In any other circumstances, Hawke would assume that all this talk of risen gods was part of a very elaborate, very outlandish prank, but Emmrich doesn’t seem the type to play cruel jokes. He listens in gobsmacked silence, feeling more and more lost by the second. Elgar’nan, Ghilan’nain… These names he knows from Merrill’s stories of her people’s Creators, but she certainly never mentioned Archdemons or the blight. He pinches the bridge of his nose, a headache forming behind his eyes.

Slowly, the full implications of what Emmrich has told him begin to sink in. “If even half of this is true, then it disproves the whole foundation of Andrastianism.” He’d always believed that the Chant of Light was about as factual as one of Varric’s sleazier potboilers, but he feels no pleasure in having his suspicions vindicated. “I’m from the South—I know how deeply entrenched the Chantry is down there. Even if the whole world doesn’t go to the Void in a handbasket, there will be…” He grimaces. “...Complications. People don’t usually react well to the knowledge that their entire belief system is built on lies.”

He waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “But we can burn that bridge when we come to it. First things first.” Emmrich has given him a target, something to focus on. For that, he’s immensely grateful. “Sounds like our job is pretty simple. What’s a bit of deicide here and there?” He smiles faintly, feeling almost like his old self again. “I never could resist impossible odds.” Maybe it’s the lingering shock that makes him reach out and lay a hand on Emmrich’s shoulder. Maybe he needs an anchor. Maybe he just wants to be close to the man who’s gone out of his way to help him. “If I manage to make it out of this, I swear to you that I won’t stop until all of this is fixed. If your team will have me, I’m all yours.”