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Weisshaupt had left them all shaken. On their return to the Lighthouse, everyone had sought their own rooms, and stayed there, unusually enough. No roaming, no foraging for snacks. All the doors remained firmly closed as each of them wrestled with their own reactions to the horrors they had witnessed.
Emmrich found himself shaking with delayed terror. Death had been very close to him, to all of them, as they fought their way through the ancient home of the Grey Wardens. The Archdemon, twisted by Ghilan'nain into a three-headed monster such as Emmrich had never imagined, had come disturbingly near to ending all of their lives.
He didn't want to die. Emmrich was clear on this. Whatever lay on the other side, in that darkness, was a mystery he had worked all his life to solve, but to his eternal shame, he could never truly let go of the wonders of this world long enough to contemplate that there might be equal wonders in the next.
But he had known that for a long time. It wasn't news to him that he was afraid to die. It was news, and heartening news at that, to find that his fear didn't diminish his effectiveness in the fight.
No, the disturbing surprise was discovering how much he didn't want Rook to die. Watching her walk out to face Ghilan'nain, to call the Archdemon down from the sky, standing there so bravely holding up Solas's dagger, making bait of herself … Emmrich had felt chilled to the bone, frozen in terror, torn between wanting to run and put himself between her and the danger that threatened and wanting to turn and hide his face and not watch as her short, brave life came to an end.
He found himself at his own door, one hand on the knob, ready to pull it open. He would go to her, he thought. He would go to her and tell her … tell her how he was beginning to feel, how much she mattered to him, and he would—he would hold her. Maker, how he wanted to hold her. To bury his face in the fall of her blue hair, to feel the warmth of her against him, to kiss her and peel her clothes off and acquaint himself with every inch of her, every sigh.
Ridiculous.
Emmrich took his hand off the knob and willed himself up the stairs and onto the balcony, looking out on the bright skies of the Fade's endless sunny day.
He would not go to her. He had no right to do so. A man like him, with his best years past, who had lived so long in the dusty shadows and the brittle pages of books … what right did he have to ask for anything more than friendship from someone so young and bright?
He would let this go, Emmrich decided, watching a building tumble slowly across the sky. He would let go of any idea he might have of anything beyond friendship. He would support her, and he would help the others work through their struggles and become a closer team, and when it was over, he would return to the Grand Necropolis and find it within himself to make the decision he had been trying to make for such a long time. And he would stop dreaming of her.
Just as soon as he figured out how.
Rook returned to her room feeling a deep weariness. She believed she might have talked Davrin and Lucanis out of trying to kill each other, which was enough of an accomplishment for the day. The wounds she had taken during the fight with the Archdemon were healing rapidly—a benefit of living in the Fade, it seemed—but her stores of energy were still limited.
Emmrich had been invaluable in the discussion of what to do next. He had not only cut through the increasingly sharp barbs Lucanis and Davrin had been sending each other's way, he had gotten straight to the heart of the problem: that every one of them had unresolved issues that were keeping them from focusing on the job at hand. No one wanted to believe that their distractions were important in the face of elven gods trying to take down the world, but … they were. Especially if those distractions were going to keep the team off balance in a fight.
She didn't blame Lucanis for missing the death blow. No one else could even have marked Ghilan'nain the way he had. But Emmrich was right—if he and Spite were truly one, perhaps they could have succeeded.
What a relief it was to have Emmrich at the table! Sometimes she felt like everyone's mother, even if most of them were older than she was. Making the rounds, talking to everyone, reassuring them and offering counsel and making them laugh and generally keeping their spirits up.
Neve made rounds, too, Rook had noticed, and so did Emmrich. The two of them kept her supported, even when they were the ones who needed reassuring.
She left her room now, moving quietly down the hall. No one else was in the central meeting area, which she was glad of, because there was no one to see her turn toward Emmrich's room.
Knocking lightly, she called his name.
"Yes?"
"Emmrich? Do you have a moment?"
There was a long pause. Or, at least, it felt long as she waited, holding her breath.
"Not right now, I'm afraid, Rook."
"Oh." It was a little sigh of disappointment. She was sure he hadn't heard her. And it was Rook again. She missed the delicious soft "my dear" she had heard only once. Louder, she said, "All right. Let me know if you need anything," and left again, returning to her own room feeling surprisingly empty.
What if he didn't want to talk to her again? What if he took back the invitation to return to the Necropolis gardens? It was ridiculous to worry about that because once he hadn't wanted to talk, but .. she couldn't help it. She had counted on his guidance, his warmth, his … yes, his caring, to get her through this, and she wasn't sure what she would do without it.
She stood for a long time watching the fish out her windows, but they didn't seem to have any answers for her, so she lay down, pulling the blankets over her, and took refuge in sleep.