Chapter Text
It's nearly midnight by the time the team drags themselves through the eluvian again. "We'll talk in the morning," Sof murmurs to Davrin and Bellara, squeezing the man's forearm gently before they pull off for their own room.
"Get some sleep," Davrin tells them, and they just nod, like they actually intend to.
They don't. At least, not yet. Their mind still buzzes, racing in circles trying to process what they'd witnessed at the Cauldron. The fate of the griffons, both past and present... it makes their stomach twist unpleasantly.
Focus, they tell themself. First, they need to remove their armor, clean it, ensure none of the Blight has been taken with them. It's a habit Davrin has instilled in them all by now, and while it is exhausting, they would prefer the tedium of cleaning each and every layer of their armor practically every three hours, as opposed to being cremated.
When their armor is declared unblighted and placed back on its stand, they find a clean pair of their scrubs, and trudge their way to the kitchen. At the very least, they want to make themself a cup of tea; they're also hoping Lucanis has left at least some of dinner aside for them, but if he hasn't, it won't kill them to go back to their rations for a night.
While they're expecting the kitchen to be quiet, they are not expecting it to be empty. Lucanis at least sometimes spends his nights sitting at the kitchen table, working on his correspondences or sharpening his knives or knitting, even. But tonight, the table is empty, the fire is dying, and the pantry door is partially ajar.
Then, they hear Taash's voice.
"Hey! No! Noooo," they call, like they're trying to chastise a dog. "Sit your ass back down."
"Where. Is Rook," Spite demands.
"I'm here," Sof answers, stepping through the doorway and holding their hands up. Spite is standing at Lucanis's cot, tensed, staring off with Taash, who stands between him and the doorway, arms folded, waiting for him to make a move. "Hello, Spite, Taash. How are you this evening?"
"Smell like. Stone. And decay." Spite grins. It's strange, to see him control Lucanis's body so fully. The Crow usually takes such care to remain in control, to keep Spite from possessing him, limiting him only to speaking in the Fade, his words known only to Lucanis and sometimes Emmrich. He's more unsteady on his feet than Lucanis is, doesn't hold himself with the same cat-like poise, and his smile... his grin is sharp where Lucanis's is so typically tender. "Hi. Rook."
"Why don't you go keep an eye on the eluvian," Sof murmurs to Taash, patting their hip in reassurance, and while the qunari certainly doesn't look like they want to leave Sof alone, they know that Sof can handle themself. The pantry door pulls shut behind them.
Spite's excitement is palpable. They know Lucanis views the spirit as a threat, as a danger, but Sof thinks they can read something softer in his eyes. He's new to this world, and they have to imagine there's something to him that's just curious. "Now. We get to talk."
"Okay," Sof says gently, stepping a little closer, a little further from the door to show that they don't feel threatened by him. Spite's grin grows wider, and he closes the space between them in almost a moment, looms over them. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Lucanis." His expression turns more frustrated for a moment. "Made a deal. He. Hasn't kept."
Already, this is more than Lucanis has ever shared about his relationship to the spirit within him. They perhaps should feel more hesitant to pry, but... if Lucanis wants to make peace with Spite, he has to learn to work with him, not just shove him aside, and that begins with learning what Spite wants. "What deal?"
"Break our chains. Kill. Escape our prison. And live!"
"Is that not what happened?"
Spite snarls; not at them, but at their question. As if the answer should be obvious. "No! I want out!"
"Unfortunately, there aren't many places where a spirit can walk freely without putting themself and their host in danger," Sof says, trying to placate him. "If Lucanis were to let you out in Treviso-"
"No. No!" he snaps, body jittering with pent-up emotion. "He promised!"
One hand reaches for Sof, and they almost step back, before Spite - or, more likely, Lucanis - pulls back. The Fade ripples, and some of the purple glow to Lucanis's body starts to dissipate, while Spite wails. "Rook!"
Lucanis must be waking up, clawing his way back into control. In the struggle, the body stumbles, leaning more heavily against the wall, before swaying backwards again towards Lucanis's cot. Their hands come to steady Spite, holding his upper arms in a loose grip as they ease him down to a sitting position. "Easy, Spite, it's okay-"
"Tell him!" Spite begs. "Make him-"
"I will," they promise. "I'll try."
That seems to soothe him, enough that his grip on the control of the body slips, and Lucanis surfaces again. Warm, dark eyes open, then widen as he looks at them. "Sof?"
"Hello," they murmur, giving him a gentle smile. "We just returned a half hour ago, you were... sleeping."
The unguarded, gentle surprise on his face is suddenly gone, replaced with a frustrated scowl. "Spite was sleepwalking."
"Technically, he was not asleep, so I don't believe it would be classified as sleepwalking," they hum. "We just talked."
Lucanis sighs, closes his eyes while he composes himself, and Sof takes a few steps back, to give him his space. "I didn't want you to see that," Lucanis mutters. "Again."
"Nothing I'm seeing makes me want to look away."
He looks up at them, that wide-eyed surprise finally returning, and something blooms in their chest to see it. Spirit's eyes, but he really is a beautiful man; dark hair falling over his shoulders, the handful of moles dotting his face, the steadiness and confidence in every movement he makes, a man who knows each limit and function of his body, and how best to use it. He's beautiful, when he allows himself to be at ease.
He lets out a tired chuckle, shakes his head, and they realize they may have been staring. "How do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Break apart my perfectly-gathered clouds of doom."
He meets their eyes, for a moment. They've been doing this for a few weeks now, a quiet, careful push-and-pull; one pushes past the line of "acceptable commentary for a friend" to something slightly more intimate, and the other pulls back when they can't take it anymore. Rinse, and repeat. It is not the first time Sof has tried to flirt with someone, but it is the first time the other has understood it as such. If there was a handbook, some instruction the rest of the world got that instructed them on how to flirt, Sof has never been a recipient.
But Lucanis. He understands, like it's a native language only the pair of them share. He's never returned the attempts, but he's also never recoiled from them, simply taken them and smiled (and blushed, once, a treasured look they won't admit to holding close to their heart) and continued on as usual.
They wonder if it's because he doesn't want anything more, or if it's because he also doesn't know what to do with it.
Lucanis stands, and the smile on his lips falls away. "Sof- you deserve better than to deal with my mess."
"You are more than what you're going through," they insist. There's a risk to be taken, here, and they're just tired enough that they're willing to take it. "And..." They steady themself with a breath. "You also wear it well."
There's a look of surprise in his eyes for a moment. This is farther than either of them have gone with their flirtations, the most direct either have been with their attraction. The meaning is not lost on either of them.
The fact that he steps forward, however, is what surprises Sof.
His approach is slow, drawn-out. More of a saunter than anything, lithe hips swaying with each step closer, and they find themself rooted to the spot, not from fear but from breathlessness. He's not tall for a human, but he is tall to them, still barely level with his chest.
"This isn't a good idea," he murmurs, voice low and rough in a way that makes their mind go blank, their legs suddenly weak. One arm reaches up, leans against the wall, and they feel both pinned and studied. Oh, but he is close. They could take his waist in one hand and pull him closer, and they wonder if he'd even resist. He's studying them, a charmed little smile on his face, and their head swims.
The wall pin is a staple of the bodice-ripper, and while Sof may not be the most proficient in matters of the heart, they at least know how to play this game in theory. They take two steps back, press their back to the stone wall; an unspoken invitation for him to draw closer. "Sometimes, a bad idea... is better."
He takes half a step closer, leans down a little and tilts his head. "You like to walk a little too close to to the edge," and his voice is a purr, stroking parts of their mind they didn't even know existed.
They have to be brave. Carefully, they reach up to trace the length of his collar chain, absently hooking their finger around it as he leans in closer. They can watch as his eyes leave their own, falling to their lips, and they have never wanted so badly in their life. They want to have some witty response, but everything in their mind is blank, singularly focused on pulling closer to him. "So do you."
He's close enough they can feel his breath on their face. "At least I know I'm doing it," as he leans in, as their eyes close, as their hand splays across his chest and as his heart beats faster and his breath stutters and-
His warmth is gone, abruptly, as he pulls back. Their first thought is that something's wrong, someone's here, but the look in his eyes is not one of protection or suspicion, it's just... pained.
Oh.
Sof had assumed him ready, but- this might have actually been the worst time they could have picked for this, isn't it? He and Spite were just arguing not ten minutes ago, of course he's not-
His arm drops from where he's been propping himself up against the wall, as he steps back. He won't look them in the eye. "I... need to clear my head," he murmurs, pulling his arm against his chest in a half-bow. "Excuse me."
They don't think it's just their imagination, when they see the flush still high in his cheeks. Every inch of their body wants to catch him, to pull him closer again, to show him they are ready for this, even if they don't know what this is, but- they have to let him come in his own time. When he feels he's ready, and not a moment sooner.
So they let him walk out of the pantry, and lean back against the stone in hopes it calms their racing heart.
The kitchen is empty when they go to make themself a cup of tea, the following morning. They know they shouldn't feel surprised, it would be perfectly within his rights for Lucanis to avoid them, but their heart still sinks all the same.
There is a twist of the Fade behind them, and they know Spite is watching. "I'd hope you let him rest," Sof murmurs to him, although there's no way for them to hear his response, if there is any. "Remember, Lace and I will be out for a few days in Kal-Shirok."
They go to the shelves, reaching on their tiptoes to search for the tin of tea they'd bought in Lavendel; it will never replace the Nevarran blend as their favorite, but its novelty hasn't worn off just yet, and they've made themself a cup nearly every morning for the last week. "Please, don't put Lucanis's body at risk. It is under both your cares, and- to injure him is to injure yourself. I would prefer to come home and see you both hale and whole, rather than pinned to the wall by Taash."
Their search comes up empty, and they sigh. "By the way, have you seen whoever took the tea? The new one, the blend Antoine recommended."
Emmrich's usual seat at the table rattles suddenly. "Thank you, Spite," they murmur. They take half a step closer to the chair, and then pause. "Just... please. You two play nice."
Something brushes against Sof's cheek, unseen and incorporeal. Their breath leaves them all at once, and they close their eyes, wait for a heartbeat longer than they mean to. "I'll... I'll talk to you both when we're home. I promise."
It might be for the best, for them to have some space. Time to calm their nerves, let the... events of the previous night settle, give the both of them time to process before they have to address it again. And, well. Lace is not inexperienced herself. She may have more fruitful advice for them. Failing that, they just hope she will be willing to listen to them.
It doesn't take long for them to reach Emmrich's room, knocking once before letting themself in. He doesn't seem to be sitting at his desk, or anywhere on the lower story of his study, instead leaning against a table on the upper balcony, lost in thought. "Emmrich?"
"Oh! Good morning, my dear. I'd expected you and Lace to have left already."
"Not yet, although we will be leaving shortly. I came to see if you had that tea from Lavendel? I promised her I'd bring it with us, for her to try."
"Of course," he hums, as Sof begins to climb the stairs. "Manfred, would you be a dear and fetch the tea for us? I'm not quite sure where you left it."
The animated skeleton gives a hiss of affirmation, giving Sof a happy wave as he slips past them on the stairs. They gesture to the bleached skull sitting in Emmrich's hands; based on how it's retained all its teeth, they assume it's not an inhabitant of the Necropolis, and the lack of adornment makes it likely not a gift or decoration. "Who is this, if I might ask?"
"Oh, one of the elves in Arlathan, we presume. Their spirit has been unwilling to communicate there, so I wondered if they might be more at ease if we relocated them before attempting communication again."
"Any luck?"
"Not as of yet," he sighs. "Bellara has offered to sit with me on my next attempt; perhaps a more familiar, elven face will do us good."
"Perhaps. Depending on their age, and their means of death, Arlathan may be more traumatic than anything." Their fingers tap absently on the railing as they think. "Would you mind asking if they have another preferred method of burial, as well? If you have the rest of their remains, of course."
"I was already intending to ask," he smiles. "Their remains are stored in the mausoleum the Lighthouse provided for us, for the time being."
"Good, good."
Silence falls between them, for a few moments. There's an easy companionship that the pair of them fall into so frequently, perhaps the benefit of both being Mourn Watchers very far out of their normal spheres of activity. But sometimes it's felt like it runs deeper, something else between them that keeps flitting in and out of focus. They see the hint of it here, glinting in Emmrich's eyes as he gets an idea, shifting the way he rests half-propped up against the table.
His voice is pitched lower when he murmurs, "May I show you something of the greater Fade, here? Before you and Lace must go scurrying off to your work."
"Please, by all means," they reply, meeting his eyes with a smile. They are firmly determined to not let him know how much that drop of his voice affects them, the way it makes them squirm to think about.
He looks so satisfied, almost knowing, and they worry they have not been subtle. "Close your eyes," he tells them, and they obey without a second thought. "Take a breath."
Their breathing is slow and even. This, at least, all Watchers can do; the calming of their soul meant to be second nature by the time each Watcher graduates. There is a shifting of fabric, grave-gold clinking, the creak of wood underneath slightly heeled boots. They want to obey his instruction, but their curiosity wins out and they crack, opening an eye to study how close he's stepped to them.
"Ah," he tsks, his expression playfully stern, and they break into another grin as they close their eyes again. "Slow," he orders, and his voice is closer to their ears than they would have expected for a Nevarran man, a man who is aware of their country's attitudes of propriety and gentlemanly behavior, who holds himself just as distant as they do to the rest of their companions. "Deep."
They do not breathe.
Instead, it rather feels like they've forgotten how to function, their entire body seizing at once, mouth falling open slightly. They can't help the little gasp that falls out of them, the slight shake in their legs, and they know with horrifying certainty that they are blushing.
A cool hand meets theirs, fingers lightly brushing their palm as he lifts their hand to rest atop the skull. When his fingers withdraw, they almost make some other embarrassing noise, drawn in by the promise of touch, of that voice; but all complaints are withdrawn when his hand settles atop theirs.
They can feel the draw of the Fade, like the folding of silk sheets over themselves, as Emmrich casts. "Be borne on the great currents," he murmurs, as if it's an incantation in and unto itself. "See now as they see."
When they do open their eyes, it's to the Fade.
Or, what they imagine the Fade must look like to a mage, to someone meant to inhabit and understand it; wisps of spirits and raw magic swimming in an unseen sea, buoyed by Emmrich's gentle but insistent demand to make themselves known. Their eyes try to track one of the flickering lights, watching the currents change and crash into each other. There is such beauty to it - to die and be returned here would be a gift, they think. The greatest gift they could never ask for.
"When I talk to the dead," Emmrich intones, "their echoes abide with me. Thoughts, and passions. Hopes, and desires."
When they finally turn to look at him, his eyes are glued to theirs. It brings a flush to their cheeks again, and by the way his eyes flicker down, they doubt it has gone unnoticed. At length, he removes his hand from theirs, lets the spell fade out, settles his skull on the desk without turning his attention from them. "The shades of death have more intricacy than even a young Watcher may know," he tells them softly, reaching out to tuck a few of their curls behind their ear before pausing. "If your intentions go beyond charming flattery... that would interest me, indeed."
And there lies the crux of the problem. They do appreciate him - his magic, his compassion, his intelligence, his grace - but they appreciate so many similar things in Lucanis, as well. They know they should pick just one, but to push the other out of their life? It feels like it tears at their soul, even just thinking about it.
There must be a good way to tell him this. Some adequate selection of words to describe their feelings to him, but whatever it is, it doesn't come to them. They have to try, though, they can't just leave him here in silence, even if he is being extremely patient with them as they fumble their way to an answer. They open their mouth to respond-
And are cut off by Manfred's excited hiss, the metallic tin of loose tealeaves being presented to them in pride. "Ah. Yes, thank you, Manfred," Sof says, clearing their throat and taking the offered tin.
Whatever moment has built between them is severed in an instant. Emmrich takes two steps back, away from their personal space, and clasps his hands in front of him - trying to maintain his dignity in front of Manfred, likely. "I- should be going, I've still a few things to pack-"
"Sof-"
"-shouldn't take more of your time-"
"Sof."
Emmrich's hand catches their arm, gently, as they're turning to leave. "I would like to continue this conversation, when you've returned," he murmurs. There's a gentleness to his eyes, and understanding, which brings such relief to them that they almost want to collapse here and now.
"As... as would I," they reply. "It's not that I don't, I just- I'm- struggling to put my feelings to words."
"I understand. We can speak again when you're back."
He squeezes their bicep gently, and then releases them. With a grateful smile, they hurry down the stairs, hoping to all the souls within the Stone that their blush will fade by the time Lace comes to fetch them.