The Slothquisitor

With luck, the others would have already made their escape. Whatever had been hunting them, it had been clear from almost the beginning that it was Bellara it wanted. She still had no idea why, though there was a growing suspicion in her heart that the answer was going to be much closer to home than she would have liked. Whoever was behind this? They knew her. They knew her favorite flowers, and how much that silly carved halla had meant to her, and every sweep and curve of the lines composing her vallaslin.

She wondered if they also somehow knew how much she had wrestled with the decision of whether or not to keep it, or to undergo the physically and emotionally painful process to have them removed from her skin. Some Dalish elves had, in the wake of the war of the evanuris and the violent revelations regarding the dark roots of their heritage. Others had kept them, bearing them as a mark of pride and defiance of what the people had become in spite of what their 'gods' may have intended them for.

Bellara had been so excited that day. She and Cyrian and Ivy had talked about it endlessly in the weeks and months leading up to the ceremony, debating which god they would choose as their patron and carefully weighing the various gifts and rivalries such a commitment might entail. It was largely symbolic, of course: even at that age Bellara could not remember the gods directly intervening in their lives in any sort of meaningful way. She wasn't sure anyone in her clan had, but the tradition had endured. It was a coming of age in the clans, and a way to distinguish themselves from the so-called 'city elves' who were viewed with varying degrees of suspicions, derision, or pity.

Ivy never had made a choice, her impulsive nature for once held in check by the gravity of the decision placed in front of her. Ivy, however, also had the luxury of knowing that no one in the clan would dare suggest she was not capable of holding her own. She never had to prove herself to anyone, or at least she never made it look as though she had to try. For better or for worse, Ivy stuck by her decisions, taking credit or responsibility for them as required. Bellara could not but help but envy that focus, even when it did result in them getting in trouble. And now… now she could not help but envy Ivy the freedom she had in not having the marks of the evanuris tattooed on her face. The constant reminder of where they had come from. A persistent question as to where they would go next.

In the end Bellara had chosen Dirthamen, the god of secrets. It made sense at the time, or at least, it had to her. Who better to invoke in her ceaseless search for hidden knowledge, and her drive to uncover the mysteries of her ancestors and their technology that somehow seemed to far outstrip their own. Ivy used to joke that Bellara just needed to know everything, and honestly? She was kind of right. Bellara just wanted to understand how the world worked, and if the patronage of Dirthamen could lend aid to that quest, well…

Cyrian had made the same choice two years later, when he underwent his own ceremony to receive his vallaslin. His design was slightly different from hers; a bit more intense in the shading, and a slightly more complex in the linework, but undeniably a tribute to Dirthamen. Despite her teasing her little brother about copying her, Bellara had been thrilled. It was comforting knowing her brother would always be on her side, chasing the same goals, working towards a better future for their people. If she had known then how things would unfold, the choices they would all be faced with… would she still have undergone the ceremony? Would she have encouraged Cyrian to do the same?

You have a good heart, Vora'Shivan. You should listen to it.

Bellara's feet caught on the stone floor, her elbow swiftly caught by a silent but steady hand that prodded her along the corridor. For a moment, only a breath of time, she could have sworn she had heard Cyrian's voice in her head. An echo of a memory, maybe, but… but it had felt so real.

There had been too many turns and doors and stairs for her to have had any hope of memorizing a path back out. For all she knew, her captors had done that intentionally just to confuse her. Bellara was finally about to try and make a noise to get their attention when they stopped, and there was the unmistakable sound of a door, albeit this time a conventional one, opening. As she stepped forward, Bellara could swear there was a shift in the atmosphere around her. It almost felt like the chaos of the magic in the ruins was somehow muted in here, the sudden quiet kind of jarring after her senses had grown accustomed to the background 'noise.'

She took another deep breath, but before she could exhaled there was a shift in the light around her. Her abductors guided her to what felt like a sofa or maybe a chaise, gently sitting her down and briefly, and inadequately, checking her bonds before stepping away. She could hear footsteps softly padding back in the direction they had come, the sound muffled by a rug or carpet maybe. Bellara poked experimentally at the ground with her toes, her boots meeting plush resistance. Wherever she was, she was getting the feeling it was probably nicer than the rest of the ruins. Kind of a low bar to clear, but still.

Whoever her captors were, they didn't seem like they wanted to hurt her, which she supposed was something. They also did not seem to be the brightest lights in the night sky, given no one had bothered to properly double check her bonds before they left, or even leave a guard behind to keep an eye on her. So either they weren't very good at their jobs like, at all, or they had a super unfounded confidence in her willingness to sit put and wait for… well, whatever it was they had planned for her. Either way, it didn't take all that long for Bellara to carefully channel just enough fire into her finger tips to carefully begin burning away the strands of rope. Once she could feel the flames starting to warm the skin of her wrists, she pulled back on her magic and simply snapped the last remaining fibers.

Hurriedly pulling off her blindfold, Bellara had to blink rapidly for a long moment before her eyes adjusted to the sudden, surprising, amount of light in the room. It was obvious she was still somewhere within the ruins: the air still managed to hold that distinct dusty staleness that permeated places long vacant of any inhabitants save for what creatures and insects might scurry through the cracks in its foundations, and the walls bore the same distinct amalgamation of architectural styles that had confused her in the main hall.

Besides that, there was still the persistent, albeit much fainter, hum of strange magic threading through the veil here. Bellara realized it wasn't so much that it was quieter in here so much as that something was suppressing the magic of the ruins; almost smothering it. She also realized that whatever magic the forest ruins held? It was fighting back. And she wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but given that it wasn't the forest who had abducted her, she was willing to give it just a smidge more benefit of the doubt for now.

The room itself was actually kind of nice, for being in the depths of an ancient temple ruin. The stone floors were nearly completely concealed by plush rugs, the kind Bellara had once run her fingers over when an Orlesian merchant made a rare stop at their clan's winter camp. They'd been far beyond what her people could afford that year, but she'd never forgotten the way those fibers had felt. The sconces on the wall were lit with actual oil rather than veilfire, giving the space a warm, almost cozy glow without the pale wash of magic. A spacious bed, neatly made up with exacting precision, occupied one corner, while a desk cluttered with parchment crouched in the space opposite.

Rubbing her wrists gently to try and return the feeling to them, Bellara stood up and approached the desk, curiosity overcoming her previous sense of panic. Most of the drawers were locked, save for the top one which held only additional writing supplies. Turning her attention to the papers on the desk, Bellara felt her heart drop into her stomach.

More of the sketches like they had seen in the village of Copse Hollow. Dozens of them, each painstakingly hand-rendered and exacting in their detail of her likeness. And yet… they weren't quite right. Just like the one Amos had shown them, this picture of her seemed just a little too perfect; almost like it was how someone might remember her rather than attempting realism. There were little details that were off, or more accurately, missing: her distinct ear cuff that she had worn pretty constantly the past few years. And they had left off the small scar on her left jawline that she'd gotten the day Cyrian had… the day of the accident. It almost looked like a portrait of her from when she was younger; from before everything that had shaped who she was now.

And for some reason, this realization made her angry. Whoever had drawn this, whoever had the absolute audacity to think they knew her? They didn't understand her at all. They didn't know what she had been through; what she had survived. Sure, sometimes she missed the girl staring back at her from the page in front of her. The one who hadn't been forced to endure the trauma. But Bellara also knew she wouldn't trade who she was now for anything. She was stronger than she had ever dreamed she could be, and she had uncovered knowledge hidden for thousands of years. She may not be that carefree, blindly optimistic girl in that picture anymore, but she was damn proud of the woman she had become.

She set the pages down with more force than they probably warranted, quickly pawing through the remainder of the documents to see if there might be anything else useful that she could try to take back to the others, but she found nothing except for more sketches and portraits, and nothing that would be useful in picking the lock on the desk drawers. Tossing them aside, she turned and looked to the other wall opposite the bed.

There, bathed in the inconstant light of half a dozen candles, was another small table. Like the desk, it was simple and sturdy, but with an understated elegance in its design, and the wood had been polished to gleaming. In contrast with the clutter Bellara had just ferreted through, this was almost painfully organized, every item placed with meticulous care. Two stone figurines of the blackest obsidian stood in silent vigil, not quite facing each other but not quite facing Bellara, either. One was hooded and cloaked, a single finger pointing towards an unknown doom and an owl perched upon their shoulder. The other wore no hood but instead bore a mask in an expression of utter neutrality, a raven clinging to each outstretched arm and a bear lying as an alert sentinel at its feet.

"Falon'din and Dirthamen," Bellara whispered, reaching out a tentative hand but stopping short of actually touching the figures. Instead, she knelt down on the almost uncomfortably plush rug to examine them more closely. There were other small offerings scattered around the makeshift altar: embrium flowers, commonly used in the soothing potions giving to the dying to ease their passage, and brittle shards of feldanaris, which could be used as protection against spirits or as a conduit to invite them in. A series of smooth, polished river stones engraved with runes associated with Dirthamen's temples were arranged in a precise formation.

It stood in pretty stark contrast to the altar they had found when they had first entered the Brecilian Forest; the one Ivy had been certain had originally been dedicated to Elgar'nan. That one had been a tableau of violence and rage, and the 'offerings' had felt more like a threat than gifts to a god. She was pretty sure Ivy had been right: the fact the altar had originally been Elgar'nan's was likely inconsequential to whoever had made use of it recently. It could have just as easily been a shrine to June or Sylaise and it likely wouldn't have mattered to the people who had just been trying to send a clear and bloody message.

Thinking of Ivy made Bellara's stomach twist into knots, fear and despair slithering in to the cracks of her mind. She was worried about all of her friends, of course she was, but she had just gotten Ivy back after what had felt like an eternity apart. She'd missed her best friend more than she'd ever really been able to articulate in the way she wished she could, and it felt like the cruelest joke that they'd finally started reconnecting; started rebuilding that friendship into something even stronger, only to be separated again. Truthfully (and she felt a bit guilty about this), Bellara had not even realized how badly she had missed Ivy until they had been brought back together by this weird stuff in the forest.

She took a deep breath; tried to re-center her thoughts. Worrying about Ivy, or any of the others, was not going to get her any closer to finding them again. She rocked back on her heels, ready to stand back up, when something gave her pause. It was subtle, so much so that she almost thought she was imagining it or that the stress and constant anxiety of the last few days had finally caught up with her, but no: there was definitely a whisper winding its way through the air. Then a second voice seemed to twine with the first, the words just out of reach yet distinctly elven, but not a dialect Bellara recognized. It was probably the same ancient language that whoever had left the message on the altar to Elgar'nan had attempted to use, to poor effect.

Her eyes darted rapidly around the room, the space suddenly feeling much too large and the furnishings providing too many places to hide. Bellara couldn't quite explain it, but somehow, she knew she wasn't alone. The whispers grew in intensity, mocking her with secrets she could not comprehend, and once again Bellara felt a sharp ache in her heart. Ivy would have been able to understand. Ivy always understood, even when Bellara herself couldn't get her words to come out the way she wanted them to. More than anything, in this moment, she wished her friend was there, to reassure her and wrap her up in the sort of hug that made her feel safe.

Because Ivy always made Bellara feel safe. And there was no one else in the world Bellara wanted at her side in that moment.

The thought startled her, nearly shaking her free from the grasp of the phantom whispers, but still they persisted. Shoving aside thoughts of her… friend?.. for another time, Bellara turned her attention back to the small statuettes sitting on the altar. As soon as her eyes focused on the representations of the gods, the whispers came to an abrupt halt.

Ah ha.

"No," she whispered, fury twined around the word so tight as to almost strangle it. "I don't know what you are, or why you're messing with me, or what you want, but you are not my gods. They're long dead, and wherever they are, I hope they've found no peace after what they did to my people. And you know what? Even if you were one of the evanuris, that would be even less reason to listen to you, wouldn't it? How stupid do you think I am, exactly?"

The statuettes did not answer, and Bellara admittedly felt a little ridiculous spitting out angry mutterings to a pair of figurines, but it did make her feel a bit better. And, it made it just a bit easier to push herself up off her knees and turn her back on the altar. The whispers began anew when she did, but this time she simply ignored them, pushing past whatever lingering uncertainty had held her back in the first place. There was nothing for her in this room, save whatever plans the cultists had for her, so the best thing she could do at this point would be to try and either escape the ruins or, at the very least, find her friends.

Summoning up every ounce of her courage, Bellara began looking for a way out of the room. She had distinctly heard the door push open rather than slide, which meant it was probably wasn't a hidden entrance like the one that had funneled them into that dark corridor in the first place. And if she got really lucky, she would be able to find her way back to her friends. These ruins were definitely different from the ones in Arlathan, with the obvious influence of Tevinter in the style, but the layout was also very clearly still ancient elven with which she was familiar. If she had to guess, she'd say the structure had initially been one of the ancients that was later adapted or maybe remodeled by the evanuris's Tevene thralls.

And maybe someday she would get the chance to come back and study the ruins properly, but that meant getting the void out of this room and surviving whatever horrors this place still held lurking in its shadows. She opened the door with perhaps excessive caution, but it swung open with surprising silence, revealing an annoyingly generic corridor with absolutely nothing to indicate which way she ought to go.

"Wish I had a map," she muttered to herself, planting her hands on her hips and turning first to the right, then to the left. She thought she could make out the familiar flickering glow of firelight to the left, which could mean people, but it could also mean information. If she could be quiet, she might be able to spy on whoever was in the room or, if she got really lucky and it were empty, she could search it for information on how to get out. On the other hand, that could be where all the cultists were hanging out, working on their evil schemes or whatever it was cultists did in their spare time, and she could find herself insanely outnumbered. Then again, her magic felt somehow amplified in this place; stronger than it usually did. She half wondered if she could take them all on even if she was outnumbered.

Bellara shook her head briskly. She was getting off track again, and she needed to focus. She took a deep breath, then turned on her heel and started creeping down the left passage towards the light. There was the faintest murmur of voices, but they seemed to grow no louder as she approached. When she finally reached the next door from which the light was pooling out into the hall, she risked peeking around the edge of the doorframe.

This… this can't be right…

The room was empty, devoid of any signs of life save for a few more tattered cobwebs disintegrating into dust in the corners and a badly eroded cairn of stone, its inscriptions and meaning long since erased by time and neglect. There was no firelight, no people… nothing. Except for the murmurs, which persisted even as Bellara stared into the vacant space. She took a single step into the room, then immediately retreated, a sense of dread and a leeching sensation of cold forcing her back. And yet… yet somehow, she still felt compelled to enter the room. The murmurs, which had been consistent in their volume as she traversed the hall, now seemed to increase in volume ever so slightly, and they seemed to almost be encouraging her to try again. Then, one voice seemed to break free of the mumbling current.

"No. Not here. Not safe."

Bellara swallowed hard, giving a slow nod in acknowledgement of whoever, or whatever, had seen fit to give her the warning. They'd been pretty convinced there was more than one entity in play here, right? So maybe she'd just ran into both of them locked in some sort of battle she couldn't see with her mortal eyes, and one had finally gained enough of an upper hand to communicate with her. Granted, she sure would have liked to have gotten more than a vague warning, but at this point she was just grateful.

She continued on down the hall, fighting the urge to pause every few feet to examine a light fixture that seemed to be attached to nothing, or a spiral inset into the ceiling that apparently had not beginning or end that she could determine from her brief glance. The murmurs had receded as she had walked farther away from the empty room, and there were no further signs of firelight spilling out from any of the doors she passed. Many of the rooms were empty, save for whatever dust and detritus had been left by their ancient occupants, but a few held signs of recent habitation: simple cots with crumpled blankets and relatively clean pillows. A half empty mug of room temperature coffee. A dog-eared copy of Hard in Hightown. On a whim, Bellara snatched the book up. The cultists didn't deserve Varric's words, but she bet Willow would like to have it.

Then, her ears picked up another faint, almost plaintive sound further down the hall. It almost sounded like a woman crying, and Bellara felt her heart leap into her throat. Abandoning any sense of caution, she darted towards the cries. A small, selfish part of her hoped it was one of the villagers; that whoever these lunatics were, they hadn't managed to capture Ivy. Her friend had been doing her best to hide it, but Bellara knew perfectly well all of the malicious incidents that had happened to them in the forest had been directed at Ivy. She just still didn't know why.

Are you sure about that?

The small voice in the back of her head picked the absolute worst time to pipe up, and Bellara shoved the resulting feelings back into the depths of her heart where they belonged. At least for the moment. Reaching another door, this one closed, she hesitated for only half a breath before a fresh cry prompted her to throw the door open and take in the scene in front of her. This time, she was less surprised to find there was in fact no one in the room she had just revealed.

Unfortunately, that did not also mean the room was entirely empty.

Bellara swallowed hard, trying not to choke at the bile rising in her throat. Everything about this room felt wrong, but unlike the first room, this time she forced herself to step inside. This space had not been designed as a dungeon; in fact it looked perfectly ordinary, save for the freshly forged metal posts that had been unceremoniously driven into the ancient stone floors and the cruel iron chains hanging from them in limp testament to the room's newfound purpose. These were relatively new, the metal slightly dulled from use and exposure but free of rust or erosion. Each chain snaked out to end in a heavy manacle, the smallest one being no larger than a child's wrist.

Out of the corner of her eye, Bellara thought she saw something huddled in the darkest corner of the room, and her fingers instinctively began twisting at the edge of her shirt even as she summoned her magic, ready to defend or attack the instant whatever was back there made a move. Every muscle in her body tensed, coiled tight as a spring in one of her tinkering projects, and she could feel her heartbeat thudding wildly in panic or excitement or something in between.

But whoever, or whatever, was lurking in the shadows… it did not seem inclined to move.

Bellara slowly swiveled her head to the left, towards the darkness, but still there was nothing. A scream felt as though it were trapped in her throat, and if she dared to part her lips it would shatter the careful mental shield she had thrown up to protect her from this unknown entity. With cautious, deliberate steps, she turned towards the corner, then summoned a blazing ball of magelight to illuminate the space.

Revealing a pile of laundry.

She couldn't stop the gasp of relieved and exasperated laughter that burst from her lungs. Her relief was short-lived, however, as she began ferreting through the pile and examining the pieces she found there. A lot of clothing, a few in the traditional Dalish style and a lot of items that reminded her of what the villagers wore in Copse Hollow. Simple dresses dyed in the shades of the forest, trousers patched many times over, shirts stained with grass and still somehow smelling of hay. There were a few simple pieces of jewelry: wooden bangles and one time-worn locket, the portraits inside depicting two young elves. And a single well-loved stuffed halla.

Remnants of lives lived. The only common thread between them the faint stains of blood spattered on every single item, save for the halla Bellara still held tightly in her hands. Her vision blurred as tears welled up in her eyes, the heavy shadow of realization settling over her and extinguishing the steady flicker of hope she'd been jealously guarding in her soul.

She doubted she was going to find any of the missing villagers alive.

At least this explained the lingering impressions of fear and despair that still clung to the stones of this place. Bellara was honestly a little surprised she hadn't run into any Despair spirits, given how thin the veil felt in the forest and how much blood had been spilled recently. With a deep breath, she stood, straightening her back and walking out of the holding room without giving it a second glance. It was only after she had been walking down the seemingly endless corridor for several minutes that she realized she was still clutching the stuffed halla, and a fresh wave of tears trailed down her cheeks.

She had no idea where she was going. Each room she passed was either empty, locked, or bore only the most banal signs of occupation by her captors. Each hallway branching off the main throughway looked identical, all stone walls and echoing passages and the occasional turquoise glow of a veilfire sconce. Still, Bellara kept walking. What else was there to do? In one room, she swiped a small bit of charcoal from a cold hearth, using it to make small marks on the walls every time she made a turn in a vague attempt to prevent herself from traveling in endless circles.

Time felt as though it had come to a standstill. Without natural light or any clocks to reference, Bellara had no concept of if she had been wandering for minutes or hours. Somehow, it almost didn't feel like it mattered. The only thing that mattered was finding her friends and getting the void out of this nightmare. More than anything, she just didn't want to be alone in the dark anymore. Not again.

More than anything, I wish Ivy was here.

Bellara had lost the energy to fight the intrusive thought this time. She knew it had been rebelling against her rationale mind for days now, ever since her and her best friend had been reunited. Void, maybe she had been rebelling against it for years and had just simply been too afraid to ever entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe, her feelings for Ivy ran just a little deeper than friendship.

Maybe a lot deeper.

She was saved from having to analyze this new information, or perhaps very old information, by the sound of careful footsteps brushing carefully, cautiously, against the stone floors. Bellara pressed herself into a small alcove in the wall, likely once the home of a piece of statuary or perhaps a blessings font, and waited. The fact that whoever was approaching also seemed to be sneaking was a good sign, right? If it was one of her captors, they probably would have just been prancing around like they owned the place. That meant it was likely one of her allies, maybe they were even looking for her, and maybe she was finally ok.

Let it be Ivy. Please… let it be Ivy.

Bellara risked taking a small peek out of the alcove. There, sidling her way along the wall, was the familiar brilliant pink locks of hair painted a dusty rose in the dim light, and pine green eyes reflecting worried sparks where the veilfire sconces caught them. Bellara stepped out fully into the hall, watching as Ivy froze for a brief moment, defensive magic already spooling in her hands before her eyes squinted in her direction, then flew open in an expression of surprise mixed with relief. "Bel," she whispered, her voice hoarse as she took a tentative step towards her.

Please… please let this be right…

Bellara took a shaky step of her own, then another, before she realized she had practically run the brief distance between them and she crashed into Ivy's arms, burying her head against her friend's shoulder as Ivy held her tight against her chest, one hand wrapped around Bellara's waist and the other cradling the back of her neck, a soothing thumb running up and down her spine. "It's alright, Bel," Ivy murmured against her hair, "I've got you. We're together now."

Together.

She didn't reply. She couldn't, not with her words anyway. Bellara knew that if she opened her mouth right now, every single word that she had been holding back for years was going to come pouring out, and she would be helpless to stop them. So instead, she did the only thing that felt right. That felt safe. She leaned back, looked up at her best friend…

Hezenkoss's words might have once held more bite because she is right: Willow has no magic of her own. Studying magic has always been looking at something from the outside — memorizing its contours and rules because she herself cannot feel them. There was a time when she might have resented being one of the few non-mages to call the Necropolis home, but she doesn't anymore. But it would certainly make the work she's attempting easier.

"Are you suggesting killing me?" Willow asks. By now, she's unsurprised by Johanna's perpetual bids for freedom, but this is certainly a new tactic.

"Only for a moment. I'm confident I could get your soul right back, but the journey might imbue you with powers of your own."

"Oh, and the only risk is that I have to trust you to bring me back from the dead?" Willow asks, feigning interest.

Hezenkoss isn't fooled. "It's not exactly a permanent state, as you well know, Guardian."

"Not all of us want to be failed liches."

Despite her acerbic personality and continued attempts to manipulate, Willow often finds Johanna mostly decent company. Her understanding of magic, the Fade, and death is nearly as good as her husband's, and in his absence, she is as good a companion as any for the work Willow is attempting to do. Willow has largely abandoned all hobbies and pastimes in favor of spending every bit of free time in this office. Her husband has his classes and his cohort, and Willow has her Guardian duties and the bone-deep conviction that her best friend, Camina Ingellvar, isn't dead.

It isn't exactly a popular belief these days. There had been more people in her corner immediately after the battle in Minrathous, but as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months and suddenly they were a year on…she could see that everyone else's faith in Camina's return had long since faltered. It was more than a little hurtful to find her conviction treated with a sort of pitied indulgence by the same people who had helped her and Emmrich and Neve pull Camina from the Fade once already.

In fairness, it hasn't been as simple as she once believed it would be. They had already found her once, ripped the Fade open, and brought her back. She had thought, how hard could it be to do again? It turns out, it's nigh impossible. Whatever had been done to the Veil, whatever blood from Camina and Solas is powering it these days, it changed the rules. It was no longer as simple as ripping it apart and stitching it back together again. In fact, they can't break through at all.

Only spirits seemed able to breach the divide, and so Will spends most of her time in the Necropolis searching for answers. It's not a research topic earning her a lot of friends amongst the other Watchers, but to be fair, she's not exactly helping her case either. She'd gotten into a shouting match at the last faculty soiree. Wittenbach had it coming. He never should have had Camina's scholarship rebound and published, and with a foreword from Dr. Falkenrath of all people? Cam had hated her even in her academy days because she'd always been insistent that an elven mage had no place in the Mourn Watch.

"You're scowling again," Hezenkoss says. "Terrible for the skin at your age. You do want to keep looking twenty years younger than that moldering-"

"Johanna."

"My skincare regimen was impeccable when I still had skin. A bit of embrium ointment in the evenings…"

Willow ignores Hezenkoss's rambling, but finds a twisted sort of comfort in her continued presence. Nevarra feels lonelier these days than ever. Myrna and Vorgoth are kept busy with their duties, and Will's other friends within the Watch are…difficult these days.

A Guardian is supposed to be respectful of death. Death is a natural process, and she knows what her inability to let go looks like. It looks like denial. It looks like a refusal to see the world as it really is. She has been steeped in death the whole of her life, from the very moment she was found within the hallowed halls of the Necropolis. And it's difficult to explain, but she just knows that Camina is still out there. And so she can't give up. Roles reversed, she knows Camina wouldn't.

"There you are, my darling," Emmrich says as he comes into the room. He's still dressed for work with his mage coat over his usual shirt and vest. He deposits his bag by the door before stepping around the desk to greet her.

Reaching for him is always easy. He tips up her chin, and she closes the distance to kiss him. "How were your classes today?"

Emmrich shakes his head as he pulls away. "They're a lively bunch this year. Twice today, I had to keep young Nathaniel from working the wisps in the Memorial Gardens into a frenzy. They're especially suggestible with young folks as you well know."

Will conceals a smile. She loves hearing stories about his students in the evenings. There's a fond sort of exasperation in his tone, but she knows just how much he loves teaching his classes. He's got twelve pupils this year, and he comes home with just as many joyful stories as complaints.

"And you, my dear? Still hard at work?" There's a catch, a hitch, the hint of disapproval there couched in worry.

Emmrich has suggested, on more than one occasion, that she abandon this quest of hers. She feels herself a woman divided between two competing devotions: her best friend and her husband. She doesn't like the way they're set in opposition to each other, the way Emmrich disapproves of her utilizing Hezenkoss's expertise in his absence. She has no hobbies save this. Every spare second of every day spent in this office or at the library searching for answers, some untapped avenue they haven't considered.

They had spoken once, at the beginning, about the life they wanted to have. They'd talked of travel and of seeing more of the world. Of going to far-flung places and learning more about the funerary customs there. Scholarship and research. Fieldwork. Adventure. It had been a beautiful dream that had crumbled in the wake of Minrathous.

Guilt sits heavily on her shoulders. Guilt for not having found Camina yet, for putting off their dreams so long there's little chance for them now. Anti-mage sentiment is the worst it's been since the Mage-Templar War, the fall of the southern Circles. Not everyone believed Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain were gods. Many Dalish have gone to great lengths to make it known that they were, in fact, not their gods. The messages and information twists until there's little agreement beyond that they were powerful mages, and they almost destroyed the world. For too many, that is enough.

It had been all too easy then for the governments and powers that be to call for more strict control of mages and magic. The Mourn Watch has recalled all its members to the Necropolis, citing worsening tensions between Orlais and Tevinter. But Willow knows that it's not Orlais's attempts at military incursion into Tevinter disguised as humanitarian intervention or the rise in religious fervor in what's left of Ferelden causing the Watch to become nervous. No, it's the mortalitasi in the palace, reading the writing on the wall.

So, perhaps, they missed their window. Perhaps by the time things relax again, Emmrich will be unable to make the necessary journeys. Perhaps it is her choices that have locked them into this world, this life. She wonders if he resents her for it, but she hasn't had the courage to ask.

"No real progress today," she admits. Hates that in all this time, she has so little to show for it, so little to justify the time stolen from them.

"Darling," he entreats, eyes soft.

Willow shakes her head. "Can we not tonight?"

She does not have the energy for whatever version of this conversation he wants to have. And it will, ultimately, change nothing. She would rather his disappointment in her goes unvoiced, so that she can more easily pretend it does not exist.

Emmrich runs a comforting hand up and down her arm. "Did you remember to eat dinner?"

She glances at the clock as though discovering that time is real and not simply a construct. She doesn't need to reply for Emmrich to know her answer.

"I'll bring it up to you."

She is filled with gratitude for him. Relief for being able to put off that conversation for a little longer. She loves him. Their life. But there's a wrongness to it all, too. It feels unforgivably selfish to be safe, secure, and happy while the rest of the world is so decidedly not. And it is not as though the Necropolis is untouched, unaffected, but it is not Minrathous or Ferelden.

"You do realize you can do better than Volkarin, don't you?" Johanna says as soon as the door snicks shut.

"I will activate the silencing wards," Willow threatens without looking up from her book. Johanna, smartly, doesn't reply.

Later, her plate of food cleared, Emmrich joins her in the office, as he often does. He stretches out across the nearby chaise, having traded out his mage coat for a velvet smoking jacket in a rich green, his shirt beneath undone, and his reading glasses perched at the end of his nose. She smiles a little at the quiet trappings of their life, quieter now that Manfred is absent from the townhouse so often for his magical training.

Still, it is a surprise when the doorbell chimes.

Emmrich glances up from his book. "Were you expecting company this evening?"

It's too late for a polite visit, but certainly not out of the realm of possibility. "I'm not. I'll go get it."

She needs a break from sitting in that one position anyway. She walks down the stairs to the front door, and is surprised to find Neve standing on her doorstep. She looks tired, face drawn, and a little pale. A contingent of wisps floats in her wake.

Neve gives her a rueful smile. "No, you didn't forget a planned visit. Sorry to just drop in on you."

Willow steps aside to let her in. "You're always welcome."

"Emmrich home, too? I was hoping to chat with you both."

Willow nods as she shuts the door behind her friend. "Of course, need some help with a case?"

"Uh, no, actually. A bit more personal than that."

"Oh?"

Neve doesn't immediately reply, as Emmrich has appeared at the top of the stairs. "Neve! How delightful to see you!"

Neve accepts a hug a little stiffly, her smile tight. As she pulls away, she straightens her shoulders and looks at them both. "I was hoping you could both help me. There's been…some strange magic happening around me."

Emmrich and Willow exchange a glance, and Emmrich beckons Neve into the kitchen. "Why don't you tell us about it over some tea?"

"Appreciate it," Neve replies, undoing her coat and draping it over the back of the chair before unpinning her hat. "I'm not really sure where to begin."

"Well, strange magic has been happening around you? When did it first start?" Emmrich asks.

Neve seems to relax, just a little, as she begins speaking. It has all the air of laying out a case. "Well, the wisps have always been a bit mischievous."

"Wisps?" Willow asks.

Neve nods. "From the Lighthouse. They followed me to Minrathous."

Willow frowns. "You're sure? The same wisps?"

Neve nods. "Yes."

"That is very irregular," Willow replies. And strange. Wisps tend to enjoy certain spaces; they certainly have preferences for people, mages in particular, but for the wisps to follow Neve all the way to Minrathous is…unheard of. She can think of two or three Watchers who would be dying to do their capstone dissertations on it.

"They mostly hang around my apartment, knocking over papers, scattering my notes. But the other night, I found these," Neve explains, and then pulls out a stack of bundled papers. Neve doesn't slide them her way just yet, but Willow can make out blackened ink stains, Old Nevarran symbols. "But that's not all."

She tells them of other experiences: objects that move without prompting, strange happenings, whispers of her name. It has all the hallmarks of a haunting.

Emmrich nods as she speaks. "Neve, my dear, may I do a more in-depth casting on your person?"

Neve nods. "Whatever you need to do."

Neve remains very still while Emmrich steps around her, his hands shifting and waving like a conductor's. Emmrich's magic has always felt musical to Willow, as though the Fade is an instrument he can command. As he steps around Neve, he seems almost as though he is plucking at particular notes, seeing what might resonate.

"How exceptional!" He marvels. "The latent magical energy around you is rather like a woven tapestry."

"What does that mean?" Neve asks, tone clearly groping for calm.

Emmrich's hands fall, come to rest folded in front of him. "Oh, it's not at all a bad thing. The work you do carries with it a certain degree of…magical residue. And it follows you. This is not uncommon when working with the dead. Some of our younger Watcher initiates experience similar phenomena. I can teach you a cleansing meditation if you'd like."

Neve looks disappointed, but not surprised, as she pushes the bundle of papers away. "Can either of you read this? It looks like Old Nevarran."

"It's been a bit since my graduate work, so I might need a reference book from upstairs…." Willow says as she tugs at the twine keeping the papers together. The papers were pages of notes, but now, they're riddled with blackened ink superimposed over everything else.

"How fascinating," Emmrich breathes.

"I came home the other night to my papers scattered all over the floor like this. It's the first time the wisps have done something of this magnitude."

"You're sure it was the wisps?" Willow asks.

"Who else? No one else had been in my apartment. My wards were still intact."

Emmrich cranes over Willow's shoulder to look through the symbols. "It's rather rare for wisps to be able to write. Manfred is exceptional, but we're still working on his letters and fine motor skills."

"So you don't think it was the wisps?" Neve asks with a frown.

Willow shakes her head. "It's simply odd, but so are the other…magical happenings you've described."

For just a moment, there is the tiniest sliver of fear in Neve's eyes. "Sometimes, it feels as though there is something that almost passes through me. It's…physical almost. Like whatever it is…it's trying to bowl me over."

"How very distressing. Tell me, Neve, did this all begin with your move to Minrathous?" Emmrich asks.

Neve looks concerned. "I…I don't know. I was keeping track, and then I stopped." She pulls out a small, black notebook from her coat. The pages are filled with notes. She thumbs through the pages until she alights on what she's looking for. "It started before the move. Small things. It's like it's getting…more common. More insistent? Stronger?"

Emmrich is doing a fine job at being calm, but Willow can tell that he's not sure what to make of it either. Willow holds up the papers. "Why don't you come with me to the office? Maybe the answers are in these pages."

Neve looks relieved, and together they climb the stairs. Emmrich hangs back to tidy up the kitchen, but Willow hardly notices; she's too busy sifting through the papers. She can pick out words and phrases here and there, but it's been years since she's had to translate Old Nevarran. Ironically, this would be so much easier if Cam was here. Her entire dissertation had been focused on this.

"Still working on our problem, I see," Neve says as they enter the office. It's a bit of a mess, she knows. Books and papers are scattered upon every available surface. At least the chair and chaise are free of clutter.

"We might be the last two holdouts there," Will replies as she selects a text on Old Nevarran from its place on the shelf.

"I admit that I feel….less sure these days. I was in Treviso earlier tonight."

Willow glances up. "You were? Did you…"

Neve seems to understand her aborted question. "I tried to talk to him, but his eyes just seem….so empty. It makes me wonder if our insistence on Rook still being out there has….I don't know…made it so he can't move on. That we should have done better for those who are here."

Willow swallows down what she'd really like to say. That Lucanis's isolation is entirely self-imposed. He's the one who has separated himself from his own friends, who refuses visits and ignores letters. At first, he'd still shown up to the team dinners, but then they'd started getting notes expressing his inability to make it along with lavish baskets of wine or some other expensive commodity. And then nothing at all.

Things with Lucanis had been strained the first time Camina was trapped in the Regret Prison, but they'd brushed those feelings aside in their joy at having her back. Lucanis had been wrong, and she felt vindicated. Those same frustrations had bubbled to the surface once more in the wake of Minrathous, and there is no breaching that distance now.

"You know that Lucanis and I have struggled to see eye to eye," Willow replies diplomatically.

Neve laughs, but it's a joyless thing. "Yeah. I think his capacity for hope was probably used up in that year he spent in the Ossuary."

And then there's the guilt. That man had been through so much, lost so much already, and it was a cosmic unfairness that snatched Camina from them, too. He just tended to forget that he wasn't the only one who lost her.

"Do you no longer think she's out there?" Willow asks. She hates the question, hates that she feels the need to ask it. She's not sure what she will do if Neve is no longer in her corner, how it will feel to be entirely alone in her belief.

Several emotions play out on Neve's face, and Willow knows that the act of trust it is for her to see any of it. "You know what I thought when I saw that Nevarran writing? That it's the first lead we've had on Rook in ages. And it's ridiculous, isn't it? But that's where my mind went."

"I hope you're right."

"I tried to get him to come with me. I have this sense that if we could just get him out of Treviso for a few hours that some of the light might come back into his eyes…"

"Let me guess. He refused."

"Well, he's not here."

Willow spreads the papers out before her and opens up her reference text. Staring at the symbols feels like peering through a frosted bit of glass. She can make out some of the meaning, but the finer points elude her. She carefully checks her references, and it's slow going, but still. It goes. Eventually bits of phrases jump out, epitaphs. Watcher Rights.

"How odd. This is part of the Watcher oath. 'A home in life, a berth in death, a house of many mansions' and then there's this 'Death is a dialogue between the spirit and the dust'. These are all Watcher sayings."

"Those sound like phrases that would be on the outside of tombs in the Necropolis."

Willow nods. "Exactly. So…why would they appear in your living room? And in this particular form of Old Nevarran no less?

"I don't know."

Willow turns back to her translation, tries to find the pattern, the message, something, anything. She looks for her best friend in the words, wills some message to emerge from the symbols that swim before her. She is reminded of a time when they were young; Camina had found a book about ciphers in the library and become obsessed with writing all her notes to Willow in code. It had been a silly girlhood game they'd played in that tiny dormitory they'd shared. She longs for this to be that simple, for it to be so obviously Cam. She finds nothing.

She puts down the pages in defeat. "If there's a message here, I can't see it. I'm looking for anomalies, clues, anything. It just seems like writing."

"Will you write the translations out? I'll keep looking at it, see if we missed something."

Willow nods and picks up her quill, begins writing. "Have you made any progress on your end?" Neve asks, stepping near the bookshelves, fingers dragging along the spines of the books.

"Not since we last spoke," Willow admits. "I wonder if I'm going about it wrong…if…I don't know. Last I checked, researching the means for ripping a hole in the Fade puts me on par with Corypheus and Solas."

"I think the difference is that you're not wanting to let demons pour out of the Fade. We're just trying to get someone back."

"I talked at length with Morrigan after Minrathous. After more than a few cryptic warnings, she'd suggested looking where the Veil is thin. That's…here. And short of blood magic…I'm not sure what else to try."

"A ridiculous moral compunction," Johanna says.

Neve jumps at the extra voice in the room before noticing Johanna's skull. "You're still listening to that thing?"

Willow strides across the room. "I'm not a thing! I am Johanna Hezenkoss-" She activates the silencing wards on the altar.

"Johanna sometimes forgets politeness," Will says quickly.

"I thought Emmrich was going to find somewhere else for her to go." There's an accusation there, fear too.

"He did. I asked that we keep her for a while."

Neve looks unimpressed. "Why?"

"Because she's helpful."

"She was literally working with the Venatori! You really think she has a vested interest in bringing Rook back?"

"Of course not. But she does have a vested interest in discovery. And whatever else she is, she's brilliant. She's just a skull, anyway. She's not dangerous."

"Words can be quite dangerous," Neve replies.

"It's handled!" Will replies, feeling an uncharacteristic anger rising in her. "Don't lecture me on handling things when you've clearly been dealing with this…strange magic around you for months without telling a soul."

Neve looks properly chastened at that. "It's getting late."

Will sighs. "Let me finish writing down the translations for you, so you can get back to Minrathous."

Neve nods. "Thank you."

"How are things there?"

Neve shakes her head. "I was just in Treviso with Ashur begging for the Crows to send more help, so not well."

"Did they agree?"

Neve shrugs. "Lucanis did. It's not enough."

"The Watch doesn't leverage the same sort of power, but I can talk with Myrna and Vorgoth-" Nevarra has not been immune from issues with supply routes. They're lucky that much of Nevarra is vast stretches of desert; that's it hard to blight what is already dead. But the price of goods has increased exponentially, and certain things have disappeared from the markets altogether. The Watch keeps people fed, but Willow hasn't ventured into Nevarra City, doesn't know how bad things are there. Part of her doesn't want to.

"You and Emmrich do enough. As does the Watch."

"But if-"

"I know."

And Willow knows the conversation is over. Neve's shoulders have straightened; the vulnerability she'd entered the townhouse with is gone. Willow feels as though she is the reason. She hands over the translations, walks her friend to the door, and she and Emmrich bid her goodbye, and they watch her disappear into the gloomy Necropolis evening.

She was in a cage, or rather a cell. She was a little surprised to find a dungeon in a place that was by all estimations a holy site for the ancient elves, but then again, given what she knew about the evanuris… maybe this fit rather neatly into their aesthetic after all. Upon further observation, however, she realized this cell was not so ancient as that. The construction felt as though it had been forced into the existing structure, and the bars were old and rusted, but not completely eroded, so she had to think they were probably only two, maybe three centuries old.

Ivy made a mental note to test the bars once she was ready to make a move. They were in poor enough shape that she would likely be able to either break them or force them with magic, but she had no idea how much noise it would make and she was not in the mood to be caught unawares again. She turned her attention to the floor and, while the stones in her particular cell were blessedly clear, several others bore distinct evidence of having been used as a makeshift lavatory. The werewolves, if Ivy had to guess, so the leavings were at least two decades past fresh. A small mercy, very small, but she'd take what she could get at this point.

Scanning the rest of the room, or at least what she could see in the meager glow she had managed to conjure up, she was utterly alone. No one else from their party had been taken captive or, if they had, they had not been deposited in the dungeon like she had. Ivy couldn't decide if that made her feel better or worse. Grim as it probably was, Ivy was weirdly comforted knowing that all the bad shit? It had been focused on her. There was a fair to good chance that everyone else was fine and, hopefully, were looking for her even as she sat in her cell.

That being said…

With more effort than she would have liked, Ivy pushed herself up from the floor and stood, slowly flexing muscles that had fallen asleep during her captivity. It occurred to her she actually had no idea how long she'd been down there, but based on the fact she wasn't particularly overwhelmed by hunger, thirst, or any other pressing biological needs, it can't have been that long. She pressed experimentally against the bars of her cell and, to her surprise, the door gave slightly. With more force but still using care to minimize noise, Ivy put more of her body weight to the bars and slowly, cautiously pushed it open.

The silence was both a comfort and a curse. Every tiny noise, even those made by her own feet or the exhalation of her breath, made her jumpy, but it also meant she would likely hear someone coming from a good distance. Assuming they didn't spot her first.

She debated extinguishing her magelight, but discarded the idea nearly as quickly as it popped up. Yeah, it made her an obvious target, but so would falling down a flight of stairs or into an abandoned well and making enough noise to wake the dead. She kept it ignited, slowly making a circuit of the dungeon to establish its perimeter. There were two doors: one seemed to be well and truly blocked by a massive tree root that had wound its way into the ruins in defiance of the construction. The other led upwards and, based on the lack of dust or detritus on the steps, had been used fairly recently.

Up it is.

As she took the first few steps, new pains blossomed in her hips and shoulders. Ivy inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, trying to will the pain away without tapping into her reserves of magic. If she had to guess, her captors had not been all that gentle when they had deposited her in the cell, and it was in fact entirely possible she'd been dragged down there. With a huff of frustration, she dragged up a bit more magic and sent a wave of rudimentary healing through her veins. She'd never been much of a healer, but even she knew the basics. It was kind of important when one worked alone in the middle of nowhere.

With at least the worst of the aches and pains appeased for the moment, Ivy took a few more trudging steps upwards. As far as she had been able to tell from their initial forays, only a single level of the temple complex was fully above ground, with some levels maybe partially built into the landscape but most buried much deeper. She couldn't even begin to guess just how far down the complex went, but she was pretty confident that as long as she could continue moving upwards, she would eventually find her way out.

In theory.

She was, admittedly, ignoring the distinct possibility that the place could rearrange itself. Willow had casually mentioned the various chambers of the Grand Necropolis of Nevarra occasionally disappearing from one spot only to reappear in another, with no apparent rhyme or reason to its whims. And of course there was always the possibility the temple had its own illusory defenses meant to confuse and waylay unwelcome guests. Throw in the added complications of degrading spell fidelity and whatever these idiots had done to tinker with the existing magic, and she may very well find herself walking out a door and into a volcano off the coast of Rivain.

Because there was definitely magic in this place, and it was definitely not stable. Ivy could feel cracks in the veil; thin fissures where who only knows what might be able to slip through unnoticed and uninvited. Given time and resources, she honestly would have loved the opportunity to really investigate whatever bullshit was going on in this place because she suspected the weirdness of it all would just be fascinating, but for now her priority had to be getting the void out and finding the others. If there was a pattern in the strangeness, even a faint one, she might be able to use it to navigate her way out.

She extended the smallest possible filament of magic that she could spare, seeking some sort of anomaly amidst a sea of anomalies, patiently creeping up flight after flight of stairs at a snail's pace. This kind of caution was immensely frustrating, but long experience of leaping before she looked had taught Ivy the benefit of actually checking for traps in strange inexplicable ruins. Eventually.

Ah. There it is.

It had been difficult to fish out amongst the sea of magic at play in the darkness of the ruins, but Ivy's exploratory thread of magic had finally snagged on something that didn't belong. Or at least, belonged even less than the rest of the shenanigans going on. With tentative curiosity, she picked at the strange knot of arcane energy, prodding at it until she realized what it was she had discovered.

This magic was new. It was also completely 'intact,' so to speak, which made it stand out like a sore thumb amidst the erratic wild magic coursing through the temple now that she'd spotted it. Ivy marked the signature of the spell, then attuned her own magic to find the next instance of it. There, just a few meters ahead. She quickened her pace a fraction, still attempting caution but fighting her inherent instinct to dash ahead. Another flare further up a flight of stairs, then another down a dark corridor, though Ivy noted this one did not seem quite as dark. She slowed her pace once again, every sense tuned to the slightest sound or movement.

A murmur of something seemed to float past her, near enough she could almost make out words but faint enough that she could not be certain. It seemed to be trying to herd her farther along, and Ivy was not terribly surprised when she reached a fork in the corridor: both flat and nondescript as near as she could tell, but the noise that had brushed ever so briefly against her senses had taken the left hallway. With a resigned shrug, Ivy turned to the left. To her surprise, the darkness seemed to recede a bit more, and she could almost swear there was a faint emerald glow bopping along some distance in front of her.

If it was trying to help, she was grateful. If it was leading her into a trap, she was still kind of grateful because at least it would be something other than this endless maze of darkness and stone. And for whatever her instincts were worth these days, this thing didn't seem malevolent, not like some of the other shit that had been popping up recently. Both Davrin and Willow seemed to believe there was more than one force at work in the forest, and at least one of them might have been neutral if not necessarily on their side.

Maker, the others… Ivy hoped they were safe. She really, really hoped she was the only one that had been taken. She knew that every single one of them had skills and abilities that would help them get out of a bad situation; void, everyone else on the team had been through way, way worse than Ivy had and they had lived to tell the tale, but still… Somehow, she still felt a twinge of guilt. Like maybe she should have noticed something or picked up on whatever it was that had extinguished their lights and knocked her on her ass. So long as Ivy was the only one taken, she only had to bear the weight of embarrassment rather than guilt.

And if they took Bellara, she would tear every last one of them apart. There would not be enough of any of them left after Ivy was finished to put in a matchbox. Her frustration was building, sure, but that was only going to fuel the rage she was looking forward to unleashing on these assholes. If they had doubled down on their shittiness by taking Bellara and re-traumatizing her after everything she'd already been through? Ivy was more than willing to go ballistic. She would make the Battle of Minrathous look like a sandbox squabble.

The helpful mote of light (and it was now distinctly a mote of pale green light) stopped short, bouncing insistently in front of a small crack in the otherwise pristine wall. Ivy squeezed her eyes shut and bit back a sigh.

Not gonna fit through there, little buddy.

Still, she supposed there was no harm in taking a look at what the mote was so insistent about. Ivy was, in fact, more and more convinced that the mote was some sort of spirit: maybe a wisp, maybe an extension of a greater whole, but whatever it was it seemed to be helpful. For the moment. She crept closer, examined the space from a distance first to ensure nothing was going to spring out and pierce her in the eyeball, then crouched down and peered directly through the wall.

She hadn't noticed at first, due to the subtle light of her mote friend, but whatever room she was looking into was surprisingly well lit, and she could spot a few blazing torches lit with veilfire on the scant bit of interior she could spy. She guessed she was looking at some sort of command center: a large table dominated the center of the space, at least a dozen chairs crammed in around it and stacks of books and parchment piled haphazardly on its surface. Several empty wine bottles also stood in silent testament to long nights and longer meetings, though there were no glasses or mugs in sight. It didn't exactly look like the lair of a villainous entity, but then, what did Ivy know?

There was absolutely no way of marking the passage of time in the persistent dark of the deep levels, and Ivy had no clue when the last time she had heard anything beyond her own labored breath as she ascended stair after stair, so perhaps she could be forgiven for nearly pissing herself when her ears picked up the faint murmurings of conversation coming from… somewhere? The echoes in this damn place made it hard to tell where exactly the voices were coming from, or from what they were coming from. She pressed herself close against the wall, but kept her eyes fixed on the room beyond.

The conversation grew louder as the speakers approached, but fortunately they seemed to be on the other side of the passage Ivy had been following. She still couldn't quite make out any words, at least until she heard the familiar sound of a door being pushed open and footsteps entering the room she was currently surveilling. Two figures in dark robes approached the table, slumping down in a pair of chairs, one of them muttering a string of swears when an avalanche of papers slid to the floor.

"Gods, you'd think they'd have figured out how to keep this damn place organized," she muttered, leaning down to collect the scattered documents. "Bad enough we have to have our hideout in the middle of a cursed fucking forest without having to contend with all this clutter as well."

The other robed figure chuckled. "Never had to live with siblings, did you Calsa?"

Calsa snorted. "Good guess," she said with a heavy dose of sarcasm, then her tone took a softer tenor. "Always kind of wish I had, though. You?"

"Three sisters, all older, and a kid brother," the other voice said, a hint of wistfulness in his words. "Only got the one sister left, though. Brother died in the war. Oldest sister was killed by an Orlesian chevalier during one of their 'hunts.' Other sister died in the fifth blight."

"Shit. Sorry, Arnaud," Calsa mumbled. "That why you joined up?"

"Yeah. If they can pull off what they say they can… if we can become what they say we can, then maybe no one else will have to go through what I did. And maybe I can keep my last sister safe."

"We will. I don't have much faith in anything else these days, but I know this will work. It has to," Calsa insisted. "Besides, we've got the woman now."

Ivy's ears perked up at that. Were they talking about her? She risked pressing a little closer to the crack in the wall, making as little noise as possible but desperate to hear more.

Arnaud still did not seem entirely convinced. "I still don't get what's so special about that one. She seems so… ordinary. Beautiful, sure, but she can't be the only beautiful elf in Thedas. I mean, we've got you."

Ivy had to fight back the urge to snicker at the glaringly obvious attempt at flirtation, but Calsa didn't seem to mind. In fact, Ivy could hear the smile the other woman must have been trying to hold back herself as she replied. "I don't know about that," she demurred, "But as to why this one? No idea. She was some big hero in the war, I guess? We didn't hear much about it out where I was. My clan was mostly just trying to stay alive with the Blight nipping at our heels."

"Yeah, its a familiar story, I guess. It just seems like they're really intent on convincing her to join up, which feels like wasted energy. Plenty of us saw the wisdom of this path with little to no persuasion, and soon we will have the power to… convince… those who have not yet accepted our vision. Why bother with one elf?"

Calsa shook her head. "Like I said, couldn't even begin to guess, but the boss seems certain they can convince her to join up. I'd bet buttons they knew her before. Maybe an old friend, or lover? Your guess is as good as mine, my friend."

"Guess it's not on us to figure it out," Arnaud shrugged. "Boss is happy, so I'm happy. In the meantime, I was up half the night trying to translate those scrolls they brought back from their last trip to Arlathan, so I'm gonna try and catch a few winks."

"Yeah," Calsa nodded around a yawn, "Think I will too. Besides, I've got the evening shift guarding the prisoner, so might as well take a quick cat nap."

Shit. Shit shit shit. They weren't talking about Ivy at all. They were talking about Bellara, which means they had at the very least captured her, and perhaps the others as well. Ivy was, perhaps selfishly, a little less worries about the others at the moment. The two in the robes had distinctly mentioned an elven woman who also happened to be a war hero, which meant Bellara. Worse, whoever their 'boss' was clearly wanted Bellara specifically. Worse worse, she was obviously an unwitting part of whatever 'plan' they had going on. Ivy had likely only been separated out as collateral, or maybe as some sort of hostage to force the others to do what these nutjobs wanted. They wouldn't, of course, and Ivy did find some petty comfort in that knowledge, but that still meant these fuckers, these absolute motherfuckers, had Bellara.

And that would not stand.

Both cultists, and Ivy had pretty firmly decided they were definitely cultists, seemed to have nodded off in their chairs. If she could get the drop on them, it wouldn't be all that hard to knock them out and abscond with one of their sets of robes. If she were really lucky, they'd be wearing more than their smallclothes under them so she could avoid that particular unpleasantness. There was just one flaw in her otherwise brilliant plan: she didn't have the slightest idea how to get from her corridor into the room she was currently spying on.

Ivy turned to the mote of green light that almost seemed to be waiting expectantly for her to say something. "Can… can you help me get into that room?" She whispered, and the mote bobbed up and down excitedly before darting a bit further down the hall. Ivy followed, probably less mindful of traps than she ought to have been, but she was reasonably certain the wisp, or whatever it was, wouldn't lead her into danger. At least, not intentionally.

The wisp paused at a relatively nondescript section of the wall, the soft glow of its orb illuminating a nearly imperceptible symbol carved into the stone. It was, of all fucking things, a wolf's head. Ivy rolled her eyes, but pressed her fingers experimentally against the carving. A panel of what had seemed to be a solid stone wall slid back in near silence, revealing yet another dark passageway even more narrow than the one Ivy had been navigating, but just as dark. She glanced at the wisp. "You sure, buddy?" She whispered, and the wisp responded by floating calmly into the darkness, then waiting for Ivy to follow.

Ivy exhaled through her nose. "Sure," she muttered to herself. "Why not?" She took a few halting steps forward, tapping into her magic once again to see if anything felt off, but no. Just the same weird shit that pervaded the rest of the ruins. There was the whisper of the door sliding shut behind her, and Ivy fought back the urge to panic. For all the dozens of elven ruins she had explored, and survived, something about this one just made her skin crawl. And she couldn't help but feel like the spirits that walked these halls were somehow more feral than those she had grown accustomed to in Arlathan.

The wisp drifted slowly through what might generously be called a passageway, providing just enough light for Ivy to maneuver without running headlong into a wall or tripping over her own feet. Fortunately for Ivy's increasing claustrophobia, it stopped at another spot along the wall not terribly far from where they had started. Another wolf carving. Ivy pressed it, and once again a section of wall slid open to reveal the room where the cultists sat dozing in their chairs.

As tempting as it was to simply brain them both over the head with one of the ornate iron candelabras scattered around the room, Ivy opted for a more subtle approach. No sense making more noise than she already had, and even less sense prompting discovery before it was absolutely inevitable. Instead, she simply channeled a rudimentary sleeping spell into her hands, passing them first over Arnaud, then over Calsa. It wouldn't last long, but with luck it would give her just enough time to steal a set of robes and get the void out of there.

Working as quickly as she dared, Ivy dragged the garment off of Calsa. In this light, she could see they were not black at all, but rather a rich, deep green that evoked uncomfortable feelings of being lost in the deepest woods. At least it seemed pretty clean, and it smelled like simple soap rather than anything more… unpleasant. After waking up surrounded by stale werewolf shit, Ivy was willing to take the win on this one. As she pulled the robe on, her attention was drawn to the elven woman's vallaslin.

The pattern was familiar, but it shouldn't have been. In fact, Ivy should have been one of only a dozen or so people who would recognize it: a symbol for Dirthamen, but an ancient one, not used for centuries. And it was fresh, the new markings clearly covering up an older, more faded design beneath. Whoever this elf was, she had renounced her former allegiance to whatever god she had initially pledged herself to. Ivy's stomach clenched as she reached out and gently pushed Arnaud's hood away from his face. Just like Calsa, he was of elven blood, and his skin bore fresh markings dedicated to the god of secrets, though at least his did not seem to be covering up any others. Alienage born, perhaps, or simply from one of the cities. The simple ring he wore on his right hand was a common design in Orlais.

What had brought these two here, to this abandoned place? What had driven them to unearth secrets that should have stayed buried and forgotten? And what, exactly, did their unnamed leader have planned?

Ivy dug around in the piles of paper on the table, scanning each document rapidly before tossing it aside. Most of it was useless: transcriptions of fairytales she had been told as a child, excerpts from a rather dry account of a harvest ritual to honor Sylaise, and over and over and over again, that damn sketch of the ancient sign of Dirthamen. Which was definitely weird, but not anything she hadn't kind of been expecting.

She began ferreting through another sheaf of parchment, the entire time keeping one ear tilted towards the door. Here was a primitive language guide to ancient elven, with over half the translations wildly incorrect, but the words that had been translated correctly were worrisome: 'blood price,' 'ascension,' 'lock.' What in the void were these idiots trying to do? There were sketches, almost a rudimentary diagram really, of some sort of ritual, but Ivy didn't recognize it. Finally at the bottom of the stack, she found a hastily scribbled but reasonably legible map. In the margins was a note, written in modern elvish.

Alright Andrius, you everloving idiot, if anything happens to this copy I'm not making you a new one, got it? Quit losing your maps, or I'll just let you stay lost.

"Thank you Andrius," Ivy muttered, smoothing out the wrinkled document on the table and running her eyes over it. She could see the main entrance where she and the others had first come in, as well as the secret passage where the lights had gone out, and Ivy and Bellara had been captured. To her surprise, it wasn't all that far from the dungeon where she had been kept. How had she gotten so turned around? She also noted that the second passageway, the one revealed to her by her wisp pal, was not on this map, so clearly the cult didn't know everything about these ruins.

Only one other exit was marked, deeper in the ruins near what was labeled as the 'ritual chamber.' Not ominous at all, that. However, the only holding cells she found on the crude map were the ones she had escaped from, which meant that Bellara must have been taken elsewhere. Ivy just couldn't even begin to guess where. A growing knot of frustration was roiling in her stomach, and her nails were once again digging into the flesh of her palms where her hands had clenched into fists. Maker take her, she had to find Bellara. She'd already abandoned her once; she refused to do it again.

She reviewed the map again, looking for any clue that might point her in the right direction. For what felt like an eternity, nothing caught her eye. Then…

Ah. Of course.

The two elves she'd knocked out, Calsa and Arnaud… they'd mentioned their leader's seeming fascination, perhaps even obsession, with Bellara. She was a prize to be hoarded away jealously, not subjected to the indignities of a filthy dungeon cell. No, there were only two places they would likely take her: either the ritual chamber, and Ivy really hoped that was not the case, or the private rooms of whoever this mysterious 'boss' was. That room was not clearly labeled on the map, but based on where the 'dormitories' were, Ivy could probably figure it out with some basic reasoning and a void of a lot of luck.

She shoved the map hastily into the deep pockets of the robe (the cultists had at least gotten that right), then slipped out the main door into the hallway. Her wisp guide had disappeared for the moment, and while she missed the cheerful glow and incredibly helpful directions, she knew wandering around the cult's headquarters accompanied by a bright green orb was probably not going to be conducive to stealth. Fortunately, the compound seemed to be largely empty, the cultists either otherwise occupied or perhaps out in the field doing the evil bidding of their evil overlord for all Ivy knew. What she did know was that she was grateful for the empty halls.

Occasionally she passed by an occupied room, but no one else seemed to pay her any notice. She pulled the hood of her robe up higher over the vibrant pink locks of her hair, keeping her pace as steady as she could manage and surreptitiously peeking at the map when she came to a fork in the hall. If she went left, she would reach the ritual chamber. There was a possibility Bellara was there, and even if she wasn't, it was likely the best place to look for more clues. If she went right, she would eventually find her way to the dormitories and, hopefully, the private rooms of whoever had ordered Bellara's capture in the first place.

Ivy stood still, indecision rooting her to the spot. Her odds of finding Bellara in either direction were pretty much even coin at that point, and she was wasting just as much time refusing to make a decision as she would if she guessed wrong. Finally, she turned neatly on her heel and headed down the left passage, towards the ritual chamber. With luck, it would be as unoccupied as much of the rest of the ruin.

Each step seemed to feel a little heavier, almost as though she were wading through a spring-swollen stream. Still, she pressed on, ignoring the indecipherable whispers that wriggled into her ears and the growing sense of dread constricting around her lungs. At last, she reached an imposing set of double doors that arched up into the darkness, a smaller access door set inconspicuously in the left side. Reaching out with fingers that only trembled a little, Ivy opened the door.

The feeling of dread spiked briefly into blind panic, and she fought the urge to turn around and run. The feeling of being watched; of being stalked, that had haunted them ever since they had entered the forest reached a crescendo in this room, empty though it appeared to be. Great statues towered over her, lurking in every alcove, leering at her with blind stone eyes, and great sweeping mosaics lined the walls, surprisingly intact and distinct in their style. Ancient elves once walked these halls, no question.

Ivy wondered, then, if it was elven blood that had been spilled in the broad, shallow pool that dominated the center of the chamber, the crimson swirls suspended in precise patterns within the otherwise crystalline water in the now uncomfortably familiar sigil of Dirthamen. Part of her had to leave the possibility open; had to attempt academic objectivity.

"You're about to say something about my stitching, aren't you?" Her attention is to her meticulously organized medical kit, packed with a variety of bottles, tins, and dried herbs. Unlike her Talon, however, there are no long-winded labels. Rook likes symbols and acronyms.

"Not a word."

"But you want to. I can feel it."

She keeps things open and light, to let him linger, or to move on. He appreciates it. As she continues to search for a new roll of bandages, Lucanis observes the cut on his right hand. It's two-thirds of the length of his pinkie, nearly half a centimetre deep, running along the knuckle of his index finger down to the base of his thumb. He thinks that if Illario had gotten a better hit, he might've cut the digit off. Maybe that was the goal.

The wound —one of two, the other already tended to— is not too deep, not physically, anyway. It does not require more attention than stitches and basic clean-up, but Rook insists on tending to it, slow and gentle, and he finds it difficult to deny her this one, both for her and perhaps himself. It will not be like the other scars he carries with him.

She holds out a hand and he gives her his. She takes a seat in front of him on an empty crate, wrapping his hand. His eyes check her over for any injuries, and falls onto the little white line on her right hand, barely visible in the dim light of his room, faded with age.

"We'll match now," she says quietly. He hums. A defensive wound from a fight with someone she also saw as a sibling, somewhere she can always see it. Remind her how they turned against her. How they fought, and how she came out the victor, irrevocably changing her relationship with her friend. Her sister.

He looks at his bandaged hand.

His brother.

What a pair they make.

"I wish you didn't have yours," she murmurs. She offers him a line of a smile and he returns it.

"How long did it take for it to fade?"

"Years."

"But it's never really gone, is it."

"…No."

"Rook?"

"Yes?"

"…Thank you," he says. "For coming with me."

"Of course." She nods, serious, but there is warmth in her eyes. Fondness, steadfast and true. Understanding that can only come from experience. "What are friends for?"

Intimate friends.

He smiles at that — small, but no less sincere. Lets himself acknowledge the fact that he has her, especially now that his cousin is… lost to him. His only friend, before her. It isn't, he knows it isn't, but it feels like something a trade — one he was not prepared to make, and one that makes him feel a great deal of things. Uncomfortable, mostly. He really was excited for his oldest friend to get to know his newest. Although, according to his oldest friend, she picked the wrong Dellamorte.

He doesn't like the way he knows his cousin said it loud enough for him to hear, because Illario has always known how to control a conversation — what to say and how. He doesn't like how it… bothers him so much. He knows it's meant to. He hates that it still does, even with the affair settled more or less, even when he's aware of its intended purpose.

His eyes look her over a second time, just in case. Just in case he missed something. In case the Venatori got to her. In case Illario managed to hurt her — touch her. Leave a mark on her.

At least they'd match.

But the idea of his cousin touching her bothers him in a way he does not want it to. It's petty and ugly, and yet he cannot help but feel unsteady.

He traces the scar along her cheek, a safer touch between them that means just a bit more. He has her. He lost him.

But at least he has her.

But he lost him.

She leans into his touch, lifts her own hand to return the gesture, hand cupping his cheek. Her left pinkie cards its way through his beard, sliding down below his jaw to find the little scar on the underside of his chin. Her other fingers follow, settling beneath him, and just as she had, he leans into her touch just slightly.

"Not quite the same," she murmurs. He hums — hers is from her run-in with the Antaam, his was stray magic from Zara.

No, if they were to match stories to scars, Lucanis's eyes drop to her collarbone, down to her chest and the tangled mess of lines running across her skin, disappearing beneath Antivan blue.

She does not remember all of them, she told him so before in one of their shared baths. A quiet, confused admission with just a hint of shame in the early days of their friendship. She remembers being bound to the ground with chains and then beaten until she loss consciousness.

He understands — Zara and her people pushed him to his limits, using every avenue they could to pull their desired results from him and those captured with him. There were days where he barely knew what was happening to him, the sandy floors of the ossuary the only thing he could see, moved about and around, shackles on his wrists and ankles, vision catching sight of the water above him, Zara's red lips, muffled voices, Venatori robes, Calivan and the others, and then his cell once again. Everything blurred together.

She guesses she was held for less than twenty-four hours. He lost a little over a year. They barely kept him alive — his life wasn't really that important at the facility. She was going to be tortured to death that night. It's not the same, but all Crows bleed red.

He presses his forehead to hers in some hope he might pass his thoughts to her rather than speak them. He does not even know what to think. Words are hard for their sort, and they're in a place where this is more than fine — welcomed, even. She nuzzles back, the tip of her nose brushing his briefly in the process. Zara is gone. Her marks and impact linger, but she is not the one who causes him pain this night.

Lucanis takes his hand from her cheek, the back of his knuckles dancing down her neck, shoulder, bicep, down to her elbow where a large cluster of scars sit. She remembers these ones, from her former master, and like her other elbow, both are well worn in. She nearly lost both her forearms in a cycle of a severe injury before being healed up again, the cuts made anew. And then again, and again, and again, and again. Hidden among them are older scars — a training session gone wrong with a sister house, a misstep from her seventh contract, a blow sustained defending a fellow de Riva. He knows them all.

She watches him curiously, her own hands just a beat behind each of his movements. Her fingers travel to his shoulder, a scar from one of the few training sessions he had with a cuchillo house, aged ten. To the one under his ribs earned in a contract in Vyrantium. To his forearm in the last few months, a mark left from coming up behind her to parry an incoming attack. She knows them all, too.

His left hand continues moving along skin and fabric, cataloguing every mark, recalling every story, searching for something he does not yet know. Rook is here with him, to soften the blow of the night's events — to share in his pain, because they always share in their pain, in their lessons learned. A little lighter, and with a bit more illumination, some extra insights that come with a second opinion.

His eyes wander back to her chest, shirt generously unbuttoned nearly all the way down. The scars are darker, some combination of blades and burns, and she has yet to use some complicated de Riva concoction to be rid of them. He wonders at the precise measurements, of how deep her former master cut, how close the woman might've aspired to reach for the heart, and if Illario would have cut the same. It certainly feels that way. His chest aches, and if he is not careful, he feels as though something within him will crack. He focuses on Rook instead.

He brings his hand up to her cheek again, to the scar there, brushes his thumb across the length of it before he travels downward once more, to the mole on her neck, to the scar from her first contract kill on her collarbone, nearly lost in the sea of marks across her chest from her master. He runs into them in their large number, drags his index finger down, stopping short of her chest —her breasts— out of politeness. Her former master was much less considerate. He knows where these lines run.

He finds himself filled with a need to touch more, however. Spread his hand across the web-like marks along her torso and stomach, and move to the ones from her Talon —her brother— all across her back. He can, of course, he knows them well enough that he could mistake them for his own, all those baths and stories they've shared after their training sessions. He knows where they are beneath her clothing, but he finds he wishes she was without — free to run his hands across every line on her skin, new and old, and feel her here with him, with all their jagged edges, open and vulnerable.

Perhaps the thought did make it to her, as her hand comes up slowly to the opening of her shirt, fingers curling along the edge and pulling slightly, exposing more skin. His eyes flicker to hers then in question, but she nods once, fingers shifting downward to the only two buttons she ever bothers with, undoing them. She looks up at him briefly before her hands make quick work of her belts. When the sound of leather quietly hits the ground, his gaze shifts downward, his path cleared. He closes his eyes, forehead pressed to hers once again, as he lets more of his fingers find skin, continuing his course down. He can hear her shuffle slightly, his eyes opening momentarily to catch sight of her discarding her shirt, closes his eyes again and listens as it, joins his on the crate next to them. Her hands return to him shortly after, finding the marks Zara left behind as his digits continue the path of her former master.

When he travels beyond the valley of her chest, when he passes the tattoo that marks her as a member of House de Riva, he reaches her ribs and stomach. He opens his hand then, fingers stretching across skin to cover the scars that run in various directions, eventually coming together like a spider's web. His palm, now flat against her body, moves around to her side. As if by some silent agreement they pull her closer to him — off her seat on the crate in front of him and into his lap.

He rests his forehead on her shoulder, pulls from the many instances they shared as his hands rove over her scars, just as she does the same to his. He focuses on the lines beneath his fingers, feels the way her hand travels his skin in turn, how the stories behind their marks line up. Run parallel. Diverge. He tugs at the memories like a thread, slowly, carefully, a seam coming undone, reopening their wounds — each line, when they shared them with each other, tying them together, and knows she does the same as she follows his lead. Her former master —Suha— across her stomach. Zara along his shoulder.

Target on a contract for his elbow, her collarbone, wooden duck ornament and Orlesian mask. The odd objects. An intimate and vulnerable conversation for them both.

Caterina and Suha: bicep and inner forearm. Punishment, childhood beatings, aged seven — both of them. Shared early in their budding friendship, bonding over the similarity.

Guards, condottieri: contracts escalating into fights. Knuckles — both.

Contract in Orlais: guards for her, retired chevalier for him. Shoulder, right forearm.

Zara, Suha. Waist, hip. Torture — both.

Suha, Zara. Backs: the beginning of a beating. Upper left — her. Lower left — him. First degree burns as a warning. Both.

Lackey beatings. Shoulders, stomachs, knees, backs. Faded. Both.

Contracts: target retaliation. Free Marches for her, Tevinter for him. Left knee, right calf. When her trousers were removed so he might feel this one he barely recalls, only knows he helped tug them down a thigh before brushing his thumb across her knee. His must have follow soon after, calloused elven fingers running up his bare leg.

Memories blur together as hands travel skin — who did what, on who, and where. His, Zara, upper back, whipped. Hers, Suha, right shoulder, also whipped. Caterina. Shoulder. Suha. Chest. Venatori. Bicep. Mercenaries. Forearm. Suha. Chest. Contract. Bicep. Caterina. Back. Suha. Back. Zara. Back. Suha. Thigh. Contract. Calf. Caterina again. Antaam. Venatori. Calivan. Suha again. Zara again. Caterina again. Suha. Suha again. Hers. His. Hers again. His. His. Hers. Both. His. Hers again. Both. Hers. His. Hers. Both. Both again. His. Hers. Hers again. Both.

Illario. Mina. Defensive wounds. Hands. Both.

Viago. Illario. Brothers. Back. Bicep.

It's not the same, however, running his hand across her back, across all the lash marks Viago gave her as punishment. Her Talon, her master. The one she obeys.

But even as he does, as his fingers shift single file down her spine until he reaches the largest scar that stretches diagonally along her lower back, her hand remains on the newly bandaged scar on his bicep, courtesy of Illario, her other hand holding his, their fingers lacing together, her thumb gently stroking the other freshly stitched wound there. Not any lessons Caterina imparted —of which there are plenty— but the marks his cousin left. His brother.

"…Amri?"

"Yes?"

"…How did it feel," he starts, voice hoarse, fingers digging slightly into her back, into uneven skin, "when he whipped you?"

When he hurt her.

She freezes, at the question or his nails he isn't certain. Doubt creeps in —in the voice of Illario, no less— had he gone too far? They've always shared stories, the ugliest to the most insignificant, but Viago isn't just her Talon. She knew that he was aware of the whipping, and she told him before that Viago had to. He never pried — he understood the complexity of one's relationship with their Talon. But as close as they are, her love and devotion to Viago is something he may never fully understand, different from himself and Caterina. Different from him and Illario. Different from their relationship, even.

And in all the stories she's told him, of all her scars, Viago was only ever in the one, and after that first time she never spoke of it again.

Will he also be as reticent on the matter of his brother?

"…I didn't know it was going to be him," she says quietly, her grip on his arm and hand tightening. "I woke up, was dragged into another room and chained to the ground. I thought I was going to be executed, and when I turned my head I didn't see another Crow, I—I saw my brother, and he wasn't there to save me."

She brushes her thumb gingerly across the cut on his arm, ghostly along her stitching beneath bandages. It's different, very different, but he hears the way her breath catches, the shaky inhale at the mere memory, a little under two years now. At least he had time to process that it was Illario who betrayed him, though he isn't sure how much that helped, and she and Viago are close, still. He lessens the pressure of his fingers, follows the scars up to her shoulder blade, stroking the lines gently.

"When he looked me in the eyes, all I saw was ice in that blue I thought I knew, and I wondered, if—if his love had a limit. If I'd reached it. If it was ever love, even. If I read it wrong, and he only tolerated me for as long as he did because of circumstance. That the man I loved most in the world— my brother, who I would die for, was going to get rid of me because he was tired of pretending, and finally found the opportunity to do it." She takes a deep breath, and then slowly releases it. "I still have him. I'm lucky, but…"

"It's not the same."

"No. Not even close." She pulls him closer, buries her face into his chest, muffling her words. "Sometimes I think that I made him be there for me. That I pushed things onto him and he had no choice but to help. I have him again, I love him still, but I can't—I can't talk to him, not like I used to. Not like I do with you."

"Amri…"

She looks up at him instantly, some horrified realization settling across her face.

"You're not a replacement. I swear I don't see you as my new—"

"I know," he cuts in nodding, eyes on hers, ceases the action when she finally mirrors him once. He knows better than anyone, in this moment, how it feels. He's almost grateful she feels as guilty about it as he does. "Before you, my cousin was my only friend."

A small smile finds its way to her lips. "You said."

"And I don't…" He takes in an unsteady breath, "I don't have him anymore. But I—I have you."

"And it doesn't feel right, does it?"

"No," he says quietly, resting his chin on her shoulder.

She squeezes him in her arms then, so very present — there for him, with force, intention. He was not prepared to make this trade. It should not have been a trade in the first place, it wasn't, not really, he knows it wasn't, and yet here he is, down one friend and brother, and in place of that: her. His chest burns with guilt. Affection. Pain. Relief. He hates the feeling. He squeezes back, meeting her force with his own, dragging his nails along her skin, leaving his own little marks along her body as she does the very same — a small comfort, knowing they'll match. He pulls her closer, feels her ribs beneath his crushing arms.

He does not know how long they stay like that, Rook seated quietly in his lap, wrapped around him as he holds on to her lest he drown in his… loss. Wonders when Illario's love reached its limit. What did he do to push his cousin to take action? When did he tire of pretending? When did it start?

Despite all that he's been through, despite a literal demon occupying his flesh, he hurts. He feels hurt. He does not like that he feels hurt. The betrayal was an act of aggression. He should be angrier. Why isn't he angrier?

He sounds a bit like Harding.

Oh.

Rook's to accompany Lace in the morning. He pulls back, clearing his throat. "You have somewhere to be tomorrow. I shouldn't keep you."

She's silent as her eyes stay on her hand, tracing the scars on his inner forearm.

"You could if you want to, though. Keep me here, I mean," she says lightly, looking up at him. "For a few more minutes. Hours. The whole night, even. If you want."

Heat crawls up his neck immediately, and Lucanis is suddenly very aware of the fact that she's stripped nearly all her clothes off for him to touch her on a whim, let his hands wander wherever he pleased.

"Rook…"

"I don't mean anything untoward. I mean…" She curls her fingers around the newly bandaged scar on his hand, and he returns the gesture. They match now, after all. "If it was my sibling, would you leave me be?"

"No." His answer is immediate. He knows her.

"I can leave if you'd like some time alone, though. That I understand, too."

He studies her for a moment, runs his hands up her waist, along the fingers tracing his scars as they've done throughout the evening, up to her shoulders, back down to her elbows, before he breaks from the trail, hooking around to her back again, to the scars there. He clears his throat. "…Stay. Please."