The Slothquisitor

Standing there beside Emmrich, Ivy, and Bellara was Theadosia Mac Tir, her standard half smile tilting at her lips and a score of soldiers at her back. Loghain was sitting beside the campfire with Sage, watching patiently as the boy demonstrated a series of swoops and squawks that were meant to imitate Assan. Standing beside Thea were Cataline and Nathaniel, the familiar griffon motif etched into the well-worn leather of their armor. It almost made Willow a bit melancholy: had they hoped they would never have to don that armor again? Had they dreamt of a life beyond the constant struggle of the blight only to be drawn back into a fight that was not their own?

Cat seemed to guess her thoughts, offering her a quiet smile. "We were still in the neighborhood," she said with an offhanded shrug. "And not to brag overly much, but no one else here knows these ruins quite like I do. We thought we might be able to assist in a more… direct… way, given what Keeper Lanaya sent in her missive. Not that we had any doubt in your ability to handle things, of course! But this place…" Her violet eyes scanned the borders of the woods, and Willow recognized far too easily the uncertainty and discomfort there.

She managed a small laugh as she accepted the hand Cat extended towards her. "Please, no offense taken. Truth be told, we are grateful for any assistance you can provide. We have had a few lucky breaks, but I am keenly aware that these ruins are… complicated."

As succinctly as she was able, she filled their allies in on the events of their time in the ruins, though even as the narrative poured out of her, she was struck by just how surreal it all felt. Time had seemed to warp and bend around them in this place, and what had felt like days had been hours, with only the movement of the sun and stars marking the true passage of time. It seemed almost inconceivable that they had all been safe within the confines of Gwaren teyrnir barely a week past.

"You all must have moved incredibly quickly to reach us," Willow noted, confusion knitting at her brow. Even given the stops their party had made along the way, the delegation from Gwaren must have left within days of their own departure.

Cat raised an eyebrow in Thea's direction, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Cousin dear, would you like to field that one?"

Thea rolled her eyes, tossing her auburn braid over her shoulder with a flounce. "Alright, fine. Yes. Perhaps I have had more trouble letting this particular puzzle go than I ought to admit." She turned a slightly guilty gaze towards Willow. "It truly isn't a commentary on your skills, for what my word is worth. But this place…" she shook her head slowly. "I respect it. I even admire it, in a way. But I also have a healthy fear of it. I wanted to make sure those of you I sent into the Breceilian made it out, hopefully relatively unscathed."

That last bit was said with just a hint of wry deadpan as Ivy and Bellara emerged from the tent they had shared, Ivy's arm still bandaged where Cormac had slashed at her. They both looked incredibly well-rested, albeit perplexed and perhaps a bit alarmed at their sudden guests. "Uh, hi?" Ivy gave an uncertain wave. "Is there some fresh new horror you've come to warn us about?"

"No, just your ordinary run of the mill horror," Thea replied with a nonchalant shrug. "Forest spirts, mad cultists, blood magic. It's all in the handbills they print for the Brecilian's tourism guild."

Willow did laugh then, albeit briefly. "As I said, we're grateful for the help. Speaking of," she glanced over at Sage where he was now regaling Loghain with a babbling commentary of his time in the ruins. "I don't suppose we could trouble you for an escort to get Sage back to his family in Copse Hollow? Emmrich has examined his mind and found nothing to indicate possession or other magical coercion, so we believe it would be safest, and best, for him to be returned home."

"I will take him," Loghain spoke up, standing and brushing the bark and needles from his clothes. "It is not a long journey, even at a leisurely pace, and I should be back before nightfall. Besides, there's an old war wound that's been acting up that limits my effectiveness in a direct fight. Might as well be useful in this way, at least."

Despite the veneer of sarcasm, Willow knew perfectly well Loghain was lying. He could probably still hold his own in combat just fine, but he also seemed rather protective of the boy. Perhaps he reminded him of someone he'd once known, or perhaps even of his own daughter at that age, but either way, she knew there was no one better to send on this particular errand. She was about to agree when Bellara suddenly darted forward, fumbling in her bag before producing a small, and clearly well-loved, stuffed halla toy.

"Oh, um, Sage? Is this maybe yours?" She asked, offering him the halla. "I didn't know if maybe there were other kids here, or…" Bellara let the thought trail off unfinished, the weight of her words dragging away her usual enthusiasm.

Sage reached out and snatched the toy from her hand, clutching it tight to his chest. "Sir Whiteshanks! You found him!" He looked up at her, grey eyes wide and a crooked grin lighting up his face. "Thanks miss. I was 'fraid I'd lost him when Somniari took me away from the others. Or Cormac, I guess. Why'd he pick a stupid name like Somniari when he already had a perfectly good one?"

Loghain chuckled, scooping Sage up onto his horse's saddle. "A good question, young man," he said with a serious nod before he turned to his wife, lowering his voice and placing an arm around her waist as he leaned forward. "You will be careful, yes? I will be back as swiftly as I am able."

"Of course," Thea promised, arching up onto her toes to brush a kiss to his lips. "You just worry about getting the boy back to Copse Hollow safely. We will manage things here."

He gave a final nod to the rest of them, then mounted up behind Sage and nudged his horse back towards the forest path that would eventually lead to the human settlement. Thea turned back to Willow, her expression thoughtful. "Was he the only survivor?" She asked.

"That we know of thus far," Willow replied carefully. "As you rightly surmised, these ruins have been challenging to navigate. We did not even see that many cultists, so either Cormac has not been as successful at bringing people over to his cause as he'd hoped, or they are out in the field attempting to bring in more victims or recruits, or they are scurrying about somewhere else in the ruins that we have not yet been able to locate."

Thea nodded slowly, but her brow was furrowed and there were clearly several different tracks of thought twining through her head. "Alright, so we know Cormac is attempting to attain divinity, or power that comes near enough as to be indistinguishable from it, like the old gods. He seems to hold no particular allegiance to Elgar'nan or Ghilan'nain, so that is something at least, but he is clearly rather enamored with Dirthamen and Falon'Din. There is the possibility this is a direct consequence of his obsession with Bellara, but it may be entirely a matter of convenience. We know he has access to some sort of ritual involving blood magic because, of course, he does. But that now raises the question: why has he not completed it? Is he still hoping to recruit Bellara willingly?"

"No," Bellara spoke up, "I don't think that's it. Even when we were kids, he always had an attitude of entitlement which meant he was confident he'd get what he wanted one way or another. If I won't sign on of my own volition, he'll just try and capture me again and hold me until he can use other methods to 'persuade' me, I guess. Probably not as nicely as he did the first time, either. I don't think that he's holding back by choice, but I don't know what's stopping him, either. He's already murdered so many people just to get to this point, but the amount of blood he'd need for a ritual of this scale is kind of mind boggling, if you really think about it? We're talking like… entire cities that would need to be sacrificed and bled dry. Maybe he's just starting small, as kind of a test run? If he can figure out how to make it work on a small scale, start building up power that way, maybe he could, oh, but what about the return inversions, that could set the whole thing off if-"

"So, it's a good thing he hasn't been able to unlock that kind of power," Ivy interrupted gently, lacing her fingers with Bellara's. "But that does kinda raise the question of why he isn't already stronger than he is? Sure, he may not be god tier yet, but based on the amount of blood we saw in there…"

Where did it go?

That was the puzzle, wasn't it? Where had all that power gone, if not straight to Cormac? Willow stared blankly into the distance, silently entreating the forest to give her something, anything, to make this mess make sense. The sun had crested the treeline now, and the first promises of a warm day crept over her skin as the breeze off the lake whispered incomprehensible truths that sped past her even as she stood in frustrated stillness.

Damn it… Where did it go?

"The forest," she murmured, comprehension dawning on her with the rays of light piercing through the branches. "This entire time, it has felt as though there were two entities present here: one that seemed indifferent, perhaps even helpful at times, and one that felt distinctly malicious. I think Cormac has been expending a great deal of the energy he has siphoned from the life force of his victims just to keep the forest's magic under control, or at least at bay. He hasn't completed the ritual, or even gotten past the testing phase, because the Brecilian is pushing back at every turn."

"So, that wisp we were following in the ruins?" Ivy asked, "That was the forest trying to, what, throw us a bone?"

"Not everything that exists within these borders is antagonistic towards mortals," Cataline interjected. "The Lady of the Forest was a relatively benign spirit who only attacked those who threatened the creatures under her protection. It is possible some remnant of her remains, or it could be another entity attempting to aid you."

"Or it could just be the forest sees us as the best bet for removing Cormac, who I have to imagine is a far greater irritant. I hesitate to give him so much credit as to call him a 'threat' to the forest itself, but I can't imagine the Brecilian's spirit enjoys being restrained," Willow continued, the pieces clicking into place. "Perhaps if he had simply gone about his business without attempting control, it would be a different story. Difficult to say, especially given that everything we once thought we know about spirits has largely gone out the window."

Either way, this had to end today. Now that Cormac's machinations had been revealed, Willow very much doubted he was going to stay his hand any longer, regardless of his failure to capture Bellara. Even if they assumed he would not succeed in the ritual he had planned, he was still incredibly dangerous. "Alright, well, now that we are all up to speed," she said, "Let's decide how we want to approach this. In truth, it is not all that different from many of the missions I ran as a Guardian, but we also are working with more unknowns than I am comfortable with. Cat, do you have any idea where Cormac would go to try and complete the ritual?"

The warden-commander thought for a moment, then nodded. "I think so," she said. "The power in this place was mostly concentrated in the lower ruins, and more specifically in the chamber where the Lady of the Forest held court. Even after she departed, the residual power there was… staggering. If I were a mad mage bent on domination and destruction, that place would be ideal. Well, for him. Not so much for us. There are two main paths of approach we could take: one that winds through a larger section of the ruins and will put us in front of the door to the chamber. The other is much shorter by a wide margin; a service passage that runs from the main entry hall all the way down to a side chamber attached to the ritual site."

"I don't suppose that passage was the western doorway, was it?" Willow asked, "Because that passage is well and truly blocked with rubble. We could possibly blast it with magic, but I am not sure how much more of a mess, not to mention noise, that would create. He already knows we are coming, but I would like to maintain at least some veneer of an element of surprise."

Cat tilted her head. "Blocked? How far back?"

"We don't know," Willow admitted. "We can try and clear it manually, but I have no idea how long-"

She stopped when one of the Fereldan soldiers made a small, polite cough. When Willow caught his eye, he offered a grin. "With all due respect my lady, that pile of rubble has never faced down a score of Gwaren's finest." He hoisted his pack up onto his shoulders and gestured to his fellows.

"We'll have you in there before lunch."

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

The soldiers were better than their word. Moving with almost brutal efficiency, they cleared the western passage in just over an hour, freeing up the shortcut that would take the rest of them deeper into the yawning dark of the temple ruins. The paths were too narrow for a large group to pass easily through them, and it was decided that Thea and a third of the forces from Gwaren would remain outside, watching for any stragglers that may try to scuttle out and escape, while another third would begin sweeping the halls for the remaining cultists.

No one admitted they would also be searching for the bodies of the remaining victims.

Cat, Nathaniel, and the remaining soldiers fell into line behind Willow and her friends. No one spoke much as they descended deeper into the temple, save for an occasional muttered swear prompted by an inconveniently placed spiderweb or a stray hunk of ankle-wrenching rubble. She could not quite explain it, but the air felt heavier down here; almost as if it breathing. Like the temple itself was coming alive as they wound their way through its marble entrails.

Soon the shuffling sounds of their footsteps faded, muted by a carpet of moss and leaves and a blanket of decay that swallowed up what limited amount of noise had survived the dim march to the ritual chamber. At last, they reached an elegantly carved door set into the stone, its reliefs depicting ancient elves in their quest for Uthenera brought into even sharper relief by the dirt and grime that had settled into every curve and divot of the design. Willow glanced back towards Cat, who gave a single sharp nod of her head.

This is it. This is the place.

Taking one finale deep inhale and reaching blindly for her husband's hand, Willow reached with the other for the handle, the cold kiss of the marble barely registering on her skin numbed by anticipation and adrenaline. She pressed forward, heart drumming fiercely against her chest.

And the door stuck.

"Shit," she muttered, pulling harder on the handle and making little progress. "You don't think he managed to lock this one from the other side?"

"Unlikely," Cat whispered, joining her at the door and adding her strength to the effort. "Most people would be hard pressed to even know this side passage is here. The only reason we found it twenty years ago was because the Lady of the Forest opened it for us."

"Oh!" Bellara spoke up from further back, pushing her way past the soldiers and Nathaniel and Emmrich to join them. "If it's meant to be hidden, or at least discrete, then I'll bet… hold on a sec…" she stared at the wall and door in front of them, brow furrowed in concentration, before her face suddenly lit up. "Ah ha! There it is!"

She pressed a small, unobtrusive oval of stone that Willow likely would not have spotted in a hundred years, and there was a faint click muffled by the inner mechanisms of the door. Cat and Willow exchanged a glance, then carefully tried the door again. This time, it opened willingly at their request, the stone giving only muffled groans of protest as it scraped over the moss and leaves blanketing the floor. But aside from that…

Silence. Complete and utter silence.

Willow did not need to say a word to confirm her companions were equally unnerved by the sudden absence of sound. The sudden tightness in the set of their mouths and the faint gleam of alarm in their eyes spoke volumes. She lead the way into the newly opened space, followed closely by Cataline and Bellara, the former placing a comforting hand on Willow's shoulder as they pressed on.

If she had to guess, and assuming they all survived whatever was about to unfold she was absolutely going to be consulting with Ivy after this to get her thoughts, this was a sort of secondary tomb. Perhaps for beloved family or companions of whoever had commissioned the behemoth temple complex, or maybe just high ranking elves, but the elegant granite sarcophagi were too fine for anyone of less import. The builders had gone so far as to use the harder, less forgiving stone rather than limestone that invited carvings and flourishes far more easily. It was too dark to fully unravel the narrative of the carvings, and Willow could not help but wonder if there were even remains left in them, or if they stood as mute monuments to remains long since burned away to ash and cinder and bone dust.

Yes… yes, she would very much like to come back and study this place someday. To ask her questions of what remains might still linger in this forgotten and forsaken place. For now, however, she was drawn to the other side of the small room, to the deceptively welcoming glow of light and the creeping fear of what she might find should she accept that invitation. The only small, bitter comfort she had was the knowledge that it would be bad. Likely horrifying.

And yet there was a familiarity to it all that was… comforting? She was a Guardian of the Tomb: a defender of the living from the dead, and vice versa. The presence of the sarcophagi, the rote imagery of death and a fanciful afterlife, they were not all that thematically different from those in Nevarra, albeit stylistically distinct. She had led dozens of missions, possibly hundreds, into crypts and tombs like this, often shepherding younger mortalitasi and acting as a silent assessor of their preparedness for their roles in Nevarran society. She had faced spirits of every variety currently known to scholarship (or at least, that had been known before the war of the evanuris), and whatever Cormac thought he was, or that he believed he was about to become, he had not counted on her and her companions, nor their strength or resolve.

Then again, she had not exactly counted on his resolve either.

It was always the smell that was the worst. Even as a student, Willow's least favorite part of her anatomy classes had been the often deeply unpleasant odors associated with the recently deceased. There was a sickening sweetness to it at times; a cloying scent that clung to her nostrils for hours after a completed dissection or autopsy. Other times, it stank of rot and decay, odoriferous testament to vices or desperate choices made by the deceased. And sometimes… sometimes there was simply the smell of death. Words could not fully capture it, and description proved elusive. One simply had to know it for what it was.

And Maker help her, but it was heavy in the air as they crossed the threshold from the side room into the main chamber. The space must have been beautiful, once: vaulted ceilings that arched so high natural sunlight was able to pierce through the failing stone to illuminate the verdant glow of moss and marble. There was no reflecting pool here, which surprised her slightly until she realized why: there was a great, twisting tree in where an altar would have resided, or perhaps had at one point in time. Somehow, against all odds, it had flourished in this subterranean vault, grasping what nourishment it could from the soil and the anemic sunlight filtering in from above. It was beautiful, and humbling, and regrettably rendered irrelevant by the abattoir at its roots.

Bodies. Dozens of them. Willow was not terribly surprised to find none of the villagers of Copse Hollow amongst them. No: the shemlen would have been culled first, considered an acceptable loss in Cormac's quest to become Somniari. The Dreamer, in ancient elven, according to Ivy. A faint, detached thought from deep in her mind questioned when he had realized the blood he had stolen would not be enough; would not come anywhere close to sating the thirst of his ambitious dreams.

Instead, every lifeless figure strewn across the floor and cradled in the roots of the great tree bore the distinct pointed ears of the elves. Most of them were even still in the robes that marked them as members of his cult. If she had to guess, she would say those that did not were likely the poor villagers stolen from Shiral'din, though some small part of her was relieved to not find the youngest abductee amongst them. There was still a chance they had been spared, as Sage had been.

Cormac had sacrificed his own devoted followers, the elves who had actually followed him of their own accord. Even now, above the cloying aroma of death that seeped from his previous human victims where they lay discarded in hasty charnel piles, the metallic scent of freshly spilled blood assaulted her nose. The murdered elves stared back at her, lifeless eyes locked in a final plea of horror and disbelief. Willow knew they had not gone to their deaths willingly. Not one of them had been prepared to lay down their own life for their precious Somniari. All she could do now was hope that, in their final moments, perhaps their own primal fear granted them some moment of remorse for those they had subjected to that same terror.

Willow wondered if some part of Cormac had always known the truth. That it would eventually, inevitably, come to this.

She could have told him. She could have warned him that it always, always came to this when a desire for power overrode ones conscience; their soul. There was an ending to this story, and it was one she knew had been written the moment Cormac set foot down this path. The moment he had decided there was no price too high to pay for what he wanted; what he believed he deserved.

Now, all that was left to do was to wait and see how long it took before he himself was overtaken.

There he sat, crumpled and silent on his knees before the great tree of the forest, his vacant eyes staring at hands slick and stained with the ochre of his people. Without thinking, Willow reached out and grabbed Bellara's free hand, and was relieved to see that Ivy had already taken the other. She knew where her mind would have gone in her friend's position; what dark imaginings might ooze into her thoughts as she wondered if her own brother had ever gone this far. If he'd ever stared at the blood on his own hands.

Bellara gave Willow's own hand a squeeze, then took a step forward, away from the soldiers and her friends. Willow moved to follow, then stopped. Somehow… somehow her instincts told her this had to be Bellara's choice. If there was any way to resolve this without further bloodshed, to see that Cormac faced true justice rather than a swift death he did not deserve, it would be Bellara that would find it. And if he so much as wiggled a finger in a way Ivy or Willow did not like, they would be there to back her up. But she was strong, and smart, and they had been trying to protect her for far too long. She trusted her friend; trusted her abilities and her cleverness.

"Cormac."

He looked up as Bellara gently spoke his name, his head tilting slowly up through a fog of confusion. "Bellara. You came back. I knew you would come back."

The words were clipped and mechanical, his gaze unfocused even while they stared in Bellara's direction, and Willow recognized the signs. She had seen them far too often in the deep crypts; those places few save the most senior mortalitasi and their sole Guardian dared to tread. Whatever they may have hoped for here, whatever chance there was of Cormac leaving these ruins alive… they vanished. He was already too far gone. All she could do now was pray he did not take any of them with him, or that the thin sliver of hope Bellara was offering him would be enough to pull him back from the abyss.

"We had such dreams, Cyrian and I," Cormac spoke again, none of the earlier conviction or fervor in his words. "When I chose the name Somniari, I thought of him. We wanted to elevate our people; show the shemlen they would never again own us. When the other clan found me, they showed me the way. They believed in my dreams. They said they could give me what I needed. And in a way, they did: their blood fueled the first ritual I required to break through the forest's natural protections. They died willingly, joyously, knowing their sacrifice would mean a future for their children, their grandchildren, and far beyond what any of us could hold account for."

"This wasn't Cyrian's dream, Cormac," Bellara replied, keeping her voice even and kind, though Willow was close enough to see the flash of pain that darted across her friend's eyes. "He made mistakes, too. Some of our people, they… they became…" She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath before continuing. "He became a monster. But he also came back to me in the end. He did the right thing, and saved us. If he hadn't, the evanuris would have won. Cyrian was a hero, and I know he wouldn't want this for you anymore than I do." She took another step, kneeling down next to him. Too close, Willow thought, hands already flexing around the hilts of her daggers. Too close.

Cormac stared at Bellara, a conflicted flicker in his amber eyes. "You… Bellara. Please. Stay with me. I will walk away from this ritual, from this place, and you and I can find a new home. A new place where we can begin rebuilding our strength and draw in those who share our purpose. Grant me your love, and I will spare the others. You have my word."

Shit.

The daggers came out of their sheathes, and at her side, Willow could feel Emmrich gathering strands of magic and hear the whisper of Cataline's bowstring as it drew taut. There was only one response to an offer like that, and they all knew it. Bellara sighed, standing up and stepping backwards towards them.

"I'm sorry, Cormac. I don't love you. I never will."

He had known, too. Even as the last motes of coherence fled his eyes and he fell forward to his hands with a low, guttural growl, Willow could tell that Cormac had known exactly what Bellara was going to say. Perhaps part of him had simply been looking for the excuse to finally give in to the rage that had been building inside him; the petty, bitter, petulant rage that had made him a shining beacon for the spirits straining at the weakened fibers of the veil in this place. There was the familiar blinding flare of flames and the heavy scents of iron and ozone. When her vision finally returned and the spots cleared from her eyes, Willow's worst fears were realized.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Davrin frowns. "Interesting."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A fine idea, Bellara," Emmrich replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nods. "Fair enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did you do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what about you?"

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

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

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

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

"I hate this."

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

***

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

He hadn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why not?"

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

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

Neve nods. "So Rook-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

And why does he remain here anyway?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm sorry."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I can't do this."