#ziskfic

It’s simple, really: if Volkarin had just stayed out of her way, left her alone, Johanna would still have her beautiful bone construct—the culmination of her life’s work—with which she would’ve had the power to raise an army of undead to defeat this so-called god, this Elgar’nan. 

But Volkarin had possessed the sheer nerve to outplay her at the most inopportune moment. Although she’s ordinarily capable of giving credit where it’s due, she cannot respect the lack of long-term strategy. Of all moments to finally locate his own backbone!  Volkarin had always been like that, though. Capable of surpassing his own self-imposed limitations given the correct impetus. What else could one expect from such a hot-headed, idealistic man as he. Ugh. And couple that all that with a new paramour, a bright-eyed young thing surely twenty years his junior, it’s no wonder Volkarin’s been distracted (but not distracted enough) of late. 

What needs to be done now is plainly obvious to Johanna, or indeed, anyone with half a functioning brain. For whatever reason, everyone in this crackpot team of would-be heroes that Volkarin has somehow gotten himself mixed up in relies on Rook, even though Johanna’s not sure what the impudent whelp brings to the team, other than a tendency to meddle which rivals even Volkarin’s. And as the group’s resident expert on the Fade, Volkarin is the most well-placed to tear a hole in reality itself to locate his misplaced lover. Even Johanna can see that would make for a most romantic story indeed, and she doesn’t even read that sort of dreck.

But it’s clear to Johanna that Volkarin is functioning at perhaps one-tenth of his usual operating capacity, compromised as he is by needless sentimentality. Of course, the type of man who would sacrifice not only his lifelong dream—immortality itself!— for a mere wisp, of all things, would struggle without the guidance of a more indomitable hand.

And in Rook’s absence, the task falls to Johanna. Unfortunately. Here she’d hoped her days of solving Emmrich Volkarin’s problems for him were over, but no matter. Unlike Volkarin, Johanna Hezenkoss does not shy away from necessary evils. 

As always, she chooses her words carefully, delicately balancing dramatic effect and efficiency.

“You know this is entirely your fault, don’t you?” 

Volkarin stops dead in his tracks as though she’d just punched him. The respite from his infernal pacing is most pleasant indeed, and she’s elated by the knowledge she can still instil such a reaction in him even while bereft of limbs.

Expression jumping from shock to outrage and then, most curiously, to acceptance, Volkarin raises two fingers to rub at his temples, quietly answering, “I know.” 

Johanna’s mandibles clench tightly and it is only with some difficulty that she manages to relax them. For Volkarin to admit his failings so readily, the situation must be worse than she had feared. “And what do you have to say for yourself?” she asks instead. The last thing she needs him to know is that she’s worried. 

Volkarin averts his gaze as he hunches into himself. She remembers the stance well from his days as a young child at the Necropolis. “I should have confessed the truth to Rook while I had the chance,” he admits in the most mournful, pitiful tone that makes even Johanna feel sorry for him as much as it makes her want to vomit, if she were still capable of such a thing. 

While it’s not quite the answer she’d hoped for—then again, Volkarin would never debase himself by offering her a proper apology for everything he’d put her through—it’s one Johanna can work with nonetheless.  Doing her best approximation of a tongue-clicking noise, she replies, “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on that argument you had with your paramour.” 

As planned, the words bait him back into action with a sputter. Back straightening and fingers curling into the palms of his ungloved and unadorned hands, he snaps, “Still hung up on—” before cutting himself off and pinching the bridge of his nose as he breathes deeply to regulate his emotions, the same exercises they’d been taught as apprentices. Johanna had never cared much for them. 

The next words that come out of Volkarin’s mouth throw her for a loop. “Have you ever been in love, Johanna?”

One of the downsides of no longer having muscles or tendons is the inability to answer questions through exaggerated facial expressions alone. As much as it pains her to lend legitimacy to this line of inquiry, there’s a frightening intensity in his eyes suggestive of a commitment to this topic of conversation. She suspects he won’t accept a total deflection, or worse, that such an attempt might set off his moping again.

That still doesn’t mean it’s any of his blasted business. The time to be asking these types of questions was thirty years ago, not now. “I’m familiar with the concept,” she says acridly, hoping it’s enough to satisfy his curiosity before swiftly adding, “Not that I see how it’s of any relevance.”

Of course, Volkarin simply can’t leave it there. Instead, his lips purse, the look he now fixes Johanna with one of mixed pity and disappointment.

Infuriating man, to think such condescension could possibly affect her!

“Then you would know what it feels like,” he continues quietly, “to leave such matters unresolved with no resolution.”

Of course he would turn it around on her: a most pathetic and transparent attempt to make this an exercise in ‘practicing empathy’ instead of learning to properly communicate himself. She deftly avoids the obvious trap, cutting to the chase instead.

“You’re an idiot,” she states cleanly, simply. There’s a lack of malice in her words that surprises even her.

Volkarin must sense it too, because even though his body visibly tenses at the accusation, his reaction is short-lived. Instead, he allows his shoulders to slump—terrible posture, really—before running a hand through his tousled hair, the action accentuating the dark circles beneath his eyes. Finally, he sighs, a little huff of intermingled acceptance and defeat. Pinching the bridge of his nose once more, he answers, “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain yourself, Johanna.”

Now she’s really concerned, and even more adamant about not admitting it. Esteemed Professor Volkarin, inviting her to lecture? She’d never thought she’d see the day. Preening nonetheless, she doesn’t bother to disguise the elation from her voice as she points out the obvious. “Your paramour is trapped physically in the Fade, correct?”

Volkarin blinks; it’s too difficult for Johanna to distinguish whether he’s simply concentrating or staving off a fresh wave of tears, so she doesn’t bother.

“Correct,” he answers, fingers rubbing at his chin now, itching at the three-day-old growth which is a sight bewildering to even Johanna.

She does her best to continue ignoring the absurdity of it all as she continues.  “And my understanding is that you are indeed Professor Volkarin of the Mourn Watch, one of Thedas’s leading experts on the properties of said Fade, are you not?”

The masseter muscle in Volkarin’s jaw twitches. “I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

“You always did lack a certain vision,” she says with a sigh which could be described as downright nostalgic. “I simply ask, what would happen were the situation reversed? If you were the one trapped in the Fade?”

Volkarin’s face softens, lips twisted into a smile so besotted it sickens her. “Rook would stop at nothing less than breaking into the Fade barehanded.” Johanna watches him expectantly as his eyes widen in realisation and he mutters, “Oh. Oh dear.”

It would, of course, be too much to hope for him to actually admit that she had a point, that she was in fact, entirely correct as always.  “You always did give up far too easily,” she admonishes instead. “I’m frankly astonished you ever got anything done without me.”

Not only does he have to the gall to ignore her reprimand, he even adds to her immense displeasure by resuming his infernal pacing. There he goes, thump, thump, thump against the floorboards again. All take and no give, just as always.

A newfound wave of frustration pulses through Johanna’s consciousness and she’s hardly a patient person to begin with. “You know, when I told you this situation was entirely your fault, I wasn’t talking about the missteps you’ve made in your pathetic love life.” There’s a new vigour—an urgency—to his steps when he finally deigns to face her. His hands together with frenetic energy. “Johanna, this is hardly the time. There’s so much to set in motion—”

No. Absolutely not.

She refuses to be overlooked again.

Shouting over him, she demands to be heard. “YOU. RUINED. EVERYTHING.”

But Volkarin still won’t be diverted and waves a hand as though before himself as though to dismiss her accusations. What’s downright infuriating is the confirmation that this infatuation with some youth he’s known for less than six months means more to him than all the years they’d spent working together. He pulls books off their shelves with alarming velocity, muttering titles under his breath that Johanna can’t quite decipher.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Johanna tries again. “If only there was more at stake than locating your lost paramour,” she hedges.

Volkarin continues to ignore her, but she can see his hands shake.

She makes another attempt, but this time she doesn’t even bother to disguise any lingering traces of bitterness evident in her voice. Not that she had been holding back on purpose, of course. It’s simply a most peculiar situation in which they find themselves. “If only you had an old friend with practical experience in creating receptive Fade eddies.”

A sharp intake of breath. Aha! A reaction! He doesn’t look at her yet. “What do you suggest?”

She’s not going to let him off that easily. “I don’t know. I didn’t realise you were seeking my opinion on the matter.”

“Johanna.” He finally turns from the bookshelf, pushing back unruly locks of hair from his forehead. “I could not have expressed myself any more clearly.” “Only because I had to do nearly all the work of leading you there!” she snaps back in return. Despite her gnawing frustration, there’s comfort in the familiarity of their conflict, the back-and-forth, the diametric oppositions of their world views.

Johanna will never, ever admit it aloud, but she has missed him. Not that it means she wants to spend the rest of his life trapped in his study, mind you.

But still, better this than death, better this than the cowardice Volkarin had embraced with open arms. For all that the good professor harps on about morality, of propriety, of decorum, of kindness, the real difference between them is that Volkarin is little more than a persnickety academic, but Johanna is the true innovator. An inventor. Her experiments speak for themselves. Yes, her aptitude for the more experiential aspects of their art had resulted in her current predicament, but failure is only ever a temporary setback, so long as the fundamental nature of existence remains intact.

And right now, that can't be relied upon. Elgar’nan had changed the trajectory of the moon itself! Even Johanna balks at such audacity.

It's only then that she realises Volkarin has been silent too long, which is entirely suspicious for a man who so adores the sound of his own voice. But at least he isn’t snivelling again. No, instead his forehead is furrowed deep in thought, fingers scratching at his chin once more.

“Careful,” she warns.

Volkarin blinks, his attention snapping back to her. “What is it?”

“You’ll hurt yourself, thinking that hard about it.”

Strangely, he begins to smile. Maddening man! “I suppose it would be too much to hope for you to simply help me out of mere goodwill.”

Something about his tone and his expression manages to get under her skin even though she no longer has any. “Obviously. You know me better than that.”

“But you are considering offering lending your knowledge to our cause due to the mutually-aligned nature of our interests.” “I would’ve used less words,” she answers in agreement. He holds up an index finger as though about to lecture, but it’s evident in his posture that he’s barely able to restrain himself from pacing again. That he does manage to do so is a point in his favour, for now. “You’ve certainly made clear your opinion on my relationship with Rook.” When she opens her mouth to interject, he raises the other fingers on his hand, and despite herself, Johanna falls silent and allows him to continue. “Which brings me to the realisation your motive was to provide a distraction from my grief so I could recalibrate and continue on the necessary work that must be done in Rook’s … absence.”

While she’s glad to hear Volkarin’s voice tremble as he dances around the topic of the void Rook has left in his otherwise obviously miserable life, the fact that it even does so still rankles her. Even more frustrating is Volkarin ascribing emotions and feelings to her that she does not possess, as though he’s some sort of Chantry sister instead of a powerful necromancer.  “I just wanted to stop the racket,” she snaps.   

“Be that as it may, I couldn’t help but notice your choice of topic.” He sighs again, an exhalation of air that’s heavier than any of the noises she’s heard him make throughout their entire conversation. His shoulders slump. It makes her wish she could slap him with a ruler.

“For what it’s worth,” he continues, “I am sorry. Sorry lichdom failed you. Sorry you were unable to reach out to me. I amespecially sorry you felt the need to conquer the capital in order to attract my attention.” When he lifts his gaze to look at her properly, she is surprised to find his eyes glittering with a mischief that makes her feel thirty years younger. “Forgive me, but I am unaccustomed to receiving overtures of friendship disguised as attempted acts of war.” 

She has told herself many times over the years that she has always hated him. She wants to continue hating him the same way she has survived these last decades in his absence. But in this moment, something within her breaks. Perhaps it’s the way they’re hovering on the precipice of the end of the world, or maybe it’s even the way Volkarin’s eyes resemble a baby labrador’s. 

As it turns out, even she is not entirely immune to the proximity of Emmrich Volkarin’s moral fortitude. Everything according to the Mourn Watch’s plan, no doubt. Oh, she’s not an idiot: she knows why it’s his office in which she has been assigned to complete this part of her penance, even if Volkarin pretends they’re still figuring out the details. All these years of exile but still trapped by the consequences of oaths she had made when she had been much younger and more naïve.  

The realisation should really disgust her but she finds herself devoid of her usual anger and envy, bitterness and rage. She realises, too late, what it is that has broken inside her: the dam that had kept any other most inconvenient emotions at bay.  

A wave of vulnerability crashes over her and she is powerless to stop it. Her next words slip out of her before she’s even had time to think.

“You abandoned me.” Once spoken aloud, she wishes for nothing more than the ability to take the words back, if only to stop Volkarin staring at her like she’s just kicked him. The flame of hatred she holds for him at her core begins to flicker back to life.  

“Johanna, I….”

“Don’t you dare apologise to me!” she screams. Maker, she’d throttle him if she could. Discrete emotions become increasingly difficult to identify, she only knows that she’s been knocked off course and discombobulated despite only trying to help for once. She feels seven years old again, lost and scared in the chambers of the Grand Necropolis, hating all these stuffy mages and their prim propriety, hating the newfound knowledge that such arcane energies filled her veins as well. The only friendly face a shy boy not much older than herself, and she’d helped him out of his shell with her façade of fearlessness.

And in turn, she had watched as he had become one of them.

“You don’t understand,” she hisses. She chances a look directly at his eyes again. He’s patient. Waiting. Despite it all, he wants to understand. Damn him.  

But whether Johanna is capable of letting herself be understood is shakier ground, part of a vast expanse of uncharted territory that lies between them.

Putting it as bluntly as she can, she simply states, “Your parents died. Your parents loved you.”

Volkarin steeples his hands together, comprehension dawning on his features despite what continues to be left unsaid between them. “Ah. I—you never did tell me how you came to live at the Grand Necropolis.”

She scoffs. “What was there to tell? It’s only the same tale from all over Thedas. Parents have child. Parents don’t want a child with magic. Pah!” A surge of resentment swells within her. Why is she talking about this? Why is she talking about this with him? She hasn’t so much as thought about this in years. It hardly matters now. Just look at everything she’s achieved! She’s fifty-one years young and she’s going to live forever.

The thoughtful expression has returned to Volkarin’s face, and she’s grateful to find herself capable of hating it again. “You told me you were born near Perendale.” Why does he even remember that? Regretting ever telling him anything about herself, she answers, “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Next he was going to be asking her whether she had ever been in love again. Why did he always insist on meddling in matters that didn’t concern him!

“That’s no insignificant distance to travel, especially with a young child in tow.”

“As though you’re an expert on travelling with young children,” she answers hotly, before recalling that pet skeleton of his. The way he doted on it, Johanna would be unsurprised to discover that Volkarin had indeed mistaken it for a real boy.  Very magnanimously, she decides against saying this part aloud.

She just wishes Volkarin would let the topic drop. In the past, she’d always retreated whenever he had threatened to dismantle her walls and bluster with his disaffecting sincerity and dogged determination.

But now, she is at his mercy. And she knows—better than anyone—that despite his spotty track record at seeing through his commitments, Volkarin is nothing if not thorough.  He’s an indecisive man, not a slothful one.

“I simply believe most parents do their best with the resources available to them.” He scratches at the side of his nose. “Most people do, in fact. Even if we cannot, at times, predict the consequences of our actions.” At this, he fixes her with a downright professorial stare.

“I am grateful I wasn’t snatched up by templars,” she begrudgingly admits. “I could have been sent to Kirkwall.”

The corner of Volkarin’s lips twitch. “Perish the thought. I do profess my gratitude that the Mourn Watch was able to take me into their care.”

It’s only when Johanna remains silent that Volkarin appears to realise his mistake. “Ah. Of course. They never did truly appreciate you.”

Volkarin’s words sound downright strange to her until she’s able to identify the anomaly: the phrasing is hers, not his. She continues to say nothing, entirely too suspicious of where he’s beginning to go with this. “And although I wouldn’t, as you said, dare apologise to you, I do want you to know I am aware that it was wrong of me not to speak in your defense when it came to the growing number of censures that had been amassed against you, even though your experiments benefitted my research. If I could redo that time in our lives again, I would have severed our partnership earlier and provided you a proper explanation of my decisions. “I suppose I assumed you would come around to my position on the matter. But I dare say you thought the same as well.” She watches the smooth column of his throat as he swallows nervously. “There was so much I was willing to overlook until I thought the price too high to pay. Naturally, recent events and conversations have elucidated to me that we have vastly different thresholds for such matters.” To say she is stunned is an understatement: that she has allowed him to prattle for this long without interruption is testimony to this fact. But it is even more stunning that to receive a proper explanation for the events that have haunted her for decades from the most conflict-avoidant man she has ever known. Other partnerships are unlikely to be repaired by an admission that they should have separated sooner, but nothing had ever been what one would call normal when it came to the two of them.

As much as it displeases her to admit it, Johanna is certain that Volkarin’s capacity to deliver his soliloquy was driven by Rook’s influence. What other force in this world but love would be strong enough to push a man like Volkarin to the brink of foolhardy bravery?

And while the thought is still annoying, it doesn’t sting as much as it once had.  

Thus, it is with nostalgia and not bitterness that she remarks, “We could have done brilliant things together, Emmrich.”

Her use of his first name does not go unnoticed. How could it? His eyebrows raise so high they nearly disappear into his receded hairline. “You haven’t called me that in over thirty years,” he protests.

“And it’ll be thirty more until I use it again,” she insists in return. “Just tell me the truth. Was there ever a moment in time when you appreciated the power and potential at our fingertips? That you thought we could have been the ones to rule this world?”

He averts his gaze. Grinds his teeth. “Yes,” he finally admits. “I saw it. But it would have never been worth the cost.” Johanna scoffs. “There’s always some crackpot trying to take over the world. It might as well have been us. We had the best chance of it. Both of us liches, our knowledge combined, my brilliance counterbalanced with your compassion… There was a reason I kept a bleeding heart like you as a partner for so many years. But I underestimated your sentimentality.” She wouldn’t be making that mistake again, that was for certain. Just look at the situation it had landed her in! She would simply have to figure out how to best wield it to her purposes while she remained trapped here. If Volkarin thought she wasn’t going to continue using every tool at her disposal to facilitate her great escape, then he was sorely mistaken.

“Yes,” Volkarin answers softly, crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he gazes at her with discomfiting fondness. “I dare say you did. Just as I am guilty at times of underestimating your brilliance.” He swivels on the spot and Johanna is afraid he’s going to resume his pacing but the walk he has in mind for now is mercifully short, only over to the bowl on his desk where he’s deposited the majority of his grave gold.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, hating how urgent her voice sounds to her own consciousness. She always hates it when he behaves erratically.

“I was under the impression we had work to do, my dear.”

“Absolutely not.” Surely it hadn’t been so long he’d forgotten her utter loathing of pet names.

He laughs, then, long and rich. It is a definite improvement on the snivelling. “Force of habit. Won’t happen again,” he promises. “First things first. I do believe you had some knowledge to impart on the practical applications of receptive Fade eddies?”

“Getting ahead of yourself as always, Volkarin,” she says by way of reprimand. “You need a bath. I don’t have olfactory glands and even I can tell that you reek. And a shave.”

He rubs his hand against his chin again, eyes widening as though surprised to find it covered by hair. “Ah! Yes. Thank you.”

“Completely and utterly useless.” This time, she’s disgusted by the tenderness in her own voice. Oh, no, this won’t do at all. “While you’re at it,” she adds, determined to get their shared task back on track, “get the elf girl and your skeleton boy. We’ll need to replace the stolen dagger in order to kill a god. And I don’t know about you, but ancient elven gadgets are hardly my area of expertise.”

“Of course, I’ll speak with Bellara.” His brow furrows. “But why do you want Manfred?”

“Because I don’t have arms, you idiot.” It really does make building things more difficult. And she won’t even be able to inadvertently kill the wisp this time due to the aforementioned lack of limbs. It’ll work perfectly, really.

“Consider it done.”

Not having much other choice in the matter, Johanna watches as Volkarin gathers his bathing supplies and heads towards the door.

It is on the threshold that he pauses and looks back at her, his hazel eyes bright with fiery determination. “I’ve always appreciated you, Johanna Hezenkoss. Let us continue doing brilliant things together.”

Loghain runs his hands down his face, a vain attempt to rub some of the sleep from his eyes. So much for his dignity, then. 

“Come in,” he acquiesces, more sharply than intended. What else is he supposed to do? Perhaps Anora would listen if ordered away with enough conviction, but it would only embolden her to return later with renewed fervour, reconsidered critique. Simply letting matters drop is not in her blood; that, she had gotten that from her mother. 

Perhaps it is better to have this argument now, while everything is still messy and raw. Before Anora has a chance to plead her case to her mother and get the Teyrna on her side as well. Loghain might stand half a chance this way, might be able to convince Anora that they need to keep looking—

Anora glides into the room with all the grace of the queen she is not yet but will one day be. Despite her slender frame, draped in silks instead of armour, her presence demands attention. 

She has his. He tries to ignore just how tired her eyes are, too. 

Without the formalities she sometimes insists upon, she settles into the chair opposite him. Her voice is still crisp and clear when she speaks; the elocution lessons had been worth it, then. “You are losing the support of the Bannorn.” 

His response is out of his mouth before he can think, surprising even himself. “Damn the banns!” he exclaims, leaning over his desk and nearly unsettling his inkpot.

What did the banns matter, anyway, with their petty little feuds, their trifling squabbles? 

Their King is missing. 

Anora arcs an eyebrow. “You may not like it, but their support has been vital to the search efforts. But there are complaints about the number of good men lost to the naval forces. Tax dollars wasted on what is rapidly being considered a fool’s errand—" Loghain has heard enough. “Are you calling me a fool?”

His daughter stares back at him unflinchingly with his own damned eyes. “I am reporting back the information I gathered at your request, Teyrn Loghain.” The formal address is a tactic deployed purposefully to aggravate him. Despite knowing this, it succeeds anyway. How can it not? In happier times, she’d called him Papa. But those days are long behind them. 

He feels restless. Ungrounded. Like he’s the one who’s choking, not Maric. Giving up the search efforts would mean—

Would mean—

He’s not sure when or how but he’s gotten to his feet, standing then pacing. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to breathe. For one fleeting moment the pain in his chest is so acute he considers sending Anora to fetch a healer before dismissing the notion as ridiculous. To show such weakness now would be to prove her point, would only reinforce her opinion of him as a doddering old idiot unable to accept the counsel of others. 

But still, he cannot give up quite so easily. He is stubborn, too, in his own ways. “And your betrothed?” Loghain asks, his pacing quickening. “What does he make of your proposition?” Anora crosses her arms over her chest. “Never have I known you to give such consideration to Prince Cailan’s opinions,” she mutters, an angry flush blooming across her cheeks. Despite all her efforts to keep herself genteel, Loghain knows when his daughter’s temper is rising. Sometimes, he prides himself on being one of the few people who can still evoke it: the real Anora, without the pretence.  The Anora who takes after her mother. 

He cannot help but wish Celia was here, after all. Celia would know how to handle this situation with more delicacy than he. Maker knew that it was not him from whom Anora had inherited her social skills; that had been why he had sent her on the talks with the banns in the first place. 

But how was he supposed to simply ask such a question? To ask whether he truly was the only one left hoping? Hoping that Maric might be found alive? 

He still can’t bring himself to say it, because that would invite an answer more direct than he could handle. 

Instead, he deflects.

“I asked you a question.”

Anora’s gaze tracks him around the room, her eyes never seeming to leave his despite his constant movement. She is a hunter with a loaded bow and he the hapless hare. “The Crown Prince understands the needs of the nation.” The laugh gurgles out the bottom of his throat before he can stop himself. He feels deranged. His fingers itch for the scabbard of a sword that he does not keep in the study of his Denerim apartment.

 “And just what does Cailan understand about the needs of the nation?” Undeterred, his daughter answers, “He understands that a prosperous and united Ferelden is more powerful than one destitute and divided.” Loghain stops in his tracks, finally taking stock of everything that has already happened, the true reality of the situation. It is simply so: his daughter has already convinced the Bannorn to give up. His daughter has already convinced Cailan—the king’s own son—to give up. 

To give up King Maric for dead. 

And now, Anora had come to surmount her final obstacle. Him.  

And Loghain couldn’t stop her even if he tried. 

There’s no use trying, of course. No matter how much he still desperately wants to do so. 

After all, it had been futile to fight Celia when she had stormed into his tent all those years ago, demanding he govern the teyrnir properly or be no better than those damned Orlesians who had abandoned them to their misfortunes. 

He blinks rapidly, the stinging of his eyes increasing. The next question is easier, at least in phrasing. But when he speaks, it quickly becomes obvious just how rapidly the tightness in his chest has crept up his throat, his nose. He’s cried many times before in his life, has lost many people he has loved, but not like this. Never like this. 

And he can’t remember ever crying in front of his daughter. 

“What do you suggest?” he asks. 

His voice cracks halfway through the question. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Anora pushes back her chair and gets to her feet, walking towards where he still stands frozen still. Stopping just short of him, she answers more gently than he deserves, “Don’t embarrass yourself at the Landsmeet tomorrow.” Then, she closes the distance between them, laying a hand on the crook of his arm and lowering her voice. “A state funeral.”

The finality of it all proves too much for Loghain. Anora holds him as he weeps, face ugly and scrunched, his shoulders convulsing. 

As he strides toward her he lets his bucket swing and rattle freely, not bothering to disguise the weight of his footsteps. If his approach causes her to bolt, then so be it: better for her to do so before he reaches striking range.

His words, too, are unrehearsed, which explains exactly how they manage to morph mid-sentence as she turns to look at him.

“What are you—happened ?” Now that she’s stood up to face him properly, he can see how she’s wearing a scowl on her face but more importantly: a sling on her left arm.

With her uninjured shoulder, Johanna shrugs casually. Too casually. “Why do you care?”

The question catches Emmrich off-guard and he makes no attempt to disguise his confusion. 

Eyebrows knitting so hard he can already feel the onset of another headache, he eventually answers, “You’re hurt.” He even gestures at the sling as though to make the point of reference more obvious. There’s clearly some sort of miscommunication happening here, he just can’t tell where.

Letting out a little scoff that’s halfway between amused and surprised, Johanna’s gaze drops to her arm as though she’s just remembered it’s there. “You didn’t answer my question."

Here’s a little known fact about Emmrich Volkarin: wallflower as he might be at times (most of the time), he can be surprisingly stubborn when something has properly captured his attention.

So, he takes a deep breath. Blows out with puffed cheeks. Plants his hands on hips.

Stands his ground.

“You didn’t answer mine.” He doesn’t point out that he asked first. Someone like her? She’d remember. 

Then Johanna laughs. Actually laughs.

It’s not the way she’d giggled at his modesty during their first encounter, nor the hysterical way she’d cackled when she’d fled the classroom at the end of it. Just laughter, plain and simple. The kind of laughter Emmrich hadn’t realised he’d been waiting for.

The kind that makes his heart soar.

There’s still a smirk tugging on the corner of her mouth when she glances upwards, like she’s trying to make out the sky. “Fell,” she answers, grin widening as though she knows the reply will only wind him up further.

And Maker help him, it does.

It takes all his self-control to resist the childish urge to stamp his foot. “How ?”

An errant coil of hair falls in front of Johanna’s face. She shakes her head to displace it in a way that’s more canine than feline. Glancing around them as though looking out for eavesdroppers, she continues in a conspiratorial whisper, “Jumped out a window, didn’t I?”

The answer really should be more shocking. If it had been anybody else, perhaps it would’ve been. But this explanation is so consistent with the limited other information Emmrich has on Johanna that he’s not even surprised but instead amazed. Awed, really, that somebody could treat their own body with such impertinence!

“You did,” he replies, more to himself, because despite everything, Johanna’s answer still requires some processing. “But why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? To see if I could fly.”

Something shifts then, in that moment, Emmrich can tell. It’s to do with the way she’s holding herself. Shrugging again, but moving less. Less performance, more pain.

“Why won’t you let them help you?” he blurts out as he gestures at her arm again. The Grand Necropolis is home to some of the greatest healers in all of Thedas. There’s no reason for Johanna to be walking around in a sling unless the injury was very recent, or if it was what she wanted. And why would she want that? Emmrich’s never broken any bones—he’s always been too careful, too wary—but from the stories he’s been told (mostly from his father, cautionary tales from his own childhood) it sounds like a downright unpleasant experience. Why put up with it, when there were better alternatives right at your very fingertips?

“Let who help me?” Johanna remarks, her face reflecting Emmrich’s own puzzlement for the barest of moments before she connects the dots. “Oh, them? With their magic?” She spits out the word like it’s a curse.

Trying to follow Johanna’s logic makes Emmrich’s head throb. He realises, too late, that it had never been her magic that had disoriented him. 

“But not just this!” he rebuts earnestly, his hands now gesturing wildly and thoughtlessly. He almost doesn’t know where this particular surge of urgency had come from until Watcher Pentaghast’s echo in his ears: …taught or contained.

What if Johanna isn’t aware yet of all her options? Especially if she’s from somewhere where mages aren’t held in the same esteem as they are in Nevarra City? Standing his ground and looking her straight in the eyes this time, Emmrich continues. “You should let them help you with your magic.” More gently, he adds, “It’s been helping me.”

“Should I?” She returns her attention to the flowers, plucking them from the vines with her good hand without the care or delicacy they deserve. “I don’t think it’ll help me.”

He’s well and truly baffled now. There must be something he’s missing, some bigger picture. Something she can see clearly but he just can’t envision yet. “But you’re hurt,” he reiterates.

Johanna shrugs again, letting another handful of crumpled petals fall to the discarded pile at her feet. This time, Emmrich can’t even guess whether or not the casualness is feigned.

“This arm’s pretty useless anyway,” Johanna says. “But I still managed to break it in two places!” With this exclamation, she unexpectedly beams as though the breaking had been the intention all along.

He’s not sure what he’d been expecting. Not really. Annoyance, maybe. Or regret. But certainty not this unbridled, irreverent joy. 

In this moment, her smile burns so bright it’s like staring directly at the sun. 

“Pentaghast taught me the name of the bones,” she adds. She tilts her head as she regards Emmrich curiously. “Have you learnt them all yet?” It takes Emmrich a moment to realise that for once, the question she’s asked him isn’t rhetorical. She starts to snicker, as though she can hear the gears in his brain working overtime. 

“I, uh, no—not yet, I’m afraid.” It was a point of frustration for Emmrich, how behind he felt in his studies. There was so much to learn as an initiate even outside of his general magecraft, but here he was, still struggling to read. His confidence had started to improve rapidly with all the extra personal tuition he’d been receiving, but on the balance of everything—if it wasn’t impossible—he’d rather have his parents back. 

He’s mortified to discover tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. There’s no way that they’ll escape Johanna’s notice. He braces himself for mockery. 

And yet, it doesn’t come. 

There are several moments of silence. Heavy. Cloying. Choking. His vision starts to blur at the edges. 

But then—several ripped purple petals fall upon his boots. Startled, he looks up, forcing his eyes back into focus. 

Johanna’s tearing up the flowers with renewed determination, not quite looking him in the eyes.

“The ulna and the radius. The ones I broke.” She tries to gesture with her left arm, but winces. It still must hurt a lot. She presses one of the small purple flowers into Emmrich’s hands. “Don’t worry. There’s only 206. Post-ossification, anyway. You’ll be fine.” He twirls the flower between his fingers, transfixed. He doesn’t know what it’s called. He wonders if she does. Probably. She seems like the type to know everything, without caring how it comes across. 

In any case, he welcomes the distraction, even if he doesn’t understand it. It gives him the space he needs to remember to breathe again, to remember how to blink away his tears—his fears—and swallow them down, locking them away for when he’s alone again.  

Better to accept the chance he’s been given then wonder too deeply about why she’s being nice to him all of a sudden. 

“What’s this for?” he asks, lifting up the flower she’d given him. 

“Looked like you could use it. Some people think certain flowers mean something, even gave it a fancy name and everything—floriography . Flower language. But I think it’s stupid.” Emmrich can’t help it: his gaze drops to the pile of petals at their feet and he finds the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “The flowers or the people?” Johanna grins, wide and feral again. “Both, of course.” She plucks another one of the flowers, twirling it by the stem between the forefinger and thumb of her right hand. “These clematis are supposed to represent intelligence and ambition. Among other things. Load of tosh, if you ask me. I just think they smell nice.” She points at the squashed pile with a boot. “I’m thinking of turning them into a perfume.” 

“Oh,” Emmrich says, his tone somewhere between awed and unnerved. Why does she know so much about a topic she supposedly hates? He knows better than to ask for now—she’s actually being nice to him, and he’s not going to waste this chance. Instead, he settles for the most inoffensive agreement he can think of. “You can do that?”

Nodding eagerly, Johanna bends down and scoops the pile of flowers into her arms before dropping them unceremoniously into Emmrich's bucket. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

He almost follows her unthinkingly. But at the last moment, the fear of misstepping rears its head again, causing him to hesitate. “Are we allowed to do this? With the flowers?”

Johanna scoffs. “What does it matter? They’re dying anyway. This way, they might as well be useful. And besides…” She leans in towards him, nudges her good shoulder against his arm. “I don’t see anyone around to stop us.”

She's right, of course. There's nobody around to stop them. Not this time, at least. 

As surreptitiously as possible, he wipes at his eyes with the upper arm of his robes, as though there’s somebody, anybody, else in the room he’s desperate to hide his feelings from, besides Johanna. “It’s a sombre occasion,” he insists with all the pomp he can muster without raising his voice. Words echo in the Belfry, so he has to be careful.

“Some idiot bit off more than he could chew and now we have to watch four Pentaghast guardsmen get buried,” Johanna answers, skeptical. “I hope the next person who tries uses their actual brains.”

Emmrich squirms on the spot. He considers kicking Johanna in the shin, but decides against it. He doesn’t want to cause a scene. Even Johanna’s been considered well-behaved as of late, and he doesn’t want to make things harder for her. Not while her position at the Necropolis is still uncertain, however loathe anyone around them is to admit it.

Least of all Johanna.

“You can’t say things like that,” he hisses instead.

“Why not?” Johanna shoots back, characteristically unflappable.

Emmrich struggles to find the right words. It doesn’t happen as much as it used to, but still more often than he’d like, especially around Johanna. “It’s—it’s treachery,” he manages eventually.

Johanna looks at him, eyes wide as saucers, and then she bursts into laughter.

One of the senior Watchers shushes them from behind. Johanna claps a hand over her mouth, reminiscent of the way she’d tried to stifle her hysterical laughter the day they’d first met.

But her shoulders are still shaking.

The bells toll, and their role in the ceremony is complete. They file out of the Hollow Belfry in pairs, Johanna already undoing her braid and reforming it into a loose ponytail, their feet automatically tracing the path back to the apprentice quarters. There’s no lessons on a day like today—none apart from the ones that have already been taught by death.

While Emmrich would have been happy to walk back together in silence, Johanna is in one of her more thoughtful moods. Hair now corrected, she stretches her arms high above her head, the human equivalent of a cat stretching its spine after a long nap. “I still don’t understand it,” she admits.

Emmrich eyes Johanna warily. It’s rare for her to admit that she doesn’t know something. He almost doesn’t want to ask, but he knows it’s all part of the performance—she’ll be offended if he doesn’t and will tell him her thoughts anyway.

With reluctance, he asks, “What don’t you understand?”

As anticipated, she jumps on the question with near deranged delight, dark brown eyes glimmering. “Why we go through all that ceremony and ritual at all. Where I’m from, many still burn their dead. It’s efficient. No mauseloeums built to—

Emmrich is no longer listening. He’s thinking of his parents. The last time he’d held his parents. The last time his parents had held him.

He imagines their faces burning, melting, what was once skin turning to ash.

He feels like he’s about to vomit. Or run. Or both. His vision swims.

Johanna is still talking.

“Perendale has only been an Nevarran holding for fifty years. The hills even less than that, but their strategic importance can’t be understated. Papa told me more Nevarrans have moved in over the years, but there’s plenty of Orlesians still around. Just across the border. Or even within Perendale itself. Mama was born in Orlais and she thinks mummification is vile. I think it’s fascinating if used correctly. But we both know the likes of those that were buried today will squander necromancy’s potential—Emmrich?”

She breaks off, finally looking at him.

He doesn’t remember when he’d stopped walking, but Johanna is now several steps ahead of him, looking back.

“You look ill. Do you want to go to the infirmary?”

All of a sudden, his hands are clammy. He barely knows how he gets the words out, but he manages somehow. “I’m not sick, Johanna.”

She flicks her ponytail over a shoulder, her brow furrowed. “Then what’s wrong?”

Every muscle in his body feels like it’s vibrating. He doesn’t know how to state the problem directly. But he does know how to ask her about it. The words even come out the right way this time.

“Have you ever lost somebody before?”

Her mouth drops open as though she’s about to interject—possibly to call him stupid, or ask him to be more specific—so he holds up a hand in the universal symbol of I’m not finished speaking. He’ll be the first person to admit that she intimidates him a lot of the time—most of the time—but this moment is too important to allow for interruptions.

“I mean,” he continues after drawing a breath and desperately licking his lips, “lost somebody to the finality of death. That someone you once loved is gone forever.”

She arches an eyebrow. He can see her considering her answer carefully. And eventually, she answers. “You mean like you did? In the rubble?”

All of a sudden, his vision tunnels. The corridor narrows, and what limited sunlight there had been is now gone.

It had been overcast that day, or at least, it always was in his memories. He’d been in school when the news had broken, and he’d put two and two together and realised it wasn’t one of the days when his mother would’ve been helping out with the shop, but would have been at her second job, in the city proper.

He didn’t remember asking for permission to leave.

He just remembered running.

Running toward the yelling and screaming. Dodging past the people who tried to stop him.

Reaching the first corpse and begging for directions.

Not even questioning it when the corpse answered.

He had to find Mama.

But it had all been too much. Too much chaos. Too many dead bodies. So much brand-new arcane energy flowing through his veins as he searched desperately through the ruins of some minor noble’s mismanaged vanity building project.

He’d collapsed by the time they’d found him. Still wasn’t sure who had found him. Just knew that someone had seen him talking to the corpses, and that someone had alerted the Watchers.

It was Watcher Pentaghast who had brought him the bad news in the aftermath of the clean-up efforts.

That it wasn’t just Emmrich’s mother they’d found in the rubble.

That they’d found his dad, too.

But he’d known already, felt it in his bones, because if Papa was still alive, he would be here, instead of the Mourn Watch.

Just like that, everything had changed.

And Johanna? Johanna would never understand.

He doesn’t remember how it happened, but his hands, still clammy, have nonetheless formed into fists. He wants to shove her, and it scares him. He’s not a violent person—never has been.

And yet.

“How could you—” he thunders, surprised by the volume of his own voice. He’d never known it to be so loud before. Or maybe it’s just because his ears are still ringing.

“You asked me a question,” interrupts Johanna, unperturbed.

A frisson of indignation jolts up Emmrich’s spine. On anything else, he would back down. But not this. His grief, so usually well-buried has leapt from its usual place deep in his gut and is now threatening to choke him. “How do you even know about that?

He hates how hysterical he sounds, yet how can it be helped? He hasn’t talked about this with anyone, other than the Watchers who had brought him in.

He’d always been taught that it would be for the best to process it, move on.

Even Johanna looks mildly abashed for once. She averts her gaze from Emmrich, but does not flinch away from answering the question. “I read your file,” she admits, too breezily.

“You what?” Emmrich snaps, aghast at both the admission and at the ease with which Johanna makes it. Truth be told, he hadn’t been aware there had been a file, but of course there is: this is The Grand Necropolis, and the Mourn Watch runs on administration.

Johanna nods, now staring at her once-broken arm, still held at an awkward angle. “While I was in the infirmary. They don’t keep the cabinets locked. And I was bored.”

Emmrich’s hands have started gesticulating of their own accord. Any attempt to shove them back into his pockets and behave themselves are unsuccessful. “So, what, you invaded my privacy because you were bored?”

Her gaze drops to the ground, to her forever-scuffed boots. “I didn’t think it would be a big deal,” she says, more quietly this time.

“It’s a big deal to me,” he insists, still shaking.

Inhaling sharply, Johanna answers. “I see that now.”

On any other day, on any other topic, he might let it lie. But not this.

“You had no right.”

Johanna remains silent. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t explain herself.

He should run, but just like last time, he doesn’t. Not because running is cowardly, the truth is even worse than that: he can’t. He’s too scared to flee, too afraid to save himself. His legs might as well be stone for he’s rooted to the spot.

If he dies tonight, then at least he’ll see his parents soon. The thought should balm his terror but it doesn’t help at all.

But then the girl actually speaks, and whatever terrible outcome he had been imagining in the back of his mind disappears in the presence of the sheer banality of the actual situation.

Her words are direct. Unsubtle. To the point. “You’re the corpse-whisperer, aren’t you?”

He envies it, the confidence.

And there’s so much he wants to say in response. Like that he has a name. That he’s more than just the ‘corpse-whisperer’. But he knows his words won’t come out quite right, the way he wants them to. He’ll get there one day—the Watchers are teaching him. But not yet.

Fingers curling against the hemmed sleeves of his ill-fitting robes, he gives the only response in which he has any degree of confidence: an academic correction.

“Mortuis loquere,” he says. Even now, his tongue trips over the syllables.

“Mortuis loquere,” the girl parrots back effortlessly, the corner of her mouth curling into a smirk. Her eyes narrow as she continues. “I thought you’d be more impressive.”

Now the terror in his ears is ringing a little less loudly, Emmrich realises just how strange her accent is, too. The rhythm is wrong. The shape of the vowels. Orlesian, maybe. Or Nevarran, once removed.

The girl takes another step towards him.

He fights the urge to shrink against the wall and fails. Finds himself apologising instead. “I’m sorry,” he says, knowing full well he can’t even fault her for the observation, knowing just how she’s developed the misconception in the first place.

Besides, he wishes he was more impressive, too.

He’s not expecting a follow-up question to an apology but the girl is full of surprises—it’s probably one of the least surprising things about her.

“Why?” she asks, leaning in close like she expects him to know the answer.

The problem is that he’s learned there are two different types of sorries: the type you give when something is your fault (like hiding a cat bite from your mother for hours), and the type people give when overwhelmed, like at funerals.

Right now, he’s still not sure which type of sorry he is.

Maybe both.

But he still can’t run—still can’t force himself to simply walk away—so instead he takes the only other path available to him.

He doubles down.

“That I’m not more impressive.”

He’s not expecting her to burst into laughter but she does, the sound echoing off the flagstones before she claps a hand to her mouth as though someone’s reminded her to keep quiet, to behave herself.

It doesn’t work very well.

Or at all.

But mostly he’s just glad she’s no longer looking at him like half-preserved organs in a specimen jar.

The girl’s still struggling to stifle her giggles when Emmrich’s thoughts are interrupted by the sound of steady, determined footsteps. The fear of being discovered by somebody else—someone with authority—sends a rush of energy through his veins.

Unfortunately, his body isn’t quite sure what to do with it all: it’s like his feet have been severed from his brain. Before he can even properly process what’s happening, he finds himself having tried to jump in two different directions at once, pain radiating outward from his kneecap for his troubles, a collision of skin and bone and stone.

The girl howls.

“Johanna,” comes the steely tenor of Watcher Pentaghast behind him in the doorway. “There you are.”

A few more peals of laughter escape Johanna’s throat before Emmrich sees her process the situation. Suddenly, she’s shut up and straightened as though she’d never been laughing at all, every muscle in her body tensed ready to either to run or pounce.

Emmrich’s seen this before, too. Not with people, but with the cats. She’s assessing the threat. Calculating. Making herself seem bigger than she is. In case it’s necessary.

Then, he feels it. The Fade, rippling around them. The displacement of kinetic energy. Pentaghast must feel it too, but says nothing. Nobles never do. And Pentaghast is more than that: he’s a Pentaghast, no matter how much he may insist it doesn’t matter.

It’s all making sense now. The whispers Emmrich had heard around the Necropolis. Of the complications of her presence.

She’s magic. Just like him.

It shouldn’t shock him even though it does. It’s certainly old news to Pentaghast, who remains steadfast in the doorway, as though he might be able to reinforce reality through sheer force of presence.

“Johanna,” Pentaghast repeats, more firmly this time. A warning.

Even though they’d been expecting it, the sharp blast of air catches them both off guard. Emmrich’s slammed against the wall before he knows what’s happened, slumping to the floor as Pentaghast stumbles, his fingers just missing the sleeve of Johanna’s dress as she streaks past him, laughing hysterically once more.

Emmrich expects Pentaghast to give chase—hadn’t he come down here to find Johanna in the first place? Instead, the senior Watcher extends a hand to Emmrich.

Trying not to think about just clammy his palms are, Emmrich accepts the offer of assistance, allowing himself to be hoisted upwards. Still dazed, he stares in the direction of Johanna’s receded footsteps.

“I don’t understand,” he admits quietly.

“Young mages,” Pentaghast starts slowly, with all the gravitas of a man choosing his words carefully, “can be either taught or contained.”

Emmrich is not oblivious to the threat and promise in those words. Pentaghast gives his hand one encouraging squeeze before releasing it entirely. “But you should be in bed.”

Yes, he really should. It’s not like him, breaking rules like this, no matter how minor. The Watchers have been so kind to him ever since he’s come to live here. But Johanna’s words—corpse-whisperer, corpse-whisperer, corpse-whisperer—ring through him, remind him of the fear he tries not to examine too closely, that maybe if his talents hadn’t blossomed and been recognised so quickly in the aftermath of everything, who knows what would have happened to him?

That’s why he’s out of bed tonight. The anniversary is soon. The nightmares are back again.

The ones where he’s choking.

The ones where he’s dying, too.

So, he’d gone down to the classrooms. To get some…not fresh air, exactly. But to be somewhere familiar.

Less alone.

Now, though? Now he’s exhausted. He hadn’t even noticed, but his legs are shaking.

Pentaghast frowns at him, concerned. “Or perhaps to the infirmary. That was quite the blow to the head.” He offers Emmrich his hand again.  

It had been quite the hit—now that it’s been pointed out to him, he notices his temples are throbbing, too. Maybe that was the real reason for the ringing. It would be nice to have a reason other than the fear.

“Thank you,” Emmrich whispers, letting Pentaghast take his hand into his own.

“Oh, wow,” Bellara says, her tone one of undisguised awe intermingled with concern. “Should we check on him? Maybe?”

We, Bellara says, as though Johanna is capable of autonomous ambulation. Even if the elf were of a mind to carry Johanna to wherever Volkarin’s bed is located—and Johanna highly doubts this is the case, given the structure of the wards—Johanna is absolutely certain Bellara won’t help her smother Volkarin with a pillow. Unfortunate as the realisation might be, even Johanna can admit requesting such assistance would be an obvious waste of her time and energy.

Instead, she answers, “If Volkarin insists upon choking to death on his own breath, who are we to stop him?”

Much to Johanna’s chagrin, Bellara must assume Johanna’s question is rhetorical as she does not answer. Instead, the elf shuffles slowly backwards into Johanna’s field of vision, dragging along with her a large box near overflowing with an assortment of elven gadgetry. Much of the equipment is familiar to Johanna—resonance amplifiers, matrix calculators, Fade attenuators—even if the designs are different from those to which she is accustomed.

“Phew,” Bellara says, giving the box one final shove so it’s pressed flush up against the side of Volkarin’s desk. Wiping at her dampened brow with her shirt sleeve she adds, “I was starting to think I’d never get everything up here.”

Johanna knows better than to ask why Bellara simply hadn’t levitated the box up the stairs. Given the sheer magical energy concentrated in its contents, even Johanna wouldn’t have made such an attempt in the absence of any other choice. Although her more feeble-minded detractors might call her careless, their criticisms have always been rooted in their obvious envy of her appetite for risk.  

But there had been other options available to Bellara, and Johanna is surprised the young woman hadn’t availed herself of them. Unable to mask the curiosity in her tone, she asks, “Why didn’t you ask that hulking qunari for assistance?” Given they were always in Volkarin’s office antagonising her with frivolous questions, Johanna was surprised they hadn’t thought to make themself useful for once.

“Taash?” Bellara’s eyes widen before she crosses her arms over chest and averts her gaze. “Oh, you know. I didn’t want to bother them. Or anyone.”

While the answer is suspicious, Johanna frankly can’t find it in herself to care. She should be grateful to have the opportunity to continue working undisturbed—Volkarin’s cacophonous snoring aside—but she is distracted by a conspicuous absence in the room that takes her several moments to identify.

When the answer comes to her, she speaks without thinking. “Where’s Manfred?”

Bellara lets out a giggle of a surprise before truncating it with a hand slapped to her mouth. “Manfred?” she repeats incredulously while shaking her head, ridiculous jewellery jingling. An expression of contemplative mischief eerily reminiscent of Volkarin briefly flashes across Bellara’s face before she sobers. “I left him in the kitchen with the boys. Lucanis—Lucanis needed help with the cooking.” 

Johanna has never met this ‘Lucanis’ but all things considered relative, she is endeared to him already. She can always appreciate a man with brains enough to stay out of her way, unlike Volkarin and his manservant. “That skeleton boy has gotten quite fond of ‘help’ lately,” she complains in approval.

The corner of Bellara’s lips twitch upwards. “Manfred’s been a lot of help, really!”

Johanna scoffs. “Helping himself get underfoot, more like.” But she cannot deny the utility of having somebody to whom she can dictate her thoughts and annotations, especially when Bellara is tired and complains about her hands cramping, yet another of mortality’s many stifling limitations.

Perhaps when this is all over, she’ll get the skeleton to write her memoirs.

“I just thought that he maybe, you know, could go be helpful somewhere else for a while,” Bellara continues softly. “He wants to be helpful. I can’t blame him for that. Anybody would. Want to help at a time like this, I mean.”

Something in the words makes Johanna squirm in discomfort, like a phantom twisting of the gut. She shoves the feeling aside, refusing to be left susceptible to the ghost of her erstwhile intestines. She’s not here to solve other people’s problems for them. She’s not.

But the words for a proper rebuttal to Bellara’s claim remain infuriatingly elusive.

Unbothered by Johanna’s silence, Bellara walks around to the other side of Volkarin’s desk and rests her interlaced hands on the diagrams strewn across its surface, her forehead furrowing as she looks down at the sheafs of vellum like she’s surprised to find them there. She doesn’t look up at Johanna when she continues to speak. “Besides. I thought this might be a good chance for us to get to know each other better. You know. One on one?”

While it is difficult to believe they are guaranteed any privacy given Volkarin’s snores still permeate the room from floor to ceiling, the sharp retort fades from the forefront of Johanna’s mind in light of the four following observations:

Though Volkarin had often left Johanna to her own devices while he pottered about the rest of this so-called ‘Lighthouse’, even going so far as to embark on transnational adventures (much to Johanna’s immense surprise), the network of magical mirrors which facilitated such fantastical journeys with ease made it impossible to predict the moment of Volkarin’s imminent return with any degree of precision.

Even when Volkarin himself had been absent from the Lighthouse, Manfred had more often than not remained behind. While Johanna is certain this decision had largely been due to Volkarin’s sickening sentimentality in not wanting to endanger the sack of bones again (as though that wasn’t the whole point of crafting a manservant, as though that hadn’t been the role Manfred had played with excruciating effect on the day of her humiliating defeat) she is equally certain of the skeleton’s complicity in acts of espionage: the curious creature has clearly been crafted in Volkarin’s image and is therefore most certainly a whimpering little tattletale.

Bellara Lutare, clearly more cunning than might otherwise be implied by her wide eyes and cherubic cheeks, must share Johanna’s concerns about Manfred, considering the timing of the skeleton’s exile to the kitchen.

Emmrich Volkarin is currently dead asleep (but unfortunately, only metaphorically: if he were truly dead, he wouldn’t be making such a hideous racket.)

But this means they will be immediately alerted should Volkarin start to stir.

There is one only obvious conclusion Johanna can draw in the face of the available evidence: Bellara wishes to hold a private conversation away from the prickling ears and prying eyes of those who might criticise them for speaking freely.

“Get to know each other better,” Johanna repeats, the words crashing on the shores of her consciousness like discordant waves. She should be warier: it has been a long time since anyone has asked anything of her without empty flattery or pontificating reprimand. And yet she is seized by a curiosity she does not yet understand. “What interest could I possibly have in such a thing?”

Bellara demurs, incisors worrying at her bottom lip as she weighs her next words carefully. Johanna takes some small measure of comfort in the fact that the girl is clearly more capable of learning from Volkarin’s mistakes than the man himself. Johanna is certain Bellara would not accuse her of mere puppetry; Bellara is not beholden by the same limitations—the same cowardice—that has always clouded Volkarin’s vision and judgement.

“Because I have questions,” Bellara eventually admits as she raises her head, staring unflinchingly in Johanna’s direction before adding, “And I think you have the answers.”

A silence settles between them. Silent, except for Volkarin’s snores. Johanna studies the younger woman’s face carefully, inspecting it for any trace of the insincerity she so despises. The worried furrow in Bellara’s brow is now absent, her forehead smooth and unremarkable other than the intricate facial tattoo. Her eyes are wide and bright, with no visible hint of subterfuge in her pupils.

And her jaw? Her jaw is set in grim determination.

Despite herself, Johanna is impressed. It is unlike Volkarin to make many friends of this calibre: people who are unafraid to speak the truth with the same efficacy upon which Johanna prides herself.

She’s about to respond when for some mystifying reason Bellara continues talking, and the illusion shatters.   

“Sorry! I’m sorry,” Bellara apologises repeatedly and unnecessarily, taking a step back from the desk and folding into herself in a way that is again uncomfortably reminiscent of Volkarin.  “That came out lopsided. Way too lopsided.”

Her gaze drops to the box by her feet as she continues. “I mean. I’m happy to answer any of your questions, too. Emmrich mentioned you didn’t know much about old elven magic, and that’s kind of my speciality. And okay, now that just sounds transactional, I—"

Johanna hastily interrupts before the second-hand embarrassment of bearing witness to another apology can sunder what remains of her soul. “—do I seem the type of woman to be bothered by transactional relationships?” she remarks acridly. “I sold my own hand to deranged cultists in exchange for silverite.”

The words have the intended effect of halting the girl’s inane rambling. She takes a shaky breath before her posture straightens once more. “Right! Okay. So, good news. I don’t require any limbs. Or other body parts. Just to be clear.” “That is good,” Johanna answers in simple agreement, “for I have precious few to spare.”

Bellara lets out a snort that rivals Volkarin’s snores in volume and indecency but is thankfully far more short-lived. “Is it really okay for us to just talk like this?”

There’s a thread of hesitance in the younger woman’s words that Johanna is both reluctant to identify but incapable of ignoring. It is obvious, too obvious, that she could pull at the stitches of Bellara’s sentences to reopen wounds that could only be sewn shut by one of the most powerful forces in the world: recognition.

But for once, Johanna feels no need to pick at the scab. In her generosity, she even offers Bellara a salve. “Why not? As you said, you have questions and I have answers. And there’s no sense in letting your little subterfuge go to waste.” Colour rises high on Bellara’s cheeks as Johanna watches with morbid fascination: the complicated interplay between nerves and vasodilation has always captivated her. While she has long since disavowed herself of any personal belief in a Maker, she can understand why the more feeble-minded feel compelled to cling to the illusion of a divine creator. While she would never admit it, even she had once found comfort in the thought that the complexities of existence had been guided by a force beyond mere mortal reckoning.

But when she had looked behind the curtain that fateful day, she had found no gods, only—   

“He wanted to help in the kitchen!” Bellara argues, interrupting Johanna’s thoughts. The elf plants her hands on her hips as though the reminder of the asymmetry in their physical mobility might distract Johanna from how Bellara has implicitly confirmed her accusation.

“Indeed,” Johanna answers drily. What had she been thinking about again? Whenever her mind wandered away from it, it was difficult to return, like every scrap of her soul tensed in terror at the possibility. Firmly grounded once more in the here and now, she focuses her attention full to Bellara once more. “By the way, I’m sure Volkarin will be exhilarated to hear you encouraged his manservant to play with knives.”

Bellara’s gaze falls to the documents on the desk and mutters words Johanna can’t quite make out yet sound suspiciously like ‘…dagger is a type of knife’. “Lucanis won’t let him hurt himself,” she insists instead as she looks back up at Johanna.   “Whatever,” Johanna says, already deciding to store the information at the back of her mind to scandalise Volkarin when the moment is right.  “However our present circumstances came about, you were the one who claimed it was the perfect opportunity to ‘get to know each other’. For efficiency’s sake, let us assume I am amenable to such a proposal. My question is therefore simple: what was it that you wished to know?”

Johanna doesn’t even understand why she is being so amenable, except for the discomforting feeling of an unscratchable itch that only Bellara is somehow capable of reaching. What in the world is she supposed to do or say in the face of such a ridiculous realisation? 

“Oh!” Bellara exclaims, face brightening as though she had never expected Johanna to actually agree. Her next words burst out in a flood of excitement. “Only everything. Is everything an option? I have so. Many. Questions.” Johanna pauses for a moment before answering but try as she might she still cannot locate any trace of mockery in Bellara’s countenance. “I would start somewhere,” she suggests nonetheless. “Volkarin won’t stay asleep forever.” But if she can perhaps keep Bellara’s interest for long enough, the young woman might be more amenable to the pillow solution.

There are many topics Johanna expects the young woman to broach first, from technical questions on her areas of magical expertise to the secrets of lichdom, of which Volkarin has exposed enough to whet his teammates’ appetites. Of course he would dangle the carrot and leave them hungering for more before retreating behind his carefully constructed mask of decency and decorum. Because it was fine, acceptable really, to break sacred oaths and promises in small amounts so long as one was careful to perform the pretence of being a good person. Ugh! It was suffocating just to imagine. And to think the blistering fool had once harboured guilt about her expulsion from the Mourn Watch when he had in fact set her free instead!

But Bellara surprises Johanna yet again. Bellara’s question is not about magic. It is barely even a question at all.

“There’s something that’s been on my mind lately. With everything going on.” Her gaze flits nervously to the blood-red sky outside the window before she refocuses her attention on Johanna. “It’s to do with the way Emmrich talks about you. How he makes you come across. Irreverent. Fearless. I used to wonder: what would it be like? To feel that way? But I think I understand now.”

She lets out a shaky breath and walks back around the desk before sitting down legs akimbo on the floor before Johanna’s skull.  “When everything’s this scary, it’s like there’s no other choice. Bravery becomes a necessity.” Johanna realises too late that there had never been any chance of escaping the oncoming storm: impending doom strikes her like a thunderclap before Bellara can even utter the dreaded question.

Bellara stares up plaintively at Johanna with those wide brown eyes fixed in her best imitation of Volkarin’s puppy dog expression. “What made you so afraid?”

At first, Johanna considers not answering at all. Such an invasion of her privacy—of her mind—would be impertinent even if conducted by Volkarin, and she has known the man near forty-five years. But Volkarin had never asked! Volkarin had not once stopped to consider if she was even capable of fear. Not until recently. And thus, she had always kept it buried deep. To protect him. To protect herself.

Yet, Bellara had asked the question. And Johanna had promised an answer. To fall silent now would be an act of cowardice. Bellara would undoubtedly come to the erroneous conclusion that Johanna feared fear itself. The mere thought of such catastrophic cockamamie making its way back to Volkarin sends a spike of revulsion through her so visceral it almost makes her wish she was still capable of death.

An answer, then. “I felt fear once.” She can confess that much at least. “During my attempt at lichdom.” Bellara nods, gaze turning to thoughtful from pleading. She’s clearly mollified by this explanation. Relief of unknown origins floods Johanna to her very core.

“That was going to one of my questions,” Bellara admits.  “I asked Emmrich about it once. About how it works. Being half-undead, I mean.”

“Poorly.” Johanna’s immediate answer slips out before she can even think about it. How else could she describe the way her soul beats constantly against the inside of her own skull, desperate to escape not only Volkarin’s wards but her own ritual bonds? If only Volkarin’s concentration would lapse! Then she could undo the magic herself once she had located a willing host.

She could be free again.

Bellara’s brow knits as she considers Johanna’s answer. “Okay, but surely there are some benefits, right? I mean. Maybe not in your current situation. But before that? You didn’t have to like, breathe?” “Who said that?” Johanna asks, but this is an example of a question that is actually rhetorical: it would have been Volkarin, of course. The imbecile has always been incapable of keeping his mouth shut.  “Pah! It doesn’t matter. You’re right, of course. The shutdown of the body’s organs begins early into the lichdom ritual. I terminated the process before this step could reach completion.” Bellara leans in, resting her chin on the heels of her hands like an eager apprentice being read a bedtime story. “Terminated?”

“Yes, yes, terminated, aborted, whatever nomenclature you might wish to use. Why else did you think I had no eyes while my skin looked like that?”

“I, um. You know what, I hadn’t really thought about it!” Bellara answers a little too quickly for Johanna’s liking.  “But you’re basically immortal. Is that why you stopped?” Sometimes Johanna forgets how little the outside world knows about lichdom and all the complexities it entails. Does Bellara know Johanna is the only person to have even made an attempt in the last two and a half ages? Of course not. The only people who would know or care are stuck in the dusty crypts of the Necropolis, determined to play dead while still very much gloriously alive.

It would be easy to lie to Bellara, but Johanna doesn’t think the younger woman will be fooled forever. Once Bellara gleans more understanding of the intricacies involved (and of course she will, given Volkarin’s propensity toward diarrhoea of the mouth) she would surely wonder why Johanna had not gone the route of a simple possession.

Then there was the problem of the confession, of course: I felt fear once. The little admission she’d made as part of this agreement she had accidentally stumbled into due to her inability to refrain from pursuing her own curiosity.

And here she had thought it was that wisp who lacked a healthy sense of self-preservation!

Once again, Bellara is waiting for an answer, and once again, Johanna is obliged to provide one.

“No. I stopped because it was going wrong.” “Wrong… how?” Bellara asks as she shuffles even closer to Johanna’s skull stand.

“Wrong…” How does she even begin explaining to someone who has never been a Watcher, who has not spent their formative years—and several decades thereafter—shrouded by death and its promise of finality?  She changes tack. “Tell me, girl. What do you know about soul transference?” “Oh. Um. That’s right! Prof—Emmrich told me about that. I think. It’s got to do with the Nevarran belief of…how did he put it again? The souls of the departed displacing spirits in the Fade. Right?” “It’s certainly related, yes,” Johanna confirms. While Bellara’s answer is over-simplified, she suspects neither of them are currently in the mood to debate the eternal question. Bellara because she hasn’t done the readings, and Johanna because not only had she argued about it bitterly enough back in her Mourn Watch days, she was also now certain of the truth despite lacking the evidence to prove it.

She pushes the prickling unease aside and recentres herself as she continues. “One of the fundamental functions of lichdom involves the binding of one’s soul to the body by conscious choice instead of through the accident of birth. As a mage yourself, you would be well aware of how a physical form—alive or undead—allows for the more focused channelling of magic. It is why wisps and lesser spirits are limited in how they can affect our world.  Of course, the mortal form is limited in its own ways.  Tissue. Muscle. Tendons. All weak. All incompatible with allowing a mage to reach her full potential. Hence why the rites of lichdom also involve rapid bodily decomposition, leaving nothing behind but bones.”

Bellara, Johanna notes, looks rather green in the face. How little other cultures surrounded themselves with the realities of death and dying, one of the only truly unifying forces in the world! Ignoring the younger woman’s pallor, Johanna continues.

“Naturally, this would invoke the death of the mortal form. Sensible, as one cannot become undead without dying. When the rites are performed under the auspices of the Mourn Watch, the candidate is usually killed by another Watcher first. A ritual slaughter. Then an autopsy, to remove preferred organs for sentimental preservation.”   

Even now, Johanna can’t help but wonder which initial incision Volkarin would’ve chosen to receive should he have been brave enough to make the attempt. A clean and efficient severing of the brain stem? Or would he have preferred the spectacle of a blade between the ribs, puncturing his heart? 

“Should…” Bellara starts, her face now near-white with dawning realisation. “Should you be telling me all this?”

“Who is going to stop me?” Johanna answers sharply. “Volkarin?” As though his ears are burning, he lets out a particularly loud snore. “Those other simple-minded Mourn Watch fools? They would have to get here first.” If Johanna could grin, she would. It is only now she realises that she has wanted to talk about this for a very long time, but that she has never had anybody to tell. “Returning to the matter of soul transference, just as they can draw a spirit into a corpse, an experienced Watcher is capable of stalling a soul’s return to the Fade, usually through the transfer of the soul to a suitable container. Which I had prepared. What I did not properly anticipate was the additional difficulty given my chosen method of death.” “You had to kill yourself?” Bellara asks, mouth dropping open in abject horror. “Is that why? Why you were so scared, I mean.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Johanna snaps, unable to identify why the question rankles her so. She has never feared death, has never understood the fear of death, has never been able to comprehend the terror with which Volkarin has always regarded the inevitability of oblivion. It did not make sense to Johanna, would never make sense to her, that the chicken-hearted milksop could spend almost his entire life in the bowels of the Grand Necropolis, helping to keep watch over its dead and all the related rites, while not coming to the same conclusion she had: that death was a comfort, an escape from suffering and pain. Death was the cocooning warmth of a lover’s embrace. Death was an escape. A certainty. Mercy.

When a farmer watched his dying dog, did he not ready his weapon instead of wringing his hands?

“You’re mistaking me for Volkarin,” she eventually clarifies. That must be it, the source of her discomfort. “No. What scared me is not only what I saw while I was dying, but the thought I might never witness it again.” Johanna didn’t think it possible, but Bellara’s mouth drops open even further.

Anticipating the girl’s next question, Johanna continues. “I glimpsed the Void itself!” she exclaims, her voice reverberating around Volkarin’s office so loudly that his amassed collection of skulls shakes on his shelves. “What you Dalish refer to as the Abyss. And in its depths, I tasted power no human has ever harnessed before: the very building blocks of reality! 

“The sheer force of the place pulled my soul away from my carefully crafted container and toward that eternal vortex. While I had long accepted death as a potential consequence of my attempt, I did not consider it a likely outcome. I had… contingencies. The Void’s grip on my soul was far too strong, and I was forced to sever the connection. An amputation, if you may.”

Bellara runs her hands down her face, rubbing at her eyes as though that might help with the comprehension of the totality of Johanna’s explanation. She takes several deep steadying breaths before speaking. “Okay. Okay. What you’re saying is part of your soul is wandering about the Abyss. Right? Am I understanding this correctly?” “It was not an intended outcome,” Johanna concedes. “But the primary consequence is that I am no longer able to master new magic—which I’m sure Volkarin has already told you all about.” He has always made such a sport of exposing her weaknesses, like a toddler unable to resist poking at a flowering bruise.

All the while, she desperately tries not to think about what had really scared her the day she’d died, what has gripped her with terror ever since: the truth that not only had she stared into the depths of the Void and borne witness to the sheer power concentrated within—power that might remain forever out of reach!—but that the Void itself had also looked into her, yet found her wanting.  

“If I’d had assistance,” Johanna continues quietly, “it would have been different. I could have been killed first instead of attempting multiple rites simultaneously. At the very least, another pair of hands would have kept my soul steady.”

I swear I would've helped had you come to me.

Lies, lies, lies! She can’t believe him, because the alternative is too terrible to bear. Volkarin has always been a liar, and she must continue clinging to this undeniable truth.

“But it’s as you said. I had no other choice. It was a necessity.”

To Johanna’s horror, Bellara looks like she’s about to cry; at this distance, she can even see tears forming at the rims of the younger woman’s eyeballs. Bellara draws her knees into herself as she whispers, “You must have felt so alone.”

A heavy silence blankets the room, suffocating in its weight. Fortunately, this time Bellara does not ask the dreaded questions: why had it been necessary? Why then? If she had, Johanna is not certain she could have answered.

Wait… silence?

Try as she might, Johanna cannot make out any more of Volkarin’s snores. Had he stopped? Was he waking?

Bellara must have come to the same conclusion, because she immediately scuttles backwards while wiping at her eyes, propelling herself away as though Johanna’s mere proximity might lead to inevitable moral corruption.

From the higher level of Volkarin’s office, there is a strange scraping sound akin to a sliding bookshelf before the man himself stumbles down the stairs in a ridiculous fluffy dressing grown tied loosely around the middle of his torso, thrown over striped pyjamas. Although his hair is tousled—distractingly so—his eyes are brighter. Brighter than Johanna has seen in days.

When he notices Bellara sitting on the floor of his office, his mouth briefly slips open in surprise, so quick that anyone other than Johanna would have missed it. He soon reschools his expression before steepling his hands together, grave gold glittering on his fingers and wrists.

“I do hope I haven’t been bothering you!” Volkarin exclaims with the effacing charm which fools so many others but will never hoodwink her. “My snores must have been so frightfully loud—they even woke me up in the end!” Bellara clambers to her feet, blocking Johanna from view and answering Volkarin’s question before Johanna has a chance to get a word in edgewise. “Of course not, Professor!” she lies, buttering Volkarin with the tactical application of flattering insincerity.

“Johanna and I are even becoming friends,” she continues. “I think.” What. Before Johanna can think of an appropriate response—frustrating, really, how often this girl leaves her speechless—Volkarin interrupts. “Johanna! Is this true?”

She searches the recesses of her mind for a suitable deflection (only so she can buy more time to find the proper words to describe the inanity of this entire situation, mind you) and recalls the conversation she’d had with Bellara about Manfred’s current whereabouts.

“Volkarin,” she drawls, “your research assistant encouraged your manservant to play with knives.”