Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The elves were missing. No, not just missing, but vanished, and cold, unforgiving dread closed its vice grip fists around his heart and squeezed. He paid Merelyn for the wares, and all but ran out of there - back to the Grand Necropolis by hansom cab, with the express directions to get there as fast as immortally possible, and the silver to pay for it. By the time he and Manfred reached the eluvian, shivers wracked him from the inside while his knee and ankle burned like wildfire from the strain.

All the elves in Minrathous. Gone.

But did it mean the elves in Minrathous at the time of the attack, or any elf connected to it. Had Ghilan’nain somehow called the elves to her like magnets, or… something worse.

Just the elves of Minrathous, or… all elves.

They stepped through, Manfred running ahead, Emmrich hot on his heels, using the cane to elongate his stride as much as he could. Up the steps, two at a time, his breath wheezed out of him by the time he reached the first landing, but he couldn’t stop, he had to know, he had to see Rook.

“Hey, Bones.” Varric peered down the steps, offering his hand for Emmrich to pull himself up. “Glad you could join us. Heard the news?”

He gulped down air like a drowning man. “Yes, I heard. The elves?”

Further in the library proper, Assan’s nails clicked against the stone floor, and beside him, sitting on the wooden chair was none other than the Warden himself. Davrin. Alive and well, in one piece, hale and… whittling down a hunk of wood like there was nothing amiss.

He had to ask. “Rook?” He had to ask, he had to know. What if something had happened, what if Ghilan’nain had decided to take him, dagger and all.

Varric herded him over to the blue couch, and Emmrich didn’t care much at all about the look in his eye, nor the curl to his lips. “Rook’s gone to Rivain, to meet an old friend of mine who knows a dragon hunter worth her weight in gold.”

Neve stood by the bookcase, one arm crossed over her middle, smoking her pipe. Lucanis had made a pot of coffee, which took pride of place on the small table. The Crow poured him a cup, which Emmrich was all too happy to accept, even though the telltale shivering of porcelain against porcelain gave his nerves away.

“The elves are gone,” Neve declared to the room. By the looks on the other’s faces, she’d already given them an account of events. This was for Emmrich’s sake. “Mage, slave, or freed from indenture, doesn’t matter. They disappeared in the night, or…”

“Or what?” he whispered. Dread, again, whispering mayhem and chaos into his ear.

“Dead. No apparent causes, no physical injuries. Just dead.”

His coffee cup rattled against its saucer, to the point he had to put it down, or he feared spilling coffee everywhere.

‘My hands are still a bit shaky. I don’t want to spill tea all over your lap or…’

Not one day had passed since he shared tea with Rook, tea and a love story, of all things, a love story, and hours later they’re locked in such an embrace as to revivify his lifelong yearning for love. And now… Elves, dead, in the aftermath of…

He let his tongue out to whet his lips. “Do you think it’s connected to…”

“Do I think it’s related to Ghilan’nain’s stunt last night?” Neve took a long drag on her pipe, and let the white smoke out through her nose like an ancient dragon. “It’s one big coincidence if it isn’t. The same night Ghilan’nain attacks my city, all the elves go up in smoke, or end up dead? I smell coercion. Anyone who didn’t go willingly, dead. But we don’t have any proof.”

Beside him, Varric leaned on the armrest and crossed his arms. “I don’t like coincidences.”

“Me either,” said Davrin.

“Nobody likes them,” said Lucanis, swirling the coffee in his cup. Creature comforts. Roof over one’s head, food on the table, one’s favourite brew…

And downstairs, the door to the eluvian room opened, followed by footsteps. Emmrich could have slipped right off the couch and onto the floor out of sheer relief, but instead Dread invaded his senses for a third time in as many minutes. The footfalls were wholly unfamiliar to him, and for every step, he found it harder to breathe.

Neve stepped away from the bookcase, lowering her pipe, ready for trouble, but before she could do something, a pleasing alto addressed the room at large.

“Now, now, let’s not be hasty.”

A tall, dark-haired woman with an ancient-looking headdress came into view, carrying herself as if she owned the entire Lighthouse. A human, with alabaster skin and painted lips. “This is where you wonder if Ghilan’nain’s assault has anything to do with the fate of the elves of Minrathous, is it not?”

She smiled, but with such an edge it was anything but pretty. Beautiful, yes, but not pretty. “Varric.”

Aside from Assan’s agitated tapping against the floor, or Manfred’s restless mandible, one could hear a pin drop.

“Morrigan,” drawled Varric, looking ambiguously pleased to see her. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Well.” Morrigan clasped her hands at the front. “If your disgraced death-caller won’t come to me, then I must come to you.”

“Eh.” Varric pushed away from the armrest, gesturing at his old acquaintance. “Everyone, meet Morrigan. Daughter of Flemeth. Witch of the Wilds, ally to the Hero of Ferelden, and the Inquisition both. Most recently Arcane advisor to Empress Celene. Morrigan, this is… half of us. Roughly.”

“Orlais grew tiresome, with their masks and their silly Games.” Morrigan, Witch of the Wilds, as in Korcari Wilds, let her eyes roam the width and breadth of the room. “I come bearing gifts. Wouldn’t want to be impolite.” She looked over her shoulder. “Come, come, don’t be shy. Up the steps, both of you.”

And up the steps came… a pair of dwarves. One of them was old and wrinkled, with white streaks in both his ruddy brown ponytail and horseshoe moustache; the other looked somehow ageless, with the brightest blue eyes and palest blond curls Emmrich had ever seen. He knew them well, by reputation if not acquaintance. Bodahn Feddic, and his adopted son, Sandal - one of the finest runecrafters in all of Thedas - most recently of Nevarra.

“By the Ancestors!” the old dwarf exclaimed, throwing his arms out at the sight of Varric.

And Varric’s jaw, in turn, dropped like a stone. “Bodahn? Bodahn Feddic, you lousy old cheat! You owe me a game of Wicked Grace!”

The two embraced, with much back-slapping and grinning all around, before Varric turned to the other dwarf. “Sandal! How’s tricks?”

The young-looking dwarf’s face lit up with a smile. “Enchantment.”

“Excellent,” said Varric - as if he knew exactly what the boy meant - and turned to the others. “Bodahn can sell ice to a Frostbacker, but it’s his sugar cakes you want to try. Sandal here’s the baddest, bestest lyrium Savant this side of the Orlesian border. Speaking of, I thought you went to Orlais?”

“Oh, you know.” Bodahn shrugged; Emmrich stood and gestured for him to take his seat on the couch, which Bodahn did with obvious relief. “People make greedy eyes at my boy, I make myself scarce, and take him with me. We’ve been making a trade in Nevarra for the past, oh, I don’t know how many years. Sandal, my boy?”

“Dead enchantment. Talky-talky.”

“Yes…” Bodahn nodded. “Nobody chatters quite like the dead, do they.”

Neve, for one, wasn’t onboard. Or, more accurately, wasn’t above looking a gift horse in the mouth. “What is the meaning of this?”

Morrigan, still lofty and somehow down to earth at the same time, gestured at them all. “I thought you could use a pair of expert craftsmen. Sandal in particular, given you’re in possession of a dagger made of formerly blighted lyrium. Pure lyrium, no less. I hope you’re storing it in a safe place? No mages allowed in its vicinity?”

“Pure lyrium?” Emmrich echoed, convinced he’d heard her wrong. His mind reeled with the sheer notion. “What do you mean, pure lyrium?”

“Oh.” Morrigan’s smile was sharp. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.” She turned to Varric. “And I take it your elven mage is running around using it willy-nilly, like a toy?”

A lifetime of learning to respect lyrium in all its forms, and to fear its pure, unprocessed state - never approach it, on pain of agonizing death - came crashing over him. The prospect of disappearing elves paled in comparison to Rook wielding a ritual dagger that could induce dementia, conscious dreaming within the Fade, and twist his body with mutations from prolonged exposure.

“‘Willy-nilly’?” He ground out. Witch of the Wilds, advisor to the Empress, Daughter-of-fucking-Flemeth-- “Even close proximity to raw lyrium is invariably fatal to a mage! How dare you stand there and gloat?”

Davrin, Lucanis and Neve stared at him with ill-disguised shock. Varric had the decency to look chastised. “It… can’t be that dangerous anymore. Solas used it like any old weapon, and it didn’t turn me into a blighted monstrosity…?”

All the blood drained from his face. How else could his cheeks feel so cold? “That’s your argument for letting him use it? ‘It didn’t turn me, a dwarf, into something I’m not’? You’re not connected to the Fade! You’re not a mage, you’re resistant to magic!” He could barely hear his voice moving towards a high-pitched falsetto, but he felt the strain on his larynx. “Harding touched it, and now she’s changed!! I--”

He shook his head. Or, more accurately, his entire body shook. He stepped away from the circle of light, covering his mouth with his hand. He leaned on his cane, gripping the skull handle with a white-knuckled grip. Varric’s gift was still in Manfred’s capable hands.

“Manfred, be a dear, give Varric his cane.”

“Hhhh…” said Manfred, and did as told, presenting the redwood cane as was only proper - resting across both of his hands, with a small bow.

Varric gave them both a quizzical look. “For me?”

“Aw.” Morrigan, again, amusement lacing her every word. “Don’t tell me you have an admirer, Varric. Love and beauty are fleeting and meaningless.”

“Oh, do go on,” Emmrich said with a curling of the lips he wasn’t proud of in the slightest.

Varric took the cane from Manfred, said his thank yous, and nodded at Morrigan to get on with it already.

“That’s why Sandal’s here,” Morrigan told them - or him, in particular, as nobody else seemed overly concerned with having a dagger made of pure lyrium within a hundred leagues, not even Neve. “Not only is he a lyrium Savant, he’s the cleverest darling, aren’t you, Sandal? He can make all sorts of things go boom.”

Whatever she expected, Sandal didn’t play along. He crossed his arms, and took a step closer to his father. Morrigan went on. “Sandal can use the dagger for whatever menial task Rook needs, and in the meantime, he won’t be overly exposed to the thing while you race against the clock. Everybody wins.”

“Morrigan.” Varric’s voice went low, weary of the world and whatever overly complicated part of its history they shared. “Come on. Just. Level with us. Enough with the wicked witchy-ness. What happened to the elves in Minrathous?”

Some of the fine veneer of haughty superiority slipped away, but not to any extent Emmrich felt eager to trust the witch. She took a seat in the high-backed chair he had come to think of as his spot. “Elgar’nan made them an offer, of course. To receive the blessing of their Lord and God, and join him. Or not.”

“So the dead elves refused to join him?” Davrin had stopped whittling the moment Morrigan entered the conversation. Now he sheathed his knife.

Morrigan pursed her lips. “Not all of the elves in Minrathous believe in the Evanuris. But those who do? How would you react if Andraste graced your lives with her presence? I doubt you would refuse her. I dare wager you would all bow at her feet, eager to do whatever she asked of you. Even if, on the face of it, you would never raise your hand against the weak, or kill someone innocent. If the Maker bids it, in all His wisdom, through his Bride and Prophet…”

“Mierda,” Lucanis cursed, with great emphatic stress.

“He’s gathering his followers,” Emmrich noted, though his voice still trembled with restrained anger and fear. “Or freeing his people from oppression?”

Morrigan didn’t have any more smiles for him. No smiles or leering or knowing smirks; only cold, hard truths. “What makes you think he isn’t doing both?”

***

Morrigan stayed a while longer, making sure she knew who each and all of them were. Putting names to faces, or gloating at their foolish, mortal ways - Emmrich couldn’t say which. All he knew was that he couldn’t read her, and that her visit left him sick to his stomach. Davrin asked her about the Hero of Ferelden, wary but awestruck and trying his best to hide it.

Somewhere along the way, Manfred made tea. The others left to their own chosen nooks, leaving Emmrich to his own thoughts in the library. Much like Morrigan’s smiles, his thoughts were not pretty. Not in the least.

Familiar footfalls came down the staircase, as Varric shuffled his way down the steps, cane in hand, still with that admonished look about him. “I found a room upstairs for Bodahn and Sandal to set up camp in. Loved the workbench outside, said they could do all kinds of things with it. Just bring supplies and raw material, they’ll have us kitted out in no time.”

“Good,” said Emmrich, clutching his tea cup like his life depended on it. Certainly felt like it.

‘Who is it this time?’

‘Who is it this time?’

“Listen…” Varric scratched himself behind the ear, taking a seat on one of the chairs, leaving the couch to Emmrich. “I know lyrium’s dangerous shit,” he said, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I know. But Rook says he can handle it, I’m gonna trust him on that.”

“Trust him on--?” He clamped his jaws shut. He would gain absolutely nothing from raising his voice against Varric, or from letting his own frazzled nerves get the better of him. “Lyrium is one of the most intoxicating substances known to a mage. Mages can mitigate the adverse effects of long-term use, but there is always a price. Always!”

The rook-skull ear cuff burned a hole in his vest pocket. He shouldn’t have. Not two days gone, and he’s bought a gift, a hair’s breadth from declaring his undying devotion to a stranger. Was he always so easy? So eager, desperate to find love? And did this latest revelation do anything to change that? Quite the contrary.

“And here I thought red lyrium was the Big Bad in the family… No, I’m sorry. I’m not,” Varric said, “I’m not making light of this. I didn’t know the full scope of it. How dangerous it is to a mage.”

Emmrich made a small wave with his hand, gold rings chinking against the porcelain. “That’s quite alright. I won’t say I overreacted, but I could have handled things differently. I was already horrified by the elves having vanished, and then some… Korcari witch comes bearing ill tidings like it amuses her.”

Varric nodded, glancing at him with a curl to his lips. “Morrigan is a handful. Knowledgeable like you wouldn’t believe, but… Sometimes I think she’s lost sight of what it’s like being mortal. I mean, she’s not immortal, but… she isn’t your average mage, either.”

“I would expect no less from the ‘daughter of Flemeth.’”

“Nope.” Varric tilted his head, leaning both hands on top of his number-seven-shaped handle. “But something tells me that isn’t the only thing on your mind.”

Doubt swirled in the depths of his teacup. He’d gone so long focusing on his studies into the Fade and his researching the Grand Necropolis and its catacombs, not allowing himself to be emotionally available - and the moment he let his guard down, he imprinted on Rook like an orphaned duckling. It had to stop.

He arched his eyebrows, but didn’t lift his gaze from the tea. “What gives you that impression?”

It had to stop before he drowned Rook in all the pent up sentimental goop contained within him, what threatened to spill forth the moment he walked into the room. Even now he could feel it. Words forming in his mind, pounding behind his breastbone, wanting out.

“You look haunted,” Varric stated as his reason. “And you’re out here forgetting about your tea, instead of holed up in your laboratory doing Maker knows what.”

“Ah.” Emmrich heaved a sigh, leaning back into the backrest, and looked up at the floating bookcases circling high above. “Did you know it took me this long to notice there’s more than one bookcase?”

Varric smirked, finally angling his head to look him in the eye. “Yeah. Betcha wondered where everyone was getting their literary kicks.”

“‘Why do they call it the library when there’s all of one bookcase?’” He let himself smile despite everything, setting his teacup down, saucer and all. The tea had gone cold a long time ago.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

“Disregarding… our latest development.” He didn’t shrug. Not exactly. “You’re right, I am haunted by old regrets. Or, habits and behaviours I’ve little control over. To the point they’ve become running gags for the likes of friends and colleagues.”

“Gags?”

Emmrich shot Varric a jaded smile. “‘Maker’s breath, Volkarin, don’t propose to the waiter – it’s his job to be charming!’ Or, ‘She isn’t actually offering to bear your offspring, Emmrich. Calm down.’”

Was there truly something about Rook that had him throw caution to the wind, or would it have been like this with anyone who caught his eye?

“Oh, boy,” said Varric, astute as ever. Oh, boy, indeed.

His personal favourite would have to be ‘This isn’t going to work, Emmrich, darling. You’re too much. You love me too much.’ But to Varric, he said only, “I’ve been told I love too much. Without prejudice or care. And… a friend reminded me of those tendencies today.”

Varric huffed through a fresh grin. “Sounds to me like you need new friends.”

“Oh, ha hah. I doubt anyone would come to some brand new conclusion as to my sentimentality.” His head was heavy, as his heart. “There’s someone I care deeply about, but with recent events I can’t be sure what I’m feeling isn’t somehow tarnished by my own fears. I’ve dreamt of a love eternal since I was a boy. Devotion that lasts a lifetime, and beyond. Love at first sight…”

“So you’re a romantic,” said Varric, poking his knee brace with the business end of his cane. “No harm in that.”

“You’re too kind.” He splayed his hands, his grave gold glinting in the light from the orb above. “I suppose I’ve always wanted what my parents had, but it’s rooted in silly fantasies. Sentimentality. Rose-tinted spectacles.”

“Hey.” Varric gave him another poke. Firmer, this time. “You’re gonna make someone deliriously happy with those. Don’t lose ‘em.”

He clasped his hands over the skull topper on his cane. “I still worry. What if my feelings are fuelled by desperation? Some… misplaced dread of missing out on all those things I used to dream of?”

Varric’s frown, like that knowing smile of his from before, spoke volumes as to his opinion. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you wouldn’t be asking yourself those questions if you didn’t actually care.” He leaned in, elbows on knees. “Love isn’t rational, Specs. It isn’t quantifiable. Sometimes love creeps up on you, grows on you slowly. Like fungus. Other times it hits you like a tidal wave. But it’s all good.”

He gave Varric a tired smile. “That almost sounds like there’s a story lurking somewhere in there…”

“Eh.” Varric shrugged. “You lose some, and then you lose some more. But love is never a waste of time.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Varric.” He did. Appreciate the thought. “But it’s a bit hard to believe I ‘only need to find the right person’ after almost forty years of falling for the wrong ones. However, you’ll find no one with my level of expertise when it comes to unrequited love, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’, and ‘we just don’t want the same things in life.’”

“I never said it isn’t hard.” Varric reached over to pat Emmrich’s knee, foregoing the not entirely gentle prodding. “But what this world needs isn’t less love. So… I say, go nuts. No restraints, no inhibitions, just go for it. The world could be ending, you really want to be wasting time being ‘appropriately’ infatuated? You can worry about the long term later. If there’s ever gonna be a long term, after the dust settles.”

Emmrich swallowed, but his throat had gone too tight for it. Throw caution to the wind. No restraints, no inhibitions - Varric had no idea what a bad suggestion that was. “You really don’t know what you’re unleashing, Varric. You’ll never be so vividly embarrassed as when I get to waxing poetic about my paramour.”

Varric grinned, blissfully unaware of how serious Emmrich was. “I’ll go check on dinner. You stay here, gather the others when they get back?”

“Yes. Of course.” He took a deep, bolstering breath. “Thank you… For talking some sense into an old fool.”

“Takes one to know one, Specs.” Varric left him with a parting grin and a salute. “Don’t waste time worrying about propriety! Up and at ‘em! No regrets!”

No regrets. Up and at them. Propriety. He really hoped Varric was right.

That he should just… tell Rook. In simple terms, first. Naturally. No need to spook him, first thing. Explain to him how he feels. Like adults. Two rational people, talking things through. In a rational way. Using properly structured sentences. Words that meant something.

He really hoped he was right.