New fic: Dogwoods in the Fadelight
First chapter of the fic is up! You can read it on AO3, or I've posted it below the cut for tumblr readers:
Neve and Rosalyn finally return to the Lighthouse in the dead of night.
It's only momentarily disorienting, because they had gone through the Minrathous eluvian in the late afternoon. But the Fade doesn't keep with any normal time zones, or possibly any time zone at all. At least they'll have a few hours to rest and clean up before filling their teammates in on the Situation in Minrathous.
"I wonder how many words we can come up with for 'bad'," Neve wonders aloud, which earns a dry chuckle from Rosalyn.
She wishes so badly she could say Neve isn't right, that they didn't just leave Minrathous still barely limping from the dragon attack. Like they didn't likely leave friends and allies who survived the blight to suffer at the hands of starvation, or disease, or the now-emboldened Venatori.
But she's also right that they have a job to do. That they'll be of more use here, where they can stop the next dragon.
"Well." Neve stops at the base of the staircase to the mezzanine above, turning towards the grand doors. "I'm going to go see what damage the wisps have done to my office. It's far too early for me to sleep."
She's secretly glad there's no invitation for company. Likely because they could both use a few hours to themselves, after everything.
"Do try and sleep later, though? Like actually sleep?" Rosalyn can't help it. Neve is more than a patient now, she's a friend, and that earns extra fussing.
Neve laughs, and waves her off. "I promise to give it my best shot, how's that?"
"Good enough." Rosalyn concedes, although doesn't believe her. "I'm going to take the longest bath of my life." As if any bath could be enough to make her ever feel clean of the blood and blight again.
She ascends the stairs only to drop her bag just inside the infirmary door, and to grab her little basket of soaps and hair oils from her room before making her way to the bathhouse. It all feels little uncanny to be back, like she'd lived a full lifetime in just the two or so weeks she'd been gone, but the Lighthouse looks more or less unchanged.
She sees their faces still, when she dares to close her eyes. Contorted in agony, screaming for someone, anyone, to save them, or at least to give them mercy, to make the pain stop.
Far too often, she couldn't do both.
Could she even remember any of their names? Or had they all just been lost in the chaos? What kind of doctor is she becoming, that she couldn't remember the name of the boy who brought in his little sister, who had been burned so badly she was… Or was it his mother? Or were there two different cases? Could she really not even tell her patients apart anymore?
Horrible, selfish, you're losing yourself in this, you're no better than -
And then she nearly trips over a rather scrawny stranger.
"Oh, I am so sor - OH!" She catches a bony elbow before the stranger can fall, and notices only then that the elbow is just bones. That all of him is just bones. "You're a skeleton."
The skeleton hisses in agreement. Or maybe just hisses.
"Right. Of course you are. An ambulatory skeleton, in the Lighthouse courtyard. That's… You know, I actually don't think Solas was big on skeletons. How did you get in here?"
It's not a demon, thank the Maker for that. In fact, it doesn't seem like a very strong spirit at all, beyond that it seems not only aware of her presence, but delighted by it? A wisp, then? It doesn't seem hostile, but she still -
"Manfred!" A voice from behind her, "I've told you not to wander so far at night!"
The man the voice belongs to is also rather scrawny, but she's relieved to see he still possesses his entire body. She can't see many details in the low light of the veilfire torches and Fade-moonlight, but she certainly doesn't recognize him. He's dressed in a remarkably fine dressing gown and cap - is that actual gold thread in the brocade? for sleep clothes? - and when he extends a hand to shake hers, his palms are soft as a child's.
"My sincerest apologies, Madam. You must be one of my other colleagues that Rook mentioned?" She bristles at the word colleague, as they are still complete strangers, but somehow manages not to show it. She takes his hand, shakes it firmly, as if some part of her is taking his entire presence as a challenge.
And then he introduces himself.
"Professor Emmrich Volkarin, of the Mourn Watch."
Of course. Of course she spends two weeks in the depths of the void itself, forced to dodge Venatori escallations while just trying to keep children from choking to death on blight, and Rook brings a mortalitasi into their home. And a known one, at that, who seems to be quite open about keeping spirits as exotic pets.
"Doctor Rosalyn Veilmurren," she returns, putting perhaps too much emphasis on Doctor. No, not a doctor in the same sense as him, but just as important, and just as earned.
He flinches just slightly at her name. Good. No matter how he recognizes it.
"Ah, Our physician, then?" He straightens a bit, seems to look her over with a touch more awareness.
And she must be quite the sight, still in her full dragonhide armor, armed to the teeth with an eclectic assortment of knives and blades, including the faintly glowing lyrium-infused spellblade at her hip. She's probably still covered in a bit of ichor from the demons they'd fought at the crossroads, which she knows a mage would notice immediately.
"That's me."
But if anything about her intimidates him, he doesn't show it. "Marvelous!" As cheerful as if she hadn't just sized him up like a challenging lion. "I haven't met many spirit healers outside of Nevarra. I have so many questions!"
What.
"Ah - later. You must be exhausted after your journey. Come, Manfred, back to our quarters." He gives a slight bow, and his skeleton joyfully follows behind. "Until tomorrow, Doctor. Pleasant dreams!"
She does not have pleasant dreams.
Nothing would have prevented that, unfortunately. None of her dreams have been kind as of late, and she's needed her magic too much to risk a bit of felandaris to escape them. Tonight's dream is at least formless, just a blur of blood, and blight, the permeating smell of rot and death. Parents wail for their children, husbands cry out for their wives, but she is chained in place, unable to move or breathe or even scream. She can only watch, helpless, as the blight consumes her charges whole, as the Venatori slits the throats of everyone she loves, one by one. Each giving her one last look of despair and blame as they bleed out at her feet.
She awakes panting, heart pounding, but recovers her senses fortunately quickly, leaving her just… annoyed. Of course she can't get a decent night sleep even after she's escaped that damn city. Even after she's made it back to this temporary save haven. Of course.
Well. She's awake now. Nothing else to do about it but get back to work.
It's later in the day than she usually rises, although she finished at the bathhouse just before dawn, and her body is likely still operating on Minrathous time. Certainly a late morning - early afternoon? - can be forgiven this once. Still, she should track Rook down and debrief them, and get an explanation for the newest "colleague" in the Lighthouse.
Surely they have a good reason for bringing Professor Volkarin into the Veilguard. And it's probably a good reason, considering the man is, admittedly, quite the authority on the deeper and more complex workings of the Fade and its spirits. The most logical part of Rosalyn's brain knows they need all the help they can find, and that the Professor hasn't actually done anything wrong, besides letting his pet undead roam unattended into her space.
She still wants to be annoyed about it. Because she can, and because she slept like shit.
She finds Rook hunched over the table in the library, brow furrowed and tongue just sticking out, intensely focused on the sheet of parchment in front of them, and surrounded by quite a few more missives marked with an assortment of wax seals. She gives them a critical once over, taking note of the dark circles under their eyes, new worry lines etched into their furrowed brow. No way to see if they've been eating or hydrating enough, but she can needle that out of them later.
"Rosalyn!" They do perk up a little when they see her, and straighten in their chair, as if anticipating that she would fuss over how terrible their posture is for spinal health. "Lucanis said you and Neve were back, although I haven't heard from her yet. How was the journey?"
"Could have been worse," she admits, taking the seat next to them. "A handful of demons in the crossroads, but otherwise quiet."
"Good! We've been trying to clear the paths there, glad to hear it's stuck." They fiddle with some of the missives, like they're trying to find the words. Then just ask, "How's Minrathous?"
"Bad," she says plainly, "I think Neve can tell you better than me, I didn't leave the field hospital much. But it was her idea to come back now, so I think she's confident that it's at least… healing. I hope."
Rook nods, gaze distant for a moment. "And how long are you back?"
"For good, far as I'm concerned." She feels guilty that it's a relief to say that. "I actually wanted to debrief with you, maybe ask about some… new members of the team?"
"Have you met Emmrich and Taash? I can introduce you if not."
Hm. "I've met the professor, briefly. Quite literally ran into his skeleton friend last night."
"Oh, Manfred's harmless. Emmrich is, too. He might actually be one of the most polite people I've ever met? Even with all the skulls. And the blood magic. But he's a Fade expert, and it's what we needed."
Rosalyn knows well enough by now that Rook isn't actually as naive as her first impression had made her believe, but it's an easy mistake to make when they say things like that. Still, she doubts they'd blindly let a threat like a malicious necromancer stand in their safe haven without thoroughly vetting him themself. And… they've proven to be a good judge of character, so far.
Fine. Point in Volkarin's favor.
"And… Taash, did you say?" She continues, tucking her worries away for later.
"Our dragon hunter! Figured, well. We probably need one. Considering." There's that faraway look again, but they snap back quicker. "Harding found her in Rivain. One of the Lords of Fortune, if you've heard of them."
"Oh, I have. I'm sure you gave Isabela enough stories for the month." There's an odd tugging at her heart. Guilt, maybe, that she'd written about Varric rather than telling Isabela in person. That was before she had access to the Ve'Revas, though. Maybe she could rectify that. Soon.
"She's one of Varric's Kirkwall friends, right? He talks about her a lot." Rook is still using the present tense, she notices, but doesn't mention. Even if hearing it feels a bit like they're pressing on a bruise. "She did say to tell you to 'visit her soon, or else.'"
That gets a real laugh out of Rosalyn. "Well, I definitely don't want 'or else'. Guess I'll need an evening away soon." Once she's caught up on her work here, of course. If she ever catches up. "I should probably go chat with my new patients, and leave you to… all this. Anything else I should know?"
"Don't think so? Now that you and Neve are back, I did want to have another table meeting after dinner. Make sure we're all on the same page."
"Excellent. I'll be there." She stands, careful not to disturb the mess on the table, and once Rook points out their new teammates' rooms, she tries to subtly steel herself as she heads to the Professor's door first.
She's a professional. And personal biases be damned, she has a job to do.
Now that she sees the entrance to the Professor's rooms, she wonders how she missed it before. It's so painfully Nevarran, with stylized skulls adorning every decorative vase, every stone relief, gemed eyes glowing, judging her every move. She wonders if that's the Lighthouse's doing, or if the man had skeleton servants to drag half a mansion worth of decor just for the entryway.
If those same skeleton servants were going to be a permanent fixture in the Lighthouse, they might have a problem. She can tolerate a lot of things for the sake of not stirring unnecessary conflict. Callous entrapment and abuse of spirits would definitely be several steps too far.
Now she's just making up reasons to be annoyed. She only saw the one skeleton, and he didn't seem to be in any duress.
"You know, that saying about judging a book by its cover isn't just talk, Bambi." She can hear Varric saying.
Yeah, and your book covers really are proof of that, huh?
Oh, she misses him.
Ok. Focus. Time to do professional doctor things.
She forces her face into something more neutral, and knocks on the door.
"Come in!"
If she wants proof that the hallway decor wasn't his doing, she might have found it. The decor of his rooms is still definitely Nevarran - a brief glance isn't enough to even count the skeletons - but there's an order to it. The skull-themed art seems both carefully selected and lovingly arranged, like curated museum pieces rather than expensive adornments to show off wealth and influence. The real skulls have been laid out with meticulous care across the ceiling-high shelves, just as purposeful as the books and scrolls surrounding them. A second look tells her that each skull is accompanied by a specimen placard that includes a name, although whether it belongs to the owner of the skull or its discoverer, she can't tell without a closer look.
It all seems so… homey. Welcoming. The lit fireplace and large, soft-looking chair help, certainly, but she's so used to necromancers with sterile laboratories underneath austere, cold mansion halls, that a space decorated by a Nevarran but meant for the living is a completely foreign concept.
Her eyes have just made it to the framed anatomical charts on his wall when he speaks, bringing her back to herself.
"Ah, Doctor Veilmurren. A pleasure to see you again!"
"Good afternoon, Professor. Could I have a few minutes of your time?"
"Certainly! And please, call me Emmrich."
We met for exactly five seconds last night, and it wasn't a friendly meeting. What on Mythal's green earth could he be getting at? "Of course," she says, carefully noncommittal.
"Please, have a seat," he gestures at a large red armchair in front of his desk with a flourish, and she notes that he's got enough gold on each arm to feed the average family for a month. Tch. Nevarrans.
"I must apologize for Manfred last night," he begins, as she perches carefully on the chair, flattens out her skirts. "He truly means no harm, but I hope he didn't give you too much of a fright."
She blinks at him, mouth open, and any retort or criticism she had prepared dies on her tongue. It sounds more like he's apologizing for a misbehaving child than for an out-of-line servant. Something clicks into place that probably should have hours ago.
"You've… Named him Manfred?" It doesn't rule out the poor thing being a pet, but there's at least some care, there.
"Oh, yes. Manfred suits him quite well, I think." His smile is genuine, warm, and his voice is dripping with affection.
"Oh, it… it does. Yes." She has no idea why this has thrown her off so much. Maybe because she walked in her prepared for a fight. Or at least a disagreement. Or maybe because she made a snap judgement of him and it's already proving to be a little unfair.
Maybe. But he hasn't settled all of her worries just yet.
"I'm so sorry," she starts. "I can't think of a better way to ask this. Is your - Manfred… Is he here willingly? Like… " Ah, fuck it. She's already lost any pretense of authority in this conversation. "Are you keeping the skeleton as a slave? Or like, a pet?"
A few emotions flash across his eyes, surprise, anger, bewilderment, before he seems to settle on horror. "As a - he - you - Of course not!" In fact, he seems fully offended by the accusation, like she'd just asked if he's ever kicked an old lady down the steps of a chantry. "Manfred is my assistant! And an absolutely invaluable one at that! I would never - he chose to have a body, and I take incredible responsibility to provide him the guidance to use it!"
Well. Somehow she hadn't expected this reaction.
"I am… so sorry, I didn't - " the urge to placate and comfort always bubbles up in her gut first, no matter how old she gets. She shoves it back down, straightens her back. "I shouldn't have assumed. But… I have seldom met a necromancer of your station who doesn't treat spirits like tools, something to be used up and discarded. I misjudged the situation, though, and I apologize for that. You seem to care for Manfred a great deal."
He seems a little surprised by this - she thinks, although his expression is a little hard to read. He sighs, shakes his head, "No, no. It is better to be certain, in such cases. I apologize too, that so many like me have been such poor examples of compassion."
"I mean, you don't," she clears her throat. "It's fine. Really, you can't carry the weight of so many strangers' wrongdoings. I was just…" It's not placating to protect herself, this time. She just doesn't like that she upset him. That her directness got the better of her again. "He's, um, a wisp, yeah?"
"A wisp of Curiosity!" He seems to perk up almost instantly. "I met him while assisting with an excavation in the Forlorn Sepulchre…"
It ends up taking nearly an hour for her to get to her business at all, they get so wrapped up in talking. First, about Manfred, and how he came to be, and how far he's come since his days as a brand new wisp. Then a question she asks about Necropolis spirits opens up more questions from him about her work, about how she met her companion spirits, how they affect her magic, where and how she learned her craft.
His questions, she finds, go beyond the polite inquiry of a man who pities her poor backwater education; he keeps his focus squarely on her, and the few times she thinks maybe he's disinterested, maybe she's gone on too long about some trivial thing, he surprises her with another question, or some exclamation of delight at her answers. She forgets entirely that she's talking to a Senior Necromancer of the Grand Necropolis, a man who has enough degrees and accolades that he must be accustomed to the highest respect in any room he enters. And yet, when she describes memorizing anatomy from an outdated, mud-stained edition of the Corpus Compendium between shifts at the Skyhold infirmary,he seems genuinely impressed by her dedication.
"I have the newest edition, if you ever want to borrow it." He offers, gestures to his bookshelves. As if she could find it among what looks like hundreds of tomes.
"I have my own copy now, thankfully." A very lovingly annotated copy. "But that's very kind. Might take you up on some of those old Nevarran almanacs, though."
"They're fascinating! Much of what's in them is terribly outdated, but it is a marvelous lense into how modern medical science developed. Ah - but I've taken so much of your time, and you came here for a reason."
Had she? Oh, yeah. "I mean, I mostly wanted to more properly introduce myself, let you know to come by the infirmary any time you need. Don't even have to knock, unless I'm working with lyrium but I do have a sign for that."
"That is wonderful to know. I've been doing my absolute best to fill in as a physician, but it puts the mind at ease to have such an expert care for us."
She laughs a little. Maybe he's overdoing the flattery. Maybe she doesn't trust that he won't declare himself an authority over her, once shit hits the fan and lives are on the line.
But maybe she isn't actively suspicious of him anymore.
"I should probably go, though. I need to go meet… Taash, was her name? Give her the same little rundown. This has been a lovely chat, though. Thank you, Emmrich."
"Oh, not at all, Doctor."
She shakes her head. "Rosalyn, if we're dropping formality."
"Rosalyn, then. Do take care!"
Somehow, she leaves Emmrich's rooms less annoyed than when she'd entered, even if she still wrinkles her nose at the hallway decor. She's made a new… Friend? Maybe. Closer to friend than enemy, at least.
And when she passes Manfred on the way to dinner later, she gives him a little pat on the head.
