#the rook’s coffer is neat and all | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heylittleriotact · 1 month ago

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𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓵:

The initial contact with a funeral home when a passing has occurred to arrange the transfer of the body from the place of death.

He got it: it wasn’t every day the Viscount of Kirkwall strolled into their sleepy little inn, but did they all have to rise deferentially?

“No need to roll out the red carpet on my account.” He adjusted Bianca’s strap on his shoulder, making his way through the room of standing people. “Just passing through for a drink and a ghost story.”

In other words: The story of how Varric recruited Rook to the cause.

A violent gore filled horror fest 🩸

Full under the cut or on ao3

He got it: it wasn’t every day the Viscount of Kirkwall strolled into their sleepy little inn, but did they all have to rise deferentially?

The patrons of the inn exchanged wary glances, but one by one they all sunk back down to their seats and resumed their conversations - though the odd look of curiosity was thrown his way now and then.

Heaving a sigh, Varric made his way to the bar and helped himself to a seat. Only one other person sat at the bar: a tall, gangly elf with a bare face and a mop of messy black curls, had to be in his mid-thirties. A chipped wine glass sat in front of him, along with a nearly empty bottle of wine that Varric knew was an expensive vintage.

He was the only person in the inn that hadn’t stood up.

Varric ordered a whiskey (neat) from the innkeep and slipped Bianca over his head, resting her against the bar at his feet, in reach should he need her.

“What business brings you to Wrenwith, Master Tethras?” The innkeep - a stout older man with a ginger moustache and little other hair - asked, sliding the measure of whiskey over the wood to Varric.

Varric brought the short glass to his nose and inhaled - paint-thinner… just the way he liked it. He was grateful that at least the innkeep hadn’t insisted on dusting off something expensive and fancy just for him.

He took a sip and hummed at the familiar burn on the way down, and the warmth that spread in its wake. “You thought I was kidding about the ghost story, didn’t you?” He chuckled and arched a brow when the innkeep visibly paled. “I know, I know: why would the Viscount of Kirkwall personally drag his famously lazy ass here in person just to stick his nose into a bit of trouble with the undead?”

“If it pleases Your Grace to know: we’ve already got somebody looking after it.” The innkeep babbled. “No need to burden the city coffers with our humble problems.”

He was nervous - didn’t want to say too much. Wanted him to finish his drink and hit the road.

“That’s the reason I’m here: I caught word that this ‘someone’ is none other than a Nevarran Mortalitasi - one of their Mourn Watch, in fact.”

He was absolutely making this guy squirm for the hell of it… just a little. It only stood to reason that hiring a professional who belonged to a mysterious and ancient order of people who liked to play with dead people and spirits might be frowned upon by Kirkwall’s authority.

The innkeep swallowed hard, the guilt on his face suggesting that he may as well have personally been the one to hire the Watcher. “She said she could kill it, Your Grace. Permanently. No funny business or anything!”

The elf a few seats down, silent until now, snorted into his cup of wine. “Nothing ‘funny’ about that one, I’m afraid.” Emerald green eyes flicked up to the innkeep and a smarmy grin spread over his handsome face. “I was here when she came in: got a face like hewn granite and the disposition to match.” He turned on his stool to face Varric, still looking rather like the cat that had eaten the canary. “Doubt she’ll take kindly to you trying to run her off her work - even if you are Viscount.” His eyes roamed up and down over Varric with a haughty scrutiny that reminded him so much of Chuckles he was tempted to yank on his hair and see if it was a wig.

“That fearsome, is she?” Varric probed. “I heard she was a Reaper. Can’t say I’ve ever met one, but I have heard that they take their authority over the dead pretty seriously.”

“I wouldn’t want to piss her off.” The elf smirked and downed the rest of his wine, refilling his glass with the dregs of the bottle and tapping it with a fingernail to indicate to the innkeep that he’d like another.

“You’ve… you’ve been in here all day, ser, d’you really need another whole bottle?”

If it was true and the elf had been drinking all day, he looked pretty damn sober to Varric’s eyes.

The elf adjusted the lapels of his road-worn leather topcoat and rearranged his long legs under him. “I’m on holiday,” he drawled. “I think I deserve to indulge a little.”

“Holiday, huh?” Varric swirled his whiskey. “Whereabouts are you from?”

There was an unexpected coolness in his eyes and a tightness to his smile when the elf answered, “Nowhere.”

Varric shook his head and turned back to the innkeep. “Listen, I actually came here to talk to our macabre friend: can you tell me where I might find her?”

The innkeep nodded once, “Cemetery, Your Grace: end of the lane, take a right. Can’t miss it, can you? But… are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait? It’s nearly midnight, and the… being… she hunts is vicious.”

Varric tossed back the rest of the whiskey and waved a hand. “Bah. I’ve blundered into worse things in my day than a pissed off spirit.” He slid a gold piece over the bar with two fingers. “That being said: I’d appreciate it if you had the bottle waiting for me when I’m back… I get the feeling I’m going to need a drink.”

It was a brisk night: one that creeps in after the harvest when the days are all of a sudden a few hours too short, and the heat of the sun is leached from the soil, scattered away with the dying leaves on a chilly breeze.

If Varric hadn’t already had some idea of what awaited him in this place, he would have been creeped out by the atmosphere alone: between the moonless night, the morose howl of the wind between the headstones, and the rustling of dying leaves and long grass, this place was something straight out of a pulpy horror novel. All that was missing was someone shouting, “Boo!”

He shifted Bianca on his shoulder, trudging through the cemetery, feeling uneasy amongst the dead.

Of course she had to be a Watcher, this promising kid he’d gotten word of. When he first heard the rumour of a Watcher who had been effectively exiled by the order for single-handedly stopping a war (at the cost of two politically important undead nobles), Varric’s curiosity was piqued: he hadn’t been lying when he said he’d never met a Watcher, but he knew enough about them to know that making the choice between full-blown war, or killing the undead she was sworn to protect couldn’t have been an easy choice - but she made it anyway, knowing full-well it would piss some powerful people off.

He needed someone like that. The world needed someone like that.

He found her sitting at the base of a willow tree, her back against the trunk. He would have missed her completely in the darkness if it weren’t for the small vial of captured veilfire she wore around her neck that cast pale light over her face and the gleaming sword in her lap.

She looked up at the sound of his approach: hewn granite had been a fitting comparison indeed, for hers was a strikingly solemn heart-shaped face with a long scar running from her brow nearly to her jaw. Her cheeks were somewhat hollow, and her skin pallid, with dark circles lingering under celadon eyes the same hue as the veilfire at her neck. Pretty, he supposed, in a very I-spend-most-of-my-time-with-dead-people kind of way. Was it just part of being Nevarran to look intimidating at all times? He thought of Cassandra and made a mental note to send her his latest manuscript when he got back to Kirkwall.

Given her morose countenance, he was instantly taken aback when her lips curved into a warm smile that caused the corners of her eyes to crinkle in a way that sent a feeling of comfort and assurance straight through Varric’s heart. It wasn’t an expression of joy or mirth, but rather one of seeing: of perceiving him and all of his many regrets and sorrows and longings and silently saying ‘I see you, Varric Tethras’. A handy trait for a Watcher to possess, he supposed… if a bit creepy.

“You’re definitely not who I was expecting to see in this place tonight.” Her voice was deep, but the soft rasp that permeated it was inviting and kind. She laid the sword she’d been tending to over her legs to give Varric her undivided attention. Her hair slipped over her shoulder, revealing an ear that had been pointed at one time: something - or someone - had clearly bitten the tip off of it. “Better to come back in the morning to pay your respects, I think: I’ve a spirit to take care of and while the business end of that crossbow doesn’t look like it’s just for show, I’d hate to see you come to any harm on my watch.”

She thought he was a mourner - someone who lived in the village and had come to visit a dead loved one… and picked the middle of the night to do it.

“Actually, I–”

She was on her feet, sword gripped loosely in her right hand, looking down at him with a wry smile. She wasn’t much taller than him, and she wasn’t wearing nearly as much armour as he’d expected: he’d heard tales of foreboding and grim figures that prowled the Necropolis in moulded plate designed to be form-fitting mirrors of the anatomy underneath. This Watcher, though, wore flexible dark leather and a short but warm looking cloak draped over and around her shoulders.

“I know it’s not ideal, and if it wasn’t incredibly important I wouldn’t ask this of you, but it’s nearly midnight, and you really do need to be gone from here before the spirit awakens.”

She was clearly used to telling people what to do… and she was used to them listening.

“I’m not here to visit!” Varric groused, “I’m here to talk to you!”

Her brow furrowed and her cascading black hair flared in the wind when she shook her head a little in befuddlement. “I’m sorry, you want to talk to me?” She posed the question as though she didn’t quite believe him.

He switched Bianca to his other shoulder and thrust out his hand, “Varric Tethras - writer, businessman, and most recently - much to my own chagrin - Viscount of Kirkwall.”

She frowned at his outstretched hand, the keen smile vanishing completely, scepticism replacing it instead. “Shouldn’t I be bowing to you or curtseying or something if you’re a Viscount?”

“I’m not really into that kind of thing, kid.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m thirty-six.”

“Just a kid to me. Don’t worry: I’ll come up with a far more endearing nickname in no time.”

Her nose wrinkled a little as though she wanted to laugh, but wouldn’t let herself. Instead she passed off her sword and shook his hand at last.

“Amina Ingellvar, but I suppose you already knew that if you came all this way just to find me.” The sword was back in her right hand the second his palm parted from hers. “Whatever it is you want with me, we’ll have to talk about it later. Right now I need to focus on–”

A soul-rending wail split the night air and Amina’s eyes lifted in the direction it had come from - it wasn’t far.

“Shit,” she breathed, turning and scooping up a dented and scuffed steel buckler that had been leaning against the tree. “She’s awake.”

Not really wanting to know the answer, but having a good idea of what it was anyway, Varric asked, “Who’s awake?”

Amina pressed a finger to her lips. “The Wilis,” she murmured just loud enough for Varric to hear. “The tanner’s daughter died about a month ago. She was set to marry the innkeeper’s son - Gethin is his name, I think - but he called off their engagement and left her for another girl in the village. She died by her own hand, spurred on by the betrayal of her beloved.” She started off in the direction of the shriek. “The raw pain she left life with was powerful enough to draw a potent spirit to this place.”

Despite the hush of her voice, he couldn’t help but notice the melodic chiming that accompanied each footstep. He looked down at her feet and could just make out the leather cord draped around her boots, strung with what looked to be at least a dozen simple golden rings.

She must have noticed him looking, because she said, “I don’t want to startle her, and the resonation of the metal is known to soothe restless spirits.” She considered him for a moment. “You still have time to leave, Viscount: you may find this… unpalatable.” There was another wail - this one closer.

“You’re going to kill that spirit, aren’t you?”

A humorless smile pulled at her lips. “Is that what the innkeeper told you?”

“Well? Are you, or aren’t you?”

“Of course not!” She looked reproachful at the mere suggestion that she would do such a thing. She ducked around a vine-covered obelisk and peered around the side, trying to get a visual of her intended target. “I’m going to free it - I only told those bumpkins in town I was going to destroy it so they’d let me work in peace instead of running me out of town for peddling my perverse heathenry.”

“Ah, so you've been in the Marches for a while.”

“I was recently encouraged to travel by my superiors.”

“So I’ve heard.”

A heart-wrenching sob this time - it burrowed in under his skin and robbed him of every feeling of good cheer he might have had up until then.

“She’s close,” Her breath clouded in the cold air. “Stay behind me and do not address her, even if she addresses you - she’s been taken by Yearning, drawn to the tragic circumstances of the young lady’s death. She may attempt to bewitch you - make you her thrall. That said, I should be able to convince Yearning to relinquish the body as long as nothing upsets it.”

He knew he should feel confident in her professional acumen, but still he asked, “And in the off-chance that Yearning isn’t keen on returning to the Fade?”

Amina snorted derisively and adjusted a strap on her gauntlet - she didn’t like having her abilities called into question. “Then I’ll have to resort to kinesthetic percussive negotiation methods.”

It was Varric’s turn to frown. “Which entails…?”

She glanced down at him and smiled again - this time with all the frigid warmth of brittle shale. “Tussling with it until it either kills me or tires itself out.”

Yeah. This one had the potential to make for one hell of a flea in Chuckles’ ear… if they both survived the night.

A dark figure rounded the corner of a hedge about thirty yards away from the obelisk. It was too obscured for Varric to make out clearly, but he could surmise from the jerky, spastic way it hovered a few inches above the grass, and the glowing green eyes that it wasn’t the groundskeeper. It turned its back to them, appearing to be looking for something beyond the hedge.

“Her name was Gisele,” Amina said reverently, her face grim in its disciplined stoicism as though speaking her name aloud was compulsory to her next actions. “And no matter what drove her from this life, her absence is keenly felt by those she left behind.”

She stepped from behind the obelisk, sword and shield lowered but at the ready as she trudged towards the figure, not intimidating, but with an air of confidence and authority that wasn’t lost on Varric. The rings on her boots sang, their melody rising and falling with the wind.

“Venerated greetings upon you, Yearning,” she called out, coming to a halt when she decided she was close enough to the figure - there was a decent amount of space between them, but not so much that Amina had to shout.

Varric edged from behind the obelisk, following Amina’s tamped down path in the grass until he was just behind her. As he drew close, the wind shifted direction for an instant and his nose filled with the unpleasantly familiar odour of rotting flesh, pungent and sweet.

The glowing green eyes became visible again as the Wilis twisted to face the woman who spoke its name. A guttural hiss issued from the darkness.

Amina speared her sword into the ground and with a small ‘click’ flipped the small iron stopper on the vial of veilfire around her neck. The eerie blue-green flame streamed from the opening and floated up into the air where it hung in the air and arranged itself into a roiling sphere the size of a melon, small flares occasionally leaping from its surface.

He would have taken the time to admire the enigmatic beauty of the thing, had it not illuminated the creature that now stood in its light.

Death was far from new to Varric - between his own personal losses and the seemingly endless cavalcade of bullshit he’d been dragged into over the years, the occasional appearance of undead, a revenant, or a waterlogged corpse was just another day at the office. This, though - the Wilis - belonged to a whole new category of horror.

She’d been buried - likely on account of the village not daring to spare the wood for a pyre with winter approaching - and grave dirt hung from the hem of her dress in damp clumps. The dress itself looked like it was once white, but between the flickering green light and the deep brown and ochre stains that had leached into the material, it was impossible to know for sure.

In life she might have been quite a beauty, but a month in the cold ground had robbed her of that: what once appeared to be thick waves of golden hair was now sparse, matted, and stained like the dress, and her face was a nearly unrecognisable amalgamation of flesh comprised of skin that ranged from a putrescent russet shade, to grey, to black. Her tongue - pale and withered - dangled by a shred of lingering muscle, twitching morbidly as the Wilis struggled to open and close its wasted jaw - it was trying to speak. Frustration flared in the orbs of light nestled in the hollows where her eyes used to be.

“She was pregnant?!” Varric spluttered, his eyes landing on the obvious curve of her belly, straining against her ruined clothing.

“No.” Amina muttered sharply. “What you’re seeing is the result of guttural anaerobic activity: she’s full of putrefied gas.” She yanked her sword from the ground and looked back to Yearning. “If you lot actually put some care into the handling of your deceased instead of just dumping them into a hole in the ground as soon as their hearts stop, she wouldn’t look like this - not for a long time, at least… maybe never.”

“What are you saying, Watcher?” The Wilis demanded, finding her voice at last, though her lips did not move along with the crackling, wet sound that the spirit manipulated into words. She inched forward, her head tilted inquisitively. “What falsehoods… do you share with your… companion’s ears and not mine?”

“No falsehoods - only an opinion on our respective differences.” She addressed the decayed corpse like an acquaintance one might run into on the street.

“You think she’s ugly… don’t you?” Nearly skeletal hands gestured over the form of the Wilis as if she were preening in the mirror. Varric couldn’t help but notice a few of her fingernails had fallen off. “This girl… who was so… unlovable, so unwanted… I found her… I wanted her… I love her.” There was a bite to the last words - a challenge.

“But she was loved, and she was wanted - by many. She had family and friends who cared very deeply about her, and it causes them great torment to see her body like this.”

Yearning spun slowly in the air, ignoring Amina’s gentle implication that it should leave.

“Rather far… from home, aren’t you, Watcher?” It observed primly. “You… miss it, don’t you? You long for… the cold… dry air and… the stillness of the tombs. Many call… the Grand Necropolis home… but it is truly… all… that you knew.”

“I do miss it,” Amina conceded, “But I’ll return someday - for now I’m making the best of my current situation: seeing new places, trying new things. Ferelden is a bit weird, but I could get used to the Marches.” She tapped her blade distractedly against the toe of her boot as she spoke. “That’s what we - people - do. We adapt. Change can be painful and challenging, but we weather the storm and keep going anyway. That’s what Gisele’s loved ones are trying to do too, but they can’t do that with the spectre of her haunting the cemetery, so I need you to let her go.”

“Bold lies…” the Wilis made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, a tooth slid down her chin, trailing black ooze behind it. “I know… what loneliness dwells in your… heart… foundling. You have… no authority… over me here… Let me keep her… I will treasure… her… eternally…”

The already cold air seemed to get colder in that moment as Amina stiffened slightly, her stance now commanding instead of casual. Varric could see strong muscles tensing and flexing under the leather of her armour - an unspoken promise of disciplined brutality should she be denied. “My authority does not end at the gates of the Necropolis - it is incontrovertible, and you know this. Do not make me ask again.”

“You… threaten… me?”

“No, but you will be relinquishing this girl tonight.”

It was like watching a stern parent reason with an overtired toddler.

“And your companion… such longing fills… him… too. For things long passed… such things left unsaid… a glib tongue stilled by nerves…”

Don’t address her. Even if she addresses you.

“Gisele!”

Both Amina and the Wilis turned their attention to the source of the sound: a scrawny ginger kid - actually a kid, couldn’t be older than twenty - had burst from the hedges and into the light of the veilfire.

“Leave! Now!” The Watcher ordered, lifting her sword and shield.

The Wilis was shaking, it’s ghostly eyes flaring and sparking at the sight of the innkeeper’s son.

“I came to help!” He pleaded, voice breaking at the sight of Yearning. “I came to say I’m sorry!”

“I think we’re a bit past that, kid!” Varric shouted over the bitter wind - it had picked up around them, whipping at their hair and clothing. “Now do what the nice Watcher says and get out of here!” Bianca was in his hands, aimed at Yearning, ready to unleash upon her. Amina had said she might be able to talk the spirit out of the girl’s corpse as long as nothing upset it - it was upset now.

“You!” Wailed the Wilis, pointing an accusatory finger at Gethin, “You abandoned her! Broke her heart for the love of another! You will fulfil your promise to her! You will join me!”

Nothing about that could possibly be good.

“Don’t listen to it!” Amina shouted over the gale, moving to place herself between the Wilis and Gethin. “Run!”

“This is my fault!” Argued Gethin, raising his arm to shield his face from the wind. “I shouldn’t have hurt her like that!”

“But you did!” Amina countered. “There’ll be no undoing that fact by throwing your life away! Now stop being noble and fuck off out of here!”

“NO!” Shrieked the Wilis. “She… will have… him! I will have him!!”

Green lightning sparked in the air around the spirit, and the flames of Amina’s veilfire were yanked and pulled in the burgeoning tempest. Gethin seemed frozen in place as the Wilis raised its rotting arms, loose skin sliding over wet bone. There was a tremendous crack, and Varric heard Amina swear again, and he didn’t have to wonder why for long: all around the cemetery, mounds of dirt appeared on the grass as the inhabitants of the graves below began to burst free, clamouring to their feet with the same gracelessness the Wilis possessed.

The one nearest to Gethin reached for him, its decomposed hand wrapping around his arm. The boy shrieked - a bloodcurdling sound - and Amina was on him, neatly batting away the corpse with a shrug of her shield, sending it sailing off into the hedges. The hand remained gripping Gethin’s arm. “Stay behind me,” she commanded, resetting her stance and assessing what they were up against.

Wrenwith was a village - little more than two hundred lived here based on the information from last year’s census, but it was old… at least a few centuries old. Plenty old enough to boast a well-populated graveyard…

Varric could see at least a dozen undead shambling towards the light and wagered there were at least a few dozen more beyond his sight. This wasn’t good: they were outnumbered… badly.

“Both of you, follow me!” The Watcher barked, and Varric watched as she coiled in on herself and then burst her left arm wide - her shield flew from her, audibly shearing the air as it hurtled towards a cluster of walking corpses, colliding into each with a meaty ‘thud’ and then looping back - she caught it with ease and Varric could see the telltale glow of an enchantment on the heavy buckler that he hadn’t noticed before. “Varric, are you able to keep her at range?”

His finger was already on Bianca’s trigger. “Yeah I can manage that. What’s your plan?”

She started backing down the corridor of hedges Gethin had emerged from, her summoned veilfire trailing obediently. “Get some space between her and this one.” She jerked her head at the kid. “She won’t rest until she claims him. I saw a small crypt on my way in here that we can defend, but it was chained up tight and I don’t think I can break the lock.”

The Wilis appeared around the corner of the hedge and spotted them, a desperate scream tearing from her as she glided towards them. Varric loosed a bolt and caught her in the shoulder, sending bits of sodden flesh into the air.

“I can deal with the lock. You just get us there in one piece.”

“Speaking of which - please try to use discretion with your shots: her body is in a fragile state already - I’d prefer if it didn’t suffer more trauma than necessary.”

Varric gritted his teeth at the absurdity of the request. “Sure kid, I’ll try and shoot her gently.”

“Feel free to scoff all you want the next time you’re the one that has to restore a corpse in such an advanced stage of decomposition, Viscount!” She snapped.

He heard the same sound of metal slicing through air as she turned and whipped her shield down the corridor, mowing down a few more undead that would impede their way. As the shield returned to her arm, a corpse sprang from the hedges, scrabbling for her eyes, her throat… whatever it could reach.

The rings at her feet clinked together sharply as she lifted a leg and drove her heavy boot into its chest, breaking a few ribs and sending dust into the air. It hit the ground and Varric watched as a wisp, luminescent and slight, rose from its sunken abdomen and vanished into the night.

“How is it controlling them?”

Amina looked over her shoulder to confirm the proximity of the whimpering innkeeper’s son, and jerked him a little bit closer to her with a gloved thumb and forefinger on his sleeve. “Its need for companionship is so insatiable that it can enthral other spirits. Wisps aren’t robust concepts - they don’t possess the will to resist Yearning.”

Varric loosed another bolt and reloaded as the Wilis persisted, shaking his head. “I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in my day, but this is rapidly climbing the list.”

“Best avoid ever visiting Nevarra if that’s the case - this is nothing.”

They fought their way back through the cemetery, Amina keeping the hordes of undead at bay, and Varric keeping the Wilis far enough away from them that she couldn’t attempt to enthral Gethin.

By the time they made it to the crypt, Amina’s nose was bleeding and there was a sheen of sweat on her brow. “I’ll cover you,” she panted, adjusting her sword in her hand - they really were against the wall now as the Wilis and a handful more undead closed in around them.

Varric only nodded and leaned Bianca against the stone wall of the crypt. His fingers found his lockpicking kit in his breast pocket, and he set to work, trying to ignore the fleshy sounds of violence that were erupting behind him as Amina kept her word and bought him the time he needed to pick the heavy old lock - it was slow going: the tumblers inside the lock were rusty and stiff.

“Stop. Trying. To. Kill. Us.” He heard the Watcher grind out over the pummeling of flesh - hers and that of the undead. “Surely we can come to an agreement that doesn’t involve anyone else dying.”

He heard the Wilis’ weepy laugh in reply just as the lock clicked. He started dragging the chains free from the bars they were wrapped around, pausing before ushering Gethin inside when it occurred to him that there were undead behind the stone plaques in the crypt. Surely they couldn’t get out… right?

He decided he’d risk it and shoved Gethin inside before slipping through the gate too. “Amina!”

She shot a look over her shoulder, and seeing that they were safely inside the crypt, she darted backwards from the Wilis, breathing hard, eyes wide as the spirit descended on her in a fury.

She wasn’t going to make it.

A revolting ‘splat’ followed by an agonised scream rent the night as Amina grunted with effort and backhanded the Wilis’ midsection with her shield as hard as she could, bursting her putrefied gut and splattering the ground with a fragrant blend of semi-liquified viscera and reeking bodily fluids. Next to him, the kid immediately blanched and vomited, and Varric wasn’t far behind: the smell was that of a poorly maintained abattoir caked with blood and shit, overflowing with heaped piles of discarded offal left to rot in the sun. The odour of death - because death indeed had an odour - decked Varric in the nose harder than any fist could, ramming its confoundingly spicy but simultaneously cloying fingers into his sinuses and down his throat, fingerfucking his esophagus into submission until he doubled over and heaved too…

Then Amina was beside him, looping the chains around the bars again and locking the crypt from the inside as the Wilis shrieked and rattled the gate and tried to claw the Watcher’s eyes out through the gaps.

“We’re not coming out until you agree to let that body go,” Amina declared firmly, blinking blood out of her eye as she finished with the chains - she’d taken a nasty blow across her forehead, but it didn’t appear to be slowing her down. The orb of veilfire fluttered between the bars. “If you’re thinking of being stubborn about it, please consider the fact that the three of us will eventually die of thirst in here and you won’t get any of us if we do, so time is of the essence.”

She marked the disturbing sound of fingernails scrabbling against the plaques surrounding them with half a glance, and deeming them to be of no concern, sheathed her sword and leaned her shield against the base of a small statue. Having apparently tuned out the anguished wails of Yearning, she drew her gloved hand over her face, wiping away some of the purge that had splattered upwards. She heaved a sigh and turned to Varric and Gethin, her eyes going round as she comprehended the state of them. She looked down and wrinkled her nose at the sight of her feet and legs which were shining with the heinous smelling rot that had been contained in Gisele.

“I’m so sorry!” She said, genuine concern written across her bloodied face. She waited for Grethin to finish dry-heaving before continuing. “I really had been hoping that I wouldn’t have to do that.” She withdrew three roughly cut scraps of what looked to be linen from a pouch on her belt and handed one to each of them. She used hers to wipe the blood and remaining fluids from her face, looking calmer than anyone had a right to look in this situation.

Varric dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the linen, trying not to think about why someone from Nevarra would have such a thing readily available on their person. “So much for ‘unnecessary trauma’.” He muttered. “You okay, kid?” He turned to Gethin, who looked incredibly pale, but didn’t have a scratch on him.

The boy nodded and rubbed his arms to ward away the cold, but continued to shiver. His blue eyes were rimmed with tears. “Wh-what do we do now?” His chin trembled and he stared at the gate: the Wilis had gone, likely to search for some other means to get into the crypt. It was eerily silent.

Amina finished cleaning herself up as best she could and tucked the used linen into a different pocket. “We give it what it wants.”

Varric and Gethin protested, and she let them finish before saying, “At the very heart of all of this is a young woman’s death. Gisele took her own life when you ended your betrothal for another woman - she was blind to the fact that she was anything more than a failed bride and a burden to her family. She saw herself as a failure… selfish for even daring to crave that which seems so effortless and natural for everyone else.”

“But that’s not true!” Gethin insisted.

“Your perception or reasoning behind your actions are of little consequence - though they’re repellant.” She levelled a look of disgust at the boy that actually made him flinch. “The fact of the matter is whether you intended to or not, you made Gisele feel unlovable, and that sentiment was so strongly believed by her that Yearning could not help but be drawn to her, even in death.”

“You told me not to throw my life away not fifteen minutes ago, and now you’re urging me to do that very thing?!”

“You don’t have to die.” Amina said, her voice softening somewhat. “You give it what it wants,” she repeated. “You give it what Gisele wanted: love. Real, genuine, love - not falsified or put on in an attempt to fool her.”

Grethin dragged his hands through his hair in exasperation, “How the hell do I do that?!”

Amina smiled coldly at the young man and crossed her arms. “I’m sure you heard a few fairy tales in your youth.”

Well, shit…

“Y-you think I should… you w-want me to… to…”

“True love’s kiss to break the curse on the fair princess and set her free. Yeah, that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

“N-no!” He babbled, eyes as round and pale as the moon. “There… there has to be some other way!”

“Want to let Yearning kill you and stuff an enthralled spirit in your corpse?” Amina taunted. “Because that can be arranged.”

She was compassionate and warm when she wanted to be, but damn she could be blunt…

“But she… she’s all–”

“Decomposed? Yes.”

“Won’t I… w-what if I catch something?”

She actually rolled her eyes, uncrossed and recrossed her arms, and tapped the toe-cap of her boot against the floor tetchily. “Please. The worst thing you’ll catch is another bout of nausea, but luckily your gut’s already empty so that shouldn’t trouble you any.” She regarded him with those perceptive eyes. “You made a decision that you thought was right for you - for all I know, it was - but there were unforeseen consequences to that decision, and now you are dealing with them… as do we all. It won’t be easy, but I know that you can do this.”

Gethin sighed; whimpered a little. All the fight seemed to leave him.

“Alright.” He whispered brokenly. “I’ll do it for her… for Gisele… so that she can finally rest.”

“It was brave of you to come here tonight,” Amina reached out and squeezed the boy’s shoulder reassuringly - an amusing sight, Varric thought, because he was half a foot taller than her.

They left the crypt soon after, and it didn’t take them long to find Yearning, sitting on a gravestone, its knees drawn up to its chest, shoulders quaking with quiet sobs.

If she hadn’t literally raised the dead to try and kill them a short time earlier, Varric almost would have felt bad for her.

“Yearning?” Amina called out softly, approaching the Wilis with gentle footfalls.

“I hate this place!” The spirit bawled, not lifting its head. Varric noticed there were still a few of Bianca’s bolts sticking out of Gisele’s corpse. “Everything… is so… unattainable.”

Amina crouched in front of the spirit and looked up into her curtain of tattered, dirty hair. “It’s… it’s not great for a spirit of your ilk, I’m afraid - and that’s not a mark against you. It’s hard enough even for those like me.” She reached up and tenderly pushed some of the hair aside, and Varric could see the green glow of those haunting eyes sunken into rotten flesh. “There are other places in the world that would have you though, if you still want to give it a chance. Why don’t you manifest at the Necropolis? There are spirits there that would thrive under your attention.”

Yearning’s chin lifted and it looked directly at Gethin. “I want him to come with me.”

“He’s going to stay here with his family where he’s needed. But if you’re willing to relinquish your hold on Gisele, he has agreed to bequeath you a token of his affection to remember him by.”

Yearning cocked its head and Gethin stepped forward.

He raised a hand in awkward greeting and Amina stepped aside so that he could stand before the desiccated remains of the woman he betrayed. “You’ve got this.” She whispered as she passed him by.

Amina stood next to Varric and got his attention with a light tap on his shoulder.

“This is a private moment - we should give them space,” she murmured.

“Do you trust that he’ll actually do it?” Varric mumbled in reply.

“He will.”

Varric’s eyebrows lifted sceptically, but he turned with Amina and began walking towards the cemetery entrance, noting that she was favouring her right foot with each step she took.

“I’m fine.” She insisted, clearly sensing his concern. “A mild sprain. Nothing that a hot bath and a few hours of sleep won’t fix.” She flicked open the stopper of the vial around her neck and the orb of veilfire dissipated into it.

“What’s the story with that?” He nodded at the pendant that was once again filled with placid light.

“It’s a wisp that bound itself to veilfire - it was fascinated by it, so it became it.”

“And it’s fine with being stuffed into a bottle and worn as jewelry?”

She glanced sidelong at him with a rapidly swelling eye. “It chooses to accompany me. Should it wish to leave at any time or shed its current manifestation I wouldn’t stop it.”

“Why’d you become a Reaper? It seems like painful work.”

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “But not usually. I was young when I was put on the path of a Watcher: I was good at gathering my bearings - a skill that was demonstrated in my uncanny ability to sneak out at night and run rampant in the city during my youth, always a step ahead of my handlers. A useful trait for someone who wanders the ever-changing halls of the Necropolis.”

“Bullshit,” Varric scoffed. “Without looking at the stars, point out the cardinal directions right now. Go.”

She came to a halt and without a moment of hesitation, lifted her hand and pointed in turn. “North, East, South, West.”

“Holy shit.”

“You should see me at parties.”

“So let me get this straight: some higher-up at the Necropolis saw some kid running wild in the streets who was good at not getting lost and decided to chuck her into servitude to the dead for the rest of her life?”

“Is that meant to be an insult, Viscount?” She raised an eyebrow.

“No, no! Not at all! I just… don’t get it is all. And please - call me Varric.”

She shrugged and looked forward. “You don’t have to. As for becoming a Reaper, I’m not a mage, and any idiot can swing a sword, but becoming a Reaper is complex and requires just as much study as Necromancy. It’s extremely difficult to make the cut and actually be put on rotation in the Halls.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I knew that spirit’s natural reflection wasn’t Yearning - it was Devotion. They train us in Nevarra to reason with both spirits and living people, and most of us are very good at it for a simple reason.” She heaved a tired sigh and rubbed at her eyes. “Only the most empathetic and compassionate are chosen to become Reapers. Our strength - our power - is drawn from a place of deep understanding and feeling: our ability to comprehend and make the pain of another our own. It’s our blessing and our curse, because I’ll be honest with you, Varric: it’s bloody exhausting.”

“Then why do it at all?”

She was silent for a time as they continued to walk. He almost thought she’d forgotten the question when she finally said, “Because I love it. It fulfils my soul in a way nothing else ever could.” She smiled again: the warm, kind one she first greeted him with. “Could it ever truly be a burden when it brings such joy to me?”

He didn’t have an answer to that, so he hitched Bianca up on his shoulder. They were almost at the entrance. “You’ve gotta go back and bury her, don’t you?”

“Can’t leave her sitting out for the crows.”

“Want help?”

She looked down at him, trying to get a read for whether he was just offering to be polite. “No thank you, Varric,” she said finally, practically beaming at him through split, bloodied lips.

“I still need to talk to you: I’ve got some work that I think might be of interest to you - when you’re done come find me at the inn. Drinks are on me.”

“I don’t really drink, but… after tonight, I think I could be amenable to one or two.”

“There’s a whole bottle waiting for us. Whatever it takes for you to hear me out.”

“Oooh… sounds important.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“You have no idea, kid.”

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