[ID: Janice, a brazilian artist, drifting in the street with their wheelchair, with sparks flying out behind them and a whole rig of speakers modded onto the chair. The back of the chair says "Chillwave cripple punk". They're in a brown halterneck and ripped jeans, with braids and metal pieces attached like arm braces. /end ID]
I want to be better at sharing process videos of my art because I think they’re fun. So here, enjoy a video of an art piece I didn’t plan to make as evidenced by all the warm up sketches before I went…wait a minute, this is cool. Also featuring me figuring out the background in real time.
What if we were two sides of the same coin. What if i lived in your shadow all my life but found comfort in the darkness and dont know what to do once youre gone. What if youre the only person who understands. What if you have have no idea what i went through. What if we went through the same traumas but ended up with oposite conclusions about our suffering. What if i dont recognize you anymore. What if i see the ghost of my former self reflected through your eyes. What if it never had to go this way. What if this was the only way things were ever going to go
Hello, if you haven't heard yet, a 7.4 magnitude earthquake hit Western Colombia this morning. The death toll so far is at least 111. I'm lucky that my family living there was safe and unaffected from what I've heard so far, but many are suffering right now from loss of family, friends, homes, work, transportation and pets.
I've gathered links to donate to verified relief in the area. My heart goes out to anyone suffering in Colombia right now.
Bogotá Food Bank - I believe mercado pago allows non-Colombian payments via card
World Central Kitchen
Direct Relief
GEM Latam
Plan International
Feel free to append more or link smaller fundraisers for families affected. If you are not able to donate right now all is good, if you're able to spread the word that is more than enough. Thanks.
"‘What is that noise?’
The wind under the door.
‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’
Nothing again nothing.
‘Do
You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
‘Nothing?’
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’"
- T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
She comes to him in dreams, both her and not her. She appears in the pantry, hair unbound, clothing already loose, already waiting for his hands to part her from it. In these dreams, there is no reason not to reach for her, not to draw her to him, her hips straddling his as he drowns in her proximity. He kisses her, mixing memory and desire, the feel of her hands in his hair, the sounds she makes, the rise and fall of her chest against his.
He has never kissed her in this room, never laid her down in his bed, but in these dreams it is as vivid as memory. She whispers his name, and she knows him, and it is easy, so easy to get lost in her. In every smooth expanse of skin revealed by questing hands. She touches him, fingers light and familiar as she smiles against his lips. He doesn't remember the joke, only that she's told one, only that he is forever wondering how she manages such humor when he is unraveling beneath her.
He always wakes before the dream drifts too far, awakes with his cock hard and aching. The desire is so unwelcome it makes him feel sick. He does not want to want that woman in the infirmary, the one who is her but isn't. His mind and his body have forever been at odds when it comes to desire. He cannot conjure it, though he has tried, but he has never found himself wanting in this way; he wishes he could tell his body it isn't her. Wishes the shame he feels upon waking was enough to stop the dreams altogether.
But it is not, so he retreats to the only place he can: the kitchen.
The food he makes for everyone is its own sort of apology. He remembers their favorites well, and it is a small relief to get lost in the tasks that were once so familiar to him. He hasn't cooked in months. Lucanis tells himself that it's because he hasn't had the time, but that's not quite true. He hasn't cooked because he hasn't been able to see the point.
Still, as the group filters into the dining hall, remarking on the fact that he's made all of their favorites, he does not disappear to the pantry or elsewhere. He pulls up a chair and sits down with them to eat. Something like approval radiates off Davrin even if Lucanis finds it impossible to ignore Camina's empty chair.
Willow is the last to join them, taking up Harding's place beside Emmrich. "Well, she's asleep for the evening, I think."
Dinner was already a quiet affair before Willow's arrival, but the comment adds further disquiet to the room. Sets them all back several moments until the familiarity of passing bowls and dishes creates in itself a certain order to things they can all sink more comfortably into.
"How is her healing coming along?" Neve asks, and it occurs to Lucanis that she is asking because she hasn't been to see her either. Lucanis doesn't know what to make of that.
"Good," Willow replies. "I think that tomorrow, she should be let out of the infirmary."
There's a pause. It endures horribly. Davrin is the one who leans back in his chair. "You really think that's a good idea?"
"She's not a prisoner," Willow replies, words tinged with righteous indignation.
Davrin shrugs. "Maybe she ought to be. Anyone else want to jump in here?"
Bellara chews at her bottom lip. "She seemed pretty normal to me."
Taash puts their elbows on the table. "I guess, yeah. Wasn't exactly getting murder vibes from her or destroy the world vibes or whatever. Seemed like Rook….minus remembering us. I don't know. Shit's weird."
Emmrich looks especially tired. "While we can perhaps argue for her to remain confined here to the Lighthouse, we can't very well lock her away in the infirmary or even her own room. It would expose too much of our hand, and Willow is right: she is not a prisoner."
"So you just want to give her free rein of Solas's hideout? What if that's exactly what he wants?" Davrin asks.
"Then at least we'll have more pieces of the puzzle," Willow insists. Lucanis gets the feeling that this is an argument they've already had in pieces.
It is Neve who wades in, cool and calm. "You've been the one to spend the most time with her, Will. What is your opinion of the danger?"
Willow seems to be considering her words carefully. "To be truthful, I don't know what to make of all of this. I haven't witnessed anything at all to give me pause. I keep watching for something to change, some clue she's not herself. And I've seen nothing to suggest otherwise."
"There's a but there," Taash says.
Willow shakes her head. "No 'but'. I don't like looking at my friend with suspicion. Paranoia. It feels wrong."
"It is weird," Bellara agrees. "Like….how even though she doesn't remember me…she says exactly what I'd think she'd say. And she was like…really patient with my rambling the way Rook always was. I don't know. I'm sorry, I don't think I'm very good at this being suspicious stuff either. It just felt like having my friend back."
Neve pats Bellara's hand. "You don't need to apologize for not enjoying subterfuge, Bel. I think it makes you a good person."
"She sort of remembered stuff, while we were talking?" Bellara says.
Unbidden, that cancerous hope rises in him. "What do you mean?"
Everyone's eyes dart to him, as though remembering for the first time that he is in the room. He supposes he only has himself to blame for that.
Bellara shakes her head. "Nothing specific, I guess. But it was more like she already guessed at something before I said it."
Davrin frowns. "Interesting."
Bellara's eyes immediately widen. "Do you think that's bad? I thought it might be a good sign. It didn't feel bad, just felt like…she was trying to put things together, figure stuff out…"
Willow shakes her head. "It makes sense she'd be trying to put things together. We haven't told her much, but she's talked with almost everyone. Even you, Davrin."
Davrin nods. "And her surprise at seeing Assan was damn genuine. I'm not arguing that she's not Rook. I'm just saying I don't think that's not all she is."
And there lies the crux of it all. It would be one thing if it was merely her memories missing, if all that stood between them was lost time. But there is this…suspicion, this paranoia they all must carry. That they have to watch her, and have to wonder if she is herself. It feels impossible to build anything upon such an ever-shifting foundation.
"So, what do we do?" Taash asks. "Will's right, she's not a prisoner, and we can't treat her like one either."
"I can lock the eluvian, like we used to when Spite borrowed your body, Lucanis," Bellara offers, words almost kind enough to outweigh his embarrassment at the memory.
"A fine idea, Bellara," Emmrich replies.
"She knows the world thinks she's dead, and she's overwhelmed by how much time she's missing. I don't think she wants to leave here any time soon, anyway," Willow adds.
"Well, that's convenient for us then," Neve replies with a tight smile.
"You can't avoid her forever," Willow says, looking pointedly at him. "You should talk to her."
The table is quiet. Neve and Davrin exchange a glance, and he can tell that they're debating jumping in to save him, but he doesn't want to be saved. He doesn't want that sort of pity.
"That's easy for you to say; she remembers you," Lucanis says. He doesn't mean for the words to take on the sharp edge of accusation, but they do.
Guilt curls in his stomach as Willow's gaze skitters away. "I'm sorry, but talking to her might help. You can't avoid her forever."
Certainly not if she's moving around the Lighthouse freely. "It's a bridge I'll cross when I get there."
That kills the discussion. Bellara and Emmrich do their best to revive conversation at the table with lighter topics, but it's very clear none of them are particularly in the mood. Taash and Davrin offer to take care of dishes, so Lucanis makes himself a cup of coffee and excuses himself. He's unsurprised to find Neve following him.
"Want to hide in my office?" she asks, tone light as though this is one of those old team meetings in the beginning where he and Harding or Davrin had traded tense barbs.
He'd stepped out of the dining hall without any particular destination in mind, and he knows Neve well enough to realize that even if he says no, she'll just follow. "Sure."
There is a comforting familiarity to Neve's office. It hasn't changed. Not the wisps or the evidence board or the untidiness of her desk. He sinks easily into the chair opposite her, tries to pretend nothing has changed, that no time has passed since they were last here.
"If I ask you how you're holding up, are you going to make some pathetic excuse and leave?"
He sips at his coffee to avoid immediately responding. Neve always has seen the whole of him, even the pieces he wished she didn't. "Probably."
She nods. "Fair enough."
He's never known what to make of Neve's silences, whether they are a tactic to get one to speak or simply that she does not wish to fill all spaces with empty chatter. Whatever the case, it works because he finds himself speaking, "I know why I haven't gone to see her, but I'm surprised you haven't."
Neve looks exceptionally tired, and then roots around in her desk drawers before she finds something: a bottle of whiskey. When he raises his eyebrows at the top-shelf label, she shrugs. "It was a gift."
She frowns a little at the dirty coffee cup on her desk, but pours into it anyway. She holds the bottle up to him in askance. It's borderline heresy to do this to a cup of coffee, but tonight, he's not sure he cares. He holds out his mug.
He waits her out as they both drink, and though he thinks the whiskey somewhat ruins the coffee, he can't deny the comforting warmth in his stomach, the way edges of reality soften just enough for him to feel as though he can face it.
"I worked a case once, in the early days. Petty stuff. A woman thought her husband was cheating on her, wanted proof so the divorce would go her way. He was a mage; she was not, as you can imagine, that's complicated in Tevinter. He was exceptionally easy to follow, like he wasn't even trying to cover up his tracks at all.
"Turns out, he wasn't cheating. He had a gambling problem, picked up another job. Didn't want his wife to know. He was embarrassed, not unfaithful. I debated giving her the information at all, thought maybe instead I should just let him know she'd hired me, encourage him to come clean. But he wasn't my client, she was. I was still trying to make a name for myself in Dock Town."
"What did you do?"
Neve picks up the bottle, refills her empty mug. "I told her everything, got paid, went on my way."
Lucanis waits because he knows that's not the end of the story.
"Two days later, their bodies were found in their home by a friend. She'd killed him and then herself. And I've always wondered if I'd approached that job differently if they'd still be alive."
"That wasn't your fault," Lucanis says, and he remembers Davrin's words. "And neither is this."
"I've got a bad feeling about it all, and if I'm honest, I'm afraid of getting it wrong again. Every time we deal directly with Solas, someone dies. Varric, Rook. Just because she's back doesn't mean the danger's passed."
He realizes in this moment that he is left entirely alone, the last one standing on the precipice of wariness. Davrin stands nearest him, but even he has admitted he believes Camina is herself if not entirely so. Neve is not afraid of Camina. No, her concern is, instead, Solas. Everyone in the Lighthouse wants Camina to be Rook so badly, they all overlook the danger. And where does that leave him?
Neve is the detective; she's supposed to have the answers. "Then, I guess you'll have to go see for yourself."
"And what about you?"
He shakes his head. "I can't."
Lucanis stands, desperate for retreat. Once again, he finds himself unmoored, adrift and floundering in the depths of this problem for which there are no easy answers. He's very nearly to the door when Neve speaks again.
"What if she remembers?" A too hopeful question for the friend he knows so well. To grasp at such straws, he knows she's been knocked down far.
He doesn't turn. "I almost hope she doesn't. Not until we can be sure that she's not being controlled."
"I hate this."
He doesn't know what to say to that, what more his quiet, heartbreaking agreement could add.
***
Neve wakes in Davrin's bed. The distance across the courtyard from her door to his hadn't been long enough to convince her it was a bad idea. She'd wanted to blame the decision on the whiskey, but knew damn well that she hadn't had enough to drink to not know exactly what she was doing. She'd asked if she could come inside to talk, half expecting him to call her bluff.
He hadn't.
They had ended up talking. After. And she hadn't intended to spend the night, but they'd fallen asleep in quiet whispers about Minrathous and Ferelden and the guilt of being here instead of somewhere else. Davrin is still deeply asleep, and she knows from experience that she'd have to make a real racket to rouse him. Still, she's quiet and careful as she lifts the arm banded around her middle and retrieves her clothes and her prosthetic, putting herself entirely to rights before checking the courtyard. When she finds it empty of the curious glances and prying eyes of her friends, she makes her way to her office.
Maybe it's a mistake to fall back into old habits, but being with Davrin feels less like a vice and more like a comfort — something they can both lean on for steadiness. Like their time together in Minrathous, maybe it is once again convenience and the desire to forget their situation for a little while bringing them together, but she'll take it. Especially because it works. She feels as though she can finally face Rook today.
She gives it a few hours, has breakfast, and spends time with Bellara in her workshop. Even shares a knowing smile with Davrin as they pass each other in the courtyard. But eventually, she does head into the Lighthouse proper, right to Rook's room. Outside the doors, she can hear laughter — Rook's and Willow's. She knocks lightly before entering.
"I can't believe you yelled at him in front of all those people!" Rook's face is pink with laughter, and the sound is bright and true.
Willow is also shaking with laughter. "I don't even know what came over me. I just saw him, and I was so mad, I just marched right over."
There is something uncomplicated about the two of them together, all their shared history. Neve worries, though, that Will refuses to look too closely, refuses to entertain any theories that are too troubling because of how much she sacrificed to get here. Her time, her work, her marriage, all placed upon the altar of her unrelenting faith in Rook, and if she is not herself, if she is dangerous…what then was it all for? She's not sure her friend could bear even the possibility.
Rook wipes a tear from her eyes. "I wish I could have seen it. I'm sure it was glorious." Her eyes cut to Neve at the door; there's an acknowledgement but not true recognition. And despite the cozy scene, Neve steels herself.
They are standing together at Rook's bookcase, as though she is surveying the space, the decorations, trying to find the familiar in the unfamiliar. Neve wonders what she made of this place, what she thought as she walked the halls that used to be her home. Did she feel anything at all?
Neve didn't trust the Lighthouse when they'd first arrived here, and perhaps, she still doesn't. But it feels less like the distrust of a seedy back alley and instead the sort of wariness that one might reserve for a cat that comes to the back door for scraps. Her feelings are complicated, but she can't imagine looking around this place and feeling nothing at all.
Will touches Rook's shoulder lightly. "I'll check in later."
Rook gives Will a nod and then turns more fully to Neve. "I guess….the chaise is really the only seating I've got in here. Must not have entertained much. Neve, right?"
She nods as she takes a seat with Rook on the green chaise. "You got it."
"I understand we met in Minrathous," Rook says. The words are careful, the uncertainty clear. Neve can't decide if it's genuine or not.
"Yeah. That's where I'm from. I gave you a lead on someone you were looking for."
Give vague details, but not specifics. Keep to the facts only. Emmrich had coached them all on this — well, except Lucanis, who was nowhere to be found.
"I've heard Minrathous is incredible. The floating Archon's palace, all that magic. I've never been," she falters, forcing a smile. "Well, I don't remember ever going anyway."
"I wouldn't recommend a visit right now," Neve says, trying to keep the bitterness out of her tone. If Solas is listening, she doesn't want him to hear it. He's partially to blame for the state of Minrathous after all, and it would only add insult to injury if he knew how much her heart still breaks for her unreal city.
"Why not?"
"Much of it was destroyed in a battle we all fought in."
Rook nods, as though remembering this. "Right. Blight and archdemons?"
Neve nods. "So Rook-"
Rook interjects with a strained smile. "Camina or Cam, please. I…I know you know me as Rook, but it's jarring every time."
Neve feels the slightest bit admonished. She knows better. She should have asked her preference. "I apologize."
She waves the apology off. "Unnecessary. Please, continue."
Neve feels strangely knocked off-center, here in this room with the woman she called friend treating her with all the politeness of a stranger. "You really don't remember any of it?"
Camina at least does her the courtesy of looking sorry. "No."
"What is that like?" Neve asks, the question already out before she can consider the wisdom of it. She understands now why Bellara said she found it so difficult to maintain suspicion or skepticism.
The woman beside her on the chaise seems younger than any Rook she ever knew. Less wary, certainly having seen less of the world and its suffering. She envies it a little bit.
"Like waking up in someone else's life. Even this room…these are my things…some of them anyway. I clearly brought them here from the Necropolis. And it makes sense, much of it. I understand why it's here…I just…" She shakes her head. "I wish I remembered. Something. Anything."
"Perhaps it will come back," Neve replies. She wants to believe it.
Camina's answering smile doesn't reach her eyes. "You sound like Bellara."
Neve manages a laugh. "Her optimism is oddly catching."
Camina nods. "We were friends, right? You and I?"
The question startles Neve. "We were. Why do you ask?"
Camina shakes her head. "I don't know. I can't shake this….uneasiness. Maybe that's the wrong word." Her eyebrows knit together, and she looks away from her. A lie? An obfuscation? Neve isn't sure. "I don't know. Maybe uneasy in the wrong word. More like…I'm worried about disappointing you. Does that make sense?"
Neve swallows her own guilt. Whatever tactic is being taken here, she doesn't like it. "Some things happened during our time here. I blamed you for them, and it was wrong of me."
"Emmrich says that emotions might come back quicker than actual memories. That would explain it."
Neve summons a smile. "Well, there you go."
"Will told me that everyone is a little nervous…that my time in the Fade has had some effect on me we can't see. What do you think?"
It is not the question Neve is expecting; she opts for honesty. "I'm not sure yet."
Camina's smile is gentle, but her words leave Neve feeling cold. "Well, let me know if I pass your test."
***
Though there is nothing to mark the late hour, Lucanis knows it is the middle of whatever passes for night here in the Lighthouse. He is, at least, accustomed to keeping odd hours in this place, but if there are other occupants of the Lighthouse awake at this hour, he has not seen nor heard them. In Villa Dellamorte there are always watchful eyes — servants and guards and Caterina, of course. The middle of the night is when the servants are at their busiest, cleaning the rooms used during the day, doing that invisible work that allows for the pretending that the villa is always pristine.
In his pocket, Caterina's latest note sits heavy with her displeasure and that all too familiar disappointment. She has not recalled him to Treviso, not yet, but he knows his time is limited. Caterina has made that much clear.
The Lighthouse has always been a liminal space. A place of unreality. For so much of his time here, even after Caterina had named him First Talon, that title had felt a world away. It never felt as though it could touch him here, in this place. Caterina's note — to call it a letter would assume it was more than three lines — reminds him that there is no escape from the jaws of destiny. Though why he needs to care about a peace summit between Tevinter and Orlais in Antiva City isn't clear.
And why does he remain here anyway?
For the days when she remained healing and resting, he had avoided that infirmary room. And now, he avoids her entirely. He is completely alone in this, as everyone's hearty skepticism has seemingly vanished. Camina is not the same woman they all knew and loved. But she is close enough for everyone else, apparently. She moves around the Lighthouse and takes meals in the dining room with their friends. For his part, he makes himself scarce. It's not hard. She no longer knows the secrets of this place anyway.
But the Lighthouse is not so vast or endless to avoid her forever, and so when she wanders into the dining room in the middle of the night, he finds himself at the sideboard making coffee, caught like an animal in a trap. He'd been so lost in his own thoughts he hadn't heard her coming, hadn't heard her footfalls. He freezes where he's at, as though not moving might mean he is below notice, but he cannot help but watch her.
She looks as though she's stepped out of one of his many dreams of this place. She's wearing the same tunic and pants she always favored here. He wishes he did not remember the exact texture of the fabric beneath his hands. He hates that he watches her every movement, looking for something wrong or off —some sign or clue that she isn't herself. Something so he can prove to his aching heart that she is not right here.
Rook, his demon calls, an unmistakable yearning in his voice.
He sees the moment she notices him, the way she schools her expression, the clear regret at having opened the door. He thinks he would have turned around and simply left, but she doesn't. She approaches slowly, pausing with the dining table still between them.
It takes all of his energy to turn away from her, to finish pouring the hot water over his coffee. "I'm leaving in just a moment," he murmurs.
"You don't have to go," she replies, but he can feel the forced lightness in her words. She doesn't want to be around him, that much is clear. And it hurts.
Rook. Wants us. To stay, Spite says, words soft. Less insisting and more pleading.
"It's fine." He finishes his coffee, too quickly, picking up his mug and hurrying to the pantry, debating all the way if he should just leave the building altogether.
"I'm sorry."
The words are like a hook beneath his skin, and he is stuck, unable to move further away. He glances back, looking at the spot she has not moved from. Looking at her feels like drowning, like opening his mouth in hopes of receiving a lungful of air only to feel water rushing in, filling his aching lungs. It is a dangerous indulgence. Just days ago he had sat at her bedside and recommitted her to memory, convinced that he would never allow time or distance to dull the reality of her again, and now he finds he cannot escape any of it. When he finally manages to meet her gaze, he finds trepidation instead of recognition — there is no air here.
Her hands grip the chair in front of her as though she needs strength for this conversation. "I'm sorry that I'm not her. That I don't remember…that…I don't know. I'm just….I'm sorry."
He stares at her, rooted to the spot. She both is and isn't her. The sound of her voice, the curve of her neck, the way that the first thing she'd do in this situation is apologize to him. That is his Camina down to all her disparate parts. It is everything else that is wrong. The situation, the way he cannot trust that it is only her behind those amethyst eyes.
"I don't….I don't want your apology. This…" It isn't her fault. He blames Solas. He blames himself. He should have been better; he should have stopped her, protected her. He should have never extracted that promise from her lips. Perhaps they should have allowed the Veil to come down — at least he would have still had her.
"I've been thinking…Emmrich says that if the memories are there…they might come back…with the right trigger, you know? We were…um….Will told me that we were…um…well. So maybe if we spent some time together? Talking?"
Talk! To Rook! Spite insists, appearing at her side, looking at her with all the devotion of a penitent.
There's an earnestness to the question, and no part of him wants to deny her. Here she is, dangling out hope to him, and he cannot take it. "I don't think that's a good idea."
He sees her disappointment in him, in this. "I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you."
"No, you can't." The words leave his mouth clipped and angry. Meaningless platitudes are all she has for him now?
She stares at him. "I didn't ask for this, you know. I want my memories back, too. I want to remember what happened to me so that everyone can stop looking at me like I'm a stranger. Like I'm dangerous. You seem to be the person best poised to help me figure this out, but you're avoiding me."
"Do you even know what you're asking? Who you are asking?" It is a fight to keep his voice even, to not let his own tumultuous emotions override all sense.
"No, and that's the Maker-taken problem, isn't it? I don't fucking know you, any of you. Even Will has become this person I barely recognize. I got dumped unceremoniously back into a life I'm not even sure is mine, and I'm just…trying to make sense of it all. Do you have any idea what that feels like?"
He knows exactly what it feels like, but she doesn't know that. She doesn't know the first thing about him. She doesn't know about Spite or the Ossuary. The woman standing before him has never traversed the contours of his mind, has not seen his deepest and darkest fears and still wanted him. She is not the hero from his memories of her — the woman who opens doors. No, this is not the woman he loves. And perhaps, she never will be. There is no air in this room.
"I can't do this."
And he walks out the door, leaving her alone in the dining hall.
