Fic: The Lily and the Raven [Complete! 3/3 | 8.5k words total | Rated T | Bellara, Rook/Lucanis, Spite]
Title: The Lily and the Raven (Complete - 3/3)
Fandom: Dragon Age: The Veilguard
Characters/Pairings: Bellara, Rook/Lucanis, Spite
Rating: T
Summary:
Bellara, Rook, and Lucanis get a request from Strife to venture into Arlathan Forest to rescue a team of Veil Jumpers who’ve vanished under mysterious circumstances. The mission begins like any other: an enemy, a puzzle, a rescue. But if there’s one thing Bellara’s learned in her writing, it’s that happy endings must be earned.
Scratch it out. Begin again.
Read on AO3
Many, many thanks to @loquaciousquark for the speedy beta and cheerleading on this one!
Chapter One: An Enemy
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Chapter Two: A Puzzle
—
Chapter Three: A Rescue
—
The mission begins like any other: an enemy, a puzzle, a rescue.
“Spite,” Bellara says, and Rook turns, clearly baffled at the intensity of her tone. “We were right. I remember everything from the last loop.”
Spite takes over Lucanis’s body and voice with a casual alacrity that makes Bellara’s stomach flip. How long has he been able to do that so effortlessly? “Good,” he says, and turns to Rook. “Listen.”
She does, and presumably Lucanis does too, because when the glow in his eyes fades he just looks at Rook and grabs her hand, squeezing it. Bellara stares at the artifact on her forearm, watching it turn and tick away. “So,” she says, “we kill the Venatori. Save the Veil Jumpers. Break the artifact. Go home heroes.”
“What could go wrong?” Rook quips, which is a little too on-the-nose for anyone to laugh.
It’s a little too easy to find the Veil Jumpers; they’re chatting loudly, excited about the spatial bubble in which they find themselves, speculating as to its cause, and Bellara understands their delight: the limited space means they have a relatively quick search ahead of them to find the offending artifact and break it. Like a treasure hunt with a little explosion at the end of it. They just hadn’t reckoned on Venatori being trapped in the bubble with them.
“Marie?” Rook calls, and one of the women in the group spins, fumbling a little awkwardly with the sword at her belt without quite managing to draw it.
“Maker’s breath,” Marie says, staring at her. “Zinnia. It’s been—”
“A couple years,” Rook says. “My first days with the Veil Jumpers, right? Yeah.”
Oh, Bellara thinks, and then, Ohoho!, because Marie is chewing on her lower lip and Rook is trying very hard not to look over at Lucanis. Maybe Lily eventually has a mysterious figure from her past come back to sow discord with her Raven?
“Um. We have some weird news,” Bellara says. “You may want to sit down for this. Or… or not. We don’t have a lot of time. Well. I guess we actually do have a lot of time, depending on how you look at it.”
The explanation should be a disaster, a mess of who knows what and why and how. But they’re a bunch of Veil Jumpers, and learning they’ve died several times in a time loop to enemies they haven’t yet met is pretty typical of a day’s work. In the end they only exchange uncomfortable looks and nods and ask what they need to do to help.
“Stay alive,” Rook says, which is a pretty good line Bellara files away for future use. “If you get hit, stay down until the coast is clear. Play dead if you have to. And if the rest of us die, somebody use Bellara’s artifact to turn back the clock. Spite should remember what happened; he seems unaffected.”
Bellara quickly walks them through the artifact’s operation, then has to backtrack and let Lucanis explain who and what Spite is, because the Veil Jumpers are not letting that one go. That explanation does spark some notable discomfort; even professional risk-takers have their limits. But they get another set of nods, determined faces all around, and Bellara feels a little surge of pride. The Veil Jumpers are such a strange concept, when you take a step back and really think about it, but there’s something so wildly optimistic about an organization built around taking leaps into the unknown and trusting you’ll land well on the other side of it. She meets Rook’s eyes, sees something similar shining there, and smiles.
And then a flaming bolt strikes Marie a glancing blow to the side; she gasps, stumbling. Rook spins, barking an order, and the other Veil Jumpers drag Marie down with them to the grass.
“Didn’t hear them coming,” Lucanis snarls, and smoothly draws his rapier in time to deflect the sickles that clash down at his head. “Spite’s tired.”
They’re all tired. Bellara aches with the knowledge of what’s happened to them all at this point, and that’s mostly coming from second-hand knowledge, from the toll her body almost remembers. She can’t imagine what it’s been like for Spite to see this, to experience this, again and again.
But she can’t just sit and think about how weird the situation is, can she? She feels the ripple of blood magic like oil on water, catching the light all wrong, and fires a blind arrow in that direction. She hears it make contact, and then she whips around to catch the wrist of the swordsman before he can swing down at her. She sends lightning through his veins. He lashes out at the pain, quick and vicious and wildly inaccurate.
The flat of his blade smacks into her arm, mostly by accident; she hears a crack, and for a confused second she thinks he’s broken her arm. Surely he hasn’t hit her that hard.
The artifact’s delicate mechanism, designed as it was to be broken, shatters on contact.
The world tilts and warps; they all stagger, and then there’s the satisfying pop of the bubble, the resumption of normalcy all around as this patch of forest slips seamlessly back into the rest. The rings of the artifact fall from her arm, useless chunks of metal once more.
Rook and Lucanis are circling the man with the sickles, weakening him with the same shallow slashes he favors. Bellara finishes off the swordsman with another quick jolt of lightning, dodges fire to send another arrow back through the mage behind her, then glances over to check on Marie; she gets a shaky smile from the woman, still huddled with her team on the ground. Good. Good, because there are no more do-overs, not with the artifact shattered. One last chance at a happy ending.
In that moment, Spite screams, “NO,” and there’s the weight of knowledge, of remembering, in his voice.
Lucanis slams into Rook, trying to drag her out of the path of the little oily bolts of fire that shoot from the forest. The second mage, the one who’s snuck around behind Rook for a fatal strike. Bellara fires without hesitation, takes the mage in the forehead, and is running before she hits the ground. Something beyond time, beyond memory curls tendrils of dread around her heart.
The bolts of flame have passed through Lucanis’s back and out through his chest like he wasn’t even there, through the other side into Rook. Rook, who’s gutshot and gripping at his slumping form in horror, trying to hold him upright even as her own knees buckle. Bellara grabs at Lucanis’s limp form, driving healing magic into him, feeling the unfathomably deep well of his wounds, the panicked thrumming of his heart. It’s familiar, sickeningly, in the same way that her body is tired beyond the mere hour or two of walking she can consciously recall. “Hold on,” Rook says, trying to cup his cheek in her shaking hand. But there’s blood running down her chin, too, and a creeping dullness in her gaze, and oh gods, Bel knows that look, and they can’t both—“Bel, please. Please.”
“I’m trying,” Bellara whispers.
Rook fumbles at Bellara’s bare forearm, staring in confusion. “Go back,” she says, but her voice is wavering. For a moment, she looks down at her bloodied midsection as though only just realizing how serious her own injury is. She’s shaking, breathing fast. “Bel?”
Bellara just shakes her head, concentrating on Lucanis. If she can find the last source of the bleeding, he might be able to keep breathing long enough for her to try to heal Rook. But at some point, she’s going to have to let him go if Rook is going to have any chance at all. She’s going to have to—
“Bellara,” says Marie, crouched next to her, and Bellara shakes her head. She can’t heal anyone else. She can’t get pulled away. She’s going to try. She’s going to do what she can, even though she feels the wavering that means she’s digging too deep. Even though the magic is burning through her, leaving nothing behind. Even though Lucanis’s heart is slowing, even though Rook is panting now with pain.
“Bellara,” Marie says, more insistently, and pushes something cold and metallic into her hand.
Instinctively, exhaustedly, Bellara draws from it.
A well of power, deep and full to the brim. Ancient, unknowable. Etched with runes that itch and burn like lyrium. In the palm of her hand.
She glances over sharply to Marie, who smiles. “You don’t think we only found the one mysterious artifact today?”
Bellara turns back to Lucanis, exhales, and the trick now is not to burn them both alive with the power she’s tapping, the trick is to draw from it just so, to release it in a trickle, not a flood. The Fade likes things just so. Likes patterns, likes puzzle pieces falling into place. Likes the delicate repairs she makes to his lungs, to the shredded tissue around his heart. Likes the way his chest rises and falls in a heavy gasp.
She reaches for Rook, grabs her trembling hand, and feels the strength return to that grasp as the power starts to flow again. Hears her own heartbeat, feels it in her temples, in her fingertips, in her lips and her cheeks. In her eyelids, when she finally closes them.
It hurts, in the end. She tastes blood, hears voices raised in alarm, feels a hand trying to prise the artifact out from between her fingers. But she’s smiling when she sinks down to rest her head on the grass, when she finally turns to face the darkness and let it swallow her.
Cyrian, she thinks, before it all goes away, and thinking the name outright feels good, feels right. Feels like she’s stopped running away from him. I will burn, but I will bring you home.
—
Bellara stares at the blank page. Her ultimate nemesis. She sighs, lets a few drops of ink spatter onto it, and resigns herself to drawing constellations between them. This one’s a strange-looking little frog, kind of, with a boxy head. The Boxy-Headed Frog of Courage, fabled to lead his people to prosperity. Witness his scepter of office.
“You’re looking glum,” Rook says, and Bellara jumps guiltily to her feet. Rook has a disconcerting habit of lurking in doorways; she’s pretty sure it’s only gotten worse since she and Lucanis have been together. Brooding and all. “Everything all right?”
“Oh,” Bellara says, “I’m fine. Just struggling with this story.”
Rook smiles crookedly. She’s still moving a little stiffly, even days later, and her midsection has the overstuffed look of too many bandages, but she’s alive. “Lucanis says to tell you the Raven should quit and open a bakery.”
Bellara laughs, rubbing at the fresh burn scars on her palm. The healing artifact had scalded through layers of skin before Marie had managed to drag it loose, and then the Veil Jumpers had taken it away to study. Bellara isn’t sure how she knows it won’t work anymore, but sometimes at night she still dreams about that well of power. She wakes from those dreams with a queasy sense of yearning. “How’s he doing?”
Rook’s face shutters a little; she pulls in a deep breath, then winces, one hand darting toward her belly. “He’s breathing better. Still sleeping most of the day. I told him he’s going to lose his reputation as our resident insomniac at this rate. Neve will be so pleased to take the new title.”
Bellara hears the snag of dread in her voice. “Rook,” she says, “he’s going to be all right.”
“I know.” She shakes her head, the way she always does when she’s trying to recenter herself, to be Rook the Leader instead of Rook the Actual Human Being. She’s not very good at it, Bellara thinks fondly. “All of that was… I think Spite was pretty affected, although he says the other memories are like dreams now, fading faster.”
“That’s good,” Bellara says softly. “I don’t think anyone should remember that.” But it won’t fade entirely, and they both know it. She wonders, suddenly, how often Rook dreams of Varric. Losing a mentor has to be rough, and it wasn’t that long ago. Only months. Harding’s told enough stories about the man; he seems like a hard person to forget.
Rook exhales slowly, glancing down at the scribbles on the page. “But we were talking about you, Bel. How are you doing? How go the adventures of Lily and her Raven?”
Bellara shakes her head. “I don’t know. I feel like it’s not coming together the way I’d like. Maybe I’ll try something new.”
Rook darts up on her tiptoes for a moment to tuck a few strands of hair behind Bellara’s ear, smiling. “Whatever you make will be a delight, Bel. I’m here to read it when you’re ready.”
Bellara can’t help but smile back. “Thanks, Rook. Go get some rest.”
Rook does, and Bellara settles back in her chair, thinking about love and loss and the memory of the chasm yawning inside her, once full to the brim. The memory of Cyrian’s glowing eyes behind his mask.
The Hummingbird, she writes, and the Lost One.
She stares at the words on the page, then curls up in her chair and starts writing, beginning the slow, laborious, painful journey toward a happy ending.
BROOO, I rarely go out on an adventure without Lucanis but Im glad I did this time. I brought out Neve and Bellara to do the last companion quest of Neve and suddenly, Bellara was thanking Neve on what she did back in Arlathan.
Hear me out, I don't judge ships and support the ships, I am open-minded but when Bellara said "I never had a sister... But you are one to me"
I IMMEDIATELY HIT PAUSE BC WTF??? THAT IS SO TOUCHING AND SO GUT-WRENCHING AND SO
Sisterhood, womanhood, girlhood, you name it. This is one of the best things I can ask for in a game 🥹🫶🏾
Willow and Emmrich had tactfully pretended not to notice when Bellara and Ivy had crept back into camp together, nor when they both slipped into Ivy's tent rather than each returning to their own. Instead, they had simply shared a knowing smile between themselves, lacing their fingers together as they sat there beneath the distant glitter of starlight and the homely crackling of the campfire. They knew, perhaps better than most, how incalculably precious those moments could be; how much strength and resilience could be drawn from a bond forged in the twin fires of love and long history.
The stars continued their preordained path through the night sky, dancing the familiar steps and drawing them ever closer to the dawn. Despite the horrors they had witnessed in the temple, and despite the daunting task that yet lay before them, Willow felt a degree of relative peace that had not been present since they left Gwaren. And when Davrin relieved them for his watch shift, sleep claimed her nearly as soon as her head hit the pillow. It ought to have been a good, uninterrupted span of slumber.
And it may well have been, save for the sudden commotion of approaching footsteps and the alarming ring of metal on metal that indicated the approach of an armed force.
Willow scrambled out of the bedroll she shared with Emmrich, cursing quietly to herself as she tripped over her own boots where she'd left them tossed haphazardly aside in her exhaustion the night before. Her husband was absent, but that wasn't exactly a cause for concern: he nearly always woke well before her and did his exercises and supervised Manfred in the preparation of their morning tea back home. Pulling on her clothes as quickly as she could manage, she pushed aside the canvas of their tent and stumbled outside. The sun was rising and had barely peeked over the stubborn shadows of the treeline, but even still it took Willow a moment to realize what exactly she was looking at.
"Apologies for the early morning wake-up call, Willow, but a little bird mentioned you might need some assistance."
Standing there beside Emmrich, Ivy, and Bellara was Theadosia Mac Tir, her standard half smile tilting at her lips and a score of soldiers at her back. Loghain was sitting beside the campfire with Sage, watching patiently as the boy demonstrated a series of swoops and squawks that were meant to imitate Assan. Standing beside Thea were Cataline and Nathaniel, the familiar griffon motif etched into the well-worn leather of their armor. It almost made Willow a bit melancholy: had they hoped they would never have to don that armor again? Had they dreamt of a life beyond the constant struggle of the blight only to be drawn back into a fight that was not their own?
Cat seemed to guess her thoughts, offering her a quiet smile. "We were still in the neighborhood," she said with an offhanded shrug. "And not to brag overly much, but no one else here knows these ruins quite like I do. We thought we might be able to assist in a more… direct… way, given what Keeper Lanaya sent in her missive. Not that we had any doubt in your ability to handle things, of course! But this place…" Her violet eyes scanned the borders of the woods, and Willow recognized far too easily the uncertainty and discomfort there.
She managed a small laugh as she accepted the hand Cat extended towards her. "Please, no offense taken. Truth be told, we are grateful for any assistance you can provide. We have had a few lucky breaks, but I am keenly aware that these ruins are… complicated."
As succinctly as she was able, she filled their allies in on the events of their time in the ruins, though even as the narrative poured out of her, she was struck by just how surreal it all felt. Time had seemed to warp and bend around them in this place, and what had felt like days had been hours, with only the movement of the sun and stars marking the true passage of time. It seemed almost inconceivable that they had all been safe within the confines of Gwaren teyrnir barely a week past.
"You all must have moved incredibly quickly to reach us," Willow noted, confusion knitting at her brow. Even given the stops their party had made along the way, the delegation from Gwaren must have left within days of their own departure.
Cat raised an eyebrow in Thea's direction, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Cousin dear, would you like to field that one?"
Thea rolled her eyes, tossing her auburn braid over her shoulder with a flounce. "Alright, fine. Yes. Perhaps I have had more trouble letting this particular puzzle go than I ought to admit." She turned a slightly guilty gaze towards Willow. "It truly isn't a commentary on your skills, for what my word is worth. But this place…" she shook her head slowly. "I respect it. I even admire it, in a way. But I also have a healthy fear of it. I wanted to make sure those of you I sent into the Breceilian made it out, hopefully relatively unscathed."
That last bit was said with just a hint of wry deadpan as Ivy and Bellara emerged from the tent they had shared, Ivy's arm still bandaged where Cormac had slashed at her. They both looked incredibly well-rested, albeit perplexed and perhaps a bit alarmed at their sudden guests. "Uh, hi?" Ivy gave an uncertain wave. "Is there some fresh new horror you've come to warn us about?"
"No, just your ordinary run of the mill horror," Thea replied with a nonchalant shrug. "Forest spirts, mad cultists, blood magic. It's all in the handbills they print for the Brecilian's tourism guild."
Willow did laugh then, albeit briefly. "As I said, we're grateful for the help. Speaking of," she glanced over at Sage where he was now regaling Loghain with a babbling commentary of his time in the ruins. "I don't suppose we could trouble you for an escort to get Sage back to his family in Copse Hollow? Emmrich has examined his mind and found nothing to indicate possession or other magical coercion, so we believe it would be safest, and best, for him to be returned home."
"I will take him," Loghain spoke up, standing and brushing the bark and needles from his clothes. "It is not a long journey, even at a leisurely pace, and I should be back before nightfall. Besides, there's an old war wound that's been acting up that limits my effectiveness in a direct fight. Might as well be useful in this way, at least."
Despite the veneer of sarcasm, Willow knew perfectly well Loghain was lying. He could probably still hold his own in combat just fine, but he also seemed rather protective of the boy. Perhaps he reminded him of someone he'd once known, or perhaps even of his own daughter at that age, but either way, she knew there was no one better to send on this particular errand. She was about to agree when Bellara suddenly darted forward, fumbling in her bag before producing a small, and clearly well-loved, stuffed halla toy.
"Oh, um, Sage? Is this maybe yours?" She asked, offering him the halla. "I didn't know if maybe there were other kids here, or…" Bellara let the thought trail off unfinished, the weight of her words dragging away her usual enthusiasm.
Sage reached out and snatched the toy from her hand, clutching it tight to his chest. "Sir Whiteshanks! You found him!" He looked up at her, grey eyes wide and a crooked grin lighting up his face. "Thanks miss. I was 'fraid I'd lost him when Somniari took me away from the others. Or Cormac, I guess. Why'd he pick a stupid name like Somniari when he already had a perfectly good one?"
Loghain chuckled, scooping Sage up onto his horse's saddle. "A good question, young man," he said with a serious nod before he turned to his wife, lowering his voice and placing an arm around her waist as he leaned forward. "You will be careful, yes? I will be back as swiftly as I am able."
"Of course," Thea promised, arching up onto her toes to brush a kiss to his lips. "You just worry about getting the boy back to Copse Hollow safely. We will manage things here."
He gave a final nod to the rest of them, then mounted up behind Sage and nudged his horse back towards the forest path that would eventually lead to the human settlement. Thea turned back to Willow, her expression thoughtful. "Was he the only survivor?" She asked.
"That we know of thus far," Willow replied carefully. "As you rightly surmised, these ruins have been challenging to navigate. We did not even see that many cultists, so either Cormac has not been as successful at bringing people over to his cause as he'd hoped, or they are out in the field attempting to bring in more victims or recruits, or they are scurrying about somewhere else in the ruins that we have not yet been able to locate."
Thea nodded slowly, but her brow was furrowed and there were clearly several different tracks of thought twining through her head. "Alright, so we know Cormac is attempting to attain divinity, or power that comes near enough as to be indistinguishable from it, like the old gods. He seems to hold no particular allegiance to Elgar'nan or Ghilan'nain, so that is something at least, but he is clearly rather enamored with Dirthamen and Falon'Din. There is the possibility this is a direct consequence of his obsession with Bellara, but it may be entirely a matter of convenience. We know he has access to some sort of ritual involving blood magic because, of course, he does. But that now raises the question: why has he not completed it? Is he still hoping to recruit Bellara willingly?"
"No," Bellara spoke up, "I don't think that's it. Even when we were kids, he always had an attitude of entitlement which meant he was confident he'd get what he wanted one way or another. If I won't sign on of my own volition, he'll just try and capture me again and hold me until he can use other methods to 'persuade' me, I guess. Probably not as nicely as he did the first time, either. I don't think that he's holding back by choice, but I don't know what's stopping him, either. He's already murdered so many people just to get to this point, but the amount of blood he'd need for a ritual of this scale is kind of mind boggling, if you really think about it? We're talking like… entire cities that would need to be sacrificed and bled dry. Maybe he's just starting small, as kind of a test run? If he can figure out how to make it work on a small scale, start building up power that way, maybe he could, oh, but what about the return inversions, that could set the whole thing off if-"
"So, it's a good thing he hasn't been able to unlock that kind of power," Ivy interrupted gently, lacing her fingers with Bellara's. "But that does kinda raise the question of why he isn't already stronger than he is? Sure, he may not be god tier yet, but based on the amount of blood we saw in there…"
Where did it go?
That was the puzzle, wasn't it? Where had all that power gone, if not straight to Cormac? Willow stared blankly into the distance, silently entreating the forest to give her something, anything, to make this mess make sense. The sun had crested the treeline now, and the first promises of a warm day crept over her skin as the breeze off the lake whispered incomprehensible truths that sped past her even as she stood in frustrated stillness.
Damn it… Where did it go?
"The forest," she murmured, comprehension dawning on her with the rays of light piercing through the branches. "This entire time, it has felt as though there were two entities present here: one that seemed indifferent, perhaps even helpful at times, and one that felt distinctly malicious. I think Cormac has been expending a great deal of the energy he has siphoned from the life force of his victims just to keep the forest's magic under control, or at least at bay. He hasn't completed the ritual, or even gotten past the testing phase, because the Brecilian is pushing back at every turn."
"So, that wisp we were following in the ruins?" Ivy asked, "That was the forest trying to, what, throw us a bone?"
"Not everything that exists within these borders is antagonistic towards mortals," Cataline interjected. "The Lady of the Forest was a relatively benign spirit who only attacked those who threatened the creatures under her protection. It is possible some remnant of her remains, or it could be another entity attempting to aid you."
"Or it could just be the forest sees us as the best bet for removing Cormac, who I have to imagine is a far greater irritant. I hesitate to give him so much credit as to call him a 'threat' to the forest itself, but I can't imagine the Brecilian's spirit enjoys being restrained," Willow continued, the pieces clicking into place. "Perhaps if he had simply gone about his business without attempting control, it would be a different story. Difficult to say, especially given that everything we once thought we know about spirits has largely gone out the window."
Either way, this had to end today. Now that Cormac's machinations had been revealed, Willow very much doubted he was going to stay his hand any longer, regardless of his failure to capture Bellara. Even if they assumed he would not succeed in the ritual he had planned, he was still incredibly dangerous. "Alright, well, now that we are all up to speed," she said, "Let's decide how we want to approach this. In truth, it is not all that different from many of the missions I ran as a Guardian, but we also are working with more unknowns than I am comfortable with. Cat, do you have any idea where Cormac would go to try and complete the ritual?"
The warden-commander thought for a moment, then nodded. "I think so," she said. "The power in this place was mostly concentrated in the lower ruins, and more specifically in the chamber where the Lady of the Forest held court. Even after she departed, the residual power there was… staggering. If I were a mad mage bent on domination and destruction, that place would be ideal. Well, for him. Not so much for us. There are two main paths of approach we could take: one that winds through a larger section of the ruins and will put us in front of the door to the chamber. The other is much shorter by a wide margin; a service passage that runs from the main entry hall all the way down to a side chamber attached to the ritual site."
"I don't suppose that passage was the western doorway, was it?" Willow asked, "Because that passage is well and truly blocked with rubble. We could possibly blast it with magic, but I am not sure how much more of a mess, not to mention noise, that would create. He already knows we are coming, but I would like to maintain at least some veneer of an element of surprise."
Cat tilted her head. "Blocked? How far back?"
"We don't know," Willow admitted. "We can try and clear it manually, but I have no idea how long-"
She stopped when one of the Fereldan soldiers made a small, polite cough. When Willow caught his eye, he offered a grin. "With all due respect my lady, that pile of rubble has never faced down a score of Gwaren's finest." He hoisted his pack up onto his shoulders and gestured to his fellows.
"We'll have you in there before lunch."
----------------------------------------------
The soldiers were better than their word. Moving with almost brutal efficiency, they cleared the western passage in just over an hour, freeing up the shortcut that would take the rest of them deeper into the yawning dark of the temple ruins. The paths were too narrow for a large group to pass easily through them, and it was decided that Thea and a third of the forces from Gwaren would remain outside, watching for any stragglers that may try to scuttle out and escape, while another third would begin sweeping the halls for the remaining cultists.
No one admitted they would also be searching for the bodies of the remaining victims.
Cat, Nathaniel, and the remaining soldiers fell into line behind Willow and her friends. No one spoke much as they descended deeper into the temple, save for an occasional muttered swear prompted by an inconveniently placed spiderweb or a stray hunk of ankle-wrenching rubble. She could not quite explain it, but the air felt heavier down here; almost as if it breathing. Like the temple itself was coming alive as they wound their way through its marble entrails.
Soon the shuffling sounds of their footsteps faded, muted by a carpet of moss and leaves and a blanket of decay that swallowed up what limited amount of noise had survived the dim march to the ritual chamber. At last, they reached an elegantly carved door set into the stone, its reliefs depicting ancient elves in their quest for Uthenera brought into even sharper relief by the dirt and grime that had settled into every curve and divot of the design. Willow glanced back towards Cat, who gave a single sharp nod of her head.
This is it. This is the place.
Taking one finale deep inhale and reaching blindly for her husband's hand, Willow reached with the other for the handle, the cold kiss of the marble barely registering on her skin numbed by anticipation and adrenaline. She pressed forward, heart drumming fiercely against her chest.
And the door stuck.
"Shit," she muttered, pulling harder on the handle and making little progress. "You don't think he managed to lock this one from the other side?"
"Unlikely," Cat whispered, joining her at the door and adding her strength to the effort. "Most people would be hard pressed to even know this side passage is here. The only reason we found it twenty years ago was because the Lady of the Forest opened it for us."
"Oh!" Bellara spoke up from further back, pushing her way past the soldiers and Nathaniel and Emmrich to join them. "If it's meant to be hidden, or at least discrete, then I'll bet… hold on a sec…" she stared at the wall and door in front of them, brow furrowed in concentration, before her face suddenly lit up. "Ah ha! There it is!"
She pressed a small, unobtrusive oval of stone that Willow likely would not have spotted in a hundred years, and there was a faint click muffled by the inner mechanisms of the door. Cat and Willow exchanged a glance, then carefully tried the door again. This time, it opened willingly at their request, the stone giving only muffled groans of protest as it scraped over the moss and leaves blanketing the floor. But aside from that…
Silence. Complete and utter silence.
Willow did not need to say a word to confirm her companions were equally unnerved by the sudden absence of sound. The sudden tightness in the set of their mouths and the faint gleam of alarm in their eyes spoke volumes. She lead the way into the newly opened space, followed closely by Cataline and Bellara, the former placing a comforting hand on Willow's shoulder as they pressed on.
If she had to guess, and assuming they all survived whatever was about to unfold she was absolutely going to be consulting with Ivy after this to get her thoughts, this was a sort of secondary tomb. Perhaps for beloved family or companions of whoever had commissioned the behemoth temple complex, or maybe just high ranking elves, but the elegant granite sarcophagi were too fine for anyone of less import. The builders had gone so far as to use the harder, less forgiving stone rather than limestone that invited carvings and flourishes far more easily. It was too dark to fully unravel the narrative of the carvings, and Willow could not help but wonder if there were even remains left in them, or if they stood as mute monuments to remains long since burned away to ash and cinder and bone dust.
Yes… yes, she would very much like to come back and study this place someday. To ask her questions of what remains might still linger in this forgotten and forsaken place. For now, however, she was drawn to the other side of the small room, to the deceptively welcoming glow of light and the creeping fear of what she might find should she accept that invitation. The only small, bitter comfort she had was the knowledge that it would be bad. Likely horrifying.
And yet there was a familiarity to it all that was… comforting? She was a Guardian of the Tomb: a defender of the living from the dead, and vice versa. The presence of the sarcophagi, the rote imagery of death and a fanciful afterlife, they were not all that thematically different from those in Nevarra, albeit stylistically distinct. She had led dozens of missions, possibly hundreds, into crypts and tombs like this, often shepherding younger mortalitasi and acting as a silent assessor of their preparedness for their roles in Nevarran society. She had faced spirits of every variety currently known to scholarship (or at least, that had been known before the war of the evanuris), and whatever Cormac thought he was, or that he believed he was about to become, he had not counted on her and her companions, nor their strength or resolve.
Then again, she had not exactly counted on his resolve either.
It was always the smell that was the worst. Even as a student, Willow's least favorite part of her anatomy classes had been the often deeply unpleasant odors associated with the recently deceased. There was a sickening sweetness to it at times; a cloying scent that clung to her nostrils for hours after a completed dissection or autopsy. Other times, it stank of rot and decay, odoriferous testament to vices or desperate choices made by the deceased. And sometimes… sometimes there was simply the smell of death. Words could not fully capture it, and description proved elusive. One simply had to know it for what it was.
And Maker help her, but it was heavy in the air as they crossed the threshold from the side room into the main chamber. The space must have been beautiful, once: vaulted ceilings that arched so high natural sunlight was able to pierce through the failing stone to illuminate the verdant glow of moss and marble. There was no reflecting pool here, which surprised her slightly until she realized why: there was a great, twisting tree in where an altar would have resided, or perhaps had at one point in time. Somehow, against all odds, it had flourished in this subterranean vault, grasping what nourishment it could from the soil and the anemic sunlight filtering in from above. It was beautiful, and humbling, and regrettably rendered irrelevant by the abattoir at its roots.
Bodies. Dozens of them. Willow was not terribly surprised to find none of the villagers of Copse Hollow amongst them. No: the shemlen would have been culled first, considered an acceptable loss in Cormac's quest to become Somniari. The Dreamer, in ancient elven, according to Ivy. A faint, detached thought from deep in her mind questioned when he had realized the blood he had stolen would not be enough; would not come anywhere close to sating the thirst of his ambitious dreams.
Instead, every lifeless figure strewn across the floor and cradled in the roots of the great tree bore the distinct pointed ears of the elves. Most of them were even still in the robes that marked them as members of his cult. If she had to guess, she would say those that did not were likely the poor villagers stolen from Shiral'din, though some small part of her was relieved to not find the youngest abductee amongst them. There was still a chance they had been spared, as Sage had been.
Cormac had sacrificed his own devoted followers, the elves who had actually followed him of their own accord. Even now, above the cloying aroma of death that seeped from his previous human victims where they lay discarded in hasty charnel piles, the metallic scent of freshly spilled blood assaulted her nose. The murdered elves stared back at her, lifeless eyes locked in a final plea of horror and disbelief. Willow knew they had not gone to their deaths willingly. Not one of them had been prepared to lay down their own life for their precious Somniari. All she could do now was hope that, in their final moments, perhaps their own primal fear granted them some moment of remorse for those they had subjected to that same terror.
Willow wondered if some part of Cormac had always known the truth. That it would eventually, inevitably, come to this.
She could have told him. She could have warned him that it always, always came to this when a desire for power overrode ones conscience; their soul. There was an ending to this story, and it was one she knew had been written the moment Cormac set foot down this path. The moment he had decided there was no price too high to pay for what he wanted; what he believed he deserved.
Now, all that was left to do was to wait and see how long it took before he himself was overtaken.
There he sat, crumpled and silent on his knees before the great tree of the forest, his vacant eyes staring at hands slick and stained with the ochre of his people. Without thinking, Willow reached out and grabbed Bellara's free hand, and was relieved to see that Ivy had already taken the other. She knew where her mind would have gone in her friend's position; what dark imaginings might ooze into her thoughts as she wondered if her own brother had ever gone this far. If he'd ever stared at the blood on his own hands.
Bellara gave Willow's own hand a squeeze, then took a step forward, away from the soldiers and her friends. Willow moved to follow, then stopped. Somehow… somehow her instincts told her this had to be Bellara's choice. If there was any way to resolve this without further bloodshed, to see that Cormac faced true justice rather than a swift death he did not deserve, it would be Bellara that would find it. And if he so much as wiggled a finger in a way Ivy or Willow did not like, they would be there to back her up. But she was strong, and smart, and they had been trying to protect her for far too long. She trusted her friend; trusted her abilities and her cleverness.
"Cormac."
He looked up as Bellara gently spoke his name, his head tilting slowly up through a fog of confusion. "Bellara. You came back. I knew you would come back."
The words were clipped and mechanical, his gaze unfocused even while they stared in Bellara's direction, and Willow recognized the signs. She had seen them far too often in the deep crypts; those places few save the most senior mortalitasi and their sole Guardian dared to tread. Whatever they may have hoped for here, whatever chance there was of Cormac leaving these ruins alive… they vanished. He was already too far gone. All she could do now was pray he did not take any of them with him, or that the thin sliver of hope Bellara was offering him would be enough to pull him back from the abyss.
"We had such dreams, Cyrian and I," Cormac spoke again, none of the earlier conviction or fervor in his words. "When I chose the name Somniari, I thought of him. We wanted to elevate our people; show the shemlen they would never again own us. When the other clan found me, they showed me the way. They believed in my dreams. They said they could give me what I needed. And in a way, they did: their blood fueled the first ritual I required to break through the forest's natural protections. They died willingly, joyously, knowing their sacrifice would mean a future for their children, their grandchildren, and far beyond what any of us could hold account for."
"This wasn't Cyrian's dream, Cormac," Bellara replied, keeping her voice even and kind, though Willow was close enough to see the flash of pain that darted across her friend's eyes. "He made mistakes, too. Some of our people, they… they became…" She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath before continuing. "He became a monster. But he also came back to me in the end. He did the right thing, and saved us. If he hadn't, the evanuris would have won. Cyrian was a hero, and I know he wouldn't want this for you anymore than I do." She took another step, kneeling down next to him. Too close, Willow thought, hands already flexing around the hilts of her daggers. Too close.
Cormac stared at Bellara, a conflicted flicker in his amber eyes. "You… Bellara. Please. Stay with me. I will walk away from this ritual, from this place, and you and I can find a new home. A new place where we can begin rebuilding our strength and draw in those who share our purpose. Grant me your love, and I will spare the others. You have my word."
Shit.
The daggers came out of their sheathes, and at her side, Willow could feel Emmrich gathering strands of magic and hear the whisper of Cataline's bowstring as it drew taut. There was only one response to an offer like that, and they all knew it. Bellara sighed, standing up and stepping backwards towards them.
"I'm sorry, Cormac. I don't love you. I never will."
He had known, too. Even as the last motes of coherence fled his eyes and he fell forward to his hands with a low, guttural growl, Willow could tell that Cormac had known exactly what Bellara was going to say. Perhaps part of him had simply been looking for the excuse to finally give in to the rage that had been building inside him; the petty, bitter, petulant rage that had made him a shining beacon for the spirits straining at the weakened fibers of the veil in this place. There was the familiar blinding flare of flames and the heavy scents of iron and ozone. When her vision finally returned and the spots cleared from her eyes, Willow's worst fears were realized.
Cormac had given himself over to a spirt of rage. And he was barreling straight towards Ivy.
There are chucklefucks still whining about what Veilguard "didn't” do, meanwhile this amazing person made INCREDIBLE Bellara cosplay with a moving gauntlet.
My screenshot of the video doesn't even do 100th of the job showing the level of detail. The entire thing is BEAUTIFUL.
