Chapter Text
The rubble is shifting precariously beneath Thea's boots, the weight of the Hurlock's sword forcing her spine to bend unnaturally, blades crossed to keep the gore-slick steel from cleaving her body into two halves.
All around are the roars and shrieks of Darkspawn, the clash of bloodied metal clanging amidst war cries and draconian snarls; a jettison of fire engulfs the underground passage and the overwhelming stench of charred flesh permeates the stagnant air.
Taash's silver braid swirls in an arc as they bring their axe down with a tremendous howl, cleaving a Genlock's skull in half, and Davrin's follow-up strike sure and swift, the corpse sent sprawling into its oncoming comrades. Further up the stone passage, the familiar green light of necromantic magic subdues a pair of Shrieks.
Above her, the Hurlock crunches down, teeth bared in a gruesome sneer. Thea's shoulders shake, holding fast, her sliding boots failing to leverage against the impossible burden.
“Emmrich!” she screams, bracing with all the remaining energy in her core.
A ward washes over her skin, the comfort of a hug, and the enormous weight crushing down relents at last. The green glow of necrosis ensnares the Hurlock and sends it reeling, body crippling helplessly and skittering down the rubble pile. Boots sliding uncontrollably, her footing gives way and she careens backwards, rolling through an avalanche of bloody gravel to land heavily in debris.
The Hurlock's corpse lies only a few feet away, and she crawls backwards, hands stinging as she presses her weight into bits of gravel and metal shards. Heat sears into her flesh, and she winces, jerking her hand free; it comes away blackened, a dangerous ruby glow pocketed at the punctures in her palm, and she looks down with a horrified gasp.
Beneath her, the eerie crimson glow bubbles and churns, sticky black liquid plastering to her body. She recoils, struggling to move clear, but the unstable ground shifts and she collapses sideways as the debris gives way, plunging her halfway into a festering crevice of Blight.
“No, no, no!” she mumbles, terrified, hands scrabbling for purchase, but her movements only serve to loosen the earth more.
The soft rubble lets go, the mountain above her looming ominously, and her breath freezes in her throat as she sees a rotted timber coming loose.
Rook, you must move! Solas's voice, impossibly, reverberates through her skull.
It happens all too quickly. Falling, and bringing the rubble mountain down in a swift avalanche, stone bounces off her head and shoves her into the ground beneath the crimson pool. The taste of rot floods her screaming mouth, and the laughter of Archdemons rings in her ears.
Climbing the collapsed rubble heap, Emmrich cannot keep the worrisome ache from constricting his lungs. It was the last place he saw her, holding off the Hurlock; the ebbing magic on his fingertips still bear the ward he cast over her flesh and bone in a hasty effort to provide her some defense whilst fending off a pair of Shrieks.
Nearby, turning over bodies of the undead, are Davrin and Taash, having joined in the search effort; both their faces are stricken, calling out Rook's name occasionally and checking back and forth with one another.
Looking down the edge of the rubble, Emmrich sees where a freshly-disturbed pile has slid. Climbing down cautiously, he investigates the top of the debris, and through its makeshift lattice of rotted timber and larger stones, he glimpses the threatening glow of Blight.
And there, in the center, a familiar gloved hand.
“I've found her!” he shouts. Using his staff to wedge beneath a board, he pries it aside and reaches down into the narrow space. It's mere inches too far, and he strains, the rubble underneath creaking ominously.
“Got her?” Taash inquires somewhere nearby. Davrin is there alongside him then; he doesn't miss the bitten off curse as the Warden sees the Blight she's trapped in.
“She's too far to reach.”
Taash leaps down further below, shifting rocks and peering into the narrow space. “Here! I can see her!”
Skittering down the rubble pile, they see a small gap directly in front of Rook, and Emmrich is down on his stomach before anyone else moves, reaching into the narrow crevice. A chunk of rock scrapes his collar.
“I got this,” Taash is saying, grasping the edges of the rock beneath. Their biceps tense as they hoist upright, spine straight, and everyone hears the stone grinding. “Can't hold… long,” they grit out. “Hurry up!”
Worming halfway into the tiny space, the necromancer winds a hand around her wrist. Carefully avoiding the Blight, he clutches his fingers tight enough to bruise.
“I have her!”
“I'll pull. On three,” Davrin shouts, grasping the necromancer's ankles. “One… two…”
On three, Taash heaves the rock up and the Warden pulls; Emmrich slides backwards in a flurry of gravel, dragging Thea with him. The moment they’re clear, the Qunari releases their hold and staggers back, and the rubble caves in entirely, burying the Blight from view.
Rolling the Shadow Dragon onto her back, her head flops limply on her neck, her body heavy and unresponsive. She's coated in filth, her almond-brown skin stained as black as ominous clouds gathering before a storm. A shimmering red, haunting and deadly, oozes from the cracks in her skin where wounds are steeped in Blight.
Tugging his handkerchief from a pocket, he hastily wipes her face. Dread sinks into his heart as he clears the corners of her eyes and lips, and he feels the Warden's mood darken above him without a single word spoken.
“Is she okay?” Taash asks, kneeling beside him. “That crap is all over her.”
“I know,” Emmrich replies sharply, lifting their fallen comrade into his arms. Her head rolls into the crook of his neck; Davrin and Taash share a concerned look.
“We must return to the Lighthouse.”
~*~
The Fade Prison ripples and shivers in a concealing shadow not present before. Through the endless sky, red lightning crackles at the speed of a snail, fingers of crimson light stretching at a miniscule pace, the storm slowed in time.
The grand crevice is absent, the reaching hands of stone gripped together in form of a massive bridge, and crossing them in a marching stride is Solas. The Dread Wolf's usually collected demeanor is instead volatile and panicked, and he is upon Thea in mere seconds. She flinches back as his storm surges in close, glaring down at her in rage.
“What have you done?” he shouts, the power of his voice echoing through the darkened skies with a force like thunder. “The danger you now face having been poisoned by Blight! We are doomed due to your incompetence.”
Hot ire quakes in her gut and she straightens her spine, meeting him head on. “I did not choose to fall in it! How dare-”
Solas presses his mouth into a hard line, drawing back, nostrils flaring. “Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain stand poised to decimate your world and there is much to do. Now is not the time for weakness. It will be all too easy for everything I have done to fail.”
“That we have done. My companions and I. Our allies. Morrigan. Inquisitor Lavellan,” she adds bitingly, and is pleased to see his ego deflate at the mention of his lover. “We have done our part and I will not remain idle while those twisted monsters seek to bring damnation to my home. The world as it is may not be good enough for you, but whether I'm Blighted or not, I don't intend to let it die.”
The Trickster God has lowered his head in her tirade, and nods silently when she quiets. “You are right, Thea. Forgive me.”
“I will forgive you when you don't stab me in the back at the end of all this,” she says coldly, her gaze level. “Let me out of this place. I need to see if everyone is alright.”
The prison ebbs, falling away, and she sees his haunted face turning away as all is shrouded.
Flames crackle in the lit hearth, dancing flashes of amber and rust illuminating the laboratory; the comforting light casts its glow across the stone floor and to the cot nearby, draped with blankets and accompanied by a chair in which the necromancer pages through his third book of the evening. He's already read from cover to cover History of the Blights and a heavily annotated copy of A Study of the Fifth Blight.
On the cot, unconscious to the world around her, sleeps Thea. Emmrich had seen to employing Manfred's help in bathing the ailing woman; despite his intense affections for the young Shadow Dragon, the sight of her nude form streaked with remnants of Blight and grime from travelling opened a bottomless well of concern for her wellbeing and the desire to keep her safe. All he could feel, sponging clean the smears of Blight from her tawny skin, was the simple yet complex want to protect her.
He had done his utmost to inspect her thoroughly and record intensive documentation with deliberate care; her skin showed no signs of decay; pulling back her eyelids found them to be clear, but devoid of consciousness.
After Manfred had departed to continue his magic studies, he had taken the opportunity to mend any wounds Thea had picked up in the Hurlock fight and her rough tumble from the debris pile - a few shallow scratches here or a deeper cut there among a litany of bruises. Upon finishing, he dressed her himself and took the time to brush out her hair, a frizzled mess of waves just on the edge of forming curls, lest the tangles create painful mats.
To be safe, he has drawn a vial of blood of hers to monitor, wrapping a strip of cloth around the bleeding point at her inner elbow. He placed it in the holder at his desk; the darkest red, syrupy and smooth, and absent of any oddities. Normal human blood.
Once satisfied she was cared for adequately, he took it upon himself to read a number of volumes dictating recorded descriptions of blight poisoning and the awful transformation of people into different beings - dangerous Hurlocks and Genlocks, towering Ogres, and the deadly swift Shrieks.
Though day and night were not depicted clearly in their portion of the Fade, Emmrich is nodding over his book as what the party had determined night to be fell upon the place, exhausted from the long day; the chill is abated by the crackling fire where he occupied his favourite chair brought alongside the cot, when the rustling blanket alerted his attention to his patient blinking in confusion.
Awake, at last.
“Hello, dearest,” he spoke gently, unable to stop himself from smiling. “Welcome back to us.”
“Emmrich. Is everyone-” she attempts to sit upright and halts. Alarmed by her sudden queer expression, he abandons the book to slide off his leg to catch her shoulders before she tips off the cot entirely. She crumples against him.
“Steady now,” he tilts her head back, examining her eyes. Her pupils shrink as the glimmering lights around the laboratory shine into them - a normal response. “Deep breaths. It will pass.”
Her full lips part as she inhales. Nodding encouragingly, he takes the opportunity to palpate the lymph nodes in her neck.
“No one came to harm. We are all safe,” he assures, and sees some of her tension subside. “Based on my observations, you appear to be quite well. Would you mind remaining here for monitoring until morning?”
Fingers still on her neck, he feels her pulse quicken, and her eyebrow quirks. “Are you asking me to stay the night, Emmrich?” Blunt as she often is, there's a twinkle in her eyes.
Pausing momentarily, and registering precisely how his query could've been taken, he is familiar with her flirtatious nature and how often he would notice her lingering gaze; thinking back informs him of it following him only shortly after their initial meeting.
They are new to this dance, their affections known and the occasional kiss shared, but she has remained timid in advancements and he respectfully demure. Though the occasional lingering touch hints at their mutual want for more, they have yet to cross over the boundary into permanence.
Her virginity, and the pressing weight of the world state constantly at their door, has given Emmrich every moment of pause to be considerate and let their feelings unveil naturally. Aside from being as gentlemanly as she deserves, and although not without the vigor of his youth, he already knows should they breach the threshold, there would be nothing on Thedas that could keep him from having her and letting her have him however she desired.
But more so, it wouldn't appear wholly professional to engage with his patient, but she is his friend and comrade into arms foremost, and more so, he unabashedly desires her company beyond mere sex.
A little harmless teasing feels more akin to relief, an unspoken she's alright, she's safe.
“That I am,” he responds, pleased with how steady he sounds, and delighting as her heartbeat skips again, and her playful look shifts to surprise before becoming a softly radiating warmth.
“Then I will stay.”
“Rest now. I will prepare you something to eat. I am sure the others are desperate to see that you're doing well.”
One by one in rapid succession, everyone gathers in the laboratory, led by Taash and Neve. Thea grins at the familiar faces bright with relief and returning smiles. Her fellow Shadow Dragon comes to sit on the edge of the cot, giving her a quick hug.
“How are you feeling?”
“A little off. Emmrich has me on bedrest for the day.”
The crowd parts as Lucanis brings a wooden tray, Bellara bouncing on her toes right behind.
Emmrich, puttering at his desk through another massive tome dating back an entire era, surveys the tray with a satisfied hum; laden with slices of soft bread, fragrant cheeses, sweet apricots, baby tomatoes, quartered plums, and a dish of hummus, Lucanis was certain to ensure Thea's meal was nutritious and appetizing both - vital to her recovery.
A pot of aromatic coffee, along with cream and sugar, are placed down by Bellara, the Veil Jumper smiling encouragingly. “I hope you'll feel better once you've eaten,” she says.
“It is most ideal to keep your strength up,” the necromancer adds, having joined them.
The Shadow Dragon plucks a tomato from the tray, popping it into her mouth and chewing. When there is no apparent sign of displeasure, she readily consumes the platter's contents with a soft sigh. “I'd forgotten how delicious bread is. Isn't that strange?”
“The Blight can mess with taste,” Davrin inputs. “Took me weeks to eat normal food again.”
“What were you eating then?” Lucanis inquires, Bellara's inquisitive eye peeking past his shoulder.
“Uh,” the Grey Warden rubs his neck nervously, and gestures to Thea. “Don't want to make her sick, but I can tell you it wasn’t fruit and hummus.”
“I feel like a pig,” she pipes up, mouth stuffed full of plums. “Does anyone want some?”
“It's for you,” Bellara insists, but she samples an apricot, as to not leave her friend feeling lonesome. Taash helps themselves to bread and hummus, sitting on the floor at Thea's feet and crossing their legs comfortably. Harding accepts a tomato from the Qunari.
“So, is she clear of Blight? Neve said you were awake all night,” Lucanis asks Emmrich. The necromancer's tender look hardens, and he rubs at the dim shadows hollowing beneath his eyes. Thea is ashamed to realize he hadn't slept at all since the day before.
“Truthfully, I have not been able to detect any indication of Blight sickness. But it is early yet,” he adds cautiously. “Our dear girl is showing remarkable resistance. I am pleased her appetite is sound.”
“Good,” Harding says, grinning. “Otherwise no one would keep us from getting into trouble.”
“Speak for yourself, Lace,” Neve scolds, but there's no true heat to it.
“Alright. Tearstone Island. We know where we're going and what to expect,” Rook says. “We have less than a month to prepare and the Evanuris will surely anticipate our being there, no matter what we do.”
“I believe all of us have handled our personal dilemmas,” Neve glances at the group, and there are murmurs of agreement and nods all around. “We stand at our strongest. Thanks to you, for being there for us.”
Thea smiles, bumping her shoulder kindly off her fellow Shadow Dragon's. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”
Pouring coffee and cream, and mixing in a spoonful of sugar, she takes a sip and sighs contentedly. “Are those the new beans, Lucanis?”
“Si,” he grins. “I was finally able to find some.”
“I don't think I could go back to-” she halts mid-sentence, lips pressed hard together. She delicately places the coffee cup down, swallowing with difficulty, and shakes her head. “I'm sorry. I just felt sick for a-”
She abruptly pitches forward. Neve springs upright as Emmrich moves forward, one hand supporting her chest and catching her hair neatly in the other. Taash rolls aside as a thick slurry of half-digested food is vomited onto the rug. Bellara gasps before she can help herself. In the middle of the vomit is specks of clotted blood and what appears to be…
“Blight?!” Davrin exclaims, catching the Veil Jumper's arm and tugging her away. Lucanis looks on solemnly. Thea wipes her mouth, expression forlorn and guilty, then she buckles and grips her stomach. Emmrich strokes her back, silent and frowning deeply.
“I think I need to lie down for a bit,” she coughs. “Sorry everyone. I-”
“There's no need to apologize.” Neve smooths back an errant strand of Thea's hair. “Take it easy.”
One by one, but somber and dejected, they depart from the laboratory. As they go, hands take hers, squeezing kindly when she holds a second longer, or rub her shoulder in comforting sympathy.
A hollowness opens up in her gut as the door swings closed and they disappear completely. She turns her gaze to Emmrich's back, where the professor has picked up the vial of her blood. Though faint, she can see specks of glowing matter in the liquid.
“Emmrich?”
He stirs, as though returning from distant thoughts, and comes to her side. He hands her the vial. It ebbs even brighter.
“It is as I feared.”
“Is there a way to get it out of me?” she appeals, eyes wide. “Is there anything you could try?”
He warily shakes his head. “No. Or, rather, nothing I would risk attempting.”
“What would you do? If I…”
Weren't me.
She cannot bring herself to say the words. It stings bittersweet; Emmrich is attuned to the living and the dead, he is trained in the art of death and understands the soul whether alive or passed beyond. He could push the boundaries of medicine and transform death into life, if he pleased. With a snap of his fingers, or a wave of his hand, she is aware her flesh could be a mere vessel of opportunity to undo with science and dark magic.
“If I weren't afraid of destroying everything you are and forcing you to endure great suffering, all for a mere fraction of chance,” he sighs, shutting his eyes, and Thea suddenly sees a man far older and wearier than she recognizes him to be.
He won't, because it is fundamentally against his nature, and because it is her.
“Then we'll find a way,” she encourages, sliding off the cot and stepping nearer. His sullen, wretched gaze finds her standing in front of him, an encouraging smile on her face.
Brave, for the sake of others.
“We will defeat this thing. Together.”
“Together,” he repeats, and seems to brace himself, nodding with clarity. “So we shall.”
~*~
The first complication is eating.
Nothing stays down, no matter how little or its composition. Lucanis brings an array of soups, in the hope the thinner meals will be easier on her stomach, but to no avail; at all hours is the kitchen alive with the bustling companions of the Veilguard, chopping vegetables and laboring over every food imaginable.
The discovery is harrowing when, out of sheer desperation, Harding comes by with a thin bone broth. Thea, throat aching from rejecting meal after meal, is opposed to daring to swallow even a single mouthful. Harding pleads with her to try, and with a bucket at the ready, she takes a sip.
And another.
A wave of hope lingers between them when the bowl lies empty and the sickly Shadow Dragon shows no signs of nausea. She wipes sweat from her brow, a mild smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
Harding races off to the kitchens, and the Veilguard make themselves a celebratory supper of everything they've cooked - excepting the bone broth soup.
Though relieved, Emmrich looks on, mildly concerned at Thea's tolerance for only meat.
The remaining day passes uneventfully, soups of venison and chicken and fish on rotation from the pantry. Lucanis and Neve visit the markets in Minrathous, seeking out the freshest cuts, bringing back quality marrow. Thea eats everything, tempting a slice of bread or a bowl of rice in between, finding it possible to inch towards normalcy again.
All the while, Emmrich begins running a series of tests. He takes a fresh blood sample from her arm as evening closes in, and a row of glowing red vials begin forming a line in the holder at his desk. Every second is imperative to slowing the progression of the Blight; on the morning of the third, she is awake and waiting with her arm out before he's even at the bottom of the staircase.
After every blood sample, he hesitantly asks her to undress. At first, the request is met with rose-stained cheeks and averted eyes as she holds out her arms, shivering at his fingertips lightly tracing what they surmise to be hives, a sheet of parchment and quill kept nearby for notes about any new find. He has her open her mouth to examine her tongue and throat, look upwards to see the whites of her eyes, or feel her lymph nodes in her throat, under her arms, and, with some shyness on both their parts, in her groin.
He's entirely respectful about the matter, his hands quick and impersonal, but exceedingly gentle. She notices when they do linger, it's at the point of a wrist, the edge of her jaw, or hovering just so over her back or the curve of her hip.
Gentlemanly.
On the third day's afternoon, for fun, Bellara brings a roasted turkey leg, dripping with fat, and it's consumed in seconds.
“I'm starving,” Thea says. “Is there anymore?”
“I can go check!” the Veil Jumper exclaims excitedly, racing off and returning shortly with a plate piled high.
“I would be careful,” Emmrich calls warningly from the massive copper magnifier where he's examining a contained droplet of her blood.
“But she hasn't been sick in days!” Bellara protests. “Besides, she needs to get her strength up for the trip to Arlathan.”
The professor fixes Bellara with a stern glare. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was verifying the integrity of the barriers in the archives and I invited Thea to come with me next time,” the elf shrugs, purposefully ignoring the increasingly-irritated necromancer. “I thought some fresh air would be good for her.”
“Thea is sick, Miss Lutare,” Emmrich snaps. “Blight is ravaging her organs and without any concern for her welfare, you presumed it best to… to whisk her off on some grand adventure?”
“It's alright, Emmrich,” the woman in question cuts in softly. “I'll be fine.”
He doesn't shift his gaze to her. “That may be so, but until your blood is absent of Blight, I cannot risk having you away from care.”
“So, I'm a prisoner here, then?”
With these words, he looks to her, anger melting into remorse. “There is Blight in your blood. Please… please at least consider the danger.”
A chill settles over everyone then, a hushed silence falling, and Thea hardens. Mouth a sharp line, she nods silently at Bellara, who collects the plate and departs quickly.
“I am sorry-”
“I understand, Professor,” she bites out. “If there aren't any other tests today, I'd like to sit in the library.”
“Of course you can-”
Before he can finish his sentence, she's already leaving, spine stiff and fists clenched, refusing to meet his eye. Regret and fear pound through his chest, and he returns to the desk, staring at the Blighted blood.
The specks have altered into a fluid state, mixing into the plasma and cells more readily. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her it's worsening, but it won't be long before he doesn't have to.
She remains in the library, feet tucked up beneath her on the green couch all afternoon, a stack of racy serial novelettes at her elbow. Borrowed from Bellara, the elf had snuck in once to check on her and offered the books with glee, gossiping at length about Harding and Taash having fondue and making gooey eyes at each other, and having seen Neve leaving the kitchen half-clothed the other day.
“It would've been nice going out together,” Thea tells her. “I hope we can soon.”
“Won't the professor be upset?”
“I don't really care what he thinks. I'm doing better, aren't I?” she drags a hand through her forelock, heaving a deep sigh. A few strands are caught in her fingers when she lets go.
“He's worried about you. Didn't you at least mention our trip?”
“I didn't think he'd care. If he isn't poking and prodding me, he's hunched over his desk and yelling at poor Manfred to bring him books and tools and other necromancy shit.”
Bellara frowns. “He cares about you, Thea. Haven't you noticed? He barely sleeps at night. Everyone's mentioned seeing him in the kitchen or pacing circles around the courtyard.”
Guilt burns fiercely. No, she didn't notice, not until her friend's word makes her realize the soft skin under his eyes was heavier and darker than usual.
Hours trickle by and the candle she is reading by grows dimmer; once her toes are freezing and she starts feeling jumpy, she closes the serial and makes her way up the curving stairs to the corridor leading down to the laboratory.
Opening the creaky door, she sees Manfred sitting by the crackling fireplace, and the necromancer nowhere to be found. Thea pivots her attention up, wondering if the professor is on the balcony.
Ascending the steps, she finds him in his bed, and for a moment she's afraid he's already asleep. Meaning to head back down, the blankets stir and a ruffled salt-and-pepper head emerges.
“Thea?”
“Yeah, it's me.” She hangs by awkwardly, wringing her hands together. “I… uh…”
“Are you alright?” He's shoving the blankets aside, casting a quick spell in his hand and summoning a greenish orb of flaming light. She is at once drawn to the exhausted lines and sleep-weary gaze full of concern.
“I'm okay. I'm okay, Emmrich,” she raises her hands, palms out. He halts, the burden of worry lifting, but only leaving behind a man utterly drained.
“I… please forgive me for earlier. I do not ever hope you feel yourself to be a prisoner, but simply understand…” he pauses, struggling to find the right words, then ultimately abandons his effort. “You are sick.”
“I know you don't want me to feel like a prisoner,” she replies. “But… while I still could, I wanted to take some time. While I'm… myself.”
“Well, if your appetite remains stable, it will ensure you're able to maintain your strength. There is something I would like to try, if I am not able to neutralize the Blight.”
“What is it?”
“Davrin visited earlier. He has spoken with Evka, and she and Antoine have given us this.” He holds out a paper with Antoine's handwriting. Reading it quickly, she gasps at a dawning ray of hope.
“Is this… what I think it is?”
“Indeed. A few records indicate a certain species of flower growing in the Korcari Wilds was used to treat Mabari hounds infected with Blight poisoning. Furthermore, dragons are able to trap Blight within cysts grown in their bodies, preventing further spread.”
“So, if we had this flower and a dragon…”
“Theoretically, with an infusion of the blossom's properties or the correct samples taken from a dragon, one could provide a prospective cure. It's a wonder no one has attempted the method among Blighted individuals!” he declares.
“Or it didn't work,” she surmises grimly. “But first thing's first: We get the flower, and we find a drag-”
Breaking on a yawn, Emmrich tsks at her and gestures to the staircase. “We will see what can be done, but you still need your rest.”
“Same to you,” she meets his eye knowingly.
“Touché. But if someone must lose sleep, I would rather it were me than you.”
Making her way down to the ground floor once again, she sees the green light of his summoned flame extinguish. Manfred is settled in the chair by the way, his glowing eyes dimmed somewhat as he rests.
Thea sinks down onto the cot by the fire, grateful the blanket has warmed. She curls up comfortably, and before she slips into a dreamless sleep, a bubble of excitement swells up in her chest.
A cure.
In the middle of the night, Emmrich is woken by the awful sound of retching. He finds her hurling her guts up, throat raw and voice gone ragged; now one week to the day she fell into the blight, she manages only a sip of water when it is offered, and nothing else.
Orders are issued and a plan is hastily thrown together in the early hours before dawn. Two parties are cobbled together, sleepy faces and half-dressed figures gathered together in the laboratory. Taash, leading Harding and Lucanis, are destined to locate a dragon for blood and tissue samples. Davrin, leading Neve and Bellara, are to travel into the Korcari Wilds to obtain the elusive blossom native to the marshes.
Hugs and wishes of farewell are made, and as they pile into their armor and traveling clothes to depart for the eluvian, Thea cries when the Lighthouse becomes quiet but holds fiercely to the hope that if her team can accomplish two miracles, there will be a cure.
But it doesn’t change the fact that everyone is frightened, and Emmrich most of all.
Thea wanders the courtyard in nervous circles to abate the waves of stress rolling through her stomach. Each time she passes the housing of an absent companion, risking their necks hunting dragons or roaming in faraway marshes in search of a tiny blossom, she speaks to them as though they are there; no more than small, casual things, simple thoughts as she thinks of all they are facing themselves. She wants to be here, when they come home, and help them find their way forward.
Passing the kitchen the umpteenth time, she smells something incredibly delicious, stomach growling in hunger. It's rich and heavy, her mouth immediately salivating, and she wonders if Lucanis left food cooking by mistake.
It's still and dim when she steps inside the massive doors, the candles extinguished. Bread and cheese sit on a plate in the middle of the dining table, but whatever she imagined cooking is nowhere to be seen. Frowning, she searches the cupboards and peeks into the pantry, utterly confused.
Pulling the pantry door shut, her eyes land on a bucket near the prep table, and something in her mind clicks. It's the source.
Approaching eagerly, she suddenly halts. In the dim, it's no more than a bucket of blood, scattered with bits of unsavory meat and small bones. They must've forgotten to discard it.
Meaning to help out after days cooped up in the laboratory, she bends, reaching for the bucket handle; a smear on the grip smudges her finger and she grimaces.
For unknown reasons impossible to explain in any capacity, instinct causes her to lift her hand to her mouth and suck her finger clean.
Flavour bursts across her tongue and she sinks to her knees with a starved growl; cupping a handful, she drinks from her palm. Blood dribbles between her fingers, and she catches drops eagerly, tongue laving her bloody skin.
Part of her mind is shrieking in horror, but she can't fathom stopping herself. It's the clearest she's felt in days, all of her stress melting away and harnessed to an overwhelming, vicious hunger.