Chapter Text
Anwen’s earliest memories are of whispers.
She hears them everywhere, voices drifting across the room even as others fail to notice. Initially, parents pass it off as the playful creations of an active imagination. However, as time passes and the voices grow louder, they become concerned.
They travel to Nevarra and present her before the Mourn Watch. Anwen ducks behind her father’s leg, fearful of the cloaked void that stares at her.
“SHE HEARS SPIRITS,” Vorgoth booms. “A RARE GIFT.”
“Indeed,” Evelyn, the leader of the Mourn Watch, supplies. “Corpse Whispering is highly uncommon. For it to manifest in one so young is truly fascinating.”
Anwen’s eyes never leave Vorgoth, even as her parents discuss her future with Evelyn. She feels a pull, a need to dive headfirst into the abyss reflected in the darkness of his being.
Tentatively, she reaches a hand forward, fingers inches from the frayed edges of his cloak when a wisp darts forward.
She startles, arm releasing her father’s leg as she stumbles backward. The wisp dances delightedly around her, its blue light blinking rapidly.
“It seems you have an affinity for wisps,” Evelyn hums.
“Wisps?” Anwen asks, eyes nervously following the blue orb.
“Simple spirits,” Evelyn explains. “Impulses from the Fade.”
Anwen doesn’t understand; it’s all too much and too foreign.
She does understand kindness, however. As the wisp darts to and fro, Anwen feels warmth radiating from its delicate tendrils. Despite startling her, she gets the distinct impression that it likes her.
Taking a deep breath, she steels herself before extending her hand. Within moments, the wisp settles in her palm, trilling happily.
She doesn’t understand what’s happening, but she wants to.
She’s accepted into the academy. Her family is elvish and of very little means, but Evelyn waives the fees, insisting Anwen’s gift was far more important.
The first few months are difficult; she cries herself to sleep, bundled under blankets in the freezing crypt. With time, however, she adjusts.
By the time she’s 16, she’s a star pupil, assisting the Nevarran guard with cases and assisting wisps throughout the necropolis. She’s well-liked by her peers, even if she gets the distinct impression they resent her. Many of them are from noble bloodlines and, despite such lofty connections, are unable to command spirits as easily as her.
With the exception, of course, of Margo. Second born to a noble family, she’s exhibited a similar aptitude for corpse whispering, closing the gap between Anwen and her peers. Anwen is delighted at first; she has so few people who can relate to her experiences.
But then her classmate drops a bit of gossip, and she spirals.
“She hates you, you know?”
His name is Browlin. Another noble, he’s never short on hubris despite his suffering grades and magical incompetence. Anwen knows logically that listening to him is worthless; there’s no reason to expect he’s telling the truth.
But the words dig their way inside nonetheless.
“Margo?” Anwen asks, confused. “Why would she hate me?”
“Because you make her look bad,” Browlin shrugs. “You make everyone look bad.”
“That’s hardly my fault,” Anwen huffs. “Besides, I’m not the one marching around the Necropolis, bragging about my abilities while failing every class.”
“Grades are meaningless,” Browlin retorts. He attempts to appear calm and cool about his assertion, but his bright red ears betray his embarrassment.
“Just like this conversation,” Anwen quips before walking away. As she does, he calls after her.
“Whatever. But watch out - Margo is going to surpass you and then the Mourn Watch won’t need their token elf.”
Browlin is stupid and vindictive. He’s not worth her time nor even a second thought. Still, fear bites at her insides and she wonders if Margo’s intent was to displace her; to make clear how out of place a poor elf is in the Necropolis.
Gritting her teeth, she commits to doubling down and holding her own.
She excels in her classes. Where she was once relaxed, excited to learn and eager to grow, she’s rigid and hyper-focused. Her professors notice immediately but say nothing, observing with unguarded curiosity as her newfound obsession grows.
Margo notices, as well. Their eyes meet from across the classroom and, for the briefest of moments, Anwen thinks she sees something sympathetic in her expression. She blinks, however, and it’s gone. From then on, the two enter into a silent rivalry, each attempting to outdo the other in every class and activity.
Despite her natural inclination, Anwen finds Margo holds her own. It unnerves the young elf and she begins forgoing sleep in an effort to find an edge. But with less rest and higher stakes, she begins to stumble. She makes small mistakes she never made before Browlin poured vitriol into her ear. It only adds to her stress.
The Watchers watch and they notice. On her way to class one day, she’s intercepted by Vorgoth.
“HE WISHES TO SPEAK WITH YOU.”
“...he?” Anwen swallows.
“PROFESSOR VOLKARIN.”
Anwen’s heart rate accelerates instantly, her mind racing.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“HIS OFFICE IS NEAR THE GARDENS.”
Anwen has been in the academy long enough to know that probing Vorgoth for answers will lead nowhere. Instead, she nods and steels herself before walking towards the headmaster’s office.
Professor Volkarin is nothing like she expected.
As soon as she steps through the door, he rushes forward and clasps her hands.
“Come in, come in!” he smiles delightedly, shaking her hands in his own. “You must be Anwen!”
“Yes sir,” she gulps, taken aback by his verbose greeting.
“No need to call me sir,” he chuckles, stepping back and ushering her to a chair.
As she slides into a plush leather seat, the professor grabs a tea tray and sets it on the table before her. Anwen is already nervous and confused but this was truly bizarre.
She’d never met Professor Volkarin before today; in fact, very few students had. He was always traveling or meeting with important visitors, acting just out of sight. In his absence, students had spread rumors about his origins and lifestyle.
She stares at him as he takes his seat, her mind working quickly to compare the man before her to the man her peers whispered about. To hear her classmates tell it, he was an ancient Lich parading around the world with an intricate glamour charm. The man before her, however, is thin with dark hair and a full mustache. He smiles easily as he takes his seat, excitedly reaching for the kettle. Anwen almost laughs; she’s not sure how anyone could look at him and see something as bone-chilling as a Lich.
He pulls the lid from the top of the kettle and stares, mesmerized, as steam curls upwards into the air.
“Beautiful, is it not?”
“Sorry?”
“The steam!” he chuckles, plopping the lid back on and pouring the contents into two cups. “It arches through the air so carelessly. It’s always fascinated me.”
Anwen bites her lip, fighting back a giggle.
“Now, your professors tell me you are a gifted Corpse Whisperer,” he begins, setting the kettle back on the tray.
“It’s my specialty, yes,” Anwen nods.
“From what I’ve heard, you were hearing spirits as early as four years old,” Volkarin continues. “I’d say that’s more than a specialty.”
Anwen shifts uncomfortably in her seat, unsure of how to answer.
“Am I in trouble, sir?”
“What?” Volkarin asks, head rearing back slightly in surprise. “Trouble? Whatever for?”
“I’ve been messing up lately,” she shrugs. “Stupid mistakes.”
“Which we all make,” Volkarin replies with a warm smile. “But, if it puts your mind at ease, you are not in trouble. However, I am concerned. As are your professors.”
“I…” Anwen stumbles, unsure if she should feign innocence. A quick glance at Volkarin’s face, however, tells her it’s useless. “I know why.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
“It’s stupid,” she mutters, reaching for a teacup. “Someone spread a rumor and I acted emotionally.”
“A rumor?” Volkarin asks, stirring his tea. “About what?”
“That my classmates hate me,” she sighs, omitting the fact that Browin singled out a specific person. “They said I make them look bad.”
“And did you?”
Anwen blanches. “What? No!”
“I’m not attacking you,” Volkarin smiles pleasantly. “It was just a question.”
Anwen releases a breath, willing her body to relax.
“I may have,” she concedes eventually. “Not intentionally, though. It just comes naturally to me.”
“Unless you’re intentionally smearing someone, you can’t make another person ‘look bad,’ as it were,” Volkarin begins. “Comparison is the thief of joy, and your peers would do well to avoid it. But, it sounds like there’s more to it, yes?”
“I…” Anwen trails off, mouth twitching. “Yes? They said… they said you’d replace me with a human.”
“Replace you?”
“The work I do for the Nevarran City guards.”
Volkarin laughs heartily. “While there’s always room for more Corpse Whisperers, we would never replace you. You’re part of our community for as long as you wish to be.”
Anwen’s bottom lip trembles and she lifts her cup to hide it; the last thing she needed was to exit the headmaster’s office with red eyes.
“Did you know that the leader of the Veilguard was an elf?”
Anwen blinks.
“What?”
“Rook,” he smiles. “She was a gifted mage and deeply connected to spirits. To this day, I know of no one who could’ve done the job better. She was, in a word, irreplaceable.”
Anwen stares at him for several moments before comprehension dawns on her.
“You knew her, didn’t you?”
Her only answer is a warm smile.
“Finish your tea, dear,” he begins, shifting the topic. “And do try to relax. The wisps can sense your tension and it’s making them nervous.”
As he stands, a wisp floats through the nearby bookcase and spins happily around Vokarin’s slender frame.
“They like you, you know,” he chuckles as its tendrils slink over his shoulder.
She stares at it for a long moment before it turns midair and floats towards her. Hovering just above the table, Anwen feels a pang of guilt. She hadn’t considered how her emotions would affect the wisps.
Reaching out, she offers it her palm.
“Sorry, little guy,” she murmurs.
She leaves Volkarin’s office, body lighter and wisps in tow.
Internally, she admonishes herself for being so careless; for letting a stupid boy convince her of silly, stupid drama. She commits to letting the rivalry go then and there; if Margo wanted to surpass her, then she would wish her luck. She didn’t need to compare herself.
Turning down the hallway to her next class, the subject of her thoughts rushes from her classroom before darting in the opposite direction. Pausing, Anwen stares at Margo’s retreating back in confusion. She was almost certain she heard crying.
Suddenly, the wisps rush forward, chasing after her.
“Wait,” Anwen says quickly, chasing after them. “Don’t be nosey!”
She follows them down the hallway, hissing for them to stop, when they make a sudden turn. Sitting in a dark, abandoned classroom is Margo. Squinting, Anwen can just make out her features; she’s hunched over a desk, shoulders shaking.
The wisps hover in the doorway, dancing to and fro, urging Anwen forward. Reluctantly, she follows.
Stepping into the room, she knocks gently on the door with two fingers.
“Hey.”
Margo jumps before sitting up straight, back rigid as she quickly wipes at her eyes.
“Uh, hi,” she coughs. “Sorry, I was just taking a quick break.”
“Do you…” Anwen begins, steeling herself. “Do you want company?”
Margo turns her head slightly, gracing Anwen with a look of disbelief.
“Why would you do that?” she asks, shaking her head. “You hate me.”
The puzzle pieces click into pace and Anwen mentally facepalms. This had all been a game; the machinations of a talentless boy.
“Did Browlin tell you that?”
Margo stares at her, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Why?”
“He may have told me the same,” Anwen shrugs. “Said you hate me, want to replace me, etcetera.”
“What?” Margo gasps, her expression making plain that she never hated Anwen. “I could never replace you! You’re a natural and I’m…”
“Similarly gifted?” Anwen supplies, sliding into the chair beside her.
“Hardly,” Margo laughs before swallowing, her expression sobering. “It takes hours of study to do what you do so effortlessly. I’m so tired that I’m making stupid mistakes.”
“You’re not sleeping?”
“I just get so focused and before I know it, it’s dawn,” Margo shrugs. “But it’s definitely getting to me. I keep messing up.”
Anwen hums. She wishes she’d ignored Browlin and, instead, sought Margo out on her own. How much time and energy could they have saved each other if they’d just talked?
“I nearly set my pants on fire the other day,” Anwen offers. “I was so convinced that you were trying to replace me that I stopped sleeping. Turns out lighting candles while you’re sleep deprived is ill-advised.”
Margo gawks at her for a brief moment before they erupt in laughter, tension seeping from their bodies. The wisps join in, as well, dancing over their heads.
“I can’t believe I let that wanker trick me,” Margo sighs eventually. “He’s always been a nuisance.”
“That he has,” Anwen chuckles. “I plan on thoroughly ignoring him moving forward. That said… maybe we can start over?”
“Probably for the best,” Margo smiles warmly. “I’m not sure I can take another sleepless night.”
“Me either,” Anwen smiles before extending her hand. “Friends?”
Margo stares at her for a brief moment and, just as before, Anwen thinks she sees something else just below the surface of her expression. Before she can analyze it, however, Margo’s hand is in hers.
Later, when she returns to her quarters, her mind analyzes their encounter; everything from Margo’s unreadable expression to the way Anwen’s hand tingled after they touched.
They begin working together in earnest, collaborating on projects and studying in each other’s dorm rooms. Margo helps Anwen with the more technical parts of their craft. Similarly, Anwen helps Margo to relax so that her spirit feels more welcoming to wisps.
Despite her inclination towards Corpse Whispering, she’d always struggled to connect with spirits. Whenever they were in her presence, they’d zip anxiously about, as though searching for a lost item. It wasn’t until Anwen explained their desire to sympathize that Margo realized she was the source of their anxiety.
Thus, they set out, Anwen encouraging her to steady her breathing and still her mind whenever they were nearby. Although their frantic movements subsides with practice, they still refuse to approach her directly.
Until today.
They’re nestled comfortably on Margo’s bed, books spread out before them, when a wisp slips through her closed door.
“They follow you everywhere,” Margo giggles, watching as it explores her room.
Anwen turns her head and focuses, her mind reaching out to touch the impulse within the tangled magic. When she finds it, a smile blooms on her face and she turns to Margo.
“It’s not here for me,” she giggles.
Margo blinks, eyes darting between Anwen and the wisp.
“Remember,” Anwen says quickly. “Deep breaths.”
“Right,” Margo nods, chest expanding as she inhales.
As though sensing her willingness to interact, the wisp moves closer. As it hovers in the air, Margo lifts a trembling hand before closing her eyes.
“Margo,” Anwen whispers, holding back a giggle. “It’s okay! Open your eyes!”
She pries a single eye open and finds the wisp resting happily in the palm of her hand. Opening her other eye, she blinks rapidly before gracing Anwen with a wide, delighted smile.
“We did it,” she whispers, eyes wide with awe as the wisp gently floats away.
“You did it,” Anwen laughs, unable to hide her own excitement. “I just hel-”
She’s cut off as warm lips press against her own. The initial shock wears off instantly as Anwen’s feelings come into sharp focus. She’s just about to close her eyes and lean into the kiss when Margo jerks back suddenly, face red with embarrassment.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, bringing a hand up to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I was just so excited and you were right there and-”
“How long?”
Margo blinks, her chest still heaving as she panics. “What?”
“How long have you felt this way?”
Margo’s mouth twitches and she looks away, eyes trained on the far wall.
“A while,” she mutters. “I think… I think that’s why Browlin messed with us. He asked me to dinner and I turned him down. I guess he figured out who I actually liked because, well…”
Leaning forward, Anwen’s fingers dance gently along Margo’s chin. Tentatively, she turns to face her.
“I don’t want to talk about Browlin,” Anwen smiles.
With that, she leans forward and kisses Margo once more.
They make it to their senior year with relative ease. At the beginning of the term, they learn that all students must complete a thesis in order to graduate. While students were given free reign to choose their topic, it was well-known that the quality of one’s thesis played an important role in Mourn Watch selection.
Margo had little trouble selecting hers. Over the last two years, she’d perfected several complex ward enchantments that improved the Necropolis’ defenses. Thus, Anwen was unsurprised when Margo set to work immediately, burying herself in the library.
Anwen, however, was not quite as quick. She waffled over a dozen different options, none of which prompted a similar response.
As she slips into the library late one night, her eyes briefly graze a newspaper stand near the librarian’s desk as she walks towards the back to find Margo. As her mind registers the headlines of an Antivan paper, she comes to an abrupt stop and turns, moving quickly towards the stand.
Bizarre Wisp Behavior in Thedas?
Her hands hover over the paper before she turns towards the librarian.
“Can I have this?”
“Of course, dear,” she nods. “They’re for students to take.”
“Thank you,” Anwen replies, pulling the paper free and rushing towards Margo’s table. As she draws closer, Margo looks up from her considerable stack of books.
“Hey,” she greets warmly. “What you got there?”
“A paper,” Anwen murmurs unthinkingly, her eyes trained on the letters.
“Since when does my girlfriend keep up with current events?” Margo laughs.
Settling into a chair, Anwen lays the paper out in front of her.
“I think I’ve got it.”
Margo’s smile dims briefly, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Got what?”
“My thesis topic,” she replies, a smile slowly forming on her face. She turns the paper and pushes it towards Margo.
“There are reports of wisps behaving strangely all over Thedas,” Anwen explains. “Helping people find lost items or even lost loved ones, leading guards to clues and guiding lost travelers.”
“Why?” Margo asks, eyes shifting from the paper to Anwen.
“I don’t know,” Anwen smiles. “But I plan to find out.”
The Mourn Watch approves her topic and grants her access to the Eluvian network. She’d only traveled once as a child: the journey from her childhood home to the Necropolis. Now, however, the entirety of Thedas was at her fingertips.
She travels to Ferelden first and meets with a young boy and his mother. A month prior, his favorite cat had escaped the house and gotten lost. The neighborhood had banded together to help him find it but after a week of searching, they’d given up. A few short days later, however, his mother had opened the door to behold a curious sight: a wisp twirling in the air, teasing the cat, as it guided it back to their doorstep.
She departs for Orlais next, meeting with an eccentric noble in Val Royeaux. Anwen is apprehensive at first but, upon seeing the state of his office, she relaxes. Books and papers litter every surface, interrupted by the occasional potted plant. A scholar at heart, he was disinterested in The Game and more interested in the diversity of flora throughout Thedas. More specifically, flowers. He’d only recently completed a paper on the impact of climate on various types when his office was burglarized. Initially distraught, he’d stumbled upon a wisp in the town square a few days later. As it dipped and dodged playfully, the noble had followed, happy for a distraction. What he found, instead, was his paper hidden among several wooden crates.
Tales of wisp behavior take her to Rivain and Antiva next. She documents the stories just as before, including as much detail as her hand can handle.
Eventually, however, the trail runs cold. The influx of stories slows, leaving Anwen with dozens of puzzle pieces and without a clue as to how they fit together. No matter how many times she rereads her notes, she can’t find a pattern. It’s discouraging.
With no leads and a dwindling stipend, she returns to Nevarra.
Standing outside of Professor Volkarin’s office, she inhales deeply before knocking.
“Come in!”
Pushing on the heavy oak door, she’s greeted by the site of the headmaster playing with a wisp. As he moves his hand through air, the wisp follows, bobbing and spinning around his wrist.
“It’s so good to see you, Anwen!” he smiles. “How goes your thesis?”
“It’s…well…” she stutters. “You could say I’ve hit a dead end.”
“Oh?”
“I know the academy paid for my lodging,” she adds hastily. “I’m prepared to work off that debt.”
“Nonsense,” Volkarin laughs. “It was a grant to assist you in your research.”
“Which yielded nothing,” Anwen sighs.
“Didn’t it?”
Anwen feels a surge of annoyance; why was he toying with her? She’d already failed to substantiate her first thesis topic and would now have to scramble to complete another.
“I couldn’t find a pattern,” she replies, trying desperately to control her tone.
“Take a seat,” Volkarin responds, gesturing to the same plush leather chair she’d sat in years before. “Walk me through it.”
Sighing, Anwen resigns herself to the task and drops into the chair. Pulling her journal free from her bookbag, she walks the headmaster through her research, sharing the details of each story and her own observations.
“I think it’s obvious that something is guiding them,” she concludes, closing her journal. “But the stories stopped before I could figure out what.”
Volkarin considers her for a long moment. Then, with careful movements, he bids the wisp farewell and stands from his chair.
“Perhaps it’s not something,” he begins, rounding the corner of his desk. Leaning against the edge, he stands before her. “Maybe it’s someone.”
“Someone?” Anwen asks quickly. “Why?”
“You once asked me if I knew the leader of the Veilguard.”
“I did, yes,” Anwen replies, her confusion growing.
“Well, to answer your question, I did know her,” he smiles. “She was a dear friend, as was her wife.”
“How? She died before you were born?”
Volkarin’s smile only grows and he leans forward. “Can you keep a secret, Anwen?”
Gulping, Anwen’s mind races. Perhaps her classmates were right; Professor Volkarin was a Lich.
“Yes,” she nods nervously. “I think so.”
“I’ll take it,” he laughs. He brings his arm up, flat palm facing his chest. With a single, fluid movement, he swipes upwards.
Anwen blinks rapidly, her mind struggling to catch up. Where there was once dark hair, a mustache, eyeballs and skin, there now stands a skeleton.
“You’re a Lich!” she exclaims, jolting backwards in her chair.
“Hardly,” he hisses, chuckling as he brings his arm back down to restore the glamour charm. “I’m a wisp.”
Several stunned moments pass as Anwen flounders. Finally, she musters a single word: “What?”
“I was created by my late father, Emmrich Volkarin,” he explains. “He built my body himself. When he joined the Veilguard, I went with him.”
“You… you were in the Veilguard?”
“Rook would say yes,” he chuckles. “But I was more of an assistant back then. Making tea, stitching clothes and playing rock-paper-scissors.”
“Wait,” Anwen blinks, memories rushing forward. “You’re Manfred?”
“Just Fred,” he smiles. “But yes.”
“I…I don’t know what to say.”
“I apologize; I’m sure this is all overwhelming.”
“Yes, but,” Anwen nods. “Why tell me? What does this have to do with my thesis?”
“Ah, right,” he laughs. “As you might imagine, I have something of a rapport with wisps and spirits. I can hear and sense things others cannot. You were right to chase these reports, Anwen. The wisps are acting on behalf of someone.”
“But who?” she asks quickly. “And where?”
“I can’t tell you who,” he smiles. “But I can tell you where: Dock Town.”
“Dock Town?”
“A neighborhood in Minrathous,” he nods. “You’ll want to be leaving soon, however.”
“How will I know where to go when I get there?”
“The wisps will guide you,” he explains before standing upright and moving back to his chair.
As he takes his seat, Anwen stands. Before she turns towards the door, she bows her head. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“There’s no need,” he replies easily. Then: “But if you feel strongly about it, you can tell them I send my regards.”
It’s clear he’s not talking about wisps but Anwen knows pressing him for details will yield nothing. Instead, she grasps the handles of the doors and throws them open, eager to get back on the road.
After nearly a month away from the Necropolis, Anwen is delighted when Margo insists on tagging along.
As they step through the Dock Town Eluvian, they pause as a wisp flutters through the mirror behind them. Before Anwen can read its intent, however, it slips through a wall and out of sight. Rushing outside, they watch the walls for the small magical bobble.
“You lookin’ for that weird glowy-thingy?”
Turning, Anwen spots a gruff-looking man nearby, leaning against a wagon.
“Yes,” she replies, in too much of a hurry to correct him.
“It went on down that way,” he shrugs, pointing behind him. “Towards the chantry. It’s been happenin’ a lot lately.”
Anwen and Margo quickly thank him before rushing forward, following the road markers pointing to the chantry. Standing outside of its courtyard, they scan the area.
“There!” Margo says quickly, pointing towards a nearby market. “I saw one!”
They take off once more, following short glimpses of blue tendrils through markets and residential areas. Eventually, it floats through an elevator leading to the docks.
The elevator is painfully slow. Anwen twitches in place, nervous that the trail’s already lost.
“It’s fine,” Margo murmurs. “We’ll find them.”
Anwen can only nod.
As they step off the elevator, Anwen quickly searches for the wisp that had acted as their guide. To her horror, it vanished.
Hanging her head in defeat, she feels a hand slip into hers. Then, with subtle movements, it jerks to the side, as though to get her attention. Lifting her head, she turns to find Margo staring wide-eyed at the docks ahead of them. Following her gaze, Anwen gasps.
Dozens of wisps appear suddenly, tendrils tangling as they press against each other. In the ten years Anwen spent in the Necropolis, she’s never seen them behave like this.
Slowly, the individual lights merge together, coalescing into a form. Anwen blinks. A spirit awash in blue light now sat on the edge of the dock, legs dangling off the side. Her features are bright and difficult to ascertain, but she can just make out long hair, a tall collar and a harness. Leaning forward, she squints, afraid she’ll disturb the anomaly if she walks any closer.
As she does, warm gold light floods the dock next to the spirit and another form appears. Another spirit, this one elven in appearance, a mop of curly hair adorning the crown of her head. Stooping down, it sits beside the blue spirit.
“Anwen,” Margo breathes. “I think that’s Rook and Neve Gallus.”
Anwen’s mind reels. Is that why Professor Volkarin knew where to go? Were they responsible for the wisps behaving so strangely?
Several minutes pass before the figures stand. Anwen watches as they regard each other and then, to her surprise, kiss.
“I thought they were roommates,” Margo hisses. “The texts-”
“Were wrong,” Anwen chuckles, squeezing her hand.
Suddenly, there’s a bright light and the figures vanish. In their place floats a single wisp.
It zooms forward without hesitation, circling Anwen and Margo before rushing toward the elevator. Sparing each other a quick glance, they follow quickly, throwing open the elevator door and pulling the lever.
When they reach the top, Anwen is relieved to see it waited, trilling happily as they step into the market. They follow after it once more, passing the market and chantry as they retrace their steps. When it bypasses the building housing the Eluvian, Anwen doesn’t question it.
They pursue the small orb through winding streets and bustling intersections before it slips lazily through the door of a dilapidated apartment complex.
“It wants us to enter a condemned building?” Margo asks, tilting her head.
Although she shares Margo’s apprehension, Anwen has come too far to stop now. Stepping forward, she tries the handle and is surprised to find it’s unlocked. Dust billows out as the door opens, and the pair cough as they wave the debris cloud away from their faces. Once it clears, they peer inside. The apartment is empty save a few chairs and an old table.
Stepping inside, Anwen steps cautiously, eyes scanning the space for the wisp. As she passes the doorway to the bedroom, she spots it floating gently above the floor.
As she steps inside, the wisp descends, vanishing beneath a floorboard.
Dropping to her knees, she pulls her backpack from her back and flings it open, grasping a small knife within its contents. She listens as Margo’s footsteps grow closer, but her eyes are fixed on the floorboard. Taking the knife, she attempts to wedge it between two boards, only to find the knife won’t go through. The gap is there, wide enough to fit the flat of her blade, but an invisible force stops it each time.
“It’s a ward,” Margo murmurs behind her.
“It is?”
“Yeah,” Margo replies quickly, joining Anwen on the dusty floor. “Give me a second, I can untangle it.”
Anwen pulls back enough to give Margo space to work. Despite her racing heart and overflowing curiosity, she finds herself entranced. Her girlfriend is smiling, hands moving through the air in an almost hypnotic manner.
A sound akin to ice cracking rings through the air, and Anwen’s eyes shift back to the floorboard.
“I think… I think it’s ready,” Margo breathes.
Nodding, Anwen tries once more to wedge the blade between the boards. It works.
Twisting the knife, she finds leverage against the neighboring board and pushes down. The sound of wood splintering follows and then, with one sharp movement, it pops free.
There, beneath the floor, is a journal.
Hands shaking, Anwen reaches inside and scoops it up.
Holding in both hands, she stares at it with reverence, afraid to do more.
“It’s okay, Anwen,” Margo whispers. “That was one of the most sophisticated wards I’ve ever seen. I’m sure whoever left it here knew how to preserve it.”
Nodding, Anwen swallows and lifts her left hand to grip the edges of the cover. As she opens it to the first page, she spots an envelope. Carefully placing the book on the floor, she turns it over and blinks.
To Anwen and Margo.
Heart racing, Anwen opens the envelope and pulls a small note from within.
Anwen and Margo,
I’m sure this letter must seem very bizarre to you, but let me assure you that this is not a scam. My wife, Rook, is a Spirit of Fate. She knew you would come, just like she knew we’d find each other once more. I’m passing to you all of my notes on wisps and spirits. I’m no scholar but given my time in the Fade and the Spirits I call family, I’m hopeful that they’ll be of use to you.
Be good to each other; it’s worthwhile.
-Neve Gallus
P.S. - Rook asks that you give Fred our regards.
As Anwen stares unblinkingly at the letter, Margo gently lifts the journal and flips through its pages.
“Anwen,” she gasps, leaning to the side to reveal the pages. “This is… there’s so much here.”
Turning, Anwen’s eyes drink in the details and drawings before her. It’s overwhelming.
What did Neve mean when she said her wife was a spirit? Was that how they met on the docks earlier? And why did they choose her? Why not someone else? Anyone else?
“You did it, Anwen,” Margo breathes, pulling Anwen from her spiraling thoughts. “You figured it out. I love you so much.”
Anwen blinks. To her knowledge, neither of them had ever said those words before.
“You love me?”
“Yeah,” Margo laughs giddily. “I love you.”
As Anwen leans in, crushing her lips against Margo’s, the wisp blinks from existence, giving them privacy.
Moving through the Fade, it reappears thousands of miles away, twirling through the air above Fred’s desk. Lifting his gaze, he smiles.
“Hi, Neve.”
As her form coalesces, Neve inhales the salty bay air.
“Is it strange if I say I missed this?” she asks, eyes closing as a soft breeze brushes against her skin.
“No,” Rook replies, stooping down to sit beside her. “This was always your favorite spot.”
Smiling, Neve opens her eyes and turns towards her wife. “Just mine?”
“No, it was my favorite, as well.”
Neve considers her for a moment. “How long?"
“Around fifty years, give or take,” she shrugs. “You scattered further than I thought.”
“That’s a long time, Rook,” Neve breathes.
“It is,” Rook nods. “But it’s over now.”
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t affect you,” Neve sighs.
“Time’s funny in the Fade. It wasn’t really that long for me. Plus, I was plenty busy. Some of your aspects kept getting distracted.”
“They’re wisps of curiosity, Rook. Of course they did.”
“I suppose I can’t stay mad at them,” Rook laughs. “Especially when they proved me right. They do like you.”
“Okay, yes, I admit it,” Neve huffs playfully, rolling her eyes. “They like me. Happy?”
“You have no idea,” Rook breathes.
Neve’s expression softens and she smiles at her wife. “So what now?”
Getting to her feet, Rook holds her hand out. Accepting it, Neve allows herself to be hoisted to her feet.
“Whatever you want,” Rook replies with a crooked smile. “Name it.”
“You are aware I don’t ask for much, right?”
“And I’m saying you can.”
Smiling delightedly, Neve leans in and captures Rook’s lips with her own. As strong arms circle her waist, she feels her being begin to merge with her wife’s; a level of closeness she’d only dreamed about in the past.
As they drift through the Veil, Neve pictures the moment her ice dome shattered and she was greeted by the sight of a disheveled elf in traveler’s clothes. Smiling into the kiss, a single thought repeats in her mind like a prayer:
I’m so glad you found me.
The End.