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.
They were on the perimeter of the forest before the first mabari rooted out encroaching darkspawn. In the distance, he could hear the baleful choir of barking echo through the trees as torchlight from the king and queen's split groups flickered like fireflies. Above them, the moon was full and bright as a pressed silver coin, casting the dusting of snow on the ground and tree branches in an almost ethereal glow. The dead forest stood in black contrast against its pallor.
This was the worst part of these attacks when something old and festering shambled out of the dead trenches — it was always pin-drop quiet at first — well, for everyone that wasn't a Warden, anyway. Of the small handful of Wardens among their ranks, Rook knew they were all hearing the same terrible cacophony. Even with the old gods all dead, the echoes of the blight lingered.
Every Warden described it differently, but one commonality was its tonal quality, beautiful but invasive. It was a half-remembered song that was more a dirge, but if sound could make your molars feel as though they were shaking out of your skull or your blood thicken and writhe in your veins like something come alive. The song always builds and rises as bile churning in his stomach and the back of his throat. It's the loudest silence and burns and prickles every inch of him under unmoving plate mail.
— Air breaks and whistles next to his ear. The wet thunk of an arrow shaft as it found the soft space between a man's armor and his neck—the gasp, the gurgling, and then the silence.
They were beyond the edge of the forest. Deeper in, the mabari and king's party have engaged the darkspawn, and now they were down one man before swords were even drawn. A clamor of steal, shouts, and howls, both beast and inhuman, shatter the silence and set Rook's blood on fire. The flickering torchlights grow as tar-pitched arrows are lit and soar over the treelines. Rook's voice echoes loud and clear through his helm as he sounds the order to advance.
Below their feet, the dead also joined their march. The soldier struck by the arrow was now ahead of the group as part of a skeletal phalanx. Rook had no time to recoil or pity the late Rendon Howe's victims, potentially the queen's family, being found only to be fodder. It wasn't that simple, and Emmrich was put in an impossible position. He could only hope the others would see it as generously as he did. Emmrich protected the living and the dead, but impressions blurred and soured the further they were from Nevarra. By the end of the night, Rook prayed he would only need to protect Emmrich against darkspawn.
This was no true horde but a remnant making a push for ground. That didn't mean it was an easy fight — after all, cornered and wounded animals always fought more bitterly. The Darkspawn were no expection. Rook directed the soldiers and the small company of Wardens through the chaos with brutal efficiency. All the while, he kept Emmrich in his sight and behind his shield at every opportunity. The dead were only as good long as they could stand and many of the risen were in poor shape — a detriment to both Emmrich and the emissary.
— Damned thing, every time he struck a clean blow, he could have sworn he heard its chittering and rotten jaw clicking in delight at more fuel to the fire — More bones to the pile.
It was the armored ogre that worried Rook the most. In the thick of things, he swiped his sword along the tendons of its legs while the soldiers pelted it with lit arrows, carving and brutalizing as much of the brute as he could. The emissary was still alive; he didn't want the damned thing risen. Unfortunately, a lucky arrow passed through the ogre's eye and downed the thing cleanly. Rook wanted its head, but an advancing number of hurlock led by a hulking alpha had drawn his attention away.
Rook pulled his sword out where it had caught in the blood-rusted breastplate of a massive hurlock that nearly took his arm in the skirmish and took a step back with a grunt. That was when he saw it first, then heard it like lightning before thunder. Neurotic yellowish-green light flaring in the corner of his vision, followed by the familiar bellow of an — ogre?
Emmrich.
They were in the middle of the forest. The vanguard Rook had led had pushed the darkspawn deeper into the woods to be cut off and overtaken by the king and queen's forces. This was a victory. This was the most terrified Rook had ever felt in his life.
Boots overtook dirt, branches, and broken bodies as Rook ran swiftly as though unencumbered by armor down the treeline. It was a short distance, barely the length of the courtyard, but it seemed like miles as time slowed even as his heart quickened.
"Emmrich—?!" The cry through the steel of his helm had a mournful, inhuman echo that intensified when Rook laid eyes on his greatest fear only a short distance away: "EMMRICH!"
Straggler darkspawn were cleaved in two with brutal swings that had no other purpose than to be thrown hard between the wounded animal cries tearing out of Rook's lungs with a terrible fury. Darkspawn blood and offal slid off the silver of his armor, steaming in the frozen night air as he stumbled forward with growing desperation. If he had to crawl to get to Emmrich, he would have.
Rook fell to his knees at Emmrich's side and tried to take in what he was seeing without coming undone.
"No...no no no no no no," Rook prayed, pleaded, and repeated while holding his love's head in his hands. The fresh blood smeared the entire side of Emmrich's face, blisteringly warm to the touch. Even from a cursory inspection, he could see Emmrich had taken a blow to the midsection. "Emmrich, no— stay awake for me, love, please, just— Oh, Maker, Emmrich, no— "
The fragile, breaking glass sound of Rook's voice immediately hardened to iron when he turned and bellowed, "GET ME A HORSE, A HORSE! WOUNDED!"
One of the king's soldiers had by the reins a bucking and panicking blood bay courser so panicked it had shaken some of its armor off. There were stammered reports of a call to reroute the wounded back to the castle as those standing were rejoining the king and queen. Rook absorbed maybe half of that before he was on his feet, gripping the horse's bridle and telling the soldier to find any more wounded. It was not with a gentle hand that Rook brought the animal to heel as he firmly barked commands until the horse was cowed into compliance.
"I've got you, I've got you..." Rook was back at Emmrich's side, speaking softly and near tears again as he slowly got his arms around him. With profuse apologies that were delivered so fast and hysterically they were barely coherent, Rook hoisted Emmrich into his arms.
Getting Emmrich on horseback was a trial in itself, but Rook managed. Emmrich took the front with Rook's arm firm around his middle. Emmrich was clearly fading, slumped over, and fighting against the pull of unconsciousness. With a tug of the reins and kick of his heels, Rook whistled sharply, and the horse brayed before breaking out into a canter that exploded into a full gallop.
"Stay with me, Emmrich," Rook repeated again and again as they rode hard through the maze of trees and scattered soldiers, "Just stay awake, love, please"
They were almost out of the forest. Rook was riding the horse to exhaustion and soon couldn't differentiate the sound of hoofbeats hammering the earth, his heartbeat, and the staccato of his own pleading sobs.
His sense of the world was narrowing, and black was starting to seep in at the edges of his vision. Emmrich still fought, but he was aware of the fact that at least one broken rib must have gone through his lung. Of course he'd be actually injured in what was probably little more than a skirmish to these forces. Of course he'd be in increasing pain, sagging on the ground when he so desperately needed to be impressive, compelling, anything to persuade the rulers here he should be ally and not enemy.
More corpses enter his awareness near him. Darkspawn, thankfully, though he doesn't have the strength to add to his number. He is actually losing what he's called; Emmrich can feel them dropping even without external interference.
His name was said. No. Shouted. Rook. His thoughts are getting shallow, much like his breathing. Hugh touched him, then, and Emmrich could hear fear in his voice. He wanted to say something comforting but his thoughts were disjointed. It was all he could do to not fall in to the touch, to still stay semi-upright, and the few corpses he still controlled collapsed where they'd stood with the effort that took.
Love, Hugh called him, said his name with such care, and Emmrich's carefully maintained detachment shattered. The emotion sounded real. He'd believe it if not for earlier this evening, if not for the ache in his heart. Tears started to slide down his cheeks, making the already-difficult task of breathing even more challenging.
Rook was still talking, telling him to stay awake even as he was painfully jostled onto a horse. He could do one last thing for Rook, surely. The man he loved begged him to and so Emmrich fought to stay conscious for as long as he could.
Things got blurry, movement, more pain, and the sound of Rook asking him to stay. Emmrich lost the battle to remain awake despite his best efforts.
When he woke, he was still in pain, but at least he could breathe and breathing meant he wasn't dead. The blanket over him was scratchy and therefore he was not home. So. Still in Ferelden, still injured, but the life-threatening issues had been attended to, it seemed. He would try to heal himself further... except he was far too exhausted, and his head throbbed emphasizing how unwell he was.
For several moments he simply laid there. Emmrich was scared to open his eyes. He was terrified that he'd see the rooms they'd been assigned, minus any of Rook's things, and empty of Rook. His greatest fear had transformed and he might have even missed his chance to say a final goodbye.
But doing nothing was never an option. He opened his eyes and instantly saw Rook, somehow still there, with him. Hugh looked exhausted and bedraggled; he was the most beautiful sight Emmrich had ever seen. Tears threatened to spring forward again but this time Emmrich held them back and managed to flop his hand over to Hugh's arm without breaking down.
"Hugh?" he croaked. He couldn't risk hoping. This could just be kindness. But the sounds of Rook's voice on the ride back to the castle stuck with him. Maybe while he'd talked to the queen something had changed, or... he didn't know.
By the time the poor charger had crossed the drawn bridge into the courtyard, Rook had ridden it near collapse. Panic flooded him as Emmrich went slack in his arms. Dismounting and bringing Emmrich with him in one motion, Rook threw off his helmet and held him close. A sob escaped when a shallow breath brushed warm as a kiss against his cheek. Alive, severely injured, but alive.
In the main hall, medics and two overwhelmed healers brought in from Kinloch prioritized wounded by severity. Emmrich was breathing and in possession of all of his limbs, and Rook feared he wouldn't be given the urgency his injuries demanded. But even the junior healer, whose voice cracked like he was still coming into manhood, knew a concussion when he saw one.
By the time the remaining forces began to trickle in from the forest, they were more wounded than dead. The queen herself was among the living casualties as she arrived, leaning heavily on the king as one of her mabari limped beside her. Cheers rang out at their return, and even injured the two rulers lingered to meander among the wounded to take stock and congratulate the returned with promises to mourn the departed.
She spotted Rook kneeling beside the stretcher Emmrich had been laid on and gave the pair a curious look. They didn't speak, but her good eye focused on Rook's hand in Emmrich's, at which she nodded before turning away. Almost as if it took Rook's white-knuckle grip around Emmrich's hand to confirm something for her. Rook didn't know what to make of it and didn't care by the time she and Alistair limped their way out.
The next six hours were a blur that Rook navigated with the surefootedness of a drunk on an icy cobblestone incline. Once Emmrich was stable, Rook biting his tongue with the urge to comment on the healer's work, he insisted on carrying Emmrich to their room — alone. The last time he had done this was in the Necropolis and had been oddly commical with Emmrich yammering away about magic locks with Vorgoth's unhelpful commentary.
—That had been Rook's first night in Emmrich's bed. The circumstances were dire, but that memory remained warm in his thoughts. Tears came unbidden then, and Rook only held on long enough to set Emmrich up in bed before he shattered. He grabbed the one chair he hadn't shattered and fell into it at Emmrich's bedside.
Just as in the stables, Rook buried his face and wept. The adrenaline fled him, leaving him shaken, afraid, and mourning everything he stood to lose the moment Emmrich woke up. Rook had swore before the very gallows he once stood on never to let his anger speak for him, but now he had let his stubbornness fester into something worse, and he had lashed out at what he loved the most in this world. If Emmrich were to open his eyes now and yell at Rook to leave, he would understand, even if it would kill him to do so.
Exhaustion and the cathartic burnout of crying himself dry had Rook barely able to keep his head up. There were moments of fitfully nodding off, but sleep never came as he jolted every time Emmrich so much as twitched, hopeful as he was fearful. The corners of his vision darkened by the time early morning lighter started to filter in. Rook was near collapse when—
("Hugh?")
Never outside a battle had a second wind hit Rook so hard he was near delirious as he shot up and looked up the bed to see Emmrich's eyes open just as a hand rested on his arm.
"Thank the Maker," Rook choked on a shakey breath of pure relief as he surged forward and held Emmrich's face in his hand, thumb brushing a newly formed bruise blossoming across the other's cheekbone. "Emmrich, you're awake. I—"
Tears were flowing freely down Rook's bloodshot, fatigued eyes. "I'd thought I lost you."
He'd had no idea what to expect when he gained Rook's attention. This was so much more than he could have guessed at, though. He was touched, face held, and the emotions on display were undeniable.
Despite the agony in his heart, Emmrich reached over and wiped some of the wetness off one of Rook's cheeks. He loved this man. He loved him with all that he had, and he'd been so certain he'd lost Hugh. And he'd thought Rook had been fine with that.
"You told me to go," he said quietly. His expression was confused; he was trying to make sense of this. "You said you were sorry and to go. I thought you... Is that not..."
Emmrich can't figure out a way to ask that's kind to either of them. "My thoughts may still be muddled. I'm sorry, love. You protected me and saved me. Thank you. But I don't know that you haven't lost, that I haven't lost."
Guilt had been a hanging blade above him the moment Rook had directed his frustrations out on Emmrich after that dinner. Now, that regret was lancing through him when Emmrich confirmed his fears — the depths of his mistake when he felt cornered and flown off the handle.
Words were always hard for him when they concerned his own heart; he had always been afraid. Afraid of saying the wrong thing or showing too much of himself, driving someone he cared about away in the process. He was going to lose Emmrich if he let that fear pin him to the wall. He did lose Emmrich all over his near self-destructive dedication to the Wardens.
"No, I wanted you to understand. I was angry, yes, but I could have worked something out. I just needed time, I only—" Excuses would not suffice; Rook closed his eyes as he wanted so badly to fall into Emmrich's arms if it wouldn't only risk further injury.
"Emmrich..." Both hands go to Emmrich's face now, Rook's eyes searching the other man's for signs he was still out of, signs that he resented him, anything. "I very nearly lost you tonight, more than once. I—" His voice was pleading now, "I can't lose you again. For anything."
Emmrich swallowed, fighting to hold composure. He loved Rook so much, with all that he was, and there was love in Hugh's words. There was still something there. A chance.
"I don't want to lose you," he said. "I don't... I..."
He went to shake his head, but that would take him away from contact with Rook so he glanced down instead. "I wasn't afraid of death out there." It should have been a triumph, and yet it was not. "Because I had a new fear, the loss of you, and I thought it had already come to pass. But do you truly hate the Necropolis so much?"
He wanted to find a way this could work. He needed it, but he can't live in Ferelden. In the last couple of days he'd come to truly hate the place, and he usually worked hard to not hate.
"And please, I can... Help me to my left side and come lay with me, please, my dear." He needed physical contact as well.
"Emmrich..." All those angry words were coming back on Rook to roost, and all he could do was feel himself tremble.
With great reluctance, Rook lets his hands fall as he stands. Maneuvering Emmrich is a delicate task; Rook grimaced as the bandages lashed around the man's waist. The lack of blood was even more concerning, knowing everything had been internal. It could have been so much worse and entirely Rook's fault.
Already having shed his armor and fatigues, nothing impedes Rook from crawling into bed beside Emmrich. Pressed in as close as he could, tucked into Emmrich's good side, Rook curls inward and rests his head on Emmrich's shoulder.
They lay there together for a while before Rook finds his voice again. It starts off with a resigned sigh before he speaks,
"I don't hate the Necropolis," Rook said, "I hate feeling useless. The Gardens are lovely, and the apartments are wonderful, but who even am I down there? The Mourn Watch has no use for me beyond the rare restless undead, but even then, they're not helpless."
Rook stroked a hand where the bandages ended at Emmrich's shoulder down to his sternum, just wanting to feel his warmth. Delaying the point, but also just wanting to feel the life thrum through the man he loved and nearly lost.
"All my life, I feared I'd die in the dark, and some days, it feels like I've traded that for living in it. How can you love me when I'm no use to you there? It's like I just haunt the home we share. Merely occupying space."
Despite the pain of moving and the pressure in his chest that said he needed to stay careful, Emmrich felt like he could finally breathe again once Rook was against him.
"Rook," he said quietly, gentle and sad when the man seemed to have stopped speaking. Emmrich brushed his fingers through Rook's hair, struck by how just a few hours ago something so small and precious had seemed lost to him mere hours ago.
"I don't need a use to you, my love. I need only you. And the Mourn Watch doesn't ask you to help out of pity, or charity. It's that some of our charges are incredibly dangerous, and you're incredibly competent. But the other..."
Emmrich trails off. He loves being underground, the way it feels close and embracing. But if Rook finds it too much they need a compromise. He has to ask a question here, one that he's not sure he wants the answer to.
"What do you need, my darling? As it sounds like a cottage on the surface will not suffice."
What does Rook need, other than somehow one day cluing in to how much he matters just as himself. The Wardens had done so much damage to this man and it was spilling over, but there was still a chance to fight it back, so long as Rook didn't need to be Commander of the Grey. He's being touched, at least. Rook's demonstrating that he's still precious. They aren't fully lost.
Immediately, a contented rumble shuddered through Rook when Emmrich touched him. Rook would have given anything just to close his eyes and let fingers carding through his hair lull him to sleep. He was so tired with all his limbs feeling weighed down with stones, but he could only imagine how Emmrich was holding up. He was capable, but Rook knew the older man couldn't endure grievous injury the way he could. Rook was cautious in his affections, both because he didn't want to exacerbate anything — and because he didn't know where he stood right now.
This was the fork in the road that Rook always found himself stuck at its diverging point. The discussions had never been this fraught or protracted, but this wasn't the first time the topic of 'what comes after' reared its head. The gods were all dead; only the shadows of their sins remained, but they wouldn't linger forever, and Rook would only be needed for so long.
"I don't know..." It came as a murmur whispered against Emmrich's shoulder, followed by a humorous, dry huff of laughter, "I don't suppose Nevarra City is hurting for dock workers on the Minanter?"
With tremendous effort on every aching muscle in his body, Rook sat up. His knees were bent and still close by Emmrich's side, and his hands were wherever he could safely touch him as he gazed down with an expression inscrutable only because of the dark circles beneath them.
"Listen, I'm going to speak with the queen. I know I'm not suited to be Commander — I'm no ruler or Inquisitor. I can lead my friends, not armies," Rook closed his eyes and breathed in deep, opening them on the exhale. "All I know is I want to spend the rest of my life with you but right now? I don't even know what my life is."
His touch matters and has an effect. He can take some comfort in that, and chooses to, not just because he sorely needs the comfort. His body hurts in a way it hasn't in so very, very long and while this is helping patch over some of his heartache, it doesn't remove all the stress or emotional pain.
The latter of which spikes when Rook gets back up. Emmrich watches him closely, trying to keep breathing. He is clearly not the only one exhausted here, and he hadn't been fooled by Rook's light joke.
"You don't have to decide what it is alone, if you'd like help," he offered quietly. The continued touch threatened to make his eyes close too, but he knows he needs to be awake right now. He needs to be here for and with Hugh.
"I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Hugh. I want to share it with you. The shape of my life is... it's clear. I love the rituals that go into serving and protecting the Necropolis, and I find nothing more fulfilling than teaching. I also can't live somewhere Manfred isn't safe. From there..."
He sighed. They're up again against the big issue Rook's carried all along. "Love, you need to let yourself wish and want even more. What fulfills you? What do you like spending time doing? And if it is only eliminating harmful elements, the Necropolis does have an eluvian. We can contact the Veil Jumpers and Shadow Dragons, along with the Wardens, of course, and let them know you want to be, perhaps not a mercenary, but a resource. Strife and Neve will not hesitate to take you up on it." And both of them would also know that Emmrich would like his beloved home sooner rather than later, too, so the trips wouldn't be planned to be so long absence grew painful.
"I love you, Emmric. I will tell myself that until I am blue in the face, but I can't go on being another sword to sell, I just — I need time." Rook looked up and saw the sunrise bleed like a spider's web through the slotted stone of the open windows.
Rook closed his eyes, and when he opened them, it was dawn. The champagne-pink hue of the early morning offset him as he stood. — Somehow, early dawn light breaking in easter egg yellow fractals over the room was sobering enough for Rook to rise and leave Emmrich in bed.
"Listen," Rook was off the bed again but letting his touch linger. "I'm going to make this right, alright? You just need to trust me."
Hours pass after that. Rook sleeps beside Emmrich for a short time, but time bleeds from midnight into early morning. Eventually, his familiar weight shifts off Emmrich as he leaves before a knock comes at the door.
"Volkarin?" The queen asks on courtesy of one knock before allowing herself in. She limps in with a black-coated, slow-moving mabari matching her pace that eventually collapses in front of the the firepit as she grabs the chair and drags it to his bedside before dropping into it.
"I'm not here to recruit Rook. That possibility has clearly long gone." The Queen then places with great reverence something on the nightstand, a mound wrapped in leather strapped with twine that she starts to unravel. The empty sockets of a skull worn by being buried for nearly two decades with a concaved orbital bone greet him.
"This was found underneath a dead hurlock," Her hands surround the skull before being drawn away as she sits, "I know you are recovering, but...could you tell me if this is my nephew?"
Time. It was such a finite resource, and one that once spent, was never regained. He wondered what it would take for Rook to find any of his answers.
He drifted in and out as Rook moved and as pain allowed. When Rook asked Emmrich to trust him, Emmrich had managed to squeeze his shoulder and say of course, because what else could he say? All he could do was try to believe somehow he could come out of this without losing everything that mattered to him. His cards were all already poorly played.
Emmrich awoke to a knock on the door and an empty bed. The latter scared him, terrified him, even as he tried to have faith.
But he wasn't given time to dwell as the queen entered.
"Your majesty," he said. Her slow entry gave him time to very carefully move both pillows and start to sit up a little. The process was made challenging by the injuries, but even more so by how he was trying and failing to keep the blanket near his chin. He had to give in and let it stay just under his collarbones, showing more skin than most people in his life had seen.
But her words drove away his self-consciousness. Long gone. Emmrich closed his eyes briefly to hold back tears of relief. It was easier done than it should have been; the knowledge that Rook wasn't happy with him, with their life, and Emmrich couldn't seem to fix that was difficult.
But her further words and the object she carried drew Emmrich out of his thoughts.
"Let me see," he said quietly. Emmrich picked up the skull with care. He held his other hand over it and cast.
"By the flame that burns and flickers, by the light of those who have come before, return once more to us!"
The skull lit up in green. The soul indeed had been young when it passed. Emmrich had no difficulty keeping his voice gentle.
"We would like to know who you were," he said.
"Why?" it asked in a young male voice, making him smile faintly for a half-second.
"There's someone here who may once have known you."
The green sparks, and swirls of it rush around the room. They circle the queen briefly and then the skull seems to light up even more.
"You're back! You came back! Did you bring me a sword? Dad hasn't gotten me one and Mom says he's right about that. But I can help!"
Emmrich' gaze flickered to the queen. The recognition spoke to this being the right skull, which meant he'd used her nephew's corpse in battle. Maker. He kept his concerns to himself, though.
"What was your name?" he asked.
"Who are you?" retorted the skull. "You're not gonna carry a sword to fight Darkspawn. You're old."
Emmrich had to fight harder against the smile this time, especially as it threatened to come with an agonizing huff of laughter.
"A name, please."
"Fine." The soul sounded huffy. "Oren. I was called Oren."
Now Emmrich looked to the queen and raised an eyebrow. By sheer context he'd guess this was the right skull, but he could no more have named her family than he could recall the name of the mabari sharing the room with them.
"Oh, Oren," The queen cupped her hands over mouth the moment that familiar, tiny voice insisted upon still declaring a sword a 'swored.'
She did restrain her laughter when Emmrich was called old by a skull, however. And she held that laughter when the spirit had passed under the necromancer's care.
"Thank you," She finally said after a long silence. "I suppose he got to hold a sword like he wanted, in a way."
The queen collected up the skull and went to the door. On the first knock a maid appeared and quietly took the bones.
"See that his ash are entombed with his father, and ask the men to find the rest."
The queen gives a phenomenonly stoic maid her nephew's skull and departs.
"Thank you," The queen bows her head into her hand as she listened to her mismatched eyes closed as she rests a head in her head.
"I'm sorry for you," She manages then looks at him, really looking at him.
"I'm only forty but some on cold days I feel eighty," She runs a hand through her hair. "Marry the man, I say. His clock is still ticking."
He bowed his head. "Of course." There was no need to explain that it had merely been Oren's body hosting a helpful spirit and not his soul that fought last night; the distinction did not matter right now. Especially when the knowledge might steal some comfort from finding him again.
The maid departed with what was left of Oren in this world, intent on destroying it, and Emmrich forced his thoughts away from that.
He relaxed as well as he could while the queen seemed to regather herself. Her words, perhaps surprisingly, drew a soft smile from him and a shake of his head.
"We are none of us guaranteed another breath or day. That seven of our eight walked away from battling two gods, two archdemons, and three blighted dragons along with all the rest is miraculous in itself. And there is no reason to feel sorry when I've found someone incredible I love with all my heart who loves me in return. As far as the other..."
The smile faded. "I will. I would like him to feel like he is worthy of love as a person and not merely a sacrifice first, but again. We are not guaranteed any time in the waking world. When we return home to Nevarra I will broach the topic."
Not that it's entirely unbroached. He retrieves Hugh's joining vial from where it had wound up tucked under one of the supportive bandages that went over his shoulder and lets it rest openly on his chest.
"Would you like an invitation?" His voice is wry but not mocking. At least he has some more insight into the often-closed book that is Rook due to her earlier callousness. But thinking of earlier--
"Though I must ask that if there are any notes left behind on the reversal of Tranquility or there is anything else you can share, you do so. I'd appreciate it. I do not want to put either Tranquil or spirits at greater risk with guesswork."
"Do you truly wish that?" Elissa paused at the doorway with her hand on the frame as she looked back and truly looked at Emmrich — the mage that she had scoffed at and the man that she insulted. "It is...humbling to be offered a place at such a table."
The queen turned back around and sat beside Emmrich once again,
"I will tell you what I know," She neatly folded her hands together and placed them almost as if in prayer but more just somewhere to rest her bandaged elbows, "The rite of Tranquility itself is well documented, but its reversal has come recently to us from a spirit of Compassion — I know it is not, that she is not, but part of me considers her Wynne. The spirit mage I met and knew at Ostagar."
"I won't...lie, that the fleeing mages during the rebellion that Lelia- Divine Victoria softened left a lot of tranquil behind. The standing Knight-Commander and First Enchanter had been holding sanctuary for them at Kinloch, even as mages started to come back. There is only those two, children, and Tranquil at the tower. I'm afraid you'll have to find out what is discoverable from what's left of the libraries."
"You could order him to stay. You have that authority. And you've clearly chosen not to use it. For that I am thankful, and I know that he would also be greatly honored by your presence." Emmrich wasn't reminding her of anything she didn't know. A part of him had even been bracing for her to declare her intention of doing so.
But he had the only thing that mattered to him. He would leave with Rook, go home with Rook, instead of stumbling home alone and in the agony of heartbreak. Emmrich can be kind.
"Further, the knowledge that there is a cure for Tranquility is a massive gift. Compassion is an excellent starting point; I can call and stand a high chance of the right one responding." And from there he will disseminate the information. Few mages will be able to work with spirits at the level he can, but the knowledge of a cure will be out there. Tranquility will no longer be held over mage's heads.
"I cannot promise—" The queen whipped her head to the sound of her mabari starting to whine and paw at the door. At the sight, she blew an exhale that chased her hair out of her eye. "Mhairi, for the love of—"
—The queen opened the door, and as soon as she had, Hugh Thorne came tumbling forth.
"Oh!" Elissa hadn't thought to say anything else as she reflectively stood back and let Hugh stumbled in face first, gathering himself to his feet.
"Did you mean that?" Hugh gathered himself as he tried to pretend as though he wasn't listening through the door and got overly excited. "That you want to spend your life with me?"
Emmrich's eyebrow shot up, imperiously, as she started that sentence. If she finished it in the way he thought she might they were going to have words, and luckily for international relations they get interrupted. And what a way to be interrupted.
"Rook, really," Emmrich protested, ears a little pink. "I had a plan for saying as much, you know. It was far more romantic than this."
While he's undressed under a blanket, bandaged, with a mabari in the room as well as someone who had threatened their happiness. It's not the best feeling to be extra vulnerable in front of her considering what she might have been gearing up to say. But he will not taint this moment with that.
"But of course I do, my dearest. I love you." He held out a hand, hoping Rook would come over and hold it.
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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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This was the worst part of these attacks when something old and festering shambled out of the dead trenches — it was always pin-drop quiet at first — well, for everyone that wasn't a Warden, anyway. Of the small handful of Wardens among their ranks, Rook knew they were all hearing the same terrible cacophony. Even with the old gods all dead, the echoes of the blight lingered.
Every Warden described it differently, but one commonality was its tonal quality, beautiful but invasive. It was a half-remembered song that was more a dirge, but if sound could make your molars feel as though they were shaking out of your skull or your blood thicken and writhe in your veins like something come alive. The song always builds and rises as bile churning in his stomach and the back of his throat. It's the loudest silence and burns and prickles every inch of him under unmoving plate mail.
— Air breaks and whistles next to his ear. The wet thunk of an arrow shaft as it found the soft space between a man's armor and his neck—the gasp, the gurgling, and then the silence.
They were beyond the edge of the forest. Deeper in, the mabari and king's party have engaged the darkspawn, and now they were down one man before swords were even drawn. A clamor of steal, shouts, and howls, both beast and inhuman, shatter the silence and set Rook's blood on fire. The flickering torchlights grow as tar-pitched arrows are lit and soar over the treelines. Rook's voice echoes loud and clear through his helm as he sounds the order to advance.
Below their feet, the dead also joined their march. The soldier struck by the arrow was now ahead of the group as part of a skeletal phalanx. Rook had no time to recoil or pity the late Rendon Howe's victims, potentially the queen's family, being found only to be fodder. It wasn't that simple, and Emmrich was put in an impossible position. He could only hope the others would see it as generously as he did. Emmrich protected the living and the dead, but impressions blurred and soured the further they were from Nevarra. By the end of the night, Rook prayed he would only need to protect Emmrich against darkspawn.
This was no true horde but a remnant making a push for ground. That didn't mean it was an easy fight — after all, cornered and wounded animals always fought more bitterly. The Darkspawn were no expection. Rook directed the soldiers and the small company of Wardens through the chaos with brutal efficiency. All the while, he kept Emmrich in his sight and behind his shield at every opportunity. The dead were only as good long as they could stand and many of the risen were in poor shape — a detriment to both Emmrich and the emissary.
— Damned thing, every time he struck a clean blow, he could have sworn he heard its chittering and rotten jaw clicking in delight at more fuel to the fire — More bones to the pile.
It was the armored ogre that worried Rook the most. In the thick of things, he swiped his sword along the tendons of its legs while the soldiers pelted it with lit arrows, carving and brutalizing as much of the brute as he could. The emissary was still alive; he didn't want the damned thing risen. Unfortunately, a lucky arrow passed through the ogre's eye and downed the thing cleanly. Rook wanted its head, but an advancing number of hurlock led by a hulking alpha had drawn his attention away.
Rook pulled his sword out where it had caught in the blood-rusted breastplate of a massive hurlock that nearly took his arm in the skirmish and took a step back with a grunt. That was when he saw it first, then heard it like lightning before thunder. Neurotic yellowish-green light flaring in the corner of his vision, followed by the familiar bellow of an — ogre?
Emmrich.
They were in the middle of the forest. The vanguard Rook had led had pushed the darkspawn deeper into the woods to be cut off and overtaken by the king and queen's forces. This was a victory. This was the most terrified Rook had ever felt in his life.
Boots overtook dirt, branches, and broken bodies as Rook ran swiftly as though unencumbered by armor down the treeline. It was a short distance, barely the length of the courtyard, but it seemed like miles as time slowed even as his heart quickened.
"Emmrich—?!" The cry through the steel of his helm had a mournful, inhuman echo that intensified when Rook laid eyes on his greatest fear only a short distance away: "EMMRICH!"
Straggler darkspawn were cleaved in two with brutal swings that had no other purpose than to be thrown hard between the wounded animal cries tearing out of Rook's lungs with a terrible fury. Darkspawn blood and offal slid off the silver of his armor, steaming in the frozen night air as he stumbled forward with growing desperation. If he had to crawl to get to Emmrich, he would have.
Rook fell to his knees at Emmrich's side and tried to take in what he was seeing without coming undone.
"No...no no no no no no," Rook prayed, pleaded, and repeated while holding his love's head in his hands. The fresh blood smeared the entire side of Emmrich's face, blisteringly warm to the touch. Even from a cursory inspection, he could see Emmrich had taken a blow to the midsection. "Emmrich, no— stay awake for me, love, please, just— Oh, Maker, Emmrich, no— "
The fragile, breaking glass sound of Rook's voice immediately hardened to iron when he turned and bellowed, "GET ME A HORSE, A HORSE! WOUNDED!"
One of the king's soldiers had by the reins a bucking and panicking blood bay courser so panicked it had shaken some of its armor off. There were stammered reports of a call to reroute the wounded back to the castle as those standing were rejoining the king and queen. Rook absorbed maybe half of that before he was on his feet, gripping the horse's bridle and telling the soldier to find any more wounded. It was not with a gentle hand that Rook brought the animal to heel as he firmly barked commands until the horse was cowed into compliance.
"I've got you, I've got you..." Rook was back at Emmrich's side, speaking softly and near tears again as he slowly got his arms around him. With profuse apologies that were delivered so fast and hysterically they were barely coherent, Rook hoisted Emmrich into his arms.
Getting Emmrich on horseback was a trial in itself, but Rook managed. Emmrich took the front with Rook's arm firm around his middle. Emmrich was clearly fading, slumped over, and fighting against the pull of unconsciousness. With a tug of the reins and kick of his heels, Rook whistled sharply, and the horse brayed before breaking out into a canter that exploded into a full gallop.
"Stay with me, Emmrich," Rook repeated again and again as they rode hard through the maze of trees and scattered soldiers, "Just stay awake, love, please"
They were almost out of the forest. Rook was riding the horse to exhaustion and soon couldn't differentiate the sound of hoofbeats hammering the earth, his heartbeat, and the staccato of his own pleading sobs.
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More corpses enter his awareness near him. Darkspawn, thankfully, though he doesn't have the strength to add to his number. He is actually losing what he's called; Emmrich can feel them dropping even without external interference.
His name was said. No. Shouted. Rook. His thoughts are getting shallow, much like his breathing. Hugh touched him, then, and Emmrich could hear fear in his voice. He wanted to say something comforting but his thoughts were disjointed. It was all he could do to not fall in to the touch, to still stay semi-upright, and the few corpses he still controlled collapsed where they'd stood with the effort that took.
Love, Hugh called him, said his name with such care, and Emmrich's carefully maintained detachment shattered. The emotion sounded real. He'd believe it if not for earlier this evening, if not for the ache in his heart. Tears started to slide down his cheeks, making the already-difficult task of breathing even more challenging.
Rook was still talking, telling him to stay awake even as he was painfully jostled onto a horse. He could do one last thing for Rook, surely. The man he loved begged him to and so Emmrich fought to stay conscious for as long as he could.
Things got blurry, movement, more pain, and the sound of Rook asking him to stay. Emmrich lost the battle to remain awake despite his best efforts.
When he woke, he was still in pain, but at least he could breathe and breathing meant he wasn't dead. The blanket over him was scratchy and therefore he was not home. So. Still in Ferelden, still injured, but the life-threatening issues had been attended to, it seemed. He would try to heal himself further... except he was far too exhausted, and his head throbbed emphasizing how unwell he was.
For several moments he simply laid there. Emmrich was scared to open his eyes. He was terrified that he'd see the rooms they'd been assigned, minus any of Rook's things, and empty of Rook. His greatest fear had transformed and he might have even missed his chance to say a final goodbye.
But doing nothing was never an option. He opened his eyes and instantly saw Rook, somehow still there, with him. Hugh looked exhausted and bedraggled; he was the most beautiful sight Emmrich had ever seen. Tears threatened to spring forward again but this time Emmrich held them back and managed to flop his hand over to Hugh's arm without breaking down.
"Hugh?" he croaked. He couldn't risk hoping. This could just be kindness. But the sounds of Rook's voice on the ride back to the castle stuck with him. Maybe while he'd talked to the queen something had changed, or... he didn't know.
At least he wasn't alone yet.
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In the main hall, medics and two overwhelmed healers brought in from Kinloch prioritized wounded by severity. Emmrich was breathing and in possession of all of his limbs, and Rook feared he wouldn't be given the urgency his injuries demanded. But even the junior healer, whose voice cracked like he was still coming into manhood, knew a concussion when he saw one.
By the time the remaining forces began to trickle in from the forest, they were more wounded than dead. The queen herself was among the living casualties as she arrived, leaning heavily on the king as one of her mabari limped beside her. Cheers rang out at their return, and even injured the two rulers lingered to meander among the wounded to take stock and congratulate the returned with promises to mourn the departed.
She spotted Rook kneeling beside the stretcher Emmrich had been laid on and gave the pair a curious look. They didn't speak, but her good eye focused on Rook's hand in Emmrich's, at which she nodded before turning away. Almost as if it took Rook's white-knuckle grip around Emmrich's hand to confirm something for her. Rook didn't know what to make of it and didn't care by the time she and Alistair limped their way out.
The next six hours were a blur that Rook navigated with the surefootedness of a drunk on an icy cobblestone incline. Once Emmrich was stable, Rook biting his tongue with the urge to comment on the healer's work, he insisted on carrying Emmrich to their room — alone. The last time he had done this was in the Necropolis and had been oddly commical with Emmrich yammering away about magic locks with Vorgoth's unhelpful commentary.
—That had been Rook's first night in Emmrich's bed. The circumstances were dire, but that memory remained warm in his thoughts. Tears came unbidden then, and Rook only held on long enough to set Emmrich up in bed before he shattered. He grabbed the one chair he hadn't shattered and fell into it at Emmrich's bedside.
Just as in the stables, Rook buried his face and wept. The adrenaline fled him, leaving him shaken, afraid, and mourning everything he stood to lose the moment Emmrich woke up. Rook had swore before the very gallows he once stood on never to let his anger speak for him, but now he had let his stubbornness fester into something worse, and he had lashed out at what he loved the most in this world. If Emmrich were to open his eyes now and yell at Rook to leave, he would understand, even if it would kill him to do so.
Exhaustion and the cathartic burnout of crying himself dry had Rook barely able to keep his head up. There were moments of fitfully nodding off, but sleep never came as he jolted every time Emmrich so much as twitched, hopeful as he was fearful. The corners of his vision darkened by the time early morning lighter started to filter in. Rook was near collapse when—
("Hugh?")
Never outside a battle had a second wind hit Rook so hard he was near delirious as he shot up and looked up the bed to see Emmrich's eyes open just as a hand rested on his arm.
"Thank the Maker," Rook choked on a shakey breath of pure relief as he surged forward and held Emmrich's face in his hand, thumb brushing a newly formed bruise blossoming across the other's cheekbone. "Emmrich, you're awake. I—"
Tears were flowing freely down Rook's bloodshot, fatigued eyes. "I'd thought I lost you."
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Despite the agony in his heart, Emmrich reached over and wiped some of the wetness off one of Rook's cheeks. He loved this man. He loved him with all that he had, and he'd been so certain he'd lost Hugh. And he'd thought Rook had been fine with that.
"You told me to go," he said quietly. His expression was confused; he was trying to make sense of this. "You said you were sorry and to go. I thought you... Is that not..."
Emmrich can't figure out a way to ask that's kind to either of them. "My thoughts may still be muddled. I'm sorry, love. You protected me and saved me. Thank you. But I don't know that you haven't lost, that I haven't lost."
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Words were always hard for him when they concerned his own heart; he had always been afraid. Afraid of saying the wrong thing or showing too much of himself, driving someone he cared about away in the process. He was going to lose Emmrich if he let that fear pin him to the wall. He did lose Emmrich all over his near self-destructive dedication to the Wardens.
"No, I wanted you to understand. I was angry, yes, but I could have worked something out. I just needed time, I only—" Excuses would not suffice; Rook closed his eyes as he wanted so badly to fall into Emmrich's arms if it wouldn't only risk further injury.
"Emmrich..." Both hands go to Emmrich's face now, Rook's eyes searching the other man's for signs he was still out of, signs that he resented him, anything. "I very nearly lost you tonight, more than once. I—" His voice was pleading now, "I can't lose you again. For anything."
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"I don't want to lose you," he said. "I don't... I..."
He went to shake his head, but that would take him away from contact with Rook so he glanced down instead. "I wasn't afraid of death out there." It should have been a triumph, and yet it was not. "Because I had a new fear, the loss of you, and I thought it had already come to pass. But do you truly hate the Necropolis so much?"
He wanted to find a way this could work. He needed it, but he can't live in Ferelden. In the last couple of days he'd come to truly hate the place, and he usually worked hard to not hate.
"And please, I can... Help me to my left side and come lay with me, please, my dear." He needed physical contact as well.
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With great reluctance, Rook lets his hands fall as he stands. Maneuvering Emmrich is a delicate task; Rook grimaced as the bandages lashed around the man's waist. The lack of blood was even more concerning, knowing everything had been internal. It could have been so much worse and entirely Rook's fault.
Already having shed his armor and fatigues, nothing impedes Rook from crawling into bed beside Emmrich. Pressed in as close as he could, tucked into Emmrich's good side, Rook curls inward and rests his head on Emmrich's shoulder.
They lay there together for a while before Rook finds his voice again. It starts off with a resigned sigh before he speaks,
"I don't hate the Necropolis," Rook said, "I hate feeling useless. The Gardens are lovely, and the apartments are wonderful, but who even am I down there? The Mourn Watch has no use for me beyond the rare restless undead, but even then, they're not helpless."
Rook stroked a hand where the bandages ended at Emmrich's shoulder down to his sternum, just wanting to feel his warmth. Delaying the point, but also just wanting to feel the life thrum through the man he loved and nearly lost.
"All my life, I feared I'd die in the dark, and some days, it feels like I've traded that for living in it. How can you love me when I'm no use to you there? It's like I just haunt the home we share. Merely occupying space."
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"Rook," he said quietly, gentle and sad when the man seemed to have stopped speaking. Emmrich brushed his fingers through Rook's hair, struck by how just a few hours ago something so small and precious had seemed lost to him mere hours ago.
"I don't need a use to you, my love. I need only you. And the Mourn Watch doesn't ask you to help out of pity, or charity. It's that some of our charges are incredibly dangerous, and you're incredibly competent. But the other..."
Emmrich trails off. He loves being underground, the way it feels close and embracing. But if Rook finds it too much they need a compromise. He has to ask a question here, one that he's not sure he wants the answer to.
"What do you need, my darling? As it sounds like a cottage on the surface will not suffice."
What does Rook need, other than somehow one day cluing in to how much he matters just as himself. The Wardens had done so much damage to this man and it was spilling over, but there was still a chance to fight it back, so long as Rook didn't need to be Commander of the Grey. He's being touched, at least. Rook's demonstrating that he's still precious. They aren't fully lost.
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This was the fork in the road that Rook always found himself stuck at its diverging point. The discussions had never been this fraught or protracted, but this wasn't the first time the topic of 'what comes after' reared its head. The gods were all dead; only the shadows of their sins remained, but they wouldn't linger forever, and Rook would only be needed for so long.
"I don't know..." It came as a murmur whispered against Emmrich's shoulder, followed by a humorous, dry huff of laughter, "I don't suppose Nevarra City is hurting for dock workers on the Minanter?"
With tremendous effort on every aching muscle in his body, Rook sat up. His knees were bent and still close by Emmrich's side, and his hands were wherever he could safely touch him as he gazed down with an expression inscrutable only because of the dark circles beneath them.
"Listen, I'm going to speak with the queen. I know I'm not suited to be Commander — I'm no ruler or Inquisitor. I can lead my friends, not armies," Rook closed his eyes and breathed in deep, opening them on the exhale. "All I know is I want to spend the rest of my life with you but right now? I don't even know what my life is."
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The latter of which spikes when Rook gets back up. Emmrich watches him closely, trying to keep breathing. He is clearly not the only one exhausted here, and he hadn't been fooled by Rook's light joke.
"You don't have to decide what it is alone, if you'd like help," he offered quietly. The continued touch threatened to make his eyes close too, but he knows he needs to be awake right now. He needs to be here for and with Hugh.
"I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Hugh. I want to share it with you. The shape of my life is... it's clear. I love the rituals that go into serving and protecting the Necropolis, and I find nothing more fulfilling than teaching. I also can't live somewhere Manfred isn't safe. From there..."
He sighed. They're up again against the big issue Rook's carried all along. "Love, you need to let yourself wish and want even more. What fulfills you? What do you like spending time doing? And if it is only eliminating harmful elements, the Necropolis does have an eluvian. We can contact the Veil Jumpers and Shadow Dragons, along with the Wardens, of course, and let them know you want to be, perhaps not a mercenary, but a resource. Strife and Neve will not hesitate to take you up on it." And both of them would also know that Emmrich would like his beloved home sooner rather than later, too, so the trips wouldn't be planned to be so long absence grew painful.
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Rook closed his eyes, and when he opened them, it was dawn. The champagne-pink hue of the early morning offset him as he stood. — Somehow, early dawn light breaking in easter egg yellow fractals over the room was sobering enough for Rook to rise and leave Emmrich in bed.
"Listen," Rook was off the bed again but letting his touch linger. "I'm going to make this right, alright? You just need to trust me."
Hours pass after that. Rook sleeps beside Emmrich for a short time, but time bleeds from midnight into early morning. Eventually, his familiar weight shifts off Emmrich as he leaves before a knock comes at the door.
"Volkarin?" The queen asks on courtesy of one knock before allowing herself in. She limps in with a black-coated, slow-moving mabari matching her pace that eventually collapses in front of the the firepit as she grabs the chair and drags it to his bedside before dropping into it.
"I'm not here to recruit Rook. That possibility has clearly long gone." The Queen then places with great reverence something on the nightstand, a mound wrapped in leather strapped with twine that she starts to unravel. The empty sockets of a skull worn by being buried for nearly two decades with a concaved orbital bone greet him.
"This was found underneath a dead hurlock," Her hands surround the skull before being drawn away as she sits, "I know you are recovering, but...could you tell me if this is my nephew?"
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He drifted in and out as Rook moved and as pain allowed. When Rook asked Emmrich to trust him, Emmrich had managed to squeeze his shoulder and say of course, because what else could he say? All he could do was try to believe somehow he could come out of this without losing everything that mattered to him. His cards were all already poorly played.
Emmrich awoke to a knock on the door and an empty bed. The latter scared him, terrified him, even as he tried to have faith.
But he wasn't given time to dwell as the queen entered.
"Your majesty," he said. Her slow entry gave him time to very carefully move both pillows and start to sit up a little. The process was made challenging by the injuries, but even more so by how he was trying and failing to keep the blanket near his chin. He had to give in and let it stay just under his collarbones, showing more skin than most people in his life had seen.
But her words drove away his self-consciousness. Long gone. Emmrich closed his eyes briefly to hold back tears of relief. It was easier done than it should have been; the knowledge that Rook wasn't happy with him, with their life, and Emmrich couldn't seem to fix that was difficult.
But her further words and the object she carried drew Emmrich out of his thoughts.
"Let me see," he said quietly. Emmrich picked up the skull with care. He held his other hand over it and cast.
"By the flame that burns and flickers, by the light of those who have come before, return once more to us!"
The skull lit up in green. The soul indeed had been young when it passed. Emmrich had no difficulty keeping his voice gentle.
"We would like to know who you were," he said.
"Why?" it asked in a young male voice, making him smile faintly for a half-second.
"There's someone here who may once have known you."
The green sparks, and swirls of it rush around the room. They circle the queen briefly and then the skull seems to light up even more.
"You're back! You came back! Did you bring me a sword? Dad hasn't gotten me one and Mom says he's right about that. But I can help!"
Emmrich' gaze flickered to the queen. The recognition spoke to this being the right skull, which meant he'd used her nephew's corpse in battle. Maker. He kept his concerns to himself, though.
"What was your name?" he asked.
"Who are you?" retorted the skull. "You're not gonna carry a sword to fight Darkspawn. You're old."
Emmrich had to fight harder against the smile this time, especially as it threatened to come with an agonizing huff of laughter.
"A name, please."
"Fine." The soul sounded huffy. "Oren. I was called Oren."
Now Emmrich looked to the queen and raised an eyebrow. By sheer context he'd guess this was the right skull, but he could no more have named her family than he could recall the name of the mabari sharing the room with them.
"Is this who you were looking for?"
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She did restrain her laughter when Emmrich was called old by a skull, however. And she held that laughter when the spirit had passed under the necromancer's care.
"Thank you," She finally said after a long silence. "I suppose he got to hold a sword like he wanted, in a way."
The queen collected up the skull and went to the door. On the first knock a maid appeared and quietly took the bones.
"See that his ash are entombed with his father, and ask the men to find the rest."
The queen gives a phenomenonly stoic maid her nephew's skull and departs.
"Thank you," The queen bows her head into her hand as she listened to her mismatched eyes closed as she rests a head in her head.
"I'm sorry for you," She manages then looks at him, really looking at him.
"I'm only forty but some on cold days I feel eighty," She runs a hand through her hair. "Marry the man, I say. His clock is still ticking."
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The maid departed with what was left of Oren in this world, intent on destroying it, and Emmrich forced his thoughts away from that.
He relaxed as well as he could while the queen seemed to regather herself. Her words, perhaps surprisingly, drew a soft smile from him and a shake of his head.
"We are none of us guaranteed another breath or day. That seven of our eight walked away from battling two gods, two archdemons, and three blighted dragons along with all the rest is miraculous in itself. And there is no reason to feel sorry when I've found someone incredible I love with all my heart who loves me in return. As far as the other..."
The smile faded. "I will. I would like him to feel like he is worthy of love as a person and not merely a sacrifice first, but again. We are not guaranteed any time in the waking world. When we return home to Nevarra I will broach the topic."
Not that it's entirely unbroached. He retrieves Hugh's joining vial from where it had wound up tucked under one of the supportive bandages that went over his shoulder and lets it rest openly on his chest.
"Would you like an invitation?" His voice is wry but not mocking. At least he has some more insight into the often-closed book that is Rook due to her earlier callousness. But thinking of earlier--
"Though I must ask that if there are any notes left behind on the reversal of Tranquility or there is anything else you can share, you do so. I'd appreciate it. I do not want to put either Tranquil or spirits at greater risk with guesswork."
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The queen turned back around and sat beside Emmrich once again,
"I will tell you what I know," She neatly folded her hands together and placed them almost as if in prayer but more just somewhere to rest her bandaged elbows, "The rite of Tranquility itself is well documented, but its reversal has come recently to us from a spirit of Compassion — I know it is not, that she is not, but part of me considers her Wynne. The spirit mage I met and knew at Ostagar."
"I won't...lie, that the fleeing mages during the rebellion that Lelia- Divine Victoria softened left a lot of tranquil behind. The standing Knight-Commander and First Enchanter had been holding sanctuary for them at Kinloch, even as mages started to come back. There is only those two, children, and Tranquil at the tower. I'm afraid you'll have to find out what is discoverable from what's left of the libraries."
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"You could order him to stay. You have that authority. And you've clearly chosen not to use it. For that I am thankful, and I know that he would also be greatly honored by your presence." Emmrich wasn't reminding her of anything she didn't know. A part of him had even been bracing for her to declare her intention of doing so.
But he had the only thing that mattered to him. He would leave with Rook, go home with Rook, instead of stumbling home alone and in the agony of heartbreak. Emmrich can be kind.
"Further, the knowledge that there is a cure for Tranquility is a massive gift. Compassion is an excellent starting point; I can call and stand a high chance of the right one responding." And from there he will disseminate the information. Few mages will be able to work with spirits at the level he can, but the knowledge of a cure will be out there. Tranquility will no longer be held over mage's heads.
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—The queen opened the door, and as soon as she had, Hugh Thorne came tumbling forth.
"Oh!" Elissa hadn't thought to say anything else as she reflectively stood back and let Hugh stumbled in face first, gathering himself to his feet.
"Did you mean that?" Hugh gathered himself as he tried to pretend as though he wasn't listening through the door and got overly excited. "That you want to spend your life with me?"
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"Rook, really," Emmrich protested, ears a little pink. "I had a plan for saying as much, you know. It was far more romantic than this."
While he's undressed under a blanket, bandaged, with a mabari in the room as well as someone who had threatened their happiness. It's not the best feeling to be extra vulnerable in front of her considering what she might have been gearing up to say. But he will not taint this moment with that.
"But of course I do, my dearest. I love you." He held out a hand, hoping Rook would come over and hold it.
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