#accidental misgendering | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

queenmuzz · 4 months ago

Text

Five Stages of Grief: Chapter II: Anger

Warning: Post Tearstone Island Spoilers

Read it HERE on Ao3

He grips the bridge of his nose to stop the impending headache. Worry and stress have no doubt played a large huge part in it, but a lack of sleep and a diet of nothing but Lucanis’s coffee (that’s how he knows things are getting bad, when his tea no longer can sustain him) aren’t helping.�� And now the rising arguments coming from his companions is making the possibility of a headache into a certainty.

There’s a loud thud that echoes through his skull as Taash pounds their fist on the table. “This is bullcrap! It’s been what, four days? And we haven’t done anything to get Bellara or Rook back!”

Emmrich bites his tongue, suppressing the urge to inform her that he has read more books in the last four days, researching everything related to the Fade, its pockets, and ancient elvish history than he has in an entire year (and possibly more books than they've read in their lifetime, but he wisely bites his tongue). Because he knows the answer to what their next question would be: Has it helped get them back? And the answer is a resounding no.

“Everyone is doing the best they can, Taash.” Harding rests her small hand on the Adari’s fist, “it’s just that these things take time”. Harding has been hard at work too working her inquisition contacts to the breaking point, not to mention attempting to mediate between the ever increasing arguments that threaten to boil over anytime the group meets to update their progress. She’s doing her best, but Harding doesn’t have the same talents as Rook, she doesn’t know when to stand firm, instead of agreeing with every idea to keep everyone happy. It’s not something he blames her for, as if he were in her tiny shoes, he’d probably do the same. The loss of the three has left a giant bloody wound in the group, and an infection of feverish anger is beginning to set in. It needs to be cleansed and stitched together in order to begin the healing process, and without Rook, there is no hope of it getting better.

“There’s also the issue of Minrathous,” Neve interjects, taking her pipe out of her mouth, which Emmrich has disapprovingly noticed she’s been puffing on much more lately. “The few Shadow Dragon contacts I still have have informed me that the Venatori have drastically increased their subjection of the city, and are seemingly preparing for… something.”

“Mierde,” mutters Lucanis, but Emmrich is close enough to hear Spite raging. “LESS TALK. MORE DOING. FIND ROOK.” He can’t disagree with that sentiment, but the problem is that no one knows where to start. It’s just more bad news after bad news.

“Sorry to break it to you, Neve,” Taash says as they spear a sausage from the central platter, “Minrathous is kinda not really important right now. Rivain’s in an uproar, the Antaam are running like a bull in a pottery shop… uh… wait, is that the correct term? Anyways, if you’re outside the cities, you’re fresh meat to those bastards, and it’s only gonna get worse.”

Neve’s eyes darken as she puts out her pipe with an ices hard. “You think MY city, which has already been attacked by a blighted dragon and taken over by the Venatori, isn’t important?”

“I’m not saying that, Neve, I’m just saying it’s not our highest priority. We already knew the place had gone to crap way before Tearstone island.”

The air around Neve drops central degrees, and Lucanis twitches, no doubt attempting to contain a VERY agitated Spite, who is chomping at the bit to let them all know what his position on the matter is.

“TOO LOUD. FIND ROOK”

“Even if we were to find Elgar’nan, what could we do except chuck rocks at him and insult his hairstyle?” Taash continues, as Harding attempts, and fails to shush them, “He has an Archdemon we gotta kill first, and Davrin’s not here to help. Not to mention the whole ‘Lyrium Dagger’ thing we don’t have.”

That brings something to Emmrich’s mind.

“Wait,” he says, as he places the coffee cup down. “Bellara said Rook allowed her to make a detailed study of the blade. And knowing how diligent she can be with ancient elvish technology, she must have made detailed notes about it. Perhaps, if I can study them, and with enough lyrium I may be able to recreate the blade, complete with the enchantments that make it so powerful… But,” he stops himself, remembering his younger colleague, whose boundless energy to learn as much as she could, was not with him, “It would require me to go through her notes, and I don’t feel…” she’d always been welcoming to the ‘Professor’ whenever he paid her a visit, but now with her gone, the thought of entering her little workshop to look for notes makes him feel like a burglar.

“I’ll go with you,” Neve offers, her voice softening, the agitation in the room slowly settles down, as the two of them slowly get out of their chairs.

“Thank you,” he replies, and he means it. Neve and Bellara have a very close bond, and it’s probably best that she accompanies him. Deep down, he knows the young elf would never mind him going through his notes, and in fact would be thrilled, but he can’t seem to bring himself to do it without someone’s permission.

He barely hears Lucanis mutter as he leaves “He didn’t even take a bite of the breakfast I made him….”

-------

There is only the sound of the rustling papers as they go through stacks and stacks of notes. The bust of Anaris sits there, silently mocking them with its smug face, and Emmrich has to resist the urge to knock it over. His nerves must be fraying, he realizes, if he is contemplating destroying the work of a colleague. The problem is, Bellara is a copious note taker… of EVERYTHING. Coupled with a habit of being a little scatterbrained, and no doubt the wisps mischievously moving everything around, it’s not an easy search. Twice, he catches himself asking, “Bellara, where did you put those notes on Rook’s dagger?” before realizing she can’t answer. How many times had he asked her to stop calling him ‘Professor’ and to just simply call him ‘Emmrich’. What he’d give to hear her call him ‘Professor.. I mean Professor Emmrich… I mean, sorry, Emmrich!’ right now.

“Aha!” Neve crows in triumph, as she holds up a sheaf of papers. He can make out a rough sketch of the lyrium blade, and squiggles that approximate writing. She walks over and hands them to him. His heart jumps in his chest. Yes, with these details, his studying, and a substantial amount of precious lyrium, there was a chance he could recreate what had been lost, or rather stolen from them. Deep inside he hopes that it could even bring back… her.

“Yes, this will do nicely…” he murmurs more to himself than Neve. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, he feels hope.

“I’ll need time to study this. This will be an undertaking few, if any mortal has ever accomplished. I don’t know how long it will take, but I will do my best." He begins to walk out of the room, fully intending to make a beeline to his study, but Neve stills him with a gentle, but unyielding hand.

“Emmrich,” she asks softly. “You know you don’t have to do this alone. We know how much Rook means to you…”

He knows that she means well. That it all comes from a place of friendship and concern. But right now, he needs neither, nor does he need her pity. Especially her pity.

“Thank you, but I’ll be fine.” It’s not a lie. A lifetime in the Necropolis has given him ample opportunity to work with only the dead for company. He can take care of himself, and he refuses to be a burden to anyone else.

“Emmrich…” she persists, and there’s pity laced in that name. It disgusts him.

“Leave. Me. Be.” His voice hisses like the wind that blows through the Great Hall, bringing along the grit of grave dust. He doesn’t need anyone right now. All he desires is the time and solitude to study and study a way of recreating Solas’s blade. And coffee. Lots of coffee.

------

He storms off towards his room, leaving a very concerned Neve standing there.

The next three days consist of never ending study of Bellara’s very detailed notes, deciphering her… unique… handwriting (he’s grateful that he had so much practice during their correspondence that feels like ages ago) taking notes and coming up with, and scratching out multiple theories. There’s occasionally a short nap (which he makes sure to wake up from before the dreams start) and then the coffee. And more coffee.

Any interruption, save for Manfred’s delivery of the strongest stuff Lucanis can brew, is met with a glare, as in the case of Harding, who wanted to check for a status update, or a growl, like when Neve came in to ‘helpfully’ inform him that Elgar’nan had made his move and invaded Minrathous. None of which matters to Emmrich right now. He’s making good progress on which enchantments need to be applied to the blade, for how long, and in which order, but it still needs time.

Johanna’s skull and the table she’s bound to are shoved in a closet. It only took one single jab, a sarcastic ‘Oh how the mighty Volkarin is stumped by some formula created by an uneducated forest elf’, before he decided she needed to be banished from his sight and hearing, lest he do something that he would regret. He is a Watcher still, even if he is a failure at everything else, and he has a duty to protect her, even if its from himself.

Manfred is also wisely staying out of his way. He tries his best to be helpful, bringing Emmrich books when requested, or yet another cup of coffee, but even the sound of his jawbone clacking, or his occasional hiss is enough to start a raging headache in the man.

Day four (seven days since Zea was taken from him) of his studies, and he’s finally come across a working theory of how the blade is able to puncture through the protective enchantments of the gods. It requires the lyrium to be both a conduit, and an inhibitor of magical energies, depending on what the balance of magic is. If the object has more magical energy than the blade, the magic will transfer to it, leaving the would-be god, or Veil vulnerable to a mundane cutting action. Like a drop of water being absorbed into a dry cloth. It’s able to go the other way too, if the blade encounters something with very low amounts of magic, which may explain what happened to Harding. But that’s not important right now. Now, he must construct, and implement the enchantments needed to sustain said charge, and that will be the hardest part of the whole thing. Every moment spent on a dead end, every wasted moment dozing off or even sipping his coffee is a moment he could be getting closer to bringing her back, to apologizing to her, to begging for forgiveness.

So it's no surprise that he’s less than pleased when he’s interrupted by a plate of flatbread, layered with goat's cheese and sundried tomatoes being placed in front of him. He lifts up his head to angrily demand why Manfred should disobey his order to not be disturbed, and comes face to face with Lucanis, holding two coffee cups.

“I didn’t ask for food.”

“I know, but you must think I’m stupid to think that I haven’t noticed you haven’t come down for meals as you once did.”

“I’ve been sending Manfred to fetch meals for me,” a lie that the younger man instantly catches on to.

“The only thing he’s been asking for is yet more coffee.” He sees Emmrich’s eyes dart immediately to the cup in his hand, and pulls it back, clicking his tongue.

“No… the only way you’re getting another cup is after you clear this plate.”

Emmrich is astounded. Does Lucanis think he’s a child, who has to be cajoled into eating their supper? He contemplates flipping the plate off the desk, flatbread and all, before realizing that yes, it would indeed make Lucanis think he’s a child.

It’s Spite of all people, that makes him acquiesce. “CURIOSITY IS WORRIED. WITHOUT ROOK HE IS LOCKING CURIOSITY OUT. AND CURIOSITY CANNOT GET BACK IN” He hears Spite’s voice, while Lucanis nods in agreement. It’s a low move, to use Manfred’s worries as a weapon to get him to eat, but… what they say comes from a place of concern and care. Manfred is too pure hearted to guilt him into eating, and no doubt went to a fellow spirit for aid.

He sighs, and begins to nibble the edge of the bread. Like most of Lucanis’s cooking, it tastes divine…or at least it would if it wasn’t bringing back memories of the last time he last ate something similar to this. He half expects Zea’s hand to snatch one of the tomatoes off the bite he's about to take, popping it in her mouth, giving him one of those grins that would immediately melt his heart, and instantly forgive her. But no such hand, not the left one, with the calluses he knew by heart, nor the right, with the slightly shorter pinky finger, (an embarrassing accident, she had explained) appears. So he dejectedly eats, the food tasting like ash in his mouth, and forming a lump in his throat every time he swallows. Still he powers through, and to his eternal annoyance, Lucanis is right. He hasn’t been eating much, and it's affecting his body and mind. He seems more focused, the words on the page no longer running together as he attempts to read, his hands (almost) stop their trembling.

Satisfied, and more than a little smug, Lucanis sets the cup of coffee in front of Emmrich. He mutters his thanks and begins to sip. He really hates the taste, even under the expert brewing of Lucanis, but it’s the only way to keep going, to push the need for sleep away, to where he knows he will be beset by nightmares.

“This is the last cup I’m making you,” the assassin announces, after taking a sip of his own, no doubt to bolster his own courage. “I’m cutting you off. At least until you get a good night’s sleep.”

Emmrich is outraged. Yet again, he’s being treated like a naughty child who has stayed up too late.

“Lucanis, you wouldn’t dare…”

“I can… and I am.” His eyes soften. “I’m not doing this to be cruel, Emmrich. I of all people know what a lack of sleep can do to a person. And I was trained for it. You are not.” He places his empty cup down, and places a hand on his shoulder, no doubt to offer support, but it burns, like a slap to the face. “You need to sleep.”

“It’s easy for you to say,” he shoots back, barely containing the rage boiling within him, “You have someone to go to bed with…”

He regrets those words, even as they come out of his mouth. Lucanis’s reaction is immediate, and yet subdued. His eyes flash purple, and Spite lets out a single growl before it’s clamped down, and the haunting dark eyes return as the assassin regains control.

“I know you want her back, Emmrich. Perhaps more than all of us put together. But you cannot kill yourself to do so. You know she would never forgive herself if you did.”

Emmrich ought to apologize. Andraste’s Sacred Flames, he wants to apologize for such a crass insult. But he can’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. Only when she’s back in his arms, can he truly offer apologies.

“Get some sleep, Emmrich” Lucanis repeats, and it hurts that his voice doesn’t even have well deserved anger. The man ought to be furious with him, he ought to be barely resisting the urge to slap him, but instead he slowly retrieves the plate, and begins to make his way out of the room, before stopping at the threshold.

“Once, I thought I could deal with the pain on my own. But there was- is,” he hastily corrects himself, “a woman who helped me reach out, who opened doors. Take the advice she once gave me, that isolating yourself will only cause you more pain.” He vanishes, leaving Emmrich there with only a cup of coffee for company.

Lucanis means well, he knows. He’s trying to help. But until he finds Zea, he cannot let up on his research.

But, his body can only handle so much before it needs more coffee, and now the only other source is the ‘coffee’ that Neve brews. He’s not that desperate.

Yet.

#dragon age the veilguard #veilguard spoilers #emmrich x rook #emmrich volkarin #my writing #please do not hesitate to let me know of any accidental misgendering of Taash

27 notes · View notes