Chapter Text
Emmrich first left his quarters for a simple purpose: he had an immutable craving for a strong cup of tea. It had been a few hours since dinner (a delightful menagerie provided by their resident Crow), and a dusking fatigue prescribed him to take his evening brew. Unfortunately, the supplies in his cabinet had run defunctively dry. He would usually ask Manfred to fetch it for him, but the little skeleton was off wandering the ramparts, likely keeping one of their other companions company. Emmrich would not call for him just to run an errand—proper socialization was as important a lesson as any, and one he could not teach alone.
As he traveled from his room to the kitchen, however, his ears picked up a peculiar sound. At first he thought it might be a spare chime from the elvhen artifact that floated overhead, but it had a rhythm that was undeniably… musical. Not quite a song, but verging on a misplaced melody. His feet led him closer to the trickling of noise, light and pitched like unsteady rain hitting upon a tin roof. He was driven down the stairs and, upon closer inspection, to a circular entryway. He struggled to explain how he had not noticed it before—despite his comprehensive studies, the Fade never provided an easy answer. Nearing the partially parted door, he became almost certain of the sounds’ source:
A piano.
Perhaps someone else might have been wary of following odd music in an unfamiliar, intensely magical place, but Emmrich allowed his curiosity to tempt him forward. The Lighthouse had only been accommodating since he arrived, and he was eager to learn more of its nature. A scant few could claim to have visited the fort of the Dread Wolf himself, and it was an invaluable opportunity for a historical investigation. The hatch was already halfway unsealed, allowing the soft notes to wander through. He reached to touch the stone slab that separated him from the twinkling keys; it shifted just before he could make contact, sinking completely into the wall and bidding him inside.
His prior quest all but forgotten, Emmrich entered on hesitant heels. There was only a short hallway between the main atrium and the room waiting ahead. Although it was the sounds that brought on his inspection, it was the windows that first drew his attention. They covered the entire opposite wall, letting in grand beams of tallow sunlight. In the center of the room, silhouetted by the golden glow, was indeed a standing piano. Moreover, a familiar figure sat in front of it.
She seemed to subsist on his stupefaction, always present but never where he expected. A loose laughter barreling through the archives. A fingerprint pressed into a smudge of blood he had forgotten to clean. A black strand of hair left in an open tome, an artifact of her lingering presence. If the Lighthouse was molded by intent alone, it was hers that it called its keeper.
“Rook!” he declared. “Has it been you playing all along?”
The elf swiveled on the stool, her back arching in surprise. She clearly hadn't expected to be interrupted, as her fingers slammed on the keys in front of her, causing a frightful fit of noise. It clashed with the tangling of necklaces that adorned her throat, creating its own dissonant harmony.
“Professor!” She turned in his direction, her long sleeves trailing like a laced banderole. “Maker, you nearly startled me off my seat.”
Emmrich resisted the urge to correct her exclamation. He had asked each member of their wayward team to call him by his first name, his title only necessary in a classroom setting. Still, she and Bellara insisted on using the honorific. He suspected their reasonings behind this differed greatly, having noticed the secretive smile that Rook often had while uttering it, but that particular aspect did not require his commentary. Each time he tried, he would receive a different explanation, more overt and ostentatious than the last. He tutored enough students to be familiar with lost causes.
Emmrich approached her at the bench, his arms folded politely behind his back. “My apologies. I did not mean to cause you any alarm. I simply heard the music and allowed my ears to guide me.”
She glanced back at the instrument, her expression wry. “Music is a generous word for it. I was dabbling.”
“You do not play?”
“This?” She patted the headboard as if it was an untrained dog. “No, not at all. I can wick out a song on the concertina and even pipe a mean pennywhistle, but this is another beast entirely.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” he replied, finding himself entertained by her sense of language. His fingers ghosted across a few of the keys, a thoughtful venture. Of what he had heard, it did not sound like the experimentation of a complete amateur. “I can tell that you have a tone for it. Knowing any instrument can make it easier to pick up others.”
“Spoken like a true teacher.” It was meant to be a compliment, although there was a tease hidden between her teeth. If he was not careful, it could cut. “And you? Do you play?”
“I have been known to tickle the ivories from time to time,” he admitted, pressing down on one of the higher notes as he spoke. It sang for him sweetly. “The grand organ, mostly. It is rather popular for balls at the Necropolis.”
Her imagination ignited so vividly that he could practically spot the picture upon her forehead. “Now that there is a sight I'd like to see. Would you wear a cravat? A capelet? A silken suit with little tails?”
“I am continuously astounded by your preconceptions of my workplace,” he said, somewhat amusedly. “It is not a palace, you know.” He did not need to mention that he had worn all of the listed garments before.
“Could have fooled me, putting out such a gallant gentleman.”
“You—” His stature straightened. He avoided her gaze for only a moment, but it was enough for her to assume some sense of victory. “You and your propensity for flattery.”
She hummed, seemingly satisfied by his reaction. “I do try to charm, but you make it particularly easy.”
Emmrich met her eyes. There was a twinkle there, more devious than she had any right to be. He knew that it was simply the way of the rogue Lord, softening friend and foe alike through candid words, but there was an earnestness to her praise that was difficult to refute. Time and time again, she found new ways to compliment him, commending his work, his manners, his image, even the stunned silver in his hair. She offered cajolery to each of their companions, yet none so unapologetically flagrant as those she gave to him. Or, perhaps, he only knew what she told him in privacy, and she rewarded the others with similar praise.
He found himself embittered by the thought.
Emmrich idly spun a ring around his pinky, collecting himself through the smooth friction. Rather than indulge in her stagecraft, he allowed his attention to be drawn to his surroundings. There were a myriad of other instruments that lined the corners of the room, lyres and drums that he had never seen the likes of before. Crates of unintelligible substance acted as makeshift shelves, and there was even a hefty stack of forgotten cheese wheels, a peculiar collection among the other artifacts. The walls were adorned with frescoes, fresh and unfaded, unlike the decrepit pieces that covered the library. This was made to be a private place, a space for reflection and recollection.
“I have not been to this room before,” he noted, not trusting himself to respond to her last comment. “It seems to be a studio of sorts.”
“I only discovered it a few days ago,” Rook explained easily. She followed his gaze to the painted walls, then dropped to the abandoned palette below it. “Solas seems to be an artistic fellow. A bit moody, though.”
Of that, there was no denying. The newest works all involved recreations of the man's time in the Inquisition, its emblem branded amongst the many eyes of the Dread Wolf. He also noticed the deviant presence of a Dalish lute, wood polished and strung with care. While the rest of the Lighthouse portrayed ancient anguishes, it seemed that here belied grief of a more personal nature. He should take some sketches, when given the chance.
“A long life may beget many regrets.” While his own lifespan could not begin to rival the Wolf's, he could still recognize the burden that came with age. When his focus returned to the instrument in front of him, he noticed the lack of pedals, along with its narrow frame. Tapping out another note, he then realized that it was plucked, not struck. “So it is a harpsichord after all,” he vised, admitting himself to his mistake. “It has been kept in beautiful shape, considering how old it must be.”
She shrugged noncomittally, her grin becoming lazy. “You would know.”
He struggled to not chuff at her euphemism. No subtlety with this one.
Rather than entertain her bawdy sense of humor, he kept his gaze retained to the pale keys. He stroked a line down the row, trailing his fingers down the bones of its bare spine. It trilled for him happily, implausibly in-tune. If this was a wild hound to her, it was a playful pup to him, docile and eager to please.
He wanted to impress her. There was no use denying it. Perhaps it was juvenile, but he wanted to garner her respect, her approval—especially after their initial argument when he first joined. He had promised to ‘live up to expectations’. In this case, that meant showcasing his prowess as a multifaceted individual. Despite being over fifteen years his junior, she was so exceedingly talented in so many ways: a cunning swordsman, a devoted archeologist, an experienced adventurer. He felt an urge to even the odds.
“I could have a go,” he offered modestly. “If that would be amenable.”
“Most amenable, I think.”
Rook gestured to the space beside her. He accepted the seat. The stool was large enough to fit them both, but not without their elbows and thighs becoming well-acquainted neighbors. She took no issue with the proximity, so neither did he. They had been far closer for battle, flung together by a dodged arrow or joined to tend to wounds afterwards. Truly, he thought nothing of it. Truly.
With a fishing of memory and a great exhale (completely performative), he began to play. It opened as a trickling stream, bright droplets that rang out from the stomach of the wooden animal. He was out of practice, his many rings stifling the fluidity of his movements, but he pushed past his limitations. His audience was a singularity, and as long as she was pleased, satisfied, impressed, gratified, he could consider himself a success. The sound was clear and bright, more of a cousin to catgut strings in its conciseness.
There was little in the way of dynamics for the harpsichord, but that did not stop him from implying. What started as a spring shower turned into a summer storm. The song was spirited, yet had a tinge of falling melancholy—practically a standard for Necropolian compositions. Mindful remembrance was replaced by muscle memory as he continued to play, ushering himself through his own rendition.
An image flashed in his mind, utterly indulgent. It was not of today, but of an unnamed day in the future, in which he played for Rook as a habit and she, likewise, would rest her head on his shoulder while she listened. The vision was almost sickening in its tenderness, a thought that betrayed his reserved nature. That's how it was with Rook. She made him cast his control to the wind, made him hope for a friendship (a friendship, yes) that went beyond what they had now. Her presence was a beacon in any room, a spark in every shadow. She was skilled at dividing her attention, yet the more that she gave to others, the more he wanted to vie for himself. She made him selfish.
When he had the time to rehearse, he could close his eyes and feel his way through the music. As it was, he needed to occasionally peek at the spacing of his right hand, moving with the twittering melody. He reckoned that he would play better if he was alone and not for someone whose regard he valued very much. It was imprecise and imperfect. If he was presenting for a gala, he would have gotten a few disapproving sniffs.
Rook, however, watched him with open regard. Although she casually leaned one arm against the edge of the frame, the act was not enough to hide her earnest interest. Admiration, even, if he allowed himself to think generously. She seemed hesitant to interrupt the music, as if the gentle thing could be startled into fleeing. At last, the words came to her.
“What is this?”
He did not halt, only slowing the cadence so that they could hear each other. “Just an improvisation on a popular suite,” he said, as if he was a master and not an old man with a hobby.
“Glorious.”
The only applause he needed. He could feel himself smile—a natural reaction to being lauded by an attractive woman, he would argue. If all her other compliments were false, a pouring of saccharine sentences to ripen him for picking, he would still believe that one word. It was too simple, too straightforward to be a lie. Besides, is that not what her people always touted? For gold and glory. He had a fine enough grave dowry for the former.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you're the musical sort,” she continued, raising her wrist to imitate a tempo. “When you cast your spells, you look like one of those getups in front of a band. Flicking wands, tapping time.”
“A maestro,” he supplied. “It is an old habit, meant to keep rhythm of the mana that I thread through the Fade. I am surprised that you noticed.”
“What can I say?” she asked glibly, confidently rhetorical. “I pay attention to your hands.”
His fingertips skipped across a few keys, an audible break in form.
Incorrigible, she was. There was no society in which that was an appropriate comment to make—unless—well, what did he know? Her fellow fighters in the tournament halls were similarly forward. She flirted with anyone that earned her favor, man and woman alike. Perhaps this was her way of being comfortable, of showing friendliness. It was an easier theory to believe than to assume that she—
Perish the thought.
Honestly, it was embarrassing that she could raise such a flush in him. He was a tenured faculty in his fifties, not some spritish lad to fluster from a tad of teasing. He cowed only because he did not want to cross the line of professionalism, but she hopped back and forth so often that it was merely dust in the sand. If this was her friendship, he could be friendly; if she was to push, he would push back.
“Do you now?” he countered, keeping his voice low and indifferent. “I was not aware that they were worth the study. Have you made any fascinating discoveries?”
The shift in his composure was noticed, but Rook did not concede. “Long. Thin. Dextrous. Skilled, undoubtedly.” She spoke as if she was reading the qualities from an open book. Her eyes followed his movement across the keys, and when she looked back at his face, she had a new expression. “Calluses that cannot be smoothed away. Scars hidden by jewelry that were made to be precious.”
A deviation in her own methods. It was proof that she told the truth: she spent enough time looking at him to make such inferences. It sunk into him like a barbed blade, where it would assuredly catch and fester for weeks to come. Did she also tell Lucanis of his pretty lips, tell Neve of her noble nose? Did she point out Bellara's dimples with a similar joy, or Davrin's brows, or Harding's freckles?
An idea sprung to mind. A raising of stakes.
“Quite observant,” he commended. “Yet what of your feet, my dear?”
“My… feet?”
“Do you dance?”
Emmrich murmured a mantra in his mind, a whispered incantation, and the ivories of the harpsichord took on a pearlescent shine. Every pressed key was left with a glowing imprint, staining each one a taintless teal. With a final wave, he was able to remove his hands completely. The music played on, transforming to a more simplistic, repetitive tune but remaining nonetheless. It was an esoteric stunt, as most necromancers would simply summon a spirit to play in their stead, but he did not have the leniency of such a ritual here.
“A fine trick,” she stated sincerely. Yet she did not immediately rise to the bait, her expression twisting once again. He was not familiar with this one either. “But I probably know none of those pretty prances you prefer.”
“Not even a waltz?” he pressed instinctively.
Then, at once, he realized what he saw.
Insecurity.
Maker, fool that he was, he was so insistent on being charming that he had forgotten the rift in their educations. They had only briefly shared their histories, but it was enough to know that she came from difficult beginnings. He wanted to unsteady her, not shame her.
“Ah. I should not assume—”
“Well, of course I can waltz, Emmrich,” she interrupted, as if she could tell that his thoughts were mounting on pity. “Six steps are not reserved for deep pockets.”
He knew that tone. It was an assertion of dignity, an insistence of equivalence. That same inflection had bloomed from his own mouth time and time again, petals that were willing to poison anyone that argued otherwise. It disturbed him that she might consider him among those opulants, even after the conversations of their childhoods.
Emmrich sighed and stood, opening his palm to her as consolation. He could not apologize, as the experience of another life was not something to apologize for.
“I was not always so well heeled, as you know,” he said instead, soft and scant.
“I know,” Rook repeated simply. She reached for him, keeping only the barest distance as she hovered over his hand. She traced a circle in the air, directly over the pad of his thumb. “Calluses, as I mentioned. We never quite lose them.”
Perceptive. Disconcertingly so.
He went to close the gap, but she pulled away before he could. Tugging at the sapphire pendant around her neck, she made the light glint off of it. With a tut, she turned her head away from him and crossed her legs, her posture suddenly poised.
“Pretend I am a lady then, a good one. With a fine dress and blood silver enough to know what I’m doing.” She tossed her dark hair, although it was too short to adequately fall upon her shoulders. “Ask me properly.”
It took him a moment to catch on. It was a mitigation of his blunder, a method to still maneuver into joining him. She was wrapping him into another one of her games. His lips curled.
Very well. One was never too old to play a little pretend. Emmrich swept himself into a deep bow, his heels paved and an arm squared behind his back. His manners were exaggerated, but this was a court they were imitating. In its mockery, some gaiety was allowed.
“Miss Laidir, may I have the honor of offering you a dance?”
“Hmm,” she mused, exceedingly vocal. “Goodness, I am unsure. My time card is rather full, and the night is getting awfully late—”
He could not help but laugh. “Rook—”
“That is not the way to address a lady.”
“Miss Laidir,” he repeated, this time with an unquestionable firmness. “I'm afraid I simply cannot accept a refusal. I have been waiting all evening for the chance to ask.”
“Presumptuous to assume you are owed one,” she professed, prodding at him all too joyfully. Still, she acquiesced, finally placing her hand within his. “Very well, but only since you are so devastatingly debonair.”
With a florid flux, he swept Rook from her seat and into his awaiting arms. She found his shoulder and he found her waist, four ringed hands felt beneath the fabrics. Once they waited for the rhythm to begin anew, he led her into their prescribed waltz. It was a modest introduction, simple and slow and sweet. With the cramped room, they were unable to measure the movement that the dance encouraged, but they found a bare piece of floor and circled it fitfully.
It was the follow's privilege to decide how close to keep their lead. In Rook's case, this meant dismantling any last remnants of personal space. They danced hip to hip, thighs flush against each other whenever they closed a step. It was the mark of an uncertain pursuer, clinging to him in the hope that she could more easily predict his next shift. Emmrich was accustomed to keeping a partner close due to his height, but that did not make her nearness any easier to endure. He set his jaw and bid himself to only think how lovely it was to share such a whimsical moment between unlikely companions. As she said, he was a gentleman, and he would not allow his thoughts to linger—even when a beautiful young thing was pressed into his hold.
“The countess will be squawking next tea time, seeing me dance with a Volkarin,” she commented conspiratorially, speaking once she was confident she wouldn’t trip.
“She would,” he agreed. “Once a commoner, always a commoner. It is crude for me to even inquire your attention.”
“A scandal,” she announced, blue eyes shining vividly. Angling her head, she gazed at him from the corner of her vision, looking past her sharp nose. “Let them talk. Perhaps Laidir and Volkarin go better together than they think.”
It was an overt declaration, and although their circumstances were mere fantasy, the notion remained. The humor of it was in the juxtaposition of their respective backgrounds, two children that grew up shaking their raw fists at such displays. Not even the best acting could hide what they truly were. Nails clacked beneath his mended boots, scars peeked from her slinking neckline. A respected scholar and a renowned treasure-hunter, both apt at this grand charade. What truths that were buried beneath, graves dug for a pair of lives that refused to falter.
For so long he strived to deflect attention from his humble heritage, for his value to instead be weighed as a self-made man. Now he almost wanted to shout it, to shake her and assure that I am like you, I am like you. Even as he ushered her through a dance meant for ballrooms, even as they indulged in luxuries and liberties and glamors and gold, he would not have her rely on pretense. Not with him. If he could claim a trait for himself, it would be genuine.
There was trust enough, at least, for her to allow the curtain to fall.
They danced together for minutes more. Emmrich did his best to lead her through the drifting cadence, each rise and fall clinking his bracelets like an added percussion. Over time, their fronts faded away, leaving only them, moving together in the perpetual sunset of the music room. It was not impeccable, but it was pure, and he thought that was more worthwhile. She, however, was not so easily satisfied.
“Tell me, then,” Rook said, speaking plainly. “What am I doing wrong?
He blinked, dredging himself to attention. “You are doing nothing wrong, my dear. Everyone has their own style. Yours is—”
“Poor,” she finished, as if he would ever say something so discrediting. “Go on. You will not hurt my pride. I want to learn.”
It was true that she lacked some of the stature of a legitimate waltz, but he was not so fickle as to care. He was not bothered by her sweeping and swaying, clues that she was accustomed to other dances entirely. If anything, it was informative.
Still, he could not ignore such an earnest request, and he was pleased that she had enough confidence in him to ask. It was a paradox, but in respecting his expertise she was asserting them as equals; she would not accept advice from any other. As an educator, it would be wrong to deny her the opportunity.
“If you insist,” he conceded, keeping his tone light. “It is the way you hold yourself. It is too slack, too loose.”
“Show me.”
Rook stopped in place, halting him in tandem. She brushed down his arm, her fingers catching upon the etched bangle. There was an intensity in the invitation, a draw to improve. That was his reasoning.
Gingerly, he raised his gloved hand from her waist. With her explicit permission, he tucked two fingers under her chin and tilted it. “Your head should remain tall,” he instructed gently. She crooked it upwards, wordlessly obedient. Then his hand slipped down her neck and to her back, where he burnished the arcing of bone. “Your shoulders should be relaxed but proud.”
The open pad of his glove skimmed across a bare length of skin. He knew that he ran cold, but the warmth of her was still startling. He had been led to believe that satin was meant to be cooling.
His touch wandered from the small of her spine to the hard muscle of her diaphragm, correcting her form as he went. “Your ribcage should stay upright, and your hips kept beneath.” He pressed his palm against her stomach, aligning her posture. He could sense as she gave into his guidance, allowing her shape to be carved by his careful coaching. “An engaged core is pertinent,” he added.
“I see,” she murmured, her voice far quieter than it was before. “Like this?”
A slow inhale and a shaken exhale. He felt the muscle swell and stretch beneath his hand, evidence of her strenuous training. Of all the days for her to disregard her usual bodice, it was when the extra layer would be relevant. His thumb glanced across the edge of her pelvis. She tucked herself in, uncharacteristically compliant.
“Yes. Good. You listen well.”
He met her eyes. She wetted her lips.
“To those worth listening to.”
It struck him like a tumbling tide, a waxing wave that threatened to pull him under. In the name of tutelage, he had acclimated himself to Rook's body in a way that was impossible to ignore. Yet that was simply how dancing was done, and it was childish for him to ascribe any other context to their nearness. He should not think of her silhouette shaped by his say. He should not think of her permissive pliability. He should certainly not think of how much less she spoke when his hands were upon her.
He was awful.
Emmrich cleared his throat. He removed his hand from its sensitive placement and returned to the proper positioning. Rook retained her posture as well as she could, now conscious of her limbs and levity in a way she was not before. She said nothing as he leaned her into another round of steps, following him faithfully. She gazed at him with an unintelligible intuition, as if they were a fox watching a brave hare. He could not discern which was which.
“Smooth. Steady,” he directed, both solid and soft.
They continued to dance, taking on an almost competitive vigor. As a duelist, Rook felt the need to prove her finesse. Likewise, Emmrich was more experienced, and would not stop until she felt satiated. She fought to keep her chin from bowing down, allowing her to see her own feet but breaking her stance. Her improvement was exponential, with each of his glances understood as a correction. If not for the disparity of their height, they made for an intuitive pair. He could not resist spurring her on, delighted by her dedication despite his dismal inclinations.
“Expand your frame, dear,” he told her. “Push yourself into me—yes. Now hold it.”
To dance was to give and to take, to trust and to tame. Any image of delicacy came from two powers balancing so beautifully that it looked effortless. Between them, it was more akin to a constant conversation, a back and forthing that fluctuated with the flow of the music. She would likely make a competent lead herself. Perhaps Harding would humor her. Then he could ascertain whether her closeness was a tendency or an exception.
Rook did well, yet not even the best of natural talents could avoid every mistake. Emmrich led with his weight and raised an arm, one of a few turns they had endeavored. She went to spin, but her feet stumbled together in a collection of excessive steps. A leg lagged behind, and with a lurch, she was tripping and falling.
It was not a long fall, of course. She abandoned her bearings and grabbed at him, finding grounding from the spaces between his jewelry. Likewise, he clutched her abdomen, wrapping around her torso and catching her before she could lose any considerable height. His knees bent to reach her, then straightened, pulling her back up. Her forehead struck him squarely in the chest, forcing him to release a puff of air, a quiet oof.
All he could see was a mane of black hair against his vest. He felt a jolt of anxiety when he felt her shudder, but it was washed away when he realized that she was laughing. Tinkling, toothsome, completely unlike her usual rasp and roar. A fist curled around his lapel, bracing herself as she raised her face. There was that smile, meticulous in its frivolity. As if his nerves were not frazzled enough, she had to go and be so dreadfully endearing.
“So maybe I am not quite a lady after all,” she reckoned, burying her nose in his shirt as if suddenly sheepish.
Heavens above, a wild doe would know better boundaries. She impelled him to indulge, daring to put a hand atop her head. Teacherly.
“Those pompous fools have nothing on you, my dear,” he assured, unable to help himself. “I would take your company over theirs any day.”
She would also look far better in their tapered gowns and glittering regalia than they could ever endeavor. As much as he detested their niche of politics and privilege, the noble class did have a recognition of inspiring fashion. Rook rightfully spoiled herself with elegant decolletage (a well-earned concession that he subscribed to himself), but she still dressed with the possibility of spars and skirmishes in mind. She deserved more, to be drowned in the finest Nevarran fabrics and polished like the jewel that she was. A jewel that was strictly for distanced admiration, he reminded himself. He was simply another attendee to the gallery, visiting a piece that was indifferent to its visitors. Art could be looked at, but not touched—lest one smears the paint.
Emmrich shook himself, pointedly ignoring how silken her hair felt beneath his fingertips. Before he debased himself further, he stepped away from her grasp and rearranged their limbs. They settled back into the correct pose, a return to decency.
“Let us try again.”
She nodded.
Three steps made half of a box, and another three completed it. He repeated the same motion as before. This time, Rook was ready. She spun herself within his armspan, turning in time to meet his stride. Another laugh eeked out, trailing behind her like a tail. Her feet did not fail her. He caught her as she finished, hooking her back into place.
“There we are,” he praised, pleased to see her succeed. “Well done.”
“I do learn better from a hands-on approach,” she replied, nearly simpering. “I should—”
In their focus, they had not noticed the footsteps in the corridor. A figure clad in black and blue entered the music room, a blade in each hand. Lucanis. His roguish expertise meant that he had the habit of unintentionally sneaking up on others.
“Rook. I was hoping you could help me with some training—” Lucanis halted, his mouth going slack as he took in the sight of them. His eyes went to the self-playing harpsichord and back to their connected forms. “—Ah. Am I interrupting?”
Emmrich froze in his position, just as wide-eyed. As if someone had thrown a creature upon the keys, a jangle of notes tumbled from the enchanted instrument before it fell silent. The quiet that followed was painful, its edges sharp and unsparing. There was nothing inherently inappropriate about the circumstance, but he still felt the need to provide context. He fumbled horribly.
It was Rook who first pulled away, extracting herself from his hold. Just like that, a star was stolen. “We were just finishing,” she offered candidly. “The courtyard, as per usual?”
Lucanis murmured a confirmation, although his gaze kept flicking back to the other man. His expression had turned tepid. Emmrich could not tell if it was possessiveness, protectiveness, or perhaps nothing at all.
“I'll be right there.” Rook tilted towards him, a subtle bow as she prepared to leave. “Thank you for the music… and for the dance. I will do my best to remember your lesson.”
“The pleasure was all mine, my dear,” he answered, his voice oddly hollow. He went to brush nonexistent lint from his vest, desperate to find something to do with his hands now that they were empty.
“Until next time, Professor.”
Then she was departing, followed by a muted Lucanis in tow. He watched as she disappeared behind the sliding entryway, leaving him to stand alone and recollect himself. Her absence was keenly felt.
Professor. Again and once more. Like a bite of cream and honey, deceptively sweet in her mouth. As if she had not proven that she could call him by his name. As if they had not just shared a pith of private joy. As if the moments could be respun and deliver them exactly as they were.
Foolish was not a strong enough word. He was not special in her scrutiny, could not think to capture her attention in any exceptional way. Right now, she was likely trading strikes with the Crow, bodies intertwined as they dueled, exchanging jaunts as friends did. There was no acceptable reason for him to want a particular rapport. Rook was not a torchbug to be caught in a jar, left on a shelf to light his studious nights.
In his woe, her other words came to him belatedly.
Until next time.