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The ballroom, awash in pale, sickly-green light, began to tilt as Emmrich's breath drew from his lungs. Hezenkoss hovered in front of the monstrous bone golem she had crafted, streams of light stretching from her body and blotting the air of all sustenance.
"She's draining life from us!" Emmrich shouted. "We must find shelter!"
The golem reared its ugly head, light dancing in its wicked eyes, partygoers hanging suspended in the air as though being tugged to the gallows by invisible nooses. Swiftly, Emmrich, Rook, Atticus, and Manfred dashed behind a broken stone wall, the golem roaring as the lantern within flickered with a ghastly, verdant luminance.
"Can you not free the spirits in the lantern?" asked Rook, annoyedly pushing a lock of ink-black hair from his eyes with the stump of his left arm.
"It might kill me and not even work," said Emmrich, his heart thundering in his ears. "No living thing can approach it, and—"
There was a rattling of bones to Emmrich's left as Manfred stood, his raspy voice hissing out a string of words that almost sounded like, "I can!" Bright, green eyes and a skeletal smile were ever-fixed as he squared his scalpulas, starting toward the golem in a shaky, toddling sprint.
"Manfred, come back!" Emmrich whisper-yelled, hand outstretched as the skeleton loosed the knapsack on his back and leapt onto the side of the golem, clinging to the cracks in the bones as though scaling a cliffside. Emmrich's breath caught in his throat as Manfred scaled the monster higher and higher, from its hip, to its waist, to the viridescent lantern that flickered and pulsed in its chest like some terrible facsimile of a heart. Manfred wrapped his body about the lantern, and with a sharp tug, he wrenched the lantern from its socket and cast off the ribcage like a bird leaving the nest. Emmrich winced as the skeleton collided with the stone floor, his panic drowning out Johanna's screams and the rumble of the golem fragmenting, breaking, tumbling to the floor.
Emmrich enjoyed a split moment of relief that was quickly replaced by terror when noticing that the man beside him was gone. Atticus had crossed to the other side of the broken stone wall that Emmrich and his company had sheltered themselves behind, dodging falling rock and bone as he sprinted toward Manfred.
Atticus swiftly bent down and pulled Manfred to his feet, grappling the lantern that Manfred had prised from the golem's chest. In his periphery, Emmrich made out something large and swift— a hand, the giant, terrible, dying hand of the golem had come swooping toward the two figures caught in its monstrous wake.
"Atticus, Manfred, run!" Emmrich yelled, already leaping out from behind the wall. Panic shot through Atticus' face, and in a split-moment decision, Atticus scooped Manfred and the lantern in his arms and threw Manfred as far as he could, the skeleton and lantern landing in a heap several feet away right as the golem's hand collided with Atticus and sent him flying into a nearby rock heap.
"Atticus!" Emmrich screamed, his head spinning, leaving him frozen in terror as Rook darted forth and scooped up the lantern, a sickly green glow illuminating his face.
"Go, go!" Rook yelled, tossing the lantern to Emmrich.
In a half a moment, Emmrich shook himself from his horrified stupor, holding out the lantern and deftly ghosting his hand over the glass.
"By the spirits bound here, night and shadow, light and blood, let your chains loosen, let the Fade draw close. I release you to the air!"
Emmrich, with a flourish of his hand, sent the spirits sailing through the air, rock crumbling around him as Hezenkoss shouted and cursed. The necrotic spirits of the lantern careened into her, and with one dying scream, she collapsed, curling into a withered husk and letting out a final, shuddering exhale.
There was hardly a moment of joy as the dust and grime in the air settled, the murmurs of the partygoers fading to a distant hum in the back of his mind as Emmrich sprinted toward Atticus, who laid in a curled up heap on the ground beside the stone wall. Heart thundering in his chest, Emmrich turned him over, gasping.His clothes were torn, scratches mottling his skin, his breathing ragged and shallow, eyes already glassy. But, most prominently, a massive gash on his forehead gushed blood, so much blood, trickling into his eye that was too weak to blink it away.
It was a gaze Emmrich was already all too familiar with— shallow, unfocused, all too calm about the severity of their wounds. The gaze of a dying man.
Emmrich propped Atticus up in his arms, cradling his head in the crook of his arm, his palm soaked in blood as it pressed against the gushing wound on his forehead. "Atticus, hold on— we will bring you back to the Necropolis, and—"
"Emmrich… is she dead?"
"Yes, love, she's dead," Emmrich said, kissing his forehead, his lips coming away blood-soaked.
"Please, stay with me? Till—"
"Of course, my precious baby— of course." Emmrich had been calling Atticus by that name since he was in his twenties.
"Emmy— I don't want to die. I'm— I'm scared."
"I'm here, darling," Emmrich said, kissing him once more, his voice breaking. "I always will be."
Atticus' breathing grew shallow, his eyes dull, and with one final exhale, he went still.
"Emmrich?" Asked Rook gingerly.
"When the soul departs from one's body," he choked out, "There is often time before it crosses the Fade. Help me carry him, Rook. We must go back to the Necropolis."
Rook nodded, lifting Atticus' legs as Emmrich cradled his head and back, and together, they broke into a run, Manfred tottering behind them.
It was the fastest Emmrich had ever run, especially considering he had never run while holding back bitter tears. All he could do was pray to every god he'd ever heard of that Atticus' spirit was not too eager to cross the Fade.
Down long and twisting roads they ran till the Necropolis came into sight. They soon reached the grand doors, bursting into the lower belfry, the clear waters of the shallow pools sloshing around their ankles as Emmrich shouted over his shoulder, "Manfred, open the door!"
Gasps rippled throughout the room and people practically dove to the side to make way for the company. Manfred sprinted ahead to a door at the northeast side of the belfry, heaving a lever beside it, and Emmrich and Rook rushed through.
The room was cavernous and dark, its only furniture an altar that sat before a looming balcony overlooking a shadowed hallway, its yawning maw stretching far into an abyss beyond. Rook and Emmrich laid Atticus gently on the altar, Emmrich cradling his head as he stepped back, gazing upon the man stretched out before him.
Emmrich stopped for only a brief moment to rub his eyes, willing himself to focus as he closed his eyes, took in a shuddering breath, and called upon the lich lords of the Necropolis.
The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated by nothing but their ragged breaths, till, suddenly, Emmrich heard a voice.
"Emmrich Volkarin."
The named raised his head and opened his eyes, meeting those of a robed and armored skeletal figure upon the balcony above.
"You were not expected so soon," hissed the lich lord. "What has brought you?"
"My lord," said Emmrich shakily, "I come regarding Atticus, my husband."
"Yes," said the lich. "There may be ways to return his spirit. But, should you do this, lichdom falls from your grasp."
"What? Why?" Rook called.
"Lichdom is long," said Emmrich. "If I am to stand outside of death, I must make peace with others passing through it."
"What would we otherwise become?" the lich's shuddering voice rang out across the vast room. "How many exceptions till tyranny? Revive him, and remain mortal. Or, let him slumber, and join us."
"Emmrich…" Rook said.
"Atticus and I… we made plans to become liches together. There was no such thing as death doing us part because death would never touch us at all. Atticus may lie asleep, but Maker knows what he would do to me if he found out I forfeited our eternity together. Were I to become a lich, I could protect so many people, become something far greater than I could ever dream of. A watcher should be more accepting of death."
Emmrich felt death breathing down his neck near everywhere he went, a constant, pending anxiety. His gaze flicked back down at Atticus, his large, brown eyes unblinking and staring at nothing, his smooth, tan skin that Emmrich had always loved now ghastly pale.
Maker. Maker, forgive me for ever thinking I was too cowardly to forfeit my love's resurrection in exchange for death's ignorance of me.
"Lichdom is your life's work," Rook said. "But…"
"It is," Emmrich said, taking in a shaky breath. "But, what else did I do it for but Atticus? What would the purpose of my lichdom be if not to spend an eternity in his light? No— one moment with him countervails an eternal lifetime of desolation and regret."
"I know how it feels to love someone like that," said Rook. "Solas told me that, in another world, we could have loved freely. You have someone who has sworn that to you and more, a love that most couples can only dream of experiencing. And… I don't wish to see you forfeit that in favor of cheating the order of nature."
Emmrich's shame laved over him as he gazed at the sweet, bloodied face of his husband, brushing a lock of mussed hair from his eyes. "How did I hesitate for even a moment?" he whispered before steeling himself. "We must act quickly, though— his soul could cross the Fade at any moment. We will need assistance finding his soul and drawing it back into his body."
Emmrich cleared his throat and began to wave his hands rhythmically, conjuring wisps of light as he spoke. "By pact and pledge, I seek an audience. By light and breath, let wisdom come. The Keepsake of Ages and Farsighted Curio," he said, nodding to each of the spirits that materialized.
"Friends," said Emmrich. "We don't have much time. My husband, Atticus, sacrificed himself to save us."
"We heard you had abandoned lichdom to bring him back. Your work, your dreams," said Keepsake.
"You paid the price," said Curio. "But, it seems there are many souls about to cross the Fade—"
"— and only one you seek," interrupted Keepsake. "Draw his soul near. Speak."
"May I help?" asked Rook.
"Yes," said Emmrich. "Please, think of Atticus. Tell me something you felt about him, and concentrate."
"He was… one of the most intelligent people I've ever met. Contemplative, as though always lost in thought. Sincere, as though he had no pretenses. And… Creators, Emmrich— he loved you more than anything."
Emmrich drew in a deep breath, raising his arms above his head. "In the sea of the Fade, there are wakes left by our passing. Our desires, our fears… I leave this beacon for you, Atticus. Follow my voice. Return to me!" Emmrich finished with a flourish, placing his hands on Atticus' body, willing magic into him with every passing moment. He tried not to think about how cold he was, the image of his bloodied face still fresh in his mind even as he kept his eyes closed, the fact that Atticus had been dead for nearly an hour now.
He was weak. Too weak. He blinked, and his vision began to tunnel, legs growing shaky, barely hearing the faint, "Emmrich?" from Rook nearby.
"Atticus!" he shouted once again, voice ragged and raw, his earlier poised confidence stripped away as sweat beaded on his trembling palms. "Darling, return to me!"
"Emmrich!" yelled Rook.
"Silence!" Emmrich snapped. "Atticus, come back!" Emmrich's meticulous incantations and practiced movements had turned to him simply frantically shaking Atticus' body as though he were merely asleep. It was in one swift moment that his knees buckled in dizzying exhaustion, and he collapsed in front of the altar, breath heaving, spots in his periphery causing his vision to tunnel on Atticus' still-cold body.
It was done. Atticus' spirit must have crossed the Fade already. He had wasted time running too slowly, talking to the spirits, contemplating lichdom, letting Atticus make such a stupid sacrifice to begin with.
And, it was finally, finally, that Emmrich, with a shuddering breath, began to sob. He kissed his husband's face over and over again, the blood from Atticus' forehead wound smearing with every press of Emmrich's lips. He tried to wipe the crimson away, clumsily attempting to restore him to some semblance of his living beauty before he was to be buried.
In that moment, Emmrich was gone, replaced by a hysterical, heretical madman, cursing Andraste, cursing the Maker, growing dizzy with grief as he buried his face in Atticus' chest.
Then, the memories of the life he had shared with his husband hit him like a tidal wave.
He remembered his first impression of him— a wealthy, somewhat awkward boy who knew nothing of how to take care of himself or how to live without the aid of servants. But, despite it, he tried his best. He was naive, passionate, but most of all, he had a kindness that Emmrich rarely saw amongst nobles.
He remembered the time that they were in their early twenties, when Emmrich had been so excited to show Atticus an new experiment he was working on, grabbing his hand and near dragging Atticus behind him while the man laughed. They ignored the shouts of the senior watchers around them, laughing as they sprinted through the halls of the dead (it was, in hindsight, quite disrespectful to the departed that dwelled there). It was the first time they had ever held hands; the first of hundreds of times to come.
He remembered Atticus buying him jewelry after he told him he wished he was rich enough to buy such things, bracelets and rings of which he now wore as many as he could at a time.
He remembered the day that he had declared his love for him, watching the relief and love in Atticus' eyes as he began to gush about how he had been wishing to confess his love for six months but was scared that Emmrich would not feel the same way. He could still see the light in his eyes as he gleefully ran to Emmrich a few weeks later, clutching the letter he received from his parents declaring that they did not mind that their son had taken a male lover.
Of course, the part they had conveniently omitted was that they still expected him to marry a woman and continue their bloodline in stead of his infertile older sister, Miranda. Atticus brought Emmrich to meet his parents in an attempt to reconcile. After Atticus' parents had presented him with a wealthy arl's daughter named Rowena, Atticus refused to propose marriage to her, proudly accepting his disownment after he declared that he wanted to marry Emmrich, casting his Pentaghast family ring at his parents' feet.
He remembered the wedding that they had fought nearly to the death for. It was a wedding that most couples would have prepared for by sending invitations, locating a venue, and shopping for regal attire together. Emmrich and Atticus, however, prepared by going to every chantry in Nevarra alongside Miranda, whose conversations with the chantry mothers usually ended in shouting matches about why her brother deserved his wedding that was deemed 'pointless' by most chantries.
It was by some miracle that they did eventually get married by one chantry mother from a small abbey who valued love above politics, and, after she left them alone, they danced to an Andrastian hymn that drifted through the thin walls. Every year thereafter, on their anniversary, they would repeat that same dance, humming the hymn beneath their breaths as they held each other close.
He remembered watching Atticus grow and change; his body becoming thicker as he grew more comfortable in his home in the Necropolis, his auburn hair becoming streaked with pale gray, the lines and wrinkles appearing in his face over the years. He remembered watching his students laugh when they shouted 'Professor Volkarin!' and two heads turned instead of one. He remembered he way that he had never stopped being proud of calling Atticus his husband.
They had loved each other for four decades before Atticus' sacrifice. Forty years. Forty years of proving that marriage meant more than political gain or bearing children, forty years of mirthful, laughter and sex-filled sleepless nights; forty years of pure, unadulterated love.
And, now… now, it would be no more. Half of the memories would be safely tucked away in the back of a grief-stricken mind, and the other half would be wrapped up like a pretty name-day parcel and locked within a slab of frigid stone inscribed with the name Atticus Volkarin.
"Volkarin," said Curio, gliding forward. "We will have his body taken to be—"
"Don't touch him!" Emmrich hissed, hovering over the body like a rabid mabari protecting its supper.
"Give him time to grieve," Rook said sternly.
No further words were heard from the spirits as Emmrich buried his face in Atticus' chest. Moments passed, then minutes, till the sound of a still heartbeat had driven him to the brink of madness as he grappled at memories of falling asleep with his ear pressed to his steadily beating heart.
With one final sniff and sigh, Emmrich stood, straightening his shoulders. He used his sleeve to wipe away the drying blood from Atticus' face, arranging his hair around his shoulders and artfully covering the wound on his forehead that had killed him. Finally, he removed his cloak and draped it over his body, leaving his head uncovered, as though he were merely sleeping.
Emmrich pressed one slow, final kiss to his brow. "Spirits," he announced, squaring his shoulders. "You may bring his body to the Vault of the Beloved."
Rook placed an arm around Emmrich's shoulder and Manfred grabbed his other arm, guiding him away from Atticus' body. They had made it several paces when Emmrich heard a soft noise.
Emmrich turned, gazing into the dark, silent abyss. The noise came again, along with an ever so slight rustling of the makeshift burial shroud.
"Atticus?" whispered Emmrich.
It was with a final, sharp breath that Atticus jolted, rapidly pushing himself upright, flexing his fingers, looking about wildly. The cloak fell from his body as he rubbed his wound "W-where am I? Last I knew, I was fighting Johanna, and then I pushed Manfred—" he gazed down at the altar, at Emmrich, at Manfred, at Rook. "…oh." Atticus knew in nearly an instant.
"Atticus!" Emmrich near screamed, sprinting toward him and all but flinging himself into his husband's lap. "My darling, I—" he cut himself off with a heaving sob, which quickly turned to bawling, which turned to hyperventilating.
"Shhh, love— I'm here." Atticus stroked his back, his hair, kissing his forehead and cheeks rapidly. He held him for what felt like ages before Emmrich's fresh wave of sobs had subsided and he began to speak.
"I thought that my spell had failed."
"No," said Atticus. "I'm alive, dearest."
"I also forfeited lichdom to resurrect you," whispered Emmrich.
"What?"
"I was presented with a choice— become a lich and lay you to rest… or forfeit my lichdom and revive you. My darling— I would have lived an eternity of sorrow and regret had I chosen immortality over you."
Atticus pressed his forehead to Emmrich's, drawing in a deep, shaky sigh. "I too will forfeit my lichdom."
"What?"
"An eternity without you is an eternity laid to waste."
Emmrich was momentarily taken aback, but instead he took Atticus' hands. "We will grow old together, and when we die and meet again by the Maker's side, I will not regret a single choice that I made today."
Atticus nuzzled his forehead against Emmrich's one last time before swinging his legs over the side of the altar and shakily standing. Emmrich placed his arm around his husband's shoulder and grasped his hand with his other, guiding him away.
Rook smiled, supporting Atticus on his left side. "I'm pleased to see you living," he said. "I can't bear to lose another friend. And… your sacrifice was noble. Manfred would be gone without you."
"Att-cus!" Manfred rasped, excitedly pushing his way to the front of the group and jogging toward the doors that led to the lower belfry.
As Emmrich and his company emerged from the darkened room, Atticus was greeted by gasps and shouts of 'Professor Volkarin?' from various passing students. A small crowd had begun to form nearby, staring at the resurrected Mourn Watch professor as he shakily made his way past groups of mortalitasi, smiling and nodding to his greeters.
Emmrich sighed softly, resting his head against Atticus' shoulder. He was weak, wearied, already haunted by memories of his love's still body. But, they were alive. And they would be alive till nature claimed them once again, their bodies laid to rest in the same casket, their shared headstone a testament of their eternal union.
Lichdom meant nothing in comparison to this, and Emmrich was well prepared to take naught for granted.