier, but feels more keenly than ever that things are still not as they ought to be between them. He knows just as keenly that it’s largely his fault. He should have written to her, as Emmrich suggested. If not to repair their relationship, then to at least give her reason to stay away. Sharing space for the sake of a common cause, during a grievous loss is one thing. Having her at his bedside when he’s never been more vulnerable is something entirely different.
He could have prevented this.
He could have prevented a lot of things.
“I can’t stay long. But long enough to make sure you recover… and that you’re covered.” Neve’s voice sounds a little lighter, a little less personal, more personable. The shift, he knows, is her taking further space from him. It was always when she was most pleasant that he felt her ire the most. “Honestly, I’m a bit surprised that anyone was able to get this close. You’ve always been so careful.”
Even if Neve doesn’t intend it as a criticism, her observation lands like a slap to the face. Lucanis winces and sighs through his nose, jaw tensing. The knee jerk urge to explain or defend himself comes to call, and Lucanis is a young Crow again, kneeling before his grandmother, watching the foot of her cane tap against the floor.
“I let my guard down for too long,” he grouses. “Taking time off for Rook. Things slipped through the cracks. And then those cracks got bigger. I feel like I’m trying to hold it together with my fingernails. I made a mistake. I’m fixing it. You don’t need to worry.”
There’s another long stretch of silence after his confession, then Lucanis hears the tap of Neve’s pen against her notebook. Rhythmic and repetitive. She’s thinking. A few more seconds of palpable silence, mounting tension, and it snaps around a simple, three-word statement:
“I saw Illario.”
That should not have happened.
“Mierda… he’s supposed to stay put in his room for now… Act the part at least.” If Illario was gallivanting about the villa, then this plan was already going off the rails. Neve’s chair creaks beneath her. Her voice is lower, closer. She’s leaned forward.
“What’s your play, here?”
“The Venatori are part of this,” Lucanis replies, waving a flippant hand toward his wounded side. “The blade was Tevinter make. The propaganda spreading through my ranks is the same as Illario was spouting at the coronation.”
Neve gives a long, low hum of consideration. Lucanis can picture her face, the way it must be pinching with thought. He can practically hear the gears turning within her clever head. He doesn’t offer anything more. She’d probably prefer to put it together herself. She’s always enjoyed a bit of mental exercise.
“You’re going to need his escape to look believable, Lucanis. And a lot of people are going to need to believe it.” It’s a hard sell and it places Illario in danger. Just as much so, it won’t paint Lucanis in a favorable light. But it will all work out. It has to.
“I know,” he croaks.
“That’s a lot of trust to put in someone who tried to kill you,” Neve so very helpfully points out. “More than once.”
“It’s complicated.”
“When isn’t it?” Neve laughs quietly, shifting back with a creak of wood beneath her adjusting weight.
Ever since Lucanis was young, life has been rife with complication, and he’s only inviting more of it. A pattern continuing. Hardship endured, challenges overcome, with the threat of pain and devastation ever at his back. A threat that came, not only from those who wished him and his house harm, but those who were supposed to love him.
It’s impossible to say just where it all ends, but Lucanis must hold onto hope. Hope that the deep bond between himself and Illario will somehow prevail despite the damage it’s incurred, hope that this struggle will have been worth it, that in the end he’ll have something, anything at all, to show for all the pain he’s suffered, and hope that Treviso will be strong and beautiful once more.
“You need to drink water and get more rest,” Neve eventually says, with stern concern that Lucanis feels more cowed by then he’d like. At her core, she’s as soft as they come, and Lucanis futilely wishes she wasn’t her to remind him of how much he’s always loved that about her. “Emmrich said it might take a couple hours to finish up his ritual, and you look like you haven’t slept in months.”
Just as he loves her blunt candor. He dares to open his eyes and look at her with a frail, uneven smile that doesn’t reach his tired gaze. It hurts to look. To see her. The familiar silhouette backlit by a crackling hearth.
“When do I ever truly sleep?”
Neve chuckles, something quiet, from the nose, lips pressed into a thin, crooked smirk.
“I can think of a handful of things that tend to make you sleep.”
Lucanis feels a little bit warmer around the collar to hear her reply, familiarity burbling to the surface, but there’s a sickly undercurrent of nausea that he knows is not only born of the poison in his veins. He lets out a heavy sigh. No matter how easy it would be to fall back into old habits, he finds the concept of revisiting the familiar more repellant than comforting. The flirtatiousness. He can’t do it. Knowing they still have chemistry doesn’t change what the outcome would be. Unlike Neve, he’s still not ready, and he’s not sure he ever will be. Her ability to ride the line between friend and former lover is hers alone.
The wound was finally healing. Her presence here complicates the scarring process, but a scar is forming just the same. Their relationship will always be different for it. He doesn’t have an answer for her. He can squeeze his eyes shut and almost pretend it doesn’t fill him with a sense of melancholy to know that some things can never truly be the way they were. Conflicted emotions and a sour stomach make Lucanis feel weak. Confused. Letting himself feel anything again after his time in the Ossuary has been such a battle of attrition against himself. They could linger in the silence, but merciful Neve breezes past the moment with a sigh of her own. A sound that’s wistful. Fond.
“You snored in the deep roads on occasion. Usually when you were propped up against Emmrich’s shoulder. It was cute. You have this tiny, wheezy little snore. Like a kitten.”
All Lucanis can do is feel a flicker of embarrassment that expresses itself as a discontented grumbling noise. It earns him another of her little laughs and Lucanis huffs, cracking his eyes open just enough to glare at the smug and blurry shape of her in his field of view. She settles, idly turning her pen in her fingers, tapping the heel of her boot against the floor. He hears her take a breath, the sort of sharp inhale that makes it seem as though she’s working herself up to something. Lucanis feels his back muscles pull taut as he waits--
“If you’re not going to sleep, we could talk about it.”
“About what?”
“You and Emmrich.”
Lucanis’ stomach flips, an that initial feeling of nausea becomes a tidal wave of it, rolling through his core, tension in his back pulling even tighter until he feels a twinge in his wounded side, like he’s about to burst a stitch from muscle tension alone. His jaw slides, teeth gritting together as it flexes, his next swallow tastes bitter.
“What about us? I don’t know what you’re getting at.” Why does that feel like a lie when he says it? Neve doesn’t respond right away and that momentary lapse into contemplative quietude is abysmal for his sense of stability, murder on his already shot nerves.
“I can’t tell if you’re being your usual, cagey self or you’re actually serious.”
“I’m not cagey. I’m tired. I think I will sleep,” Lucanis says. “Thank you, Neve.”
He’s grateful that she doesn’t press the issue further, and even more grateful still, that sleep finds him again so swiftly, dragging him back into the dark. It’s a relief to no longer feel the burden of his body so keenly. To sink into the world of dreams once more, with the knowledge that Emmrich is going to save Caterina, and that someone they trust his watching over him while he drifts again. He doesn’t allow himself to consider the suspicion Neve carries and why he feels the need to hide from it.
The world fades in and out. Splashes of sunset orange and olive green. Everything hurts and his mind is slow to comprehend what he feels beyond that pain. What he hears. Voices. Not his own. Dreams of memories that may as well be a foreign language for how little Lucanis can grasp them. Recognition is slippery, escaping his fingers and wriggling away as he twists deeper and deeper into the freeing darkness of unconsciousness. Back again in what feels like an instant, finding a bitter liquid against his lips and a tender hand cradling the back of his head.
“…and then you can sleep more. Easy does it, Lucanis.” Emmrich’s voice registers in the delirious haze and Lucanis swallows, trusting implicitly without question. Swallow, swallow, swallow. Water washes down the bitter medicine. It’s cool against his fever-hot throat. His stomach burns and Emmrich rubs his back. When did he turn over? Lucanis buries his face in softness that smells of sweat and iron. The hand at his back lulls him to sleep once again.
Sleep with dreams or maybe more memories. Blurs of moments full of shouting and flailing and the flash of cold steel and the swirl of necrotizing magic. Dreams of a face in the dark, the red glow of an oncoming storm, the Fade feels close. A peal of laughter across his senses, the sight of Ghilan’nain in the clouds, made of clouds, made of flesh that rots and reforms in perpetual mutation and entropy. Her laughter. In his head. Different laughter outside of it.
Lucanis snaps awake again with a sharp inhale that makes his side feel like it’s going to split open.
He’s in his bedroom.
He’s in his bed.
He’s not safe, but as safe as he can be.
His eyes are gummy as he blinks and blinks, once again trying to clear away the film of sleep and get them to focus. He hears another chuckling laugh in the distance. Something warmer and more familiar. Hushed voices in the next room that drag his tired eyes to the open doorway between his sleeping chambers and his private parlor.
There’s a skeleton in a trench coat in his parlor?
Manfred.
The dull sound of conversation draws Lucanis further up and out, away from the abyss of unconsciousness. From the open doorway between his bedroom and the parlor, words float, a back and forth between two mages of considerable skill. Neve’s voice is so low, the tone conveys her concern even if Lucanis can’t quite make out all the words she speaks. Emmrich’s sigh scrapes across Lucanis’ consciousness, forcing him to blink, open his eyes wider in the hopes he can get a clearer view while he makes a futile attempt to sit up. He wants to see for himself. He needs to. Did it work?
Is Caterina going to be okay? He strains after Emmrich’s gently musical tones.
“…walk again. But I don’t think that…”
“Maybe it’s for the best,” Neve says, a little more sharply, clear and concise. Lucanis bristles and clears his throat, alerting them both to the fact that he’s awake. That he can hear some part of their back and forth, though not nearly enough of it. What he does gather creates enough concern to quickly morph into paranoia. Emmrich’s boots click sharply across the marble flooring as he abandons all else, and rushes through the open bedroom door. As Lucanis’ eyes strain, he takes in the view of his friend looking… Deathly pale. Gaunt. Like he’s just been through something truly harrowing. Like he’s been bled.
“Lucanis—You’re awake,” Emmrich moves in to take up a seat on his bedside, forgoing the chair to get even closer. The mattress dips and he turns his palm, pressing knobby knuckles against Lucanis’ sweat-sticky brow. Emmrich gives a soft sigh of relief. That’s good, isn’t it? Lucanis would appreciate nothing more than just one glimmer of good news in all this mess.
Lucanis tries to look more closely but his eyes don’t want to cooperate, dry yet also not, enervated, near useless. He’d been raised to not show weakness, to never let sickness slow him down. Projecting an air of unflappable stability and aloof composure had been a hard learned lesson. He was taught that he should feel ashamed for how little strength he has to show for himself.
But.
Somehow, with Emmrich here looking after him, Lucanis feels like the child he was before he came into Caterina’s care. The ghost of a loving mother is in every touch Emmrich offers. Lucanis feels small. He feels haunted. He feels safe.
Safe enough to let his weary eyes loll across the room, toward the windows, taking in colors and shapes without the need to look for a threat in every shadow. The sky is… paler now. A thin film of an impending sunrise. The familiar click and metallic clack of Neve’s footsteps drawing closer is a background noise, the rattle of Manfred’s skeleton just as easily drifting into nothingness. Lucanis rests his eyes, closed lids, just a moment, before the fight to orient his gaze properly begins anew.
“Caterina?” he asks, a whispered rasp that makes him sound as small as he feels. Emmrich lets out a breath, his hand coming to rest against Lucanis’ hip, the warmth of his touch held at bay by the duvet across Lucanis’ lap, but the weight feels grounding in spite of it.
“Her mind is as sharp as ever, and she’s awake now. But whether or not she’ll regain functionality of her legs or left hand… I can’t say for certain. Regardless, the nerve toxin is fully cleansed and she’s recovering.” Which would likely explain the hollowed-out state of Emmrich’s person. Lucanis hadn’t realized it would take such a toll. Would it be this bad when he tried to heal Lucanis? Swallowing feels more like his throat trying to turn itself inside out, and Emmrich reaches for the pitcher at Lucanis’ bedside, pouring him a glass.
“Thank you… For saving her,” Lucanis whispers again, unable to find the strength for more. Emmrich smiles at him. Nods. Stroking a hand over his hair while helping him to lift his head enough for a few sips of water. It takes monumental effort but the coolness of water rushing over his insides is well worth it. A sweet relief, even if it’s brief.
“Of course,” Emmrich assures him, as if it was no great imposition at all, when a single look at the state of him says something quite different. “I’ll need some time to recover before I can get to you. For now, however, you desperately need a bath.”
“I agree. And clean sheets,” Neve says from her place leaned in the doorway, arms folded beneath her chest as she looks on with a subtle squint to her gaze. Lucanis feels the weight of her appraisal like the cold chill of a wooden cane resting against the back of his shoulders. His stomach drops and he swallows, looking at his hands instead of her. Instead of Emmrich. There has to be some kind of balance that can be struck here, some sense of normalcy.
“I want to… be offended. But you’re both… right. I feel… Sticky.”
Emmrich lets out a weak laugh and nods. One of his hands comes to cover Lucanis’ own, squeezing to offer reassurance.
“Would you like myself or Neve to assist you? You’re still not well, and that antidote of Viago’s is becoming appallingly less effective over time,” Emmrich asks. Lucanis feels his gut seize as he’s confronted with the question. It’s a fair one to ask. Given the intimate history between himself and Neve, it would perhaps seem sensible that he’d be more comfortable with her assistance. But Emmrich never had the whole picture, didn’t know, couldn’t possibly understand just how loaded such a suggestion is, even if it comes from a place of care for Lucanis’ privacy. He’s warmed by the thought that Emmrich wants him to be able to keep it.
But Lucanis doesn’t want… that. He never really did. Being that vulnerable around Neve had never come easy and she’d never really asked it of him. The thought of giving it over to her now, letting her take care of him in such a state, only inspires unease, paired with a strange sting of disappointment.
It’s not as if Emmrich’s unfamiliar with the whole of Lucanis’ person, either. The Lighthouse made maintaining certain levels of privacy impossible, and beyond that, this isn’t the first time Emmrich has acted as something of a personal physician for Lucanis. But this feels notably different. He can’t quite place why, but it is.
And amidst all the racing thoughts, some distant part of his mind supplies him with the thought that he ought to be more offended that no one seems to think he can take care of himself. In a perfect world, he could do so, but he knows that he can’t. His legs feel like lead and his abdomen burns and his head is still spinning.
“I…” He stalls over it, even though it should be an easy choice, shouldn’t it? Neve shrugs and twists away, and Lucanis could swear she’s smiling as she goes, but his eyes are still fighting him, refusing to take in enough information to make sense of the mounting absurdity he’s found himself existing within.
“I’m going to track down someone who can get those sheets changed and the water brought up. You’ve got this, right Emmrich?” Neve doesn’t even wait for Emmrich to respond before she begins her casual stroll toward the door. Lucanis and Emmrich are left to stare after her departure. At such a close range, what Lucanis can see of Emmrich is a widened gaze and a mouth hanging slack, an expression that slowly melts into a grimace.
“Perhaps I was too presumptuous,” Emmrich sighs. Lucanis sits with it for a moment, and then finds himself snickering despite the pain it causes.
“No. I doubt that’s it,” Lucanis replies with a heavy sigh. “Damned detectives think they know everything. See everything.”
“Yes. She’s been particularly keen-eyed as of late. Seems to be going around, really.” Emmrich carefully leverages himself up from the bed, ginger movements, stiff and slow. He reaches to pull back the duvet and Lucanis feels the rush of air along his legs as a sudden pang of burning cold. He shudders and curls in on himself, sucking in a breath as Emmrich holds out a hand to him.
“Going around?” Lucanis asks as he hesitates for a moment, looking between Emmrich’s hand and the fine lines of his expression that deepen with annoyance. He winds his fingers around Emmrich’s own and braces himself for the oncoming agony of movement.
“Andarateia had some rather preposterous observations of her own she saw fit to share.” Emmrich’s very real and notable irritation probably shouldn’t be as amusing as Lucanis finds it. A single, half-stifled snort of a laugh escapes him, cheeks puffing out as he presses his lips more tightly together and leans into Emmrich’s steadier hands. Lucanis’ skin prickles with goosebumps at the touch of cool, thin fingers bracing against his spine to support him as he sits up with a wheeze.
Lucanis needs a moment to breathe, to adjust and fight through the sensation of his brain sloshing in his skull while his vision dims around the edges. Every labored breath is a searing stab in his side. Emmrich’s hands never leave him. He’s so damned patient, it’s maddening. Lucanis looks up into warm, hazel eyes--
“I assume she’s plying you with the same suspicions she’s been needling me about.”
Emmrich’s mouth falls open, brows lifting as he stalls and a single beat of silence gives way to a stern furrow, lips pursed shut, nostrils flaring around an exhalation as he shakes his head, eyes rolling. Lucanis finds himself enjoying the view of exasperation, and the formation of a faintly wry smile at one corner of Emmrich’s mouth. Lucanis stares, tracing the shape of that smile with his sore and tired gaze.
“Does everyone think there’s something going on between us?” Emmrich asks, sparing very little in the way of incredulity. Beneath it there’s a tiny glimmer of something more vulnerable. A flinch. A swallow. Embarrassment? Nervousness? Lucanis can’t quite make it out. His faculties are dragging like a wet rag behind him.
“It’s starting to look that way,” Lucanis replies with a shrug. “Crows love their gossip.”
“What’s Neve’s excuse?” Emmrich’s smile grows the barest bit bolder, a glance of commiseration offered Lucanis’ way as he shifts to bring one of Lucanis’ arms up over his shoulder.
“It comes with the territory of her career. You can’t take it seriously. What anyone else thinks is hardly our business, or our problem,” Lucanis holds on as best he can, expecting to swing his legs over the side and find his footing. But Emmrich’s arms slip around him instead, one hooked beneath the hinge of Lucanis’ knees, the other braced under his arm, around his ribs.
“Easy does it,” Emmrich says, and then, somehow, despite the obvious signs of exhaustion, he lifts Lucanis up out of the bed. To carry him. “I’ve got you.”
Lucanis is awash in so many feelings. So much emotion. Much of it deeply unfamiliar to him, indiscernible. The flutter in his stomach is something he’s felt before, but the sudden lurch of his heart rate, the shivery sensation of being small and delicate, the intersection between embarrassment and something that’s almost pleasant, something new and unnamed—The reflex to curl closer and hold on for dear life. It’s all a bit much.
“I know, I know… I just. I don’t know how to handle… being this…” What can he say? As he struggles over it, Emmrich’s warmth and understanding brush a little too close, breath across his brow, the rumble of his words vibrating through his chest, straight into Lucanis’ nerves.
“No one likes to feel helpless.”
Is that what he feels? Helpless? When his fingers curl a little tighter into Emmrich’s shirt, he’s not so sure that’s it. He’d felt helpless in the Ossuary. This isn’t the same. Without any better answer, Lucanis gives a small nod and closes his eyes, trusting Emmrich to carry him to their next destination, even if it isn’t an entirely comfortable journey. Not bad. But it’s definitely strange.
“No. Feeling helpless is decidedly terrible.”
“It’ll be behind you soon enough. A little more patience, Lucanis. That’s all that’s needed.”
The walk to the bath is a slow-going process, and by the time they arrive, Lucanis is out of breath. The effort of merely holding his own head up is a strain. He gladly allows Emmrich to deposit him on a stool to await the delivery of heated water. He feels the clinging, oily filth of so many feverish hours, sweating and twisting around in his own sweat and blood stained sheets. He’s barely mentally present for the process, eyes lazily following Emmrich as he moves around the small private bathing room, preparing a towel to rest along the back edge of the tub, grabbing a second wash bin, lining up oils and soap and a sachet of herbs that Manfred brings him. Lucanis can very barely smell it when it’s set down on the small table beside the tub. Lavender, maybe? Something else, too.
Steaming water is brought in by household servants and Emmrich takes some of it, as well as a clean cloth to wipe Lucanis down before he helps him into the bath properly. Lucanis could have been more of a participant were he not so exhausted. Grunting, faint sighs, the desire to complain that never comes to fruition, and Emmrich’s quietly amused chuckle, all make the process feel a little less inherently revealing or vulnerable.
With Emmrich’s hands holding him steady he sinks down into the bath and rests his head against the rolled towel along the lip, exhaling and shuddering as he realizes the bath is not quite as warm as he would usually prefer. Whether by design to bring down his fever, or simply how it feels because of said fever, Lucanis is not brave enough to ask. Emmrich drops the small sachet into the water and the steam is suffused with calming scents, salt, lavender, honeysuckle, chamomile. It eases him into a state of sedation that makes it even easier still to ignore the strangeness of someone else taking up the task of helping him wash.
Emmrich is kind and methodical about it, one limb after another, along his chest and back, his face, every ticklish crevice. It’s a cautious process throughout which Emmrich doesn’t offer any attempt at conversation or eye contact, but rather, allows Lucanis the illusion of some sense of distance or privacy. Yet, when Lucanis does look at Emmrich, he sees color in his cheeks and a slight pinch to his brow. Is… Is he actually embarrassed? Nervous, even? This surely can’t be all that strange for him and yet, it nearly seems as if it is. The silence between them doesn’t help anything.
“Do you have communal baths… In the Necropolis?” Lucanis asks, and Emmrich startles. Spite gives a little snicker and Emmrich’s expression presses into something fondly put-upon, a little frown that’s only purpose for being is to fight the start of a smile.
“Yes, though generally only the younger Watchers, and those among the warrior ranks that fill out our roster tend to use them. We value privacy, but it’s not unheard of as a social practice.” There’s something about the way Emmrich loads emphasis on the latter half of his explanation that nags. Lucanis’ brows draw tighter as he glances at Emmrich, watching him pointedly look at Lucanis’ face, even while his hands work far, far below that. Maybe it’s cultural, or maybe it’s Emmrich.
“Generally,” Lucanis echoes. “So do you ever use them?”
Emmrich’s mouth pulls to one side, shoulders lifting and dropping as his eyes flit away entirely, cast toward some other part of the room and when Lucanis’ follows he finds nothing worthy of looking at in the shadowy corners not lit by gas lamps or the early light of dawn pouring through the gauzy curtains.
“Not since I was a younger Watcher,” Emmrich says, and there’s an edge to his usual poise that Lucanis isn’t used to hearing. It hits the ear all wrong and makes his own muscles tighten, despite the warmth of the bath. “Those particular social practices don’t really serve me anymore. Not at my age, nor in my position. I’d rather not run into my students there.”
Lucanis can’t quite wrap his head around it, mind sluggishly limping along to try and make sense of why Emmrich’s so stiff now, or what it all means. It’s awkward. Clumsy.
“Ahh. Yes. I suppose that would be awkward,” Lucanis needles, a lazy dose of facetiousness dropped into the atmosphere between them as his head lolls on the towel and he arches one questioning brow at Emmrich. “Nearly as awkward as bathing a friend who’s currently indisposed.”
Emmrich balks, hands drawing back out of the water. He picks up a dry towel and hastily wipes himself dry, something reminiscent of consternation denting his expression.
“Is this awkward? I— I apologize.”
It isn’t awkward. Not in concept. But Emmrich’s peculiar hesitancy is making it awkward.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve seen me naked, Emmrich. It needn’t be awkward.”
“The context is completely different.”
“You’re overthinking it.”
“Force of habit, I’m afraid.”
Lucanis frowns at him, letting out of heavy sigh.
“You know I’ve often found myself wondering what it would take to make you stop doing that,” Lucanis muses, taking a deep breath of the sweet smelling steam as he relaxes deeper into the water. “Even for a moment. You think yourself into corners.”
“Ahh. Which is something you’d never do, is it?” There it is. The twinkle of mirth and of mischief in Emmrich’s eyes. Lucanis could make it his guiding star and find his way in the dark by that light. It feels like a sign of something returning to normal. Something that very much needs to be normal again.
“Do as I say, not as I do,” Lucanis huffs back, laughing through the discomfort. Emmrich laughs with him, a deep, nasal thing, lips pressed together as he hums and his shoulders come down a fraction. He leans forward, arms folded together on the edge of the bath. He looks at Lucanis with a crooked smile, eyes focused on his face, ever the gentleman, not letting his gaze wander even once. There’s something nearly disappointing about that. Spite makes a noise, a confused and quizzical little trill. Lucanis feels heat rush to his cheeks and he tears his gaze away from Emmrich’s own.
“When I was an initiate in the order, we’d get together and toast bread and eat it with rich, fatty cheeses, drink wine… Play a few hands of Wicked Grace, or get embroiled in one of Johanna’s ridiculous… role playing games with all those rulebooks. In those days, it was easier to forget myself and just be.” Emmrich gives a little shrug of his head toward a lifted shoulder and his eyes drop, downcast as he looks somewhere beyond this room, into the past. Nostalgia plays across his lips, teeth dragging over the fullness there, lingering, bitten, something held back.
Right upper canine… chipped. Mild crowding…
Emmrich lets it go and takes a breath and Lucanis sees that little flash of metal, second molar, left side, in his mouth. Golden replacement catching the light. Lucanis wonders how he lost it. What the process was to replace it. Nevarrans do that—
“I find that it’s easier to stop thinking quite so hard when in the company of good friends.”
Lucanis looks up, eyes darting from Emmrich’s mouth to make contact with a gaze that penetrates so deeply. He feels seen by Emmrich, time and again, stripped bare long before he ever got undressed in front of him. He flounders for something to say, anything at all, mouth falling open but no words pass his lips, only a single stale breath. Emmrich’s smile breaks like dawn across his face and his laugh is warm and effervescent.
“Is it really that surprising? Maker forbid I ever tell you the details of what I got up to in my youth,” Emmrich lifts a hand and knocks his knuckles lightly beneath Lucanis’ chin, urging him to close his mouth. “You might lose your jaw to the floor for good.”
Lucanis can barely feel the expression he’s wearing, though Emmrich’s amusement and words make it clear just what it appears to be. In some way, Lucanis is surprised. Surprised to find himself so caught in Emmrich’s stare, without a single thing to say. His heart is racing from the fever, from the slow-moving poison in his veins that’s determined to kill him, but those are hardly the only reasons, it would seem. Lucanis presses his lips together, swallows and turns his face away, grumbling quietly, which only makes Emmrich laugh yet again.
It's such a pleasant sound. The best Lucanis has heard in ages. These months apart haven’t been kind to him, but what he lacked before Emmrich makes up for in spades.
“I’m not such a wilted flower that I couldn’t handle hearing of your past exploits. I’ve walked in on targets in the midst of the act—even wandered through active orgies while on the job, Emmrich,” and why the hell did he say that? Lucanis flinches and turns his face promptly away. Which is, in the end, a mistake that primes him for greater alarm when Emmrich answers him. He’s not anticipating the tone, so full of amusement, nor the expression of unevenly hiked brows above a crooked smile that he sees when his head whips back around to look.
“That wasn’t exactly what I was referring to.” Emmrich’s amusement wrinkles around the edges, softly fading into true curiosity. A facial tic. Brows lifting together, mouth slackening before he asks: “Are you… curious about my history, Lucanis?”
“Mierda.” No, no, no. That sort of thing doesn’t matter. It never has. Lucanis’ head spins as he tries to make sense of just where their conversation went a little sideways. Miscommunication, confusion, weary frustration. In his attempt to sort his thoughts, Lucanis’ is quiet for a little too long. Emmrich shakes his head, holding up his hands.
“You won’t receive any judgment from me; I’ve never been shy about admitting that I’ve… dabbled in the past. As I said, communal bathing is an especially important social practice, if a younger Watcher’s game.”
Lucanis scoffs, giving a shake of his head as he sinks a little deeper into the bath. What does age have to do with anything? Maybe they’re both a little too worn thin right now.
“As if sex has to stop when you’re no longer twenty,” he huffs. Emmrich tilts his head and drops his hands, folding them together along the edge of the tub, fingers intertwined as he points with both index fingers at nothing in particular.
“Oh no. Only public group sex stops at twenty.”
What--? Oh. It’s a joke.
“Professor Volkarin.” Lucanis leans into humor, scolding, glad for it, but Emmrich balks, spine straightening. In an instant, Lucanis knows he sounds too sincere.
“Ah. Was that too much? I don’t mean to scandalize you, I was just… trying to lighten the mood. You’re a hard man to read when I’ve full use of my mental faculties,” Emmrich’s eyes dart away, the nervous edge to the slash of a smile across his wide mouth drawing Lucanis’ eye. “Though I think we’ve reached a point in our friendship where we can weather a little awkwardness. And I can afford to be a little less polite. At least… I hope that’s the case.”
Lucanis can’t stifle the breadth of the smile that spreads over his face, nor the airy chuckle that passes his lips. What a mess they both are. What a disaster all of this is. And yet, within the infelicitous exchange, it only becomes clearer to Lucanis just how far they’ve come. As he looks at Emmrich he sees the shape of a man who’s spent far too long being so incredibly careful with his every move finally letting more of himself shine through. Unfiltered, messier, fretful, and seeking reassurance that it’s allowed at all. Lucanis knows well what it is to have to project a curated version of oneself for the sake of survival.
“It is.” Lucanis nods and lifts a weak hand, resting it against Emmrich’s own. “I’d hoped… that would be fairly obvious, given our current predicament.”
There’s really no sense in not confronting it, yet Emmrich still visibly flusters and does that little—shrug. Thing. It’s a mannerism that Lucanis finds himself comforted by. Consistency and predictability, even amidst all of this chaos. Emmrich inhales, holds that breath within stretched ribs, and then exhales a punched out singular laugh.
“Yes, I suppose it is. I may be acting as your physician, even though I didn’t give you much choice but… Above all: we’re friends first.” The concession comes with a contrite bow of Emmirch’s head and a turning of his palms. Hand over hand, hand in hand, Lucanis’ wet fingers a grasped in Emmrich’s own, knuckles covered by a gentle palm.
“Yes. The very best, I’d say,” Lucanis agrees, softer. He reaches for the humor that often seems to see them through, chancing a little levity of his own with a small, tired smirk. “I wouldn’t let just anyone bathe me so thoroughly.”
“It’s the thorough part that’s the defining factor? Interesting.” One good turn earns another and Emmrich’s smile seems more relaxed for it.
“Maker’s breath,” Lucanis rolls his eyes. “You’re too quick witted for how tired I am.”
Emmrich’s soft chuckle is warmer than the bath water, cozier. It sounds homey. His fingers squeeze Lucanis’ own before he withdraws, and Lucanis’ hand slips back into the bath.
“You’ll bounce back. I’ll make sure of it,” Emmrich says, puffing his chest out with dramatized confidence. “Then I’ll pencil in time for you to give me a proper tongue lashing once you’ve recovered your strength.”
“It’s hardly as fun if you schedule it. No.” Lucanis waves his hand and shakes his head. “I think I’ll strike when you least expect it.”
Emmrich utters a thoughtful hum.
“I shall be on my guard, then. Can’t make it too easy for you. I wouldn’t want you to lose your edge, Master Assassin.”
Lucanis gives a small snort, his mouth twitching as he tries to contain some of his smile. It’s a battle he doesn’t mind losing.
“Perish the thought,” he sighs.
There’s a knock at the door that startles them both, twin glances toward the barrier between them and the rest of Lucanis’ bedroom, mirrored jolts and tensed muscles. The mood lost to the sudden intrusion is one Lucanis misses in an instant.
“Sheets are clean, gentlemen! I’m taking my leave for the night. Teia said something about a bottle of Antivan Red, and I think I’ll be taking her up on that.” Neve’s voice, clear as a bell even through the wooden paneling. There’s a crispness to her delivery that reminds Lucanis of the many occasions during which she would see herself out to avoid a disagreement. It’s not quite the same, lacking the emotional distance and brevity, but it’s close enough that he feels a small sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Almost as if he’s done something wrong.
“Thank you, Neve. Have a good evening,” Emmrich calls back, easy as the breeze, though his tone lacks the usual congenial inflections Lucanis has come to expect—Strange. Lucanis loathes how sluggishly his mind is working. Emmrich shifts back from the edge of the tub and stands, knees giving a sharp click of protest as they take his weight again. “Let’s get you dried off and dress that wound. You can eat after, and then… I think some sleep will do us both a great deal of good.”
Even with daylight breaking, Lucanis can’t argue with that logic. While he has no appetite, he knows he needs to eat. Teia has been on his case for days about it… All of it, really. It’s so much harder to let himself appear weak in front of her. Or any of the Crows, really. But Emmrich—Emmrich is safe. Emmrich has nothing to gain by betraying Lucanis in a moment of weakness. No political or social capital to acquire. Material wealth and status mean little to the necromancer, given his preference for comfort and philanthropic habits. There’s a logic to the trust he places in Emmrich, beyond the gut feeling that he can, and he should.
Emmrich is steady and kind as he helps Lucanis find his footing outside the bath. Emmrich is delicate and soft as he dabs a towel over Lucanis’ exhausted body while he sits on a stool. Emmrich is a perfect gentleman about where his eyes are at all times, out of some strange sense of propriety, but also allowing Lucanis to hold onto his dignity. Lucanis savors the certainty of security when Emmrich lifts him up to carry him back to a clean bed and soft sheets that smell faintly of flowers. He’s stronger than he looks. His arms feel warm and sturdy. Have his shoulders always been this broad?
Emmrich props Lucanis up on fluffed pillows and gives him a glass of water to sip from while Spite hovers and pesters Manfred. The hearth crackles with warmth that radiates through the room and the shadowed shape of Emmrich collecting things from a trunk that wasn’t here before passes across Lucanis’ vision. Emmrich comes back with clean gauze, along with a vial of something viscous that smells herbaceous when he opens it. Emmrich’s touch is so precise as he applies the salve in his vial, not terribly thick, but it helps numb the sting of Lucanis’ wound and makes sitting up to be wrapped in gauze that much easier.
When it’s all done, and Lucanis is settled, Emmrich turns to the fruit that had been brought up for him and carefully begins slicing plums with the paring knife, artfully arranging them on a small plate. Strawberries, too. The pink juices stain his fingertips and run down his palm. Lucanis watches with shaking hands curled around his cup, relaxing into the domesticity that would have seemed utterly impossible only a few days ago. To be so cared for, to be cleaned and carried and fed, is a novel experience. One that makes Lucanis’ heart flutter. It's hard to feel deserving of it, despite all that they’ve been through.
They are friends.
Friends.
And that must be reason enough to Emmrich; it flickers like a softly glowing beacon through the haze of discomfort. To know how different Emmrich is, that his expectations are only that Lucanis allows him to help, and nothing more. To know that this isn’t part of some grand scheme of checks and balances that requires an answer makes Lucanis more aware than ever that their relationship has always been unique. An exception to so many rules Lucanis set out for himself. He’d tried again and again to push Emmrich away. And Emmrich, like a tree bending to the wind, didn’t break, refused to be uprooted, and refused to let Lucanis bear his burdens alone. Never pushing, only nudging, until Lucanis gave in to the comfort of having someone who could ease his struggles.
Lucanis knows the position of First Talon requires distance; all these complications have made it clearer than ever how little he can trust, and not only in the sense that he can never be certain of who might betray him. There is a new, constant reality that’s come to form: he cannot trust that those closest to him can insulate him from harm, no matter how much they’d like to. Their concern is a burden that he doesn’t have the strength to bear. Lucanis, while surrounded, is more alone than ever.
Even Neve, when she was only just here, made him feel the pressure of need for isolation—But Emmrich… Doesn’t. There’s something in all the murk within Lucanis’ mind. Distinctions and connections come along, one after another, slow as sap. Alone is something he and Emmrich had in common. Isolation and dedication to their work. Deep love for it. Escaping into it. Emmrich tried to hold onto his pain, the truth about Rook, all on his own, but Lucanis was able to urge it out of him.
It's right there, at Lucanis’ fingertips, waiting to be grasped.
“Emmrich,” Lucanis says his name so quietly it doesn’t feel like speaking at all. In some way, Lucanis hopes he isn’t heard, but Emmrich pauses in all his fussing about to look at him, expression open and calm. Utterly accepting already.
“Yes?”
“Was it because you were already accustomed to loneliness… that… Lichdom seem like it wouldn’t… hurt?” The words are clunky, any kind of eloquence long since lost to exhaustion. His grasp of Trade, as a language, feels a little more slippery as he tries to hold onto consciousness. Emmrich frowns at him, slowly taking a seat at the end of the bed, back propped against the footboard. He presses his palms together in his lap, that frown twitching, contorting into the bitterest of smiles.
“I don’t know that I ever made such a connection.” Emmrich’s tone is light, but Lucanis isn’t so far gone that he can’t see Emmrich’s deflection for what it is. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just thinking… About how lonely having power is. And that I am… Glad. That you are here. Instead of deep in the Necropolis where—” a snag, the first thing that comes to Lucanis’ mind is too selfish. “Your friends can’t… reach you.”
“I’m glad I’m here, too. I very nearly wasn’t.” But someone talked Emmrich out of it, talked him into saving Manfred instead. Someone else made all of this possible. Even without invoking his name, Lucanis sees the weight of Rook’s passing is still hanging around Emmrich’s shoulders. As much as their exchanged correspondence had given the impression that Emmrich was doing better, Lucanis can see the haunting still ongoing. A lingering presence, clinging and pressing close. It’s just a whisper, but with the pain of loss only just beginning to fade, Lucanis can feel it there in the contemplative silence that stretches between them.
He feels Rook’s ghost.
And then Lucanis feels something new. Something he’s not sure he understands. A queasy, cold burning discomfort that starts in his stomach and blooms outward, up the back of his neck, into his cheeks, into the beat of his heart. Emmrich’s eyes are distant and unfocused. Lucanis’ mouth waters and he feels the sting of bile in the back of his throat, watching Emmrich sink deep into memory, and for a few horrible moments, Lucanis wants nothing more than to pull Emmrich out of it. Yet he’s frozen, unable to think of a single thing to say.
All at once, Emmrich snaps back into the present with a hard blink and a small shake of his head. He looks at Lucanis again, and smiles, as if he’d never left. But he did. He was somewhere else. He was with Rook.
“I’ll be on your sofa, if you wake and need anything,” Emmrich says, getting to his feet to finish up the task of tidying, leaving the room to dispose of the remnants of Lucanis’ light meal. That feeling Lucanis doesn’t have a name for intensifies and Spite stirs, coiling around his brainstem with a discontented grumble.
‘What is it? Lucanis. Disturbed. Uncomfortable. No new wounds. Why do you hurt?’
Lucanis frowns toward the door, trying to sit up straighter but finding his core lacks the strength to cooperate. Emmrich comes back to his bedside to pour him another dose of antidote, another glass of water.
“The… Sofa?” Lucanis feels as though he’s moving through cold molasses, trying to keep up. “Emmrich—You should really have Teia open a guest room for you or… Something.”
If he were in better shape, Lucanis would do it himself. He should have the moment Emmrich arrived, but everything happened far too quickly. Emmrich gives a small shake of his head as he offers up the antidote. Lucanis is slow to take it, hands shaking as they wrap around the small cup.
“I’m not nearly as fussy as I might appear, Lucanis. I assure you,” Emmrich waves him off with his usual poise, the flow of his movements drawing Lucanis’ ailing gaze. “If pressed I could sleep standing up just as well as Rook.”
Lucanis flinches.
“You’re not a horse, Emmrich. Please…” Lucanis knocks back that bitter dose and grimaces, using the momentary distraction to try and collect himself. “I… You have done… So much for me. At least allow me to ensure you can rest comfortably.”
That was just about passable. Spite hums a curious note.
‘Curiosity. Should be comfortable, too.’
“Very thoughtful, Spite. Manfred doesn’t sleep, but he does enjoy sitting quietly and reading,” Emmrich says, but when he takes the empty cup from Lucanis he doesn’t look directly at him. No eye contact. “I don’t want to be too far from you, Lucanis. Just in case. I can promise you I’ll--”
“Mierda, then just sleep there,” Lucanis gestures to the other side of his needlessly large bed. “Then we’ll both worry less.”
Emmrich stills, utterly aghast from what Lucanis can tell. But Lucanis won’t budge. He’s too stubborn and far too tired--
‘Curiosity will use the couch! Stay close.’
Manfred gives a little hiss of assent.
“There you have it,” Lucanis states with a pointed arch of one brow in the necromancer’s direction.
Emmrich sighs, face dropping from the uncertainty of surprise back into a smile. And while it’s clearly an exasperated sort of smile, it’s still charming. He rubs his forehead with his fingertips, closing his eyes as he shakes his head.
“Alright, Lucanis. Have it your way,” Emmrich concedes, and then he’s up, venturing out of the room long enough that Lucanis begins to drift off. He can hear the subtle sounds of Emmrich puttering throughout the parlor beyond the bedroom, changing his clothes, washing his face. It is a fight for Lucanis to keep his eyes open and ensure that Emmrich follows through, but he does. He holds onto the last threads of vigilance he has with a vice grip until he sees Emmrich return through the doorway, lit by the golden light of morning, with Manfred clattering behind him to take up a spot on the sofa before the dwindling hearth.
The mattress dips with Emmrich’s weight, the duvet shifts, and Lucanis listens to the familiar sound of Emmrich’s soft sigh as he settles. Good. All is as Lucanis needs it to be. There’s nothing more to trouble himself over. Like a candle being snuffed out, Lucanis lets himself slip away into unconsciousness yet again, the last thing he barely hears is Emmrich’s voice wishing him a whisper quiet goodnight.
Notes:
This Chapter Brought To You By:
- Overcoming crippling self doubt in brief spurts
- Naps(TM)
- The Kind and Constant Support in The Bone Nest server
- Nicotine Baybeeeee
- More Naps(TM)
- Lent Fish Fry (I'm not Catholic I just like fried fish.)Until next time!!
Chapter 12: And then, relief...
Notes:
HI KIDS. DO YOU LIKE (emotional) VIOLENCE.
Now that I'm done being an insufferable millenial. Hello and welcome back. I hope you're ready for the longest chapter to date. (Seriously, it's almost 12k long.) I can't believe how far this fic has come already. When I started it I never could have anticipated how strongly people would respond to it or how much it would mean to me to be able to work on it like this. Writing, as my hobby and my passion, is such an instrumental part in me keeping my sanity. That being said. These two are driving me to the BRINK.
I was once again experiencing Health Events and External Stressors that kind of slowed me down, on top of just getting swept up in other writing projects for a bit. (You might have seen it pop into the tag. I wrote some very shameless smut. It was necessary for my soul.) But we're back baybeee.
Thank you for your patience, as always. So many thanks. And for all the reassurances everyone gave me on the last chapter that this fic is worth waiting for. That means a lot to me, that there are people out there who are just glad it exists, no matter how long it takes me. I do this for free in my spare time for the joy of sharing it with all of you. So I hope you enjoy this update.
And!!! Another additional thanks to my bestie jescalin, for once again, assisting me with beta reading this chapter. I don't think I can ever express enough how valuable your input is so I'm thanking you publicly so people know ily and you're great.
ANYWAY LETS FUCKIN GOOOOOO
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s cold in the empty cellar. Emmrich’s converted operating theater, quiet and sterile, smells of damp. Once a place for wine storage, it now bears the faint coppery tang of blood in the air. The table brought down by the Crows has been cleaned and fresh linen rolled, set at one end. A place for the First Talon to lay his head.
The delicate work that is now upon Emmrich is comforting to him. It’s complex and fiddly, but mostly predictable for how well he knows it. How taxing it will be on his body is a secondary concern, one that barely registers beyond the pressure to save his friend.
It's strange to be doing it twice in a row like this; stranger still that it’s been required of him so many times very recently when most of his career never called for it. He works with spirits and the dead far more than the living. Or, he used to.
“Three times in as many years,” Emmrich sighs to himself, softly amused by the absurdity of it.
Viago makes a quiet, quizzical sound from behind him and Emmrich turns his head, looking over his shoulder. Lucanis leans heavily on Viago for balance as they make their way to the table. Lucanis refused to be carried, worried about the optics, despite the fact that the house has been cleared of all non-essential staff to avoid prying eyes. It speaks to how little Lucanis is allowing himself to trust anyone, even those closest to him who are working tirelessly to keep him and his goals alive.
It takes two sets of hands to help Lucanis up onto the table, arrange his limbs, and lay him down. Emmrich and Viago put themselves to the delicate task of making sure not to jostle Lucanis too much in the process, if only to spare him additional pain.
“You mean blood cleansing,” Lucanis says with a wheeze as he settles more fully in place. His body is a stiff, leaden weight against the table, head lolling on the linen cushion prepared for him. “Caterina… Myself. Who was the third?”
“Another young person from Antiva, believe it or not,” Emmrich turns toward Manfred, looking over the array of implements laid out on the tray in his gloved hands. Everything Emmrich needs, all accounted for. “I came across them not far from the Nevarran border when all those earthquakes were occurring... I was on a research expedition at the time. They were suffering the effects of blood rot poison.”
“Ah. Yes, a poison like that would require a necromancer,” Viago mutters, moving away to allow Emmrich full access to Lucanis where he lays prone on the table. His boot heels click across the stone floor as he makes his way back toward the door.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Lucanis huffs, lifting a shaky hand to his brow as he dissolves into quiet laughter. “Drayden. You… Saved Drayden?”
Emmrich blinks, briefly halting his preparations at the sound of the name. He glances at Lucanis, brows raised, mouth slack. It’s not as if Antiva is a small country. Though, the ones who might use such a vile poison are likely more limited in number. Location and timing also narrow the possibilities down further.
“You knew them?” Emmrich asks. While shocking, Emmrich finds himself exhaling a quiet laugh. Astonished amusement, however pleasant, gives way almost immediately to an uncertain bend in Emmrich’s brow. This all begs the question: under what context does Lucanis know them? Did Emmrich upset a contract?
“So I am right… I was close with their father,” Lucanis replies with a sighing chuckle. “I’m the one who cauterized their wound and sent them to Nevarra to look for a necromancer.”
Emmrich doesn’t actually breathe a sigh of relief, but it’s a near thing.
For as large as Thedas is, it also seems so impossibly small. Emmrich smiles and turns toward the tray of tools in Manfred’s hands once again, nervously rearranging things, verifying a second time over that it’s clean, and ready for him. Every second that passes the pressure of what’s about to occur mounts. He’s not stalling, he can’t afford to. But it never hurts to be thorough. Certain.
“It was good that you did,” Emmrich hums, cataloguing scissors, scalpel, forceps, tinctures, and the small glowing vial that will see him through this process and any complications that could arise. “They found one.”
He picks up one of the vials and cups the back of Lucanis’ head, easing it against his lips. Something to relax him for the process, ease the strange sensations and the sting of pain to come. He doesn’t question what Emmrich gives him, only swallows and sighs as the soothing tincture works its way through his nerves and slackens his muscles.
“I’m glad that they made it into capable hands.” Lucanis’ mumbles. Relief sees him sagging and boneless against the table as Emmrich lowers his head once more. His eyes slide shut.
The fever sweat on Lucanis’ brow and the pallor of his skin remind Emmrich of just how Drayden had looked at that time. Perhaps, like Drayden, it’s Lucanis’ connection to the Fade that’s slowed the poison’s effects, along with the aid of Viago’s antidotes. In any other circumstance Emmrich would love a chance to study this phenomenon, but not with Lucanis’ life so clearly on the line.
“They did,” Emmrich softly confirms. “I only wish I could have done more about the malcontent spirits possessing our hosts. Or the sudden tear in the Fade. Nadia disappearing into it-- It was quite the debacle.”
“This sounds like a story worth hearing,” Viago says as he moves to lean against the closed door, back pressing flush to the heavy woodgrain. He guards it just as he’d done before, when Emmrich saw to Caterina. Waiting and vigilant, his eagle-eyed stare following Emmrich’s every move. For all that Lucanis might trust Emmrich, he gets the sense that Viago still harbors paranoid doubts.
“Later,” Emmrich replies with a smile. “Once Lucanis is well.”
Lucanis shivers where he lays on the cold wooden table, bare, skin splotchy and flushed in some places, pale in others; the bruises that shadow his under eyes are only deepening with time. The wound on his side is alive, sprawling blackened branches of deadly toxin that is desperate to spread, slowed but not halted, climbing a path toward his heart. The skin there at the edges of the wound looks angry, vivid red and pus yellow, flaking and festering despite how recently cleaned and bandaged it was. The sutures will have to go. They’re cutting into the swollen flesh, like bread baking around twine, impressions that threaten more scarring.
When Emmrich reaches out and places a hand against Lucanis’ flank, he flinches away from the touch. Emmrich draws back the barest bit, placing his hand on the table once more.
“Nervous?” he asks, looking up from the wound to the pinched and contorted expression of discomfort on Lucanis’ gaunt face. When their eyes meet, Lucanis tries for a smile.
“A little,” he admits, a quietly sheepish laugh passing his lips.
“Should I come over there and hold your hand?” Viago’s voice lilts upward, familiarity between himself and Lucanis making room for good-natured teasing.
“For my sake or yours?” Lucanis asks, and Emmrich carefully places his hand again, cool touch against warm skin, and swipes disinfectant over the wound. Lucanis gives a small hiss of discomfort and Viago lets out a little puff of amusement.
“I would be doing my duty to support the First Talon,” Viago quips. “If only so the Demon of Vyrantium can keep his ‘cold blooded’ reputation.”
“Maybe you should come over here, then,” Lucanis scoffs, flinching again as Emmrich begins the process of cutting open each stitch with nimble precision. “It would be more useful than you standing around holding your—”
“Gentlemen, please. I do need to focus.”
A pair of laughs, one on each side. Emmrich should be more at ease about it. The back and forth was enough distraction to pull Lucanis away from the nervous edge, though the same cannot be said for the spirit attached to him that flits about and disturbs the very air Emmrich is trying to steadily breathe.
‘You are going to do. Blood magic.’
“I am going to cleanse Lucanis’ blood, yes. It’s nothing like what was done to you by Zara Renata,” Emmrich’s words are slowed by his focus, easing the cut stitches out with his forceps, dabbing with a small piece of gauze when the angry wound weeps pus and pink fluid down Lucanis’ side. “Sanguinmancy is the manipulation of blood. An advance art that can be quite useful in my line of work. It’s not the process of sacrificing blood for greater power.”
Spite grumbles and growls, his pacing movements like a brush back and forth along Emmrich’s spine.
‘But it is magic. With blood.’
“Mierda, Spite.” Lucanis rolls his tired eyes. “How many times must we go through this?”
Emmrich offers a tight, sympathetic smile to the space he knows Spite occupies, right beside Manfred.
“It’s understandable to be nervous about things one doesn’t fully comprehend. But I assure you, it won’t affect you, Spite. Lucanis will feel woozy at most. It should be quite painless.”
‘Hmmmm.’
“The demon is nervous?” Viago asks.
“He’s not a demon,” Emmrich snips.
‘I could be. Sounds. Powerful.’
“It’s misguided is what it is.” Emmrich’s chastisement earns him a snort, Spite’s cadence growing riled and playful.
‘Spirit sounds. Soft. Demon invokes. Fear!’
“Let Emmrich focus,” Lucanis says, direct and firm. Parental.
Spite grumbles and were he corporeal, Emmrich could imagine him dragging his feet, trudging around the table to pout. The only indications of Spite’s movements are the turn of Manfred’s head, and the subtle tracking of Lucanis’ gaze as his brow wrinkles and his mouth twitches into a tiny, crooked smile. The fondness that’s grown between them is heartening to witness. Emmrich hopes the trust they have in one another is enough to see them through this oncoming process and all its arduous complication.
There’s no more time to waste.
The wound reopens cleanly at Emmrich’s behest, a single cut with a clean instrument. Lucanis gasps for breath, teeth snapping down, jaw tensing, body going rigid. It doesn’t bring Emmrich any joy to see the pain it causes. There’s no joy to be found in the necessary evils that are required to draw out noxious, poisoned blood, but it must be done.
A small, secondary incision, made on cleaned skin at the inside of Lucanis’ opposite wrist, gives that blood an avenue to reenter; it’s an exacting and agonizingly slow process. Viago’s eyes are an ever-present pressure on Emmrich’s spine. Viago had watched keenly the night before, but he watches with even more intention now. Lucanis’ importance to the Crows, and to Viago personally, are more than clear.
Emmrich doesn’t need the theatrical demonstrations he’d use for spirits or the dead, who require showmanship and enticement; coaxing of a more human nature won’t help ease this along. He doesn’t have to project his every movement for an audience of students, either. All he needs to do is pull the vile sludge from Lucanis’ veins and guide it back once more. He repeats it in his head, each step, with insistence and certainty that he can get it done.
The simple but volatile boon of a lyrium elixir is another necessary evil to endure. Emmrich has never enjoyed the use of it. The silvery substance sings the sweetest of songs and burns cold in his throat. If he were in the Necropolis, he’d use blood to bolster his endurance. His own, offered in sacrifice. But sensitivity toward Lucanis and Spite’s traumatic past has made that the less palatable option. Beyond that, here, even a whisper of such magic might be reputationally devastating; it can’t be explained away like the cleansing itself.
In a sense, it is still blood he’s using.
Blood of the Titans.
Emmrich’s fingers pluck at the very fabric of the Fade and draw out a hook of pure magic, winding it around the flow of Lucanis’ blood in his veins, he pulls and pulls and maneuvers a gruesome stream of life through the delicate funnel of his own magic. He can feel the resistance of that blood and the poison that clings to every single drop. It’s slow going, such a delicate process, so as not to take too much at once for his sake and Lucanis’ own.
The thrum of lyrium through his nerves is a buzzing, chilling sensation. Power beyond what comes naturally; power that is astronomical in nature. He begs the stone’s forgiveness, knowing now more than ever, what it’s always been and how it was taken. He’ll use it wisely, to save the life of someone he cares for deeply. Someone he…
“Mierda—I feel… like I’m dying… Is it supposed to… feel like I’m… dying?”
Lucanis looks weak. Frightened, but certain.
“The lifeblood that sustains you is being drawn from your body. It might feel like dying, but I won’t let you pass on. You have my word, you’ll be alright, Lucanis.”
The silence that follows on the heels of a single, jerky nod from Lucanis, is a deafening weight on Emmrich’s mind.
Focus.
Focus.
Each minute that passes feels as draining for Emmrich as it physically is for Lucanis. Cold sweat beads on his brow, his breathing growing more and more shallow over time, hands trembling but never ceasing as he pulls from the well of magic ingested, from the endless font of the Fade he’s connected to by the very nature of what he is. He feels it in his marrow, the surging, pulse-pounding strain of these efforts that he refuses to struggle through in vain. He’s suffered worse in more dire circumstances, taking on the backlash of magic strong enough to make his heart stall for precious beats, but it’s still a burden.
Lucanis is worth bearing it for.
It takes more than an hour, but less than two, the afternoon whittled down just a little more by the careful process. When the last of Lucanis’ blood has been stripped of toxins and found itself flowing freely through his veins once more, Emmrich lays his hands against the open wounds and closes them at last. Healed, but with a subtle, silvery scar along his side to join the plethora of others Lucanis has acquired over the years. More than one within the last decade.
Lucanis’ next breath is a wheezy one, a laugh passing his lips as he flexes his fingers. Emmrich smiles down at him, his shaking arms slowly drawing back as he takes in the sight of his dearest friend. Lucanis is resilient to a fault, a survivor through and through; it’s an admirable trait most days, and one worth admonishing on others. Here and now, the culmination of all his strength, including the strength it takes to trust in another person, unveils the beauty of recovery’s first light. Lucanis is going to be okay. His cheeks are more properly flushed, and his smile that he offers up from his place resting on the table is as boyishly charming as ever.
He lifts his hand, reaching for Emmrich, opening his mouth to say something, but Emmrich’s ears begin to ring a high-pitched whine when he reaches back. He doesn’t hear Lucanis over the roar of his pulse and the room dims into a black, fuzzy haze. He’s faint. Rapidly losing track of himself, face feeling numb--
Emmrich’s knees turn to jelly. He barely manages to catch himself on the edge of the table, reflex and instinct keeping him from dropping like a stone as he takes in a heaving breath. His head suddenly feels too heavy to be carried by his neck. He sways, already halfway to the floor as he desperately grasps at the cool wood grain. Distantly, he notices the sound of quickly shuffling footsteps, a clatter of his implements hitting the ground. The world slips away from him for only a second.
A blink, then two. There are hands around his biceps, dragging his body away from the floor. A presence at his back, sturdy enough to lean on. Another one at his front, sitting up from the table to catch him beneath the chin. Blade calloused palm against his skin. Emmrich’s mind begins to pull the pieces back together.
Lucanis is there to hold his head up for him, and Viago does not let him collapse.
“Emmrich?” There’s so much concern in Lucanis’ tone, a fretful sound that strikes at his tender heart. Emmrich forces a smile and turns his head, cheek finding its way into Lucanis’ palm, the corner of his mouth smearing against the inside of Lucanis’ wrist. Emmrich’s vision is swimming in inky shadow and blinking lights. Phosphenes bursting like fireworks. Gold and green and dim orange. For a moment, it’s almost blissful, feeling woozy but held.
“Emmrich, talk to me—” Lucanis sounds frightened. It’s a jolt. Electric. Emmrich’s eyes flutter open and he takes a breath to laugh, nodding but only barely. Every minute movement feels like a chore. Acid burning in his muscles, slowing him to a weary crawl. It’ll pass.
“I’m alright. Just fatigued,” Emmrich grasps for purchase, finding his hands braced against Lucanis’ legs, thighs bracketing his waist, and an arm around his shoulders; Viago unbends his spine, bolstering his posture.
“Two rituals of this caliber, less than twelve hours apart… I’m not surprised,” Viago sighs and Emmrich tenses, shuddering at how hot and close his breath is. Emmrich feels… Cold.
“I don’t like this,” Lucanis states. “You don’t look well. Viago—”
“I’ve got him,” Viago says, and his sigh brushes across Emmrich’s shoulder. Viago makes it seem effortless to haul him back a few paces, giving Lucanis room to hop down from the table and test his own weight on his feet.
“We’ll get you a nice comfortable chair and a cup of tea, ah?” Viago offers it with a lilt of levity that soothes the sting of self-consciousness that comes with being fretted over. Lyrium sickness was an unavoidable outcome after two doses so close together.
Emmrich’s mouth twists off to one side, a wry smile as his head drops forward a fraction and he exhales yet another laugh. He’s not as fragile as he might appear to them; this is hardly the worst Emmrich has ever felt after extensive spell work.
“You tease, but that sounds like precisely what I need.”
Manfred’s hiss of concern draws Emmrich’s attention, gaze unfocused while he blinks more spots from his vision. It takes a moment for the image to sharpen as Emmrich peers across the room at his ward, watching him help Lucanis shrug into a clean shirt.
“How are you feeling, Lucanis?” Emmrich asks, trying to regain his composure, but Viago’s grasp is stern and steady, refusing to let him go and risk him stumbling. “You should take it easy.”
“Good enough to walk around my own home. I need to go see Caterina.” Lucanis tugs the front of his shirt down and snug across his shoulders, aligning the seams as he grimaces Emmrich’s way. He lets out one of those rattling growls of discontent, nostrils flaring around a sigh. He points at Emmrich. “But you need to rest. Viago, do you—”
“I’ve got your necromancer, Lucanis,” Viago cuts in. “Don’t worry.”
“He’s not my—” Lucanis stops himself, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose with a sigh and a low grumble of frustration. While he buttons his shirt, he mutters under his breath something in Antivan that Emmrich doesn’t quite catch. Whatever it is, it makes Viago chuckle.
“Just—” Lucanis pauses, propping one hand on his hip while gesturing sharply toward Emmrich where he is sufficiently trapped in Viago’s grasp. His deep brown eyes look right past Emmrich, at the Crow behind him, mouth twisting into a frown. “See him back to my parlor.”
“I’m quite alright,” Emmrich tries, his own tired smile a strain worth suffering. “I only need a few moments more—”
“Emmrich. Please.” The sharpness of Lucanis’ tone slices straight through Emmrich as sure as one of his many sharpened blades. “It is difficult enough to see you like this, knowing it was for my sake, without you trying to pretend you’re alright. If I didn’t have to see Caterina, I would drag you back to bed myself.”
‘Yes! Could carry you. Will. Not a promise. A threat.’
“On this, I must agree with Spite.”
Emmrich’s face feels hot with something like embarrassment, but it’s gentler. More supple. His heart betrays him, giving way to a faster beat as he avoids looking at Lucanis directly. It’s easier if he doesn’t; he clears his throat and collects himself.
“You certainly know how to make a man feel very small, Lucanis,” Emmrich says, a breathy chuckle passing bitten and chapped lips. Lucanis gives a little snort as he crosses the meager space between them.
“You have no idea. Turnabout is fair play, dearest Professor.” Lucanis prods Emmrich’s sternum with a single finger, and then lays his palm flat against it. Steady. Grounding. A gentle rub of thumb back and forth. All of him softens when Emmrich looks again, those dark brows drawn upward, eyes a little too wide and soulful, lips too perfectly pouted to ever be denied. “Let me worry for your health. It’s unavoidable anyway and you’re in no condition to fight with me about it.”
Emmrich has never considered himself to be a pushover, but Lucanis, specifically, makes him feel like one. He doesn’t dislike that feeling, either. It simply is.
“Alright, alright. Point taken, noblest First Talon. I’ll allow myself to be escorted then.”
Emmrich’s surrender is answered with a broad smile and a relieved exhale from said First Talon. For as pale as he still is, for as weak as he must be from being so ill, he looks better than he has since Emmrich arrived. The light has returned to his eyes. A little more rest and a few good meals and he’ll be right as rain.
“I’ll be along soon enough. Maker willing,” Lucanis laments, stepping around him to head toward the door. He pauses there, straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders. He looks back, tapping his fingers against the doorframe as his brows draw into a pensive furrow and his mouth sets into a stern line.
“With something suitable for you to eat,” he adds, firmly. “Rest until then.”
Emmrich bows his head in acceptance and watches Lucanis depart. It’s only once Lucanis has disappeared from view that Emmrich allows himself to slouch while being carted away by an arm around his waist. Viago snickers as they pass through the door to mount the stairs.
“I know all too well what it is to be wrapped around another’s finger. Though, the nicknames… That is a surprise. Lucanis didn’t strike me as the type.” Viago glances over at Emmrich, a single thick brow arched in his direction. Whatever assumptions are churning behind those bright blue eyes, Emmrich doesn’t want to know. It’s been happening again and again. This needling assumption that brings to mind the letter Rook wrote him before his death.
This morning had urged Emmrich to reflect on that letter yet again, curled in soft sheets, warmed by the summer breeze and basking beneath the golden glow of early afternoon light pouring through the wide windows. Emmrich can still smell the iodine on the sheets as clearly as he can still feel the ghost of contact against the back of his hand, how it felt to rake his knuckles gently over Lucanis’ cheek on the whim of a sleep bidden impulse.
A first that only gave way to more of them. The sheer gall of lowered inhibitions, urging Emmrich to lean over Lucanis and urge him awake gently, in a too-close proximity, hazy gaze dragging over those handsome features. The most unsettling flutter Emmrich had felt as he allowed himself to be pulled closer by a hand against the back of his neck, without protest. He can still see the look of surprise and the flicker of embarrassment that overtook Lucanis’ face when Emmrich stopped just short of crossing a line that can’t be returned from.
“Sorry,” Lucanis had said. “I… Must have been… still dreaming.”
Emmrich doesn’t have the luxury of feeling anything more about Lucanis than he already does. Their lives, the positions they’re in, even how recently they laid Rook to rest all give more than enough reason to refuse examination of this growing feeling. This attachment that begs Emmrich to bend so easily to Lucanis’ wishes or urges Emmrich to fight so stalwartly against them in order to take care of him. It’s a kind of attachment that makes missing Lucanis ache far deeper than it used to. Emmrich feels his absence like a severed nerve, numbness in a necessary extremity. It’s dangerous.
Some things are better left alone.
If only everyone else seemed willing to do the same.
His silence must be damning, for how Viago chuckles at him.
“Just a joke between friends,” Emmrich states, keeping his gaze forward as they ascend through the corridors and up further flights of stairs. The Necropolis is endlessly massive, so the journey itself is no real imposition, but the thought of Lucanis living here alone with his grandmother? It all seems so excessive. The grounds have their own opera house, for Andraste’s sake—
“Oh! Emmrich. Just the man I was hoping to see.” As they round the corner, Neve is in the hall, coming their way. Her steps slow as she takes in the sight of Emmrich, unsteady on his feet. He smiles for her, but feels how thin it is on his face. The strain of the expression makes his cheeks twinge.
“What can I do for you, Neve?” Emmrich greets as he and Viago come to a stop. Neve stands before them, and holds herself with her usual, comfortably casual demeanor. Her smile is air-tight, eyes only briefly darting between Emmrich and Viago, but no matter how quick the look is, Emmrich knows she’s assessing with precision. The acuity of her gaze is inescapable.
“So formal,” Neve muses. “Nothing major. I just wanted to touch base about some things before I head out into the city. Teia and I were going to have a look around, see if we can’t rustle up a lead on these assassination attempts. Had to be a pretty well thought out operation, given what happened to Caterina.”
She takes another step closer and offers out her own arm to Emmrich.
“Heading back to Lucanis’ room?” She asks, and it becomes quite clear that she’s not making a request, but rather, asserting what she intends to do. Emmrich hesitates, still feeling a peculiar sting of tension from the prior evening, but he can’t avoid her. She is, after all, one of his friends.
“I can take it from here, Viago,” Neve adds.
Viago looks at Emmrich, and Emmrich realizes that Viago is waiting for his input. It’s a simple gesture that goes a long way toward giving Emmrich some confidence that he and Viago are approaching more friendly terms. Emmrich gives his nod of consent to his assigned escort, deciding it’s better to let Neve have her way.
“Fine,” Viago huffs. “But if Lucanis complains, on your head be it.”
He points at Neve, and she shrugs.
“Uh-huh. As always.”
Emmrich doesn’t know how to feel about being shuffled from person to person, a baton of ailing joints and sour stomach. He winds his arm into the crook of Neve’s own, and she walks him the remainder of the way. Emmrich briefly glances back toward Viago, mildly surprised to see him standing at the ready, arms folded, watching them go. Emmrich can just imagine him keeping watch at the end of the hall until they’re inside Lucanis’ private parlor, tucked out of sight.
Neve’s eyes slide sidelong to look at him, but Emmrich doesn’t look back, knowing well she can likely see the signs of what he’s suffering with. Lyrium leaves a trace just beneath the skin, pale, faintly dark shadows, sprawling veins, cold sweat, and glassy eyes. He’s not well, but he will be, if he can just get some rest. There are only more tasks, more responsibilities, all waiting for him after this brief, but necessary period of inaction taken for recovery.
The settee is a welcome reprieve to look upon when they walk through the doors. His legs nearly give way the second a chance to sit properly is available. It’s a stumble to make that final stretch where he drops down into the cushions and Neve’s hands hover nearby, ready to act if needed, but he waves her off, noticing then, that his fingers are still trembling. She frowns at him as she takes a few steps back and moves to occupy the armchair closest to him.
Through his boots Emmrich can feel the chill of the marble floor, like ice beneath the soles of his feet. He leans back and slouches where he sits, giving an enervated exhale, glad to no longer be fighting the drag on all his faculties and ambulation.
“Where’s Fred?” Neve asks, and Emmrich opens his eyes, gaze lolling toward her, straining to focus with the weight of his exhaustion. Fred. Manfred. Yes…
“Cleaning up the remnants of the ritual I suspect,” Emmrich says. “He’ll be taking my things back to the Necropolis this evening, and then he has studies to attend…”
His mind wanders and his eyes fall toward the floor. His ward is coming into independence a little more with each passing day, and it’s a relief in some ways, but bittersweet in so many others.
“They grow up so fast, don’t they?” Neve’s laugh is softly fond, but the warmth doesn’t reach Emmrich. He knows she’s a goal to accomplish here. Polite small talk is a precursor to ease them into it, but Emmrich’s too tired to entertain it.
“Mm.” A single nod. He props himself up, elbow braced on the arm of the settee, and his head supported in the splay of his fingers against the side of his face. “What was it you wanted to discuss?”
“I…” She stalls, and he watches the way she places her hands in her lap, folded together while she digs at her cuticles with her thumb nail, eyes averted, face half turned away. “Maker this is awkward.”
Emmrich offers nothing in return for her stalling, letting her take whatever time she needs to work herself up to the subject he’s almost certain is coming. It’s inevitable, he realizes. With how she’s been watching him, with the questions she’d asked in Minrathous, the way she’d spoken to him last night, and how she withdrew herself from the situation. There are few things it could truly be.
“I wanted to talk about Lucanis,” Neve states, and she turns her head to look at Emmrich once more.
“I’m not comfortable with that,” he replies, flatly, no softening compassion or decorum to offer. Neve shakes her head and scoots toward the edge of her seat, turning her body get closer without truly invading Emmrich’s personal space. She looks up at him from beneath the furrow of her brows, mouth pursed while her studious gaze grazes his features.
“It’s not like that,” she says, quieter than before. “I’m not here to pry into anything you might know about him or his current situation.”
She’s hedging and cajoling, and Emmrich’s not sure how to feel about the same tactics she’d use to talk to people during an investigation being turned on him. Most especially over such a personal matter. His teeth begin to press against one another in a tight clench the more she speaks.
“If he’s kept me at a distance, that’s his business,” Neve assures him. Too sincere. “I’m trying to respect his need for time and space as much as I can. It’s about—”
“Neve, let me be frank,” Emmrich cuts in. The sharpness to his tone only feels vindicating for a single second, before he realizes just how harsh it truly sounds. He takes a deep breath and continues with more gentle poise than he wants to give but knows the moment might need. “I understand that there is a certain impression many people seem to have of my relationship with Lucanis, and while I can see the reason for all this speculation, quite frankly, it’s not anyone’s business but our own.”
Neve’s brows lift toward her hairline and she sits back, eyes widening as she stares at him. It’s a stark contrast to how intimately she’d been leaning and looking before. She utters a single, appalled word:
“Wow.”
“Indeed,” Emmrich sighs. His whole body sags with the weight of it, of his exhaustion, his nerves fraying the longer he’s upright. The nausea the lyrium left behind makes his mouth water and his eyes strain to stay open as he gazes her way. Her surprise dims into something decidedly unimpressed, her arms folding against her chest as she levels him with a stare that could spoil milk.
“Feel better? Got that out of your system, then?”
Emmrich looks away, eyes cast to the side as he grimaces at the clipped delivery she gives him.
“Not really,” he mutters back.
“Pity.”
They lapse into silence. Palpable discomfort. Strained. Emmrich refuses to look directly at her but sees in his periphery, the way she slowly unfolds her arms and drops her hands. Fingers fidgeting in her lap again as she stares at the floor, brow furrowing deeper and deeper, pressing into a purse once more, twisting to one side. Emmrich’s eyes slip shut as he tries to keep breathing normally, get even a moment of actual rest. It’s brief, his eyes forced to crack open again when he hears her take a deep breath. He watches the way her shoulders lift with it, her back straightening as she raises her head higher. Composed.
“Alright,” she starts. “I don’t need you to say anything, I just need you to listen to me. Because, contrary to what you might think, I’m trying to be a good friend to you. And as your friend, I’m telling you to be careful.”
Careful, she says. As genuine as she may mean it to be or as kind as she thinks she’s being, there is no denying how infantilizing it feels. How bilious it tastes. Acidic and sour and so—insulting.
“I’ll take your advice on board, shall I?” Emmrich chirps back, his smile a pinched falsehood as he turns his eyes upon her and straightens his own posture in turn while his body protests the movement in pangs of soreness. He ignores it, and folds one leg primly over the other. She stares at him, seemingly baffled by the inveracity of his candor. He gives a single exhale through bared teeth, jaw tight, wired partially open into the shape of his dry, unimpressed smile. He gesticulates toward himself.
“Neve, I am nearly fifty-seven years old. I’m not a child. I’m also not in any position to be entering into a relationship with someone young enough to be my son. You concern is noted but not necessary.”
Neve sits there, staring at him, eyes narrowing and he can see a flex of muscle along the length of her slender throat. He can see her absorbing the blow he’s dealt her for her crime of overstepping into tender territory Emmrich is not keen to share or even examine too closely. It’s a long, quiet drag of seconds ticking by. He wants her to back down. Back off. But he doesn’t expect it. Even then, it still catches him by surprise to hear what she has to say when she chooses to break the terse silence between them.
“Relationship or not, you’re in love with him.” Her assessment and conclusion come crisply, without any kind of mercy or consideration for the position saying such a thing to him places him in. The horror of being so called, so accused, makes him balk, leaping first to abject indignation and dismay.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Emmrich, please don’t insult my intelligence, or your own capacity for self-awareness.”
He is self-aware. And it is because he is self-aware that her needling attempt to try and warn him about his own feelings and what they might lead him to is so offensive.
“You are cornering me in a time of strife, to tell me I’m in love with my closest friend,” Emmrich speaks with slow, metered intention, making sure to annunciate firmly each and every carefully chosen syllable. “How exactly am I meant to react to that?”
Neve shrugs and opens her hands, not flinching away despite his obvious anger. She’s never shied away from conflict and it’s not a surprise, but it does frustrate him further. He did not ask for this. For her probing or her observations, and he definitely did not ask for her concern. It feels… inappropriate. But she presses ahead without a single sign of slowing down.
“With an open mind. I know you to be wiser and more reasonable than most people.” Though her compliment may very well be genuine, it feels like a manipulation. Emmrich’s breath is short and shallow, heart thundering against his ribs as he listens.
“Speaking as someone who has also loved Lucanis. Been in love with him. I don’t want to see you wind up in the same place I did, wondering if you were ever going to be important enough to him to be a priority,” she explains, quietly, with her usual brand of kind severity. “Or if you’ll ever get more than the occasional grand romantic gesture, instead of normalcy. Consistency. It’s painful, Emmrich. It’s hard to be left behind again and again by someone you love.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Emmrich snaps, louder, making himself more wounded animal than composed mage of considerable esteem. A stuck hound is bound to bay. Neve’s brows tent and her eyes soften, a wrinkling around the corners, downturned mouth frowning in sympathy. She gives a slow, subtle shake of her head.
“It’s not the same. He’s not like Rook. He won’t get… jealous or… even remember you have physical wants and needs all the time,” she says, her voice growing uncharacteristically faint as she confesses to private details that aren’t Emmrich’s to know. Not like this. He did not agree to be her confidant in this split. Emmrich will not hold Lucanis accountable for wrongs he has not yet committed against him. Neve is so adamant, forging ahead without pause.
“He’s distant. Physically quite often. Sometimes emotionally. He’s been more giving with you, but that might not always be the case. I don’t want to see you getting hurt, especially so soon after Rook.”
Emmrich doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want any of this. He grimaces and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s already lashed out once, swinging wide. His next words, by devastating contrast, are precise. Pointed. Meant to wound.
“Is this really about your concern for me?” He asks, low, whisper soft. A hiss. “Or is it because you don’t want to see Lucanis treating someone else with the kind of affection he did not share with you?”
When he opens his eyes and looks at her, he sees he’s hit his mark.
“Ouch,” she says on a heavy exhale. He regrets it, immediately. It’s not like him to be so—so unnecessarily cruel. He’s feeling poorly and under a great deal of stress, but that’s no excuse. She didn’t deserve it. He grieves the temporary death of his own compassion and tries to claw it back into his grasp with cold, shaky fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks. “That was uncalled for.”
“No. No I… I think it’s something I needed to hear.”
Another bout of silence overtakes them during which Emmrich becomes keenly aware of how foul he feels, inside, under his skin, in his aching heart. She looks smaller, shoulders curling inward and slumping as she processes. Her eyes dart back and forth across the rich rug beneath her feet, her tired frown twitching at the corners. Slowly, a melancholic smile comes to form, and she lifts her stare from the carpet, meeting Emmrich’s gaze across the space between them.
“Can I tell you something?” There’s a renewed lightness to her tone and Emmrich gives a small inclination of his head, a chance to continue. It’s the least he can do after being so cold and defensive. She smiles a little wider, nostalgic in the way she looks off to one side. Wistful in tone when she speaks.
“There was a night. At the Lighthouse. Rook came to me all… flustered and frustrated. He had gone to find you, and you were already with Lucanis. Fourth time that week, he’d said. He wondered if he misread you. If you already had feelings for someone else. He sat with me in my office and drank himself stupid, rambling on and on about whether or not he was getting his hopes up for nothing.”
Neve lets out a soft laugh, barely a breath of one, picking at her nailbeds as her eyes fall to the floor once more. She squeezes her gaze shut, smile growing crooked, nose wrinkling with fond amusement.
“He was like a lost puppy, sad that you were giving another puppy more attention.” Neve looks up, eyes open and darting across him, primed to pick out every little detail he doesn’t want her to see when he hears it. How things were. What Rook felt. He misses Rook. He misses Rook so much some moments he feels sick to his stomach with it. And she sees it. Her sympathy is so evident. It makes him feel about two feet tall, ready to shrink into nothingness under the weight of so many regrets.
“It’s always been like that,” she says, breathlessly, almost laughing. “Did you really never notice? How quickly you’d drop anything if Lucanis asked for you? How many nights he’d come to me after waking up in your armchair, his mood better than I could have ever hoped to make it?”
She winces at the sound of her own words. Emmrich wonders if she thinks she sounds as though she’s being petty. He wonders if she’s reevaluating her own motivations for coming here to talk to him about this, of all things. He’s not sure he understands what she was hoping for in doing this any better than she might. But he lets her keep the floor, lets her speak whatever it is that weighs on her. A concession for the vileness of his own behavior, no matter how uncomfortable it makes him.
“I never doubted that Lucanis loved me. Or that he still does.” Neve pauses over it, placing her hands at her sides, fingers curling into the cushion instead of picking at her own skin as she deals with it. Whatever it is. Complex and conflicting. “But you two have something that’s unique. Different.”
Is it so different? When he considers how much trust they have between one another, and how hard it was to cultivate, he knows there’s a chance that she’s right. The friendship he and Lucanis have forged might be something different than what they have with anyone else.
“Maybe I am jealous of that.” She shrugs again, gesturing vaguely to somewhere else, somewhere Lucanis might be. “That I’m not the kind of person he can open up to, because I didn’t have the patience required. I’m not gentle enough to make him feel safe being vulnerable, I don’t know how to push without interrogating. I didn’t try. I’m not any of the things he needed long term.”
And that isn’t her fault, nor a failing on her part. Emmrich opens his mouth to tell her, to offer her the same reassurance he offered Lucanis, but she continues, a subtle crack in her voice that sounds like mourning.
“But we were good for a while. Really good.”
Yet, not made to last. Emmrich knows well what she doesn’t say. All the context between the lines, everything that came after. He doesn’t share with her the things Lucanis told him in confidence, but now, caught between them, Emmrich sees two people who loved each other deeply, but failed to be right for each other. The work required to make their relationship last wasn’t something they could manage.
Love is always work. Always compromise. Always an effort. Some people are better at finding a stride together than others. Situations change. People do. Needs evolve. There’s no denying that he and Lucanis have developed a comfortable rapport over the years they’ve known one another now. And they aren’t the only ones.
Emmrich sighs. He doesn’t want to dig into this anymore. Fingers wriggling around in a wound. It hurts too much and he’s far too tired. He looks at Neve, how unfitting defeat rests across her.
“How’s Bellara?”
Neve’s eyes dart up from the floor, widening a fraction as her cheeks flood with a sudden blush. It is her turn to feel unabashed shock at the sudden exposure of her own feelings. But it’s not defensiveness she offers. Instead, it’s a self-conscious laugh as she relaxes for the first time since they stepped over the threshold into this room.
“Is it that obvious?” she asks, a lilt in her voice that betrays her knowledge of the answer before he even gives it.
“For all that you’ve spoken of the obviousness of my feelings, you seem to have forgotten how transparent your own are.” He smiles back at her, folding his hands in his lap as he lets his own shoulders come down, too. Ease. He reaches for it. Because they are, as she’d said at the very start, friends.
“She’s good.” Neve nods, teeth catching her lower lip as she squints, considering it. “I think I’ve just about convinced her that I love her. But I don’t mind reminding her any time she asks.”
That certainly sounds like Bellara. She shouldn’t ever have to doubt, but that she has someone who won’t let her is a wonderful thing. Something Emmrich is glad for.
“That’s good. She deserves to feel that love. That support. She’s such a bright girl, and so frequently forgets herself. Her own needs. Someone ought to be around to remind her she’s loved…”
He pauses, a little chuckle passing his lips.
“And to eat. And sleep.”
Neve laughs with him, all fondness and exasperation. He can only imagine how much of a beloved chore it is. Neve has always been good at making Bellara feel supported and accepted. Urging her to take care of herself more often than even Emmrich was able to. As Neve’s laughter settles and she lets out a sigh of relief, she looks him in the eye again.
“I’m sorry I came at this so wrong, Emmrich.”
The apology is a welcome gesture, one that deserves an equally earnest return.
“I’m sorry, too. I’m usually better at keeping my head. It’s just… It’s been on my mind, and I know it’s something that’s better off left alone. But knowing doesn’t make it any easier.”
He’s not such a fool that he couldn’t see the signs that no one else is willing to ignore. The heart-fluttering anticipation of opening a letter. The empty ache brought along by distance. The ease and comfort of their rapport. The trust. The warmth. The willingness to break the bounds of convention and be affectionate, regardless of how it might look to other people. He wishes he could feign ignorance when confronted so directly instead of simply teased, but there’s no avoiding the truth.
Neve reaches over and places her hand on his knee, encouraging him with a squeeze to look at her again. She smiles at him, still worried. A more delicate kind of concern but it’s there.
“I didn’t say to give up. I said to be careful. You have to look out for yourself. Everyone has blind spots. Even someone as sharp as Lucanis.”
Emmrich’s throat shrinks; it’s hard to swallow, harder to breathe. He doesn’t want encouragement or hope. This is a thing that ought to be smothered here and now, since it wasn’t in the cradle. Nothing good could come of it. Not when there are so many demands on them both. In gaining Lucanis as a lover, if he even returned such feelings at all, Emmrich would only rob Lucanis of a friend. Give him something new to worry about.
And… It wouldn’t be fair. Emmrich still… loves Rook. His heart is so full of love for the one he lost, what could he really offer Lucanis? No. It’s a fool’s wish, to want to jump from one love to the next, no matter how long that love truly existed. If it was really meant to be, if it was mutual, surely they would have found their way to each other then, instead of falling for other people.
He wants to stop thinking about it.
“No, Neve. There’s no point in entertaining anything more than what we have. And what we have is more than enough.” It is. Their friendship is something Emmrich treasures so dearly. It’s not worth risking. Neve’s eyes search him, strip him down and peer at his vulnerable core.
“Sure,” she says. “I understand.”
Emmrich knows she does, in all the ways he wishes she didn’t. There’s a pinch of sorrow to her narrowed gaze as she gets up from her seat and heads around the backside of the couch. Her hand drifts over his shoulder, lingering there to give him one more squeeze that should feel reassuring.
It leaves him colder.
“Get some rest, Emmrich. Things will look better. Eventually.”
He hopes she’s right.
Lucanis’ arrival startles Emmrich out of his nap, a jolt, like the sensation of falling several stories, yet he’s still right where he dozed off. His back is stiff for how he’d fallen asleep sitting up on the settee, and the hearth sits dark and cold. Sunset paints the room in deep purples and vibrant oranges. Light and shadow play, cutting angles across the sparsely decorated interior. His stomach is still sour and uneasy, his body aching all over with the lingering cling of lyrium sickness. Mild a case as it is, he feels like death warmed over.
He looks over toward the door where Lucanis has stalled in his steps, eyes wide with worry, brows in that soft little tent they take on whenever he starts to fret about something. He’s unfailingly empathetic and it’s one of his finest qualities.
“Sorry—I didn’t think you’d be sleeping. At least. Not right there. The bed would have been just fine, you know. I don’t need to be in it for you to make use of it.”
Emmrich presses a smile into place as he watches Lucanis come around to set a tray on the coffee table laden with covered dishes. Even with a delicate silver cloche over each one, Emmrich can smell the rich, homey quality of Lucanis’ cooking.
He knows it to be Lucanis’ own, because there’s no one else Lucanis trusts right now to do it. What a horrifying position it must be, Emmrich thinks. And then, just after, he considers that it’s something of a boon that cooking is Lucanis’ most beloved hobby.
“I didn’t want to presume,” Emmrich says, and his voice is hoarse, like he’d spent all afternoon coughing and wheezing. Dry as a bone.
“Well I’m telling you to presume. It is better to ask forgiveness than permission, I think.” Lucanis lifts the cloche to reveal an old, familiar staple. Paella. “I trust you not to do anything nefarious in my bed.”
“Nefarious,” Emmrich echoes, drawing the word out with a small chuckle. “Like earlier?”
They really should address it. Lucanis straightens up and brushes his hands together, standing stiffly as he looks aside and grimaces. Is it really so uncomfortable? Such a… Bad thing? It was harmless, Emmrich thinks. It has to be. And they have weathered far more discomforting things over the course of their friendship. In Lucanis’ moment of hesitation, doubt is invited in, settling heavy in the center of Emmrich’s chest.
“I was wondering if you were going to bring that up.” Lucanis worries his hands together. He looks at Emmrich, expression crushed with contrition. “I want to apologize, Emmrich. I was… Not exactly in my right mind. Or awake.”
“It’s fine, Lucanis. Truly.” Emmrich offers his absolution with a smile and a wave of his hand. No apology is necessary, and the sound of it only further intensifies the weight on his sternum. “I know you wouldn’t, if you had a better handle on your faculties.”
Lucanis looks at him, eyes narrowing beneath that slanted, fretful brow. Squinting uncertainty is paired with a darting gaze, the steady flit, back and forth and Emmrich’s smile holds, though his own brow wrinkles with concerns. It really is alright. Nothing to worry about. Lucanis’ face is slow to relax, but it does, after another beat of searching silence.
“Then—All is forgiven, never speak of this again?” Lucanis asks, a glimmer of good-natured humor pulling his tone up out of a well of fear. It’s a good thing. Acknowledging it so it doesn’t fester. Moving past it with a little levity.
“Ha ha—ah,” Emmrich nods, smile stretching a little wider. “Certainly.”
“Thank the Maker. I was worried that I… That I’d made a misstep we could not come back from.” Lucanis scrubs a hand back through his hair, letting out a breath while his spine slumps.
“What misstep?” Emmrich quips. He looks off to one side, tilting his nose upward with a shrug of his shoulders, feigning innocence. “I’ve no idea what you’re on about.”
Lucanis’ close-mouthed chuckle is soft and rumbling, his smile catching Emmrich’s gaze, drawing him back from performance to look at him properly and take in the angles of his features. The warmth has returned to his color, looking better despite the harrowing ordeal he’s been through.
“You’re too good to me, Emmrich Volkarin,” Lucanis says, from somewhere at the deepest end of his register, a tone that sounds like a great cat’s purr. “A true saint among sinners.”
Emmrich doesn’t want to stand on that particular pedestal. His conversation with Neve is far too fresh in his mind. All the considerations toward how differently he and Lucanis treat one another, Rook’s letter, the implications, the feelings. Lucanis prepares a plate and sets it gently in Emmrich’s hands before uncorking a bottle of wine and pouring a pair of glasses.
“I’m really not.” Emmrich looks down at the beautiful plate so artfully and lovingly crafted. Lucanis is such a wonderful cook. It’s always touched some deep and tender part of Emmrich’s heart, one that he understands a little better the more he’s had time to consider it. He knows why having Lucanis make homey meals like this has always filled him with a sense of care that little else can touch. He looks up at Lucanis, watching the way he waves a hand and scoffs as if Emmrich is merely being humble.
“Eat,” Lucanis urges, placing a wine glass closer to Emmrich on the table as he takes a seat beside him.
Emmrich’s appetite is thin but he’s never one to turn down a meal when it’s been made for him. To do anything less than be grateful and accept the effort would be wasteful, both of the emotions behind it and the meal itself. Neve had picked it out so easily, where such a feeling comes from, how deeply rooted it is. Emmrich takes a few bites, pacing himself and his ailing body while enjoying the silent company beside him. Spite is settled and silent, too. His presence feels sleepy. Restful.
Lucanis sips his wine and Emmrich eats his food and the clock ticks by while the sun slowly sets. The light in the room grows low and Emmrich waves a weary hand to light the hearth. In the quietude of comfort, Emmrich begins to realize he cannot keep certain things to himself. All the tasks that still lay ahead of him are there, a roadmap of responsibility, one very recently taken that he feels the weight of more keenly now. The last Dellamorte in need of his help.
It feels wrong to withhold it from Lucanis when there are so few he feels he can trust. He’s not too good to Lucanis. Not a saint. He could feasibly claim to be a great man, but he doesn’t know if he’s a good one.
“There’s something I think we ought to discuss,” Emmrich says, resting his spoon in his empty dish, setting it back on the tray. He feels a little over full, but he knows his body needs it to recover. What it does not need is the next thing he reaches for. The glass poured for him. “Something that occurred when I arrived. While you were unwell.”
Lucanis turns his head where it rests against the back of the settee, looking at Emmrich with tired eyes. He seems so at ease, but the subtle tic, the tiniest wrinkle between his thick brows shows his alertness, and Emmrich knows how quickly it can become concern.
“What is it?” Lucanis asks, and Emmrich takes a sip from his glass before he answers.
Emmrich knows it’s a loaded subject he’s about to bring to the table. Lucanis has agonized over his cousin in ways that Emmrich can understand completely. Locking away someone you loved and cared for most of your life has the profound effect of making you feel like a villain no matter the reasons you’ve done it. No matter how forced the decision was, in the end.
“It’s Illario,” Emmrich says. At once, Lucanis is sitting up straighter, setting his glass aside while his eyes are quick to catalogue every inch of Emmrich’s ailing frame.
“What did he do?” Lucanis’ tone is already annoyed, disapproving, expecting something troublesome, no doubt. Emmrich sighs, running a fingertip up and down the stem of his glass as he stares into the hearth, trying to think of how best to phrase this. Maybe the most tactful approach would be to leave the strange, over familiarity Illario displayed, out.
“He asked me for a favor,” Emmrich says, his delivery carefully conversational. “One he wanted me to keep in confidence from you.”
When Emmrich looks at Lucanis he sees a narrowness there, in his rich brown gaze, a kind of suspicion that Emmrich’s skin prickles with goosebumps for. He’s not received such a gaze in a very long time and its return makes Emmrich’s stomach feel tight and cold.
“What exactly happened?” Lucanis presses, and there’s an edge to it that makes Emmrich hesitate to answer, halted as he wonders just what’s going on in Lucanis’ head. Is that… Is all that suspicion for him?
“Illario stopped me in the hall and asked me to examine him,” Emmrich says, swallowing a rising knot of unease, watching the way Lucanis’ expression takes on a steely cast that makes Emmrich feel as though they’re suddenly growing miles apart. “He has concerns for what was done to him and thinks I might be able to help him find out just what it was Zara did to give him use of Blood Magic. I told him--”
“You should have informed me right away. You shouldn’t have even spoken with him. He’s supposed to be remaining scarce.” Lucanis’ voice pierces the most vulnerable parts of Emmrich’s heart.
Lucanis sounds so angry. Betrayed. And Emmrich is quick to chase that bitterness with another mouthful of wine. Lucanis leans forward, cradling his head in his hands, fingers sunk into his hair.
Surely this can be smoothed over—Emmrich is… He’s trying to do the right thing.
“Were you not barely holding it together as it was, I would have said something sooner,” Emmrich explains. “And I had to debate with myself, just how long I was willing to go along with keeping it from you.”
His attempt at explaining himself only makes Lucanis dig his heels in harder. Stiff where he sits, he doesn’t look up, but Emmrich hopes he listens.
“I told Illario that I would share my results with you, but that I would not inform you of his request before I’d done it. It’s possible he doesn’t want to worry you over nothing.”
It's a plea for understanding, Emmrich’s tone betraying the first threads of real fear. He’s never felt afraid around Lucanis before. Not like this. The sudden panic is a symptom. He knows that symptom well. He bites the side of his tongue and takes another drink. Lucanis slowly lifts his head, elbows braced on his knees, fingers steepled against his mouth as he looks straight ahead with a downward angle to his brow. His profile, in stark relief, lit by the fire, cast against the darkening parlor, is so severe.
He straightens up and swipes a hand over his hair, smoothing it down as he finally deigns to look Emmrich’s way once more.
“Emmrich—I. What am I meant to think about this? About the strength of your word? You were going to hide this from me. You did hide it. And now... This is…” Lucanis’ expression pinches, a disquieting sneer tugging up at one corner of his mouth, wrinkling his nose, dark eyes made darker by the half-lidded gaze he only scrutinizes Emmrich with for a handful of seconds. Then it’s the hearth, those same dark eyes gleaming in the dancing orange light.
Emmrich’s chest is so tight.
“What do you want me to say, Lucanis?” He asks it quietly, breathlessly, unable to fathom why telling the truth has somehow shaken Lucanis. “I’m only trying to do the right thing.”
Lucanis takes a slow, deep breath, letting it out just as slowly. His jaw works and his expression only barely relaxes before he looks at Emmrich again.
“Can I trust you?”
Four little words may as well be a knife, splitting his belly open. Emmrich is winded and stares at Lucanis, feeling as though the sound of his heart is now the loudest thing in the room.
“Maker’s Breath,” Emmrich can scarcely believe it. “Why would you even ask me such a thing?”
If he sounds offended, then—then good. He is. After all that he’s done, all that they’ve been through, it feels deeply insulting and horribly unfair. Emmrich watches Lucanis seek an answer in the paths of grout between marble tiles. Back and forth, his eyes move, again and again while his shoulders square and he draws himself upright, grimacing, finally breaching the distance he’s placed between them with steadier eye contact.
Lucanis looks at him and Emmrich stares back, waiting for the explanation he’s owed.
It’s the longest minute Emmrich’s ever suffered through.
“Because even though you didn’t keep this from me forever, you still tried. And you gave Illario your word but are now betraying it. I have—So many people telling me things or not telling me things all the damned time, I cannot take risks anymore. I’ve already made too many mistakes in my choices.”
Lucanis’ paranoia is not unfounded, but it still stings to be found the subject of it. Emmrich tries for logic. It is the most compassionate thing he can offer when he feels like he’s lost something precious that he might not get back.
“And if I’d kept it from you forever, kept Illario’s confidence, and you found out from Illario? What then? It seems to me there’s no winning in this situation. One I did not create for myself, mind you.” The steady and even-keel delivery is practiced. The kind of poise Emmrich would show at court, he now displays for Lucanis. Calm expression, calmer words, and a quiet distance returned for the wedge that’s been driven between them.
Lucanis’ eyes widen, so soulful, so—young. How can someone so seasoned ever look so naïve? Emmrich’s own offense wanes at the sight of it. Of Lucanis regretting and afraid. Emmrich softens a little more the longer he looks.
“I… I see your point,” Lucanis concedes, so quietly Emmrich barely hears him say it. He extends a hand out across the cushions, palm offered to Lucanis, relief washing over him when Lucanis takes it. Emmrich sets aside his glass to clasp his other hand over the top of Lucanis’ own, bending and bowing to duck his head and look him in the eye.
“Fucking Illario… Some things never change,” Lucanis hisses. “I should have expected this.”
Emmrich frowns. He can’t tell if Lucanis has resolved to continue trusting him or not. There’s not enough clarity. And—And Emmrich wants to reassure him. To make sure that Lucanis knows just where Emmrich’s heart is in all of this mess.
“I am not a Crow, Lucanis,” Emmrich reminds him of this obvious fact, but not without good reason. His earnestness is rewarded with a squeeze of calloused fingers around his own. “I hold no loyalty to Illario, nor to your organization. The reason I am here is you. My loyalty has always been to you. If you begin to doubt that now, I don’t know that there’s anything more I can do for you.”
Emmrich can’t suffer another loss. He can’t stay where he’s suspected or doubted. It would hurt too much to fight against the tide of Lucanis’ mistrust a second time. It’s not a battle that Emmrich believes he can win twice. Lucanis buckles, expression twisting with his remorse.
“I’m sorry, Emmrich. It’s been a lot. All of this. Trying to be cautious. Never knowing if the people at my table are secretly waiting to knife me in the back. These attempts on my life. Caterina’s life. They’ve shaken me more than I’d like.” Lucanis reaches for his own glass and downs half in a single gulp, wincing as he swallows and then hastily sets it down again, rubbing his fingers across his mouth while he sighs through his nose.
“Be that as it may, you reached out to me for a reason,” Emmrich replies. “That reason, I hope, is one not so easily shaken.”
“I—No. No it isn’t.” Lucanis shakes his head, adamancy evident in the motion. “I trust you, Emmrich. You may be the only person I do trust right now. All this business with the Crows, the refugees, Illario… Neve. It’s… I’m not trying to make excuses.”
Emmrich wishes Lucanis could have taken even an hour to rest after his cleansing. He’s stretched so thin and worried over so much. Emmrich can forgive him. And Emmrich suspects that there’s a reason that he’s trying to explain himself. It’s a quirk of his personality that Emmrich has learned the source of in snippets, things Lucanis confessed as if they were normal and not the signs of a deeply traumatic upbringing.
“I know that,” Emmrich says. “But… Does Madam Dellamorte see it the same way?”
Lucanis scoffs, bitterness making him tense where he sits, eyes narrowed once more.
“No. She’s angry. Furious, even. That I let things get this bad, that I brought a foreign necromancer in to help deal with our problems.” Lucanis swears under his breath and growls. “I wish she’d just strip me of this damned title and be done with it. There’s no pleasing her, even when more than half of the moves I make in this role are ones she dictates.”
The unfairness is a foul thing to try and swallow. All of the responsibility, but none of the control that comes with the position. Lucanis is suffering for choices that aren’t necessarily his own. It is easy to point the finger and place blame, but things are rarely so cut and dry.
It refreshes just how much Emmrich knows about how little of Lucanis’ life had really been his choice. He’d wanted to be a Crow. But this? The thing he was groomed for and handed without a chance to say no… Emmrich knows what it is to be stuffed into a box made of external expectations. He squeezes Lucanis’ hand in his grasp.
“Then don’t let her dictate. Being half in and half out isn’t helping you get anything done. It’s actively putting you in danger.” He could say it more respectfully, but the time for delicacy has passed. Lucanis nearly died in this position. He shouldn’t be handicapped if he’s to keep carrying it. “Tell me what you want to do. I’ll help you do it. I know you wouldn’t bring Illario back from Velabanchel without good reason. What’s your plan, Lucanis? Let me support it.”
Lucanis picks up his glass and drains it, staring down into the empty bulb for a beat. Emmrich scoots a little closer on the sofa, their knees brushing as he bends into intimate space. It’s too close. He shouldn’t allow himself these moments, but he doesn’t know another way. This is what’s always felt right. It still does.
“I don’t want to lose you. You don’t have to carry this burden alone. Don’t follow in Rook’s footsteps and leave the person who cares for you in the dark. I couldn’t help him, but I can help you, Lucanis. If you let me.”
It’s pressure, Emmrich knows, but after all this, what choice does he have?
“Alright,” Lucanis sighs, relenting and setting his cup down on the table. He lays his hand on top of Emmrich’s own and fixes him with his dark-eyed stare with his mouth stretched in a grim, crooked line across his face. He bows his head and his shoulders slump, his next words so tired and broken, Emmrich’s heart sinks at the sound of them.
“I’ll tell you.”
Notes:
This Chapter Brought To You By:
- Staying Hydrated... too hydrated.
- Failed attempts at napping.
- Successful attempts at napping.
- Jeffiot's Toy Story 4 Rant
- Sad Divide by Autoheart on repeat
- jescalin (yes i'm saying it again)
- The Worst Cowtail I Have Ever Tasted (the candy not... not an actual... you know what. doesn't matter. imagine me nomming on an actual cow's tail it's fine.)Until next time!!
Chapter 13: Illario
Notes:
Hi. Hello. It is me. Once more we venture into some divergent headcanon territory in this chapter in how I think certain things work and happened, as well as my answers to questions that went unanswered and unexplored in canon. I hope y'all enjoy this one. >:3 That's all I'm gonna say about it. BIG BIG BIG Thank you to Jesscalin for encouraging me to do this chapter in this way and as always, giving me feedback to help me keep this train movin' in the right direction. Please show my brilliantly talented bestie some love guys. They have been putting in work on this too, and I am so grateful for them.
Additional and equally ardent gratitude to everyone who comments on this work as I write it. Y'all-- I couldn't do it without you. <3
ANYWAY. Here we FUCKEN GO.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s just a room. A room with peeling wallpaper that Caterina never bothered to have mended. Humidity seeped beneath and softened the glue over time, leaving it wafting in the breeze. Illario always preferred to have his windows open.
“I didn’t know you played,” Emmrich says to him, and Illario smiles up at him from his place seated on the floor, back resting against the base of the chair behind him, oozing charm as he turns the keys on the headstock of his guitar. Left without a hand to pick it up, to play it and check the tension of each strand stretched across it, the neck is just the tiniest bit warped. Tricky, but not impossible to tune for. He’ll need to have it repaired.
“Every man needs a hobby,” Illario replies as he plucks silk-wound gut. “I thought it might impress girls. Or boys. I was never picky. I just liked the attention. I’m sure Lucanis has told you.”
Emmrich shifts where he sits in Illario’s bedroom, hands folded together in his lap, staring at him with a crease digging deeper and deeper between his handsomely sculpted brows. Illario can tune by ear—the right note makes itself known, if one knows how to listen for it. Once the first is found, the rest fall in line so easily. So how tight, he wonders, must he wind Emmrich to strike the proper chord in the end. People are not so different from guitars, keys that need turned in order to produce the right sounds, gain the desired results.
Emmrich looks uncomfortable.
Illario thinks it’s best he stays that way, for the time being.
“Lucanis has only ever mentioned that your love life tends to be… chaotic. Having met Zara Renata, I’m inclined to agree.”
Illario plucks the G just a little too hard. It gives a loud twang when striking the body of the guitar as he hears her name again; it’s an appropriately sour note. Zara.
“It’s funny. Everyone seems to assume that I was in love with her—The truth, Emmrich, is that I have never been in love with anyone. Passion comes easy, but love is a commitment that leaves you open to devastation. But perhaps I am preaching to the choir, in saying as much to you.”
Emmrich is so still, his poise nearly unshakable. Nearly. The telltale twitch of his fingers where they rest in his lap and a wincing around the eyes so subtle it barely reaches the crows feet that rest at the corners. Irritation, one hidden behind a mask of blank professionalism. It’s impressive. Illario plucks a few more times as he turns the key. There—There it is. He moves to the next, plucking the strings one after another in succession to hear how they compliment each other. He doesn’t look at Emmrich. He doesn’t need to.
“I’ve come for a reason, yet you seem more interested in stalling,” Emmrich’s voice is crisp. Professionally cold. He knows how to deal with difficult people. Given his upbringing, Illario isn’t surprised to experience it in action. When given a chance to prepare, Emmrich seems quite steady. It’s a shame, Illario thinks, that he could not catch him by surprise a second time.
“Is it so strange? Were you in my position, how much hesitation would you show?”
“Afraid I’ll see something you don’t want me to know?”
“Of course. There’s plenty I prefer not to share,” Illario strums his fingers across the strings and the sound is melodic. His fingers pluck a sultry rhythm, the other hand gliding up and down the fretboard. Muscle memory is a beautiful thing. It’s the simple things he’d missed while in prison.
“Well, that’s a risk you’ll have to accept taking.”
Illario looks toward the windows, flung wide, the purple sky dotted with stars, fingers working out the stiffness of disuse, up and down, a flow and rhythm that’s familiar to him. Emmrich sits there, hands in his lap, staring, waiting, with nothing more he can do but listen. Wafting notes and humid air. The scent of slow burning incense by the bed. A bottle of wine open and half finished on the table. Emmrich shifts in his seat and Illario’s eyes dart upward, looking at him, not out of necessity, but curiosity.
Intentioned, complex melody pours from the guitar at Illario’s behest, something somber yet romantic, and Emmrich’s eyes are fixed across the room. He’s looking at the door.
“I suppose you’re right,” dancing fingers, humming strings, sonorous vibrations, “I have to simply… Accept it.”
Illario places his hand flat against the strings, halting the flow of his song, watching the way Emmrich flinches at the abrupt sound of palm striking wood. Illario smiles up at him, setting his guitar aside, clearing his throat.
“Forgive me if it’s too personal a question, but I am curious about why you avoid looking at me like you do. Is it—the obviousness of where I’ve been? Or is it something else.” Illario gets up from the floor, unfolding fluidly after so many months growing accustomed to being so low to the ground, hauled to his feet from chilly stone, again and again and again. Illario’s last name did not spare him the cruel and unusual pleasures those within the walls of Valebanchel look to for diversion from their miserable lot; though Lucanis needn’t know that until a time such a piece of knowledge would be useful to share. Emmrich—his brows, drawn into that disquieted little furrow… The press of his lips together in a thin line beneath his moustache, so neatly trimmed and carefully shaped….
Can he feel it in the air?
Smell it, maybe.
Illario walks over to where Emmrich is perched in the absolute center of the sofa and invites himself to lean, one hand braced against the backrest, fingers curled around ornately carved wood as he imposes on the necromancer with his presence. Illario’s hair falls forward over his shoulder, long, wavy strands that block his peripheral vision, but frame his face in shadow. Emmrich looks up at him, eyes narrowing a fraction. So… Stern. Paternal, in a way. Like a disappointed father.
Illario can work with that.
“Sorry to have forced your hand,” Illario muses, tilting his head to one side as his eyes rake to take in all the subtle tics and movements that most people don’t even realize they have. It’s the little things that make up the whole of a person’s state of being. Tiny fragments like tiles in a mosaic. Each is a part of a grander picture, but one has to look and see that there are separate parts to fully appreciate the individual masterpiece.
Emmrich is a real piece of work. Less tells than most. Or more practiced at self control. Temperence and poise. There is part of Illario that wonders how far he’d have to push to truly rattle that composure of his.
“I don’t know what your aim is. I came here, at your request, to help you.”
“Is it not obvious? I want to know what it is about you that has my cousin trusting you so completely. Enough to let you sleep in his own bed.”
Emmrich’s eyes widen a fraction, a break in the carefully constructed defenses he carries himself with.
“You think I don’t know how to find out what’s going on in my own childhood home? I may have been defeated but I’m still a Crow. Who received the same training as Lucanis. Or did you forget?” Amusing as it is to watch Emmrich balk and tense, Illario carries on, speaking plainly.
“I’m not up to anything nefarious. Merely keeping myself informed and keeping up appearances. Someone has to sell the lie Lucanis wants to tell, and there is no one better at such a thing than me.”
A drip feed, like honey off a wand, drizzled into the moment. Emmrich’s grimace is telling. He doesn’t believe Illario’s being fully honest with him. That’s fine. Illario reaches down and his fingertips drift, hovering just above Emmrich’s collar bone.
“You never answered my question,” Illario says, “but I’ll take that to mean it is personal.”
Illario backs off, pushing his hair away from his face with a sweep of his hand as he makes his way toward the windows, folding his arms across his chest as he gazes out into the view of the courtyard below. Emmrich stands slowly, smoothing his hands down the front of his well-tailored frock-coat. Antivan make, deep navy, golden buttons, the high collar of his bone-pale shirt is buttoned beneath the chin, held in place with his pin, gold chains, grave gold on his arms, and a black leather glove on one hand.
A purchase made here? Or—More likely. A gift. Familiar craftsmanship. The Dellamorte tailor… Illario narrows his eyes, lips curling upward at one corner yet again. Emmrich’s hair falls over his brow just after it’s been pushed back, refusing to cooperate with him, the Antivan humidity working against the concept of a composed appearance.
“If you’re done stalling…” Emmrich’s trailing suggestion, no matter how measured, implies just how much he wants to get this over with. Illario rakes his gaze down Emmrich’s frame, then up again, trying to catch those hazel eyes with his own, but they’re looking elsewhere. So stiffly adamant in their avoidance. Curious. Very curious.
“I could stall all night, actually. What’s more, you would probably enjoy it if you let yourself relax, Professor. I can be very good company. Don’t let my reputation fool you.”
“Had I not experienced your reputation firsthand I might be more inclined to believe you.”
“What would it take to earn your forgiveness, I wonder? Are you really holding a grudge?”
“Not a grudge. A healthy suspicion, perhaps. Caution.”
“What good would killing you now really do me?”
“My life is not the one I’m concerned for,” Emmrich states, calmly. Plain and stiff. “You may be an assassin, know your way around weapons, but I shouldn’t need to remind you that I am one.”
Outside of Nevarra, few would ever allow Emmrich to forget it, of that Illario is certain. The Antivan circles are a scrupulous and suffocating organization, the templars known for how stalwartly they keep their mages locked away. The few among the Crows that exist have to keep their heads down, their identities quiet, and were purchased for a price that would make any slaver salivate. Ugly business. And it is precisely that ugly business that makes Emmrich’s presence here a delicate matter, even more so for the position he now holds as an ambassador to the Nevarran throne.
Illario’s eyes dart from crown to toe, then up once more. A tall, broad-shouldered man, in a well cut pair of trousers, coat, and boots. If one were to simply glance his way, the assumption would not be necromancer. Certainly not weapon. Definitely Lucanis’ doing. He wants to protect Emmrich.
“Do you need to draw the blood, or do I?” Illario asks, turning to face Emmrich fully, holding out his palm. Emmrich reaches into his coat, along his hip, and draws a small blade, needle-like in its delicate design. The sort of thing that could puncture a throat and at first, one might not feel more than a prick and a pinch before it’s too late. Illario places his hand in Emmrich’s as the mage comes to stand before him, cupping Illario’s scarred knuckles in his gloved hand. Just a quick little cut, tip of the blade to the tip of Illario’s index finger. Enough to make it well and bead. That’s all Emmrich needs to pull.
It's a peculiar sensation, feeling blood being siphoned from a wound. It’s like a little red thread that Emmrich winds around his finger. It’s a thimbleful at most, but every drop bears a sensation of loss when it’s drawn from Illario’s fingertip. Acutely aware, the barely-there sting of the cut is less painful than a slice from the edge of a piece of fine vellum, and mildly fascinating. The way Emmrich cajoles that little bit of blood into a sphere and casts it into the hearth, setting it alight with glittering brightness and shifting colors, is nothing like the sort of magic he’d seen Zara do. The fireplace breathes, exhales, the sound of something alive and whispering from within the rising smoke that wafts up the chimney sends a shiver down Illario’s spine.
Emmrich watches, listens, tense, and his grip tightens around Illario’s hand, a tiny display of reflexive nerves. He doesn’t like what he’s learning, but Illario has no context for it. He can’t read such signs from the Fade. There is a cooling sensation that follows Emmrich’s grimacing sigh. Gentle magic that wraps around Illario’s finger, the wound closing to nothingness, not so much as a faint scratch left behind. Illario takes his hand back, flexing his fingers in and out of a fist as he watches Emmrich keep his pensive gaze fixed on the flames. This initial perusal of the content of Illario’s blood is only the first step. The least invasive one. It already appears as though Emmrich has concerns, and Illario decides not to press.
He moves away from the windows, toward the chairs and sofa once more, favoring a glass of wine over asking questions he desperately wants answers to. This is the delicate part. Emmrich might find something that could spell Illario’s untimely death by necessity, and he does not want to die. Not now.
“Illario… I need you to be honest with me,” Emmrich says, and it makes Illario’s stomach plummet to hear how gently he says it. Illario skips the glass and drinks from the bottle instead, leaving his back to the necromancer, feeling every single muscle in his back begin to pull tight.
“I’m an open book,” Illario chirps, all smooth confidence and he twirls on his heel with a crooked, rogue’s smile. Emmrich’s frown is eerily paternal and so full of disappointment. He must seem like he’s not taking this very seriously. Emmrich crosses the space between them, long-legged strides making it seem as though he’s stepped through the Fade itself to come and relieve Illario of his bottle, setting it back on the table with a sharp ‘thunk’.
“Your parents,” Emmrich starts, and Illario takes a step back, the mask slipping in an instant, brows lifting toward his hairline. “Were they both human?”
The question may as well be a knife, the way it slips so swiftly between Illario’s ribs, the air in his lungs gone out. Deflated. He feels like he can’t inhale. He doesn’t talk about them. Doesn’t want to think about them. He was so young when it happened, but not too young to remember what it looked like. What happened. For a brief moment he’s five years old again, just barely, tucked behind the wall of his bedroom, hands still warm with blood. He remembers the look in his mother’s eyes as she pushed him into the hidden compartment. He remembers hearing the fight. Hearing his mother choke. Hearing the clatter of weapons and the scuffing of boots as they searched for him, but couldn’t find him.
He remembers coming out of hiding hours later, trembling, terrified, hungry and cold.
He remembers how pale she was in the light of sunrise pouring through his open bedroom window.
“Yes,” Illario exhales, his eyes unfocused, unseeing for a few seconds more. And then his eyes dart upward, looking into the softness of hazel sympathy. Emmrich’s jaw is so tight, Illario can imagine enamel bending beneath the pressure of such a clench. And then the gentlest hand touches his shoulder, the other gestures toward the mess of a four-poster that Illario has tossed and turned on since coming home. Most nights he finds himself waking on the floor in a tangle of sheets and cold sweat, instead of comfortably cradled in soft feather-down.
No one comes in to make it for him. No one ever has. He rarely sees the point unless it’s time to change the bedding. Illario stares at the bed and opens his mouth, a pithy tease coming to the tip of his tongue on reflex but it stops at his teeth. He bites down, crooked grin beneath furrowed brows, a half laugh, half sigh passing through instead.
“Right. Okay… As you wish, necromancer.”
Illario moves around the furniture with the taste of wine souring on the back of his tongue. Drawing blood was the easy part, letting Emmrich do what he must to peruse the composition and perhaps glean greater understanding without being quite as invasive as he’s about to be. As they make their way over, Emmrich grabs a chair by its backing, dragging it along behind him on two legs across the marble floors toward the bed, swinging it around to face the edge of the bed. Illario takes a seat on the edge, fingers smoothing over the rumpled sheets along the mattress as he stares at the floor, at Emmrich’s boots as they come into view, the closeness now stifling.
“Lie back and close your eyes. I will do the rest. I must ask that you don’t fight me, if you can manage it,” Emmrich says quietly. “Before I begin… Have you been recalling your dreams more clearly since Zara bestowed you with this gift? Or perhaps seen them more vividly?”
Illario settles against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, folding his fingers together along his stomach as he tries to remain lax and casual, but there’s no avoiding the line of tension down his spine that doesn’t want to let up. The mattress is too soft. Lumpy in some places. He takes a deep breath through his nose, catching salt air, the tang of blood, and the sweetness of flowers and incense that waft from Emmrich on the breeze. He closes his eyes.
“Maybe. I hadn’t really given it much thought,” Illario admits, and his honesty feels a little too vulnerable. What is Emmrich hoping to understand from such an answer? Illario is sure that they’ll both know more than they truly want to before long.
“Try to. This is important.”
Illario thinks on it, considers his last few dreams, the ones he’s had over the years, and he recalls them better than he’d like to. Most of them are nightmares. Some of them were twisted reflections of memories. Some of them were red… Just red.
“Yes… I think so.”
Emmrich sighs and Illario listens to the shifting of fabric as the mage moves. A hand rests against his brow, gloved palm warm and heavy there.
“I need you to think back to when it began. I want you to focus your mind on the memories surrounding Zara. What she did for you. What she said. We’ll recover your memory of that night. Nothing is truly gone forever, only waiting to be found within the Fade.” Emmrich’s hand is so gentle. Those gloved fingers brush Illario’s hair away from his face, then cover his closed eyes.
“Sleep,” Emmrich says, low, dulcet, and before Illario’s next breath, his eyes flutter shut and he sinks into total darkness.
It’s so dark. Inky depths and a navy sky…
Illario is standing on a dock, looking out at the water. He feels the sting of welling emotion in his eyes, in the back of his throat, crawling like fire ants up into his nasal passages, the urge to weep becoming overwhelming. The view of the water is hazy, everything is cast in desaturated greys and eerie greens. The glittering black of the water is muted, the moon seeming to cast no light, the stars dim overhead, and the ship is a shape on the horizon, farther away with every passing second. The sound of boots behind him clunking and creaking across the water-logged wood makes him flinch, turn, and look.
There is a man on the dock that Illario doesn’t recognize. Tall and thin. Broad shoulders and kind eyes. Silver hair adorned with a single dark, heather grey streak. He’s wearing Antivan finery, though he doesn’t carry himself like a noble. His hands folded together behind his back, shoulders lax, head tilted to one side as he looks at Illario, then past him out into the gloom. When Illario looks again, for that ship on the horizon, there is nothing but fog to be seen, misty over the lapping waters beneath the dock. It stretches on forever in every direction and the skyline of Rialto is a smudge of dark shapes when he whips back around to look at the man again.
“What’s… Happening?” Illario asks, and his voice seems to carry much farther than he’s expecting. A wavy sort of echo following it. The man before him offers a weak smile.
“I think you might know better than me. I’m here to help you, Illario. Do you remember who I am?”
Illario’s instinctual mistrust was hammered into him from a young age. The hard thwack of a cane along his back, hard enough to make skin split and bruises last so long he had to grow comfortable with sleeping on his stomach. Yet, some part of him feels as though he does know this man. He should remember.
“Are you one of Zara’s people?” Which, truthfully, would be more reason to not trust the man before him. The man chuckles, as if it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. As if it’s a particularly funny joke. Illario tenses and his fingers curl into fists, then relax, one hand moving toward the knife at his hip.
“No. I’m your backup. You should get going. You don’t want to be late for your meeting,” the man suggests. The meeting—Illario remembers now, what he’s meant to be doing. He takes a few steps, and the dock fades beneath his feet, old hardwood floors forming before him, wooden planks turning over and spanning outward, darkness encroaching as he passes the man on the docks and ventures onward, quickly, through the foyer.
This is the place. Zara had promised that if he was patient, it would all be for the best. Everyone would get what they wanted. Illario only has a few hours to spare before he needs to be ready for the wake. He adjusts his gloves, straightens his collar. Dark black attire, a lump in his throat, and a script in his back pocket. How many times has he read it? It needs to be convincing.
She’s waiting at the top of the staircase, her hair draped down the open back of her gown, black satin trickling down the dark wood, her nails the color of blood, the varnish made with venom, the glint in her eye as she gives a half turn to look at him ties his stomach in knots. She’s his. Wrapped around his finger. He’s sure of it. Because he has to be. He mounts the stairs two at a time, rushing to her side, arm sweeping around her slender waist as she reaches for him, her hands ice cold against his face.
“Amatus.”
“I can’t stay long,” Illario purrs, and the words taste acrid on his tongue, but she’s pressing against him, breast flush to his chest, arms winding around his neck like a noose as she draws him in closer.
“Mmm… I know, I know. It’s a big night for you… The first of many. Everything… You’ve ever wanted. Right at your fingertips.” Her fingertips brush against the back of his neck, dragging through the closely shorn hair at the base of his skull. He kisses her and tastes the powdery softness of her lipstick.
“All thanks to you,” he tells her. Her laugh is maliciously sweet.
“Oh, come now. Don’t devalue the role you had to play.” She smiles up at him, something sharp and cold while his hand sweeps up her spine and he ushers her toward the interior, to the bedroom, to the role he has to play. It’s comforting in a way, to go through such motions. He’s always been better at this part than Lucanis. Better at making a mark trust him, letting him get close. But Zara’s not marked for death. She’s marked as a tool. A means to an end and a messy entanglement he will continue to endure until he finds the right time and the right way to separate from her.
Such a time is not forthcoming.
He slips her dress off her shoulders at the foot of the bed, he pushes her into red sheets and she sinks. He moves to follow her, and his knees buckle. His vision blurs. Intoxication grips like a vice, squeezing his insides, his stomach sour and his head congested. He hiccups a sob and almost loses his footing entirely, stumbling along. The bed looks so soft--
Viago holds him up. His grip is unkind. Unforgiving. He doesn’t know what Illario’s done. No one here knows. He got away with it. He did it. All he was ever meant to do and now it’s done. He sucks in a wet, congested breath.
“Did I ever tell you—” Illario croaks. His throat feels raw and his face is smothered. The saccharine smell of Viago’s poison floods his nose as linen scratches against his cheeks. Illario falls into the sheets. He falls for what feels like forever. He falls until he hits solid ground.
Cold. Stone. The gleam of the chandelier above shines into his eyes as blood pools beneath his cheek, spilling from his mouth and nose. He’s dizzy. He’s tired. He’s so tired. He only has to endure until she’s done—Until she’s gone. And then… Then. But Maker help him how is he going to get through it alone?
Zara makes for poor company.
Her comfort is a cold touch and a colder laugh.
“Get up!”
Caterina’s voice snaps at him as swift as the foot of her cane comes down on his hand. Pain blooms in his palm and he lets out a feeble groan.
“Foolish boy.”
Illario grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. The marble is so cold beneath his cheek. Cold. Everything is so cold and he wishes it would swallow him up entirely. He feels like a child before her. Resentful. Regretful. Frustrated. Lonely. He wishes Lucanis was here. He wishes things hadn’t come to this. Everything he ever wanted. That’s what Zara had said when they struck their deal. But was this truly what he wanted?
“Get up… Illario, you need to get up. Come now, on your feet,” softer voice. Gentler hands. Illario flinches as he shifts, and a steady grasp helps pull him up onto his feet. He’s there again. The gentleman with silver hair, kind eyes, dressed in Antivan finery. Backup. He’s still here? Has he been watching from the shadows all this time? An entire year, shifting around in the periphery? Illario’s head is pounding. The man’s touch is gentle.
“You’re almost there. You need to keep going. I promise it will be alright,” the man says, so delicately, with such a depth of sympathy. He’s warm. His presence is comforting. He smells of night-blooming jasmine and sticky myrrh… frankincense. Bergamot. Illario’s head throbs and his blood runs hotter. Too hot. He feels feverish.
“What is this?” Illario asks, reaching with shaky hands to grasp at the man’s arms.
“It’s what happened. As you remember it… You’ll get through it. You already did,” the man assures him, a hand braced against his cheek, holding him steady. “I’ll be right behind you. Everything will be okay.”
Illario can’t really place why he believes this man or feels so reassured by his presence, his words, as if some part of him knows, deeply, irrevocably, that this man won’t lie to him. That he really is here to help. He wants to recall his name, but he can’t say he’s ever heard it. Despite everything, he trusts and believes. Caterina would be so disappointed in him.
The man turns him around by the shoulders and urges him to take the next steps. Through the main foyer of Villa Dellamorte. Out into the courtyard and as he rounds the bend he stands at the edge of a garden party beneath the shadow of the Archon’s Palace. Tevinter mages in their ostentatious robes, sharp shoulders, slim waists, serpent motifs. Red and black and gold. Zara is there, on a chaise lounge on the lawn, beckoning to him with a crook of her finger.
“There you are, Amatus. I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” she coos at him. Her hair spills like ink over her bare shoulders, the draped red fabric of her dress adorned with glittering stones that sparkle like freshly spilled blood. She is cascading decadence and Illario knows her supple demeanor is a lie. But he’s come this far. He’s already sunk all of himself into this.
“We need to talk… Amatus.” His gruff tone causes the faintest flicker of uncertainty to alight in her eyes. Sudden proof that he does have her heart, but not her ambition, clearly.
“Not here,” she says, casting a wary glance around the party. She slowly rises and slips her chilly fingers into his hand, dragging him along, weaving through the social elite. How many are Venatori, Illario couldn’t say for certain, but enough that he knows he must tread carefully. He is not Lucanis, and though Lucanis is alive, he cannot count on his cousin to save him from this.
Beneath a trellis, deeper into the topiary, through winding hedges, hiding away in a shadowy corner, they come to a stop. The breeze rustles through the leaves and he corners her in the well-trimmed branches, unbothered by the sudden wideness of her eyes. Boldly, he reaches for her throat, a gentle grasp, thumb brushing over her pulse as it flutters. He smiles for her, waits for her to relax, despite the way the tiny branches scratch at her skin and catch in her hair. He leans, close, head tilting, and then his grip tightens. A squeeze of pressure against the vein, and she make a strangled sound that is pure vindication. He presses close to her ear.
“You liiiiied to me, Zara… I appreciate the assist with Caterina. The generosity of your cooperation… And that of the other Venatori… but then you ran before we could discuss things properly… It hurt my feelings. What… are we going to do about that?” He croons for her, taunting as his hand slips down her throat, brushing his fingertips against her decolletage, following the curving edge of red fabric.
Her breath flutters in her throat, chest heaving as she looks up at him through thick, dark lashes, pale eyes darting across his face.
“I didn’t lie… I said… Lucanis would be taken care of. And he was until that meddlesome Grey Warden got involved. A hiccup.”
Illario bares his teeth.
“You turned my cousin into an abomination!”
“Amatus, please—I can ensure you still get what you want. But times change. Plans… Change. I need you to trust that I have your best interest at heart. I’m… the only one… who does.”
She strokes her fingers over his cheek, and he flinches from her touch, sneering, brows sore from the depth of frustration in his furrow. She can’t possibly be right about that. It’s too bleak a concept to consider, but given what options he has now… He needs Lucanis to stay away. Far away. This can still work out. What Illario does know, is that he doesn’t want to have to kill Lucanis a second time. The first was hard enough.
What she made him into… It’s reason enough for Lucanis to stay far, far away. Isn’t it? His chest throbs with an indescribable pain. She leads him in, gentle, frigid touch, softly purring, clicking her tongue.
“My poor darling… Don’t worry. I’ll make it all better. I just need a little time… and cooperation. And then the Crows will thrive under your leadership, with a new partnership. The world is changing, and we must change with it if we are to rule within it.”
It doesn’t take a genius to see that she’s right. Things are changing. The world is shifting uneasily beneath his feet and the Venatori are more powerful than ever… Treviso is under siege at this very moment. An allyship as he takes power could turn the tide against the Antaam. Secure his city and his legacy. The Crows could be strong again. Wings no longer clipped. He has to hold onto that, or he might just lose his mind.
“Fine,” Illario rasps. “I’ll give you time. A week. And then I need some proof that we are truly as aligned as you say, Zara. I will not suffer another betrayal. It would break my heart.”
She kisses him and it tastes of blood and wine.
When he pulls back the world dims around them, her laughter cold and cruel.
He backs away, several steps, the cobbled path melting and morphing until it’s creaking, wooden and gleaming. The walls of greenery stretch and grow, curving overhead, leaves rotting on branches, falling in a shower of decay as he stumbles over his feet to get away. Away from the sight of her blood red silhouette. He feels as though his lungs are filling with sand. Heavy, dry, choking, vision blurring.
His spine hits the wall of her chambers. She’s inescapable. This—This is the path he’s chosen. The only one that he has anymore. The only one that makes sense. If he can’t be forgiven, he will not be beaten. The fire in the hearth flickers with a gleaming white heat, sparks of eerie blue and green dancing out onto the floor as it roars and rages. The air feels thin and cold despite the blaze. Zara stands before her mirror, dripping red from her fingertips as she paints her power across it. She’s whispering to the surface in a language Illario doesn’t speak. The mirror shows no reflection, only a swirling darkness in the glass. He feels a rising tide of anxiety for what awaits. What comes next.
There is movement in his periphery, to the right, near the door, and when he glances, there stands the kind-eyed man, cast in shadow. It’s as if the light of the hearth stops just before it reaches the tips of his sleek black boots. His expression is so solemn. Things look grim, don’t they? Illario is afraid. But the man gives a single nod. It’s slow and shallow, but the gesture is clear. Illario has to go through with it. This has already happened. He’s been here before. It’s going to be okay.
But it isn’t okay…
His legs feel shaky beneath him, every step feeling like a hard-won battle. He knows what’s coming. What he’ll see in that mirror is a horror beyond reason, one he doesn’t want to see again, but he has to. There’s a reason he’s here again, revisiting and reliving this moment. It’s not a dream it’s his lived reality. History repeating and the agony of transformation is right there, just beyond Zara’s fingertips. The figure in the mirror beyond reveals that it’s no ordinary mirror. The glass ripples and the view beyond is a sprawling, blight-riddled vista, a throne of living gore and agony, wailing and breathing, lungs that fill and bloat, mouths that cry, eyes spinning in a twisted seat of power, unable to cry, but their pain is unimaginable within the sinewy composition of a sinister display of dehumanization.
She is all spindles, all rot, the mother of monsters—her boils and her teeth and her tendrils of warped flesh pass through the glass and bleed into Zara’s palm. It’s a gift, she says. But when Zara turns to him, coos and shushes him when he tries to take a step back, he’s lost in a snare. Fetid blood smeared across his lips and flooding his mouth. He chokes on it. The taste of spoiled meat and rusty iron. It’s in his nose, coating his throat, thick and coagulated and it burns as Zara whispers over him, granting him change. Granting him power. Blood magic birthing blood magic—The Fade rips a hole open in his soul, and he feels it. His mind is bleeding and the surge of power in every cell is as close to being burned alive as Illario will likely ever feel.
He’s different. He doesn’t feel like himself. He can’t weep. He can’t scream. And at the end of it all, Zara is there, shushing and cooing and stroking his hair as he lays across her lap, trembling like a child. Shock sets in and he feels numb.
He closes his eyes—darkness coils around him. It’s not peaceful… It feels like a death.
He gasps for breath as wakefulness reaches him. Lurching up from his bed he blinks rapidly, gripping at the sheets as his chest heaves again and again, his heart racing while he tries to make sense of his reality. Is he awake? Or is this… Or is this more of the nightmare he’d made of his life? Choice by rotten choice, ruled by fear of losing, of withering, of being forgotten.
Left behind.
“You’re alright—Easy, Illario, you’re alright,” that gentle voice with all its posh affectation grabs his attention just before a warm, steady hand presses against his back, resting between his shoulders. Emmrich. He’s here. And Illario knows it’s him more clearly now, mind feeling less lost in the haze of the past, slowly becoming more present than before. It’s a tender thing, the way Emmrich rubs circles along his spine, like a parent comforting a child. Illario’s skin feels sticky with cold sweat and Treviso’s humidity weighs heavy on him now. His bones ache, joints feeling stiff and muscles tight with anxiety. Burning. Still burning.
But he doesn’t want to sit with it. There was a purpose to revisiting all of it. Going back to see what he could truly remember of that moment that had been buried and obscured by Zara’s cruel touch. Emmrich said he had to see for himself, in order to try and grasp the nature of the change. The details that always feel so fuzzy when Illario tries to recall them in his waking hours are now crisp and clear. But all this painful recollection and revealing vulnerability had a purpose—
“So? What did you learn?” Illario asks, his voice cracking when he speaks, revealing just how deep the terror of this particular event still runs. It’s too exposing. He straightens his spine, breathing deeply. A mask is easy to reach for. Steady, unbothered, but there’s no going back now that he’s been so seen. Not really. This time, when he postures and pretends, it’s for his own sake, not Emmrich’s. But it’s a feeble success. Maybe not a success at all. Much as he tries, Illario can feel the way his face twitches and his body trembles to betray him.
Emmrich’s hand slips away and Illario’s stomach drops like a stone. He is adrift, floating in a sea of isolation. He doesn’t look at Emmrich, but rather, straight ahead, across the room toward the hearth.
“Lucanis’ plan isn’t going to work,” Emmrich says. There’s something in his whispering tone, an edge of nervousness that bears the faintest tinge of sorrow. “You have to be kept away from the Venatori at all costs.”
Illario sits with this observation of Emmrich’s, turning it over in his mind… What could he possibly have to fear from the Venatori now? What was it about this that has made Emmrich suddenly so afraid. He slowly turns his head, gaze falling upon the necromancer. Pale, frowning, eyes wide, brows drawn. Shock. Uncertainty. Terror. He’s not looking at Illario, his eyes unfocused and downcast. Illario almost finds the nerve to press him for further explanation, but he can’t quite find his voice. That terror is contagious. Whatever Zara did to him is as bad, or maybe worse than Illario had feared. After a few more agonizing beats of silence, Emmrich snaps out of his frozen moment, drawing his eyes up to meet Illario’s own.
“Zara is only the instrument through which you were changed,” Emmrich says, his voice hoarse, jaw tight. His fingers curl against the arm of his chair, leather glove creaking with the tension of his grip. “What is within you… What’s made you what you are now… Is the blood of Ghilan'nain.”
It’s an answer both terrible and befitting. Illario stares at his hands, rubbing a thumb across the lines in his palm, digging into the meat and sinew that make up this wretched body. Is it still his own? Is he still himself? Can he ever truly know? The rising gorge within him, cold and nauseating, clings to his throat, feeling sticky, and his mouth floods—wet with the urge to be sick all over the bed. A flash of her face in the murky glass. Zara’s hand on his face, cold and sharp. He flinches, squeezes his eyes shut, and tucks his head toward his chest as he breathes. A few long moments of silence are enough to gather himself to speak.
“As I told you… My memory of that night has been clouded since it occurred,” Illario says, hushed and unable to hide that he’s shaken. Emmrich’s guided path through the deeper recesses of his own mind may give them greater understanding, but at the cost of what little plausible deniability Illario had left within himself. “I nearly wish it still was.”
He hears Emmrich shift and the chair creak beneath his weight. Illario looks over at him, eyes feeling hot and tired, watering when he takes his next breath. Emmrich’s every muscle is rigid, his face uncomfortably blank now, devoid of anything that could be considered anger, but also empathy. Illario lifts his filth stained hands—never clean no matter how he scrubs them. He rubs at his eyes and tries not to think about just how unnerved Emmrich appears to be.
“What does this all… Mean? What does it amount to?” Illario dares to ask. Emmrich sighs through his nose, and there is a pause during which Illario could swear he hears gears turning within the confines of Emmrich’s skull. He is a man who chooses his words carefully, a thing for which Illario ought to be grateful. But mostly, he just wants to get this over with.
“On a physical, biological level, your blood resembles that of a half-elf mage. These feelings you’ve been having, your abilities, knowing what the source of them is, makes it quite clear to me that you are as connected to the Fade as I or any other mage,” Emmrich says, plainly, without injecting emotion or opinion. It’s studious and leaves Illario feeling like the subject of a paper, rather than a person. He’s all to used to that feeling. Humanity a distant concept, removed by people in positions of authority. Or rather, just the one. Illario looks around his bedroom, eyes falling on the deteriorating wallpaper.
“Zara… She taught you to use blood to exert your will over others. But she taught you nothing more?” Curious now; Emmrich’s voice lilts with something uncertain. When Illario looks at him he finds a scholarly squint waiting on Emmrich’s face, the rake of his gaze assessing in ways that cause a prickle of gooseflesh to rise on Illario’s skin. He swallows his discomfort and clears his throat. If this is to be distant, nearly academic, that he can mirror.
“No. She… She said it was a simple gift. A boon to help me keep myself safe and Lucanis in line. To ensure that I come into the power I rightly deserved.” As he says it, he realizes what a proud idiot he’d been to disregard the clear and present danger such a thing obviously was. He can feel squirming in his veins, a sensation that has only grown stronger with each passing day.
“Perhaps that was true at one time, though I doubt anything that woman said was quite the whole truth. When we interrogated her corpse about what you were able to do, she implied this gift was at Elgar’nan’s behest. It was assumed that it was Elgar’nan who changed you. Rook seemed satisfied with that answer, and we were pressed for time. I feel a fool for not considering that it could have been his sister. But it makes a deeply unpleasant sort of sense.” Emmrich leans, elbow propped on the arm of his chair as he looks into the middle distance, lost in thought while he rubs his fingertips across his moustache. Illario can follow well enough, though it begs a question he’s not sure he truly wants an answer to.
“Does this mean I am… Blighted?”
Emmrich’s focus snaps to attention, eyes darting to look at Illario once more, a quick scan, head down to his chest then up again, brows denting as he gives a single shake of his head.
“Not in any traditional sense or current understanding we have of how the Blight operates.” Emmrich straightens where he sits and leans forward, hands folded together against his lap. “We need to speak with Lucanis about this, and keep this information quiet. I have concerns for what this could mean for you. It’s possible the Venatori already know. We can’t be certain of what Zara communicated to her fellow cultists before her death. But… One thing, I think, is abundantly clear.”
Emmrich’s eyes are soft. Even when he speaks with stern severity, while his face creases with concern and distaste in equal measure, Illario can’t help but notice that there is no way for him to hide that he’s a man of compassion. It’s a comfort, in its own way. For as reticent as Illario is to trust anyone, he could believe from that look alone, in Emmrich’s eyes, that the necromancer is on his side. That he might actually care is… Peculiar. There’s only ever been one other person who looked at him with such concern in their gaze. The one person he now dreads talking to.
“What’s that?” Illario asks.
Emmrich reaches out, and Illario flinches when one warm hand comes to rest against his forearm. His touch is gentler than Illario is at all accustomed to. It makes his skin crawl and his stomach lurch.
“We need to get you out of Treviso until the Venatori threat is finally and completely eradicated.”
Illario’s throat shrinks and his next swallow is painful. He feels as though his esophagus is turning itself inside out with the effort and the burn of emotion that rises in his cheeks, bright red, the way it stings his eyes—He feels like a child again. He’s afraid. He’s been afraid for so long that consolation feels exceptionally foreign to him. His breath trembles and he nods, a quick, shaky motion. Emmrich’s compassion makes the answer to the question he’d asked at the top of the evening easy to find. Emmrich would clearly be a difficult man to keep at arm’s length when the lives Illario and Lucanis led had left them so bereft of this kind of ardent kindness.
“I see now… Why my cousin favors you,” Illario says, his gruff murmur causing a small jolt and how Emmrich’s brows lift with surprise is… It’s charming. Illario exhales the quietest laugh at the sight of it. “Shall we go to him now? Or am I allowed to drink myself to sleep and worry about it tomorrow?”
Illario’s intentioned shift in tone to something inappropriately flippant gives Emmrich yet another unexpected start and this time it is the necromancer who barks a single, incredulous laugh. Illario’s face cracks, a grim smirk cutting across it. Whatever disapproval he’s garnered that shows on Emmrich’s face could almost seem fond if they knew one another better.
“He won’t rest until he knows what we found. You know that as well as I do. You can drink yourself to sleep after.”
A compromise. Illario will take it. Any shred of comfort he can have he wants to hold onto, in the hopes that it will make what comes next a little more bearable. He relents with a sigh and gestures vaguely for Emmrich to move away from the bedside. They’ll depart together and Illario will adhere in good faith to the idea that Lucanis will not change his mind once he hears the truth. Emmrich seems to have some sense of what this all amounts to. And almost more importantly… Emmrich doesn’t seem to want to harm him.
“Alright, but perhaps you will be kind enough to stand between Lucanis and myself when we deliver this news? I am still recovering from malnutrition, and do not think I could defend myself from his temper.” It’s half a jest and Emmrich gives Illario a sidelong look that’s full of amused disapproval. He ushers Illario along, out of his quarters, but not before Illario can pick up the half empty bottle from the table to carry with him. He’d meant what he said.
He’s not sure he’d be able to sleep tonight without it.
Notes:
This Chapter Brought to You in Part By:
- A Level of Stress that Would Kill a Lesser Man urging me to engage with escapism
- My deep and abiding hatred for EA & Shareholders who don't know shit about gaming
- The Removal of my second monitor for the first time in like 15 years giving me a new lease on life
- Nicotine, my beloved
- Coffee, my other beloved
- Keyboard Induced Euphoria
- Hyper specific playlistsUntil Next Time!!
Chapter 14: Heartbeats
Notes:
Hello, hello.
This chapter was... an experience to write. One of the most rewarding parts of crafting a narrative is bringing the weave together to reach the major emotional beats I've been planning from the beginning. One of the most devastating parts of crafting a narrative is actually reaching those major emotional beats. Lol. Writing is art. Art is expression. Communication. Escapism. But also it's sadomasochism. If all of this sounds really ominous lmao I am so so sorry I just. Have been really in my thoughts about this story and this chapter in particular is a standout for me as one that I was excited to write and release, but it comes with all the trepidation of sending a handmade paper boat into the ocean. Yay! Setting sail! AAAA. SETTING SAIL.
I really hope you enjoy this chapter. It has been a long way to get to this point, and we've still got a ways to go. But this one is definitely Special To Me.
Thank you to everyone who continues to support with your kind words and reactions to the developing story. Every bit of excitement from all of you makes this so much fun to do. I love hearing everyone's thoughts and feelings. Especially on the last chapter! Illario!!! Our beloved little shitlord.
And so, we carry on.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Get your boots off my table,” Lucanis shoves Illario’s feet onto the floor, the slap of his heels against marble echoing in the sparsely decorated parlor. Emmrich stands aside, looking at Illario with a kind of wide-eyed wariness that feels fitting but does nothing for Lucanis’ frayed nerves. It’s so late the hour is now early; he’s tired. His coffee has long gone cold, but he picks up his cup and drinks it anyway, grimacing at the harshness of bitter beans he clumsily scorched. Enjoyment isn’t the point anymore. Wakefulness is. Alert and focused. He takes in what he sees. Illario looks haunted, dark circles, a clammy pallor to his skin, that damned bottle in his hand more than half gone. Yet, there his cousin sits, offering up a crooked smirk that’s as good as a lie he’d say out loud.
“Apologies. I suppose we’re no longer ‘make yourself at home’ close… Are we?” Illario’s rasping croon very barely trembles as he sets the bottle where his boots once laid; despite his efforts at nonchalance, he’s visibly shaken. Lucanis drags a hand down his face, over his beard, growling under his breath, the softest utterance of swears following after, cursing Illario for being as difficult as ever.
“So. The blood of Ghilan’nain,” Lucanis muses aloud. “Not a gifted transformation from Elgar’nan, as Rook thought.”
Emmrich’s head tilts as he casts his gaze toward the fire, lips pressing together into a thin line while his nostrils flare around a slow exhalation. A single shake, one of his little shrugs, but it’s tight and tense. The studious furrow between his brows deepens as he looks at Lucanis and parts his lips to speak.
“I think it’s safe to say that it was at Elgar’nan’s behest. Given how the pair of them worked, Ghilan’nain was always more… Mobile, shall we say? And it fits with her general… Skills.” Emmrich’s mouth twists, a wincing grimace, as if he’s tasted something foul. The wrinkle of his nose as he casts his gaze aside is one Lucanis’ own face mirrors, he feels how it tugs at his features. He sneers his disgust. His frustration.
“What exactly does this mean for us?” Lucanis presses, anxiousness quickening the cadence of his speech. “What difference does it really make?”
He doesn’t intend to be terse, but he cannot fully help it. One god or the other, what could it possibly matter? It obviously does if it has Emmrich so spooked, but this is beyond Lucanis. The smoldering frustration heightens as Emmrich casts his hazel gaze toward Illario for a few tense seconds, that piteous fear so evident in how harshly Emmrich swallows, how his jaw works to get the words out.
“A significant one,” Emmrich croaks, then clears his throat. He looks at Lucanis, holding steady, unblinking eye contact. “It means some shred of the Evanuris is technically still living. In Illario. Accomplished blood mages might have a thought or two about what to do with such a thing. Moreover, Illario is a mage. But he has no real understanding or control, we have no idea what his full capabilities might be and that makes him vulnerable to accidents, mistakes, and most perilously, to possession. An unwieldy mage that knows nothing of navigating the Fade is fertile ground for enterprising spirits.”
Possession. But from the sound of it, Illario might already be possessed in a fashion. Some part of Ghilan’nain is thriving in Illario’s blood. Does that mean she could return? How much influence does her blood truly have on Illario--
“Oooh. We could both be abominations. That would make Caterina extra proud, eh Lucanis?” Illario’s grin is oily, unnerving. Lucanis glares at him.
“¡Cállate!”
“What?” Illario shrugs, throwing his hands out to his sides as he shakes his head and lets out an incredulous scoff of a laugh. “Am I not allowed to have a sense of humor about this?”
He leans forward, jabbing his finger toward his own chest as he speaks from a taut jaw: “I’m the one with a mad mage’s blood running through their veins.”
Leave it to Illario to make light of this. It rakes and rakes and Lucanis is raw for it. Burning all down his back, behind his ribs, chewing on his anger like gravel. Were he not so tired, not worn so thin, not so recently off a scathing dressing down by Caterina only two days ago, not carrying the weight of a crumbling city on his shoulders, not First fucking Talon. Then maybe. Maybe he could hold it back. But the tide is high and only rising. Spite wants him to unleash it. He’s earned it. His anger. Righteous.
“No,” Lucanis hisses through his teeth. “You don’t get to make jokes, because you invited this in, and now I have to find a way to fix it! To clean up after your mess because you couldn’t be patient! Because you didn’t trust me to make good on my word despite everything we’ve been through!”
He lets it loose, words he’d never thought he’d say, feelings he’d not wanted to address because what purpose do they serve? Letting Illario see and know how deeply it truly hurt him doesn’t fix anything. It only makes him look as weak as his cousin has always made him feel. The inverse aspect of their tumultuous relationship. Never was Lucanis stronger than with Illario, so too, is Illario his greatest weakness. Weakness… Should be. Cut. Out. Illario laughs at him.
He laughs.
“Caterina would have never allowed it! She still won’t, no matter what you think, she holds every card she always has! Have you told her I’m back? Told her your plans?” The sharpness of his tone is matched by the cold blue of his eyes, narrowed on Lucanis as he returns every bit of vitriol Lucanis gave him. He gestures, jerky motions between them, toward the world beyond this room, a display of dramatics that turns Lucanis’ stomach: “I couldn’t be patient anymore, I was drowning! You expected me to wait for her to die while I withered in your shadow, always the lesser, always the disappointment, the stain on the Dellamorte name—I couldn’t do it. I lost my parents too. I trained just as hard as you. I took the same beatings. Went hungry just as often. And I wanted it more than you. I have always been a better Crow than you. But it never… ever mattered.”
“You and your pride are going to get us both killed,” Lucanis barks back. Bites. Snarling. Yes. Let him feel it. “Are you satisfied? You wanted it so badly you made yourself a monster without a second thought! Perhaps Caterina was right! And if you ever thought about anyone but yourself--”
“You don’t know a damn thing about what I thought!”
“Don’t I?!”
Illario’s shoulders go slack, his expression falling from fury to something so resigned. He recedes into a place Lucanis cannot reach. He’s never seen Illario turn inward so swiftly and so completely. It’s as if every bit of fight Illario has ever had drains away in an instant.
“No… Lucanis,” he says, hoarse and congested. There is a shine to his eyes that betrays him. Angry tears, yet his face his devoid of the heat of his emotions. “You don’t.”
“Like hell I don’t.” Lucanis can’t stop himself. He should have. He knows it the moment it leaves his lips he’s pushing. It doesn’t make him feel anything but smaller, angrier, a complicated brew of self-directed loathing and outward projected irritation. He hears Emmrich’s grave gold clink, the shifting of his feet, boots shuffling closer across the floor. Before he’s touched, Lucanis can feel it coming, ever aware--
“You never saw it coming, Lucanis. You never suspected for even a moment. You have a blind spot and it’s always been me,” Illario accuses, aiming to wound and he does. Lucanis spits at him, all fire and indignation.
“Fuck you.”
Emmrich’s hand brushes Lucanis’ shoulder.
“Lucanis, please—”
Lucanis jerks away, lurching, two steps to the side, a hand thrown up like a wall between them, refusing to even look, eyes cast toward the door. He could run for it. Just… Run away. Into the wild. Chasing wyverns and dreams and none of this had to matter. How dare Emmrich try and reach him. Reason with him with that gentle voice. He makes us weak, but he also. Does not. Not. Who deserves. Our anger.
“Don’t. Emmrich… I know you mean well but just… Don’t.”
Lucanis needs a moment to think. To breathe. To figure out what this means and how they get through it. Just another problem added to the plethora of others that are on his over-crowded plate. He feels the porcelain slipping through his fingers, too heavy to bear; his fingers dig deep, pinching the bridge of his nose, pressing into his tear ducts, rubbing across his brows, smoothing them down as he tries to ease away the tension headache forming there. He has no choice. He has to hold on. This is his burden to bear. His birthright. The hinge of his jaw is hot and tight, his heart pounding.
“Need I remind you how poorly pushing me away worked the last time?” Emmrich asks, so quiet. His voice begs Lucanis to look. To see. And when Lucanis looks, Emmrich is looking back… Wounded.
We must be… More careful. Rook—abandoned. We cannot… Do the same.
The crease between Emmrich’s brows and the depth of his frown lines age him. He looks tired and hurt and so worried. Lucanis gives in, just a little, gesturing for Emmrich to take the floor, a sweep of his hand as he turns toward the fireplace, finding a place to brace himself and lean against the mantle, feeling the subtle warmth of the low burning embers. Pre-dawn light is too pale to penetrate the room; the windows look murky with the fog outside. The world is shrinking and Lucanis feels himself suffocating as the walls close in around him. Everything is going wrong.
“Your plan won’t work,” Emmrich says, plainly, and Lucanis bites down on the inside of his cheek. Spite riles up his back, a hot wash of feeling. Frustration made more volatile, nature feeding nurture. Spite wants to protest by default. Bark and demand an explanation as to why not but he already knows. Their thoughts, somehow, feel more unified than ever. Two minds working as a singular being. Something must be done. If not this, then what? Everyone. Is in. Danger. But within that feeling of frustration, there is trust. Faith that Emmrich will have a perspective worth hearing. He holds his tongue and glances toward where Emmrich stands, watches how he presses his palms together and considers his next words.
What he’s going to say, Lucanis isn’t going to like.
But for him, we will always listen.
“If Illario is allowed anywhere near the Venatori they might already know what he is, or if they don’t, they might discover it. That is a risk we cannot take, for the sake of his life as well as for the sake of Thedas,” Emmrich shrugs and gesticulates toward the remnants of Lucanis’ broken window, visible through the open double doors, beyond the fluttering of the canopies on his four-poster bed. “They are desperate. Scrambling to dismantle whatever they can for a single foothold somewhere in Thedas and we cannot hand deliver it to them.”
“I know. Mierda, I know. So what do we do?” All Lucanis’ carefully laid planning, as careful as he ever really gets, up in blood and smoke. He’s always been better at thinking on his feet in the moment than laying out a framework. This time, it had seemed as if it might work out. What a fool he was to think.
“Yes. I’d like to know what you’re thinking, professor. What are we going to do with me? Lock me up again? I’d rather Lucanis kill me outright.” Illario takes a swig from his wine bottle, an audible sloshing behind Lucanis’ back. The thunk of glass meeting table only serves to rile Lucanis’ temper yet again.
“By rights I fucking should—”
“Stop!” Emmrich cuts in. Loud enough that Lucanis jumps. Harsh enough that he feels scolded. Spite shrinks and his chest feels cold. “Both of you! This won’t solve anything. All this animosity and anger. It is painfully clear to me that you both care a great deal about each other… Perhaps we focus on that? And be practical about this.”
Lucanis watches Emmrich smooth a hand through his hair, the other pressing against his sternum, as if it physically pained him to raise his voice. It’s been such a rarity in the time that Lucanis has known him. His composure is often the last to crack of any of them. Even when Rook was pulled into the prison of regret beyond their reach, Emmrich didn’t yell while the rest of them fell to bickering and panic. He was steady.
He is afraid. For you. For… Illario. For. The world. Can smell it.
“What do you suggest then?” Lucanis’ shoulders sag as he tries to let go of his anger, but it’s harder than ever. If he’d simply executed Illario when he had the chance, this wouldn’t even be a problem. But Lucanis has always had a blind spot. A soft spot. A big, glaring target, dead center. Emmrich takes a breath and his arms lower toward his sides, fingers curling in and out of fists before he places them behind his back. Wrist in hand. He’s standing straighter, projecting the kind of authority that makes Lucanis’ stomach lurch and his heart palpitate. For one, single instant, he prays Emmrich has an easy answer to all of it.
He cannot save us, but perhaps. Help us. Save ourselves.
“I take Illario to the Necropolis. He will be safe there while I get in contact with Archon Pavus. We need a powerful blood mage. Someone we can trust. He has contacts. Knows people. Mages from the rebellion and then some. If we can’t find a way to undo this, then Illario must learn to control it. And you… Have enough problems as it is here in Treviso to manage. This is how I can help you, Lucanis. Let me look after him.”
Why—Of all things, why did it have to be that? Lucanis yanks his gaze away, staring into the fire while his jaw flexes and the taste in his mouth turns sour.
“No.”
“Why?” Emmrich asks, audibly bewildered by the rejection. He should know why. Know better.
Now who is being prideful? Stubborn. Then. Again. Emmrich, alone with The Traitor? Who carries—monstrosity. In his blood? Too dangerous. Complicated. But… Agree.
“Because this is my house, my blood, my responsibility.”
“What has isolating yourself done for you thus far?” Emmrich’s voice lifts in increments. Little by little, his own temper reveals itself. Flickers and sparks, a dancing flame coming to life in Lucanis’ periphery. “Did you learn nothing from this past week?”
“Excuse me?” Lucanis turns to look, pushing away from the mantle and planting his hands on his hips. He doesn’t want clarification. He wants Emmrich to back down, but Emmrich cares too much.
“No. No, I will not be biting my tongue or saying it gently anymore, Lucanis. Your stubbornness and sense of self-reliance is… toxic. Digging your heels in until you’re left with no choice but to fail or flail for help at the eleventh hour is going to get you killed and I will not allow that to happen! I can’t.”
“You won’t… allow it?” Lucanis’ brow arches, he scoffs and Spite rumbles behind it, discontent, conflict, a flash of purple dissent alighting in his eyes. Lucanis… Don’t—“Emmrich, all due respect, you are my friend, but you are not my keeper.”
Emmrich frowns at him, all that stately disappointment that cuts Lucanis to the quick on clear display. Emmrich’s shoulders go so slack and there is a creak of leather. His gloved hand, tightening its grasp around his wrist behind his back. Lucanis can feel Illario watching them, see him on the edge of his vision as he straightens where he sits to look between them. Emmrich sighs, brusque and quiet.
“If you’re so inclined to pick a fight I’ll have you know I’m not interested, Lucanis. We don’t have the luxury of time for needless spats.” He’s so much colder than Lucanis can stand. Anger and embarrassment make poor bedfellows. He’s lost control of himself. His feelings. He doesn’t like feeling so messy. Being seen for the disaster he feels he is. Life was so much simpler once, when he was just a man with a job that he was good at and enjoyed. Now this… All of this.
“I’m not picking a fight, I’m telling you like it is,” Lucanis says, just as crisp and chilly in return. Walls erected out of ice between them. They distort the image of Emmrich, a man he cares so deeply for, who he trusts so much. But not with this. Not with Illario. “This is not your problem to solve, it is mine. Illario has always been my responsibility, and I will not send him into a foreign nation, into the care of necromancers and blood mages to learn how to control the cursed blood he decided to swallow because of his own selfish desire for power.”
“I am… right here.” It’s an unhelpful and unnecessary reminder. Illario has ever been the thorn in Lucanis’ side, impossible to stop feeling even when he was miles away. Lucanis’ neck flares with the tension that crawls up into his jaw.
“Not now, Illario.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?” Illario protests, and Lucanis snaps.
“No!”
“Yes.” Emmrich insists, at the very same moment. Lucanis flinches at the sound of it, stiffens all down his spine as he looks at Emmrich and sees the ferocity of his conviction. Burning hot in his gaze, Emmrich is full of a resolve that no amount of ice can withstand.
“Illario came to me… Because he can feel her blood. Some part of her could change him further. Influence him. He made this choice, but I saw it. All of it. Every moment leading up to it,” Emmrich speaks with his hands, vehement as he gestures toward Illario. “He should have a voice in his own fate. Who knows how much damage we could have prevented if we’d looked deeper into this issue when we first discovered it, rather than taking the simple answer provided by the least trustworthy individual imaginable? Locking him away in Velabanchel may have only given this problem opportunity to fester. We must intervene and you are not a mage, Lucanis. I am.”
“It was a mage who did this to him in the first place! It’s always mages!”
Oh. How regret tastes… It is acrid and ashen on Lucanis tongue as he lets fly wrath that Emmrich has not earned. A bias taught by the cruelty of so many others that Lucanis still holds, somewhere deep… Past the heart. Emmrich recedes from him, a step back, that single boot fall sounding like canon fire in Lucanis’ ears. His gaze falls to gleaming black polished leather and watches the shuffling step happen. He pushed hard enough that Emmrich has backed away. From him.
“That is… Unfair, Lucanis. And you know it is,” Emmrich murmurs, voice barely audible. Lucanis has nothing he can say in his defense. He’s angry. He feels trapped. He lashed out. He’s sorry--
“Maker’s breath, it’s like watching my parents bicker,” Illario quips and once more, Lucanis and Emmrich speak in the same instant.
“Shut up, Illario!”
“For Andraste’s sake!"
Emmrich grimaces, turning his face away, smoothing his fingertips along his brow to knead them against his temples, one hand propped on his hip as he lets out an enervated sigh. Lucanis feels that weariness in his own bones, his own soul. Arguing certainly isn’t doing them any favors, but when it comes to Illario…
Lucanis chews the inside of his lower lip and confronts himself, eyes squeezed shut as he ducks his head and takes a deep, nasal breath. Illario makes keeping a level head so damned difficult. Lucanis feels as though control of this situation has long since slipped from his grasp. Fighting and clawing to keep whatever he can of it is leaving his nailbeds bruised and bloodied. He flexes his fingers, grip against his own hips tightening, causing twinges of pain to shoot up through his metacarpals, into his wrists. He grinds his teeth down upon another incensed exclamation. He has to keep his head. He doesn’t have a choice. No matter how difficult it is. No matter how the swirling discontent of his personal demon demands an answer for this feeling, makes it grow to impossible size.
Spite needn’t speak a word to make how he feels completely clear. Illario doesn’t deserve Emmrich’s help, or Lucanis’, not after all he’s done. But he also does. How could Lucanis truly hold it against him, when Illario is exactly who Caterina raised him to be. And more than that… Emmrich has earned their trust. He doesn’t deserve Lucanis’ fury. His biting anger. Even if the core of the issue is something neither of them want to speak aloud in front of Illario. To put a name to it would unveil the depth of a newly acquired vulnerability.
It is not only the idea of mages prodding at Illario that sets Lucanis’ teeth on edge. It is the thought of Emmrich and Illario in isolation together that also twists in his guts like a molten shard of metal.
“I want to go,” Illario says. “To Nevarra. You don’t understand… Lucanis. I didn’t want Emmrich to tell you about this for exactly this reason. You’re so stubborn, always trying to fix things or take on problems like a damned hero when that’s not your job. If anyone is going to bear the burden of fixing my mistakes it should be me. You look after Treviso. But I… Am not your problem anymore.”
“Aren’t you always?” Lucanis’ voice cracks. He’s tired. So tired. He’s been tired for years and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever recover from it. He turns his tired head and rests his tired gaze on Illario, brows pitching upward and inward as he stares down his first friend. For the longest time, his only friend. His brother. All the complicated feelings that linger between them, so many things unresolved. This shouldn’t be the resolution. It wasn’t supposed to go this way.
Illario only shakes his head and cracks another grin. Another lying expression. He smiles as if it’s doesn’t matter so much. As if it doesn’t hurt. As if Lucanis’ heart hasn’t broken a dozen times over because of Illario specifically.
“No, cousin,” Illario sighs. “We’re not fledglings anymore. We’re not children. This isn’t some grand adventure where I’ll follow you into the dark and terrible forest to find the golden wyvern… This isn’t a rescue. It’s my life. My choices. Not even you get to save me from this. But if Emmrich can help me do something about it? Soften the blow or lessen the danger, then I want to take it.”
Knowing he should loosen his grip and let go does not make it easier. It doesn’t remove the many reservations that are all vying at once for his attention. He swipes a hand through his hair as he looks Illario over. The glassy, drink-bright eyes and the grit of his jaw, his hair a tangle, face still a shaggy, unshaven mess. To look at him now is like looking at himself after a year spent in the Ossuary. And trusting Illario is about as easy as it was to trust himself back then.
Illario has gone behind his back once more, sneaking around, keeping things from him or trying to. And there’s no telling how deep this current of feeling different really goes. Even on his best days, Illario was always scheming to betray Lucanis. Hasn’t earned it. Shouldn’t give it. We must keep. Our mage. Safe.
“How can I trust you to be alone with him? When we don’t even know if you’re entirely yourself anymore? Even if you are yourself… I want to, but you make it so damn hard, Illario.”
“What? Afraid I’ll steal him away from you? I see the appeal, Lucanis, but I can behave myself. Wooing potential lovers out from under you got old when we were teenagers.” Illario leans back and slouches down into the cushions of the settee, examining his nails with all the nonchalant deflection that Lucanis used to swallow so easily. Now it tastes foul. Rotten and spoiled.
“That is—not… What I meant. That’s not even—What are you talking about? I am worried for his safety, not—”
“I think your necromancer is perfectly capable of protecting himself,” Illario sighs. He waves his hand to dismiss Lucanis’ justified concern. “The last time I tried to kill him I was unsuccessful.”
“Illario—”
“If we’re leaving for the Necropolis, you should probably talk through it. Before we go. Consider this a… show of gratitude. I know people. I know what I see. Do us all a favor and work it out before whatever comes next.” It is at least familiar to be run over again and again. Illario does so love talking far more than listening. Illario leans forward, arms draped over his knees, shrugging one shoulder, gesturing vaguely with one hand, cracking his usual rakish smirk. “Sounds like it promises to be dangerous, and you don’t want to leave any regrets on the table, right Lucanis?”
This isn’t working. Lucanis’ hands drop and his shoulders droop, the fight at last, fizzling to nothingness as he’s confronted with what could be well meant encouragement, or simply a ploy to distract Lucanis from something else. Something he should be looking at. Illario is a tangled web of sticky confusion, in the same way that Lucanis is rigid and empathetic, out of necessity. These things are ever in conflict. They won’t get anywhere like this.
“You’re drunk,” Lucanis sighs. “Go to bed. We’ll… Finish settling this later.”
Illario hesitates for a moment, staring at Lucanis, analyzing him in a way that’s reminiscent of how Neve used to. Seeking answers that Lucanis doesn’t have in the details of how he carries himself. It’s unnerving to be so naked, but it’s brief. Lucanis holds his breath rather than exhaling relief when Illario stands and begins to collect himself. He’s all loose limbs and a swaying gait, snatching up his bottle from the table and taking one more swig, as if to make a show of being precisely what Lucanis said he is. Drunk. But even so, he looks, and he holds Lucanis’ eye contact through it, steady as he swallows. Not that drunk. His face splits into a wine-stained grin and he spins on his heel, heading for the door.
“Take my advice, Lucanis. Whether you believe me or not, I would like to see you have… Something. One of us should, after all this.”
Lucanis bites his tongue, hoping the door somehow smacks Illario on his way out, but once he’s gone, Lucanis is left feeling isolated. He’s left standing in the detritus of that last unsubtle direction that he address something he doesn’t have words for, because it can’t be. Can it? Would he really harbor such feelings for Emmrich? Could he betray Rook from the grave, by coveting that which Rook loved most? He feels stuck, unable to will himself to turn and face Emmrich. He doesn’t want to know what sort of expression Emmrich might be wearing. One of irritation. Disgust? Disappointment…
No. Not like that. He wouldn’t. Think! Lucanis, think!
Lucanis thinks back to their near miss. How easy was it, really, to reach out? To see Emmrich gilded in the golden light of afternoon and feel breathless and helpless and so certain it could only be a dream because how—How could Emmrich look at him like that? With such warmth in his gaze? It was a mistake, wasn’t it? One they were never going to speak of again. They can’t revisit it now. Lucanis is a man of his word, and he won’t drag Emmrich into something he’s not asking for.
It’s been mere months since Rook’s burial, and even if it hadn’t been, what could Lucanis possibly do for him? After how he’d failed to be there for Neve, failed so spectacularly to make room for her, it would be cruel to even entertain the idea. He couldn’t possibly want to run the risk of doing it again, could he? To Emmrich? To himself? He doesn’t have time.
And as he stands there, spinning out the possibilities, examining the thing that everyone keeps prodding at that he’s made a point to disregard, Emmrich says nothing.
Silence slips through Lucanis’ ribs, piercing his lungs. Waiting is a second blade, struck deeper still, goring his heart. Every second he hesitates to turn and to acknowledge, every moment that Emmrich is quietly standing there behind him, his looming presence so heavy the very air feels thick with it, Lucanis feels himself panicking more and more. He’s drowning in the blood of his own feelings, lungs flooded, heart thudding again and again, a sharp, aching insistence that he survive this. No matter how it hurts, he can and will survive it.
“Quite the character… Your cousin,” Emmrich says, low and enervated. Lucanis doesn’t mean to flinch, but his nerves are burning beneath his skin. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a sigh.
“He wasn’t always. But for most of our lives… Yes. I’d say that’s the kindest way to put it,” Lucanis replies. Emmrich isn’t addressing it. He isn’t bringing it up. Because it’s not worth entertaining. They both know it, don’t they? Emmrich doesn’t share this strange, amorphous feeling, does he? No. How could he, when he loved Rook so deeply. They are friends.
Lucanis glances, brief, barely enough to get a glimpse of the long, lean frame wrapped in custom tailored Antivan finery. A gift for a friend, to keep him safer here, help him blend in, make it easier for him to disappear into a crowd if he needs to… A friend.
“Your original plan… After giving it a bit of thought, I think that some of it might be salvageable,” Emmrich continues, a little lighter, his tone brokering a kind of peace between them that Lucanis sorely needs to latch onto. Good. Yes. Work. Lucanis shivers as he turns. This he can do. Emmrich has his knuckle to his chin, brows drawn, gaze cast toward the floor.
“What do you mean?” Lucanis asks.
Emmrich continues to stare at that same spot on the marble tile, pulling his hand away from his face to gesticulate with rolls of his wrist and little flourishes of his fingers.
“Well. Obviously, letting him ‘escape’ to make contact and play double agent is too exposing. Putting him behind enemy lines is out of the question. But. Since Teia and Neve weren’t able to turn up much of anything, maybe the escape angle can still work toward both the goal of getting Illario somewhere safe, as well as catching the tail of this serpent so that its head can be properly severed.”
Lucanis tilts his head, ducks just a little, trying to look into those familiar eyes but Emmrich straightens his spine just as Lucanis makes his attempt, casting his gaze toward the fireplace instead, folding his arms across his chest. Closed body language. Is—Is it coincidence or is Emmrich avoiding looking at him? Lucanis feels colder, his heart accelerating behind his ribs.
“How so?” Lucanis presses on, taking a step to one side, bringing himself more into Emmrich’s periphery, trying to see if it’s paranoia or—Something else? Emmrich stares intently at the smoldering coals in the hearth, lifting one hand, two fingers.
“There are two possible scenarios at play here,” he says, then tucks his hand back into the crook of his arm, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his jaw flexing the barest bit. His stern stare and the flare of a sigh from his nostrils sends a prickling chill down Lucanis’ spine. “The first is that the assassins that have come for you are within the Crows and not connected to the Venatori. They will, if given the chance, go after Illario to either recruit or make an attempt on him. That was part of the reason you brought him home. There’s still the possibility that it could happen.”
“Yeeesss…?” Lucanis isn’t quite following just yet, torn between trying to understand why Emmrich won’t look at him and trying to comprehend the need to hash out things they’ve already established. Then again, that is Emmrich’s way. His mind works in a categorical, orderly fashion, laying out information in clear, logical formats and extrapolating from it. It’s useful.
He’s a better planner than Lucanis. Among all this discomfort it’s a splinter of hope.
“The other is that they are Venatori, and they either already know something of what’s become of Illario through Zara, or they don’t but…” Emmrich twists, turning to look toward the windows, leaving his back open to Lucanis. Still so trusting. He takes a few strides, boots clicking against the floor as he makes his way toward the view of a foggy sunrise peaking over the skyline of Treviso beyond the walls of the Villa’s courtyard. Lucanis is slow to follow after him, feeling as though he’s chasing without any hope of actually catching him by his coattails. Emmrich feels more distant than he physically is.
“They still want their foothold,” Emmrich states, a dour tone supplied with the grimness of that particular truth. “And Illario was prepared to hand the Crows to them once. If they think he’s still dissenting himself, they might see the potential for allyship. That’s not enough to guarantee they’d try and make contact, though.”
Oh.
It begins to make sense, a little at a time. They could still use Illario to get information, but it will have to be more direct. Less subterfuge. To be so direct requires the right lure. Illario on his own might not be a guarantee, but Emmrich’s mind is working the problem. Lucanis—Lucanis can trust him. Wants you safe. Wants to help. Loyal to us, and only us, in Treviso.
“What are you suggesting?”
Emmrich turns his body and glances back, but his eyes are just shy of meeting Lucanis’ own. He shrugs one shoulder and rubs at his jaw with his fingertips, gaze sliding off to one side as his brows knit deeper into contemplativeness.
“We control the narrative,” he says, twisting to look out the windows once more. “Feed the right information into the population. Illario makes his escape, but it’s to leave the city. Bait the trap, and then spring it. If we’re smart about how Illario moves, we can possibly draw out one, if not both enemies, make them show themselves for a chance they wouldn’t want to miss. Then I spirit Illario away to Nevarra the old-fashioned way.”
On paper, a simple and easily executable plan. One that only requires a small handful of trusted individuals and exploits the way gossip spreads like wildfire through the ranks. But, easy as it might be, Lucanis frowns when considering it.
“This sounds risky.”
“Not as risky as leaving him vulnerable for prolonged periods with people who could exploit not only what’s in his veins, but Illario himself,” Emmrich says, softly. It takes a moment to fully internalize just what Emmrich means by this, and it doesn’t really come as a shock when Lucanis fully grapples with it.
“You think he’d turn on me again?”
Emmrich turns to face him fully, eyes tracing the grout between tiles, flitting back and forth as he shakes his head, still so focused and deeply entrenched in thought.
“Not out of spite, but out of a sense of having no better options? Maybe.” Emmrich’s eyes lift and land at the center of Lucanis’ chest. Conflict deepens the shadowy contours of his face as Emmrich wrestles with what waits behind his pursed lips and clenched teeth. Lucanis braces himself for it, not sure if he can really take another blow right now but not feeling as if he has any other choice in the matter. Emmrich takes a breath.
“I saw what it was like for him. With Zara. I felt what he felt. Being so far in that the idea of backing out was more harrowing than following his own mistakes to their vile conclusions… Illario… Destroyed himself. And he did it because he felt like there was no other alternative.”
In some ways, it feels like an explanation Lucanis should be hearing from Illario, but if Illario was the one to say it, to confess and be so vulnerable, would Lucanis even hear him? Believe him? Their trust is so tarnished by betrayal that he’s not sure there’s any better way to learn this. Nor can he help how it stings and sparks a fresh wave of anger.
“I don’t want to feel sympathy for him,” Lucanis growls, barely audible. It’s another little loss of composure to suffer, being so swiftly and unapologetically honest about it. Being angry at Illario, not feeling for him, is so much easier than seeing what this was like from his perspective. He can’t afford to have sentiment cloud his vision.
“He grieved for you, Lucanis,” Emmrich replies, his words feeling like an entreating attempt at garnering that sympathy on Illario’s behalf anyway. And wouldn’t that be just like Emmrich? More compassion than sense—We need that compassion. We lack. It hurts. “It tore him apart in ways that I… am still recovering from myself. Merely being exposed to it. And in the end, it appeared to him that he did it for nothing. He is volatile. Fragile. Untrustworthy. But he also loves you. I think more than he’s prepared to deal with.”
It seems he needn’t have compassion for Illario. Emmrich has more than enough for the both of them.
“Mierda, what am I going to do with him?” Lucanis rakes his fingers through his hair and closes his eyes. He feels the steady thrum of Spite in his marrow. Growing restless. Why? Why now?
“Let me help him help himself. It might be the only thing that can save him. And trust me to be able to look after myself in this endeavor.”
It’s all so terribly unfair. How Emmrich asks this of him without looking directly at him, how Lucanis feels as though he’s failed yet again, somehow, when he’s tried so hard to succeed. He doesn’t want to need help. He doesn’t want Emmrich to take this on and he shouldn’t have to. Nothing about this feels as hopeful as it probably should. All he can do now, is keep pressing on, and lead with the honesty that lays on his heart. As much of it as is safe to share.
“Even though I trust you, know you’re capable, you shouldn’t have to do this. You’ve already done so much, Emmrich. I cannot keep… taking from you when there is so little I can do in return,” Lucanis confesses. And something about his words drives Emmrich’s gaze even farther away, his head flinching to one side, eyes falling to the floor as his expression twists into a wry, yet pained smile. No—Why? Where did Lucanis go wrong? “Not that I’m trying to keep score, it’s…”
It's that the Dellamorte’s pay their debts. And it’s easier to keep score because he doesn’t know how to accept this kind of help without incurring feelings of guilt. He’s not supposed to rely on anyone. He barely knows how unless he’s left with no other choice. Emmrich put himself, his health, his negotiations, his position, all on the line. To save Lucanis. To save Caterina. To help Illario. That Emmrich wants to keep helping, yet asks for nothing in return, is a sickness in Lucanis’ veins he doesn’t think he can simply sweat out and move past.
“This isn’t your mess to clean up. You haven’t even had a chance to stop moving in months. You’re an ambassador now, with other responsibilities. You can’t put everything on hold for this.”
For me.
But Emmrich gives a slow shake of his head and shrugs him off, the pain in his smile melting into something more poised, more effortless. That it looks so easy on his face makes Lucanis wonder if Emmrich’s still here with him. Did he go somewhere else? Recede into reflexive decorum? Did Lucanis push him away too hard?
“One of the perks of being an ambassador now, is all the newfound connections I can call upon. The position I am in makes me uniquely qualified to parley and make favors to find the experts that might possibly be able to do something about this.” Emmrich straightens up and lets his arms come down, open palms, open eyes, a mildly amused curl at one corner of his lips and a tell-tale lift to his brows that only highlights how his eyes remain fixed to the floor. “If you attempted the same, you’d be at the mercy of the merchant princes, and have to expose this information where you’re already so vulnerable. That is not something you need to add to your growing host of problems right now. Let’s solve this one, and you can pay me back when it makes sense to. If it’s all that important to you. It’s not as if once Treviso is stable again, that you won’t be able to make my upcoming political engagements here a little easier. Does that… Help?”
It does. That Emmrich isn’t fighting him on the concept of perceived unevenness in their relationship helps Lucanis breathe a little more freely. At the very least, at some point, there will be something Lucanis can do. He’ll take solace in that, for now.
“How do you make it seem so easy?” Lucanis asks. “To be so… Level. About this.”
“The truth is I’m terrified. For you. For Illario. For the continent,” Emmrich says. His words prove Spite right. Emmrich carries his fear so well, it’s nearly invisible. “Letting it rule me like I used to got Manfred killed. Granted, that was temporary. But it still happened. I won’t let my fear cost me like that again. I refuse to make the same mistakes and lose anyone else because of it.”
Emmrich’s eyes lift from the floor and finally lock with Lucanis’ own. They are barely glassy. His voice drops to something hoarse and tender; it’s a ragged, emotional accompaniment to how his face takes on the expression of a man who’s made up his mind and cannot be swayed on his chosen course. Firm, unyielding, serious and severe. But his eyes are so soft, glittering wet. Lucanis can’t breathe all over again when Emmrich says it--
“Least of all you.”
Lucanis stares into the bright, burning light of Emmrich’s resolute convictions. It echoes, reverberates within him, again and again and again. Four little words holding such significance, so powerfully compelling that Lucanis can’t help but exhale and echo them.
“Least of all, me.”
Lucanis feels those words like a blow. It is only now, when Emmrich finally meets his gaze again, that Lucanis can no longer escape the truth. Staring him in the face is a version of reality that runs contrary to what he feels capable of giving. But it’s real. It’s there. It’s in the creases around Emmrich’s eyes that show his age, so delicate. It’s there in the apology that forms in the tenting of his brows, the eye-widening realization that perhaps this time, he’s misspoken and said too much when they promised to say nothing at all. Exhaustion has a way of inebriating all on its own. So much decorum is lost in a single, life-defining instant.
“Emmrich?” his name scrapes Lucanis’ throat, cracks him open, and he’s taking a shaky step before he can think better of it, hand lifting, fingers trembling. This is bad. It’s so bad.
“You’re my dearest friend Lucanis. You already know that.”
“I do. I… I know that.”
But the truth tears through his chest, scrambling and roaring and he feels Spite right there, under his sternum, taking his hand, guiding his steps. It’s deserved. Earned. You can say no. But don’t. You don’t want to. The unity of their minds, their motivations, the sudden surge of loss as the feeling in his limbs dulls and he stumbles, two, three, four steps. He collides with Emmrich, helpless to do anything but be caught in his arms, hear the air knocked from Emmrich’s lungs as he stumbles, too. Backward, heels scuffing against marble.
“Lucanis?”
“I’m sorry—It’s. It’s Spite.”
But Emmrich doesn’t set him upright on his feet properly. He doesn’t help him to straighten his spine. He curls around Lucanis and tucks him against his chest. Not since Lucanis was a child has any embrace felt so profound while also shrinking him to nothing. Emmrich’s hands are warm. All of him is warm. Gloved fingers glide so easily into his hair to cradle the back of his head, his other arm steady around Lucanis’ shoulders. It’s tight. Almost suffocating. Lucanis can’t quite tell if Emmrich is giving him a chance to hide, or is holding Lucanis so tightly so that he might hide himself instead.
Spite is a throb in his bones, in his head, vaporous purple hues flooding his vision and a low, purring growl rattling in his chest that sounds as frustrated as it is contented, and Lucanis doesn’t feel like he’s truly in control. But he also… Is. Spite didn’t take over to exercise his own will, piloting Lucanis out into the world for some misguided purpose. He grasped Lucanis’ impulses, his deepest desires that Lucanis was stalwartly saying ‘no’ to, and bade he follow them, relentlessly, to their conclusion.
Right here, in Emmrich’s arms.
He can hear Emmrich’s heart beating, how hard he swallows, his every slow, shaky breath. Seconds passing like tiny tragedies. Silence reigns with cold indifference. Lucanis’ heart hurts. It hurts. He wants to unknow this about himself so that it can’t hurt him. So he can’t hurt Emmrich. He wants to step back from it, but his arms lift and wind around Emmrich, fingertips digging into the supple, deep blue velveteen of his coat. A coat Lucanis chose for him. He smells like flowers and fresh air and something earthy, warm, woody. He smells like laughter at a funeral. Flowers on a glass coffin in a smoky mausoleum where Lucanis said goodbye to his mother—
Emmrich pulls back. His grasp slides and finds Lucanis’ shoulder, his face, turning him upward to look into a flickering resignation that breaks into the sort of soulful melancholy that appears so painfully natural on Emmrich’s face. Smiling, but hurting. Trying, striving to fight fear and win. When Emmrich takes another breath, Lucanis holds his own. He looks Emmrich in the eye and Emmrich seems startled by it.
It tumbles out so innocently, as if it’s not the most earth-shattering thing that Emmrich could say.
“I love you, Lucanis.”
There is nothing that could have prepared Lucanis to hear it. The way his mind leaps to justify it as anything else is nauseating. Love between friends can run so strong and so deep, so of course. Of course. But he knows the truth for what it is. He can’t become blind to it now that he sees and Lucanis’ face crumples as a hot flood of emotion washes through him, wells in his eyes and he nods, broken and shaken by the sentiment. His hands rest against Emmrich’s chest, curling against his lapels, holding onto him as he gives a little tug. He finds that he’s nodding. To show he hears. He knows. He understands. And he feels Emmrich’s fear as if it’s his own.
What rotten luck. What poor timing. If only it weren’t so doomed by circumstance. This isn’t the whirlwind romance of his dreams, not the sort of wonderful rush of elation that he’s read in so many novels. It’s complicated and heavy and such a mess. Emmrich brushes away Lucanis’ tears with his thumb.
“You shouldn’t,” Lucanis croaks. And Emmrich leans down, their foreheads connecting in a bump of physicality that rocks Lucanis’ entire world off center. He pushes in for more. Nose brushing along the bridge of Emmrich’s own as he grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. The rolling tension, and how they lean into each other, holding on however they can, brow rubbing against brow, humid, congested breath shared in the smallest, most intimate of spaces.
Lucanis loves Emmrich, too.
But what right does he have to say it?
“Maybe not. But hearts are—tricky things. They rarely listen to reason,” Emmrich says so meekly, his fear so palpable that Lucanis can taste it on his lips before he’s inhales sharply and presses up onto his toes to nuzzle into the most wonderfully heartbreaking feeling he’s ever had the misfortune of experiencing. Yearning before rejection. Self imposed. Or mutually agreed upon. It should happen.
“No,” Lucanis agrees. His throat bobs around a tight lump on his next swallow. Everything feels so fragile. His vocal cords buzz and hum with two voices. The words on his heart forced out through his lips, abandoning all sense to be truthful. Spite forces his hand, but Lucanis doesn’t really fight him on it. He wants to say it, even though he shouldn’t.
“But I don’t want them to.”
Losing the fight comes swiftly, with barely a warning. It is more than a brush of fearful but wanting lips. It’s supple and it tastes of salt and tea and bitter coffee. Emmrich gasps and Lucanis doesn’t know which of them gave up the fight first or if it even matters. Emmrich’s mouth is soft, plush, inviting, and it’s not just one kiss, but many. Crashing inward, upward, leaning, tilting, parting for breath only to drown once more. Again and again with all the greed of a child grown into a man who was denied the simplest of comforts more times than he felt them.
Emmrich winds around him, arms more secure than any chains, any beams, no metal or man-made structure could ever hold a candle to how held and safe Lucanis feels in Emmrich’s arms, and for so long that’s been true. Long enough that now, it seems as if this was inevitable, and maybe it’s better that Rook was not alive to see it. Lucanis sears each memory into the very fabric of his being. The shape of Emmrich’s mouth and the brush of his moustache and the feel of his tongue and how that chipped tooth and those golden caps taste. All of it is vibrantly human, imperfect, alarming in how it completely disarms Lucanis to take something that was never supposed to be his.
He forgets all else, forsakes his station and Emmrich’s, their prior entanglements, they feel so small and far away. How long has this feeling been here? How can such a betrayal of history and circumstance feel like the first real relief Lucanis has experienced in days, weeks, months? Emmrich makes this soft, whimpering sound from the back of his throat as he holds onto Lucanis like he’ll simply float away if he doesn’t; it’s the pawing of a desperate, terrified man, clinging to the one thing that makes him feel safe. Tethered. Or is that a projection of Lucanis’ own feelings? Maybe they’re one in the same.
When Lucanis’ lips have grown plump with affection, tingling and wet, when his head is spinning and dizzy, his lungs burning for each gasp of necessary oxygen, he draws back enough to look at Emmrich again. Ruddy cheeks and glassy eyes. Emmrich’s hand rubs the gentlest back and forth against his spine and Lucanis can’t bring himself to look away.
“What are we going to do?” Lucanis asks. Emmrich’s mouth twitches, fighting a grimace, then fighting a smile, conflicted.
“What we agreed upon. What we’ve planned to,” Emmrich answers, and Lucanis’ heart sinks at such a reasonable response. His breath is still coming so short, enough to make him feel faint, but Emmrich is there to hold him up.
“Right.”
They can’t afford distractions, and that’s to say nothing of just how much their prior relationships are still such a tangible part of them. Lucanis isn’t the kind of person who was made for this in the best of times. It would still be so foolish. His eyes flit away, head turning, heel scuffing the floor as he tries to step backward, but Emmrich doesn’t let him. He won’t let go. Lucanis’ gaze snaps back, focused, waiting, watching as Emmrich works through his own thoughts in his usual, so very visible way.
“We don’t have the luxury of… doing this properly. Not right now. But it seems that timing has never been our strong suit. When… When this is all over. If you still feel the same…”
Lucanis’ eyes widen, and his sinking heart leaps.
“I will,” he says, so readily, without a single thought spared toward hesitation. Emmrich’s own gaze opens wider, brows lifting toward his hairline as he battles with his own little bout of shock and surprise. And then it melts. He’s soft and warm and his eyes are the kindest Lucanis has ever known. He lets out the most delicate, little laugh. He leans down and kisses Lucanis’ cheek.
“Alright, Lucanis. Until later, then.”
Later… Later feels fair. Lucanis can do later. With more time, maybe he can get to a place where he feels worthy of it, or like he has something to offer Emmrich. Maybe he can avoid making the same mistakes he made with Neve if he just gives himself the time to figure it all out first, rather than jumping in because time was precious and nothing was promised. Maybe with a little time, there’s hope that this won’t ruin them both. He winds his fingers around Emmrich’s lapel a little tighter.
Ask it. Or I. Will.
“Will you still… Stay here with me? Tonight?” he asks, quietly nervous and completely uncertain about whether or not they’re going to step backward until they can move forward with intention. It would be sensible. But… don’t want to lose. This. Makes us. Happy.
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” Emmrich says, staying close and comfortably entangled. “I’ve a morning engagement I can’t miss.”
Lucanis knows precisely what engagement Emmrich means, but in this moment, he doesn’t want to think about the details. She doesn’t get to intrude on this. She’d be less than pleased to hear about it. She’s not welcome here.
“Then come to bed with me. I fear if I don’t lie down now, I’ll catch a third wind and not sleep until sundown comes again,” Lucanis sighs, and with that exhale, he lets go of the tension he carries in his back as much as he can. Right now, things are okay. They’re going to be. He tells himself again and again, hoping he can hold onto it. Believe it.
Emmrich nods, he smiles, he shifts to wrap his arm around Lucanis’ shoulders and walk him to the bedroom just as the first pearly pink rays of down spill across the sheets. Undressing together is an exercise in carefully averted gazes and strangely embarrassed glances, with smiles exchanged like secrets. Lucanis’ stomach flutters with anticipation as he crawls into his bed and his body begins to give out the moment rest becomes a real possibility. Emmrich lays down beside him, not so far away as he’s done before, and Lucanis takes a moment to show what he cannot bring himself to say.
He curls in close against Emmrich’s side and chooses his chest for a pillow instead. By the time Emmrich drags his fingers through Lucanis’ hair to brush it back from his face, Lucanis is out. Candle snuffed. Peaceful darkness. He sleeps soundly, hope carrying him to sweeter dreams.
Notes:
This Chapter Brought To You In Part By:
- The stress of the end of the school year
- Being Really Sleepy
- Major Life Changes!! AAA!!
- Hydration
- Perfume Samples
- The Sensory Bliss of Keyboard Click ClacksUntil next time!!
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