He still felt like he couldn't breathe and felt guilty for it on top of everything else. If Rook wanted this, it was selfish to want to hold him back. Emmrich had done everything he could, was still doing everything he could, to make Nevarra a home, but a home was not always enough and Rook had always been one to care and try.
His hands were squeezed. He tried to find words but none came to mind even as Rook went to talk to someone. Silently Emmrich fastened the top layer of his robes in place, pulled one bracelet on, and slipped his staff into its holster as he tried to get his brain to function.
"I... I don't know." Emmrich said, and then shook his head a beat later. "No, I do need a moment, please. I'm sorry."
They were about to go into a dinner that may well be incredibly hostile and he was shaken to his core. He could not face that same reception with the grace necessary like this. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to stop staring at a blank place on the wall.
"Would you accept?" It was better to know, likely. Maybe. Maybe not. Maker, he had not been at all prepared for the idea of losing so much of the comfort he'd come to adore having in his life.
Whatever the answer, he needed to stop being on the verge of overthinking and fretting prematurely. Emmrich closed his eyes and took a slow breath to try to center himself. This hadn't happened. Rook's reasons for considering it made sense, it followed that this was possible, but the offer hadn't been made. There was a chance that their lives would not be uprooted in this fashion. Perhaps even Davrin could be recommended for the position; while not their leader, Davrin had constantly risen to the occasion and would not, to the best of Emmrich's knowledge, be leaving anyone behind if he moved.
No. Again, he needed to stop. He needed to be in this moment. Emmrich placed a hand on his bracelet and pushed his mind to represent the cold, smooth surface. If this was requested of Rook, he would face it then. He did not need to invite it into this moment.
After another breath Emmrich opened his eyes. "Let's take one encounter with the queen at a time." His voice was even enough. Someone unfamiliar with him could think him completely calm and neutral. "If my hair's straight, we can go."
Then and there, Emmrich could have asked Rook to tie all the bedsheets together and escape out of the window back to Vigil's Keep and through the eluvian, Nevarra-bound, and he would have done it. All Rook wanted was to keep that shattered look off Emmrich's face over every could-be and might-be running through his head. That possibility dwindled with each passing second that he put off answering Emmrich's concerns with what he wanted to hear,
"I can't say," That thought alone cleaved him in two, "We don't know anything yet."
As mealy-mouthed as that answer was, it was the best Rook could offer. There was no guessing as to what would be asked of him, if anything, beyond perhaps his support in the anticipated turmoil to come. Rook wished he hadn't said anything in the first place. Even planting that seed of doubt riddled him with guilt.
Rook gave Emmrich the space he needed to finish getting ready for a dinner he had already dreaded. Composed as Emmrich seemed, Rook knew where the fault lines were but gave a rueful laugh at his comment about his hair. Gingerly, Rook reached out and smoothed one stubborn strand at Emmrich's temple back into place.
"You're perfect, love," Rook smiled, and then they departed.
Voices echoed from the arches leading into the great hall as shadows from the roaring hearth danced along the walls opposite. The effect was almost like shadow puppetry in how exaggerated the three figures stretched across the stone. Once close enough, Rook could hear the middle of a conversation.
"—don't be absurd." That was Morrigan by the sounds of it, but Rook couldn't tell if she was amused or annoyed by tone alone. It was hard to tell with her.
"No one ever gave us a name," King Alistair answered, his voice edging towards petulance. "All I'm saying is 'Grey Guard' has a bit of a ring to it; it's got alliteration! Two Gs and everything."
The peal of two women's laughter, one warmer than the other, followed.
"Dear, I don't believe they picked the name Veilguard themselves," The queen's tone was the sort of gentle hand you use when breaking tragic news. "Sorry to say."
Rook and Emmrich walked into the great hall, and three pairs of eyes landed on them as the conversation fell off. The room had two roaring fireplaces and a grand table whose end faced the entrance. Down its length were five chairs, three of which were occupied. At the head of the table in a high-backed and intricately carved chair sat Alistair; the queen sat at his right in subtle commentary on Ferelden's opinion of women rulers, and to his left was Morrigan.
Five plates had recently been set. Smoked river fish and a roasted quail were on four plates. Yams, radish, and a mushroom acorn soup with bread on all five. True to her word, the royal family would not dine extravagantly while their country was under rationing; the queen had arranged nothing even her poorest couldn't come by. The one exception was the wine; Rook could spot an Antivan vintage blindfolded the moment it was uncorked.
Rook bowed, and by the time his head was raised, he saw the queen motion to the chair beside her. Taking that as he cue to be seated, he was privately relieved that meant Emmrich would be seated next to Morrigan and not too deep into the dog cage. When he dropped into his chair she was already pouring him a glass. Pleasentries were exchanged (Good evening, thank yous and your most welcomes, et cetera) were exchanged.
Alistair broke decorum first with, "Rook, how many griffon tattoos do you have?"
Rook sputtered on his wine the moment the glass reached his lips.
"I— beg pardon, your majesty?"
"Call me Alistair." The king waved his hand like being called your majesty was someone passing wind, "See, the thing is, I have this friend in the Crows — well, actually, him no longer being in a Crow is a bit of the point — anyway, he suggested I get one but this was years ago and—"
As Rook found himself locked into an energetic conversation with the king, the queen turned her attention across the table.
"Professor Volkarin," She said impassively, "Morrigan was telling me you were also at Minrathous. Red or white, by the way? I don't have the staff work during the dinner hours, so please, don't hesitate to ask."
Perfect. Perfect, but potentially not enough. He didn't want to go down to dinner or face the possibilities of what could come, but he had a responsibility to continue forward and Emmrich would not shirk responsibility.
Thankfully the conversation they walked in on was lighter than the previous one, and a tiny bit of amusement eased Emmrich's mood slightly. While he could wish to be seated next to Rook, Morrigan was an acceptable second choice. He nodded to her and took the seat before the plate that was so clearly for him. That it simply had less rather than having substitutes wasn't entirely unexpected; even at the Lighthouse that had often been the case. He wouldn't go hungry. He was fine.
"Red, please and thank you." He passed his glass over. "And yes, I was. I was a part of what we'd called the Lighthouse crew, amongst ourselves. I'm not certain where 'Veilguard' came from."
No one chose their legacy, or how the world spoke of them. One could only do their best. He took his filled glass back and cut into his radish to find it was... well. A radish. At least the yams looked like care had been taken, and mushroom soup was mushroom soup.
"It's not a bad moniker. We did essentially guard the veil from three separate threats." And did a great deal more on top of that, but they didn't need a list of their accomplishments. Maybe if Bellara turned her mind to a history instead of friendfiction there would be an accurate account. Or maybe if he did, but he had so many papers and books to write already.
"Lady Morrigan provided essential assistance there." He was fairly certain he'd heard Lace refer to her as such. He glanced at her. "And I would be very interested in a conversation about the Fade and spirits, if opportunity arises. The last year has transformed the field. My field," he clarified in case the Queen cared.
"Mayhaps there will be a chance," Morrigan said. "'tis not my call to make, however, and there's much to accomplish currently."
Emmrich nodded. "I thought as much. The more Southern countries do not ask for Mourn Watch aid lightly."
This, he could navigate as long as it stayed this steady and civil.
Possibly against his better judgment, Rook had allowed himself to get completely absorbed in his conversation with his maj— with Alistair. The thrum of exhilaration and disbelief hit him harder than the wine the more they talked. A bastard raised in the Chantry to be a templar who was secretly a prince who saved the kingdom. Stories like that were sometimes the only thing that helped you sleep on an empty stomach during the lean years. Now, Rook was sitting next to the man and being asked to lift his sleeve to show off the roaring griffon snaking up his arm.
— Even the queen occasionally broke eye contact away from Emmrich to look over at them. Usually, at any mention of the word griffon.
The queen had a generous pour, and the goblet nearly sloshed at the brim when she passed it back over to Emmrich. Hers was the same, though she took thoughtful, periodic pulls. She didn't seem to be plying anyone; it just appeared to be a quirk of a Ferelden dinner table.
"News from the North is thin at best and outright horseshit at worse," She said before nodding to Morrigan. "Our Lady Morrigan and the Inquisitor have been our only reliable sources beyond what the Free Marches have been able to provide."
— At the head of the table, a snort was heard at hearing Morrigan's title. A grunt and the rattling of silverware summarily followed this when someone got his shins kicked.
"In...any event," The queen continued, half-blinded gaze going around the table before falling back on Emmrich, "Most Southern countries don't ask of what they know little about, and the Mourn Watch is a word that's only recently come to my attention and only from the glowing recommendations attached to your name alone."
At 'glowing recommendations,' she tipped her glass at Morrigan, who rolled her eyes.
"'Tis a touch hypocritical to criticize one organization for secrecy when the legacy of the Wardens stands behind you," Morrigan pointed out, and at that, and possibly only because it came from her, did the queen laugh.
"Point taken, but the truth is I asked Morrigan personally to seek someone of your talents out."
Now Rook was listening, and even the king seemed to catch on, and their conversation fell into a lull.
"I..." The queen looked into her goblet as she rolled it in her hand. " I would like to speak with you after dinner; the matter in the tower is a delicate one, and I require your advice."
There was an unspoken alone there that piqued Rook's attention and one that made his stomach flip. Just how bad were things at Kinnloch that even the Hero of Ferelden was shy about information? Rook opened his mouth to inquire more or at least request to be part of this meeting when the queen abruptly stood with goblet in hand.
"But, I would be remise to see this dinner fall into melancholy — a toast, Rook?"
When chairs scrapped on the stone floor as Alistair stood, Rook reactively followed the lead.
"Your Veilguard has done Thedas a great service that surpasses not only your order but all those represented with you here now and in every corner of the continent. Most of them are not present tonight, but I hope my sincerest thanks are known." When her glass is raised, she did cast a glance back at Emmrich — something inscrutable, yet almost regretful. "Only it is with a heavy heart that I say our fight in the South isn't over, and I fear you must be called upon again. You are an exemplar Warden and son of Ferelden, which is why I raise my glass to you, to our lost sister Lace Harding of Redcliffe, and humbly ask that you, Hugh Thorne —
Accept the mantle of Ferelden's Commander of the Grey."
Rook raised his glass at Harding's name, then froze. They were waiting for a response. All eyes were on him, but his gaze immediately found the pair of eyes the color of summer-ripened olives he loved so much. Rook held them in a stare, frightful and unsure, like only those who knew what standing on a precipice felt like. He took a deep breath and,
"If..." Rook was stock still, his goblet half-raised. "If it pleases you, I would like to take a night to think it over."
Again, the queen's face betrayed nothing as she toasted and said, "Of course." As she sat back down.
Things were going far better. Too much better. Emmrich worked hard to keep focused, to not overthink it, but the Queen was being personable in a way that did not fit her earlier behavior. She was building to something.
The implication of a meeting alone felt like it could be the trap, could be the rug pull, but then she stood and made things even worse than he could have imagined. Commanding Vigil's Keep would have been one thing, with the eluvian right there. It would have been painful and challenging, an end to so much of the romance, but possible.
Commanding all of the Wardens of Ferelden? There would be no time. There would be no chances. Rook would not have time to visit, nor would Emmrich be guaranteed a chance to see Rook any time he managed to come to Ferelden. He could be anywhere in this country, a country where it was unsafe for a mage to travel alone.
Emmrich met Rook's gaze as his world hung in the balance, as his heart threatened to shatter. The final blow did not come, not yet, but Emmrich wondered what Rook wanted here. He should have asked a different question earlier.
He sat down again, eyes on his plate. The glance from the queen said she'd known exactly what she was going to do to him, while wanting something urgently from him. Perhaps some would have found it funny. Emmrich can only feel like he's living on borrowed time.
And somehow he was going to have to find focus enough to talk to the queen after dinner too, he remembered. Politely.
Emmrich decided he hated Ferelden as he bit into his unseasoned radish.
The dinner shifts to a sobering affair after the toast. The queen and Morrigan appear detached from how nonplussed the rest of the table after they are seated. The two women start to talk about letters to Val Royeaux and Seheron; the next moves to who can be reached before the jaws of Orlais and the darkspawn can close around them.
Where there may have been arguing was Rook and Alistair, with their heads bowed low and speaking in a hushed voice. Gone was Alistair, the fool figurehead, when he swiped away their empty plates and unfurled a map. He started to point at certain spots and whisper words that would break the din, like — 'deep trenches' and 'emissary.' Rook visibly paled at the last one as he stole a furtive glance in Emmrich's direction.
"Divine Victoria stands at a crossroads, and her dissolution of the Circle has cost her dearly within the court," Morrigan said.
"I know, I know, but she wouldn't see Ferelden fall to secure the Sunburst Throne." The queen was just as furtive despite how easily they were heard without the lowest of whispers. "But the Arishok—"
"I will do what I can." Morrigan reached across the table to squeeze her hand, then stood. "'Tis time I make my leave." She looked at Emmrich and bowed her head. Almost as if to say she was sorry for her going.
Morrigan got up and walked around the table, pausing at Alistair's seat and brushing his shoulder.
"Tell him—" Alistair started before looking as if he realized he had made an inside joke that no one would get. He laughed mirthlessly before waving her off and adding, "Not that it matters — stay well."
Morrigan offered what was perhaps the warmest look she could muster to the king and queen before slipping out under the stone arch of the great hall and disappearing into the night.
"Could I have a moment?" Rook blurted with the unpreparedness of a new recruit but also the confidence of a fool who hasn't been told 'no' enough. "I'd like to consult Prof Volkarin — I mean — can I talk to Emmrich alone, a moment, your grace?"
"I'd like to speak with Volkarin before the last Chantry bell," The queen said before looking at Emmrich, "The library is on the same wing as the grand hall before the atrium if we could speak there?"
He was being a terrible guest and he could not find a way out of his own head enough to fix it. He could add to neither conversation. Why an emissary would cause such a reaction was a mystery to him, and all he knew about the Arishok was that he'd been wounded when the antaam rose up. There was nothing he could offer regarding the Orlesian court or the southern Chantry.
Useless and dazed, Emmrich sat at the table and avoided the temptation to drink more than a couple of sips of the wine. If his head cleared up, he needed it that way.
And Morrigan's departure served to clear it up. He nodded back to her and got to his feet, expecting the queen to want to speak now as her companion had departed. Rook's request surprised him, but it was what Rook called him that got his greatest reaction -- several blinks all at once. Prof Volkarin. He didn't think Rook had addressed him with such distance since the first time they'd met.
"The library, same wing as the grand hall before the atrium," Emmrich echoed to show that he'd heard the Queen and fix it in his memory. He bowed and headed toward the room they'd been given, not wanting to look at Rook yet and potentially break down in front of strangers.
On the way he struggled with himself. Should he make a plea for them? Should he simply let Rook go? Maybe all Rook needed was a reason to say no and not speaking up would be a disservice to them both, but maybe Rook was convinced and to speak up was to be cruel. By the time they reach the door he's no closer to an answer. All he can do is hold open it for Rook, follow his beloved in, and wait to hear what he'll say.
Rook was all frayed nerves and restless energy after dinner. No longer was Alistair his childhood hero, but his compatriot and commander as they delved into a map of the ancient thaigs running through the Deep Roads with Xs inked in like tumors needing to be rooted out. Likely, Rook would be making contact with the Dead Legion after...after he made up his mind.
Blood was rushing between his ears when the enormity of what he had been presented with settled into him as not just an idea but a very real crossroads on which he stood.
"Dammit!"
Rook throws open the doors to their rooms as he starts to pace like a caged animal in front of the fireplace. Running his hands over his face as though he'd like to muffle the frustrated shout roiling inside him in his palms before stamping that down as well.
"This is," Rook start carefully as he sits down, "More than I expected."
"More, and far, far less." His tone is academic. It's the only way he can manage, at least to start. Emmrich doesn't know how far he'll get without breaking down, but Rook's words have decided him. The man has been played because he's still only thinking in straight lines.
Emmrich closed the door behind them and this time did put a chair there. He was not going to take risks with interlopers.
"I have things to say that I need to say, because there's a very real chance that if I do not, the chance will forever be gone. I ask that you let me get through it, even if I falter at parts, or you want to object or hide. Please."
The academic tone has already abandoned him; he's never been good at hiding his feelings. His hands are shaking, he's afraid his knees are going to start shaking, so he sits down next to Rook.
"I love you. I love you as I have never loved anyone else. You are my world," if he's going to fight, he'll do it in a way that leaves nothing out to the best of his ability, "Hugh. My everything. And all of that ends if you accept this. It's not a threat. It's the scope of the position. You will have no time to visit Nevarra, and thus will never see Manfred again." Which will devastate Manfred. "When I have enough time to make a trip both ways through the Crossroads and see you, you could be anywhere in this country, a country I cannot safely travel through. You will be called away without a moment's notice. The first time I come when you're supposed to be here and you aren't will hurt, and each subsequent time will be worse until I break."
He shook his head. "Even commanding Vigil's Keep alone might have been too much for us. When you walk into my study when I've lost track of time, it brightens my world. When I've extra time in my schedule and I can bring you a snack, or flowers, or even steal a few minutes with you, it brings me joy. The spontaneity, the surprise, that's what romance is built upon. To lose that, to know that any time, any nights will have to be scheduled, that there will be no natural overflowing warmth, only restricted, calculated opportunities..."
He really was going to lose everything, wasn't he. Just speaking the words made it sink in all the more.
"And I know why you're considering it. The whole of the reason, not the surface ones. Yes, the Queen and King were deliberately manipulative from the moment we arrived; they saw what you responded to in the initial meeting and built upon that. It was far more masterful than most Nevarran nobles can pull off, I'll give them that. But there's more to it, and even more than you thinking about how many lives you can save, which is noble, Hugh."
There was so much to say, and he felt like he was racing against everything: Rook, the clock, the queen, the world, disaster. Emmrich clenched his shaking hands in his lap.
"You're still paying penance for your father's death. You still see it as something you did wrong, something you owe for, and you will not let yourself live. You will not see yourself worthy of living, of joy, of having. And you are wrong. How many Venatori have we killed? They were parents, children, best friends, lovers, and yet their blood keeps neither of us up because they were doing harm. Your father was doing harm. You saved your sister, and then the Wardens took advantage of an incompetent magistrate."
This was an anger he'd never let surface, he'd never spoken. He'd held it back for Rook's sake, but it needed to be said.
"You act like you owe them everything for delaying your death, when they could simply have heard the details of your case and set you free elsewhere. They chose to use you. They chose to abuse you. Do not think that refusing to allow you any sense of personhood, any true sense of community or safety or comfort is not abuse. It is. They mistreated and overlooked you until suddenly they saw they could use you, and then they showered you in praise and compliments and what feels like an offer of friendship and camaraderie with your hero. Again, very tidily, very cruelly done. And because you are desperate to be useful and prove yourself to them, and they want this to be as easy as possible, you are all overlooking the fact that there is a better choice here."
He wished he wasn't an an emotional mess, voice ragged, hunched in on himself. He wished he could risk stopping, risk looking over at Hugh.
"You are competent and capable, but Orlais will not find you enough of a symbol to stop their greed. You are earnest and care, but long-term inspiration is not found in a leader who seeks only to sacrifice himself to pay. What's a symbol, however, that could stop Orlais? A griffon, an actual griffon. What would it take to inspire the Warden army in any kingdom? A leader who knows his worth as a person more than simply as a sacrifice, who has found himself. Davrin is needed here."
"You still do not see your worth, Hugh, and so you are eager to throw yourself away. You are in shock that these legends see use in you and are letting that rush sweep you up. But they do not value you. They do not see you. They take pieces on a board and set them wherever they please, not caring if it's the right fit and in their desperation they will break us both if you say yes."
"So I ask you to say no. I ask you to agree to help as need arises sometime as you already do, but to then come back home, with me." There went his voice, cracking, and his eyes welling up even as he fought to not cry.
"I have spent my life trying to be unselfish but I ask you to choose you and to choose me, us. I ask you to choose a little cottage, and stolen time, for the years that remain--" He lost the battle. Tears tracked down his cheeks. "Remain to us. And that is my piece."
"—And what? I should let my country burn so we can fall asleep better?"
At the sound of his outburst, Rook felt the blood rush to his ears before he felt the words start to form. He raked his hands through his hair and dragged his fingers across, almost to exaggerate his frustration.
"Sometimes," Rook started as he put his hands on his hips and stared into the fire, "I wish I were born a Crow or that I was found by the Shadow Dragons or Lords of Fortune. Maybe even the Mourn Watch would've taken in a young pup who couldn't sling a single spell but throw a punch? It should be so easy."
Rook too a step forward and his hands moved lie he wanted to hold the other man but faulted,
"I am a warden, Emmrich, and we cannot place our hopes in chances. I'm sorry I've done this to you."
"You could suggest Davrin, and still serve outside of a permanent position here." But his voice was hushed. He had made his case and failed. Emmrich pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and tried to clean up some of the mess but as he was still crying it was a failure.
Emmrich got up, drained. When Rook was not even enough of a reason for Rook to try to choose a life, how could he ever have been? Perhaps if they'd had more time he could have done more to help Rook heal. Anger, disappointment, pain, fury, every stage of grief, it all warred in his heart.
He moved the chair.
"The choice is yours, obviously. I asked you to place hope in what we have, and if that is not enough for you then there is nothing else I can say or do. As for me, I will go see what else the Queen will take."
"So it's alright if Davrin supposedly consignes his life away, is any other Warden? Is my life always just going to be going to collect dust among the hallowed halls of the Grand Necropolis?"
There, he said what had been boiling inside him since life away as it dawned on him that he was hurting the closest person to him. Emmrich would never...Emmrich would not...Rook had to recalibrate himself.
"Davrin would know how to balance it and still have a life."
He would not answer the rest. He'd already answered it. Twice in this very conversation, and plenty of times before. He'd never asked Rook to not go on any mission the Wardens had asked of him. He'd only ever asked for Rook to come back home.
Which seemingly Hugh had resented.
When told to go, Emmrich did. The person he loved was done with him. He didn't go straight to the library, though. Instead he went to a small tucked-away alcove he'd seen on the way in. He sank to the ground, hidden from the hall, and sobbed with his face in his hands. There were footsteps, but thankfully their owner, or owners, didn't intrude on his grief.
He'd done all he could at every turn. He had given his full heart and all that he was, and he simply was not enough.
It took far too long simply to get the tears to stop, and there was nothing that would make him presentable. He tried anyway, attempted to wipe his cheeks clear and blow his nose, and he knew there was no illusion of him being all right. There was no illusion of Rook possibly choosing him.
He arrived in the library with nothing left to lose.
The library is well-lit, but the briar rose, her majesty, the hero and queen of Ferelden, is late to the pyre of Highever's newly dead because not all wardens returned alive from the thaigs. Ellisa crossed the border long enough to throw more kindling into the fire. She was looking at a makeshift cross—Caddywhompus and poorly made but handcrafted.
"You sit on hollowed grounds, sir mage" She says, "With bones upon bones upon bones to speak to because our pyres are never hot enough..."
She looked at Emmrich then, almost asking for guidance but not quite willing to say it.
"You must think me the villain in your story, breaking you and the hero apart for some greater end."
"Think? You have both of yours at your side, there's a different Warden who would be far more symbolic and make Orlais actually reconsider invading, and instead you take a man your order has abused because he's easier to recruit. Especially when he's merely the hero to you, an object, not a person. This is no 'greater end,' only loss for me and for him, and he does not see it."
He has no reason to hold back. He's drained. Emmrich leans against a table.
"If your request is to make your fires hotter, you've chosen the wrong mage. If you're seeking help identifying the former owners of the bones, then that is something I can and will do."
The dead have not wronged him and deserve consideration. He will not shortchange them because their Queen is taking everything from him.
"Absued?" Her eyebrows raised in genuined shock. She did't find the accusations necessarily unfounded, but just nonsensical in her eyes — what was abuse in being allowed to live another day?
"And, no — I'd doubt you would have a fine time with decades old bones of the old teryn," Elissa looked back into the fire and poked it to back to life with an iron rod.
"What I brought you here to ask was what you knew about tranquil."
His eyebrow goes up as high as it possibly can. Of course the neglect comes from the top. She has lost sight of the personhood of those who serve under her, of the fact that survival is never enough.
"Abused," he echoes firmly. "Misused, taken advantage of, manipulated about until you find a spot where one might fit and then they're shoved in there regardless of what it costs. I do note you've not asked about Davrin, who has a griffon. Orlais will not be intimidated by someone they think didn't save them. But they will second-guess a griffon."
Even if he cannot save Rook for them, he can try to save Rook for Rook's sake. Hugh in full command will sacrifice himself eagerly. Davrin will not, and he will not allow Rook's life to be wasted. Davrin is ready to command armies, while Rook will let regret and how little he values himself cut them all short with anything other than a single command base. Emmrich will still fight even as the shards of his broken heart ache in his chest.
"And I remind you that I work in the Necropolis, with bones sometimes that are Ages old. If the dead need assis--" No. This was Ferelden. "If you need assistance with the dead, I am uniquely qualified. You will not find someone who can better help with the former teryn."
He hoped he'd said that word right. He's only ever read it before, once or twice, and their accents are not the same. Her true goal brings a chill to him, however. Emmrich stiffens.
"What do I know about the mages you have maliciously stripped the life from, that survive as slaves for Ferelden and other countries to abuse?" He will not mention the darker rumors that have reached Nevarra, that Tranquil were slaughtered for some obscure personal gain during the time of the Inquisition. They are unsubstantiated. "What else need I know?"
In the corner of the room behind her, two massive heads rose as the mabari sleeping there were roused by the sound of raised voices. The more heated Emmrich became in tone, their ears flattened, and jowls pulled back into snarls. Of the two, to one that lumbered to its feet was a coal-black beauty with eyes that glinted green in the firelight. The animal lowered on its paws then and let out a vicious snarl that echoed against the stone walls when Emmrich shifted in posture.
"Mhairi, Daveth — enough," She corrected the hounds, who immediately sat and looked as chastened as pups. She then rounded on Emmrich, her good eye burning cold with its brilliant blue color.
"Two things I wish to be made abundantly clear here — One, I did not make my choice lightly and I will not have it implied that Rook is a poor fit simply because you've painted me a tyrant in the grand sum of a few hours. I've extended my plea to Warden Davrin to assist with taking command of the Keep, and I am waiting for that response. If it pleases you to know.
Second, while you look down your nose at my little backwater country, I would like to remind you that our Circles were harboring the Tranquil that fled the Marches and Orlais after being abandoned by the rebelling mages like an afterthought. Do you forget yourself, sir? What unrefined, ignorant, and poor kingdom gave rise to the Divine that broke the Circles with our full support behind her? Last I checked, it wasn't fucking Nevarra."
She was fired up, and her hands white-knuckled, but it all drained from her in an instant; she sighed heavily with a sense of finality as if the gilded circlet on her head were a noose waiting to drop around her neck and tighten.
"I've asked you here because there is a chance to save the Tranquil," She looked more her age then, almost haggard. "They say that the Tranquil are safe from possession, but an old friend of mine found that spirits can, if given assistance, permanently restore the mage stripped by the Rite."
He had Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain to thank for the fact that he felt calm even as the mabari roused, even as the Queen worked herself up. He kept his voice icy but level.
"Then let me be precisely clear in return.
"First, your choice is poor not because you feel I've painted you a tyrant. Your choice is poor because you do not know him. Lady Morrigan spoke with perhaps thirty minutes in total and everything else you're going off is rumor, hearsay, and tales. You have made the wrong offer and you will shortchange yourself, your Wardens, and him due to that.
"Secondly, I have called your country no names. You have done that all yourself, and in fact decided that I am a snob from even before I walked in. Unrefined, ignorant, poor, and backwater are your words. I would call your country dangerous to mages even now, and I would call the actions of its leadership malicious and cruel, but I have never and will never judge someone due to lack of money, education, or access. You do not know me, just as you do not know Hugh, and so you have misjudged the matter between us from the very start.
"And thirdly. The mages broke the Circles. It is hardly the fault of the oppressed if they could not take in more of the oppressed when they were fighting desperately for their own lives. The Divine is making kinder choices than previous ones, but it is Nevarra that has no slaves and no slavery. It is Nevarra that did not have to have its Circles broken. And it is Nevarra where a six-year-old orphan with literally only the clothes on his back can have a life and opportunities to reach the point where his help is needed to fight gods."
He took a breath. That had not been something he'd meant to say. He was not well.
"I came here to help of my own free will, knowing it was a risk to my own safety, knowing that it was likely I would have to set foot in a place that terrifies me, and from the moment I arrived I have been treated at best as an afterthought, but primarily as repulsive, and you are taking the only thing I have ever been selfish about away from me.
"I will help. That is my calling. If there is indeed a way to cure the Tranquil with the assistance of spirits then I will gladly learn that and bring them back to themselves. If the living could use comfort in some way with the bones of their dead in a way that does not involve destroying said bones, then I will help there as well.
"But if you insist on this unwise path with Rook, then I will never forgive you, personally. Which I do not expect you will care about.
"Now. If you will, elaborate on how the Tranquil can be restored."
For her part, she was not visibly shaken or upset by Emmrich's assessment of her. In fact, she appeared to merely be waiting out his verbal crucifixion of her character until a lull in the conversation was found. Her eyes did light up at the subtle break in Emmrich's composure when he revealed more than he intended to, but she kept any thought on the matter to herself.
"I was cautioned you were the sort to speak at...protracted lengths, much as any academic would." Was all she said before she dropped into a chair by the fire with a drawn-out sigh. She was tired and feeling decades older than her forty-and-so years.
"One of the mages that traveled with us during the Blight was named Wynne," Elissa said, "As it was explained to me, a spirit of faith possessed her body at the moment just before death. It was through that possession she still seemed hale and hearty, and learned spirits can operate similarly within Tranquil mages. Obviously, death is not a requirement — that would be rather counter-intuitive. She said as much before her death, well, the death that stuck."
Elissa crossed her arms as if staving off a chill before continuing, "As for the bodies — there's two somewhere on the castle grounds. My sister-in-law and young nephew, this is my family's ancestral estate, but during the Blight, we were besieged by the Howe's, formerly of Amaranthine. Rendon slaughtered everyone in the castle, and we only know he disposed of them somewhere on the grounds. I'd like them found and properly laid to rest if I maybe be so bold as to ask that of you.
As for Rook, well, I cannot make up the man's mind for him, but I can't say I'm heartened to hear this apparent lack of faith in his abilities. I won't force the issue and leave it between yourselves. I—"
The door then flew open, and an armed knight stormed in, panting and nearly stumbling over his own two feet. From the corner, the dogs were up and started to pace, agitated bu the sudden commotion.
"My lady, sir," The knight fought through pleasantries over his labored breathing, "Dakrspawn spotted in the woods, it...it's more than stragglers, my lady. Emissaries were seen among them."
Elissa was on her feet, swearing up a storm and moving quickly the moment the knight got through his warning,
"Have all the servants return to their rooms, have them barricade themselves, and then gather the men to rally in the courtyard," She then turned to Emmrich, "You — I must find the king, but you need to get Rook and meet us down there as well."
Possess the Tranquil? Ask spirits to do that and potentially be trapped? She's giving him nearly nothing to work with, and before he can even start to explain he doesn't lack faith in Rook, he just knows the man's limitations, they're interrupted. Emmrich's staff was off his back and in hand in an instant, but a second later he was at ease again. The intruder wasn't a threat.
But apparently Emissaries were.
"I have important questions about your request for later," was all he said as he headed back toward their room at speed.
"Rook, we--" Emmrich stopped. The room was empty. Not fully empty, he saw with some relief, Rook's things were still there so the man hadn't decided to absolutely leave him, not yet, but Rook was not there. Where, then? Would Rook have gone to this Chantry too? Emmrich hoped not, but started heading for the ground floor in case with his staff still drawn.
Or was there a dog kennel? The man pet every dog he saw and this was Ferelden. If there was one, it was probably near the stables, right? You'd keep animals together? Here he thought he knew the man and wasn't even sure where he'd be. Maybe he was an old fool. But he'd prefer checking for something like that over going into his second Ferelden Chantry in as many days.
There is, indeed, a room of dogs. Or mabari. Maybe both? They're big, though not as big as the Queen's pair, and it truly doesn't matter when Rook isn't there. So Chantry hunting it--Emmrich heard something that sounded like his love's voice.
"Hugh?" he called. He'd used the name and hadn't gotten any sort of reaction, so he was taking it as permission. Emmrich made his way over and in to find his partner with Sooty. For the briefest moment he smiled and contemplated offering to buy the horse and find a good stable in Nevarra.
But it wouldn't matter, would it. The Queen would not be dissuaded, and Rook will of course not turn the offer down. Emmrich's face shuttered.
"Darkspawn in the woods." Where there had been emotion in his call of the man's name, his voice is now clipped and precise. He will shut his mind and heart down as much as possible, and not give in to pain in the middle of battle. "The messenger said Emissaries were among them. We're to join the forces in the courtyard."
The first thing Rook did after Emmrich departed was take a deep breath in. He then closed his eyes, waiting for the feeling of being centered to wash over him. Then when he let the breath he was holding out, he swung his foot hard as he could at the nearest thing not bolted to the floor and shouted a full-throated, "FUCK!"
Rook always counted himself among the company of stubborn fools, but now he had truly gone and proven everyone who considered him such right. A blinding feeling of anger he hadn't felt for a lifetime overtook him in a grip so tight it was as though hot iron pokers were sinking into his ribs. The sensation was burning all the air out of his lungs until he couldn't scream. It was a strangling sort of rage clawing to get out.
— The worst part is Rook wasn't even sure who he was angry with. Emmrich, for not seeing the gravity of the situation, wasn't a fair assumption. The man knew all too well, but he loathed this country for valid reasons. It is more likely his anger was toward himself for stubbornly digging his heels and refusing to listen. Or maybe Rook was overcome by how disastrously out of hand things had become. He was just directionless, mad at everything.
Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours; it was hard to tell when the ringing in his ears finally gave way to the sound of his own hammering heart. Rook no longer saw red, but he did see the wooden chair pulverized against the stone wall and now an overturned table. Numbly, he threw the splintered wood into the fire and righted the table. He moved unthinkingly as he tidied and then departed.
His feet carried him to the stables, blessedly devoid of all company that wasn't on four legs. Sooty's stall was easy to find since he was the biggest charger there with a distinct coat. The gelding had its massive head in a feed bucket and was unbothered by Rook's presence as he entered quietly after lifting and then closing the gate latch.
"'Lo, boy," Rook's voice was harsh on his ears, frayed and fragile.
Sooty raised his head when Rook patted his flank and laid his head on the animal's neck. With no more frustrations to vent on unsuspecting furniture, all Rook was left with then was an overwhelming sense of loss and grief. Was this all there was now? Back to the Wardens like a prisoner walking up the gallows steps because he was too stubborn to let either his love or his country go? Now, he might lose them both. He fears he may have already lost Emmrich.
The thought of Emmrich made him choke, which broke into a whine and continued to a wounded moan. Before long, he was weeping like a child with his arms around the horse's neck. Sooty was patient through it all as Rook wept bitterly until he was wrung dry and feeling emptier than ever.
He stood back and started to adjust Sooty's blanket as a way of apology when he heard his name being called. Rook whipped around with eyes still wet and bloodshot to see.
"Emmrich?" He croaked.
So that had meant the Queen had finished speaking with him, and he had come to see Rook first. Maybe he could fix this, right things before plans are set too far in motion to be stopped. His face lit up in a broken smile as he surged forward with a thousand questions and a million more apologies. Only to stop dead when Emmrich, matter of fact, brought him up to speed on darkspawn being spotted.
"I—what?" He blinked and stared agape before training kicked in, and he took the reins. "Right. The courtyard, follow me. I know a short."
By the time they were in the courtyard, it was standing room only. It was packed with soldiers in full uniform, armed to the teeth. Some were on horseback, others holding the pronged collars of mabari hounds that were gnashing their teeth and snarling fiercely. The mood was somber save for the one in charge right in the thick of things issuing orders when Alistair spotted them and grinned broadly.
"Ah, there you two are." Unexpectedly, he turned and addressed Emmrich first. "I'm glad to see my beloved ol' battle ax left you in one piece. The uncompromising propensity towards menacing really brings out the blue in her eyes...well, eye."
The king sighed like a man truly in love while Rook stood there, flat-footed and numbed, while his mind veered towards overwhelmed white noise. He didn't even react much when Alistair clapped him on the shoulder.
"Once the queen arrives, we'll send out the scouts with the mabari. From what we heard, there's a genlock emissary in their ranks and possibly more. We need to root out the creepy little bastard first. Any darkspawn we kill is just fodder for it to raise. But! We've got some spooky skeleton magic on our side this time so maybe the night won't be a total disaster." Alistair's cheeky smile broadened then, "Word of advice? Don't ever take a crown thinking it's a one-way ticket to retiring in the Wardens. Preeee-tty much expect to be dying on your feet regardless, just with a fancier hat.
Alright, advice? Thoughts?" That question had been directed at Emmrich.
Rook had been crying. It sinks in only after Emmrich's spoken, only after he's shut down his own emotions, that fact and the strange smile-that-wasn't-quite-a-smile on Rook's face. Emmrich's control slips. He wants to reach out and, something, anything, but he realizes in an instant that not only do they have time, with the way his heart aches if he doesn't shut down, he will utterly lose control.
He cannot risk sobbing on the battlefield, and so he clamps down on everything again, nods, and follows Rook. The clear contentment with the situation that Alistair radiated did not help matters. It must be easier to accept death when one has the person they love with them, and some control over the situation.
But again. He cannot think about that. This must remain, he must remain, detached and academic. The situation is complicated, and the revelation that the Darkspawn seemingly have necromancers is another factor to calculate. Keeping distant even means Alistair's description of his magic sparks neither aggravation or fear.
"I should be able to trace out where another necromancer is." His voice was level and clear, a true miracle. He sounds, in fact, like most when standing in front of a lecture hall. Any student of his could say that he did not sound like him, though. The warmth and openness he brought to teaching were not present.
"So should something be raised that is attacking allies, get my attention. To fight with the dead requires constant casting and focus, and that's how I can locate the... genlock emissary, direct you to it, and focus my efforts upon it as well." What else? "Should something be raised that is not attacking you, you may still be wary. I have yet to fight a necromancer strong enough to wrest control from me, but that does not mean one does not exist."
He and Myrna are likely evenly matched. Vorgoth is probably stronger. The select few Mourn Watch assigned to the king may also be stronger. There's simply no true measure of strength except in combat, though, and all of them are far too professional to risk death or permanent injury to know who stands highest.
Emmrich draws his staff and extends his senses. Green lights up along it and his arms, flowing out, as he gets a sense of the place. The Queen had been horribly, unfortunately correct on one point. There are bones everywhere. Many are not in any shape to be pulled forth, but there are enough that could be held together through force of will to be a danger.
He looks back at the king and lowers his voice so that only Alistair and Rook can hear him. "If this emissary can only raise Darkspawn, then your position is safe. If it can raise others, say so now and forgive me, for I will need to take control of and raise the unattended dead here. There are too many otherwise and this position could be overrun."
A horn sounds, causing his heartrate to spike. The last time he'd heard horns in darkness had been when Lavendel had been attacked, and Weisshauupt before it. The archdemons are gone, the blighted dragons are defeated, but the blight still has horrors aplenty, it seems. And this time, for the first time since the Lighthouse crew wandered into the Necropolis, he fights feeling alone.
Emmrich begins to work. Magic and emotions are intrinsically tied, which means he'll be fighting with a disadvantage. But trying to see targets through tears would be even more challenging. He'll do this as impassively as possible, and be distantly relieved that only one person will have any idea that what flows from him moves without the usual grace.
The courtyard's din kept Rook alert. It was hard to let the mind wander as steel boots and hooves struck cobblestone, and hounds barked along with their masters' marching orders. The night air smelled of the pitch for the arrows and horses, the pungent war paint streaked across the mabari's coarse coats, and most of all, dread. Dread was unavoidable even for seasoned soldiers like the king's men in times like these. Darkspawn from the Deep Roads were always different — bewilderingly organized and armed to the teeth.
This wasn't Ghilan'nain and Elgar'nan twisting an already corrupted Blight to their own ends. This was the remnants of other Blights' past, the afterbirth of everything left to fester in the dark beneath the old thaigs. Everything that was too malignant and clever to die off with the gods and now lingering like a disease. — Basically, about what you would expect to find in Ferelden.
If Rook closed his eyes right now, he could be nine years old again and standing on the docks outside the arling in the West Hills. Holding his sister's hand as they waited for the boat to take refugees before the Horde caught up to them.
Emmrich's voice drew him back from the edge of memory and into the present. Rook blinked, turned his attention to the other man, and couldn't ignore how his heart sank. Even when they prepared to face down gods Emmrich held more optimism in his voice, a brighter light behind his eyes. Rook had never seen Emmrich put up defensive walls before, and it chilled him. They had both shut down and if he could, he would have drawn Emmrich away from the fray and comforted him. But there was no time now; Rook had wasted what time they had with his blind stubbornness.
When Emmrich uses his magic, Rook is now more alert than ever and keeping his head on a swivel. He knew sentiment towards magic had softened considerably in the last couple of decades, but even now, he remembered his promise to Myrna. Blessedly, it seemed everyone was too preoccupied with readying themselves to notice or care.
"The Wardens believe darkspawn necromancers draw on other darkspawn for their power similar to blood magic but aren't limited to raising only other darkspawn," Alistair explained, now more sober in his tone and lacking any humorous asides as he continued. "This puts us in a difficult spot because, sadly, many of the bodies from Howe's massacre have yet to be recovered. Which—"
"You'll have to raise the dead here," Rook confirmed, louder than he intended.
"Which means we keep them out of darkspawn hands and burn what's left."
The queen broke through the mustered garrison in the yard like a knife through paper, in plate mail bearing the Theirin family crest in Warden colors, and flanked by her hounds. She nodded at both the king and Rook before looking at Emmrich,
"Do what you must, but all I ask is whatever is risen to be cremated after." She sounded strangely resigned but flinty in her pragmatism. Turning her attention, she pulled a face before asking, "Rook? You look as though you have something to add."
Rook jolted as he was reminded he was still a part of this conversation. He shook off the yawning void of despair growing in his chest, and his face hardened — he still had a job to do.
"We should split the garrison threefold with a warden at the head of each to avoid being ambushed."
Both Alistair and the queen nodded before. Alistair spoke first,
"Right, I'll take the bulk of the soldiers down the center into the forest, and the queen will take the route furthest from the shore. Rook, you and Volkarin hold the perimeter until he sniffs out that necromancer."
Rook nodded and, with uncharacteristic deference, "Yes, sir."
The horn sounded twice, alerting them that the scouts had spotted something. The queen answered by bu curling her lips around her thumb and index finger, releasing a sharp whistle that cleared the field. Anyone holding a mabari released their collars, and a mass of teeth and fur exploded towards the open gates, including the queen's pair.
"Rally in the woods at my signal," The queen said as she marched out with her men.
"Lots of fire and shouting?" Alistair asked as he raised his arm to signal his own to move out.
"Naturally."
There was only a brief moment as bodies moved like waves around them that Rook got to look at Emmrich, really look at him. He feared the pointed focus in those olive green eyes wasn't concentration alone, but Emmrich shutting himself down — shutting him out.
"Emmrich?" It was barely a whisper, "Anything?"
He could only think to regulate his questions to the task at hand, not wanting to risk it. Risk hurting him further.
"I am sorry," he said before the king and queen headed out. He was. While most Nevarrans would feel honored if their dead fought to protect them, this would be difficult for Fereldan people who had known these lost lives. No friends would be made tonight.
Emmrich prepared the dead as forces began to move out, hearing the rest of the plan without dwelling. At least Rook would have his back physically. They'd shared enough fights that they knew how the other moved by now. Usually.
At Rook's question he raised a finger, signalling the man to wait. He could feel the mabari engage the first Darkspawn due to a few falling with their throats being torn out, and... good. The enemy necromancer was not waiting to bring anything back; it was rushing forward and seeking everything it could use. It was a very good thing Emmrich had gotten hold of the dead of the Keep first.
The magic flowed, a tug, and he pointed in the direction it came from. "There." As he spoke, corpses in various stages of decomposition tore upward through the ground and charged forward toward the target. Emmrich felt a pull, then, as the emissary tested his control. It was weak. That meant nothing yet, as the Fereldan dead slammed into charging Darkspawn.
He could tell the soldiers around them were uncomfortable, incredibly so, but at least the true enemy was clear. That was the important thing. It was made even more important by an ogre charging forward. Emmrich considered trying to take it down. Their numbers here were low... but there was a far more important priority and the Wardens knew more about ogre weakspots than he did. He'd trust it to Rook and their small army.
Darkspawn and men fell alike, and he seized every corpse he could to add it into the arrow pointed directly at the emissary. Soon he could see it, and the yellow-green, sickened, corrupted color of its necromancy. He liked to think his shone brighter simply because it was pure, but it was a second's flight of fancy that he quickly dismissed. There was no room for distractions. The emissary was as focused on him as he was on it, for the exact same reasons. One powerful necromancer could absolutely transform the tide.
Arrows suddenly sprouted from the emissary and it stumbled. Emmrich felt its control falter and took the moment to seize a trio of armored, extra misshapen things that had been pushing toward the king. They whirled around mid-attack and launched into their former comrades. Distantly he was pleased with himself. Distantly he felt like he was doing a more-than-acceptable job.
At last his vanguard reached the emissary, while its own had gotten nowhere near him. He knew Rook was a significant part of that and took care not to let his thoughts go any further along that trail. Emmrich pushed, starting to personally guide the blows of the dead as they assaulted the emissary, more focused than before. A cheer went up nearby as another corpse was made, entering his awareness, but it was here and not where he was fighting and the emissary was skilled.
It screamed in pure rage, something he felt spirits waiting on the other side of the Veil wish they could respond to. Battles were magnets for them, especially the more chaotic ones.
Finally he saw the opportunity he needed, and a recently-dead Warden with a spear drove that weapon up and into the emissary, skewering it. The previous yellow-green threads dropped instantly, but a new one sprang up, thicker than before, a last desperate act. Every fully-trained mage knew how to use their last few seconds to release devastation on their enemies as they burned out their own ability and Emmrich braced as the thread whipped toward him... and past. Had it missed?
He felt it seize the corpse that had fallen behind him and realized his mistake, trying to get one of his corpses to remove the emissary's head in time to stop the dead Ogre from striking. The head came off. The Ogre's hammer kept moving forward due to momentum and slammed into his midsection in an explosion of pain.
Somehow, by some miracle, he did not pass out. He did not let go of his forces. He did get knocked down though, striking something sharp with his forehead, but that at least was glancing. That sharp pain didn't signal actual damage, unlike the fire burning in his right rib cage. Getting back to his feet was impossible, he'd do more damage to himself, so he pushed himself up to a seated position with his left arm and continued casting from there. At least it wasn't like he was in any further danger, not really, not with the other necromancer dead and soldiers pushing forward. He could stay here and keep tearing apart Darkspawn with Darkspawn until either they were all down or he passed out. One of the two.
Later he'll have to tell someone that for once he hadn't been terrified of death.
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His hands were squeezed. He tried to find words but none came to mind even as Rook went to talk to someone. Silently Emmrich fastened the top layer of his robes in place, pulled one bracelet on, and slipped his staff into its holster as he tried to get his brain to function.
"I... I don't know." Emmrich said, and then shook his head a beat later. "No, I do need a moment, please. I'm sorry."
They were about to go into a dinner that may well be incredibly hostile and he was shaken to his core. He could not face that same reception with the grace necessary like this. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to stop staring at a blank place on the wall.
"Would you accept?" It was better to know, likely. Maybe. Maybe not. Maker, he had not been at all prepared for the idea of losing so much of the comfort he'd come to adore having in his life.
Whatever the answer, he needed to stop being on the verge of overthinking and fretting prematurely. Emmrich closed his eyes and took a slow breath to try to center himself. This hadn't happened. Rook's reasons for considering it made sense, it followed that this was possible, but the offer hadn't been made. There was a chance that their lives would not be uprooted in this fashion. Perhaps even Davrin could be recommended for the position; while not their leader, Davrin had constantly risen to the occasion and would not, to the best of Emmrich's knowledge, be leaving anyone behind if he moved.
No. Again, he needed to stop. He needed to be in this moment. Emmrich placed a hand on his bracelet and pushed his mind to represent the cold, smooth surface. If this was requested of Rook, he would face it then. He did not need to invite it into this moment.
After another breath Emmrich opened his eyes. "Let's take one encounter with the queen at a time." His voice was even enough. Someone unfamiliar with him could think him completely calm and neutral. "If my hair's straight, we can go."
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"I can't say," That thought alone cleaved him in two, "We don't know anything yet."
As mealy-mouthed as that answer was, it was the best Rook could offer. There was no guessing as to what would be asked of him, if anything, beyond perhaps his support in the anticipated turmoil to come. Rook wished he hadn't said anything in the first place. Even planting that seed of doubt riddled him with guilt.
Rook gave Emmrich the space he needed to finish getting ready for a dinner he had already dreaded. Composed as Emmrich seemed, Rook knew where the fault lines were but gave a rueful laugh at his comment about his hair. Gingerly, Rook reached out and smoothed one stubborn strand at Emmrich's temple back into place.
"You're perfect, love," Rook smiled, and then they departed.
Voices echoed from the arches leading into the great hall as shadows from the roaring hearth danced along the walls opposite. The effect was almost like shadow puppetry in how exaggerated the three figures stretched across the stone. Once close enough, Rook could hear the middle of a conversation.
"—don't be absurd." That was Morrigan by the sounds of it, but Rook couldn't tell if she was amused or annoyed by tone alone. It was hard to tell with her.
"No one ever gave us a name," King Alistair answered, his voice edging towards petulance. "All I'm saying is 'Grey Guard' has a bit of a ring to it; it's got alliteration! Two Gs and everything."
The peal of two women's laughter, one warmer than the other, followed.
"Dear, I don't believe they picked the name Veilguard themselves," The queen's tone was the sort of gentle hand you use when breaking tragic news. "Sorry to say."
Rook and Emmrich walked into the great hall, and three pairs of eyes landed on them as the conversation fell off. The room had two roaring fireplaces and a grand table whose end faced the entrance. Down its length were five chairs, three of which were occupied. At the head of the table in a high-backed and intricately carved chair sat Alistair; the queen sat at his right in subtle commentary on Ferelden's opinion of women rulers, and to his left was Morrigan.
Five plates had recently been set. Smoked river fish and a roasted quail were on four plates. Yams, radish, and a mushroom acorn soup with bread on all five. True to her word, the royal family would not dine extravagantly while their country was under rationing; the queen had arranged nothing even her poorest couldn't come by. The one exception was the wine; Rook could spot an Antivan vintage blindfolded the moment it was uncorked.
Rook bowed, and by the time his head was raised, he saw the queen motion to the chair beside her. Taking that as he cue to be seated, he was privately relieved that meant Emmrich would be seated next to Morrigan and not too deep into the dog cage. When he dropped into his chair she was already pouring him a glass. Pleasentries were exchanged (Good evening, thank yous and your most welcomes, et cetera) were exchanged.
Alistair broke decorum first with, "Rook, how many griffon tattoos do you have?"
Rook sputtered on his wine the moment the glass reached his lips.
"I— beg pardon, your majesty?"
"Call me Alistair." The king waved his hand like being called your majesty was someone passing wind, "See, the thing is, I have this friend in the Crows — well, actually, him no longer being in a Crow is a bit of the point — anyway, he suggested I get one but this was years ago and—"
As Rook found himself locked into an energetic conversation with the king, the queen turned her attention across the table.
"Professor Volkarin," She said impassively, "Morrigan was telling me you were also at Minrathous. Red or white, by the way? I don't have the staff work during the dinner hours, so please, don't hesitate to ask."
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Thankfully the conversation they walked in on was lighter than the previous one, and a tiny bit of amusement eased Emmrich's mood slightly. While he could wish to be seated next to Rook, Morrigan was an acceptable second choice. He nodded to her and took the seat before the plate that was so clearly for him. That it simply had less rather than having substitutes wasn't entirely unexpected; even at the Lighthouse that had often been the case. He wouldn't go hungry. He was fine.
"Red, please and thank you." He passed his glass over. "And yes, I was. I was a part of what we'd called the Lighthouse crew, amongst ourselves. I'm not certain where 'Veilguard' came from."
No one chose their legacy, or how the world spoke of them. One could only do their best. He took his filled glass back and cut into his radish to find it was... well. A radish. At least the yams looked like care had been taken, and mushroom soup was mushroom soup.
"It's not a bad moniker. We did essentially guard the veil from three separate threats." And did a great deal more on top of that, but they didn't need a list of their accomplishments. Maybe if Bellara turned her mind to a history instead of friendfiction there would be an accurate account. Or maybe if he did, but he had so many papers and books to write already.
"Lady Morrigan provided essential assistance there." He was fairly certain he'd heard Lace refer to her as such. He glanced at her. "And I would be very interested in a conversation about the Fade and spirits, if opportunity arises. The last year has transformed the field. My field," he clarified in case the Queen cared.
"Mayhaps there will be a chance," Morrigan said. "'tis not my call to make, however, and there's much to accomplish currently."
Emmrich nodded. "I thought as much. The more Southern countries do not ask for Mourn Watch aid lightly."
This, he could navigate as long as it stayed this steady and civil.
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— Even the queen occasionally broke eye contact away from Emmrich to look over at them. Usually, at any mention of the word griffon.
The queen had a generous pour, and the goblet nearly sloshed at the brim when she passed it back over to Emmrich. Hers was the same, though she took thoughtful, periodic pulls. She didn't seem to be plying anyone; it just appeared to be a quirk of a Ferelden dinner table.
"News from the North is thin at best and outright horseshit at worse," She said before nodding to Morrigan. "Our Lady Morrigan and the Inquisitor have been our only reliable sources beyond what the Free Marches have been able to provide."
— At the head of the table, a snort was heard at hearing Morrigan's title. A grunt and the rattling of silverware summarily followed this when someone got his shins kicked.
"In...any event," The queen continued, half-blinded gaze going around the table before falling back on Emmrich, "Most Southern countries don't ask of what they know little about, and the Mourn Watch is a word that's only recently come to my attention and only from the glowing recommendations attached to your name alone."
At 'glowing recommendations,' she tipped her glass at Morrigan, who rolled her eyes.
"'Tis a touch hypocritical to criticize one organization for secrecy when the legacy of the Wardens stands behind you," Morrigan pointed out, and at that, and possibly only because it came from her, did the queen laugh.
"Point taken, but the truth is I asked Morrigan personally to seek someone of your talents out."
Now Rook was listening, and even the king seemed to catch on, and their conversation fell into a lull.
"I..." The queen looked into her goblet as she rolled it in her hand. " I would like to speak with you after dinner; the matter in the tower is a delicate one, and I require your advice."
There was an unspoken alone there that piqued Rook's attention and one that made his stomach flip. Just how bad were things at Kinnloch that even the Hero of Ferelden was shy about information? Rook opened his mouth to inquire more or at least request to be part of this meeting when the queen abruptly stood with goblet in hand.
"But, I would be remise to see this dinner fall into melancholy — a toast, Rook?"
When chairs scrapped on the stone floor as Alistair stood, Rook reactively followed the lead.
"Your Veilguard has done Thedas a great service that surpasses not only your order but all those represented with you here now and in every corner of the continent. Most of them are not present tonight, but I hope my sincerest thanks are known." When her glass is raised, she did cast a glance back at Emmrich — something inscrutable, yet almost regretful. "Only it is with a heavy heart that I say our fight in the South isn't over, and I fear you must be called upon again. You are an exemplar Warden and son of Ferelden, which is why I raise my glass to you, to our lost sister Lace Harding of Redcliffe, and humbly ask that you, Hugh Thorne —
Accept the mantle of Ferelden's Commander of the Grey."
Rook raised his glass at Harding's name, then froze. They were waiting for a response. All eyes were on him, but his gaze immediately found the pair of eyes the color of summer-ripened olives he loved so much. Rook held them in a stare, frightful and unsure, like only those who knew what standing on a precipice felt like. He took a deep breath and,
"If..." Rook was stock still, his goblet half-raised. "If it pleases you, I would like to take a night to think it over."
Again, the queen's face betrayed nothing as she toasted and said, "Of course." As she sat back down.
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The implication of a meeting alone felt like it could be the trap, could be the rug pull, but then she stood and made things even worse than he could have imagined. Commanding Vigil's Keep would have been one thing, with the eluvian right there. It would have been painful and challenging, an end to so much of the romance, but possible.
Commanding all of the Wardens of Ferelden? There would be no time. There would be no chances. Rook would not have time to visit, nor would Emmrich be guaranteed a chance to see Rook any time he managed to come to Ferelden. He could be anywhere in this country, a country where it was unsafe for a mage to travel alone.
Emmrich met Rook's gaze as his world hung in the balance, as his heart threatened to shatter. The final blow did not come, not yet, but Emmrich wondered what Rook wanted here. He should have asked a different question earlier.
He sat down again, eyes on his plate. The glance from the queen said she'd known exactly what she was going to do to him, while wanting something urgently from him. Perhaps some would have found it funny. Emmrich can only feel like he's living on borrowed time.
And somehow he was going to have to find focus enough to talk to the queen after dinner too, he remembered. Politely.
Emmrich decided he hated Ferelden as he bit into his unseasoned radish.
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Where there may have been arguing was Rook and Alistair, with their heads bowed low and speaking in a hushed voice. Gone was Alistair, the fool figurehead, when he swiped away their empty plates and unfurled a map. He started to point at certain spots and whisper words that would break the din, like — 'deep trenches' and 'emissary.' Rook visibly paled at the last one as he stole a furtive glance in Emmrich's direction.
"Divine Victoria stands at a crossroads, and her dissolution of the Circle has cost her dearly within the court," Morrigan said.
"I know, I know, but she wouldn't see Ferelden fall to secure the Sunburst Throne." The queen was just as furtive despite how easily they were heard without the lowest of whispers. "But the Arishok—"
"I will do what I can." Morrigan reached across the table to squeeze her hand, then stood. "'Tis time I make my leave." She looked at Emmrich and bowed her head. Almost as if to say she was sorry for her going.
Morrigan got up and walked around the table, pausing at Alistair's seat and brushing his shoulder.
"Tell him—" Alistair started before looking as if he realized he had made an inside joke that no one would get. He laughed mirthlessly before waving her off and adding, "Not that it matters — stay well."
Morrigan offered what was perhaps the warmest look she could muster to the king and queen before slipping out under the stone arch of the great hall and disappearing into the night.
"Could I have a moment?" Rook blurted with the unpreparedness of a new recruit but also the confidence of a fool who hasn't been told 'no' enough. "I'd like to consult Prof Volkarin — I mean — can I talk to Emmrich alone, a moment, your grace?"
"I'd like to speak with Volkarin before the last Chantry bell," The queen said before looking at Emmrich, "The library is on the same wing as the grand hall before the atrium if we could speak there?"
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Useless and dazed, Emmrich sat at the table and avoided the temptation to drink more than a couple of sips of the wine. If his head cleared up, he needed it that way.
And Morrigan's departure served to clear it up. He nodded back to her and got to his feet, expecting the queen to want to speak now as her companion had departed. Rook's request surprised him, but it was what Rook called him that got his greatest reaction -- several blinks all at once. Prof Volkarin. He didn't think Rook had addressed him with such distance since the first time they'd met.
"The library, same wing as the grand hall before the atrium," Emmrich echoed to show that he'd heard the Queen and fix it in his memory. He bowed and headed toward the room they'd been given, not wanting to look at Rook yet and potentially break down in front of strangers.
On the way he struggled with himself. Should he make a plea for them? Should he simply let Rook go? Maybe all Rook needed was a reason to say no and not speaking up would be a disservice to them both, but maybe Rook was convinced and to speak up was to be cruel. By the time they reach the door he's no closer to an answer. All he can do is hold open it for Rook, follow his beloved in, and wait to hear what he'll say.
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Blood was rushing between his ears when the enormity of what he had been presented with settled into him as not just an idea but a very real crossroads on which he stood.
"Dammit!"
Rook throws open the doors to their rooms as he starts to pace like a caged animal in front of the fireplace. Running his hands over his face as though he'd like to muffle the frustrated shout roiling inside him in his palms before stamping that down as well.
"This is," Rook start carefully as he sits down, "More than I expected."
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Emmrich closed the door behind them and this time did put a chair there. He was not going to take risks with interlopers.
"I have things to say that I need to say, because there's a very real chance that if I do not, the chance will forever be gone. I ask that you let me get through it, even if I falter at parts, or you want to object or hide. Please."
The academic tone has already abandoned him; he's never been good at hiding his feelings. His hands are shaking, he's afraid his knees are going to start shaking, so he sits down next to Rook.
"I love you. I love you as I have never loved anyone else. You are my world," if he's going to fight, he'll do it in a way that leaves nothing out to the best of his ability, "Hugh. My everything. And all of that ends if you accept this. It's not a threat. It's the scope of the position. You will have no time to visit Nevarra, and thus will never see Manfred again." Which will devastate Manfred. "When I have enough time to make a trip both ways through the Crossroads and see you, you could be anywhere in this country, a country I cannot safely travel through. You will be called away without a moment's notice. The first time I come when you're supposed to be here and you aren't will hurt, and each subsequent time will be worse until I break."
He shook his head. "Even commanding Vigil's Keep alone might have been too much for us. When you walk into my study when I've lost track of time, it brightens my world. When I've extra time in my schedule and I can bring you a snack, or flowers, or even steal a few minutes with you, it brings me joy. The spontaneity, the surprise, that's what romance is built upon. To lose that, to know that any time, any nights will have to be scheduled, that there will be no natural overflowing warmth, only restricted, calculated opportunities..."
He really was going to lose everything, wasn't he. Just speaking the words made it sink in all the more.
"And I know why you're considering it. The whole of the reason, not the surface ones. Yes, the Queen and King were deliberately manipulative from the moment we arrived; they saw what you responded to in the initial meeting and built upon that. It was far more masterful than most Nevarran nobles can pull off, I'll give them that. But there's more to it, and even more than you thinking about how many lives you can save, which is noble, Hugh."
There was so much to say, and he felt like he was racing against everything: Rook, the clock, the queen, the world, disaster. Emmrich clenched his shaking hands in his lap.
"You're still paying penance for your father's death. You still see it as something you did wrong, something you owe for, and you will not let yourself live. You will not see yourself worthy of living, of joy, of having. And you are wrong. How many Venatori have we killed? They were parents, children, best friends, lovers, and yet their blood keeps neither of us up because they were doing harm. Your father was doing harm. You saved your sister, and then the Wardens took advantage of an incompetent magistrate."
This was an anger he'd never let surface, he'd never spoken. He'd held it back for Rook's sake, but it needed to be said.
"You act like you owe them everything for delaying your death, when they could simply have heard the details of your case and set you free elsewhere. They chose to use you. They chose to abuse you. Do not think that refusing to allow you any sense of personhood, any true sense of community or safety or comfort is not abuse. It is. They mistreated and overlooked you until suddenly they saw they could use you, and then they showered you in praise and compliments and what feels like an offer of friendship and camaraderie with your hero. Again, very tidily, very cruelly done. And because you are desperate to be useful and prove yourself to them, and they want this to be as easy as possible, you are all overlooking the fact that there is a better choice here."
He wished he wasn't an an emotional mess, voice ragged, hunched in on himself. He wished he could risk stopping, risk looking over at Hugh.
"You are competent and capable, but Orlais will not find you enough of a symbol to stop their greed. You are earnest and care, but long-term inspiration is not found in a leader who seeks only to sacrifice himself to pay. What's a symbol, however, that could stop Orlais? A griffon, an actual griffon. What would it take to inspire the Warden army in any kingdom? A leader who knows his worth as a person more than simply as a sacrifice, who has found himself. Davrin is needed here."
"You still do not see your worth, Hugh, and so you are eager to throw yourself away. You are in shock that these legends see use in you and are letting that rush sweep you up. But they do not value you. They do not see you. They take pieces on a board and set them wherever they please, not caring if it's the right fit and in their desperation they will break us both if you say yes."
"So I ask you to say no. I ask you to agree to help as need arises sometime as you already do, but to then come back home, with me." There went his voice, cracking, and his eyes welling up even as he fought to not cry.
"I have spent my life trying to be unselfish but I ask you to choose you and to choose me, us. I ask you to choose a little cottage, and stolen time, for the years that remain--" He lost the battle. Tears tracked down his cheeks. "Remain to us. And that is my piece."
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At the sound of his outburst, Rook felt the blood rush to his ears before he felt the words start to form. He raked his hands through his hair and dragged his fingers across, almost to exaggerate his frustration.
"Sometimes," Rook started as he put his hands on his hips and stared into the fire, "I wish I were born a Crow or that I was found by the Shadow Dragons or Lords of Fortune. Maybe even the Mourn Watch would've taken in a young pup who couldn't sling a single spell but throw a punch? It should be so easy."
Rook too a step forward and his hands moved lie he wanted to hold the other man but faulted,
"I am a warden, Emmrich, and we cannot place our hopes in chances. I'm sorry I've done this to you."
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Emmrich got up, drained. When Rook was not even enough of a reason for Rook to try to choose a life, how could he ever have been? Perhaps if they'd had more time he could have done more to help Rook heal. Anger, disappointment, pain, fury, every stage of grief, it all warred in his heart.
He moved the chair.
"The choice is yours, obviously. I asked you to place hope in what we have, and if that is not enough for you then there is nothing else I can say or do. As for me, I will go see what else the Queen will take."
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There, he said what had been boiling inside him since life away as it dawned on him that he was hurting the closest person to him. Emmrich would never...Emmrich would not...Rook had to recalibrate himself.
"Go, then."
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He would not answer the rest. He'd already answered it. Twice in this very conversation, and plenty of times before. He'd never asked Rook to not go on any mission the Wardens had asked of him. He'd only ever asked for Rook to come back home.
Which seemingly Hugh had resented.
When told to go, Emmrich did. The person he loved was done with him. He didn't go straight to the library, though. Instead he went to a small tucked-away alcove he'd seen on the way in. He sank to the ground, hidden from the hall, and sobbed with his face in his hands. There were footsteps, but thankfully their owner, or owners, didn't intrude on his grief.
He'd done all he could at every turn. He had given his full heart and all that he was, and he simply was not enough.
It took far too long simply to get the tears to stop, and there was nothing that would make him presentable. He tried anyway, attempted to wipe his cheeks clear and blow his nose, and he knew there was no illusion of him being all right. There was no illusion of Rook possibly choosing him.
He arrived in the library with nothing left to lose.
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The library is well-lit, but the briar rose, her majesty, the hero and queen of Ferelden, is late to the pyre of Highever's newly dead because not all wardens returned alive from the thaigs. Ellisa crossed the border long enough to throw more kindling into the fire. She was looking at a makeshift cross—Caddywhompus and poorly made but handcrafted.
"You sit on hollowed grounds, sir mage" She says, "With bones upon bones upon bones to speak to because our pyres are never hot enough..."
She looked at Emmrich then, almost asking for guidance but not quite willing to say it.
"You must think me the villain in your story, breaking you and the hero apart for some greater end."
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He has no reason to hold back. He's drained. Emmrich leans against a table.
"If your request is to make your fires hotter, you've chosen the wrong mage. If you're seeking help identifying the former owners of the bones, then that is something I can and will do."
The dead have not wronged him and deserve consideration. He will not shortchange them because their Queen is taking everything from him.
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"And, no — I'd doubt you would have a fine time with decades old bones of the old teryn," Elissa looked back into the fire and poked it to back to life with an iron rod.
"What I brought you here to ask was what you knew about tranquil."
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"Abused," he echoes firmly. "Misused, taken advantage of, manipulated about until you find a spot where one might fit and then they're shoved in there regardless of what it costs. I do note you've not asked about Davrin, who has a griffon. Orlais will not be intimidated by someone they think didn't save them. But they will second-guess a griffon."
Even if he cannot save Rook for them, he can try to save Rook for Rook's sake. Hugh in full command will sacrifice himself eagerly. Davrin will not, and he will not allow Rook's life to be wasted. Davrin is ready to command armies, while Rook will let regret and how little he values himself cut them all short with anything other than a single command base. Emmrich will still fight even as the shards of his broken heart ache in his chest.
"And I remind you that I work in the Necropolis, with bones sometimes that are Ages old. If the dead need assis--" No. This was Ferelden. "If you need assistance with the dead, I am uniquely qualified. You will not find someone who can better help with the former teryn."
He hoped he'd said that word right. He's only ever read it before, once or twice, and their accents are not the same. Her true goal brings a chill to him, however. Emmrich stiffens.
"What do I know about the mages you have maliciously stripped the life from, that survive as slaves for Ferelden and other countries to abuse?" He will not mention the darker rumors that have reached Nevarra, that Tranquil were slaughtered for some obscure personal gain during the time of the Inquisition. They are unsubstantiated. "What else need I know?"
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"Mhairi, Daveth — enough," She corrected the hounds, who immediately sat and looked as chastened as pups. She then rounded on Emmrich, her good eye burning cold with its brilliant blue color.
"Two things I wish to be made abundantly clear here — One, I did not make my choice lightly and I will not have it implied that Rook is a poor fit simply because you've painted me a tyrant in the grand sum of a few hours. I've extended my plea to Warden Davrin to assist with taking command of the Keep, and I am waiting for that response. If it pleases you to know.
Second, while you look down your nose at my little backwater country, I would like to remind you that our Circles were harboring the Tranquil that fled the Marches and Orlais after being abandoned by the rebelling mages like an afterthought. Do you forget yourself, sir? What unrefined, ignorant, and poor kingdom gave rise to the Divine that broke the Circles with our full support behind her? Last I checked, it wasn't fucking Nevarra."
She was fired up, and her hands white-knuckled, but it all drained from her in an instant; she sighed heavily with a sense of finality as if the gilded circlet on her head were a noose waiting to drop around her neck and tighten.
"I've asked you here because there is a chance to save the Tranquil," She looked more her age then, almost haggard. "They say that the Tranquil are safe from possession, but an old friend of mine found that spirits can, if given assistance, permanently restore the mage stripped by the Rite."
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"Then let me be precisely clear in return.
"First, your choice is poor not because you feel I've painted you a tyrant. Your choice is poor because you do not know him. Lady Morrigan spoke with perhaps thirty minutes in total and everything else you're going off is rumor, hearsay, and tales. You have made the wrong offer and you will shortchange yourself, your Wardens, and him due to that.
"Secondly, I have called your country no names. You have done that all yourself, and in fact decided that I am a snob from even before I walked in. Unrefined, ignorant, poor, and backwater are your words. I would call your country dangerous to mages even now, and I would call the actions of its leadership malicious and cruel, but I have never and will never judge someone due to lack of money, education, or access. You do not know me, just as you do not know Hugh, and so you have misjudged the matter between us from the very start.
"And thirdly. The mages broke the Circles. It is hardly the fault of the oppressed if they could not take in more of the oppressed when they were fighting desperately for their own lives. The Divine is making kinder choices than previous ones, but it is Nevarra that has no slaves and no slavery. It is Nevarra that did not have to have its Circles broken. And it is Nevarra where a six-year-old orphan with literally only the clothes on his back can have a life and opportunities to reach the point where his help is needed to fight gods."
He took a breath. That had not been something he'd meant to say. He was not well.
"I came here to help of my own free will, knowing it was a risk to my own safety, knowing that it was likely I would have to set foot in a place that terrifies me, and from the moment I arrived I have been treated at best as an afterthought, but primarily as repulsive, and you are taking the only thing I have ever been selfish about away from me.
"I will help. That is my calling. If there is indeed a way to cure the Tranquil with the assistance of spirits then I will gladly learn that and bring them back to themselves. If the living could use comfort in some way with the bones of their dead in a way that does not involve destroying said bones, then I will help there as well.
"But if you insist on this unwise path with Rook, then I will never forgive you, personally. Which I do not expect you will care about.
"Now. If you will, elaborate on how the Tranquil can be restored."
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"I was cautioned you were the sort to speak at...protracted lengths, much as any academic would." Was all she said before she dropped into a chair by the fire with a drawn-out sigh. She was tired and feeling decades older than her forty-and-so years.
"One of the mages that traveled with us during the Blight was named Wynne," Elissa said, "As it was explained to me, a spirit of faith possessed her body at the moment just before death. It was through that possession she still seemed hale and hearty, and learned spirits can operate similarly within Tranquil mages. Obviously, death is not a requirement — that would be rather counter-intuitive. She said as much before her death, well, the death that stuck."
Elissa crossed her arms as if staving off a chill before continuing, "As for the bodies — there's two somewhere on the castle grounds. My sister-in-law and young nephew, this is my family's ancestral estate, but during the Blight, we were besieged by the Howe's, formerly of Amaranthine. Rendon slaughtered everyone in the castle, and we only know he disposed of them somewhere on the grounds. I'd like them found and properly laid to rest if I maybe be so bold as to ask that of you.
As for Rook, well, I cannot make up the man's mind for him, but I can't say I'm heartened to hear this apparent lack of faith in his abilities. I won't force the issue and leave it between yourselves. I—"
The door then flew open, and an armed knight stormed in, panting and nearly stumbling over his own two feet. From the corner, the dogs were up and started to pace, agitated bu the sudden commotion.
"My lady, sir," The knight fought through pleasantries over his labored breathing, "Dakrspawn spotted in the woods, it...it's more than stragglers, my lady. Emissaries were seen among them."
Elissa was on her feet, swearing up a storm and moving quickly the moment the knight got through his warning,
"Have all the servants return to their rooms, have them barricade themselves, and then gather the men to rally in the courtyard," She then turned to Emmrich, "You — I must find the king, but you need to get Rook and meet us down there as well."
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But apparently Emissaries were.
"I have important questions about your request for later," was all he said as he headed back toward their room at speed.
"Rook, we--" Emmrich stopped. The room was empty. Not fully empty, he saw with some relief, Rook's things were still there so the man hadn't decided to absolutely leave him, not yet, but Rook was not there. Where, then? Would Rook have gone to this Chantry too? Emmrich hoped not, but started heading for the ground floor in case with his staff still drawn.
Or was there a dog kennel? The man pet every dog he saw and this was Ferelden. If there was one, it was probably near the stables, right? You'd keep animals together? Here he thought he knew the man and wasn't even sure where he'd be. Maybe he was an old fool. But he'd prefer checking for something like that over going into his second Ferelden Chantry in as many days.
There is, indeed, a room of dogs. Or mabari. Maybe both? They're big, though not as big as the Queen's pair, and it truly doesn't matter when Rook isn't there. So Chantry hunting it--Emmrich heard something that sounded like his love's voice.
"Hugh?" he called. He'd used the name and hadn't gotten any sort of reaction, so he was taking it as permission. Emmrich made his way over and in to find his partner with Sooty. For the briefest moment he smiled and contemplated offering to buy the horse and find a good stable in Nevarra.
But it wouldn't matter, would it. The Queen would not be dissuaded, and Rook will of course not turn the offer down. Emmrich's face shuttered.
"Darkspawn in the woods." Where there had been emotion in his call of the man's name, his voice is now clipped and precise. He will shut his mind and heart down as much as possible, and not give in to pain in the middle of battle. "The messenger said Emissaries were among them. We're to join the forces in the courtyard."
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Rook always counted himself among the company of stubborn fools, but now he had truly gone and proven everyone who considered him such right. A blinding feeling of anger he hadn't felt for a lifetime overtook him in a grip so tight it was as though hot iron pokers were sinking into his ribs. The sensation was burning all the air out of his lungs until he couldn't scream. It was a strangling sort of rage clawing to get out.
— The worst part is Rook wasn't even sure who he was angry with. Emmrich, for not seeing the gravity of the situation, wasn't a fair assumption. The man knew all too well, but he loathed this country for valid reasons. It is more likely his anger was toward himself for stubbornly digging his heels and refusing to listen. Or maybe Rook was overcome by how disastrously out of hand things had become. He was just directionless, mad at everything.
Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours; it was hard to tell when the ringing in his ears finally gave way to the sound of his own hammering heart. Rook no longer saw red, but he did see the wooden chair pulverized against the stone wall and now an overturned table. Numbly, he threw the splintered wood into the fire and righted the table. He moved unthinkingly as he tidied and then departed.
His feet carried him to the stables, blessedly devoid of all company that wasn't on four legs. Sooty's stall was easy to find since he was the biggest charger there with a distinct coat. The gelding had its massive head in a feed bucket and was unbothered by Rook's presence as he entered quietly after lifting and then closing the gate latch.
"'Lo, boy," Rook's voice was harsh on his ears, frayed and fragile.
Sooty raised his head when Rook patted his flank and laid his head on the animal's neck. With no more frustrations to vent on unsuspecting furniture, all Rook was left with then was an overwhelming sense of loss and grief. Was this all there was now? Back to the Wardens like a prisoner walking up the gallows steps because he was too stubborn to let either his love or his country go? Now, he might lose them both. He fears he may have already lost Emmrich.
The thought of Emmrich made him choke, which broke into a whine and continued to a wounded moan. Before long, he was weeping like a child with his arms around the horse's neck. Sooty was patient through it all as Rook wept bitterly until he was wrung dry and feeling emptier than ever.
He stood back and started to adjust Sooty's blanket as a way of apology when he heard his name being called. Rook whipped around with eyes still wet and bloodshot to see.
"Emmrich?" He croaked.
So that had meant the Queen had finished speaking with him, and he had come to see Rook first. Maybe he could fix this, right things before plans are set too far in motion to be stopped. His face lit up in a broken smile as he surged forward with a thousand questions and a million more apologies. Only to stop dead when Emmrich, matter of fact, brought him up to speed on darkspawn being spotted.
"I—what?" He blinked and stared agape before training kicked in, and he took the reins. "Right. The courtyard, follow me. I know a short."
By the time they were in the courtyard, it was standing room only. It was packed with soldiers in full uniform, armed to the teeth. Some were on horseback, others holding the pronged collars of mabari hounds that were gnashing their teeth and snarling fiercely. The mood was somber save for the one in charge right in the thick of things issuing orders when Alistair spotted them and grinned broadly.
"Ah, there you two are." Unexpectedly, he turned and addressed Emmrich first. "I'm glad to see my beloved ol' battle ax left you in one piece. The uncompromising propensity towards menacing really brings out the blue in her eyes...well, eye."
The king sighed like a man truly in love while Rook stood there, flat-footed and numbed, while his mind veered towards overwhelmed white noise. He didn't even react much when Alistair clapped him on the shoulder.
"Once the queen arrives, we'll send out the scouts with the mabari. From what we heard, there's a genlock emissary in their ranks and possibly more. We need to root out the creepy little bastard first. Any darkspawn we kill is just fodder for it to raise. But! We've got some spooky skeleton magic on our side this time so maybe the night won't be a total disaster." Alistair's cheeky smile broadened then, "Word of advice? Don't ever take a crown thinking it's a one-way ticket to retiring in the Wardens. Preeee-tty much expect to be dying on your feet regardless, just with a fancier hat.
Alright, advice? Thoughts?" That question had been directed at Emmrich.
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He cannot risk sobbing on the battlefield, and so he clamps down on everything again, nods, and follows Rook. The clear contentment with the situation that Alistair radiated did not help matters. It must be easier to accept death when one has the person they love with them, and some control over the situation.
But again. He cannot think about that. This must remain, he must remain, detached and academic. The situation is complicated, and the revelation that the Darkspawn seemingly have necromancers is another factor to calculate. Keeping distant even means Alistair's description of his magic sparks neither aggravation or fear.
"I should be able to trace out where another necromancer is." His voice was level and clear, a true miracle. He sounds, in fact, like most when standing in front of a lecture hall. Any student of his could say that he did not sound like him, though. The warmth and openness he brought to teaching were not present.
"So should something be raised that is attacking allies, get my attention. To fight with the dead requires constant casting and focus, and that's how I can locate the... genlock emissary, direct you to it, and focus my efforts upon it as well." What else? "Should something be raised that is not attacking you, you may still be wary. I have yet to fight a necromancer strong enough to wrest control from me, but that does not mean one does not exist."
He and Myrna are likely evenly matched. Vorgoth is probably stronger. The select few Mourn Watch assigned to the king may also be stronger. There's simply no true measure of strength except in combat, though, and all of them are far too professional to risk death or permanent injury to know who stands highest.
Emmrich draws his staff and extends his senses. Green lights up along it and his arms, flowing out, as he gets a sense of the place. The Queen had been horribly, unfortunately correct on one point. There are bones everywhere. Many are not in any shape to be pulled forth, but there are enough that could be held together through force of will to be a danger.
He looks back at the king and lowers his voice so that only Alistair and Rook can hear him. "If this emissary can only raise Darkspawn, then your position is safe. If it can raise others, say so now and forgive me, for I will need to take control of and raise the unattended dead here. There are too many otherwise and this position could be overrun."
A horn sounds, causing his heartrate to spike. The last time he'd heard horns in darkness had been when Lavendel had been attacked, and Weisshauupt before it. The archdemons are gone, the blighted dragons are defeated, but the blight still has horrors aplenty, it seems. And this time, for the first time since the Lighthouse crew wandered into the Necropolis, he fights feeling alone.
Emmrich begins to work. Magic and emotions are intrinsically tied, which means he'll be fighting with a disadvantage. But trying to see targets through tears would be even more challenging. He'll do this as impassively as possible, and be distantly relieved that only one person will have any idea that what flows from him moves without the usual grace.
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This wasn't Ghilan'nain and Elgar'nan twisting an already corrupted Blight to their own ends. This was the remnants of other Blights' past, the afterbirth of everything left to fester in the dark beneath the old thaigs. Everything that was too malignant and clever to die off with the gods and now lingering like a disease. — Basically, about what you would expect to find in Ferelden.
If Rook closed his eyes right now, he could be nine years old again and standing on the docks outside the arling in the West Hills. Holding his sister's hand as they waited for the boat to take refugees before the Horde caught up to them.
Emmrich's voice drew him back from the edge of memory and into the present. Rook blinked, turned his attention to the other man, and couldn't ignore how his heart sank. Even when they prepared to face down gods Emmrich held more optimism in his voice, a brighter light behind his eyes. Rook had never seen Emmrich put up defensive walls before, and it chilled him. They had both shut down and if he could, he would have drawn Emmrich away from the fray and comforted him. But there was no time now; Rook had wasted what time they had with his blind stubbornness.
When Emmrich uses his magic, Rook is now more alert than ever and keeping his head on a swivel. He knew sentiment towards magic had softened considerably in the last couple of decades, but even now, he remembered his promise to Myrna. Blessedly, it seemed everyone was too preoccupied with readying themselves to notice or care.
"The Wardens believe darkspawn necromancers draw on other darkspawn for their power similar to blood magic but aren't limited to raising only other darkspawn," Alistair explained, now more sober in his tone and lacking any humorous asides as he continued. "This puts us in a difficult spot because, sadly, many of the bodies from Howe's massacre have yet to be recovered. Which—"
"You'll have to raise the dead here," Rook confirmed, louder than he intended.
"Which means we keep them out of darkspawn hands and burn what's left."
The queen broke through the mustered garrison in the yard like a knife through paper, in plate mail bearing the Theirin family crest in Warden colors, and flanked by her hounds. She nodded at both the king and Rook before looking at Emmrich,
"Do what you must, but all I ask is whatever is risen to be cremated after." She sounded strangely resigned but flinty in her pragmatism. Turning her attention, she pulled a face before asking, "Rook? You look as though you have something to add."
Rook jolted as he was reminded he was still a part of this conversation. He shook off the yawning void of despair growing in his chest, and his face hardened — he still had a job to do.
"We should split the garrison threefold with a warden at the head of each to avoid being ambushed."
Both Alistair and the queen nodded before. Alistair spoke first,
"Right, I'll take the bulk of the soldiers down the center into the forest, and the queen will take the route furthest from the shore. Rook, you and Volkarin hold the perimeter until he sniffs out that necromancer."
Rook nodded and, with uncharacteristic deference, "Yes, sir."
The horn sounded twice, alerting them that the scouts had spotted something. The queen answered by bu curling her lips around her thumb and index finger, releasing a sharp whistle that cleared the field. Anyone holding a mabari released their collars, and a mass of teeth and fur exploded towards the open gates, including the queen's pair.
"Rally in the woods at my signal," The queen said as she marched out with her men.
"Lots of fire and shouting?" Alistair asked as he raised his arm to signal his own to move out.
"Naturally."
There was only a brief moment as bodies moved like waves around them that Rook got to look at Emmrich, really look at him. He feared the pointed focus in those olive green eyes wasn't concentration alone, but Emmrich shutting himself down — shutting him out.
"Emmrich?" It was barely a whisper, "Anything?"
He could only think to regulate his questions to the task at hand, not wanting to risk it. Risk hurting him further.
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Emmrich prepared the dead as forces began to move out, hearing the rest of the plan without dwelling. At least Rook would have his back physically. They'd shared enough fights that they knew how the other moved by now. Usually.
At Rook's question he raised a finger, signalling the man to wait. He could feel the mabari engage the first Darkspawn due to a few falling with their throats being torn out, and... good. The enemy necromancer was not waiting to bring anything back; it was rushing forward and seeking everything it could use. It was a very good thing Emmrich had gotten hold of the dead of the Keep first.
The magic flowed, a tug, and he pointed in the direction it came from. "There." As he spoke, corpses in various stages of decomposition tore upward through the ground and charged forward toward the target. Emmrich felt a pull, then, as the emissary tested his control. It was weak. That meant nothing yet, as the Fereldan dead slammed into charging Darkspawn.
He could tell the soldiers around them were uncomfortable, incredibly so, but at least the true enemy was clear. That was the important thing. It was made even more important by an ogre charging forward. Emmrich considered trying to take it down. Their numbers here were low... but there was a far more important priority and the Wardens knew more about ogre weakspots than he did. He'd trust it to Rook and their small army.
Darkspawn and men fell alike, and he seized every corpse he could to add it into the arrow pointed directly at the emissary. Soon he could see it, and the yellow-green, sickened, corrupted color of its necromancy. He liked to think his shone brighter simply because it was pure, but it was a second's flight of fancy that he quickly dismissed. There was no room for distractions. The emissary was as focused on him as he was on it, for the exact same reasons. One powerful necromancer could absolutely transform the tide.
Arrows suddenly sprouted from the emissary and it stumbled. Emmrich felt its control falter and took the moment to seize a trio of armored, extra misshapen things that had been pushing toward the king. They whirled around mid-attack and launched into their former comrades. Distantly he was pleased with himself. Distantly he felt like he was doing a more-than-acceptable job.
At last his vanguard reached the emissary, while its own had gotten nowhere near him. He knew Rook was a significant part of that and took care not to let his thoughts go any further along that trail. Emmrich pushed, starting to personally guide the blows of the dead as they assaulted the emissary, more focused than before. A cheer went up nearby as another corpse was made, entering his awareness, but it was here and not where he was fighting and the emissary was skilled.
It screamed in pure rage, something he felt spirits waiting on the other side of the Veil wish they could respond to. Battles were magnets for them, especially the more chaotic ones.
Finally he saw the opportunity he needed, and a recently-dead Warden with a spear drove that weapon up and into the emissary, skewering it. The previous yellow-green threads dropped instantly, but a new one sprang up, thicker than before, a last desperate act. Every fully-trained mage knew how to use their last few seconds to release devastation on their enemies as they burned out their own ability and Emmrich braced as the thread whipped toward him... and past. Had it missed?
He felt it seize the corpse that had fallen behind him and realized his mistake, trying to get one of his corpses to remove the emissary's head in time to stop the dead Ogre from striking. The head came off. The Ogre's hammer kept moving forward due to momentum and slammed into his midsection in an explosion of pain.
Somehow, by some miracle, he did not pass out. He did not let go of his forces. He did get knocked down though, striking something sharp with his forehead, but that at least was glancing. That sharp pain didn't signal actual damage, unlike the fire burning in his right rib cage. Getting back to his feet was impossible, he'd do more damage to himself, so he pushed himself up to a seated position with his left arm and continued casting from there. At least it wasn't like he was in any further danger, not really, not with the other necromancer dead and soldiers pushing forward. He could stay here and keep tearing apart Darkspawn with Darkspawn until either they were all down or he passed out. One of the two.
Later he'll have to tell someone that for once he hadn't been terrified of death.
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