Neve continued. “Last night, Bellara came to my office in search of a missing artifact. A priceless -”

Behind her, she could hear Bellara take a breath to contradict her. Neve glanced over her shoulder, giving her a look, and was pleased to see her think better of it. “A priceless piece of ancient Arlathan. A small metal ball interwoven with living wood, believed to be part of an ancient machine.”

Neve turned and started slowly walking past the line of suspects, meeting each one eye to eye. “Spherical. Small enough to fit in your palm. Hardly capable of leaving on a solo peregrination without the aid of a collaborator.”

Bellara leaned over, whispering to Rook. “Since it doesn’t have feet. Sometimes they do.” Rook nodded, accepting that as the sage observation it was.

Neve cleared her throat. “Now. As this is a very serious matter  - “

Davrin tried to hide his chuckle by clearing his throat.

Neve chose to ignore him. She would have the last laugh here. “- I proceeded to collect the necessary clues. Questioned all relevant witnesses. And I believe I have developed a likely theory for the order of events that led to our missing trinket.”

“I thought it was priceless,” Harding muttered to Taash. “Doesn’t trinket imply you know - not that?”

“Our missing priceless trinket,” Neve said, “and how to go about its recovery.”

“Dinner is only a few minutes away,” Lucanis interjected from where he bent over a pan by the stove. “I would suggest the short version unless everyone wants cold fish.”

Neve pinched the top of her nose, sighing. “Rook,” Neve said. “Yesterday morning, upon leaving your room, what did you see in the library?”

“Oh, um - Bellara?” 

“Can you be a little more specific?”

Rook sat up straighter, folding her hands in her lap. Neve had seen Emmrich take a similar pose when launching into a formal recitation. Obviously a Watcher thing. “Upon leaving my room this morning, I witnessed Bellara asleep in the library. She had an open book in her lap, papers with what looked like diagrams of artifacts spread over the table, and a basket with an assortment of tools and - well, trinkets, to utilize the nomenclature we’ve established.”

“And because you don’t know what they’re called,” Bellara said.

“Yes, that too.”

“Thank you,” Neve said, turning to Bellara. “Bel, do you recall the specific contents of your basket?”

“Oh. OH!” Bellara jumped to her feet, like she was ready to run down to the library and fetch her things. “It was in there!”

Neve picked up the aforementioned basket from the shadowed corner where she had stashed it. “Emphasis on the past tense, I'm afraid.”

Bellara sat back down. “Oh. So, do you know where it is now?”

“As I said, I have a theory.” Neve turned to Taash. “Two weeks ago you had a delicate conversation with Davrin regarding Assan’s diet, yes?”

Taash nodded. “Right. Because of his poop.”

Davrin looked between Neve and Taash. “Hey, he’s getting a lot more fiber now. And what does that have to do with the missing - thing?”

“Everything,” Neve said. “Emmrich, last night you and I were looking over those Venatori ritual diagrams and you needed to look something up.”

Emmrich nodded. “Indeed. I sent Manfred to fetch a copy of Darian Mikarnus’ ‘Grid Work and Runes of Binding, Warding, and Summoning’ that I had seen in the library earlier. Fascinating study. Mikarnus was well versed in the Tevene style of ordering ley lines and interlocking foundational runes to counteract potential gaps in arcane bindings. It did take Manfred a while to return.”

“It did, didn’t it? And Lucanis,” Neve said, glancing at the assassin who was plating dinner. “You mentioned Spite spent some time with Manfred and Assan last night.”

“He did. He has been much better about telling me what I’ve missed. Does someone want to open the wine? The seven year Verdejo should be a good pairing.”

Neve held up a hand to stop anyone from moving. It was rather gratifying that in spite of the allure of dinner and fancy wine, everyone remained in their spots. “That sets the stage, save for one last piece of the puzzle. Harding.”

“Me?” Harding looked around. “Whoa, I didn’t take anything from the library. I wasn’t anywhere near the library last night.”

“I know. But you have been helping Davrin and Assan with his diet issue, right?”

Harding grinned. “Yup! We’ve been playing a game with him - tossing apples and seeing if he can catch them. He gets some exercise, gets more fiber, and we get to have some fun too. Everyone wins. I was even showing Manfred how to…” Harding trailed off, her eyes going wide.

Neve smiled. “How to throw apples for Assan.” She watched as realization spread across the group, the sharp inhales and gaping mouths as everyone put the pieces together.

“So, my theory: Bellara had the trinket in her basket when she fell asleep in the library. Manfred found it when he was sent there to fetch the warding book and decided to take a detour with his friend Spite to practice his new skill - throwing small, rounded objects for Assan to catch.”

“And eat,” said Davrin grimly. “Damn. I’ll check his favorite hiding spots. Hopefully he left it with one of the truffle stashes.”

“No, he swallowed it,” Lucanis said, equally grim. He was staring at a spot somewhere to Neve’s left, no doubt mentally getting the details from his demon. “Spite decided not to share that part with me last night.”

“Oh dear,” said Emmrich. “Bellara, Davrin, I do apologize. I will speak with Manfred about this.”

Taash clapped Davrin on the shoulder. “Should be monitoring his poop anyway. He’ll probably pass it soon.”

Bellara and Davrin exchanged looks. Bellara sighed. “I wish I could say this will be the grossest place I’ve retrieved an artifact from, but honestly? It’s probably not even in the top ten.”

“Bellara! Neve!” Taash bellowed, carrying Emmrich splayed across their arms, a trail of rubies drip drip dripping in rapid succession with their steps.

Rook jogged alongside the qunari, puffing as they bullied through a cluster of alarmed wisps in the hall and slammed their shoulder into the door of the infirmary.

Varric startled where he'd been propped against the wall, a book snapping shut in his lap. “Rook?”

Shit. Field medicine now. Like the creekbeds in the Arlathan. The crumbled rocks, the clinging streaks of rashvine on calves. Thorns. Minor blade wounds on hands, on shoulders. Fine. Fine. Shit. “Table,” Rook barked.

Gently, despite their haste, Taash lowered the gasping necromancer onto a cot. The boards creaked slightly. Emmrich's eyes were screwed shut, his brow furrowed and twisted against the pain, his breathing– normally so soft, controlled, came out in uneven, ragged pants.

Rook dunked their hands in a basin of lukewarm water, scrubbing furiously as Taash ripped open the necromancer's tattered lapels, wrenching the blood-soaked leather aside and chucking it to the floor as if it were the source of the injury. His undershirt was in similar shape, ragged satin blooming with the iron tang of viscera. His chest expanded, shuddered, froze. His head lolled.

Taash made a noise, somewhere between a growl and a yelp of alarm as they lifted their hands from Emmrich's body. They looked to Rook helplessly, eyes wide and frantic.

“Hey, hey hey– Don't you do it–” Rook hissed, uncorking a vial from the shelf in their teeth. “Emmrich! Shtay writh me, man–” Scarred hands cradled the back of the older man's head, lifting it slightly off the cot. They lifted the healing potion to his lips and tipped, watching its contents glimmer in the werelight and candle glow.

A shrill hiss announced two pairs of bounding boots. Manfred bustled into the infirmary, took one look at the state of things and began to wave his arms with the rattling of bones, shrieking. Davrin leaned on the doorframe, panting. “What happened?”

“Venatori,” Taash snarled, beginning to pace, arms folded tight to their chest. “Ambushed us on the beach. One of the mages hit him with something.”

Manfred's frantic hissing grew to a higher pitch, mostly nonsense. Maybe the necromancer's name.

Rook spit out the cork. “Fred! Run to the library– get me any of the plants Emmrich had for medicine– or Harding's room–!”

Manfred spun on his heel with a soft wail, plunging out of the infirmary once more. Davrin straightened. “What can I do?”

“Find Neve,” Rook breathed, snapping a dagger from their hip to slit open Emmrich's shirt and examine the impact wound. Or was it a laceration? Could something be both? “I don't know what they hit him with. It was very red. Not quite fire.” Bits of raw flesh clung to pearlescent white specks, slick with blood, nearly unrecognizable in its cohesion. Just… wet. Warm. Pulsing.

Ribs. Oh Maker, the white specks were their friend's bones.

They tamped down the wave of dizzy nausea. No glimpse of the inflating pink of lungs or other organs underneath– not yet. Had to clean this first, find out. But the potion, thank Andraste, was starting to take effect. The gush was slowing to an ooze, even as Rook lifted their hands once more and plunged their marred red wetness into the basin– ribbons of scarlet dancing in the cool water.

“She's out,” Davrin said, hands working restlessly at his sides.

“Out? Where?” Taash demanded. “Where's Bellara?”

“Docktown, with Harding. Tarquin asked her to look into– she'll be back soon.” The Grey Warden eyed Emmrich's prone form on the cot, as if unable to tear his gaze away. No doubt it was a familiar sight, but a more disturbing one with one so close. “Bel's–”

Emmrich shuddered a rattling gasp, eyes flying open as Rook pressed an elfroot soaked rag over the sucking wound.

“Sorry!” Rook barked on instinct, body rigid. They bent over their work, zeroing in on cleaning the drying splatters with new focus. Taash moved to hold his legs down below the knee, expression grim.

“Keep it together, corpse guy.”

The necromancer loosed a ragged cry as Rook dabbed at what they hoped would become a shallower, bruising gash. To their horror, the effects of the potion only seemed to slow the bleeding and cover the shy bits of bone in a thin film of new flesh. Blood continued to ooze, slowly and steadily, from the marred muscles that dove straight down between his collarbones to his navel, thick as their palm.

Now, strange marks, like raw burns, about the size of Rook's thumbnail, swirled the margins on the skin that remained whole. “Maker's will– what'd they hit you with, Emm?”

Pale and wan, his lips graying to an alarming near-blue, Emmrich wrapped a bony hand around Rook's wrist. His eyes locked on their face with distant urgency, cloudy with pain but still sharp. Alert. “Are my manubrium… or costal grooves, exposed,” he rasped.

“Emmrich, you know I love you, but I don't know what that means,” Rook breathed, bent over the wound, fingers dancing across the strange runic burns as if trying to read them.

“I can not look for myself,” he wheezed, his tone clinical and matter of fact in its wispiness. “Or I will pass out. How many bones?”

“None, now,” Rook replied, locking eyes with the professor as if searching his face would bring more answers. So often now had Emmrich been the one wrapping their wounds. Listening intently to Harding and Davrin mutter about blindspots and chinks in armor so perfect for arrows as he patched them up with a wave of his hand, or treated a deep cut on Lucanis’ brow with a more intent press of mana across his fingertips. Gently chastising Neve for lingering too long at her desk with a black eye, or Bellara for tinkering intently in the small hours of the night– hold on now, had the necromancer been doing rounds?

A little late to realize now, and Rook felt stupid for missing it, eyes burning with moisture as they recalled how just yesterday the necromancer had rapped politely on the doorway to Bellara's room, where she and Rook had been wrestling with a particularly stubborn set of bronze focus rings they'd picked up outside D'Meta's Crossing.

“Good evening,” he'd hazarded after a particularly loud pop of blue light scattered sparks across the stone floor.

Rook pulled off the scarf wrapped over their nose, grinning ear to ear. “We figured it out! It's aligned to the Southern Constellations, Emmrich! We've cracked it!”

“That's wonderful. Perhaps you both ought to ‘crack’ an attempt at bed at a reasonable hour? It's rather late.”

Bellara waved him closer excitedly. “Take a look at this, Professor! There's intrinsic glyphs, but only if you–” She took the orb in her hands and shifted its rings with two sharp metallic clangs, releasing it to allow it to unfold like a bronze lotus.

Emmrich's brows rose, clearly intrigued– before he dutifully shook off his interest and cleared his throat. “Perhaps in the morning.”

“But we've almost– I mean–” Bellara frowned.

Rook was still beaming. “Still got no idea what it does.”

“All the more reason to try again tomorrow,” Emmrich said cheerfully. “Now, Rook, I did ask you to rest that wrist?”

Rook dropped their hand guiltily where it was tangled within the mechanism, fingers splayed to try and pull it back together. “Uh–”

“Right. Goodnight, all.” He turned away, shaking his head slightly.

“Goodnight, Professor,” Bellara called after him.

Rook was jostled from the memory when it took shape in the form of the elf that burst into the infirmary. “Rook!”

The rogue shook themself and refocused on keeping pressure on the wound. Emmrich was still gripping their wrist like a vice, their bad one- funny- and the professor was strong. Good. Not fading away any time soon.

The necromancer sucked an agonized breath through his teeth and let it out. “Prop me up.”

“What?” Rook and Taash demanded.

“What happened?” Bellara trilled, horrified. Davrin took her arm and led her closer. “They were ambushed.”

“Take a look at this,” Rook hummed to her, lifting the cloth slightly with a sickening squelch.

“Oh- I- Ohhh, I don't know, that looks bad,” Bellara observed disjointedly, eyes like saucers, looking both nauseated and terrified as she spoke between splayed fingers on her lips. “I mean, of course it looks bad, but I– oh, Professor.”

“Rook,” Emmrich panted. “Please. If the air is trapped– in my chest–”

“Right. Okay. Taash, on three.”

Davrin surged forward. “Where?”

“Legs,” Taash grunted.

Qunari and Warden pushed strong arms underneath Emmrich's knees and hips as Rook lifted him under his shoulders, one hand still pressed to the rag over his chest. “One.”

Emmrich screwed his eyes shut with an agonized hum that wrung his throat so tightly they could all see the tendons of his neck strain. “Gently.”

Taash huffed.

“Two.” Rook tensed their bicep under his back, hating how sharply they could feel Emmrich's shoulder blades digging into them without his usual layers of finery and armor. Was he really so skinny? “Three!”

With a collective heave, possibly not all that necessary, the necromancer was surprisingly light– the heroes lifted and shifted Emmrich so that he could sit up, legs out in front of him, where he slumped slightly in favor of the worst of the gash. Sweat slick strands of his usually terribly neat hair clung to his brow in disarray. He gulped another breath and exhaled it with a clearly painful wheeze, in doing so, his chin dropped and he caught a glimpse of his own raw interior and the blood soaked rag Rook was pressing to it.

“Oh dear,” he managed primly, lashes fluttering slightly as his eyes rolled and unfocused– whether from agony, moving too fast or the far too intimate demonstration of anatomical distress– which surely was much different painlessly observed on a mortician's slab or long cold in states of decay– Or, maybe it was just blood loss.

Emmrich went limp, unconscious, slumping against Rook's shoulders. They made a high noise of panic, deep in their throat, and it took them a moment to realize it was indeed they that made the sound.

Bellara muttered to herself, hemming as she gestured with trembling hands. A cool breath of air swirled and culminated as light, a glimmer of blue and gold threads weaving together. The magic stuttered, started again, and stopped, vanishing into thin air. Bellara sagged, distraught, ears pulled all the way back. “No no no, I can do it!”

“Bandages,” Rook hastened at Davrin, who stepped quickly away from the cot. They peeled the soiled cloth from the deepest remains of the wound– now about the size of their fist in the center of the necromancer's sternum. The rest of it was like the outside of a ravine, flesh raw and scraped, but the oozing was drying to a halt in rusty patches. The magical burns had stopped spreading, but still pulsed angrily, like fresh beestings as they rose up on either side of the gash.

Hurriedly, Rook folded another white cloth and pressed it to the sucking wound once more. Emmrich didn't stir. They pressed their fingers to his neck. His pulse was weak. If this were anyone else, if he hadn't fought so damn hard– a barrier of emerald light flaring ferociously out to blind the cultists coming after Taash– he wouldn't have left his front so open to the blast.

A flare of rage surged to life from the pit of the Veil Jumper's belly, which they forced down again. When Emmrich had fallen in the sand, Taash had enough time to whirl and breathe white hot flame into the ranks.

The murders had been swift, but not painless. Rook shook away the memory, throat tight, chest squeezing. Emmrich's pulse was still featherlight under their fingers. If this had happened to anyone else the necromancer could have mended them with a few gestures, a gentle word. Effortless.

Why hadn't Rook been faster? Why hadn't they heard the rustle of robes emerging off the abandoned dock? Maker… why weren't they a mage, for fucks’ sake!

Bellara grimaced with a soft whine and pressed her palms on either side of the rogue’s, whispering as her fingers steeped in the elfroot solution and darkening pool of blood that made the fabric slick in some places and coarse in others. Her hands glowed softly, weak sparks flickering to life on the raw flesh around the rag, as if beginning to knit and reform it, before winking out one by one. “Oh, please please please…”

“Save your mana, Bel,” Rook whispered hoarsely.

Davrin returned to their side with a thick roll of gauze, helping Rook unwind long soft strands. Bellara made a helpless sound. “Have you already given him–”

“A potion? Yeah. Stopped the bleeding, not much else.” Taash was still pacing by the door, white braid swinging.

“It looks like someone used a sundering rune–”

“But it was just magic,” Taash insisted.

“Lift him forward a little, let me help,” Davrin said gently, leaning past Rook to place one end of the bandages under Emmrich's waist on his other side, broad hands sure and sparkling with damp from where he must have just washed them.

Manfred returned with a loud hiss, balancing a concerningly broad array of potted plants in his bony arms, a few more leaves poked tellingly out of the flap of his pack, just as Lucanis skidded into view behind him. “Rook? Is everyone– mierde.” He let his hands fall to his sides. “Manfred rushed past the kitchen and… what can I do?”

“Stay right there,” Rook huffed, winding bandages over the tightly folded wad of blood soaked elfroot and gauze they'd pressed to the wound around the necromancer's frail midriff, knuckles stained red.

Davrin supported the necromancer half upright on his forearm to give the Veil Jumper room to work, hand over hand.

Manfred hissed insistently, as if to remind them all he was still there. “Plants!”

“Good job, Fred. Let me see what you've got.” Rook beckoned without looking up. Manfred clattered over, harried, and laid out the pots in a meticulous, colorful row at the foot of the cot.

Bellara was squeezing Emmrich's hand in both of hers, having fallen silent but looking stricken. Davrin gently set him down as Rook finished their work. They kept Emmrich upright against the wall as best they could, his weight on Davrin's shoulder and hand still clutched in Bellara's with the warmth of flesh and heated bronze. An anchor, perhaps.

The Grey Warden had pulled up a stool beside the mage, his free hand on her shoulder. “All we can do now is wait. He'll pull through.”

Rook snarled half heartedly in frustration, kneeling on the cold stone floor to examine each plant leaf by leaf. There were a few they didn't recognize– damn it, Emmrich– but ever since he had mentioned off hand to Harding that he may have one day liked to be a botanist, Rook had made a habit of bringing him fresh clippings and sketched notes.

They were passionate about growing things too, but they were no herbalist. Blue flowers, round leaves, black leaves, red flowers… elfroot, not much good on its own now… dawn lotus. Beautiful. Useless.

Wait a tick.

Long, slender green leaves and flowers like little beads of orange fire. Rook lifted the pot to examine the strands of greenery and inhaled its stem of ember-blooms. Spicy sweet. And a bit like home. A grateful smile tugged at their mouth. “Prophet's laurel. Holding out on me, Professor?”

Humming in approval, they began shredding the stalk in their hands. They'd have to ask just how the hell he'd had enough natural light in his study for such a thing, and where he found it– later. “Great work, Manfred.”

The skeleton knelt beside them with a soft whimpering sound. Rook clapped the skeleton on the shoulder and got to their feet. “I need boiling water. Lucanis?”

“Right.” The assassin was gone as silently as he had come.

“Elfroot and potions are great, slowed the bleeding and now it's clean, but Bellara, I can't undo whatever spell is on the wound– it'll need to be dispersed before we can heal it completely. For now I'm going to try something.”

Bellara shot to her feet. “Right. Okay. I'll look in the library– or, I might have something– okay! I'll be right back!” She darted out of the room, fleet as a halla.

Taash was staring expectantly at Rook. The rogue smiled gently, understanding and trying to slow their racing heart. “Grab that mortar and pestle. I'm going to give you these.” They stripped a few berry-like blooms off the laurel and held them out to the qunari in an open palm. “Take that whole dawn lotus root out of the pot and grind them together into a paste.”

The dragon hunter complied, movements jerky with forced purpose. They sank down beside Rook with the jingling of armor and bangles, frowning deeply as they mashed stone on stone with vigor, the sound of angry scraping filling the room. Then came the smell of wet earth and unmistakable green.

“Stay calm, kid. You're doing everything right,” Varric encouraged gently, his voice low from where he sat on the cot beside Emmrich's, nearly hidden by Davrin's broad frame.

Rook released a slow breath and nodded, rising on creaking limbs to dunk their hands in the basin once more. They scrubbed with the clean, soft white soap Neve had brought back from Minrathous all those months ago, when this had all began. It smelled like her, like rain and the faintest breath of vanilla whiskey. Vehemently, the rogue wished the mage were here. Her steady pragmatism was never unwelcome in counsel– even now, after everything.

Ah, balls. Keep it together, Rook.

Dragons, gods, screw it. Dirt and blood and plants. Rook could do that. Didn't need mages for that. Just friends.

Those didn't seem to be in short supply here.

Manfred lingered at Emmrich's bedside where Davrin supported him. The skeleton was mopping some of the cold sweat from the necromancer's brow with one of his embroidered handkerchiefs.

Lucanis returned with tea towels dangling from either hand as he carried in a steaming pot of water. He eased past Taash and set it down beside Rook, tucking the towels under his arm. For a moment, as he rose, his hand reached out. Rook looked up, startled from where they'd been shaking diamond droplets from their fingers.

Lucanis’ hand curled back inches from their shoulder, his gaze warm as he frowned and instead offered them the soft cloth at his arm.

Rook hesitated, but took the towel. Why waste it, even if there were others folded on the shelf. Their hands almost brushed as he handed it off to them, then it was over, and Rook was drying their hands. “Thank you,” they murmured.

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Um…” Rook frowned, listening to Taash attack the stubborn grains of root with new vigor. “Yes. Actually, would you help me–” they tugged another leaf from the vine of prophet's laurel, where it was starting to wilt in its neatly packed dirt. “Take the leaves and fold them, rub the insides until they warm up and start coming apart, there's a really thin coat of moisture in the leaves, then press it into the boiling water with–” they looked around and plucked a thin wooden splint from the shelf. “Just don–”

“Burn myself? Right,” Lucanis reassured gently, taking the splint. “I could go back to the kitchen for a real spoon?”

Rook waved his words away. “I don't think it matters.”

Lucanis nodded and sank to the floor, dutifully working the plucked leaves between his thumb and forefinger and then pressing them into the hot water, where they grew saturated and thin. Rook was doing the same to a few stalks of elfroot from Manfred's pack.

Afterwards, they dipped their fingers in Taash's mortar and pestle, crossed the room, and with one hand peeled back the bandages on Emmrich's chest. With the other, they smeared the amalgamate of prophet's laurel and lotus over the gash. With a less bloody pinkie, they did the same thing, albeit more delicately, on each of Emmrich's temples. They set to cleaning and rebandaging again. With any luck, the balm would numb some of the pain for a time and keep everything clean, as well as encourage healing with minimal scars. Not that it would matter if the necromancer was up and casting again.

For a long time, they worked in silence. They heard Bellara before they saw her, footsteps charging up the stairs and plunging back into the infirmary. She carried all manner of strange bits and baubles, some metal and some wood, all beautiful. Under her arm were at least three massive tomes, which she dropped beside Taash and started flipping through. “Alright, I just have to reverse the mar of the intention– There were two runestone's left in the lin’renan focus and one of them is definitely for cleansing–”

“One of them?” Taash looked up.

Bellara wrinkled her nose, hands trembling slightly as she pulled two smooth, geometric stones from her belt. They glowed softly in response to her touch. “I just have to figure out which.”

Rook rubbed their temples, then pulled their fingers away regretfully as the sticky sap of plant life clung to their skin.

Emmrich stirred slightly with a groan that crackled in his throat. Davrin squeezed the necromancer's forearm. “Hey. Emmrich?”

Manfred hissed and touched his other arm, mirroring Davrin, and still gently wiping the professor's forehead. Rook wandered back to Lucanis, who helped them strain the herbs into a bucket with a cloth over it to catch the steeped stalks.

Emmrich took a shuddering breath, luckily with the wrappings and semi-mended internals it didn't sound like a leaking balloon. His eyes lolled open, his face still torturously pale, and he managed a grunt.

“Rook. We should set him down, elevate his legs so the blood can get back to his heart and brain.” Davrin leaned back in his chair to regard them, expression severe. “He's not in any danger of leaking out his front now.”

Manfred made a distressed noise of protest. “Rook.”

“Manfred, Davrin's right,” Rook tossed over their shoulder with more confidence than they felt. Gods forbid all this jostling around tore him open again– but what was important was getting him conscious safely. The last thing they needed was for shock to land their defacto physician with brain damage.

Then there'd only be three brain cells between them all. Rook smiled grimly at the thought.

Bellara flipped another page in her tome, muttering under her breath, the runestones at her fingertips beside her. Taash passed the mortar and pestle to Lucanis, who held it, looking somewhat lost, and came over to help Davrin lift Emmrich once more. The necromancer whimpered in pain.

Rook tucked three pillows under the professor's ankles and Taash set down his legs so that they were higher than where his head rested.

Emmrich gripped Taash's hand suddenly, catching the qunari by surprise as he squeezed and gave them a weak, reassuring smile.

Taash's lip wobbled, but they worked their jaw and squeezed him back. Manfred pulled another handkerchief from his jacket pocket, even though there was not much more sweat to speak of. Maybe it helped the wisp feel a bit better.

“No,” Lucanis was murmuring. “No. Stay out of the way.” He furrowed his brow. “He will be right again in time. No.”

Davrin cast the assassin a tight lipped glance. Rook lingered at Manfred's side, looking back towards the herbal water bucket still trailing hot steam. They'd wait a few more minutes. “Can you hear us, Emmrich?”

“Dully,” he managed, voice hoarse.

“Blood roaring in your ears? That's good. Don't want you passing out again.” Davrin smiled down at him wryly.

“My dear Davrin,” the necromancer breathed. “Often that is one of the first signs of losing one's consciousness.”

“Ah, but you're thinking. Blood's in your brain. That's a start.”

Emmrich's mouth twitched in derision, but he winced and didn't seem to have another comment.

“This is, at least I think it– ohhh, we just have to try. It's worse not trying, right? Or what if it makes it worse? I don't work with these a lot, and the focus is so old– what if he grows more arms or–”

“Bellara,” Rook soothed. “Are you reasonably confident that rune is what you think it is?”

“Um… sixty-forty?”

“Sixty-forty it is. Emmrich, this spell. Sundering. Gonna undo it. Need to bite down on something?”

Bellara fumbled the rune in her hands with a whisper of protest. “I don't think–”

Rook shrugged a shoulder. “Need any help?”

“Um, maybe, just make sure he doesn't fall off the–”

“Right.” Taash sank to one knee and placed a hand on either side of the necromancer's shoulders. “You're gonna be fine.”

“Sounds like a threat,” Davrin observed, letting his hands rest on his knees.

“It is,” Taash ground out.

Emmrich smiled weakly as Manfred hissed his agreement, shaking a rattling fist. “Manfred, my boy, take a few steps back– the harmonics might–”

Lucanis stiffened suddenly, eyes flashing violet in the dark, where he seemed to be keeping a healthy distance. “Curiosity. Come. Here.”

Manfred turned with a soft shriek, taking long strides to the assassin's side to grip his forearm, conversing with Spite in a series of low rumbles and hisses. Emmrich sagged slightly in relief.

Bellara huffed and balanced the rune in mid air between her palms, standing at his bedside, brow furrowed in concentration as mana crackled and glowed like arcs of electricity. The rune spun gently in the air, then faster, then even faster until all facets were lost in a whirring, glowing mote of light.

“Lucanis,” Rook called softly over the buzz, more calmly than they felt. “If you could mix in that dawn lotus in the bucket?” A kettle would have been nicer. Oh, well. It was clean. There were cups up here, little wooden ones. Good enough.

Before they heard him reply, the rune crackled and an arc of blue-green energy lanced down into the necromancer's chest. His whole body arched under Taash, who scooted their side away from the magic with a breath, eyes wide, before they were forcing Emmrich's shoulders back into the mattress. The whirring grew to an alarming pitch as the rune cast out spidery legs of magic, each touching a point on the necromancer's palms, the center of his forehead, motes of light popping and coalescing over and under all the bandages over the wound. The strange runic burns fizzed with the same turquoise light, visible even under the gauze.

A ragged yell pulled itself from somewhere deep behind Emmrich's chest, and it was heartbreaking. Rook felt their stomach clench.

“Sorry sorry sorry sorry–” Bellara uttered like a prayer, her eyes tight shut, the rune glowing and crackling so brightly the infirmary shadows grew and stretched and began to look more like that of the meditation room– all blue glow and fuzzy details.

“What the–” A new voice sputtered from the doorway. “What is going on in here?”

“Hey, Neve,” Taash grunted, grimacing as they kept the shuddering necromancer pinned to the cot.

Assan shied between the detectives’ legs, looking wary, feathers puffed, having followed her up the stairs. In the crackling chaos and light Rook could see she was holding her arm close to her side under her coat. Harding puffed up the stairs beside the mage, armor covered in mud and hair soaked, trailed by a small army of wisps. Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head at the sight waiting for her.

Without warning, Emmrich thrashed as the glyphs flickering over his skin flared an angry red, ruby glow seizing the strongest lance of blue magic and creeping up its stem, towards the stone itself.

Bellara cried out, her magic flaring brighter as if to fight off the stubborn ribbon of red. The sundering magic coiled like a snake, malicious and festering, before it changed tactics. It gathered itself up from the necromancer's chest as the glyphs flashed blue again, leaping from under bandages and under skin, twisting and surging like an arrow straight for Taash.

Neve slashed her hand through the air and the temperature of the room plummeted. For the space of a single exhale, Rook swore they could see their breath. The bubbling lance of red was wrenched from its path, scattering across the far wall in a small mountain of still misting ice– tainted from the inside as if by a frozen arc of rusty blood and blackened edges.

Lucanis stepped back from it, looking more than a little alarmed as he gingerly swept a few snowflakes from his sleeve. A collective sigh of relief sagged through the Veilguard.

Bellara murmured a word and the runestone's glow calmed to a steady thumb, falling into her palm. The remaining light washed over Emmrich like the surf seafoam before sinking beneath his flesh. Some of the blood seemed to have vanished entirely, and a little color returned to the necromancer's cheeks as he fell limp, lips slightly parted, clearly unconscious once more– oops– but less rigid with agony.

Neve stepped into the infirmary, prosthetic clicking as she surveyed the damage. “...You are all very lucky.”

Davrin scrubbed a hand over his eyes as he leaned forward in his chair. “Thanks, Neve.”

“What was that?” Bellara whispered, turning to face the detective, cleansing rune still cradled in her hands. Taash slumped back on their haunches with a thud.

“Something I didn't like the look of, and don't want to see again. Please tell me you took out the caster,” Neve said, hand on hip, examining the spike of ice against the stone.

“Rook got him,” Taash supplied.

The rogue shook away the memory of the cultist's throat giving way under their blade. The same sword that hung on their hip. “Yeah. I got him,” they said grimly. “Emmrich was faster.”

Davrin checked the necromancer's pulse beneath his fingertips. “Stronger now.”

“So what happened to you guys?” Harding breathed, apparently shrugging off the fast paced alarm the way only a veteran fighter could, slogging her way into another chair at Emmrich's side. Assan cooed and flowed under Davrin's seat, ears pinned.

“Jumped between docks in Rivain. What were they doing there?” Taash seethed.

“Blood magic, from the looks of it,” Neve hummed, once more holding her arm close to her chest, sounding not the least bit surprised. “Find any summoning circles?”

“No. But I'd bet my left eye they're wondering after dragons, same as we are,” Rook growled. “Maybe Ghilan'nain wants a new pet monster.”

Taash ground their teeth, but was set upon by a few wisps fluttering in before they could answer, a small swarm chattering overhead and whizzing around the prone necromancer between them all.

Harding sighed and rested the back of her hand against the professor's forehead. “He's got a light fever. Understandable from the stress he's under. Can we–”

“Right.” Rook spun on their heel, swept up two cups and dunked them in the herb water bucket. An almost-tea. “What did you two run into?”

Neve grimaced from beneath the lace of her fascinator as Harding scowled and clapped her hands on her knees. “You would not believe this. A templar pushed me into the canal!”

“What?” Rook asked, even as Taash snickered and handed the sodden dwarf a dry towel.

“You okay?” the qunari asked.

“Oh, not a scratch! But you should have seen Neve!”

“He was a rat,” the detective said coolly, gaze flicking to Rook as they gingerly handed her a steaming cup, relief seeping into their bones when she accepted it. “Selling out Threads he'd been following. He got me. Nothing serious, but it hurts to move it.” She lifted her elbow beneath her jacket, where hasty bandages caught the light.

“The tea works fast, it'll help,” Rook supplied lamely. “There's still potions.”

“Right.” Neve crossed over to Bellara, and the chill around her seemed to lessen. Rook felt the pit in their stomach gnaw a little harder on their heart and slinked back to lean on the wall beside Lucanis, eyes on the scene. “Solid work you did. How old is that rune?”

Bellara laughed awkwardly, scrubbing the back of her neck. “Uh, a few hundred years, I think. Maybe. If I carried the one, you know?”

“Impressive. Did you know it would work?”

“Uh…”

Lucanis smiled slightly as Rook took an absent sip of the cup still in their hands, grimaced, and cradled it to their chest instead. “Is that for you?” he asked incredulously.

“No. For Emmrich. In a few minutes.”

“Where did you learn…?”

“Oh. I like plants. Not like Lace and the professor but… enough. My brother's mother taught me.”

Lucanis nodded slowly, studying the stiffness of their frame and the tight angle of their jaw. “...Would you like some coffee instead?”

Rook cast him the smallest of smiles. “You are wonderful.”

“I know.” Lucanis smiled back, just a little bit, his tone light. He flitted about for a while, hands on shoulders, asking after drinks, before disappearing into the halls beyond.

When Neve and Bellara were safely absorbed in soft laughter and conversation as Davrin rebandaged the detective’s arm, Rook gently roused Emmrich. His eyes fluttered open, disoriented, before he winced at his own sharp inhale.

“Augh… Well, this is less than ideal.”

Manfred was at his side in an instant, somehow with worry drawn all over the skeleton's eternal grin. Emmrich offered a weak smile. “Hello, Manfred.”

“Hello,” the wisp hissed sadly.

“Hey. Got some tea for you if you can drink it. You've got a fever.”

“And a gaping hole in my sternum, it seems,” the necromancer commented hoarsely, glancing up at the rogue. “You have a black eye,” he murmured, his brows knitting together in disapproval.

Rook touched their fingertips to their cheekbone with a breath, surprised as the gesture left them painfully tender. “Oh. So it seems.”

“You will… want to ice that,” Emmrich panted, grimacing where he lay.

“Worry about your damn self? Please?” Rook scowled and gently lifted his head. Woozily, Emmrich took a few sips from the cup the rogue pressed to his lips. Rook let his head fall back gently.

The necromancer hummed weakly. “I think... I might just rest here… since you've asked so politely.”

***

The only sound was the shifting roll of the Lighthouse's walls and stone, as if it too were breathing.

Neve was reading by the light of a single wisp that had drifted inside, Bellara dozing against her shoulder where they leaned against the wall. Lucanis had propped his legs up on a cot, perched in a chair he'd dragged up from the kitchen, nursing a cup of espresso and a romance serial in his lap.

Davrin snored softly, passed out on the neighboring cot, Assan snoozing sprawled across him with his head on the Grey Warden's chest. Harding had brought up a nest of round pillows and canvas blankets, where now she slept like a rock beside Taash. The dragonhunter had one arm around Lace and the other thrown across their eyes. Manfred was busying himself repotting what was left of the dawn lotus beside Rook, who found themselves blinking awake with their head in their arms on the mattress. The scent of iron and elfroot reached them first, then the coffee. A thick quilt had been draped over their shoulders where they'd slumped over in their chair.

In the flickering dim, they saw that Emmrich was awake, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling with his hands folded over the bandages on his stomach. Rook sat up quickly with a sharp breath, wincing as the world spun with the movement. “Ow.”

Emmrich tipped his head in their direction with a slight smile. “Careful, now.”

“How long have you–”

“A little less than an hour, I think.”

“Are you– well– how do you feel?”

Emmrich considered the question, still looking very pale. The dark shadows under his eyes seemed more purple and just a hair deeper. “Drained. Very sore. But Manfred has assured me that I was well taken care of, and Lucanis says my fever is nowhere to be found. I am very much alive, thanks to you.”

“No,” Rook corrected quickly. “It was your green thumb that clinched it and Bellara’s judgement. I just remembered all those pots you'd been cataloging, and Bellara– and Neve–”

Emmrich took a rattling breath, it seemed less painful than the last as he smiled slightly. “My dear Rook, I must continue to thank you for your quick thinking.”

“Really, don't mention it. I wasn't– well, not a single one of us was ready to let you go under. Shit, after your stunning career you were going to let some nameless priest of Razikale take you out?”

Emmrich chuckled, wincing at the effort as he delicately rested a hand on his chest with a groan. “You flatter me,” he said through a grimace.

“Not nearly enough, Professor. Now please don't die. I quite like you.”

“I had no intention of spoiling your evening in such a manner.” With a grunt, the necromancer propped himself up on an elbow. “I don't suppose you have any lyrium tonic tucked away in that blanket?”

“In your condition? Now?”

“Hmm.” Emmrich’s brow furrowed as he took stock of his internals and frayed nerves. “I might be able to… clean up the remaining gouge with a little magic. Of course, returning to homeostasis might be advisable. It's only that I am in considerable pain, and do not yet have the energy to rectify that.”

Rook smiled, unable to help it. “You are largely coherent for a man that was spilling his lungs on the floor mere hours ago.”