Chapter Text
For a moment, Emmrich thinks that this whole sordid affair will be solved peacefully, that he has gotten through to Johanna. He is reeling from the effort of trying to free the spirits from inside the gloaming lantern, every inch of him smarting from the attempt, the magical blow-back making his teeth ache. For a moment, Johanna looks at him, that characteristic wistful tone in her voice, and it is just as if they are colleagues again, engaging in familiar discourse, what could be done versus what should be done.
But then he puts his foot in his mouth, as he is wont to do, and she reels back, the cruelty in her face familiar too. Do you think I’m staying a failed lich? He realizes, then, that this will end in blood.
The undead behemoth rears its head, smashing through the ceiling of her laboratory, Johanna cackling her mad triumph all the while. A massive skeletal hand smashes the scaffolding on which they—Emmrich, Rook, and Davrin—had been standing, sending them to the floor. Emmrich gasps as he hits the ground, all the air being forced out of his lungs, and now a riotous smarting in his ribs—a two-fold ache. He is sure that he has cracked a rib, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Rook is pulling him up from the floor, her hands strong even as her eyes are wide with fear.
“We have to get upstairs, stop her from killing all of the guests!” Rook gives him a quick pat-down, a brief flare of spirit healing thrumming through him, her gaze insistent. “You alright?” It sends a rush of warmth through him, the worry in her face a balm to his frazzled mind. He nods, even though he has yet to fully catch his breath, and then they are off, dashing through the stolen catacombs, up the cellar, and back into the manor proper.
While rounding the corner that will lead into the antechamber before the ballroom, they nearly run into Manfred, who begins to follow, hissing in anticipation. Emmrich is ready to let him come along, his earlier instructions to stay put be damned, when his mind returns unbidden to that terrible note they had found down in the catacombs, the contempt that Johanna so obviously held towards his spirit companion. It was selfish, and unfair, but he knows that he will be able to face Johanna more surely if he knows that Manfred is away from harm.
“Manfred,” he says, seizing his ward by his skeletal shoulders. “I need you to get anyone you can out of the manor. Get the grand entrance open, evacuate whoever will follow you. If anyone can send word to the Watchers, tell them we need assistance here, immediately!” The skeleton hesitates, obviously tempted to follow, but the insistence in Emmrich’s voice gives him pause. If there is one time to listen to me, let it be this time. “Please, Manfred, many innocent lives depend on this!”
“Help!” Manfred rasps out enthusiastically, then he scurries off in the opposite direction, towards the foyer. Emmrich spares precious seconds watching him go and can only hope that he can find someone who will call for assistance, get in contact with Myrna or Vorgoth, or any other Watcher able to render aid. He hopes that, if all else fails, his ward will be safe, away from the necromancer with a propensity for cruelty and a ravenous appetite for revenge.
Rook lays a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“He can handle himself, Emmrich.” Her eyes are soft, then, and he knows that she understands, that she is as familiar with his fears as she is with her own heart. She is an anchor, a sheltering bay stopping him from being swept out into the maelstrom of panic. He allows himself a moment to appreciate her, to appreciate this, before she pulls him along, into the madness that Johanna has set in motion.
They rush into the grand ballroom just in time to see the guests wrenched off of their feet, suspended in the air like marionettes on too-taught strings, bodies stiff. They sway in an artificial breeze, a hurricane rolling in through the call of the gloaming lantern, the phantasmal susurrations cutting through the room. Johanna leers down at the crowd, arms raised in ecstatic fervor.
“ —and tonight you will fuel my ascension at the cost of your miserable lives!” Her voice is filled with such glee that it turns Emmrich’s stomach. Everything the Watchers have ever stood for she is willing to throw away for the sake of power; her vainglory knows no bounds. The gleaming lantern, solidly set in the chest of the bone construct, is like the eye of a storm, the sucking centre of a profane whirlpool. It flashes, a pulse reverberating through the room, and the bodies of the guests are surrounded in sickly green light as the siphoning of their life energy begins.
Joanna—and the construct—turns as she spots them.
“You think you can stop me? Once I get rid of you, I will merge with my greatest work and conquer this city!” She sneers down at them, her voice crackling with indignation. Failure is clearly not a possibility in her mind; her schemes are too grand, too perfect to fall short. Her plan is a crude one, yet undeniably effective. It is only a matter of time before the lantern rends the souls from the gathered guests, empowering her enough so that her dreams become reality. Her hand is a winning one, and all she needs to do is stall.
The failed lich is a vision of condescension, descending in a shivering cloud of rotten necromantic power. Her attacks come fast, sizzling through the air and cracking against the stone columns that make up the ballroom. Emmrich’s fingers are numb with exertion, fear licking up the inside of his throat. He has to stop Johanna, but he cannot see a way forward without risking the lives of all inside the manor.
“We have to destroy that lantern!” Rook is panting, leaning against a pillar as she gathers a handful of writhing lightning in her fist.
“With that much life inside it, the backlash could—” His hesitance feels like giving up, but he has felt the sheer force earlier, before the souls of the guests began to be drawn into it. He is afraid, and Rook can see it plainly on his face. She is not interested in humoring it.
“We don’t have a choice!” Rook launches back into the fray, even as the action sends Emmrich’s heart into his throat. She almost dances through the battlefield, her mageknife crackling with power as she hurls handfuls of electricity through the air, sizzling against her opponent. Johanna cackles as she lunges above their heads, galewinds of ice shuddering into the ground. All the while the gloaming lantern continued to pulse, eddies of spirit energy shrieking into the construct.
Rook tries to send her magic towards the lantern, but Johanna throws a barrier up around the thing. This dance continues for minutes, and with each exchange the pull of the lantern is ever stronger, a devouring force that will not be satisfied until everything in the room is dead.
It’s not until Davrin lands a particularly cruel blow, bashing his shield against Johanna’s back, that she pauses.
“I’ll be sure to bury you and your new lover in the same tomb!” Johanna crows from above them, spitting black blood. Emmrich’s heart skips a beat at the casual cruelty of it, a stab to that shared afternoon, so long ago. It would be rather fine to possess such an enduring affection. Of course she remembers and is all too willing to throw it back in his face. He casts his gaze to Rook—he cannot help it—ensuring that she is still living—
The gloaming lantern bursts, and the necromantic tide doubles, triples its pull, vicious and starving. It nearly knocks Emmrich down with the unexpected agony of it, like his very marrow is trying to worm to the surface of his skin. Rook cries out, trying to shield herself with her barrier, but the siphoning pull of the lantern shatters through her defenses, and Emmrich nearly leaps to drag her behind a pillar.
“She’s draining life from us! We must find shelter!” Emmrich, who is more used to this type of necromantic barrage, hauls Rook along with him, willing his own barrier to extend around her too, to keep his beloved safe from the reach of Johanna.
They all can barely take shelter behind a half-wall of fallen rubble, the screaming waves of energy like a galewind above their heads. Emmrich can feel the noxious pull of it, a riptide threatening to tear spirit and life force from body, a desecration of the highest order.
“It’s too much, the sheer power coming off of that lantern, I fear nothing can approach it without risking their very soul!” The fear is thick, sticky inside of his head, clumping thoughts and worries together at the base of his skull. If only I had time, a warding spell might nullify the worst—
“Be ready, my darling.” Rook pulls him close, jolting his thoughts to a standstill. She smells of grave dirt and ash, but underneath that is the faintest whiff of florals, a bloom of lilacs amidst the blood and terror. She is trembling, but her eyes are steady, an anchor amidst the chaos. His heart is jackrabbiting inside of his chest as she presses a kiss to his cheek.
“Rook, what—” His fingers grasp for her, nearling snagging the edge of her cloak, but she has already thrown herself over the wall, running for the nearest pillar. Her eyes are on him as she activates one of the runes at her hip—something to help with resistance, he hopes—and she smiles, before leaping forward, pushing against the torrents of magic. He can’t help as he puts his hand to his mouth in despair while watching her barrel ever-closer to certain death.
“Dearest, come back, please!” He nearly flings himself over the wall, but Davrin is there, holding him steady even as he curses the man, scrabbling to get free.
She skitters between columns, nearly falling as an eddie of power knocks her off balance, but she makes it to the other side of the ballroom, clambering up the far wall. Her form is nearly swallowed in the green corona of the lantern, and Emmrich nearly sobs as he sees phantasmal threads beginning to latch onto her and feed off her energy. She clears the railing, and then she is launching herself into the air, hands scrabbling for the handle of the lantern. She hangs suspended in the air for a moment, anchored only by the hand that clings to the dark metal of the ruinous relic, and then she pulls.
Rook flies through the air, sailing past the railing she only just scaled, landing with a gasp on the ground of the ballroom. Johanna screams her fury, and Emmrich’s heart is in his throat as he watches the construct rear its head, a massive skeletal hand coming down, intending to swat Rook like a particularly bothersome insect.
She rolls a moment before the hand smashes into the ground, the massive fingers only catching on her cloak, sending her careening towards the stone wall. She hits the wall, hard, but before Emmrich can fall to despair she rolls onto her side, trying to find her bearings. The lantern is furiously green in her arms, nestled against her chest like a babe, and he must get it out of her hands, must stay the reaching hand of the Fade from stealing the life from her form.
“Rook, the lantern!” He shouts, hands outstretched. The gloaming lantern burns the air like a star, white-green as it nears completion. It is cowardice that keeps him rooted to the spot, from running to her side. She looks at him, dazed, face green from the artifact in her arms, but a soft smile fills her face as she looks at him. Blood drips down her cheek, a gash at her forehead running freely, and she does not hesitate as she whips the lantern towards him, the metal spinning against the slick stone floor.
“Show her what a real necromancer can do!” Her voice comes out as a gasp, and she leans tiredly against the wall where she landed. He wants to run to her, but his chest thrums at her words nonetheless, and he snatches the lantern up off the floor.
The necromantic vortex sucks at his fingers, a greedy well of power hungry to drink him dry, licking up his arm. He cannot believe that Rook held it as long as she did. The moments in which he rights it within his hands are already enough to make him sway on his feet, but he knows what he must do. He raises it to the air, a hand quieting the roar of angry spirits, a conductor ready to command the opening swells of a spectral orchestra.
“By the spirits bound here, night and shadow, light and blood.” He feels them crowding inside the grave-glass of their prison, howling to be let free. “Let your chains loosen, let the Fade draw close. I release you to the air!” It is like a punch to the gut as he flings the spirits free from the lantern, a slam of power and souls so overwhelming he nearly falls to his knees. He drives them up and towards the skeleton colossus, his words ringing throughout the still air with an unnatural reverberation. The spirits swell through the room, a cacophony of anger and hurt, and turn on Johanna, descending onto her like a tide.
Eddies of final moments tear through the air, lives shorn short, eternal existences snuffed like a candle. Wait, where are you taking me? No, stop, this isn’t right! A final smile, the last kiss of a lover, an angry curse. One swirls close to Emmrich, a slow swell of light and regret, nearly in his ear, before darting away. Oh, my love, this isn’t how I meant for this to end. I am sorry, I am so sorry. There is a flicker of recognition in him even as it blinks out of existence, a familiarity in the voice that sinks into his bones, but he must push that out of his mind, easing the last of the stolen power out of the lantern.
Johanna cackles all the while, a mad, cracked sound, even as her body is ravaged, her colossal construct falling to the ground in a quiet heap. The spirits wink out, dissipating back into the Fade, and the lantern is no more but a hunk of useless metal in Emmrich’s hands, no longer a weapon of mass death. His whole body aches with a profound exhaustion—whether borne simply from the extended encounter or the prolonged exposure to that much necromantic power, he isn’t sure.
He must lean heavily on his staff as he surveys the room, relieved to see that the guests are getting to their feet (in truth, he had not even registered that they had returned to the ground), watching as Davrin makes his way to a young elf, ensuring that she is alright. It is with a cursory glance he ensures that none of the guests need tending, and then he is turning, gaze casting around the room for Rook.
Emmrich does not have to look for long, as she lies where he last saw her, leaning against the stone of the ballroom. One of her knees is bent, an arm outstretched, the other cradled against her chest. She looks spent, still, blood wet on her face. Some part of Emmrich’s brain sparks wrong, wrong, even as he is moving towards her, leaning on his staff to remain sure-footed. She is still, and does not rouse even as he draws close, as he kneels beside her, brushing the hair from her face with a sure hand.
“Rook, are you injured?” His hands meet her face, her shoulder, and her head slumps limply onto her shoulder as if she is deeply asleep. This isn’t right. He cradles the curve of her jaw in his hands, feeling for a contusion. She remains quiet, even at the press of his fingers. Dread rushes up his back like pins and needles. Did Johanna thrown her against the wall hard enough to render her unconscious? He raises a hand, a wash of soothing spirit healing lapping at his fingertips as he seeks the wound, whatever hidden hurt that has befallen her.
The spell wavers, and his heart seizes in his chest, his fingers prodding, hard, at her throat, her hip, looking for injury, and she still does not move, does not react to his fingertips probing the back of her skull. The spell fades as he cannot find where she has been hurt, waning into nothing.
“My darling, please, it’s time to wake up beloved.” Restorative magic pools into his palm once again, less efficient without a directed path, but it will rouse her, it must. He lets it dribble out of his hands, but it finds no purchase, washing over her as calmly as river water. This isn’t happening, why isn’t this working? Even as he pours it over her again, a mist of green-grey pinpricks, it disperses, not even probing, as it should, as it should—!
“Emmrich, what’s wrong, is Rook—?” Davrin kneels beside him.
“Help me move her, gently now, hold her head steady, I need her stable.” Davrin does as he asks, lowering her down to the floor, letting Emmrich draw her head into his lap. His magic is insistent this time, breakers against shale, surging down his arms and into Rook, his worry adding needless force to what should be a soothing spell. His heart is cracking open, grief hammering against the backs of his eyes. He pushes, the spell haloing them in a soft corona of light, and Rook still does not move, her eyes do not flutter open. “Where is the wound, darling, why isn’t this—”
Somewhere, Johanna cackles.
“Emmrich,” Davrin says, softly, his hand on his shoulder, like how you would speak to a child that is too young to understand, but he will not hear it. He pushes, again, until he is nearly drained, his reserves threadbare and dwindling. “Emmrich,” Davrin says again, and his hand is insistent, shaking his shoulder now. “She’s…”
Rook is silent in his arms, her face placid, calm, even as it is streaked with blood. Her lips are parted, and he watches, waits, but he knows that breath will not come, he knows, even as his fingers press to find the non-existent pulse at her throat.
“No,” Emmrich gasps, hands clumsy, pushing his hair back, breath catching in his chest. “This cannot be happening.” Oh, but it can happen, it has happened, on your watch. He throws a hand over his mouth, and for a moment he is fearful that he will be sick, the enormity of the grief that looms inside his chest is too much.
“I don’t understand.” But then he does, in a series of flashes, thoughts that had not fully coalesced. Rook, cradling the lantern against her chest, the final gasp as she threw the lantern. A whisper in his ear as he freed the spirits that had been yanked into that cursed prison, a familiar voice whispering apologies and sorrow. Johanna, cackling even as she was torn to shreds, a final triumph amidst the rest of her defeat.
He lays a hand over her chest, searching, letting thin fingers of light slip into her chest. Not a restorative spell, but a diagnostic one, one that he has used countless times in the process of dealing with the dead. He listens, but there is nothing, and he sees all at once how her lips are going grey, the coolness of the floor seeping into flesh that no longer can warm itself. A horrifying sensation unfurls in his gut, a scratching, gnawing terror unlike anything he has ever felt, worse than when he was a boy, crying out to the corpses of his parents in that collapsed building, this culmination of his worst fears made unflinchingly real.
Emmrich draws her into his arms, and he fights the urge to be sick as her head flops limply onto his shoulder. His whole world has narrowed down to a fine point, to the sensation of Rook, dead, in his arms.
“Rook,” he says, lamely. “You can’t do this, you can’t go.” Rook, or rather her body, is quiet and limp under his hands, which shake, a threadlike trembling jangling through every nerve and fibre of muscle. She is still warm, but she will not be for long. He lets his head fall, and he cannot stop the flood of emotion that shudders through him, the grief spilling from a crack in his chest. He weeps, clutching Rook to his breast, his body seizing unbidden, the torment too much to bear.
He had hoped—damn him, he had hoped—he had let himself dream, let Rook see the whole of him, and now she is gone, her soul already being ushered into the endless sea of the Fade. He had dreamed of a future with her; all of the futures that he could see had been entwined with hers, mortal, or separated by the realm of undeath, but she had been the constant, her love an inevitability, the guiding star above his horizon. The loss is like that of a limb, something vital torn from the deepest parts of him, a precious string connecting the two of them cut too soon.
“Is there anything you can do?” Davrin had been quiet, his eyes cast down to give them some semblance of privacy, but there is curiosity in them now, along with sorrow. “You’re a necromancer, isn’t there something—” He waves his hand, and bitterness surges through Emmrich, even as he squeezes Rook closer to his chest.
“Do you honestly think—” he hisses, tears wetting his voice. “If there was anything I could do to reverse this, it would have been done.” His love rests in the grave now, and his magic cannot touch her, not in any way that would matter. “She would be a mere shadow, you cannot just bring someone back, it isn’t done, it cannot be done.”
Even as the words escape his mouth, he realizes his error, and what he must do. Sticky, treacherous hope rears its head, a tingling buzz shivering down his back. He cannot do it, and he does not know if they would allow it, if there is anything he could offer in the world that would be enough for the lich lords to grant him this boon. If there is anything I can offer, I would, my life or my skill, it would be theirs.
He stands, shakily, wincing even as the other man rushes to steady him, taking the weight of Rook out off of his shoulders. He looks down at Rook in his arms, letting the most basic of preservation spells wash over her form, a bulwark to shield her body from the insistent press of time and degradation touching her flesh.
“Davrin, we must make haste to the Necropolis.”