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Chapter Text

Emmrich, ever helpful, will always go where he is needed. Because Maker prevent the day he’s ever not needed. He likes to be useful, he prides himself on it: competent, capable, reliable. He decided as a young child, even swallowed and half-delirious with grief, that he would not be a burden to the institution that offered him shelter. His parents taught him gratitude and courteousness and he clung to those lessons when that was all he had left of them. His unshakeable sense of duty to the Grand Necropolis has remained, all these decades on. He will do as he is asked with pleasure, go where he is told uncomplainingly.

Never mind that he finds his duties in the lower reaches desperately lonely, though the work is unarguably necessary and Emmrich is one of few willing and able to complete it.

He is at home amongst the dead, and the spirits keep a quiet vigil that relieves him somewhat, awash with their good intentions and fluttering interest. Manfred too, is company, though conversation can prove one-sided. Before descending, Emmrich had overheard some unkind comments about the amount he speaks aloud to Manfred, who admittedly, doesn’t always respond with anything resembling comprehension. Not that Emmrich is deterred by ignorant gossipers and their uninformed opinions. Manfred listens intently, whether they perceive it or not, and if he didn’t accompany Emmrich on these Mourn Watch missions to the deep crypts, he wouldn’t endure the crushing solitude half so long.

As of now however, Emmrich is pushing the outer edges of his endurance. If he were not already conscious of his growing craving for human warmth and companionship, he had begun to dream of it unfailingly each night. They are not all dreams of intimacy that leave him aching and unsatisfied, though some are. After all, his weary longing for romance runs deeper and more extensively than the breadth of his current assignment. But just as often, Emmrich dreams of having dinner with someone who is blurry and insubstantial across the table, a voice speaking that he can’t quite make out, as desperately as he strains to hear it. He dreams of a sense of fond company, of the sound of his name being called affectionately or the simple knowledge that there is someone who cares for him in the next room. Simple dreams, featuring an anonymous, companionable presence.

They should be a relief from the vivid nightmares of his mortal demise, but they are not. His heart breaks upon awakening.

Because it all dissipates with cruel rapidity when he opens his eyes to the weak light of his low summoned flames, and he finds himself a lonesome speck, sighing stale air in a cavernous hall of countless, cold dead.

And Emmrich considers with a quiet chuckle how he would gladly take even the irritating way Johanna flicks his forehead at times (an old habit: a relic of their time as students together) just to have a moment of human contact.

He will summon more assistance and direct them to (please) work on clearing the cave in. That is the priority and when it is done, and access to those ancient tombs is restored, he will return to the surface. Another Mourn Watcher can descend and perform the long-neglected rites. Or he will, after a reprieve in which he might reacquaint himself with daylight, attend some lectures and enjoy his meals in the cacophonous dining hall, drinking his fill of companionship and human interaction in the way a man in a desert might slake his thirst.

But then: soft footfalls, approaching yet unobtrusive. Too distinct to be his assistants who tend to scuff their feet, too sedate to be Manfred who usually gets about in an excitable fashion that Emmrich thinks of affectionately as ‘scampering.’

Whoever it is, Emmrich deems them no threat. Threats are not known, generally, to approach calmly and then wait patiently for one to conclude a binding spell, the latter of which Emmrich does, tranquil and unhurried. It is not the kind of work that should ever be performed in haste.

If he is expecting, without really considering it, a colleague or a student, sent down to him with a message, it is a surprise indeed to find two young women, watching on with amazement and praise that he finds perhaps even more flattering than usual, given his prolonged isolation.

Bellara Lutare he knows, or knows of, through their letters, and gratifyingly, she is just as lively and enthusiastic as their correspondence had led him to believe she would be. She may also be a mind reader, simply from the way she shakes his hand and then seems to forget to let go of it, the connection a relief in a way, as it seems to confirm to Emmrich that he is alive: he hasn’t slipped away in his sleep and risen again as spirit, unaware of his own passing.

He allows Bellara to be the one to let go, and when she does, Emmrich turns his attention to the other newcomer.

Rook, he does not know, has not written to, though Bellara has mentioned them. Bellara had mentioned her: Emmrich is ashamed of his own bias to realise he was picturing a wizened old man, much like himself, when Bellara had alluded to the leader of their strange group.

He had certainly not imagined this woman, with keen, dark eyes examining him inquisitively: head slightly cocked, a charming half-smile on her face. A fellow Mourn Watcher, but one unfamiliar to him. That is not unusual: the Necropolis is vast and Emmrich’s teaching stints have been sporadic.

Unless they have met, and his memory is failing him? But Rook gives no indication this is the case. Emmrich’s hand twitches at his side, an imperceptible movement towards her, but Rook never offers her own and he would not impose.

Rook does seem reserved, but perhaps that is simply in comparison to her extroverted companion. If there is a hesitancy there, Emmrich is of the distinct impression it is only as she assesses him, just as he is assessing her in turn. There is familiar comportment that tells of her Mourn Watch training, however (as he almost always can) Emmrich identifies a number of small mannerisms that hint to him that she has travelled: lived in the world outside of the Grand Necropolis. There comes a twinge of something, deep in his chest, that Emmrich tells himself is simply curiosity.

It may be envy.

Despite her youth, he can sense a leader’s charisma about Rook: ambiguous yet compelling. And he is soon to discover that she has a remarkable composure and looseness about her in combat that Emmrich could certainly never imitate. Though skilled himself at defensive and aggressive spellcasting, he is simply too afraid to fight like she does.

While he would not go so far as to call Rook reckless (he does choke out more than one cry of warning when a foe is at her back), it’s impossible to miss the ease with which she slips into combat: like she has reserved her place there in the line of fire. Like it comes as naturally to her as breathing. Emmrich faces battles when he must whilst Rook seems to find herself at home: a thought that is both troubling and intriguing.

Even prior to Bellara and Rook assisting ably with the Venatori disturbance, Emmrich had every intention of accepting their invitation, and no qualms about potentially reporting to a junior. He lacks the arrogance that assumes that superiority comes with age alone, and while he credits himself that he has gained some useful wisdom over the years, he feels comfortable that he has much to learn from Rook and from the group she has assembled.

To guess her age would be impossible, though he does wonder at it, glancing at her from the corner of his eye as they walk, studying her face when they stop and she gazes up into the stone arches and carved reliefs of the crypts with gratifying, appreciative reverence. When the bell rings she lets out what may be an involuntarily cry of celebration, and seems suddenly younger for it. Especially when she turns to Emmrich and beams so brightly that he is almost convinced a crack has formed in the ceiling and allowed the sunlight to pierce through.

A strange, slightly disturbing impulse comes over him again to take her hand, but Emmrich keeps his arms rigidly at his side, shaking off the notion, forcing his gaze back to the bell and away from Rook.

He has been alone too long: he already knew that. That is all it is.

Emmrich glances back at Rook without meaning to, examining her profile with a fascination bordering on the scholarly: her long lashes as she blinks tiredly, her cheeks blood-warmed from the exertion of the fight, the curve of the yet lingering smile upon on her lips.

Mid-thirties, perhaps? Late? But Emmrich could be convinced half a decade in either direction, clueless as he is: her subdued worldliness at one moment, followed by swift childlike glee throwing off his guess. She is courageous and remarkably proficient, casting with aptitude, grace and even embellishment rare in those much more experienced than herself.

But young, regardless, from his perspective.

The detail of her age is irrelevant, Emmrich reminds himself sternly. There is no need for him to know, and it will do him no good to fixate on such a matter when there are fresh challenges, new horizons and real adventures ahead. There is much to prepare for.

Chapter Text

The standard of teaching must have dropped significantly since he was last lecturing, as much as he dislikes thinking ill of his colleagues.

Rook is trotting beside him, with Taash trailing further back, entirely disinterested in their conversation, which had been scathingly dismissed as ‘corpse chat.’

“Are you truly telling me you know nothing of Prelate Anselm’s influence on the record keeping systems the Mourn Watch still uses today? I would have assumed his legacy was an examinable part of the undergraduate courses.”

If he had paid a little more attention and been a little less disturbed at this potential gap in what he considered the fundamental blocks of education, Emmrich might have noticed Rook fighting back a smile. “Like I said: never heard of him.”

Emmrich sighs. Rook was far from unintelligent, but since he had joined the Lighthouse, she had been a source of curiosity only rivalled by Bellara. Some questions were profoundly thought provoking, difficult to answer and revealed a keen mind and diligent attention to her studies. Others were so shockingly basic, Emmrich could only assume someone had updated the textbooks and erroneously left out entire critical chapters in his absence.

He was of course, more than happy to assist in elucidating her on any subject he was able to. She was an attentive pupil, often calling by his rooms, or keeping him back after dinner with a new subject to discuss at length. Long evenings turning into longer nights of talking, with cups of wine then coffee then tea, until fatigue prompted them to retire, with no cue of darkness to guide them. Emmrich often looked at his pocket watch in response to Rook’s yawning, her head drooping or her posture becoming lower and lower in her chair. He would inevitably let out a startled sound at the lateness of the hour, insisting she go to bed and rest before the next long day.  

If only Rook would stop him when he began talking like that, started lecturing her frankly. But she never did, and only seemed to encourage it with her attention unwavering, and her endless, clever, prompting questions if Emmrich began to slow or the conversation seemed to be drawing to a natural close.

When Emmrich was answering Rook, he wasn’t so absorbed by what he was explaining to fail to notice the intensity of her gaze, a look that went beyond pure concentration. It didn’t necessarily mean anything, and Emmrich might be being overcautious, but he had always drawn firm lines with his students. Their safety meant everything to him, and he was conscious that particularly eager students could at times, with the pressure of the course and the ambitions of the individual, become confused at where their passions lay. That they may conflate certain desires for themselves and their future, and Emmrich may be a target for that misdirection. He would be patient as he distanced himself, giving no encouragement as he withdrew, but careful to avoid any humiliation too, which may be so harmful to a young heart, even a badly befuddled one.

These things were best nipped in the bud.

Historically, not all of the Professors have lived by his values, and any new knowledge of a vulnerable youth being exploited by those they should be able to trust, sicken Emmrich off all food and restful sleep for days.

Rook was not one of his students, and she hadn’t been a student for some time, but she could have been, and that was near enough to raise Emmrich’s habitual guard. Near enough, that after he first suspected some warmth in her watchful eyes, he enforced a foot gap between them when they walked, and as much space as the chaise lounge allowed if they sat together on it. He selected a new seat at the dining table, further from her own chair, and restrained himself from his usual predilection towards tactile communication. Towards her at least.

If Rook noticed his calm withdrawal, she said nothing, and did nothing to test his boundaries, but her interest in learning everything she could and occupying ample portions of his free time remained nonetheless.

And that Emmrich could not deny her: Rook’s company was too comforting. She was a piece of home:  she understood his ways and Emmrich felt relaxed and unjudged in her presence, soothed even, as he adjusted to the Lighthouse when the walls and scents and sounds and light of the Necropolis were all he had known for so long. His nightmares were less frequent, after they spent time together too, the ones that constricted his throat and left him at once chilled and feverishly hot: his sheets soaked with sweat and all hope squeezed from his heart by what felt like a cruelly clenching fist.

And Rook herself was under so much pressure: the terrible weight of responsibility on her narrow shoulders, so incomprehensibly heavy that by rights it should have crushed her. But it didn’t, and if she found consolation in spending time with him: being regaled on various points of Nevarran history and magical theory, cosy in front of a fire, then so be it. He was delighted to help. Emmrich would do much more for her if it eased her burden.  Even if it meant ignoring the way she looked at him as he spoke: elbows on the table, chin resting on her dainty hands. Her hair falling strand by strand across eyes that blinked with what seemed to be deliberate slowness to best exhibit the length of her lashes and once, a brief scrape of white teeth against her darkened lower lip that made Emmrich stutter and nearly lose his train of thought.

But then, Rook was bright and lively, and she flirted with others, perhaps more than he was even in a position to witness. He’d seen her rile and tease and flatter the others with varying effect, not to mention informants and barkeeps and city guards. So even if Rook’s attentions felt significant to his paranoid mind, Emmrich could reassure himself that it was likely nothing more than a form of idle amusement for her, a facet of her naturally charming personality.

It all meant nothing. Surely.

If, deep in the truest, most secretive portion of his frightened heart, that conclusion disappointed him, Emmrich would never admit it to himself. He couldn’t. It would be a betrayal of her, a betrayal of himself and a comprehensive destruction of every thing he thought he stood for.

“Hold up,” Taash says, suddenly close behind them. “Antaam ahead.”

“Forgive me, Rook,” Emmrich says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It would be my pleasure to go into Prelate Anselm’s legacy at a less perilous time.”

“Can’t wait,” Rook replies with a grin, even as she’s readying herself for combat, staff in hands, both of them ignoring Taash’s groan of disinterested impatience.

The fight is long and difficult, and the party returns home victorious but exhausted, the subject of Prelate Anselm far from any of their minds as they all trudge to their respective rooms, wash up and fall into bed exhausted.

In fact, Emmrich thinks nothing of the Prelate until some weeks later, when he is coming down the stairs, and overhears Rook speaking to Harding in the library.

“…So that the record of each deceased person in residence at the Necropolis can be easily pulled up. And because each number represents a different aspect of their identity as well as the document number, it makes it much easier for us to locate a specialist if we need specific information. It used to be chaos, back in the day: it was only by name and social status, so if you wanted to find out some long-forgotten knowledge on I don’t know, nug ear care, now you can easily ask the leading expert from two centuries ago.”

“Wow,” Harding says. “Typical they wanted it all by class before.”

“Yeah,” Rook scoffs. “Not enough that certain people get exclusive grave locations, they have to have their names in a certain order in the listings too. Or they did, before Prelate Anselm implemented the new records management system in 7:44.” As she finishes her sentence, she turns and sees Emmrich there in the doorframe, regarding her with curiosity. “Um,” she says, looking startled and off balance, just for a moment before she blinks and corrects her posture, perched as she is on the arm of a chair, legs thrown out casually before her.

“What?” Harding asks, looking between them.

“You must have been doing some research of your own, Rook. I am dreadfully sorry: I never provided the explanation your requested,” Emmrich offers her the mostly likely explanation, as well as a way out, merciful as he is at heart. But still his eyebrow quirks, his hands held neatly before him, everything about him hinting at scepticism.

“Actually, you were right in the first instance. They did cover Anselm in our undergraduate courses,” Rook admits

“Oh?” Emmrich says.

“Huh?” Harding adds.

“It’s not the first thing I have pretended not to… Exaggerated my… I prefer hearing it all from you, Emmrich. I like the way you explain things. Very much.”

“Ohh,” Harding says.

“Ah,” Emmrich clears his throat.

“I’m sorry to have wasted so much of your time,” Rook tells him, looking anything but repentant.

“Not at all,” Emmrich tells her, with an amused incline of his head. “But if you would like to speak to me, please do not feel compelled to fabricate a reason.”

“I should get going. Got plants to… do stuff with. Plant stuff,” Harding says, as she looks between them with a thoughtful frown.

“I learn much more from you on every topic than I did in class though. You’re a wonderful teacher.”

“Well, that is gratifying to hear.”

“I just find you fascinating,” Rook explains, her voice noticeably lower, her expression coy as she tucks her hair behind her ears. “I could listen to you speak for hours. About absolutely anything.”

Harding, who is now sidling out of the room, lets out an obvious cough, as if to remind them she is still there.

Emmrich fought and barely won against a sudden desire to loosen his collar. “Are you mocking me, Rook?”

“Certainly not,” she tells him with a genuine laugh. “I would have thought the evidence of my attention would dismiss that hypothesis.”

“You have certainly been attentive,” Emmrich replies, only a little reproachfully as he steps aside to allow Harding to exit. But Rook’s grin only widens in response and her eyes sparkle mischievously as she rises from her perch on the arm of the chair and takes a few steps towards him.

Suddenly Emmrich no longer trusts her. He no longer trusts himself to be alone with her at that moment. Not against her leisurely, purposeful approach, nor the purr in her voice as she asks, “So you don’t mind?”

“I would be more than happy to elucidate you on any matter you feel has been inadequately addressed in the course of your Mourn Watch education,” he tells her, moving to a bookshelf, pretending to survey the spines so as to avoid looking at her, because he is beginning to feel distinctly flustered.

“Oh good, because there is a lot.”

She’s at his side now, and closer than he has allowed her to be for a long time. The slightest movement on Emmrich’s part and their shoulders would touch.

‘Shut it down,’ his rational mind tells him urgently, even as baser instincts insist he rise to her flirting in every way. Because it is flirting, and it is more than what she does with the others, Emmrich is almost certain of it.

But she cannot seriously mean to pursue him, not when her options seem near unlimited. Better options. What could she possibly want from him, that could not be found in others? In more appropriate, desirable, younger suitors?

Yet here she is: close beside him, pretending to peruse the spines, her eyes flicking frequently in his direction.

Without looking, Emmrich’s index finger extends slightly to brush his knuckle against the back of her hand. The lightest of touches, barest of strokes. The beat of a moth’s wing. While Rook schools her face to not react, he sees her shiver and knows she felt it, knows she is affected nearly as much as he is.

Unless she isn’t.

Unless this is nothing more than a game to her.

Emmrich’s hand shoots up to the shelf and he seizes a random tome, as if the touch was accidental, though he's not sure he has acted fast enough to fool her. Rook takes a step to one side, away from him, and looks with an expression that isn’t wounded precisely, but does seem a little crestfallen and confused. In response, Emmrich’s chest tightens with a guilt and shame that threatens to overwhelm him.

“Emmrich?” Rook says softly, and he is nearly undone by her gentleness.

She’s watching him, eyes searching, and he tries to keep his horror at his own overstep from his face, as much as he battles to hide equally how much he wants to apologise for withdrawing abruptly. To cast the book aside and take her small hand properly between his. To feel the warmth of it. To press his lips to the back of her fingers, to her palm, to her pulse point where the beat of her incredible, courageous, kind heart is echoed. To dart his tongue out against her skin and see if she tastes as good as she smells: sweet and floral like the white flowers of climbing vines on summer nights…

“Excuse me, I’m afraid I have much to get on with,” Emmrich tells her stiffly, gesturing with the book, planning a swift departure.

No. Not a departure: a retreat.

“I’m sure,” Rook replies, her voice high, her smile tight, and she turns on her heel and leaves before he can.

Chapter Text

It was difficult to not feel a little wounded. It was only that Emmrich made it so obvious, and just because she had flirted, once. Or twice. But Rook flirts with everyone. A little at least, just for a bit of fun. They all did it. Rook thought it was harmless, right until Emmrich had reacted with such…revulsion to her.

She had almost heard the castle gate slamming shut: the portcullis crashing down and the drawbridge being yanked up behind him.

Maker, she doesn’t resent the man for it. Emmrich has boundaries, of course, and he is entitled to like what he likes. But he has been acting like she is dangerous since: some venomous creature not to be approached least you be bitten.

Rook had already known how reassuring she found his company, how comforting and enriching, but it had never been more clear than since her access had been restricted.

Emmrich wasn’t avoiding her exactly. Rook didn’t think he was capable of being so impolite, even if he despised her (please don’t let him despise her) but being treated differently to the others made her feel an acute loneliness and longing for how things had been before she had pushed him too far.

There was a grain of truth in her flirting: there was a grain of truth in all her flirting. The Necropolis is a bustling place, but its living residents were prone to showing more care and attention to the dead than their fellows, something that had always left Rook feeling like she was alone on a tiny boat, able to see other crafts but unable to reach them. But even with its faults, she would have given anything to be welcomed back there, cold as it was at times, once she was sent away from her home in disgrace.

Emmrich’s rebuff feels like an extension of her banishment. That is why it smarts so keenly.

In part.

That and she really, truly, genuinely admires him.

Seeing him so easy with the others: a comforting pat on Davrin’s back, a gallant hand to assist Bellara over debris or an embrace with Harding, leaves his avoidance of Rook all the more clear and all the more painful. The last time they had all gathered at the tavern, Rook had gestured to the bench beside her and Emmrich had artfully pretended not to see, selecting a chair at the end of the table near to Lucanis and Neve instead.

Emmrich still speaks to her with all the same kindness and patience. He hears her out with attentiveness, advises warmly and intelligently, and treats her decisions with respectful deference, even when she knows he disagrees.

Basically, he is the single best man she’s ever known and Rook has already managed to send him running, damaging their rapport and Emmrich’s opinion of her so comprehensively she’s not sure it can ever be repaired.

Fuck.

Rooks hates to think Emmrich sees her as some frivolous, disingenuous idiot, even if she is a little frivolous, and occasionally disingenuous and yes: often an idiot. She hates the he may now believe that any fondness or interest she expressed was anything but earnest and wholehearted. She wants to go back to the beginning. Not to prevent herself from bending towards him like a flower to the sun (nothing could) but to find a way to convince him of her sincerity.

It’s not that Emmrich can’t handle some gentle teasing: he is far too humble and good humoured to take himself overly seriously. If Rook took it too far, took advantage of his nature, that is her fault. And now she is feeling the consequences of it in his caution towards her.

She just wishes she could ask him: is it the way I behaved that pushed you away? Or is it just me?

After all, it could well be the latter. It would hardly be the first time her mere existence was grounds for total rejection.

And this is how things are: Rook regretful, Emmrich distant, when a sword slices through her thigh.

It’s so sharp Rook barely feels the cut: there is a strange pressure then she crumples, more startled than hurt in the moment, her muscle compromised and along with it: her ability to stand. The rhythm of her counterattacks bafflingly halted, staff flying from her hand as she falls.

And Rook almost laughs as the darkspawn bears down on her, because she is fairly sure she’s about to die and fair play to the hurlock honestly. She gave them an opening and they took it. Her fault really. Damn it.

Davrin warned them the darkspawn were brutal, but he also said they were clever. Her mistake.

Rook tries to crawl and fuckfuckfuck now she feels where her muscle was severed and she makes little progress in fleeing, clawing at the dirt in place, jerking like a landed fish, crying out in no known language. Nothing to do but roll onto her back because she would rather face what’s coming and at least see the sky one more time before it does.

The hurlock’s blade is raised high, this time for a killing blow and Rook tries for a barrier but it comes up weak as an eggshell and oh, how she hopes the others will be okay and she and Varric really should have talked about who would take over if she died (Neve, Rook hopes) and please let this be fast and she wishes now that she had accepted a bowl of custard and berries last night and here she is about to be brutally decapitated and all she can think about in her last moments is the Lighthouse organisational structure and pudding and Rook is no coward but she closes her eyes because actually she doesn’t feel strong enough to see this happen, her face scrunching in anticipation of the blow.

Then she feels something hit the dirt and jostle her and for a ridiculous moment she thinks the hurlock missed their point-blank strike but she opens her eyes and finds Emmrich propped over her, a hand planted beside each of her shoulders, his eyes wild. His body and barrier are both shielding her, as the sword that would have cleaved through her soft flesh and bone bounces ineffectually away above them.

It’s almost comical, and Rook does laugh this time, weakly.

“Rook,” Emmrich croaks, his face close as he hovers anxiously over her. “You’re badly wounded,” he explains, as if she may not have noticed.

“I should have had pudding,” Rook tells him, and she’s not sure if it’s shock or blood loss that makes her voice come out as a whisper.

Emmrich frowns and briefly presses his long fingers to her cheek, then her forehead, like he had once (before she frightened him off) when she mentioned she felt like she was coming down with a cold.

The frustrated Hurlock tries again and Emmrich pays it little heed, his barrier unwavering, his gaze entirely on her which Rook has to admit: feels nice, especially at this proximity, and then she realises he has moved, placed a hand over the wound, and even though his eyes remain fixed on hers, he’s doing what he can for her in this awkward position. Splitting his mana between his barrier and simultaneously providing pain relief.

“Impressive,” she tells him, increasingly weary, unable to articulate her meaning further.

“What is, Rook?” he asks, even though it should be obvious that he is.

Behind him, the hurlock jolts, each of Harding’s rapid series of arrows finding their mark, before Davrin is on it, and Rook can’t see the rest of what happens but assumes it is bloody and conclusive.

“Bad luck,” she says to the foe that nearly had her, her mouth tasting like salt: blood or sweat across her lips.

“Hm?” Emmrich asks, concern evident even in that brief syllable, and Rook can see the concentration his dual focus is taking, his brow creased, sweat dampening his temples.

“Emmrich!” Harding calls, and he glances towards her voice, seeming to understand the battle is over. His barrier retracts as he pushes himself up, sitting back on his knees, wasting no time in attending to her wound.

“Do excuse me,” he says, even as he tears the fabric away from the cut: apparently there is no emergency too great to ever preclude manners.

Rook watches Emmrich’s face, impassive as he works, which means nothing. He is too professional and experienced to reveal to a patient how bad the situation is in the field. But his healing is welcome and feels nice, flowing through her, gentle and cool like his hands.

“What are we dealing with?” Davrin asks, then, with rather less professionalism, curses and says peevishly, “What in the Fade was she thinking?”

“There will be time for reflecting on tactics later,” Emmrich tells him, curt and protective, and Rook reaches gratefully towards him, fingertips touching a golden cuff before her hand drops tiredly.

“What do you need?” Emmrich asks her quickly, so Rook shakes her head. Nothing. There's nothing that she needs, except maybe to sleep for a year straight.

“We’re vulnerable here,” Harding tells them and Rook knows she means more enemies are coming. “Can she be moved, Emmrich?”

“Ideally we wouldn’t, but given the circumstances…”

“We had better,” Harding finishes for him and Emmrich nods, his healing flowing a few moments more before Rook is grieving the soothing absence of it, his distinct magical presence withdrawing from her like a wave pulling back over sand.  

She expects Emmrich to step away then, but he slides one hand under her knees and one behind her back.

“This will hurt,” he tells her, truly apologetic, “Forgive me.”

And then Emmrich rises smoothly, taking her with him, and Rook’s arms wrap around his neck without her having to be prompted and Maker, it does hurt, but she doesn’t want to make him feel any worse than he clearly already does, so she bites her bottom lip to keep from whimpering.

“Do you want me to…?” Davrin offers from nearby and she presses her face into Emmrich’s shoulder because she doesn’t want to be handed around like a sack of potatoes and she likes where she is and she feels safe in Emmrich’s arms even though darkness is beginning to encroach on the edges of her vision and she’s starting to worry her leg might be permanently damaged but is swallowing down that panic as best she can.

“No need,” Emmrich replies, without a hint of strain and in a way that indicates there will be no further discussion on the matter. “I have her.”

Her mind is wandering and cradled in his arms as she is, drifting closer to unconsciousness, Rook's thoughts linger on the last time they touched: when their hands brushed in the library and Emmrich recoiled like she had scalded him.

She finds herself mumbling, “I thought you were angry at me.”

And Emmrich’s hold on her tightens as he tells her softly, “Never, darling,” with such certainty and warmth that Rook is glad her face is already hidden, relief and pain and dwindling adrenaline blurring her eyes with hot tears.  

Chapter Text

Taash, Harding and Bellara peer into her bedroom cautiously after an equally tentative knock.

“Hi,” Rook says excitedly. She has been long abed recovering and craves company: she wants them to know she’s awake, lest they sneak off again without visiting. “Come on in. Please.”

“You alone?” Taash asks brusquely.

“Yes?”

“Rare,” Taash says. Rook looks at them blankly.

“Emmrich has been very dedicated to the overseeing of your recovery,” Bellara explains, as she and Harding perch on the edge of Rook’s mattress. Taash takes the chair near her bed, which following Bellara’s comment, Rook realises she has come to think of as ‘Emmrich’s chair.’ He has spent countless hours at her side: healing, tending to her, making quiet conversation, even napping in the early days when Rook herself was in and out of anxious, delirious fever.

“Is that an issue?”

“No, no. Not at all!” Bellara answers quickly and Taash snorts derisively.

“It’s just,” Harding begins, “he nearly lost it when Davrin walked past in the corridor the other day. Apparently, his armour was clanking too loudly.”

“He snapped at Neve too,” Bellara concedes, “for adjusting your blanket ‘incorrectly.’”

“I got intercepted while bringing you your soup last night. I was in trouble for it being too hot,” Harding adds. “And Manfred got sent out for bringing you a nice rock to cheer you up because it was flagged a hygiene risk.”

“Ah,” Rook says in understanding.

Taash leans forward, elbows on their knees and clarifies regardless, “Basically, he’s as protective as a mother Vinsomer.”

“Got it,” Rook replies quickly, embarrassed, hoping her blush can be excused by the roaring fire Emmrich insists on keeping up while she recovers. “I’m sure he’d be the same for any of the team.”

Taash makes a sound like a pot with a lid when it boils over, all exhalation and hiss, then chuckles.

“How’s the leg?” Harding asks tactfully. “Neve wanted to know if you might need some tips?”

Rook laughs. “It’s good. I’m not allowed to walk without supervision yet,” Taash snorts again and Harding nudges them with the toe of her clog, “but I’m gaining strength back fast.”

“So, you’ll be back in the field soon?” Bellara asks brightly.

“I hope so,” Rook assures her with a grin.

“If he lets you. I think he likes having you like this,” Taash says and Harding kicks them harder.

Despite her reprimand, Harding agrees, “Maybe we need a second healer’s opinion, if we could get him to let one near you.”

She knows they are only teasing, but Rook feels the need to tell them, “I trust, Emmrich,” regardless.

Which is the moment the man chooses to return, knocking politely and speaking to Manfred as he holds the door open for the skeleton, “Indoor voices only around the patient, Manfred. Like we discussed. Remember? And careful with that. I’ll not have you spill tea on her… a second time.”

Manfred comes in with steps so overly-cautious and considered they become halting and jerky as a result. Emmrich sighs and take the tea tray off him before he can approach the bed, at which point he looks up with a start and sees them all.

“Emmrich,” Rook says in greeting and feels Bellara’s weight shift beside her, as if she’s expecting to be told to get off and go away at any moment.

Emmrich clears his throat and restrains himself to saying, “Ah. I see you have quite a number of visitors at once,” and there is an implied complaint but he resists expanding on it. “We should have brought more cups,” he adds, glancing down at the tea tray.

“It’s alright,” Harding says quickly, for them all. “We’ll have something later. Please, stay.”

Taash gives Harding a way too obvious, incredulous look like, ‘Are you sure?’ and impressively, Harding manages to both simultaneously smile and glare at them in response.

Manfred hisses loudly, and then remembering himself, hisses again quietly, ducking his skull apologetically.

“Thank you, Manfred, if you could please. That would be very helpful.” Emmrich places the tray down on Rook’s little table and clarifies for the room, “He will fetch them.”

“Thank you, Manfred!” They all echo, more or less together.

Disregarding her companions, Emmrich approaches from the free side of Rook’s bed, adjusting her quilt, leaning over her in a familiar and habitual way, fluffing the pillow she rests against before checking her temperature briefly (something Rook isn’t entirely sure is still necessary, given the risk of fever has entirely passed), before seating himself and taking her wrist to feel her pulse (another thing Rook isn’t sure is necessary, but Emmrich does with great frequency, always recording the results in a notebook he keeps in his pocket).

Rook avoids eye contact with the others as Emmrich works, worried she’ll betray something in her face, or burst out laughing. She is grateful for every one of Emmrich’s interventions, and wouldn’t wish to hurt his feelings by making him think she wasn’t. He has been there, calm and reassuring through the worst of her pain and the longest of hours when Rook was sure the agony would never abate: when the wound ached and her skin grew hot and her thoughts vague.

He has been there with cool flannels against her cheeks and forehead, and with his hand over hers, and his voice low to read her to sleep. He has been there bringing soothing herbal teas for her throat, and combing her hair from her eyes, and with soft bread broken and soaked in broth that he needed to convince her to eat in tiny sips over hours, when she was the most ill. He has been there for it all, and there is no question he has saved her life, both in battle, and again here in her sickbed.

But still, if Rook sees a single telling smirk or shake from one of the others as Emmrich clucks over her, she is likely to erupt.

Focused and oblivious, Emmrich makes his notes, sighs ambiguously, then pours a small cup of something foul and herbal that he has tried his best to sweeten with honey. “Forgive me,” he tells Rook as he hands it to her.

“It’s fine,” she says, as she downs it in one, then winces at the taste and strange viscosity that lingers at the back of her palate.

“Well done,” he tells her gently, quick to provide her a glass of water.

Emmrich looks up then, at their captive, silent and unmistakably amused audience with a raised eyebrow as he receives the medicine cup back from Rook. “I fear I interrupted a conversation. What were you speaking of when I arrived?”

“How you- ” Taash begins and Bellara, Rook and Harding all try to cut her off at once, talking over one another until they finally settle on Harding’s answer.

“Dragons! Dragons. Just… Dragon stuff.”

“I see,” Emmrich says doubtfully, but he’s too wise and placid to push against the clear lie. “I understand you all ventured to Arlathan this morning? Was it a productive journey? I am glad to see you’re all unscathed.”

The conversation flows smoothly from there and all are glad of Emmrich’s unflappable dignity, happy to have been provided an escape route. Rook participates a little, but mostly listens, casting frequent, swift glances towards Emmrich who is engaged but reserved. In fact, it is suddenly impossible for her to not notice how tired he seems, something any half decent leader would surely have picked up on sooner. Varric would have. She should have stopped taking advantage of his ministrations long ago, but his attentions were hard to resist, especially since she has been in pain and miserable.

But Emmrich’s care of her should never have been allowed come at his own expense, especially if it has been pushing him to the point of being uncharacteristically sharp with the others. That was her fault, not his.

And it’s nice to see that despite their earlier teasing, the team is unmistakably fond of Emmrich.  It is hard not to be, in Rook’s view at least, and despite his early concerns at not fitting in, or his abilities causing alarm, his politeness and ability to ask the most pertinent of questions in a way that shows true interest in people, make him hard to resist. Rook has even perceived a little more tolerance from Taash in recent weeks.

“Where has Manfred got to?” Emmrich says eventually, with a glance at his pocket watch after nearly an hour has passed. “I do hope he has not found some mischief. Assan has been a terrible influence of late.”

“Oh, it’s good for him to have a friend,” Rook tells him placatingly. “Have you considered that Manfred might be a good influence on Assan in turn?”

“Hmm,” Emmrich replies, worried and unconvinced. “At what cost?”

“We’ll look for him. Come on,” Harding says, deciding the end of their visit for the others. “You should get some rest, Rook, without us all here yapping. Nice to see you a bit perkier, Boss.”

“Ugh,” Rook replies automatically. “Don’t call me that, please.”

“You got it, Captain,” Harding says with a provoking salute and a wink before they all rush out together.

“See you soon,” Bellara calls as they depart, which is nice. Rook hopes they will.

Emmrich waits until her bedroom door has firmly closed.

“Were they making fun of my overprotectiveness before I returned?” he asks, so candidly that Rook knows she can answer with nothing but the truth.

“Yes. But they don’t mean any harm by it,” she assures him quickly.

“Oh, I’m not offended,” Emmrich says, and means it. “I have been worried, and I am particular: I won’t deny either claim.”

“And of course, I so appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

He sighs, and again Rook notes his exhaustion with concern. “I have been racked by the most intense guilt,” he admits, more to the neglected pot of tea than to her, touching it with his fingertips, no doubt finding it stone cold.

“Emmrich, why?” Rook asks. Emmrich shakes his head sadly and resumes his usual seat beside her. “You put yourself in danger to protect me that day. It wasn’t your fault I was wounded, not in the slightest. I hope you’re not blaming yourself for what happened?”

And for what nearly happened.

“Maker, no. It most certainly was not my fault,” Emmrich tells her, sounding miffed. “You were disgracefully reckless. We went into that situation with a plan, and yet when combat commenced you completely disregarded Davrin’s expertise –”

“Davrin hadn’t accounted for the darkspawn on the cliffs with bows, or for reinforcements flanking us.”

“Naturally your brilliant response to this change in circumstance was to draw fire, a plan that couldn’t possibly end badly, equipped as you are in the flimsiest of armour. It was irresponsible, Rook, nearly tragically so. We should have aimed for an opportunity to regroup! You could have consulted us before you forged off on your own. Your courage does not make you invincible, and you would do well to remember it. Our missions are perilous enough without you acting in a way that can only be described frankly, as foolish.”

In all the time he had been facilitating her recovery, Emmrich had not reproached her once for the circumstances of her injury, and he had shushed any who had tried to raise the topic at her bedside.

But apparently, today is the day she has been deemed well enough for a proper scolding. Rook blinks rapidly, not upset: only startled at his impassioned speech, but Emmrich softens to see it.

“I apologise, but it needs to be said. I could not…” he trails off, a pained expression on his face as his gaze drifts to the window.  

“Thank you for sharing your thoughts,” Rook tells him swiftly, hoping to show she’s not offended by his candidness. “I’m appreciative to hear your view, always.”

“Even if my view is critical?”

“Especially if your view is critical. I respect your judgement, more than I can say.” They share a brief smile, Emmrich bashful and pleased. “I certainly didn’t handle the situation as well as I would have liked, and I regret that my actions put the rest of the team in danger. That was not my intention, and I’m beyond grateful for your quick thinking and aid.”

“Is there any point in asking that you pledge to never act that way again?” he asks tiredly.

“None at all,” she grins winningly at him, in the way she has learned he can’t resist, and she is proven right again as his concerned frown breaks into a smile of his own, reluctant though it may be.

“If you cannot be trusted, then I will simply need to ensure I remain close by to supervise you,” he says decisively, and there’s something in it. A twinkling note of teasing that may be more…

“That you will,” Rook tells him, trying not to show the extent of her flustered surprise at an answer from him that might be considered flirtatious. Perhaps that possibility is what gives her the confidence she needs to ask, “What did you mean before? When you said you felt guilty?”

Emmrich seems taken aback, though the confession had been of his own volition and only moments before, perhaps in a moment of weakness.

But he can’t take it back now, and Rook hopes he doesn’t want to.

“I treated you in a way… In the lead up to that day, my behaviour was different to how I…” Emmrich places his hand over hers where it rests atop the quilt. Rook moves automatically so their palms connect and their fingers twine together in a way that feels easy. Natural. Right.

Emmrich gazes at her, searchingly, like he is desperate to see right into the heart of her, and Rook contemplates (not for the first time) how beautiful his eyes are. Creases from countless smiles that only direct more attention to how the hazel is catching gold in the eternal Fade sun. Intelligent eyes: curious and devoted and endlessly kind. She knows she’s staring, but she can’t help it, leaning closer to him as she does.

“Rook,” Emmrich says softly.

“Yes?” she prompts.

“I led you to believe I didn’t care… When in fact I –”

Manfred bursts into the room carrying several tea cups, each dangling from a bony finger, the door slamming open so hard it bangs against the stone wall and bounces back, knocking into him. Assan barrels in a moment later and there is no doubt of his intent to leap onto Rook’s bed. Emmrich jumps to block him, worried for her leg no doubt, and their hands are wrenched apart as he does.

Manfred remembers belatedly he is supposed to knock before entering bedrooms, and rushes back out to do so, several of the tea cups shattering against the wood from his enthusiasm to remedy his error. He lets out a high, distressed hiss, as Assan, thwarted, changes directions, skids on a rug and instead goes careening into Rook’s armour stand, knocking the entire thing over with a crash into her mirror. This cracks from one side of the frame to the other, the fragments of glass clinging in place for a moment, before they too fall in a series of tinkling pieces that explode against the floor.

Emmrich, arms still out wide and defensive, surveys the chaos calmly and turns to Rook, who is laughing so hard she isn’t making any sound, barely able to breathe.

Wryly, he reminds her, “A good influence, you had speculated?”

Chapter Text

“It’s romantic, isn’t it?” she said and was too busy peering up at a blossoming trellis to notice Emmrich’s resulting look of surprise. “The city I mean. Though it doesn’t feel quite real. Not as a place you would actually live, day after day. Worrying about practical matters like washing your socks and taxes.”

“I’m sure Lucanis feels differently, but I believe I understand what you're saying.”

Lucanis was at the Cantori Diamond, amongst his fellows. Harding meanwhile, they had left behind in the market, after fifteen solid minutes of her minutely comparing several different types of arrows, all of which looked exactly the same to Rook.

“All these vines and little balconies and perfect views: it feels like the type of place you’d come on a honeymoon. See?” Rook said, pointing up at one such balcony, where ivy wove itself languidly around the railing, and the paint was flaking just so as to be charming, rather than shabby. “Can’t you just picture someone leaning there, sleepy and content, hypnotised by the waves, not hearing their lover approach.” She sighed and Emmrich coughed lightly. “Maker, I’m talking nonsense, aren’t I?” Rook said, colouring.

“Not at all. I know just what you mean. I can picture the wine bottle staying cool in the shade, two waiting glasses, the distant notes of an accordion from down on the river,” he indulged her, with only the faintest note of teasing. “You’ve been borrowing novels from Bellara, haven’t you?”

“Oh yes, I read what felt like hundreds when I was bedridden. She just kept bringing me more.”

It hadn’t been long since Rook had risen from that same bed, and was able to walk as freely as she did now. Emmrich had spent many hours, guiding her on laps around the library, walking forwards and backwards, up the stairs and down. Always he was there: reminding her to hold to rail, or to brace her if needed, patient and unflappable, even in the face of some of her minor, frustrated tantrums when progress wasn’t as fast as Rook would have liked. He had held more faith in the process than she, reassuring as her strength slowly returned, her balance improving, until she was more or less back to normal.

More or less. Aside from the occasional wobble, and fatigue finding her sooner than it used to. Rook suspected that was why Emmrich had chosen to accompany her this afternoon, rather than either of the others, or to explore on his own. He kept a close eye on her these days, and no tremble or wince seemed to escape his notice.

“I was surprised,” Emmrich began placidly, bringing Rook back to the present moment, “to pick up one of Bellara’s collection and discover that the adventures of ‘The Quinari Brute and his Elven Maid’ spanned sixteen volumes.”

“Well,” Rook said coyly, “they keep themselves busy.”

“I’m sure,” Emmrich replied drily.

Rook laughed and looked at the sun. “Still hours until the meeting, ugh. Damn these Crows and their propensity to only meet after sunset. It’s so inefficient.”

“Rather critical in the maintenance of their general mystique, but inconvenient to those of us who prefer to be abed early in the night, yes.”

“Shall we go and see the murals and statues in the square to pass time?”

Emmrich lit up and Rook beamed to see it, but his face fell just as quickly. “It’s no short walk, and we have no way of knowing what exertions the night my require of us.” Rook raised a cheeky eyebrow, her mind still very much on honeymoons. “Combat-wise,” Emmrich clarified sternly, disappointingly unembarrassed.

“I’ll be fine. We can walk slowly. And I’ll let you stop and explain every single artwork so I can have breaks once we get there.”

Beaten, as he had known he was from the moment she had first suggested it, Emmrich said, “Very well,” in a way that made no effort to conceal his reservations.

Rook aimed for a confident stride just to prove him wrong, which was far too ambitious and led to her tripping on a cobblestone not five minutes into their journey. Though she kept herself upright and avoided maximum humiliation, Emmrich looked at her sternly and offered his arm, no hint of a question about the gesture. Rook accepted the support, meek and grateful.

And she did feel significantly better, Emmrich’s arm a now familiar source of stability and confidence, that was especially appreciated on this uneven ground. Really, she was fine: she had fought plenty since her injury, rolling and flipping amongst enemies in the way he despised. So a bit of uneven pavement was the least of her worries.

Truth be told she just like the excuse to be close to him. Rook had already been fond of him before the injury, but since he had saved her in more ways than one, she was feeling unignorably infatuated. Some combination of his unfailing, gentlemanly manners and his heroics, and her fever and Bellara’s damned novels had her looking at him with a new kind of appreciation. Though he was careful, restrained even, Rook couldn’t help but feel comfortable around him in a way she had with no other, appreciated and secure in ways that were frankly intoxicating.

Early on in their acquaintance, Rook had spent time wishing she’d had him as a Professor back in the Necropolis, so that she might have had the pleasure of meeting him sooner. Now she thanked any God who would listen that she hadn’t, sensing that had they shared that dynamic, he might have slammed a door completely on any potential relationship. It was hard enough as it was, Emmrich treating her like something he must protect from himself, even as he proved the safest harbour she had ever known.

“Here we are,” he said softly, patting her hand, and it was testament to Rook’s daydreaming that she hadn’t noticed their arrival. The piazza was stunning in the early afternoon light, the marble statues glowing with it and Rook’s eyes widened with astonishment.

“They look like they’re made of gold,” Rook said breathlessly as they approached the first.

“Do you need to sit?”

“No, I want to see them.”

“We associate the pure marble with a certain elegance of days gone by, but these would have been painted bright, vivid colours when first put on display. Researchers have recovered miniscule paint flakes and recreated how they would have looked in published illustrations.”

“A lot of red for this one, I assume?” Rook guessed wryly, as they examined a man being gored rather viciously by a boar.

“An educated hypothesis, and one I must concur with.”

“These are all violent, aren’t they?” Rook said with realisation, looking around.

“Its not upsetting I hope?” Emmrich asked sincerely, apparently forgetting that Rook killed more people than she exchanged ‘hellos’ with these days.

“No, I’m alright. What’s the story behind this one? I’m guessing that the crow pecking out the man’s eyes might be a metaphor for something? I just can’t put my finger on what.”

Emmrich chuckled. “The Antiavian Crows: known for the subtlety of their assassinations, not the subtlety of their art. But see the craftsmanship, Rook? You could nearly touch the drapes of fabric and see them move, or press a finger into flesh and watch it dent.”

“I can’t believe it’s stone,” Rook said, pushing against the carved man’s calf experimentally with her pointer finger, finding it cold and unyielding to her touch.

They enjoyed a leisurely lap, weaving amongst the crowd, Emmrich painting vivid scenes of myth and history, as she listened attentively, contributing with the occasional comment of awe or wisecrack. During their relaxed loop, Rook noticed more than one person smiling in their direction indulgently.

Because they looked like a couple, she realised. Perhaps like a pair of the Treviso honeymooners she had pictured earlier. And rather than becoming embarrassed, or pulling away, she tucked herself closer to Emmrich’s side, where he, oblivious, put an arm around her, assuming she must feel weak.

“If we’re acting like tourists, I’ve been desperate to try some gelato,” Rook admitted when they had examined in great detail all the piazza had to offer.

“I’ll get it: you should sit,” Emmrich told her.

“No, please. I owe you after the free guided tour. Find a table or bench.” And she let go of his arm and strode determinedly towards the stand where a mage kept the treats iced. A moment later, she doubled back. “What flavour?”

“Pistachio, thank you,” Emmrich answered, and Rook was off again, even as he worriedly added, “And then I insist upon you resting. Please.”

It took some time to find him, busy as it was, and she navigated carefully even as she made a significant dent in her lemon flavoured gelato, too excited to wait to try it.

Finally, she spotted Emmrich at a small table set at the water’s edge, his gaze focused out at the horizon, his brow furrowed, his hands clasped.

“Emmrich,” Rook said as she approached, and every trace of consternation disappeared when he heard her voice, his face breaking into the most gratifying of smiles as he saw her. “Something the matter?”

“I was reflecting on what may be required of us tonight.”

“Forget that. Enjoy the moment for a change,” she told him, and held out his gelato, only to notice that in the late heat of the day, a rivulet of pastel green was melting and running down her wrist. “Maker’s balls,” she muttered, and without thinking, ran her tongue along the length of her arm, over her hand and right up the cone, licking the side of the gelato to stem the source of the drip.

Emmrich looked at her with astonishment that bordered on alarm, a strange, pained expression on his face that might have been panic, and might have been something else entirely. It was only then Rook registered what she had done.

“Fuck,” Rook said quietly, then stammered, “I wasn’t thinking, I just – I’ll get you another. I’m so sorry.”

Emmrich rose so abruptly that the wrought iron of his chair screeched against the cobbles. Taking the pistachio cone from her, he offered the chair he had just vacated insistently. “Sit. This side has the superior view,” he said firmly and Rook was so mortified she obeyed immediately.

Seating himself opposite her, Emmrich seemed to have collected himself, though they shared a brief moment of eye contact that neither of them were able to maintain.

“What is the verdict?” Emmrich finally said, perhaps to alleviate the awkwardness.

“Erm? On what?”

“The gelato?”

Oh,” Rook laughed. “Very nice,” she conceded, eating a little more of her own cone, as Emmrich tried his, staring out at the water with no hint that anything unusual had happened, except perhaps, for the slight trace of red, high on his cheekbones.

Chapter Text

The door to his rooms was ajar, and hushed voices could be heard from within. Rook’s tone was soft and consoling, and when Manfred let out an anxious hiss, Emmrich paused at the threshold, fingers hovering over the door handle. He was not generally one to listen at keyholes, but in this instance, curiosity got the better of him.

“He won’t be mad,” Rook said, “He never gets mad.”

Manfred hissed uncertainly.

“That’s different. He’s not mad, he’s only worried about you. All that fretting and fussing is because he cares about you, Manfred. It’s classic, Emmrich.”

Another hiss.

“It’s his way of trying to protect you. He’s terrified you might get hurt.”

Hiss hiss.

“Then we’ll explain what happened: you were just trying to dust. He might be upset, but it was an accident. You didn’t do it on purpose.”

Emmrich really had to battle with himself now, desperate to push into the room. Inquisitiveness however, won out, and he went on listening, touched by the gentleness of Rook’s voice, and the way she seemed to have learned to understand Manfred so well. They were having such a moment of bonding, he was loathe to interrupt it. 

“Some things can’t be undone, but we can always take accountability for our actions. Don’t be sad, I can’t bear to see it.”

Hiss.

“Maybe. But it’s only a thing at the end of the day: an object.”

Hiss?

“You’re what matters to him. If Emmrich does get upset, it’s only because he cares about you, not this old dust collector.”

Hiss hiss.

“He would never take you back and get a new sprite. You’re not so easily replaced, Manfred, don’t think such things. Emmrich adores you. Who told you that?”

Hissss.

“Assan probably meant it as a joke, but it’s not a very nice one.”

Hiss! Hiss.

“So you can apologise, and we’ll tell Emmrich that you’ve learned an important lesson. Do you know what that lesson is.”

Hiss?

“That you won’t climb on the ladders unsupervised anymore.”

At that, panic washed over Emmrich and he could linger no more outside the room. “Manfred?” he croaked, alarmed at seeing the skeleton sat on the floor, legs extended out in front of him. Rook was crouched at his side: one hand consolingly on his shoulder, the other gently cradling the fine bones of his left wrist and hand.

Around them were the shards of a broken vase: centuries old, irreplaceable and valuable beyond measure, both in gold and its historical significance.

A vase that Emmrich intentionally kept on a high shelf specifically so Manfred wasn’t at risk of jostling it.

But Emmrich barely saw it, dropping to his knees, his attention drawn to the arm Rook was fussing over. “Manfred,” he said again worriedly, immediate spotting the fine fracture low in his radius that Rook seemed to be conscious of. She met his eyes and seemed to communicate much without saying a word: a plea he stay calm, sympathy for the situation and a reassurance that this was the worst of the damage to his dear ward.

There was nothing that needed to be said beyond what he read from her expression. Emmrich simply nodded once, and began to gather his magic, pulling and focusing it in his palm, before starting to heal completely on instinct, bone growing and fusing together.

Manfred made a breathy sound and his teeth rattled.

“Does it hurt?” Rook asked him. “You’re being so brave. Hey, why did Assan have a carrot tied to his head yesterday? Oh, he was being a charging druffalo. Only one horn? He ate the other? That figures. Did you make this shirt too? You’re handy with a needle, aren’t you?” Emmrich shot Rook a quick smile, though she didn’t see it: she was busy distracting Manfred, keeping his thoughts from what was happening and any discomfort that came with it.

Not long after, Emmrich said, “It’s done,” but left his hand resting over where the fracture had been, comforting them both. He sighed.

“Good as new,” Rook said cheerily, and he sense she was just trying to break the silence.

“Not quite. You’ll need to be careful for a few weeks, Manfred. Careful. You understand?”

Hiss!

“No carrying anything heavy. Certainly not the tea tray.”

Manfred hissed again, despondently.

“Perhaps he should have a bandage on it?” Rook asked.

“It's not required in this instance.”

“It might help Manfred remember to be careful with it until the healing settles.” She smiled warmly at the skeleton and Manfred gazed back with such undisguised affection glinting in his green eyes that Emmrich felt momentarily choked up.

“A fine idea,” he said, glad for the excuse to rise and compose himself, hastening to his medical supplies.

Behind him, he heard Rook helping Manfred to his feet, dusting him off and murmuring encouragingly to him.

“Manfred would like to apologise,” Rook began but Emmrich stopped her, turning back, unravelling a neatly wound bandage before holding out a hand to take Manfred’s wrist again.

“I heard enough of your conversation, and I don’t believe anything else needs to be said on the matter.”

“Really? Rook said, at the same moment Manfred hissed in surprise. “What about the etched vase? It was beautiful, and it must have been ancient…” Manfred titled his head at Rook with a clear expression of, ‘Are you trying to get me in trouble?’

“It was nothing,” Emmrich said. “A cheap replica. A souvenir. Nothing at all of value.”

He was either a terrible liar or had pushed the point too much, because Rook gave him a sceptical look, folding her arms and twisting her mouth thoughtfully to one side. She remained like that as Emmrich finished up with Manfred, pinning the bandage in place securely.

Manfred hissed happily, holding up his wrist and marvelling at it.

“Why don’t you go and find the dustpan and brush, Manfred?" Emmrich suggested. "You can see Assan on the way: I know you’re desperate to show off your wound.”

Manfred shuffled out of the room excitedly, and Rook waited for him to be out of earshot before she crouched and picked up a shard of pottery.

After only the most cursory of glances, she addressed him accusingly, “This is not a replica.”

“No, but he’d learned his lesson, and had a terrible fright too: would there have been any point to him feeling worse?” Emmrich looked up the ladder to where the vase had once sat. “He fell from there?” he said, quietly to himself, then shuddered.

Rook was at his side in an instant, and he was surprised but not displeased when she pressed a comforting hand against his back. “He’s alright, Emmrich. No harm done.”

“He might have cracked his skull.”

“He didn’t.” Emmrich didn’t respond: it seemed pointless. “I heard the crash from my rooms. I’m sorry.”

Emmrich looked at her, only really seeing the top of her head due to how close she was standing. The warmth of her at his side, and the surety of her semi-embrace were undeniably calming, his heartrate lowering, the nauseated feeling lessening as his mind cycled through terrible visions of how badly Manfred could have been hurt in a fall from that height.

He blinked hard, more to clear his mind than his eyes. “Whatever could you be sorry for, Rook?”

“For interfering.”

“Not at all! More than anything, I’m grateful for your kindness.”

“Were people at the Necropolis unkind to him?”

Emmrich exhaled. “Not exactly, but he was considered a curiosity, rather than a being, and was treated accordingly. And for suggesting otherwise, I was perceived as…” Rook hummed encouragingly. “An eccentric,” he admitted.

Rook laughed. “Emmrich you are an eccentric. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

“Then I can’t possibly resent it.”

Rook stepped away, and he caught a flash of her pleased expression.

“You need a glass of wine, I think,” she said, moving to the decanter, pouring them both a small glass while Emmrich stepped around shards of pottery to be closer to the fire. He shuffled the half burnt logs into a more satisfactory formation with the poker, then summoned flames to grate with a flick of his wrist.

“Cosy,” Rook said, handing him the glass. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking at what remained of the vase. “I don’t think that can be mended, manually or magically. Thought I expect if the latter was possible, you already would have.”

Emmrich sipped the wine, rich and full bodied, tannins lingering at the back of his palette. He felt a flush of heat when he saw Rook closely watching him savour the taste, and moved slightly back from the fireplace. “Too much of it is dust now.” He considered the mess afresh and laughed lightly.

“What’s the joke?” Rook asked curiously.

“Had it fallen from a lower shelf, even my desk, the pieces could likely be reassembled. From that height however…” Rook tilted her head in that attentive way of hers that he adored, that would have had him walking through fire, if only she’d ask. “However,” he repeated, clearing his throat, “It was my effort to protect it that was ultimately its undoing.”

“Then perhaps Manfred isn’t the only one to have learned a lesson today. Perhaps in trying to protect something, you can inadvertently risk causing more harm.” She looked up at him, big-eyed and unsubtle, nearly irresistible.

“Or perhaps the lesson is that any precious thing should be kept at as much distance from me as possible. It would have been better off in a museum,” Emmrich parried.

Rook lacked the cunning to hide her disappointment, looking into her glass and swirling the contents of it so that viscous drips ran with lethargy down the sides, back into the last dregs of crimson.

“And what a sad fate that would have been for it: kept in the low light, trapped behind glass, hoping you might visit.”

“It would have been safe.”

“I don’t want to be safe and lonely: I want to be where you are.”

The directness was unexpected, even if the sentiment wasn’t by now. “Rook,” Emmrich began thickly.

“This is the part where you let me down gently again, isn’t it?” she asked, wearily, but not without a trace of amusement.

“Do you mean it?”

“I want to be with you? Emmrich, yes.”

“That you’re lonely?” he asked seriously.

 Rook seemed startled by this, looking down with sudden shyness into her wine glass, which he took from her, gently prising it from her grasp and setting it on the mantle so he could hold both of her hands in his.  

After a moment, her eyes met his, misty but determined. “Do you feel sorry for me?” she asked instead of responding directly, which was answer enough.

“I feel sorry for us both,” he said softly, and met no resistance as he pulled her into an embrace, his arms enclosing her, her cheek against his chest.

“Oh, Emmrich,” she said, with a muffled, half-hearted laugh.

“My poor, darling,” he replied, before his lips pressed to the crown of her head.

Chapter Text

“It has to be me?” Rook asked.

“There’s not a Crow in Treviso the Count doesn’t know the face of, and if we act tonight, we may prevent another shipment.”

“And I’m just supposed to… flirt with him?” Rook asked tentatively, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of so many stern-faced Crows. She glanced across the table to Emmrich, who was listening thoughtfully, his face neutral, his posture at ease: leaning back in his chair with one knee resting on the other. Rook wanted to catch his eye but Emmrich, his perfect profile, handsome and unreadable, was paying full attention to Lucanis as he spoke.

“He’s an insatiable boast: just be your usual, charming self, and the wine will loosen his tongue. I’ll ensure he’s had plenty.”

“But whose to say he’ll even speak to me at all?”

 “You’re exactly what will appeal to him,” Lucanis explained without hesitation. “There’s no doubt he’ll approach you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harding asked, sharp and protective and Rook adored her for it, glancing at Emmrich again, finding him fully absorbed in stirring his tea.

“You’re beautiful,” Teia said simply, and Rook tried not to flush, only succeeding in turning pinker. “Youthful, radiant and –”

“Uncomplicated,” Viago finished brusquely.

“Uncomplicated?” Rook repeated drily.

“It may help to act a little stupid,” Viago said, nearly pinching his fingers together but not quite.

“I’m not an actress,” Rook argued. “Not a convincing one.”

“You won’t need to perform: simply enjoy the party. We may make some interventions from the perimeter, to nudge him towards you,” Lucanis continued. “While you dance, drink, laugh and make merry, we’ll watch over you.”

She could fight, kill when it was required and it often was these days, so why did this scare her so much? Rook again turned to Emmrich, and at last met his eye. She looked pleadingly at him: half hoping he’d intervene.

“It’s a sound plan,” Emmrich said evenly. “Provided you’re comfortable with it, Rook?” he asked.

Rook exhaled slowly. If he had faith in her and no reservations, then perhaps she could do this. Wear a gown, attend the ball under a false name. Giggle and simper if that’s what the moment called for, if that’s what was needed to make the Count talk.

Holding Emmrich’s gaze, she nodded.

“I am. I can do it,” she said and Emmrich shot her a brief smile then sipped his tea, specially acquired just for him as the rest of them drank coffee. Rook was beginning to feel she might need something a little stronger, though she wanted her head to be clear.

And as she was led away to be dressed, disguised for the night ahead, the feeling of reassurance that came from Emmrich’s calm remained, but also a strange pang of hurt. Shouldn’t he be a little worried? Jealous even? At the idea of her batting her lashes and dancing in the arms of another?

The moment they’d shared, that embrace after Manfred had fallen from the ladder… Rook had believed that was the start of something. Something real: not something wistful and imagined and hopeful like she’d spent the last few months since their acquaintance. She had thought there had been an understanding in it: an admission.

Perhaps not for Emmrich.

Someone pulled a crinoline over her head while someone else brushed out her hair and Rook had to blink back sudden tears that surely would have ruined her makeup, feeling overwhelmed by the number of candles in the dressing room and the warring florals of the perfumed makeup on the dresser.

She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself and tried to remember the feeling of being held by Emmrich, that moment of safety and calm in the centre of the tempest that had become her life. The smell of cinnamon and cloves and sandalwood that she breathed in greedily as she pressed her face against his vest, not minding the cool press of chain or button against her cheek.

The way she hoped he wouldn’t let go, bracing to be pushed away again. And when he didn’t, she felt secure enough to slip her arms out from where they’re been pinned against his chest and wrap them around his waist, feeling his hold tighten in response, his chin resting on the top of her head so she could feel his shallow breaths ever so slightly moving her hair.

She was the one who finally leaned back, and one of his hands had moved, running up her spine to cradle the back of her head just lightly, as if on instinct. Emmrich looked down at her, his mouth slightly open, pupils blown, and Rook wondered if he would kiss her.

But he didn’t. A thumb caressed her cheek and he said her name and they broke apart, each pleased and smiling shyly: neither of them teenagers, both of them acting like it.

Rook had spent what felt like hours since that moment, trying to recall every detail of the embrace, trying to recreate the feeling. The feeling of being, for the first time in her life, exactly where she was meant to be.

Impossible to do of course, without Emmrich, but oh she tried.

“Excuse me, I need you to…Here...” One of the women helping dress her peeled Rook’s arms away from where they still wrapped around her torso, guiding one into the sleeve of a burnt orange gown that she disliked immensely but lacked the energy to object to.

“This will never do,” a voice came, and Rook looked up sharply to see Emmrich in the doorframe, left open for their haste. Someone moved to shoo him and Rook stopped them: she was hardly indecent, in what felt like eighteen different layers of undergarments, something she assumed Emmrich would be aware of before he risked intruding. “That’s not her colour,” Emmrich tutted. “The tone is all wrong.”

“He’s alright,” Rook assured the women. Then to him, reaching out a limp, forlorn hand, added a feeble, “Emmrich,” that betrayed every bit of her anxiety for this plan and her ability to perform for it.

“It should be something lighter. Fresher,” Emmrich took her hand in both of his and surveyed the gowns draped over a rack. “The lilac,” he instructed, as the offending orange was removed and cast aside.

“Now, my dear,” he said, voice low, though the others could hardly fail to overhear. “Are you alright?”

“I’m not sure,” she said honestly, as her hair was brushed upwards, and she felt cold, sharp pins sliding against her scalp, securing it with ungentle haste.

“You don’t have to do this,” Emmrich said, and Rook searched his face for any hint that he didn’t want her to do this.

“I think it’s the best course of action,” she replied, hesitantly, as Emmrich was forced to release her hand and step back, the new, pale purple gown being pulled onto her body, laced at the back so hard she gasped.

“That’s more than tight enough,” Emmrich told the woman dressing her, and Rook was grateful, though she heard an irritated ‘hmph’ from behind her. “I agree. But there are other options. No one will be upset if you chose another course.”

Rook didn’t believe that was true: she could imagine Teia’s disappointment, Viago’s scowl. Worse than that: if this shipment of weapons wasn’t stopped, more innoent people would be hurt.

“We don’t have the luxury of risking Plan B unless we have to: the faster we ascertain the Count’s involvement, the faster we can put a stop to the smugglers.” Emmrich nodded, listening carefully, waiting for her to finish without intervening. “I think I have to do this,” she said, then repeated with more confidence, “I can do this.”  

“As you say,” Emmrich agreed, but his brow furrowed. A moment later, when he noticed her staring, it melted away. “I won’t be far.”

“Please,” Rook said emphatically, “I don’t want to be alone in there.”

“I promise you, darling,” Emmrich said, all sincerity that left her feeling warm, and not just because of all the layers of fabric she was burdened by. He surveyed the scattered contents of the dressing table for a moment: a chaos of Crow disguises. Expensive jewels mingled with merchant’s garb and even the rags of beggars. Emmrich reached in towards a tiny scrap of silk and pulled out a white rose, made of fabric and fastened to a hair clip.

He stepped close, as close as the hoop of her skirt would allow, and tucked it behind her ear, fastening it in place. Then he took her hand and pressed her fingers against it so that the petals crumpled. “If you need me, remove this and I’ll come right to you. Whatever is happening, I will take you away from it.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, testing the clasp, making sure she could take the flower out, swiftly and discretely if the moment called for it. It was impossible to express how reassured she felt to have that signal on hand: an escape route. A rescue. Him.

“Are you content with this gown?” he asked.

Rook glanced towards the mirror, barely seeing herself, not really wanting to. “It’s heavy.”

Emmrich laughed lightly. “The waiters will have tall glasses on their trays. The ones with mint and lemon have no alcohol in them. The room will be hot so drink plenty.”

“Okay.”

Emmrich stepped back, regarding her seriously, everything about him composed, formal and neat, his hand clasped in front of him. “Teia was right.”

“Hm?”

“You’re beautiful,” Emmrich said warmly, voice catching. Rook, unable to resist, shuffled to close the distance between them once more, so that the hem of her wide skirt knocked gently into his shins.

“And ‘uncomplicated’?” Rook asked teasingly.

“Wonderfully complicated.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

“It was intended as one.”

“Then that’s how I’ll take it.”

Emmrich smiled, eyes affectionate and something else, more complex. For a moment as he gazed at her, his mask cracked, his brows drawing together and Rook realised he was worried. He had been fighting to conceal it for her sake but he was badly worried. Her stomach sank and she was glad for the amount of rouge on her cheeks or he might have seen her pale.  

“Emmrich –”

“Apologies Milady but we have to go. The Chantry bell has tolled already.”

“I’m ready,” Rook said, flustered and not even remotely ready.

“If you need me…” Emmrich said, as she was ushered from the room and Rook looked over her shoulder, brushing her fingertips against the silk rose in her hair to show she knew.