The Slothquisitor

But it is not, so he retreats to the only place he can: the kitchen.

The food he makes for everyone is its own sort of apology. He remembers their favorites well, and it is a small relief to get lost in the tasks that were once so familiar to him. He hasn't cooked in months. Lucanis tells himself that it's because he hasn't had the time, but that's not quite true. He hasn't cooked because he hasn't been able to see the point.

Still, as the group filters into the dining hall, remarking on the fact that he's made all of their favorites, he does not disappear to the pantry or elsewhere. He pulls up a chair and sits down with them to eat. Something like approval radiates off Davrin even if Lucanis finds it impossible to ignore Camina's empty chair.

Willow is the last to join them, taking up Harding's place beside Emmrich. "Well, she's asleep for the evening, I think."

Dinner was already a quiet affair before Willow's arrival, but the comment adds further disquiet to the room. Sets them all back several moments until the familiarity of passing bowls and dishes creates in itself a certain order to things they can all sink more comfortably into.

"How is her healing coming along?" Neve asks, and it occurs to Lucanis that she is asking because she hasn't been to see her either. Lucanis doesn't know what to make of that.

"Good," Willow replies. "I think that tomorrow, she should be let out of the infirmary."

There's a pause. It endures horribly. Davrin is the one who leans back in his chair. "You really think that's a good idea?"

"She's not a prisoner," Willow replies, words tinged with righteous indignation.

Davrin shrugs. "Maybe she ought to be. Anyone else want to jump in here?"

Bellara chews at her bottom lip. "She seemed pretty normal to me."

Taash puts their elbows on the table. "I guess, yeah. Wasn't exactly getting murder vibes from her or destroy the world vibes or whatever. Seemed like Rook….minus remembering us. I don't know. Shit's weird."

Emmrich looks especially tired. "While we can perhaps argue for her to remain confined here to the Lighthouse, we can't very well lock her away in the infirmary or even her own room. It would expose too much of our hand, and Willow is right: she is not a prisoner."

"So you just want to give her free rein of Solas's hideout? What if that's exactly what he wants?" Davrin asks.

"Then at least we'll have more pieces of the puzzle," Willow insists. Lucanis gets the feeling that this is an argument they've already had in pieces.

It is Neve who wades in, cool and calm. "You've been the one to spend the most time with her, Will. What is your opinion of the danger?"

Willow seems to be considering her words carefully. "To be truthful, I don't know what to make of all of this. I haven't witnessed anything at all to give me pause. I keep watching for something to change, some clue she's not herself. And I've seen nothing to suggest otherwise."

"There's a but there," Taash says.

Willow shakes her head. "No 'but'. I don't like looking at my friend with suspicion. Paranoia. It feels wrong."

"It is weird," Bellara agrees. "Like….how even though she doesn't remember me…she says exactly what I'd think she'd say. And she was like…really patient with my rambling the way Rook always was. I don't know. I'm sorry, I don't think I'm very good at this being suspicious stuff either. It just felt like having my friend back."

Neve pats Bellara's hand. "You don't need to apologize for not enjoying subterfuge, Bel. I think it makes you a good person."

"She sort of remembered stuff, while we were talking?" Bellara says.

Unbidden, that cancerous hope rises in him. "What do you mean?"

Everyone's eyes dart to him, as though remembering for the first time that he is in the room. He supposes he only has himself to blame for that.

Bellara shakes her head. "Nothing specific, I guess. But it was more like she already guessed at something before I said it."

Davrin frowns. "Interesting."

Bellara's eyes immediately widen. "Do you think that's bad? I thought it might be a good sign. It didn't feel bad, just felt like…she was trying to put things together, figure stuff out…"

Willow shakes her head. "It makes sense she'd be trying to put things together. We haven't told her much, but she's talked with almost everyone. Even you, Davrin."

Davrin nods. "And her surprise at seeing Assan was damn genuine. I'm not arguing that she's not Rook. I'm just saying I don't think that's not all she is."

And there lies the crux of it all. It would be one thing if it was merely her memories missing, if all that stood between them was lost time. But there is this…suspicion, this paranoia they all must carry. That they have to watch her, and have to wonder if she is herself. It feels impossible to build anything upon such an ever-shifting foundation.

"So, what do we do?" Taash asks. "Will's right, she's not a prisoner, and we can't treat her like one either."

"I can lock the eluvian, like we used to when Spite borrowed your body, Lucanis," Bellara offers, words almost kind enough to outweigh his embarrassment at the memory.

"A fine idea, Bellara," Emmrich replies.

"She knows the world thinks she's dead, and she's overwhelmed by how much time she's missing. I don't think she wants to leave here any time soon, anyway," Willow adds.

"Well, that's convenient for us then," Neve replies with a tight smile.

"You can't avoid her forever," Willow says, looking pointedly at him. "You should talk to her."

The table is quiet. Neve and Davrin exchange a glance, and he can tell that they're debating jumping in to save him, but he doesn't want to be saved. He doesn't want that sort of pity.

"That's easy for you to say; she remembers you," Lucanis says. He doesn't mean for the words to take on the sharp edge of accusation, but they do.

Guilt curls in his stomach as Willow's gaze skitters away. "I'm sorry, but talking to her might help. You can't avoid her forever."

Certainly not if she's moving around the Lighthouse freely. "It's a bridge I'll cross when I get there."

That kills the discussion. Bellara and Emmrich do their best to revive conversation at the table with lighter topics, but it's very clear none of them are particularly in the mood. Taash and Davrin offer to take care of dishes, so Lucanis makes himself a cup of coffee and excuses himself. He's unsurprised to find Neve following him.

"Want to hide in my office?" she asks, tone light as though this is one of those old team meetings in the beginning where he and Harding or Davrin had traded tense barbs.

He'd stepped out of the dining hall without any particular destination in mind, and he knows Neve well enough to realize that even if he says no, she'll just follow. "Sure."

There is a comforting familiarity to Neve's office. It hasn't changed. Not the wisps or the evidence board or the untidiness of her desk. He sinks easily into the chair opposite her, tries to pretend nothing has changed, that no time has passed since they were last here.

"If I ask you how you're holding up, are you going to make some pathetic excuse and leave?"

He sips at his coffee to avoid immediately responding. Neve always has seen the whole of him, even the pieces he wished she didn't. "Probably."

She nods. "Fair enough."

He's never known what to make of Neve's silences, whether they are a tactic to get one to speak or simply that she does not wish to fill all spaces with empty chatter. Whatever the case, it works because he finds himself speaking, "I know why I haven't gone to see her, but I'm surprised you haven't."

Neve looks exceptionally tired, and then roots around in her desk drawers before she finds something: a bottle of whiskey. When he raises his eyebrows at the top-shelf label, she shrugs. "It was a gift."

She frowns a little at the dirty coffee cup on her desk, but pours into it anyway. She holds the bottle up to him in askance. It's borderline heresy to do this to a cup of coffee, but tonight, he's not sure he cares. He holds out his mug.

He waits her out as they both drink, and though he thinks the whiskey somewhat ruins the coffee, he can't deny the comforting warmth in his stomach, the way edges of reality soften just enough for him to feel as though he can face it.

"I worked a case once, in the early days. Petty stuff. A woman thought her husband was cheating on her, wanted proof so the divorce would go her way. He was a mage; she was not, as you can imagine, that's complicated in Tevinter. He was exceptionally easy to follow, like he wasn't even trying to cover up his tracks at all.

"Turns out, he wasn't cheating. He had a gambling problem, picked up another job. Didn't want his wife to know. He was embarrassed, not unfaithful. I debated giving her the information at all, thought maybe instead I should just let him know she'd hired me, encourage him to come clean. But he wasn't my client, she was. I was still trying to make a name for myself in Dock Town."

"What did you do?"

Neve picks up the bottle, refills her empty mug. "I told her everything, got paid, went on my way."

Lucanis waits because he knows that's not the end of the story.

"Two days later, their bodies were found in their home by a friend. She'd killed him and then herself. And I've always wondered if I'd approached that job differently if they'd still be alive."

"That wasn't your fault," Lucanis says, and he remembers Davrin's words. "And neither is this."

"I've got a bad feeling about it all, and if I'm honest, I'm afraid of getting it wrong again. Every time we deal directly with Solas, someone dies. Varric, Rook. Just because she's back doesn't mean the danger's passed."

He realizes in this moment that he is left entirely alone, the last one standing on the precipice of wariness. Davrin stands nearest him, but even he has admitted he believes Camina is herself if not entirely so. Neve is not afraid of Camina. No, her concern is, instead, Solas. Everyone in the Lighthouse wants Camina to be Rook so badly, they all overlook the danger. And where does that leave him?

Neve is the detective; she's supposed to have the answers. "Then, I guess you'll have to go see for yourself."

"And what about you?"

He shakes his head. "I can't."

Lucanis stands, desperate for retreat. Once again, he finds himself unmoored, adrift and floundering in the depths of this problem for which there are no easy answers. He's very nearly to the door when Neve speaks again.

"What if she remembers?" A too hopeful question for the friend he knows so well. To grasp at such straws, he knows she's been knocked down far.

He doesn't turn. "I almost hope she doesn't. Not until we can be sure that she's not being controlled."

"I hate this."

He doesn't know what to say to that, what more his quiet, heartbreaking agreement could add.

***

Neve wakes in Davrin's bed. The distance across the courtyard from her door to his hadn't been long enough to convince her it was a bad idea. She'd wanted to blame the decision on the whiskey, but knew damn well that she hadn't had enough to drink to not know exactly what she was doing. She'd asked if she could come inside to talk, half expecting him to call her bluff.

He hadn't.

They had ended up talking. After. And she hadn't intended to spend the night, but they'd fallen asleep in quiet whispers about Minrathous and Ferelden and the guilt of being here instead of somewhere else. Davrin is still deeply asleep, and she knows from experience that she'd have to make a real racket to rouse him. Still, she's quiet and careful as she lifts the arm banded around her middle and retrieves her clothes and her prosthetic, putting herself entirely to rights before checking the courtyard. When she finds it empty of the curious glances and prying eyes of her friends, she makes her way to her office.

Maybe it's a mistake to fall back into old habits, but being with Davrin feels less like a vice and more like a comfort — something they can both lean on for steadiness. Like their time together in Minrathous, maybe it is once again convenience and the desire to forget their situation for a little while bringing them together, but she'll take it. Especially because it works. She feels as though she can finally face Rook today.

She gives it a few hours, has breakfast, and spends time with Bellara in her workshop. Even shares a knowing smile with Davrin as they pass each other in the courtyard. But eventually, she does head into the Lighthouse proper, right to Rook's room. Outside the doors, she can hear laughter — Rook's and Willow's. She knocks lightly before entering.

"I can't believe you yelled at him in front of all those people!" Rook's face is pink with laughter, and the sound is bright and true.

Willow is also shaking with laughter. "I don't even know what came over me. I just saw him, and I was so mad, I just marched right over."

There is something uncomplicated about the two of them together, all their shared history. Neve worries, though, that Will refuses to look too closely, refuses to entertain any theories that are too troubling because of how much she sacrificed to get here. Her time, her work, her marriage, all placed upon the altar of her unrelenting faith in Rook, and if she is not herself, if she is dangerous…what then was it all for? She's not sure her friend could bear even the possibility.

Rook wipes a tear from her eyes. "I wish I could have seen it. I'm sure it was glorious." Her eyes cut to Neve at the door; there's an acknowledgement but not true recognition. And despite the cozy scene, Neve steels herself.

They are standing together at Rook's bookcase, as though she is surveying the space, the decorations, trying to find the familiar in the unfamiliar. Neve wonders what she made of this place, what she thought as she walked the halls that used to be her home. Did she feel anything at all?

Neve didn't trust the Lighthouse when they'd first arrived here, and perhaps, she still doesn't. But it feels less like the distrust of a seedy back alley and instead the sort of wariness that one might reserve for a cat that comes to the back door for scraps. Her feelings are complicated, but she can't imagine looking around this place and feeling nothing at all.

Will touches Rook's shoulder lightly. "I'll check in later."

Rook gives Will a nod and then turns more fully to Neve. "I guess….the chaise is really the only seating I've got in here. Must not have entertained much. Neve, right?"

She nods as she takes a seat with Rook on the green chaise. "You got it."

"I understand we met in Minrathous," Rook says. The words are careful, the uncertainty clear. Neve can't decide if it's genuine or not.

"Yeah. That's where I'm from. I gave you a lead on someone you were looking for."

Give vague details, but not specifics. Keep to the facts only. Emmrich had coached them all on this — well, except Lucanis, who was nowhere to be found.

"I've heard Minrathous is incredible. The floating Archon's palace, all that magic. I've never been," she falters, forcing a smile. "Well, I don't remember ever going anyway."

"I wouldn't recommend a visit right now," Neve says, trying to keep the bitterness out of her tone. If Solas is listening, she doesn't want him to hear it. He's partially to blame for the state of Minrathous after all, and it would only add insult to injury if he knew how much her heart still breaks for her unreal city.

"Why not?"

"Much of it was destroyed in a battle we all fought in."

Rook nods, as though remembering this. "Right. Blight and archdemons?"

Neve nods. "So Rook-"

Rook interjects with a strained smile. "Camina or Cam, please. I…I know you know me as Rook, but it's jarring every time."

Neve feels the slightest bit admonished. She knows better. She should have asked her preference. "I apologize."

She waves the apology off. "Unnecessary. Please, continue."

Neve feels strangely knocked off-center, here in this room with the woman she called friend treating her with all the politeness of a stranger. "You really don't remember any of it?"

Camina at least does her the courtesy of looking sorry. "No."

"What is that like?" Neve asks, the question already out before she can consider the wisdom of it. She understands now why Bellara said she found it so difficult to maintain suspicion or skepticism.

The woman beside her on the chaise seems younger than any Rook she ever knew. Less wary, certainly having seen less of the world and its suffering. She envies it a little bit.

"Like waking up in someone else's life. Even this room…these are my things…some of them anyway. I clearly brought them here from the Necropolis. And it makes sense, much of it. I understand why it's here…I just…" She shakes her head. "I wish I remembered. Something. Anything."

"Perhaps it will come back," Neve replies. She wants to believe it.

Camina's answering smile doesn't reach her eyes. "You sound like Bellara."

Neve manages a laugh. "Her optimism is oddly catching."

Camina nods. "We were friends, right? You and I?"

The question startles Neve. "We were. Why do you ask?"

Camina shakes her head. "I don't know. I can't shake this….uneasiness. Maybe that's the wrong word." Her eyebrows knit together, and she looks away from her. A lie? An obfuscation? Neve isn't sure. "I don't know. Maybe uneasy in the wrong word. More like…I'm worried about disappointing you. Does that make sense?"

Neve swallows her own guilt. Whatever tactic is being taken here, she doesn't like it. "Some things happened during our time here. I blamed you for them, and it was wrong of me."

"Emmrich says that emotions might come back quicker than actual memories. That would explain it."

Neve summons a smile. "Well, there you go."

"Will told me that everyone is a little nervous…that my time in the Fade has had some effect on me we can't see. What do you think?"

It is not the question Neve is expecting; she opts for honesty. "I'm not sure yet."

Camina's smile is gentle, but her words leave Neve feeling cold. "Well, let me know if I pass your test."

***

Though there is nothing to mark the late hour, Lucanis knows it is the middle of whatever passes for night here in the Lighthouse. He is, at least, accustomed to keeping odd hours in this place, but if there are other occupants of the Lighthouse awake at this hour, he has not seen nor heard them. In Villa Dellamorte there are always watchful eyes — servants and guards and Caterina, of course. The middle of the night is when the servants are at their busiest, cleaning the rooms used during the day, doing that invisible work that allows for the pretending that the villa is always pristine.

In his pocket, Caterina's latest note sits heavy with her displeasure and that all too familiar disappointment. She has not recalled him to Treviso, not yet, but he knows his time is limited. Caterina has made that much clear.

The Lighthouse has always been a liminal space. A place of unreality. For so much of his time here, even after Caterina had named him First Talon, that title had felt a world away. It never felt as though it could touch him here, in this place. Caterina's note — to call it a letter would assume it was more than three lines — reminds him that there is no escape from the jaws of destiny. Though why he needs to care about a peace summit between Tevinter and Orlais in Antiva City isn't clear.

And why does he remain here anyway?

For the days when she remained healing and resting, he had avoided that infirmary room. And now, he avoids her entirely. He is completely alone in this, as everyone's hearty skepticism has seemingly vanished. Camina is not the same woman they all knew and loved. But she is close enough for everyone else, apparently. She moves around the Lighthouse and takes meals in the dining room with their friends. For his part, he makes himself scarce. It's not hard. She no longer knows the secrets of this place anyway.

But the Lighthouse is not so vast or endless to avoid her forever, and so when she wanders into the dining room in the middle of the night, he finds himself at the sideboard making coffee, caught like an animal in a trap. He'd been so lost in his own thoughts he hadn't heard her coming, hadn't heard her footfalls. He freezes where he's at, as though not moving might mean he is below notice, but he cannot help but watch her.

She looks as though she's stepped out of one of his many dreams of this place. She's wearing the same tunic and pants she always favored here. He wishes he did not remember the exact texture of the fabric beneath his hands. He hates that he watches her every movement, looking for something wrong or off —some sign or clue that she isn't herself. Something so he can prove to his aching heart that she is not right here.

Rook, his demon calls, an unmistakable yearning in his voice.

He sees the moment she notices him, the way she schools her expression, the clear regret at having opened the door. He thinks he would have turned around and simply left, but she doesn't. She approaches slowly, pausing with the dining table still between them.

It takes all of his energy to turn away from her, to finish pouring the hot water over his coffee. "I'm leaving in just a moment," he murmurs.

"You don't have to go," she replies, but he can feel the forced lightness in her words. She doesn't want to be around him, that much is clear. And it hurts.

Rook. Wants us. To stay, Spite says, words soft. Less insisting and more pleading.

"It's fine." He finishes his coffee, too quickly, picking up his mug and hurrying to the pantry, debating all the way if he should just leave the building altogether.

"I'm sorry."

The words are like a hook beneath his skin, and he is stuck, unable to move further away. He glances back, looking at the spot she has not moved from. Looking at her feels like drowning, like opening his mouth in hopes of receiving a lungful of air only to feel water rushing in, filling his aching lungs. It is a dangerous indulgence. Just days ago he had sat at her bedside and recommitted her to memory, convinced that he would never allow time or distance to dull the reality of her again, and now he finds he cannot escape any of it. When he finally manages to meet her gaze, he finds trepidation instead of recognition — there is no air here.

Her hands grip the chair in front of her as though she needs strength for this conversation. "I'm sorry that I'm not her. That I don't remember…that…I don't know. I'm just….I'm sorry."

He stares at her, rooted to the spot. She both is and isn't her. The sound of her voice, the curve of her neck, the way that the first thing she'd do in this situation is apologize to him. That is his Camina down to all her disparate parts. It is everything else that is wrong. The situation, the way he cannot trust that it is only her behind those amethyst eyes.

"I don't….I don't want your apology. This…" It isn't her fault. He blames Solas. He blames himself. He should have been better; he should have stopped her, protected her. He should have never extracted that promise from her lips. Perhaps they should have allowed the Veil to come down — at least he would have still had her.

"I've been thinking…Emmrich says that if the memories are there…they might come back…with the right trigger, you know? We were…um….Will told me that we were…um…well. So maybe if we spent some time together? Talking?"

Talk! To Rook! Spite insists, appearing at her side, looking at her with all the devotion of a penitent.

There's an earnestness to the question, and no part of him wants to deny her. Here she is, dangling out hope to him, and he cannot take it. "I don't think that's a good idea."

He sees her disappointment in him, in this. "I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you."

"No, you can't." The words leave his mouth clipped and angry. Meaningless platitudes are all she has for him now?

She stares at him. "I didn't ask for this, you know. I want my memories back, too. I want to remember what happened to me so that everyone can stop looking at me like I'm a stranger. Like I'm dangerous. You seem to be the person best poised to help me figure this out, but you're avoiding me."

"Do you even know what you're asking? Who you are asking?" It is a fight to keep his voice even, to not let his own tumultuous emotions override all sense.

"No, and that's the Maker-taken problem, isn't it? I don't fucking know you, any of you. Even Will has become this person I barely recognize. I got dumped unceremoniously back into a life I'm not even sure is mine, and I'm just…trying to make sense of it all. Do you have any idea what that feels like?"

He knows exactly what it feels like, but she doesn't know that. She doesn't know the first thing about him. She doesn't know about Spite or the Ossuary. The woman standing before him has never traversed the contours of his mind, has not seen his deepest and darkest fears and still wanted him. She is not the hero from his memories of her — the woman who opens doors. No, this is not the woman he loves. And perhaps, she never will be. There is no air in this room.

"I can't do this."

She should have known. The flowers left in Bellara's room, her favorites, the ones they had always used for their bridal bouquets as children. The carved halla statuette that Cyrian had lovingly crafted for his big sister, gone missing. It had never occurred to Ivy that someone might have stolen it; she'd honestly always believed that it had just gotten lost like one of the multitude of notebooks Bellara was constantly scribbling in only to misplace them in one ancient ruin or another. Sad, but not suspicious by any means.

And of course, the glaring fact that all the most violent attacks had been directed squarely at her. Cormac had always, always been resentful of Ivy's friendship with Bellara. If he thought that Ivy was trying to 'move in on his territory,' a thought that made her nauseated in its own right, of course he was going to target her. And she had absolutely zero doubt in her mind that, had he been given half an opportunity, he would have killed her.

It was gonna be a cold day in the void when she let that happen.

"Ok," she said, stumbling to her feet with more effort than she would have preferred. She must have landed harder than she thought when she tackled Cormac. "What's next? How do we find this asshole and stop his plans for, what, world domination? Enslavement of all non-elf kind? Let's go."

Davrin shook his head. "Ives, I think we've done all we can for today. We need to regroup. First rule of a good hunt is to know your quarry, and now we may actually be able to do that if you and Bellara can fill us in."

"What's there to know?" Ivy demanded, painfully aware of the almost petulant impatience in her tone. "Cormac is behind all of this! The murders, the ritual attempts to become a god, abducting Bellara… I think we've got a pretty good handle on the situation."

She took a deep breath as Bellara slipped a hand into hers, but was disappointed when it was almost immediately withdrawn again. She looked to Bellara, and was alarmed to see her fingers stained by smears of blood still unpleasantly sticky in their freshness. "Maker, Bellara… are you hurt? Where, let me see if I can't patch you up, or maybe Emmrich, could you-"

"Ives," Bellara interrupted gently, "It's not me…" She carefully lifted Ivy's arm, and she suddenly realized that even that careful motion sent a flare of pain through her. Looking down, Ivy saw the vicious gash that had been rent through her borrowed cultist's robes to reveal a gaping wound just above where her leather bracers would have actually been helpful. A lucky strike, she'd guess. Ivy refused to give Cormac any more credit than she absolutely had to. Instead, she looked to the floor where she had fallen. Well, sort of: her head kind of fell in that direction and she was too exhausted to fight it.

"Huh. Well… that's a lot of blood."

---------------------------------------------------

The first thing she saw when consciousness dragged her back into the waking world was Bellara's eyes, which was nice. It would've been better if those eyes hadn't been tinged with frantic concern and if they hadn't been joined in short order by Davrin, Willow, and Emmrich all crowding in as well, but still. Bellara had cleaned up Ivy's arm and one of them, probably Emmrich if she had to guess, had healed up the wound and sealed it against infection. There was also a sweet-smelling paste that had been smeared over the freshly knit together skin. Ivy took an experimental sniff, then raised an eyebrow in Willow's direction.

"Helps with the scarring," the Guardian said with a small smile. "Don't worry: it can't prevent it entirely, so you'll still have a good story to tell at the tavern, but it will look a little less angry than it would have otherwise."

Ivy sat up slowly, then allowed Bellara and Davrin to hoist her up into a standing position. "Right, thanks, everyone. But we should get moving: we've got to catch Cormac before he does something anymore stupid than he already has. And trust me: he will find a way to do something even more stupid."

Willow sighed, and Ivy could already guess what she was about to say. "Ivy, we need to retreat and regroup. You're wounded and, though Emmrich was able to repair the damage, you lost a lot of blood and you are going to need to get some real food and a proper night's rest before I will feel comfortable putting you back on the front line. Also, I agree with Davrin: we need more information about who this man is, and you and Bellara are the only ones who can provide it. And, while I realize we all probably forgot about him for a moment, we need to get Sage the void out of these ruins and far away from Cormac."

"You can't be serious! We have to go after him, we have to stop him, we-" Ivy felt another dizzy spell twist around her mind, but for once, she was oddly grateful for it. It forced her to stop and think before running headlong into danger, as she would be the first to admit was not one of her better impulses. She took an inventory of what she knew: they were still in the ruins, and their helpful wisp had vanished. They had her map, but she already knew it did not include all the hidden tunnels and passages that honeycombed the temple complex, nor where Cormac might have retreated to. She was not in the best of shape, they had the kid to worry about, and if nothing else…

"What do you think the likelihood is this ritual he found will actually work?" She asked, and Bellara and Emmrich exchanged a thoughtful glance.

"Realistically?" Bellara replied, "Not great. I mean, you would probably know better than us since you were almost definitely able to translate the original ritual instructions more accurately and more completely. I also just don't remember Cormac ever being all that great with magic, if I'm being completely honest here. I really think his reach may be exceeding his grasp, which could be really, really bad if things go sideways. They'll probably go sideways. We have no idea how many people have already been sacrificed, or who he may still murder to get the blood he thinks he needs, but either way that's going to be a lot of potentially untethered magic, and that could go really wrong really fast and really badly."

Ivy winced as the pain in her arm protested against her rising to her feet, though she was grateful for the supportive arm Bellara twined around her waist. "Ok. Yeah. Either way, not great." She looked to Willow. "Ok, follow-up question: what are the odds any of the villagers that were taken are still alive?"

Willow's head fell back as she exhaled softly. Tilting her head forward once more to face her, Ivy could see the pain etched in the Guardian's eyes. "Low," Willow murmured, "Very low indeed."

She's already done the math on this, Ivy realized. Probably even before we left Copse Hollow. "So… going after Cormac right now as opposed to after we've had a chance to regroup…"

"It's probably not gonna make all that much of a difference, Ives," Davrin filled in with grim resignation. "Based on what you and Bellara said you found, and the number of people we've estimated went missing from Copse Hollow, it doesn't seem real likely that anyone else survived. Not amongst the humans, anyways."

But they could still potentially get Sage out, especially if they left now. "Ok," Ivy conceded, noting the look of gratitude and relief that washed over the others' faces. "Ok. We'll go back. But I'm not letting this go."

"None of us are giving up, Ives, I promise," Bellara reassured her. "We're going to confront him, and we're going to stop him."

No one said what they were all thinking: that there was a very good chance that in order to stop Cormac's mad quest for divinity, he was going to have to die. Someone like that was dangerous, pure and simple, and worst of all? He truly believed every word he was saying. He would see them all burn in his pursuit for the power and worship he thought he deserved; that he somehow believed he had been denied by humans or the Veil Jumpers or maybe just the world at large.

They retreated to the hall where they had left Sage and Assan, and Ivy was relieved to find both still exactly where they left them, the boy nestled snugly in the crook of the griffon's body where it was curled in alert vigilance. Assan gave a soft trill as they approached, tilting his head in curiosity. "Not today, boy," Davrin informed him, ruffling the feathers on the griffon's head before scooping Sage up in his arms. Assan made what Ivy would swear was a nod of confirmation, then followed them back through the ruins.

Either luck was with them, or all of Cormac's lackeys were out in the field doing his insane bidding, or maybe they were just the only ones left alive. Ivy didn't know, and at that moment, she didn't care all that much either. She was just grateful they were not having to fight their way back out of the winding and confounding halls of the temple. The righteous flames of her rage had been tempered by the blood loss and by sheer exhaustion, and now they had decided to regroup before pursuing Cormac, she just wanted to get the void out of these ruins and back to the relative safety of their camp.

She needed to talk to Bellara.

After the rush of adrenaline from that first impossible kiss, the confrontation with a man they'd thought long dead, the constant strain they'd been under since they first stepped foot in that damn temple… selfishly, Ivy needed some reassurance. Reassurance that what was said within those blood stained halls would still hold true in the free air, and that Ivy hadn't just poured out decades worth of secret feelings and longings that would be incredibly embarrassing if anyone else had heard them. Mostly, she just needed to know that amidst all the bullshit and chaos of this little quest they'd found themselves on, maybe this could be real. Maybe this could be a future, for both of them.

No one spoke much as they navigated back to the main entry hall, save for an occasional request to reference the map Ivy had found. It felt like an eternity passed before they finally found themselves back in the cavernous room where they had started their search. They stumbled out into the fading twilight of the forest, the entire day having passed them by whilst they sought out answers in the subterranean ruins. No one bothered trying to mark a trail on their way back. They all knew they would find their way again, one way or another, no matter how much they might have wished otherwise.

Just as Ivy had suspected would be the case, their camp had been left untouched. Cormac didn't care about stealing or destroying their property, he just cared about getting what he wanted. In this case, that meant Bellara, and likely the rest of them dead (certainly true for herself, Willow, and Emmrich) or converted to his cause (maybe he still held out hope for Davrin?). Either way, Ivy had never been so grateful for a warm campfire as she was for the one Willow sparked in preparation for making dinner.

"Ivy, my dear, would you mind letting me take another look at your arm?" Emmrich requested. "Now that we are no longer in immediate peril, I would like to make just a brief examination of it to ensure the healing took properly and there were no poisons or enchantments on the blade that I may have missed that we should to keep an eye on."

"Sure," Ivy agreed, knowing full well the request was a ruse and fully not caring. At this point, she was happy for even the flimsiest justification to be able to sit down for a moment. She peeled off her blood-soaked bracer and presented her arm to Emmrich, who poked and prodded at it experimentally, muttering a few observations to himself, but nothing Ivy hadn't already noted herself. After a few moments, he sat back and gave a satisfied nod.

"Very good! The healing is taking nicely, and while there will likely be a scar, it will be relatively faint thanks to the balm. My wife does know her alchemy," he added with a hint of pride. "Now, the best thing for you will be rest, but I think you and I both know that prospect is unlikely until you go and have a chat with our other young Veil Jumper."

Ivy snapped to full attention at that. "What do you… I mean… Well, yeah, of course I should go talk to her. She's my friend and we've had an epically shitty day."

"Ivy," Emmrich chided gently, "You know precisely what I am talking about. Perhaps you think the rest of us blind, but your feelings towards Bellara have been apparent since the moment you stepped foot in Castle Gwaren. And while it is hardly my place to make assumptions, I would venture a guess that she cares for you as well. Quite deeply, in fact." His attention flickered briefly towards the campfire where Willow was preparing dinner, and a smile lit up his face. "Being honest about ones feelings, allowing yourself that vulnerability… it is a rather terrifying prospect, isn't it? But, my dear Ivy, is it truly any more daunting than anything else you have faced down in this forest?"

He had, she begrudgingly admitted to herself, a point. "Thanks, professor," she said with a lopsided smile and a pat on the shoulder as she stood. "Willow is a lucky woman, you know that?"

"Ah, I could argue that I am the lucky one," Emmrich chuckled quietly, following her over to the makeshift dining area they had cobbled together out of fallen logs and a stump that was just large enough to hold their plates while still reminding them it really wasn't big enough. "We bring out the best in each other," he added, bending down to brush a kiss against Willow's head.

And wasn't that a beautiful thought? The idea that two people who were perfectly awesome on their own could give each other the kind of love and support that would make each of them shine all the brighter for it. It was the kind of romantic idealism that Ivy had always rolled her eyes at, and maybe she still would a little bit, but for the first time ever she also kind of got the appeal. Bellara always saw the best in her, and it made Ivy want to be better. To curb her impulsivity, to think on her feet and problem solve in dynamic situations, to show kindness when it would be easier to scoff. The kind of lessons Cormac never learned, and now, likely never would.

Conversation over dinner was kept superficial, mindful of their young guest, but after the food had been cleared and the dishes washed, everyone sort of just drifted off to their own space. Sage would bunk with Davrin and Assan, and fell asleep nearly as soon as his head hit the pillow, but Ivy could feel the currents of restlessness radiating off the others. She checked her herb supplies, then double checked them, then unfolded and precisely refolded all of her clothes before repacking them in her backpack. A few flakes of dried blood fluttered onto her sole remaining clean shirt, a reminder that she hadn't had a proper bath since Copse Hollow.

Grabbing her soap and the towel that was still more or less clean, Ivy ducked out of her tent and nodded her head in Emmrich and Willow's direction. They were taking first watch, and it definitely wouldn't hurt for them to know where she was going and when she planned on being back in case Cormac decided to initiate some sort of shenanigans while she was in an undressed and, as far as he knew, vulnerable state.

Joke would be on him, though. Wouldn't be the first time Ivy would have had to fight with her ass hanging out.

The forest felt less oppressive, somehow, as she meandered down what might have once been a well-worn trail that lead to the small lake (the large pond?) that lay just beyond the safety of their huddled campsite. Spring was creeping inexorably forward, and the night air held only a hint of chill, but Ivy could already tell it was going to be a bitch to adjust getting into, and then out of, the water, but if she added one more day's worth of grime and grit to her skin suit she was going to start looking like some sort of forest cryptid herself, so bathing was not exactly optional.

Although, when she got to the shore of the lake, she began to question that assessment. Because she was not alone.

Bellara was there, standing in the water up to her collarbone, staring up at the stars as the lazy currents of the lake lapped against her bare skin and the moonlight cast her complexion silver. Cormac was a fucking idiot: Bellara didn't need his shitty blood magic or his empty promises. She was already a goddess brought to earth, beauty radiating from her mind, body, and soul, and no matter what grand plans their erstwhile friend might have had, they would never be worthy of her.

Not that Ivy exactly had any illusions of being worthy of her, either. She knew she should return to camp, come back later or the next morning and just give Bellara a few precious moments of privacy and peace, but before she could force her legs to take even a step in the opposite direction, Bellara turned to face her.

"Ivy," she called softly. "Is everything ok?"

"Yeah, Bel," Ivy nodded, even that simple motion feeling somehow clumsy. "I was, um… I was gonna try and rinse off, make myself at least a little less gross, but I can wait. Definitely didn't mean to interrupt or intrude or… I don't know."

This was stupid. This was not even close to the first time Ivy had seen Bellara naked. Maker, they'd been half feral as children, frequently careening into sun-warmed summer lakes in naught but their skins, splashing and giggling and teasing. She could still remember the day that had stopped. They'd just turned fourteen that spring, and both had suddenly become painfully aware of their own bodies. It wasn't shame, exactly: Ivy distinctly remembered she still didn't really care if Cyrian or Cormac saw her naked (ok, maybe not Cormac), but Bellara… something had changed. Something Ivy would not be able to really put words to for a few more years.

"Oh, no!" Bellara's voice shook her loose from her thoughts. "You're definitely not interrupting. I don't mind the company. Unless you wanted to be alone! In which case I can totally wrap it up and hop out. Sorry," she finished with that same sweet, endearing, almost apologetic smile.

Ivy looked at her for a long moment, her heartbeat thumping against her chest. "Nah," she finally managed to say, "I would love company. Safety in numbers, right?"

She began peeling off her clothes, reminding herself not to race through the process like a lunatic and making this more awkward than she probably already had. Ivy had expected Bellara to maybe look away, but instead the rich warmth of her starlit gaze remained on her. Stepping into the water, Ivy had to repress a yelp at the sudden cold, but couldn't quite stop the grimace that prompted a giggle from Bellara.

"You'll get used to it pretty quick," Bellara reassured her. "I'm… I'm actually really glad you're here, Ives. I wanted to talk to you now that we're not like, in immediate peril."

The breath seemed to leave Ivy's body, drawn into a well of anxiety and impending heartbreak and disappointment that was spiraling in her chest and threatening to drown her quicker than the lake would. "Oh, um… sure. Of course. What's up?"

Bellara took a deep breath, the motion causing her collarbone to rise distractingly above the water. Under ideal circumstances, Ivy would have thoroughly enjoyed the effect. "Back in the temple," Bellara began carefully, "When I… I mean when we… when we kissed," she finally blurted out, "Did you mean it? What you said?"

Now or never, Ivy. What else have you got to lose?

"Yeah, Bel," she said quietly, the words almost absorbed by the velvety depths of the water. "I meant it. I meant all of it."

"Oh thank fuck," Bellara exhaled in a gasp. "Ok, I know I've been super distracted with all this cult and death stuff so I was really really really worried I had reacted badly or not expressed myself clearly because you know I struggle with that sometimes. A lot of the time. But hearing you say that was like having a window opened into a dark room and suddenly so much made sense, and so many of my weird and confusing feelings made sense, and I can't even begin to tell you how great it felt to finally have all those pieces click into place and the answer was you. I don't even know when the love I have for you shifted from little kid friendship love to… well, what I feel now, which is definitely very adult. I just know that hearing you say it, having you make it real, it… wow, your hair looks so pretty in the moonlight."

Ivy's chest exploded in a burst of laughter, all the tension and fear that had been coiled and waiting to strike released in a harmless shower of sheer, unmitigated joy. "Thanks," she finally managed to wheeze between waves of giggles. "I'm glad you weren't around when I experimented with green. I looked like I had just crawled out of a swamp."

"Well now I'm definitely sorry I missed it," Bellara retorted, then her expression shifted to something that made Ivy's entire body suddenly very, very warm despite the chill of the water. "Can I… I mean…"

"Yeah," Ivy nodded, swallowing against the sudden bundle of nerves in her throat. Bellara paddled closer, and Ivy reached out and wrapped her arms around her waist, drawing her against her chest. Which may have been a mistake, because the resulting surge of sparks that flooded her at even that simple touch nearly sent her spinning. She leaned forward, the difference in their heights made moot by buoyancy, and pressed her lips against Bellara's. She drank in the soft moan muffled by their kiss, sweeping her tongue against Bellara's lower lip and nearly losing herself all over again when Bellara deepened their kiss. Enthusiastically.

Ivy ran her hands along Bellara's sides with agonizing deliberation, thumbs brushing along the bare curves of her breasts and further down to her hips, rounding over her backside and shamelessly using the opportunity to press their hips closer together. Bellara's head fell back, a staccato gasp punctuating the motion, and Ivy dipped her head into the curve of her neck and began kissing a trail along the skin there. "Bel?" She murmured against her ear.

"Yeah, Ives?" Bellara whispered, her own hands touching, experimenting, exploring Ivy's body and making it incredibly difficult for her to form any sort of coherent thought.

"Would it be ok if I touched you?"

Bellara's face went blank, save for a puzzled tilt of her head. "But, you are touching me, what do you- oh." A sweet, but somehow still mischievous, smile lilted over her lips. "Yeah, Ives. I… I would really like that. A lot."

"Mmm," Ivy hummed against her skin, pressing a feather light kiss to the spot where her neck met her collarbone before gently spinning Bellara around in the water so that her back was to Ivy's chest. Using one arm to wrap around her waist and pull her close, Ivy's other hand traced a slow, deliberate path down Bellara's chest, over her belly, and down to the apex of her thighs. Her fingers danced lightly over the silky curves of her sex, experimenting, testing… A sudden shiver ran through Ivy's entire body as she briefly imagined just how clever Bellara's own hands, so accustomed to tinkering and delicate experimentation, would feel on her.

"You ok, Ivy?" Bellara asked, the sound pitching higher as Ivy found a particularly sensitive spot.

Ah. Right there.

"I'm better than ok," she reassured her, kissing the tip of her ear and beginning a slow, but consistent, pattern with her finger, letting her other hand drift up to cup Bellara's breast in her hand and running a thumb over the delicate bud hardening beneath her touch. "This is… I'm not sure what an afterlife is suppose to look like anymore, but I'm pretty sure it's this. Me, and you, the forest and the sky… this is paradise."

Bellara didn't answer, or at least, she didn't with anything resembling coherent words. Instead, a single, pure, crystalline cry escaped her lips, beautiful and brilliant as the stars above them. Her entire body seemed to arc forward as a tremor ran through her, and Ivy held her close as she rode out her high, peppering her skin with kisses and whispering soft promises to be sealed with each touch of her skin against Bellara's.

Ivy cradled Bellara against her chest as they stood there, staring up into the arcing celestial cathedral soaring above the shadowed treeline, the only sound apart from their steadying breaths the faint call of an owl and the persistent brush of the waves against the lakeshore. It was the first, and she had to pray it would not be the last, most pristinely perfect moment of her life. And she was about to risk it.

"Bellara?"

"Yeah, Ivy?"

She leaned down, nuzzling her face against Bellara's shoulder. "I… I love you, Bel. I've been in love with you since before I even really knew what that meant."

Bellara nodded slowly. "It seems so silly now… I always thought… I told myself that I loved you as my best friend. As a kind of sister. I mean, we were literally born within minutes of each other in the same birthing aravel. It wasn't even that I didn't want to acknowledge the other feelings I just… I didn't really know how? And then as we got older and I thought you were interested in Cyrian, I kept telling myself over and over again that what we had was good enough. That I was lucky to have such an amazing friend and if you and Cyrian actually did end up together, it would just make our own connection stronger.

But it always hurt, thinking about the two of you together," she continued, her voice somehow smaller as though she were admitting something she shouldn't. "I thought I was just jealous, and I guess I was, just not in the way I thought. And knowing now that it was never him, that it was always me…"

"Always, Bellara," Ivy murmured, turning her back around so they could face each other. "It has always been, and always will be, you."

Bellara's lips, her beautiful, perfect, kissable lips, tilted up in a brilliant smile. "Can I say it back? Would that be ok?"

Ivy laughed, the sound echoing through the stillness of the night. "If you're ready, and if you want to, it would be so much more than ok, Bel."

"I love you, Ivy," Bellara said, pulling herself closer until her body was twined with hers, and pressing her lips to Ivy's. "I love you so much. And if that idiot Cormac thinks he's gonna take you from me after I finally put all those pieces together, then he is even dumber than I thought."

"Oh, he definitely is," Ivy agreed with mock seriousness, then realized that both she and Bellara were shivering, and not in the fun kind of way. "Hey, it's getting late, and if you're up for it? I've got a lot more ideas I want to try back in your tent. Why don't you wade back to shore, get dressed, and I'll come join you as soon as I've scrubbed off and rinsed at least three layers of sediment out of my hair."

Bellara giggled, the sound sparking another grin on Ivy's face. Her cheeks hurt from smiling so damn much."Ok, but don't take too long? Also, we should go to your tent instead."

"Sure," Ivy shrugged, dunking her head under the water and scrubbing at her scalp. When she popped back up, she called back to Bellara, trying not to let her mind get too distracted staring at the absolutely perfect heart-shaped curve of her ass. "Any particular reason?"

Bellara turned back to face her, her smile now holding just a hint of teasing and sultry invitation, and her next words just about sent Ivy spiraling all over again.