Chapter Text
In the sheltered glade, Rook gambles with her heart.
Emmrich is standing beneath the two trees that grow there, gazing up at the foliage with open appreciation. The leaves are pale pink, the first blush of an early spring sun, lovely and welcoming in a place such as the wetlands. All around them, outside this glade, are the evidence of this world’s brutality: blighted farmlands, tainted water, a clinging moist chill that perpetuates a pervasive gloom.
Rook watches the necromancer with a faint smile. He is overjoyed to see healthy botanical growth in a place where the soil is poison. He transfers his attention to the flowers growing beneath the trees. They are tall and umbel headed with wide purple petals. No, not purple, Rook corrects herself – they are lilac. Emmrich’s favorite color.
Rook and Emmrich have known each other for several months, brought together and embroiled in a monumental struggle to keep the entirety of Thedas from being blighted by the two escaped elven gods. They have spent many hours together in battle, in discussion, in the rare empty hours circumstance grants them. She has come to know Emmrich as a skilled necromancer, as a dedicated member of her companion circle, as a genuine friend.
She has also come to know over the course of these months that she might love him.
“Rook,” he says, half-turning to face her. “This is most remarkable!”
“I thought you might like it.”
“These flowers… I've never seen anything quite like them before.”
Emmrich kneels to more closely inspect the plants. Rook walks along the perimeter of the glade, working hard to keep her nerves in check. She has brought Emmrich here because she knew it would please him. She had also brought him here so that she could confess her feelings.
Maybe. Maybe confess her feelings. Rook has faced down dragons and arch demons, Venatori and Antaam, demons and undead. She is not immune to fear, but she is somewhat dulled to its effects by now. However, the thought of revealing the depths of her attraction to Emmrich has her heart pounding, her hands clammy, her mouth dry. She is an experienced warrior and a veteran of many battles, but this looming event may have the power to undo her. Monsters and villains she can contend with. Matters of the heart are somewhat outside her realm of experience.
“What lovely inflorescences,” Emmerich murmurs to himself, and Rook smiles again. That smile fades as she considers the word ‘lovely.’ She has been shaped by a life of conflict. Her body is muscled and scarred, a vessel of war forged out of necessity. She is not by definition lovely. Comely, perhaps, with her long dark hair bound back in a braid, her hazel eyes expressive beneath the bold line of her brows, her lower lip marred in one corner by a small scar. Comely to some, yes, but never dainty, never elegant. Never beautiful.
“Rook.”
“Hmm?” She pauses in her walking to lift her head and look at him.
“You're being very quiet.”
“I'm thinking,” she says, scuffing at a rock with the toe of her boot. She is bereft her armor, weapon and shield, foreseeing no need for them on this little excursion, and now she feels exposed without them.
“And what manner of thoughts have you so silent?”
“The usual. Elven gods and darkspawn and Tevinter cults.”
Emmrich rises to his feet, dusting off the length of his long coat as he does so. “I hope there is at least one bright thought among all those.”
“There is,” Rook says. Her heartbeat accelerates and a slight tremor besets her fingers; it is now or never. She takes a deep breath and says, “It’s you.”
Her eyes are riveted on his face as she speaks those two words, desperate and afraid to know what havoc they will wreak. He blinks, his brows shooting upward, and then his expression shifts into something she cannot read. Should have kept my fucking mouth shut, she thinks, quickly trying to formulate some sort of witty jest to serve as a diversion. Her brain abandons her in this time of need and she and Emmrich regard each other in silence, the significance of what she said suspended, nearly palpable, in the distance between them.
“Rook…”
She breaks away first, glancing to the left where the muddy road to Lavendel awaits. It’s going to be a long and humiliating walk back to town. “My timing has never been good,” she tells him, trying for a light-hearted, self-decrepatory tone. “Nor my judgment, in some matters. Could we just forget…”
She trails off as he begins to move, taking a step toward her before pausing, looking uncharacteristically at a loss. Rook could almost laugh at how awkward the situation has become. That’s my kind of charm. Leaves them speechless.
“Would you come here, to me?” he asks.
She crosses the glade until she’s within arm’s length, uncertain but buoyed by a weak hope. Her height is considerable for being both a human and a woman, but even so she has to look up into his face. She still can’t read his expression, and that small flame of hope she carries begins to dwindle.
“Throughout our time together, I’ve often thought I caught a glimpse of a particular kind of appreciation from you,” Emmrich says. His hands are pressed together before him, a posture Rook has noticed he adopts while engaging in discussions that require deep consideration. “I discarded the notion at first – in addition to the difference in age between us, there is also the matter of the struggles we find ourselves currently enmeshed in. But despite these, I… I could not stop myself from hoping.”
Rook’s hands had been clenched in preparation to endure what would have most assuredly been a genteel refusal. Her fingers relax as Emmrich continues to speak, her gaze locked on his.
“I have a better understanding of the brevity of life, given my calling. Our circumstances have given me an even deeper insight into that brevity. I fear it is all too easy to squander what joys we are given and never realize it until it is far too late. If you have meant what you said here today, if I have read your past intentions clearly… if you hold for me a manner of deep affection – I would welcome it, Rook, most sincerely.”
From hope to despair to uncertainty to joy – she is reeling a little from the suddenness of it all. Her experience with romance has dwelt mostly in the realm of dalliances, relations formed to act as an outlet for stress or fear. She has never truly fallen for someone before, never known what it is like to have the mere sound of someone’s voice evoke simple contentment within her, never known what it is like to have her heart skip a beat from a simple glance. In Emmrich she has found such things and she is loath to return to a life without them.
“I do,” she says, dismayed to find her voice a little unsteady. She has always been good at parceling emotion away; when it breaks free though, she struggles to manage it. “Very much so.”
Emmrich takes a small step toward her. In her chest, her heart begins to pound again. He asks, “And is that why you brought me here today? To tell me this?”
“I brought you here because I knew you would enjoy the sight of it. I wanted to make you happy.”
“And you have,” he says. His voice has taken on a lower tone as he takes yet another step toward her. There is very little space between them now, a fact she is acutely aware of.
His proximity and the direction of their discussion is throwing her off balance. Be charming, she thinks, but finds that all she’s capable of asking is an inane, “Have I?”
“You’re blushing, Rook.”
She hadn’t felt the heat in her cheeks until now. That heat intensifies as he takes the final step needed to be directly in front of her. “You, ah… seem to have that effect on me.”
“Do I, indeed?” He lifts one hand and she feels his fingers warm upon her cheek as he splays them, feels the contrasting coolness of the rings he wears. She covers his hand with her own, gazing up at him in elated disbelief.
“You affect me in more ways than you know, Emmrich,” she says, her voice just as low, “and you have now, for quite some time. I wish I’d told you earlier. I’m not… I don’t know how to be romantic. But I had wanted to see you happy, before…”
His thumb is brushing gently at her lower lip and all her words and thoughts abandon her at the sensation. “Before?” he prompts with an elfin upturn at the corner of his mouth.
“Um. Before… before I told you what I had wanted to tell you.”
“Which was?”
He already knows. They’d established as much just now, but he wants to hear the real words and she will indulge him. “That I do carry a deep affection for you. That I find you remarkable in so many ways. That I wish to know you as more than a friend… that I wish to know you as a lover, if you feel the same.”
She feels the warmth of his gaze just as she feels his touch, enveloping her in admiration, in adoration, in desire. Her pulse thrums to know that the hopes she had carried had proven true, to know that someone as charming and accomplished as Emmrich could be as attracted to her as she was to him.
“Lovers,” he muses in that softly deep voice that raises the flesh on her arms in an anticipatory way. “All in good time, my dear. Until then…”
Emmrich lowers his head, his mouth finding hers, and Rook closes her eyes as gentle euphoria rolls over her. Beneath the blossoming trees and amid the blooming flowers, he kisses Rook until they are both breathless, and then he cups her face in his hands.
“You have indeed made me happy, Rook.”
“Today,” she says jokingly, still flushing, her breath rapid from excitement. “Tomorrow might be another matter. And all the days after that.”
“All the days after that, to spend them with you,” Emmrich says warmly, pressing his lips against hers one more time. “What a delightful thought. I shall hold you to it.”
.x.
In the days that pass afterward, Rook finds that the hard edges of the life she has come to live since disrupting Solas’ ritual have softened. Nothing much has changed on an outward level; though they had not spoken of it, neither Emmrich or Rook have shared anything about the change in their relationship with any of the other companions. For Rook it is still too new, too precious, too thrilling. Before this, her life had narrowed to dealing with Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan and when that dust has settled, dealing with Solas. There is not much of her life that is private anymore – nearly every waking moment is focused on the struggle to keep the blight of the elven gods from overrunning the world. Her feelings for Emmrich – and his feelings for her – are hers and only hers right now, a pearl of positive emotion she will keep clutched close until secrecy is no longer possible.
Containing her reactions to Emmrich’s presence while in the company of the others is not as difficult as she’d expected. She talks and listens and fights alongside everyone, because the world is depending on their cohesion. She notes the subtle changes in Emmrich’s behaviour toward her with a sense of clandestine happiness. His gaze upon her lingers a little longer and she notices that he says her name more often, with a slight emphasis as though he simply likes the sound. There are touches, too, swift moments where his hand finds her shoulder, her arm, her back. The looks they exchange are brief but unshuttered, and to Rook all of this amounts to a pleasant kind of torture.
Weeks after Rook and Emmrich’s shared revelations in the sheltered glade, the group is presented with an oddity in the form of a day where there are no crises, major or minor, that need to immediately be dealt with. Emmrich finds Rook in the library while she is sorting through missives, his voice calling her out of a tangle of correspondence from all over northern Thedas.
“If you are not busy, Rook –”
“Yes,” she interrupts immediately, smiling.
He blinks, momentarily taken aback by her enthusiasm, before returning her smile. “Aren’t you at all curious?”
“Very,” she admits, “but I also like being surprised sometimes, when it doesn't include darkspawn or dragons or Antaam.”
“You'll be happy to know this outing includes only you and me.”
Ridiculous, the way her body responds to such a simple statement, a thrilling flutter in her chest. She glances away to mask her reaction, eyes skimming across the missives she still holds. “When do we depart?”
“Now, if you are able?”
She tosses the missives back on the table. “Now sounds perfect.”
.x.
“Are they always this… lively?”
Rook is being surrounded by wisps. There are at least a dozen of them. Two hover over her outstretched palms. The rest are floating around her body, orbiting her limbs, and she feels a strange sensation near the nape of her neck that makes her think one might be attempting to interact with her hair.
Emmrich’s reply is rich with amusement. “They do sometimes exhibit increased activity around newcomers to the Necropolis Halls. I must say they seem rather taken with you.”
Rook watches as the one above her left hand bobs up and down. She moves her thumb as though to touch it and watches as flesh passes through whatever ethereal matter the wisps consist of. She wonders if they are capable of thought, if they’re aware of her as what she is rather than something large that roams the same area that they do.
“Do they bother you?”
“Hmm? No.” Rook shakes her head. “They fascinate me. Everything down here does.”
“I am most happy to hear it. Off with you now,” he tells the wisps, waving a hand in the air and leaving a glowing trail of green particles in his wake. They scatter slowly in response to his magic, a couple of them reluctantly circling Rook’s head before drifting away. Together Rook and Emmrich watch them go, and when they’re out of sight the necromancer extends his arm. She takes it without hesitation, and together they begin to slowly continue their walk through the Cascades.
Rook’s attention darts from point to point, curiosity and intrigue alighting her eyes upon pottery topped with stately skulls and towering statues with heads humbly bowed in reverence to the dead. What she has managed to glimpse of the Grand Necropolis was done while dealing with harried situations, battling Venatori and demons and undead. She hadn’t had time to appreciate the great stillness that encompasses the entirety of the halls, the haunting regality of the soaring architecture, the faint but detectable presence of the lingering dead. She has seen and experienced a great deal throughout the course of her life, but very little has impressed her in the manner the Grand Necropolis has.
She gradually becomes aware that Emmrich is observing her closely. She glances at him sidelong. “I could spend days here and not tire of it,” she confesses. “And likely get lost in the process.”
He chuckles. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
“To think that such grandeur exists beneath the earth, out of sight of most everyone… It makes me ponder what other wonders lie within Thedas that I haven’t seen.”
Emmrich considers this for a moment. “You’ve travelled nearly its breadth throughout the span of your life. For you to have seen so much of the world and then say that you consider the Necropolis a wonder… is it odd to say that I find it moving?”
Rook feels that sensation again, flickering sparks in her chest that make her inhale deeply. “Not odd at all,” she says, her voice a little husky.
They continue walking in silence until they reach a worn, narrow staircase ascending out of the Cascades. He precedes her up the stairs, and at the top they stand side by side on a small balcony hewn from stone. The balustrade is sturdy, carved with expert craftsmanship, the balusters in the shapes of bones, the caps as skulls. The balcony overlooks a large section of the Memorial Gardens and Rook peers over the railing to see the pale green glow of many braziers lighting the paths through the graves and tombs. Above the gardens is the vast, empty expanse that separates the Necropolis from the world above, a darkness lit here and there by intermittent shimmers of green – starry wisps, exploring the sky as they know it.
“This is…” Rook begins, but words escape her. She shakes her head in awe. “This is incredible, Emmrich.”
She feels his touch at her elbow and looks up at him. “I’m most pleased you think so,” he says with quiet intensity, “because I could think of no better place for what I intend to do.”
“Oh,” is all Rook manages, because suddenly her thoughts are racing in a hundred different directions and her pulse is matching their pace.
“Do you trust me, Rook?”
“I do.”
“And would you trust me to show you something of my magic? Something that you would be able to… feel?”
Her reply is immediate, her doubts non-existent. “Yes.”
Her lack of hesitance brings a delighted smile to his face. “Thank you, darling. Now – hold out your hands, if you would.”
Rook does as asked, extending both hands palm up. Emmrich slides his hands over her palms slowly, until his fingers are able to wrap around her wrists. His touch sends an expectant shiver down her spine, and she lifts her gaze to meet his.
“Breathe deeply,” he tells her, his voice dropping to a soothing, deeper tone. “Think of something pleasant – a memory, a food, music –”
“You,” she interjects with a misbehaving half-grin.
“Rook,” he chides, but she hears the undertone of his amusement. She obediently begins to take deep, even breaths, thinking of the last time she’d heard her favorite song, The Sun Horse, sung by a drunk dwarf accompanied by a woodwind duo at some tavern in eastern Ferelden years ago.
“Good,” Emmrich says, and Rook realizes her eyes have drifted shut as the lyrics to the song roll through her mind. She becomes aware of a tingling sensation at the point of contact between them and her fingers twitch. In response Emmrich gently squeezes her wrists in silent reassurance. The song is still playing faintly in her mind and over it she can hear the sound of Emmrich’s breathing, slow and measured, matching with hers.
The tingling sensation grows, spreading down into her fingertips and up toward her elbow. Seconds tick by and Rook sways a little, lulled by Emmrich’s touch and the comforting sound of his breathing, by the words of her favorite song, by the fact that she is where she is.
“Now… open your eyes, Rook.”
She does as asked and sees that Emmrich’s entire form is haloed in a pale green light, small sparkling specks dotting the air all around him. Wisps have gathered in the air above to bear witness to whatever it is that is happening.
“What is this?” she asks, whispering for fear of disturbing the amassed energy she can feel all around her.
“Spirits,” is his quiet reply. “I have called them here, those of a more adventurous and inquisitive nature. Some of them enjoy being seen and felt.”
“Are they… are they within you?”
His eyes are lucent, fixed still upon hers. “In a manner of speaking. We are essences occupying the same space.”
“Is that what I’m feeling? Spirits?”
He nods. “It’s their energy, their substance, transferring through my touch.”
Rook looks around at the wisps, at the luminous definitions of other phantasmal shapes hovering around them, and then returns her gaze to Emmrich. “Is there more?” she asks.
He smiles, pleased that she shows no trepidation in the face of this power so unfamiliar to her. “Oh, yes. Take another breath, darling, and be at ease.”
It jolts through her at the peak of her inhale, a transference of energy that skitters over the entirety of her body and snaps her head back. It’s an inexplicable sensation, lancing tendrils that feel cold but also suffuse her with heat. She feels a sense of wonder that isn’t hers, wonder and curiosity and satisfaction – she is a part of an enchanted dance, two beings passing through each other and leaving only marvelous bliss in their wakes.
“Emmrich.” She hears her own voice gasping but her eyes see only motes of coruscating light, stars and particles that tie together the Fade and the world to which she belongs.
His touch calls her back, his thumb stroking along her cheek as she blinks reality back into focus. When she can see him again he curls the fingers of his other hand around the nape of her neck. His eyes are still aglow, his form still encompassed in the aura of the eager dead. He kisses her thus and the shock of it steals her breath, has her hands fisting in the fabric of his coat. His power is cool and confident, the accumulation of years of passion and knowledge. She glimpses the truth of him, the ardent fire that burns at his core, the yearning for years as yet beyond him and the nearly blinding desire for her – her laugh, her words, her looks, her touch. Her.
She surges up against him, returning the kiss with a fierceness that surprises her. He is startled and then not – his fingers flex at her neck as she nips at his lower lip. He draws back a little and the little noise of dismay she makes is almost embarrassing – almost, but then he drops his head, nudges hers to the side, and directs his lips to the point of her pulse. Mouth and tongue lave a path down to the juncture of neck and shoulder; he reverses the path with a trail of gentle bites. Rook’s eyes are closed, her hands loosening their hold and drifting downward, around his waist to pull him closer, until they fit perfectly together.
It ends eventually, as it must – for all things there is a time and a place and as lovely and wondrous as this has been –
“Emmrich,” she says in a dazed whisper as he lifts his head and wraps his arms around her. She rests her cheek against his chest and is gratified to find it lifting rapidly with the force of his breathing.
“Beloved,” he returns, sounding just as shaken.
They hold each other as their racing hearts slow, as they descend to a place of calm. Eventually Emmrich stirs, one hand rising to stroke down the thick length of her braid.
“I have known many remarkable things in my life,” he tells her, “but all of it pales to what we have just shared. You are incredible, Rook.”
She shakes her head a little, nuzzling into his chest as she does so. “I did nothing. This was all your magic. I very much like what you can do, by the way.”
She can hear the rumble of his soft laugh from within his chest. “I’m most pleased to hear it.”
Another short silence falls. Rook is the one who breaks it, pulling away a little to be able to look up into his face. She touches the line of his cheek, her fingers grazing upward into his meticulously kept hair. His eyelashes flutter at the sensation, and she smiles.
“Thank you for today,” she says. “For everything. I will never, ever forget this.”
“Then it was as I intended,” he says with a warm and tender smile, “This was the first in what I hope to be many such memories for us.”
Rook’s grin is a little shaky – what has just transpired will leave aftershocks for some time, yet. “I’m not sure I’ll survive another experience like this.”
His answering grin is small and wickedly charming. “You’ll survive, I assure you – though it may feel somewhat like dying a glorious death.”
Rook’s laughter echoes out across the gardens.
.x.
One evening in Treviso, seated at a small table in Lucanis’ favorite cafe, Emmrich shares with Rook the aspiration he has held for most of his life. Rook listens without speaking, and when he has finished she stares down at her hands clasped together on the table before her.
“Dearest, I… I will understand if you… if this leads you to change your mind about us. Perhaps I should have spoken of it sooner, but I had not expected that you would ever – that we would ever… I had not wanted to cast a shadow on our time together.”
She can hear it in his voice despite his attempt to mask it: fear – of losing her, of losing what they have together. She fears that too, with an intensity that almost frightens her. When she lifts her head, however, her gaze is clear.
“Nothing will change,” she tells him.
His eyes widen slightly. “Even though…?”
“Even though,” she affirms. “But will it still be you after it is done? The same person with the same opinions, memories, thoughts?”
“Yes, though my perception of those may alter.”
“And will you still know me? Will you still want to know me?”
He reaches across the table and grasps her hand, squeezing as he says with utmost resolve, “Without question.”
“Then nothing will change, Emmrich. I’m yours whether you’re mortal or lich, for as long as you’ll have me.”
“Rook,” he says, squeezing her hand again, his throat working with emotion.
“You’re stuck with me,” she says with a devoted smile. “Stuck with me ‘til the end.”
.x.
In the Wetlands, in an off-shoot cave several feet lower than the main warrens, Rook becomes trapped with a darkspawn ogre.
The battle that had led to her being separated from the others had been ferociously fought on both sides, the darkspawn having ambushed Rook, Taash and Neve while they had been collecting more blight samples at Antoine’s behest. Darkspawn no longer unnerved Rook the way they used to; fight anything long enough and it becomes a new kind of normal. She met the challenge as she did every other thrown her way, and the trio fought long and hard to thin the ranks of the enemy.
Reinforcements for the darkspawn had arrived from a previously unseen passage, a shadowed crevice in the rock wall that spilled forth a few more of the smaller variants and two of the larger. The hurlock had focused its attention on Taash immediately. Neve’s blizzard encircled those creatures in the center of the cavern passage and Rook was forced to dart backward to avoid being touched by the deadly swirling chill. The ogre had begun to pound the ground and the walls with its fist, making the earth around them tremble. The force of its blows loosened small blight boils that rained down from the cavern roof. Rook, dealing with the sudden onslaught from a genlock that had evaded the blizzard, stepped into the blast radius of a dislodged boil. The resulting explosion had sent her careening into the unforgiving stone of the cavern wall, stumbling over a darkspawn corpse, and then tipping over into a small pit.
She had landed hard, the breath exploding from her lungs. And now as she stares upward, a massive head hangs over the edge above, glowing carmine eyes staring balefully down at her. The sounds of the battle nearby indicate Neve and Taash are still standing. Rook gains her feet just as the ogre leaps down, bringing her shield up to bear and feeling a twinge of pain along her spine as she does so.
She is not afraid of the ogre. She has faced many of them before and has learned to anticipate swiftness despite bulk, has learned to take the open-handed blows along the edge of her shield instead of in the middle in order to lessen the impact. She has learned that the flesh along its ribcage is thick to the point of repelling any manner of blade thrust, that the better tactic is to go for the limbs and cripple it before attacking the vulnerable neck.
Down here in this dark confined space, Rook is at a disadvantage. She withstands the first flurry of blows, the ogre’s claws scoring deep into the metal of her shield, shrieking metal rising above the bellows of the beast. She ducks under a close-fisted swing and lands a blow at the back of one knobby knee. The ogre howls. Rook swings around and hurls her shield, watching with satisfaction as it strikes the creature in the back of the head and sends it staggering. She leaps forward, blade raised, only to be shoved aside by one of the smaller darkspawn that had followed the ogre down.
Rook deals with it easily, cleaving it from sternum to rib, already turning as she pulls her blade free – but the ogre recovers quickly, too quickly, and is on her before she can retrieve her shield.
What follows is pain. The ogre grips her easily in one massive hand and hurls her at the wall. She cries out and agony lances up her shield arm. Her fingers refuse to loose her sword and as the ogre stomps near she stabs it through the foot with a grunt of effort. The blast of fury it emits hurts her ears and it bends, grabbing her by the leg and dragging her across the rough ground before tossing her again.
When it is over she’s lying on one side, her breathing ragged, one eye bruised and bloodied, the fingers of her sword hand twisted and bent. It’s Neve that rouses her to consciousness, Neve placing her gentle, cool hands on both sides of Rook’s face, Neve’s brows furrowed in grave concern. Over Neve’s shoulder are two figures that blur in Rook’s vision, grappling with each other and culminating with a throw that causes the cave to shudder. Rook closes her eyes, opens them again to find that she’s no longer enclosed within stone. The moon is bare and bright in the sky above and she is being held in Taash’s arms.
Another blink and time skips ahead. She’s lying on a bed and staring up at a hazy ceiling. Every single part of her body hurts – a prevailing pain, sparking along every bone and nerve she has. She cannot see out of one eye, can feel that it’s swollen shut. The suffering is particularly potent in her sword hand. She attempts to move it and immediately hisses in response.
“You must not move, dearest. Not until I am done.”
Emmrich. Her head lolls to the right and there he is, seated at her bedside, his hands positioned over her chest and abdomen and alight with a faint green glow. He’s not alone. With her limited vision she can see Taash, Neve and Bellara standing behind him.
“She’s been through worse,” Taash says. “She’s tough. She’ll be fine.”
“The professor is well known for his healing prowess,” Bellara chimes in.
The whole of Rook’s attention is on Emmrich, on the pinched lines of his face as he channels his magic and funnels it down into Rook’s body. She can feel it working to mend the grievous hurts, a sensation not unlike being swept up in a rushing current of water. When finally he lowers his hands she can breathe easier, and the stabbing agony in her spine is almost entirely gone.
“Rook,” Emmrich says quietly. She hadn’t realized her good eye had closed. She opens it again, blinking to bring him into focus. He has moved to the other side of the bed and seated himself there.
“I’m going to work on your hand now. It will be quite painful and I am so very sorry for that.”
“S’ok,” she says, or tries to. Whatever leaves her mouth is pretty much indecipherable.
She tries to mask her reaction as he takes her mangled hand in his. He handles it so carefully, so gently, but regardless of his care the resulting pain feels like jagged shards being driven into every joint. She is unable to swallow her whimper as he works at straightening her fingers and mending her shattered bones, turning her head aside so that he can’t see the way her face contorts. She feels a reassuring touch on her good hand – Neve is sitting there, her fingers draped over Rook’s palm.
“It’ll be over soon,” she says. “Emmrich is very good at what he does.”
Rook can do nothing but attempt to breathe through the torment, nostrils flaring, chest heaving as she fights every instinct she has not to yank her hand out of Emmrich’s grasp. When it is finally over she is exhausted, sore and aching.
“She needs rest,” she hears Emmrich say to the others. Her eye flutters open to watch the others leave, Taash patting her gently on the foot as she departs.
“Rook?”
“Mmm?” She has been asleep, she thinks, because Emmrich is standing at the foot of the bed with Manfred beside him.
“I’m sorry to wake you, dearest, but you need sustenance.”
She rolls her head on the pillow, trying to dislodge the oppressive fatigue she feels buried under. The swelling in her face has lessened enough that she can open her eye, but not much. Her body is still one giant ache, a steady throbbing she feels mirrored in her head. As for her hand – she attempts to flex it and groans as she realizes her mistake.
“It will be a while yet before movement is possible,” Emmrich informs her, seating himself in the chair next to the head of the bed. Manfred has followed, the tray he carries bearing a steaming tureen and a small cup. “Do you think you can lean up for just a moment while I arrange the pillows behind you?”
“Doubtful,” Rook croaks, but gives it a try anyway. Bending her body in this way invites a resurgence of agony and she manages only a few seconds before she collapses backward into the stacked pillows with a shaky, pained exhale.
A tandem effort by Emmrich and Manfred results in filling Rook with some broth and water. She’s asleep again before they’re even out of the room. When she wakes next Emmrich is there once more in the chair beside her bed, an open book in one hand. Thank you, she wants to say, but she is just so tired, and so she closes her eyes again and sleeps.
Time passes. Eventually the weariness brought on by her wounds and the healing magic subsides. Four days after her battle with the ogre she is able to sit upright on her own and does so in the early morning hours when she is alone. There is a stack of books on the small table next to the bed. The titles indicate they all belong to Emmrich. Rook places her wounded hand in her lap and inspected it carefully. She’s had injuries mended with magic many times before. Almost always there is a mark left behind. Emmrich’s magic, though – he has mended her flesh and bones and left no trace. Her fingers are whole and unblemished save for pre-existing scars and they flex easily. She will be able to wield a sword as though nothing has happened.
“Oh, excellent! You’re awake.”
“Emmrich,” she says happily, looking up to see him standing in the door.
He crosses the floor quickly, sinking down to sit on the bedside. He gives her face a close examination. “How do you feel?”
She can’t help herself – gratitude and other, stronger motivations have her grabbing at his collar with her mended hand and pulling his head toward hers. She kisses him so thoroughly he makes a startled noise, which quickly melts into something akin to a fleeting moan. One of his arms slides around her waist while the fingers of the other cup her chin.
“I feel well enough,” she says as she breaks away, a cheeky upturn to her mouth.
“I… I daresay you must,” Emmrich responds, and she’s delighted to see two spots of color high on his cheeks.
“Thank you,” she tells him, lifting the hand he’d treated. “Your skill is most impressive.”
“The damage was considerable,” he says, his expression growing sombre. “I was not certain I could I undo it.”
“You did, though, and I’m grateful.”
“And I am grateful,” Emmrich says, gripping both of her hands in his. “I’m grateful you’re here and whole again. I hated that I had to put you through such pain. And I hated that I hadn’t been there to –”
“You being there wouldn’t have changed a thing. It was pure bad luck.”
Emmrich’s expression hasn’t changed; if anything it’s become more severe. “Rook,” he says quietly, his brows drawn, “I cannot bear the thought of losing you.”
“Then don’t think on it,” she tells him, leaning forward. He obeys her wordless directive, meeting her mouth with his for a brief kiss. When it’s over, she says, “I’m here and I’m okay. Give me a bit and I’ll be ready to go back out.”
“No.” he says firmly. She lifts an eyebrow. “No,” he elaborates. “You need more than ‘a bit.’ Days, at the very least. You’re going to be very sore for a while, and any excess movement will only make it worse.”
“Fine,” she concedes with a nod. “I’ll rest. I’ll sleep. I’ll likely go mad with boredom.”
“It’s for the best. I’ll help with the boredom when I can.”
“Oh?” Rook queries, brow lifting again with a certain kind of expectation that is mirrored in her crooked grin.
Emmrich looks at her questioningly and then, when comprehension sets in, shakes his head with a small smile. “You’ll be needing quite a bit of rest before then,” he tells her in a voice pitched just low enough to affect her in a certain kind of way.
“Never say I’m not obedient,” she says before collapsing back on the pillows and pulling the blankets up around her. “You’ll forgive me if I say I must catch up on my sleep?”
“Rook,” is all he says, and that one word both chiding and adoring, followed by the pleasing sound of his chuckle.
.x.
Rooks is lying on her stomach on the large green chaise in the meditation chamber, her head pillowed on her folded arms. The room is dark but for the small clusters of candle flames scattered throughout the space. She stares dreamily through the observation glass and into the aquatic landscape beyond, noting the darting movements of the fish, the sinuous ribboning of the plants. She is utterly at ease in this moment, perfectly happy with herself and the world.
Emmrich is seated on the edge of the chaise, his elegant hands working at the muscles in her back. She’s bare from the waist up and completely comfortable with her partial nudity, inundated as she is with blissful relaxation.
It had been his suggestion. His thorough knowledge of anatomy was not only limited to working with the dead. Her recuperation had been speedy owing to his prowess with healing magic and the only residual from her encounter with the ogre was persistent aching, which was too minor to warrant action with magic but present enough to hinder some of her movement range. Her impatience to return to her duties, accompanied by her eagerness to spend more time in Emmrich’s company, had led to her enthusiastic acquiescence to his suggestion.
Her shirt lies neatly folded on the floor next to the chaise. Disrobing before him had been casual and quick, his reaction respectful though she’d noted the way his fingers had flexed on his thighs. Initially the anticipation of his touch had made her heartbeat accelerate and filled her with the flutterings of excitement, but the expertise of his knowledgeable touch has rendered her utterly languorous.
He works on her for a long time. She drifts off at some point and stirs to wakefulness when she feels his fingers at the nape of her neck, pushing the muscles upward and then working them downward again. She nearly groans with how good it feels.
“You are proficient with more than one type of magic,” she murmurs appreciatively.
“I am merely applying the practical aspect of my anatomical knowledge,” he says. His thumbs stroke their way down on either side of her spine and then back up again, pressing deep.
“It must tire your hands eventually.”
“Eventually,” he confirms. “But not yet.”
She dozes again. When finally he lifts his hands away she comes fully awake, blinking sleepily and feeling more relaxed than she has since… well, she cannot really recall the last time.
She rolls over onto her back, folding one arm behind her head, unconcerned with her partially undressed state. He’s sitting with his hands clasped, watching her with a deeply affectionate smile.
“How do you feel?”
“Incredible. I’ve never been this relaxed before. I feel like I could melt into the floor. The pain is gone, too.”
“Then I’ve succeeded.”
“You have,” she says, reaching for him. He catches her hand in his, interlocking their fingers. “Thank you, Emmrich. You’ve done so much for me these past few days. I hope you know how grateful I am.”
“It is and always will be my pleasure, Rook.” He pauses for a moment, and then asks, “May I touch you?”
You just did, she almost says, but there’s an inflection in his question that makes her heart misbehave. “Yes,” she replies, her voice nearly soundless.
He lets go of her hand and places his fingertips on her abdomen, slowly spreading them apart, pressing downward until his fingers are splayed and his palm is pressed against her skin; the contrast between the warmth of his flesh and the coolness of his rings titillates her. He’s watching her face carefully, searching for any sign of unease, but the nod she gives him is one of desiring approval. His touch moves, roaming the bared expanse of flesh, fingers grazing over the defined outline of her muscles.
“What battles you have fought,” Emmrich ruminates softly, “and what feats you have accomplished over the course of your life. I envy you, Rook. You bear evidence of your journeys throughout Thedas on your skin.” He is tracing the faded, hook-shaped line of a scar along her ribs as he says this.
“Skirmish with a drunken Avvar that attacked me outside a tavern one night,” she explains in a hushed tone.
He grazes his knuckles up and across, to a trio of short lines just beneath her right breast. She inhales sharply at the sensation, her back arching a little; a glance at his face reveals just the faintest hint of a self-satisfied smirk. He’s waiting for another explanation but it takes her a moment to wrangle her voice. “Briarcat. Got between a mother and her cub.”
His hand ghosts upward, across the swell of her breast, barely touching but still there. Her breath hitches and his smile grows. “And this?” he asks, running two fingers over a thick line just beneath her collarbone.
“Dagger,” she says huskily. “Venatori agent, year or so ago.”
He leans forward, his fingers trailing up to her neck, his thumb pressing lightly at the hollow of her throat. She’s caught in his steady gaze, his hazel eyes clearly conveying the depths of his yearning and adoration. She trails her own fingers through his hair, liking the way the strands feel against her skin, the way his eyes close at her touch, the way his breathing quickens.
She sits up suddenly and his arm goes around her, pulling her close as their mouths join in a slow, burning caress. Emmrich’s tongue curls along the curve of her lower lip and then further, stroking inward, tasting faintly of citrus and spice. Rook’s fingers hook into the back of his shirt and pull until the buttons at the front strain when his teeth scrape over her lower lip as his mouth works its way down her neck.
“You are perfection, Rook,” he breathes a moment before he nips and sucks at the lobe of her ear. That’s a spot that’s never been explored in this manner before and her reaction is a gasp shaped like his name. He likes the way she responds, his arm around her tightening, his breath growing faster and heavier. He returns his mouth to hers and she kisses him hard, loving his taste, the feel of his questing tongue against hers, the feel of his hand cradling the back of her head.
He draws away with a question, running his fingers into the tight strands of hair at her temple. “May I?”
She will say yes to anything in this moment, ablaze with passion as she is. Her answer is a jerky nod and she’s surprised when he pulls the length of her long braid over her shoulder. He works at the tie at the end. She realizes his fingers are trembling slightly and she feels something piercing and joyous near her heart to realize she affects him so. When the tie is free he sets it aside and immediately begins to unravel her dark hair, pulling each section apart slowly and carefully, holding the weight of it in his hands as he would some manner of precious substance. When her hair is completely unbound and spilling over her shoulders in heavy waves he leans back and stares at her with such intense appreciation she feels herself blush.
“Perfection,” he repeats, and the reverence in his voice nearly brings her to tears.
He begins to remove his rings, pulling them off one by one and placing them on the small table near the chaise. After the rings go the bracelets and the cuffs, and when his hands are bare he slides his fingers into her hair at the temples, massaging them against her scalp. Rook’s entire body becomes limp at the simple, pure pleasure she experiences at his touch. He works his fingers against her head and then combs them gently downward, parting the shining strands that fall almost to her waist. He continues this for long moments before tipping up her chin with the backs of his knuckles and pressing a kiss to her upturned mouth.
“Would that we had the time,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against hers. “I would explore and worship the very wonder that you are.”
“If we had the time,” she returns softly, “I’d give you proof of my love.”
Her confession evokes a reaction from him – wide eyes and parted lips, and then he kisses her again, and again, and again until she clutches at his shoulders in both plea and supplication.
“Would that we had the time,” he says, regretfully drawing back.
“Soon,” she promises him, fingers pressing feather-soft to his cheek. “Soon.”
.x.
When existing in a perpetual state of crisis, subject to the vagaries of war and the forces driving it, it’s impossible to keep everything above the floodline forever.
The Viper is blighted.
Weisshaupt falls.
Manfred dies.
In a sacred hall within the Grand Necropolis, Rook holds vigil with Emmrich over the empty cage of bones that had once been Manfred. She had shed her tears in Blackthorne Manor after the confrontation with Hezenkoss, because just as she had grown to love Emmrich she had come to care for the skeletal assistant whose voiceless, lively demeanour made him impossible not to like. Emmrich’s grief was more reserved, though the tremble in his voice and the sheen in his eyes as he’d cradled Manfred’s lifeless form had created a webwork of cracks across her heart. She could not take this pain from him, but she could attempt to share the weight, or as much of it as he was willing to share.
Rook and Emmrich are now standing under the observation of a trio of immortals, three of the lich lords that safeguard the whole of the Grand Necropolis. Emmrich had brought Manfred’s body here in hopes that his life essence could be restored but is instead being presented with a decision that seems unbearably cruel. Rook listens to their words with a growing sense of despair, hurting for Emmrich and the choice he must make.
When the lich lords have finished speaking, Emmrich bows his head and presses his hands together before him. Rook can almost hear the whirlwind of his thoughts, fond memories and the ambition built over the course of a life colliding with such force that no matter the conclusion, his life will be irrevocably changed.
Gradually he stirs, turning his head to look at Rook and reaching for her hand. She clasps his fingers tightly, giving him what she hopes is a bolstering smile.
“Rook?” he asks, and the magnitude of that question is one she mentally staggers beneath.
The selfish answer, the one she wants to give, is that Manfred should return to life. She wants Manfred alive again, she does, but more than that she wants Emmrich alive and with her, wants to live out the rest of her life at his side – the Professor and the Warrior, unlikely lovers but so perfectly matched despite the many obstacles and challenges that perpetually assail them.
The right answer – the only answer, if she dares to be honest with herself – is that he become what he has spent the whole of his life fervently aspiring to be. Great regret exists on either side of this cruel choice, but she believes the greater regret will be in passing over the exceedingly rare chance at lichdom.
She tells him her honest thoughts, her voice hushed, his hand held tightly in hers. He listens intently, and when her voice breaks at one point she sees him swallow hard against his own swelling of emotion.
He turns and tilts his head to address the lich lords, silent in their regard and abiding patience. When he’s done speaking, all three of them tip their head forward in solemn, respectful acknowledgment before they vanish, one by one.
Emmrich places his hand on Manfred’s chest. Rook waits, quiet and aching for him, as he says his final farewells.
“We must lay him to rest,” Emmrich says finally. “Would you – would you assist me, Rook?”
“Of course I will.”
Emmrich nods. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and she knows the words aren’t meant for her.
.x.
Upon returning to the Lighthouse she leaves him to his grief, understanding his need to be alone. Manfred has been interred within the Memorial Gardens, in a small grave near the patch of weeping widower he liked so much.
There is a mountain of problems awaiting her at the Lighthouse, and she resigns herself to appointing action to every single missive that requires it. In the days that pass Rook and her team are busy, dealing with backfiring magic in Arlathan and a rogue Antaam-Venatori allegiance in Treviso. For once she is glad for the never-ending onslaught of issues requiring their attention, as it focuses her thoughts away from Manfred, away too from the looming inevitability of Emmrich’s lichdom.
It is weeks before circumstances ease, allowing the group time to relieve stress and attend to personal matters. During this window of time, Emmrich begins the preparations for his ascension. They have spoken at length about the looming change, about the significance, about what it will mean for them both. Rook’s conviction has never wavered, though she is afraid that his will despite his assurances otherwise. She does not speak that fear aloud. She does not want to cause Emmrich even a ripple of doubt. If he should change his mind in these last days, it must be his own reasons for doing so.
The day before the rites of lichdom she is subdued, lost in a mire of uncertainties and beset by a quiet terror of what the next day will bring. Emmrich has asked her to be present during the rite as someone of great importance to him and she agreed without outward hesitation. Inwardly, however, she is a roiling mess of emotion.
She loves him. She has never loved anyone before outside of familial ties and the bonds of friendship. She is unfamiliar with the nuance of it, unprepared for the shifting expectations, of the strength of her still-growing devotion and what it will demand of her. She does not regret supporting Emmrich’s decision for lichdom – his entire life he has been centered around that determination, creating the man that he is, the man that she loves. What troubles her most in these hours with such a radical change imminent is her own potential inability to cope with it.
She had gazed upon the three lich lords in the Necropolis Halls and seen them in their unearthly, haunting majesty, creatures of bone adorned in gold and finery, each projecting the enigmatic power granted to them by the domain of death. Of the men and women they had once been, however, there had been no evidence and it is that which concerns Rook now. Emmrich had assured her more than once that after the transformation he would retain his soul, the indefinable nexus that makes him who he is. Her trust in him is absolute, but she still cannot help but linger in doubt.
She is absent from dinner, having no appetite and knowing she cannot maintain a facade of casual unconcern. She means to seek out Emmrich later in the evening, to seek more reassurance and offer it in return, but as the hours pass she remains where she is, seated on the chaise with her hands folded in her lap, staring unseeing at the candles on the meditation table.
It is nearly midnight when she hears the knock at her door. She stirs, lifting her head; she’d dozed off at some point, wearied by the endless cycle of her morose thoughts. The knock sounds again, quick and even, and she knows who it is even as she lifts her voice to bid them entrance.
She settles on her knees and turns on the chaise to watch Emmrich enter. He closes the door behind him slowly and as he approaches it is with halting, unsure strides. He positions himself on the other side of the chaise. When he looks at her, it is with an open expression of concern. She doesn’t want to spend hours revisiting what they’ve already discussed. She doesn’t want to pretend.
“I’m afraid I’m going to lose you.” Her voice is a little rough from hours of disuse, from the strength of her fear.
“Darling,” he says softly, “Not even death will erase your hold on my heart. You are vital to me in ways I cannot explain. Tomorrow, when it is time… it is you I will envision, your light and your grace a beacon to me as I travel beyond life to a new existence.”
There are tears in her eyes and she hates that fact, blinking hard and looking up at the ceiling. “I know. We’ve discussed this before, and I believe you, I trust you but I can’t stop thinking about ‘what if’. What if I’m no longer enough?”
“What if you are?” he counters, shifting position and leaning toward her. His fingers brush back an errant tendril of hair at her brow and she clasps his hand, pressing it against her cheek. “What if, as I pass the threshold from this world to the other, as I become the bearer of knowledge and insight beyond mortal reckoning – what if I come to love you more deeply in the process?”
Her lips part to hear the trembling gravitas in his words. “I cannot tell you with certainty every detail about the person I will be when it is done, Rook, but it is my promise to you –”
She kisses him, because he doesn’t need to soothe her anymore than he already has, because she knows. Her hands are on his cheeks, in his hair, pulling his head down so that she can kiss him more fiercely, plying tongue and teeth because she needs him, urgently needs to feel that what exists between them will endure everything and anything.
He is keenly responsive to her aggression, cradling the back of her head in one hand, fingers threading tightly into her hair as he kisses her back with matching fervor. It’s working – all thoughts flee Rook’s mind save for the intoxication that is the slide and push of their tongues, of his arm going tightly around her, of the way his fingers tangled in her hair pull slightly. Her desire for Emmrich has always been present, steadily and quickly growing over the passage of weeks and now it is overwhelming and will not tolerate denial.
She squirms in Emmrich’s hold to free herself of her loose shirt, and he assists by pulling it up and free of her arms. Her breastband follows, dropped to the floor by her fingers and then she is pressing herself against him, the buttons of his vest cool and hard against her exposed skin. He allows her to push him back against the chaise, and as she straddles him he is watching her with a look of such torrid adulation that her body responds with a heady rush of heat and a steady throbbing between her legs. She wants – oh, she wants – but she reins in the stampeding urges and remains still as he lifts his hands in order to free her hair from its binding. When it is done she leans down to kiss him, her long dark waves falling as a curtain on either side of their faces.
He explores her bared skin with his hands, those elegant, perfect hands, long beringed fingers running up along her ribs and down again, spanning them around her waist as he adjusts her against him. She can feel evidence of his arousal pressing against her thigh and she wrestles with her body’s demand for immediate gratification in favor of a slower, searing intimacy. His hands are moving again, upward over the hard planes of her stomach and then halting at her breasts, fingertips cupping, thumb circling her hardened nipples. Her hands are on his shoulders and she watches him through eyes half-closed in pleasure, marking the stark, fervid worship etched into his countenance and basking in it. He leans forward and presses his mouth to her breast with sensual reverence, lips closing around first one nipple and then another as his hands press possessively against the small of her back.
When he’s done, when the skin of her breasts is wet and warm from the attention of his mouth, he gently nudges her off of him. She complies, coming to her feet, backing a step to allow him room. She works on the simple fastening of her pants as he stands, shimmies her way out of them and kicks them aside. He’s removed his vest and the pin at the collar of his shirt, setting it on the small table, and she watches as he undoes the top button. He pauses, looking an invitation at her, and she eagerly accepts. As she focuses her attention on the next button she finds to her dismay that her fingers are shaking slightly, a fact which makes the task at hand more difficult.
“Too many buttons,” she murmurs as she slips one free and then fumbles with the next.
“There is something to be said about delaying gratification.”
The narrow-eyed look she slants him is met with a small, mischievous smirk. “I’ll rip them off,” she warns.
“You will not,” he says firmly, and proceeds to undo the rest with swift, practiced ease. He gracefully shrugs out of the garment, letting it join her clothing on the floor. Even though he’s only partially unclothed her mouth has gone dry, and when he lifts a finger and beckons her near she approaches quickly.
He places her hand on his chest and she presses her palm flat, her fingers parted. Beneath flesh and bone an organ moves with such force she can feel it, a steady, rapid thrum.
“It beats for you,” he tells her softly. “It belongs to you. Only you, my beloved. Always.”
Rook swallows against a knot of emotion, because he speaks of more than just his heart. With his fingers on her wrist he begins to pull her hand downward, sliding across the lean muscles of his chest and abdomen, until she feels the soft fabric of his trousers beneath her palm. She undoes them carefully, guided by his fingers and when they’re loose she pushes them down. They catch on his hips but she doesn’t care, because the outline of his erection is on blatant display pressing through the fine fabric of his undergarments.
Emmrich finishes disrobing with the same refined grace he always displays, and then he is bared wholly to her eyes, and she to his. She has never in her life felt truly beautiful until now, seeing his raw craving for her body, for her, etched into every crease and angle of his face. She has never appreciated a partner’s form beyond what pleasure it could bring her but she does now. Emmrich’s body is a testament of his dedication to health and self-respect, and she finds him desirable beyond comparison.
She sinks back onto the chaise, pillowing her head on the armrest, lifting one knee and holding out her arms to him. He fits himself into her embrace and she wraps her leg around him, delighting at the rigid feel of his cock against her inner thigh. She whispers sweetly wanton things into his ear and is rewarded with immediate reactions from him, two spots of color burning bright on his cheeks and a bit of seeping wetness on her thigh. She wiggles a bit, snaking her hand down between them both and wrapping her fingers around his length, stroking slowly and watching his face as she does so. The strain there is marvelous to see, a battle of lust and restraint with the former winning.
He’s bracing his weight on his forearms and he shifts as she guides the tip of his cock through the seam of her wet folds until he’s poised exactly there. Her fingers fall away as he pushes forward, her head twisting to one side at the sensation of being so purposefully and completely filled. Her leg around him flexes, toes curling as he continues his deliberate invasion.
“Rook,” he says, his voice scarcely more than a rasp. “Look at me.”
Her eyes had been closed in pleasure but they flutter open to fix on his face, his eyes, willing to lose herself in what she sees in their depths: love everlasting, perfect and absolute and, in this moment, deeply and tenderly possessive. One last thrust of his hips and he is completely hilted within her, and he captures her gasp with his mouth. Her fingers on his back grip tightly as he begins to move, sliding back to the very cusp before driving himself back in. He pauses, sliding a hand beneath her, adjusting her position and drawing her hips up and she moans as he resumes thrusting because the feel of him now is so much better, so intense, so maddening.
He denies her seeking mouth, instead nudging her head to one side so that he may kiss the column of her neck. Kisses become nipping bites as he accelerates his pace and Rook’s nails dig into the skin of his back. She feels herself slipping closer to the glinting edge of climax and breathes his name, scraping her nails downward. Beside her ear, his lips shape her name and expel it on a hot, panting breath. She feels his teeth gently on her earlobe as his hips begin to snap in a hard, quick rhythm.
“Rook.” His voice is low, rendered soft and rough by exertion. It’s a command and she obeys, her eyes flicking to his.
“Fill me,” she pleads, and it’s his undoing.
He spills inside of her with a groan that rolls up from the depths of his soul, an admission that he has lost himself to her, willingly and forever. She follows him, plummeting into euphoria, her muscles going taut as she clings to him. His hips move in little rolling motions through the aftershocks, his head nestled in the crook of her neck. She is limp with bliss, blinking spots from her vision. Their rapid, mingled breathing is the only sound, gradually slowing as minutes pass. Her hands move up and down his back, fingers limning aimless patterns on his skin.
He moves finally, pulling up and out of her. She scoots closer to the edge of the chaise, making room for him to fit in behind her. She pulls the mass of her hair back, twisting it into a rope and tucking it between them. He puts an arm around her and presses his lips to the back of her shoulder.
“You are everything to me, Rook,” he says softly, “and my love for you will forever abide.”
“As will mine for you,” she returns, covering his hand with her own where it lays pressed against her stomach. “No matter what comes.”
He kisses her shoulder again before resting his head on the armrest next to hers. Both are pleasantly exhausted, suffused with the elation that comes from loving and being loved. Several hours from now they will go to the Grand Necropolis and both of their lives will undergo a monumental change. Until then, they will rest and bask in knowing what they know–
They are for each other, and nothing will alter that fact.