EMPTY GRAVE

lucanis defended spite! emmrich had a heartbeat to marvel at his progress. templars were not a favourite topic of discussion. the chantry as a whole aggravated them. nevarrans wielded long memories.

weaponised religion imparted a lasting scar across emmrich's homeland. foreign occupation in the sombre aftermath of the third blight reopened it. this isn't about me. lucanis required assistance. they reorientated their mind around his need. his and spite's. a watcher's work was never done.

"templars are vessels of the divine's will, my dear. nuance is compromise," emmrich paused to wet their mouth, "the manifestation of our art isn't singular. i've known mages whose first taste of magic incinerated homes in a paroxysm of panic to more innocuous experiences such as breathing life back unto a failing harvest. mine own aligned with the latter—in retrospect. childhood magnifies everything."

adolescence was the traditional window through which magic emerged. the spirit's kiss accelerated emmrich by several summers to it. he once believed the accident that orphaned him marked the death of his innocence. with age came perspective.

didn't sorrow also bloody lucanis young?

the handle of emmrich's mug was smooth to his thumb.

The smell of Emmrich’s tea and the lilt of his tone made all of these ideas… digestible. He rose a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose before massaging at the corner of his eye. He took a slow inhale and rose his gaze to Emmrich once more.

Lucanis felt out of his depth. It was more and more he was finding.

The Crow had spent much of his youth learning how to dispatch mages specifically, a thought that causes him to divert his gaze from Emmrich and to sip his drink. He had trained under Templars from Ferelden, and one from Kirkwall that Catarina had sought out specifically. He and Illario were the answer to a blind spot the Crows had for quite some time. Plenty of money to be made from dead mages in Tevinter and elsewhere. Better still to be ahead of the curve in training individuals to cover a growing niche. Family ensured loyalty more than most other things. He could see the beauty in Caterina’s reasoning and design. He himself (maybe Illario too?) being mages? That was an unaccounted-for hiccup in her planning. Entropy at play, but not a complete pitfall. Had she the resources, he’s sure that he would have been trained with his magic in mind. Trustworthy and easily accessible mages were not in large supply; it was easier and safer to put the possibility to rest. Remove the option of something going wrong. This was an internal admission that Emmrich was correct, however small of a concession towards his hypothesis it was.

Had his mother lived, maybe-

Lucanis doesn’t let the thought finish. Lucanis had become aware that Spite has been taking an increasing interest in the conversation at hand and he did his best to keep some of his thoughts private from the Spirit.

The thought comes to mind. Why had Emmrich not asked Viago? Just as quickly as it did, he remembered who exactly Viago was. Despite the fact that Viago liked Emmrich, he likely would have assumed ill intent in spite of every other piece of evidence. It was better that Emmrich went to his own friends. He made a mental note to have a conversation with Teia about easing off having Crows follow them all throughout the city. It felt a little bit like being chaperoned after his time away, and he was growing tired of it, but he also trusts the group Ward has pieced together at this point that they don’t need watching. It would likely be detrimental to continued work they did in Treviso if he allowed them to be watched much longer. Lucanis would tend to that before they left back to the Lighthouse.

Emmrich tone was keeping him afloat with this new information. They’re… calm. He expected a level of ire? No, the term does not fit Emmrich. Anger does not slot in well either. He shifts in his seat, feeling too aware of himself in the moment. “You make it sound less sinful than the Chant does.” Lucanis notes. He was not the academic, but the Dellamorte family attended Mass out of obligation to image as much as to belief.

“So… Spite and the Lighthouse,” Lucanis searched for the right phrasing for Trade Common, “They were like relighting and old fire, then?” He took another sip of coffee finally. “Breath to an ember? Should I be worried about wayward spells in my sleep too?” It’s meant to be a joke, but his tone doesn’t land correctly.

SCARED. BUT NO. DOOR.

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