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Johanna Hezenkoss’ skull was in fragments by the time it made its way into Emmrich Volkarin’s charge. Vorgoth insisted on hand delivering her remains themselves—their tall form manifesting in Emmrich’s quarters within the Lighthouse no more than a week after the events of Blackthorne Manor.
Emmrich was basking in his solitude by the fireplace, cradling a cup of tea as he stared pensively into the dancing flames. His brows were furrowed, mind vacant, unable to pull forth a concrete thought as he watched the blaze intensify—the logs within it crumbled into tiny embers, the remnants glowing angrily at the bottom of the hearth. Not so dissimilar to Johanna’s disintegrating body after the spirits had been released from the Gloaming Lantern, seeking their retribution. Emmrich let out a heavy exhale at the brief notion of his old friend. His chest constricted, the full weight of the last few days weighing heavily on his psyche.
He swirled the tea in his cup before taking a sip, wincing as he registered the taste. Tepid and bitter. He automatically groaned, disappointed in his negligence and lack of time management as of late. His fingers tightened around the cup as he downed the rest of it in one unrefined gulp. Yes, the brew had been ruined, but he wouldn’t dare let it go to waste.
With a flick of Emmrich’s wrist, the teacup disappeared, rejoining the part of the Fade he had channeled it from. He was going to miss that little trick when it came time to leave the Lighthouse, being within the Fade had permitted him to manipulate all manner of objects into fruition, if he was so inclined. But alas, there was work to be done, Evanuris to vanquish, and he couldn’t just stand there in front of the fireplace for perpetuity—no matter how appealing it might've seemed at that moment.
Emmrich turned on his heels to face his desk, and nearly let out a blood curdling scream when he found Vorgoth standing silently behind him. His cheeks burned but he smiled nonetheless, folding his hands politely by his hips. He should’ve been used to Vorgoth’s visits by now, of all the decades he’d served in the Mourn Watch, yet each occurrence was a most frightening and unexpecting sight indeed.
Vorgoth’s back was straight and their broad shoulders relaxed, a sea of mist met Emmrich’s gaze from underneath their hood. They held a sizable black box in their hands, the corners interlaced with golden skulls and floral etchings. Vorgoth bowed deeply and Emmrich quickly returned the motion—to which he was quite thankful for, as it gave him a proper chance to catch his bearings before he rose again.
“GREETINGS, EMMRICH VOLKARIN.”
“Vorgoth,” Emmrich started, clearing his throat, “I wasn’t aware you’d be calling this evening. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Emmrich paused, tilting his head to the object in Vorgoth’s grasp. “And I daresay, is that a gift you’ve brought me? How munificent.”
Emmrich let his smile lengthen, knowing full well Vorgoth wasn’t the type to present gifts, but rather misfortunes laced with riddles.
“I FEAR NOT. I BRING YOU THE REMAINS OF JOHANNA HEZENKOSS. SHE IS READY FOR YOU.”
“Ah, but of course.”
Emmrich held his breath as he accepted the box from Vorgoth, taking it with considerable effort into his trembling hands. It was featherlight, despite the significance of its contents. It thrummed with magic, goosebumps sprouting like a tidal wave from Emmrich’s arms all the way to the small of his back the longer he touched it.
“A box of holding? My word, such a rarity. And this enchantment…” Emmrich uttered, mostly to himself, as his voice faded in awe.
“WE HAVE WARDED JOHANNA WELL. EXERCISE CAUTION IN ENSURING IT REMAINS AS SUCH. SHE FOUGHT AGAINST US IN THE BEGINNING, BUT SHE DESISTED EVENTUALLY.”
“Duly noted, Vorgoth. I appreciate the concern. My apologies for any harm she might've caused you.” Emmrich diverted his eyes, shame bubbling to the surface like he was back in his youth, caught red handed as he tried to sneak into the restricted section of the Necropolis’ vast library. The disappointment in Johanna, in their inauspicious friendship, raged within him—all of their past actions leading to this precise and critical juncture.
“AN IRRITATION AT BEST, YET NO MATCH AGAINST MYSELF OR ANY ONE OF THE MOST SENIOR WATCHERS. YOU HAVE OUR UTMOST THANKS FOR CARRYING THIS BURDEN.”
“It was the least I could do to be of service. I only hope to steer her on a clearer path towards redemption.”
“IN DUE COURSE, BUT ALAS, I MUST BID YOU ADIEU. UNTIL WE NEXT MEET.”
Emmrich parted his lips to wish Vorgoth a safe journey back to the Necropolis, or wherever they were off to next—more than likely retreating to some unknown part of the Fade only they were privy to. However, Vorgoth vanished into thin air before his tongue could even reach the top of his palate.
The quietude left in Vorgoth’s wake was suffocating, rife with the type of anticipation that only paralyzed Emmrich with dread. Conscious of his heartbeat, of all the thoughts that fluttered into his subconscious, as he forced himself to proceed with the task at hand, to what was now expected of him. He hesitated, considering running out of his quarters that very second to summon Rook. Emmrich craved the comfort of her presence, the warmth of her touch, the reassurance of her eyes locked with his, and that radiant, lovely smile he adored so much—the very one that encouraged him to take action, no matter what obstacle lay in his path. He thought against it, chary of distrupting her peace and at the stark realisation this was something he needed to do alone. Not even the Lighthouse’s subtle motions through the Fade, its soft creaks as it rocked in its rotation, could quell these foolish trepidations.
Emmrich approached the marble slab in the corner of his laboratory like he was walking to the gallows—though not to his own execution, no, but to Johanna’s—observing the consequences of her reckless pursuit of power, her cursed pilgrimage built upon the foundations of petty grudges and promises of longevity. He stepped with determination, now part of a primeval formality that began the instant he had agreed to be the sole Watcher tasked with her supervision. He set the box in the middle of the slab as he readied himself, elongating his posture with another set of deep breaths.
He unlatched the box and slowly pulled the lid back, letting out what could’ve been considered a pitiful whimper at the state of Johanna’s remains—of what was left of the friend he had cherished, the woman he had spent so much of his life admiring.
“Oh, Johanna…” Barely a mumble escaped his mouth, as he brought a hand to his chest, fist clenching around the fabric of his shirt as if he had been struck with a finishing jab to the heart.
Of course Emmrich had glimpsed the full extent of what a vengeful spirit was capable of, not to mention the hundreds, potentially thousands, of spirits that were confined within the Gloaming Lantern. Anyone who had been in attendance in the ballroom at Blackthorne Manor bore witness to Johanna’s demise, regardless of their desires to or not. He had attempted, with great effort, to divert his gaze initially, truly he had. Emmrich’s eyes darted over the piles of rubble caused by her fallen bone construct, skimming the injured bodies of those unlucky souls she had invited to her gathering, all the while searching for Manfred—for any sign his ward was safe after his valiant stunt to protect him.
It was Johanna’s long agonising shrieks that nearly did Emmrich in, his head whipping back in her direction, as if he could do anything to aid her. Her howls were unremitting, still reverberating in the back of his mind if he let things become too quiet, if he lingered on those nightmarish images for a spell too long.
With a mixture of horror and curiosity, Emmrich watched as Johanna’s body dissipated, alarmed at the rate in which the spirits swarmed her—how utterly helpless she was, body writhing on the floor like a beheaded snake. Her skin melted away to bone, the majority of her skeleton dispersing as each spirit faded in turn, like ashes to the wind—her existence amounting to nothing more than a measly bean in less than a minute.
When Johanna’s skull collided with the floor, Emmrich turned away, having seen too much. It was then he spotted Manfred’s discarded body across the ballroom, wedged horribly between the bone construct’s clenched fists.
Even so, none of that seemed to have softened the blow for Emmrich as he continued to gape at the contents in front of him, an uneasiness simmering in the pit of his stomach. The box of holding was multilayered, consisting of an expanse of drawers that housed different parts of Johanna’s shattered skull, each bone wrapped in black cloth. The inside was much larger than one would expect, its magical drawers could be altered in size, reshaped, or removed altogether—depending on what one wanted to gain from its usage, or hold temporarily. The possibilities were endless with this type of artefact.
Despite Johanna’s numerous crimes, her remains were treated with profound veneration, which she herself never bothered to show most mortals, never mind any spirit that she encountered throughout her life. If Johanna had known this was how her bones would be preserved, she would’ve likely rebelled yet again, cursing Emmrich, and the entirety of Thedas, into oblivion.
Her frontal bone all the way down to her maxilla was cracked, splitting her skull unevenly. The right side of what would’ve been considered her face was missing the zygomatic bones and the orbit, the bony socket typically containing the eyeball. Emmrich had assumed the spirits had devoured those absent parts, but to his relief, found them secure within drawers of their own. Her mandible was completely detached and fractured into at least four different sections. Most of her molars had fallen out or were chipped, bar a few in the middle of the maxilla which were still rooted into it. The occipital bone, otherwise known as the lower back side of the skull, also had a gaping hole in it—bone fragments of various shapes and sizes splayed out like broken glass.
Emmrich had prepared, quite literally, every type of corpse known to mortal man, and no two were identical. From the newly deceased, their skin clammy and cold, ripe cadavers fermenting in the soil, to a whole range of bare skeletons, each with a unique story of their own—it was grueling, laborious, and above all, important work that had to be done. Johanna's skull in comparison was in complete shambles. He was mindful he could merely snap his fingers and amend it instantaneously, but that was a violation to everything he stood for.
While most Watchers, disgracefully even some of the more Senior members, liked to find easier methods, nay excuses, to maneuver out of their obligations—Emmrich worked slowly and methodically. He wanted to get to know the body he was handling, to offer his condolences, despite never having met their waking being. Everyone deserved that honour, no matter how they went about their existence, or what mistakes were made along their respective journeys.
As a Professor, Emmrich took his tutelage seriously. He was known for creating bespoke lessons focusing around the fundamentals of humanity and the correct ministrations needed when handling cadavers. He spent equal time with all of his students to ensure they were able to grasp the importance of their studies, and that just one minute action could cause a damning ripple effect throughout the Fade. Nothing went unnoticed, the spirits were always observing, endlessly cataloging the events of the waking world. His curriculum was a legacy he hoped would remain with his students long after they graduated, as they moved on throughout their own careers, and what he strove to teach Manfred one day—essentially taking Emmrich’s place, when he was ready.
“We have quite the task ahead of us, don’t we, Johanna?” Emmrich muttered, as he promptly began his duties—as both Watcher and friend—conjuring a lilac-colored cloth to place across the slab.
Emmrich removed all the bones from the box, laying them gingerly across the cloth in the order of how they would be assembled—starting from the base of the skull all the way to the cranium. He rubbed his hands together, the tips of his fingers glowing with necrotic energy. He picked up the first bone, a part of the mental foramen, and held it in his palms, turning it over and investigating the surface, each scratch and irregularity.
“In flesh, what once was, and in bone, everlasting. May your form render itself anew.” Emmrich’s voice bellowed throughout his laboratory, his chest full, radiating with the energy of the Fade as he beckoned it to him.
He was on the brink of becoming melodic, if his cadence rose any higher he would’ve appeared to be chanting, like he was performing funeral rites in a mausoleum for an audience of grievers. Except on this occasion it was only him and Johanna. Though funnily enough, as that thought came to him, about a dozen or so wisps entered his quarters, drawn to the magic that Emmrich was pulling from. They fluttered above him, others diving down to the marble slab, as they chirped with interest.
“Hello there! Yes!” Emmrich responded to one’s question, “This is Johanna. She w—is, she is my friend.” He said to another. “Oh, well done, what a fine enquiry. I’m simply restoring her skull before she’s to awaken.” He pointed to one of the cracks in a piece of bone, “Mmm. It's a rather frightening wound, but don’t fret. And yes, you’re certainly more than welcome to watch, you all are.” The wisps’ chirping grew louder as he worked, as if to exclaim their gratitude.
The air thickened around Emmrich, tinting with an emerald green hue as his eyes gleamed—increasing his cognizance of the Fade’s individual weaves. The multi-coloured strands twisted and pulled around him, each thread intertwining with his fingertips, and in turn into Johanna's bones that he held so delicately before him.
Little by little, Emmrich put Johanna back together again, using his fingers to deftly slot in the pieces of bone as if he was completing a complex dwarven puzzle, his magical essence binding the skull like mortar. He savoured this act, this ritual in particular—it was more than intimacy could ever provide. Seeing the extent of his work up close, as her skull slowly returned to something presentable, gave him an odd sense of comfort, of meaning.
Emmrich was, in part, responsible for these injuries. He would see that those faults she gained in the final act of her confrontation would not remain on her bones. Johanna was marked already, as it were, her spirit so heavily warded it would take a grand revelation for her to break any one of them if she ever wished to escape. He could at least keep her skull decent for the millennia that awaited her. And yes, he was more than happy to give her a good dusting, a proper polish, to ensure she was up to his standards while he was still capable of such a thing. Though, whether or not Manfred would be willing to take on that duty was still to be determined.
As he held the mended skull in his hands, the eye sockets flickered with Veilfire, albeit briefly. He tilted his head curiously, staring into the centre of each eye, waiting for any more signs of mischief to reveal itself, but they remained dark. He shook off the suspicions, letting out a low chuckle—for all he knew, it could have been his excitement getting the best of him as he neared the end of the restoration. Emmrich had caused quite the number of Veilfire explosions in days gone by, whenever his emotions heightened—alarming some of his students, and even a few of the companions since he took up residence in the Lighthouse.
Emmrich steadily turned the skull over, giving it one final inspection. If it was anything less than exemplary before he lifted Johanna’s stasis, it would plague him with regrets. More so than he could possibly endure. Even if Johanna was none the wiser of her appearance. His eyes reached the cranium, breath hitching when he spotted a small dent on the right side of her parietal bone. This was not a new wound. He ran his finger over it, caressing the dip as a memory suddenly clouted him. A structural collapse deep in the Necropolis, Johanna shoving Emmrich aside as the ceiling fell down upon them, Emmrich frantically digging through the rubble…
“I healed this… ages ago. Or so I—” He swallowed, unable to look away from the dent. Another offense he was responsible for, yet one he had chosen to repress.
Johanna’s skull vibrated in his grip, his limbs shaking violently along with her, as a familiar grating voice filled the available space in his quarters.
“Are you planning on concluding this buffoonery anytime soon, Volkarin? Your putrid little face is making me ill. If I have to look at it for any longer I’ll demand to be thrown into the Void at once!”
The wisps around Emmrich fled through the walls the instant they heard Johanna’s inflection, the mere sound of her shouting seeming to terrify them. He should’ve been inclined to follow, as his heart pumped so vigorously against his chest spots of black peppered the corners of his vision—dangerously close to another fainting spell if he didn’t get this situation back under control.
“Johanna!” Emmrich coughed out a reply, placing the skull down on the cloth and taking a generous step back—warded or not, it was all precautionary. “You’ve awoken, and rather prematurely, if I might add.”
Veilfire swirled at Johanna’s base, flooding over the sides of the marble slab. Her eye sockets burned the brightest, sharp flames erupting at rapid intervals, like he was looking inside a forge.
“I’d say it was a pleasure, Volkarin, but I’ve grown tired of fibbing.”
Emmrich blinked, finding himself staring dumbfoundedly at Johanna, his jaw hanging open like a door on a broken hinge. Her words never ceased to shock him—even on the finest occasions, when she attempted flattery, or Maker forbid, an honest compliment, it still caused his toes to curl, recoiling from fear of being pummeled to death.
He snapped his mouth shut, shifting his feet, unsure what to do with his blasted hands while his composure continued to unravel under her scrutiny, from the crippling force of unsaid words, his contrition gathering like a storm cloud as he calculated his next move. Emmrich, in his typical fashion—to which some would arguably say was absurd—had composed a bespoke speech for Johanna. A stern, yet warm welcome, a way to ease her back into this new normal, to set the groundwork, the overall expectations, of her penance. That had undeniably been thrown out the window the instant Johanna stirred from her stasis, like an irritable child with their nap cut short.
“How much did you… witness this evening?” Emmrich questioned cautiously, watching the Veilfire floating up the side of her skull, preemptively shuddering at the approaching response.
“Enough to know where the rest of it would go if I didn’t interject.”
“So, everything.”
“Unfortunately.”
Emmrich stifled a groan as he pinched the bridge of his nose, turning his back to Johanna and drifting over to the desk—seeking salvation, no, something else, something more prominent to distract him from her daunting presence. He had no shame wearing his emotions so blatantly on his sleeve, though the one fault he always neglected to realise—oftentimes when it was much too late—was how it left him exposed to ridicule, to ceaseless attacks by none other than Johanna herself.
He frequently fell into the same snares, backing himself up into dark corners, while hoping for a more positive outcome, for her to at least share his sentiments—if not but a sliver of respect, or some signs of compassion—but nevertheless, he always received the same demoralising retaliations. He would not change the basis of his personality for anyone, no matter how many past lovers, acquaintances, or mentors pleaded for him to reconsider ‘reining it in’, as it were. Never. He would stay true to himself. And if that just so happened to leave him broken beyond repair, crawling into a cold bed at night, or walking on one's tod through the crowded thoroughfares, then so be it.
He pressed the bottom corner of the desk with the tip of his boots, finding a miniscule switch he had installed within the mouldings. With another twirl of his wrist he expended a few more bits of mana before a soft click revealed a secret section in the side paneling. This was where he stored his more precious valuables. It did not include jewellery, antiques, nor fine silks or currencies—but was filled with aged spirits and wines, an assortment of other delicacies and treats from all across Thedas.
Emmrich had installed this magical receptacle when Manfred gained his current body, as he quickly discovered just how inquisitive the spirit truly was after he lost not one, not two, but five bottles of his finest wines. One evening he had found Manfred standing cheerfully in a puddle of the wasted beverages, all the while his ribs and mandible were stained red, giving the illusion his ward had just concluded a massive killing spree throughout the Necropolis. Emmrich pulled a face at the notion, even now.
Another snap of his fingers and a bottle of Minrathous Red floated out from the collection, landing lightly on his desk, along with a drinking glass and an opener. He manually removed the capsule and cork, finding the act satisfying in and of itself, not to mention relishing in the pleasant pop once it was unsealed. He went through his typical routine when opening a new bottle, despite every fiber of his being wanting nothing more than to drink straight from its rim.
Emmrich poured a small amount of wine into his glass, observing its crimson colour, how it contrasted against the flames of the hearth. He then smelled its rich aromas, allowing his taste buds to savour the soft hints of plum and spices as he swirled it around his mouth. Once that was through, he helped himself to a generous serving, too generous, in fact—saying a small orison for his future self, for the throbbing headache that would undoubtedly find him at his bedside in the morning. He raised the glass to Johanna—a cursory toast of sorts—and took a long sip, finally folding into his writing chair.
“Drinking to anything in particular, Volkarin?” Johanna barked, her skull rattling on the slab. “I never imagined you as the gloating sort.”
Emmrich paused for a thought. “I’d offer you a glass, Johanna, but…” He wanted to belabor the obvious, that she was undead, she had no need for such frivolous things anymore. “You were never keen on this particular vintage to begin with.”
“Pah! Knowing your lackluster tastes, it would be far too fruity, too weak. I preferred my liquor with more of a lasting impression. It’s a shame however, I’ll never be able to reap the benefits of brandy again.”
“Hmm.” Emmrich gazed deep into the wine once more, past his undulated reflection staring back, losing himself in the darkness of the liquid, in the thoughts of drowning his woes with more of it shortly. “A ramification you should’ve considered, instead of acting so impetuously. I still can’t fathom it, working alongside Venatori rabble. Honestly, Johanna. Did you really think your presumptions would lead you to triumph?”
Johanna huffed, Veilfire seeping through her permanently clenched jaw. “A means to an end. I would’ve crushed them all once I had taken possession of Nevarra City.”
“Utter lunacy.” Emmrich supped more wine, his back melting into the wooden frame of the chair, loosening with the buzz of the intoxicant. “I assume there are queries you wish to raise with me?”
“Regarding what exactly? Your ripe mawkishness? Unfortunately that’s to be expected, as it comes quite naturally for you, doesn’t it? It’s predictable, pathetic.” Emmrich topped up the glass as she went on her verbal rampage, unflinching and moving in a daze, his head feeling a touch lighter. “Or no, wait—do you mean the nature of this wretched torment? My so-called imprisonment? Please. Don’t take me for a clod, Volkarin. Everything is subject to impermanence, even this.”
“What?! Johanna, I’d never—” Emmrich slammed his glass down in protest, nearly spilling a few drops of the wine on some of the parchments scattered across the surface. “You wound me to assume I’d ever use such callous language in a cheap venture to demean you. Do you fail to recall that one incident when I challenged Geoffrey Obermann to fisticuffs during a postmortem? A genuine prat, having the gall to insult your findings in front of our colleagues!”
“An audacious effort, yet you yelped like a pup when you threw the first punch, and again when he broke your nose.”
Emmrich rubbed his fingers over the ridge of his nose in recollection, where it had once curved so far to the left he assumed it had indelibly altered his physiognomy.
“The lad received what was due in the end: an overnight stay in the infirmary and an additional curse for each slander voiced against your name.”
Johanna guffawed, the Veilfire trailing up her cheekbones as if to imitate a simper, the very one he had seen her wear so proudly while she still had a mortal vessel. The rest of the flames surrounding her dulled briefly, and Emmrich took advantage of what appeared to be a lull in temperament, smiling back at Johanna. Her laughter immediately subsided at his expression, the flames returning with ferocity, lashing out at him.
“Are you still so desperate, so clouded with nostalgia, that you’re fishing for my gratitude, Volkarin? Where was all that fervour when I was stripped of my station, left with nothing but my ambitions, scrounging for support, for guidance, like I was nothing more than a pauper? You act like you were so far above me, stuffed full of your sanctimonious piffles, hiding behind your tomes and wisps. Yet we’re not so dissimilar. Forget all those other imbeciles in the Mourn Watch, your abandonment was the worst offense of them all.”
Emmrich dipped his head, each word that carried from her spectral tongue left new lacerations against his crumbling conscience, replacing the wounds that had yet to heal. He was reluctant to agree, but ultimately knew she bore validity. Didn’t she always?
“Blood magic. Human sacrifices. Dragging spirits from the Fade for your unorthodox demonstrations. Johanna, you above all should’ve known that was a line I could never cross, no matter how badly I craved immortality. Or how much I—” Emmrich’s hand wavered in between the now empty wine glass and the bottle, debating whether to finish it all off and open another.
I cared for you, Johanna. I was devoted to you. To us. We could have achieved the impossible! Those sentiments and more, oh, so much more, flooded Emmrich’s heart, leaving him breathless as his quarters spun around him. All at once, waves of expressions threatened to expel through his mouth and betray his poise, what he had always meant to exclaim to Johanna but never quite found the mettle to. Missive after missive he had penned, palms stained with ink, fingers cramped, only to shred them again, wilting under the pressure of his constrained judgements and sensitivities. Of what she might send back in return.
Emmrich winced and removed his hands from the wine bottle, rubbing the back of his neck instead to regather his focus, to shake away the intoxicated delirium. No. He would never, not under any circumstances, reveal this to Johanna, nor to anyone for that matter, not even Rook. He would take it with him beyond the Veil itself.
“Your actions left me devastated first, Johanna.” He found the strength to rise from his seat, his stride teetering as he paced back and forth. “Long before you made your choice, before we ceased our communications. I stood at the crossroads of our friendship, of all we had built together, witnessing first hand as our paths diverged, as you grew into nothing more than a spec in the distance. You didn’t even bother to glance over your shoulder, not once, to bid me farewell.”
“This tripe again, Volkarin?! You’re a poltroon, through and through.”
Emmrich froze midtread, unexpectedly finding himself under an uncontrollable bout of laughter at Johanna’s insult. He placed his hands on his knees to keep himself balanced, letting the giggling fit run its course.
“Johanna, I—don’t know what's come over me. Ah—er, I mean, well, yes, I do know, as a matter of fact. Nearly a whole bottle of wine!” This prompted another loud chuckle, which he quickly tried to suppress, to no avail. “Right. Where was I? Oh, oh yes, a ‘poltroon’ as you so expertly put it. I—Hmm. Indeed. You’re sadly not mistaken, as much as I’d like to argue against it. Guilty, as charged.”
“Ugh, you’ve finally gone completely out of your head.”
“The end is nigh, Johanna, and no better time than the present to embrace madness.”
Emmrich stood tall, pulling out the creases in his shirt and tucking it back in. Somehow during his hysterics it had completely gone undone—not only that, but the buttons of his vest were open, collar-pin askew, and his cummerbund was dragging against the floor. He shook his head in stark disapproval, only to feel stray hairs tickling his forehead as it followed his motions. After running his fingers over the top of his head, it only confirmed his inklings: most of his hair was now loose and drooping like an unwatered plant, no longer perfectly pomaded. “Dear me…” He must really, really never let himself indulge in drinking this much wine again.
“So, what now?” Johanna grumbled, just as Emmrich finished combing back his hair.
“You’re to remain under my custody, is that not clear? Ah! In a related manner—”
Emmrich practically skipped to the marble slab, picking up Johanna’s skull and transferring her to a vacant pedestal behind his desk, which had been specifically acquired for her arrival. Veilfire swatted at his wrists, like he was an irritating mosquito she was trying to rid herself of, but it did him no harm, nor hinder his actions. He centered Johanna before raising his hand in a final gesticulation—it only took a flick of his wrist to add the remaining wards to seal her to the structure.
“Behold! Your new abode, if you will, for the time being, at least until this business with the Evanuris comes to an end.”
“A ruinous conclusion. There is truly no worse fate, not even the greatest bards in Thedas could’ve drafted such a tragedy.”
“This is meant to be an atonement, Johanna, not some jolly—”
Veilfire exploded from Johanna’s skull, engulfing the entire pedestal with its emerald flames, yet she remained fixed in place, no matter how hard she raged, how loud she wailed. The Veilfire turned into phantom shapes above her, forming strange faces that depicted her anger, sorrow, and frustrations—teeth snarling, viscous frowns, visages distorted in grief. Emmrich didn’t comment, but gave her this moment to air her grievances, it was the first step of her acceptance. And there was certainly more of it to come.
Soon, the Veilfire subsided, along with her shrieks, and Emmrich’s laboratory was peaceful once more. His mind was far from still, however, as his eyes were once again drawn to the dent on the right side of her skull. A thousand questions formulated, topics he wished to discuss now that there was nowhere else for her to hide, to evade the truth.
“Do you mind, Volkarin? Am I to be subject to these leers for the remainder of your pitiful existence?”
Emmrich propped himself up against his desk, hands crossed in a ruminative gesture.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Johanna. A topic I wish I had introduced when things were still amicable between us.”
“And if I refuse to acknowledge it? I would prefer to be kept out of your cloying wallows.”
“I’m afraid I’ll be fairly persistent, restating it until you see fit to oblige me.” And make no mistake, Emmrich meant what he had declared. He would ask Johanna every day until she gave him an acceptable answer. She permitted him as much.
He stared at Johanna in turn, unrelenting despite her refusal to speak.
“Fine! You may pose your questions.”
He leaned forwards, a bit too eagerly, pointing at the dent in Johanna’s skull. Veilfire spread in anticipation of him touching her, but his hands remained hovering.
“While mending your skull, I came across that old wound of yours, from our days as initiates. Forgive me, Johanna, but I was oblivious to the extent of your injuries, its lasting damage.”
“You mean the mishap in the pits of the Necropolis? That was nothing more than a flesh wound.”
“And yet…” Emmrich shut his eyes, concentrating on the faded images of the past. Johanna and Emmrich had been mid-conversation, stopping their work for another heated dispute, though what that topic was he could no longer recollect. Before he could register the warning signs of an impending collapse—the tremors at his feet, the thunderous echos, skeletons skittering away—Johanna had shoved him aside, instantly swallowed under a mountain of rubble. Emmrich’s limbs locked in terror, tears and dust clouding his vision, mouth dry, voice quavering as he called out to her. “You acted so instinctively as the vaulting fell down upon us, so recklessly, for someone other than yourself. To this day that act of heroism still confounds me, and I find myself simply wondering, why?”
Johanna did not answer forthwith, nor was there an infamous riposte uttered, for the sole purpose of getting under his skin. Her eye sockets pulsed with Veilfire, like a beating heart, increasing in rhythm the longer the silence enveloped them.
“I know this might be difficult for you, Volkarin, but just try to conceptualize if you had perished that day. Your spirit would’ve been absolutely incessant, moaning about this and that, lingering around labs and lectures, peering over my shoulder to read notations, no doubt adding your own daft critiques. Another meaningless inclusion to the mausoleum’s inconsequential catalogue of the dead. You would’ve spoiled it for everyone, me in particular.”
Emmrich gasped, hand rushing to mouth. That was it, what he had been searching for. It was the only thing he would get from Johanna, in that odd demented way of hers. She could never be so bold as to say anything more. That sly indication, it was but a needle in a meadow, but it meant everything to him.
“Wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your face!”
“Such a peculiar way to show your affections, Johanna, but I suppose I’ll accept it.”
“Affections?! Heed my warning, you dejected old c—!”
The door to Emmrich’s laboratory slammed open and Manfred entered, poking his head through the threshold, his jeweled eyes rotating with vigilance. Ever his savior. The ward hissed in a range of octaves—LIBRARY! MEETING! EVERYONE! And Emmrich paid special attention to the strained, higher pitched notes as Manfred looked over at Johanna, wagging a gloved finger at her. She groaned at Manfred’s appearance, and he practically growled back at her.
“At this hour? Then it must be grave…”
Manfred was already off, uninterested in hearing Emmrich’s response. He left the door ajar, the sound of his clattering bones growing fainter as he scurried down the hallway. Emmrich would only allow such impoliteness from Manfred just this once. Their next lesson together would most certainly be focused on how one must conduct themselves with the highest sense of propriety at all times.
“I’ll be there in a moment, Manfred!” Emmrich shouted, hoping he projected his voice enough so it reached the library.
Emmrich bounced off his desk, fetching his staff that was resting near the staircase. He quickly snapped his fingers, summoning a full length mirror before him. He twirled around it and scanned his ensemble—adjusting his collar pin, checking that all of his vest buttons were accounted for, and making another sweep through his hair. He waved it away with satisfaction, preparing to make his exit but halted by the doorway, shifting towards Johanna.
“This exchange has been most enlightening, but I must say, Johanna, I'm glad you're still with us.”
“Pah! You'll come to rue the day, soon enough.”
“I beg to differ. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Emmrich bowed and took his leave, his mind preoccupied, priming himself for whatever this impromptu meeting could be about.