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acepalindrome · 19 days ago

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I’ve seen lots of fics about Emmrich wanting to have kids, sometimes manifesting in the form of intensely horny breeding kink, but often just soft and bittersweet longing for something he thinks he’s missed his opportunity to have.

And I love that, but let me propose the concept of Emmlich accidentally acquiring a baby.

It was not planned. It cannot be overstated how much he did not plan this. He had made his peace with lichdom closing certain doors for him! Of course he had longed for a grand romance and marriage and a family when he was young, but he understands that there are sacrifices for the path he chose.

But then Rook happens, and he finds someone who truly loves him and wants to spend the rest of their life with him even after he becomes a lich. It’s more than he could ever hope for.

And yes, maybe if Manfred had lived, he could have had that dream of having a child too. But he had chosen to respect Manfred’s sacrifice. He’s accepted it, but he’s still grieving. He’s accepted it, but he’s still processing the fact that he had just begun to truly think of Manfred as his son when he lost him. Having Rook with him helps. That’s enough. He can be happy with what he has.

And then he finds a baby.

He hears the poor little thing crying while he was out handling a spirit causing trouble in the Nevarran countryside, and finds the deceased mother nearby. It looks like some kind of terrible accident, but the child was spared, and after a brief examination, seems uninjured and in decent health. But the little dear is so cold, and who knows how long it’s been since she’s been fed! He can’t just leave her!

His body doesn’t produce heat on its own anymore, but he casts a warming enchantment on his cloak, bundles the little one up, and heads back to the nearby village. No one seems to know mother or baby, and he can’t place the burden of another mouth to feed on the people of this humble village. He will find an appropriate solution, he assures them, although he does gratefully accept some baby supplies they are able to give him to help in the journey back to the Necropolis.

He’s going to turn the baby over to the Mourn Watch. That is absolutely what he’s going to do. That is the right and responsible thing. He was raised by the Mourn Watch, after all! They had been good to him, provided for his needs, made certain that he was safe and cared for, provided him with an excellent education!

…but he also remembers being small and crying into his pillow because he missed the warmth and comfort and unconditional love of his parents.

…all the same. He’s a lich. Children are not in the equation. And the lich lords would surely disapprove! …wouldn’t they?

And then while he’s giving her a bottle during one of their many stops on the way back, she grabs his bandaged skeletal finger in her chubby little hand and won’t let go. He doesn’t even have a heart anymore, but it’s melting all the same.

…he’ll think about what to do when he gets home. He should talk it over with Rook before he makes any decisions about where to take the child. That is just the responsible thing to do.

He is NOT daydreaming about the possibility of actually getting to raise a child with Rook. He is NOT overcome by how right it feels to hold a baby in his arms and to make her feel safe and cared for. And he is especially NOT thinking about baby names! (Fredrica, in honor of Manfred?)

Rook is away on business, and returns to their home about a week later. There are recently washed baby bottles drying on the kitchen counter. There are a variety of rattles, stuffed animals and little toys in the living room. The laundry is enchanted to wash itself, and a peak inside the soapy water reveals a number of very tiny articles of clothing, all suspiciously matching Emmrich’s aesthetics.

Rook eventually finds their husband in the bedroom, which has now gained a very finely made crib with a darling mobile of little Nevarran beetles dangling overhead. There is an enchantment in place to play soothing sounds and muffle noise from the outside.

Rook finds Emmrich in the armchair with a baby on his lap, several blankets spread over his legs to cushion his femur bones for the little one. He appears to be playing a variation of peek-a-boo, in which he summons his glamor and then quickly dispels it, over and over. Judging from the happy gurgling sounds, the baby finds this all highly amusing.

And then Emmrich realizes that Rook has returned home.

Rook listens to the lengthy explanation, and very generously humors Emmrich when he continues to talk as if he’s still seriously considering giving the baby to the Mourn Watch, as if the man hasn’t bought out the entirety of the Nevarra City branch of Baby Gap in the week Rook was gone. Of course, dear, you were just picking up a few essentials while you decided what to do. You bought the baby a tiny little outfit that perfectly matches the color scheme of your favorite robes. There are six different rattles and teethers on your desk. Where on earth did you find diaper pins decorated with little skulls? Only the bare necessities, clearly.

“I never seriously thought about having kids,” Rook says, after they’re done with the gentle ribbing. “It was just kind of a nice idea, you know? Settling down, raising a kid. I assumed I’d probably die young, leading the life I do. But seeing you holding a baby…it looks right. It feels right.”

“It feels right to me as well, dearest.”

They spend the rest of the night talking about it. The logistics of raising a child. The changes they’ll need to make. How all of this will work. But they decide to try. They want to try.

Predictably, the lich lords aren’t entirely approving. This is unprecedented behavior. Many liches have had spouses and children, but it was all well before they achieved lichdom. To become a lich, and then allow all these very mortal attachments? It does not seem entirely wise to them. But there is nothing technically disallowing it. Tread carefully, Young Volkarin.

And he does. He does everything in his power to uphold his responsibilities as a lich, while still being the best possible husband and father. Little Fredrica grows up surrounded by love and care and happiness.

And then, many years later, Rook dies. It was the natural end of a long life well lived. They passed peacefully in their own bed.

Emmrich is heartbroken, of course. But he isn’t alone. He has Fredrica, who is by now grown and with a spouse and children of her own, and they lean on and support each other through their grief. The lich lords had worried how such attachments might have twisted him, pushed him to terrible lengths, but instead it’s those attachments that allow him to carry on through the grief.

Many more years pass, and Fredrica dies. Emmrich buries her in the plot next to Rook and his parents. His grandchildren and great grandchildren are there to help him grieve, and to be helped by him in turn.

It never stops hurting, losing the people he loves, but he’s never alone. He has a family, one that grows with each new generation, and he loves and cherishes them all.

Some day, very many years down the road, a young mage with the surname Volkarin is officially made a Mourn Watcher at his graduation ceremony, while his great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather watches with pride. He is very old, and very happy.

#datv #emmrich volkarin #emmrook #accidental baby acquisition my beloved #if discworld death is allowed to adopt a child and have a granddaughter then so is emmlich!!!!

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volkoss · 16 days ago

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Fic: The Necessity Hypothesis

While working together to rescue Rook from the Fade, Johanna tells Bellara about her attempt at lichdom.

DRAGON AGE | BELLARA & JOHANNA | WORDS: 5,175 | RATED: T

(AO3 LINK)

If Johanna were the type of woman to believe in the Maker, perhaps her current circumstances could be excused as divine retribution. In the absence of faith, however, a more mundane explanation must suffice.

Fortunately, she knows exactly where to pin the blame: every wrong she has ever faced can be traced back to Emmrich Volkarin.

Volkarin has not been subtle about his involvement when it comes to all matters involving her imprisonment. It is obvious in everything from the basic details of her physical location in his office to the structure of the wards he’d placed upon her skull: of course he’d used a personal variation of the special formulation they had developed together in simpler and happier times. He had always enjoyed such petty flourishes, and Johanna had always indulged him.

And then she must contend with the fact of her continued existence.

In her degraded state, the lich lords of the Grand Necropolis could have easily destroyed her soul in its entirety. And yet, through whatever contrivances Volkarin must have devised through collusion with fellow Watchers, Johanna has been granted this so-called mercy instead of the oblivion she had anticipated.

Given Volkarin’s intimate knowledge of Johanna’s feelings toward contrition, it had been his most masterful ploy yet. Honestly, she might’ve been impressed (perhaps even proud!) had she not been the target of his malevolent intentions.

Nonetheless, the events of the last few days—Rook’s disappearance and the newfound purpose Johanna had subsequently found in working on the replication of the lyrium dagger and the deconstruction of Solas’s prison—had her pondering the possibility that she might one day accept the reality of her new and reduced circumstances along with all the excoriating indignities it entailed.

Or she had, until Volkarin had started snoring.

It is a crude, cruel reminder of the fragility of flesh. The sound of vibrating tissue has no right to be this obnoxious! Johanna would be unsurprised to discover that this too is part and parcel of Volkarin’s diabolical plan, that he had somehow surmised forcing her to be a captive audience to his renditions of the oinks of a dying pig would cause her to reconsider her previous position on penance.

Thankfully, Johanna is saved from giving the matter any serious consideration by Bellara’s voice from the doorway, the sound of the young woman’s entry to the room having been drowned out by Volkarin’s snores.

“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.”

“Cooking!” Bellara clarifies. “Manfred’s helping Lucanis with the cooking.” For some maddening reason, Volkarin laughs.

#johanna hezenkoss #bellara lutare #emmrich volkarin #datv spoilers #therapy still doesn't exist in thedas so this time bellara gets to be johanna's therapist while emmrich catches up on his beauty sleep!#don't worry bellara will get her turn in the next installment 😮‍💨#series: enduring friendships #ziskfic

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rom-e-o · 2 months ago

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Emmrich Armor (+Thoughts)

@quill-pen

I’ve got you! 😉 There is A LOT, so I’m putting a Read More, haha.

Researcher's Robes

In-Game Description: These refined necromantic robes are layered to fend off the Grand Necropolis' biting cold. They smell like sage.

(His coat looks like a combination of a flayed body and a corpse flower. Insanely good design. 1000/10)

Also, sage is an interesting choice, considering the symbolism of burning sage across different cultures. Also, if it's so cold, sir, pull those sleeves down! Goodness.

Funeral Finery

In-Game Description: Keen gold lines over green the color of plants so dark they returned to the soil. Emmrich at his most regal and refined—but no less deadly.

(Absolute fav, love this outfit. It's so princely.)

The Boundless Scholar

In-Game Description: Dubbed the "death shroud" by some cheeky Mourn Watchers, this generous draping of heavy cloth and "leather" is built to outlive its wearer.

("Leather", huh? Hm. This feels like it wouldn't protect you at all, but he still looks adorable. Johanna and Rook have versions of this outfit.)

Preserved Gurn Hide

In-Game Description: Handsome Nevarran armor issued to practitioners of necrotic arts on the off-chance an enemy gets close enough to land a blow.

(Hot take but I LOVE this one. That green sash over his chest and all the gold is just really pleasing. Or maybe I just like green and gold.) Also, the only outfit where is right hand is exposed. How scandalous!

BEST: Graven Vestments (Unlocked by Resurrecting Manfred)

In-Game Description: A precious patchwork of of reclaimed mage robes and burial vest,nets, assembled as a gift from a twice deceased friend.

BEST: Lich's Vestige (Unlocked by Lichdom)

In-Game Description: The silk and ash stitched into this imposing necromancy set protects any wearer prone to accidental dismemberment or decay.

Emmrich's Mystique (Unlocked by purchasing the Deluxe Edition - Cosmetic Only)

In-Game Description: Sloped pauldrons and gold-toed boots paired with gorgeous necromancy robes fit for only the finest funerals.

(It's so neat seeing him in brown and blue and not green and purple/red! A nice little bonus, but it's only cosmetic.)

Now, for Rook!

STARTING: Rook's outfits depend on faction, but you can wear anything. Fits vary based on faction (Mourn Watch, Antivan Crows, etc.) and class (mage, warrior.)

TOP, left to right: Grey Warden, Veil Jumper, Shadow Dragon, Lord of Fortune, Mourn Watch, Antivan Crow

LEFT, top to bottom: Warrior, Rogue(Archery/Daggers), Mage, and your Daily Jammies/Loungewear.

So, Belisma, a Mourn Wage Mage, gets a Researcher Robe (the Boundless Scholar Recolor) looking robe. I change her out of this immediately, lmao.

IGN actually didbreakdown on ALL the options (there really 100+). Tumblr did not like me trying to add them, haha, so here is a link.

As for Isma, she is partial to anything white. Especially the Watcher Robes. The second is a modded Crow fit!

I will get pics of her eventually. I’m still experimenting with the sliders, haha. I keep making tweaks and need to settle on a design, haha.

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dngrs-untld-hrshps-unnmbrd · 3 months ago

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Graven Hearts

After being unofficially banished from the Mourn Watch, rebellious Lisbette must recruit one of her former professors, Emmrich Volkarin, to help her defeat two ancient Elvhen gods. Hurt that her favourite professor never stood up for her when she needed him, Lisbette takes delight in provoking the handsome, silver-haired necromancer, perhaps enjoying herself a little too much.

Start with Chapter One

Chapter Five

The Memorial Garden is blooming under moonlight as they walk among the graves, hand in hand. They light candles everywhere, and then settle down on the grass together. There are so many flowers that Lisbette plucks them and begins to fashion flower crowns.

‘You’re smiling, Lisbette,’ Emmrich remarks.

She twines flowers together. ‘I suppose I can’t help myself. I have missed it here.’

‘I’m so pleased to hear it. This place is so important to me. After all, it will be a big part of my immortality.’

Lisbettle looks up in surprise. ‘Your...what?’

‘I have been wondering how to broach this subject with you,’ he says carefully. ‘I have many reasons to hope that you become a Watcher again one day, and one of them is that I intend to become a lich lord, one of the great protectors of the Necropolis.’

Lisbette has heard of the lich lords, but few have encountered them. They were all once necromancers like her and Emmrich.

‘And as you know, I’m afraid of death.’ He frowns at his hands as if believing that this is a failing on his part.

She reaches forward and touches his hand. ‘You would make a majestic lich, Emmrich.’

He looks up. ‘You really think so? I knew a fellow Watcher would understand. But as my lover, you must have certain feelings on the matter?’

Lisbette continues making her flower crown. He would move closer to the Mourn Watch, when she wanted to stay far away from them. His lifespan would far outstrip hers. Were they doomed before they’d really begun?

The liches of the Grand Necropolis were distant, other-wordly beings who separated themselves from the living. Emmrich’s lips would no longer be warm, for he would have no flesh and blood. Would his heart turn cold as well, or rather, the space in his chest where his heart had been? Lisbette’s insides ached at the thought. If she had something, a friend, a lover, a home, a sense of safety, was it always destined to be taken away from her?

‘I will be sorry to lose you,’ she whispers. Sorry? More like heartbroken.

‘Lose me?’

‘My feelings for you wouldn’t change no matter where you go and what you become, but you....’ It hurt too much to go on.

‘You believe I will change, dearest?’ he asks.

‘Undeath must surely change what’s in your heart. The dead have no need of the living beyond the services we perform for them in the Necropolis.’

Emmrich sighs. ‘This is why I have always said the liches must come out and walk among us more often,’ he says in an exasperated tone. ‘There are so many misconceptions about those who have attained immortality. My heart will not change because of undeath. I will feel all that I do now, just as keenly as ever.’ He hesitates. ‘My body, however...’

His body would be bones, and only bones.

‘I’m not afraid of bones, Emmrich.’

‘Yes, but I...’ he makes a vague gesture toward his body.

‘Oh. Oh . You mean you--yes, of course. Your anatomy would change as you would be a skeleton.’

‘What we indulged in earlier won’t be easy. But not impossible!’ he hastens to add. ‘I’ve been researching my options, should I ever find a companion.’

‘Do liches feel desire?’

‘Certainly they do, but it is difficult for them to achieve any...satisfaction. But for an advanced spellcaster like myself, there are ways to improvise. I’m rather excited to try them. With the right someone. Who I hope might be you, Lisbette.’

Her lover would become a majestic immortal being made of bones and magic and he would find ways of improvising and spellcasting so they could still be intimate. This was a lot more than she was expecting from a walk in the gardens.

‘I think your dream is a beautiful one, Emmrich.’

She leans forward and kisses him. Their relationship was too new and it was too soon to say I don’t care what you choose as long as we’re together . Even though it was what she felt.

Lisbette places a flower crown atop his head. ‘Whatever you decide when the time comes, I’ll be by your side.’

Lisbette, Neve and, Bellara are making their way through the crowded Docktown markets when someone runs up to her and shoves a piece of paper in Lisbette's hands. They're gone before she can tell who it is.

As she reads the note, she feels her cheeks turns scarlet with anger, and she shoves it in her pocket.

‘Everything all right, Lisbette?’ Neve asks as Lisbette is looking around for the one who gave her the note. They’ve disappeared from sight.

‘Fine,’ Lisbette says through her teeth. ‘As long as I can thump some Venatori right now.’

Neve points down a side street. ‘What a good idea. Let’s go this way.’

Later that evening when they return through the eluvian, Lisbette goes directly to Emmrich’s room.

He looks up from his desk and gets to his feet as he sees the distress on her face. ‘Is everything all right, dearest?’

She passes him the crumpled note to read.

A necromancer is helping the Venatori. His identity may be of interest to you, as he is someone who is close to home. And even closer to you.

‘Someone handed me this in the street. They’re trying to frame you as a spy for the Venatori.’

‘Me?’ Emmrich says in mild surprise. ‘I’m working with you all and with the Venatori? Sounds rather tiring. I take it you don’t believe the message?’

‘Of course not. But who would do such a thing, and why?’

Emmrich studies the note and then tosses is onto his desk. ‘I think I recognize this handwriting. It’s very similar to an old colleague of mine, and we had a falling out. She ran foul of the Watchers for her dark uses for necromancy.’

This was sounding worse and worse to Lisbette. Emmrich has an enemy who is trying to get him in trouble with the Mourn Watch, or even killed as a traitor to everything they’re trying to do here.

‘We must do something about this.’

‘It’s merely professional jealousy. Johanna can write all the silly notes she wishes.' Emmrich picks up his staff, and wraps both hands around it as he leans on it.

‘How can you be so casual about this? You’ve been wrongly accused.’

Emmrich smiles. ‘Dearest, as lovely as you are with those flashing eyes, you needn’t be upset on my part.’

There’s a tight feeling in Lisbette’s chest that she can barely breathe through. ‘But we must do something. It’s not fair.’

‘I have been meaning to have things out with Johanna for a long time. It appears our meeting will be sooner rather than later.’

‘I hope I will be there when you do. People shouldn’t accuse others of things they did not do.’ To Lisbette horror, tears well up in her eyes and her voice cracks.

‘Oh, darling,’ Emmrich murmurs, putting his staff aside and folding her in his arms. He holds her tightly against his chest. ‘This isn’t about my old enemy, is it?’

She clings to the front of his shirt, trying to talk but also too stubborn to make a noise in case it sounds like a sob.

‘I know everything,’ he says gently. ‘I wrote to Myrna asking for a full account of the matter of your exile.’

Lisbette takes a shuddering breath, and then looks up at him. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘Because to speak of it before you were ready would hurt you, and I first wished to show you I am someone you can trust.’

‘You aren’t ashamed of me for drawing the anger of all the Nevarran nobility?’

HIs moustache twitches in amusement. ‘The Nevarran nobility? Those tiresome people? I suppose the gentry are perfectly fine. Once they’ve passed on.’

Lisbette gives a choking laugh.

‘In this life, however, they seem to have little regard for those beneath them. I am sorry for the way they treated you. Reasoning with the nobles is near useless, but if you wish me to speak with the Mourn Watch leadership...’

‘No. I don’t care what they think of me. I don’t want anything from them.’

‘The nobles or our own faction?’ he asks gently.

Lisbette wipes the tears from her cheeks. ‘Both.’ She notices the way he’s looking at her, his eyes filled with doubt.

‘When I ascend to become a lich, I may have a few things to say to Mourn Watch leadership from my new position.’ He says this with steel in his voice. A little ice as well. Enough to make her shiver. But not in fear of him. In awe.

He moves around behind his desk. ‘But I do not need to be a lich to write a strongly worded letter to Mourn Watch leadership, remonstrating with them about the disregard they have shown for one of their own. Would that be agreeable?’

‘What would you put in such a letter?’ Lisbette asks curiously.

‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ He opens his draw, and there is a griffon feather quill lying next to his.

Emmrich smiles to himself, and then takes it out and presents it to her. ‘I just remembered. This is for you.’

A quill, made from one of Assan’s wing feathers if she’s not mistaken, and the nib is polished silver. It’s exquisite.

‘But why...’

‘Because quills always made you happy, dearest. I hope they still do.’

He remembered after all this time?

‘I love you,’ she blurts out, and then covers her mouth with her hand. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud. But whether you are a man or a lich, I don’t want to be without you.’

Emmrich’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but then he smiles. ‘Do you mean that, dearest?’

He was always her favourite, and she always did have a crush on him. Now that he’s hers, her heart has exploded with feelings for him and they’re flying out of her mouth.

Lisbette nods.

Emmrich kisses her. ‘Good, because I love you.’ He sits down. ‘Now, the letter. I’m going to enjoy writing this, and after, I’m going to show you just how much I love you. Another walk in the memorial gardens perhaps, or there is a wonderful little place to eat in Nevarra that I know. Or perhaps we will stay here and enjoy each other’s company,’ he says, sorting through his writing materials for the right paper.

Running her new quill feather through her fingers, Lisbette stands by his chair and watches him write a long message with angry, indignant flourishes on the letters, and many long and satisfying words.

The letter may not do any good, but it doesn’t matter to Lisbette. This is the loveliest thing anyone has ever done for her.

#emmrich volkarin #emmrich x rook #dragon age emmrich #dragon age: the veilguard #datv #fanfiction

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solitaireships · 14 days ago

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Funeral Rites

So I've been working on this fic for a long while and it's one of the longer ones I've done. At first it was mainly just me kind of thinking about and processing things with stuff brought up in Emmrich's quest line (and you may recognize some of the dialogue from this as stuff from the game), but in the time since I started writing this, my grandma passed so I've been thinking a lot about that and grief in general too. I feel weird dedicating a selfship fic to my grandma, but idk. In a way, this fic is for her

Rating: Teen

Words: 3847 words

Divider by saradika

Content warning: a lot of talk about death (both past deaths and possible future ones), references to panic attacks

⚠️ Note this contains spoilers for Emmrich's storyline! ⚠️

Minala always likes getting to meet Emmrich in the memorial gardens. The Necropolis has a couple of gardens scattered throughout its halls, and while this wasn’t the one she would frequent when she lived here, there’s a sense of familiarity that comes to visiting it. The Necropolis has always been peaceful to Minala, but here in particular, where wisps roam between the graves and flowers, it’s easier to think. Perhaps it’s strange for her to find comfort among the dead, but it’s harder to feel that way when Emmrich is by her side.

Though when she finds him and Manfred, he’s frowning at the skeleton, one hand on his hip and chiding him with a finger raised with the other.

“Now what do you have to say for yourself?” Emmrich says.

Manfred responds with a disappointed hissing sound, though Minala can’t say he sounds particularly sorry about whatever it was that got him in trouble. When he notices Minala, he waves, drawing Emmrich’s attention to her too.

“Ah, there you are, dearest,” Emmrich greets, taking on a lighter tone.

Minala has to guide Emmrich down a bit to press a quick kiss to his cheek when she joins the two of them, then looking at Manfred. “What did you do to get in trouble?”

Manfred hisses, motioning with his hands as if to say that he’s done nothing wrong.

Emmrich says, “Since we were going to collect flowers, I had thought that this would be a good opportunity to teach Manfred about different varieties of them. But then I caught him wading into the rose bushes! I keep telling him not to play in the horticulture.”

“Are you okay?” Minala asks Manfred.

He nods, clapping. She gets the distinct feeling he’s likely to wander off into the rose bushes again.

“Oh, Manfred,” Emmrich says, though a smile comes to his face. “Whatever will happen to you if I pass on?”

Minala frowns. “If?”

When he looks back to her, his face takes on a more serious expression. “I had hoped to talk to you about that. Perhaps we can collect flowers as we do?”

“Of course,” she says. “Lead the way.”

Emmrich starts down one of the memorial gardens’ winding paths. They match pace as they walk, Manfred at first following behind them before wandering off to explore the gardens on his own. Minala hopes that he doesn’t get tangled up in any plants again, though they have their own plants to work on collecting.

“Do you know what a lich is?” Emmrich asks after a moment of silence.

“Of course, I know what they are in theory. I guess they would be the truest form of the living dead since they’re supposed to be an undead mage that retains their mind and soul,” Minala says.

“Precisely,” he says with a nod. “But they’re more than just theoretical.”

“What do you mean?”

“The idea of lichdom had fascinated me when I was younger. I spent years researching and experiencing, speaking with spirits and other mages. And eventually I found them,” Emmrich explains.

“You found liches?” It’s hard for Minala to believe. But then again, it’s been hard to believe that the elven gods could actually be out there, and now Minala’s having to fight against them.

“The lich lords of the Grand Necropolis. Necromancers before me who’d transformed themselves into true living dead!” he says, excitement audible in his voice. “I was their first living petitioner in some time.”

Minala looks at Emmrich, only half believing what he’s saying. She knows that he would never lie to her, but still it’s hard to believe that liches could truly exist. But even running on the assumption that liches are real, that leaves her with questions. “What does that mean?”

“The liches are the great protectors of the Necropolis, bulwarks against the forces that threaten creation. After years of tests and rituals, they granted me my desire— the right to attempt lichdom,” Emmrich explains.

Minala nods, pausing along the path when she notes some flowers blooming a bit behind some graves. She makes her way over to carefully pick them, mind spinning with all the information she’s trying to absorb at once.

On one hand, it’s exciting. If liches are real, that opens up countless new doors when it comes to their understanding of the undead. For someone’s mind and soul to stay in their body even after their passing is big, and it brings all kinds of new possibilities. And that’s not even getting into all the knowledge that liches may have, information that would have been lost to history but retained by them.

But there’s a part of Minala that hesitates. Because it’s one thing to consider liches in general, and it’s another to think about Emmrich becoming one. If liches have been able to keep themselves a secret, they must isolate themselves from the rest of the world. And as much as it’s an honor for Emmrich to be considered to join them, she worries what that could mean.

“That’s incredible, Emmy,” Minala eventually says, gathering the neatly picked flower in hand. “Do you… I don’t know. Do you know what it would be like to be a lich?”

“It would be a vast leap. Flesh cast aside for bone. Returned, immortal, for all time,” Emmrich says. “It would be a considerable change. One that I had hoped to consult with you on before making any decision to...”

She can’t help but smile a little in response to that. She still can’t shake the hint of concern at what lichdom may mean for them if Emmrich decides to pursue it, but she’s glad he had thought to turn to her for help.

“Well, I appreciate the thought. And if you need to talk through anything, you know I’m always glad to listen,” Minala says.

“Thank you,” Emmrich says. He sighs as they start walking again. “You’re right that lichdom is an incredible honor. Immortality, prestige, being among the most hallowed ranks of the Watchers… As well as a chance to be of service past my allotted years.”

“Those are all sounding like good things,” she notes.

“But still there are considerations,” he admits.

“Like?”

“Even with all my preparations, there’s a chance I could die— permanently— during the ritual,” Emmrich says. He sighs again, looking up as if to try to find some answer towards his doubts above. “What cowardice. A promise of immortality, an end to all my fears, and the final veil stays my hand!”

Minala frowns as she looks around for flowers, making sure he can’t see her face. She can understand his hesitation, especially in the face of death, but she does wish that his hesitation about pursuing lichdom laid in more than just that. There’s no way him becoming a lich wouldn’t change their relationship, and maybe she’s getting too caught up in her feelings for him over such a short amount of time. She knows that he's bringing it up now because he wants to consider her thoughts on the matter, but part of her had hoped he might have thought of how this might impact things with her and Bellara before now too.

Not that she would say that to him right now. Minala knows that it’s not the time or place, and this shouldn’t be about them. So instead she says, “It makes sense to be scared. No matter how much you might want something, hearing you might have to die to achieve it is terrifying.”

“Perhaps it does make sense. But still it stands in the way of what I desire most.” Emmirch continues along the path, pausing by one grave as a wisp floats past them. “And that's not the only issue that gives me pause. Traditionally, candidates for lichdom experience a final sifting of the soul, a judgment by the spirits of the Necropolis to determine if someone is worthy of the responsibilities and power of lichdom. But avoiding that could result in… poor outcomes.”

“Meaning?” Minala prompts.

“You saw my old colleague,” he says.

“Hezenkoss is a lich then?”

Minala thinks for a moment that if that’s what liches look like, it might not be so bad if Emmrich were to become one. It’s not as though he would be a rotting corpse like she can’t help but worry he would be— he would just be missing his eyes. Though it would be a shame to no longer see how pretty they are. But she shakes that thought from her mind quickly. She reminds herself it would be shallow to be worried about what Emmrich might look like, even if the thought of some of the recently deceased she’s seen over the years makes her doubt she’d be physically attracted to him if he were to become undead.

“A half lich would be a better description,” Emmrich says. “Though it’s no doubt done little to diminish her powers. Until I stop her plans, though, I wouldn’t have the peace of mind needed for lichdom.”

“So if you tried to become a lich now, you’d die,” Minala guesses.

He nods, jaw clenched at the thought. “I would.”

“Then we can’t let that happen.”

“For now, at least. Though once we resolve everything with Johanna, then perhaps I will have the peace of mind and clarity of purpose needed to attempt lichdom,” Emmrich says.

As they keep walking, the concern that had started gnawing at Minala since Emmrich brought up the possibility of lichdom only seems to take hold of her more.

Maybe it is an honor for him to be offered the chance to achieve lichdom, but she still has to worry about his safety when the act that would grant him immortality could also be the true and permanent death of him. And maybe there’s more to the specifics of it than he’s telling her right now, but she can’t help but think the conditions for a successful initiation into lichdom seem vague. It makes sense that peace of mind would be needed for something as big as immortality, but what would qualify as that is hard to parse out.

This seems like a golden opportunity on the surface. But Minala can’t shake the idea that there may be more to this than there seems, and that maybe not everything about being a lich would be so good.

She supposes part of it is her own thoughts at the idea. Immortality has always struck her as so lonely. You might never have to face your own death, but so many other deaths would surround you— of your friends, your family, civilizations and everything else. As much as she doesn’t want to meet her own end, she’s always thought that it’s an inevitability. Hopefully an inevitability that’s far away, but still something she’ll have to experience just like everyone else does. One day she’ll be laid to rest in the Grand Necropolis just like every other Watcher.

Except Emmrich may not have to be laid to rest here. He may never rest, remaining an eternal guardian of the Necropolis and its dead.

He might be free of the one thing that’s always haunted him, that’s woke him in the night with a racing heart and the cold grip of fear strangling him. But that’s a freedom from his anxieties that comes at a monumental risk, and one that would put him apart from the rest of Thedas.

That would put him apart from her and Bellara.

“Wait, there are some pretty violets over there,” Minala says, glad for the flowers to serve as a distraction from her thoughts.

“Ah, a wonderful find!” Emmrich says.

They have to stray a bit off the path to get to the violets, Emmrich following just a few steps behind her. She half wishes that he would give her a little more distance— she could use the space to try to get her mind to stop racing.

Minala knows that she’s not mad at Emmrich. The frustration that curls in her gut isn’t about anything that he’s said or done. She might wish that he considered her and Bellara more when contemplating lichdom, but they’re still early on in their relationship. He shouldn’t have to consider them for everything, and that he’s talking to her about this at least shows he wants to know what she thinks.

The only person Minala’s mad at is herself. She shouldn’t be upset at the thought of Emmrich becoming a lich, not when it’s something important to him. She’s seen him having one of his attacks at the thought of his own mortality, stayed with him as his heart raced and he struggled to breathe, clinging desperately to her as though that may help him stay alive. She should be happy that he may have found a permanent relief for his anxieties, a reward for all of his efforts as a Mortalitasi.

Instead she’s caught up in the thought of what this would mean for her, if he’s missing a dark side of this seemingly incredible opportunity, and ridiculous things like the aesthetics of it. She should be happy for him, and that she’s not only makes her feel worse about everything.

“You’re upset,” Emmrich notes.

“I’m not upset,” Minala replies, though the way she all but tears the flowers from the ground no doubt fails to give that impression.

He places a hand on Minala’s back, looking down at her with concern lacing his features. “Darling, if you’re worried about me becoming a lich, you can tell me. That’s why I had wanted to talk to you about the possibility.”

Minala knows that, but it’s still hard to think of a way to tell him that she thinks this is a bad idea. This has been his dream, and the last thing she wants to do is make him feel like she doesn’t want him to achieve it when it’s in sight.

But she doesn’t want him to achieve this particular dream. Maybe he could do good as a lich, yet she can’t help but feel that this is just him trying to run away from his fear of dying. He might have to confront that fear in order to become a lich, but that's different from him accepting his own and others' mortality. And Minala can’t help but think too about how Emmrich being immortal would complicate their relationship if they do stay together— the downside to only one person in a relationship being immortal is inevitably the others will die. She can’t imagine the toll watching everyone he cares for die would take on Emmrich, him being as kind hearted as he is.

It’s hard for Minala to put her thoughts into words. She doesn’t want him to feel like she doesn’t want him to be happy. But eventually she manages to string together her thoughts, standing back up with the flowers in hand.

“No matter what I think, I want you to do what will make you happy,” she starts. “But I don’t know if lichdom is really the best choice here. That you’re even being considered for this is an honor, and really, it shows how amazing you are. But I don’t know. The idea of dying one day scares me too. Not as much as it scares you, I know. But I guess the way I think about it to feel a little better is that death is part of what makes life worth living.”

Minala starts down along the path again, Emmrich at her side. It’s hard for her to look at him when she knows she might be upsetting him, so she keeps her eyes trained ahead, looking for more flowers to collect.

“Life is short. Sometimes it’s too short. But that means that every day has to count more, that you have to keep living your life despite everything, because you only have so much time,” she continues. “I don’t think I told anyone this, but when I heard about everything that Solas wants to do, about how he wants to rip down the Veil to give elves back their magic and immortality… that scared me a lot more than even death does. Not the magic part, that would be exciting, but the idea of living forever. I don’t want to feel like there’s not a point to everything. I don’t want to have to see everyone I love that’s not an elf die.”

Minala takes Emmrich’s hand in hers. “I’ve been thinking about that last part a lot lately. Maybe it’s selfish, but I really don’t want to see you die while I’m stuck living forever. I don’t want to mourn you forever.”

That’s a consideration that Minala knows might be too early to make. She hasn’t been with Emmrich for very long, and maybe what she feels is just a passing attraction. But her mind keeps wandering to what it might be like to have a life with Emmrich and Bellara.

“And I hope you never have to,” Emmrich says.

“Me too,” Minala replies.

As they continue along the path, Minala risks a look up at Emmrich. He at least doesn’t look upset— if anything he looks thoughtful. If nothing else, she’s glad that he seems to be thinking about what she had to say. But she should have known that he would listen. He always likes getting to hear others’ thoughts, collecting information and perspectives from others as if he’s always in the process of doing his research. It’s one of the things that’s so endearing about him.

“You’re right that to watch the ones you love die would be a terrible thing,” Emmrich says after a moment of thought.

“I think it’s the loneliness of it that gets to me the most. It’s not like you couldn’t make new friends if you’re alive forever, but I don’t know. I think it’d be hard knowing that one day they’ll be gone, and I’d still be here,” Minala notes.

She’s never been good with grief. It sits in her chest, building up more and more with each loss until it's almost suffocating. The idea of being surrounded by loss, living for an eternity while everyone else dies makes her feel sick when she thinks about every funeral she would attend, every mourning period where she would spend more time distracting herself from the pain than letting herself work through it.

Minala knows that she’s probably projecting. She and Emmrich aren’t exactly the same, even if they do have some similarities. Still she worries that some of the same things that weigh on her would be hard for him too.

“But I should hope that I’ll be able to enjoy your company for the rest of my mortal life. And, if you would have me, my immortal life,” Emmrich says.

Minala squeezes his hand in response, looking up at him. For as much as her own anxieties still hang over her head at the thought of him becoming a lich, she has to believe that they would find a way to make things work. She’s sure it will be challenging, and there will be countless obstacles in their way both if he keeps working towards lichdom and if he accepts it, but she can’t give up on him.

“You have me as long as you’d like,” Minala promises.

They keep walking in silence for a while longer. At least Minala’s mind is quieter now, not rushing with the possibilities of all that could go wrong. She still can’t say she likes the idea of Emmrich becoming a lich, but she knows it’s not her decision to make. She’s said her piece, and now it’s down to what he wants.

“We should have enough flowers by now,” Emmrich says after a moment. “If you would follow me?”

“Always.”

He leads them towards the edge of the gardens again. It seems as if he knows the path they’re taking by heart, and she has no doubt this is a direction he’s been in countless times. He didn’t mention why it was that he brought her here today, but by now it seems it was to talk about his future as well as visit someone buried here.

It suddenly strikes Minala what they’ve been collecting flowers for as they come to a stop at a pair of graves. She reads the epitaph written across them— In memory of Rupert and Elannora. They walk eternity hand in hand.

He brought her to visit his parents.

Emmrich arranges the flowers before their graves, perfectly tidy as ever. Once he’s satisfied with how it’s laid out, he steps back to stand next to Minala, linking his arm with hers.

“Well! Don’t be shy— introduce yourself,” he says.

“Of course,” Minala says. She directs her attention to the graves before continuing. “My name’s Minala, I’m also a Mourn Watcher. It’s a pleasure to meet you both. You have a wonderful son.”

“You’re too kind,” Emmrich says, though there’s a pleased smile on his face.

“You’re deserving of nothing but kindness.”

The smile stays on Emmrich’s face, but there’s a melancholic look that comes to his eye as well. After a moment’s pause he says, “Lately, I’ve wondered what they’d think of our current course. The choices ahead.”

“You mean with your lichdom,” Minala guesses.

“What would they have wanted me to be?”

It’s a hard question. Minala wonders it herself sometimes. She knows what her adoptive parents would want for her of course— but she does wonder sometimes if this is what her birth parents would have wanted. For their daughter to grow up among graves, away from any elven culture for so long and now being recruited into a fight against their gods.

So Minala thinks of what she would want to hear from them in the moments where doubt nearly overtakes her.

“I think that they would want you to be happy. No matter what that means for you,” she says.

“I hope so,” Emmrich says.

“And that’s what I want for you too, you know,” Minala adds. “I know I was just saying all of that about you attempting lichdom, but… but I want you to be happy. And no matter what you choose to do, I love you.”

As the words leave her lips, she realizes that this is the first time she's said that to him. It's easier than she thought it'd be. If anything it feels as natural as breathing. And it looks like Emmrich's just as glad to hear it as she was to say it, a soft look coming to his eye.

“I love you too,” he replies, the words always flowing easily from his lips. “And thank you. I do appreciate your thoughts on the matter.”

“Of course. And if you ever want to just, I don’t know, have someone to listen to any thoughts you have about the whole thing, I’m here. If it helps.”

Emmrich leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of Minala’s head. “You always do, dearest.”

#my posts #my writing #gothic sunshine #♟️ minala #⚰️#⚰️ enduring affection #🦌#🦌 coffin bells #💀 skeleton son

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