#the lighthouse datv

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"There now," Emmrich said, with a kind of gentle finality, as he placed a cup and saucer trailing steam in front of Rook with a musical clink. "Everything will be alright."

Rook sniffed, looking somewhat listless as they regarded the silver ribbons of steam roiling in the shallow basin of the china, thick with the smell of jasmine. Their eyes were red from crying. A muscle worked in their jaw for a moment, pulsing, as they tried, and failed, to speak.

He was struck by the strength of the movement, the normally dormant (at least visually) stretch of deep masseter and its feathering jump-snap intensity. How it, like so much of the young adventurer before him, remained hidden and composed beneath a superficial veneer of flesh, only to strain itself once again on something too vast for the mind to control.

After a while, they spoke in a small voice, not looking at him. "…I'm sorry, Emmrich."

"My dear, what ever for?" Frowning, the necromancer lowered himself into the seat across from the rogue. Manfred, who had been kind enough to brew the tea himself, hissed his agreement. The skeleton folded the silver tray under one bony arm before bustling off towards the winding study stairs, off on some other unknowable quest.

The hour was late. Emmrich hadn't meant to intrude, passing the massive door of his neighbor's semiaquatic chambers, but when he'd heard the gentle thump and the muffled cries, instinctually he'd feared the worst.

He knew better than most what dampened sobs could sound like swallowed by cloth or pillow.

He did the polite thing, of course. Knocked. Called out softly. He imagined more than heard the little gasp of shame and terror, but when the door opened a crack, revealing the meager glow of the aquarium and cold darkness beyond, as well as a single, watery blue eye and mop of bedraggled hair, he'd felt his heart break.

"Are you alright?" Emmrich had murmured, gentle and earnest, though he knew the answer. How could he not?

Rook had only watched him, wary, their shoulders drooping under the colossal weight of exhaustion. They seemed to consider their answer, before something won out behind their gaze, and they started to cry softly, leaning heavily on the stone door.

The necromancer had taken them into his arms in seconds, holding them, and when Rook's knees seemed to weaken and their fists curled tight into the back of his satin vest, strong body wracked by sobs, he whisked them quietly across the hall and into his study. Manfred had sprung instantly to work with a chatter of true alarm, bustling over to examine Rook for injury as Emmrich lowered them into his desk chair and, finding none, rattling at great speed for the kettle.

He really was learning so fast. Dimly aware of a flash of gratitude and extreme pride, Emmrich returned his attention to the quietly crying rogue before him. He settled a firm hand on their shoulder and smoothed a lock of hair from their face, bending slightly to meet their gaze. "I must apologize for my haste," he murmured as he searched their face for a clue to the source of this distress, or reassurance to their clarity of mind. "It was presumptious, but I thought you might like a little more privacy. Would you like me to fetch anyone? Lucanis, perhaps?"

"No!" Rook croaked, somewhat alarmedly, clutching his hand in an ice cold fist, eyes wide and startled by panic at the concept. "No thank you," they repeated, more softly, swallowing a broken half-hiccup and looking away from him with another shuddering breath. Tracts of tears dripped steadily down their cheeks and chin.

It was difficult now to compare this crumbling human in their night shirt to the valorous sabre-wielding Veil ranger that had been carving through Venatori mere hours ago. The Hero of the Veilguard seemed about ready to deliquesce into the quilted velvet of their seat, like a beached jellyfish melting into the damp of a muddy tidepool.

An ocean animal, dashed across the jagged rocks of an unfogiving shore. Splattering painfully against the inevitable barriers all bodies must impact in times of unimaginable stress. Grim imagery indeed.

Emmrich's frown deepened from where he now sat, crossing one knee over the other as Rook tried to answer his previous question.

"For… this. Oh, it's ugly." With a delirious little chuckle, Rook wiped at their eyes, still not looking at him.

"Dear Rook," he murmured, brows rising as he leaned across the desk and took their hand in his own. "To be frank, I am rather surprised this has not happened much sooner, and quite ashamed you feel the need to conceal it from us."

"I just… Damn it, Emmrich," they whispered, voice wobbling as they covered one eye with the back of their palm, curving in on themself with another rattling sob.

"It's quite alright," he soothed, smoothing his thumb over the webbing of their thumb and forefinger as he watched them, his ribs threatening to tear themselves in two at the raw aching of the meat of his heart. "You have every right to this, you know."

"I can't… I don't want them to think…" The words choked out on a painful sounding whimper, Rook's lower lip crumpling, and they held their free hand over their mouth as if to stop the words from tumbling out, eyes squeezed tight shut.

"Shh," the necromancer lulled, sympathy in every word. "Take a deep breath. Have a bit of your tea."

Rook did their best to comply, taking a deep, wobbly inhale through the sandpaper of their mouth and lifting their tea in a trembling hand, palm pressed straight to the hot porcelain in a determined curve, pressing the edge to their lips. They sipped, seeming to come to grips with something in the depths of the tea as they drank carefully, still not looking at him, but squeezing his hand tightly between them.

Emmrich waited patiently, relieved to watch his young companion drain the entirety of the teacup in measured gulps before setting it carefully back into its saucer. They exhaled sharply, visibly trying to gather their wits back to them like plates of armor as their eyes searched the invisible lines of doubt and explanation most certainly not written into the grain of the walnut surface of Emmrich's desk. He knew, because he had searched that desk in a similar manner many times before.

He heard Rook seize control of their breathing. Listened to the stubborn hitch of their diaphragm against the stuttering inflation of their plueral pleuras. They wiped their eyes again on the cheery, faded yellow wool of their sleeve, and let their eyes flicker up into his face. They set their jaw, as if suddenly irate with the circumstances. "I hate doing this."

"This?" Emmrich prompted, pleased to find that Rook had not let go of his hand, palm clammy and rough against his own.

"Crying. Complaining. Blubbering like a fool."

"Rook," he said, very seriously, his expression carefully stern. "It is not at all foolish to feel the need to cry. I happen to do it rather a lot, myself." He buried the twinge of shame that the words unearthed in the tomb of his solar plexus, willing the emotion away with the same care and courtesy he would will a particularly bothersome spirit on an expedition within the Necropolis.

Horror flitted briefly across the rogue's open features as they scrambled to form words, squeezing his hand tightly and pulling it closer to them across the desk. "No, I only meant—" Another deeply distressing crumpling of their chin and lower lip as their eyes began to shine again. "I'm sorry," they managed, voice high and tight. "I didn't mean—"

"I know that, surely," Emmrich reproached, not unkindly, as he reached out to take Rook's other hand, the empty china framed neatly between their arms. "But I wish you would not discredit your emotions with such… belittling, as you wouldn't do this for anyone else. You are much too kind a person for that."

"I feel… like a coward," Rook whispered, mouth a thin line as they sniffed, forcibly. Emmrich released one of their hands and fished a handkerchief from his pocket, offering it to them. They took it gratefully. "I'm hiding away in here, while the world is crumbling out there, and I should be… I mean…"

"You must make the time to sleep. To eat. To prepare. You are exhausted, my dear, and as little as I mind taking the time to heal you, there is only so much even my magic can repair. What you are feeling now is only treatable in this fashion. A good cry. Tea. Good company— I suppose I will have to suffice." His lips quirked upward, uncertain, and Rook only started to cry again, face buried in his handkerchief and clutching his hand in a vice grip.

He worried, somewhat distantly, that the bands and cut stones of his rings and grave gold, would cut and impress themselves upon the hero's clever fingers.

"The world is waiting," he agreed, sighing as he watched Rook's shoulders shake. "But it can wait much longer than you may expect. You cannot be everywhere at once, my dearest Rook. It is simply too much for one person to handle."

"I know," Rook crackled into the handkerchief, trembling.

"We are working at every angle as best we can. Under your competent guidance."

A sob. "Competent?"

Emmrich, despite himself, felt his lips curve. "Quite."

Manfred rattled his way back down the stairs, hissing and shrieking softly, more to himself than anyone else, a small stack of books clutched protectively to his chest. He tottered with the weight of the thick tomes, working his way dutifully to Rook's side and setting them down as gently as he could manage in the space before the rogue on the desk.

Rook, evidently puzzled and somewhat startled by the wisp's antics, wiped at their eyes against the crook of their elbow and peered down at the books. "Oh. Thanks, Manfred?"

The skeleton hissed, pleased, and waved a series of phalanges at the stacked spines. Emmrich sighed. "He has been reading, though I've only provided him with simpler, illustrated texts. Mostly for children. Manfred, what is it exactly that you've—"

Rook made a soft, strangled noise, free fingertips tracing down the stacked spines of what appeared to be two encyclopedias and a battered novel. Emmrich recognized with a start the embossed green leather of The Botanical Compendium by Ines Arancia, which he understood far exceeded Manfred's current reading level. Lightning Insects, Dung Beetles and Lacewings: Winged "Pests" and Their Significance to the Thedas Ecosystems by Gabriel Andre, 9:17 Dragon.

The Dasher's Men by Varric Tethras.

"Help," Manfred croaked, grinning his eternal grin, goggles reflecting candelight.

Rook's eyes began to water again as they reached up clumsily to sling their arm around his scapulas. "Aw, Fred," they whimpered. "Thank you."

"Help!" the skeleton crowed, triumphing. Emmrich cocked his head, regarding his pupil with a fond sort of confusion, before a theory began to weave itself to mind.

"Did the Lighthouse conjure these for you in the bookshelves, Manfred?" Another of the curious overlapping of the Fade and each interpersonal reality, likely a threaded ancient enchantment into the walls of this grand fortress. An intentional and sentient etheric displacement, reminiscent of Anushka's Metaphysical Interprence Theory. They had observed it many times here in the Dread Wolf's old sanctuary.

The wisp clapped his hands, leaning bodily into the curve of Rook's arm. "Yes!"

"I see. Well done, my boy." Emmrich leaned back in his chair with a smile. "Quick thinking, I'm most impressed. These titles hold significance, Rook?"

The Veil Jumper sniffed again, rather forcefully, and turned their head to blow into the handkerchief, coming up for air with an uncomfortable huff. "Sorry," they began, stuffy. "Um. Varric's book— First I read of his. Before I knew him. I loved it, though it's lesser known than some of his later stuff. My father kept it in his study. Er, the bugs, were also of interest to me. Before. Must have read that one a thousand times in Alois' personal library— oh he hated bugs." Rook gave a watery smile. "The plants are just… a nice addition. An interest you and I have. Something for now, I guess." They turned their head again with a noisy little warble into the handkerchief. It was strangely endearing. "I'm sorry, Manfred, I'm not feeling so well."

"Know," the skeleton cooed, clumsily reaching up to pat at Rook's hair.

**

[sniff] yeah I'm not sure. Rook is missing a very important figure of their past very very keenly. Emmrich, I feel, is the best person for them to explore that loss with. This is shortly after Rook and Lucanis become "official", as well as the Warden defense of the horde assault on Lavendel, but everything is still so new, and Rook struggles immensely with being vulnerable with their own pain and grief. Besides. Lucanis has enough on his plate.

Even Rooks cry, man. They need that release eventually. Not to say that this word has to be angsty! I cannot wait to see what you all do with it, it makes me excited.

With a weary heart, tagging my most lovely beloveds:

As they gathered shattered pottery, the dream they'd been jerked awake from lingered in their mind. It felt more like a memory than a dream, but it was a memory of a time that had never existed.

Lucanis had never made peace with Spite while the Veilguard had still been living in the Lighthouse. Even now he seemed to barely be on civil terms with the demon at times, over a year after Elgar'nan's fall.

After they'd cleaned up the broken pottery and cleaned up spilled tea, they returned to their desk. They sat in the highest room in the Lighthouse, the room that had once been Solas's office. After everyone else had moved out of the Lighthouse, they'd relocated to this room, not wanting to be reminded of the emptiness of the Lighthouse. They stared down at the leatherbound journal they'd been writing in. Rook was trying to record everything that had happened during their hunt for the gods. Varric wasn't here to write the story down, and while they guessed Bellara might, they wanted an unvarnished version of the story written down.

Having 'memories' of things that never actually happened didn't help. It had been happening more lately. Things had started with the dream they'd had of kissing Lucanis before they'd woken up on Neve and Rana's couch. When they'd returned to the Fade, it had only gotten worse. They dreamed of things they knew had never happened, of a life that would never be theirs.

Once they'd even caught themselves writing one of those false memories in the journal.

This story they were trying to record, to tell, it hurt. They didn't know if it was because writing the story down, including the painful reconciliation of their friendship with Lucanis and the realization that he would never love them as they loved him, or something else.

Maybe they were just finally losing their minds.

They shook their head to try and clear it, and picked up their quill again. They still had a lot to write left, and if they were finally losing their mind, they needed to get it written down sooner rather than later.