We Tremble Like Leaves About To Let Go

by Petricharis

Summary:

As the seasons pass, Rook and Emmrich learn what it means to love each other forever after.

Notes:

Good evening once again, Emmrich Nation!

In this fic we will follow The Lads across four seasons. They deal with some insecurities, some past problems, some future problems, and overall have a great time of it in spite of some bumps in the road. There is also lots of fun use of erotic magic, because what the fuck do I look like? A sham? A fraud? We all know what we came here for.

As always, the entire series is mandatory reading for things to make sense. If you're just here for the sexy bits: don't worry about everything else.

Unsurprisingly this fic too got way too big and then had to be divided into 3 chapters per season, the first three of which are now written and ready to be published as soon as I finish editing.

Please enjoy! I'm having a great time with this still and I hope you are too. Thank you so much for all your lovely thoughts and comments, and until the next chapter!

Chapter 1: Winter I

They’re nearing the end of the first trimester of the academic year when winter comes to Nevarra. Emmrich wakes to a pitch-dark room and feels his nose tingle from the nip in the air. The curtains at the window move occasionally as the cold, gentle breeze rolls in, rustling quietly.

The city outside is silent. It is a stillness that, after living in Nevarra City all his life, he knows to only occur when winter’s frosty advent finally envelops his home in a thick blanket of brilliant snow. Bracing for the chill, he gets out of bed and shuffles over to the window. His breath fogs up as he parts the curtains and looks out into the city.

As expected, the overnight snow has draped itself across the buildings like a bride’s veil. Warm, orange firelight bursts forth among the pristine snow covering the rooftops and streets from the city’s many lanterns, scattered across its various districts. It’s a beautiful sight, and Emmrich sighs softly, wishing to be out there in the crisp air to feel the snow falling onto his face. Behind him, Rook turns over and immediately burrows into Emmrich’s empty side of the bed, blearily staring at Emmrich by the window. As far as he’s concerned, it’s far too early to be awake. 

Emmrich turns to look at him. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“‘Salright,” Rook says, yawning, “what’s out there that’s nicer than being in bed?”

Rook can just barely make out Emmrich’s wistful little smile as he looks back out of the window.

“The first snow of the season has arrived at last.”

He sits up in bed and immediately regrets his decision. The room feels cold as ice, and Rook isn’t wearing any clothes except his underwear.

But he wants to see the snow, and so he gets up and curses when his feet hit the cold, stone floors outside of the carpet that surrounds their bed. With his arms wrapped around himself and his teeth chattering, he looks out of the window at the snow, still falling merrily from the skies. 

Emmrich stands behind him and takes him into his arms, holding him tightly to his chest to warm him. 

“Minrathous almost never gets snow,” Rook says quietly, staring at the snowflakes that stick to the window, “I’m glad you woke me up.”

“There is something rather magical about it, isn’t there?” Emmrich whispers, his heart feeling so very full. “Perhaps we ought to consider a winter wedding after all.”

The wedding. Arguably one of Rook’s less favourite topics of conversation, in spite of his earlier promise to himself to try and make an effort even if just to make Emmrich happy. Unfortunately, his subconscious doesn’t care for the decisions he makes in broad daylight. At night, when he’s asleep and unable to distract himself with busywork, he dreams of his father’s smoky drawing room, and the man standing at the very back of it. He is always the same: hunched over, his hands folded behind his back, and a surly expression on his face, eyes boring into Rook from a distance. If they’d replaced him with a statue that looked exactly like him, Rook doubts he ever would have noticed. He struggles to recall a time where he didn’t feel those eyes on the back of his head whenever he was in that godsforsaken room. 

His intended: Lord Croecius Vediovis, head of House Vediovis. A man at least thirty years his senior when he was just a teenager, and a man who seemed at best indifferent to him no matter how hard Rook tried to make something of it after he pretended to have come to terms with being forced to marry him. Conversations were tepid, their walks in the estate gardens excruciatingly boring, and his presence felt stifling. There was always something beyond that cranky, sullen face that Rook has never been able to decipher. Thoughts he wouldn’t voice, perhaps, or maybe he loathed this predicament as much as Rook did.

But that can’t be true. Rook is sure he remembers performing the caged bird with him. 

Rook closes his eyes against the memory and shakes himself to banish it from his mind. Maker, he was just a child. He had no idea how to manage that relationship, or any sort of relationship. He didn’t know how to feel about wedding dresses, venues, seating arrangements, and he actively didn’t want to practice the required rituals with Vediovis at all. If anything, he wanted to be as far away from him as possible. 

“Darling?”

Right.

“I still think we can use the Lighthouse,” Rook says, sounding convincing enough that this was actually what he was thinking about. “It’s where everything started, after all.”

“The Lighthouse is much too small and far too dangerous, dearest. I would hate to see one of our guests make a misstep and fall into the Fade for all eternity.”

“We could put guardrails–”

“No, Rook. We agreed neither the Lighthouse nor the Necropolis would be suitable for our guests.”

Maker. The guestlist. Emmrich’s side reached the floor by the time he was done writing. Rook’s side only counted the remaining handful of Shadow Dragons, Dorian and The Iron Bull. Most everyone else was already on Emmrich’s list. It’s not that he doesn’t have any family or any acquaintances that he could invite, it’s that he doesn’t want to. He mostly doesn’t like those people, and he suspects it would be very painful to see some of them again. He’s avoided doing it for more than twenty years for a reason.

It’s surreal to think that when he last saw some of them, he was engaged to be married to someone else entirely. If only he could erase that part of his past from his mind. Maybe then he'd have an easier time talking about the wedding.

Emmrich rubs his arms and kisses the back of his head, drawing him back into the present.

“If you’d worn your nightclothes…”

“I was, until you took them off after you came home last night, amatus.”

Soft, tantalising kisses land on the back of his shoulder. Rook tilts his head to the side and closes his eyes. If Emmrich wants to proceed from where they left off, far be it from him to object. He doubts there will ever be a time where he won’t want Emmrich every single day. 

Emmrich worked very late last night. With ten pupils this trimester whose papers he has to correct and grade, prepare lectures for, and make and grade exams for, he has been extremely busy and likely will continue to be during the next trimester as well. After that, he teaches a much more specialised class, one that Rook is set to join him in if he performs well in the preparatory courses for it.

With Rook being an enchanter already, and a highly renowned mage as a result of his actions during the war against the gods, he was allowed to skip a great deal of courses that beginning Mourn Watchers take. These were instead substituted with exams, all of which he passed with flying colours. Now that he is moving on to more advanced necromancy, however, Emmrich wonders if he’ll struggle. Not least because some of it is not entirely dissimilar from blood magic, which Rook would prefer not to use at all anymore, but also because death magic is very far removed from his own affinities. He’s essentially learning a new language, one that he has to produce from his fingertips in ways he never has before.

But Rook is an assiduous, eager student. Emmrich has sat beside him at the dinner table and watched with great fondness as he studies more than once, though Rook outright refuses to let him help with any sort of experiments, homework, or essays he has to do. Any questions he has, however, he asks, and these are discussed at length, to their mutual enjoyment. Emmrich finds he just likes to be near him while they both work, hands occasionally reaching across the table to communicate their enduring affection.

Contrary to what he thought possible, Emmrich’s love for him continues to grow with every new day as they grow ever closer over their now shared discipline, their care of Manfred, and their upcoming marriage. 

Marriage, not wedding. As he’d feared, planning a wedding with Rook is like pulling teeth, and he cannot begin to understand why. It’s not that Rook doesn’t want to be married to him: that’s just about the only thing he knows Rook wants. Perhaps Rook simply doesn’t care for all the logistics after the year he’s had, or maybe there’s something else he’s simply not ready to discuss yet.

But he trusts that Rook will tell him. He always does, in the end. Emmrich has learned that trying to force it out of him will compel him to fess up, but it hurts him. It’s not worth hurting him over when patience will suffice.

“I must confess that I had thought of you all day,” Emmrich murmurs against Rook’s neck, “you’ve been so very diligent, my darling. A model student. Every one of my colleagues assures me that you’re a delight to have in class.”

“Pleases you, doesn’t it?”

He can almost feel Emmrich’s smile against his skin.

“Would it not please you to know that your chosen partner in life is making a good impression most anywhere he goes?”

“That does please me, because you do. Even my mother liked you: do you have any idea how hard that is to achieve?”

Emmrich chuckles softly. Rook closes his eyes and takes it in, before saying:

“Truth be told, sweetheart, I’m just trying to get to where I need to be as fast as possible.”

The tip of Emmrich’s nose brushes along the crook of his shoulder, making him shiver.

“Which,” Emmrich asks, “is where?”

“Your class, obviously.”

“Oh?”

“I look forward to it very much,” Rook assures him, turning his head to look at him, “I’m sure it’ll be riveting.”

If he’s being perfectly honest, Emmrich dreads it. It’s a truth that he intends to take to his grave, for the issue is not that he doesn’t want Rook in his class, it’s that he fears the consequences of it.

So far, Rook has been perfectly professional. His fellow students, they had agreed, are not to be told of their relationship. Should anyone find out, he will let the chips fall where they may, but he would much rather prevent any and all potential discussions of favouritism or unethical conduct.

But having Rook in his class brings the secrecy of their relationship in peril. They’ve already agreed that Rook will ask any questions he has at home, and Emmrich won’t call on him in class so as not to draw attention to him. Rook had agreed to all of this with some degree of amusement, and had told Emmrich that he was overthinking things. After all, none of his students have so much as alluded to his and Rook’s relationship in all the months Rook has been attending other classes with them.

Emmrich had pointed out to him that he had occasionally heard his first and second years giggling behind his back. Rook had told him this was to be expected: those students likely had a crush on him.

The discussion was promptly put to bed by Emmrich after that, but he still worries. Worries that Rook will become a pariah among students if they find out, or that his academic merits will be brought into question somehow. He doesn’t deserve that, not after how far he’s come to finally get here.

“I find that hard to imagine, darling,” Emmrich finally replies, “previous students have oft complained about the impenetrable and esoteric nature of the material.”

Rook grins and turns around, taking Emmrich’s face in his hands as he leans against the windowsill. Even the freezing cold window at his back doesn’t deter him from getting his kiss.

“They’re young. They have other things on their plate. All I have to concern myself with are you and Manfred, and you especially I don’t find impenetrable at all.”

He shouldn’t laugh, but Emmrich is forced to press his lips together and look away to keep it from happening.

“Rook–”

“Yes?”

“That is not what I meant–”

“Oh?” Rook says, letting go of Emmrich’s face and bringing him in by his hips instead, spreading his legs so that Emmrich can stand between them. “But I’ll bet you wish it was what we were talking about.”

“I really was trying to impress upon you the difficulty of my class–”

“What’s this, then? Hm? You put our rolling pin in your pocket before you went to bed?”

The question is accompanied by Rook’s finger tracing the outline of Emmrich’s erection, already beginning to strain against his pyjama pants. 

“Ah, no,” Emmrich says then, “that is merely the result of your proximity.”

“Just my proximity? Or perhaps you remembered last night?”

Emmrich was getting there, but he got sidetracked by his various anxieties. Yes, Emmrich had worked very late on account of his ten students, and had come home to find Rook still awake in bed. With how busy they both are, they see a lot less of each other than he’d like, and Emmrich had wanted nothing more than to get into bed with him and share in his warmth, his body. He doesn’t mean to be clingy. It is unbecoming of a man of his advanced age, and unnecessary at this stage of their relationship. They are to be married, for pity’s sake, there is no need for theatrics. That said, he misses Rook. More than he should, and much more than he is willing to admit.

Rook had been reading - incomprehensibly - his thesis from over twenty years ago. Amateurish, arrogant drivel that never should have been published, as far as he’s concerned these days. It was then that Rook confessed he thought the title seemed familiar, that he had actually read it already upon Dorian’s return from the Necropolis, and that he was rereading it to see whether he’d understand it better this time. Emmrich was mortified, not just because of its contents but because he had been arrogant enough to present Dorian with a copy as a parting gift. A gift! 

Trying to convince Rook to put it down, that he’d written better, more interesting titles in the meantime, proved fruitless. Rook had cackled, jumping off the bed and keeping the book out of reach as he read passages from it aloud. Words laden with an undeserved sense of self-assuredness had sullied the air in the room while Emmrich chased after him.

“‘One feels compelled to voice one’s disagreement with professor Ludwig’s claim with relation to the origin of spirits, for one finds it–’ oh my–” Rook had said, cackling as he dodged another one of Emmrich’s swipes at the manuscript.

“Give it here, Rook–”

“‘One finds it ill-considered and, indeed, vacuous when held up to the available literature–’ Emmrich, you really went for the jugular–’”

“Professor Ludwig is a most respected colleague! I-I was overzealous–”

“I frankly can’t wait to read your commentary on any future papers of mine, sweetheart,” Rook had teased as he pretended to stumble backwards onto the bed. “‘Rook draws precipitant conclusions based on mere conjecture of the–’ O-oi! Hey!”

When Rook had finally allowed himself to be caught, Emmrich had torn the clothes from his body with very little regard for their material integrity, and had feasted on his cunt until Rook threw the blasted manuscript aside and fisted his hand in Emmrich’s hair instead. Afterwards, with Rook soundly asleep in bed and his face washed clean, he had made sure to hide his thesis somewhere on a bottom shelf where it decidedly does not belong categorically. He will suffer that inconsistency in his personal collection if it means Rook won’t read his own foolish blatherings back to him.

Emmrich had contemplated bringing himself off by hand afterwards, but ultimately decided against it in favour of some much needed sleep and the comfort of holding Rook’s sleeping body in his arms. It would seem, however, that his desire didn’t fade so much as it was delayed.

“One feels the need to state for the record that the memory of your recitation does not inspire lust,” Emmrich says drily, “rather, it is the potential of the hours that lie ahead of us.”

Rook is now actually rather happy to have woken up so early, given that he’s in for a long and pleasantly strenuous morning before class. It’s the sort of exercise he can get behind, after all.

“I do have an eight o’clock this morning.”

The slight quirk of Emmrich’s brow and the little smile that earns him tell him that he is more than well aware of that. He did more or less handcraft Rook’s timetable.

“That’ll do nicely, my sweet,” Emmrich whispers, leaning in for a single, soft kiss, “let’s return to bed.”

“Gladly.”

The warm cocoon of their bed welcomes them as they find each other between the sheets. Rook lays him onto his back and Emmrich arches into him. Even months later, he finds that his desire for Rook is yet to dim at all. It’s still the same firestorm within, a deep-seated yearning that never appears to cease. A small part of him fears the possibility that it will, that at some point the excitement between them will dull to something that is merely comfortable. Or worse, that Rook should get tired of his advances. Rook has had a great deal less partners than Emmrich has, and lately especially he feels that he has initiated intimacy the majority of the time, though Rook has never been anything less than enthusiastic in response. 

But perhaps he’s being slightly silly: they are both men of great passion, and Emmrich highly doubts his feelings for Rook will ever be able to be described in anything but superlative terms. So far, Rook has returned the sentiments, and shows no signs of stopping.

“I can almost hear you thinking,” Rook says, “am I boring you?”

Even in the dark, Emmrich can hear the smile in his voice, feel it against his skin. Rook’s joy is pressed into his flesh with every kiss, thrilling little touches to his body that do nothing to sate the hunger he’s felt since last night. He feels impatient, needy, bereft of Rook’s attention as if they don’t see each other every day. 

But Rook cares not for the hands grabbing at his bare shoulders as he moves down Emmrich’s body, not at all bothering to take his clothes off. 

“On the contrary, my darling,” Emmrich replies, gasping softly when Rook nuzzles at the trail of coarse hair beneath his belly button, “if I am preoccupied, it is because I am consumed with thoughts of you.”

“Consumed, are you?”

Emmrich’s pyjama shirt is hiked up as Rook kisses his soft stomach, strands of hair tickling the sensitive skin as he moves ever upwards. The room is far too dark to see anything, and he can only hear the sound of Rook’s kisses, the gentle crinkling and shifting of the sheets as he moves. A quiet nocturne of love, played out on his body by a highly skilled pianist, whose hands have barely touched him at all yet so far.

“Yes,” Emmrich breathes, closing his eyes, “please, Rook. Touch me–”

“I am touching you.”

An acute sense of déjà vu befalls him. Did he not dream this, many moons ago?

“I am touching you,” Rook repeats, his whispers puffing out warmly against Emmrich’s chest. “Beautiful… Maker, you are so beautiful–”

“It’s pitch-black, dearest–”

“And I’ve got my eyes closed. As if I need them to see you.”

At last, the buttons on his shirt are popped one by one in very quick succession. Rook kisses his chest and lingers over his heart.

“I could tell you apart from a thousand or more bodies, deaf and blind. I would know you from the cleft in your chin to the bones in your fingers, from the shape of your hips to the scar on your knee.”

When Rook’s face hovers over him, Emmrich opens his eyes and sees nothing. The kiss to his cheek comes unexpectedly.

“Your beauty,” Rook concludes, flicking his tongue against Emmrich’s earlobe, “is manifest.”

Emmrich sits up and lets Rook take his shirt off, stealing a few breathless kisses in the dark.

“I see that your time with the Mourn Watch has already improved your vocabulary by leaps and bounds,” Emmrich teases as he lays back down, almost glad that Rook can’t see the way he’s blushing like a schoolboy.

Rook chuckles softly. “I will grant you I’ve had little reason to draw on my childhood elocution lessons over the past twenty years. Academia brings it out of me.”

“Very pleasing, indeed.”

“Oh, come now,” Rook murmurs. His hands slip into Emmrich’s pyjama bottoms and tightly squeeze his cheeks. Emmrich gasps and arches his hips, not finding the friction he so desperately longs to feel. “Let’s not pretend you don’t enjoy it when I’m a little inappropriate and vulgar.”

Two weeks ago, after having been denied his release for rather longer than Emmrich had originally intended to, Rook had called him a ‘fucking bastard’ and had said that if he wasn’t fucked that instant, he was going to hold Emmrich down and ‘fuck every last drop of come out of him.’

That memory has fuelled at least one frenzied wank since. 

“I shall admit no such thing.”

“Denying it, are you? Mendacity is an unbecoming quality, professor Volkarin.”

Now that they’ve been back at the Necropolis for a couple of months, Emmrich’s quickly gotten used to everyone calling him by his title again. This comfortable familiarity does not not extend to Rook, whose continued lecherous usage of it has never ceased to be arousing. Especially now that he is a student of the Mourn Watch, their shared fantasy is tangibly more real, and therefore all the more exciting.

Emmrich’s shame around enjoying their little roleplay had reared its ugly head exactly once near the start of the trimester, when he’d suggested that maybe they shouldn’t continue. When Rook had asked him why, he insisted that it was wrong to pretend that Rook was in a position where Emmrich could take advantage of him. This had made Rook laugh. Emmrich hadn’t shared in his amusement until Rook asked him whether he also felt it was wrong to pretend that Rook is his Lord, as they sometimes do. The point, Rook had told him, was that Emmrich couldn’t take advantage of him if he tried: he is wealthy, well-connected, and powerful in ways that very few can earnestly lay claim to. 

Rook had then spent the next several hours making it abundantly clear just how much he enjoys pretending that Emmrich holds power over him, and had in turn forced Emmrich to admit to himself that his fears were unfounded. Unfounded and inconsistent with his desires. 

“Unless you’ve any proof with which to lend your accusations any credence, I fear you are merely slandering my good name.”

“Can’t be slander if nobody knows, can it?” Rook counters, his hands retreating from Emmrich’s backside and stroking up his sides instead. “And nobody but us knows that it gets your cock hard when I swear, or beg you to fuck me. Nobody has to know how we spent that hour in your office last month–”

“We really shouldn’t have–”

“Shouldn’t have what? Shouldn’t have tried to get in your good graces before I take your class? Should I not have dropped to my knees for you and sucked your cock like the industrious student I am?”

What Emmrich meant was that it was unwise to do so during his office hours, not that he regrets it happening. 

“Should I not,” Rook continues, “have crawled underneath your desk when someone knocked on your door, and sat there for the next fifteen minutes with your cock in my mouth?”

That is perhaps one of the most inappropriate, dangerous things Emmrich has done in his entire career, and also decidedly one of the most thrilling.

“Rook–”

“Do you regret fucking my mouth until you came and sending me home without touching me after?”

Maker, no. Emmrich’s cock throbs at the memory: Rook hadn’t been able to keep his hands off of him from the moment he walked in the door, not even allowing him to take off his coat. Emmrich had allowed himself to get dragged over to the sofa, after which he roughly shoved his thigh between Rook’s legs and watched him rub his cunt against it until he came with a cry stifled against Emmrich’s shoulder.

Rook’s hand rubs at his rock-hard cock through his pyjama pants.

“Ahh–”

“How’s that for proof?” Rook whispers, squeezing. “Does my argument compel you yet, professor?”

The resulting twitch of his eager cock is the final nail in his coffin. Emmrich presses into the warmth of Rook’s hand, needing so much more than he’s giving.

“Well, I– Mm–”

A single fingertip teases the slit of his cockhead, gently rubbing back and forth, staining his pyjamas with precome. “What was that?”

“The evidence that supports your theory is all rather c-circumstantial,” Emmrich says, struggling to play along instead of just throwing Rook to the bed and mounting him the way his body wants him to, “not to mention, obtained under duress.”

“You question my methodology when the results are self-evident.”

“You won’t pass my class with that line of thinking.”

Rook hides his enormous smile by kissing the soft plane of his stomach. Never did he imagine that one day he’d struggle so much not to tell someone that he loves them.

“In that case,” he says, once he’s sure he can keep his voice even, “what would you have me do, professor Volkarin?”

Emmrich trembles as Rook’s teeth glide along his shaft over the satin of his bottoms, the slight pressure making him throb against his hot, moist lips as they close around the head for a moment.

“Mm– Nnh–”

“Maker, you are wound up this morning.”

Damnable little tease. “And you are attempting to seduce your way up the ranks.”

There’s a nip against his thigh. “Is that what you imagine me doing? Getting on my knees for professor Schopenhauer? Sneaking a quick fuck in the coffin storage with Schmidt?”

Part of their play it may be, the sudden upswell of possessiveness Emmrich feels is real. He’d thought it juvenile in his youth: one does not belong to, but with a partner. Of course, that was before he met Rook, who ever since their engagement has done nothing but reaffirm that he is Emmrich’s to the point where he has gotten very comfortable with that fact. The inverse has also settled into his heart as a new, defining truth: he is Rook’s, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, my little bird.”

Rook isn’t sure how much longer he can keep this up. His underwear is soaked, his clit is hard and throbbing, and his cunt is clenching with the need to be filled. He inhales the musk between Emmrich’s legs and shudders, fighting to get a hold of himself.

“I do try.”

“Come here.”

There is no mistaking it for anything other than the order that it is, and Rook crawls back up. Outside of the covers, Emmrich has conjured a mass of floating stars, bathing the room in dim, ethereal green light. It’s the first time since they stepped away from the window that they can see each other at all, and a moment of silence befalls them. For all of a moment, the fantasy lies forgotten as Emmrich pulls Rook in for a kiss and gets embraced tightly in return.

“I love you,” Rook whispers, “my heart, my life, my future husband.”

“My darling,” Emmrich responds in kind, “my home, I love you more than there are dreams to be had, more than the vast, ever-extending realms of the Fade will ever reach.”

When Rook sits up and slowly rolls his hips, his sodden underwear instantly soaking Emmrich’s cock down to the skin.

“You had something else to say, I think.”

“Mmh, oh–”

“C’mon now. If I’m fucking my way up the ranks, who should I visit next?”

Emmrich digs his nails into Rook’s thighs and gasps with pleasure and outrage both. 

“You will do no such thing!”

“Oh? Keeping me all to yourself, professor? Don’t like to share your toys?”

He’s not sure whether he finds the idea of sharing Rook or the idea that he is a toy more objectionable, but that doesn’t matter for his purposes.

“You will stay where you belong. Perhaps I ought to put you over my knee and remind you of where that is, exactly.”

Rook’s eyes sparkle like the stars that surround them, mischief and desire intermingling.

“If you think it would help.” 

Emmrich sits up in bed and Rook very willingly lays himself across his lap, wiggling his ass in the air as his underwear is taken off. Emmrich strokes his rump until Rook is quivering with anticipation.

The first time Emmrich had done this for him, he’d been terrified of hurting Rook. It had taken a lot of convincing to get him to understand that if Rook’s ass didn’t sting when he sat down an hour later, he wasn’t doing it right. 

This time, Emmrich isn’t afraid to spank him with all his might. Rook yelps and fists his hands into the sheets. 

“There will be no more talk of you ‘visiting’ the other members of staff, understood?”

Maker. Nothing gets Rook hotter than Emmrich getting a little authoritative with him.

“Y-yes, professor.”

The second smack hits the same spot with pinpoint accuracy. 

“Ah!”

“And you are to understand that I will never share you with anybody.”

“Yes, professor.”

Rook grunts into the sheets between his teeth as he’s spanked again, and again, and again. He whimpers when Emmrich squeezes his sore, searing hot asscheek right where it hurts so good.

“You are mine,” Emmrich says as he smacks him again, “and mine alone.”

“Ah… Mmh– Mm–...”

That won’t do. When Emmrich strikes him next, Rook cries out.

“I said: you are mine.”

“Y-yes! Yes, professor.”

“Very good,” Emmrich whispers, “that sort of discipline will serve you well in my class.”

“Oh, fuck–”

Another swift strike against his cheek. The pain is exquisite, and sure to last the rest of the day already if he can just–

“Mind your tongue, Rook. I won’t warn you a second time.”

Emmrich feels him tremble in his lap and struggles to contain himself. His heart is beating like a drum inside his chest, the palm of his hand stinging with the force he’s hitting Rook with. When Rook looks back at him, defiance written all over his face, he knows they’re not quite done yet.

“Or else? Aah–!”

Never in his life did Emmrich imagine he’d feel proud for hurting someone, but as he observes the sizable handprint he’s left on Rook’s asscheek, he can’t help but feel the swell of pride.

“Or else I’ll send you off to your early morning class,”

Smack. 

“With the outline of my hand on your wonderful backside,”

Smack.

“My seed spilling down your thighs,”

Smack.

“And a craving for me so deep you can't hope to sate it.”

Rook is beginning to feel delirious. If he curses again, he won’t be able to come until probably tomorrow morning. He’s got a late night tonight as well and won’t even be home for dinner. Chances are, Emmrich will already be asleep by the time he gets home. While Rook will be the first to admit that he loves disobeying Emmrich and what that gets him, what he wants right now is for Emmrich to touch him before he has to leave the house for another twelve to sixteen hours. He misses him badly enough as it is.

“U-understood, professor.”

“Have you had enough?”

“Yes, professor.”

“Perfect. Are you hurt?”

“Only in ways I want to be. I’ll be thinking of you all day, I can promise you that much.”

Emmrich leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to the edge of the bruise, hoping to soothe the sting. It doesn’t, but Rook thinks it’s so very dear that he tries anyway.

“Now, come here.”

Rook returns to his place in Emmrich’s lap and hisses softly when a hand passes along his sore, red-hot asscheek. 

“Darling?”

The concern in his voice is indescribably precious. Rook leans forward and bumps his nose against Emmrich’s cheek.

“Does it seem wise for you to address me in such a familiar way?” Rook asks him, taking his earlobe between his teeth.

If Rook is well enough to continue taunting him, then Emmrich has nothing to worry about. He firmly grabs Rook’s face and kisses him, forcing his tongue past his lips and relishing the little shudder he feels against his body. 

“I shall address that which is mine however it pleases me,” Emmrich murmurs against his lips, his free hand squeezing Rook’s sore cheek and smiling when he gasps, “and you shall address me the way you’ve been taught to.”

Rook has to bite back fifteen curse words and breathe before he makes a mistake he’ll regret the entire rest of the day. “Y-yes, professor.”

“Good man,” Emmrich sighs against Rook’s neck, kissing the sweat off his skin, “very good. I can see why my colleagues speak so well of you.”

“Oh, I don’t think any of them like me quite as much as you do,” Rook says huskily, tilting his head back, “professor.”

Emmrich’s life revolves around working with bodies. They’re usually cold, stiff, void of life until he speaks it back into them, guiding the spirit back with a wave of his hand and a gentle request to return. The flesh is sacred and must be preserved, adorned and honoured. This belief is central to his work and the way he has come to understand the world. Rook’s flesh is no different. It is honoured by sinking his teeth into it, and adorned through the marks he leaves behind on his skin, sure to bloom into a lovely bruise later. To preserve it is to nurture it, to hold it in his hands with great reverence and care.

“How could they, my sweet?” Emmrich asks him, sitting back and stroking a finger along Rook’s jaw. He grasps Rook’s chin and pulls him in for a kiss, a teasing of tongues. “When they’ve not felt the softness of your lips, nor known the splendor of a kiss shared with you? Have they seen the lustre of your eyes in candlelight, enchanting like wisps in the dark? How could they know the true extent of your loveliness when I alone get to see you come undone?”

Rook, surely thoroughly ruining Emmrich’s lovely midnight blue pyjama bottoms, just barely manages to find the will to indulge Emmrich instead of rutting against him like an animal. When Emmrich’s hand finally moves towards his cunt, he holds onto the headboard so hard he can hear it crack beneath his fingers.

Treading very carefully, Emmrich gingerly touches a finger to Rook’s vulva, finding him hot, plump and positively dripping.

“How could any of them like you as much as I do, when this–”

He slowly drags his finger along his labia, carefully avoiding the rigid, twitching clit in the centre. Rook grits his teeth.

“–Is all for me? For that is the truth, is it not?”

“Yes. Professor.”

“Yes, what, professor?” Emmrich says, with another squeeze to Rook’s sore cheek. 

“Hngh– Yes, for you. All for you, professor, only you,” Rook says, taking Emmrich’s face between his hands and kissing him. The rough scrape of Emmrich’s five o’clock shadow makes him quiver. “I don’t want anyone else.”

Emmrich hooks his thumb into his waistband and sighs with relief when his cock springs free, hard and throbbing with need. Rook sits back to look between them, the lips on his face as red as those below. How precious.

Taking his cock in hand, he teases the head against Rook’s cunt, still avoiding his clit. 

“Mmh– Fff–”

“Ah.”

“M-maker, professor–”

“If I am all that you desire,” Emmrich asks, his voice rough with want, “then what is the purpose of your visit today?”

Rook is so lost in sensation that for a moment he forgets what Emmrich is talking about, until another deliciously painful pinch of his ass reminds him.

“Business,” Rook grits out, “and pleasure.”

“How very brazen that you think you can bribe your way into passing.”

“Bribe? Oh, no, professor. This is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“A bribe by any other name.”

“Well,” Rook murmurs against Emmrich’s cheek, “it’s only a bribe if you intend to take it.”

He leans in and exhales, shuddering, against Emmrich’s ear before trailing his lips against the shell.

“Do you… intend to take it? Do you intend to take… me?”

“My dear,” Emmrich whispers, lining up and pushing up into Rook’s hot, wet cunt, “I believe I’ve had you from the start.”

Rook doesn’t need to be told what to do. He rides Emmrich hard and fast, taking him deep inside with each roll of his hips, shifting and adjusting until he can feel pleasure radiating throughout his entire body from within.

“Yes–,” Rook affirms between breaths, “you h-have– ahh- you’ve always ha– aahh-d me–”

Though Emmrich has thoroughly adorned him already, with the perfect outline of his hand on Rook’s asscheek and his teeth on his shoulder, there is an as yet utterly blank canvas beneath his hands that’s simply begging to be marked. He rakes his nails down Rook’s back slowly, feeling him rounding out his spine so he can feel more of it. Rook groans loudly, unabashed and gratified that Emmrich hasn’t cut his nails recently. It smarts, long lines burning along the entire length of his back. 

“P-professor–” Rook gasps, needing to come but still unable to from this position when his clit isn’t being touched, “m-may I please–”

Earlier, Rook wasn’t wrong: Emmrich is incredibly wound up this morning. Making Rook come on his tongue last night left him incredibly aroused, but he wanted to be close to him more than he cared to masturbate, and Rook had been asleep. Now, he has all the desire he had last night, amped up by having waited so long for this.

All that to say: he isn’t going to last as long as he’d like to just now. 

“Yes,” Emmrich gasps, “ah– ahh– you may t-touch yourself, yes– Just like that–”

It takes Rook slightly longer to come like this, in spite of everything. His cunt clenches around and squeezes Emmrich’s cock as his orgasm builds slowly, and he watches as Emmrich’s eyes roll back and he drops his head back against the headboard. 

“I’m s-so close, mm– Mmh– Ahh, professor,” Rook whimpers into his ear, “please, ah– please, may I come?”

Emmrich groans and thrusts into him harder, already feeling him tightening around him. “Yes! Yes, darling, you may come. You’re– Ngh– Ohh– You’re my favourite, after a– ahh– all.”

Rook is still shuddering, just barely barely coming down when all of a sudden he’s thrown onto his back, captured in a frenzied kiss as Emmrich pushes back into him.

“Wh– What’s this, professor–”

“My name,” Emmrich gasps into his mouth, fingers digging into Rook’s shoulders and holding on as he thrusts feverishly, “please, darling, say my name–”

“Emmrich–” Rook moans, wrapping his arms and legs around him. “Emmrich, light of my life–”

His name means their play is over, and that’s just as well. Dropping from the lofty stage of their fantasy means plunging back into the depths of their devotion, and Rook likes it there just as much.

“I love you, my dearest darling,” Emmrich whimpers, barely holding on, “my love, my– Mmh- Ohh, Rook–”

Rook catches his stuttering, desperate moan between his lips and holds him tight, delighting in every sound, every gasp for breath as he comes deep inside of him.

“I love you, too,” Rook says, letting his legs drop to the bed and allowing Emmrich to go limp on top of him, “and I promise there won’t be a moment today that I won’t spend wishing I was here with you.”

Emmrich catches his breath and sighs, deeply. “How odd that I should long for the days where you were always by my side, trudging through blight and all sorts.”

“Mm,” Rook agrees, chuckling softly, “depending on who you ask, Schopenhauer is not that different from an archdemon.”

Biting his lips to keep from laughing and partaking in the slandering of a colleague, Emmrich burrows his nose into Rook’s neck and inhales the scent of him. He’ll have to leave soon.

“Your day ends at five, correct?”

“Uh… Class ends at five,” Rook says, ruefully, “I’ve got dinner and revision with my study group after. I… I probably won’t be home until after ten.”

Were his days this long when he was a student? It was hard work, yes, but he went to parties, salons, and galleries multiple times a week, if memory serves. Rook barely has time to eat dinner at home half of the time, it would seem. 

Then again, with their agreement in place that there are absolutely no students to cross the threshold of their home, perhaps that isn’t strange at all. Not to mention, Rook’s particular curriculum is hardly ordinary. He’s taking more classes in less time, and will specialise much faster than the others.

“Alas,” Emmrich laments, smiling as he sits up and pulls out, “it would seem there is naught for me to do but miss you.”

Without Emmrich’s warm body to cover him, Rook suddenly feels cold. They’ll have to wash and start their day shortly, but…

“Come here,” Rook says, hooking a finger around Emmrich’s locket and tugging him back down, “stay with me a moment longer.”

“One feels compelled to remind you of your early morning class–”

“That I’ll have a lovely time sitting down for, I’m sure. Now be quiet and kiss me before I have to go.”

Does Rook realise how much Emmrich misses him? Is it that obvious? Emmrich returns to Rook’s warm embrace and kisses him, holding on for as long as he can. Things will get less busy eventually, but this first year is a very steep investment for them both. A whole year of Rook’s sporadic presence in the home, with the exception of holidays and the like. Embarrassingly, Emmrich finds it a very hard thought to bear. He wants to spend the months leading up to their wedding with Rook, not away from him. 

“I shall look forward to your return here tonight with bated breath, my darling. Undoubtedly, every unoccupied moment of my day shall be spent thinking about you.”

“Aw,” Rook coos, cradling Emmrich in his arms, “sweetheart–...”

“I will bear your absence as best I can,” Emmrich sighs, “but I shan’t pretend that I am not especially loath to part from you this morning.”

“As am I, amatus. As am I.”

But part they must, for dawn is slowly but surely starting to break outside. Every second they can spend together is spent as such: a shower, a shave at the sink, breakfast, and finally a kiss at the door as Rook heads off to class. 

Emmrich doesn’t have to be anywhere for another couple of hours, so he spends his time in his laboratory continuing his research. There aren’t many things for which he is grateful to Solas, but being able to fill the rest of his tenured days as a scholar with all that they now know about spirits, elves, the Fade and the Veil, is one of them.

Later, after he’s gone out and returned from his work for the day, suitably distracted throughout by thoughts of this morning, he finds Manfred already home.

“Hello, dear boy.”

“Daddy!”

Manfred scuttles over and embraces him, something he’s started to do since about two months ago. Whenever either Emmrich or Rook comes home, the first thing he’ll do is run up for a hug. 

It took a month for Emmrich to stop bursting into tears whenever he did. The pleasant shock and novelty of being a father to his oldest companion hasn’t worn off. He hopes it never does.

“How was your day, Manfred?”

“Busy!” Manfred replies, returning to the stove from whence he came. A pot of water is set to boiling already. Though Emmrich had been apprehensive about letting Manfred cook unsupervised, Rook had assured him that Manfred is now more than capable enough with fire to quell it should he make a mistake. So far, their home remains standing and blissfully uncharred.

“Post!” Manfred then says, pointing to the table. There’s several letters and a parcel there, divided into a pile for each of their respective recipients. 

“Oh! I do hope that’s the rosehip tea I ordered,” Emmrich says, walking over and realising that it’s not merely a parcel, there is a very thick envelope attached to it, addressed to him. He doesn’t recognise the wax seal, but the stamp tells him this letter was sent from Rivain. Taash?

Surprised but curious, he opens the letter and reads:

To the esteemed professor Emmrich Volkarin of the Mourn Watch,

Firstly, I must begin this letter by apologising, though I appreciate that this may seem alarming. I cannot be certain that you know who I am, but if you do, I fear there is simply very little chance that this letter will be well-received. Even if you do not, the events I am about to recount to you are sure to be distressing. For this, I apologise with utmost sincerity, but I ask that you understand the reason that I am addressing this to you is because I believe it to be the only way for it to reach its intended recipient. 

My name is Croecius Vediovis. 

Chapter 2: Winter II

Time itself appears to grind to a halt around Emmrich. The letter crumples in his grip, and he has to force himself to loosen it lest it become illegible. Croecius Vediovis. He’s heard that name only twice before in his life, and neither of those occasions inspire a great deal of affection for the man.

Be that as it may, equal measures of curiosity and concern for Rook’s wellbeing compel him to keep reading.

I was once unfortunate enough to be counted among the friends of Lord Charon Mercar, of whom I have come to understand he has met his long-awaited, well-deserved end at the hands of his child. It is this child to whom this letter is intended to be addressed. I knew them as Eris once, long ago. Lady Athena Mercar wrote to me at the beginning of Cassus, and informed me the child has since become her son, and is now named Rook. 

When Rook was fourteen years old, a marriage was arranged for him by his father. He was to be my bride. At the time, I was his senior by about thirty-five years.

Emmrich has to stop and look away, his vision swimming as acute nausea makes his stomach roil. Why did it never occur to him that this might’ve happened to Rook? His mother’s marriage was also arranged. In fact, it was commonplace among the Imperium’s magisters to do so, wasn’t it? Marriages arranged between those among the young mages sure to produce strong heirs, a tradition he hopes will die now that Dorian controls the magisterium. 

But this? An arranged marriage between an adolescent and a man nearly as old as Emmrich is right now? He can’t begin to imagine it, nor does he want to. The mere thought makes him want to vomit. 

After a moment to allow the bile to go back down, he continues.

We were to be married the moment he came of age. Among our small inner circle of magisters, Charon deemed me the best fit for his child. To this day, I can only postulate that he thought so because he believed me cowardly, easy to bend to his will, and very powerful. While I can and must admit to my cowardice, I shan’t bore you with the details of my magical prowess or my material wealth: these things are inconsequential to the story at hand.

I will also make no attempt to deceive you into thinking that I was reluctant to accept–

Again, Emmrich looks away from the paper, anger and indignation simmering within as he paces restlessly towards the living area and back to the kitchen table. Manfred watches him with great interest, but says nothing. After taking a deep breath, he picks up the letter again and continues reading.

–but I must implore you to believe me when I say I did so not because I relished the idea of having a child bride, but because I believed it to be the only way to get Rook out of his father’s house unscathed.

“Preposterous!” Emmrich bursts out. Manfred hisses softly. “As if the damage wasn’t done after three more years of– of–”

Another deep breath. Emmrich has to at least finish the entire thing before he gets too angry to think straight.

The reason for this is twofold: for one, I could not risk bringing the magisterium down upon that poor child’s head by taking him away prematurely, and two, while I would never consider myself an appropriate match, I did believe myself to be the safest option for Rook. If you know anything at all about Lord Mercar, professor, you will not be surprised to learn that any of the other available candidates he could have picked were cut from the same cloth as him. In fact, I believe that among ourselves, I was the least interested in marrying Charon’s child.

No, indeed. That doesn’t surprise Emmrich in the slightest. Choosing a coward who was content to bide his time until his great heroic deed of nothing does seem like the lesser evil, but that doesn’t make it any better. Not at all.

As I’m sure you’ve realised by now, this unhappy marriage never came to pass. I am grateful every day for the fact that Rook, at seventeen, was a much braver soul than I could ever hope to be. 

Emmrich tries not to sympathise, but yes, Rook’s courage is to be admired.

Between Rook’s mother, his patron Claudius Agrippa and myself, we kept Charon away from the Minrathous Circle during his time there. I appeased him by pretending to intend to marry Rook the moment he would graduate. That I simply wished for him to reach his full potential before he bore an heir. Of course, the one with the greatest sway was Lady Mercar: for if she were to leave him, he would die.

That gives Emmrich pause. What?

Lord Mercar’s greatest cruelty became his greatest mistake. In spite of your wealth of knowledge, professor, I suspect you are unfamiliar with ancient Tevinter marriage rites. As I’m sure you can imagine, as much magic in Tevinter has been lost as has been created. Most of it was lost for the better. So too was this rite lost to the sands of time after its banishment from use many, many centuries ago. It is known to us now as the Rite of Binding: a three-day ritual in which the very spirits and magic of two individuals are bound together for all eternity. There is no such thing as a separation or a divorce in a marriage formed through the Rite of Binding. The only end to such a union is death. 

There are precious few among the magisterium, then and now, who know of the Rite’s existence, let alone those who know how to perform it. Lady Mercar has confided in me that it was her grandfather who arranged this to effectively leash her to her husband. While Rook still lived with them, she could not take him and leave without risking that he would end up alone and, potentially, in worse danger than they both were already. Lady Mercar did not at all agree with the marriage, but was powerless to stop it without risking her own death and Rook’s subsequent orphaning. 

Emmrich thinks of how he was orphaned, and how he was considerably better off than Rook. But then, the Mourn Watchers took him in. There’s no telling who would have taken Rook in, and how much worse off he could have been, nor how much better.

When I learned of her disapproval, I called on her and informed her that I had no intention of so much as touching a hair upon that child’s head. That my intent was only to ensure a safe exit and a chance at a different life for Rook. She, fortunately, believed me, for she understood as well as I do that the magisterium is not something one can simply leave behind. There are consequences. We had to act with great care and exercise subterfuge whenever possible: Rook was never to know that we were at all involved.

Professor Volkarin, I do not write you this with the intent of absolving myself from my cowardice. With the benefit of hindsight, I could and should have removed Rook from his father’s clutches when I had the opportunity. Paralysed with indecision and fear, I allowed a child to come to harm. I make no excuses. It has haunted me all this time, and it shall continue to haunt me long after the Fade finally claims me. The only claim to innocence that I possess is that I never touched him. Not once. 

He has no reason to lie to Emmrich, and yet…

Rook was a bright, headstrong, wonderful child. Word of his actions in Minrathous and beyond have reached far and wide, so one can only assume he is much the same as an adult. Lady Mercar wrote that he has found a worthy companion in you. For that, I am perhaps most grateful. I wish you every happiness together. My only intent in writing this is to banish a spectre that I fear still lives on in Rook’s mind. He needn’t ever fear encountering me in Minrathous: I have long since left the magisterium. The moment Rook disappeared from the Circle after his graduation, I left Minrathous behind and have never returned.

Emmrich frowns. Rook ‘disappeared?’ Now that he thinks about it, in all that he knows about Rook’s past, there are about five years that are completely unaccounted for. He can’t think of a single thing Rook has told him about what he did between becoming an enchanter and joining the Shadow Dragons.

It needn’t be anything sinister, or even worrying, but it still doesn’t sit well with him. With a sigh, he continues reading.

I have sent with this letter a parcel holding what was to be my wedding gift for Rook: it is an enchanted silver brooch. Rook’s fear of arachnids of any and all varieties was well-known (and often abused by his father, who took great joy in watching his child squirm with terror), and my estate, owing to its draft problem and the moisture in the walls, was proverbially crawling with them. The brooch is enchanted to keep them away, and is really quite effective. I know not whether your own dwelling is similarly afflicted, but I strongly wish for Rook to have it all the same.

Loath though he is to admit it, there is something deeply touching about the small kindness of providing a terrified child with a way in which they can autonomously create safety for themselves in an otherwise unforgiving, unfamiliar environment. Rook hasn’t told him about his arranged marriage, or Vediovis, or the house he was to live in at all, but he can only imagine how frightened he must have been at the prospect. 

Much like the prospect of marrying. Emmrich wishes he could kick himself. Of course.

If you have read to this point, then I thank you for your grace and your patience. I know nothing can undo the damage that was wrought, nor the subsequent years of anguish I’m sure Rook was forced to endure. I can only wish you both well, and live out my days here in Rivain in quiet. The peace I am blessed with is one I do not deserve, and have only attained because of Rook’s perseverance. I owe him everything. Everything.

May your days be bright and filled with joy, professor. I shan’t insult you by asking to take good care of Rook. Maker knows I haven’t the right to ask.

Sincerely and with great regret,

Croecius Vediovis
Formerly of the magisterium

Emmrich folds the letter closed and opens the parcel, retrieving the brilliantly polished, delicate brooch. The silverwork and jewelcrafting is exquisite, truly very fine craftsmanship: it represents a leaf and winter berries, branches elegantly extending beyond the leaf. The enchantment is small and wonderfully woven into the silver, so faint one would struggle to detect it at all if one didn’t know it was there to begin with.

He sighs, deeply. How is he going to bring this up to Rook? Vediovis was wise to address the letter to Emmrich. He has no doubt that if Rook had gotten his hands on it first, he wouldn’t have hesitated to cast both the letter and the parcel into the fire without a second glance. 

Not to mention, Rook’s mother is still alive out there somewhere. She wrote to him at the beginning of Cassus: that’s this month, now drawing to a close. And what of the matter of Rook’s disappearance after graduating from the Circle? Is it even for Emmrich to bring that up? Does it matter?

At a loss for what to do, Emmrich pours himself a stiff drink and settles in for several long hours of agonising over how to proceed from here.

Somewhere else in the Necropolis, surrounded by the wondrous and somewhat nostalgic hoarding of a nineteen year-old’s student accommodations, Rook finds himself on the receiving end of a five-to-one cross-examination.

He is surrounded by five of his fellow students, aging nineteen to twenty-five, with whom he shares several classes. The one they’re revising on right now is a mandatory core course that feels more like an exercise in futility than it does anything approximating necromancy. As expected, much of the night has been spent whining about the dry and insipid material while bantering back and forth about teachers, classes, the food on offer, and whatever else.

Until the oldest of the five looks at Rook with an unnerving, knowing little smile on his face. The man’s name is Arvel, a bright-eyed, clever young elf with dark skin and his dense, curly hair hanging from his head in endless, perfectly woven braids.

“So, Rook,” he says, glancing at his four friends, “we were talking.”

“Were you?” Rook answers drily, on guard. “What about?”

“Well,” says the youngest, a pale, rail-thin human named Hannah with thin, sleek hair so blonde she almost looks gray in the dim light of the room, “how come we can never study at your place? I bet you got swanky digs because you’re a hero and all that.”

“Because I don’t live alone, and I’d prefer not to disturb my partner. Our ‘digs’ is pretty ‘swanky,’ though.”

“Don’t say that,” says the boy to the right of her, recoiling. Robin: a short and stout young human, with ruddy red hair to match the perpetual blush on his cheeks, hailing from some important family somewhere in Nevarra. He doesn’t like to talk about it. “It’s weird when you talk like that.”

“Aw, c’mon.”

“Nevermind that,” Arvel says, “about this ‘partner’ of yours. Does he have a name?”

“He does.”

“But you’re not going to tell us?”

“Why do you want to know so badly?”

“Okay, look,” says the second-eldest, an elven girl named Klara with two curly buns happily bouncing about her head, whose enduring smile never seems to fade from her freckled face for very long, “we think we know who it is. We have proof.”

“If we’re right,” says the final student, a usually quiet, dark-haired dwarven boy by the name of Oskar, “you have to tell us.”

On the one hand, Rook shouldn’t even be considering entertaining this. He promised Emmrich not to tell any of the students anything. No matter how much he tries to convince Emmrich that they’re bound to find out if they haven’t already, no matter how he insists that it won’t matter, Emmrich remains firm that they mustn’t know.

But Rook remembers what it was like to be a student. What it was like to be constantly overwhelmed and busy all the while in the process of growing into an adult who has to learn to stand on their own two feet. However, he also remembers that he somehow found the time to get up to all sorts of stupid shit that he shouldn’t have. How he spent hours talking with his fellow students about their professors as if they were entities separate from this realm. Alien. These kids before him are no different. If they have ‘proof,’ they’ve spent a great deal of time talking about this already. 

They’ve absolutely been busted, he realises. The only thing he can do now is maintain some sort of damage control. Lying won’t help him here.

“Fine,” Rook says, sitting back in his chair, “court is in session, I guess. Present your evidence.”

Hannah smacks a notebook onto the table and pushes it across the table. Rook can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“You’re not serious.”

“We are,” Oskar says curtly.

“Arvel, Klara, you two especially are way too old for this.”

“Yeah,” Klara cheerily agrees, “but this course is so boring, and Schmidt gives us so much time to do his assignments that we just got to talking. But then he’d scold us so we just passed notes.”

“And you assembled the notes,” Rook points out, leafing through the notebook. “You… Made a timeline? You made a timeline.”

“Well, yeah,” Arvel says, pointing to somewhere on the page, “because I took a class last year, and then– Wait, let’s start from the beginning.”

“Are these–... Are these minute notes to professor Volkarin’s class? Listen, I get that it’s funny, but this is really–”

“So we start at the beginning of the timeline,” Arvel says, returning to the correct page in the notebook, “I took professor Volkarin’s class on Contemporary Funerary Rites and the Involvement of Spirits last year. Manfred couldn’t talk yet, back then, so we had to note that down. I also remember thinking it was weird that he wore seven rings on his right hand, but none on his index finger. What’s that about?”

Ah. So they’ve noticed his engagement ring. 

“Couldn’t tell you. He told me about his grave gold back at the Lighthouse, but he never mentioned why he doesn’t wear any on that finger.”

“But he does now,” Klara points out, “and I don’t think it’s grave gold.”

“Why?”

“The gold is too bright. It looks recently forged.”

“He’s pretty meticulous about maintaining his gold. He always was. Maybe it’s just a piece he acquired recently.”

Arvel narrows his eyes. “Okay. Moving on.”

“The skeleton,” Oskar says quietly, “it called you ‘papa’ once.”

“We spent a lot of time together at the Lighthouse. He’s the most entertaining skeleton you’ll ever meet. So what if he thinks of me as his dad?”

“You posit that he could see you as a dad even if you weren’t dating professor Volkarin?”

“I am.”

Oskar’s dark lashes nearly blacken out his pale blue eyes when he narrows them. “Fine.”

“I-I saw you!” Robin shouts, pointing a chubby finger at Rook. “You came out of Volkarin’s office lookin’ all flustered!”

“Hezenkoss pisses me off,” Rook counters, “I can’t stand to be in that office.”

“A-ha!” Hannah exclaims, pounding her fist onto the table. “Lies! I’ve had to wait for my appointment with him for half an hour because of you!”

“Half an hour is a normal amount of time to pencil in for a student! And the longest I can stand to suffer Johanna Hezenkoss for.”

Hannah sits back and crosses her arms, glaring at him. 

“All of your evidence seems rather circumstantial,” Rook says, unable to keep himself from smiling as he remembers being told the same just this morning, “I’m afraid that’s not going to cut it.”

“The lunch!” Klara shouts, ripping the notebook away from Rook and rapidly flipping the pages, before slamming it back down on the table to reveal a crudely drawn representation of Emmrich eating a heart-shaped slice of something, and another similarly terrible rendering of Rook doing the same next to it.

“I saw you two eat some sort of weird fruit! Nobody else here even knows what that is, but you both had it, and it was cut into heart shapes!”

This is, by far, the most damning evidence. Rook does do that. Has done it for weeks: slicing up the pineapple Neve kindly keeps sending over into little hearts. It had started as a way to take the piss out of Emmrich about not letting anyone know, but he’s kept doing it because it makes him happy. It would seem he forgot not to do that for the few times they had their lunch together.

“Ah.”

“That’s it?” Klara asks, incredulous.

Rook considers his options, and decides that it is better to ask for forgiveness than it is to let these kids possibly involve even more people in their insane scheme. More importantly, he has to ruin it for them somehow.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he shrugs, “you’ve got me. We’re engaged to be married, we live together, Manfred’s our son. It’s all true. I love him, he loves me. We’re very happy.”

The disappointment at having been robbed of their moment is palpable. 

“And,” Rook continues, “if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, most of all Emmrich, you will be in for a world of trouble you would not believe.”

He snatches the notebook from the table. “And I will be confiscating this, thank you. For all the hard work you put into this I’m sure it’d be mortifying if those not in the know found out you spent so much time on this.”

Four mildly horrified faces look back at him. Arvel snorts and kicks his legs up onto the table.

“Whatever, man,” he says, laughing, “it’s good to see the old man happy. Good for you.”

While walking home and expending his magic before bed, Rook flips through the notebook and laughs to himself at the bizarre amount of effort put into it. He’s going to hide this and keep it for after Emmrich inevitably finds out that the entire student body has likely been onto them for weeks. Though he feels he managed to convince those present tonight to keep their mouths shut. That will have to do for now.

He is barely two steps in the door when he’s assailed by Manfred.

“Papa!”

“Oof– Hello there, Manfred.”

“Daddy sad.”

“Oh dear,” Rook says, taking off his coat and kicking off his shoes, “that’s not good.”

“Very bad.”

“Very bad, even? Dear me, alright, Manfred. I’ll go and cheer dad up.”

“Yay!”

He puts the notebook away with the rest of his things and walks past the kitchen. The house is mostly dark, but he can see the faint flicker of firelight from beneath their bedroom door. Taking a deep breath, Rook steps inside.

Emmrich looks up at his timepiece from where he’s reading in bed. It’s just past eleven.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Rook says softly, taking his clothes off as he walks around to his side of the bed, “are you alright?”

Without the first idea of how to answer that, Emmrich waits for Rook to get into bed before he puts his book away and takes him into his arms.

“That’s a no,” Rook points out, rubbing his back, “Manfred said you were sad.”

Heaving a deep sigh, Emmrich pulls back. “I am.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

No. Emmrich wants nothing less, but needs must. “A letter arrived for me today, together with a parcel. The information contained within was not for me, however. It was meant for you.”

Rook frowns and huffs. “That seems a strange way to go about things.”

“Quite, but the sender had their reasons.”

“Which were…?”

“They feared you wouldn’t have read the letter if you’d been the one to receive it.”

There’s likely still a few people in the world to whom that would apply, but he’s struggling to think of any of them.

“Who sent it?”

“... The former Lord Croecius Vediovis.”

Rook is instantly transported back to that drawing room, seeing Vediovis’ ghostly visage from far across the room. Always staring at him with that sour look on his face, as if he was waiting for something.

Vediovis was a homely sort of man. In his memory, the thing that stands out about him the most in his mind was how he was always hunched over, curled in on himself. As far as Rook can remember, he was not in poor health. It was simply the way he carried himself, as if shying away from his own shadow. He was tall, broad, with dark, limp hair eternally held back in the same lopsided braid. Famously, he was also among the most powerful magisters in his father’s circle of friends. Everything about him was incongruous, not least the fact that he never seemed happy to be at any of Lord Mercar’s gatherings, but always attended.

“But… The magisterium was wiped out, I–”

“It would seem he left the magisterium some time ago,” Emmrich says, treading carefully. “He lives in Rivain now.”

Rivain. Yes, that makes sense. Father always sent them on those excruciating strolls along the manor’s garden. Vediovis had mentioned enjoying Dairsmuid, hadn’t he? Something about its coastal architecture that he found very pleasing. 

“Rook?”

“What in the world could possess him to write?” Rook wonders aloud, caught between stomach-cramping terror and utter bafflement. “Why would he ever think I’d want to hear from him?”

“Darling, I–... I understand if you do not wish to read it–”

“No, I don’t.”

“But I have, and I can promise you that I found no sign of nefarious intent or ill will.”

Rook tries not to snap at Emmrich. It’s not his fault. “That’s… Great. I–... How does he even know who you are? How does he know I’m here?”

Emmrich takes a deep breath and braces himself. 

“Your mother wrote to him.”

“She fucking what– When? How?”

“At the beginning of this month–”

“What?”

“Yes. She survived.”

“... But she hasn’t contacted us at all… I…”

“Would you want her to?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t think so. Actually, no. Maker, no, let her forget about me. We’ve done nothing but make each other miserable.”

Emmrich flounders. Rook is sitting completely still, except for his fingers, steadily picking at the skin around his nails and cuticles. 

After a long silence, Rook swallows thickly.

“Read it to me, please.”

The moment Emmrich begins reciting the contents of the letter, Rook takes his hand between his own and holds on. The entire time, Emmrich keeps glancing at Rook, watching carefully. He closes his eyes and drops his head when the arranged marriage is brought up, and stares wide-eyed into the distance as the Rite of Binding is explained. It is when he learns of the triumvirate of people working behind the scenes to ensure his education at the Circle remained unthreatened that the first tears begin to fall onto their joined hands below. There is a brief flash of white-hot outrage when Vediovis claims to never have touched him, but he suddenly stills, eyes darting around as he searches his memory for any evidence to the contrary. 

The brooch and Vediovis’ gratitude towards him do not elicit any visible response. For minutes, there is no sound at all but the ticking of the clock in the back of the room.

In the enduring silence, Rook remembers something. Why did he not remember this before?

“Vediovis,” he says, his voice trembling, “was a fire mage. He… He taught me something, once.”

“Oh?”

Rook takes the letter from Emmrich and folds the first paper twice, before flattening it between his hands.

“Ignis fatuus.”

He opens his hands and hundreds of little wisps that shape themselves into small, flickering butterflies burst free. Even compared to what Rook has shown Emmrich over the past several months, it is some of the gentlest fire magic he’s ever seen. The paper is consumed, every last bit of blackening parchment turned into a tiny spectacle of flame.

“How lovely,” Emmrich says softly. “Thank you for showing me.”

As the warm, tenderly glowing butterflies flutter around them, Rook quietly says:

“I was afraid of the dark as a child.”

It was meant to help him. Vediovis never touched him, Rook realises. He was telling the truth. It was the other way around: Rook was forced to touch him, but even then… Even then Vediovis seemed distant.

“I don’t understand how I could forget about… About how… I only ever saw him when father was around, and–...”

Emmrich dares to scoot closer, pressing a soft kiss to Rook’s shoulder. 

“What did you forget, darling?”

“He was… He never said much, when my father and his friends were around. I remember he used to watch me all the time. When my father– When–”

Oh Maker, he didn’t want Emmrich to know about this. He knows he promised not to hide, but he can barely stand to think about it himself. It is such an unseemly, oozing wound, such an all-consuming darkness that he dare not revisit that time of his life.

“Breathe, Rook. Look at me.”

Rook blinks the tears from his eyes and tries to focus on Emmrich’s deeply worried face. It’s adorable. He’s always thought so.

“Take a deep breath for me, darling. Remember that you are safe here, and that neither Manfred nor I will allow you to come to harm.”

Safe. He’s safe. Recounting the memories is not the same as living through them. They won’t come back, they can’t hurt him anymore.

“I… I hated when father made me channel his magic through him. It was humiliating, because he didn’t play along. He would– I don’t understand how I could forget–”

“Trauma affects our memories, dearest,” Emmrich soothes him, “it isn’t strange that you should associate him with torment, even if he didn’t directly participate.”

“He would always light the birdcage on fire right before the end. Turn them into butterflies. Father hated that. I think Vediovis made him feel bad about himself.”

“Insofar that monster was capable of feeling, of course.”

“He was… Vediovis was trying to be kind to me. Every last word in that letter is true.”

To Emmrich, it’s a cold comfort. Even if he was, Rook’s experience of him and his memories of him are nothing of the sort. All he experienced in the face of that purported kindness was terror, because nobody cared enough to inform Rook of their cunning little plans. It disgusts him to think that they valued their cleverness over giving a child some sort of sense of security. As if Rook was the one that couldn’t be trusted.

Rook looks at him, barely managing to meet his eyes. “I… I never wanted you to know that I was arranged to be married.”

Emmrich wraps an arm around him. Rook lays his head against Emmrich’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

“I admit that it shocked me,” Emmrich sighs, “though it shouldn’t have.”

“I think father intended to use the Rite of Binding on me, too. Now that I know what it is, some… Some pieces have fallen into place.”

Emmrich squeezes him. “We needn’t speak of it if you do not wish to, my heart. Don’t force yourself, certainly not on my account.”

“No, it’s… It’s not fair to you to not understand why I… Why I’m finding the whole… Planning of the wedding… Rather difficult.”

“I do believe that is all you need to say if your only wish is for me to understand why it is hard for you.”

“The day father told me, I–”

Rook takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. It does not stop him from seeing the ground beneath him rapidly growing closer. In his mind, he still hears the sound of his bones snapping upon impact.

“I tried to take my own life by jumping from my balcony.”

Fourteen. It barrels around Emmrich’s mind like quicksilver bouncing off the walls. He was fourteen years old and had already fallen into such a deep hole of despair that the only way out was to take his young, nascent existence into his own hands to end it.

There’s nothing he can say. He brings his other hand up to cradle Rook’s head to his shoulder and kisses his head. Tears blur his vision.

“I survived. Mother healed me. It was never spoken of again. I didn’t make another attempt.”

Emmrich doesn’t know how to tell him that he is beyond grateful that he survived. For Rook, it must’ve been the continuation of a never-ending nightmare, now exacerbated by his inability to exercise any sort of control over it. The last thing Emmrich wants to do is invalidate that, no matter how strongly he feels relieved, still, that Rook is here, alive and breathing.

Not only that, but for his mother to have swept it under the rug… That she failed to realise that her child’s life was already in peril even after he tried to take his own life is completely, utterly deranged to him. How she could excuse herself from doing anything to get Rook out of there he will never understand nor forgive.

“I was sixteen when the talk of children began,” Rook continues quietly, his hand subconsciously squeezing the roll of his stomach. “And sixteen when I tore my flesh apart to prevent that from ever happening. To this day, that’s the greatest pain I’ve ever felt. I thought I was going to die.”

He’s silent for a moment, before adding: “I was completely at peace with that.”

The arms around him tighten. Emmrich is trembling, his breath shuddering against Rook’s hair.

“I am in awe of you, Rook,” he says, swallowing down the persistent need to burst into tears, “you’ve been through so much. You are the bravest man I’ve ever known, and likely ever will.”

“I don’t feel brave. The only reason I haven’t died is because I apparently don’t get to. I’ve tried, many others have tried. When you’re not allowed to die, you keep going. There’s nothing for it.”

Venomous dread sinks its fangs into Emmrich’s heart, spreading through his veins until he’s paralysed with sheer terror. If he should ever feel that he is allowed to go, would Rook–

“Hey,” Rook says, sitting up, “oi, sweetheart… Maker, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t–... Come here.”

Rook props himself up against the pillows and lets Emmrich wrap himself around him, tightly holding him against his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Rook promises fervently, “I’ve never had more reasons to want to be here than I have since we met. You, Manfred, the Necropolis, studying magic again, the friends we made in the Lighthouse and beyond. So, I… Not only am I invincible, but I am exactly where I wish to be.”

His joke falls miserably flat, and Emmrich sobs into his shoulder. Rook regrets it immediately, and keeps his mouth shut while Emmrich weeps, grief and fear pouring out of him. The cradle of Rook’s arms feels like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this realm, preventing him from sinking into the abyss completely.

When Emmrich has calmed down a bit, with Rook carding his fingers through his hair as slow as his breathing, he raises his head from Rook’s shoulder to look at him. Their tired, tear-stained eyes meet, and Rook’s lips curl upward into a frail little smile. His thumb brushes a tear from Emmrich’s cheek.

“Wanting to marry you is the easiest thing in the world,” he says softly, his voice hoarse. “But even before I properly got down on one knee for you, I was dreading the wedding. In the last year before I fled to the Circle, it was all anyone could talk about. I was dragged all over Minrathous, against my will, to make arrangements for an eye-wateringly extravagant wedding that I never asked for. I try not to think of that when you talk to me about it, but it’s been hard. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Emmrich takes a deep breath and kisses Rook’s palm, holding his hand to his lips.

“We needn’t marry within the year if it’s too soon for you to be comfortable, my dear–”

“But I want to be your husband,” Rook insists, “I do, I–... I just need to find a way to not associate this engagement with my last one.”

It’s as if Emmrich can suddenly see clearly. Like the blur of falling snow finally giving way to clarifying sunshine.

“Would you perhaps like to get married tomorrow?”

Rook wonders if he’s having a stroke. “Would I–... What?”

“Get married tomorrow. The Revered Mother at the chantry is an old family friend. Poor dear, she’s sure to be approaching her ninetieth year by now, but I’m sure she’ll gladly see us wed.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Emmrich says, smiling, sure that this is what will make them both happy, “you wish to be my husband, and I wish to be yours. We may still celebrate at a later date if we both desire so, but I… I no longer see any reason to wait.”

“But we don’t have any rings–”

“They’re not mandatory–”

“It’s not what you want,” Rook says, taking Emmrich’s hands and squeezing. Guilt shades his eyes. “I want you to have the wedding you want. I– I want to want it, too. I do. I’m trying–”

Emmrich sighs and leans in for a kiss, pleased when Rook stops speaking and kisses him back instead.

“My little bird,” Emmrich whispers as he pulls away, “every day with you is a celebration of our love and enduring devotion to one another. If you truly wish for us to share in this merrymaking with others, then it shall be so. But we needn’t rush to do so within the year. We certainly needn’t postpone our union for it.”

Rook, privately, has always thought that he wouldn’t mind skipping the wedding entirely and going straight to being married. Emmrich is offering him exactly that, with the option to celebrate later. 

A celebration. It wouldn’t be for them, but for their friends. It’d be separate from their relationship, even if it wouldn’t seem that way on the surface.

“It… It would just be a party.”

With a small sigh of relief, Emmrich kisses him again. They always get there, in the end.

“Precisely. The others needn’t know, unless you prefer we inform them beforehand, of course.”

“Oh, no. I think it’s just fine for the two of us to keep this as our little secret,” Rook says, feeling oddly alleviated of a burden he hadn’t quite realised the weight of. “I… I didn’t realise how much I needed our marriage to belong only to us. Thank you.”

“Nothing has been lost, my darling,” Emmrich reassures him, caressing his cheek. “Though I am sorry you were forced out of hiding this way.”

“No, that’s… I never thought I’d be grateful to Vediovis for anything, but it seems I owe him qui–”

“You owe that yellow-bellied coward absolutely nothing!” Emmrich exclaims. “In fact, it was not for him to tell me any of what he wrote. I am grateful to you for what you’ve chosen to share with me tonight.”

Rook is momentarily taken aback, but laughs softly. “Well, I suppose that finally makes us even.”

Emmrich frowns. “I beg your pardon?”

Even now, months later, Rook can still recall the entire thing word for word.

“‘My dearest, darling Rook,’” he begins, watching as realisation dawns on Emmrich’s face with every syllable, “‘As I am at present unable to express to you directly my feelings of affection, I have decided to write them down, instead.’”

So Rook had known of Emmrich’s adoration well before he ever got to say so, and then lied about it. 

“You–!” 

“Manfred did deliver your letter to me,” Rook finally admits after many months, “I had intended to use it for my vows, but since we’re getting married tomorrow…”

“If– If you knew, why didn’t you–”

“Because I shouldn’t have known. I was not going to take away your chance to say how you felt the way you wanted to. I’m glad I didn’t.”

How far they’ve come. The many hurdles they’ve faced along the way have only made their connection that much stronger. Everything from his lichdom to the gods to facing their respective demons has only brought them closer together. 

But he did lie.

“You deceived me–”

“I also deceived you into thinking that Manfred stole your ring so I could get your engagement ring.”

“A most concerning pattern of behaviour, indeed. Have you any other confessions you’d like to make?”

Rook can’t tell whether Emmrich is serious or just trying to lighten the mood. More than likely, the answer is ‘both.’

“Yes. I always put extra butter on your toast. I taught Manfred the Minrathous Circle Handshake. I hate cauliflower.”

He wisely elects not to mention that the students know they’re together. It’s been a long enough day as it is.

“If you intend to disorient me– You what? What– Dare I ask what the ‘Minrathous Circle Handshake’ is?”

Rook holds out his hand for Emmrich to shake. Hesitantly, he takes it. Rook zaps him with a small pulse of electricity to the palm of his hand. 

“Ow– Rook! You can’t be teaching him how to terrorise his fellow Mourn Watchers–!”

“Aw, c’mon, it’s just a bit of fun. Aren’t you impressed by how good his control is? He hasn’t even electrocuted anyone–”

Emmrich’s eyes threaten to pop out of his skull and Rook laughs, loud and full. 

“The two of you are incorrigible. If I should hear so much as a word from my colleagues about this, Rook–”

“Ooh, punishment?”

“I–... I shan’t touch you for a week.”

Rook raises his eyebrows and smirks. “Who is that supposed to punish: you or me?”

When, after another fifteen minutes of bickering back and forth, the candle is blown out and they lie down together, all is well. Rook slots himself against Emmrich’s back and kisses the back of his neck.

“No class tomorrow,” he whispers, “how about we get married in the morning and then take a walk through the snow past the river?”

“Actually,” Emmrich replies, turning his head, “I was hoping to take you ice skating. The river’s been frozen over for some days now.”

“I’ve never skated before, but–”

“Lovely! I’ll teach you.”

As a general rule, Rook tries to stay away from ice and the treacherous waters underneath, but he supposes he’ll have to master it one day if he is to not break his neck every winter. This is his home now, after all.

“But first we get married.”

Another kiss to his shoulder. Emmrich smiles and closes his eyes. Yes, first they get married.

When he wakes at dawn, the room cold and dark still, Rook is still pressed up against back, snoring softly. Snoring is good: that means he’s actually asleep. What’s less good is that Emmrich can’t move without taking the enormous risk of waking him up.

Then again, there’s no class today. Nothing and nobody needs them for once, and so he is free to bask in the warmth of Rook’s embrace for as long as he likes. He settles in once more and thinks about last night and the revelations brought to light. For now, he intends not to bring it up again. Rook knows he’s here for him, and he’ll tell what he’s willing to in due time.

Rook tightens his hold on him, his legs twitching as he moans softly in his sleep. Dreaming again, Emmrich realises. They rarely fall asleep like this: Rook rolls around too much and Emmrich likes to sleep on his back. But last night, following their discussion, he had been glad to keep Rook close. His old and familiar fear of death had sneaked up on him, as it still does every so often, and had torn right through him. Like a viper lying in wait in the tall grass, Emmrich never notices he’s stepped on its tail until it’s too late. As it ever has, it struck him somewhere deep past the heart and rendered him unable to hold back the floods.

Emmrich inhales slowly and holds his breath for a moment before exhaling. The dread lingers, in the same way the scent of embalming oils gets stuck to one’s hair and skin. Indeed, perhaps doing something as life-affirming as going out into the snow and getting married is exactly what he needs to banish the inky shades of death from his mind.

Although he would settle for a kiss from his beloved, if he were awake. Only then does he notice the snoring has ceased, and how Rook’s thumb is gently brushing back and forth over the smattering of hair beneath his navel. 

“Rook?” Emmrich whispers. A grunt of acknowledgement rumbles forth from Rook’s chest, so deep he can feel it against his back. “Good morning, dearest.”

“Early,” Rook mutters, reluctantly letting go of a very pleasant dream, “go back to sleep.”

With a bit of nudging, thoroughly impeded by a drowsy, grumpy Rook, Emmrich rolls onto his back. It doesn’t take long for Rook to then cover half of his body with his own, his toes just barely touching past his calves when he stretches, lazy as a cat in the afternoon sun. 

“I thought we might take a walk in the gardens before we leave for the city,” Emmrich proposes. A walk through the fresh morning snow, perhaps even in the midst of some snowfall, surrounded by the graves. What could be more romantic on the morn they’re to be married?

Rook, however, kicks his feet like a petulant child and whines.

“But it’s cold,” he complains, “and this on my last morning as a bachelor. You are the most cruel of men, Emmrich Volkarin.”

“I am not above bribing you with the promise of warm chocolate milk in the city’s foremost establishment afterwards.”

“Before or after I fall and crash through the ice of the Minanter?”

Emmrich laughs and scratches Rook’s scalp fondly.

“I’ll do everything in my power to keep you upright. Shall we go to the gardens?”

Rook never had any real intention of refusing, anyway, but at least he managed to get hot chocolate out of it. 

In the gardens, snowflakes stick together and breeze past in frosty clusters that cling to Rook’s scarf and hat. He’s all bundled up, courtesy of Emmrich’s justified concerns that a summer’s child like Rook wouldn’t be able to withstand the cold without at least four layers between him and nature’s frigid winds. Emmrich, however, appears perfectly fine in just his clothes, a coat that reaches down to his ankles, and a big, fluffy hat.

“It feels as though an age has passed since we first walked here,” Emmrich says as they walk, snow crunching underfoot. The gardens are covered in a thick layer of snow, brightening everything even in the morning’s dark, early hours. Firelight and wisps reflect off of the glistening snow in all directions, creating an ethereal spectacle. Emmrich loves the gardens in winter, and he tightens his arm around Rook’s hand, smiling when he can scarcely see more of Rook’s face than the tip of his red, runny nose.

“Lighting candles, getting to know you, trying not to jump your bones the entire time,” Rook reminisces fondly, “very different times. That was before you told me about your dreams of lichdom, too.”

They both stop walking, breath fogging between them as they look at each other. The amount of times his lichdom has been brought up ever since he definitively put an end to that ambition, Emmrich can count on one hand. 

“It frightens me sometimes, darling,” Emmrich quietly admits, “the thought of leaving you and Manfred behind, eventually.”

“That scares me too, as much as it scares me that I could also die. I’m sure that even Manfred sometimes worries about leaving us too soon, since it already happened to him once… Isn’t that what we signed up for? To love is to lose that which we hold dear, right?”

As they continue walking, Rook laughs. “Besides,” he says, “I’m sure that if we asked we’d be allowed to shamble about the halls together for all eternity. We could become Manfred’s assistants, instead.”

Behind them, Manfred cheers. Emmrich laughs.

“Well… I can think of worse ways to spend my afterlife.”

“What will our tombstone say?”

“Just the one?”

“I’d like that, I think,” Rook says, smiling up at him. For all his fears, Rook’s ability to speak so openly about it soothes something deep inside of Emmrich.

“Well… Our names, our dates of birth and death, and a fitting epitaph.”

“I wonder what date of birth I should pick to put on our tombstone,” Rook says, pondering aloud. Emmrich blinks, sure he’s misheard.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was a foundling,” Rook reminds him, “we have no idea when I was born. Per the Minrathous census I was born on the first of Verimensis, which meant my birthday always coincided with First Day. I hated that, so I chose a different date when I went to the circle under a false name, and another when I left, and… Another when I registered with the Mourn Watch.”

It strikes Emmrich as a very peculiar habit. How can one celebrate their birthday on a different day every year?

“Might I ask when you celebrate?”

“Oh. I don’t. I don’t think I ever have.”

Emmrich remembers his childhood, and how in spite of the fact that it always rained on his birthday and his parents barely had enough money to get by, there was always cake and at least one gift. It wasn’t much, but it was all he needed as a child. Rook didn’t even get that much, in spite of his parents’ obscene wealth. It makes his blood boil, but now is not the time for that.

“We’ll be asked to sign some forms at the chantry,” Emmrich points out, “you’ll have to note down your date of birth.”

“Ah. Well, I suppose it’s about time I picked a permanent one.”

They visit Emmrich’s parents’ graves. Along the way, much to Emmrich’s puzzlement, Rook picks a collection of the few dead and wilting flowers remaining beneath the layer of frost. He kneels by the vase and sticks them in, before smiling back at Emmrich.

“Necromancy’s not the only thing I’ve been practicing. Come here.”

Emmrich kneels next to him and watches, awestruck, as Rook gingerly cups his hands around the flowers. Bright, pale yellow light emanates from between his hands. The flowers come back to life right before his eyes, standing up straight and blooming as happily as if it were the midst of spring.

“I’m still not great with water,” Rook mutters, focusing on his magic, “and I’ll never be able to make it rain or conjure a waterfall, but when it’s small like this… I can control it.”

The yellow is replaced with green, and Rook swirls his hand around and over the flower. It’s uncannily reminiscent of the way Emmrich conducts his magic, he realises. Subconsciously, Rook has learned that this is the right way to perform necromancy. It’s immensely flattering, and Emmrich gives in to the urge to learn over and kiss his head.

“There,” Rook says, satisfied. “That’ll ensure they’ll stay fresh for a while.”

“How–”

“Necromancy works both ways, like all magic does. I’ve just delayed its natural decay by a few days.”

Kneeling before the graves in the snow proves very uncomfortable very quickly, and they stand back up together. Rook bows his head to the tombstones before them.

“We’re getting married today,” he says to Emmrich’s parents, whether they can hear or not, “I hope you don’t mind I’m taking your name.”

Emmrich chuckles. “I cannot imagine they’d mind.”

Rook looks at him, a crooked smile on his face.

“The only insult bigger to my father’s memory than taking your name, would be giving you mine. He had very particular ideas about lineage and legacy.”

“But–”

He wanted to marry you off, Emmrich thinks but doesn’t say, just about managing to bite his tongue in time. Rook presses his lips together and bumps his shoulder into him.

“Had I married Vediovis, I would’ve kept my own name. He was powerful, but his House wasn’t well-respected. Ours was.”

“I see,” Emmrich says drily, more and more glad the magisterium has been sanitized, “I assure you my parents have no such qualms. As I said, they would have adored you.”

As he often does when they stand here, Rook wishes he could’ve met them. 

“Do you look like your parents?” Rook suddenly asks, curious.

“I’ve my mother’s eyes,” Emmrich says proudly, “and my father’s kind and gentle face. I inherited none of his physique, sadly.”

“All of his strength, though,” Rook counters, “was your mother very tall?”

“She was. Most unfortunate for a cook working in kitchens not at all adjusted to her size. Even when she was young, she suffered from a great deal of back pain.”

Rook smiles and stands on his toes to kiss him, a snowflake melting off his nose when it touches Emmrich’s warm cheek.

“Sounds like you got the best of both, then. Tall, beautiful eyes, a handsome face, strong body–”

“And my father’s premature greying–”

“His greatest gift to you,” Rook stresses, “I am most grateful for it.”

Emmrich raises an eyebrow. “I find it hard to imagine you prefer this. I once possessed a luxurious head full of lustrous, black hair. These days, it’s rather…”

“Striking,” Rook interjects before he can talk badly about himself, “distinguishing. Not to mention, you still have dark hair in some places.”

“That I prefer not to exhibit to anyone but you, dearest.”

Rook’s grin tells him he’s more than well aware of that, but his finger reaches for the remaining streak of dark hair among the grey on top of his head.

“I was talking about this,” Rook murmurs, “but I’m glad to see your mind is once again comfortably entrenched in the gutter.”

Maybe it is, a little bit. “Well, one has so much to look forward to on this day, I suppose the mind does wander towards one’s prospective wedding night.”

Briefly, Rook’s eyes dart towards Manfred, who is happily trudging about the snow while rolling an increasingly large snowball along the path. He’s out of earshot.

“Oh? Have something planned?”

“That depends on you, darling. Have you mastered your glamour?”

Ah, yes. His ‘glamour.’ A wonderful euphemism for what is really a highly complicated alteration spell that, when broken down to its bare essentials, replaces his clitoris and labia with a fully functional penis and testicles. At Rook’s request, Emmrich has ensured to craft the spell in such a way that he keeps his vagina for the purpose of penetration. They haven’t tried to have sex with it yet, as it requires a great deal of concentration that Rook struggled to maintain when they tried. Emmrich might have been successful in that regard, but Rook insisted on learning how to do it himself before going any further.

Of course, Rook has to expend magic periodically anyway to keep from spontaneously combusting, and so he has been able to practice plenty under significantly less stress by wearing it throughout the day. It was deeply unappealing at first: uncomfortable, foreign, and he hated feeling like an awkward teenager in the body of a forty year-old when he got an unexpected erection. Which was shockingly commonplace, often accompanied with a swell of desire that he couldn’t curb no matter how he tried and thus had to take care of. An unpleasant side-effect with unintended, positive consequences: he’s confident he can maintain the spell now, no matter what Emmrich does to him.

“Wearing it right now, in fact,” Rook says, grimacing, “and I have to say, I don’t care for the way I’m currently experiencing the cold.”

Emmrich snorts and laughs, clapping his hand over Rook’s on his arm. There’s snow stuck to his hat all over, the occasional flake briefly sticking to his eyebrows before melting away. His cheeks are red with both mirth and the crisp, cold air around them. 

Amidst the falling snow and the frigid breeze, Rook feels impossibly warm. 

“I love you,” Rook says. Emmrich stops laughing and looks at him, his eyes still crinkling fondly at the corners. “I love you to the point of burning.”

Gloved hands gently cup his face as Emmrich touches their foreheads together.

“You did fly awfully close to the sun for me once or twice.”

“And I’d do it again.”

“I know,” Emmrich sighs, knowing that that is a battle he can’t hope to win, “it’s why I hope this peace is everlasting.”

“I promise not to get myself involved unless it concerns you or Manfred,” Rook chuckles, kissing him. It’s the best Emmrich is going to get.

“Very well. Speaking of–”

They look around and notice that Manfred is nowhere to be found. 

“He can’t have gotten far with that snowball,” Rook says, taking Emmrich’s hand and tugging him along. 

“I told him not to stray from us. Truly, Rook, I worry about how disobedient he is–”

“We can’t exactly leash him. He’s a kid, he’s just amusing himself.”

After a few minutes of searching, they find Manfred by the entrance to the gardens, levitating a massive snowball onto an even larger snowman body. The third ball lands safely on top of the others, and Manfred cheers.

“Yay!”

Emmrich and Rook watch in awe as Manfred produces a carrot from his coat pocket and levitates it up to the top ball before forcing it into the middle. 

“He’s not even had control of his powers for more than four months,” Emmrich breathes, “this is–”

“Manfred’s got two expert mages tutoring him every day, not to mention his education–”

“But this is extraordinary, Rook!”

Rook snorts and kisses Emmrich’s hand. “Yes, yes. Our boy is very special, dear.”

“You only call me that when you’re trying to placate me, Rook.”

“Do I?”

While they’re quibbling, Manfred proceeds to give the snowman eyes, a mouth, and two proportionately comically small branches for arms. With a happy hiss, Manfred then proceeds to put a small collection of gold rings on various twigs.

“Aw!” Rook exclaims, pointing. “He’s made you!”

Emmrich stares up at his giant snowman-self, deeply touched, until he notices his rings on the twigs.

“... Manfred, to whom do those rings belong?”

“You!”

“And did you ask me before taking them?”

“Dunno!”

“You mean you– Really, Manfred, I am quite sure you know that you didn’t ask.”

Turning back to his snowman, Manfred adds another two stones to the mouth and two downturned twigs above the eyes. The now grouchy snowman looks down at them with a disapproving frown.

Manfred looks back at them and drops his jaw, a gesture they have come to understand as smiling. Rook coughs into his hand and turns away as he tries not to lose it, while Emmrich has to bite his lip to keep from smiling. He can’t encourage this behaviour, he can’t. His son will not be the class clown. Absolutely not.

He clears his throat. “Manfred, I would ask that you please retrieve my rings.”

As his bony little shoulders slouch with disappointment and he turns to go and get back Emmrich’s rings, Manfred sadly hisses: “Shit.”

Rook laughs out loud, holding his stomach. Emmrich purses his lips in distaste, and also because it’s the only way to keep from joining in.

“You are a terrible influence.”

“Yes, dear.”

Before he’s even aware he’s doing it, Emmrich has grabbed a handful of snow and shoved it in Rook’s face. This very quickly escalates into a three-way snowball fight that is entirely too loud and too jovial to be taking place among the graves. 

But the dead do not stir for merriment, and nobody else thinks to wander the gardens at daybreak. Their laughter is heard by nothing but the wisps, and their joy felt by nobody but them. When Rook slips and falls into a big snowdrift, Emmrich doesn’t even think before diving on top of him to kiss him, followed closely by Manfred jumping on top of his own back. Rook wraps his arms around both of them and vows, silently, to never forget about this moment.

With coats dripping from the melting snow, they sit in the carriage to the city, hands clasped tightly between them. Rook can barely contain himself, and Emmrich can’t seem to look away from him. Manfred sits across from them, a single flower perched in his breast pocket. He will be the only witness to their union today, aside from the Revered Mother herself.

Marrying is a deceptively simple affair. They vow unto the Maker and the holy Andraste to love each other until the end of their days, share a kiss before the Revered Mother, and sign the papers. Rook notes his date of birth as the fourteenth of Justinian, the heart of summer. Emmrich smiles to himself and wonders at the significance of the date. Even without knowing, he finds it fitting.

Standing back outside, Rook can barely believe it’s gone and happened. They’re married. He looks at Emmrich with a smile so big his teeth hurt from the cold.

“You’re my husband.”

“And you are mine,” Emmrich says, eyes shimmering. “Now and forevermore.”

“There’s so much more I wanted to say but, I–... I’ll give you the rest of my vows when we’re alone, later.”

Emmrich leans down and kisses him, lingering to brush his nose against Rook’s. “Likewise, my darling.”

Chapter 3: Winter III

Rook is sure he’s never been happier in more miserable conditions. The wind is biting cold and the snow keeps blowing into his eyes, but his hand is in Emmrich’s, and they are married. He keeps looking over at him to make sure it’s real, and Emmrich keeps smiling back at him. If they share an inordinate amount of kisses in the snowy streets, entirely too visible to all the people just trying to get on with their day, then so be it.

They forgo the warmth of the carriage in favour of a bracing walk towards the river. They share a warm cheese and onion roll between them, and Rook treats them to tea and pastries at the sort of teahouse that Emmrich used to longingly look into the windows of as a child. Even now, he deems it frivolous when he can just purchase the tea himself rather than spend exorbitant amounts of money on the experience of being in a teahouse.

But, well. One must make concessions for one’s lovely wedded husband.

“Please, Emmrich,” Rook says, tugging on his hand and dragging him inside, “what if I want to spoil my husband a little bit?”

How could he say no?

Sat by the fire, they hold hands beneath the table and feed each other a selection of trivially small pastries. Rook drinks his tea and leans in to whisper that he likes Emmrich’s brew better. 

“And I must say,” Emmrich whispers in return, “that I much prefer your chocolate cake.”

For now and for once, they imagine themselves entirely alone in the world, kissing in the middle of a tearoom, not at all sufficiently hidden by the plateau of desserts to justify being so flagrant in their public display of affection. 

When Rook pulls back, there’s a gold band with a small blue gem on his right ring finger. 

“From my personal collection of grave gold,” Emmrich tells him. “You objected to us not having rings. Now we both do, at the very least until I arrange for our wedding rings.”

“If you think I’m ever taking off the first ring you’ve given me, you’re dead wrong.”

Emmrich takes his hand and kisses the ring. “It does please me to give you the first piece of your own collection.”

“Does this one also have a story?” Rook asks, sitting back and enjoying the rest of his tea.

“If I recall correctly, this one once belonged to one of Nevarra’s famed opera singers. His voice echoed down our halls for long after his death.”

Would Rook seek out the piano after he passes? He wonders if Manfred’s memory of them, as his own memory of his parents, will too be that of the two of them sitting on the bench together. 

After the teahouse, Emmrich insists they go ice skating. Entirely unlike getting married, skating is exactly the nightmare that Rook feared it to be, even if Emmrich really is trying his hardest to keep him upright. For one, Emmrich’s skates have clearly been broken in over many a winter, while Rook’s pinch his feet uncomfortably. There are children, adults, and even the occasional dog to avoid on the ice, and Rook falls to his ass a handful of times before he so much as manages to stay upright for longer than two minutes. If he’d known they were doing this today, he wouldn’t have let Emmrich spank him for nearly as long as he ended up doing yesterday.

Not that he regrets it, of course. It only hurts about half as much as getting eaten by an archdemon, anyway.

Manfred, who is spared this torture on account of the fact that his bones might clatter all over the ice if he takes a bad fall, hisses jeeringly at him from the snowy riverbanks. 

“Pay him no mind, dearest husband!” Emmrich calls to him as he skates past. Rook snorts and tries to contain his giggles, loses his balance, and falls flat on his ass once again.

“Papa down!”

Defeated and having failed to master the ice, Rook spreads out and lets the cold take him until Emmrich eventually appears by his side.

“All right, darling?”

“Oh, I’m perfect. I’m being heckled by our son, my feet hurt, I’m about to lose my arse to frostbite and you’re skating circles around me. We’re also married, and I am soon to receive my promised hot chocolate.”

Rook beams up at him. “It’s a beautiful day.”

As the late afternoon sun begins to set, setting the frozen landscape around them ablaze with its red and orange hues, Emmrich helps Rook to his feet and holds him steady against his body. 

“As beautiful as my dearly beloved husband,” Emmrich murmurs. Rook’s face is ice cold against his when they kiss. “Resplendent as the skies of dusk’s approach.”

A pair of girls skate by, giggling into their mittens. Rook is suddenly and painfully aware that they must look like a pair of besotted teenagers. Emmrich, however, usually the one much more concerned with such things, does not let him pull back until he’s out of breath. 

Rook rubs their chilly noses together and shivers, wanting out of the cold.

“Let’s get out of here. You promised me the city’s foremost establishment, if memory serves.”

Manfred waves them off and heads back to the Necropolis on his own, citing the need to ‘practice magic.’ Emmrich tries not to worry about what that could mean, at this stage in his education, but Rook ensures him it’s fine and that there’s more people than just the two of them that he can practice with.

The city’s foremost establishment, it turns out, is a tavern that Emmrich’s parents used to frequent on account of the fact that his mother worked there most days. For how small the space really is, there are far too many tables and chairs, but the original owner and his daughter, the current proprietress of the tavern, have always refused to compromise on hospitality.

Emmrich leads them over to a window booth in the farthest corner of the room, taking off their coats, scarves and hats and hanging them on a nearby hook. Outside, snow continues to fall and pile against the window frame, glittering against the candlelight inside. While Rook looks outside, all Emmrich can look at is him. 

“This place is lovely,” Rook says. What little he can see of the lantern-lit streets through the fogged up window is much more enchanting now that he’s inside, and the tavern itself is homey, cosy almost for how cramped it is.

Emmrich lays his arm across Rook’s shoulders and pulls him in to kiss his temple. “Lovelier still for your presence in it.”

“Oi,” Rook chuckles, indulging in one more kiss, “save some of the sweet talk for later.”

“I assure you, I will never run out of nice things to say about you, little bird.”

A tall, broad woman with a freckled face, curly hair held back underneath a bandana, and a large gap between her two front teeth appears at their table. She looks at Emmrich with a big, toothy smile and nods at Rook.

“Is this him, then?”

Emmrich squeezes Rook against him, unable and unwilling to hide his enormous smile. He’s effervescent with joy, and he is only a man. How can his body accommodate such vast quantities of happiness all at once? One day his heart is sure to burst at the seams if his love for Rook keeps growing the way it has been.

“Hello, Marie! Yes, this is Rook. Rook, this is Marie. She’s the owner of this fine and storied establishment.”

Marie huffs an embarrassed laugh and rolls her eyes.

“Always a joy when you come down to visit us from the Grand Necropolis, professor. What can I get you?”

Other than the warm chocolate milk that Rook was promised, Emmrich orders a plate or two of local specialties that he’s confident Rook hasn’t gotten to try yet, and a good bottle of wine for them to share. The tavern slowly fills up for the evening while they wait. Emmrich passes the time with his arm around Rook, while Rook nurses a warm tankard between his hands.

“Warming up?” Emmrich asks, slowly rubbing Rook’s upper arm. 

What a splendorous day it’s been. They wouldn’t have gotten this day with just the two of them and Manfred if they’d gotten married in front of a crowd. It’s better this way, Emmrich is glad to say. He much prefers having this time with just Rook, as well as the fact that they can go home and be with just the two of them whenever they want. And while he very much intends to have a good meal and not rush home, his hunger for Rook is slowly beginning to eat away at his patience. 

His husband, the indomitable and most honourable Lord Rook of House Volkarin. The driving force behind the saviours of Thedas. One of the most renowned and powerful men of this age. A man who, just yesterday morning, begged for Emmrich’s permission to come. A man who has sunk to his knees for him and who has cried in his arms. A man who nearly gave his life for him more than once without a second thought.

If he could go back in time and tell his thirty year-old self that that very Rook is now his husband, would he even believe himself? Even now, does he truly believe his luck?

“I am,” Rook replies, completely ignorant of Emmrich’s thoughts as he sips on his drink, “and I’m looking forward to the food. I’m starving.”

“As am I, my dear,” Emmrich says quietly, lowering his voice and kissing the shell of Rook’s ear, “though my hunger is much older than today, and can never be fully sated. For you, I am perpetually famished.”

Rook shudders. Usually, Emmrich rebuffs his attempts to misbehave a little in public, and Rook has never minded when he has. For him to instigate out here is very rare, even more so given how busy it’s getting around them. Should he let him continue? As a matter of preference, Rook doesn’t want him to stop, but as a matter of propriety–

“This is not your lavish teahouse, darling, nor the snake pit of gossip that your Tevinter salons were,” Emmrich reminds him, twirling a long strand of Rook’s hair around his finger, “minding one’s business is an appreciated custom, here.”

Over the rim of his tankard, Rook inspects the room: they’re relatively sheltered in their corner booth, and nobody seems to be looking at them at all. Everyone’s involved in their own everyday grievances, loudly being vented at tavern tables to raucous laughter and the slamming of ale-filled tankards, frothing foam spilling over the sides.

“I see,” Rook says calmly, finishing his drink and swapping it for the cup of wine Emmrich is holding, “is that why you’re so close, amatus?”

Emmrich watches those plush, dear lips close over the cup’s rim and imagines them elsewhere entirely. He lets go of Rook’s hair and traces a finger over his jaw, his neck, slipping into his collar and teasing his collarbone beneath. Rook’s dark, flame-lit eyes dart back to him, ablaze with desire.

“Is one not supposed to want to be close to one’s husband? Newly wed or otherwise?”

The wine is delicious. Rich, heavy, sweet, the way Emmrich prefers his drinks. And his husband, apparently. 

“Certainly,” Rook agrees easily, taking another sip of wine. Emmrich’s eyes follow the tip of his tongue as he licks off a stray red droplet. “But we just got here, and you are risking a premature exodus if you keep that up.”

“Oh? Am I proving too great a distraction?” Emmrich asks as he pushes Rook’s collar farther to the side to let his fingers trail along the most sensitive part of his shoulder. Rook shifts uncomfortably in his seat and tries not to look at him. Everything from the flush of his skin to his damp, unruly hat-hair is making it impossible to keep his hands to himself. In his trousers, his cock twitches to life, perfectly eager to respond to even the slightest of Emmrich’s touches on his body.

“Emmrich–”

“We will stay right where we are until we finish our meal, dearest. It would be fiendishly impolite to leave before we do.”

“Then stop making me want to put you over my shoulder so I can march you out of here and throw you into the nearest carriage home.”

Rook puts the cup down onto the table and grasps Emmrich’s knee, squeezing. This close, he can smell his perfume, the wine on his breath, one as luxurious as the other. He adjusts his robes, making sure his legs are properly covered. Emmrich’s breathy, smug little chuckle tickles in his ear.

“Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

“A little too much, I think.”

“Ah, I rather forgot you’re wearing your glamour,” Emmrich lies, knowing full well that Rook is slowly getting hard and trying to hide it. As responsive as ever, in spite of how different it must be to his own anatomy. 

“I’m sure you did.”

“We haven’t even gone through our itinerary for the evening yet.”

“Oh dear,” Rook snorts, spreading his legs to give himself some room. In the distance, he spots Marie neatly weaving her way through the crowd with a tray of food. “Thank the Maker.”

Emmrich follows his gaze and retreats, for now.

“I’ve never known you to be grateful for an interruption.”

“And I’ve never known you to get so handsy in public.”

“I remember the days leading up to our final confrontation with Johanna rather differently, my sweet,” Emmrich reminds him. Rook only smiles as he remembers Emmrich sticking his tongue down his throat behind some crates in Minrathous, desperately clinging to their relationship while adamantly trying to ignore the possibility of Emmrich’s lichdom still looming darkly on the horizon.

“Here you go, lads,” Marie says as she sets a handful of earthenware dishes filled with food on the table. “Enjoy.”

“Perhaps,” Rook admits when she leaves, “but you’re not usually so keen.”

Emmrich tears a piece of flatbread and rubs it through some spiced oil. “It is admittedly proving particularly difficult to resist you today.”

Rook grins and wipes away the droplet of oil that threatens to spill past his chin, licking it off his finger. There are fruits, cheeses, salads, dips and flatbread for them to indulge in. Emmrich feeds him a honeyed fig and chases it with a kiss, tasting the sweetness on his lips. Rook’s smile broadens.

“And I’m not even trying.”

“You needn’t try, darling. I was drawn to you long before I realised you were all that I wanted.”

“In your defence, I was trying very, very hard at the time.”

“While I was foolishly trying to convince myself I was too old for you. Denying myself the joy of being with you seems incomprehensible to me now.”

“Ah, yes. You thought I was thirty.”

“You’ve aged most gracefully, Rook. Not all of us can say the same–”

“Oi,” Rook interrupts him, “don’t talk badly about my beautiful husband.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll make sure you can’t talk at all as soon as I’m able.”

Fortunately for Emmrich, Rook’s robes are split at the sides, allowing him to easily get a hand underneath, splaying against the inside of his thigh.

“Long before I knew the shape and softness of your body, that was one of my earliest fantasies of you,” Emmrich confesses, taking his glass of wine and closing his eyes as it hits his tongue. He feels the slight movement of Rook’s trousers against his fingers as the fabric draws taut across his cock.

“What, exactly?” Rook asks, his voice low. Emmrich leans over and moans softly, his own cock beginning to fill at the thought. He crosses his legs and kisses Rook’s hairline.

“Mm… Taking you into my mouth, the slide of my lips around your stiff prick, the taste of your seed–”

“Oh, fuck…” Rook breathes, opening his legs further as Emmrich’s hand trails up his thigh. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.”

So he is. Rook’s twitching, hard cock feels hot and solid against his hand as he strokes it. “Aren’t I always, my love? Did you not say you love me to the point of burning?”

Rook wonders if he needs to remind Emmrich that he can also still get wet.

“Emmrich, k-kindly stop making me soak through my robes. It’s rude to stain furniture that isn’t ours.”

The things Emmrich wants to do to him cloud his mind for a moment. Thoughts are slow to form through the thick haze of lust and arousal. 

“How wet you must be,” Emmrich sighs into his ear, “how eager. Does your body hanker for my touch, darling? Does your quim ache for me to be inside of it?”

With his free hand, Emmrich leisurely eats another piece of flatbread and cheese, waiting for Rook to answer.

“You know it does,” Rook grits out, eventually. “How long are you planning on doing this?”

“Until we’ve finished our plates.”

“Oh, you are a bastard. You will fit right in when we go to visit the magisterium next year. Lord Bastard of the House of Motherf– nngh– ”

Emmrich squeezes Rook’s cock and listens to his choked off gasp. 

“Let us not pretend you do not wish for me to do this, Rook.”

“The issue is that I want you to do so much more, and we really can’t. But rest assured that if there’d been a tablecloth, you would have been underneath this table already.”

He means it, too. Emmrich doesn’t even think he’d mind it, if he were sufficiently hidden. Rook’s cock throbs pitifully in his hand, fully hard and perfectly laid along his inner thigh for Emmrich to stroke. The size and girth they’d decided on together, or so Emmrich likes to think. Rook knows for a fact that he completely went along with what Emmrich wanted. It’s going into his body, after all, and Rook would’ve been happy with anything.

Rook tries to distract himself by eating, not wanting the food to go to waste, but Emmrich’s elegant fingers keep finding delightful new ways to make him squirm. It’s torture of the most exquisite kind, not at all helped by the way Emmrich keeps actively seducing him, his breath hot on his skin, his voice like velvet against his ear.

“You’re doing so well, darling. The spell is holding beautifully. Does it feel good when I touch you?”

“You have to ask?”

“No, but I’d very much like to hear your answer all the same.”

“I’m sure. I’m sure there’s lots of things you want.”

“Oh, no. I am quite a content sort of man. How could I not be, when all I want is already mine?”

“Content, you say?” Rook asks, quirking an eyebrow. “Because lately, from where I’m standing, you can’t ever seem to get enough.”

Emmrich isn’t sure if Rook is being playful or if he’s being admonished. Maybe it’s a bit of both. He doesn’t want to ask for fear of derailing a lovely, stirring conversation, and he valiantly washes his insecurities down with a good, deep drink, draining his cup.

When Emmrich refills his cup of wine, emptying the bottle, Rook takes it from him and downs half of it. Emmrich can’t help himself: he leans in to lick the residue from his lips and is immediately pulled into a deep, sweet kiss that tastes of tart fruit and sweet wine.

They need to go, Emmrich suddenly realises. Their inhibitions are beginning to go out the window, and while they can count on everyone’s discretion, there are many ways yet to make a fool out of oneself even here.

“Rook–”

“Oh, now you’ve got a problem.”

“On the contrary, my dearest heart. Our plates are empty, and our carriage awaits.”

In their rush to head outside, Rook decides to simply leave his pouch of money on the table. For serving them on the eve of their marriage, no price could be too high. Rook doesn’t even bother to properly put his scarf on, and gets whacked in the face by the cold the second they step outside.

“Fuck me, it’s c–”

“Worry not, darling,” Emmrich says, hooking his arm into Rook’s with very little ceremony and walking them over to the nearest carriage stop, “I intend to.”

Inside the dark carriage, Rook wastes not a second to push Emmrich’s heavy coat out of the way and yank his shirt out of his trousers, seeking the warm skin he yearns to feel against his own.

“Do you intend to?” Rook asks breathlessly, a little preoccupied with Emmrich’s hot mouth on his own. “I was sure you were going to make me wait until tomorrow morning.”

“Then I’ve clearly– mmh–  given you the wrong impression,” Emmrich replies between wet, sloppy kisses. The instant Rook finally touches the bare skin of his lower back, he admittedly loses his head a little bit. He nearly has to fold himself in half to crawl into Rook’s lap, but the need to be in his arms is greater than his rationality is powerful.

Rook’s knuckles brush against his cock, straining against his trousers. Emmrich’s broken, stifled little moan is like nectar on his tongue.

“Not just me then, was it?”

“Has it ever been, darling?”

“Suppose not.”

“Rook,” Emmrich murmurs against his lips, “my heart, my love…”

“Rook Volkarin, I would remind you.”

It makes Emmrich want to sob with joy. “Lord Rook Volkarin, first of his name.”

Rook squeezes Emmrich’s bare waist and kisses his neck. “You do make that sound appealing.”

“Born in the twelfth year of the Dragon Age, on the fourteenth of Justinian. His skin dappled with freckles like the mottled summer sun on the forest floor–”

Emmrich interrupts himself, a thought suddenly occurring. He pulls back to look at Rook.

“Darling?”

Already, Rook is smiling at him. “Yes, amatus? Whatever has distracted you from saying such lovely things about me?”

“Why did you choose the fourteenth of Justinian?”

Rook’s smile grows. “Because I think of it as a serendipitous day.”

“You are avoiding answering my question,” Emmrich points out, raising an eyebrow. 

“Because I suspect you know the answer already.”

“I’d like you to confirm it.”

“Yes, amatus, that is the day we met.”

Emmrich doesn’t know what to say. Something about Rook choosing that day as his date of birth feels so enormous to him.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Rook whispers, brushing some of Emmrich’s hair out of his eyes. “Meeting you felt like the sun rising on my life for the first time in years.”

“Oh, Rook, I–”

“But it’s not time for our vows yet,” Rook then says, smiling softly. “Let’s save those for when we’re alone. It won’t be long now.”

“You would let me speak? I seem to remember you saying you would ensure that I couldn’t.”

Maker, he really won’t be content until he’s on his knees and sucking Rook’s cock until he comes down his throat. Rook tightly grips Emmrich’s thighs. 

“I said I would if you continued to talk badly about my husband.”

“Your husband is a pillock,” Emmrich says immediately, thoroughly enjoying the quiet, indignant fury behind Rook’s eyes when he grabs his face and holds it steady, “a dastardly pencil-pusher whose foolish, willful pursuit of immortality nearly cost him everything–”

Rook’s hands come up to gently, so very gently, cup his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks. It is disarmingly tender, like he’s cradling a flower’s crown between his palms. Emmrich’s grip on his face slackens.

“How dare you?” Rook whispers with a minute shake of his head. “My husband’s a hero. A scholar of great renown and even greater intelligence. He is brave, tenacious, and a good man. A far better man than I could ever hope to be. How dare you speak ill of him?”

Distracted by the soft, slow sliding of their tongues as they kiss, Emmrich doesn’t notice Rook bringing his hands together until his slender wrists are trapped in Rook’s hand. Wicked fingers stroke his cock through his trousers and Emmrich pushes into them, gasping softly and baring his neck to Rook.

“Rook–”

“My husband is the most beautiful man in the world bar none,” Rook continues, effortlessly holding Emmrich in place, “and a formidable mage.”

“W-well–”

“And he is so clever,” Rook interrupts him, not letting up, “so very clever, that he thinks he can trick me into giving him what he wants so easily."

Emmrich whimpers, a pitiful little noise that he can barely stifle against Rook’s lips. Yes, he does want to have Rook in his mouth, to feel his lips and jaw stretch as he takes him into his throat, to please him in new ways and learn every curve, every satiny inch of skin. To learn the new taste of him, and crave more of it after.

“You’re the first man I’ve ever had to beg to get on my knees for.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Do you not want me, darling?” Emmrich asks huskily, desperately grinding his cock against Rook’s hand. “Have I failed to seduce you?”

“I’ll congratulate you on asking what is likely the first stupid question you’ve ever asked in your entire life.”

It catches Emmrich off-guard and makes him laugh, which in turn makes Rook laugh, until they both dissolve into a helpless pile of giggles, holding each other tight. 

The carriage stops. With the Necropolis looming large above, they get out. The carriage driver barely looks at them when they pay and bid him a good night, which is likely for the best. Emmrich isn’t sure if he can look the man in the eye at all.

They don’t normally hold hands inside of the Necropolis, at least not where any of the students might see them. Today, Emmrich doesn’t care, more than happy to let Rook drag him all the way home. He feels giddy, stifling his laughter as their walk goes from a brisk pace to a jog, before breaking out into a full run as they reach the empty corridor to their home.

At their door, Rook fumbles with his keys, and Emmrich cannot resist pressing himself up against him to kiss the back of his neck, squeezing Rook’s chubby sides.

“Hurry now, Rook,” he mutters, out of breath, his cock brushing against Rook’s ass, “before I lose my head and make a series of most inadvisable decisions.”

“You be quiet,” Rook hisses in return, “or I’ll never get the damn door open.”

“Am I distracting you? Does it distract you to know that I’d much rather be buried to the hilt inside of you? That I crave to feel you swell and throb around me when you come?”

After a deep breath, Rook grits his teeth and pockets his keys. Emmrich blinks.

“Darling?”

Rook waves a hand past the door. It unlocks. Without a word, Rook opens the door and yanks Emmrich inside.

“You know a spell that can unlock doors?” Emmrich asks, slightly concerned about the implications.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Emmrich concurs for once, before harshly pushing Rook back into the door and kissing him soundly, “I’ve much more important things to concern myself with tonight.”

Rook unbuttons Emmrich’s coat, then his vest, then his shirt. None of the clothing leaves his body. “Mm– Do you? Maker, these endless fucking buttons–”

“I married you in these clothes,” Emmrich reminds him, breathing a sigh of relief when Rook’s hands spread his shirt open and pull his bare upper body against him, “be nice.”

With three layers of clothing hanging off his naked shoulders and Rook’s strong arms holding him tightly, Emmrich is trapped in the sort of cage he has no interest in leaving. Tantalisingly soft, wet kisses are pressed against his skin, a seeking tongue tasting the sweat between his pectorals. Rook nuzzles at his chest hair, lingering to feel his heart beating against his cheek for a moment.

“And you were beautiful. To think that six months ago I wasn’t even aware of your existence,” Rook murmurs, kissing his way up to Emmrich’s collarbone, his throat, and finally his chin, “and now I stand here with my husband in my arms.”

They look at each other. Rook thinks he can’t believe he gets to see and love this man every day for the rest of his life. Emmrich thinks he can’t believe that the love of his life did, in fact, waltz into the Necropolis looking for a Fade expert that just so happened to be him. Rook’s grip on him loosens and Emmrich leans in to kiss him properly. 

“Rook–”

“My wonderful, kind, clever husband, that you spoke so poorly of.”

Emmrich unbuttons Rook’s coat, a long downward trajectory that he follows with his lips, sinking to his knees.

“Won’t you allow me to repent for what I said, darling?” he asks, looking up at him. Rook’s sash comes undone easily, allowing his heavy robes to fall open, revealing his soft, hairy belly and the bulge in his trousers beneath. 

Rook’s hands fall to his shoulders. “You want this very badly, don’t you?”

“I do,” Emmrich admits easily, spreading Rook’s legs with his elbow and pushing two fingers up against the seam of his trousers between. His fingertips feel slick, and Rook’s cock twitches ardently in response. “And so, it would seem, do you. Let me please you, Rook.”

As if he could refuse, especially with Emmrich’s gorgeous slender, ringed fingers stroking his aching cock through his trousers.

“Go on, then. Show me how sorry you are for all the nasty things you said.”

Emmrich kisses his shaft through the fabric as he undoes the buttons on his trousers. He nuzzles at him through his underwear after, slowly lowering the waistband until Rook’s thick, heavy cock springs free. It’s a masterwork of magical craftsmanship, if he may say so himself, and Rook is holding the spell perfectly.

“You’re doing an excellent job maintaining your glamour, Rook! Your progress is most impressive.”

Rook’s head thumps against the door, his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. 

“I’ve had plenty of practice to– Oh– Holy fuck–”

He looks down to find Emmrich’s lips closed around his cock, his fingers stroking the base as he bobs his head. It’s precise, practised, and unimaginably hot to watch. Those sweet, dear lips wrapped around him, his tongue pressed firmly against the underside of his cock. When he takes Rook into his throat and swallows around him, he doesn’t gag, nor do his eyes shimmer with tears. Rook has to look away, his thighs trembling as he groans and tries not to move. He’s not as sensitive as he would be with his own anatomy, but that only barely seems to matter for how skillfully Emmrich is sucking and stroking him.

“Knew you’d be good at this,” Rook gasps, “but didn’t– nhg– didn’t know how it’d– oh, fuck, ahh–”

Emmrich can only moan around him, one hand palming himself through his trousers. He’s longed to do this for Rook, and his response does not disappoint. When Rook loses a battle of wills with himself and slowly thrusts into Emmrich’s mouth, he can’t take it any longer and undoes his own buttons, rapidly stroking his own cock as Rook’s slides between his lips. He moans desperately as Rook takes a fistful of his hair.

“T-this is what you wanted, nnh– mm– isn’t it, amatus? Look at you– ahh– fuck, keep going–”

Rook’s rhythm stutters as he’s beginning to hunch over with tension, so close but trying to hold back. Without warning, Emmrich lets go of his own cock and pushes two fingers into his dripping wet cunt, curling them inwards. Rook whimpers loudly and his body goes rigid, cock throbbing with each pulse of come that spurts onto Emmrich’s tongue. Emmrich swallows greedily, savouring every sound, every quiver of Rook’s body. After Rook lets go of him, he squeezes the last few drops from him with his fingers, licking them off the tip as Rook shudders against the door. 

“As I thought,” Emmrich says, swallowing the last of Rook’s seed, “divine.”

When he stands and dusts off his knees, Rook is still catching his breath. His hand closes around Emmrich’s locket, pulling him in for a slow, dirty kiss, tasting himself.

“You…”

Next he knows, Emmrich is being pushed towards the bedroom, stumbling over his own trousers and laughing when Rook has to catch him. They peel off each other's layers of clothing, coats and shirts and everything else until they are bared to each other at last. A large pile of discarded clothing by the bed is the only evidence they were dressed at all today. Wanting much more out of tonight, Emmrich casts his recuperation spell on Rook’s glamour, to the latter’s great amusement. Rook gathers him into his arms and kisses him, so warm against him that it feels like the sun is shining on Emmrich’s face.

“You’re insatiable,” Rook says.

“There is much to be explored this evening, dearest.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“My darling,” Emmrich whispers, taking Rook’s soft cock in hand and stroking slowly, “I’ve loved and adored your body from the first, but this new configuration presents a myriad of novel ways for us to enjoy each other. Of course it excites me to continue to find ways to bring you pleasure.”

“That seems like a long-winded way of saying that you really want me to fuck you silly.”

“While I shan’t deny that, there is rather more to it.”

“Oh?”

“There is much you haven’t experienced, but I have. I wish for you to share in my wealth of knowledge.”

Rook grins and strokes his hand down Emmrich’s side. 

“I think you mean that you’re very eager to teach me.”

“Same difference, is it not?”

“No. I think the nuance matters a great deal, professor,” Rook says, smirking, “but you’re also a little late on that score.”

“Oh?”

“Come now, Emmrich. I’m a man in love and learning how to work this ‘glamour’ was equivalent to suffering through my third, and hopefully last, puberty. I’ve left relatively little unexplored about what feels good.”

How did Emmrich not notice this? Do they truly have that little time to spend together these days? Did he completely miss months of Rook ‘practising’ while he was– what, grading essays?

“I was unaware.”

“And vaguely disappointed, it seems.”

“Well, I… I suppose I can admit that I’d rather hoped we’d discover together, but–”

Rook kisses him softly, affection and an apology all at once.

“You mean: you would’ve liked to watch.”

“You are twisting my words–”

“But am I wrong, amatus?” Rook asks, pushing Emmrich’s hand away from his hardening cock and stroking himself. “You even told me as much, during our first night together.”

Emmrich lays Rook’s leg across his thigh and reaches down, fondling and squeezing Rook’s balls in his hand. 

“Mmh–”

“I was thinking of you rather differently at the time,” Emmrich says, pushing three fingers into Rook’s tight cunt, “though this is no less enticing.”

“Fuck–”

“Soon, darling.”

“But–”

“Ah,” Emmrich shushes him, retrieving his slick-covered fingers and taking both cocks in hand, spreading Rook’s wetness until they can both thrust comfortably into the circle of his fingers. “I’ll take over, if you don’t mind.”

“Mmh, not at all. You’ve got bigger hands.”

“But yours are stronger.”

Rook gasps and kisses him, roughly grinding his cock against Emmrich’s. “Gotten used to a t-tight squeeze, have you?”

Emmrich tightens his grip and moans softly, breaking the kiss to look down between them. The sight of their cocks between his ringed fingers is so erotic that it’s sure to be etched into his mind forever, paired with the sonorous background music of Rook’s persistent groaning.

“You have rather spoiled me,” Emmrich replies breathily, catching Rook’s lips in another sloppy, heated kiss. “Truly, there are nights where nothing else will suffice to quell the flame of my desire.”

That certainly explains why Emmrich is sometimes still awake when Rook comes to bed late after hours of studying, only for Rook to then laze about like a leisurely prince while Emmrich fucks him as if it’s his last day in this world. 

“I like those nights.”

“As do I, though I wish they could be early evenings on occasion.”

Rook chuckles softly. “All you have to do is ask.”

“I can’t interrupt your studies for my every whim, Rook! I am not some adolescent who can’t control himself.”

“But you say you want me, specifically,” Rook argues, “and I’d never mind a brief interlude to let you blow off some steam.”

“I– You– You’re not a toy, Rook. You’re not for me to use and discard when I’m done.”

“Well, no. You bring me off first.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Maybe he shouldn’t be so flippant. Emmrich’s been alluding to it for days now: he misses Rook terribly, but apparently feels he can’t say so outright. On top of that, he suddenly seems insecure about – what? Wanting to have sex with Rook?

“You’ve never been ashamed of your desires,” Rook says quietly, stroking Emmrich’s arm, “nor their frequency, and I hope I’ve not given you any reason to be–”

“No! No, of course not, darling, I merely– I–”

“Because I like it. I like that we have sex a lot, I like that you want me. I want you just the same. It’s among the many reasons I married you.”

“But is it not–... Is it not too much? It’s true you’ve never given me a reason to doubt your enthusiastic participation, but I–... Sometimes I wonder if I’m not asking too much of you.”

It’s not strange, Rook supposes, that he’s still learning about Emmrich and the way he perceives himself. From the moment they started being intimate, he’s never been shy about what he likes, what he wants, and how he wants Rook. Perhaps the relationship progressing brings out insecurities that naturally needed more time to become visible.

Or maybe Harding’s concerns about Emmrich and his large emotions were also about this: that he is so incapable of not wearing his heart on his sleeve that he fears Rook will eventually get tired of it. That he will be too exuberant, too flamboyant, too serious, too sad, too fearful, too needy for too long. 

“I don’t think so,” Rook says, carefully, “I’ve never– Emmrich, I know who you are.”

Emmrich stills, staring at Rook. Maybe now is as good a time as any for his vows.

“I’ve always known exactly… Exactly the sort of man you are,” Rook insists. “I’ve known so many men with big bloody feelings, all of them marred by their own arrogance and unkindness. Men who spoke exactly the way you do, who wore as much gold as you do, and who at least thought themselves as capable a mage as you are. And then I met you.”

He strokes Emmrich's side, the underside of his ribcage, resting his hand over his heart. Rook smiles at him, feeling his heart beating underneath his palm. 

“And you don’t use your eloquence to manipulate people into doing things for you without them knowing what they’re doing. You wear your gold because it means something to you. You’re an expert and a phenomenal mage because you worked hard for it, not because you were born with it all just waiting for you. And you laugh as loudly as you cry, and you’re wracked with anxiety, and you’re the best father I’ve ever met. I know my frame of reference isn’t great, but–”

Emmrich snorts, blinking against the sudden onset of tears. 

“But still. You’ve got a big heart, Emmrich. You experience life with an intensity most others don’t. I’ve known that from the moment I met you, and it… It’s part of why I couldn’t begin to imagine you in undeath. I love the way you feel, from how happy you are to how fussy and angry you can get about details–”

“Details are important, Rook–”

“Your heart is beautiful, Emmrich. I just don’t have the words to say it any other way. And if your beautiful heart desires me six ways from Sunday, why would I possibly complain?”

“Because–... But–... I-I shouldn’t be taking up so much of your time, especially not for–”

“Not for what? Making love to me? It’s not wrong to want to be close to me. You love with your whole body, Emmrich, I’ve known this from our first kiss and I’ve never once wished you were different. It… It makes me feel more loved than you could hope to understand, no matter how I try to explain it to you.”

It’s odd to hear himself described in such succinct terms and for them to ring so clearly true. He does love with his entire body, he always has. Some of his partners found this overbearing, others lasted longer but ultimately yearned for space as well. Rook, so far, has been the only one who’s lasted this long without ever refusing him once. Not that Emmrich would at all begrudge him if he did, but it is a strange realisation to have: that Rook’s depth of desire truly matches his own. That none of his previous partners were to blame and neither was he. They simply weren’t a match.

“And I know you miss me,” Rook finally says, watching with no small degree of satisfaction when Emmrich’s mouth falls open. “You miss me so much, and you refuse to tell me.”

“Because I– I am not a child, I shouldn’t–”

“Comfort is not the domain of children alone.”

Emmrich’s mouth snaps shut. He did say that, once. It’s one of many things he’s said to Rook that he’s truly taken to heart. Unfortunately, that means he can often expect his silver bullets to be fired back at him.

“That’s not fair–”

“I am being mean, but it’s still true. Did it occur to you that I miss you, too?”

This had not, in fact, occurred to him.

“Ah… I…”

“The reason, amatus, I let you do all sorts of things to me at two or three in the morning is because I want you to touch me as much as possible in the thirty minutes I have before I fall asleep. I miss you so much I go to great trouble to book a timeslot in your office hours just so I get to see you, sometimes.”

Great trouble, indeed. He signs up under a fake name, shows up late to ensure not running into anybody, and leaves early. All part of their clandestine operation to keep their relationship under wraps, or at least out of the students’ sight. 

“I did think ‘Rich Ormortis’ was rather on the nose, darling.”

“But it made you laugh?”

“It did.”

Rook grins and kisses him, again and again, until the smile returns to Emmrich’s face.

“I married a man of great passion because I looked at him and saw nothing I wanted to change. Nothing at all. I chose to love and be with you because of the way you are, not in spite of it. If I’d noticed how much you missed me sooner, I’d’ve brought my books into the bedroom.”

“I don’t suppose you would’ve gotten much reading done if you had.”

“And I wouldn’t have minded in the slightest,” Rook confesses. “You have work to do. I’m a student doing all of this as a formality. I’m only doing so much because I enjoy it, not because I have to. I should’ve been the one to make time for you, and I will. I promise.”

Emmrich sighs softly and takes him into his arms, seeking warmth and affection rather than pleasure. 

“I do miss you. I… I find I can barely sleep if you’re not here with me.”

“We’ve been through a lot,” Rook reminds him, “we’re allowed to take time to adjust. You’re allowed to ask for my attention. Encouraged, even. I know who I married. I love who I married. I love you.”

A single tear rolls down Emmrich’s nose. He sniffles, and Rook scratches him affectionately between his shoulder blades. 

“I’m afraid I’m being rather silly,” Emmrich mutters. Rook squeezes him tightly, kissing his cheek.

“Be nice. You’ve done so much to help me, to convince me that I should ask for help. And now I learn you’ve been yearning for me from behind our bedroom door and not telling me? On purpose?”

That does seem unfair. Even Emmrich has to admit that much. “I shall endeavour to communicate my needs more clearly.”

“And I’ll be glad to listen–”

“Starting now. Turn over, darling.”

Rook turns onto his other side immediately, stretching out happily along the warm length of Emmrich’s body. 

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Rook says softly, breath hitching in his throat when Emmrich’s hand squeezes his still bruised asscheek, then strokes his flank.

“Oh darling,” he whispers, looking at the richly coloured bruise on Rook’s bottom, the fading welts on his back and his teeth marks on his shoulder, “I’ve made you look as if you were attacked by some manner of beast–”

When Rook looks over his shoulder, it is with a smile and no small amount of pride.

“Laid proper claim to me, didn’t you?”

“I–...”

“Say it again, won’t you?” Rook asks, grinding his ass back against Emmrich’s cock, still hard and so very sensitive. Emmrich shivers and slowly thrusts between his thighs, coated in slick. 

“Mmh… Mm, s-say what?”

“That I’m yours.”

Emmrich dares to let his hand travel upwards, past the softness of Rook’s stomach and the scars spread across his body. His fingers touch and tease the base of Rook’s throat, who tilts his head back, submitting to Emmrich’s touch. 

Carefully, terrified of hurting him but unwilling to let this theory go untested, he pulls Rook back against him, his hand around his throat. 

“Good?”

“Yes,” Rook gasps, “d-don’t choke me, but– yes, you can hold me like this.”

“I–... I had no intention of choking you, my dearest heart, I don’t–... I cannot hurt you to that extent.”

“Nor would I ask you to. Now, please–”

Leaning on his other arm, Emmrich sits up a little and kisses Rook’s cheek, his cock nestled snugly between Rook’s legs. He can feel Rook’s quivering cunt against the tip, begging to be breached.

“You wish to hear that you’re mine, my little bird?” Emmrich asks softly. Rook’s eyelids flutter for a moment before they fall closed, lips parting, begging for a kiss Emmrich won’t bestow. “We married today, and still you would ask me to say so?”

“Oh, well,” Rook then says, goading him, “if there’s no need to reaffirm things you already know, I suppose I can stop saying I love–”

“My dear, you are not nearly adept enough at skating to be on ice this thin.”

Rook bites his lip, unable to hide his grin. It is, perhaps, Emmrich’s favourite expression on him: his playfulness and desire on display, but needing to reign it in lest he doesn’t get what he wants. Indescribably precious.

“How fortunate that you’re always here to keep me upright.”

Wedging his free arm underneath the pillow and around Rook’s shoulders, his other hand lets go of Rook’s throat and takes hold of his softening cock. Rook gasps.

“T-that’s not what I meant–”

“Isn’t it? I wouldn’t have put it past you.”

“Not that I’m complaining, mind,” Rook groans, quickly becoming fully hard again in Emmrich’s hand. “Fuck, I’m so glad you kept your rings on.”

Emmrich looks down Rook’s body at the gold bands glinting in the candlelight as he strokes him.

“Can you feel them, darling?”

“Yes. Fuck, I’ve– In my mind, you never take them off, but I’d never ask–”

“Ask,” Emmrich says, teasing the tip of his middle finger against Rook’s glans. “If it pleases you, there’s very little I won’t do.”

“You think it’s vulgar–”

“I thought it was vulgar. But it looks rather pretty, wouldn’t you agree?”

Rook looks down at Emmrich’s fingers around his cock, squeezing and teasing him. The gold bands are slightly chilly against his searing hot skin, a sensation so small he almost can’t feel it, but the existence of which is singularly thrilling.

But the rings are but a small, glittering part of a spectacular whole. The way Emmrich works his cock is masterful. He’d even go so far as to call it elegant, the way he twists his wrist and seems to use every individual finger to great effect. In the low light, Emmrich’s engagement ring flashes green for but a moment as he touches his index finger to the precome beading at the tip of Rook’s cock.

“Very pretty. Fuck, you’ve got such gorgeous hands.”

“Hmm,” Emmrich hums, stretching his legs lazily and soaking up the praise, before pushing his knee between Rook’s thighs, parting them, “you’ve said much the same about every other part of me, my darling.”

Trembling with anticipation, Rook spreads his legs further, pushing his hips back against Emmrich. 

“Because you’re objectively, empirically beautiful in the same way that you’re a bloody fucking tease, Emmrich, my beloved husband. I thought you said you weren’t going to make me wait until the morning?”

Emmrich smiles against his shoulder. “Do you not wish to hear my vows first?”

Rook whimpers. He can’t say no, but things are becoming increasingly desperate.

“Yes,” he grits out. “I’d love to hear them, amatus. Nothing I’d rather be doing at this second.”

The wait is made worth it by Emmrich's laughter alone. Sometimes, when he laughs particularly hard, he’ll snort like a pig. It embarrasses him, for some reason. Rook thinks it’s the cutest thing in the world.

When Emmrich is done laughing, he lays his hand over Rook’s heart and kisses his cheek, soft as a flower petal.

“Then allow me to begin by saying that I love you, Rook. I love the very bones of you. From your soft, shapely exterior to the very blood running through your veins, you are wholly loved by all of me.

“In the weeks leading up to our marriage, I have often found my thoughts turning towards the paradox of my greatest wish and our relationship. For all I wish for would be to have more time with you, Rook, but I gave up the only way to achieve that for Manfred. In doing so, I retained the only way to continue my life with you. When you first entered the Shrouded Halls, I never could have imagined the way my desires would shift, how my wishes and outlook on life would be permanently altered by you. I was so certain of the path ahead when I first met you, however much I hesitated to set upon it. 

“But I fell for you, as easily, as naturally and as quickly as waking up in the morning. It was as inevitable as the passing of time itself. Without realising it as it was happening, I was completely drawn in by you. I was tormented, fearing that I was too old, that you would never be interested in someone like me. But you kept showing up, both in my library and in my dreams, and I was forced to reckon with the fact that I had fallen irrevocably and hopelessly in love with you.

“And it is the depth of my love for you that sustains the peace I’ve made with my mortality. Though it is a formidable foe, and I have not and will not win every battle I must have with it, I–... I firmly believe the war is won, and that our love will exist long after we both leave this world. The devotion and happiness we share, here in our home and elsewhere, is sure to echo for generations hereafter. In all the ways that matter, my dear, you have made my wish come true after I deprived myself of it.

“And it is because of all of the above and much, much more that I am devoted to your care, happiness, pleasure, and continued well-being. I will love you until my dying breath, and my love will stay with you long after that.”

“Emmrich–” Rook tries, swallowing around the lump in his throat, “that’s…”

With a kiss to Rook’s shoulder, Emmrich lets go of Rook’s cock and strokes his thigh, warming his chilly skin. With his other arm, he squeezes Rook to his chest, holding him tightly just for a moment.

“And as we are not in the chantry at present, I wish to supplement my vows.”

Emmrich’s voice is low, warm, a gentle rumble in his chest. Rook tilts his head back and is met by soft lips to the shell of his ear. 

“Well?”

“You have also single-handedly caused my libido to regress to its much more frenzied state from thirty years ago. For that, I must commend you.”

Rook bursts out laughing.

“That can’t be true. You said you had found companionship among the other Watchers–”

“I had, but I assure you these were not daily or even weekly occurrences. This is– This is rather why I feared–”

“Emmrich, if we lived somewhere with just the two of us, far off from society and any sort of duties or expectations, I’d fuck you three times a day. I’ve always been like this. It’s why I was very grateful for Dorian during my time at the Circle.”

As Emmrich’s hand slides to his ass, Rook correctly anticipates another painful squeeze.

“Ahh–”

“Kindly don’t mention that man’s name while I am in the midst of making my vows to you, dearest.”

“You know, I really thought you were fond of him–”

“That was before he began exchanging letters with us and giving me unscrupulous looks every time he visits. He keeps making comments about how I look younger every time he sees me–”

“Well, you did just say I make you feel three decades younger–”

“I said no such thing!”

Rook nonchalantly waves his hand. 

“Details. You should be glad. If it weren’t for him, I never would’ve learned what my type is–”

Emmrich tightly clamps his hand over his mouth. 

“It would seem it does bear repeating,” Emmrich says, his voice dangerously low, “that I would very much prefer it if you do not invoke the spectres of others in our bed.”

He can feel Rook smirking against his hand, even before he can see it when Rook gets a single finger underneath his own and pries them away with ease. 

“I married you, didn’t I?”

Emmrich lines up his cock and pushes into Rook’s cunt, slick covering him down to his balls immediately.

“So you did, my sweet. I am yours, and you–”

He pulls almost all the way out and pushes in harshly.

“You are mine. Mine alone.”

Rook tries to stroke himself, but Emmrich takes his hand and holds it, fucking him slowly.

“Hnnh– Mmh… Emmrich–”

“Say it, darling. Tell me.”

“Ahh– I’m yours, I’m– I’m yours–”

“Tell me what you thought about in all your weeks of ‘practise,’ Rook.”

“You. Only you. F-fuck, I sat in on a lecture you gave once and had to l-leave early–”

“Oh?” Emmrich says, his breath hot on Rook’s ear. “Was the material that rousing?”

“I don’t even remember what it was about, ah–”

“And?” he asks, slowing his thrusting. He takes Rook’s earlobe between his teeth and moans softly. “Tell me.”

“It was an odd hot day at the start of the trimester. You weren’t wearing your coat, had your shirtsleeves rolled up. I got so hard I couldn’t think.”

“Ahh, the early days of your glamour.”

“It didn’t last until I got home, I was s-so sensitive–”

He must’ve been. If he’d been rock hard during that lecture, no doubt wet as well, then his clit would’ve been throbbing upon the reversal of the spell. All it would’ve taken is the touch of his fingers.

“After that it was m-mostly when I was alone,” Rook continues, perfectly happy to let Emmrich take it slow. His cock twitches against his belly, leaving a smudge of precome. “If you had an early morning and I didn’t, I’d lay on your side of the bed and grind against the mattress until I came into my pants.”

Emmrich’s cock throbs at the visual of Rook desperately humping his side of the bed, his nose buried in Emmrich’s pillow as he whimpers. 

“Or if you were out late, I’d enlarge and f-fuck myself with the phallus while stroking myself–”

“Oh, darling,” Emmrich groans, scraping his teeth against Rook’s neck, “I– You’d enlarge it?”

“It’s smaller than you are, so yes.”

“And you made it my size?”

Rook is quiet for just a second too long.

“... Yes.”

Emmrich’s mouth feels dry. An idea springs to mind, a spell that he hasn’t thought about performing in decades. Mostly because he’s no longer in possession of the sense of pride of a juvenile young man. He squeezes Rook’s side and stills his movements, huffing a breathless little laugh.

“There is no need to hide behind half-truths, darling. I am aware there are those who suffer great insecurity on account of their size. I do not count myself among them.”

“I know, but even then I don’t think there’s a good way to tell your partner that sometimes, not all of the time, you’d prefer it if they were bigger.”

“Darling,” Emmrich purrs, pressing a wet kiss against Rook’s jaw, “did I not say I was devoted to your pleasure mere minutes ago?”

“Don’t tell me– Is this another of your ‘all sorts’ that you got up to as a student?”

Rook sounds breathless. He’s turned his head, eyes wide, wonderfully red lips parted with excitement. 

“Do you want me to, my sweet darling?” Emmrich asks softly, leaning in to kiss those plush lips. “Tell me of your desire, Rook, and I will make it so.”

“I–... I want to feel like I can barely take it,” Rook replies, his face reddening, “so that I can still feel you tomorrow. You’ve made me so wet I can barely feel you, and I want–”

“Poor Rook. And this after I made you come.”

“That’s been a while–”

Emmrich’s eyes flash green with magic for a moment. Rook shudders, feeling his much larger cock pushing against him. 

“Can you take this, darling?”

“Yes, yes, please–”

Rook bites his lips as his cunt is stretched far past what it’s used to. Emmrich’s cock as it is now is probably the largest he’s ever taken, except for maybe the one night stand he had with a very well-endowed dwarf whose name he can’t remember, but the burn is not past any worrying pain limits. It hurts, yes, but that is very much the point.

“Oh fuck,” Rook gasps, knuckles paling as his hands wrench into the sheets, “fuck, that’s– Keep going, more–”

He’s never felt more full, his cunt clenching desperately around Emmrich’s cock. Behind him, Emmrich has gone silent, his fingers dug into Rook’s skin so deep they leave marks when he moves his hand. 

It is beyond Emmrich how he’s apparently not hurting Rook at all. He’s impossibly tight around Emmrich, but no less wet than before. 

“Move,” Rook pleads, “please, fucking– Gods yes, yes!”

Emmrich holds him tightly against his body, thrusting slowly no matter how his body demands that he flip Rook onto his stomach and take him. 

“Y-you’re not often this loud, mmh– my d-darling–”

“Y-you rarely fuck me fast enough for it to feel like this,” Rook retorts hotly as another cry wrenches itself free from his lungs. “A-always making me wait– ah!”

“Careful now, dearest,” Emmrich warns him, maintaining no more than a silk thread’s worth of control on his own lust, “or you’ll get more than you bargained for–”

Rook turns his head to look at him, wild-eyed with fervour. “I bargained to get fucked hard by my husband. Do your job.”

His face is pressed into the pillow in the next second as he’s harshly rolled onto his front, Emmrich’s hand tangling in the hair on the back of his head. Before Rook can come up for air, he forcefully pushes back inside and does as he’s told. Rook’s scream of pleasure is on just the right side of pain, and Emmrich doesn’t stop pounding into him, watching breathlessly as his cock slides in and out of Rook’s tightly stretched cunt.

“You’ll feel me for days,” Emmrich promises hotly, “as you wished for. Is this not what you wanted?”

“Y-yes,” Rook gasps when Emmrich yanks his head up, tears in his eyes, “y-ye-e-s, ple-ease–”

“You’re liable to have a limp. How will you– ngh– explain that?”

“Mmh– Aah, ahh– Oh, oh fuck!”

Emmrich smacks him on his as yet bare, unharmed asscheek.

“Mmh!”

“Answer me!”

With his cock pressed into the mattress and rubbing persistently against the soft sheets, Rook is dazed with pleasure, barely hearing what Emmrich is saying at all.

“S-skating accident–”

“Very good,” Emmrich growls, “they mustn’t know it was me who did this to you. They mustn’t know–”

“Ah– Emmrich–!”

In the heat of the moment, Emmrich just keeps talking, only seeking to please Rook.

“They mustn’t know it was me who fucked you good and hard the way your little nymphomaniac heart desires.”

“Ohh- Oh fuck, k-keep talking like that a-and–”

“And what? Will you give me what I want, darling? Mmh- Will you let me see you come?”

Rook tries to get up onto his knees to touch himself, desperately needing to come. Emmrich suddenly pulls out of him, and Rook has never felt the absence of him this keenly.

“On your back,” he says, brooking no argument. Rook flops onto his back, slightly disoriented as Emmrich pats his ass to get him to lift it before shoving a pillow underneath. As soon as Rook is positioned he slides back inside, eyes briefly falling closed.

“Touch yourself,” Emmrich commands him, any pretense of control thrown to the wind, “let me watch as you come all over yourself, Rook.”

That’s all the permission he needs, and Rook furiously strokes his hard cock as Emmrich continues to pound into him. It hurts, it burns. It’s exactly the sort of pain and pleasure that sets his blood ablaze and makes his heart beat fiercely in his chest. After a life spent fighting, his body still craves the rush of battle, the heat of the moment before his spell connects and he can feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins.

When Emmrich is like this, it’s the closest he can get to feeling that way again. It’s still never enough, but he mostly refuses to think about it.

“K-kiss me–”

Emmrich lowers himself enough to be pulled into a frenzied kiss, moaning as the change in angle takes him deeper still. Rook’s head falls back onto the pillow as he whimpers, raising his hips as he nears his peak.

“I love you,” Rook gasps against his mouth, before pushing Emmrich away so he can watch, “I’m– I’m s-so close–”

After a few more desperate tugs, ropes of cum spurt out of his cock, covering his chest up to his neck. Emmrich groans as his cunt tightens around him and leans forward to lick Rook’s spend off of his clavicle, whimpering as the taste heightens his pleasure, his cock throbbing almost painfully. This particular spell slightly numbs his ability to experience touch in the area it’s applied to, which was perfect for his purposes. Now, however…

Rook’s breath hisses between his teeth when Emmrich pulls out. The spell fades.

“Darling?”

Reaching down, Rook gingerly touches a finger to his vaginal opening, and finds the slightest tinge of blood among the slick. He chuckles.

“Ah, oops.”

Emmrich doesn’t like the sound of that one bit and takes Rook’s wrist to look at his finger, eyes widening in horror the moment he sees.

“Dearest, I–”

“Oi, hey,” Rook says, tugging on Emmrich’s arm, “it happens. It’s not the first time it’s happened with you, either.”

“It… Isn’t?”

“No. It’ll heal in a day or two, and I’ll be delightfully sore the entire time. It’s such a small tear that I could heal it by myself by now if I wanted to. You’re alright.”

Rationally, Emmrich is aware of all of these things. Emotionally, he’s having a more difficult time.

“Was I not–... Was I not too rough with you? I-I’m afraid I rather lost myself in you for a moment there.”

Rook’s smile is big enough to scrunch his nose.

“You were magnificent.”

Maybe he needn’t worry. “Well,” Emmrich says softly, swiping two fingers through the come on Rook’s chest and licking them clean, “you clearly did enjoy yourself.”

With a wave of his hand, Rook banishes the glamour, returning his anatomy to its original state. Emmrich smiles, a little surprised to find how attached he’s grown to Rook’s body the way it is in its natural state. Perhaps poets across the world are on to something with their insistence that the vulva resemble a flower, because Emmrich does find it pretty. Exquisitely crafted flesh, his to worship.

“I appreciate the attention, amatus, but I’m sure you’ve seen it before.”

“Much like the rest of you, my dear, it is no less captivating for my familiarity with it.”

“Why, thank you.”

Emmrich retrieves the pillow from below Rook and lays down next to him, slowly stroking his slick, sensitive cock. Rook cleans himself off as best he can with a rag from his nightstand, before rolling over and kissing Emmrich’s shoulder.

“I’m not complaining about the show,” he says, kissing down Emmrich’s chest and swiping his tongue across his nipple, “but I think you’ve worked hard enough.”

“Mmh, have I?”

“Yes, my heart,” Rook insists, moving down Emmrich’s body, kissing the curve of his ribs, his soft stomach, “I’m sure you’ve no objection. You seem very… Affected.”

“I– ah, aahh– Oh, Rook–”

Rook moans around Emmrich’s cock, teasing the tip of his tongue around the ridge of his cockhead, feeling the veins as they bulge around the shaft. He’s so hard already, so desperate from having waited so long. Trembling hands reach for his shoulders, grab at his hair, the sheets, before one hand settles on the back of his head and the other finds Rook’s own, holding on tightly.

“Rook,” Emmrich whimpers, squirming. Rook is teasing him, dragging it out, unaware of or uninterested in the fact that Emmrich is about to go mad. “Mmh, Rook, darling–”

“Hmm?”

Emmrich shudders and arches his hips as he pushes Rook’s head down, burying his cock deep in his throat. When Rook pulls off, saliva dripping from his mouth, he raises an eyebrow.

“Well?”

“Don’t tease me,” Emmrich begs, “please, I-I can’t take it, not tonight.”

“You are more sensitive than usual…”

“Please.”

“Alright,” Rook acquiesces, “alright.”

When Rook’s hot, wet mouth envelops him once more, Emmrich doesn’t wait: he thrusts into Rook’s mouth, chasing the feeling of his tongue rubbing against his glans, his tight throat around his cockhead. His back arches off the bed when he finally comes down Rook’s throat, Rook’s name on his own tongue like a prayer.

Afterwards, he is rendered immobile with lethargy, and doesn’t protest when Rook scoops him up into his arms and carries him to the bathroom. They shower, insofar a cursory rinse can be understood as such, and Emmrich is perfectly content to let Rook carry him back to the bed again afterwards. Once beneath the covers, safe, happy and together, Rook snorts.

“I always feared I’d be the bride carried over the threshold. I never knew I’d be the one doing the carrying.”

“Mm, are you saying I’m your bride?” Emmrich asks sleepily, snuggled into Rook’s chest with one arm slung over him, lazily drawing shapes and sigils on his back.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d look phenomenal in a dress.”

“I hope Manfred wasn’t too upset that he didn’t get to be our ringbearer today.”

“Mm, he’ll get to do it a year from now, anyway. I’m sure he doesn’t mind.”

Emmrich squeezes him, feeling cautiously hopeful. 

“You’d still have a wedding for us, darling?”

Rook is quiet for a moment, before kissing Emmrich’s head. Yes, he would. Thinking about his previous engagement even provided him with rituals that he would’ve hated, deeply loathed even to perform with Vediovis, but with Emmrich?

“Well,” he says, and Emmrich can hear the smile in his voice, “a wedding is to show off the bride, is it not? I can do that.”

Emmrich emerges from the warm burrow of Rook’s arms to kiss him, knowing the smile is there before he feels it against his lips. 

“Then it would seem I shall have my winter wedding, after all.”

Chapter 4: Spring I

Spring arrives in shades of green, and blooms into a glorious spectrum of colour as the season progresses. The Memorial Gardens have long since lost their snowy covering, flowers bursting back to life amongst the graves. For the Mourn Watch, the third academic trimester is about to start. For Emmrich, this means having Rook in his class, something he has finally begun to calm down about. Months have passed without so much as a peep from his students, so it’s unlikely things would change now. It’s only about one and a half more years before Rook becomes a full watcher. If they can make it there without incident, Emmrich will be most pleased.

But, as he had feared, Rook is beginning to struggle. What with exactly, he doesn’t know. But it is clear from his behaviour these last few weeks that he is at odds with something once more. 

After their marriage, things had been rather perfect. A literal as well as proverbial honeymoon period. Emmrich’s work and Rook’s education were going well, Manfred was progressing as expected, and their home life was peaceful. That, he suspects, was exactly the problem, or at least half of it. The other half of the problem is Rook’s refusal to talk about what it is that’s bothering him. 

Emmrich likes to think he knows his husband well, in spite of the breadth of things he is yet to fully understand about him. It’s clear that Rook has become increasingly restless over the last two months. He tries to hide it, but the shift in his demeanour is undeniable. Even during the war, Emmrich never thought of him as a cantankerous person. In the weeks before this one, Rook had complained about his experiments and his final assignments for the trimester without end. Not because they were difficult, but because he simply didn’t want to do them. Emmrich had tried to sympathise: Rook can’t progress any faster than he already is. At times, that must be frustrating for one so capable as him, to simply go through the required motions.

He’d seemed frustrated, easily agitated, and oddly distracted during intimacy. At first, Emmrich had suspected he was experiencing mana imbalance side effects again, but Rook hasn’t mentioned those in months, nor have there been any incidents with unexpected fire or lightning. It would seem their routine is working perfectly, so that is unlikely to be the issue.

It’s not the wedding, either: Rook has actually opened up a great deal about what he wants. The wedding is to be a reflection of both of them. Their cultures, their lives, and their love will be on display. When Dorian last visited to formalise the name change of Rook’s House, they had even been able to decide on a location.

Or rather, Dorian had made an offer that Rook surprisingly didn’t refuse.

“Well,” he had said, “one can of course never have too grand a wedding, so the location must be suitable for such a feast. Why not have it at my house?”

“The Pavus estate?” Rook had asked, looking up from the documents he’d been reading. “I don’t know–”

“How very dear of you. No, of course not. I meant the Archon’s palace.”

Minrathous. Rook hadn’t been particularly eager about marrying in Minrathous, but was forced to admit that it was one of few suitable venues for their - mostly Emmrich’s - impossibly large guestlist. 

“Thank you for your offer,” Emmrich had said, preparing to graciously decline on Rook’s behalf, “but–”

“That sounds great, actually.”

“Yes, exac– I beg your pardon?”

“Be sensible, amatus. You’re inviting half the country.”

“I am not, and we really needn’t splurge–”

“I’m paying.”

“Yes, about that–”

“Emmrich, we had one agreement,” Rook reminds him. Dorian looks between the two, highly amused and making no effort to hide it. “We have to mutually agree on everything, but I’m paying, and you don’t ask any questions about the costs.”

“Yes, and I must ask once again: why?”

Dorian had pursed his lips to keep from laughing and had turned his back, offering the illusion of privacy.

“Because you’re very sensible about money. That’s good. But it also means you’d deny yourself things because you don’t think it’s worth spending the gold on. We don’t live a life of luxury, sweetheart. Please, just this once, allow yourself to have the things you want and let me take care of the rest. Besides the grandeur and the money, do you have any other objections to the palace?”

“... I’ve not seen it. One should at least view one’s wedding venue if one is to be married there.”

Rook had sighed, deeply. “Fine. We’ll visit Minrathous soon. Neve’s asked me to pick up some stuff from the house, anyway.”

“Ah,” Dorian says, turning back around, “the repairs have been completed?”

“Yes, and they’re getting rid of clutter. She just wants me to be sure I have everything before they get rid of the rest.”

Out of good reasons to refuse, Emmrich had let the matter rest. At least Rook would be more amenable to a winter wedding if held in Minrathous, he’d supposed. 

So that too is unlikely to be the problem. Fact of the matter is that if he hasn’t told Emmrich anything at all, and he hasn’t, it’s probably to do with him in some way, abstract or otherwise. While he is glad to say that Rook hasn’t pulled away from him, not exactly, he cannot seem to curb his anxiety about the possibility that something is deeply wrong and he is simply unaware of what is potentially a blithely obvious problem. 

And then there’s the fact that over the past week or so Rook has been behaving a great deal more like himself, as if his thunderous demeanour was nothing but a bad dream. He’s cheerful, funny, affectionate. Three days ago, under the dark cover of the night, he’d railed Emmrich up against the windowsill as the spring breeze rolled in through the open window. All the while, he kept whispering in his ear about what the city below would think if they knew what the Necropolis’ foremost Fade expert got up to in the small hours of the night. 

And small hours they had been, for in spite of the fact that Emmrich did not get home until past midnight, Rook hadn’t been home when he returned from his office. That had taken another two hours, and it wasn’t the first time he’d been late, either. He’d come in through the bathroom after washing, smelling of soap and clean skin, and Emmrich hadn’t been able to help himself. Rook had indulged him happily, and surprisingly energetically for how late it’d been. He’d been present, attentive, and wild in a way that still makes Emmrich’s toes curl when he thinks back to that night. When asked where he’d been afterwards, he’d told Emmrich that he’d gone to visit Taash and had lost track of time. 

Surely, he wouldn’t lie about such a thing? Maybe it’s not a lie, Emmrich ponders, but a half-truth. That’s usually Rook’s particular brand of getting away from things he doesn’t want to talk about: to hide, but not completely. It doesn’t happen nearly as often anymore, but every now and again Rook will still work through something on his own without informing Emmrich. Those times are becoming increasingly less frequent, but it still happens from time to time.

It’s progress of the most frustrating kind, and all Emmrich can do is wait for him to say something. If he did go to see Taash, what other half of the truth could he be hiding? A drinking habit? He’d detected the faint smell of alcohol on his breath when he’d returned, but ‘a drink’ is hardly a concern, and he’s certain Rook is otherwise completely sober. No, not that, then. 

Or maybe Taash wanted his company on a dragon hunt. That’s plausible, even if Emmrich would strongly, strongly prefer that Rook didn’t deliberately put himself in harm’s way now that he no longer has to. But he can’t imagine why Rook wouldn’t tell him about that. 

Emmrich racks his brain for an answer as he lays in their bed alone yet again. Embers shaped like butterflies flutter lazily over an enchanted incense burner that Rook retrieved for him from the depths of the Necropolis. He’d enchanted it himself and presented it as a gift for Wintersend. A nightlight of sorts, to help him sleep when Rook isn’t there. It helps, up to a point. On nights like this, it is about as useful as a fork without prongs. 

Why isn’t Rook here yet? Emmrich himself has had another late night, and–

“Coincidence,” he says out loud, trying to convince himself, “you have no reason to suspect anything.”

But it is strange. Rook is never home this late even on nights where Emmrich knows he has revision or something else on. But now, twice in a row, he’s been home excessively late on nights where he knew that Emmrich would be home late.

Which could mean nothing, of course, but there is the distinct possibility that it could.

After another thirty minutes of agonising, he hears the front door close, followed by the unmistakable sound of Manfred running across the room. Then, the sound of something crashing. Emmrich jumps out of bed and rushes into the kitchen.

The skies are clear tonight. Pale moonlight shines in through the windows, providing just enough light to see Manfred getting up and off of Rook, who’s still on the floor on his back, surrounded by books. Manfred’s affectionate assault must’ve pushed him off-balance and caused him to fall into the bookcase.

“Aaugh…” Rook moans, slowly sitting up, a book dropping from his chest into his lap. He looks dazed, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Emmrich resolves to admonish Manfred later and kneels in front of him.

At first, Rook tries to hide the black eye and split lip he knows he has, only to realise that his arms don’t exactly look pristine either. He drops his arm and sighs. The jig is up, and tonight is possibly the one night where he’s least equipped to deal with the fallout.

Emmrich realises at this point that Manfred had very little to do with what happened to his books. He’s not even that close to Rook, and he can still smell the drink on Rook’s breath.

“Dearest…?”

“Mnnh?”

“Are you… Are you drunk?”

Rook pinches his fingers together. “Li’l bit.”

Emmrich takes his hand, far too dirty for a night of drinking, and looks at the mud crusted underneath his fingernails. His knuckles are scuffed and bloody, and his clothes are torn in places, dusty with sand and stained with blood. Until about half a year ago, Emmrich saw him like this every day. Most likely, Rook is all sorts of shades of blue and purple underneath his robes.

And yet, he’s drunk as a nug and not looking particularly rattled, if at all. Emmrich isn’t sure whether he should feel relieved, terrified or angry. What he feels above all else is discombobulated. 

“I really must ask that you explain yourself, Rook. Properly, this time.”

Even Rook’s blinking seems to have slowed down. 

“I was j’st… With’mmTaash.”

“I see. Young Taash appears to be occupying a lot of your time this week.”

“Whas’sat s’posed to mean?”

“And what’s this?” Emmrich asks, holding up Rook’s hand. “Did you get into a bar brawl?”

Rook actually has to think about it for a second. Did they? No. He’s pretty sure they didn’t.

“No…?”

Emmrich presses his lips together. There is no point whatsoever in trying to have this conversation with Rook in this state. He can barely keep his head up.

“Get up, Rook. You are in need of healing and a bath.”

“Right,” Rook says quietly, clumsily getting to his feet, very nearly stumbling into the dinner table. He catches himself just in time and holds on to the table to make his way to the cabinet where Emmrich keeps his alchemy brews. He reaches towards the back and retrieves a healing potion that Emmrich distinctly does not remember keeping there. Why would he? He hasn’t had to brew them in months.

Therefore, he can only surmise that Rook has been keeping a private supply. Emmrich must admit that he hadn’t noticed: he rarely clears out that cabinet, something Rook is clearly more than well aware of. Kept there, it would raise the least amount of questions if Emmrich ever did notice. 

In other words, Rook has been lying to him, and has actively been making sure he wouldn’t be found out. 

Rook’s drunkenness be damned. His own exhaustion be damned.

“Why have you lied to me?” Emmrich asks as Rook uncorks the bottle. Rook mumbles something unintelligible in response. Manfred hisses softly, uncertain of what to do.

“Well?” Emmrich says, stepping closer, anxiety giving way to frustration. “I fail to see why a visit to Taash would require healing afterwards, unless you are omitting the presence of a particularly large, favoured creature of theirs from your story.”

His gaze doesn’t leave Rook’s even as he’s downing the potion, swaying on his feet in spite of the fact that he’s leaning against the kitchen cabinets. He wipes his mouth, shakes his head, and burps.

Emmrich rolls his eyes. “Really, Rook.”

“‘Sif you never burp.”

“Are you too inebriated to answer my question?”

The skin across Rook’s knuckles knits itself back together before his eyes. They’re good quality potions, too. Has he been taking them all week? When did he purchase them? To what end?

“No dragons,” Rook says, the potion clearing his head just enough to keep his tongue from lolling about his mouth, “they don’t have those.”

“I am quite well aware that Taash does not own a dragon, Rook. You are being deliberately obtuse, and at this time of night I can’t say I find it amusing.”

Manfred hisses again. Rook puts the cork back on the empty glass bottle and puts it on the counter. He’s not doing this. Not in front of Manfred, and not now. It’s not fair to Emmrich and the no doubt thousand questions he has, but he can’t have this conversation if he can’t think straight.

“I’m going to bed.”

“I’d appreciate you not turning your back on me–”

“Emmrich,” Rook says calmly, struggling to keep his legs from wobbling but otherwise able to speak mostly like an adult human being, “I’m not doing this with you in front of Manfred.”

“And what of my books?”

“Fuck me, Emmrich. I’ll tidy them in the morning.”

“Excellent. It is four o’clock in the morning.”

Rook rubs his eyes and drags his hands across his face. Breathe, he tells himself. Count to ten.

“Step lively now, Rook–”

“Vishante kaffas,” Rook curses, “if you’re done being pedantic–”

“Pedantic?!”

Evidently not. Rook decides to stop trying to convince Emmrich and just wobbles off to the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him. Utterly unsurprisingly, Emmrich is hot on his heels.

“I’ve no idea why you–”

“Close the door, Emmrich.”

Emmrich just barely manages to temper his fury and not slam the door closed. 

“Truly, I thought we were past this, Rook.”

Rook undoes his sash and throws his bloodied, torn robes onto the floor and kicks his shoes into the corner, nearly falling over as he does. Emmrich feels his eye twitching at Rook’s slovenly disregard for the laundry basket and their little cubby by the door for their shoes. 

His body is mottled with bruises so dark they still haven’t faded away, only just browning and yellowing at the edges as the potion does its work. Blood is crusted to his skin on his shoulder and down his back. 

Emmrich swallows thickly. The icy chill of concern momentarily breaks through the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

“Past what?”

“You, hiding from me. Leaving me in the dark. You’ve lied to me about where you were–”

“I haven’t–”

“And you’ve been stockpiling potions in aid of your lie–”

“I didn’t lie–”

“Yes, you did! A lie of omission is still a lie!”

“Right, because you tell me everything all at once every time, don’t you?” Rook fires back, seething. “It didn’t take you three months at all to fess up that you missed me.”

“We are talking about you now, Rook. You may air your grievances with me at another time.”

“Fine,” Rook says, gnashing his teeth, “fine. If you want to know so fucking badly, I’ve been going to the Hall of Valor to fight. Taash invited me because they thought I sounded, and I quote: ‘kinda suicidal’ in my last letter to them. I’m bored out of my fucking skull here! I have failed to make it my life’s ambition to become a necromancer. I tried, and I keep trying, and I just can’t bring myself to want to live my life that way. I don’t know what I was thinking. I suppose I wasn’t. I was just– I was just trying to have a life. I thought… I thought I could do it. It’s just magic, I thought, it doesn’t matter that necromancy isn’t my vocation. I just had to keep busy. I thought a future with you, any future with you, would be enough. It isn’t.”

His voice breaks on the last word. The words hang between them, stifling the very air in the room. Emmrich stands nailed to the floor, trying to breathe hard enough to get the soupy air into his lungs. Why again did he insist on discussing this when neither of them have a cool head?

“And– And–... Y-you can all fucking deny it’s blood magic all you want but I know better than any of you what blood magic feels like, and it is! It is. It makes my skin crawl to cast the spells. I hate how easy it is for me, and h-how disgusting it makes me f-feel. I hate it. I h-hate it.”

Emmrich watches, slack-jawed and in awe, as the tears stream down Rook’s face. Tears of rage, tears of ineptitude, of bitter loneliness in his predicament, self-imposed or not. 

“So there,” Rook spits after taking a quivering breath, “I hope you’re very fucking pleased you forced that out of me, because then at least one of us should feel better. Now leave me alone.”

He storms off into the bathroom and closes the door behind him, warding it with a locking spell he’s confident even Emmrich would have trouble breaking. Underneath the shower, he sinks to the floor and cries.

In the bedroom, Emmrich sits down on their bed and runs his hands through his hair, sighing deeply. He was – naïve, to think that Rook would be able to adjust to such a quiet life, even if he wants it. Or maybe he thought he wanted it, and the reality of the situation is only now beginning to sink in. Either way, they’ve got a problem. It’s difficult to gauge how much of Rook’s pessimistic tirade was fuelled by his own discontent and how much by the drink he’s consumed. It would also seem that the truth is twofold: Rook doesn’t want to live a life working as a necromancer of the Mourn Watch, which explains his restlessness, and the more immediate problem of his disdain for using any and all blood magic ever since he’s committed to not using it anymore, which explains his distracted, curmudgeonly mood.

Emmrich swallows thickly, remembering a conversation they had in a shabby bedroom somewhere in a safehouse in Minrathous, about how blood magic was a last resort for Rook, and how he’d never have a reason to use it again once the war was ended. At the time, it hadn’t even occurred to Emmrich that even if the practices of the Mortalitasi at large are materially different from those of the Venatori and other blood mages, the magic might feel the same to someone who’s experienced both. After they killed Lord Mercar, Rook said that he felt dirty and wrong. Only now does Emmrich realise that might not have been because of what his father said to him, even if he thought it did, but because of the blood magic he’d felt compelled to use. Even a smidgen of the power he used back then is enough for most rituals conducted at the Necropolis, but that doesn’t mean it won’t make him feel the same way.

Blood magic takes a toll. For those who have never known its abuses, it’s probably barely noticeable, if at all. Rook, on the other hand, probably feels every iota of corruption within himself as keenly he would a dagger to the heart.

And in order to work through these feelings of unease, he took Taash up on their offer to come fight in the pit. The third layer to the problem: Rook’s inability to solve problems without fighting tooth and nail, literally or otherwise. Or, worse, perhaps he didn’t go there to work through things, but simply because he longs for battle.

Emmrich takes a deep breath and swallows, folding his hands and resting his forehead against them. He can’t chain Rook to their home, nor does he want to. Rook has spent enough of his life as a prisoner as it is, but Emmrich can’t exactly allow him to keep flinging himself headfirst into danger simply because he doesn’t know how else to deal with his problems. 

But that doesn’t change the fact that they have both handled this very poorly. Emmrich never should’ve pushed Rook to talk, certainly not in the state he was in. He stares at the door to the bathroom and watches as the shimmering ward slowly fades into nothingness. Evidently, Rook has come to the same conclusion with regards to his own behaviour. Clearly, being sleep-deprived or drunk hardly brings out the best in them. 

He hovers by the door for a solid minute before taking his pyjamas off and setting foot inside the bathroom. Rook is standing stock-still under the water, arms wrapped around himself, his eyes closed and his head down. Even now, minutes later, the bruises haven’t faded. The more stubborn patches of blood haven’t washed off yet, either. Emmrich steps into the bath and wraps his arms around him, pressing his lips to the top of his head.

Rook’s voice is hoarse and frighteningly small when he asks, “Can we please not talk of it anymore tonight?”

Emmrich nods and strokes his back. “We won’t, but I’d like to apologise.”

“Me too. I’m sorry.”

“As am I. I’m sorry, dearest.”

He pulls back to look at him, noting the purplish bruising around his eye hasn’t quite disappeared yet, either. 

“Will you let me heal you, darling? Please?”

Rook feels tired. The sort of exhaustion that no bed, no length of sleep can cure. He nods mutely, and allows Emmrich’s magic to soothe his sore muscles. The swelling on his back disappears, as does the unpleasant bruising around his ribs. When Emmrich lifts his chin and gingerly touches his fingertips to just below his right eye, Rook grits his teeth to keep from bursting into tears anew. Why does he keep doing this? What compels him, time and time again, to fail to do right by this man? 

But he didn’t lie. He didn’t tell the whole truth, but he didn’t lie. He needs Emmrich to believe that, to believe him. To believe that all Rook was doing was trying to find a way to talk about it, but he couldn’t think. And because he couldn’t think, he couldn’t talk to Emmrich about it. Therefore, he first needed to clear his head, but that had proven impossible to do. The only time he has to think about these things is during those moments when he’s alone. Whenever he is, his nerves start feeling like they’re trying to find a way out of his body through his pores, desperately craving anything to do. No amount of cleaning the house, practising magic with Manfred, or playing the piano could solve the incessant itch of unease.

Nothing but fighting. Letting his magic rip free from his bare fingers. Punching a mercenary in the face. Maker, he’d felt so alive.

“I didn’t lie to you,” he mumbles, trying to prevent his lip from trembling, “please believe me. Please.”

Emmrich is torn between reminding him they’ll talk about it tomorrow, and saying that while he might not have lied outright, he did conceal the truth. 

“I do,” Emmrich says eventually, because Rook wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important somehow, “but you hid from me.”

“B-because I didn’t know how to tell you yet, I–... I didn’t–... We were finally at peace, I–...”

“But you don’t do well with peace, do you, darling?”

Even with the healing potion clearing his head, he struggles to form coherent thoughts. Words get lost in the boiling and bubbling mass of his feelings, swallowed whole by fear and hopelessness both.

“I… I wouldn’t know. Clearly, I don’t.”

Now is clearly not the time to ask, but it may well also be the only time where Emmrich can get a straight answer out of Rook. His fingertips slide down Rook’s face, touching his jaw. The bruising around his eye is almost gone, but he doesn’t look like he feels any better at all.

“Have you never been at peace at all, my darling?” Emmrich asks softly. “Not even after you fled the Circle?”

Ah. Rook has been wondering when he’s finally going to bring that up. Even if it weren’t for Vediovis’ letter, he would’ve put the pieces - or lack thereof - together eventually. 

“I don’t know. I don’t remember what happened after I left the Circle–”

It strikes Emmrich as an extremely transparent lie, and his hackles rise immediately. Apparently he can’t expect an honest answer even now. Lacking sleep and feeling increasingly sick with heartache, he interrupts him.

“You don’t remember five years of your life?” he snaps, sounding much harsher than he intends to. 

“... You think I’m lying.”

“In fairness to myself, my dear, you have a habit of equivocating and telling white lies–”

Rook firmly takes a step back, roughly shrugging Emmrich’s arms off of him. His fists are balled at his sides. Even through the shower, Emmrich can clearly see the tears in his eyes.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight. Goodnight, Emmrich.”

Emmrich can only watch him go, powerless to respond as he yanks a towel off the rack and leaves the bathroom. Why does Rook’s refusal to come to bed cut him so deeply? He can’t go after him: it’ll only escalate things, but to return to bed without Rook by his side seems equally impossible. It’s like he’s being pulled apart, and he wishes he’d just kept mum about the entire thing until sometime tomorrow. 

Did mother not teach him to never go to bed angry?

But there is nothing he can do. He feels numb as he towels off, staring into the mirror and only seeing a man who regrets every decision he’s made in the past hour. 

Emmrich doesn’t sleep a wink. When he rises at eight with the intent to at the very least tell Rook that he loves him and that nothing can change that, not even a late night squabble, Rook is nowhere to be found. His books have been tidied away, neatly replaced exactly the way they were before mere hours ago. The sofa itself looks identical to how Emmrich himself found it when he arrived home last night. Something about the fact that Rook wasn’t even home after he left the bathroom makes him feel like he’s got a hole in his chest. Has he been that awful of a husband?

“Da-ddy,” Manfred hisses softly, “good morning.”

It’s certainly morning. That much Emmrich can acknowledge.

“Hello, Manfred,” Emmrich responds. “Is Rook…?”

“Out. Sad.”

That’s more or less what he was expecting to hear, but it is no less calamitous to have it confirmed.

“I see. Thank you, Manfred.”

Manfred hisses softly, and after a moment, adds: “Be nice.”

It’s something Emmrich and Rook have both told each other countless times. At this moment, Emmrich feels heartily ashamed that they both failed to do so last night. In front of Manfred, no less.

“You’re absolutely right, dear boy. I’m so sorry you had to bear witness to our spat.”

With all the disarming innocence of a child, Manfred shuffles up to him and hugs him. 

“Bye-bye,” he hisses, “have a won–... won–... Won-der-ful day.”

Emmrich rubs his dry, sore eyes even before they become cloudy with tears. He knows where Manfred’s learned that. Rook tells him that every morning that Emmrich has to leave the house before he does.

“Thank you, Manfred. You too.”

With the door closed behind him, Emmrich suddenly realises that he has to make it through the next nine hours somehow. As if teaching for the majority of the day isn’t bad enough, the powers that be have decided on a faculty meeting at four in the afternoon. If the Necropolis wasn’t warded as strongly as it is, Emmrich would absolutely suspect foul play by a demon. 

While Emmrich goes about his day feeling as clumsy and unfocused as a newly risen undead, Rook sits on a cliff looking out across the Rivain Coast. The stiff, warm breeze carries the salt of the seas to his lips and whips his hair about his face.

“This was more fun when we were in a bath,” Taash says next to him. Rook musters a smile, small but genuine.

“Less windy, at least.”

“And you got to talking faster.”

“Mm.”

“So?”

“Ah, I don’t know. I have no idea what I’m doing. Nothing right, that’s for sure.”

“C’mon Rook, don’t beat yourself up like that. Leave that to the pit.”

“Yeah, well… I don’t know if I should be doing that anymore.”

“Why? You seemed like you were having fun.”

“I was. I think that’s the problem.”

Taash shrugs. “What’s wrong with wanting a good fight sometimes?”

“Emmrich doesn’t like it when I put myself in danger–”

“Pssht. You’re not in danger in the pit.”

“I know that, and you know that. Emmrich knows no such thing, I’m afraid.”

“So invite him.”

Rook snorts. “That’ll go over well.”

“I’m serious. You never brought him here, right? Usually me and Davrin. Maybe he just needs to see for himself what it does for you.”

It’s not the worst idea they’ve ever had, but he still doubts Emmrich would be amenable to it.

“Maybe, but I… I don’t know. I should probably have told him something.”

“Probably. You can apologise for that, though. It’ll be fine.”

“I think I’ve played out all of my apologies for not telling him about things.”

“Aren’t you guys married?”

Rook blinks, then bites his tongue to keep from confirming it.

“I, uh–”

“You’re wearing a ring. You don’t wear rings.”

There’s no point in denying it, at this stage. “Yeah. We eloped, sort of.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thanks.”

“Is this like, you guys’ first fight since you got married?”

“Yeah, and only–... Maybe our fifth, overall.”

“Good track record.”

“I don’t know. I think I’d rather have had ten small fights over the five enormous ones we’ve had.”

“Eh. That’s vashedan. You’re just scared and hurt.”

Rook stares at his hands. “I don’t want him to think of me as a liar.”

“Then don’t lie to him.”

“I didn’t! I just–”

“Didn’t tell him everything. He’s right. You’re lying by not telling him about the stuff you know he won’t like.”

“But what if I’m not ready to talk about it?”

“Aren’t you? Or are you just scared of what he’s gonna say?”

“I–...”

Taash pats his shoulder. “It’s alright. You were born in the liars’ capital, raised in a family where you had to lie to survive, and then you basically became a professional by joining the Shadow Dragons. You were bound to believe your own vashedan at some point.”

Rook sighs deeply. At least he can always count on Taash to give it to him straight. 

“Guess I should go pick some flowers, then.”

“Rook.”

“Yeah?”

“You guys will be fine. If any of us are gonna make it, it’s gonna be the two of you.”

It takes effort not to say he’s sorry. Taash won’t appreciate it, and it won’t bring Harding back. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it. They deserved a chance at a life together, too. It’s not fair.

“Thanks for talking to me, Taash.”

“Anytime. Let me know when the two of you are coming to the pit.”

“Taash…”

“Relax. I’ll just make sure you won’t be fighting any undead.”

He hadn’t even considered that Emmrich could fight by his side. The thrill that idea gives him makes him even more anxious to talk to Emmrich about it. If he shoots it down immediately, as Rook expects him to, the disappointment will be even harder to bear. Yes, Rook misses fighting in a broad sense, but he’s surprised to say he’d give just about anything right now to be back to back with Emmrich again, feeling his magic mingling with his own. The way they used to, back when he had no choice but to fight. 

As he bends down to pick a flower, he thinks back to the early days of their acquaintance, and how Emmrich had picked the same one for him to let him smell its magnificent scent. Rook still remembers the smile on Emmrich’s face when he’d agreed that it was lovely, and how he’d had to keep himself from saying that the man holding it was lovelier still.

Back in the Necropolis, Emmrich is sitting in his office with his head in his hands, trying to survive another fifteen minutes before he has to leave for the faculty meeting. In truth, he is hiding from his students and their incessant questions. Questions they could find answers to in the syllabus if they’d bother to pick it up. He fears that if one more drowsy student, clearly having just risen from their musty nest, asks him what the requirements for their final paper are, he’s going to combust.

Of course, hiding from his students in his office means that he is firmly within Johanna Hezenkoss’ sights, instead.

“You seem particularly glum today, Volkarin.”

She is, perhaps, the last person in Thedas he wants to discuss his marital tiff with. With maybe the sole exception of Dorian Pavus.

“I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.”

“If you interpreted my gleeful observation as concern, I must’ve said it wrong.”

“Oh, for– Johanna, truly, must we remain adversaries even now?”

“Aww. Do you need a friend?”

“Insofar one can never have an excess of friends, yes.”

“Ugh. Even that sounded sad. Spit it out! Did you quarrel with your paramour?”

“I– My relationship with Rook is none of your concern–”

“Ooh. It must’ve been bad. You wouldn’t shut up about him before.”

Emmrich can’t recall ever having a conversation with Johanna about Rook, but he immediately realises that he talks to himself. Subconsciously, he twists his engagement ring around his finger, and wonders if he’s called Rook his husband in her presence. He usually wards her off when Rook is in here, but…

“We did quarrel, yes.”

“And…?”

“Johanna, are you genuinely interested in lending your ear?”

“I’m not. I’m bored. Your insipid affairs are the only form of diversion available to me.”

“I see. Then I shan’t bore you any further with the details of my ‘insipid affair.’”

“Oh, come on! At least let me guess: you’re trying to keep him from doing something you don’t approve of and he rightfully told you to go jump.”

“... He did not tell me to go ‘jump–’”

But Emmrich’s reply comes a moment too late, and Johanna exclaims, “Ha! I knew it. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“W-well, perhaps if you both weren’t given to such ludicrous pursuits–”

“Your incorrect and unwanted judgement of my ambition aside, what could that whelp possibly be doing that you don’t approve of?”

“He has apparently been flinging himself at demons, mercenaries and all sorts without telling me–”

“So, what he’s done the entire time you’ve known him?”

“I– At the time, it was a necessity–”

“I know you’re naïve, Volkarin, but I remember my last battle with that dill weed and I am quite certain they don’t teach what he knows at any Circle.”

Rook had become a phoenix before his eyes in order to crash both himself and Johanna back down to the ground. It’s among the many kinds of magic Rook has shown him that he’s never seen before. Rook’s battle prowess has been honed to perfection over the four decades of his life. But he’s always insisted that this was borne of necessity, not enjoyment.

“Rook’s fighting skills were acquired under duress–”

“As was your place at the Necropolis. You were terrified. And yet, here you stand, the Necropolis’ most exemplary dunce.”

“Are you saying he learned to enjoy it?”

“Yes. Are you deaf? Of course he has! No human being could stand to do one thing so well for that long without deriving at least a perverse sort of joy from it.”

Emmrich has to leave for his accursed meeting. As he gathers his things, he thinks upon it. If nothing else, he certainly doesn’t remember Rook ever complaining about having to go into battle, and it cannot be denied that he was very good at it. Up to a point, Emmrich even enjoyed watching him: Rook’s magic is a spectacle of bright flashes of lightning and fire, blazing across the battlefield. He’s always thought it astonishing, the way Rook controls such destructive, all-consuming elements with such precision. A lesser mage would have lit the entire city block on fire during their fight with Lord Mercar, but even a meteor can be contained to a single building in Rook’s hands.

How odd that it never occurred to him before that while he himself is proficient enough in combat to hold his own, he likely isn’t at all familiar with the rush of power that Rook must feel in the heat of battle. Rook’s magic manifested at five years old, and was honed into a lethal weapon every day thereafter. Emmrich would hazard a guess that these past few months are the longest Rook has ever gone in his life without a battle to be fought.

“Do you know, Johanna,” Emmrich says as he passes by her, “I wasn’t expecting you to be so insightful today. Thank you.”

“I hope he divorces you. Now that would be an interesting conversation.”

“Until tomorrow, Johanna.”

“Break a leg!”

“I’m not off to give a lecture–”

“I’m well aware.”

It would seem Emmrich is early to the meeting. As people begin filtering in, he is joined on his right side by professor Schmidt.

“Volkarin.”

“Ah, Alexander. How are you?”

“Fine, fine,” Schmidt grumbles, scratching at his sizable moustache, “you?”

“Ah, one of my lesser days, I’m afraid.”

“Coming down with something, are you?”

“I– I’m not, as far as I’m aware. Why do you ask?”

“Oh. Because Rook hasn’t attended class today. I figured he was ill, and you certainly look it.”

Emmrich supposes he must. He wants nothing more than to get out of this blasted meeting and go home to collapse into bed. In fact, he’s so tired it takes him a full fifteen seconds to realise what Schmidt’s just said: Rook didn’t attend class.

“But Rook is doing well in your class otherwise?” he asks, trying not to fidget.

Schmidt chuckles, a soft, deep rumble in his throat. “Worried, are you?”

“Of course not, but–”

“He’s the ideal student. Most of the time I forget he’s there until I have to grade his work, which is consistently head and shoulders above that of his peers in terms of quality. To tell you the truth, I don’t know why he’s in my class at all. Or anyone’s, for that matter.”

“Well, we can hardly allow him to become a full Watcher without any foundational training in necromancy–”

“Whyever not? Maker knows we could use someone of his calibre just to wash out the corruption in the lower levels. We can’t afford to send Vorgoth, and let us be perfectly honest with one another, Emmrich: the Mourn Watch are not a combat force. We are only the Necropolis’ guardians in name, but we failed miserably at protecting our own halls and were only of marginal assistance during the final battle in Minrathous. Not to mention, did you hear of Breuer’s resigning?”

Breuer is one of few among the academic staff who, strictly, is not an academic. Rather, she is - or was - a highly talented mage whose power had so far exceeded that of her fellow students during her studies that she became the Mourn Watch’s primary instructor in offensive and defensive magics. “I must confess I haven’t. Why has she resigned?”

Schmidt sighs. “She feels responsible for the Watchers that were lost. I sympathise, but leaving her position vacant could well lead to more losses–”

The head of faculty opens the meeting, and their conversation is forced to a halt. A distant glimmer of a plan makes its home in Emmrich’s mind, but it will have to wait until after he’s had at least three hours of sleep before he can think about it properly.

After somehow surviving the faculty meeting without falling asleep - though Schmidt had to kick him under the table a few times to prevent it from happening - he drags himself home. His legs feel like lead, growing ever heavier as he approaches their front door. Will Rook be home already? Is Rook coming home at all?

As soon as he puts his hand on the door’s tarnished handle, the rich, savoury smell of molten cheese hits his nostrils. Emmrich isn’t sure whether to feel devastated or happy: is Manfred making him his favourite just to cheer him up?

But the answer to his question becomes apparent the moment he walks inside and closes the door behind him. It’s not Manfred at the kitchen counter, but Rook. Relief washes over him in ways he didn’t think it could after winning a war. When Rook turns around and notices him, he stops moving for a moment. There is such uncertainty behind his eyes, his whole body tight with apprehension. 

Emmrich drops his bag and his coat on the floor before striding over. Rook drops the wooden spoon he’s holding and rounds the counter to meet him halfway. The embrace feels more like a collision than it does a hug, teeth knocking when they kiss.

“You’ve returned,” Emmrich says, his voice trembling already. “Thank the Maker, you’ve returned to me–”

“I’m sorry,” Rook replies immediately, “I’m so sorry, Emmrich–”

“No, I’m sorry, Rook. I never should’ve insisted–”

“You had every right. It was my fault–”

“I think not. You were simply trying to work through your thoughts and I–”

“And I didn’t even tell you that much. The fault lies with me, and–”

“But you always do. I should have trusted you would find your way to me eventually, but I hadn’t slept, and I allowed my emotions to get the better of me–”

“If I’d gotten home on time–”

“If I’d simply taken some medicine–”

“You shouldn’t have to drug yourself to sleep–”

“But I must learn to sleep on my own again, Rook, you are not responsible–”

Their joust of apologies is interrupted by Manfred, who has embraced them both and is attempting in vain to wedge his skull between them.

“Be… Nice…”

They look at each other for a moment as they realise simultaneously that they’re being very silly, and that it’s distressing to their son. 

Rook pats his little skull. “Did we worry you, Manfred?”

“... Yes.”

“Oh, Manfred,” Emmrich says, kneeling down, “we’re terribly sorry.”

Rook kneels next to him. “We are.”

Manfred looks between them, slightly confused.

“Okay?”

Emmrich takes Rook’s hand and kisses his ring, squeezing his fingers. Rook leans in to kiss his forehead.

“We will be.”

“Yay!”

Manfred, satisfied that his parents are back to normal, scuttles away to their cupboard to begin setting the table for them. Rook and Emmrich get back up, still holding hands, reluctant to let go. 

“Darling,” Emmrich begins, searching his tired mind for what to say, “I…”

With his free hand, Rook pulls out a chair. “Sit. You’re dead on your feet.”

Unable to deny it in the slightest, Emmrich collapses into his seat and heaves a deep breath. Rook bends down to kiss him, lingering to rub their noses together. It’s perhaps the first time Emmrich has smiled today.

“We will talk about it,” Rook promises, “after we’ve eaten and slept for a few hours.”

“Will you come back to our bed, darling?”

The ardent hope behind that question makes Rook’s chest hurt. “Of course. I never should’ve left it.”

“Well, one must visit the loo every once in a while.”

Rook snorts softly and kisses him again. “But one must never, never, leave one’s dearly beloved husband to sleep alone if one can help it.”

“I’ve no one to thank for that but myself,” Emmrich says quietly, “I shouldn’t have accused you of lying, not after we agreed to let the matter rest, not after I was the one to ask you a question.”

Part of Rook wants to point out that his accusation was justified, at least with relation to their earlier argument, but…

“I really don’t remember,” he says quietly, “there really is a five year gap in my memory.”

Emmrich is unsure why that seemed so incredibly doubtful to him last night. It’s hardly the strangest thing that’s happened to Rook.

“Have you any idea why?”

“The first thing I remember after is Dorian finding me on the streets of Minrathous. I don’t remember how I got there. He said there were clear traces of foul play and blood magic, and that he suspects someone tried to erase part of my memory and overdid it.”

There’s something he isn’t saying. Emmrich squeezes his hand.

“You can tell me, darling.”

After a long pause, Rook straightens himself. 

“I can’t know for sure,” Rook says, averting his gaze, “but I suspect it was me.”

“You?”

“Who erased my memory.”

“Why w–” Emmrich begins, before realising there’s no point in asking. Whatever his reasons might have been, he can’t remember them anymore. Rook presses his lips together and sighs softly.

“Assuming I erased the right things, I can’t imagine what was so painful that I would go to those lengths not to have to remember it. I still remember my childhood, after all. You’d think that’d take priority.”

“Magic that pertains to the alteration or total erasure of parts of one’s mind is often very complex. To my understanding, there is a difference between the sealing away of one’s mind, the workings of which are often employed for the purpose of control, and destroying it. There are many ways to undo the former, but the latter is much more difficult to restore.”

Would he even want it restored? Rook isn’t sure. It feels like asking for trouble, but he can’t deny he’s wondered plenty about it over the years. Why did he go back to Minrathous? The last thing he remembers before the total void in his mind surrounding that period is wandering southwards along the coast, certain he’d never lay eyes on that city ever again. 

“I wouldn’t know where to begin counteracting whatever spell I or someone else might’ve performed on me.”

Emmrich smiles and lowers his head to kiss Rook’s hand. “But I do.”

“I… I’ll think about it.”

Resting his head against Rook’s belly, Emmrich closes his eyes. He could fall asleep right here if Rook doesn’t move.

“That’s more than alright, darling.”

Rook strokes his hair, his stomach churning with guilt.

“I’m making you those Orlesian potatoes you like,” he says softly, “they should be done soon.”

The very thought makes Emmrich’s mouth water. It’s pure indulgence, but very heavy on the stomach. The nap he will most definitely require afterwards is a welcome prospect.

Suddenly, Rook steps away and reaches into the sink, retrieving a colourful, artfully arranged bouquet of wildflowers Emmrich is certain don’t grow in Nevarra.

“And I got you these.”

“Oh, darling…” Emmrich sighs, taking the flowers and inhaling their fresh, wonderful aroma. How boorish of him to return home empty-handed after an argument. Surely he was raised better than this. “Thank you. I’m afraid it slipped my mind to get you anything, I shall–”

The soft lips on his prevent him from finishing his sentence. 

“You’re here. That’s all I wanted out of today.”

“I will always be here, dearest.”

“I know, but I shouldn’t take that for granted. You deserve better from me than that.”

Emmrich reaches up to touch that dear, sweet face. 

“Never once have I felt that you take me for granted. Never.”

“I’m glad, and–”

“Dinner ready,” Manfred hisses behind them, hoisting a hot, bubbling dish of cheesy potatoes. Rook smiles and kisses him one more time, before taking the flowers from Emmrich and sticking them in the vase sitting in the centre of their dinner table. For once, Rook sits at his side as they eat, his left hand remaining steadfastly on Emmrich’s knee the entire time. The second they finish eating, Manfred jumps to do the washing up.

“I think neither of us wants us to get to bed more than Manfred does,” Rook jokes, getting up and stretching until his spine pops. His shirt hikes up, and Emmrich chances a small kiss to his exposed tummy.

“Then let’s.”

Neither of them bother to change into pyjamas. Emmrich is more than warm enough with Rook’s body tightly pressed against his side and slung halfway across his own. There is something very reassuring about the way his weight presses into him. As if, no matter what lies ahead for them, they can always trust that they’ll be able to return here. Warm, safe and kept. 

“I love you,” Emmrich whispers to him, stroking his hair and watching the wispy strands falling from his fingers, “my darling husband.”

“Mm,” Rook mumbles sleepily, burrowing deeper, “love you. Glad I get to marry you a second time.”

Emmrich kisses his head and smiles. The rough scruff on Rook’s cheek scrapes against his thumb as he caresses it.

“Even though I am a pedantic, overbearing fool of a man?”

Rook snorts softly, opening his eyes just enough to see Emmrich’s gentle smile through his eyelashes.

“So long as you’re my pedantic, overbearing fool of a man.”

“Always, darling. No matter what fate has in store for us.”

“Good,” Rook whispers, yawning softly, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Chapter 5: Spring II

Throughout his many, many hours of sleep, Emmrich dreams of Rook. On average, Emmrich would say he doesn’t experience dreams of the sexual variety very often, but when he does, they’re always about Rook and always very, very vivid. 

Tonight is no different. He dreams of having been snared in his own sympathy spell while he’s giving a lecture to a delegation of Chantry scholars. All the while Rook is sat far in the back, touching himself. Emmrich has to keep his back turned to his audience lest he reveal the erection tenting his trousers, fighting to keep his voice and breathing steady even as his heart beats at full gallop against his ribs. In his dream, he is aware of Rook slipping his hand into his trousers, pinching his clit between two fingers and watching in delight as Emmrich has to stop talking mid-sentence so as not to moan out loud.

But he doesn’t stop, persistently rubbing a single fingertip against the exposed bundle of nerves until Emmrich’s knees are quaking at the blackboard. One of the scholars asks if he’s okay. Emmrich shakily assures her that he’s fine. Just a moment of lightheadedness. Rook lets up, and even without looking behind him, he knows without a doubt that he’s smirking down at him. 

And suddenly, the lecture is over with, and Rook is at his back.

“You seemed like you were having a hard time, professor.”

As he’s done many times now, in his dreams as well as in his own real, physical office, he turns Rook around, bends him over his desk and yanks his trousers down. Wordlessly, he pulls himself out of his trousers and fucks Rook in the empty lecture hall, caring not for the fact that every single door is unlocked. Maybe getting caught would finally teach the little tease he’s buried deep inside of some much needed humility.

He wakes, fully erect, sweaty and with his heart beating hard and fast inside his chest. The sun has gone down and come back up again, sunlight streaming in through the curtains neither of them bothered to close last night. Rook is right next to him, leaning up on one elbow with his head on his hand, smiling down at Emmrich. His other hand, notably, rests just below Emmrich’s navel.

“Some dream you were having, amatus.”

But in the waking world, Emmrich remembers yesterday and the weeks before, and the difficult conversation they must have today. The hurt of last night’s confrontation lingers, the sting of the spiteful words they so carelessly spoke into existence. Wounds not quite healed, though the balm of the apologies shared and accepted between them have soothed them some. Is it wise to indulge in passion when there is still so much to be said? Is it not taking advantage of the situation to distract themselves from it all?

“Darling, I–... I’m not sure that we should.”

Rook’s lips twitch into a brief, small smile. He whispers, “We don’t have to do anything. It’s still early. Go back to sleep.”

With a kiss to Emmrich’s forehead, he adds, “Return to your pleasant dreams.”

Emmrich doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to return to a fantasy when Rook is right here. No illusion could compare to reality. In his dreams, he can never look Rook in the eyes and truly see what lies beyond, nor feel the way his one, single ring catches slightly on the hair on Emmrich’s stomach as it’s caressed. Dreams leave out any and all details the subconscious deems unimportant. But to Emmrich’s conscious mind, nothing could be more important than the freckles on Rook’s face, or the way his lightning scar looks like an inverted tree on his chest, or how his top lip is slightly fuller than his bottom lip.

More importantly, waking up with Rook is one of the great joys in his life. To cast that aside in favour of a dream is unconscionable to him.

“I think I’d prefer to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

It would be incredibly easy for Rook to make the joke that Emmrich is serving him on a silver platter, but he allows the urge to pass. The moment feels as fragile as a dusty, long neglected crystal glass, only to be handled by the gentlest of hands. Not for him to stain with his blundering, dirty fingertips. 

“I was watching you sleep,” Rook says softly, “but I’m equally content watching you when you’re awake.”

It is Rook’s deep, rumbling voice that draws him in, leaning up for a kiss that makes him realise he never had a choice in the matter. His body longs for Rook’s, as his heart longs to reaffirm the love they hold for one another.

“I love you,” Emmrich breathes, turning Rook onto his back. Rook moves without comment or complaint, his hands already laid by his head in surrender. “As vast and as all-encompassing as the ocean’s love for the coast, as deep and unshakable as the forest’s love for its soil. My soul is infinitely more whole for your presence in it, darling, my heart.”

“Emmrich…”

He takes Rook’s hands and twines their fingers together, spreading Rook’s legs with his knees. Beneath him, Rook tilts his head.

“I thought you weren’t sure–”

“Hush, my love,” Emmrich says, shushing him with another kiss, “I dreamed of you–”

Rook’s smug little smile tells him he knew that. “Did you?”

“It would seem that I am defenseless against your body’s siren call even as I rest.”

“I suppose it does call for you, always.”

“Always, darling?”

“Yeah,” Rook says, reaching down to hook his finger into Emmrich’s underwear and pulling it down just far enough to free his cock, “every day, multiple times a day.”

With his hand free, Emmrich too feels between their bodies for Rook’s underwear, noting a distinct lack of wetness.

“Are you quite certain you’re ready for me?” he asks huskily, finding it oddly thrilling that he clearly isn’t, for once. Emmrich’s never gotten to warm him up before: there’s never any need to. 

It would seem Rook shares his excitement, raising his hips to meet once again with Emmrich’s hand. “I suppose I haven’t been awake for very long…”

Emmrich kisses his neck, slowly moving downwards. “Will you allow me to touch you?”

Rook shudders. Yes, they have a rough morning ahead, but he’s grateful they get to start it off like this. It takes the edge off before they’ve even begun, and reminds them of the love they should always treat each other with, not just when it’s easy.

“Yes–”

Soft lips kiss the scar at the centre of his chest, Emmrich’s moustache tickling his skin. “To please you?”

“Yes, yes–”

Slender, elegant fingers squeeze his sides, his thighs. “To worship your body and bring you to ecstasy?”

“Maker, keep going like that and you won’t have to do anything by the time you make it down there.”

“Mmmm,” Emmrich hums as he pulls Rook’s underwear down and off, “you do appear eager…”

Rook’s clit is rigid, swollen and twitching, begging for his attention. For him to close his lips around it and suck until the flood of Rook’s arousal coats his tongue. Emmrich sighs and moans quietly as he presses his cock into the mattress. 

“How lovely you are… How exquisite.”

“Glad you th– Mm… Ah…”

It is worship. Any other word simply doesn’t capture what it does to Emmrich to slide his tongue through Rook’s labia and taste him, or what it feels like to feel his clit throb against his lips. Nothing quite compares to feeling Rook’s thighs trembling against his shoulders, or how his cunt clenches against the tips of his fingers as he teases the opening. Already, his first digits are coated in slick, and he cannot resist pushing two fingers into him, quickly adding a third. 

“Oh… Oh fuck,” Rook gasps, his hands on Emmrich’s shoulders, “I-I won’t–”

“Let go, darling,” Emmrich says, raising his head to look at him, “you’re in good hands.”

“Don’t I know it, but I’m going to come.”

Emmrich chuckles and flicks his tongue against Rook’s clit, causing his entire body to jolt. 

“Ah!”

“As I desire you to.”

“A-are you sure?”

“Quite sure, after all,” Emmrich says, slowly curling his fingers and massaging the most sensitive part inside of him with great care, “you will feel all the better for me after you do.”

Rook laughs, gasping for air and moaning right in between his mirthful hiccups. 

“I’ve never had a more s-selfless yet selfish lover.”

“I should think you’ve never had a lover quite like me, period.”

“No,” Rook agrees, biting his lip hard, “n-no I don’t think so, either.”

When he comes, trembling and whimpering Emmrich’s name, he wastes no time in pulling Emmrich from between his legs and kissing him. His own slick covers his lips, his chin, his tongue as he licks it off of Emmrich’s moustache. How this man ever thought and still doesn’t think of himself as the single most seductive man in existence, Rook will never understand.

“Mmh– Oh, darling–” Emmrich moans, stroking himself with Rook’s slick and feverishly thrusting into his own hand, “please–”

“Please what?”

“Would you– Nnh– T-tease me? Take me into your body and–”

Emmrich gasps with surprise and pleasure both when he’s quickly forced onto his back. His hands barely find their place on Rook’s thighs before his cock slides into Rook. 

“Ah! Ahh–”

“You don’t often ask for this,” Rook points out, fully seated and leisurely rolling his hips, “what did you dream about?”

Bliss. Pure bliss. How can one begin to convey the pleasure of being held in the palm of Rook’s hand?

“You’d ens-snared me in our sympathy spell– nnh– and–”

“Oh?”

“I was p-presenting a lecture–”

“Oh?”

“While you t-teased me from the back of the– oh, dearest–”

Rook stills, feeling Emmrich throbbing inside of him, already close.

“But I’m the one with an exhibitionist streak?”

“I’d never suggest–”

“But just thinking about it almost made you come just now, didn’t it?”

Emmrich already feels damp and hot with exertion, but he can tell his face is colouring crimson even now. 

“It’s not right, Rook. Others shouldn’t be forced to inadvertently watch–”

“Mm,” Rook hums non-committally, resuming the slow rolling of his hips, “and yet, I woke up because you were squirming about, moaning in your sleep.”

“Mmh… Ah– Like that, darling–”

Rook smirks down at him. “Admit it. It’s your dirtiest little fantasy, isn’t it? To be driven wild with lust in full view of others. You want me to whisper filthy little things into your ear at parties. You want me to inch my foot up your thigh underneath the table at faculty dinners.”

It’s scandalous. Disgraceful. Inappropriate. The fact that he’s achingly hard and already thinking about both of those things are a stain upon his character. But try as he might, he cannot deny it. At a recent gathering of senior Necropolis staff and their partners, Rook had only turned to him once to tell him that he couldn’t wait to get home and get on his knees for him. Emmrich had wanted nothing more than for him to continue, to tell him in great and lurid detail what he would do to him. To drag him away at an opportune moment to hastily shove their hands down the other’s trousers, barely hidden by the coatracks.

“It’s– It’s not–”

“Admit it,” Rook says again, ceasing his movements once more, “I won’t move until you do.”

Emmrich has to remind himself that he did ask to be teased.

“Yes,” he says, breathlessly. “Yes, darling, I–...”

“You?”

“To be at your mercy, to belong to you so plainly in front of others–”

That’s not what Rook was expecting to hear, but he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t set his blood alight. He resumes his slow ride of Emmrich’s cock, moaning softly when his nails dig into his thighs.

“But they mustn’t know, must they?” Rook purrs. “Nobody but us must know.”

“Y-yes–”

“You never would’ve let me suck your cock underneath your desk while you had a pleasant chat with Myrna otherwise.”

“Ahh– Nnh– Darling, p-please–”

“Now that I think about it, when we got married– You like doing it to me too, don’t you? I bet you were hoping you could make me come just by stroking me through my trousers.”

No. Emmrich wanted Rook to come in his mouth, specifically. But now that Rook’s conjured the idea into his mind, of him trying to hide his face as he coats the inside of his thigh and trousers with his seed, he can barely breathe for how hot it makes him feel.

“Yes– Oh, yes, darling, if–”

“And I quite like your idea–”

Oh, Maker, no–

“Rook–”

“I could even take a seat all the way at the front, where you can see me touching myself underneath my robes–”

Emmrich briefly imagines catching a glimpse of Rook’s fingers plunging into his cunt underneath his table from where he’s sitting at his desk and gasps, thrusting up into Rook. 

“D-darling, dearest–!”

“I could make you come inside your trousers, and you’d just have to sit there–”

He can’t take it. Maker, how it shames him. Emmrich comes unexpectedly, driven too far past the point of control by the mere idea of Rook forcing him to come without touching him. He’d have to hide his face, keep his seed from seeping through his trousers, all the while Rook would sit there and watch, knowing what he’s done to him.

Emmrich moans and whimpers through the aftershocks, quivering when Rook won’t stop moving.

“Oh, my,” Rook chuckles softly. “This doesn’t happen very often. Couldn’t hold back, could you?”

He pulls him upright and into his arms. Emmrich holds him in return, kissing his neck, enjoying the slow, warm shivers running down his back as his body calms down. 

“As I usually am in the face of your seductive prowess, I was powerless to resist.”

“So long as you enjoyed yourself,” Rook says deviously with a kiss to Emmrich’s cheek.

“More than I should’ve, likely.”

They hold each other for a moment longer, staving off the start of the day and the conversation they must have. 

“Do you have anywhere to be today?” Rook asks, eventually.

“Yes, and so do you.”

Ah. Today’s the first time Rook would be in his class.

“... I don’t know that I want to attend class anymore.”

“I know,” Emmrich says, stroking his back, “I know. But perhaps you might attend mine: it is far from mandatory, and the material might still interest you even if you’ve no wish to apply it yourself one day. If nothing else, darling, I’ll have you around, which is always a pleasure.”

Rook smiles and kisses the side of Emmrich’s head. “You’re saying I should go just to get out of the house and bat my eyelashes at you?”

“In essence, one supposes that is what it comes down to, yes.”

It’s better than spending the afternoon moping about by himself, Rook supposes.

“Alright. I’ll go for you.”

“That is, after all, why you wished to attend in the first place, isn’t it?”

“Careful now,” Rook warns him, sitting back, “I might ensnare you in a spell.”

Having thoroughly neglected to lay any sort of protective barrier between them and the bed, the sheets are in need of changing yet again after Rook gets off of Emmrich. It’s simply another chore as they go about their morning routine much the same as usual: washing, shaving, cooking breakfast. Manfred’s already gone off to class, which Emmrich prefers. Even with the worst of the tension vaporised in the fires of their passion, it’s still sure to be a difficult conversation to navigate. 

When they’re both sat down with toast and a cup of tea, their hands find each other immediately. An unspoken agreement not to let go is forged as they look at each other.

Rook takes a deep breath, ever the braver one. Emmrich smiles to himself.

“I should have told you about what was going on with me earlier. Even if you couldn’t do anything, even if I couldn’t either, I should have told you that I was going through something. I’m sorry. I’ll try to tell you in the future, even if it’s just… That something’s going on.”

“I appreciate that, darling, and I accept your apology.”

“I… I also don’t want to stop fighting in the pit with Taash.”

Emmrich firmly tamps down on his immediate response, which is to insist that he will be doing no such thing. That’s not for him to decide.

“Might I ask why?”

“It’s good for me–”

“Allowing yourself to be bludgeoned within an inch of your life is good for you?”

Rook presses his lips together and tugs on his hand. A small reprimand. Emmrich sighs softly.

“Apologies. I meant to say: I find it very difficult to understand why allowing yourself to come to harm is–... Is a good thing.”

“The bruising is not the goal,” Rook says, “it’s an unfortunate side effect. I go because – it’s… It’s the way I like to perform magic. Even during the most intensive parts of my training here, I’d say I haven’t used more than a fraction of my power at any given time. It makes me feel–… Agitated. I don’t know if it’s because my mana reserves have been altered by blood magic, or if I’ve always been like this and just didn’t know, but… The pit is by far the safest, most controlled solution to my problem. I was trained for duels and battles, not… What you all do.”

Emmrich doesn’t want to reveal his idea before he’s certain it can be executed, so there are few alternatives he can offer.

Unless.

“You might duel me, instead. That is sure to be safer.”

There is a long, drawn out silence as Rook stares at him. Emmrich wonders if he should feel insulted.

“For me, without a doubt,” Rook says slowly, trying not to say anything too mean, “but I… I’d never let loose against you. And that would make the whole exercise ineffective.”

“Not all of your more powerful magic is designed for combat, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You showed me a great, blazing spectacle of fire once, Rook. It certainly looked powerful, and by your own admission it was ‘exhausting,’ if I recall.”

“... You want me to perform party tricks against you?”

Emmrich squeezes his hand, reminding him not to be flippant.

“Sorry, I just…”

“Have all your duels been to the death, my darling? Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I was under the impression that duels and magic showmanship went hand in hand in Tevinter.”

“Well, yeah, when I was a child–”

“I beg your pardon?”

Rook still forgets that his upbringing is bizarre to Emmrich, and most people outside of the magisterium. 

“It’s common to let the eldest children duel at certain gatherings–”

“My word! To what end?”

“Prestige?” Rook shrugs. “To separate the wheat from the chaff? To give our parents something to snipe at each other over? Who knows.”

“And these duels were to the death?”

“... Not intentionally, I’d say the Circle is much more deadly–”

Emmrich’s mouth falls open, and Rook rushes to add: “I’ve never killed another child, I swear–”

“Of course not, darling, of course, I–”

“But I… I did participate in the duels. You’re mostly right: we weren’t supposed to fight efficiently so much as we were supposed to fight impressively.”

And still, he would rather give up his magic altogether than aim even a single harmful spell at Emmrich.

“If it brings back too many dreadful memories, my dear, forget I ever mentioned it,” Emmrich says softly, kissing Rook’s hand, “but… I must confess that I’ve always thought you formidable, and really rather spectacular, in a way. I’d relish the opportunity to experience your magic in a different way.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Emmrich smiles. “Then don’t.”

“Why do you want this? I don’t understand.”

“I merely want you to try exercising your powerful magic differently. Consider it dancing: you’re not trying to strike me down so much as you are trying to remain in harmony with my own magic.”

It could be worth a shot. Emmrich has his mother’s locket, after all. He’s unlikely to come to harm. Plus, he truly does admire Rook’s magic.

Perhaps he can use that as leverage. “I’ll duel you.”

“Excellent–”

“On one condition.”

“Ah.”

“You come to the pit with me at least once before you decide whether or not it’s too dangerous.”

The idea of coming to spectate as Rook steps into some sort of gladiatorial arena, prepared for and accepting of the fact that he might be torn to shreds, makes Emmrich feel sick. He picks at his toast, suddenly not hungry anymore.

“To watch you get injured?”

Rook tries not to roll his eyes. “Or to fight by my side. Whichever you wish.”

“Hmm.”

“Amatus,” Rook says, sighing softly, “you coming with me is the only way I can prove to you that I’m not in any danger. I can tell you a thousand times or more and you won’t believe it until you’ve seen it. At least give me the opportunity to put your mind at ease.”

“But–... Yesterday, you were battered–”

Rook chuckles softly and leans in to kiss his cheek, lingering to touch their foreheads together.

“It always looks worse than it is, and there are healers at the Hall of Valor. It’s just that, ah… Last night, the healer was drunk before everyone else was. By the time we got back she wasn’t fit to speak, let alone heal anyone. I keep the potions just in case. The last few times I got home I’d been healed before I left. You weren’t… You weren’t supposed to see me before I took the potion, last night.”

“Because you didn’t want me to see you hurt, or because you didn’t want me to know where you’d been?”

“Equal parts of both. I didn’t–... I’ve been putting off telling you because I knew you wouldn’t approve, but also because I knew you’d be worried sick. I didn’t want to do that to you while I was still figuring out what to say about… About not wanting to become a necromancer.”

Emmrich stares at a crumb on the edge of his plate. The truth is that it makes him feel – disconsolate, that Rook hasn’t been able to find the same joy in his work as Emmrich. That it bores him and actively brings him misery. He’d been so hopeful, and even quite certain that his interest in the material would be enough to keep him engaged. Not so.

“I’m sorry the Necropolis has proved a disappointment, my darling,” Emmrich says, still averting his gaze. “I had so hoped you’d find purpose and fulfillment within its walls.”

“I wanted to. I really– I…”

Rook sighs deeply, scratching his freshly shaved chin. “It’s not just that it’s blood magic–”

Emmrich huffs a soft, bitter chuckle. “Don’t let the other Watchers hear you.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Rook mutters, annoyed, “I’m the unwilling expert on the matter here.”

“So you are.”

“And I… I, look, Emmrich… Your work is beautiful, and it does interest me. But it interests me in the same way that history interests me, or how it fascinates me that some people have the ability to write books. It amazes me, and I could read about it for hours, or listen to you talk, but… I don’t want to do it myself. Interest alone got me reasonably far but–... I’m afraid it’s run out.”

“I see,” Emmrich nods, still feeling disappointed but somehow lighter. At least Rook doesn’t detest his profession, his life’s work, for its association with blood magic. “And if we were to find work for you within the Watchers in a different capacity than a necromancer or an academic, would you be amenable to completing your training?”

Eyes narrowing, Rook stares at him for a moment.

“You’re scheming something.”

“I do not scheme–”

“I suppose that if this hypothetical position within the Watchers exists and it suits my abilities, I’d at least think about it. I need to keep busy, I can’t become a house husband.”

Emmrich breathes a sigh of relief. “Then I would ask that you give me some time to look into matters.”

“‘Matters?’”

“There are some people I must speak to before I can tell you any more, I’m afraid. I do not wish to get your hopes up only to have to dash them later.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Rook says, smiling. He leans in for a kiss, which Emmrich happily reciprocates. “I shouldn’t, but I do enjoy it when you throw your weight around a little bit.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Rook. I’m simply trying to ensure that everyone within my purview gets the opportunity to be at their best.”

Rook tries not to melt. They’re married; it’s silly.

“I’m ‘within your purview,’ am I?”

Raising an eyebrow, Emmrich tips Rook’s chin up. “Of course you are. You’re one of my dear, brilliant students, are you not?”

“Oho, don’t go down that route, sweetheart. We won’t make it to class in time if you do.”

They kiss, long and slow, with Rook nearly falling out of his chair to get closer. Emmrich laughs, eyes bright with gentle mirth.

“Are we alright, darling?”

“Yeah,” Rook mumbles as he leans in for another kiss, “I think we are.”

In class, Emmrich realises that he isn’t sure what he’d been expecting at all. He’s spent so much time fussing about what it would be like to have Rook in his class, that it never occurred to him that it would be completely and utterly uneventful. As agreed upon, Rook just sits and observes quietly unless he’s making notes. The five other students in this class don’t say or do anything to indicate that they suspect or know of anything going on between them. If they notice the way Rook smiles at Emmrich every single time their eyes meet for so much as a second, they don’t mention it.

Out of the six students in this class including himself, Rook knows only two: Arvel and Klara. They’ve both been sworn to secrecy by him, and the other students neither seem to know nor care about their professor’s relationship status. Which is as it should be, but Rook is more than familiar with the dumb nonsense that procrastinating students can occupy themselves with.

But what Rook did not expect to see is that one of the students does, in fact, have a raging crush on Emmrich. Blatantly so. The worst part about it is that he clearly remembers behaving the same way at the Circle. It stands to reason that he was just as obvious, even if he thought he wasn’t, and that he’d consistently been making an absolute fool out of himself until Dorian snatched him up. Which was clearly for the best. As Rook is gathering his things after class is over, the student in question - Marius - spends so long talking to Emmrich at his desk that Rook has to leave lest he make himself suspicious. Outside the door, he finds Klara and Arvel waiting for him.

They all stare at each other for a moment before laughing.

“He has no idea, does he? Marius, I mean,” Rook says, trying not to perish out of sheer second-hand embarrassment. 

Klara laughs behind her hand. “Well, you told us not to tell anyone.”

“I know, but it’d be unkind to let him continue, don’t you think?”

Arvel shrugs. “So long as you pretend not to notice what he’s trying to do, it won’t be that embarrassing when he finds out.”

“What, pretend I don’t know he wants to shag Emmrich? I’d love to pretend I don’t know, but I can’t. It’s like looking into a mirror.”

Another snort to his right as Klara smacks his arm. “Rook!”

“Well? Doesn’t he?”

“Yeahhh,” Arvel sighs, agreeing, “maybe we should tell him. It is embarrassing to watch, knowing Rook’s right there.”

“I don’t mind,” Rook clarifies, “I had the same delusions at his age. I get it. I just don’t want him to feel humiliated when he inevitably does find out.”

“Buuut he’d be another student that knows,” Klara points out, “and he’s… Chatty.”

“Mm. I’ll try to talk to Emmrich again about just being honest about it.”

“You do that. We’ve got to get to our next class. See you around, Rook! Good luck.”

Rook waves them off and waits outside of the classroom. It takes another solid five minutes for Marius to emerge. He fortunately doesn’t notice Rook when he leaves the room, heading straight in the other direction. Emmrich comes out not long after.

“There you are! I was wondering where’d you’d run off to.”

“Waiting for you, of course. I thought we might have lunch together.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d prepared lunch.”

“I haven’t. I was planning on taking you home and having you for lunch.”

Emmrich’s mouth falls open, eyes darting around to see if anyone’s heard them. Rook laughs.

“I’m joking.”

“Oh,” Emmrich says, vaguely disappointed, “well, either way I’d be delighted.”

“Either way, huh?”

At home, Rook helps himself to a hefty serving of Emmrich’s cock, after which he lovingly prepares his lunch while Emmrich sits at the table, shakily doing up the buttons on his trousers. When Rook brings him his food and bends down to kiss him, Emmrich moans softly against his lips, tasting the remnants of his own spend.

“Are you certain I can’t do anything for you, darling?”

“I’m perfectly happy as I am,” Rook reaffirms for the fifth time. “And I can’t be making you late to work again, can I?”

“Best not, but you do spoil me rotten, Rook. Am I to expect such lavish treatment after every one of my classes you attend?”

“Well, you’re married to a Lord, after all, and I did enjoy your class. It is important that you are treated according to your merit and station.”

“And my merit and station afford me such a wealth of pleasures?”

“More, if we had the time. Now eat up.”

Rook potters around the kitchen while Emmrich eats, silently trying to figure out how to tell him that it’s about time they give up the silly charade around their relationship. If the faculty already doesn’t care and doesn’t fear any abuse, why in the world would it matter if the students know?

“If I’m not going to continue most of my studies,” Rook says, “is it really necessary for us to hide our relationship from the students anymore?”

“Darling, I’d remind you that the last word on that is yet to be spoken.”

“Mm.”

“What?”

“I just… I don’t like that I don’t even get to hold your hand inside the Necropolis, most of the time.”

Emmrich gets up to join him by the kitchen counter, laying his hand over Rook’s.

“I will try to find an answer to our predicament as fast as I’m able. I have no wish to hide for any longer than you do.”

It’s eating at Rook that he’s hiding something from Emmrich still. Yes, it’s different than hiding his personal problems from him, and it’s not as if Rook asked for Klara and the others to conduct their insane scheme to find them out, but it still gnaws at him.

“Some of your students already know,” he says then, bracing himself on the countertop, “they found out months ago.”

For a long moment, Emmrich is utterly silent.

“What?”

“They sussed us out. Nothing we could’ve done.”

“And you know this, how…?”

“Because… They told me everything. Maker, Emmrich, they’d compiled evidence. Neve would be so proud of them. I couldn’t deny it, and even if I had, I think it would’ve made things worse. Admitting it was the best I could do to keep it contained, and prevent them from letting more people in on their–... Nonsense. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d get a little – neurotic about it.”

After a moment, he adds, “But I’m sorry to have deceived you for months, all the same.”

Emmrich isn’t sure what to say or what to feel. Up until this moment, he’s been thoroughly convinced their subterfuge has been successful. To now learn that some of his students have known for months and he hasn’t even noticed, is… Something. He doesn’t like that he didn’t know, but at the same time it proves that he was far too worried, at least up to a point.

“While I must admit I find it frustrating to be the last one in the know, it’s… Good to realise I hadn’t noticed. How many of them know?”

“Five.”

“I shan’t ask whom. It would only heighten my anxiety surrounding the matter.”

“But… Wait, I was hoping this would mean we could just–”

“Not yet, Rook. I share your impatience to live our lives as honestly and as openly as we can, but I… I simply cannot allow anyone to try and force the faculty’s hand should they harbour any spite or– or jealousy towards you–”

“Jealousy?”

“It was you who claimed some of my pupils have ‘crushes’ on me, wasn’t it?”

“Even so, they’d never take it that far–”

“I cannot and will not risk it. I must prevail on your patience a while longer, dearest.”

Rook raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, but only because I know you’re up to something, and because you need to get going.”

Emmrich leans in to kiss him, only to yelp when Rook gives his ass a good smack.

“Ah– Rook!”

“Mmm, come here, professor.”

When Emmrich kisses him goodbye at the door five minutes later, pleasantly dazed and his lips tingling still, he hesitates on the doorstep.

“Will you be alright, dearest? I’ve some things I must tend to after class. I likely won’t be home until after dinner.”

“I… I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I headed to the pit. I promise I won’t stay late.”

“Darling, I… You needn’t ask my permission–”

“I’m not,” Rook says, firmer than he means to, “but I still hope you won’t mind.”

Rook has made the effort to be honest, and so Emmrich must repay him in kind.

“I do mind. I worry about you, Rook, and what it means for you to need to keep fighting.”

“... I know.”

“But… I suppose even I must admit that you’re – clearly not in any mortal danger.”

“I’m really not. I wouldn’t take on anything larger than an Antaam without you by my side.”

“Some of the Antaam warriors were enormous, Rook. I’d prefer it–”

Rook pushes him out the door, smiling even as Emmrich sputters, “Rook!”

“I appreciate your concern, and I love you, too. Byebye now, have a wonderful rest of your day.”

Just before the door is closed in Emmrich’s face, Rook stands up on his tiptoes to steal one last kiss. Afterwards, Emmrich has little choice but to head to his next class, stopping by the faculty head’s office to arrange a meeting for later. What he wants is for Rook to take Breuer’s now vacant position. There’s no one more suitable: all the other Watchers have additional duties that they must perform, where Rook abhors the mere idea of those duties. To not have to select a candidate from their staff should be auspicious for the faculty. 

When he makes it to the meeting at the end of the afternoon - a self-inflicted inconvenience - he finds Schmidt there, too.

“Alex! I wasn’t aware you’d be joining us.”

Maurice Richartz, the faculty’s head, motions for them to sit. Emmrich has always known him as a no-nonsense sort of man, quick to get to the point and abhorring pleasantries.

“Alexander tells me Rook is excelling in his class and everyone else’s.”

“He is,” Emmrich confirms, “but it seems he has decided that necromancy is not where his heart lies. He has no desire to become a Watcher in the traditional sense, but is willing to complete his training if we can find a more suitable position for him.”

Maurice and Alexander exchange glances.

“Then it would seem we are all in agreement,” Maurice says, sitting back. He’s a large man, with a beard as impressive as the beer belly he’s folded his hands upon. “If Rook is unhappy, we see no reason to force him to complete his training. We need someone to clear out the last of the corruption–”

“You mean to send him to fight demons on the lower levels? Many of our more experienced Watchers haven’t even been there–!”

Maurice frowns. “I thought you’d be happier about this. What are a few demons to a mage like Rook?”

Emmrich clears his throat, embarrassed. It’s clear the Necropolis means to use Rook as their attack dog, but the unfortunate reality is that that’s very much up Rook’s alley, even if Emmrich thinks it’s – vile and opportunistic. Not to mention, potentially harmful to Rook.

“Quite right. I would ask that I be allowed to accompany him, however.”

“So long as it does not interfere with your research or your lectures, I see no reason why you shouldn’t. Once Rook has cleansed the Necropolis of the last of its blight, I would propose we use that as the reason to promote him to a full Watcher. Politics, you understand.”

Unfortunately, Emmrich understands all too well. “Rook has helped the Necropolis a great deal already, but I understand the need for a tangible reason considering the timing of things. What is to become of him after his promotion?”

“He takes Breuer’s place, of course,” Schmidt says gruffly, as if he’s astonished that Emmrich hadn’t thought of this before, “he’s by far and away the most suitable candidate. The Venatori and Hezenkoss have proven that we have become comfortable. Complacent. We have allowed the Watchers to become a force that can easily be reckoned with and infiltrated. Our students as well as our staff must polish up on their offensive magic, and we must strengthen the wards. Who better than Rook?”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Maurice says, nodding, “will this suit, Emmrich? I do believe everyone wins, here.”

It’s exactly what he wants. It’s what Rook wants. And yet, Emmrich feels uneasy: he must remain vigilant. He loves the Mourn Watch, loves the Necropolis, but he is not blind to its politicking and its desire to have and maintain a certain level of prestige. Making Rook an instructor aids that goal more than it does anything else, and he is very well aware of that.

But, he suspects, so is Rook. Rook understands diplomacy and internal politics better than most. 

“I shall discuss it with Rook and let you know as soon as possible.”

Walking home, Emmrich feels tired. Sometimes, it feels like he lives entire lifetimes in the span of twenty-four hours. Strenuous, welcome activities with Rook notwithstanding, today was an exhausting day. 

He comes home to an empty house. The hearth isn’t lit, nor any candles. There is no scent of dinner being cooked. It’s just him, his thoughts, and the home he can no longer imagine occupying just by himself.

Discomfort wins out over exhaustion, and Emmrich leaves his bag, takes his staff from by the door and turns away without a second thought, closing the door behind him. Via the eluvians, it takes less than an hour for him to reach the Hall of Valor. There’s a decent crowd scattered about, some watching the fights while others imbibe at tables. No one looks at him, or cares that a total stranger has appeared in their midst. 

To his chagrin, he doesn’t spot Rook anywhere, but he does notice Taash by one of the balconies overlooking what is sure to be the arena below. 

“Good evening, Taash.”

Taash turns, wide-eyed and with their eyebrows raised. 

“Hey, Emmrich,” they say, quickly recovering, “Rook didn’t say you were coming.”

“I didn’t know myself until I set out about an hour ago,” Emmrich admits.

Taash shrugs and turns back towards the pit. “You’re just in time.”

Emmrich stands next to them and looks down into the arena just as the gates open and hordes of Venatori stream out of them. In front of a large well - that Emmrich supposes is what granted the arena its epithet of ‘the pit’ - stands only one man, unarmed. 

“Rook–” Emmrich breathes, his leg already up on the balcony’s railing when Taash takes his arm to prevent him from doing something supremely idiotic, like jumping down and ending up skewered on the many spikes adorning the walls surrounding the arena.

“Just watch.”

“Where’d you even find these Venatori?”

“Deserters. People who fled before the magisterium could be turned. That sort of thing. They haven’t given up on their ideas, or they wouldn’t be in there.”

It does seem unlike the Lords of Fortune to hunt those who have abandoned their vile ideology for sport. He watches, heart pounding in his throat, as Rook takes a few steps back. Emmrich can feel magic drawing past his skin, as if Rook is pulling it from the very air and into his hands. He prefers it that way, Emmrich knows: no staves, no knives, no foci. Unless the danger is too great, Rook casts with his hands. 

Lightning strikes exactly where Rook was standing, echoing through the desolate stone structure of the Hall. He’s gone in a single flash. The Venatori stop their assault, confused about where their target’s gone, but Emmrich can see him reappearing just behind them. Rook dashes forward and grabs the nearest Venatori by the head. 

Emmrich watches, wide-eyed, as Rook appears to pull the very soul from his body. An apparition made of lightning writhes erratically in Rook’s hand as the Venatori collapses. He lets it go and dashes away again in another flash of light, and Emmrich gasps when the apparition explodes into a bright, sparkling burst of electricity, stunning at least half of the Venatori.

Rook has never shown him this spell before. Is it a combination of necromancy and his own magic? If so, what is it that he removes from the Venatori? Their life force? Their magic?

Below, Rook wards off any magic with ease. Clearly, these enemies were hardly the Venatori’s finest. They’ve not so much as laid a finger on him so far, and Rook is plainly just amusing himself. When one of the Venatori finally realises that magic won’t be effective, he runs forward and lunges for Rook’s face. It connects, and Emmrich flinches at the audible sound of something breaking.

But Rook grins, spitting a wad of bloody phlegm into his adversary’s face before punching his lights out. He rubs his jaw, his hand faintly glowing green. Healing magic? When did he learn how to mend broken bones?

Taash laughs, “Nice.”

“Come on!” Rook shouts, raising his arms as he steps over the Venatori’s limp body. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Five Venatori storm at him at once, failing to realise a meteor is already headed their way. The crowd cheers with delight when it hits and vaporises all five in a spectacular burst of fire. It’s impossible not to get swept up in the joy of the people around him, all cheering and rooting for Rook. His husband. His exceptionally capable, frighteningly powerful husband, whose actions at present can only be described as playing with his food. 

He’s not in any danger. He might get hurt, yes, but pain does not always constitute danger. 

Rook turns to wave at the crowd and immediately spots Emmrich next to Taash. His face falls, unsure, but Emmrich waves back, a small smile on his face. Rook’s face lights up, and he blows a kiss just before he’s caught around the neck. Even when he’s being dragged away, he’s still smiling. 

“Change of plan, everyone,” Rook says to the Venatori dragging him away, “sorry to disappoint.”

They don’t respond. That’s just as well. Rook grabs the wrist of the woman dragging him and channels enough fire into his hand for her arm to begin turning to ashes straight away. As she shrieks and wails with pain, Rook makes a run for it, disappearing into another flash and reappearing behind Emmrich.

He puts his hands on Emmrich’s waist. Emmrich jumps.

“Hello, amatus,” Rook says softly, fervently hoping he’ll agree, “may I please have this dance?”

Emmrich takes a deep breath, overcome with relief and gratitude both. “Please. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Time seems to slow down in the bright light of Rook’s shift back to the battlefield. Emmrich feels weightless in Rook’s arms, suspended in time. It’s the strangest feeling.

“Nowhere else?” Rook asks him, a crooked smile on his face.

“Nowhere,” Emmrich says, just as the world reappears around them. He is standing in the arena, Rook’s arms still around him, “I wish to be wherever it is you are.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“It is.”

Isabela’s voice sounds across the arena to the sound of thunderous applause from the crowd.

“Give it up for professor Emmrich ‘Volcarnage’ Volkarin!”

Back in the early days of their friendship, Emmrich had thought of fighting together with Rook as a pas de deux. A meticulously choreographed dance between the two of them, without either ever saying a word about it. He knows how to feel for the heat of Rook’s flames and for the telltale tingling of his skin to avoid getting hit by his lightning. Similarly, Rook knows to duck when Emmrich swings his staff behind him, and to ensure he never touches the bubbling, hissing mass of death magic that gathers at its end. 

Today is no different. The magic may have evolved and they may be closer now than ever, but battle doesn’t change. There must be a side that wins and one that loses. As Emmrich neatly picks off a Venatori and sends him tumbling down the depths of the well, Rook takes his wrist.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Emmrich says emphatically, “yes, I do.”

“Channel your quietus.”

Venatori approach from every angle. They’re surrounded and much too near the pit for comfort, but Emmrich trusts him. He does. His spell sits obediently in his staff, waiting for him to let it loose. Rook channels his fire into the staff, an all-consuming solar flare that binds to the magic within, containing it to the enemies it will hit.

“Now!”

Emmrich raises the staff above his head and swings it with all his strength. It connects, rot and fire eating the afflicted Venatori from the inside out, light as bright as sun rays penetrating through their skin and piercing the evening’s darkness. Once dead, the spell jumps to another, and another, until there’s no one left. Emmrich looks around and feels – strangely disappointed that he didn’t get to fight with Rook for longer.

“Well, that hardly seemed like a chall– Oh–! Mmh–”

He can’t finish his sentence, not with Rook’s mouth on his. He’s been taken by the waist and dipped low, so very low, Rook’s strong arms the only thing between him and the hard, unforgiving gravel beneath their feet. Above, the crowd erupts into cheers, whistles and applause. Taash rolls their eyes, though they’re laughing fondly. 

“Morons,” they murmur.

“Another flawless victory!” Isabela bellows.

When Rook pulls back enough to look at Emmrich, he says, “Please tell me you’re up for a third round today. Because if you are, we’re going straight home.”

“Well,” Emmrich says, his heart still beating fast but for entirely different reasons than before, “I suppose I still owe you a reprise of your own.”

They make it home in record time, and Emmrich makes Rook see stars. He’s got him bent over the sink in their bathroom while Emmrich admonishes him for the bruises he’s allowed himself to get, something that only seems to excite Rook more. His hand around Rook’s throat is reflected back to him wonderfully in the mirror, his gold glinting in the firelight from the wall-mounted braziers. They come simultaneously, Emmrich’s orgasm pulled from his body by Rook’s. In the mirror, their kiss looks as sweet as it feels.

Back in bed, Rook lies on his stomach as Emmrich draws little patterns on his back, occasionally tracing the edges of his scars.

“You looked happy, darling,” Emmrich says eventually. “But that was hardly a fight.”

“Hrnnh?”

“Perhaps it’s not so much a fight you seek as an outlet for your magic.”

“Mmn.”

“And I believe I’ve found a way to do that.”

“Oh?”

“The Necropolis has lost its instructor in offensive and defensive magic. They would like you to take that position.”

Rook groans softly, not sounding nearly as excited as Emmrich had hoped.

“But I’d have to finish my curriculum–”

“Ah, I see. No.”

“What?”

“It would appear that the Venatori’s invasion of the Necropolis has left behind more corruption than I myself was aware of. Richartz would like you to clear it out. He’d then use that as justification for allowing you to become a full Watcher without you having followed… The necessary steps. There would be no need to complete your training.”

“Hmm,” Rook hums contemplatively, “won’t that make me unpopular with the other Watchers? People get in their feelings about other people skipping ranks. I saw it happen at the Circle all the time.”

“The Watchers are indebted to you, Rook. They’ve not forgotten that. Richartz may be in need of something to convince some figureheads within the Mortalitasi that the fraternity need not adhere so strictly to its own rules if it’s ultimately beneficial not to. We need an instructor to replace Breuer. We all agree you’d do well.”

“See?” Rook chuckles softly, closing his eyes as Emmrich traces a finger down his spine. He shivers pleasantly. “You were scheming something.”

“I was arranging something.”

“Tomayto, tomahto. But, more importantly–”

Rook sits up. “I’d still get to attend classes if I wanted to, right?”

Emmrich blinks. “W-well, I–... I suppose nobody would object to it, but–”

“Good. I’d like to finish yours. It’s interesting, and you’re not the only one who likes watching what the other does best.”

“My class does require you to finish a paper.”

“I do alright at those.”

“I’m sure you’ll be magnificent,” Emmrich agrees, kissing him, “you usually are.” 

With another kiss, Rook lays down with him, holding him tightly. 

“Thank you for coming today.”

“Three times, no less.”

Rook snorts, loudly. “Emmrich–”

“What? Are you not accustomed to jokes from the humourless grouch you married?”

“Oi. Don’t talk shit about my husband.”

“Mm, I shall speak as badly about him as I like–”

Later, when Emmrich has been thoroughly drained of every drop of seminal fluid in his body, he thinks that he, too, is very glad he came to watch Rook today. Part of him will never fully understand, certainly, but he at least understands that there is no harm done in Rook grinding the few leftover Venatori to dust, or whatever other corrupting forces the Lords gather for him to fire at. He also understands the pleasure to be had in a well-timed and well thought out combination of abilities. 

Dancing, indeed.

Just before he falls asleep, he thinks of the way Rook’s face lit up when he saw him on the balcony, and how he’d swept Emmrich off his feet after the battle. Perhaps things will work out alright, yet.

Chapter 6: Spring III

Notes:

This one's diabolical but you know I had to do it to 'em

Access to the Necropolis’ lower levels is heavily restricted for a reason. Its endless shifting halls and chambers serve to protect the crypts and royal tombs, and has deterred all but the most determined visitors. Many of the Necropolis’ senior staff have never ventured as far down as Rook and Emmrich have now, and he’s quite sure most of the ground they’ve covered hasn’t seen another living soul in centuries. That is, until Johanna Hezenkoss provided the Venatori with a way to infiltrate the Necropolis mostly unnoticed until it was too late.

The section they’re in now is cramped and has sprawling, gnarled roots bursting through the stone, making it difficult to navigate the already narrow passageways. They’ve not encountered any blight, which surprises Emmrich: when Maurice and Alex spoke of ‘corruption’ in the Necropolis’ depths, he was certain they meant the blight. The disappearance of the blight can at least be explained by Solas’ vow to ‘soothe its anger,’ though they still don’t know what that really means. So far, the most unsettling thing is the distinct absence of – anything. There are no undead, no spirits, not even any wisps to be found. It’s as if these ancient, hallowed halls have already been thoroughly cleansed of all that ever inhabited it. It’s too quiet.

Rook feels it, too. It’s a stifling sort of stillness, hanging heavily in the air. It reminds him of the dark skies before a summer’s thunderstorm in Minrathous, when the rooks fled their nests in search of shelter. But here in the Necropolis, there is no flapping of wings, no anxious cawing in the air. All he hears is the dripping of water, the scrape of their wet footsteps against the muddy stone, and the occasional rustling of their clothing against the walls.

“Please tell me not all of the lower reaches are like this,” he complains after once again stepping in a puddle that turned out to be deeper than anticipated. 

“Would that I could tell you, darling. While I have made some expeditions down here, you must understand that the Necropolis is as large and complex as a city. There’s much I haven’t seen.”

“Maker, and we somehow have to find our way back up, too. Hopefully we’ll make it in time for our various bloody appointments in Minrathous.”

“You don’t sound particularly excited.”

“I’m just dreading going to the house. Don’t mind me.”

“I’m your husband, dearest. It is my duty to mind.”

Rook looks over his shoulder to smile at him. “I know. Thank you for coming with me.”

“There’s not a world where I wouldn’t have. Who knows what could be down here? Even if one were to eliminate the Venatori and their corrupting influence from the myriad of possibilities, there’s no telling what else might have been created or sustained here over the course of centuries. Truly, who knows what we might encounter!”

“I can’t tell whether you’re excited or scared.”

“A healthy amount of both, I should say.”

The corridor they’ve been walking through opens, at last, into a large, open space. Rook realises that where they came from is one of eight entry points into this room, each with a set of stairs beneath it, forming a large octagon. In the centre of the room lies a large, dark well that’s oddly reminiscent of the one in the Hall of Valor, if shaped differently in accordance with the eight sides of the room. 

“Wait,” Emmrich says immediately, his hand already closed around Rook’s elbow, “something’s not right. I can’t detect the Necropolis’ wards anymore. They should always be active throughout the entire structure, but–”

“Do you suppose Hezenkoss could’ve negated them for the Venatori to enter through here?”

They look at each other for a moment. The second they’ve left the halls behind where they know the Venatori used to be, they haven’t so much as seen a trace of their presence. 

“Our wards were intact even where the Venatori had set up. I fear that, rather than having been destroyed, a different malignant force has simply – deteriorated them over time.”

Rook takes a deep breath, then sighs. “Why do I get the feeling we’re not here for anything related to the war against the gods?”

Emmrich, loath though he is to admit it, is beginning to suspect the same thing.

“Both Alexander and Maurice spoke of corruption in the lower levels. When I asked whether they intended to send you to fight demons, Maurice insisted that a few demons should be well within your ability to handle. I quite agree, but…”

“But if he knew about demons other than the ones we’ve encountered, it would’ve been nice of him to say so.”

It wouldn’t be the first time he hasn’t. Rook had found and fought The Formless One too without the Necropolis ever intervening. Emmrich doubts Maurice was unaware of its existence. Rook defeating it was just – convenient. Just as it is convenient for him to have Rook, who can’t stand to sit on his hands, sent down to clear out an ancient danger he knew was there all along. 

From Maurice, he could expect this. One does not become and remain the academic head of the Mourn Watch without a fair amount of scheming and politicking. But Alexander? How disappointing.

“Quite. I shall have words with him when we are once again above ground.”

“You can set up the wards again, can’t you?” Rook says, already walking down the steps. “I’ll go and investigate this… Ominous pit that is sure to be harmless and empty.”

As Emmrich moves about the space to erect the wards anew, he can’t help but feel uneasy. Where are they? How did they manage to find what is hopefully the only place where the wards have somehow fallen? It’s as if every path they could’ve taken would’ve led them here regardless. The route they’ve taken appeared random but it wasn’t. They were compelled to take it.

They’re in danger.

“Rook–”

“I know,” Rook says, staring into the abyss inside the depths of the pit at the centre of the room, “there’s something down here.”

With the wards back up, Emmrich at least feels more confident they can’t be attacked by anything outside of this strange chamber. He joins Rook at the edge of the shaft leading down ever deeper into the Necropolis.

“The Veil is thin here,” Emmrich says softly, his magic shimmering along his hand as he feels for it, “and I rather suspect it will be thinner still down there.”

Rook folds his hands together and exhales into them. Bright light reddens his hands from within.

“Post nubes lux.”

Privately, Emmrich thinks that the fact that Rook still insists on performing his incantations in Tevene is precious. For all that he loathes his heritage, his magic is indelibly linked with it, and Emmrich is glad for him to retain and practice the one good thing his childhood has brought him. 

A small orb of pure sunlight slowly floats from Rook’s hands to the centre of the opening, descending from there. It’s less deep than either of them had anticipated, and–

Emmrich falls to his knees, his hand covering his mouth.

“It can’t be–”

Rook stares, wide-eyed, at the pale, decaying corpse of a middle-aged woman that he’s sure he’s seen at least once before. Her body is splayed, limbs laying at an unnatural angle, upon a pile of yellowing, crumbling bones.

“Anna!” Emmrich shouts, as if it will somehow return the colour to her flesh, or the spark to her eyes. “Who did this to you?!”

“Professor Breuer…” Rook breathes, feeling faint. It’s been months since he last saw a sight so gruesome. Her body looks – drained of its essence. Why was she brought here?

Emmrich tries not to sob. “Denied a proper burial… We must go down there, Rook. I refuse to leave Anna here, robbed of her gold and her dignity.”

Only now does Rook notice the distinct lack of grave gold on her person. Even that the culprit couldn’t allow her to keep in death.

“She’s not what I was referring to,” Rook then says, looking at Emmrich, “but we’ll go. We will, just–”

Rook has a look around for something, anything they could use to make a safe descent, before spotting a small root protruding from a crack in the stone wall. Perfect. He takes his gloves off, finding it so much easier to feel the vitality of the plant when he can touch it with his bare fingers, and bids it to grow. Pleads with it to grow stronger, larger, to extend and shape itself until they may climb it down. The roots obey, twisting and growing until they’re at the bottom of the pit. 

“After you,” Rook says, trying not to feel like they’re making a terrible mistake. “Be careful.”

The climb down is slow and arduous, but they make it down without incident. Emmrich kneels by Breuer’s body, feeling the cold of her skin through his glove as his fingers gingerly touch her face.

“Oh Anna… How could this have happened? Why are you here?”

Rook is at his back, a hand on his mageknife. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He’s staring down a long, dark corridor that splits off into two separate pathways. There’s something beyond, but he can’t tell what direction it’s coming from. It is old, and powerful, and it has surely encroached upon them already. 

“We can’t go back yet,” Rook says, not saying that he fears they can’t go back at all, “can you talk to Anna? Use your corpse whispering to get us some information?”

“I will try.”

Emmrich takes a deep breath and raises his arms, manipulating the Fade with gentle strokes.

“Let the flame warm your blood. Let the air fill your lungs. Allow the light to reach your eyes once again.”

Professor Breuer gasps to life, eyes aglow with green.

“Why are you here, Anna?”

“To purge… Corruption… Cleanse the Necropolis…”

Rook’s head whips around. “What?”

“What did you find?” Emmrich asks, struggling to maintain the connection. Her spirit is so very frail, her essence fading already.

“Power… So much power… She promised…”

“Who promised?”

“I gave… Everything…”

Emmrich’s hold on the spell is beginning to waver, and Anna proves a particularly obstinate subject. He has to let her go.

“Return to your rest, dear Anna.”

Both he and Rook are silent for a moment. They’re both thinking the same.

“Did Maurice know about this?” Rook asks.

“I daresay he was the one who sent her here, as he did you.”

“Which means we’re in deep shit.”

“Likely, yes.”

“Great,” Rook says, sighing, “I’ll have to let Neve know we’ll come another time.”

“Is now really the time to worry about that, of all things, Rook?” Emmrich admonishes him. “I hesitate to remind you that we’ve just stumbled upon the remains of a very dear colleague.”

“Sorry. It’s just… You know what we’re up against, don’t you?”

Emmrich stands, silently vowing to come back for Anna after they’ve defeated what is sure to be a formidable adversary.

“All signs point towards a desire demon.”

“Yes.”

“There is a distinct possibility that Maurice is under its influence.”

“Oh yes, I think we’ve long since passed that station.”

“If we are to preserve his life, we must enter the Fade to end the demon’s life. Even then, there are – risks involved.”

“Unless the demon’s manifested already,” Rook sighs. “There’s no telling what sort of damage a manifested desire demon can do.”

“How do we proceed?”

Rook wishes he’d brought the lyrium dagger. Theoretically, they could’ve used that to enter the Fade.

“We move on ahead. Hold my hand. No matter what you do, don’t let go. Don’t stray from me.”

Emmrich takes his hand and squeezes it. “Never.”

The architecture around them is reminiscent of a sewer, but for all its unsavoury smells and general moistness, Emmrich is fairly certain there is no water that flows down here. The structure itself appears strong but very, very old, made of a different stone than the vast majority of the Necropolis. Down here, he can only barely still feel the wards he placed earlier. It would seem there’s none here, either. When Rook’s light spell illuminates a sigil on the wall he doesn’t recognise, Emmrich stops to examine it.

It’s part of a larger inscription that’s mostly faded, and he can’t decipher the language it’s written in. Something about the shape of the characters seems distantly familiar, as if he’s seen them in a book at some point during his life.

“I wonder if this structure predates the Necropolis. If so, there’s a distinct possibility the demon we’re about to face does as well, greatly increasing the– Rook?”

Only the light remains. Rook is nowhere to be seen, nor can Emmrich hear his footsteps any longer. Wasn’t he holding Rook’s hand in his own just a moment ago? Where could he have gone?

“Rook!”

His voice echoes down the empty corridor, his useless shout returned to him over and over. He’s alone, and the light is fading. Darkness envelops him until he can’t see even his own hand before his eyes.

Emmrich tries to swallow, but his mouth feels dry as dust. Quivering, shallow little breaths reverberate through the tunnel. His heart beats fast, too fast. Cold sweat soaks through his shirt. An old, familiar dread comes crawling out of the woodwork, clamping its mandibles around his throat.

“Emmrich…”

He startles, covering his mouth to keep from making any noise, cowering to the floor. 

Father?

“It’s dark, Emmrich… So dark…”

“M-mother?” 

“So heavy,” sounds his father’s distinct deep voice, “can’t breathe…”

It must’ve been. It must’ve been so dark underneath the rubble, and it must’ve been unbearably heavy. Did they live, after the building collapsed? Minutes, no, even mere seconds are sure to have been complete agony. He’s always told himself his parents were fortunate to have been granted quick deaths, but were they? He never spoke to them after they died. For all he knows they laid there for hours, suffering as their bodies slowly lost the strength to live. Their bones and organs crushed underneath the weight of the roof, blood gushing onto the recently swept floors, now covered in stone, dust and rotten wood. His mother’s cabbage stew, boiling hot and all over the floor. He’s often wondered if it burned her when everything collapsed. Emmrich’s thought about his parents lying underneath the rubble so often that it feels more like a memory, as if he himself has seen the darkness from within. 

For years, he couldn’t sleep without a candle burning on his nightstand. The dark made it hard to breathe, hard to feel like he could move his body. But it shamed him, deeply: it had not been him whose body had been broken beyond repair by the support beam falling on top of him. The fear he experienced he felt he had no claim to, which made it impossible to rid himself of it. It wasn’t until a lover in his early twenties blew out the candle after a rump in the sheets that he was forced into confessing his fears. 

She had held him as he sobbed his way through the story, and had never blown out the candle again until one day, he felt safe enough to do it himself. Ever since then, he hasn’t feared the dark, until now.

He shakes himself. No, no. Why a desire demon would prey on his fear, he cannot understand, but there is no need for him to wallow in the fears of a child who had everything taken from him far too soon. Not anymore, not now that he’s an adult who’s been given everything his heart desires.

Not when he’s got to get out of here and look for Rook.

“Show yourself,” he says, drawing his staff from its holster, “demon.”

“Oh my,” sounds an unknown, tittering voice by his ear, “not afraid of the dark any longer, are we?”

The corridor lights up at once. A pale, magical glow so bright that Emmrich has to close his eyes against it, blinking until they adjust. The source of the light is the small orb of sunlight Rook had conjured earlier, still hovering obediently over his shoulder.

But something’s not right.

“Rook! I–”

Rook doesn’t answer. His face looks ghostly, drained of its colour. He takes a single step forward and collapses to the ground. His own mageknife has been embedded into his spine, blood beginning to darken his robes. Emmrich scrambles to get to closer, hands and knees covered in muck as he crawls over to him. He can’t breathe, can’t think, forcing gulps of air into his lungs just to keep from collapsing.

“Rook, darling? Say something, dearest, please–”

“E-Emmrich–” Rook wheezes, blood gurgling in his throat, “t-turn back–”

“Not without you, not on my life–”

“S-she’s too strong–”

Rook coughs miserably, blood mingling with the puddles of dark ooze below his head, his hair sticking to his bloodied lips.

“Hush, my love, let me heal you.”

“It’s… Too late…”

It can’t be. Rook’s survived so much worse than this, ranging from a suicide attempt that almost certainly should have killed him to being swallowed by an archdemon. A knife in his back can’t be the thing that does him in. It can’t be.

But even as his magic obediently seeps into the wound, it won’t close. Blood soaks through his robes until they’re sodden with it, staining Emmrich’s hands as he desperately tries to apply pressure to the wound.

“Rook?” Emmrich says, his voice breaking, “Rook! No, darling– dearest, please– don’t–... Don’t leave me alone–”

Rook’s eyes are still open, even as the light slowly fades from them. 

“I… Love…”

He never finishes his sentence. Emmrich shakes Rook’s body, desperately looking for signs of life, but his breathing has ceased. His heart has stilled. Never again will those eyes reflect Emmrich’s love back at him. 

Emmrich sits, paralyzed, as his worst fear in life becomes reality before his eyes. He wants to scream, has to scream, but his throat won’t produce even the slightest sound. His thoughts have been reduced to panicked static. If his hand were to touch his chest right now, would he feel anything but a large, gaping void? Is his own heart still beating?

Does the fact that he is still breathing mean that he’s alive? It can’t. The air in his lungs is as meaningless as the blood pumping through his veins. As useless as the tears running down his cheeks.

His eyes fall to Rook’s hand, safely contained within its glove. He takes it, feeling for the ring he gave Rook on their wedding day. For one brief, insane moment, he wonders if he should take it back or bury Rook with it.

How will he face Manfred? What words exist that can capture the loss of his papa? 

Will Emmrich even make it back to tell him? Will Manfred, too, lose both of his parents in one fell, cruel sweep?

No. This cannot be happening. It can’t. He tries to breathe, tries to calm himself enough to think rationally. How did he lose Rook in the first place? Why does it feel like he’s not in the same place he was before? Why did he not hear Rook fighting in a corridor where every single noise is carried all the way through?

A memory comes into his mind, unbidden. His library in the Lighthouse. Staring into the fire after Rook’s disappearance into the Fade. He remembers exactly what he’d been thinking as he was standing there: 

If Rook had returned to him as a demon, would he have known it not to be him?

Emmrich’s body stills. With dawning realisation, he stares at Rook’s hand in his. His gloved hand.

Rook took his gloves off earlier.

In one swift movement, Emmrich dashes backwards from the body and gathers as much energy as he can into his staff before the demon rises from the corpse, firing an enormous necrotic explosion into the corridor. The shockwave blasts him back another couple of metres, but he can hear the demon shrieking. 

Fear demons, he reminds himself, are weak to fire. It’s not an affinity he possesses, but juggling fireballs back and forth with Manfred surprisingly made him a great deal more adept at controlling it, and Rook had taken great delight in teaching him how to make fire burn hotter, how to control bigger flames. He calls upon the fire within himself and channels it into his hands, before allowing it to consume the entire tunnel ahead. 

When the smoke clears, nothing remains in the corridor. The mageknife, too, has disappeared. He was right: he is in the Fade. When did they enter? Who or what pulled them in here?

Moreover, how did he fail to notice? No – that much is obvious: he was too terrified to notice. Were those sigils on the wall a warning? Has this strange pathway into the Fade always existed here?

Emmrich shakily gets to his feet and conjures a light, before slowly making his way forward. He can’t be sure Rook awaits him ahead, but turning back the way he came is not an option. They’ve been ensnared in this demon’s trap from the moment they got here, or perhaps even before. In hindsight, the fact that they found this place at all is likely by design. There is every chance that it was Maurice who disabled the wards, too, to allow the demon to more easily lure the mages sent down here to her lair. Emmrich thinks about the pile of bones beneath Anna and shudders. How many came before her? How long has Maurice been possessed? 

Heavily leaning on his staff for support, the image of Rook’s lifeless body still fresh in his mind, he walks on. All Emmrich wants is to see him, to touch him. Nothing else matters. 

Down a different corridor, Rook is running for his life from a rage demon.

“Fight!”

Not in here, he won’t. Maker, how long do these tunnels go on for? He narrowly dodges another fireball, the acrid scent of his own burning hair infiltrating his nostrils. His legs are beginning to feel like they might give out from underneath him, but if he lets his magic loose in here, he’ll blow himself up along with the demon. 

“Fight! It’s all you’re good for, all you’re good at! Don’t deny your purpose!”

Of course he’d get the fucking rage demon. Just his luck. He was naïve to think they could move on even though they were well within the demon’s territory. Frankly, he wouldn’t be surprised if they’d unwittingly entered the Fade the moment they entered that bloody pit. 

But surely, Emmrich would have noticed? Or is the power that resides here so ancient, so woven into this place that even he couldn’t tell? It seems unlikely, but–

“Infuriating! How dare you be distracted during battle? Hateful! Hate! HATE!”

Rook can feel and hear the demon’s charge long before it hits him, and he braces for impact with as strong a ward as he can manage. The demon barrels into him with immense force, the sheer pressure of which knocks the wind from his lungs and sends him flying. He rolls across the stone floor, barely getting his feet underneath him in time to dodge to the side when yet another fireball is hurled at him. 

The side? Rook looks around him and finds that he is now in an open space that is eerily reminiscent of a throne room. It is barren, dusty and crumbling, but there is an unmistakable throne atop a set of surely once-magnificent stairs.

Good. He’s got room now. Did he manifest that in the Fade? He was really hoping for it, that’s for sure. He’ll have to ask Emmrich about that later.

Emmrich. Wherever he is. Rook has to hurry up and end this already so he can go back to looking for him.

“You wanted a fight?”

“YES! FINALLY!”

Rook draws his knife and focuses all of his strength on his legs to make the leap forward, electricity crackling along his body before he moves with the speed of lightning. The demon rushes towards him, roaring with joy.

Fire meets lightning. The force of the explosion flings Rook up the stairs, forcing a pained cry from his throat. His whole body hurts, and he knows he heard something snap. What did he break, what did he–

“DO YOU THINK THAT’S ENOUGH TO KILL US?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake–

Rook stands and immediately realises it’s his left leg that he’s broken, collapsing back down to the stairs the moment he tries to put weight onto it. He retrieves and downs a healing potion from his satchel, just barely managing to ward off a fireball. 

“I’d hoped so,” he says as he stands back up, “but you’re a frustrating matchup for me. I’m not good with water, or ice–”

“YOU TALK TOO MUCH.”

“You should meet my husband.”

“WE’VE MET HIM.”

We? He said ‘us’ just now, too. Since when do demons band together? 

Any other demon he’d be able to stall and keep them talking, but rage has no such patience. It charges towards him again, effortlessly ascending the stairs. Rook’s leg isn’t restored properly yet, but he doesn’t have a choice. He flashes away, gritting his teeth and pushing through the pain.

“Where is he?!”

“WITH US.”

Emmrich. The idea of him facing off against another demon on his own makes his blood boil. 

End it now, Rook thinks, or suffer the consequences.

Rook turns on his heel and feels the tingle of lyrium activating in his blood throughout his entire body. He knows this won’t be his final enemy, but this particular rage demon is much stronger than previous ones he’s encountered, much older, and Rook has no choice but to trust he can continue fighting after this.

And, in truth, he’s been waiting for an opportunity to use this spell. He’d hoped that opportunity would come in the pit, but this will have to do.

Lightning sparks and branches out from his shoulder blades, extending into great, crackling wings. The sound of rolling thunder rumbles throughout the room, dust falling from between the timeworn stone as it quakes underneath Rook’s might. This spell counts a total of three strikes, after which he is likely to be at least somewhat incapacitated:

On the first, Rook launches forward, stretching and flapping his wings once to a deafening thunderclap. The rage demon, disoriented and its eyes unable to keep up with Rook’s speed, never sees him coming.

On the second, lightning strikes his target as Rook’s whole body rams into it, forcing his mageknife deep inside the demon’s body to destroy its life force from the inside out. An unholy, burning sensation tears through his body as the rage demon embeds its claws into his back, trapping him as much as it is trapped in his hold.

On the third and final strike, Rook wraps his wings around the demon and holds it in place, discharging all of the spell’s retained magic at once. A cage of burning, sparking electricity forms as the sky’s wrath tears through them both.

“AAGH! YOU WOULD KILL US BOTH?”

Rook grits his teeth so hard he’s sure he can feel a tooth breaking as every single one of his muscles seizes up, caught in his own spell. He can’t sustain this much lightning for long, but the demon is thrashing in his arms, its hold on his back only just beginning to weaken. Every second his body threatens to give out and collapse, but he has to hold on. He can’t die here.

His vision begins to darken. The demon is crumbling to ashes in his grip as the last of Rook’s energy peters out. They sink to the floor together, a cloud of black ashes billowing where Rook’s knees hit the floor. He tries to breathe and gets a mouthful of dust and ash, hacking and coughing until it makes him gag. He spits, black saliva sticking to his lips, his chin.

“I’m alive,” he says, hoarse and in tremendous pain, “somehow.”

It was important to hear himself say it, given that he’s struggling to feel anything but abject agony. His hands shake so badly he can barely get the cork out of his potion, and some of it spills down his neck when he drinks it. He wipes his mouth and flings the empty bottle away, listening to it shatter against the stairs.

After a minute, he gets to his feet. His back feels much better, but he’ll be sore for days from taking the full impact of his own spell, even if he did manage to mitigate some of it by redirecting the worst of the lightning.

Rook looks around the empty room, spotting several more corridors leading out of it. He groans and kicks the pile of ash, hating his predicament. Why didn’t he just become a house husband? 

“He’ll find you if you stay here.”

He jumps and turns around, still finding the room empty. What was that voice? Where did it come from? If he’s in the Fade, could it just be in his head?

“Who’s there?”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? It’s what you’ve always wanted. To be found.”

It sounds familiar, but if he does know this voice, he’s sure he hasn’t heard it in decades. Whoever it was, they mean nothing to him now.

“Show yourself!”

“Why, when it was you who put me away?”

“What? Who are you?”

“I found you, once. Long ago.”

Between the space of a single blink of his eyes, a faint, dim memory flashes in Rook’s mind. A sunny meadow somewhere in the Free Marches. Someone’s warm, naked body against his own in the tall grass. It’s a safe, happy memory, the sort he wishes he could live in forever.

“Who…?”

“You did well to forget me, vhenan.”

Rook’s heart skips a beat. Fear drains from his body. That little Elvish endearment sends the same tingle down his spine as when Emmrich calls him his darling, his dearest, his love or his heart. Or any of the other pet names in his extensive lexicon of affection.

Emmrich. Maker, where is Emmrich? He so desperately longs to hear his voice, to hold him in his arms, to know that he is safe and sound–

“Darling!”

“See? There he is.”

Rook whirls around to see Emmrich running towards him.

“Go on. Follow your heart’s desire.”

The words barely register, his body moving of its own volition. There isn’t a single thought in his mind but Emmrich, Emmrich, Emmrich. 

But Emmrich, even as he gratefully accepts Rook into his arms, knows something is wrong the moment he enters the room. The air is oppressive, and he’s certain they’re in the epicentre of the demon’s lair, even if it’s nowhere to be found just yet. 

And though he feels that very keenly, it is so very difficult to bring himself to care now that he can feel Rook’s living, breathing body against his own.

“Are you alright, darling?” he asks, observing Rook’s torn, bloody robes and his fried, tangled hair. “I do believe I was not the only one to encounter an unexpected adversary.”

Rook has to focus to answer his question, too overwhelmed with relief and fulfilled longing. 

“Just a rage demon. Doesn’t matter. You’re safe.”

He looks up at Emmrich and pulls him down into a kiss, his body burning with the need to touch him, to get as close to him as possible. 

“That’s right,” croons the familiar voice in his head, “love him. Cherish him.”

“Amatus,” Rook says softly, cradling Emmrich’s face in his hands, “I thought I’d lost you.”

Emmrich tries to extricate himself, but the allure of Rook’s soft, loving gaze proves too powerful. This is really not the place nor the time, but did he not witness Rook dying in his hands? Is it truly so terrible to indulge in just a moment’s respite? Surely they can afford a moment to recuperate and take succour in each other’s bodies?

“Never. Did I not vow to you that my love would stay with you always?”

Rook still chokes up when he thinks of Emmrich’s vows, spoken from the heart to the last. 

“His precious heart. Your true desire. Take it.”

Before Emmrich realises what’s happening, he’s on his back on the cold, hard floor. Rook sits on his thighs, firmly pressing down, kissing his neck. His tongue swipes over his pulsepoint, and Emmrich cannot resist the temptation to bare his neck and let Rook have at it. He cares not for the filthy floor or the danger they’re in.

“Rook–”

“Restrain him.”

Emmrich’s wrists are caught in Rook’s hands and pinned over his head. When he lets go, Fade-bound chains hold them in place as Rook’s deft hands make quick work of Emmrich’s coat, his vest, his shirt, teeth scraping against the bare skin of his chest.

When Rook comes up to kiss him again, Emmrich opens his eyes to look at him. Eyes black as night stare back at him, the veins around his eyes standing out starkly against his skin as they pulse with vile, demonic energy. The reality of the situation hits Emmrich at once.

He can’t move. Maker, if only he hadn’t taught Rook that spell, then he could at least use his hands to incapacitate Rook, but as it stands–

“Well now,” says a voice to his left, “for a man trapped beneath his lover, you look rather unhappy.”

Atop the stairs, seated on its throne, sits a desire demon in the form of a young, sultry woman, scantily clad and with large horns coiling about her head. She is bedecked in gold, her curvaceous body dripping with jewellery. Among the garish display, he spots Anna’s garnet pendant.

“Desire,” Emmrich breathes, “what have you done to him, to Anna?!”

She smiles down at him, baring her fangs.

“Me? I’ve only taken away some – limitations to Rook’s desire. Anna simply gave me everything I asked for. So very eager to prove herself, that one.”

So she’s not fully possessed him, then: just put him under her influence. To do what?

The cold touch of a blade to his cheek forces his attention back on Rook.

“All he wants,” she says, chuckling softly, “is your heart.”

“You have my heart, darling,” Emmrich says, desperately trying to get through to him, “and you always will.”

“Awww. How precious, but I’m afraid he can’t hear you. All he hears is me. All he sees is your heart. Right now, he’s lived this moment a thousand times.”

Emmrich doesn’t fear Rook. He doesn’t fear getting hurt, or maimed, or any sort of harm coming to him at all. What he fears is being unable to get Rook to snap out of it, or for him to come out of this mind control altered somehow.

“Listen to me, my heart–”

“Your heart…” Rook responds, his hand slowly sliding down Emmrich’s chest, “I want…”

“Carve it out, Rook. Consume it. Become one with it in the way you so desperately crave.”

In vain, Emmrich struggles against his restraints. “Rook, darling, no– Stop, you don’t know what you’re doing–”

Rook raises the blade over his head.

“Rook! Rook, please, you’ll never forgive yourself–!”

As the blade comes down, Emmrich feels an enormous wave of force emanating from his body. Rook is launched backwards, his hold on the spell restraining Emmrich breaking, and lands several metres away, his mageknife clattering along the floor. His head hits the stone with a sickening crack. 

“What–”

Emmrich can’t waste any time. Drawing upon the dense, concentrated magic around him, he calls forth the spirits of the undead for aid. They break through the stone floors beneath the throne, skeletal hands grabbing the demon’s ankles, her wrists, holding her by the horns until she can’t move a muscle. 

“Come now,” she laughs, “surely we can talk.”

“I think not,” Emmrich says calmly, trying to put what just happened out of his mind for now, “one does not bargain with that which would take more than it offers.”

“I’ve not taken anything from you yet, Emmrich Volkarin.”

“You took Anna. You took Maurice,” he reminds her, his voice trembling with anger and contempt, “you very nearly took Rook.”

“Dear Anna was a paltry offer by my subject,” the demon says, “the two of you, however…”

“Why are you here?”

“Such arrogance. We have always been here.”

“The other demons were your servants, I take it?”

“Useless, subjugated lesser beings. They served their purpose extremely poorly, but their desires were fulfilled.”

Fear and rage. Yes, Emmrich does indeed imagine they had their fill of both even if they were vanquished in the end.

“I’m afraid yours will not be.”

“Oh, come now, dear professor. Whatever you did to save yourself has surely killed Rook, but I can bring him back.”

Emmrich’s breath hitches in his throat. What? 

Slowly, he turns his head. Rook is lying on the floor, arms and legs sprawled out, his face turned away from him. He is utterly motionless. Emmrich's whole body goes cold and rigid with despair. 

“Rook…?”

“The poor thing hit his head,” she coos, “so unfortunate.”

This time, Emmrich is sure the body lying there isn’t a demon, or some other apparition sent to torment him. It’s Rook, beyond a shadow of a doubt. What can he hope to do but weep? But to bargain with a demon is– is–

“What does your heart desire, Emmrich?”

There is no use pretending that his mind could produce any other answer than ‘Rook.’ 

“What would you have me do?” he asks, willing to at least hear the terms of the arrangement before he decides whether or not he will kill her. He can’t – bring Rook back on his own, not in the way that he wants him to be. That is a type of magic that no one should possess. 

But if she does, then…

“Return to the Necropolis. Bring me the dagger made of pure lyrium.”

“That is far too great a price to pay–”

“For Rook?” she asks, taunting him. “I would’ve thought no price is too high. But very well. If you do as I ask, I will release that fat waste of space from my hold, and I shall return Anna to you. These are my terms, and they are most generous, if I may say so myself.”

He grits his teeth. What can he do? What can he do? There are no terms to this contract he can set that will guarantee the safe return of Rook exactly as he was. There is nothing he would be able to do to save the Necropolis from total destruction if she came into possession of the lyrium dagger.

“I–... I–...”

“Don’t think on it too long, now,” the demon sighs, “even here, his body will decay.”

Emmrich can’t think. All he wants is to have Rook back. To rewind time to before they ever came here. Desire poisons his thoughts, interrupting any rational thought and continuously dragging him back to his one, single wish: for Rook to live.

He remembers his inert copy of the dagger. They never did need it to trick Solas with.

“I will–”

Blinding sunlight pierces the demon’s head like a lance, spreading through her body rapidly. Her flesh bulges and grows grotesquely, the light inside her revealing the veins beneath her smooth, pink skin as it is stretched thin. A moment later, she explodes in a spectacle of gore, her blood splattering across the throne and down the stairs. A few stray droplets make it all the way to Emmrich, sticking to his hair, his cheeks, his coat. 

Around him, the Fade shimmers and distorts. Her presence sustained the balance here. The room begins to shake. 

“Emmrich!”

Rook? He looks to the side to find Rook scrambling to his feet. Did he cast that spell? Was he alive all along? Did that demon almost deceive him into leaving so she could consume Rook? What was he thinking in bargaining with her?

Just behind Rook, there is a tear in the Veil. It’s the only guaranteed way out, though Maker knows where exactly they might end up.

They escape together, rushing through the tear and barely withstanding the disorienting, nauseating feeling that is moving between the world and the Fade. When they emerge, they are inside of a dark corridor once again. There is no demonic presence around them. No Fade. 

It’s over.

“Darling–”

“Let’s go home,” Rook says tersely, conjuring a light before forming another set of sigils with his hands. “Aut viam infeniam aut faciam. I’ve had enough of this place.”

A dull, pale thread shimmers in the centre of the corridor, connected directly to Rook. A pathfinder spell. Emmrich stares at his back as he watches him go, not understanding. They survived: surely that at least calls for some celebration? An embrace, a kiss, a single word tenderly spoken?

Twice today, Emmrich was led to believe Rook was dead. And now, for the third time, the distance between them seems impossible to close.

It is a long, tiring walk back that Emmrich spends the gross majority of trying not to burst into tears. Rook carries Anna out of the pit without a word, hoisting her lifeless body over his shoulder before climbing up the veins. While Emmrich fears he may collapse, utterly drained by the sheer terror he’s experienced, and the whiplash of the catastrophic, frankly rookie mistake he almost made in having dealings with a demon, Rook soldiers on tirelessly. 

Back in the Necropolis, it is total pandemonium. The news of Anna’s death, the circumstances thereof, her whereabouts and the revelations about what has apparently lived beneath the Necropolis all this time, has the entire Mourn Watch scrambling for what to do. For one, because Maurice cannot possibly stay on as its leader even if his actions were the result of demonic possession, and two, because of the implications about what else might still lie in wait beneath the Necropolis.

But for Emmrich and Rook, all of that is secondary. After doing what is absolutely required of them, they walk home in silence. When Manfred hugs them both as soon as they walk in the door, they sink to the floor with him and sit there for five minutes. Rook embraces Manfred, Emmrich embraces them both. 

After, they sit across from each other in the kitchen, wordlessly staring holes into the tabletop. Manfred sits between them at the head of the table, staring from one to the other in silence.

Emmrich is lost in thought about how, if the demon had asked him to, he would have gambled his soul away for Rook in five minutes flat. Worse, he was willing to leave Rook behind just on the off chance that she would keep her promise. He was so caught up in despair that he never even checked to see if Rook was truly dead. 

Rook thinks about how, if it weren’t for his mother’s locket, he would’ve killed Emmrich with his own two hands today. The memory– no, not the memory, the vision of his blade sliding through Emmrich’s chest plays over, and over, and over in his mind. Pulling the skin back, breaking open his ribcage with his bare hands, and lifting out Emmrich’s beating heart as his blood runs down his forearms. Finally, he’d consume it, feel it beating in his own chest as it passes through his oesophagus.

He’d wanted it. Every fibre of his being had longed to taste his blood, his flesh, to suck the very marrow from his bones. To consume him and be one with him. A desire demon does not create new desires, he knows: this sick, twisted perversion has lived inside of him all along.

After all, he thinks, after all, wasn’t there something strangely familiar about plunging a blade into his lover’s chest?

“You saved me, darling,” Emmrich says, finally breaking the silence, “you saved all of us.”

Rook is sure he’s not hearing that right. Is Emmrich mocking him? No, he’d never, he’d–

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

His whole body trembles with anger, all of it directed at himself. He is weak, worthless, and yet a danger to Emmrich. More than that, he is unworthy of touching even a hair on his person. What sort of husband points a knife at his spouse? What sort of person desires to eat his lover?

People don’t. Beasts do. Insects. He is less than human for what he felt, even if the feeling is unrecognisable to him now.

Across from him, Emmrich can’t hold it in a second longer. He hunches over, arms wrapped tightly around himself, and sobs. Tears drip onto the table and soak into his trousers as he weeps. Manfred hisses angrily at Rook, and stands to comfort his dad. 

Rook, selfishly, wonders if he finally hates himself as much as he hates his father, who also made his spouse and child miserable because that’s what his father did before him. He wants to stand to console Emmrich, to apologise, but he can’t. Nothing will propel him to move if it means touching him again. All he can see in his mind is his helpless, terrified expression as he screams words Rook cannot hope to understand, his frightened eyes on the knife over Rook’s head. Likely, he was pleading for his life, for Rook to stop, to not kill him. 

Even if he was under the demon’s influence, he will never forgive himself for this. But he can’t let that get in the way of comforting Emmrich, either. Not entirely, for there is penance to be paid.

“I’m sorry,” Rook says softly, “it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have said that. I–... I’ll make you some tea.”

It’s the only thing he can think to do. Emmrich’s always said that a good brew certainly can’t make any conversation worse, and he fervently hopes that still applies even now. While waiting for the kettle to boil, he feels a hand on his back and he startles, badly. He drops the empty teacup he was holding to the floor, where it shatters into a hundred little pieces. It’s Emmrich, clearly asking for a hug, for assurance. Rook doesn’t want to touch him, hates that he doesn’t, but he grits his teeth and wraps his arms around Emmrich anyway. 

Whatever Emmrich wants, he will have. For the rest of his life, no matter how hard it is for Rook to give. And even then, it will never be enough to set to rights what happened today.

Emmrich cries. There is so much to mourn: Anna’s life, the loss of a once very capable head of the Mourn Watch, all those dead never buried at the bottom of the well, and something far greater but much less tangible. It is irretrievably lost, or so it feels, and Emmrich cannot even name what it is.

But he feels it in the nigh mechanical quality of Rook’s embrace, and how he stands stockstill in Emmrich’s arms. It’s in the way he forces himself to smile when he gently pushes Emmrich away so he can sweep up the broken porcelain and grab him a new cup for his tea. He doesn’t want tea; he wants Rook. 

Perhaps, he thinks, what was taken was what the demon craved most: desire. She claimed to have only removed some of his inhibitions, but Emmrich now suspects she took far more than that.

When he reaches for Rook in bed that night, he desperately tries to find some of the fire he knows lives inside of him, but comes up empty-handed. While Rook is attentive, loving, even, he is quiet and reserved when receiving attention. When Emmrich finishes, he doesn’t ask for anything. He just kisses Emmrich’s cheek and gets up to go to the loo without another word.

Emmrich lays on his back and lets the tears run past his ears. How has it come to this? Why won’t Rook look at him, why does he not want to touch him? How come he hasn’t even asked about where Emmrich was, what he went through? 

They’re questions he can’t bear not having answers to. When Rook returns and sits on the edge of the bed, his back to Emmrich, he asks, “Rook?”

“... Hm?”

“If… If you’d… If you didn’t desire me any longer, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“I doubt that’ll ever happen, amatus,” Rook answers honestly, “please don’t think that.”

“Then why…?” 

Rook doesn’t want to tell him, but Emmrich wants him to be honest or he wouldn’t ask. 

“I’m… Hoping it will pass. But right now, I’m… I don’t deserve to touch you.”

“What? That’s–”

“Please… Don’t call me ridiculous. Not this time. Not after what I did to you today.”

“B-but I’m here, darling, I’m alive–”

“If it hadn’t been for that locket,” Rook points out, tears rolling down his cheeks as he closes his eyes, “you wouldn’t be.”

“You were possessed–”

“No, I wasn’t. You said I wasn’t when we reported to Vorgoth earlier. You're the expert. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you omitted what I tried to do from your report.”

“It’s more complex than that, Rook. Either way the demon enacted undue influence upon your mind–”

“A desire demon does not implant new desires into its subject,” Rook says quietly, lying down, his back still facing Emmrich. “I’m… I’m tired, Emmrich. I’m sorry. For everything.”

Emmrich wipes the tears from his face and leans over him, kissing his bare shoulder. Rook doesn’t respond.

“I will give you as much time as you need, darling,” he promises, recognising that there is no use debating this now. Rook has said he still desires Emmrich: that means the foundation of their love remains intact. “Sleep now.”

“... I love you,” Rook says, because it’s true, even if he doesn’t have the right. 

“And I love you, my dearest, darling little bird.”

As Emmrich lays back down, Rook twists his wedding ring around his finger. It feels like it’s burning his finger off, as if even the gold doesn’t agree to being worn by him. Gold, after all, is the jewellery of life-givers and death-wardens, not killers.

Chapter 7: Summer I

Notes:

summer is a very long season and that's why the summer chapters are gonna be twice as long as the others it's not because I can't help myself I prommy

I hope this is the catharsis many of you are hoping for <3 the rest of summer will be much happier, but I am a fickle god and I do have a magnifying glass. And they ARE my ants.

As spring’s gentle wakening of the land leads them into the lively days of summer, it feels as though the sun shines for everyone but them. As if the days’ continuous passing doesn’t affect them at all, their lives come to an abrupt halt in the wake of what was wrought.

In the weeks that follow Rook and Emmrich’s encounter with the desire demon, somewhere in a hidden corner of the Fade in the depths of the Necropolis, Emmrich can’t sleep. At first, it’s because he suffers nightmares, For a week straight, he suffers persistent, vivid nightmares of Rook dying in his hands, over and over. After that, he blames the sudden heat for keeping him up at night. When that excuse fails to be convincing after two more weeks with barely any sleep and fluctuating temperatures, he quietly admits that his body appears to have given up on the very concept.

He suffers terrible bouts of insomnia that can last anywhere from one to three days. It’s made him irritable, snappy, short with his colleagues and less patient with his students, not to mention prone to weeping in public during particularly bad episodes. Schmidt, himself wracked with guilt for the part he was made to play, is the only one he tells of what happened, and the only one who seeks him out to talk about it. 

“You look terrible,” Schmidt tells him one day after a meeting with the senior staff.

“Thank you, Alex. I’m sure that’ll perk me right up.”

Schmidt shrugs, though his bushy eyebrows cover his eyes as he frowns. “You still haven’t slept, then?”

“Not a wink.”

“I’ve a poultice you might try.”

Emmrich’s considered it before, but concluded that he’d rather have no sleep than the sort of sleep he’s likely to get with that. Nightmares are bad enough when one is capable of waking naturally, let alone when one cannot.

“No, thank you. I’ll simply have to bear it as best I can for the foreseeable future.”

“Mm.”

“What?”

“You’re not usually this stubborn.”

He’s not usually this tired, either.

“Spit it out, Alex! I’ve neither the time nor the patience.”

“Have you and Rook talked yet?”

Yes, they have. With great difficulty and remarkably little progress, but they’ve talked. It has to be done in endless small increments. Emmrich is too tired to think, let alone navigate such a long, complex conversation. Rook is too frightened of what he’s learned about himself, or at least, what he thinks he’s learned about himself.

“Somewhat.”

“Barely.”

“If you were to take a less generous view of things, yes.”

Schmidt grunts.

“Well. Keep at it. These things take time.”

Yes, but how much longer? Not to mention, how much more can either of them take of this– this – silence? This stillness, dark and treacherous like the waters in a poisoned well. 

He returns to his office, exhausted and feeling – burnt. As if he’s spent the day standing outside in the town square, his skin bared to the sun. This time, even Johanna doesn’t mock him for his terrible mood, and doesn't wake him when he falls asleep at his desk. When he wakes, she simply tells him to go home.

Sleep deprived, and moderately anxious by nature, Emmrich would say that he feels generally unwell. What doesn’t help is that he doesn’t dare turn to Rook for comfort anymore, afraid in equal parts of making him uncomfortable, and once again having to endure the chill of his reluctant touch. During that first week, Rook had dutifully held him after his nightmares, kissed his head, stroked his back. He’d done all the right things, said the right words, but it was quite clear his mind was elsewhere entirely. 

Emmrich can’t blame him. Refuses to. But he also hasn’t got the patience for it anymore. For the way he hesitates to put his arms around Emmrich, how he instinctively seems to pull back from kisses. It makes Emmrich feel indescribably hurt and lonely, to once again be so deprived of that which he longs for the most. And this time, he can’t even blame Rook, because he tries. Maker, he tries. A hand on his lower back at lunch, or a kiss to his shoulder in bed. It’s not much. It just isn’t. But it’s all he can give, and during his darkest hours, Emmrich wonders if it’s all he’s ever going to get.

Worse than that still is the fact that Rook, too, only appears to be getting worse. He doesn’t eat, or barely does, and he is rapidly losing a concerning amount of weight. Emmrich’s stomach aches with sympathetic hunger pangs even as he eats the meals Rook lovingly prepares for him while he sits at the table without a plate. Emmrich knows why Rook doesn’t eat around him anymore because, for once, Rook simply told him why. It’s clear to him that Rook is making a concerted effort to be better, although Emmrich wishes that was propelled by his desire to communicate effectively, not because the guilt of what he almost did under the demon’s influence is eating him alive. Even so, Emmrich cannot deny that the material results are the same: he is much better informed than he ever was before when things got difficult. The reason Rook doesn't eat around him is because most of the time, he fails to keep it down. He feels that Emmrich’s got enough on his proverbial plate, and he doesn’t want to add to it by sprinting away from the table during every meal they share.

Which is all of them. Now that Rook is set to be an instructor next year, he spends most of his time at home, cooking. The house smells delicious, day in and day out. For this, too, Emmrich is aware of the reason as to why: right now, barely able to touch him and unable to tell him the full extent of what’s going through his mind, cooking is the only way he can think of to still convey his love and continued devotion to Emmrich. 

And Emmrich would never tell him to stop, even if he’s fighting tears the entire time he’s eating. Rook’s face, still so indescribably dear, looks gaunt to him now. Dull, grey. His eyes are always unfocused, tired, dark all the way to his eyebrows with lack of sleep on his end, too. Now that he’s awake at all hours, Emmrich actually witnesses almost every single time that Rook shoots out of bed after a nightmare, panting for breath and soaked with sweat. Usually, that means he’s up for the night. The few times he does come back to bed, he lays on his back, silently and tearfully watching the sea of stars that Emmrich conjures for him. 

Rook’s hand will then find his between their bodies on top of the sheets. He doesn’t let go until the light of morning breaks through their curtains.

Their bond, Emmrich knows, is unbreakable. It gives and it bends, and at times seems dangerously close to snapping in half, but it never severs. That knowledge is Emmrich’s rock in stormy weathers, his piece of driftwood in a merciless ocean. If nothing else, it means that the one thing he doesn’t fear is losing Rook completely. The rest, however, worries him a great deal. So much so in fact, that after six weeks of worrying, he wakes one hot summer morning after a rare night of three whole hours of sleep with a sore throat. He’s absolutely bathing in his own sweat, soaking through the sheets. Though his body shivers with a cold it has no right to feel, and his brain feels three sizes too large for the skull that contains it.

At last, he thinks, he’s worried himself sick. 

Rook is, unsurprisingly, not in bed with him, and Emmrich rises slowly. All he has to tend to today is his morning class. They’re nearing the end of the last trimester, anyway: it’s mostly just reviewing the material while his students finish their final papers. As expected, Rook’s paper was handed in well on time, though Emmrich hasn’t gotten around to grading it yet. He needs a clear head, and though he’s running behind on work, he refuses to read and grade his students’ work when he can barely read two lines without his eyes falling closed.

Emmrich shuffles to the bathroom slowly, feeling utterly pathetic. What he wouldn’t give for a hot bath with Rook, to lay back against his chest and be held in his arms as the steam rises around them. He yearns for Rook’s body so badly that it physically hurts at times. Even now, as he blearily searches his cabinets for something that resembles medicine and finding none, he childishly finds himself wishing for a kiss on the head to make it better. 

He washes his face, forgoes shaving, and gets dressed in a pair of trousers and a shirt. In what is likely to be an historic moment in his teaching career, he doesn’t even bother to style his hair, running a comb through and calling it a job well done.

The kitchen smells like warm apple pie. A scent that, in his mind, should always be accompanied by a kiss and a warm embrace. It’s been that way since his childhood. But Rook stays by the counter, ladling batter into a frying pan layered with thin slices of apple.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he says, looking exactly as poorly as he did yesterday, “are you hungry– Emmrich? Maker, go back to bed.”

“I shan’t,” Emmrich mutters petulantly, grabbing his bag, “I’m already late. I’m sorry.”

“Emmrich, you’re not well–”

“One hesitates to ask what else is new.”

Rook presses his lips together. Emmrich rubs a hand over his tired face.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Rook says softly, staring at the pan in his hand, “have a good day.”

No ‘wonderful’ day, today? Emmrich supposes it isn’t, but it smarts all the same. 

“That’s not what you usually say.”

Rook looks up. “What do I usually say?”

“You say, ‘have a wonderful day.’”

“I see. Have a wonderful day then, amatus.”

“... It’s not the same,” Emmrich sulks, every feeling magnified to the nth degree, not at all helped by the fever he’s sure he has. “Goodbye, Rook.”

As the door closes, Rook sighs and lets it go. Emmrich is perpetually cranky when he doesn’t sleep. It can’t be helped, and it’s not personal. He can take it. It’s his job to take it on the chin and support him through this as best he can, even if none of his efforts seem to help at all. Nor Emmrich’s, for that matter. 

Minutes later, he sits at the table with his caramelised apple pancake. Just looking at it is making him nauseous, but he hasn’t eaten in two days. His stomach is gnawing on his spine, and he’s constantly lightheaded. He has to eat, even if it takes him the entire day to work through one bite. 

With weak, trembling hands, he cuts himself a bite-sized piece and holds it to his mouth. 

“Food,” he tells himself out loud, sweat beading around his hairline. His leg bounces restlessly beneath the table. “It’s… Food. Just food.”

He takes the bite and chews, slowly. The syrupy, sweet coating sticks to his teeth, and he has to force himself not to gag. It’s blood. It’s all blood. Everything he eats tastes and feels like blood. The metallic-tasting tannins in the apples all too easily mimic its nauseating flavour, the apples themselves the flesh he sinks his teeth into. 

Rook can’t do it. He gets up and spits it into the sink, dry heaving. Sour, hot bile burns his throat, his eyes stinging with tears brutally forced from their canals. When it finally stops, he rinses out the sink and his mouth. He’s so hungry. At this point, he’s quite sure he could be classified as ‘starving.’ All he wants is to eat, to touch Emmrich again without reserve, to sleep without nightmares, but nothing helps. Nothing. Even talking to Emmrich about it, which he tries to do even if he feels he’s doing very poorly at it, doesn’t help. 

And what of Emmrich’s own suffering? He told Rook what he’d seen and heard in the Fade before they found each other again: his parents’ voices, Rook dying. Told him how he can’t sleep at night, and doesn’t. Though the nightmares appear to have gone, Rook’s walked in on him crying more than once. Sometimes, he’ll ask to be left alone. Other times, Rook sits with him, waiting for him to ask for what he needs as he holds his hand.

Emmrich doesn’t ask for anything, anymore.

At this point, Rook wonders if he shouldn’t just try to wipe his memory again. If only he could remember the spell. If only he could think about anything other than his attempt on Emmrich’s life.

Another wave of nausea comes over him as he remembers the feel of the knife in his hands. The total confidence of knowing what he was about to do, and the peacefulness with which he cut Emmrich’s chest open. How sure his hands were as he moved skin and broke bones, how euphoric it felt to hold his beating heart and consume it. 

With the exception of the knife, none of that happened. Having lived it a thousand times in his mind’s eye, however, means it doesn’t feel any less real. 

And then, the familiarity. An imperceptibly distant, blurry memory of his blade plunging into someone’s chest. A lover, he’s certain. Who, and where, and why, he doesn’t know. But after weeks of thinking about it, he’s quite sure that the desire demon had access to the memories he no longer remembers. If that is true, then his lover was an elf, and Rook has killed him. That’s what he’s forgotten. What he, he’s quite sure, made himself forget.

How is he supposed to live with himself? How is he meant to touch Emmrich with hands that killed an innocent, someone dear? When those same hands tried to kill him, too?

Rook stands by the kitchen counter for a long time, hunched over the countertop, holding on to his empty, cramping stomach. When he feels brave enough, he raises his head to look at his now cold, slightly soggy pancake. It’s hard for him to imagine anything less appetising, but he doubts something else will go down much better. Regardless of how he feels about himself, he has to eat. If he doesn’t eat, then there’s no hope of things getting better.

Hoping for things to get better is the very least he can do.

And so he sits and tries again. He holds his breath as he chews, teary-eyed, through heaping mouthfuls of sticky pancake, and swallows them down with force. When he’s done, it takes him another twenty minutes to keep it down, breathing shallowly as his sweaty forehead rests against his knuckles. Eventually, the nausea settles, and Rook dares to move and take a deep breath.

He’s eaten. It’s the biggest victory he’s had all week. 

With the food sitting uneasily in his stomach, he sets about cleaning up. As he does every day without any classes left to attend, he does the washing up, changes the sheets on their bed, washes those, and sweeps the house. It’s a hot day, by Nevarran standards, anyway. Rook opens the windows and lets the breeze in, grateful for the fresh air now that he is far too tired to walk all the way to the gardens.

The gardens. They’d been so beautiful during spring, and they’re sure to be beautiful now. As beautiful as they were last year when he first walked among the graves with Emmrich. It was summer then, too.

Emmrich. Rook sighs and ambles about the house aimlessly. Why did he let Emmrich walk out the door? He’s clearly sick as a dog. Of course, Rook hardly thinks he’s worthwhile company just now. Maybe Emmrich just needed some space.

Rook is wiping down the table when there’s a heavy handed knock at their door. He frowns: who would visit them at this time of day?

But, through the door, the answer presents itself:

“I am perfectly alright, Alex–”

“You collapsed and you’ve been sick on yourself. Be reasonable, man! You can barely stand on your own two feet.”

The door opens. Rook greets them, puzzled, then alarmed.

“Emmrich?”

“Hello, dearest, I–”

“Emmrich had a bit of a wobble at the lectern. Don’t listen to his nonsense.”

“Alexander!”

Professor Schmidt takes Emmrich’s arm off of his shoulders and all but presents him to Rook as if to say that he’s his problem now.

“Kindly make sure he doesn’t leave his bed until he’s no longer too delirious to understand the absolute state he’s in.”

Rook hesitates, but the moment Emmrich sways in the door opening, he’s got his arms around him. He grits his teeth and pushes through his discomfort: Emmrich needs him. It’s the first time in weeks that he’s held him at all. All Rook feels is uncomfortable, undeserving, guilty, but he can’t let those feelings get in the way. Not right now. Emmrich primarily feels ill, but he still cannot resist the opportunity to lean his head against Rook’s. How lovely it is to feel his warmth again.

“Aye aye, professor. Thank you for bringing him home,” Rook says, successfully hiding the fact that the pungent smell of bile rising to his nose is about to make him gag. “I’ll take it from here.”

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Schmidt deposits Emmrich’s bag inside the door. The door is then closed behind Emmrich, and Rook turns his attention back to him with a sigh.

“I told you to go back to bed,” Rook says, trying to make light of the situation if only for his own sanity, “but nooo.”

Emmrich sniffles, his whole head feeling sore from having thrown up on the way home. “If he were here, Manfred would scold you for being so unkind to me in my fragile state.”

The banter almost makes it seem as if things are normal. It feels familiar, safe, untouched by the poison of what’s happened to them. They’re coping as best they can, as they have for weeks, but this throws a considerable wrench into the gears.

After all, over the last month or so Rook has barely touched Emmrich. True to his word, Emmrich is giving him all the time he needs, but Rook is painfully aware of the fact that it’s slowly killing him inside. Rook feels no different, but every time he tries it makes him want to crawl into a hole and weep. Even now, with a sick, unstable Emmrich in his arms that he wants to take care of, he struggles.

But he’ll struggle either way, he realises.

“Manfred never would’ve let you leave the house in the first place,” Rook says, taking a step back while holding Emmrich steady. He’s a mess, in every sense of the word.

“Then I suppose I shall make my way back to bed…” Emmrich mumbles sullenly, making no effort to move whatsoever.

Rook briefly closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. There was always going to be a day of reckoning. It would seem that fate has decided that day will be today. He’s allowed himself to pretend that things are going to get better on their own for too long. If talking hasn’t helped, doing remains. Doing that is sure to be accompanied by a lot of talking. 

Great.

“I think you could do with a bath,” Rook says softly, gearing up for a long day. “And I’ll make you a cup of fresh chamomile tea, to ease your stomach. We’ll try some food later.”

“I shouldn’t have indulged in that slice of toast before bed…” Emmrich sighs, utterly miserable. 

“C’mon.”

To Emmrich’s surprise, Rook sticks around to help him out of his soiled clothes as the bath fills with steaming hot water. He’s quick and efficient, grimacing at the spew stuck between the buckles of Emmrich’s boots and putting them aside to take care of in a minute.

But for reasons Emmrich fails to divine, it is the tender touch of the back of Rook’s hand to his forehead that brings tears to his eyes. Rook notices immediately, and fights not to give voice or credence to his self-loathing. It’s not about him right now. It might be later, but not now.

“Get in. I’ll make you that cup and clean your boots. Then I’ll be back.”

“Do you promise?” Emmrich asks, a single tear rolling down his cheek. 

It’s impossible not to take pity on him. He’s ill, has a fever, and hasn’t slept more than eight hours total over the past week, and Rook is quite sure he’s being generous in his estimation. 

After a moment’s hesitation, he brushes the tear from Emmrich’s jaw. Again, his mind races to remind him of what he looked like moments before the knife came down, but there is no more running from it. The only way out is through. Rook swallows down the lump in his throat and nods.

“I promise.”

Rook only notices how badly his hands are shaking as he’s snipping chamomile flowers, his scissors refusing to keep steady. At least cleaning Emmrich’s boots off doesn’t require very fine handiwork, or he’d never get it done. By the time he sets them to dry in the windowsill, the tea is ready to be poured. Before he can carry it to the bathroom, however, he needs to calm down or he’s bound to spill it everywhere.

He wills himself to take deep, steady breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It takes a minute for him to calm down, to quell the constant frissons of anxiety. In spite of having eaten his body still feels weak, his bones nothing but a house of cards waiting to collapse. The nausea still hasn’t gone, either. Among the overall lethargy is a deep-rooted sense of discomfort, the sort that used to make him want to run far away from whatever gave him that feeling.

But he is far past the age where running away from home is still an acceptable option, and past the stage in their relationship where he still wants to. Even if he now feels as much an interloper in his own home as he used to feel a prisoner in his father’s. He is tired of the urge to run, tired of always keeping an eye on the exit to make sure it’s still there.

He groans. There’s nothing to be done but making another attempt at talking about it all. For what is sure to be the hundredth time since they’ve returned, he wishes they’d never gone down there. That he’d just been content to be a necromancer, finished his studies, and have lived happily ever after.

Selfish, he chastises himself as he slowly carries the cup and its saucer to the bathroom. Countless more would have died if they hadn’t interfered. He mustn’t forget that, either.

Emmrich is up to his chin in the hot water when he walks in, eyes closed, his hands resting on his stomach underwater. Rook sets the tea on the bath’s broad rim, and kneels behind him.

“I’m back.”

Slowly, Emmrich sits up, turning enough to look at him.

“Thank you, darling, for everything.” he says, softly. He can clearly see Rook biting the inside of his lip, averting his gaze as he receives Emmrich’s gratitude. How hard he tries not to say something self-deprecating. 

“You’re welcome. Is the water hot enough for you?”

“It’s perfect.”

An awkward silence befalls them. Rook looks at the firelight dappling the rippling waters and thinks how he wouldn’t mind a bath, either. Emmrich can only look at Rook’s tired face, his bloodshot eyes. He can smell Rook’s sour, frankly rancid breath, and feels his stomach sink further.

“May I touch you, darling?”

Rook’s nails dig into his thigh through his soft trousers. Shame and guilt heat his cheeks. Emmrich shouldn’t have to ask, and it’s entirely Rook’s fault that he feels like he has to get permission before he’s allowed to – to touch his husband. Worse, he still fears that when he tells Emmrich what he thinks he now knows about himself, he won’t even want to anymore. Surely his seemingly boundless forgiveness has to end somewhere. Rook already only barely understands why Emmrich still wants to touch him even now.

And they should talk about it, but Emmrich is sick. He’s exhausted and burnt out and surely disappointed by the fact that they’re back here once again. Although Rook shouldn’t assume, of course. He mustn’t speak for Emmrich.

Maker, Rook thinks, he’s so bloody sick of himself.

“Yes,” he says, bracing himself. Emmrich’s touch is light as a feather against his face, the way one might pet a kitten, or a particularly fluffy chick.

Emmrich then rests his hand on Rook’s forearm on the rim. “Have you managed to eat at all today?”

“I have. I ate what I’d made for you this morning. Almost all of it’s stayed down, so far.”

“That’s a relief to hear,” Emmrich sighs, feeling that particular concern shrinking into the background for now. “I had hoped it wouldn’t go to waste.”

“In hindsight, I’m glad you didn’t eat it.”

Rook musters a small smile for him. Though Emmrich’s whole body hurts, his heart seems to bleed the fiercest. Dare he ask for a kiss? Is it even wise to do so when he’s this ill? What if whatever he has is contagious–

All thoughts disperse, fluttering in his mind like dust particles in the air, when Rook leans in and gently presses his lips to Emmrich’s. When did they last kiss? He can’t seem to remember it. A week ago, at the very least. 

It’s brief, but it means everything. Rook’s heart beats dizzyingly fast in his chest, and he can feel his back itching with the cold sweat he’s breaking into. He lays his forehead against the cold, damp rim of the bath and breathes.

“Amatus…?”

“Yes, darling…?”

“I don’t… I don’t know how else to ask, but–”

“Please, dearest. Any way you can.”

“Why do you–... Why do you still love me?”

His first response is to balk at the stupidity of the question, but Emmrich reins it in. 

“At risk of you thinking me obstinate, you’ve done nothing to bring my love for you into question.”

Rook doesn’t understand. Can’t understand.

“I tried to kill you.”

Emmrich sighs. They’ve tried to have this conversation before over the course of the past month and a half, but they never got anywhere. There was simply too much neither of them could say yet, or didn’t have the words to. But something must have changed, if only for Rook, or he wouldn’t bring it up again. Rook famously prefers not to talk about things, after all.

What a terrible day for them to reach this turning point, but it must be borne. Perhaps now is the best moment to voice the thought he hadn’t dared to speak aloud for fear of invalidating Rook’s experience of what’s happened. Unfortunately, with a very persistent pounding in his skull slowly doing his head in, finding the right words proves difficult.

“Darling,” Emmrich says, squeezing Rook’s arm to get him to focus, “would you find it terribly offensive if I told you that – that I don’t believe you were?”

“What? I – I tried to stab you–”

It takes such effort to keep his thoughts in order through the haze of the fever, but this could very well be the breakthrough they’ve both so desperately tried to attain. 

“You’ve told me, though I suspect there’s more yet, that you were trying to reach my heart. Desire told me that my heart was all you could see.”

Rook still sees it. All the time. In his dreams, every time he closes his eyes, when he hallucinates because his mana is unbalanced. Emmrich’s beautiful beating heart–

No, not beautiful. Not–

“Darling? Breathe, dearest–”

“I-I wanted–”

For the first time, Emmrich hears the story in its totality. Rook has told him bits and pieces, but always stopped short of that which lies at the heart of his repulsion. It’s a struggle to understand what Rook is saying as he hiccups, sobs and gasps his way through the story, but he hears enough to finally understand why Rook can’t keep food down, why he finds it so hard to look at Emmrich, to touch him. Finally, Rook tells him of the moment relived a thousand times. A vision replayed so often and so vividly in his mind that it settled into his body as his oldest, most ardent desire. That he couldn’t resist because he no longer wanted to. Of the knife cutting his skin, his bones being broken, his heart being lifted out of his body. When Rook tries to tell him about eating his heart and feeling it beating inside his throat, he only barely manages to keep his breakfast in. He has to take breaks to breathe, to wipe the sweat from his brow, to swallow the flood of saliva that impedes him from speaking. It’s a nightmare to recount it out loud, wholly, down to each gruesome, depraved detail.

Emmrich sits, stunned. It confirms that Rook wasn’t trying to kill him at all. The demon was, yes, to be sure, and her weapon of choice was Rook’s desire to be loved by him. For a moment, he wishes he’d been the one to strike the final blow. Rook looks utterly drained, a hollowed out husk of his former self. What has she done to him? What has she done to them?

“Look at me, darling.”

Slowly but surely, Rook raises his head from the rim. His hair sticks to his wet cheekbones, his red, quivering lips. 

“In the entirety of your story, there isn’t a single instance where you wanted to end my life. That would’ve been the natural conclusion had your efforts been successful, yes, and I very much believe it was Desire’s aim to achieve that. But it wasn’t yours.”

Rook hears the words, understands them, but cannot fathom what he’s trying to say.

“What do you–…?”

“That your desire for my heart was corrupted, pushed far past the limits of your character. Imagine… Imagine if–”

Emmrich closes his eyes and sighs. Words jumble and rearrange themselves into nonsense  in his mind. If his head wasn’t fighting against him–

Two fingers ghost across his temple, trembling with hesitation before settling against his skin. From that single point of contact, a soothing, gentle magic spreads throughout his body, settling like a down feather blanket. It holds him, nurtures him, a sensation not at all unlike being embraced by Rook.

The incessant throbbing inside his head dulls to a lingering pain that is far more manageable. He opens his eyes just as Rook’s hand retreats from his face. 

“Thank you, darling–”

“Go on,” Rook says, swallowing thickly, “please.”

“Very well. I shall offer a different example: you enjoy a good fight, don’t you, dearest?”

“I do.”

“But you’d never start a war to have one, correct?”

“Of course not.”

“Suppose you had your morals taken away. Your reservations about bloodshed, self-serving violence, and causing harm, gone. The desire for a good fight reduced to merely the desire to fight, no matter who against.”

Rook finally understands where he’s going with this, and thinks about it. When put like that, yes, he’d be liable to start a war if that were to happen. The logic is remarkably simple, and stunningly ineffective at making him feel any better. Because in truth, his visceral response to the implanted memory of eating Emmrich’s heart notwithstanding, that is not what bothers him the most.

Emmrich fears death above all things, and it was Rook who very nearly hand delivered him into the next world. Fresh tears run down his already burning cheeks.

“Even so,” he says, “I saw– I–... Y-you were terrified, and I couldn’t stop even though you were begging me to. I a-almost made your w-worst fear come true, by my own h-hand.”

Now that he can think even slightly more clearly, Emmrich remembers that Rook couldn’t hear him. It was Desire who told him that Rook could only see his heart, but it would seem that he did witness the penultimate moment where Emmrich was desperately trying to stop him from doing something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“Could you hear me then, darling?”

“N-no. Small mercy, I suppose,” Rook mutters, wiping his nose, “at least I didn’t have to hear you pleading for your life.”

Of course he’d think that. Of course. 

“I wasn’t. I… I understand this may be difficult to believe, but I did not fear death at your hands. Not for a moment.”

Rook’s brows draw together into a frown, a deep-set wrinkle appearing between them. He’s sure Emmrich wouldn’t lie to him about this, or about most things, really. But how? Why?

“... I don’t understand.”

“I was afraid. Terribly so,” Emmrich admits, cautiously laying a hand against Rook’s cheek and stroking his stubble with his thumb, “but not for myself. I was terrified for you.”

“Me?”

“Darling… The situation we now find ourselves in, the fact that you cannot move past what you saw and won’t forgive yourself… That is what I’d feared. I did beg you to stop, on your own account. But I was never in any danger, not from you.”

Emmrich begged him to stop because he wouldn’t forgive himself? That’s–

“I…”

The plot of a poor romance novel, Rook thinks. Dreamt up by an author too invested in their characters’ suffering. These things don’t happen in life. Nobody who is about to be stabbed begs the murderer to consider their own conscience. 

And yet, Rook knows it to be completely true, even if he struggles to believe it. Emmrich would worry about Rook first and himself second. If he knew that Rook had killed a previous lover, would he finally put himself first?

“There’s more,” Rook then says, “she - Desire - talked to me in… In a former lover’s voice.”

“Dorian’s?” Emmrich asks, puzzled.

“... No. I don’t remember his name. I don’t… I don’t remember him, at all.”

In the silence that follows, Emmrich slowly puts the pieces together. He doesn’t think Rook would ever just forget about someone he loved, not unless he’d been made to do so. It’s unlikely that Desire would conjure a stranger for Rook. No, she must have accessed the memories Rook no longer remembers. They still exist within Rook. 

Emmrich now knows how to counteract the mental barrier Rook created over a decade ago. If his memories had been truly lost, he wouldn’t have the first idea where to begin. This, however, he can do.

“He was what you were made to forget.”

“What I made myself forget,” Rook corrects him, certain, “and I think I did b-because…”

Rook’s body shakes and jerks with the effort to contain his sobbing. Emmrich wants to be patient, to allow him time, but he’s too tired to restrain himself.

“Because?”

“B-because I killed him, too. She made me r-remember – something, I don’t–...”

Emmrich squeezes his arm again, even as his vision is swimming. Why did he have to fall ill today? 

“Darling–... Darling. Listen to me. I refuse to trust anything Desire showed you. The fact that she seems to have known means that the memories still reside within your mind somewhere. When the time comes, I can restore them–”

“Do it,” Rook says immediately, taking several deep breaths. “I can’t–... I can’t bear not knowing even a second longer.”

Even in his current state, he could undo the magic. What he couldn’t hope to undo in this state or possibly any other, is the potential damage it might do to Rook. 

But he can’t refuse. Refusing will be damaging regardless, and that he cannot allow.

“Then… I would ask that you join me in the bath, my darling.”

Emmrich wonders what it says about him that he thinks Rook looks much more like himself without his clothes. While he’s sure to have lost weight all over his body, it’s most noticeable in his face. Whereas the rest of his lovely, soft body still looks mostly the same. Scarred and weathered, yes, but unmistakably precious, so dear to Emmrich’s heart that he can almost feel it crying out for him. When he steps into the bath, Emmrich’s hands itch to touch him, but he wills himself to be patient. The spell requires them to touch regardless.

At first, Rook won’t look at him. He sits and stares into the water, picking at his fingers. 

“I’m… Terrified you won’t look at me the same if it’s true.”

Right now, it’s easy to pretend those five years Rook can’t remember simply don’t exist. As if that was a life separate from the one he’s living now. Once Emmrich restores those memories, there will be no escaping it: if Rook truly did commit cold-blooded murder, can he honestly say that it wouldn’t change anything?

Actually, Emmrich realises, that very question is irrelevant. Rook didn’t commit cold-blooded murder. Saying so out loud won’t get him anywhere, but he knows it in his heart as true and simple of a fact as his own name. Whatever he did do will, no doubt, turn out to be a great deal more complicated.

“And,” Rook then adds, “that you’ll still forgive me for it.”

What’s much more important is that he forgives himself for it, Emmrich thinks but doesn’t say. Even if he did what he fears to have done, does that mean he is beyond redemption? Has he not fought the good fight for a decade since? Emmrich would never excuse the deed itself, but he cannot get behind the idea that it should mean that Rook doesn’t get to live a life anymore. It wouldn’t be a life free of burdens, no, but it already isn’t.

“I shan’t make any promises either in favour or to the contrary,” Emmrich softly replies, extending his hand, “come to me.”

Still feeling a little wobbly, Emmrich gets onto his knees opposite Rook, putting his fingers to his face. It’s almost as if the very skin is thinner, the bones beneath hard against his fingertips. 

Rook once remarked that he was certain Emmrich knew every bone in the human body. He does, but he tries not to think of Rook as a mere collection of exquisitely shaped parts. His fingers trace upwards as he recites them in his mind: zygomatic, sphenoid, temporal, parietal. It saddens him that Rook should think of what he desired under the demon’s influence as exclusively grotesque and depraved. If he thinks that he is the only one to have thought about touching his fingers to the flesh, then he is wrong.

When they were still facing the possibility of dying every other day, Emmrich had sometimes thought of preparing Rook’s body in the event of his death. The last thing he’d ever be able to do for him, he’d thought, as he envisioned touching his fingers to Rook’s still and silent heart as he lay upon Emmrich’s slab. Is that so different? Is Rook having wanted to feel Emmrich’s heart beating inside of his own body so different to Emmrich thinking about keeping a drop of his blood inside a necklace, or keeping a small pouch of his finger bones? Is it not borne of the same basic longing to have and keep each other for all eternity?

As his magic slowly penetrates Rook’s mind and shatters the barrier there, he thinks he’s honoured to know a love so deep.

Minutes crawl by at a glacial pace as Rook stares into the water, giving no clear response other than utter bafflement.

Rook’s mind feels like it might fall apart at the seams as five years of memories rush back to him at once. It’s destablising, dizzying, and the conclusion leaves him feeling… Hollowed out. 

“His name was Velothil. We were together for almost five years when he tried to strangle me in my sleep. I… Killed him because I had to.”

And it was Velothil who taught him to sleep with a knife beneath his bedroll in the first place. Rook’s life knows no end of bitter ironies.

Emmrich shakes his head in disbelief. “Why…? What happened?”

“... Solas happened.”

Rook remembers now: meeting Velothil after he got caught in a bad storm and needed to find shelter. Happening upon him in a cave and nearly getting killed because his garb was so clearly Tevene, and Velothil was a Dalish elf in hostile territory. Barely managing to talk his way out of it by offering to share the food he had with him. 

Talking for hours. With Velothil, too, he’d been smitten from the start. Long, dark hair that cascaded down his back and shoulders. Brown eyes perfectly framed by his long, black eyelashes. He was tall and broad, stronger than Rook, and as kind as he was large. They travelled together for years, seeing as much of Thedas as they could.

They were happy. Rook had loved him as deeply as he loves Emmrich now. 

“Solas?” Emmrich asks, stunned.

“Maybe Nevarra wasn’t as badly affected,” Rook says quietly, staring off to the side, “but Solas issued a call to his people. I don’t… I don’t know the specifics. Neither did Varric. Elves disappeared all over Thedas, heeding the call. Velothil was one of them. I can only assume it was some sort of compulsion.”

After all, what they’d had was real. It was. He’s sure of that. Has to be, because what he has now feels the same. 

“Rook, darling…”

“After I stabbed him, he…”

He closes his eyes and experiences the moment as if he’s once again lying on his back on that thin, old bedroll, Velothil’s hands slack around his throat.

“Ir abelas,” Velothil says, blood dripping from his mouth onto Rook’s face, “ar lath ma, vhenan. Forget me. Forget my fate.”

Velothil collapsing on top of him. The knife burying deeper into his chest as his weight sags against it. Rook struggling to breathe, his throat sore and tight, marked with the strength of Velothil’s hands. Moving out from under him, shaking him, screaming, howling like a beast. Not even his blood magic could bring him back. If death had claimed him then, he would have welcomed it with open arms.

He spent two days in that same camp after burying him. When by the third day he still hadn’t died of sheer heartbreak, he fulfilled Velothil’s last request.

“He told me to forget him,” Rook finishes, looking back at Emmrich with a devastated, fragile smile, “so I did.”

Emmrich was right: Rook didn’t kill his lover because he wanted to, but because he was forced to defend himself. It was Velothil who had tried to kill him, maddened by the Dread Wolf’s whispers. He can’t tell whether this is more or less painful than the alternative.

“What do you feel, darling?”

“I… I’d like to think about that for a while, if that’s okay with you.”

It’ll have to be. “Of course.”

“And… Maybe no more talking of this today. You’re sick, I’m… Something. Tired.”

“I understand, darling. Thank you for all you’ve told me. I know it must’ve been difficult.”

Rook nods, unsure how to feel. Much of his guilt has abated, but he’s left feeling completely adrift. By any logic, he should be happy: he didn’t want to kill Emmrich, he didn’t want to kill his former lover. He should be elated and relieved, but he’s not. 

Maybe it will come, he thinks, too tired even to despair. For now, at least, it finally feels like the heavy chains of remorse that bound him and kept him from being close to Emmrich have loosened, even if they’re not completely gone yet.

He sits back against the rim and sighs, deeply. Emmrich sits by his side and finally takes his cup of tea, grimacing when the tepid liquid touches his lips. Wordlessly, Rook reaches over and imbues his magic into the cup until it’s steaming hot again, the way Emmrich likes it. 

“There you go,” Rook says softly, daring to look up at Emmrich’s face. How strange it is, to now be acutely aware of where he learned how to love, and to see those efforts paid off in the way that Emmrich looks at him. He’s pretty sure he didn’t know how to love yet when he and Dorian got together the first time, and everything he did after Velothil died was based on instinct. Or so he thought. Now that he remembers everything once more, he can see the similarities clear as day between his relationship with Velothil and his relationship with Emmrich. The tenderness, the care, the passion. The struggle to communicate, the urge to run when things get hard, the lies he’s told. 

Funny, he thinks, when Velothil and Emmrich couldn’t be more different as people. Velothil was a hot-blooded, overconfident, and oftentimes reckless man. His zest for life was exactly the thing that drew Rook to him. With Emmrich, it was his calmness, his intelligence, the quiet intensity with which he experiences the world, a stark contrast to the roaring excitement that Velothil brought to his life. 

There’s still a small gap in his memory between the moment he chose to seal his memories away, and Dorian finding him in Minrathous. It’s still safe to say he never would’ve returned if it hadn’t been for the fact that Minrathous was all he knew. Dorian finding him is what led to him joining the Lucerni and then the Shadow Dragons, and the rest is history. If he were to take a fanciful view of things, he’d say it’s been a long, strange road from one great love to another. 

Never in his life did he consider himself very fortunate, but he must be.

As he ponders all this, Emmrich quietly sips his tea, allowing himself a moment to let everything sink in. He has a thousand or more burning questions slowly searing holes into his already debilitated brain. There are now five years worth of memories no doubt racing through Rook’s mind, but he appears strangely calm. Not relieved, but not saddened either. His lack of response is utterly perplexing to Emmrich. He’s come to know Rook as an impassioned, sensitive man. Does his heart not stir at the knowledge of having known enduring love, only for it to be betrayed? 

Impossible. But Emmrich won’t pry. Not today, at least. He goes to take another drink and finds his cup empty. Next to him, Rook smiles. 

“Lost in thought?”

Emmrich returns the cup to its saucer on the bath’s rim.

“There is much to ruminate on.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Slow, dull. Like a great fog shrouds my mind, though it no longer feels as though my grey matter is attempting to leave its confines, thanks to you.”

“Throat sounds pretty raw, too.”

“Quite, and I suppose I’m rather… Worn out.”

“Are you hungry at all?”

Now that the question has been posed, Emmrich finds that he’s absolutely famished, but his stomach still feels upset to the point where he isn’t sure he’d be able to keep much of anything down.

“I am, but I fear eating will only make matters worse.”

“The tomatoes I got from the greenhouse last week have ripened,” Rook says, touching his pinky to Emmrich’s underwater. “I could make you some soup, if you’d like.”

Emmrich takes Rook’s hand and squeezes it, overcome with gratitude. Few things could be more healing on this day than a hot, nourishing bowl of soup, lovingly prepared. 

“Would you?”

It was Velothil who taught him how to cook. In his father’s house, all meals were prepared by slaves. At the Circle it was no different. Rook knew nothing of life when he left Minrathous, nothing other than how to fight tooth and nail to survive.

Rook takes a deep breath. 

Thank you, Velothil.

“Yeah. I’ll take care of you.”

The way he says it carries all the gravitas of a vow, Emmrich realises. In the silence that passed between them as he drank his tea, something has changed. For the first time since meeting Desire, Rook’s tired eyes have regained some of their former lustre. Warmth is returning to his face.

It’s as if they’re finally coming home.

“I love you, Rook.”

“I love you, too.”

Rook reaches behind Emmrich to drag over a little wooden tray that holds their soaps and washcloths. 

“May I?” he asks, already wetting and lathering a cloth with soap. 

Far be it from Emmrich to refuse being pampered when he’s feeling as cruddy as he is today.

“Please.”

His hand is raised out of the water so that Rook may wash his arm, paying particular attention to his hand and each of his fingers. So much longer and thinner than his own, so very fine. Emmrich’s the one whose hands look like they were made to play the piano, gliding across the pristine, heavy keys. By comparison, Rook’s relatively small hands, thickened by years of casting magic through them and slinging punches, look more suited to butchery.

That thought makes him smile. He wonders what Emmrich’s father’s hands looked like.

“Does my palm hold particularly amusing fortunes today, darling?”

Rook looks up at Emmrich, smiling big enough that his two front teeth poke out. Ineffably cute.

“It does,” Rook answers, tracing one of the lines with his fingers, “this one holds the promise of being swaddled in blankets on the sofa in the very near future.”

“Auspicious. What else?”

Part of Rook had been afraid that learning how to touch Emmrich again would be difficult, but his body never forgot.

“Hmmm…” 

Emmrich leans in, playing along. “What is it?”

“This line suggests…” Rook says softly, slowly raising his head, “that you’ll be cured by true love’s kiss. Of course we mustn’t put stock in these divinat– mm–...But–”

The hand not being read by the most charming fortune teller he’s ever known clasps the back of Rook’s neck.

“In search of a cure, one must be willing to try less orthodox methods,” Emmrich agrees, kissing him again. He’s dizzy, hot, but so, so happy–

“Oi,” Rook says, laughing softly, “oi– I’ll be here all day–”

When Emmrich won’t let up, his soapy hand joining the other on Rook’s neck, he gently scoops him up into his arms and seats him in his lap. Overwhelming though it may be, he’s willing to ride out the storm that is Emmrich if that means he gets to wash him in the meantime. He stinks of sickness and sweat in ways that Rook doesn’t find appealing anymore. 

So he simply leans his head back and gives in, letting Emmrich kiss his lips until they’re raw with the scrape of his stubble. All the while, he gently washes Emmrich’s other arm, his chest, his back, drinking in each of his pleased little noises and sighs. Even in a steaming hot bath, Emmrich feels just as hot.

“You’re really burning up,” Rook says when he gets a moment to breathe, “c’mon–”

Emmrich rests his forehead against Rook’s, utterly out of breath. He tires far too quickly to be able to do anything more than kiss and hold Rook, but his body aches with need. 

“Rook–” 

“I don’t think so, sweetheart. You need to rest.”

“But–”

Rook slowly tips him back into the water, rinsing the soap from his body. Above him, the bathroom spins as he’s held in Rook’s strong arms. He is both plagued by illness and quivering with delight at the way Rook’s hand strokes along his arms, his chest, his sides, and finally, his stomach. It’s been torture, living his life in close proximity to Rook but not daring to touch. Now, his ailing body cries out to make up for lost time. A call that Emmrich won’t heed, if only because he wants a more worthy reunion with Rook’s body, one that he’ll be able to fully appreciate.

Not that he gets much of a say in the matter, in the end. Rook gets up as carefully as he can, slowly helping Emmrich upright, before helping him out of the bath. Outside of the bath’s warm water, the bathroom feels dreadfully cold in spite of summer’s heat.

While he stands dripping and trembling on the mat, Rook steps away to retrieve the largest towel they own. What Emmrich doesn’t know is that Rook enchanted it for his own sake during the winter: it warms instantly in his hands, and Emmrich sighs with relief as it’s draped across his shoulders. 

Dried off and dressed in clean pyjamas, Rook tucks Emmrich in on the sofa, with an extra pillow at his back for support. Emmrich can only watch, eyes growing ever more heavy as Rook fusses over him. By the time he kisses Emmrich’s forehead, he’s fallen asleep.

Finally, Rook thinks, before setting off to make tomato soup. It’s a welcome distraction, though his clumsy fingers cut himself more than once as he’s chopping vegetables at the counter. 

It’s okay, he tells himself. It can’t all be perfect again immediately. For all that his body remembers how to touch, how to reach and hold, his mind is lagging far behind. It will take time to stop panicking, to stop feeling like he doesn’t have the right. Emmrich has proven to him time and time again that there is very little they can’t recover from, even if Rook can’t see the forest for the trees. He has no choice but to trust that it’s no different this time. The dregs of Desire’s corruption stick to him like tar, but he’ll wash it off. Day by agonising day until he hopefully wakes up one morning and touches Emmrich without even thinking about it. 

With the vegetables roasting slowly in their oven, he rejoins Emmrich at the sofa, pleased to find him still asleep. Even just thirty minutes is better than nothing. Just like how eating a soggy, sickly sweet pancake is better than not eating anything. 

Rook smiles at himself and sinks to the floor beside the couch, cushioning his head against Emmrich’s arm and closing his eyes. 

They’ll make it back to each other, he thinks, dozing off. They always do.

Another half an hour later, Emmrich startles awake, breathing hard. Rook wakes from the jolting arm underneath his head and is immediately on his feet.

“Emmrich?”

Wild-eyed and disoriented, Emmrich reaches up to touch Rook’s face, to confirm that he’s real. Stubble scrapes against his hand. Soft, warm skin underneath his fingers.

Alive.

“I’m–... I’m fine, darling.”

“Mm,” Rook hums, not buying it, “where have I heard that before?”

With ease, he lifts Emmrich and his bundle of blankets off of the couch so he can sit with him in his lap while keeping him warm. The fact that he isn’t sweating like a pig in spite of the sun streaming in through the windows is worrying. How can he be this cold?

Emmrich, meanwhile, buries his nose into Rook’s neck and stays there. It’s the scent of him. It always helps. 

“Another nightmare?” Rook asks, slowly stroking his back. Somehow, his spine feels even more knobbly to him these days. Clearly Emmrich has lost some weight too, all the more noticeable for his lack of reserves in that regard, contrary to Rook. “Same as always?”

All he gets in response is a nod. Emmrich’s body curls into him as he shivers. Rook is sweating already, but he hikes the blankets up all the same to insulate them both, hoping his own body heat will warm Emmrich back up. He pushes any thoughts of how fragile his body feels and how easily he could break it far into the back of his mind, unwilling to form a mouthpiece for Desire’s filth any longer.

“I’m here,” he whispers, kissing the dark streak among Emmrich’s soft, grey hair, “no matter how many times you keep getting dragged back to that place in your dreams, I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

It’s easy to mistake the shaking of his body for another feverish shudder, but it’s not. Rook can feel Emmrich’s hot tears running down his neck and seeping into his collar. The cold, dead ashes in the pit of his stomach slowly smoulder back to life as anger reintroduces itself into his psyche with all the subtlety of an exploding volcano. He tightens his arms around Emmrich and swallows it down. There’s no point, after all: he’s killed the demon already. Any other destruction would detract from the only thing that matters: making sure Emmrich is well.

Then, the front door opens and closes. Rook looks up to see Manfred approaching.

“Daddy?”

“Dad’s sick, Manfred,” Rook says softly. “I’ve got vegetables in the oven. Could you check on them, maybe finish the soup if you’ve got time?”

“Yes!”

“Maker, what would we do without you? Thank you, dear boy.”

“You’re welcome!”

As Manfred happily goes about cooking, which he delights in for likely the same reasons he finds making tea so fascinating, Rook settles further into the couch.

“His manners have gotten better,” Rook points out. 

Emmrich sniffles and takes a deep breath, his shuddering exhale felt against Rook’s neck.

“I suppose you’ve been rather quiet lately.”

Rook laughs, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that you are responsible for the more vulgar parts of Manfred’s vocabulary.”

“That’s not true. Neve taught him venhedis, and Taash taught him–”

“That need not be repeated, darling.”

With a gentle squeeze, Rook pulls back. Emmrich looks wrecked: bleary and red-eyed, his damp hair sticking up in all directions, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his face all the same.

“How are you feeling?”

“Dreadful,” Emmrich admits, huddling closer still, “but warm.”

Rook resists the urge to squeeze him even tighter. Yes, Emmrich clearly feels terrible, but he looks so content, so mighty pleased all bundled up in Rook’s arms. He looks and feels so much smaller than a man of his considerable height has any right to.

“Cute as a button, you are. Don’t know why you don’t sit in my lap more often.”

“I’m hardly a blushing debutante, Rook.”

A small frisson of excitement along Rook’s nerves brings with it the fearful memory of when he last felt arousal towards Emmrich. It frightens him, and he nearly swallows the words before deciding that the only way out is through, still.

“And yet, you’re always blushing the few times you are in my lap.”

Emmrich slowly raises his head, his eyebrows raised with surprise, assessing. He hasn’t heard a suggestive joke out of Rook in almost two months. Part of him needs to know why it’s suddenly so much easier, but he agreed to speak no more of it today. 

Rook looks at him, waiting for his response, his heart beating in his throat.

“Well,” Emmrich says slowly, carefully, “that is typically a very demanding position.”

Strangely enough, it feels shockingly more intimate to touch Emmrich’s bare skin underneath his pyjamas than it did touching his naked body in the bath. Rook slips his hand into Emmrich’s shirt and scratches his lower back. Even there, he feels hot to the touch.

“Even though you’re usually doing the demanding when you’re there.”

“Demanding and pleading are rather different things, dearest.”

“And you’re so very good at both, amatus.”

This he can do, Rook realises. The problems likely won’t truly start until Emmrich tries to touch him, to pleasure and worship him in the way he always has. But they can talk about it. That’s a thought he has to force to the forefront of his mind as a positive thing rather than something so terrifying that it makes him want to bolt to any other room and lock himself inside. 

“Am I?” Emmrich asks, feeling like he’s floating on a hazy cloudscape that is part fever, part arousal. 

“Yes, you are,” Rook replies huskily, lowering his voice to keep well out of Manfred’s earshot, “doesn’t matter whether you’re ordering me to fuck you harder or begging me to make you come. You’re always perfect.”

Emmrich’s soft, fluffy cloudscape gives way to a vortex of dizziness as blood appears to rush away from his brain, bringing with it a wave of nausea. 

“I’m– Darling, I–... The spirit is willing, but…”

Rook kisses his clammy forehead and sighs softly. “I know, just… Keep it in mind for when you’re all better.”

Emmrich wishes he could will the sickness out of his body, but he’s painfully aware that there’s nothing to be done but rest and wait. And, perhaps, taking things slowly while he’s on the road to recovery is warranted. It’s obvious that Rook is making a valiant effort to get past his fears, and Emmrich must be wary of overwhelming him. 

Over the next couple of days, weeks of little to no progress suddenly crystallise into the building blocks needed to rebuild their relationship, brick by brick. By far the biggest help is that Emmrich can finally, finally get a little bit of sleep. It’s still only about four hours a night at most, but with a few naps taken throughout the day, he just about manages to feel like a human being again. Rook watches over him like a hawk when he naps, happy to suffer a sweaty afternoon in the height of summer if it means Emmrich won’t be alone when he inevitably wakes from another nightmare. Now that he sleeps for longer, they’ve returned with a vengeance. Emmrich, however, no longer keeps his need for touch and comfort silent, and he is indulged and cared for at every turn. It’s remarkable how much more awake he feels just for having had a cuddle in the morning.

Rook tells him of Velothil, of how their relationship shaped him. How it made him gentler, softer, less prone to spontaneous combustion. He still struggles to eat, but he takes his meals with Emmrich now, and Emmrich couldn’t care less whether it takes fifteen minutes or an hour. He refuses to leave the table until Rook has finished eating, which Rook appreciates. It becomes a little easier each time, and he feels less lethargic by the day. He still struggles with how to feel about his returned memories, about losing Velothil to Solas, and then having helped redeem Solas for all his sins while Velothil lies dead.

Solas never even knew who Velothil was. He was just another expendable piece on the board. Rook decides he’s glad to see the back of Solas, hopefully for the rest of his life and long thereafter.

He distracts himself from his spiralling thoughts by pampering Emmrich within an inch of his life. The benefit of this is twofold: every time he touches Emmrich he fears the next time just that much less, to the point where he actively begins looking forward to it again, and two, Emmrich gets everything he needs to make a speedy recovery. He is well-fed, loved, and tenderly nursed back to health by Rook’s gentle hands. Rook still looks at those hands and expects to see them covered in blood. Most nights, he still dreams of it. But on the first morning after Emmrich comes home sick, he washes Rook’s hands as they shower and declares them pristinely clean before kissing his palms. He repeats it the day after, and the day after that. The sort of absolution Rook sorely needed but didn’t dare to ask for. 

Sometimes he wonders why and how Emmrich understands him so well in spite of his reluctance and inability to talk about things properly. 

But he does, which is exactly why they haven’t been intimate yet, he suspects. Emmrich can tell Rook still freezes when he touches him with intent. That he draws back involuntarily when he tries to get a hand beneath his clothes. Rook tells him to keep going, and he does, until he inevitably has to cool his heels before he takes it too far too soon. It disappoints them both, though Rook is grateful for Emmrich’s restraint. In return, he tries to give as much as he’s able. Just last night he pressed himself up against Emmrich’s back, kissing the back of his neck, whispering filthy little promises until Emmrich’s head was spinning with desire and he had to tell Rook to stop.

Unfortunately, that means that several days into his recovery and feeling better than he did even before he got sick, he’s so pent up he can barely think of anything but making love to Rook. So much so that he is fatally distracted while he is shaving, and ends up shaving away a considerable chunk of his mustache. He tries to salvage it by shortening the other end, but he looks ridiculous. Resigned to his fate, he sighs and shaves it off entirely. It’ll return within the month, and he supposes he can endure some light ribbing from his students and colleagues. Deserved ribbing at that, what with how short he’s been with them.

It’s a particularly hot, stifling day today, but the dark clouds on the horizon promise a refreshing summer storm. It’ll be good to get some of the excess humidity out of the air, and to bask in the scent of petrichor. Yes, perhaps today is an excellent day for them to visit the gardens.

When he enters the kitchen, Rook and Manfred both stare at him. Manfred makes a vaguely distressed noise. Rook covers Manfred’s eyes.

“What happened?”

“A slight mishap during shaving.”

Manfred hisses again, still sounding unhappy.

“It’s just dad, Manfred,” Rook says, wide-eyed. He likes Emmrich’s moustache, likes how distinguished it makes him look, but the last thing he’s going to complain about is his husband’s face. It’s – exciting to see him in a new light. Perhaps more than it should be. 

“I suppose he’s never seen me barefaced,” Emmrich sighs, “nor you, for that matter.”

“Are you – nervous?”

Emmrich tries not to fidget and straightens his back, rocking on his heels.

“You’ve not made it a secret that you’re quite fond of my facial hair, it’s only natural–”

“Wha– Hang on,” Rook says, before looking down at Manfred, “what time does your class start, Manfred?”

“Eight!”

A glance at the clock reveals it to be a quarter to eight. He pats Manfred on the shoulders.

“C’mon son, time for you to get going.”

“Yes!”

Before he closes the door behind him, Manfred turns back to wave.

“Bye-bye! Love you!”

Rook and Emmrich stand frozen in the kitchen, mouths hanging open.

“Did he just–” Rook asks.

Emmrich can scarcely speak for the lump in his throat. “I–... I do believe he did.”

He wonders whether Manfred is just mimicking what they say to each other, or whether he feels it, too. Perhaps there is no meaningful difference between the two.

“I’ll have to tell Lucanis about this. I wonder what Spite would say.”

“Oh, indeed. He might remark that Manfred appears to have a heart of his own now. Fascinating! Yes, let us visit Treviso with Manfred soon–”

It’s his own fault for dangling an interesting query in front of Emmrich.

“But,” Rook says, sauntering over, “back to the topic of your facial hair…”

“I’m sorry, darling, it’ll grow back soon enough–”

As he has many times over the course of their relationship, Emmrich finds himself on the receiving end of an amused, puzzled stare.

“Emmrich, I’d never tell you what to do with your body.”

“Of course not, darling, but one is allowed to have a preference.”

Rook’s preference is to have Emmrich’s face on his, with or without his moustache. The kitchen darkens as outside, the clouds blot out the sun and cover the sky in deep greys. Thunder rumbles threateningly overhead.

“You’re not afraid I won’t think you as handsome now, are you?” 

But he is. Emmrich knows Rook thinks of him as beautiful, but that was in a prior configuration. Not to mention, it must be jarring: he’s only ever known Emmrich with his perfectly maintained moustache.

“Well–”

“Amatus,” Rook chastises gently, “do you think I never wondered?”

“Wondering is still some degrees away from appreciating, one should think.”

“You don’t think I’ve gone off you, surely. Why’s this bother you so much?”

Because today was supposed to be the day, Emmrich thinks. It was supposed to be perfect. To finally touch each other intimately again, to finally lose himself in Rook’s body the way he’s desired to for weeks. Though it may be but a small hurdle, he wanted there to be none at all today. It’s thrown him off his rhythm. He had a plan: he would march into the kitchen, sweep Rook off his feet and tell him that today is the last day of respite before he must return to work. That, knowing of Rook’s love for summer rain, they’d walk in the gardens together after breakfast and then return home to dry off. The rest of the day was meant to be spent in a tangle of limbs on their bed, basking in the summer sun and the glow of their shared affection.

Emmrich sighs. Maybe he’s more tired than he cares to admit.

“I suppose you think I’m being rather silly.”

“An astute observation, professor. I think you look exceedingly dashing, as always. I’d even say I wouldn’t mind if you did this once a year or so. It’s like I get a second you. Now that’d be a fine birthday present next month.”

A copy of himself? It’s not difficult to create an illusion, but a physical manifestation? One that’s sentient enough to do what Rook wants him to do? Fiendishly difficult magic, but he could look into it if Rook truly–

“I was joking, Emmrich.”

“Were you?”

“Mostly, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of it. You are an exceptionally skilled mage, after all.”

“I must admit this is an avenue of magic I’ve not previously pursued,” Emmrich says, tipping Rook’s chin up with his finger, “but if it would please you…”

“Unless you won’t even share me with yourself, of course.”

Emmrich bends down for a kiss. “I should think I’ll be just fine.”

It’s strange, not to feel the tickling of Emmrich’s moustache against his upper lip, or his jaw, his neck. Yes, he does prefer him with rather than without, but there is a great deal of mitigating novelty.

“You look dressed to go outside,” Rook then says, pulling back, “going somewhere?”

“I was hoping we might walk the gardens soon. There’s sure to be a cloudburst any moment now.”

Rook looks out of the window just as the first drops of rain start pattering against the glass. It’s been an unbearably hot couple of days, wrapped around a feverish and shivering Emmrich as he was. Some time out in the rain might do them both good.

“Looks like we’ve got to hurry.”

By the time they make it to the Memorial Gardens, it’s pouring out. They’re soaked down to the skin in seconds, not having bothered with coats, and they walk slowly along the muddy paths with their faces turned up towards the lukewarm rain. 

It’s as if everything finally washes off of them. The cleansing rain after a forest fire. This time, Rook doesn’t wait for them to reach the grave monument where they shared their first kiss and where he proposed. He takes Emmrich’s hand in the middle of the stone walk path and pulls him against his body, clasping his other hand around the back of his neck to kiss him. Yes, Rook thinks he’s very silly: deprived of his facial hair and with his hair sticking to his forehead, drenched with rain, Rook thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

Emmrich is distantly aware that they’re in public as he tilts Rook’s head back and pushes his tongue past his lips, moaning softly at the taste of him. Maybe all they needed was to get out of the house, to return to where it all began. 

“Darling,” he breathes, “we can’t stay here if–”

Evidently, Rook disagrees, teasing one of Emmrich’s stiff nipples through his shirt. “I don’t see why not.”

“Because I– Nnh– I doubt the faculty will appreciate–”

“The faculty can go pound sand for all I care.”

“Be that as it may, I’d prefer it if they didn’t see me with an erection.”

“I see. In that case–”

Rook looks around and spots a tree near the fence that’ll provide them with enough cover. He drags Emmrich over and pushes him up against the tree, thoroughly enjoying his scandalised, wide-eyed expression.

“R-Rook, I–!”

“You’re right. But your trousers are soaked already. No one will notice an extra stain.”

He lays his hand against Emmrich’s cock and slowly rubs his palm up and down against it, fingers gently squeezing his balls through the fabric. Emmrich blushes fiercely and covers his mouth with his hand, stifling his desperate moans. Does Rook mean to make him come in his pants, here, now? 

“Aahh– Ah, Rook–”

“It’s been so long since I’ve touched you like this, hasn’t it?” Rook says softly. “So long since you’ve touched yourself. You’re so hard for me already, Emmrich. It won’t take much at all for you to come, will it?”

Emmrich thrusts hard into Rook’s hand, needing more friction, more pressure. Anyone could see them. They’re hardly well concealed even among the tree’s low branches and leaves. It’s a thought as blindingly terrifying as it is erotic. 

Rook’s soft, dark chuckle puffs against his cheek. “Not so worried about the faculty anymore, are you?”

It’s unlikely Rook can tell, but Emmrich feels precome seeping out of his cock and into the fabric of his trousers. He closes his eyes and surrenders to Rook’s touch, his voice in his ear. 

“What if they saw you like this, Emmrich? Wantonly pressed up against a tree and rutting against my hand like this. It’s undignified, amatus, but you can’t help yourself, can you?”

“N-no, no I can’t– Please–”

“I’ve got you,” Rook promises, “we’ll both be a little uncomfortable during the walk home, I think.”

Emmrich gasps as Rook squeezes his twitching cock. “Ah! O-oh, darling, is that s-so?”

“I’ve been soaking through my underwear since you walked out of the bedroom this morning. I–... I want you to touch me so badly– fuck, I’m so wet for you–”

The unrestrained desire makes his voice quiver, and Emmrich feels his cock throb fiercely. He’s too far gone to turn the tables still, to bend Rook over against the tree and take him.

“Tell me what you w-want, Rook–”

“Anything. Everything. Tear me to pieces and put me back together again, I don’t care–”

By now, Emmrich knows what that means. Though he barely possesses the presence of mind to think straight, he opens his eyes to look at Rook. Emmrich takes his hand off of his cock. 

“Oh, but you do, don’t you?” Emmrich asks, standing up straight, using every bit of his height to his advantage to tower over Rook. “Do you imagine that in the intermittent weeks since we last properly made love, I’ve forgotten who you are?”

Rook’s smile alone is bright enough to conjure rainbows among the streaming rain, at least in Emmrich’s mind.

“And who am I?”

“An insatiable little tart who thinks he’s expressing his desire to be ravished to the point of tears subtly.”

Emmrich leans down to kiss Rook’s jaw, then the shell of his ear. Rook shudders, the fear he’s felt for weeks nothing but an undercurrent to his desire now.

“But worry not, my dearly beloved husband,” he whispers, “I had very much intended not to allow you to leave our bed until your body remembers nothing but pleasure.”

“Nothing?” Rook teases, more than likely failing to pretend he isn’t seconds away from hauling Emmrich over his shoulder and making a run for their home. “Not even my name?”

“No, but you’ll remember mine.”

“And you? What do you want?”

The opposite, Emmrich thinks fondly. To be held, cherished, gently coaxed towards ecstasy time and time again. But there will be time for that, too, when the initial rush has worn off.

“For me to be held in the palm of your hand, darling. I would surrender myself wholly to you.”

Rook kisses him, softly, nowhere near as hurried or fervent as before. 

“I did promise to take care of you.”

“You have put me in rather a predicament, however,” Emmrich points out, indicating his very conspicuous erection. 

“I appreciate the credit, but I am not responsible for how well-endowed you are.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so.”

“Rook…”

“What? Don’t pretend like you mind that plans have changed. Maker knows I have to beg you for a quickie when I don’t have time or you’ll take up the next three hours of my day.”

Emmrich smirks, the barb not even breaching the surface of his confidence. 

“And yet, you’ll often come knocking for seconds mere hours later.”

“Seconds, thirds, dessert,” Rook murmurs, nose scrunching as he grins, “the works.”

Pulling his sash to the front to cover himself, Emmrich steps away from the tree. 

“Perhaps we ought to start with breakfast.”

“Now there’s something I’m sure I’ll be able to swallow with ease.”

On their brisk walk home, they run into professor Schmidt, who stops them to make small talk. Or rather, to state the obvious.

“You shaved.”

“I have.”

“You look like a different person.”

“I– Alexander, really–”

“Anyway, how’ve you been?”

As he’s inquiring after Emmrich’s health, Rook entertains himself by teasing a finger down Emmrich’s spine, tugging gently on the sash on the way down. Emmrich glances at him, but doesn’t otherwise make any moves to stop him. Rook briefly checks to see whether there’s anyone behind him and, when sure there isn’t, firmly squeezes Emmrich’s ass.

“But we re- ally must be getting home,” Emmrich says, sounding only slightly off-key. Oh, Rook is going to pay dearly for this. “Thank you for looking after my students, and for bringing me home when I was ill.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Schmidt replies. “Take care, rest up another day. Be seeing you.”

As soon as they’ve turned a corner and are alone once more, Emmrich lays his arm across Rook’s shoulders and pulls him in to whisper into his ear.

“You’re being very impish, darling. I’ve half a mind to give you a spanking when we get home.”

“I thought you didn’t want to reward bad behaviour.”

Emmrich moans softly against his ear when his backside gets pinched a second time.

“Mischievous little fiend. Does it seem wise to taunt your dear professor this way, so near the end of the year? Your final grade weighs heavily on your average, you know.”

“I’m sure you’ll find my paper is immaculate, professor Volkarin,” Rook says softly in response, already thrilled with the direction this has taken. “As for my conduct outside of your classroom… I would remind you that you’re just as bad as I am.”

“A heinous accusation, to be sure.”

“Were you not seducing me moments ago? In broad daylight, at that.”

“It’s rather dark out, what with the storm.”

Rook turns his head and kisses his nose. “The sun always seems to shine around you, professor.”

“Careful, little bird,” Emmrich warns him, smiling as he does, “whatever will we do, were I to fall in love with you?”

“Suppose you’d have to make an honest man out of me.”

“Mm, that would be the proper thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

“Running off with a student. Dear me, professor, aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself? You haven’t even read my paper yet.”

“You would dangle a chance at your enduring affection in front of me as a bribe?”

“That is how these things work, isn’t it?”

In the stairwell to the residential quarters, Emmrich corners Rook and presses him up against the wall.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve talking to me the way you do, my sweet.”

“Do you think I don’t know about those cold, lonely nights you spend touching yourself to the thought of me? Come now. Wouldn’t you rather it were my hand–” Rook says, stroking Emmrich’s barely softening cock over his sash, “stroking your cock? My fingers inside of you?”

It’s a little close to home, given what they’re just been through, but the reality of it only fuels the excess of lust Emmrich’s held within him all this time.

“Yes,” he breathes, gasping when Rook licks a drop of rain from his throat, “yes, I always wish it was you–”

“Then take me to your home,” Rook purrs, “even though you’re not supposed to. It’s what you want the most, isn’t it? To lay me out on your big, soft bed and have your wicked way with me?”

“A soft bed? I think not. A soft bed is terrible for one’s back–”

“Yes, it took me a moment to adjust to the mortuary slab you call our bed. Thankfully I was used to those awful infirmary beds already.”

“Mortuary–?! Why, I see you’ve not unlearned all your pampered ways, my spoiled lordling.”

“Just wait until you sleep in my bed in Minrathous. You’ll never want to go back.”

“I highly doubt it.”

“We didn’t come here to discuss the merits of our mattress though, did we?” Rook asks. “Unless you’re just biding your time until I get on my knees for you right here.”

“You would, wouldn’t you, darling? You’re always very eager to please.”

“And you are very easy to please.”

“Is that so?”

“For someone who claims to have impressive stamina…”

“The error in your calculation lies in the fact that you are failing to include the minutes, sometimes hours you spend teasing me. Truly, my dear, you could draw blood from a stone given enough time.”

“And yet,” Rook says, eyes sparkling with joy, “you’re the one holding me here.”

Pretending he’s about to take Rook, his student, home rather than Rook, his husband, is singularly thrilling. It’s a transgression of the sort he’d never even consider committing with any other student under any other circumstances. Aside from that, this little roleplay serves another purpose: distance. If Rook still shies away from intimacy as Emmrich fears he will when it comes to it, then being able to pretend it’s Emmrich’s first time seeing his fully naked body is helpful. It affords him a reason to be patient and careful without Rook ever knowing it’s for his benefit, which would only complicate matters.

And, he knows, both he and Rook are sick and tired of things being complicated.

“I will take you to my home,” Emmrich promises, gently pressing his thumb against Rook’s bottom lip, “and you will speak of it, and whatever happens inside, to no one. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes, professor.”

As they’re nearing home, Rook tries not to panic. Even before their extended dry spell, Emmrich was rarely the one to instigate this sort of play. Maybe he’s doing it because he’s sure it’ll get Rook going so good that he’ll forget he was ever anxious in the first place. In fairness, that’s been working reasonably well so far. Maybe what he needs to do is just give in. Give himself over to Emmrich completely and trust he won’t fall to pieces in the process. And if he threatens to do that anyway, he can always take over.

Once inside, it takes effort not to laugh as he pretends to have never seen the inside of their home before. He kicks his shoes off by the door just because he knows it drives Emmrich up the wall when he does that. True to form, Emmrich’s eye twitches as he sees it happening.

“You’ve been holding out on me, professor.”

“I’ve done no such thing. I simply never intended for our surreptitious dalliances to cross the boundaries of my office.”

“Or the lecture hall,” Rook adds, “the back of a carriage, the gardens, and on one very memorable occasion, in the library after hours.”

“I would remind you that it was you who asked me to meet you there.”

Rook’s sodden robes cling uncomfortably to his skin, but he refuses to take them off himself, wandering about the house as if he doesn’t know where the bedroom is. 

“And you showed up, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I believe I did rather more than just ‘show up,’” Emmrich says, slowly approaching Rook and walking him backwards until his back hits the bedroom door. “Perhaps you might jog my memory.”

“It was very late at night. I think you were hard before you even came in.”

“And whose fault, pray, was that?”

“Yours,” Rook says sweetly. “It’s hardly my fault that you refused to have a wank before your next class after I left your office that afternoon.”

“Your overconfidence has once again provided you with the wrong answer.”

Because he had. He very much had. Rook had sat on his desk as Emmrich had fingered him to completion before leaving him behind with nothing but a kiss and the thinly veiled demand that they meet in the library after midnight. With eight hours to go before then and Rook’s slick all over his hand, Emmrich couldn’t bear it. He’d stroked himself through barely opened trousers, come splattering on his desk, mingling with the stain Rook had left behind. 

“In your office? Oh my, professor–”

“I must admit that since your arrival here I have known pleasure in a great many more rooms inside the Necropolis than I had before.”

“Glad to be of service.”

Emmrich tucks a lock of hair behind Rook’s ear and smiles fondly at him.

“Aren’t you just?”

“That’s why I’m your favourite, isn’t it?” Rook asks, tilting his chin up as Emmrich scratches at the stubble underneath.

“It certainly doesn’t hurt your chances.”

“Are you saying I have competition?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Emmrich would never admit out loud that he’s a little jealous and possessive, even if he plays into it just fine when they’re in the midst of their roleplay. Rook, on the other hand, has no such qualms: he knows who he is. He fists his hands in Emmrich’s shirt and pulls him in for a rough, sloppy kiss.

“That won’t do, professor. This isn’t what we agreed on.”

“Wrong again, my sweet,” Emmrich mutters, the beating of his heart surely audible. There’s such passion in Rook’s eyes, such fire. The spark of life Emmrich has so longed to see again, especially after what he suffered at the hands of Fear. “We agreed that you are mine. That hasn’t changed.”

Rook hears the implication loud and clear, and decides to play a different angle. “But something else has, hasn’t it, professor?”

At the rising of Emmrich’s eyebrows, Rook smirks: it’s a pivot he didn’t anticipate.

“Oh?”

“You wondered what we’d do if you were to fall in love with me,” Rook whispers, hands sliding up to Emmrich’s shoulders, fingers teasing along his neck and earlobes, “but your concerns are a little late on that score, aren’t they?”

Emmrich feigns surprise. He does enjoy this particular twist, and it serves his purposes exceedingly well. 

“I–”

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“It’s– It’s not right, Rook–”

“Mm, but it’s alright for you to bend me over your desk and fuck me three times a week?”

“Mind your tongue, you–”

“Or. What? You’ll love me harder? What terrifying implica–”

Emmrich cuts him off with a kiss and opens the door to the bedroom, stumbling inside and kicking it closed behind him. 

“You knew of this, and yet you continued our affair. Why?”

“So you admit it? You admit you’ve fallen for your favourite student? How scandalous, professor. How improper.”

Turning him around in his arms, Emmrich takes hold of Rook’s wrists and holds them behind his back, pinning him up against one of the bed’s corner posts.

“Answer the question, my dear Rook. Why are you still here?”

“Nnh– Because nothing beats the touch of a man in love–”

So very stubborn. Emmrich has to fight to keep the laughter from his voice as he leans in and whispers, “Is that all?”

“You really want to hear me say it, don’t you?”

“I do,” Emmrich breathes against his ear, “tell me why you kiss me in the rain, darling. Why you bring me food and why you tell Johanna off for being unkind towards me. What is it that made you come back to me after you found out that my heart beats for only you, and continued to allow me to hold you, to kiss you, to mark you as you desired me to?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Rook chuckles breathlessly. “You’ve had me from the start. I’ve loved you from the moment you opened your mouth in my presence.”

There’s no pretending, no guile at all in that statement. Emmrich knows it to be true.

“And you would accuse me of impropriety when it was you who seduced me?”

“Oh, please,” Rook drawls, turning his head and rolling his eyes, “as if I needed my wiles to draw you in. I could smile at you and you would come dancing to my tune.”

Rook pushes his ass back against Emmrich, still feeling the outline of his hard cock between his cheeks. Emmrich’s grip on his wrists tightens. A soft moan sounds near his ear. Maker, he’s sensitive today. 

“Quite right,” Emmrich affirms, “you’ve had me wound around your little finger, haven’t you?”

“I’d say we both are quite inextricably entangled, professor.”

Emmrich lets go of Rook’s wrists and puts his hands on his upper arms, squeezing gently. “Not yet, my sweet. But soon, we will be.”

So far, Rook appears calm. Excited, yes, but not on edge. The tension is electric, the room silent but for distant birdsong and the sound of their breathing. 

“Undress for me, Rook. Let me see you.”

As he turns around, Rook tries to recall whether they’ve ever done this before. Has he truly never just stripped naked for Emmrich? Moreover, has he never asked Emmrich to? An oversight most grave. He feels hot all over with Emmrich’s hungry gaze on him as his fingers undo the fastenings on his robe and lets it slide down his shoulders, revealing his bare skin underneath. Cherished, trained green eyes rove over his body, no doubt taking in the multitude of scars, connecting together like a network of branches all across his skin. Among them, his stretch marks and earlier scars are only barely visible anymore.

“Beautiful,” Emmrich whispers, struggling to keep his hands to himself. “Truly, how selfish of me to deprive others of your gifts.”

“Aw, I haven’t even unveiled my biggest asset yet.”

“I am intimately familiar with what’s in your trousers, Rook.”

“More than most, to be sure.”

“‘Most?’”

“There’s still a handful of people in Thedas who’re familiar. Like Dorian–”

“Don’t.”

Rook bites his lip and wonders if he should push his luck. Emmrich has been so gentle, so patient. He plays at rough but isn’t, not really. Is he doing that on purpose? If so, it’s up to Rook to signal that he can take a little more than this. That it’s okay. That it’s what he wants.

“Now now, professor. You’re not about to be jealous of a man who made me squeal like a pig years ago, are you?”

The highly unwelcome image of Rook being taken to his peak by Dorian flashes in Emmrich’s mind, and he can virtually feel himself colouring chartreuse with envy. Rook is well aware of Emmrich’s only partially played up disdain for hearing that name in the bedroom. Why would he invite it?

Unless?

“Take your trousers off,” Emmrich commands, “and lay down in the centre of the bed, on your back.”

What Rook wants to do is tear the clothes from his body and dive into bed as if it’ll morph into an oasis underneath him, but he forces himself to take it slow. Whatever is about to happen, he’s unlikely to be able to exercise any sort of control. He takes his time unbuttoning his trousers and stepping out of them, kicking his soggy clothes off the rug before he does as he’s told. The bed still feels warm from the sun shining on it earlier this morning, the pillow underneath his head smelling of the summer heat.

“You will answer me with only a ‘yes’ or a ‘no,’” Emmrich then instructs, standing at the foot of the bed. “Are you amenable to being restrained?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

A Fade-chain manifests at each of the four bedposts, tangling snugly around his wrists and ankles and pulling taut. He feels a great deal more vulnerable than he usually does, but he trusts Emmrich. He does.

Emmrich slowly unbuttons his shirt, relishing in the opportunity to give Rook a show. A year ago, he doesn’t think he would’ve dared. Because a year ago, he couldn’t imagine anyone looking at him the way Rook looks at him right now: feral with lust, hands subconsciously tugging at his restraints to reach and grab what comes to him. As the shirt slides past his bracelets among a symphony of gentle clinking, Emmrich trails a finger up Rook’s shin. 

“I love you,” Emmrich says softly, “and you love me, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And yet, you would invite my ire by conjuring the spectre of a previous lover, of whom my opinion has grown ever less favourable?”

Rook giggles and bites his tongue. Ah, Dorian’s letters. A continued thorn in Emmrich’s side as Dorian continues to offer unsolicited wedding advice and commentary on their relationship. The truth is that Rook knows Dorian only does that with people he truly loves and cares for. Dorian couldn’t be happier for him if he tried, but it’s in his nature to be a relentless little bastard about it.

“Yes,” Rook replies cheerfully. 

“I see. You must think me a fool.”

“No. Yes… Nnno.”

“I’m sure I must be,” Emmrich whispers, kneeling on the bed in just his trousers, “look at what you do to me, darling.”

Emmrich palms himself through his trousers, his cock once again at full mast and straining against the row of buttons. He moans and gives himself a squeeze, his cock going rigid at the sight of Rook’s thoroughly soaked, glistening underwear. If Rook wants to be pushed beyond the point of remembering why he was ever frightened in the first place, then Emmrich has no qualms about delivering him there. 

That, however, does not mean he’s about to give him what he wants.

“We’ve not had the luxury of time before, have we?”

It takes Rook a second to tear his eyes away from Emmrich’s ringed fingers stroking his cock.

“N-no.”

“And you’re always so eager for me, aren’t you darling? I think you’ve not once entered my office with a dry set of underwear, nor left it with one, for that matter.”

Maker, this is torture. This is what he gets, Rook thinks. Should’ve known.

“No.”

“You always come so quickly, so sweetly on my tongue, my fingers–”

“Y-yes.”

“And you are just as eager to receive my spend–”

“Yes!”

“Does it, therefore, excite you to know I’ve– I’ve not had the opportunity to seek release for some time?”

Rook’s breathing stutters. “Y-yes, yes–”

“I thought it might,” Emmrich says, smirking. He unbuttons his trousers, letting Rook see how hard he is, how tight the fabric pulls across his cock. Quickly, he gets up to take them off before kneeling between Rook’s thighs again. “But it would seem I am not the only one who hasn’t.”

Paradoxical though it seems to him, he suspects he has to overload Rook with pleasure before he’ll be more accepting of a gentle, intimate touch. To let the body claim victory over the mind in order to allow the mind, the soul the peace it needs to accept that it is loved.

Emmrich presses his thumb up against Rook’s stiff clit and rubs up and down, firmly. Rook can’t move an inch, spread out as he is, but he squirms as best he can.

“Ah! Fuck–!”

“I’ll allow it, just this once,” Emmrich says, raising an eyebrow, “curse as much as you like.”

Rook throws his head back and groans, loudly, before looking back at Emmrich. 

“Just admit you like it, professor–”

“I do. In fact, you’d do well to realise I never correct your abhorrent abuse of the common tongue when you beg me to please you.”

“Y-you bastard–”

“Exactly.”

“F-fuck, professor, I–”

“Yes?”

“It’s been t-too long, I c-can’t–”

“Fear not,” Emmrich promises, “it’s but the first of many.”

Rook’s hips rise off the bed in spite of his restraints when he comes, clit twitching fervently against the fabric of his underwear. Emmrich smiles and pulls down the waistband on his own, sighing with relief when his cock, full and heavy, finally springs free. Rook is still in the throes of his orgasm when Emmrich rubs his cock up against his clit over the soaked fabric, desperately gasping for breath.

“Aahh-ah– Ahh–!”

“That’s perfect, darling,” Emmrich coos, pulling Rook’s underwear up so he can rub between his labia. “Mmh–”

“F-fuck, that’s– T-too much–”

“You can take it, my sweet. I know you can.”

Emmrich has to strengthen his chains lest Rook tear them apart with nothing but brute strength as he spasms against the sheets. His body jolts and jerks involuntarily with each pass against his oversensitive clit, but he can’t move away from it, can’t do anything but bear it. 

“Ngh– Nnh–”

“Very good. If only you could see for yourself how you’ve stained your smallclothes,” Emmrich moans, thrusting up harder, “I know how it thrills you–”

“Fuck– Fuck– Professor–”

“That is why you insist on taking me inside of you before your afternoon classes, isn’t it?”

How is he still so coherent? Rook himself is so far gone, he very nearly asks him what classes he’s talking about.

“Y-yes, professor– Fuck, make it worse–”

“I intend to,” Emmrich growls, teetering on the edge already. Dizzy with anticipation and the sensation of Rook’s slick, plush labia against his cock. “I’d never deny you the pleasure– Mmh, oh–”

Rook wishes he’d fucking kiss him already. “You’re s-such a liar, ngh– You’ve r-refused me your seed plenty of times–”

Emmrich laughs breathlessly. “I’ve made you wait–”

“Tantamount to deprivation–”

“Is there something you want, perhaps?”

“Kiss me,” Rook pleads earnestly, “please–”

“How could I forget?” Emmrich sighs fondly, leaning on his elbows as he kisses Rook. Teeth gently nip at his bottom lip, the kiss broken by their gasps for breath. Rook can’t do anything but tilt his hips to meet the thrust of Emmrich’s cock, head falling back as another powerful surge of pleasure courses through his body. If he could just lift them high enough, maybe–

But Emmrich’s thrusts grow erratic, his grunts and moans stifled against Rook’s neck.

“Please, professor,” Rook whispers into his ear, “ruin them. Ruin me.”

Emmrich’s back arches as he comes with a shuddering cry. Long, thick spurts of come gush down Rook’s cunt, droplets seeping through the fabric where Emmrich’s cockhead is pushed up against it. Weeks of tension drain from his body, finding peace among the rabid chaos of their union. As he always does.

“That was lovely, prof– Hm?”

Surely Rook didn’t imagine them finished. Emmrich moves down his body and vanishes Rook’s undergarments, disappearing them into the Fade. At this, Rook inevitably breaks character and bursts out laughing.

“Please tell me you sent those to Solas somehow–”

“I’d like to think so.”

Rook is still laughing when Emmrich’s lips close around his clit and his tongue flicks against it, laughter petering out into whimpering. He sucks on it until it’s full and throbbing again before he pushes three fingers into Rook’s tight cunt, fingering his seed into him. 

“Sweet fucking Maker– That feels so much better without your moustache– K-keep going,” Rook gasps, “please keep going– oh– oh fuck–”

He comes a second time, squeezing Emmrich’s fingers so tight he nearly pushes them out of the canal, but Emmrich pushes them in harder, resisting the pulsing of the muscles. Rook tries to dig his heels in, but can’t. Tries to grab the sheets, but can’t. Emmrich’s tongue is still firmy rubbing up against his clit, and right on the back of his second orgasm comes a third as Emmrich roughly curls his fingers and demands it from him. 

Not even the unexpected onset of tears can stop it, and he sobs as he shakes to pieces for a third time in shockingly quick succession, his body quaking uncontrollably. Tears mingle with the sweat at his hairline, and the restraints disappear from his wrists and ankles. Emmrich is already halfway up his body when Rook frantically reaches for him, crushing him to his chest. He rolls them onto their sides and buries his nose in Emmrich’s shoulder.

“Let it out, darling,” Emmrich encourages him softly, “let the rain wash it all away from us.”

But the deluge he was sure would flow forth from his body doesn’t come. Maybe Rook has run out of grief, or maybe what he needed was something else entirely. The body in his arms, for example. Warm, strong, healthy. Intact. Containing all of its organs. 

Wordlessly, Rook pushes Emmrich onto his back, hesitating for a moment before laying a hand across his heart. It’s the one place that, even as he was actively trying to get back to normal, he hasn’t dared to touch. But there is no scar, no mark. Nothing. Only his mother’s locket, laying seemingly inert upon Emmrich’s bare, hairy chest. 

Something in him needs to confirm that what he saw wasn’t real. That none of it ever was. He closes his eyes and lets his magic course through Emmrich, finding his heart right away. As if he needed the Necropolis’ anatomy classes to know the way. All it did was give names to familiar pathways: lungs, pulmonary veins, pulmonary artery, right atrium, sinus node. There, the centre of Emmrich’s life, sparking at a rate of a little under two beats per second. Fast, but not too fast.

“Desire was right about one thing,” Rook says quietly, focusing on the shape of Emmrich’s heart. “It’s beautiful. I… I can see it, this way.”

His magic wraps around it, shaping itself to the contours of the heart. There is such harm he could cause like this, if he had the intention to. Emmrich is surely aware of this, and yet he does nothing to intefere. Rook can’t hurt him; he truly doesn’t fear it. 

Thinking back to that moment where Rook brandished his knife over his head, he doesn’t remember wanting to cause harm. He remembers wanting this: to know Emmrich’s heart, to treasure it, but he didn’t know how to do that anymore without holding it in his hands. Without consuming it.

Only now does he realise what it meant to have had his inhibitions taken away. This is a desire he knows he had all along. This is what the demon took from him and twisted into something unrecognisable. That’s why she spoke to him in Velothil’s voice: to awaken a desire that is much older than his love for Emmrich is.

Emmrich strokes his hair, quietly waiting for Rook to say something. The magic sparks underneath Rook’s hand to the exact beat of his heart. It tickles. 

When Rook eventually does raise his head, he smiles slightly. 

“I love you.”

“I love you too, my darling.”

“I… Have a few confessions to make.”

“... Oh?”

“I previously told you I’d never shown this magic to anyone. I told you… That I’d never had a lover like you before. That I’ve never loved like this before. None of it’s true, but I didn’t know that until a couple of days ago.”

“Rook…”

“No, please, I… It’s important to me that you… I truly thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with Velothil. If Solas hadn’t–... Done whatever he did, I probably would have.”

Emmrich does not give voice to the thought that he is grateful to Solas. Rook doesn’t deserve it, nor Velothil’s memory. If Velothil was the man who made Rook realise that his life was worth living prior to his betrayal, then he won’t speak an ill word against him. They both owe him the world.

“Go on.”

“I’d like to think I’ve known true love,” Rook murmurs softly, “twice. When I looked at Velothil’s heart, felt it with my magic, it felt the same as yours. It beats just as strong. I know its shape as intimately, I–... I love it exactly the same. I cook for you from the same desire to see you fed and healthy. I make love to you as passionately. After he died, I was sure a part of me died with him. But it is that part that lives on the strongest within me. It’s the part that loved him, it’s the part that loves you.”

“You mentioned before that you buried him,” Emmrich says, “do you remember where?”

“I–... We were close to Minrathous. Somewhere out in the Valarian Fields, I think. I’m sure I’d know it once we got there–”

“I should like to visit.”

“You… Would?”

“To pay my respects and gratitude, yes. Plus, it behoves us to visit the graves of our loved ones.”

“It’s been ten years. The landscape’s changed so much… Maker, I hope the blight didn’t… Do anything.”

“We’ll bring flowers. Was he partial to any?”

“Wildflowers of any kind. He didn’t care for the cultivated kind. ‘Too civilised.’”

“I daresay we would’ve gotten along.”

“Famously. If the three of us had known each other, I think I would’ve had to reconsider my stance on how many partners I’d like to have at any given time.”

This time, Emmrich doesn’t bite it back.

“Then I suppose I should be glad events have transpired as they have.”

“Jealous of Dorian is one thing, Emmrich, jealous of a dead man is–”

Rook is rolled onto his back once more. 

“One more mention of that blasted magister in our bed Rook, and I–”

“Dorian. Dorian Dorian Dorian Dorian–”

Later, when Rook has two sore asscheeks, a bruised throat and seven orgasms total under his belt, he has to agree with Emmrich: things could have been different, yes, but they weren’t. And he’s glad things have gone the way they have.

Emmrich himself is sound asleep, afloat in a dark, dreamless sea as he dozes on Rook’s chest. He’d been content to see to Rook and achieve his own pleasure in the meantime, but Rook had disagreed. After being made to come a fifth time, he’d fingered Emmrich open using his own slick while sucking his cock, until his jaw was sore and his fingers cramped. In that time, Emmrich came twice. 

Not even the gods could have kept him from this nap. Rook listens to him snoring and watches the sun rays moving across the wall as time passes by. 

Spring, he thinks, was the time to be born again. Summer is for living. 

Chapter 8: Summer II

Notes:

What's good, Emmrich nation.

This one took very long to write because Avowed came out, basically. That's really the long and short of it. (Great game, would recommend.)

Next chapters should be up more quickly. Did I mention Summer is also a very slutty season? Because it is. Enjoy all the smut that's to come.

Thank you guys for sticking around, and do leave a comment if you're so inclined. God knows I lose another one of my marbles every time Ao3 sends me an e-mail.

Contrary to what Emmrich is used to, the end of the academic year brings with it a flurry of activity. Usually, the height and buzz of the summer season paradoxically signal calm, a moment to wind down from the busy year and ready himself for the year ahead. Now would be the time to indulge in his hobbies, to venture out into the city, to entertain a liaison or two. There is very little time for the first, even less for the second, and none - nor any inclination to - for the last. For the first time in decades, there is an entirely different sort of summer romance ahead of him. Between that and the chaos at the Necropolis, Emmrich has no time to think of anything else.

The Necropolis is inundated with talk of who is to lead the Mourn Watch now that Maurice has effectively been ousted from his position. Through Alexander, Emmrich knows his name has been mentioned more than once. He doesn’t think he wants the position, but it’s flattering all the same. The decision will have to be made before the start of the coming academic year however, and Emmrich resolves to give the faculty a swift ‘no, thank you’ should they ask.

And that is but the tip of the iceberg of things currently occupying Emmrich’s mind: there is much to be arranged for their wedding; Rook has to prepare for his new position come autumn; they have several trips abroad lined up, culminating in a surprise somewhere in Tevinter that Rook refuses to divulge what it is. And of course, Rook’s birthday is coming up. The first one he is to celebrate, unless he celebrated with Velothil and hasn’t remembered that yet. All the same, it’s his forty-first. Emmrich wishes they could’ve celebrated the turn of another decade last year, but since they couldn’t, he aims to make this year’s birthday a day Rook won’t soon forget no matter where they are. He’s got his gifts prepared already: a set of meticulously curated grave gold with various enchantments to start and an old grimoire of elaborate fire spells Emmrich was once gifted by a long dead apostate. Rook had assured him that Emmrich didn’t have to buy him anything, so he hasn’t. But he’ll be damned to even consider waking Rook on his birthday empty-handed.

As summer’s heat begins to reach its peak with the city sweltering in the midst of a heatwave, Rook and Emmrich keep cool inside the Necropolis. Their visit to Minrathous is coming up soon, and Emmrich is not particularly eager to have a repeat of the exceedingly damp days of last year’s summer visit to Tevinter. Even their home, which stays relatively cool, quickly becomes unbearable to him in the enduring heat. Rook, however, is coping with the temperatures just fine. Even at its hottest, a Nevarran summer stays a good several degrees below that of one in Minrathous. At night, while Emmrich lays spread out on top of the sheets, Rook sleeps curled up beneath a single sheet still, his arm extended towards Emmrich to touch a finger to his elbow. That single point of contact is all he can allow, lest he is sure to sweat to the point of utter dehydration.

Fortunately, his office and the lecture halls lay deeper within the Necropolis, where a relatively chill temperature is constantly maintained. It’s a shame, really, that the most temperate rooms in the Necropolis see less and less use this time of year. 

Emmrich is in his office for the last time, tidying and making sure everything is in order before he closes the door behind him for the next several weeks. It’s strange how, in spite of the fact that he is sure to return here again as he has for years, there is always an odd finality to putting away his materials from the past year and readying his desk and bookcases for the next. Johanna watches him silently from her warded altar as he puts away the last of his books. Emmrich is humming to himself, happy and excited about the weeks off to come. He never used to travel during his vacation time, but now–

“You are rather disgustingly cheerful today, Volkarin.”

“Summer does often spark joy. Sunny days, the magnificence of sweet summer wine, the sheer liveliness of the city. Though, as I recall, you were never too fond of it.”

“Too hot. The sun is hostile to the eyes and the skin. Far better to remain inside.”

Emmrich does recall it being an endless tug-of-war to get Johanna to leave the Necropolis during the summer. Not that she was particularly enthusiastic about him dragging her all across Nevarra City even during the colder seasons. In retrospect and especially in light of his current relationship, he often wonders at how hostile his romantic entanglement with Johanna had been. Even then, he never knew her as gentle, or tender. 

He smiles to himself. Entirely unlike Rook, whose constant pursuit of and tugging on Emmrich’s heartstrings still makes him swoon on occasion.

“Then you’ll be glad to know you’ll be staying here in my absence during my trip abroad.”

“By myself? How dull.”

“Johanna! I never thought I’d see the day where you wouldn’t be glad to see the back of me.”

“Please. What else is there for me to do but converse with you? Stare at the same rows of dusty tomes all day?”

“My books are not ‘dusty–’”

“It matters not. Enjoy your traipsing about the country.”

“I shall. It’s been some time since I’ve had the opportunity to leave the Necropolis, let alone Nevarra. Truly, Johanna, I am thrilled at the prospect of travelling once again.”

“Nevarra did always feel small to contain the sheer circumference of your ego. All this talk of your being the next headmaster for this circus can’t have helped.”

“No such talk yet. The faculty hasn’t even approached me, and far be it from me to take up the reigns of the position. No, I think Tessa will make a far more suitable candidate.”

“Your feigned modesty is unbecoming. I know as well as you do that you are the most accomplished among your ilk.”

“My, that almost sounded like a compliment, Johanna.”

“You misheard.”

“Either way, my seniority and accomplishments notwithstanding, I don’t wish to give up teaching.”

“Psh. You could do much more for the next generation of necromancers if you held some semblance of power.”

“I fear we will never agree on this point, Johanna.”

“Then there is no point to this discussion. Goodbye, Volkarin.”

“Until I return, then. Enjoy your meditations.”

“Cad.”

After taking his bag and his staff, he closes, locks and wards the door behind him, just for good measure. It wouldn’t do if something happened with Johanna in his absence and he hadn’t done his utmost to prevent it. 

Just as he’s about to turn and begin his last walk home from his office for the foreseeable future, a small, smouldering butterfly flutters around his head. Emmrich chuckles softly and holds up his finger. It lands there gracefully, its legs feeling warm against his skin, wings closing into a single flame. After a moment, it flaps its wings and flies out ahead of him. 

“Very well,” he says, following behind it. It does not lead him very far: they move through only a handful of corridors before dispersing in front of a large set of double doors. 

Emmrich sighs. Even though he knows what lies in wait for him behind those doors, it still saddens him that this space has changed hands in the way it has. Professor Breuer’s instruction room, affectionately referred to as ‘The Arena’ among staff and students alike. He steps inside, shaking off the grief that comes with the knowledge of why Rook is inside and finding the excitement inherent to that fact instead.

The space is appropriately nicknamed: it is a large rotunda, most of which is occupied by the battleground itself, surrounded by several sets of staircases for spectators and students to sit and wait their turn. There are wards surrounding the centre circle to ensure no harm comes to anyone not engaged in a duel. Rook stands in the middle of the space, his arms aglow with light and wispy trails of green magic as he transforms the grounds. Roots and stone rise and shift, creating obstructions and forming the terrain into something that is much more difficult to navigate. The stones, at least, provide some cover to hide behind. Emmrich smiles: Breuer had a very different approach to her lectures and demonstrations. She was a formidable and ambitious mage, but she had rarely ever seen real combat. Rook, on the other hand, knows that combat rarely ever means you get a large open space to let loose in. If he is to ensure that the young apprentices can actually face combat, this is the smart way to approach it. It’s hard not to feel a swell of pride.

As Emmrich descends the stairs, his eyes rove over Rook’s body. He’s in simple brown trousers and a white linen shirt that he’s filling out – very nicely. It’s been a little over a month since Emmrich was sick, and it feels as if things have returned to normal between them. No, they’re better than they ever were. These days, Rook actually talks to him. Oftentimes with great difficulty, yes, but Emmrich finds he is rarely - if ever - in the dark anymore about what’s going on with him. In turn, Emmrich no longer worries about being too much, too clingy, too needy. There’s nothing wrong with needing and wanting Rook, whether he needs comfort, pleasure, a level head, or whatever else. Having survived what was among the worst things that could’ve happened between them as a couple, they’re much closer in general. Insofar, Emmrich thinks with a chuckle, that was at all possible.

But that is not all. Even during those weeks where Rook ate very little, he still went to the Hall of Valor if he felt strong enough to go. Over the last month or so, Emmrich’s had to buckle down and catch back up on work on top of all the grading he still had left to do. With Manfred too working hard to complete his training for the year, Rook has been bored out of his mind at home. To ensure he doesn’t go mad while the two people he wants to spend time with the most are busy, he’s left the house to visit Taash daily. Combined with the fact that he’s eating as normal again, he’s put on a good amount of weight. Most of which, it would appear, comes in the form of muscle. His back and shoulders are broader than they used to be, his arms a little thicker, his chest has bulked a fair amount and his stomach, though still delightfully soft around the edges, has gotten a little more firm. Emmrich’s eyes fall to Rook’s legs and behind, thickened with exercise and good eating. Whatever Taash has him do, it’s done more for his physique than even fighting a war ever did. All of this, naturally, to Emmrich’s great delight.

Sometimes, Rook will rush home to him so quickly that he hasn’t got time to heal. Emmrich found that in spite of his dislike for seeing Rook wounded, he minds it significantly less if it means he’ll have him in his arms as he heals him. All the while he’ll be kissed and fondled, pushed around and impatiently lifted onto whatever available piece of furniture Rook wants to have him on. Fighting seems to bring out something feral in him, something raw and primal that Emmrich loves to be the sole recipient of.

Emmrich shudders pleasantly at the memory of getting fingered up against his bookcase before promptly being laid on his back on the kitchen table and getting fucked until he was hoarse in the mouth. Rook never even took his trousers off, instead holding Emmrich’s legs up and nearly bending him in half as he pounded into him.

Maker. Whatever Emmrich was brought here for, he wants Rook all over him as fast as possible.

Reminding himself that it’s most unbecoming to be panting like a dog, even if it is over one’s delicious, stout, soft and gentle bear of a husband, Emmrich steps through the wards and into the ring. Rook turns around, the magic dissipating from his hands. Rather than see the smile on his face, Emmrich’s eyes drift towards his chest, and the smattering of hair between the opened buttons of his shirt. 

Rook crosses his arms, squishing his pectorals together. Emmrich’s soft intake of breath just barely reaches his ears. There’s colour high on his cheeks already, accentuating the firmament of freckles across his skin. He’s not meeting Rook’s gaze at all, his eyes locked on his chest instead. Intriguing.

It’s the final day of the academic year, and Rook has long anticipated this moment. Emmrich and Manfred have both been so busy the past several weeks. There’s been so little time to properly be together as a family. He wants nothing more than to get going on their trip, but it would seem that Emmrich has a rather different duel in mind than the sort he invited him over for. That’s just as well: they have every reason to celebrate, what with the end of a very tumultuous year. 

Plus, it’ll stave off the coming horror that is packing for a trip with Emmrich. His dear husband possesses many fine qualities, but his endless whinging during packing and unpacking is not one of them. 

“My eyes,” Rook says, grinning, “are up here, amatus.”

Not that he minds being ogled by Emmrich. It’s not as if he’s doing any different. Emmrich’s moustache has grown back in, and while he made sure to profit off of Emmrich’s bare face for as long as he could - primarily by letting him do as he pleased between his thighs as often as time allowed - he is glad to have this version of him back. The face he fell in love with, and continues to cherish with increasing devotion each day. He’s got his colour back, and he sleeps mostly fine once more, except for those nights where he lays awake, marinating in his own sweat as the Necropolis’ sun-soaked stone fails to release its heat. 

He’s not wearing his vest today, nor his sash. Loafers rather than boots. He almost looks casual. His bracelets jingle happily along his bare forearms, though he’s forgone the cuff. Too sweaty. No, indeed. If Emmrich has designs upon him, Rook doesn’t mind in the slightest. After the duel, of course. After all, Rook didn’t spend hours working up to this moment only to bail on himself now.

“I make no apologies for admiring my husband,” Emmrich retorts pleasantly. “Though I surmise that is not why you led me here.”

“No. I sent for you because I still owe you a duel. I thought we might have my inaugural duel – in private.”

“Testing the wards?”

Rook smiles. Emmrich knows him so well.

“Can’t be too careful. Especially not after–... What happened.”

“Indeed. What are the rules of this duel?”

“If you land a hit on me, you win. If I manage to touch you, I win.”

Emmrich frowns. “You won’t be using magic?”

“I will be, I just won’t be on the offensive.”

Fair enough. He can’t exactly fault Rook for not feeling comfortable with the idea of even pretending to harm him. 

“Then might I issue a challenge in return?”

“Go ahead.”

“You cannot use your abilities that pertain to lightning.”

“That would give me an unfair advantage, yes. I agree to your challenge.”

“Very good. Let’s take our positions.”

With great effort, Rook resists the urge to lie down on his back and walks to the other end of the circle. They bow to each other, and Emmrich readies his staff.

It’s interesting to be on the receiving end of Emmrich’s battle prowess for once. He moves completely differently compared to when he’s coordinating with Rook. For one, he’s much faster, and the first volley of necrotic energy comes at him so quickly that Rook has to dive behind a boulder to dodge it. 

“A very fine show of defensive magic, dearest!”

“Are you heckling me?!”

“I am encouraging you!”

Rook stands up and narrowly dodges another volley. Cocky bastard. 

“You’ll have to try harder than that,” Rook says, his blood running hot until it feels like it’s boiling in his veins. Smouldering ashes turn into a flame that becomes a wildfire, spreading through his body. When the next oozing orb of death magic is flung his way, it is swallowed entirely in a flash of fire that disappears as quickly as it came. Without his lightning, Rook isn’t nearly as fast as Emmrich, and he struggles to keep track of where he is. From the corner of his eye, he glimpses movement atop one of the stones to his right. Emmrich dashes across a series of thick roots and boulders, aiming to get to the high ground. From there, he conjures a rune right underneath Rook. Flames encircle the rune as it explodes into a pillar of death magic, green tinged with striking orange hues as it rises to the ceiling. When it fades, Rook is nowhere to be seen.

Emmrich hears a scrape of boots behind him just in time, and he leaps from his boulder to the next, barely avoiding Rook’s grab for his ankles.

“Very good, amatus,” Rook says, bringing up a wall of fire to block off Emmrich’s Quietus, “but I almost had you.”

“Almost, but not quite.”

At a distance, Emmrich realises, he will always be at a disadvantage. Rook won’t use his magic against him, and he can easily block off anything flung at him from farther away. His only option is to fight in close quarters, but that also puts him at risk. Of course, he has one advantage over Rook: he’s using a staff. That might be enough. Channeling his magic into his staff, he jumps from the boulder and dashes towards Rook.

Rook chuckles. Emmrich is making great use of the fact that he’s faster than Rook, and driving him into a corner with his staff is not a bad strategy at all.

An aureole of piercingly bright sunlight bursts forth from just behind Rook’s head. The crown of blinding light forces Emmrich to shut his eyes, and Rook easily sidesteps the swing of his staff. Just before Rook’s hand can grab his wrist, he dodges backwards and circles around a thick mass of roots to hide. 

“Very clever, darling.”

“Why, thank you.”

Emmrich takes a deep breath and blinks fiercely against the spots colouring his vision. He has to force Rook to end that spell somehow. Break his concentration. Quietly, he taps his staff against the ground. 

“What’re you–”

A small skeleton claws its way out of the ground, grabbing Rook’s trousers and cackling.

“Kaffas,” Rook curses, kicking the skeleton off and leaping away just before it explodes, bones splintering and flying in every direction. A few graze Rook’s skin, the heat of the explosion charring the bottom of his trousers. Droplets of blood run down his arms and fall to the dusty ground below. That was too close, and forced him to end his spell. More than likely that was the goal. “Come on out now.”

“As you wish.”

It takes less than a second for Rook to realise that Emmrich used the explosion to change his position without him noticing. Something he wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t said anything. Rook smirks and stays where he is, knowing full well that Emmrich is above him and about to unleash a volley he can’t even hope to dodge. 

But Emmrich is certain he’s won. Even if Rook knows what he’s about to do, he can’t get away. Necrotic magic rains down from above as Rook tilts his head up towards what is sure to cost him this duel. Mists of green curl around Rook’s arm as he raises it. The roots Emmrich is standing on shift and move swiftly, nearly knocking him off as they form a barrier between Rook and Emmrich’s magic. Emmrich quickly moves to the centre of the newly created platform and raises his staff over his head, sure he can hit Rook through the mass of gnarled roots without him seeing it coming.

“Too slow.”

The roots open right underneath where he’s standing, and Emmrich can’t reach for the ledge with his staff held in both of his hands. He tumbles down with a yelp, anticipating a hard and unforgiving landing that never comes. Two thick, strong arms catch him with very little effort, and his panicked gaze meets with Rook’s insufferably smug expression.

“I win,” he says, setting him down and dusting off his shoulders. “But you would’ve received full marks, had this been a test. Excellent use of the terrain.”

“Mm,” Emmrich hums, bringing Rook’s arm up and tracing a finger along the streaks of blood, “and I suppose this doesn’t count towards my victory?”

“Not if my touching the hem of your trousers earlier also doesn’t count.”

Emmrich purses his lips and hums again, dissatisfied with his results but debating whether or not he cares. He heals the scratches along Rook’s arm, bringing his wrist to his mouth and kissing it. His skin smells of fire, of the smouldering ashes of a campfire recently put out somewhere in the depths of a tall, dark forest. Rook watches, chest rising and falling with every breath, lips parted as the air passes through them. 

“Darling–”

Rook pushes him up against a boulder and kisses him hard.

“Maker, I could have you right here. Even if you’re a sore loser.”

“Wh– I am not a ‘sore loser,’ I’m merely–”

“A little sore? About losing?”

“Don’t make me gag you, Rook.”

“Oh, none of that today, I don’t think,” Rook says hotly. “What time does Manfred get home today?”

“Late. He’s gone to see the opera with Myrna.”

That’s the first Rook hears of it, but all he cares about is that Manfred’s out of the house. He grabs Emmrich’s shirt and roughly pulls it out of his trousers, fingers finding much-loved bare skin.

“Has he? How nice.”

Yes, and Emmrich is trying not to think too much about it. Myrna is a highly capable mage, and Manfred himself has advanced far enough that he can fend for himself against, say, a bandit. Which is the only sort of danger he might encounter out in the city, if any at all. He’ll be fine. They’ll both be perfectly fine.

“Yes. Splendid, isn’t it?”

Rook laughs. “You’re up to your eyeballs with anxiety over it, aren’t you?”

“I’m– I suppose one could say I’m mildly concerned, yes. Of course, he must learn to brave the outside world without my guidance, but–”

“He was the one who picked up your ring from the jeweller, Emmrich. He’ll be fine.”

What? But that was in winter. Surely Rook didn’t let him out of his sight for that long so shortly after returning to the Necropolis.

“And he was fine,” Rook then emphasises, “so fine that he came home and juggled fireballs for Vorgoth.”

Back when Manfred still had a little crush on Vorgoth. Emmrich is still intensely relieved that he got over that a few weeks later.

“And dear Myrna is with him, of course. Yes, I suppose he’ll be fine.”

“And you?” Rook asks, rubbing Emmrich’s upper arms. “Will you be fine?”

“I hope to be more than fine, darling.”

“You did seem like you had a gleam in your eye when you came in. It was difficult to tell, what with your eyes being glued to my tits the entire time.”

“False. When I first entered the room, I was enraptured by your finely sculpted bottom.”

Rook snorts. So he did come in randy as a stoat. 

“But,” Emmrich continues as he rubs his hands up and down over Rook’s chest, “I’ll admit I’m equally enchanted by your front, of late.”

“Strange. Could’ve fooled me last week. Seemed like you couldn’t get me arse up fast enough.”

“Yes, well. I suppose you had it coming. You were looking to cause a bit of a tiff, weren’t you?”

‘Tiff’ is a generous word to describe what was Rook deliberately needling him over not giving him full marks for his final paper. In fact, Emmrich had bestowed upon Rook a completely acceptable but middling grade that they both knew he was undeserving of, but Emmrich had wanted to avoid accusations of favouritism so close to the end of the year. Rook had teased and poked at him until Emmrich had swiped his desk clean and bent him over, with one hand fisted in his hair and the other on his hip. As it was likely the last time they’d be doing this for a while, Emmrich made sure to give Rook everything he got. Including, in the end, full marks. Not because their tryst was that good - though it was - but because he realised it’d be significantly more suspicious to grant Rook the only less than exceptional grade he’s received all year.

“We do have fun, don’t we?” Rook murmurs, the tip of his nose brushing Emmrich’s jaw.

“Darling, as much as I enjoy reminiscing and the position I’m presently in, I hesitate to remind you that I’m not wearing my sash today.”

Rook snorts and butts his forehead into Emmrich’s shoulder.

“Alright, alright. We have to get packing soon, anyway–”

“Don’t remind me. Treviso is bound to be an open-air furnace again. I’ve very little in my closet that would be suitable to wear.”

“The less, the better.”

“For you, my dear. I’d much prefer not to have to spend our entire holiday sunburnt. And that is not to speak of the peeling…”

“I’ll happily slather you in aloe vera if that were to happen.”

“I’m sure you would, but prevention is the best medicine.”

“I’ll be sure to arrange for a parasol for the final leg of our trip, then.”

“Ah. Are we to spend a lot of time outdoors?”

“We might. But I intend to lay you out on the grass and have you out in the open air at least once. That’s what summer’s for.”

“To– To get grass and dirt in all sorts of crevices where they decidedly don’t belong?”

Without warning, Rook smacks his bottom. Emmrich yelps.

“Ah!”

“Fine,” Rook says casually, before letting him go and walking away from him, “you can just be on top, then.”

As Emmrich follows Rook out of the room, he wonders if it’d be so bad. Surely they can put some canvas down, or a soft blanket suited to a picnic. Yes, perhaps this is a boundary to his comfort zone that he is prepared to breach. The thought of being laid down in the shade, the dappled sun still warming their legs, is not at all unappealing. Rook’s strong arms around him, his weight pressing him into the grass, his hair tickling Emmrich’s face when they kiss. To shout his pleasure to the cloudless sky as Rook drives into him over and over.

Emmrich sighs dreamily. That wouldn’t be disagreeable at all.

When he regains focus, Rook is looking at him with raised eyebrows and a sly little smile. 

“What is it, darling?”

“I was talking to you, but you seem a bit preoccupied today. Something on your mind?”

“There’s quite a lot to look forward to in the coming weeks, dearest. I find the mind’s meanderings often turn to that which is sure to spark joy.”

“Mm. Mhm,” Rook agrees pleasantly, “and what is it that your mind keeps turning to today?”

“That… You look well, darling. I’m thrilled that your appetite has returned to you in full, and that you have regained all of your strength, and… A little extra.”

Rook looks down at himself. He did notice his clothes getting a little tighter again, but he’d assumed that was mostly just him gaining back the weight he’d lost. Emmrich’s clearly noticed something else. Maybe he’s gained more muscle than he thought.

“We’ve been feeding each other very well,” Rook agrees as he takes out the keys to their home, “and Taash has been running me ragged.”

“Mm, have they? I’ll be sure to thank them when we visit.”

The instant his key enters the lock, Emmrich is pressed up against him, his hands squeezing Rook’s chest with a greed he’s never exhibited for that part of his body before. 

“Huh,” he says, intrigued, amused, and about to be consumed with lust, “I don’t think you’ve ever done that before.”

Emmrich is suddenly and painfully aware of what he’s doing, and retreats immediately. 

“I-I– I’m so sorry, Rook. I should control myself–”

The door opens, and Rook quickly pulls Emmrich inside before he can apologise a second time. He bends down to take his shoes off before putting both his and Emmrich’s into the cubby by the door. When he stands, he lays a hand against Emmrich’s chest and pushes him back, holding him against the door with little more than a finger.

“I did sometimes wonder if you were avoiding my chest somehow,” Rook says, “I’ve noticed people do that before. I don’t mind.”

Was he? Emmrich wonders. It’s true that he’s never paid particular attention to Rook’s chest, much less his nipples, so he must have been. An odd oversight, given how much adoration he’s lavished on the rest of his body.

“I feel rather foolish for not having noticed myself.”

Rook shrugs. “You touch me everywhere I want to be touched.”

“You don’t want me to touch your chest?”

“No, I’m– I’m neutral about it. I don’t really touch myself there, either.”

“I’ve been made to understand that it’s common to lose some sensation after the surgery.”

“It is, but I got most of mine back. My nipples function more or less the way they used to. It’s just that I’m more sensitive elsewhere.”

The body is a marvel, Emmrich thinks. It is by no means a small procedure, and for the body to heal itself and connect those nerves again is nothing short of remarkable. 

“I am deeply sorry to have neglected such a marvellous part of you, my darling,” Emmrich says softly, gently touching his hand to the first closed button at the centre of Rook’s chest. “Truly, you must allow me to make it right.”

Once again, Rook looks down at himself. He flexes his pectoral muscles and– yes, he supposes they are a fair amount larger than they were three months ago. As he looks back up at Emmrich, he realises that he wouldn’t mind it at all if he did touch him there more often. It just never came up.

“By all means.”

Without any further hesitation, Emmrich opens the buttons on Rook’s shirt, one by one, until he can spread it open and get his hands on his warm, scarred, hairy skin. Rook regards him with open curiosity and amusement as Emmrich struggles to keep his eyes on his face.

“I have always found you beautiful, Rook,” Emmrich says, reverently stroking the body before him, so divinely made it might as well be sacred, “utterly enchanting at times. But as of late, I– I have found myself fighting the urge to rush my work so that I might hurry home to you and simply – throw myself at you to spend the evening in your arms.”

“Good thing work is finished, then.”

"Yes,” Emmrich breathes, clasping his hands around the back of Rook’s neck and kissing him, “yes, indeed, I– Mmh– mm…”

Rook grabs him by the hips and lifts him up. Emmrich gasps with delight and wraps his legs around him. This is exactly what he wants, exactly–

“My, my, dear heart,” Rook whispers as he walks over to and presses Emmrich up against the closed bedroom door, “I hope you did your stretches this morning.”

“Of course I have. If you hadn’t slept in, you might’ve noticed.”

“And if you hadn’t spent forty-five minutes with half your hand inside my cunt at two o’clock at night, I might not have slept in this morning.”

Forty of which he’d spent begging. Maybe Emmrich was a little meaner than he should’ve been.

“I concede the point.”

“I’d rather you open the door.”

Emmrich fumbles for the handle and barely manages to press it down. He’s just thinking he should probably oil that mechanism soon when Rook kicks the door open and then shut behind them, before rushing over to the bed. Then, at last, he’s on his back with Rook between his legs. The unmistakable and unexpected sensation of Rook’s considerable erection brushing against his own through their clothes makes him shudder.

“You’re already wearing your glamour?”

“I am.”

“I– When–”

“While you were no doubt daydreaming about me fucking you cross-eyed.”

Heat rises to his cheeks. Rook’s uncanny ability to know what he’s thinking has hit the mark once again.

“How did you…?”

Rook sits up, untucks his shirt from his trousers and lets it fall from his shoulders. Emmrich can only stare.

“I don’t mean to be rude, sweetheart,” Rook says, tipping Emmrich’s chin up. He still blushes when he gets caught lusting after Rook. Adorable. “But I don’t think you could’ve been more obvious if you’d dropped to your knees in front of me and presented your arse like a dog in heat.”

“Now, Rook–!”

“What? Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want me to throw you down and mount you. Go on, then.”

It’d be a filthy, rotten lie. Rook smiles down at him and unbuckles his belt. 

“I thought so.”

Emmrich watches, enraptured, as Rook unbuttons his pants. A soft, relieved breath escapes him as his cock springs free from his underwear, followed by a quiet chuckle when Emmrich can’t help but touch his thighs, squeeze them. How he cherishes their strength, their softness in spite of it–

“Not where I was expecting you to go, I’ll admit,” Rook jokes. 

“We’ll have been together a year soon, and you are yet to learn the value of patience.”

“I suspect that, being the old dog that I am, that’s not a trick you can teach me anymore.”

“Nonsense. You’ve learned a great many ‘new tricks.’”

“Yeah, you’re looking at one right now.”

So he is. Rook stands to take his trousers off and Emmrich scoots up to the edge of the bed to pull him in closer. He lets Rook step in between his legs so he can kiss the bottom of his bulging stomach, before moving down and taking Rook’s thick cock into his mouth. Rook moans softly, strokes his hair, his face, teases his earlobe between thumb and index finger. 

For a minute, Rook lets Emmrich do as he pleases. When Emmrich eats his cunt, he can’t really see his face. His stomach gets in the way, but this? Thanks to Emmrich’s predilection for a larger than average sized partner, he can see Emmrich’s face just fine as he sucks his cock.

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” Rook chuckles softly. “I thought you wanted me to fuck you.” 

With some effort, Emmrich draws back, staring up at Rook with preciously pink lips. “When presented with a feast, my darling, it’s rude not to partake.”

“Oh, you’ll partake alright.”

Rook hooks his hands behind Emmrich’s knees and tips him onto his back. He takes his socks off and kisses his perfect, dainty ankles. With the sole exception of his height, everything about him is dainty compared to Rook. Slim, fine. As elegant as the bones within.

Below, Emmrich is rapidly unbuttoning his own shirt and trousers, entirely too eager to get on with it.

“How helpful, amatus. Thank you.”

“You’re most welc– Oof!”

He’s been flipped onto his front. Emmrich’s heart beats wildly in his chest as Rook yanks his trousers and underwear off and seats himself on the back of his thighs. A single finger at the back of his collar pulls his shirt from his arms, snagging on his bracelets until he’s blissfully naked underneath the welcome weight of Rook’s body. He can feel Rook’s cock resting against the cleft of his ass, hot and heavy. Emmrich raises his hips and whimpers softly into the sheets beneath. A hand to his hip forces him back down to the bed.

“Slow down. Let me warm you up first.”

Emmrich looks over his shoulder with an incredulous frown on his face. Rook bites his lip to keep from laughing.

“Does it seem to you that I am in need of anything of the sort?!”

“You keep harping on about the value of patience. I thought you liked this sort of thing.”

“Spare me the twisting of my words, dearest. Or would you pretend that you didn’t invite me to duel you as an elaborate prelude to this very union?”

“I do like it when you swing your staff around.”

“I see your wordplay is up to its usual standards.”

“Fine. Allow me to rephrase my earlier statement: let me spoil you first.”

Rook sits up on his knees, takes Emmrich by his waist and manoeuvres him to the centre of the bed, where he can comfortably stretch out. Emmrich gives in, watching with great interest as Rook retrieves a towel and a small flask of oil from his nightstand. He uncorks it, and pours some into the small of Emmrich’s back. It’s refreshingly cool against his skin, a welcome reprieve from the day’s heat.

“You must be sore from sitting at your desk all day,” Rook says, spreading the oil over his back, applying the smallest amount of pressure to his spine and feeling it pop with ease underneath his fingers. “You’ve worked very hard, lately.”

“Mm… I’ve certainly been home less than I’d liked to be…”

Emmrich’s eyes are closed, a dopey smile on his lips as Rook’s hands work the muscles in his back, warmth seeping deep into the tissue. His magic, likely. It’s subtle, precise, applied only there where his hands are touching him. If Emmrich didn’t know Rook’s magic inside and out, he probably wouldn’t notice. But he does know it, as familiar and welcome as a warm bath. He’s often marvelled at the gentleness with which he applies it, as if his hands have never known the harsh sting of violence. An explosive well of mana subdued to a feather’s touch. 

But for Rook, the magic lies not in the mana he’s expending to loosen Emmrich up. Instead, it’s in the way the body in his hands relaxes in his grip. How the tension fades from taut, stubborn muscles, lovingly knead into submission. There is magic in each of Emmrich’s content little sighs, and in each freckle spread across his back. Every little scar, every wrinkle, every inch of skin and bone and vessels. Beauty manifest. Magic.

“We’ll make up for the time we lost. We’re gonna have a great time. You, me, and Manfred,” Rook says, leaving a kiss in the nape of Emmrich’s neck.

“Except Manfred will stay with Neve while you whisk me away to the great unknown for a week.”

“Neve loves Manfred. He’ll be fine. It’ll be good for him to train with a different sort of mage, and there’s all sorts of adventure to be had in Minrathous.”

“That’s precisely the thing that worries me, Rook. Though I suppose I must learn to let him out of my sight for extended periods of time at some point…”

Rook firmly kneads Emmrich’s shoulders, pulling and squeezing the muscle. Upper trapezius, his mind supplies dutifully. Emmrich sighs softly, perfectly content to turn to mush in those very dear, very capable hands.

“I’ll get us a couple of sending crystals.”

“Oh, would you, dearest?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want you to worry the entire time we’re – there.”

Still a surprise, then. Emmrich is anxious to find out what it is, but he’ll have to be content not knowing until they get there. 

In the meantime, Rook’s hands move ever lower, thumbs pressing into the dimples above his backside. More oil lands on his back, and Emmrich sucks his bottom lip between his teeth when Rook firmly works his glutes. He’s slowly been getting hard during the massage, his cock wedged between his stomach and the mattress underneath. When Rook’s slick thumbs brush the insides of his cheeks, he grinds his cock down and moans softly. Rook chuckles.

“You can wax poetic about my ‘bottom’ all you like, sweetheart, I don’t think mine holds a candle to yours.”

“I’ve been aware of your good opinion since the day you tried to chew on it, Rook.”

“Beg your pardon, but you just said it’s rude not to partake in a feast when presented with one. What else was I supposed to do?”

Anything he could say would surely be used against him, and so Emmrich elects to remain silent. A slick finger slips between his thighs and presses up against his perineum firmly. He grinds down again, rocking his hips back and forth against the pressure.

“Mmh–”

“Do you know,” Rook murmurs, sitting up on his knees and rubbing the pad of his thumb against Emmrich’s hole, “I never used to care to be the one on top.”

“Really?” Emmrich asks, turning his head to look at him. “Why? I’ve never detected a lack of enthusiasm on your end when you are.”

“Because I never had partners as clever as you,” Rook says, laughing. “So the tools I had at my disposal didn’t do anything for me, and it felt more like providing a nice service than I felt–... Involved. Especially because I always came first.”

“Not even… Not even Velothil?”

Rook laughs again. “No, because Velothil didn’t care for receiving.”

He lays down next to Emmrich, after quickly wiping the oil from Emmrich’s back and his own hands with the towel.

“But you do,” he says, kissing Emmrich’s cheek and teasing his hole with a finger once more, “and I’ve never been happier to oblige. I don’t think anyone makes getting fucked look as good as you do.”

Crass. Lewd. But that doesn’t stop the praise from going straight to his cock. It throbs, and Emmrich can’t take it. He rolls onto his side, swings a leg over Rook’s hip and pulls him closer, hand closing loosely around their cocks. With each stroke, his bracelets clink and jingle together between them, his rings grazing Rook’s sensitive cockhead. 

“Ah– mmh– Darling, please–”

Maker, Rook thinks, he’s so fucking lovely. Even if he couldn’t feel a damn thing through his glamour, he’d gladly do this for him just for the way he turns into a needy, grabby man, desperate for Rook’s touch. But he does feel it, every movement, because that same man cared enough to ensure that Rook will always share in the pleasure of their lovemaking. 

“You’ve got it bad this time, haven’t you?”

“I do, I want– I want you inside of me–”

Rook just barely gets his free hand between them and touches a finger to the leaking tip of Emmrich’s cock, licking the precome off his fingertip. Emmrich’s cock twitches at the sight, and he kisses Rook, chasing the taste of himself. 

“And you want it rough, don’t you?” Rook asks. “You want me to overpower you.”

“Yes, yes, let me be at your mercy, Rook, please–”

The moment Rook pushes a finger into him, Emmrich lets go of their cocks and settles his hands on Rook’s chest instead. He squeezes, digs his nails in, drags them across the skin when a second finger is roughly pushed in along the first. 

“Like that, yes,” he gasps, relishing the stretch and slight burn of Rook’s fingers working him open, “another– ah!”

By now, Rook knows that Emmrich knows his body best. He adds a third finger and spreads them, feeling Emmrich shudder against him. Rook buries his face in Emmrich’s neck and drags his tongue across his salty, sweaty skin. Between their duel, the heatwave outside and how hot he’s running in his arms, Emmrich is sweating like an apprentice before their Harrowing. It’s intoxicating to be surrounded by the scent of him, and Rook pulls him closer still, fingers pushing deeper. 

Emmrich clings to him, nails dug deep into his back. As Emmrich is adorned with gold, so too does he adorn Rook with embellishments of his own: the bruising of his teeth against his shoulder, the trails passionately drawn upon his back, and the scrape and press of his bracelets along his side. Rook is a canvas, painted by his life as much as he is by Emmrich. Lines of passion drawn as sharply as the scrape of a palette knife across the brushstrokes of scars and branching lightning. His cock grinds up against Rook’s stomach, leaving streaks of precome, as clear and tacky as varnish.

“I love you,” Rook says breathlessly. “Fuck, I want you. Are you about ready for me?”

“Yes, yes. Ravish me, darling, please–”

“Get some oil for me, would you? Maker, I’m going to fuck you senseless.”

Quivering with excitement, Emmrich slicks up Rook’s cock until he’s throbbing heavily in his hand, stealing breathless, hurried kisses all the while. Before he even has the chance to wipe his hand on the towel, Rook roughly rolls them over, yanking Emmrich’s hips up and pressing his cock up against his sphincter.

“Tell me you want this, amatus. Let me hear you.”

Occasionally, Rook manages to break right through Emmrich’s ironclad patience. Sweating profusely, his cock leaking against his belly and driven past the point of lustful madness, this is one of those times.

“Are you in need of canticle and verse, darling? Have I not made myself abundantly clear?”

“Ooh, aren’t you feisty today?”

Rook pushes all the way in, effectively preventing any retort Emmrich might’ve had. He cries out instead, head thrown back as Rook holds him up and fucks him like it’ll be the last time he ever gets to. When Rook pointed out to him that the glamour was noticeably bigger than the phallus they’d been using up until that point, Emmrich had feigned innocence. Now, with nothing but his head and shoulders touching the bed as Rook pounds into him, he feels every last extra millimetre he added.

And it’s perfect. Rook comes to the exact same conclusion at that very moment.

“H-how are you this perfect?” he asks, pushing in as far as he can go. His breath shudders across Emmrich’s chest as he bends over to press a kiss over his heart. “All my life, I…”

“My love, m-my dearest, darling Rook–”

“Fuck– fuck– come here.”

The next second, Rook has him in his lap, making him ride his cock hard. His hands tightly grip Emmrich’s thighs, bouncing him up and down without Emmrich ever having to exert a muscle.

“Oh, darling!” Emmrich moans, catching Rook’s plump, red lips in a heated kiss. “Make me yours, dearest, take me–” 

“You are mine,” Rook replies heatedly, “my husband, my light, my everything.”

“I love you– I ahh– I love you, darling– Please, give me more–”

Rook grins, not least because he can feel Emmrich’s cock twitching desperately against his stomach. If Emmrich wants a show, he can have it.

“Light as a feather, you are. I bet you I could fuck you standing up.”

He doesn’t wait for permission, though Emmrich’s desperate whimper is as good as any, and gets off the bed while tightly holding Emmrich’s hips against his own. As he thought: even standing, he can easily hold and move his weight along his cock.

“This is what you were after all along, isn’t it?”

Emmrich can barely find the air to reply. Every thrust has him breathless, his eyes rolling back as his body trembles and shivers with pleasure. In Rook’s arms, he feels weightless, utterly out of control. Suspended yet safe. 

“Yes, ah– aahh– I wanted– Oh, darling–”

“Yeah?”

“I wanted– Nnh– my husband t-to show me– Ah– There, darling, please–”

Flattering though it is that Emmrich is incoherent with pleasure, Rook really wants to hear what he has to say. He slows down, to Emmrich’s great consternation.

“Rook–!”

“Show you what?”

Emmrich’s nails dig into those broad shoulders, dragging across merrily freckled skin until he can squeeze Rook’s swollen biceps.

“How strong he’s gotten. How he can fling me about like a mere toy.”

Rook butts his nose into Emmrich’s chin. “You’re not a toy.”

“No,” Emmrich agrees sweetly, touching a finger to Rook’s lip before kissing him, “but I’d so appreciate it if you fucked me like one.”

His back hits the wardrobe, rattling the hangers inside. Rook pins him against it as he fucks him, as hard and fast as he’s able without slipping out. Emmrich’s cock throbs, painfully hard and aching to come, but he won’t touch it. Not yet, not when it still meets with Rook’s stomach so deliciously, sharp bursts of sensation that drive him ever closer to the edge without ever allowing him to tumble over.

“And we have such a long day ahead tomorrow,” Rook groans into his ear, “and you’ll be sore all day. That was your plan all along, wasn’t it? To seduce me into doing the packing?”

Emmrich chuckles, short and breathless, “O-of course.”

“Bastard. Maybe I shouldn’t let you come.”

“You w-wouldn’t–”

“Oh, I would. Look at how hard you are. How thick your pretty cock is. You’re close, aren’t you?”

“Please, I–”

“And you insisted we travel by carriage. See the country, you said. How many days is that, amatus? I can hardly make you come in a carriage. It’s undignified.”

Days. He can’t be serious.

“And of course,” Rook continues as if he’s not still pounding the stuffing out of Emmrich, “then we’d have a nice sit-down dinner with Teia, Viago, Lucanis and Spite. And the walls at the Dellamorte estate aren’t all that thick–”

Emmrich knows what that would be like. Rook would stroke his cock underneath the table, maybe even use some of his magic where nobody can see. He’d occasionally lean over and tell Emmrich that his cunt is throbbing for him, that he’s soaking through his trousers at the thought of getting fucked later. Emmrich would sit and hold pleasant conversation while an ever-growing damp patch of precome stained his trousers. If Rook truly wanted to, he’d make him come, forcing him to pretend he’s coughing into a napkin as he soils his pants with his seed. Later, he’d punish Rook for his insolence by slowly and torturously fingering his cunt right up against their bedroom door with a hand clamped over his mouth to keep quiet. 

His cock is painfully hard at the thought. He has to end this. Emmrich needs to come, now.

“I-I’d rather help with packing.”

Rook thrusts into him hard. Emmrich keens.

“I thought so. Touch yourself.”

Emmrich strokes himself furiously, bracelets jingling loudly. His cock is slick with his own precome and the oil still clinging to his hand, so sensitive from having rubbed up against the sheets for so long. It takes mere seconds before come splatters across his chest and stomach. It leaks down his hand, staining his rings and fingers, slicking his cock further as he continues to stroke. Rook is the only thing holding him up as he shakes to pieces, each thrust forcing another spurt until his cock grows soft in his hand.

With Emmrich utterly limp in his arms, Rook stops moving.

“Good?”

“Mmh… It was everything I wanted, dearest. Thank you.”

Rook kisses him and carries him back to bed, gently laying him down and vanishing the glamour. “You’re welcome.”

“And what might I do for you?”

“I want these,” Rook says, holding up Emmrich’s come-stained hand, “inside of me, now.”

All too happy to oblige, Emmrich rolls Rook onto his back and pushes three fingers into his wet cunt. 

“Mmh– You used to be s-so careful about keeping your rings clean–”

“As muddy knees are the trophies of playing with the other neighbourhood children, so too are the fluids upon my rings trophies of our lovemaking, darling.”

Rook snorts, gasping softly when Emmrich curls his fingers inside of him. “You can say it t-turns you on to get come on them, it’s alright–”

Smiling in spite of himself, Emmrich kisses him. 

“It does. But then, you are always most generous.”

“Nnh– Fuck–”

“Are you not always flushed and plump for me, darling? Wet and slick down to your thighs with excitement, throbbing at the very thought of my fingers so much as grazing your most sensitive parts.”

“Y-yes, oh fuck–”

“Pleading with me,” Emmrich sighs against his skin, “begging. Aching for me from the very depths of your body. I’ve seen you, you know. From across the room, pressing your thighs together for the slightest release.”

“A-and nnh– still you’ll make me wait until– after bloody dinner–”

“Not today, my darling. I long to feel you gush across my fingers. To feel you clench and quiver with ecstasy.”

“F-fuck, keep talking like that and I will.”

Emmrich leans in and kisses Rook’s ear, slowing the thrusting of his fingers, rhythmically sliding in and out along the highly sensitive outer edge.

“I do so look forward to our trip, darling. To think of all the ways I’ll have you in Antiva, Rivain, Tevinter. It’s almost a pity we’re not visiting Orlais, too.”

Rook can’t help but laugh even as he shudders.

“It’s f-for the best. I’m sure the Orlesians would be a-all over you, you fucking– tease–”

“I shouldn’t give them the time of day,” Emmrich assures him, “but they make such marvellous balconies, you see. I’m sure one such as you would enjoy them.”

“Mmh– N-nothing we can’t do out of our own window, amatus–”

Emmrich’s cock twitches at the memory of Rook fucking him at the open window. What a glorious night that was.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Perhaps you need to get a bloody move on.”

“A fine suggestion.”

Rook watches him move down his body, spread his legs and labia. Emmrich looks up at him from between his legs, dark lashes covering his eyes, and Rook feels himself clenching around Emmrich’s fingers. 

“Fuck me, what a sight,” Rook breathes, running his fingers through Emmrich’s slightly damp hair. 

“Mm, I could say the same.”

It’s not even a matter of minutes. Rook is so wound up that he comes almost as soon as Emmrich takes his clit into his mouth. When Rook doesn’t immediately push him away, Emmrich decides that he can still do better. As he’s sucking Rook’s clit and fingering him, he reaches up to tease his nipple with his free hand. Rook jerks, gasps and shakes with the effort to stay still. It’s so much, too much, not enough–

“Ahh– Emmrich, please– I n-need–”

Emmrich moans and squeezes Rook’s thick pectoral, moving with him as Rook’s hips buck against his mouth. His clit throbs and pulses between his lips, but he doesn’t cease, doesn’t stop rubbing his tongue against it until Rook cries out and squeezes his thighs together as he comes a second time. Emmrich is trapped between, hot and dazed with bliss.

“Off,” Rook yelps when Emmrich flicks his tongue against his painfully sensitive clit, “off, you– rat bastard–”

“Your rat bastard,” Emmrich reminds him, letting himself be pulled into a messy, sticky kiss.

“Mm. Sheets are ruined again.”

“Such a pity. Perhaps we ought to leave them off entirely.”

“Oh, I see. This too was part of your agenda.”

All Rook gets in response is a kiss and a smile. When the sheets have been tossed into the washing basket and they’re standing underneath the hot - at Rook’s insistence - running water, Emmrich keeps squeezing him. His arms, his chest, the soft parts of his back.

“How strong you are, my darling,” Emmrich says, marvelling at the shape of his arms, “such exquisite musculature.”

“A fine specimen, am I?”

“You are far more than that.”

Rook wiggles his eyebrows. “But am I?”

Emmrich’s treacherous lips curl into a smile. “The very finest.”

“See? I knew you liked me.”

“Did you, now?”

“Yeah. I’ve been onto you for a while now, Emmrich.”

“Hmm. What gave me away?”

“I think the several pages long love letter was a bit obvious, to tell you the truth–”

Emmrich bursts out laughing and playfully pinches Rook’s cheek.

“You were never meant to receive that.”

“But aren’t you glad I did?”

In hindsight? Yes, yes he is.

“More than you know. Who knows how much longer we might’ve danced around each other if you hadn’t?”

As they’re getting dressed to get on with their evening, there is a sudden knock at their bedroom door. Rook looks at the clock. Manfred must’ve come straight home after the opera.

“Come in, Manfred!”

But when the door swings open, it is not Manfred holding the handle.

“Dorian?” Rook asks, baffled. He’s still without a shirt, attempting to wring the last of the water from his hair. “What’re you doing here– How did you get in?”

Emmrich doesn’t know what’s worse. The fact that Dorian is standing in his bedroom, or the fact that he is obviously giving Rook a once-over.

“My, haven’t you become quite the ogre since I last saw you,” Dorian says. “And good evening to you, professor.”

“Lord Pavus,” Emmrich says curtly. “I would echo Rook’s question: how did you get into our home?”

“Oh, come now. There’s no need to stand on ceremony. Manfred let us in.”

“‘Us?’”

“Ah, yes. Rook, I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but there’s some people that would love to have a moment of your time.”

Rook frowns. “And who are these people that you need to chaperone them?”

“I’m thrilled you should ask! They are your cousins.”

Both Rook and Emmrich freeze on the spot. 

“My what?” Rook says.

“Explain yourself,” Emmrich demands, moving to stand in front of Rook, “quickly.”

Dorian holds up his hands. “Do I inspire so little faith in both of you? Surely you don’t believe I’d ever bring someone here who means you any harm, Rook.”

No, he wouldn’t. In fact, Dorian protected him from his more bothersome extended family at the Circle more than once. To Rook’s knowledge, none of those people remain at the magisterium. The few Mercars who do, he’d hoped to avoid until they inevitably have to show up at some dreadful gala or other in Minrathous. Not because he hates them, but because he’s spent twenty years fearing what sort of memories seeing them would return to him.

But Emmrich turns to look at him, and Rook feels a newly familiar sensation creeping through the panic: he’s safe. He’s completely, perfectly safe. Emmrich would never allow anyone to hurt him ever again, nor Dorian. Somehow, in spite of everything, he’s cultivated a circle of loved ones who will protect him as fiercely as he’ll protect them. It’s no longer his job alone to keep himself safe. That task now belongs to those who have chosen to love him, too.

“Which ones?” he asks, stepping closer to Emmrich and kissing his shoulder. “It’s alright, Emmrich. For all his more annoying qualities, I trust Dorian.”

Dorian chuckles, “How lovely to hear you say so. I’ve brought Thetis, Doris and Lydia.”

Rook suspected as much, though he’s forced to admit he hasn’t thought about them in so long that he can barely picture what they look like anymore. In his mind, all he sees is a small group of children, chasing each other through the long corridors of his father’s house. He must’ve still been at an age where he was allowed to misbehave occasionally. Thetis was a boy with blonde hair his mother maintained would grow darker with age. But to her great disappointment, it never did. She thought his pale hair made him look weak, too unlike the proud, dark-haired men of the family. This was not at all helped by Thetis’ disinclination towards cruelty and unkindness, in spite of his parents’ best attempts to mould him into something worse than he was. Doris was a gentle, soft-spoken child with dark, curly hair who hated roughhousing and was always glad to be spared being ‘it’ during tag games. Rook remembers never tagging her on purpose. Though he’d hardly describe her as frail, she tired easily and did not care for running around for hours on end. Finally, Lydia was an astonishingly clever girl who understood the politics of their family as well as Rook did, but was much more inclined to play the game to get her way. Rook remembers admiring her. How shrewd she was, how finely honed her diplomatic skills even at a young age. Dorian must be glad to have her in the magisterium.

As the years went on, he saw less and less of them. As children, they were inseparable, but as teenagers and beyond they were naught but pawns on their parents’ chessboards. Thetis was sent to Vyrantium, out of sight and out of mind. Lydia was shipped off to Carastes, an academy of great prestige that her parents were convinced would eventually see her become its First Enchanter. Doris, like Rook, went to the Minrathous Circle, but he avoided her like the plague. They never spoke, not once, during his eight years there.

“You needn’t do this, darling,” Emmrich tells him, eyes wide with concern, “I’ll just as gladly send them all home.”

Here they stand. Rook twice as broad as Emmrich and Emmrich trying to be the one to shield him from whatever awaits them outside of the safe shelter of their bedroom.

It’s impossible to overstate how much Rook loves him.

“I know, but I think you’ll like them.”

Emmrich blinks. Now that the initial shock’s worn off, Rook almost looks… At peace. Not excited by any means, but not panicked either.

“You’re certain?”

“Yeah. Thetis had a knack for necromancy even when we were kids. I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

“Truth be told, I had to drag Thetis here by his hair,” Dorian confesses. “He felt it impudent to intrude upon your private abode when you are due to return to Minrathous so soon.”

“I’m glad to see some have retained their sense of propriety,” Emmrich says, “and you are yet to explain yourself. Why are you here?”

“To issue a personal and formal invitation to the Magisterium’s first annual ball.”

“And this requires the presence of Rook’s family, why?”

“Because I thought it best not to blindside him with them in a public place. Really, professor, what sort of man do you take me for?”

“You couldn’t have written?” Emmrich presses.

“Well, it was rather spur of the moment–”

“Huh,” Rook says, interrupting their bickering, “they’re all magisters now?”

“Naturally. Every other magister in your family was wiped out by Elgar’nan and yourself. I’ll say, I’m much more excited about this new generation of magisters. Bleeding hearts all, of course. Progress is slow, but it’s there. Truly, if you were to come back to Minrathous, I think you’d find–”

“No.”

“Well, one can’t say I didn’t try,” Dorian says airily, before turning on his heel and exiting the room, leaving the door open behind him. Emmrich turns to Rook and takes his hand, still unable to let go of his concerns.

“Are you sure you’re alright, darling?”

“Yeah, it’s… I haven’t thought about them in so long, I feel–... A little bad, to tell you the truth. They were among the few who made my childhood even slightly bearable and I just forgot about them.”

“I understand, but you can’t be blamed for the bad overshadowing the good. The former far outweighs the latter.”

“I know, but they’re… They were the only friends I had when I was growing up. I wasn’t– I didn’t get to leave the house much, certainly not unsupervised. Neither did they.”

Emmrich has long suspected that he has no reason whatsoever to be envious of people who grew up wealthier than he did. Everything Rook has ever told him about his upbringing has only further confirmed that suspicion.

“I’ll be right behind you, my darling.”

“I know,” Rook says softly, standing on his tippy toes to kiss Emmrich’s cheek, “I’m getting better at remembering that.”

Steeling himself, he leaves the bedroom. Emmrich walks out behind him. He too is bracing himself as he steps into their kitchen, where all three cousins rise from their seats the moment they lay eyes on Rook.

The first thing that strikes Emmrich is how none of them look at all alike. The second that he recognises the same troubled sort of dignity that Rook carries himself with in all of them. For a moment, he pictures them as carefree children running about some grand Tevinter manor. How different their lives must’ve been. They must seem unrecognisable to each other now.

But if they do, it doesn’t make a lick of difference. Twenty odd years of separation vanish like vapor above a kettle as they scramble over each other to get to Rook, who already has his arms spread wide open when - who Emmrich assumes must be - Thetis verily jumps to embrace him. Doris and Lydia follow. A mass of elated, crying Mercars fills their kitchen.

Well, three Mercars and one Volkarin, Emmrich thinks fondly as he sets about making tea. On his way to the counter, he grabs Dorian by the arm and drags him with.

“Let’s give them a moment, my Lord.”

“You know, I am at present very fortunate to know precious few people who manage to make that sound like an insult as much as you do. Have I done something to offend, professor?”

“I do believe you referred to our home as ‘frumpy’ in your last letter to us.”

“Oh for– Are you not in agreement that your home could do with some sprucing up? Even now, I can only barely tell Rook lives here.”

Emmrich points a damning finger to the heinous quilt Rook purchased for them many months ago. Dorian snorts and takes the kettle from Emmrich’s hands to fill it.

“It’s certainly very modern compared to the rest of your decor.”

“We enjoy our decor as it is, thank you.”

“Dorian,” Rook calls, just as he’s getting done wiping his eyes, “stop egging him on.”

“Don’t worry about us, my dear,” Dorian replies sing-songingly, “you just catch up with your cousins.”

“Yes, sit,” Doris says, her greying curly hair still bouncing merrily about her head, “sit! We’ve so much to catch up on.”

Lydia laughs. It’s a quick, light chuckle that Rook would find supercilious coming from anyone else. Part of him has always felt that she was made to be a magister. One of the good ones.

“Well, we can hardly fit decades into an evening,” she says, sitting down and elegantly crossing one leg over the other. 

Thetis is the one to drag Rook to the table by the hand as they sit. Rook can hardly believe the look of him: he’s twice as broad as he used to be, but still with those same gentle eyes and that pale blonde head of hair. In his memory, Thetis looks perpetually scared. No more of that now. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth were worn into his skin with joy, not terror. Looking around the table, Doris and Lydia look well, too. Middle age comes exceedingly well to them both. Lydia’s sleek, dark hair now has a striking section of grey. Her sharp eyes, accentuated with dark kohl, are as bright as ever. Though her countenance might come across as distant and severe, Rook knows her to be kind, fiercely protective and strongly principled. 

“So?” Doris says, wiggling her eyebrows and leaning forward on her elbows. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“To myself or to my much better half?”

“You do not require an introduction anymore, Rook,” Lydia says with a quirk of her lips, “certainly not to us.”

“You sure? I’ve changed a lot since you last saw me.”

“We all have,” Thetis points out. “Though not all of us have prevented an apocalypse since then.”

“I suppose my reputation does precede me.”

“None of us were in Minrathous when it happened,” Doris tells him. “It wasn’t until we were all called upon by Dorian that we found out that ‘Rook’ was you. That you were even still alive. None of us knew where you were after you left the Circle.”

“You might’ve written,” Lydia says, pursing her lips.

Rook rubs the back of his neck. He should’ve, but he was too busy trying to forget. All he wanted was to get away from Minrathous and everything that happened there. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t even know why I stuck around to become an enchanter. To prove to myself that I could see my choices through, I guess. I wasn’t thinking when I left. I just ran as far and as hard as I could.”

“Well, given that none of us would be here if it weren’t for you, I’d say you’re forgiven,” Thetis says, his scruffy cheeks wrinkling as he smiles. “Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t. I promise. I’m… I’ll be in Minrathous soon.”

“A magisterium soirée organised by Lord Pavus,” Doris says, sighing dreamily. “It’s sure to be an evening.”

“Right, that too. But– Emmrich, come here a moment, please?”

Emmrich takes Rook’s waiting hand and stands just behind his chair.

“Yes, dearest?”

“These are my cousins,” Rook says, pointing them out left to right, “Thetis, Doris and Lydia Mercar.”

“Forster,” Thetis says immediately.

“Hallowholme,” Doris chirps, flashing the ring on her finger.

After a moment’s silence, Lydia uncrosses her arms to show the silver band around her finger. 

“Cousland.”

“Ooh, good for you,” Rook says.

Lydia laughs, “She’ll be pleased to hear you said that.”

Rook laughs with her, before looking up at Emmrich. 

“And this is Emmrich Volkarin. My husband.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you all,” Emmrich says earnestly.

“Yes, all your previous encounters with family of Rook’s have been rather unsavoury,” Dorian drawls from by the kitchen counter. 

“Dorian’s told us what happened,” Thetis says, suddenly serious. “It’s good Charon’s finally dead, and… Aunt Athena hasn’t contacted any of us. We have no idea where she is.”

Rook smiles to himself. How like Thetis to simply come out and say it for Rook’s sake.

“That’s for the best. I don’t think we’ll ever speak again. I’m at peace with that.”

“And we’re the best the family had to offer, anyway,” Doris pipes up. “With the fall of House Mercar now rise four much better Houses. Yours especially, Rook. Volkarin. Such a strong name!”

Emmrich already finds her completely delightful. 

“Though I fear our House will go down with us,” Emmrich points out, “not to put a damper on the celebrations, of course.”

“What, you don’t think young Manfred is a suitable heir to the title?” Dorian says incredulously. Emmrich gives him a withering stare.

“Lord Manfred,” Manfred hisses softly, sounding as if he’s considering it. “Yes.”

“And how would Manfred produce an heir?” Emmrich asks, regretting vocalising the question the moment it leaves his lips.

“Well, should he become proficient enough of a necromancer, he might be able to raise the two of you!”

“See, I thought the exact same thing,” Rook laughs. Emmrich gazes skyward.

“Dear Maker, not this again.”

Tea eventually makes its way to the table, and the entire rest of the evening is filled with memories of the past. Dinner is cooked at some point and shared by all. Laughter fills the kitchen as childhood adventures are recalled in vivid detail, with the odd tear shed for what was lost. When wine inevitably fills their glasses and the conversation turns to the future of Minrathous, the magisterium, and restructuring Tevinter society at large, Emmrich leans back and observes. He’s pleasantly tipsy, and by the looks of it, Rook is too. His face is a little ruddy, and he’s talking animatedly. More than anything, he looks happy. 

Emmrich’s heart swells. It’s how he usually looks, lately. In faint, far hope, Emmrich wishes he will always look like this. Free, unburdened. The way Emmrich pictures him when he falls asleep at night.

And then Rook’s gaze turns to Emmrich in the middle of a sentence, and he stops talking. He takes Emmrich’s hand beneath the table and smiles as warmly as a lover’s bed.

“And we’re having our wedding about half a year from now.”

Unfortunately, Emmrich hasn’t the faintest idea what they were discussing. All he can do is respond to the last thing he’s heard.

“We’re visiting the palace next week,” he says, relieved when that appears to make sense to everyone. “Though I’m sure we’ll find it perfectly suitable.”

“You’ve come around, then?” Dorian asks, lazily swirling his wine in his glass.

“It’s a matter of practicality. Rook appears to insist on a lavish wedding–”

“I insist on getting you what you deserve.”

“–and the palace therefore seems the most logical venue for it.”

“If all else fails, there’s always the house,” Lydia says, shrugging. “I rather like what Neve’s done to the place.”

Rook is ready to dismiss the idea immediately, until–

“What? What did she do?”

“Gathered all of Charon’s ugly gold shit and sold it. Except for your old bedroom, I think. She left that for you to do with what you wanted.”

That’s much kinder to Rook than she needed to be, he thinks.

“I’ll see it when I get there. I think the palace will do just fine, though. Wait– When did you meet Neve?”

“After we found out who you were, we went to the manor on the off chance we’d find you there.”

“I told you you wouldn’t–” Dorian attempts to interject, but Lydia doesn’t let him.

“We found Neve, instead. I like her. She’s got spunk.”

“In spades,” Rook agrees.

There’s a brief moment of silence until, very obviously, Dorian kicks Rook underneath the table.

“Ow! What?”

“Shouldn’t you invite them?”

“That depends,” Rook says, though he’s smiling. Emmrich immediately realises he’d intended to do that all along. “If you’re all coming, who else would I have to invite? Aside from your spouses, of course.”

“Mother, and Great aunt Crecia is still alive of course,” Doris muses, counting on her fingers, “Thetis’ younger brother, Remus–”

“Fuck me, I forgot you had a brother,” Rook sighs, “how is Remus?”

“First enchanter of Vyrantium, and completely insufferable about it,” Thetis says as he downs his glass of wine. “But you’ll have to invite him even if his head is sure to fill half the bloody throne room.”

Rook sighs, “Yeah.”

Emmrich is utterly confused. “Forgive my saying so, but this is our wedding. You can invite whoever you please, darling. The inverse is true as well.”

Five Tevinter mages stare at him as if he’s just announced that it’s raining pigs outside.

“Have I said something wrong?”

“Amatus,” Rook says gravely, “if I don’t invite great aunt Crecia, we’ll receive letters about it until the day she dies. Worse, she might visit us to lecture us about it.”

By the sound of it, that can’t be very long. Emmrich is about to voice that he’ll take his chances, when Rook says, as if reading his mind:

“She’s already one hundred and twenty. Maker knows what she’s done to herself, but she’s not leaving us for the Fade anytime soon.”

“I– She’s what?”

“And if I don’t invite Remus, Thetis will never hear the end of it. The only reason Tevinter families ever see each other is because it’s much more troublesome not to invite them.”

Was his family like that, too? Emmrich struggles to remember. His parents didn’t have much family to begin with, though he vaguely recalls his mother occasionally exchanging letters with her sister. He certainly can’t remember his parents ever begrudgingly having guests over for events. If they ever had anything to celebrate, it was done with love and hospitality. What meagre offerings they had were shared freely with their guests. It was simply his parents’ way.

“Dreadful,” is all Emmrich can think to say.

Rook sighs, and agrees to invite anyone they can get the name and location of. In the end, he doesn’t mind, especially because the prospect of getting to watch Emmrich interact with his extended family is one he quite enjoys. He’s never - ever - gotten to introduce a significant other to his family, and that was always for the best. Now, though? 

It’ll be a night to remember for more than just their vows, Rook is sure of that much.

Just like this one. They talk until the very small hours of the morning, empty bottles of wine accumulating on the kitchen counter until Lydia makes the very wise call to ‘take the Evanuris home.’ Dorian, who in spite of having consumed by far the most out of all of them is the only one to appear stone-cold sober, promises to have the palace in tip-top shape for their visit. Given that Rook and the rest of his companions did a significant amount of damage to it, there’s still plenty of restoration to be done to the old building.

And as suddenly as they were joined, they find themselves alone again. The silence is sudden and deafening. Rook is off his arse. Emmrich, too, is struggling not to sway on his feet. Manfred puts an empty wine glass to his teeth and titters to himself when a droplet falls through his jawbone.

“Your cousin Lydia should’ve– should’ve known better than to try and drink Dorian under the table,” Emmrich says, sighing as he flops onto bed. Rook makes several clumsy attempts to unbutton his shirt before bursting into a fit of giggles that knows no end. Emmrich lets him roll to the side of him so he can undo his own buttons, and then help Rook with his. He ends up undressing Rook entirely before rolling him over to his side of the bed and getting in next to him. The second he’s settled, Rook rolls right back over and throws an arm and a leg across him. 

“Mmlove you.”

“I love you too, darling.”

“Did’you like my family?”

“I found them all perfectly charming.”

“Mmm. ‘Perfectly charming.’ No one’s ever accused them of that before.”

The words stumble about Rook’s mouth. At least he drank a good amount of water before the night ended, or no packing would get done tomorrow at all. Emmrich strokes his hair, chuckling softly when Rook burrows closer against him, perfectly content. 

“And I’m always glad to see your side of the guest list grow.”

“Mmm.”

“Even if I find your customs rather puzzling.”

“‘s rich comin’ from a Nevarran.”

Emmrich is about to protest when Rook kisses his neck. “Very… Handsome Nevarran.”

“My darling, even if I currently possessed the ability to become erect, I sincerely doubt your present ability to find where to stick it.”

That sends Rook into another laughing fit. His body shakes against Emmrich’s, who laughs with him until they’re both yawning.

“Wish I could meet your family,” Rook mumbles sleepily, barely managing to keep his eyes open, “d’you still have any?”

“Oh, some, without a doubt. I… Must confess that I haven’t kept up with them. We’re not close, and they don’t live nearby.”

“Mmm…”

“Though tonight has inspired me to make some inquiries. If nothing else, I should like to know if my mother’s sister yet lives. If not, I should at the very least take some flowers to her grave.”

“Mm…”

Moments later, Rook is snoring loudly into his ear. Emmrich stares at the canopy over their bed, illuminated slightly by the rise of the early morning sun. If he does have any family left, is now the time to seek them out? He’s never bothered before. Nobody could or wanted to take him when he was orphaned. Now that he’s an adult, he knows better than to feel blind bitterness and resentment towards faceless family members who might not even have been asked, but it still stings. 

Still, he thinks. Still. He knows so little of his parents. He had mere years with them, and only about half of those he can remember anything of at all. If his mother’s sister is still alive, would it help him learn about her? Would he finally get a clearer picture of who she was? And what of his father, who never spoke of family at all? What would he find if he were to go looking?

A question he’s often asked but never dared to answer. But the bravest man in all the world rests in his arms, and it’s impossible not to feel inspired. Emmrich resolves to ask his questions and find his answers, no matter how frightening the prospect. Any answers he may find are bound to change the way he looks at his parents forever, for better or for worse. But it’ll be a more complete truth. A more complex understanding of them as people. As a scholar and a man, not to mention their son, that is what he must strive for.

And, so the husband snoring upon his chest reminds him, he needn’t strive for it alone.

Chapter 9: Summer III

Notes:

Good evening, Emmrich Nation. This one took forever because I just kept letting it go on, basically. But I'm sure none of you mind. This one's also predictably very slutty. Enjoy.

(And thank you so much for all the lovely things you have to say about this story. Not to worry. I've so much more nonsense to put to paper.)

“So,” Dorian says, turning around and clapping his hands together, “what do you think?”

Rook, Manfred and Emmrich are standing in the centre of the throne room inside the Archon’s Palace. They’ve just had a thorough tour of the grounds and throne room, and Dorian’s assured them that he will be able to find a place for every last guest to sleep. There is ample space. Indeed, perhaps too much of it.

“It’ll be a very long walk towards the altar,” Emmrich points out, trying to estimate whether it would take him more than a minute to make it all the way, “and I do insist you meet me before the aisle, Rook.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Rook replies cheerfully, “but you insisted our cultures be represented, and it’s tradition for there to be a show of magic down the aisle. It’s my duty to present you to our guests in the manner you’re worthy of.”

“But you’ll do it together with me–”

“Most of it. I’ll do most of it with you, but tradition demands I start the wedding at the altar. I’ll walk down to meet you.”

“Very well,” Emmrich concedes, “I suppose I’ve my own rituals to conduct before the altar as well.”

Rook squeezes his hand. Dorian smiles gently and says, “I’ll ensure that there are plenty of seats reserved for all of your more exanimate guests. Per your request, professor, I’ve ensured an alcove will be added to the room during the last leg of its renovations. All those who wish might light a candle there for the deceased.”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you.”

“What role is young Manfred to play, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“He’s our son,” Rook says plainly, “he’ll be with us at the altar. He’s already said he wants to ‘do magic’ too, so we’ll make sure he can.”

“Fire!” Manfred happily chimes in.

Emmrich tries not to despair. “Yes, and it would be much easier to instruct him if I knew what you were doing, Rook–”

“And that would ruin the surprise, so I’m not telling you.”

“But you’ve told Manfred!”

“Because Manfred is part of my performance.”

Dorian watches them bicker for a moment, clearly amused.

“Well done, you two. You’re already behaving like a married couple ought to.”

Emmrich’s mouth snaps shut. Rook snorts. 

“If memory serves, you’re no better. Not with me, at any rate. Where’s The Iron Bull, anyway?”

Dorian’s expression turns somber. Last time he saw that look on him was during the celebrations after they beat Elgar’nan.

The Inquisitor, gone to be with Solas in the Fade everlasting. And while Rook wishes her every happiness, he feels terrible for Dorian, who lost a dear friend that day. So did The Iron Bull.

“Vivienne is visiting,” Dorian says, staring off to the side. “She still has hope we might find a way to locate the Inquisitor. Bull’s gone ahead to meet her.”

Finding her would mean finding Solas, and Rook frankly hopes it doesn’t come to that, but he keeps his mouth shut and nods.

“I understand. Shame, I’d’ve liked to meet him.”

“Not to worry. You’ll be sure to meet him at the ball come Parvulis.”

“Either way, the Palace seems like a good location. Are you sure you’ll have all the rebuilding done before winter?”

“Mm, we should. I’m sure to cut it very fine when it comes to finishing before the soirée, but there are worse things than a party beneath some scaffolding. One of the towers needs rather a lot of work.”

“Sorry,” Rook says sheepishly.

“Oh, please. You may have destroyed a good chunk of my palace with that meteor, but it helped save the city.”

Staring up at the aforementioned tower through the - as yet - uncovered ceiling, Emmrich feels slightly uneasy. It’s sure to be fine, but he does hope there will at the very least be a solid stone ceiling covering their heads come autumn. The tower itself is still completely surrounded by scaffolding, and by no means ready to stand on its own.

“You’ve done well with the city, Dorian,” Rook says, looking around at the builders walking about. “Really. Who knows, maybe you and the others really can change it for the better.”

Dorian’s smile is rueful. “But such change has come too late for you, has it not?”

“It has.”

“Then I can only express my sincere and boundless gratitude that you’re willing to lend your not inconsiderable fortune to the cause. Without it, we wouldn’t be nearly as far along as we are.”

Emmrich blinks. He knew Rook had given some money to the restoration of Minrathous, but this sounds a great deal more recent.

“Darling?”

“I’ll show you,” Rook promises, instinctively knowing what Emmrich is asking, “later.”

‘Show’ him, even. Emmrich isn’t unaware of Rook’s wealth, but he was never told just how much, nor did he ask. His mind produces images of hoards of gold hidden far beneath the ground, glittering in man-made caverns, untouched for decades. He smiles to himself and nods.

“Alright.”

With the Palace approved by both of them, they take a leisurely stroll through the city streets. Most of the blight has been cleared away, and the restoration effort is going strong. A few months from now, it’ll look as if the war never happened. The scars of it will linger only in those who are still alive to tell the tale, and those wounds aren’t patched up so easily. 

Emmrich wipes the sweat from his forehead with his already damp handkerchief. The heat is punishing even though they stick to the shadows. Next to him, Rook is quietly walking along, clearly sweating but seeming blissfully unbothered otherwise. 

“How can you stand this, darling?” Emmrich sighs, wiping the back of his neck. “I’m but half an hour away from simply melting into a pool of my own perspiration.”

“I’m used to it.”

He sounds off. Distracted. 

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I’m just nervous. I haven’t been back to the house since the night we killed Elgar’nan.”

And his father. Manfred reaches up and pats the back of his head, as gently as he can.

“It will – be okay.”

Rook gives his skull an affectionate little rub. “Thank you, dear boy.”

“It will be,” Emmrich agrees, squeezing Rook’s shoulder, “but I understand.”

“At least our luggage is already there.”

“We must remember to thank those Shadow Dragon recruits for their help. I can’t imagine they didn’t have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Ashur’s doing, I think. His way of saying thanks.”

“How is Ashur?”

“Good. No sign of the blight since Solas did – whatever he did.”

“I do wonder about that, sometimes,” Emmrich confesses, stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket. “If the blight is truly gone, does that mean the darkspawn has disappeared? Are the Deep Roads no longer infested? Have the Wardens been freed from the Calling?”

“When Davrin wrote to us a few months ago, he mentioned that he couldn’t feel the blight anywhere anymore. It can take years for the Calling to occur, though. We won’t know for a while.”

“Hmm. Perhaps Morrigan would know.”

“I’m sure she does. Fat chance of her telling us, though.”

“I suppose it matters not,” Emmrich sighs, “we’ve enough on our plate back at home.”

“That’ll be resolved soon, I think. Tessa is the obvious choice as the next leader of the Mourn Watch.”

Emmrich feels a faint, strange pang of discontent. Does Rook not consider him a worthy candidate at all?

“I’ve been told I’m being considered.”

Rook looks at him, surprised. “Oh. Do you want to?”

“Well, I… I’m among the most experienced of the senior staff, and I’ve many ideas on how the faculty should be run–”

“That’s true, and I’m sure you’d do a great job, but that’s not what I asked.”

“I don’t think I’d want the position, no. I’d like to keep teaching, nurturing the necromancers of tomorrow. I enjoy doing research, and I’ve little patience for the sort of politicking that occurs at that level of leadership.”

Even if he doesn’t say it, Rook can clearly hear the ‘but’ at the end of that sentence.

“But?”

“But… Johanna remarked that I could do more if I simply held the power to do so. When it comes to the things that truly matter, I fear I’ve got very little influence.”

“That’s not true. You were almost single-handedly responsible for mobilising the Mourn Watch during the war. Without you acting as a liaison to them, I don’t think we would’ve gotten very far.”

He has a point, Emmrich realises. Maurice was content to sit back and let the other nations fight the war so long as the Venatori were repelled from the Necropolis. Emmrich has often wondered if he was possessed even then. 

“Perhaps. But her point stands, I think. I would have access to more resources to make the sort of changes I’d like to see.”

“Has she put a spell on you? Since when are we listening to Johanna Hezenkoss for career advice? I don’t think she’d cheer for you to make any sort of decision that would benefit you. Not unless it would benefit her as well.”

“I happen to believe her time inside her warded prison has mellowed her considerably. She even expressed unhappiness with my departure some weeks ago.”

“Did she,” Rook says drily.

“Yes. She’s rather bored without me there, it seems.”

“I sympathise. I still think she’s up to something.”

“What could she possibly be up to?”

“The same thing she’s always up to: trying to escape.”

“How would my becoming head of the Mourn Watch aid her in achieving that?”

“She’d probably be put with a different, less vigilant Watcher? I don’t know. I’m not saying I understand her thought process, just that I don’t trust her. She tried to kill you, Emmrich. Several times. She succeeded in killing Manfred. I wouldn’t be so quick to forgive or trust her.”

Manfred throws his arms into the air. “Alive!”

Emmrich hasn’t forgotten that. In fact, her callously sweeping Manfred aside as if he was nothing is exactly why he’s still constantly concerned over his safety. That particular anxiety is permanently at war with his sense of pride over Manfred’s progress, and the recognition that he is slowly becoming more and more independent. He can never quite shake it. The few times during their travels these past several weeks when they had to engage in battle terrified Emmrich, especially when Manfred took it upon himself to engage with a wandering wraith. If not for Rook’s swift interference, who knows what could’ve happened?

“I’ve not forgotten, but…”

“She’s not improved much at all over the last half a year, either.”

“I know, but forever is a very long time to be alive, Rook,” Emmrich says gravely, “and I hesitate to think of an immortal as ever being truly beyond redemption.”

“Because they’ve got endless opportunities to turn themselves around?”

“Precisely.”

“Doesn’t that make it more heinous when they don’t? It seems too easy to simply be a terrible person for a couple centuries and only then decide to be a halfway decent sort. It’d mean she could destroy all of Nevarra and still redeem herself. I don’t believe in it.”

“Well, I… I suppose that’s a fair point.”

“And I don’t think Hezenkoss is ever going to be less ambitious than she is.”

“Historically her ambition has only been known to grow, admittedly.”

“There you go.”

There’s a brief silence between them as they watch Manfred scuttle over to a merchant selling shiny things. Emmrich considers Rook’s position and finds it sound, but he still wants to believe in Johanna. She was his friend, his lover, once upon a time. All those years they spent learning and researching together. Just the two of them against the world. Emmrich knows he loved her as a friend long before he found his way to her bed. All of that has to count for something.

“I still believe the person I once proudly called my friend exists within her, somewhere,” Emmrich says softly. Rook takes a deep breath and sighs.

“And I’d like to say I believe you, but I think this is more about something you want than something you truly believe in. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad she’s less of an arsehole to you these days, but that doesn’t mean she’s changed.”

“But she could–”

“For the better?” Rook asks, looking Emmrich in the eyes. “Her greatest ambition is to turn the Mourn Watch into the Nevarran Magisterium, at the incalculable cost of spirits and Maker knows what else. Her pushing you towards a position that would make that easier for her is a ploy to aid in that destruction.”

Emmrich looks away, but Rook gently turns his face back towards him. “Look,” he says, sighing again, “I know you somehow manage to see the best in people. You see a spark of good in her that I don’t, and maybe you’re right and I’m wrong. But with the way she spoke to and of you, I… I find it hard to imagine her ever having been your friend.”

Johanna has always been acerbic, that much is true. Even at their most intimate, she’d scold him for touching her wrong. Emmrich thought she was charmingly fierce, but he was young. She was among the earliest of his relationships. He had no idea what he wanted out of a partner. At the time, ‘attention’ seemed sufficient. Thinking back, she was most kind and most passionate with him after they’d made a discovery of any kind. Their shared love of necromancy is what brought them together, and her ambition to progress it far beyond any reasonable boundary is what drove them apart.

“Immortality might be the thing that’s preventing her from ever becoming better,” Rook concludes. “She’s got no reason to change. Nothing to motivate her.”

“I can’t imagine she’d prefer to be imprisoned for centuries.”

“She won’t be. Given enough time, she’s sure to escape. She’s brilliant, I’ll give her that much.”

“Not while she’s under my watch.”

“Which is why you can’t become headmaster, and why you’ll have to teach Manfred how to maintain her wards.”

With a heavy sigh, Emmrich decides he wants to let the matter rest. He tips Rook’s chin up and kisses him in the middle of the sunlit street. 

“I think you’re just attached to my current office,” he says, smiling. Rook takes his cue to drop the matter and laughs.

“Sure. We’ll leave it at that because Manfred’s been haggling, and I think we should step in before he spends his stipend and all the extra I’ve been sneaking him.”

“All the what – Rook! You can’t spoil him like this!”

“You said I could add to his stipend!”

“A reasonable amount, Rook! I will not have our boy spending lavishly. That is not a life I want him getting accustomed to.”

“Aw, come on. He’s just getting some souvenirs–”

Manfred hurries over, eager to show what he’s bought while they’ve been bickering.

“Look!”

Emmrich and Rook stare at the diamond-encrusted golden bracelet, shaped like a coiling serpent dragon. Rook doesn’t dare to look at Emmrich, who has slowly turned his carefully neutral yet quietly thunderous gaze upon him.

“How much have you been adding to his stipend, darling?”

Rook clears his throat. “That’s a lovely gift for Neve, Manfred. I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“Yes!”

“See? He bought it on purpose and for a good reason. Neve likes gold.”

“I don’t recall Neve having a particular fondness for diamonds.”

“Shiny!”

Putting on his most disarming smile, Rook takes Emmrich’s hand and walks him farther down the street, Manfred happily following behind as he observes the glinting diamonds in the bright afternoon sunlight.

“I have it on good authority that my favourite little shop survived the assault,” Rook says excitedly, “I think you’ll like it.”

“You can’t bribe me into forgiving you for your transgressions, you know.”

“Oh, but I most certainly can.”

Rook opens the door to a little shop tucked away in an alley, surrounded by crates and utterly unremarkable to any unknowing passersby. He lets go of Emmrich’s hand and gently pushes him inside with a hand on the small of his back, whispering, ”And if that should fail, I’ll just get on my knees tonight.”

“An excellent position to beg for forgiveness in,” Emmrich admits, stepping into the shop. He blinks. It’s three times as large inside as it is on the outside, and Emmrich wonders if he’s stepped into the Fade without noticing again. Row after row of bookcases stretch out in front of him, shelves along the walls stacked high with reagents, flasks, alchemical ingredients, monster parts, scrolls, books–

“Oh, my word–”

“Magic!” Manfred exclaims, before pushing past them both and hurrying inside. The shopkeeper, an elderly man hunched over an elaborately gilded grimoire, doesn’t even look up from his reading. 

“I only came here after I joined the Shadow Dragons. I knew of it before then, but mother deemed this sort of shop beneath her. Silly.”

“Extraordinarily so,” Emmrich agrees, slowly walking past the shelves. Even among the Mortalitasi, such a collection is unheard of. “This is a mage’s paradise.”

“Tevinter is a mage’s paradise, to be fair.”

“Hmm. It wasn’t paradise for you.”

“It didn’t used to be. It is now, though. But then, so is Nevarra. So were Treviso and Rivain,” Rook says, still smiling, “so maybe it’s less to do with where I am, and more with who I’m with.”

Hidden between two tall bookcases, Emmrich pulls Rook against him and kisses the top of his head. 

“I’ve so enjoyed our travels these last weeks, my darling. The night we spent sleeping underneath the luminous stars of Rivain, nothing but the sea and the skies as far as the eye could see…”

Rook kisses him softly, eyes closed as he remembers. It was their last night in Rivain, and they’d said their goodbyes to Taash the day before. Rook had insisted: one night beneath an untainted, clear sky. Emmrich’s opinion of camping and sleeping outside had sadly but predictably not at all improved after his camping trip in Ferelden with Harding. But Rook had promised, sworn up and down, vowed that Emmrich would enjoy it. That he’d do everything in his power to make it so.

Years spent camping in the wilderness with Velothil made for an easy experience setting up camp. Velothil had been a mage too, with an arsenal of spells familiar only to him and the Dalish of his clan that he was kind and trusting enough to let Rook see. Rook still remembers some of them: deterrent spells for insects and curious little critters that might come looking, and a simple incantation to keep the fire going all night. Beautiful, complex little spells that the mages of Tevinter turn their noses up at because they aren’t powerful. Fools.

And when night did fall, Rook, Emmrich and Manfred sat together with the fire warming their backs, the endless firmament stretching out above them. Stars as bright as distant suns twinkling against the dark skies. For all of a moment, the exact location in Thedas where they were holding hands beneath their blanket felt like the centre of the universe. 

Even underneath that breathtaking night sky, all Rook had looked at was Emmrich.

“It was a beautiful night,” Rook says quietly, “one we’ll soon repeat when we reach our destination.”

As worried as Emmrich is about leaving Manfred alone for a week, he is looking forward to spending a week alone with Rook. Wherever they’ll go, whatever they’ll do, it’s sure to be wonderful. Besides, a little bit of hedonistic debauchery seems like a fine end to their holiday, especially after the last several days of travel by carriage. 

Visiting their friends again has been lovely. They spent a week with Lucanis and Taash each, and made stops in Arlathan to see both Davrin and Bellara. Each visit had been invigorating, even as they recounted some of the horrors that have befallen them over the past six months. 

It’s strange, Emmrich thinks as Rook lets him go to explore the store together. So much has transpired, but it’s all faded into the background as if none of it was ever more than a bad dream. Even the all-consuming darkness of the last spring and the early summer weeks barely feels like a distant shadow now, no longer looming large and darkening their days. No, instead their days have been bright and filled with sunlight. Travelling together, watching Manfred run about, catching up with everyone. It’s been perfect.

Rook was especially glad for Emmrich and Bellara to see each other again. For all of Rook’s studying, he isn’t and never will be quite on Emmrich’s level. He and Bellara speak a different language, one he can’t hope to understand. Bellara had promised - double promised - to take Rook up on his offer to visit and peruse their book collection more often. She doesn’t want to intrude, and she also knows Emmrich to be exceedingly polite. He wouldn’t turn her down even if the timing was inconvenient. Perhaps she needed to hear it from Rook that they truly, truly would love to have her over, trusting him to say what Emmrich might not.

Silly, of course. Emmrich would love nothing more than to talk shop with her, and Rook would love nothing more than to serve them tea while they’re at it.

“My treat,” Rook says when Emmrich’s been holding on to and admiring a particularly frail and ancient looking tome. “No matter the cost.”

Spoken without ever even glancing at or asking for the price. Emmrich can’t imagine it.

“My dear, your wealth frightens me at times.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“I’m not accustomed to it.”

“No, but–... I find the idea of all that stolen, hoarded blood money sitting in a vault somewhere much more frightening. I aim to use as much of it as I can during my life, and leave the rest to the Shadow Dragons to do with as they please.”

Emmrich takes a breath. He can’t be hearing this right. “You speak as though you couldn’t possibly spend it all.”

Rook smiles ruefully. “I don’t think I could even if I tried. It’s been six months of giving as much as Dorian and the Shadow Dragons need me to, and I’ve barely made a dent. Giving Manfred pocket money, buying you gifts, donating to those in need, it’s… It’s coppers compared to what’s still in the vaults.”

“‘Vaults,’ plural?”

“Vaults, plural.”

“And you’ve given most of what you’ve spent these last few months to Minrathous, you say?”

“Minrathous, the Veil Jumpers, the Wardens… I sent word to Ferelden to see if they needed help, since the Inquisitor is no longer around to do that, and the orphanage in Nevarra received a hefty donation. I also spoke to Marie, since she expressed interest in expanding the tavern.”

It’s nothing to him, Emmrich realises. Money means nothing at all to him. It’s as readily available as the air and spent as easily as breathing. Even though it’s been many, many years since Emmrich last had to worry about his budget at all, he still writes one down every month. He still saves his candle stubs, and he still doesn’t throw away food. Emmrich mends his clothes instead of replacing them, and he doesn’t like to splurge too often. Money may no longer be a material concern, but he very much doubts he’ll ever be able to stop thinking about it as such.

And Rook never tells him to just buy new clothes, or to throw away his candle stubs. Never mocks him for melting down the residual wax on a free evening, nor for writing down a budget when Rook will pay for almost everything unless Emmrich beats him to it. He’s clearly not trying to undermine Emmrich’s frugality: he just doesn’t think about it.

Emmrich smiles to himself. Rook could’ve turned out so different. There were endless paths that would’ve led him away from the kind, generous soul that he is and he took none of them. He might’ve started down a few out of sheer desperation, but he always found his way back.

“Surely,” Emmrich says, his voice light, “you haven’t left Manfred and me out of your bequeathments?”

Rook returns his smile. “You would succeed me as the Head of House Volkarin, sweetheart. By law, all that is mine is yours.”

And isn’t that the heart of the matter?

“Only by law?”

“No. All of me belongs to all of you.”

With the tome resting in the crook of his arm, Emmrich strokes Rook’s cheek.

“Such grand declarations you make, my darling. All in broad daylight.”

“What could I possibly say that you don’t already know?”

“Ah, but it bears repeating, doesn’t it?”

“As many times as you want me to.”

“Tell me again.”

Rook steps closer, minding the crumbling manuscript in Emmrich’s arm. 

“All of me,” he says softly, “belongs to all of you.”

“Mm… And for how long, darling?” Emmrich asks as he leans down to brush a kiss against Rook’s nose.

“Forever, I should think.”

“That’s rather a long time, wouldn’t you agree?”

“No,” Rook disagrees, tilting his face up. Emmrich’s breath feels hot against his lips. “It’s not nearly enough.”

“In public!” Manfred hisses behind them, bonking Rook over the head with a book. “Bad!”

“Manfred!” Emmrich chastises him. “What did I tell you about assaulting your papa?”

“Don’t use books.”

“Precisely. No, wait–”

The shopkeeper stares at them through tired, seemingly ancient eyes. He may as well be seeing straight through them for all the conversation he makes. Which is to say: none whatsoever. Rook pays without ever hearing a price, and happily carries two satchels of ingredients and a stack of books in his arms the entire way home. 

“Darling, really, I don’t mind carrying some.”

Without missing a beat, Rook jokes, “We both know you’re far too pretty to burden yourself with that, amatus.”

Manfred hisses again. After visiting Taash, he has rather internalised the fact that his parents are ‘cringe,’ and that this cannot be borne. Emmrich looks away to hide his smile. 

As they get nearer the house, Rook begins to slow down. Emmrich matches his pace while Manfred darts from one side of the street to the other, all too happy to examine all the magic that seems to be hiding in every corner of the city even now. Rook, of course, sees none of that. All he sees and knows are all the places where he was hurt. It was his idea to return here, yes, but Emmrich wonders if he shouldn’t have pushed back harder now that he can clearly see the discomfort on Rook’s face. 

Poor Rook, he thinks. More than likely he underestimated how badly being back here would affect him. 

“Alright?” Emmrich asks as they turn into the street that contains the main entrance to the house. Rook nods, then shakes his head. “Do you need a moment before we go inside?”

“No. Best to get it over with. It’s never going to get any easier.”

Emmrich looks up and gazes at the balcony from which they’d entered the house when they were first here together. The balcony a teenage Rook walked off of in faint, far hopes that the Fade would be gentler to him than Thedas. He shudders to think what a fall from that height must’ve done to his body.

Rook bumps into him, effectively forcing him to look back down. 

“C’mon.”

When they first came here, Emmrich didn’t get a chance to see the entrance hall. For a moment, he can only stand in awe of the polished stone, the enormous windows, the vaulted ceilings. Back then, everything was covered in blight. It was impossible to feel for the finer aspects of the house’s magic when blood magic and corruption were abundant. Now, he can feel it: the telltale whisper of magic running through the stone, spreading and linking together like veins in a body. His footsteps echo in the vast, nearly empty hall, interspersed by Manfred’s rapid scuttling along the floor as he inspects his new surroundings. Rook walks out ahead of them. It’s eerily reminiscent of how he walked to his father’s study when they came here to put an end to him: not looking at anything, his eyes fixed straight ahead, legs walking briskly with anxious trepidation and purpose both. A closed door forces him to stop, his arms too full to pull down the handle. Only now does Emmrich notice that he’s trembling.

“Hold on a moment, darling.”

Rook sighs but doesn’t protest, no matter how much he wants to just push through this. His heart is beating too fast, his chest is tight with tension. So long as he’s holding on to the stack of books, he can pretend that’s why his fingers are cramped around the corners of them. Emmrich slowly rubs his arms, gently dragging him out of the frightening memories clawing at his conscience and back into the present.

“You’re quite safe,” Emmrich tells him. “For the first time in your life, this house is filled exclusively with people who wish to see you thrive. Who care about your continued happiness and wellbeing.”

“I know.”

“Your memories are just that: memories. They’re sure to assail you from every window, every door and corridor, but you needn’t pay them any mind, my darling. They cannot harm you now.”

As it stands, Rook feels harmed enough just being here. Maybe this was all a huge mistake, but there’s no turning back now. 

“Would it make you very unhappy if we left after breakfast tomorrow?” he asks, feeling terribly guilty for even asking. After many months of trial and error, he’s finally managed to stop running from Emmrich. But this?

“Of course not,” Emmrich says, giving him a reassuring squeeze, “but only if you’re sure you won’t regret it.”

“I…”

Would he? Rook would certainly chastise himself for fleeing in terror once again, but maybe he can make up for that later, when he’s had time to process being here.

“Maybe we can stay for a couple of days after we get back from–... The other place. We’re not in any rush to get back to Nevarra, are we?”

“No. We arrived here well on schedule, and I ensured we’ll have plenty of time to settle back in at home. We can afford to stray from our initial return date by quite a bit.”

Emmrich can feel Rook’s shoulders sagging with relief in his hands. 

“Then would that be okay?” he asks, still fearful of Emmrich’s disappointment even if he knows, knows that he won’t be. Knowledge is so often pointless when it comes to matters of the heart.

“Yes,” Emmrich says, bending down to kiss him softly, “that would be perfect, darling. You mustn’t push yourself beyond your limits.”

If only he had some idea of what those limits are. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome. This is your holiday as much as mine. It’s imperative that you enjoy yourself.”

Rook snorts softly and steals another kiss before Emmrich is out of reach.

“‘Imperative,’ even.”

“Naturally. Your joy is mine, and mine is yours. If leaving here tomorrow allows you to banish the looming spectre of despair, then I will ensure the carriage is ready for us at dawn if need be.”

“Sneaking out like thieves in the night?”

“An indiscretion I will gladly apologise for if it would make you happy, my darling.”

Tempting, but Rook thinks he can tough it out until after breakfast. Emmrich proposing it, however, makes him want to kiss him breathless.

“Incredible. With just a few sentences you’ve managed to do the impossible.”

“Which is?”

“You’ve made me look forward to retiring to my bedroom later.”

Emmrich knows he’s joking, because he’s sure to be dreading that the most. It’s radiating off of him like a dark miasma of nervous energy, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. 

“Time can’t pass quickly enough,” he says, letting go of Rook and opening the door, “let’s proceed.”

Beyond the door lies the principal site of most of Rook’s trauma: the grand hall. It’s where his family received their guests and where his father would hold his bloody salons. It looks exactly the same as he remembers it. Too large, too tall, and somehow too small to contain the egos of the men within. Rook’s eyes are immediately drawn to the piano tucked away in a corner of the room. It didn’t used to be there. Neve’s work, no doubt, as is the rest of the space. Lydia spoke true: every last bit of gilded decorations, adornments and finishings have been removed. The house instantly feels more peaceful because of it, though that could well be due to the absence of his parents, too.

Neve stands from behind a desk in the centre of the room and approaches them. It’s the first time she and Rook have seen each other at all since they parted at the Lighthouse. Emmrich greets her first, warmly shaking her hand and asking after her. Rook can really only nod his head at her, what with his arms filled with Emmrich’s new acquisitions. Neve smiles at him, without malice, and looks down at Manfred standing just behind him. She tuts and shakes her head.

“For shame, the two of you are treating Rook as your pack mule.”

Manfred hisses, “Papa carries. Daddy flaunts.”

Emmrich turns crimson all the way to his crown. Rook laughs hard enough for it to ring through the room. All the horrors lie momentarily forgotten in the back of his mind as Emmrich takes the book from him in an effort to save face and he finally gets to embrace Neve. The first words to tumble out of his mouth are an apology he’s wanted to give her in person for months now. She accepts it with grace and an air that makes it very clear she no longer needs him to apologise for anything. All is well.

Rook compliments her on what she’s done to his former home, and she smiles knowingly when she tells him the gold made a pretty penny to further support the Shadow Dragons’ efforts. Drawing and sitting rooms have been turned into bedrooms and infirmaries. The libraries were kept as they are, providing valuable insight into the sorts of things a high ranking magister might want to know and learn about. The gardens, too, were barely altered if at all. Rook’s mother occasionally dabbled in alchemy to amuse herself, and they’re filled with useful herbs and flowers still.

All in all, Rook thinks the manor has much improved since he last saw it. There’s better people in it, better magic, and his father’s ridiculous embellishments have been removed. The few things about it that weren’t terrible were maintained and taken care of. He sighs, slightly relieved. Being back here is not quite as bad as it could’ve been.

Throughout the day, Emmrich quietly observes Rook. He appears calmer, but Emmrich can tell his shoulders are tight with tension still. There’s something stilted and strange about how he moves through the various rooms. It’s as if he’s forgotten how he carries himself, as if he’s only just stepped into this body and doesn’t quite know how to operate it yet. Emmrich notices him avoiding touching anything. Even when Emmrich sits while they’re having tea with Neve, Rook stands and keeps Manfred entertained under the guise of having sat enough during their carriage ride for a lifetime. 

Neve’s not buying it, but she doesn’t comment. She does, however, give Emmrich a look with each poor excuse Rook conjures to avoid sitting down or touching anything. When Rook suggests going out for dinner, nobody seems surprised, and nobody disagrees.

“Are you alright, darling?” Emmrich asks him during their walk back to the house.

“I’m… Managing,” Rook answers, after taking a moment to think about it. “Just… I’m not used to it being fine for me to – exist in that house.”

“But it’s yours,” Emmrich reminds him.

“It is now. Before that, trust me when I say that father ensured I knew nothing in that house was mine. He made sure to remind me of that most days.”

Emmrich purses his lips to keep himself from saying something unnecessarily harsh, until Rook says:

“It feels like I have to ask for permission to touch anything, except the person I need to ask no longer exists.”

His hatred towards Rook’s father gets the better of him, and Emmrich replies, “I’ve long considered raising him from the dead so that I might kill him again. You might ask him then.”

It startles a laugh out of Rook, even more so when Emmrich straightens his shoulders and folds his hands behind his back. 

“Apologies.”

“No, Maker, don’t apologise. You always know just what to say to make me feel better.”

“Does it not worry you, that your father is single-handedly responsible for the fact that I would even consider this tarnishing of my oaths?”

“Of course not,” Rook says earnestly, taking Emmrich’s hand and kissing his ring, “you’re not like him. You’d never, no matter how much you want to.”

“You still imagine me so incorruptible, even after I–”

Emmrich stops himself and leans down to whisper to Rook, “Even after I bedded one of my dearest students?”

“That’s different,” Rook argues, “you see, I really wanted you to.”

Behind his giggling parents, Manfred is hiding his skull in his hands. 

There is but one moment during the entire day where Emmrich is momentarily distracted from his efforts to watch over Rook, paradoxically while looking right at him. It’s when Doris, her husband and their three children walk in. Triplets, apparently. Loud, rambunctious, utterly innocent and precious little triplets. Emmrich watches them run and waddle - they can’t be older than two, surely - over to their uncle, who happily scoops up all three into his arms for a big hug. He stands, nailed to the floor, as Rook kisses his little cousins on the cheek, laughing and smiling without reserve perhaps for the first time since they arrived in Minrathous. 

Emmrich’s throat feels immeasurably dry. He knows Rook doesn’t want and never wanted children, but watching him converse with friends and family as he holds a curious, chubby little toddler to his chest makes Emmrich feel something he hasn’t felt in the longest time: loss, in the most abstract sense. A loss of something he wanted so very badly, once upon a time, and of which he’s long since accepted that the time has passed to attain it. Manfred is the only son he will ever have, and while he’s second to none and deeply loved, Emmrich cannot deny that watching him grow is still materially different to the way a living, breathing child grows. Rook looks so lovely with a child on his arm, so warm and nurturing. What would he look like with a chubby baby of their own in the cradle of his elbow?

Rook catches his eye from across the room, the smile almost immediately falling from his face. Emmrich feels his cheeks heating with shame. How dare he take for granted what they have? How dare he fantasise about it being their own when Rook has so clearly stated he never wants or wanted children? He forces himself to smile, to communicate that he’s fine and that there’s nothing to worry about.

But Rook wasn’t born yesterday, and he knows his husband. He knows those big eyes, filled lash to lash with intense longing, better than he knows even himself. 

“Dor,” he says, turning towards his cousin, “they’re adorable, but it must be hard, three kids at once.”

“Tell me about it!” she laughs, leaning against her husband. He’s a large, gentle man, who introduced himself only as ‘Tom.’ A Fereldan, by his accent. “Honestly, I don’t know why people think we live a ‘simple life.’ Maintaining the farm and running after these three is much more complicated than my life here ever was.”

Rook can imagine. “But it’s better, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, smiling as she reaches out to gently twirl her daughter’s curls around her finger, “much better.”

“Still, if you ever need someone to take them off your hands for a couple days–”

“Would you?” Doris says, a little too excited. “Oh, Rook, that’d be– I mean, we haven’t had the time even to go out for a picnic since they were born.”

Rook chuckles, “I thought so. And mine is over there looking enamoured with your little ones. I should warn you: they’ll return to you spoiled completely bloody rotten.”

Doris squeezes his arm, giddy. “I’ll take it.”

“We’ll discuss it when I get back from the summer house.”

“Ah, I did hear you were leaving tomorrow.”

“Emmrich’s never been,” Rook elaborates, “and, I can’t believe I’m saying this, I quite like the place.”

In spite of nearly drowning there once. But it’s a lovely house, and he intends to spend the week basking in the sunlight, making love to Emmrich, cooking for him, and enjoying whatever Emmrich’s prepared for his birthday. Truly, if he won’t remain horizontal for at least half the trip in some way, shape or form, he’ll be sorely disappointed.

“Has it been–... Tidied?” Doris asks carefully.

“I went over a couple of weeks ago to reactivate the enchantments. It should be clean and ready for us.”

“Maker, your father never left anything to chance, did he? Even this house is fully enchanted.”

“It can’t be surprising to learn that Charon’s one joy in life was to exert control over anything and everything in his immediate vicinity. And beyond.”

Doris can’t disagree. “I’ll say. Still, I hope you’ll have a fantastic time.”

“I’m sure we will. Now, do you mind if I borrow this one,” he says, gently tickling the toddler in his arms, who squeals with delight, “for a minute?”

“Not at all,” Doris says, happily waving them off. Emmrich watches them approach and swallows hard, hands itching to reach out and take the child from Rook. 

“Now,” Rook says as he stops in front of Emmrich, “this is your other uncle, Emmrich. Can you say Emmrich?”

“Em-my,” Rose babbles, staring up at Emmrich with huge, curious eyes. “Ungle Emmy!”

She reaches for Emmrich with excited, grabby hands. Rook holds her out for him to take, struggling to keep his smile in check as Emmrich takes her. No, he thinks, he doesn’t want children, but he’s not at all unaffected by the sight of Emmrich with a small child on his arm. Quite the opposite. He wonders if, had they met earlier, would he have dared to want to have children? Would being with Emmrich have made him brave enough to want to face the challenge?

Lost in thought, Rook tilts his head and imagines a different life for himself, one where he might have kept his uterus. One where, as a man, he might’ve carried Emmrich’s child. It doesn’t make him nearly as uncomfortable as he thought it would. No, it’s not a life they’ll ever have, but the part of him that staunchly swore off children because of what he had to suffer as one feels greatly soothed.

Maybe there’s a middle road here, somewhere.

“Hello there,” Emmrich says to the child in his arms, his voice soft and gentle, “what’s your name?”

“Wose!” Rose answers, tugging on Emmrich’s bracelets.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Rose.”

“Looks good on you,” Rook says, without a hint of irony. “Shame, really. Any child would’ve had a fantastic father in you, just like Manfred has.”

“It is a shame,” Emmrich quietly admits, “but I wouldn’t trade our life for the world, dearest. You must know that.”

“I do, but more than that, I don’t think you have to.”

Emmrich slowly looks away from the impossibly endearing child in his arms, staring at Rook in confusion.

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, I… Try as you might, you’ll never succeed in getting me pregnant–”

“Rook.”

“And by all means, do keep trying–”

“Rook.”

“But we’re their uncles, and I do like kids. I just never wanted any of my own.”

Their uncles. Tears welling in Emmrich’s eyes blur his vision. For the longest time, he hasn’t had any family whatsoever, or at least, none that he interacts with. Rook’s family history is complicated, and he knows Rook fears things becoming what they once were. However irrational a fear that may be. And yet, here he stands, lovingly including Emmrich in what little good of it remains and entrusting the most precious, most vulnerable of its members to him without so much as a second thought.

“What’re you saying?”

“That their parents are in dire need of some alone time, and who better to pawn them off on than us?”

Emmrich blinks, mouth agape. It’s one of Rook’s favourite looks on him. Then, he smiles and looks back at Rose. 

“I can’t imagine ever wanting to be apart from such a precious child, or any of the others.”

Rook chuckles softly and says, “I imagine that’s something you find out after having them.”

“Or after meeting someone who seduces you into activities most unsuitable to vulnerable eyes,” Emmrich points out, still smiling. “Manfred and I scarcely ever spent a moment apart until I came to the Lighthouse.”

Glancing to the side, Rook watches Manfred play with Lily, another of Doris’ three children. 

“Doesn’t seem like Manfred would mind having some temporary siblings.”

“But where would they sleep, Rook?” Emmrich suddenly asks, horrified that their home is so ill-suited to receiving children. “And what of the skulls, the– Oh, that won’t do that all. When we return home, we’ll have to make rigorous changes to our space–”

“Or I can ward off your precious books and trinkets. We’ll find a way without compromising too much on our own lives. The kids can have the bed, and we’ll take the sofa.”

Emmrich despairs at the thought of sleeping on the sofa for an entire week. His back twinges preemptively, but perhaps it’s a small price to pay for the reward of having three excited children to show the sights of Nevarra.

Oh, but–

“But is the Necropolis suitable for such small children?”

“I think it will only get less suitable with time. Right now, they’re young enough to be introduced to such things and not be afraid yet. Doris doesn’t mind, and they’re clearly not afraid of Manfred.”

Knowing how kind and clever she is, Emmrich tries not to doubt Doris’ sanity. He was terrified when he was first brought to the Necropolis, but then, he was old enough to know and fear death. He still is. Her children are more likely to be fascinated by the glowing lanterns and playful wisps than they are to be terrified of the presence of death all around them.

“Well, if she’s certain she doesn’t mind…”

“I assure you that if we weren’t leaving tomorrow, we’d be dragging them around with us everywhere for the next week already.”

Rose babbles happily to herself. Emmrich’s heart is full to bursting.

“How can she be so eager to see her children off? Look at her, Rook!”

This time, Rook laughs out loud.

“I think you vastly underestimate just how much time we get to spend alone together as a couple as opposed to those with children. If we had three toddlers running about the house, I can promise you we wouldn’t have even half the amount of – intimacy – that we currently have.”

There’s a thought that gives Emmrich pause. Obviously, if children had come first, he would’ve been glad to give up some amount of intimacy for the joy of spending time with them. But as they did not, it seems an exceedingly high price to pay. They already have to be quiet and careful when Manfred is home, and that’s only some of the time. He spends a decent amount of time away from the flat, after all. If their life included three - or even two - young children who would be dependent on them for care around the clock at the very least until they’re old enough to prepare their own food, they wouldn’t get a moment to themselves for years.

“Truly,” Emmrich concludes as he shows off his rings to a wide-eyed and curious Rose, “things have worked out for the best.”

Rook watches the tender scene before him and feels, somewhere deep within him, as if an infinitely long circle that’s never quite been drawn to completion finally closes. It’s as Emmrich told him: this house now exclusively contains people he loves and who love him in return. The only members of his family that are present are ones he would give his life to protect, or rather, who he would live for. There’s been enough dying. He’s spent his entire life dying a thousand different deaths. The death of his innocence, the death of hope and joy and laughter. The slow and persistent dying of the light in him. 

No more. As he stares at Emmrich and his little cousin in his arms, he burns brighter than he ever has before. This moment is both the culmination of the life he’s lived and the start of his life as it’s going to be hereafter. Gratitude as copious and dazzling as sparkling wine radiates through him.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly, blinking away tears, “I think so, too.”

Later, when Rook is busy entertaining all three of his cousins, Emmrich takes tea with Neve in a smaller sitting room that, sans its gold, has mostly retained its original state. They sit in plush, comfortable chairs that he’s certain cost more individually than most of his furniture put together. 

“You’ve done a spectacular job in Minrathous, Neve. You and the rest of the Shadow Dragons.”

“We try,” Neve says, her quiet gratitude apparent in her smile, “and it certainly hasn’t been a disappointment. We’ve plenty of money, but we’re always short on people.”

“Far too many lives were lost to the assault and the blight,” Emmrich sighs. “The strength and resilience of the people of Minrathous has been phenomenal to witness.”

“For most of them, the city’s all they’ve got. Those who are still here to see it want it to be better than it was. Dorian’s proving very inspiring.”

“I’m sure his being a hero of the Inquisition aids his reputation with people across class divisions. Though I’m sure the previous magisters didn’t care for it.”

“Well, he got the last laugh on that score. He’s got the magisterium of his dreams now.”

“Beg your pardon, Neve, but are you–?”

“Oh, no. He asked me, but I turned him down. I have no desire to join the robes up in the palace.”

Emmrich smiles and sips his tea. No, he didn’t think she did.

“We visited Lucanis some weeks ago,” he then says, changing the subject. “I’m so very glad to hear that you two are still together.”

“It’s been nice,” Neve says, her voice light. “And Spite is… Spite.”

“A very colourful addition to your relationship, I’m sure.”

“You could say that. You’d know, I’m sure you and Rook get visits from spirits all the time.”

Rook’s hallucinations, though they are very few and far between these days, are about as close as they get. He refuses to think about Desire.

“Not quite, not unless you count Manfred.”

Neve sits back and observes him quietly. Emmrich tries not to squirm.

“Are you alright with leaving Fred with me for a week?” she asks as she lifts her cup to her lips.

“I am. I can’t think of a mage in Minrathous I’d rather leave him with. Though I’m certain - and grateful - that he will never fly the nest, as it were, I must allow him to enjoy the world without my looming presence.”

“Aw, I don’t think you’re that bad. Just a bit of a Palace Parent. That’s alright.”

Emmrich groans and rubs at his eyes. “I do believe Rook’s used that term to describe me once before.”

Neve laughs, “Well, you do ‘loom’ occasionally.”

“Less than I used to,” Emmrich says, feeling the need to defend his progress, “but yes, I… I still worry for him, sometimes.”

“Of course. It’s only natural. He’s your son, after all.”

His exceedingly fond smile reflects back at him in his tea. 

“He is.”

Neve’s new bracelet glints in the evening sunlight as she sets her cup upon its saucer, placing both atop an exquisite doily on the table. “He’s got excellent taste, by the way.”

“Don’t let Rook hear you say that. He’ll ruin Manfred’s humility with endless piles of gold.”

“One father is a famed scholar and necromancer, and the other is a worldly hero, not to mention a Shadow Dragon. What humility could a child of you two possibly possess?”

Emmrich sputters, “W-we teach him that his privileges do not absolve him of hard work–”

Neve’s laughter rings through the room, clear as a bell. Emmrich’s protest dies on his tongue, and he laughs with her.

When their tea is long finished and their conversation has reached its natural conclusion, Emmrich stands to excuse himself. Outside, the sun has finally set, and Rook came by about an hour ago to say he was heading to bed. When Emmrich had asked if he would be alright by himself, he’d said yes, but Emmrich does feel the need to - at the very least - check in on him.

“Before you go,” Neve says, reaching into her pocket and producing a letter, “take this.”

Emmrich doesn’t recognise the wax seal on it, nor the handwriting on the back.

“What’s this…?”

“It’s for Rook. We found it in Lady Mercar’s dressing room.”

So she did leave a letter. Emmrich often wondered why she would write to Vediovis, but not her son. Perhaps she couldn’t bring herself to send it. 

“Why give it to me?”

“It’s… I think it’d be better if he got it from you.”

“Mm…” Emmrich hums quietly. “I suppose you’re not wrong.”

“Good luck,” Neve says, squeezing his arm before taking her cup and leaving the room. 

Emmrich sighs. He’d vastly prefer not to bring this up at all during their holiday, but that’d be a surefire way to betray Rook’s trust. 

With the letter in hand, he walks the endless staircases and hallways to Rook’s bedroom. He takes a deep breath and lays his hand on the door handle, allowing himself one more chance to change his mind. 

Once certain that he will immediately tell Rook about the letter, he steels himself and steps inside. The room is mostly dark, the city’s everlasting lanterns’ pale, unnatural light casting the windows’ long shadows across the floor. The curtains haven’t been drawn, and Emmrich can clearly see Rook sitting up in bed, the sheets pooling around his waist. He is, as he always is outside of the winter season, without a shirt, his beautiful upper body on display. How Emmrich wishes he could just dive into bed and feel his skin against his own, all his concerns forgotten.

Rook watches him approach, silently wondering why he’s coming over to sit down on Rook’s side of the bed rather than getting in next to him. In the city’s low but ever-present light, he can’t make out how worried Emmrich looks until he’s right in front of him. A shame: he’d hoped to get right down to business, given that he’s spent the past hour with his hand between his legs waiting for this moment.

“Amatus?”

“Darling, I…”

Out with it, Emmrich thinks.

“Before Neve and I parted for the night, she gave me this letter.”

He produces the letter from his trouser pocket, not yet handing it over to Rook.

“The Shadow Dragons found it in your mother’s dressing room,” he continues, “it’s reasonable to assume she wrote it after our encounter with her.”

“I see,” Rook responds drily, plucking the letter from his fingers. He turns it over in his hands and sniffs when he sees his name on the back. Wordlessly, he turns, opens his nightstand’s drawer and drops it inside before resolutely closing the drawer once again. Not tonight.

“Rook?” Emmrich asks softly, his hand on Rook’s thigh. “Are you alright?”

“I’m choosing to be. I refuse to let mother get in the way, once again, of me getting a gorgeous man into this bed.”

Before he can respond, Rook manhandles him into his lap so quickly that Emmrich barely has time to kick his shoes off. 

“Much better,” Rook says, looking and sounding pretty pleased with himself, “hello there.”

Emmrich takes Rook’s precious face between his hands and kisses him sweetly. “Hello, my dearest, darling Rook.”

The room feels cool in spite of the stifling outside temperatures. When Emmrich had asked about the tangible presence of magic throughout the structure, Rook had confirmed that there’s various enchantments on the house. For security, temperature, cleanliness, and so on. His mother’s work at Charon’s behest. The blight suppressed all of it when they were first here, but the lines of magic have since been restored.

And so he shivers from more than just Rook’s touch when his shirt is unbuttoned and pulled from his arms. A nagging little voice in the back of Emmrich’s head insists that he should double-check whether Rook is really fine, but it’s hard to deny that the way he’s nosing at Emmrich’s neck and collarbone hardly makes it seem like he’s upset in any way.

“I really must ask–”

“I thought you might,” Rook interrupts him, raising his head to smile at him. “Go ahead.”

“Are you sure you’re…? That is to say: this seems rather an important issue to simply ignore.”

“I’m not ignoring it. I’m postponing it until we get back. I promise I’ll read it when we do, but I refuse to think about it at all for the next week. It can wait. I can’t.”

Emmrich doesn’t hear any hesitation in his voice. Rook doesn’t look troubled. Impatient, yes, and eager. Amused, even. 

“Can’t you?” 

“No, you see,” Rook says, undoing the buttons on Emmrich’s trousers without any fuss, “being in this room has just been a nightmare. I’ve been in this big, soft bed all by myself for the past hour, just shivering with terror. I’m in dire need of some comfort, amatus, and I fear there’s nothing and no one but you that can provide it.”

Relief washes over him. Rook’s clearly joking. For whatever reason, this room is not the ordeal either of them had feared it would be. 

“That sounds dreadful, dearest,” Emmrich coos, stroking Rook’s cheek. “My deepest, sincerest apologies for my tardiness.”

“All I ask is that you don’t delay any further.”

Emmrich rolls onto his side of the bed, feeling as though he’s sinking into a cloud, and pulls his trousers off with some effort. 

“I’ve no idea how you get any sleep on this, Rook.”

“Most nights I just close my eyes and lay there.”

“Very funny.”

“I knew you married me for my sense of humour.”

“I most certainly–” Emmrich begins, struggling to get underneath the sheets, “–did not. My word–”

“Ooh, harsh.”

Finally settled, Emmrich rolls onto his side and is promptly pulled back on top of Rook. He happily rests his head on his thick, soft chest, eyes fluttering closed when Rook’s fingers idly draw patterns on his back.

“I married you for much more than that,” he says quietly, taking Rook’s hand and kissing the band around his ring finger. “And I continue to find new reasons to do it once more with every passing day.”

Rook chuckles, “Oh? What reasons did you find today?”

“Being included in your family. The strength with which you’ve faced your fears today.”

“I think you’re the first person to be happy to marry into my family.”

It sounds like a joke, but Emmrich knows it isn’t. 

“Those who remain are truly the best of it, yourself included.”

“And we are all in agreement that we adore you,” Rook whispers, kissing the top of Emmrich’s head. “The family’s never been less divided about anything, I promise you. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me that we both get to play a part in the kids’ lives. Manfred, too. The kids love him.”

A faint, tingling sensation makes itself known in Emmrich’s body. Resplendent joy, sparkling mirth. Pride and affection. Belonging. He doesn’t know how to contain it all at once.

“I’m so glad we came here, darling. I know it was difficult, but I’ve felt such joy being surrounded by our friends and your family.”

“Our family,” Rook corrects him, “and it’s been less hard than I thought it’d be. It all feels much less impossible with you and Manfred around.”

“Another excellent reason for us to be married.”

Rook squeezes his hand. “One of thousands. For one, I married you because I could no longer imagine wanting to wake up to anything but your face every morning.”

Emmrich looks up and smiles at him. “And I presume you are yet to grow tired of my countenance?”

“You’re joking. Sometimes I miss looking at you just when I’m fucking you from behind.”

Without Manfred there to admonish them for being admittedly embarrassingly infatuated with one another, Emmrich snorts.

“Rook–!”

“What? It’s true. I’ll never not indulge you if you ask me to, but if you want to know my preference, it’s this,” Rook says, a finger stroking up and down Emmrich’s cheekbone. “I fell in love with your face long before I knew what you were hiding underneath your clothes. Before I even knew your name, really. It’s the last thing I see before I fall asleep, and the first thing I see when I wake up, most days. I got my wish.”

The dark of the room is sure to conceal his blush. Even after being married for six months, Emmrich still feels butterflies every time Rook pays him a compliment. Which is often, resulting in a constant fluttering and jittering around his heart that makes him feel young, spry, and afloat in the warm waters of Rook’s love. 

“As did I, my sweet. To be with someone whose idea of comfort is this,” Emmrich says, leaning up a bit on Rook’s chest to kiss him, “is nothing short of paradise.”

Rook smiles against his lips and reaches down to squeeze Emmrich’s backside as he says, “And I intend to be very comfortable this week.”

“You’ll have me entirely to yourself. Do you truly intend not to give me so much as a hint of where we’re going?”

Rook can’t begin to describe just how much he’s looking forward to it. The summer house is much, much smaller than the family manor, and one of very few places from his youth that he has mostly neutral to positive memories from. It was only ever him, his parents, and a handful of servants. 

Why they went there, Rook has no idea. It seems completely nonsensical for a family of which the members primarily and mutually despise each other to take a holiday together. Then again, he was young enough that his mother didn’t dislike him yet. Maybe that’s part of why it was nice. Between her attention and his father’s lack of guests, the summer house stands out in his mind as a place of refuge. A momentary respite from the horrors back home. Maybe they all thought of it that way, and that’s why they went.

“It’s a place I’ve been to before,” Rook says, “and one I took Velothil to, once.”

His parents stopped going to the summer house after he became a teenager. Rook doesn’t know why. Even when he went back to the house to reactivate its enchantments and make it presentable for their arrival, he found no trace of any correspondence or reasons otherwise as to why they abandoned the place. Maybe his parents finally hated each other enough to no longer want to spend weeks in a smaller house together.

Not that it matters, ultimately.

Emmrich makes a thoughtful sound, trying to work out where or what it could be. 

“It must be very special.”

“In some ways, it is. In some others, it's completely mundane.”

Utterly unhelpful.

“Is it a city?”

“No.”

“A village?”

“No.”

“Will we, in essence, be away from civilisation, surrounded by nature, and with none but ourselves for company?”

“Yes.”

Some time ago, Rook had told him he intended to lay Emmrich out on the grass to make love to him. He’d also said they ‘might’ spend a lot of time outside. They’ll be away from any sort of settlement, and somewhere amidst nature.

With dawning horror, Emmrich looks at Rook, aghast.

“Tell me we’re not going camping, Rook.”

“Would I do that to you, my heart?”

“... No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

“We’re not going camping.”

“Can’t you give me another hint?”

“Hmmm… I’ve told you about it before.”

“Darling, you’ve travelled the world. That could well and truly mean anything.”

“You know it’s in Tevinter already!”

That much is true. A place in Tevinter that he took Velothil to - not the other way around - and that he’s told Emmrich about before. It stands to reason that in order to take Velothil there, Rook must’ve been there before he met him as well. As Rook met him not long after he left Minrathous, it must be somewhere he only had access to through either the Circle or his family.

But Emmrich still doesn’t know much about Rook’s time at the Circle, and as far as he knows, he didn’t leave it during his eight years there. That leaves just the outings he took with his family, most of which took place within Minrathous. With one notable, annual exception.

Rook smiles when Emmrich’s eyes widen as he puts the pieces together. Clever, clever man.

“Your family’s summer house?”

“Our summer house.”

It does belong to them now, Emmrich supposes. It’s bizarre, unthinkable, that he owns property anywhere at all, let alone outside of Nevarra. He’d thought about finding a cottage after his retirement, if it came to leaving the Necropolis. Now, he thinks he wouldn’t mind travelling to the summer house during the colder seasons when his time as a Mourn Watcher comes to an end. His mother used to suffer so in the cold, even at her relatively young age. It made her hands stiff and painful, which in turn made her work very difficult to do. Maybe, ten to fifteen years from now, his husband will be rubbing ointment on his hands too, just as his father had done for his mother.

Rook nudges him, gently, feeling mildly concerned with Emmrich’s sudden silence. He doesn’t see why this particular surprise should be so poorly received. 

“A lesser man would’ve said that this is another excellent reason to be married to me.”

“Apologies, I was miles away,” Emmrich admits sheepily. “I look forward to being there, darling. Truly. If you took Velothil there, it must be magnificent.”

A lacklustre response, but apparently not because of the destination. “What were you thinking about?”

“The past, the future… It occurred to me that my plans for retirement have changed drastically, and that perhaps owning property in Tevinter is fortuitous. A warmer climate can be soothing on old bones. My mother, she… She suffered terribly with the cold. Father used to warm her gloves on the lidded pot over the fire, so that she could put them on after returning home from work and soothe her aching joints.”

Rook lifts Emmrich’s hand and finds no sign of knobbly joints or bones twisting the wrong direction. No need to worry about that just yet.

“Did you send out those letters you meant to send?”

“I have. I’m hoping to have some answers by the time we return home.”

“If it does turn out you still have living family,” Rook says quietly, stroking Emmrich’s fingers, “what will you do?”

“Write, at the very least. If the desire to see each other is mutual, then…”

Visit? Emmrich finds the prospect indescribably daunting. Anyone still alive is likely to either not know or remember him at all, or to be old enough to have been asked to adopt him after his parents’ tragic passing. And in the case of the latter, he’s simply not sure how he’s to face them when they didn’t keep in touch, visit, or acknowledge his presence in any way the moment he entered the Necropolis. Even back then, he didn’t know many members of his family, but he remembers a few. His mother’s sister, her two children, his grandparents - mother’s side, of course - and an uncle he’s certain was just a family friend, but whom he thinks of fondly. At least, what little he remembers of him. He can barely picture his face now, and he hasn’t thought of him much at all over the past four decades.

His father never spoke of nor invited any of his family. Emmrich thinks he might’ve asked about them, but he’s not sure he ever received an answer beyond a changing of the subject. 

“I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to know right now,” Rook says softly, sympathising. “We can leave it for later. Whatever you need, sweetheart.”

Whatever he needs. Emmrich isn’t sure he needs to find out about his family, but he wants to. It’s an old hurt that never quite healed, and seeing Rook reunite with the remaining members of his family stirred something deep within him. An old desire, or rather, the memory of a warm home filled with people and laughter. His life at the Necropolis is one he loves, one he’s proud of, but he does wonder at the life he might’ve had if he hadn’t been taken in by the Mourn Watch. Would he have had a house in the city, a spouse, children running about, with friends and family visiting gladly and often?

He could have that now, after a fashion. That’s the material point. And if he’s still got any family left that would like to be a part of that, then he can’t stand the thought of not even having asked. Even if that means putting aside any resentment he might have.

“As a boy, I couldn’t understand,” Emmrich whispers, sounding miles away. “Couldn’t fathom why no one had the ability to take in a small child, when it appeared to me that my parents needed so little to care for me. As a man, I know better, but…”

Rook waits for him to finish his sentence, but the last words never leave his mouth.

“But it still hurts, even if you know there might’ve been very good reasons to let the Mourn Watch take you?”

Emmrich sighs, “It seems so ungrateful to them, Rook.”

“It’s not. You’re allowed to wish you could’ve stayed with family, even if things turned out alright in the end.”

“And–... And what if my family still doesn’t–”

He looks away, unable to face the immense pity in Rook’s gentle gaze. What if his family still doesn’t want him? What if he’s spent forty years wondering about what might’ve been, finally finding the strength to ask the questions he still has, only to be turned away at the door?

“Emmrich…”

“I know. I’m being silly–”

“No, you’re not. Be nice.”

Maybe Rook shouldn’t have asked. It hadn’t been his intention to make Emmrich feel sad, or to bring to the surface what appears to be a deeply buried fear of being unwanted. In truth, he should’ve realised sooner that something like that might be lurking beneath the surface. Emmrich often feared that Rook didn’t want him at the start. Later, he feared he’d be too much. There’s a persistent, underlying terror of being left behind once again. 

“With the exception of Hezenkoss, I don’t think I’ve ever met a single soul who dislikes you,” Rook assures him. “I can’t imagine they wouldn’t want to know you.”

“They never wrote,” Emmrich then tells him. It sounds like a confession, an admission of his hurt. He’s tried to justify it for decades. “Perhaps they didn’t know what to say to a grieving, frightened child.”

Rook smothers the desire to pummel some sense into everyone who dared to be so negligent. “What would you have said to yourself?”

“That–... That I hadn’t forgotten about me. That I wasn’t alone.”

The Mourn Watch became his family, but for those first couple of months, Emmrich was terrified and alone. A child drowning in his grief and trauma isn’t easy to make friends with, and he hadn’t been a particularly outgoing child to begin with. All of that came later, when his fellow Watchers - then his fellow orphans - aided him in coming out of his shell. They needed each other, and Emmrich is so very grateful to them still. Johanna was among them. But before then, he isolated himself and didn’t interact with anyone if he didn’t have to. He wallowed in his loss and seclusion, and he would’ve given anything for any member of his family to show up on the doorstep one day to take him away. In his cruel dreams, he envisioned walking back out into Nevarra City and leaving the Necropolis behind for good, only to wake up within its dark, stone halls once again.

Remembering that makes him feel ashamed, though he knows he shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t begrudge his much younger self the fear he felt. It’s not right.

“You should’ve been told that,” Rook agrees, squeezing Emmrich to his chest. “I’m sorry you weren’t. I won’t make excuses for them, but… I can’t imagine they didn’t think about you.”

“In truth, neither can I. They must have. Mother’s sister always inquired after me in her letters, but–... When I lost my mother, she lost her sister. Perhaps… Perhaps me being taken care of by the Mourn Watch was a relief to her. She knew I was in good hands, and she didn’t have to grieve while taking care of an inconsolable boy.”

Rook sighs softly and says, “But you deserved to be taken care of. You deserved a warm home and a familiar face, I… Of course I’m glad the Mourn Watch was here for you, that they saved you, but…”

But he must’ve been so scared, Rook thinks. Terrified. Emmrich has told him how afraid he’d been of the dark after his parents died, and Rook has tried and failed to think of a worse place for a child suffering that particular fear to stay. Yes, he truly is grateful for the way the Mourn Watch has shaped Emmrich’s life, not least because it’s highly unlikely they would’ve ever met otherwise, but he feels for the little boy who lost everything and then had to suffer through months of absolute dread until he adjusted. 

“I just hate the thought of you feeling so alone,” he finishes, not sure how else to convey what he’s feeling. 

Of course, Emmrich hears what he’s saying loud and clear. He’s felt the same way towards Rook in the past. All they wish for each other is that someone, anyone close to them had had the wherewithal and cognisance to understand that they were hurting. That they were in need of someone they knew and could trust to truly see them. For Emmrich, such people came into his life not too long after his parents’ passing, at least. And still, he has to acknowledge the hurt that yet lingers over the fact that nobody who knew him when it happened reached out to him. Even if they couldn’t care for him, surely they could’ve at least acknowledged the enormity of his loss. Could they not have offered some type, any type of connection at all? Why was Emmrich to be the sole keeper of memories of his parents? 

He looks at Rook and thinks of himself, and all the people he’ll be remembered by when he inevitably passes. Manfred most of all, who is certain to remember him for much longer than anyone else. But also the younger members of their team, the students of the Mourn Watch, the young and bright among the faculty staff, the shopkeepers and their families in the city. He knows his parents must’ve had a similar wealth of acquaintances, and yet…

Emmrich sighs, deeply. He’s tired of agonising over it for tonight. It seems a waste to be so glum when there’s nothing to be done about it now nor the coming weeks. More importantly, he’s currently in the arms of the man he loves. A man who is no longer the only one here who’s in need of comfort.

“I’ve not been alone for some time, my darling. I daresay I’ve never been less alone than I am now. Perhaps… We ought to leave the past in the past for the coming weeks.”

Rook looks doubtful for a moment, his fingertip nervously brushing back and forth on Emmrich’s shoulder. He’s got no objections. In fact, he’d love nothing more than to spend the next week solely devoted to Emmrich, but not at the cost of his well-being.

Still, if he’s the one to ask…

“Would that help you?”

“Yes, I believe it would. I–... I’d like to focus on the joy and peace that being with you provides.”

With permission to drop the subject, Rook’s mouth quirks into a smile.

“‘Peaceful’ is not exactly what I was going for this week, you know.”

“Oh?” Emmrich questions, playing along. “Why, I was rather under the impression that I would be resting in the lap of luxury for the next several days.”

Rook’s middle finger traces the outline of his ear. Emmrich feels the sensation rippling gently down his spine. 

“Were you? Really? I’d think that after the last couple of days of travel, you’d be thinking of nothing but – strenuous activities.”

True enough. It was Emmrich who had insisted they travel by carriage rather than using the eluvians, and Emmrich who had come to regret it the most. Travelling has been wonderful, yes. The sights have been phenomenal and the villages and cities they’ve visited were all lovely, and brilliant, etcetera. 

A minor oversight was that they only occasionally slept anywhere where they could safely let Manfred wander about, like at the Dellamorte estate, or Taash’s late mother’s house. While en route to these places and staying overnight at inns, both Rook and Emmrich had refused to let Manfred out of their sight. Naturally, this meant little to no privacy, and they hadn’t wanted to be intimate with Manfred in the room regardless.

Not that this stopped Rook from teasing him beneath the covers. Nothing noticeable, nor did he ever remove any of Emmrich’s clothes, but that didn’t stop it from being torturous. Fingers dipping just beneath his waistband in the early morning, as Emmrich awoke hard and needy, or a thumb slowly rubbing back and forth across his nipple until he was throbbing in his underwear. For days, he’s been denied release. Just this morning, Rook lay pressed up against his back as his fingertip slowly traced up and down his cock through his pyjamas. By the time Emmrich could get out of bed without embarrassing himself completely, he’d stained the fabric with precome.

He’d feared Rook wouldn’t be in the mood, or be too uncomfortable for sex in his old bedroom, but it’s clear as crystal to Emmrich that he most definitely isn’t.

“I suppose I’ve occasionally allowed my mind to foray into the realm of pleasure.”

“Maker. How indulgent of you,” Rook drily remarks. 

“And what about you, my darling?”

Rook raises an eyebrow and spreads his legs, allowing one of Emmrich’s thighs to slip between. Immediately, he feels the hot, slick wetness of Rook’s cunt pressed up against his skin.

“I had to pass the time until you came up somehow.”

“Dear me, my sweet. Dear me,” Emmrich coos, pressing his thigh firmly up against him. Judging by the way Rook bites his lip and moans, how Emmrich can feel him quivering against his knee, he hasn’t come. He has to be crawling up the walls with lust by now. “Is this how you spent the past hour? Wet and wanton in your bed, legs spread beneath the sheets as you tease yourself, waiting for me to bring you release?”

“I spent many a night in here as a teenager wishing that one of the many boys I had my eye on would come in here and do unspeakable things to me,” Rook says shakily, still pent up in spite of the conversation they’ve just had. “And tonight, I knew it’d finally happen. Of course I waited for you.”

Emmrich tries to remember the last time he participated in a bed’s inaugural tryst and can’t. As he’s pondering this, Rook smiles and tilts his head, dark eyes softening. 

“Now that I finally have you alone, I don’t think I’ve told you how pretty you are yet today. All this being outside has brought out your freckles.”

“And yours.”

“Ah, but I’m not looking at mine, am I? I’m looking at yours, and they’re infinitely more interesting than mine, anyway.”

“It’s dark, dearest, and our freckles are equally interesting.”

Rook’s body suddenly feels hot to the touch. Warm, gentle light brightens the room as a nearby candle flickers to life. 

“Wrong on both counts,” Rook murmurs, drawing Emmrich in and making a valiant effort to kiss every single one of the sun’s little gifts to his skin. “But of course, you also erroneously believe that I’m not the lucky one here.”

Utter nonsense, of course, but Emmrich knows he’s hardly being serious. Whether he challenges Rook’s notion or not, he is sure to continue heaping praise on him either way, and Emmrich’s got no objection to hearing it.

“By all accounts, you’ve married down.”

“‘By no account that matters,’ is what I think you mean,” Rook says between kisses. “And what do they know, anyway?”

“That you’re a Lord and I’m but a humble professor of the Mourn Watch?”

“Renowned scholar, and I’ve never met a Lord more beautiful than you. Nor more kind, clever, capable. Certainly not as brave, or as sweet.”

Emmrich had expected him to be much needier than he is, to want to rush for the finish. Instead, he seems perfectly content to continue as he has over the last couple of days: slow, teasing touches, mostly neglecting Emmrich’s hardening cock as it presses up against his stomach.

But contrary to his usual self, and contrary to Rook, Emmrich is struggling not to rut up against him in a desperate bid to come. He’d like to take it slow, to make the sweet, tender love to Rook that they both desire, but his body has been denied too long. His breath escapes him when Rook strokes his sides, and he trembles when his nipples are barely touched. 

“I’d like for us to take our time,” Rook whispers. The total absence of mischief in his eyes is surprising. They shimmer in the firelight, holding naught but affection. “Do you think you can do that tonight, sweetheart?”

“Nnh… Oh, darling, I–... I couldn’t refuse you anything, not for the world.”

Rook kisses him to hide his smile. He’s wondered what it would take to push Emmrich past the point of desperation. Tonight seems as fine a night as any to push those boundaries again. He spreads his legs further, letting Emmrich settle between his thighs, and raises his hips to take his cock into his body. They both gasp and Emmrich moves to thrust, but Rook stops him.

“Just… Stay, for a while,” he whispers, feeling hot down to his toes when Emmrich whimpers softly against his lips. “For days, I just wanted you to be inside of me. We’re in no rush.”

Emmrich’s hands fist into the impossibly soft pillow beneath Rook’s head. His cock is held snugly inside Rook’s dripping wet cunt, twitching with every small amount of stimulation. He can feel Rook’s heartbeat from within, feel him quiver and contract as he shifts his legs to be more comfortable. 

Beneath him, however, Rook finds that it’s not enough. He wants, needs more than this. The past few days haven’t been difficult for Emmrich alone.

“Do me a favour: make yourself bigger for me, would you?”

It’s not a request he makes very often, but Emmrich would oblige him all the same if it was. Whatever else is the spell good for, after all? Rook moans softly as he’s stretched tighter around his cock, properly filled.

“Yes– Just like that.”

Normally, this makes Emmrich significantly less sensitive. Unfortunately for him, it appears that effect is greatly negated by his present, highly oversensitive state. It’s an uphill battle to stay still, and nothing Rook is doing is at all helpful in distracting him from how good he feels around his cock. 

“Darling, mm… Mmh… I…”

“So good,” Rook sighs happily, moaning when his nipping of Emmrich’s earlobe results in a strong twitch inside of him, “fuck– I love you, Emmrich, s-so much.”

“I love you, too, I– Ohh, oh dearest…”

“I made sure the house is ready for us. You’ll want for nothing.”

Emmrich shakes his head, gently nudging Rook’s cheek with his nose. 

“I never want for anything when I’m with you, my sweetest heart.”

Part of Rook can’t believe they’re even here. That they made it through a harrowing year of danger and torment, and somehow came out the other end not just still standing, but still happily together. Not only that, but things somehow keep getting better. It’s exhilarating and terrifying at the same time for Rook: he’s so used to rolling with the punches that he’s begun to expect them. It’s why he went back to fight when life at the Necropolis became too peaceful, and why he still goes even now.

But here, in Emmrich’s arms, he can get away from that feeling. There’s no danger to be anticipated. Only pleasure. Here, he needn’t fight to feel at peace. They kiss, and Rook allows his hands to drift to Emmrich’s nipples once more, circling the very tips with his thumbs. He can feel Emmrich throb inside of him, his cock completely rigid. It’s impossible not to delight in the way Emmrich trembles against him, eager to do as Rook asked of him but needing to move so very badly.

“Tell me how it feels, amatus. Isn’t this what you wanted, what you thought of while you laid in bed with your cock aching in your pants every night?”

“I–... I envisioned some version of this, yes,” Emmrich admits, arching into Rook’s hands, “ahh– Y-you feel divine, darling. You take me so beautifully.”

Rook shudders, and Emmrich feels every minute movement. He groans and can’t hold back, pressing in slightly deeper. Rook gasps and arches underneath him.

“F-fuck me, gods–”

“Rather conflicting messaging, my darling–”

“S-shut up,” Rook laughs, making his cunt clench around Emmrich involuntarily, “smartarse.”

“Ahn– Mm…”

“That’s what you get.”

“Must you torment me so?”

Nudging Emmrich’s face up, Rook kisses him softly. He just barely feels Emmrich’s ribs against his palms as he strokes his sides, gentle caresses meant to soothe. Maybe he’s being mean, but he doesn’t want to rush. He doesn’t want to make a mad dash for the finishing line when he could draw it out, languidly relishing being so close to one another.

“You call this torment? We’re finally as one after many days of travel and abstinence, and you would call this ‘torment?’” Rook tuts and shakes his head. “I for one am very happy you’re finally here.”

Emmrich’s hands are beginning to cramp from being wrenched into the pillow. It’s hardly the first time Rook has made him wait, but he’s never insisted on taking and holding his aching, throbbing cock inside of him without moving. “D-does this please you, darling? I must admit I’m– Nrgh… I’m finding it hard–”

“I’m sure you are.”

Against his better instincts, Emmrich bites down on Rook’s neck to get him to keep his mouth shut. When Rook moans sharply and squeezes his cock hard, Emmrich sobs into his shoulder. He can feel precome seeping out of his cock and into Rook, mingling with his slick. His heart is hammering against his ribs so forcefully he’s certain Rook can feel it against his chest. 

“I cannot envision this is what you had in mind for the past hour,” Emmrich finishes with great difficulty.

“Mm, no, but what I was thinking about isn’t advisable just now.”

In spite of the room’s relative chill, Emmrich feels damp with sweat all over. He’s breathing as if he’s sprinted up several flights of stairs, and he’s struggling to keep himself upright and still. And yet, he wants to know - more than anything - what Rook was thinking about while he was touching himself.

“Won’t you indulge my curiosity, dearest?” he asks, his hot breath against Rook’s cheek. Rook turns his head to kiss him and smirks.

“I was just thinking of that one time you tried to recreate the aphrodisiac from the Legend of Calenhad. Those were two very fun days, weren’t they?”

They were, and Emmrich will never, ever repeat that particular mistake lest he well and truly wishes to perish of cardiac arrest. The draught was far too potent, and Emmrich had been by himself when he’d tested it the first time. He’d never give Rook anything he hasn’t tested beforehand. What he didn’t anticipate was that within thirty minutes he’d be crawling towards their bed on his knees, painfully hard and teetering on the edge without so much as touching himself. When he finally reached the bed and brushed his cock up against it, the sensation had felt so electric, so overwhelming that he’d rubbed up against it until he came inside his trousers.

The effects of the potion hadn’t abated, and he can’t begin to describe the relief he’d felt when Rook came into the room not even an hour later. His aid had been instrumental to Emmrich’s recovery. Which is to say, he’d allowed Emmrich, who was bordering on being feral the entire time, to do as he wanted for as long as he needed to.

Emmrich had been unable to stop Rook from taking the second half of the potion the next day. The day after that, they also spent in bed, but more so because neither of them still had the ability to move.

“N-never to be repeated,” Emmrich says hotly, as he vividly remembers the way it felt when Rook’s hand first closed around his bizarrely sensitive cock. How his seed had spurted out and covered his fingers, and how his erection still wouldn’t abate. “But yes, I–... I enjoyed it.”

“You’re a very gifted alchemist, amatus. You made me feel and do things I’d never experienced in my life.”

By which he means: the day he took the draught himself was the day where he well and truly lost control of his body and forcefully ejaculated all over Emmrich and their bed, multiple times. A feat he hasn’t achieved since, and which Emmrich still thinks about. How beautiful he’d been, writhing and squirming on the bed after two consecutive orgasms, still begging for another. Emmrich, sober and in awe, slowly massaging the most sensitive part of his cunt until Rook clenched around his fingers like a vise and squirted. He’d done it again when Emmrich fucked him, and again, and again. It seemed that once he started, he couldn’t stop. To see Rook so utterly lost in pleasure, so far removed from any and all troubles, ruminations, concerns and anxieties, was immensely arousing. During those few hours where the potion was most effective, Rook had looked and felt utterly unabashed, free to enjoy the pleasure his body sought.

“G-glad to have been of service, d-darling– Ohhmm– Please, I–...”

“What? Something on your mind?”

How Rook had begged and pleaded with him, driven out of his mind with need. How he’d made Emmrich hold him down and fuck him until Rook’s legs collapsed underneath him. Emmrich, as Rook had done the day before, had to force him to drink enough water, even going so far as to put him underneath the shower, where he sank to his knees and feasted on Rook’s sore clit until he was once again spilling down his thighs. Hours. Hours of unmitigated bliss. Of course it’s on his mind. His cock twitches ardently, weeping profusely inside of Rook, finding no relief whatsoever.

“R-Rook…” he chokes out, feeling the edges of his control beginning to fray. 

Rook can feel him trembling between his legs, muscles locked in place as Emmrich wills himself not to move. His erection hasn’t flagged at all, and Rook himself can feel his slick dripping down his ass. The comfortable, lazy haze of arousal he’s been enjoying all this time is beginning to turn into a thick fog of lust, clouding his mind. Still he wants more.

“I love this, you know,” he whispers into Emmrich’s ear, fingertips grazing his thighs and letting his magic spark, “I love feeling this close to you. I can feel your heartbeat, smell the scent of you.”

The addition of Rook’s magic to the plethora of pleasures he’s already bestowed on Emmrich greatly puts his willpower to the test. He cants his hips, pressing but not thrusting, whimpering pitifully. 

“You feel so good,” Rook continues, ever so slightly tilting his hips to meet Emmrich’s, “ngh– Fuck–”

Emmrich dares to return the movement. It’s a slow and careful grinding against each other, and Rook allows it, breath shuddering against Emmrich’s skin. It’s almost too much already, profoundly maddening for all that he feels and all that he knows he could be feeling. 

“Darling–...” Emmrich breathes, resting his forehead against Rook’s, “darling, my love, I…”

Sparks of magic light up the nerves across his back, sending another surge of pleasure through his body that threatens to tip him over the edge. He grits his teeth and groans loudly, his body tight with tension as he tries to hold back. Underneath him, Rook is biting his lip, stifling his little moans of pleasure as Emmrich’s cock swells and pulses within him. After long, agonising seconds spent listening to Emmrich’s whimpers in his ear, he decides that maybe that’s enough. For him, of course. Not for Emmrich. 

“Stay where you are, sweetheart,” Rook purrs, slipping his hand between them. Emmrich is watching his face, wide-eyed with indignation as Rook slowly teases his hard, wet clit. “F-fuck, ahn–”

It is torment, Emmrich decides. He can feel every little pulse, every quiver of Rook’s cunt as he rapidly approaches orgasm, and Emmrich wants nothing more than to bend him in half and drive his cock into him until he’s screaming his name down the halls. But he’s been told to stay still, and there’s something deeply intoxicating about being denied what he wants while Rook’s cunt tightens around him more and more. 

He can hold on, he tells himself, he needn’t lose control.

“Emmrich,” Rook gasps, hips bucking up against him. “F-fuck, I–”

It’s too much. Rook is fucking himself on his enlarged cock as he comes, and Emmrich can’t stay still a second longer. He thrusts once and feels Rook's slick gushing past his cock. The last thread of his control snaps, and he roughly takes Rook’s legs and pushes them up to his shoulders as he pounds into him. The obscene sounds of his thighs slapping against Rook’s fill the room among Rook’s unacceptably loud cries of pleasure. It takes seconds to come, and Emmrich’s whole body quakes as he spends copious amounts of seed deep inside of Rook, feeling it drip past his balls as he keeps thrusting. 

“Mmh! Ohh, darling! What’ve you– Ahh– Aahh– What’ve you done to me, dearest?”

“F-fuck, Emmrich, Emmrich–” Rook babbles, gasping for breath and feeling a second orgasm hot on the heels of his first, “y-you’re going to make me come again– nnh– fuck– fuck!”

To his own surprise, Emmrich is right there with him. The last time he’s achieved this - not including their recent escapades with his homebrewed aphrodisiac - was when he was still in his twenties. But he feels it, feels his balls drawing up again, feels his cock begin to swell within a minute after he last came. Rook thrashes beneath him, sobbing as his hands scramble to hold on to something, anything. 

“Come for me,” Emmrich commands, needing to feel Rook come on his thick cock again, “let me feel how much you enjoy this– Yes, that’s it– That’s it, my sweet– Ohh, Rook–”

He buries himself as deep as he can when he comes together with Rook, his vision whiting out for a moment as sparks explode behind his eyes. With a few rough last thrusts, milking his cock for all it has as Rook shudders through the last waves of his orgasm, he stills once more. Rook’s legs fall down beside his own again, and they’re back in the same position they were in mere moments ago.

Rook shivers harshly, then laughs. “H-holy shit… Fuck. Gods, Emmrich.”

Emmrich chuckles softly, inelegantly wiping his sweaty forehead on Rook’s bare shoulder. 

“Very eloquent, my dear.”

A weak slap is felt against his bottom.

“Prick.”

“Mm. Is that how you address your dear husband after he’s worked so very hard to please you?”

As Emmrich pulls out and dispels the enhancement, Rook tightens his arms around him.

“Beg your pardon,” Rook murmurs, resuming his earlier kissing of Emmrich’s countless freckles, “dear husband. Thank you for the excellent fucking.”

After a moment spent laughing and basking in the afterglow in each other’s arms, Rook announces the urgent need to piss. Emmrich, too, desires use of the adjacent bathroom, and so they head in together. This room, it is immediately apparent, has also remained untouched. The sheer amount of gold - gilded cabinet handles, a gilded showerhead, gilded curtain rails, and so on - makes his eyes water, and frankly puts the Mourn Watch to shame. 

A minute or so after Emmrich steps underneath the shower, sighing as the water cascades across his sweaty, sticky skin, Rook joins him. His arms wrap around Emmrich from behind, a kiss pressed just between his shoulder blades.

“I look forward to tomorrow.”

“As do I, darling. Though I worry about Manfred.”

“I know. Dorian’s given me a couple of sending stones. You’ll be able to say goodnight and good morning every day, as you like.”

Emmrich breathes a quiet sigh of relief. “How kind of him.”

“Mm. He and The Iron Bull used to wear them. No point anymore, I suppose, now that Bull’s in Tevinter.”

“They’ll be put to good use. Manfred will delight in trying to discern its magical workings.”

“And you’ll be happy to hear he’s alright, even if he’s some distance away from us.”

“Mm…” Emmrich sighs, turning his face up to the warm water for a moment before turning around in Rook’s arms. In the bathroom’s bright magical light, he can plainly see the freckles on Rook’s skin, too. The impulse to kiss and cherish each one is as strong in him as it had been in Rook, but Rook tilts his face and steals a kiss from his lips instead. 

“And you’ll provide me with ample distraction, I’m sure,” Emmrich says softly. “Though we must contact Manfred on your birthday. He wants to wish you a happy birthday. He’s even prepared a gift that he’ll give you upon our return.”

Usually, Rook knows, Manfred’s ‘gifts’ to others consist of things that he’s simply taken from somewhere else. However, if Emmrich tells him he’s ‘prepared’ something…

For a moment, the unwelcome memory of his father shattering a mirror that Rook had spent hours enchanting to always reflect their family pops into his mind. It had been a present. Rook can’t have been older than six. 

He immediately resolves that whatever Manfred’s prepared will be deeply treasured until the day he dies. 

“I can’t wait to see it,” he says, smiling up at Emmrich. “But I’m just as excited about finding out what you’ve got in store for me on the day.”

Emmrich’s finger teases along his jawline, feeling the stubble scrape against his fingertip. “I shan’t lift the veil on that matter, my darling. Furthermore, as excited as I am to celebrate you, I look forward to spending some time by the lake with you.”

“You know I can’t swim, don’t you?”

“A most opportune time to teach you.”

“You can?”

“Naturally. To live by a body of water as large as the Minanter and not teach the young to swim would be dangerous folly. Teaching children to swim early prevents many tragedies.”

Tragedies like the one that very nearly befell him, Rook realises.

“Wish my parents had had that sort of awareness.”

“They didn’t,” Emmrich sadly agrees, “but as your husband, I really must insist.”

“Mm, fine. So long as I get to take you out in a boat underneath the moonlight. It’s magical. I promise.”

Emmrich feels that perhaps he shouldn’t assume, but he’s quite certain Rook intends to have his wicked way with him in that boat.

“A boat is hardly a safe surface for us to have sex on, dearest.”

“The Imperium nearly encircles the Nocen sea,” Rook points out. “You didn’t imagine that all those Tevinter seafarers, many of them mages, didn’t invent a spell to stabilise a boat on open waters, did you?”

“And you just happen to know this spell?”

“Of course. Mother and father were hardly going to do it themselves when I was there to do it for them.”

“I shan’t speak, lest I say something unkind.”

“Maybe that’s for the best. I’m sore as it is. If you start insulting my parents again I might have to take you for another round.”

Hearty, muffled laughter echoes through the bathroom, the realisation that they should probably be quiet arriving far too late. The next morning, they say their goodbyes to Manfred and Neve after breakfast. Contrary to Emmrich’s expectations, they don’t actually leave the manor. Rook leads him down into the cellars, dutifully carrying their luggage while Emmrich walks luxuriously unburdened.

“I didn’t realise there was still such a large structure beneath the house itself,” he says, utterly in awe of how pristinely built even the lower levels of the house are. It seems incredibly excessive, but that’s what he’s come to expect from Minrathous, in some ways.

“Father had them build all the way down to the catacombs. Honestly, I’m not sure why. I always assumed it was about prestige.”

“Given what we know, I’d say you’re probably correct.”

They come to a shimmering portal, kept far away from the main structure of the house and locked tightly behind a warded gate. Rook dispels the ward, and the gate opens without issue.

“A portal?” Emmrich says, mouth falling open.

“The other end of it is at the summer house. Tevinter mages enjoy expedient travel.”

“How much distance do these portals cover?”

“A couple hundred kilometres, I’d say? The summer house is near Qarinus.”

“That’s incredible, Rook!” Emmrich says, stepping closer to the portal, feeling its magic fluctuating against his fingers. “The Fade portals we encountered last year were only rarely more than several metres apart. This is fascinating!”

“I’m sure we have a treatise on portals in the libraries, somewhere. I’ll find it for you when we get back.”

Emmrich thinks of the stack of books Rook’s already bought for him and feels his heart flutter in his chest.

“You really do spoil me, Rook.”

“It’s not my fault you happen to deserve nothing less.”

“This vacation brings it out of you, it would seem.”

The shadow of discomfort passes behind Rook’s eyes, but Emmrich notices. 

“Well,” Rook says, shrugging, “we don’t often take the time to shop outside of Nevarra. It’s only right that we make good use of the opportunity.”

“Rook?”

“... Yes?”

“I’d ask you not to make me drag the truth out of you until we are safely behind closed doors.”

Rook snorts and sighs, “Alright. Fine. I know you really want to celebrate my birthday, and I don’t know… I don’t know. I’ve never done it before. I have no idea what to expect, and it seems – strange that I should just sit and receive while you get nothing.”

“Oh, darling…”

Rook shrugs, looking a little apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s hardly your fault.”

“No, I mean… For being difficult.”

“You’re not. In fact, I find it endearing that you’re buying me gifts in the spirit of ensuring that I’m not left out of the celebrations.”

Emmrich steps closer and leans down to kiss him. “But.”

“But?”

“One hesitates to ask how you’ve not gotten used to being the sole object of my attention, my darling. Gift giving aside, I can’t imagine your birthday will be different to most other days in that regard.”

He’s – completely correct, Rook realises. Of course he’s celebrated birthdays before, just never his own. With those experiences in mind, he feared being the centre of attention and receiving far more than he’s due. In reality, it’s just Emmrich, and whatever he’s got him. Rook doesn’t doubt he won’t have bought anything, but far be it from Emmrich to show up empty-handed. 

So maybe Rook’s been overcompensating a bit.

“You’re right, but… I’m still finding you that book when we get back.”

With a gentle smile, Emmrich kisses Rook’s cheek before he withdraws.

“I assure you, I shall receive it with minimal complaint.”

The portal takes them across the sea in the blink of an eye. They step out into a pitch dark cellar, and Emmrich automatically reaches for Rook’s arm. Wall-mounted sconces burst to life with orange flames, illuminating a cellar that is stacked floor to ceiling with bottles of wine. 

“My word!” Emmrich says, immediately drifting off to the side to gawk at the dusty rows of bottles. He hesitantly pulls one out of the wall, reminding himself that this is his now, and feels his eyes bulge at the vintage date. “I… I didn’t realise your family traded in wines.”

Rook presses his lips together. “They don’t. This is just… What you buy when you’ve got nothing else to spend your money on, apparently.”

“Spending money to create more money,” Emmrich muses, shaking his head as he returns the bottle to its proper place, “a nest egg, after a fashion.”

“That’s one word for it. ‘Hoarding’ is another. We didn’t need any of this.”

Emmrich hums contemplatively and watches as Rook sets their luggage by the door and walks to a nearby wall. He draws five sigils with his finger and presses his palm to the wall, after which the sigils connect and the bricks in the wall begin to shift.

“Come here,” Rook says quietly, “I promised I’d show you.”

“Show me what, darling?” Emmrich asks, having forgotten about yesterday’s conversation. “I don’t reca– Oh… Oh dear.”

Yesterday, he’d jokingly imagined piles of untouched gold in man-made caverns. Reality, it turns out, is much closer to that idea than he feels comfortable with. Beyond the brick wall there is, in fact, a carved out space that holds innumerable gold bars, coins, jewellery, and gems of all sorts. Rook stands next to him, fidgeting.

“This is the smallest vault we have. We kept it here rather than at the house for emergencies, I imagine.”

“The smallest–... I see.”

“As I said: I can’t hope to spend it all in my lifetime.”

It’s a profound moment of realisation for Emmrich that even when he conceived of the nobility as ‘rich,’ some of them are evidently - like Rook’s family - obscenely rich beyond his wildest dreams. No one person could ever be in need of this amount of wealth, nor should they ever possess it. No wonder Rook has been spending like a fountain left and right: it’s the only way to begin making up for having it in the first place.

“And if I somehow do,” Rook then says, turning to Emmrich with a smile, “then I’m sure we’ll do fine with just our own salaries.”

Emmrich struggles to tear his gaze away from the gold before him. 

“More than fine, darling,” he agrees. “And if you’re in need of more opportunities for charity–”

“Please, by all means.”

“I’ll draft you a list when we get home.”

Rook takes his hand and squeezes it, relieved.

“Thank you. Now come on, I’ll show you the house.”

Having lived only in his parents’ house and the Necropolis, Emmrich’s frame of reference for what constitutes a ‘house’ is clearly rather different from Rook’s. In Emmrich’s mind, the very fine, very large cottage-style building - entirely unlike the gaudy, beastly large manor in Minrathous - still feels far too grand to qualify merely as such. Here, too, he can feel the thrum of magic coursing through the floors and walls. The interior, while still obviously lavish and expensive, lacks the ostentatious gold that had covered much of the house in the city. It’s almost homey, if Emmrich could ever feel at home in a space this large. There’s a piano here, too, placed front and centre by the large bow windows at the front of the house. 

“If your father is to be praised for anything at all, I suppose it must be his appreciation for natural light,” Emmrich says lamely. Rook snorts.

“No need. This house was mother’s idea.”

“Ah. That only barely improves matters.”

To Emmrich’s surprise, the kitchen’s been fully stocked for the week. There is also a distinct absence of dust and cobwebs, he notes. As Rook leads him up the stairs, he realises that the inside temperature is far below the outside temperature, if the sunlight streaming in through the many windows is of any indication. 

“I’ve never known magic to conjure food,” Emmrich says, wondering aloud, “what sort of enchantments are placed upon this house, Rook?”

“Oh, no. The food was delivered here by a farmer from the village some distance down the road. I arranged for it some weeks ago.”

“Really? You went to Minrathous by yourself to come here?”

“No, I… Temporarily turned your lab into a portal anchor.”

“You what?”

“I still go there to discharge my mana every so often, and you experiment there. It carries traces of potent magic, making the conditions ideal for a stable portal. It’s a relatively small space, and the Necropolis’ enchantments help to– What?”

Emmrich could care less about the unauthorised use of his laboratory. At best - or worst, depending on one’s perspective - he can use that as an excuse to smack Rook’s bottom later. No, what shocks him is Rook’s apparent ability to conjure portals.

“I was unaware you could travel anywhere at your whim, darling. That’s incredibly powerful magic.”

“I can’t. Not really. I happen to know the – path, I suppose, to this one. I don’t think I could pick and choose any point in the world. More than likely, I’d land way off course.”

“But you’d be able to return if you did?”

“Not necessarily. If the endpoint lands me somewhere the portal can’t be stabilised, I’d have to somehow conjure a new one to return to the start. It’s dangerous. Honestly, creating my own portal just so I wouldn’t have to go to Minrathous by myself was probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”

“I would’ve come with you, you know,” Emmrich says quietly, feeling oddly guilty that he was so busy before they left. 

Rook turns to him just as they come to a closed door, his hand already on the handle. 

“I know. But we’re here now.”

Behind the door lies the master bedroom. It’s spacious, bright, with a large and comfortable looking poster bed against the back wall. Rook sets their luggage upon the divan in front of it. He stretches his arms over his head, hiking up his shirt. As he always is, Emmrich is instantly compelled to stand close to him, fingers grazing his bare midriff. 

“Hello,” Rook says, turning his head for a kiss. “Look.”

He points outside, where beyond the double pane doors and attached balcony a great lake shimmers in the morning sun. Already, there are various boats out upon the water and swimmers floating about, making the most of the perfect weather before it gets too hot. 

“At night, the moon rises exactly over that lake,” Rook says, already looking forward to it. “I can’t wait for you to see it.”

Emmrich holds him, buries his nose in his hair and breathes. It’s perfect. The sort of romantic getaway he dreamt of when he was younger. Fiction for one so bound to the Necropolis as he was, yet here they are. 

“Thank you for this wonderful surprise, my darling,” he whispers, kissing Rook’s head. “It’s been so very long since I’ve had the opportunity for a swim. Nor have I ever taken the time to travel before you so gallantly swept me off my feet last year.”

“That was mostly Bellara’s doing, to be fair.”

“And yet, it was not dear Bellara’s smile that made my heart stumble in its usual rhythm. Nor was it her guidance that swayed me to join your side so easily.”

Rook’s smile is as bright as the sun outside. “Are you saying you had a little crush on me, Emmrich?”

“Perhaps,” Emmrich replies sweetly, bending his head to kiss Rook’s neck, “one might argue I still do.”

“I suppose it’s mutual.”

Emmrich, his voice as light and surprised as possible, replies, “Really?”

Though Rook would love to continue this charade, he remembers that Emmrich truly was blind to his affections even when Rook was actively flirting with him at every possible opportunity. In hindsight, the inverse was true as well, and he only realised that much because of Taash. Laughter bubbles out of him before he can formulate a reply. Emmrich pinches his side.

“Whatever is so amusing, my dear?”

“Just… We were head over heels in love with each other, and neither of us could see it. I was– I don’t know. Terrified you’d reject me. It took Taash telling me that you’d been flirting with me too for me to notice it.”

Taash noticed, but Rook didn’t? Emmrich feels himself blushing with latent mortification. 

“In fairness, I was rather trying to be subtle. I couldn’t imagine… I still…”

Oh, no. Rook won’t have any of that. Not ever, but especially not this week. He turns around in Emmrich’s arms and pushes him onto the bed.

“Still can’t imagine what?” Rook says, challenging him as he sits down on Emmrich’s thighs. “Go on. Finish your sentence.”

What is there for Emmrich to do but laugh and lay back? Admit that he still can’t believe someone like Rook would look at him twice? What could possibly be the point?

The answer is blatantly apparent: to get a rise out of Rook. 

“Why would such a handsome, strong, brave young man ever look at a– a dusty old man like me, let alone entertain the possibility of a passing dalliance? That is to not even speak of a potential relationship. Truly, dearest, I often wonder what ails you that you would spend your time with me.”

Rook knows he’s being goaded, but Emmrich is using masterful bait. Neither of them take particularly well to the other speaking poorly of themselves, and Emmrich isn’t holding back. But where is the fun in simply giving Emmrich what he wants?

“And you’ve thrown in your lot with a pathetic former blood mage whose primary occupation was lying.”

“Now, Rook–”

Got him. 

“Not to mention, I’m occasionally very stupid.”

“That’s unkind–”

Go for broke.

“Really, though. You could’ve had anyone, and you chose someone who has to be careful not to kill you every time he sits on your fa– Hhhaha- Stop–”

But Emmrich doesn’t stop, slender fingers tickling Rook until he rolls off of him in an effort to get away from him. Quickly as he can, Emmrich crawls on top of him and traps him within his arms. 

“Point well taken, darling. Now please be so kind as to take it all back.”

“Make me, old man.”

It is but the start of a week filled with similar moments of pure, unmitigated joy. Days are spent cooking, wandering the forests, lazing about inside the house or outside underneath the shade of a large tree by the lake. Emmrich, once the sun has set and most people have left for their abodes, does try to teach Rook to swim. They don’t make much more progress than Rook being able to keep his head above water, but that alone could save him should something ever happen. The rest of the time spent in the lake, he happily spends carrying Rook around as he wades through the pleasantly cold water. Emmrich, both for a mage and his age, is relatively strong, but not so strong that he could lift Rook outright. In the water, he greedily makes use of the opportunity to feel his body pressed up against his own, his legs hooked around his waist, his arms around his shoulders.

“I didn’t realise what I’ve been missing out on,” Rook had told him with a sigh. “Can’t believe I’ll have to lose weight so you can fuck me up against the walls at home.”

“Don’t be silly,” Emmrich had replied, “there are many, many alchemical brews that will grant me temporary strength.”

“Don’t make it too strong again, or you’ll end up tearing me in half.”

“Isn’t that what you like, dearest?”

Rook had answered his query with nothing but a sweet, innocent smile. 

When the morning of Rook’s birthday finally rolls around, Emmrich is happy to find him still asleep when he wakes. He’s still in the exact same position that he was in when he fell asleep last night, curled up with his hands tucked beneath his chin. Emmrich had read to him until he dozed off, and had then spent a good couple of minutes just watching him sleep before vanishing the lights for the night. 

It’s a beautiful morning: there’s a slight breeze rolling in through the open window - Rook prefers fresh air to his mother’s enchantments - and the sun has risen over the lake, sunlight scattering in a thousand different directions on the water’s rippling surface. Distant birdsong just barely reaches Emmrich’s ears as he stretches the sleep out of his reluctantly waking limbs. He’s slept well. To his surprise, his back doesn’t ache at all. It hadn’t done so in Minrathous either. The bed is soft but supportive enough, and by the way Rook is still snoring next to him, he too clearly sleeps well on it. Emmrich ponders whether he’s just worn a dent into his own bed that’s perfect for him, while the other side - scarcely used across his many years of owning the mattress - is still as firm as the day it was purchased.

The thought of possibly purchasing a new bed together makes him feel surprisingly giddy. Even if the current one is still in a perfectly well-maintained state, he could easily donate it. He resolves to bring it up later. For now, he intends to spend the day lavishing all of his attention on Rook.

Emmrich has hidden his gifts beneath the bed days ago, when they first arrived and Rook was preparing their lunch while Emmrich - begrudgingly - unpacked their luggage. Carefully as he can, he rolls onto his side and retrieves them from beneath the bed, putting the grimoire and jewellery box onto his nightstand before turning back over towards Rook. Surprisingly, he’s still asleep, looking completely at peace. There’ve been no nightmares, no unwanted magical incidents. This little getaway feels like they’re floating in a protective bubble, where nothing and nobody could possibly disturb their peace. 

It’s glorious. Cordoned off from their busy lives back at the Necropolis, they’ve nothing to worry about except what to eat next. It’s the most romantic retreat, and Emmrich finds himself already looking forward to coming here again next year, or possibly for the winter. They might even come here after the wedding to celebrate privately once more on their anniversary. They’ll bring Manfred, and perhaps Doris’ children, if they and their parents are amenable to the idea.

Again, he is befallen by a sense of giddiness. How content he is, how happy. He never could’ve imagined he’d find himself here a year ago, on the day they met. Rook had called it a ‘serendipitous day.’ Emmrich quite agrees. It almost makes him laugh aloud to think that today is Rook’s birthday, and yet it’s him who can barely contain his excitement. He feels the way he used to when he was little, first to wake on Wintersend morning and immediately running to go and wake his parents.

Not his parents, this time. Just his beloved, sleeping husband. And rather than asking his mother to bake her delicious hazelnut torte, he will make Rook breakfast while the man in question will no doubt hover at his back the entire time. As he has every morning since they’ve arrived, and as Emmrich has done every night while Rook cooks them dinner. There’s simply no time for such indulgences at home, but here they’ve scarcely gone more than twenty minutes without touching. 

Today, the first time he touches Rook is with his fingertips, tracing one of many branches of lightning across and down his shoulder, all the way down to his elbow. 

“Wake up, my darling,” he whispers, “it’s a joyous day today.”

It’s not until the third pass across his shoulder that Rook stirs, much slower to wake than usual. When he opens his eyes and blinks to adjust to the bright room, the first thing he sees is Emmrich’s soft, smiling face. His skin tingles pleasantly where Emmrich is touching him, and Rook silently wishes he could live in this moment forever. It’s almost dreamlike in its perfection, and the very picture of what he had in mind when he said he couldn’t imagine waking up to anything else anymore. 

“Am I awake?” Rook croaks, voice still rough with sleep. “Are you always this handsome?”

Emmrich laughs softly, scooting closer on the mattress. 

“If you’re to be believed, yes.”

Rook’s sleepy, bleary expression slowly blooms into one of joy and affection. His gentle hands come up to cup Emmrich’s face, to draw him in for the first kiss of the day. He whispers, “Mm… Aren’t I so lucky? The first birthday I’ve ever celebrated, and I’ve already got the best gift anyone’s ever received.”

The early summer sun does nothing to hide the flush of colour on Emmrich’s cheeks, and Rook kisses him again just to feel that hot, beloved face against his own. When Emmrich wraps his arms around him, Rook takes the opportunity to roll him onto his back. 

“Happy birthday, darling,” Emmrich says when he gets a moment to breathe, already happily dazed and with tingling lips, “may you live the longest and happiest of lives.”

“As long as it’s with you,” Rook murmurs, hands sliding down Emmrich’s sides. “Now, where are my presents?”

Emmrich is already reaching over to the nightstand, utterly misinterpreting what Rook is asking.

“Just here–”

“Mmm… You’ve even wrapped it for me. You shouldn’t have.”

But there is no wrapping paper around his gifts at all, Emmrich thinks. Then, he feels his underwear being pulled down just as Rook disappears beneath the sheets. His first instinct is to object: it’s Rook’s birthday, after all. He should be the one to receive all that his heart desires. But, he realises, this is very much what Rook’s heart desires. 

“I see, amatus,” Rook then says, his voice low and filled with poorly concealed mirth. “I see now that I was, in fact, enveloped in gift wrapping all along. Maker, these fucking legs–”

Emmrich bites his lip so as not to yelp when Rook’s teeth gently nip at his thigh. He kisses down to his knee and back up to his hip, hands resting tantalisingly close to his groin but never touching.

“And what have we here? Why, I do believe this trail is certain to lead to treasure.”

A soft gasp escapes him when Rook nuzzles the hair around his navel, lips kissing the soft skin of his stomach. 

“Ahh, there it is,” Rook sighs happily, “though I must say, I barely recognise it when it’s like this–”

Rook feels his laughter all around him, and even hears the way Emmrich claps his hand over his mouth as if it’s anything to be ashamed of. 

Oh Maker, Rook thinks, do you know? Are you aware you’ve achieved perfection with this man? Were any of your creations ever intended to be this special?

He kisses Emmrich’s soft cock and takes it into his mouth, longing to feel it grow and swell upon his tongue. With a great flourish, the sheets are pulled from the bed, and Emmrich’s free hand pushes Rook’s hair away from his eyes. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to watch this.

“And there you are,” Emmrich says softly, entranced by the sight of his limp cock in Rook’s mouth. He’s not always quick to feel arousal in the mornings, but it would seem this one is a very notable exception. His cock fills rapidly, and Rook pulls back his foreskin to rub his tongue up against the glans. “Mmh– darling…”

Rook pulls off and kisses the side of his hardening shaft and says, “Fuck me, your cock is so pretty.”

It’s not something he takes particular pride in. Hearing Rook praise it while he’s actively worshiping it with his tongue, however, still makes him feel tingly down to his toes. He sits up to better look at Rook, his hand already in its proper place on the back of his head, tangled in long, sleep-messed strands of hair as Rook’s head bobs up and down his cock. 

“Have you any idea what it does to me to watch you do this?” Emmrich asks him, his voice trembling. 

Yes, Rook has some idea. Emmrich always watches intently when Rook’s got his cock in his mouth. Slack-jawed and brows drawn, colour high on his cheeks, breath quivering on every exhale. His teeth gritting when Rook takes him into his throat, biting back the sound of his pleasure until he can’t take it anymore and thrusts, fucking Rook’s mouth until he either comes across his tongue or demands Rook gets in whatever position he wants to take him in.

Simply put: Emmrich loves it, and Rook is perfectly happy with either outcome, too.

“Enlighten me,” Rook says then, closing his mouth over Emmrich’s cockhead and sucking gently. 

“Ahh… I–... I find mmm– myself rather s-short for words–”

Rook looks up at him through his lashes, Emmrich’s cock still in his mouth, and feels a strong, gratifying twitch against his tongue. He lets him go just for a second to say, “Try. For me.”

Emmrich gasps, his spine arching just to keep his hips from thrusting when Rook swallows him down. 

“O-oh! Oh… It’s m-maddening, my darling. T-truly. To feel your luscious lips, warm and slick with copious saliva, your t-tongue– Nnh–”

Copious saliva, indeed. Rook can feel his own spit leaking down his chin and thumb at the base of Emmrich’s cock, dripping onto his balls. It’s hardly his fault it makes his teeth water.

“And y-you’re so beautiful– Ahh– S-so beautiful when you – s-suck me, my sweet–”

Rook moans around him, one hand disappearing between his legs and not hesitating for a moment before plunging two fingers into his cunt. Emmrich’s eyes roll back as his eyelids flutter closed, until he hears the unmistakable sound of Rook’s fingers pushing in and out of his cunt rapidly. He groans and thrusts, body responding of its own accord, and Rook receives his cock with a whimper as he takes it deep into his throat. With his hand fisted in Rook’s hair, Emmrich holds him there, cock throbbing as he listens to Rook desperately fingering himself. After a few seconds, he pulls him off and hauls him up.

“Come here,” he orders, “on your knees. Now, Rook.”

If Rook’s cunt wasn’t already dripping, that would’ve done it. He barely makes it to Emmrich’s side before he’s kneeling behind him, cock already pushing into his aching, needy cunt. Rook grabs the headboard and holds onto it, head pulled back by the fistful of hair Emmrich is holding in his tightly clenched fist. 

“Fuck–”

“Quite right,” Emmrich breathes into his ear. “If I’d known this a year ago, Rook–”

“Hrngh– Then m-maybe you wouldn’t have made me wait–”

Emmrich moans his agreement as he fucks Rook hard, balls slapping against Rook’s soaking wet vulva. Rook moans and cries out with every thrust, utterly unabashed, and reaches back for Emmrich’s other hand to place it on his clit.

“P-please–” he gasps, moaning shockingly loud when Emmrich takes his thick, swollen clit between thumb and forefinger and strokes him the way he’d stroke himself. “Ah! Ahh!”

“Succumb, darling,” Emmrich growls, teeth grazing Rook’s shoulder, “give in to me– Yes, yes–”

Rook’s body shakes violently when he comes, clenching around Emmrich as he pushes back onto his cock to take him deeper. Emmrich feels him all along the length of his shaft, squeezing and clamping down, but it’s not enough for him to come. To his surprise, Rook turns around and throws him onto his back. Two strong arms pin him to the bed as Rook once again settles between his legs. 

“Thank you for that,” Rook whispers, licking his slick off of Emmrich’s rigid, twitching cock, “but I really wanted you to come in my mouth.”

“O-oh, I’m s-sorry–”

“No need to apologise. I know how you hate missing out on the feeling of me coming on your big, gorgeous cock.”

Again, Emmrich’s cock throbs with the praise. He never cared much for when lovers waxed poetic about his endowments. But when Rook does it, it’s indescribably arousing.

“F-few things can compare,” he admits, guiding his cock to Rook’s lips, “but this.”

For long minutes, Rook slowly sucks his cock. Emmrich watches, utterly spellbound by the sight. In his mind, he envisions the collection of rings on his nightstand on Rook’s fingers. How they’d feel against the hot, velvety skin, how pretty they’d look beneath Rook’s mouth when his lips touch his fist. He imagines the slight scrape of the gold filigree bracelet inside the case against his thigh just as Rook’s throat closes around his cock, and comes unexpectedly. Rook greedily swallows down his seed, moaning softly until every drop’s been spilled. 

When Rook crawls over him, his radiantly happy face hovers just over Emmrich’s.

“Happy birthday to me,” he whispers against Emmrich’s lips before kissing him.

“Mm… Indeed, dearest. I would point out, however, that I do in fact have real gifts to give you.”

“This was a real gift.”

“I rather meant a material gift, my darling. Something for you to keep.”

“I’ve got you to keep.”

Rook is terrible at this, Emmrich realises. It’s something he’s always known, now that he thinks about it. Rook had grinned and bore it when Emmrich bought him clothes too, even if he did grow to love his new wardrobe. This is why he was told not to buy anything. It’s endearing, in a way. 

“My love…” Emmrich sighs softly, drawing him in for another kiss, “my sweet, my heart…”

“Yes?”

“Be quiet.”

Rook snorts and acquiesces, sitting up and trying not to fidget with the sheets. Emmrich takes the ornate wooden box from atop his nightstand and holds out his hand. 

“Give me your hand, dearest.”

Contrary to Emmrich, Rook isn’t accustomed to wearing jewellery, other than his engagement ring. He’s expressed interest in having his own collection of grave gold, but is yet to start collecting any. Knowing that his lectures the coming years are certain to be much more active and strenuous than Emmrich’s, he chose pieces that he’s sure will work. 

The first is a gold filigree bracelet beset with various colourful gems, enchanted to always fit snugly and comfortably around Rook’s wrist, and which unclasps the moment the enchantment is deactivated.

The other pieces are all rings, a set of five that Emmrich lovingly slides onto five of Rook’s fingers. An enchantment for each season, plus one that’s sure to keep Rook happy year-round. One to keep him warm during the winter, and one to keep him cool during the summer. One to keep him dry in Nevarra’s very wet autumns, and one - which Emmrich is particularly proud of - that can capture and emit the scent of Rook’s favourite spring flowers. 

The final ring, a simple gold band beset with two small gems made from Manfred’s eyes and one large, clear stone in the centre, puzzles Rook. Inside of the stone, a swirling red droplet hangs suspended like heavy smoke in the air. He looks at Emmrich quizzically.

“Blood magic?”

“Watcher magic, but yes. A drop of blood pulled from my heart.”

Rook stares at it, touched. Though he can tell it’s blood magic by any other name, it doesn’t feel – corrupted. That dark, inky sensation that crawls up his spine every time he comes into contact with it remains mercifully absent. He holds his hand up in the sunlight and watches the light shine through the single, slow-moving droplet. 

Emmrich takes his hand between both of his and kisses his newly ringed fingers.

“Darling… After all that’s transpired this past year, I wanted–... I longed to find a way for you to keep my heart as close to you as possible. Although I must confess to needing Vorgoth’s assistance–”

“Emmrich–”

“And I want – I must tell you that the enormity of your desire for my heart does not at all overwhelm me. That it is a pleasure and an honour to be your husband. That I’ve not once regretted accepting your proposal, no matter how dire our circumstances. On this day a year ago I was still – hopelessly lost, though I was unaware. I had tried to push away all that I was missing out on for fear of never being able to have it, but you effortlessly exhumed my most deeply buried desires, Rook. Or perhaps you didn’t need to, as you embody all that I want, regardless. And–”

The rest of what he wanted to say is lost in a kiss that takes both his words and time away from him. It isn’t until at least an hour later that he remembers he also had a grimoire that he wished to give Rook, and not until another hour after that it occurs to both of them that they should most definitely eat. Entirely as expected, Rook hovers at Emmrich’s back as he cooks them breakfast, hands on his hips and lips on his shoulder. The day is spent making love, basking in the sunlight, and with Emmrich telling Rook stories about his own birthdays that he can still remember. 

“Quite a few of them were unfortunately spent in the sort of stupor one suffers after imbibing entirely too much, you see,” Emmrich tells him.

And when the day does finally turn towards the darkness of night, the moon high above the lake, Rook takes Emmrich out onto the water in a borrowed boat. He holds him as they look at the innumerable stars dotting the clear skies above. All around them, he can hear the sounds of crickets enjoying the late summer evening heat, the frogs, and the lively nightsong of the evening birds.

“Thank you for today,” Rook murmurs, his heart so full of love that his eyes are misty with the excess. “It was perfect.”

“My pleasure, darling,” Emmrich responds softly from where he’s laying on Rook’s chest. “I shall endeavour to make next year’s even more special.”

Rook chuckles softly and squeezes him, too grateful to even put into words what today’s meant to him. 

“There’s yours first.”

“Ah, but you mustn’t feel pressured to–”

“If I promise you ahead of time that I won’t, will you let me do what I want?”

“... I suppose such an arrangement would be agreeable.”

“Good. I won’t feel pressured.”

“But you really mustn’t–”

“One more word out of you and I’m tossing you into the water.”

“You wouldn’t dare. We’ve just bathed– R-Rook, dearest– Rook– Rook!”

One large splash amidst a torrent of protest can be heard across the lake, followed shortly by another. 

“Darling, you can’t swim!”

“Then you’ll just have to hold me real tight, won’t you?”

“Rook Volkarin, on my authority as your husband, I must insist that you get back into the boat!”

But Rook manages to keep his head above water well enough, and he knows how to float now. Not that he needs it: he is tightly held in Emmrich’s arms in spite of his insistence that Rook should get back into the boat already.

Rook looks to the shore and realises that it has never seemed closer. He’s no longer adrift. Hasn’t been for a year. There’s someone who tethers him to the earth now, someone who will always pull him back to dry land when he’s threatening to drown.

What a strange life he’s had. What a wonderful life he has.

When they’re back in the boat, Emmrich takes off his shoes to shake the water out of them. Rook regards him with a perfectly self-satisfied grin.

“I hope it was worth it, Rook,” Emmrich grumbles, though Rook can see him fighting a smile.

“Yeah,” Rook says quietly, “every last second of it.”

Chapter 10: Autumn I

Notes:

This one's about a month late.

My bad.

We're back to Emmrich's POV for this one. I understand that's a little jarring 75% of the way through a fic but in my defense, each chapter is like 15k+ words. This chapter also works best given that Emmrich Is Going Through It.

It's also a little sad. I promise it's not tragic, per se, but it is a little sad. It's also a little horny, but only a little. I'm saving most of that for the next chapter. It ends well, though. I'm not that mean.

(Because after that it's gonna get a little sad again. And if you're thinking: 'But Mr. Petricharis, that's the last chapter! That can't be sad!' Yes it can, and it will be. Don't worry, though. It'll be resolved. Eventually. And they'll be happy again. Eventually. There's also a sex pollen fic planned. And what currently has the working title 'The Plan B Fic' i.e. the one where we go even further off the rails and this story just keeps going indefinitely until the hyperfixation definitively leaves my body. We'll be here a while yet, is my point.)

Thank you if you've stuck it out with me and my increasingly erratic uploading schedule so far. Feel free to drop a comment, it makes my day.

Happy reading! <3

As the weeks pass by and summer’s heat slowly leaves the air, autumn creeps its way towards Nevarra City. The leaves on the trees change from lush green to warm and welcome oranges, browns and yellows. For days on end, rain pours from the skies until puddles line the streets. Dead, rotting leaves cover the walk paths in the Memorial Gardens, where most of its flowers are already losing their bloom and slowly laying down to rest until spring. It’s Emmrich’s favourite season by far. The world slows down and becomes quieter as nature itself grows ever louder with its howling winds and rumbling storms, until all becomes silent for winter at the end of it. It’s the season of spiced wine, pumpkins, warm and hearty foods, and - not least - his birthday. 

Rook has been particularly secretive lately. Any and all attempts at finding out why he’s skulking about town are met with ‘It’s for your birthday, and therefore none of your concern.’ Even Manfred appears to have been recruited into his schemes. His dear little family, sneaking around to surprise him, to make sure he knows how much they love him. As if he ever doubted.

After they returned from their wonderful travels abroad - and their unexpected extended stay in Minrathous - Emmrich was most pleased to find a stack of letters waiting for him. Responses to his inquiries with regards to any potential remaining family. The days spent entertaining Rook’s toddler cousins had only reinforced his desire, his need to find out more about his own family.

He’d read each and every one of them with trembling fingers, a nervousness that wouldn’t abate even with a steaming cup of tea to warm his hands. Nervousness that would soon be accompanied by a prevailing sense of disappointment as each new letter revealed to him that his relatives had either passed or moved abroad long ago, forever out of reach.

All but one, it appeared: his mother’s sister. He was provided with her last known address and had immediately written her a letter to reintroduce himself. In truth, it was more than he’d dared to hope for. With a pile of discarded letters by his side, all of which contained different versions of commiserations, apologies and condolences, he’d begun to believe that he was well and truly the last of his family. The last bearer of his parents’ memory. He’d been so excited that he’d jumped up from the table to embrace Rook, the letter still in hand. 

Today, Emmrich can’t recall the last time he’s been this nervous about anything. Maybe when he told Rook about his aspirations for lichdom, or maybe right before they ascended the stairs to fight Elgar’nan. This time, however, neither a life-changing romance nor the fate of the world hang in the balance. Rather, the momentous event that is about to occur is his reunion with his two remaining cousins. Angelica and Elise, his aunt’s daughters who, with the exception of their own children, most already adults, are the only living family he still has. For it was not his aunt who responded to his letter, but her eldest daughter, Elise. It was in this letter, the very first letter he’s received from family in over four decades, that she informed him that her and her sister’s mother had passed away some weeks earlier.

The only appropriate response had been to send his condolences. To send flowers, handpicked from the Memorial Gardens, and to extend an offer to help with anything they might need. He’d gone so far as to inform them that, as a Watcher, he’d be more than glad to offer any aid the Necropolis can provide. He hadn’t known what to conclude his letter with. It felt crass and selfish to proclaim his desire to meet them, but Rook encouraged him to try it anyway. To word it in such a way that it could only be considered a comfort to meet him.

“You’re good with words,” Rook had assured him with a kiss to his head, “who wouldn’t want to meet someone as eloquent as you?”

And so he’d written that if time and mourning allowed, he’d be honoured to meet them someday. That he remembered Elise as a kind soul and Angelica as a lovely, rambunctious child, and much desired to know who they had become in the many years since they last saw each other.

In the days that followed, Emmrich wallowed in his grief. Not merely because of the loss of his aunt, but because of the loss of all that she knew about his parents, particularly his mother. What could she have told him about his mother as a young girl, and her love of cooking? What insights into her inner life might he have gleaned from the one person she consistently kept in touch with? And what of the fact that she didn’t reach out to him after his mother died? Will he never know why she didn’t take him in?

If only he’d written to Esther sooner, if only he hadn’t spent years doubting and quivering on the precipice. As far as he knows, neither Angelica nor Elise knew his mother very well. By the time she and his father died, Elise was about as old as Emmrich had been at the time. Angelica was a fair amount younger, and is unlikely to remember much at all. What he set out to do - to find out and know more about his parents - has so far failed miserably. Rook has assured him during many a maudlin night that all would be well, that not all is lost yet at all, but Emmrich is having a hard time believing it.

As such, he simply tries not to dwell on it. After all, he does still have family and they do wish to meet with him. Emmrich adjusts his collar pin and rings and hopes that his disappointment isn’t written upon his face. There’s still much joy to be found in getting to know his remaining family. The future matters as much as the past. Rook told him the same while Emmrich lay cradled in his arms just last night. That of course the loss of memories is devastating, that he needn’t feel like a villain for taking it hard, but that his cousins could still be a part of their extended family if Emmrich wanted them to. That they’d been nothing but pleasant in their correspondence.

Pleasant. They’ve been exchanging letters for some weeks now and yes, they’ve been polite and kind, but Emmrich had been hoping for – enthusiasm. Against his better instincts, really; it’s entirely too much to expect from two people still in mourning. And even if they weren’t, they all only saw each other two or three times each year even when they were children, if that. Emmrich sighs, deeply, and stares into his tea. He’s torn between tempering his expectations for this first meeting, and daring to hope for a true familial connection. 

It was Rook’s suggestion that he invite them to the same teahouse he’d taken Emmrich to on the day they were married. Even if their tea was subpar compared to Emmrich’s and their pastries not nearly as divinely indulgent as Rook’s, it’s a fine location to meet. It’s neutral, quiet, and outside of the Necropolis. While on the expensive side, it’s something that Emmrich can easily treat them to. Their response to the idea had been agreeable and grateful, but otherwise rather muted. Emmrich tries not to think of them as being apprehensive. The written word can only convey so much, after all, and they are grieving. To measure their response only by the ink upon the paper would be to fail to do them justice. 

He fidgets with the barely gnawed on biscuit between his fingers and sighs again. Maybe he should’ve taken Rook up on his offer to come along. At least he’d be able to talk to him and get out of his own head a bit. But he hadn’t wanted to overwhelm his cousins. Tea at a fancy teahouse is one thing. Meeting the hero of the decade another. For now, Emmrich has doomed himself to be alone at the table, casting anxious glances at the clock and feeling his stomach flip every time the bell above the teahouse’s entryway chimes. All he can do is wait.

The clock keeps ticking. Emmrich nibbles on his neglected biscuit. The bell chimes.

Finally, the door opens and two middle-aged women step into the teahouse. Emmrich stands the second he lays eyes on them, the biscuit falling forgotten to the plate below. There’s a very small chance it’s not them, a nagging voice tells him, but he likes to think he can recognise his eldest cousin even some forty years later. He remembers the last Wintersend celebration they’d had together. It was just after she had her last growth spurt, and she had towered over him. It took a couple more years for Emmrich to reach his full height, and then another year for him to get used to his gangly new shape. In his late teens, he’d felt like a lanky beanpole, awkwardly tall among his fellow pupils and with very little muscle. Elise must’ve felt it stronger still, standing with head and shoulders above the other children for many years before most caught up. Even now, she stands at least a head taller than her sister. What are the odds of it not being her?

Her eye catches his, and she turns towards the woman behind her - no doubt Angelica - to say something, her voice hushed. Angelica was a small child when Emmrich last saw her, and he doesn’t recognise her at all. She’s only five years younger than them. A monumental difference back when they knew each other, but not so much now. She and Elise could easily pass for the same age. When Emmrich raises his hand and waves, their smiles appear genuine but reserved. He feels his heart pounding in his chest and wills himself to calm down. Not everything has to hinge on this one, singular afternoon tea. There may be others. All he really has to do is be kind, inviting, and patient. Surely he can manage that much.

Maker’s breath, he really should’ve just brought Rook. He’d just smile at him fondly and tell him he’s overthinking things. Which he is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, but he can’t seem to stop himself.

His saving grace - this time - is that he simply doesn’t have the time. The two women are walking directly towards him. 

“Emmrich?” Elise asks as they approach. They’re both done up, and have clearly made an effort to look nice for the occasion. Emmrich smiles, glad he’s not the only one who thought of today as important. It bodes well that they took the time, much like he did. They’ve both aged exceedingly well, in his view. Elise’s hair has fully given way to gray, neatly tucked away into a bun, her smile lines and crow’s feet giving her a soft, kind appearance. Angelica’s waves - untameable when she was a small child, if he recalls correctly - have only just begun to gray at her temples, and her eyes are as sharp and bright as they ever were.

“Elise, I presume?” Emmrich responds warmly, stepping away from the table to greet her. Then, he comes to a halt: does he shake her hand? Does he embrace her? He stands, momentarily frozen with indecision, until he’s saved by Elise’s graceful offering of her own hand, which he shakes. Her grasp on his hand is firm and strangely comforting. She looks at him with kind but tired eyes. 

“It’s lovely to see you again,” she says, then indicates the woman behind her. “Do you remember Angelica?”

Her accent is so different from his own. She speaks the same way his parents used to, and Emmrich can’t tell whether it’s a punch to the gut or heartwarming to hear it again. Her lips simply shape the words differently, vowels and consonants once so familiar to his own tongue now sounding foreign to his ears. They are both Nevarran, yes, and their accents are Nevarran. But as Harding and others have so kindly pointed out, he doesn’t at all sound like the commoner he is. Was.

Emmrich realises he’s been silent for too long and quickly tries to push the unwelcome stream of thoughts away.

“I do, and likewise. It’s been too long.”

Angelica’s lips twitch into some semblance of a smile as she shakes his hand, and says, “Aye, it has. Don’t remember you being this much of a fancy man. Sounded like it though, from your letters.”

Emmrich forces a polite laugh and pulls out a chair for Elise. ‘Fancy man?’ It’s true that he looks vastly different from the boy in heavily patched and mended clothes he used to be, but he doesn’t think he passes for nobility at all. Other than that he apparently sounds like it. And the fact that on a technicality, he does now belong to Tevinter nobility. After a fashion.

“I wouldn’t have recognised you either if you hadn’t told us you’re a Watcher,” Elise then confesses, settling into her chair. “Maker, you’ve changed. At least the gold gives it away!”

Angelica doesn’t wait for Emmrich to pull out her chair and plunks down into it with little fanfare. They both look up at him, waiting for him to take a seat, but Emmrich finds himself caught up in staring at the rings around his fingers. His bracelets, recently - and very lovingly - polished by Rook and Manfred both, glint and shimmer in the nearby hearth’s firelight. Then, his gaze falls to his cousins. Emmrich is forced to admit that standing between the two of them, in spite of them wearing some of their nicest clothes, he still sticks out like a sore thumb. Anyone could gaze upon them and immediately and somewhat safely assume the sheer difference in wealth between them. As Rook had told him once: grave gold is still gold. Its origin matters very little to those who possess none of it, nor to those who possess entirely too much of it. It does impose a certain status on him, even if he’s never asked for it. Even if he’s never once forgotten where he comes from. 

But among the grave gold sits a single ring that was exquisitely and recently made, given to him by an exceedingly wealthy man from the upper echelons of Tevinter society. The very man he’s married to. Maker’s breath, Emmrich thinks as he finally sits down, it’s no wonder they don’t recognise him at all. This is part of why he never tried his corpse whispering on his parents. It would be too painful to bear. Would they still know him at all? Would they be able to see their little rascal boy who played in the streets with the other children in the tall, ‘fancy man’ he is today?

He realises, just in time, that he’s spiralling. It takes more effort than it should for him to put on his best smile, and say, “Then I’m glad to have told you. I’m so very grateful that you both were able to find the time to visit, in spite of what I’m sure is a very difficult time for you. Please, allow me to personally offer my condolences once more.”

Angelica’s smile is tight, but Elise’s eyes are warm and her expression kind. She looks patient more than she looks grateful. Emmrich tries not to feel like he’s sinking.

“Thank you,” Elise says, evidently on behalf of both of them. “Ma will be missed, but she wasn’t all there anymore by the end. It’s kinder to her that she’s gone. She didn’t know who we were anymore. Think we scared her, sometimes.”

She says it with such ease, such tacit acceptance of the facts. Emmrich wonders if he would’ve felt the same, had his own parents lived out their lives. If he finds it unbearably painful to imagine that his parents wouldn’t know him in death, then he cannot begin to imagine what Elise and Angelica must have felt when their mother, very much alive, forgot about them, much less what it was like to see her afraid of her own children.

“That must’ve been very difficult,” Emmrich says, hands folded tightly in his lap to keep from fidgeting, “I do hope her passing was peaceful.”

“More peaceful than her life was, that’s for sure,” Angelica chimes in, her grief not at all hidden by the smile she forces from her unwilling lips. “She was constantly terrified by the end. Quack doctors couldn’t do anything to help her, and we couldn’t afford no fancy mages.”

It feels pointed, but Emmrich has to acknowledge that he’s feeling rather fragile at the moment and may be taking things personally where he shouldn’t be. He clears his throat.

“I… If only I’d written sooner,” is all he can think to say. He meets her eyes when he says it, fervently hoping he comes across as sincere. Angelica quietly regards him, her expression unreadable. Elise reaches out and takes her sister’s hand where it rests on the table, squeezing briefly.

An awkward silence befalls them, but they are mercifully served before it becomes unbearable. Emmrich has no idea what to talk about. The passing of their mother is clearly a delicate, painful subject for them to discuss. To begin talking about his work as a Mourn Watcher, once more conjuring the spectre of death, seems inappropriate. He wants to ask where she was buried, whether she has a headstone, if they’d like for him to arrange something with the Necropolis, but every single one of those avenues of conversation feels like overstepping. 

“Emmrich,” Elise says, warming her fingers on the delicate porcelain cup in her hand, “it seems life has treated you well after – what happened. ”

Emmrich quite agrees. “I certainly can’t complain.”

“Clearly,” Angelica murmurs to herself, looking off to the side.

“I’m glad. We used to tell ma–... Well, she felt bad, is all. For a couple years. That she couldn’t take you in, I mean.”

Angelica bluntly clarifies, “Too poor. Could barely feed ourselves.”

It blindsides him completely. He wasn’t going to broach this topic at all until they’d gotten to know each other much better. Rook had been right: they did think about him. 

“I… I see. I– I must confess that I often wondered why she didn’t write after I was taken to the Necropolis.”

“She wondered the same of you,” Angelica says coolly.

“I… For the longest time, I wasn’t in possession of your address, and–”

“So how’d you get it?”

“I made some inquiries–”

Angelica nods, slowly, letting the silence draw out and leaving Emmrich to draw his own conclusions: he could’ve made the effort much sooner. Not as a child, perhaps, but as an adult he was simply too afraid. Right up until he realised, through witnessing Rook interacting with his own long lost family, what he’d potentially been missing out on. 

What he did not imagine to have been missing out on, is this oozing, obvious resentment.

Elise looks at her sister, fixing her with a stern gaze, and says, “Angelica.”

“What?”

“That’s not fair. Don’t badger him, it’s not his fault.”

“What isn’t?” Emmrich asks, feeling a hollow pit opening in the depths of his stomach.

Angelica looks right at him, piercing blue eyes filled with acrimony.

“She forgot us,” she says quietly, her voice sounding hauntingly flat, “but she remembered you. Poor little Emmrich.”

Emmrich knows that the affliction that often sinks its claws into the minds of the elderly, causing them to lose their memories and - eventually - themselves, can be unpredictable. There are moments of total clarity where it’s as if they never forgot, never changed, and there are moments when one can barely recognise the husk of the person before them for who they used to be. What they can and cannot remember can change day by day. 

None of those facts make the reality any less painful for those involved.

“I’m–... I’m so sorry,” is all he can think to say.

Crossing her arms, Angelica sits back in her chair and stares out of the window, teeth worrying at the inside of her lip. Emmrich can clearly see the sheen of tears in her eyes, even in the low light.

“It’s fine,” she says, after another long, awkward silence. “It’s not your fault. I just – I wish I’d had a letter of yours to read to her.”

Elise sighs softly and turns her gaze back to Emmrich. “Sometimes, she’d remember aunt Elannora and ask for her latest letter. We’d read it to her and it’d calm her down. But when she remembered you, she just–”

“Became inconsolable,” Angelica finishes, still staring out the window. “You were the first baby in the family. You won’t remember, but ma moved away from the city about two years after you were born. She used to tell us how she watched you when you were a baby so that Elannora could go to work and nobody would miss out on wages.”

After a moment’s silence, she adds, “Nobody but her.”

“Angelica,” Elise says sharply.

“Yeah, yeah. Not his fault, I know.”

The resentment is palpable. It’s not fair. Emmrich knows it isn’t, but he also knows that grief can bring out the worst in people. To give her the benefit of the doubt is an absolute necessity here, even if it hurts. Even if this meeting is going much worse than he could’ve imagined. All he can do is sink or swim, and he simply cannot afford to sink. This is all he has. All he’s ever going to have.

“I’m deeply sorry to have unwittingly usurped a spot in your mother’s memory,” Emmrich says quietly. “I can only hope it won’t tarnish your own recollections of her. From what little I remember, aunt Esther was a dear, clever woman. She’ll be sorely missed.”

This, at last, appears to thaw some of the ice that surrounds Angelica’s demeanour. She uncrosses her arms and clears her throat. Elise smiles at him, grateful for the extended olive branch.

“She was.”

Altogether, drinking tea with his cousins takes less than two hours. It’s quite possibly the longest two hours of his life. While Emmrich feels he successfully managed to diffuse the worst of the tension, he doesn’t think he managed to forge any sort of lasting connection. In fact, due to the particularly unfortunate timing, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to after this disastrous first meeting. They made frankly excruciating small talk, and while he can factually say he knows more about them now than he did before, he can’t tell whether he got to know them, per se. Maybe they simply didn’t really want him to.

He forgoes the carriage in favour of a walk in spite of the rain pouring down from the overcast, dark skies above. The afternoon’s end nears, and the lanterns have been lit already in anticipation of the evening’s approaching darkness. Emmrich doesn’t notice the dancing, flickering firelight inside the lanterns. Doesn’t feel the rain soaking through his coat. All he can think of are his cousins’ remarks with regards to their mother, his clothes, his writing. Pointed commentary that makes him feel that he’s not like them, and that they don’t want him to be. 

Angelica had called him ‘a bit posh’ when her back was turned and she imagined herself out of earshot after they parted ways. Their eyes had grown enormous when he told them he was married to Rook. Elise had barely managed to get the words ‘how nice, I’m sure he’s lovely’ past her lips. Emmrich didn’t know what else to talk about. He didn’t dare bring up their mother again.

His mind is reeling, both with disappointment and the rediscovery of what he actually looks like to people who don’t know him. What shakes him to his core is that even his family could barely look past their first impression of him. As if because he no longer looks or talks like them, he’s no longer their kin. And it’s not just about wealth, either. It’s about how ‘worldly’ he’s become, too. The people he’s met, the travels and adventures he’s had. Things that are utterly out of reach for them. The fact that these things were mostly unavailable to him too until about a year ago matters little. They never even made it that far into the conversation.

He finds himself diverting from the way home. Before he’s even noticed it’s happened, he’s kneeling in the sodden grass before his parents’ graves. His ungloved, cold fingers dig into the yielding soil. The vase between their graves contains drooping, wilting flowers, weighed down further by the rain. He should’ve brought replacements. 

At least once a year he’ll come here, touch the earth and wonder if he should finally reach out to them. Every year, he shies away from it. Today has only confirmed that his anxieties were not unwarranted. Would his parents have any idea whose voice it is calling out to them? Would they look upon him and see a stranger? Emmrich can’t remember what he talked like as a child, and his memories of what he looked like are distant and fuzzy. The facts of it are rather simple: he had dark hair, dark eyes and freckled skin. His hands were often muddy and his knees often scraped. Father despaired over how to keep him clean, and mother often had to wipe his hands with a rough, moist cloth just so he could eat his meals after coming in from outside.

But shards of a memory don’t make a whole man. Did he used to call his parents ‘pa’ and ‘ma’ as well? Yes, he’s sure he did. When did he stop calling them that in his head? He’d told Harding that education makes the man. It did. It did, and in doing so, it changed him. Words effortlessly and unnoticeably swapped for others, his accent slowly shifting until the way he used to speak felt foreign to his tongue. Playtime and adventure were left behind in exchange for extensive schooling, experimenting, socialising with his peers in libraries rather than in the streets. Carving out a space for himself in the Necropolis and chipping away at it until it fit, until he felt like he was exactly where he belonged. This is his home. It has been for many years, but should that mean that he no longer belongs to the world outside of it? 

Over the years, he’s scarcely ever left the Necropolis for longer than an afternoon. Work was always the excuse not to travel, and by extension an excuse not to search for his remaining family. Angelica was right: he should’ve written sooner. It doesn’t matter that aunt Esther never did, it has no bearing on his own desire to. He was just frightened. Afraid of being given a reason for being left alone. The reason being poverty is – material, and sound. It’s not a frivolous or emotional reason, though he would’ve had to bear those too if they’d existed. But in light of their perception of his wealth and by extension their perception of him, the reason stings in ways he cannot quite fathom. Maybe because he would’ve been glad to have remained poor if it meant being with them, where Angelica had clearly communicated that they would’ve been worse off if they’d taken him in and therefore hadn’t. Reasonable logic. Nobody could fault it.

And yet, the hurt lingers.

A last, tenuous connection to his parents has been severed. The little boy he was to them will never grow up into the adult he’s become, and he will never know his parents the way he longs to. Those vast chasms of knowledge can only be filled by him now, if he were only brave enough.

Cold rain continues to pour mercilessly from the skies, and Emmrich is soaked down to the skin. It allows him to pretend that it’s the biting wind that’s making his eyes tear up, and that the persistent chill invading his body is what’s causing him to tremble. He weeps bitter, hopeless, desperate tears. He will never grow up for his parents because he refuses to show himself to them. If he did, they wouldn’t know him. His cousins certainly don’t, and they seemed reluctant to embrace who he is now. And though he knows he shouldn’t wallow, that they’re grieving, that due to their mother’s illness they already associate the very concept of him with something dreadful, Emmrich cries. Maybe he never should’ve written. All he wanted was to once again feel the warmth of a home filled with family. Why couldn’t he be content with Rook’s family? Does he not keep emphasising to Emmrich that it’s their family now?

Steeped in melancholy, he concludes that it’s not the same. It’s just not the same, but it’s all he’s got. After today, it may well be all he’s ever going to have. He’ll have to learn to be content with that, as he’s had to learn to be content with many things in life. Compromise upon bloody compromise. Of course Emmrich is grateful for all that he’s got, and all that’s come to fill the void, but just for once he wishes he could have the thing he wants exactly as he wants it. Just once.

As if called upon by the heavens, the exception to the rule appears by his side. Funnily enough, Emmrich only notices the rain because it’s stopped falling onto his head. He looks up and finds he’s being covered by a large umbrella, the handle of which naturally leads him to its owner. Rook is sitting on his haunches next to him, his coat and hair dry as bone. It occurs to Emmrich that due to one of the rings he gave Rook some months ago, there is actually no need at all for him to have an umbrella. Moreover, there isn’t even so much as a droplet of water sticking to his trousers. The enchantment clearly works, so why–

“You didn’t come home when you said you would,” Rook says quietly, eyes slowly taking in the state Emmrich is in. “Thought I’d find you here.”

The umbrella is moved from one hand to another as Rook puts an arm around him. Droplets fall from the umbrella onto Emmrich’s already drenched shoulder.

“Didn’t go well?” Rook then asks, looking down at Emmrich’s dirt-covered hands. The soil sits uncomfortably underneath his fingernails, and his hands are streaked with muddy tracks where the rain has attempted to wash off the dirt. 

Emmrich shakes his head and swallows, tucking his hands underneath his arms and leaning into Rook. Only now does he feel the cold, long after it's settled into his bones. He shivers pitifully.

Rook kisses the top of his head and sighs softly, “I’m sorry.”

After a long moment of silence, Emmrich says, “I think I’d like for you to take me home.”

“Yeah,” Rook agrees, squeezing him for a moment before getting up and helping him to his feet, “let’s get you warmed up. C’mon.”

By the time they get home, Emmrich’s teeth are chattering and he’s shivering, every single one of his layers of clothing soaked through. Rook takes his sodden, dripping coat, bundling it so it doesn’t leak all the way to the bathroom, and gently tugs Emmrich along. To his surprise, there’s already a steaming hot bath waiting for him. After taking care of his coat, Rook returns to him with a disapproving look on his face. He tuts and takes Emmrich’s stiff, cold fingers in hand to begin removing his rings.

“You’re freezing. You must’ve been out there a while before I got there.”

“I… I can’t quite recall.”

Rook glances up at him before focusing on his rings again. Then his bracelets. Before too long, his beloved grave gold has become a little pile upon a nearby cabinet. 

“I’m making you that leek and potato pie you like,” Rook says softly, getting started on Emmrich’s vest and shirt buttons. “With the last of the Fereldan mushrooms.”

A kindly but unnecessarily bestowed gift as thanks for Rook’s given financial aid to Ferelden. King Alistair had insisted on giving something in return, and knowing full well that his blight-ridden kingdom had nothing left to give, Rook asked for mushrooms. Harding had told him once that they were incredibly easy to forage where she came from. And if the forests are well enough to camp in, they’re good enough to find food in. King Alistair had happily obliged, remarking that he’s never had easier-going diplomatic relations with anyone from Tevinter, and how he wished that more people would simply ask for food. 

Emmrich musters a small smile, and says, “That sounds lovely, dearest. We’ll have to write to King Alistair once more and ask if he requires any additional help.”

His wet vest and shirt are peeled from his body and neatly deposited in the laundry basket. Part of him wants to protest that he can undress himself just fine, but frankly, he likes it when Rook fusses over him. After today, he could tuck him into bed and read him a bedtime story, and Emmrich still wouldn’t object.

“I will,” Rook says with a smile, “Dorian will be pleased I’m not making trouble for the magisterium, and I’ll get to boast at the soirée about how I’m managing my relations exceedingly well.”

Only the latter half of that sentence truly penetrates the thick fog in Emmrich’s mind.

“Much better than I am, certainly.”

Rook looks up at him from where he’s kneeling, Emmrich’s soggy socked foot still in his hand. There’s such pity in his expression that he has to look away from it.

“Emmrich…”

How he wishes he could say that he’s not to worry, that it doesn’t matter. Such a transparent lie won’t improve anything, and they’ve made such progress these last several months with regards to their communication that Emmrich doesn’t want to hide behind little white lies. 

“It was dreadful, Rook,” he says eventually, just as Rook rises with his socks, trousers, sash and underwear in hand. Naked at last, Emmrich wraps his arms around himself and shivers miserably. 

Rook sighs softly and briefly squeezes his arm, before taking the basket and holding it to his hip.

“Manfred?” he calls into the kitchen. 

Manfred dutifully appears at the door, hissing quietly. He sounds concerned.

“Yes?”

“If you’ve got a moment, could I ask you to please dry these?”

“Okay!”

“Thank you, dear boy.”

Emmrich watches as Manfred takes the basket from Rook and wonders how his cousins would’ve responded to knowing that he’s his son. Yes, they’re Nevarran, but they’re not at all part of the Mortalitasi, and a walking, talking, magical skeleton could still very well be - unsettling. 

Tears well in his eyes when he realises that he didn’t tell them about Manfred on purpose. He hid one of the most important people in his life, a vital part of himself, in a vain attempt to not further tarnish their already lukewarm opinion of him. At that point in their conversation, Emmrich had spiralled so far that conformance became more important than staying true to who he is. So preoccupied with their perception of him that he was willing to compromise on his own fundamentals just to forge some sort of connection, however errant or feeble. Foolish. Utterly foolish.

Impossibly warm hands gently cup his face.

“Hey,” Rook says, his voice hushed, “hey… Oh, sweetheart…”

With his shaky palms pressed to his eyes, Emmrich takes a deep, shuddering breath. He’s finding it hard to justify how torn up about this he is, but it can’t be helped. While true that he didn’t part with his cousins on terrible terms or with any outspoken finalities, he feels that there is simply no way forward from here. His desire to know them doesn’t have the necessary depth for him to humiliate himself a second time.

“I – I’d… I’d prefer not to talk about it, for now.”

Rook nods and slowly rubs his hands up and down Emmrich’s upper arms. With another sigh, he says, “Okay, I–... Okay. What do you need?”

Months ago, Emmrich resolved not to keep his need for comfort, assurance, and touch silent any longer. That promise to himself, however, doesn’t make him feel any less pathetic at this particular moment.

“Would you stay? Please?”

Slowly, Rook pulls him to his chest and holds him. He brushes a tender kiss to Emmrich’s shoulder and whispers, “I was never going anywhere. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Emmrich swallows a dry sob and buries his nose in Rook’s hair, finding the scent of lemon and ginger to be as comforting as ever. He’s cold, disappointed, and feeling very sorry for himself, but at least Rook is warm. More so than usual, now that he thinks about it. It’s as though he’s standing in front of their hearth, a comforting heat spreading from his front throughout his entire body.

Oh, but of course. He’d have noticed the magic sooner if he wasn’t so exhausted and distracted. 

“Thank you, darling,” Emmrich whispers, his shivers finally subsiding. 

“You’re welcome. Wouldn’t want the water to sting you when you get in.”

Emmrich huffs a dry chuckle. “Do you think me so delicate?”

“I think you’ve had a rough day,” Rook says, stepping back to undress, “and that it’s my turn to take care of you.”

“Hmm, am I to be spoon fed my dinner as well?”

It doesn’t come out like the joke he intends it to be. Rook’s hands still for all but a moment on his buttons. If Emmrich had blinked, he’d have missed it. Why did he say that? It sounds as if he’s making a mockery of Rook’s care for him. If this is emblematic of his communicative skills today, then it’s no wonder that his cousins should think him a spoiled, rich fop.

“If you like. I was thinking more along the lines of taking a nice warm bath together, followed by dinner, some light reading on the sofa, and then we head to bed.”

It’s offered with kindness and grace, a plain refusal to feed into Emmrich’s chagrin. It makes him feel mightily ashamed, and he can only nod and watch in silence as Rook continues to undress himself. 

“I still haven’t read mother’s letter,” Rook says when he’s taking his clothes away and putting out towels. “Can’t seem to figure out whether it’s a good idea or a bad idea to read it.”

Emmrich’s shoulders sag with relief at the change of subject. “I could read it for you, if you’d like.”

“I’m afraid she’ll tell me where she is, and strange as it sounds, I don’t think I want either of us having that information.”

“Why?”

“Because – because I refuse to let her put you in a situation where you have to hide something from me, and I don’t want to know.”

Once settled into the steaming hot bath, his back to Rook’s chest and their fingers lovingly entwined, Emmrich asks, “Then why keep the letter?”

Rook sighs deeply. “Because it’ll be the last thing she’ll ever say to me.”

In the ensuing silence, Emmrich finds his mind inevitably drifting back to his own parents. He remembers their last day as a family, or most of it. Flashes of a memory that have been embedded into his mind, permanent fixtures of his childhood. But his parents’ last words to him are not among them. Emmrich was only in the house because he’d just come in from playing outside. His mother had been cooking. His father had been sitting at the table. He can’t remember whether they ever got the chance to say anything before the roof collapsed. If not, his mother’s last words to him before he left the house were likely to be careful, and his father’s to stay clean for supper. 

It occurs to him that he can barely recall the sound of their voices. If he can’t remember theirs, then what hope could there be of his parents remembering his?

“Emmrich…” Rook whispers, holding him tight. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Evidently, he’s louder in his grief than he intends to be. His stuffy nose demands he sniffle, and Rook pulls him closer still.

“What is there to be said?” he laments tearfully. “I’m mortified, Rook. I should’ve written so much sooner. Taken the much needed step across that frightful threshold. But I didn’t, and I must pay the price for my negligence.”

Rook is quiet for a moment, his lips pressed to Emmrich’s shoulder.

“You can tell me as much or as little as you like. I’ve got time for you. I’m not going anywhere.”

And so Emmrich recounts the entire afternoon in excruciating, sordid detail. From his early arrival to the firmness of their handshakes upon parting. He hadn’t dared to embrace them, though Elise squeezed his shoulder when she shook his hand. Angelica hadn’t, but she’d at least properly met his eye. He tells Rook how Angelica in particular didn’t seem impressed with him. All the while, he insists that he understands they’re not in the best of moods on account of their mother’s passing. Insists that he understands their grief, their apprehension, and their resentment. But he still feels he made a fool of himself, and he struggles greatly to come to terms with the vastness of the divide between them. How far removed he is from the life he used to live, from the life he might’ve had if a terrible, preventable tragedy hadn’t occurred. A tragedy that could’ve been prevented if they’d had the wealth he now has.

When his tale of woe has been told, his fingers have become pruney from being in the water for so long. Rook has been mostly quiet throughout, occasionally making noises to indicate that he’s listening. Otherwise, he’s only held Emmrich to his body, stroked and caressed his skin, and tenderly brushed his lips against his neck and shoulders. Emmrich is forced to admit he feels a great deal calmer than he had, even if he’s no less sad for it.

“I find myself at a loss for what to do,” Emmrich concludes, sinking deeper into the water. “And I’m left wondering if I ever should’ve written at all. My letter couldn’t possibly have come at a more delicate time, when I was already an unwelcome spectre in their minds. How utterly dreadful that I should return to their lives so shortly after I was unknowingly invoked by their late mother.”

Behind him, Rook hums softly. He sounds perfectly neutral, the sound no more than an acknowledgement of what Emmrich’s just said. It therefore begs the question: why can he feel Rook’s smile pressed up against his skin? Nothing he said was even remotely funny.

“Give it time,” Rook says, his voice soft and kind. “All was not lost today.”

“I fail to see how it wasn’t.”

“I know. That’s okay. You don’t have to, for now. I’ve got enough hope for the both of us. Just give it time.”

“One hesitates to ask what good time could do.”

This time, he hears Rook’s suppressed little huff of laughter. Emmrich turns in his arms, water splashing from the abrupt movement.

“Dearest?”

“I’m not laughing at you–”

“You’re doing a marvellous impression of it.”

Rook takes his face between his hands, and sighs, “Emmrich.”

“What?”

“You did nothing wrong.”

Well, no. Emmrich knows that. But just because he didn’t ‘act’ wrong or ‘didn’t do’ anything wrong doesn’t mean it wasn’t all wrong all the same. 

“But–”

“Let me finish,” Rook says sternly, letting go of his face and taking his hands underneath the water instead. “You did nothing wrong. You’ve been in your head about this meeting for a week. By the time you left, you looked like you were headed for the gallows.”

Emmrich can - begrudgingly - acknowledge that he was nauseous with nerves when he left, yes.

“And you can occasionally be a little… Fatalistic… About things you’re not one hundred percent certain will go your way. On top of that, you couldn’t have known that Angelica would have a chip on her shoulder about you. That’s neither her nor your fault, though I think she could’ve been nicer about it.”

“She’s grieving the loss of her mother, Rook. I can only imagine what she must be going through. There was loss before she passed on, and I disrupted the mourning that came with it even if I had no way to prevent it from occurring.”

“Still,” Rook murmurs, pulling Emmrich back against him, “still. From what you’ve told me, it was… Awkward. That’s normal. You need some time to see that things weren’t as bad as all that, and they need some time to come to terms with their loss so they can separate you from it.”

“And… And what of the fact that I’m…”

“A rich man with property in Nevarra, Minrathous and near Qarinus? Husband to the hero of the age?”

“Don’t mock me, Rook.”

“I’m not–... I’m sorry, I just…”

Rook sighs deeply and kisses the back of his neck, before asking, “Does it shame you, all that you have?”

In other words: does it shame him to be married to Rook, to live in the Necropolis, and to enjoy a great amount of prestige?

“I… No. But when faced with what my life could’ve been had things been different, I... I felt–... I felt like a stranger. I suppose I am. I vastly underestimated–...”

Emmrich trails off. He underestimated just how estranged he really is from his family. On paper, the facts are clear: he’s been separated from his family for over forty years. In his heart, he still imagines – no, he truly feels the warm familiarity of his childhood memories. The letters he wrote were predicated upon those feelings, that single thread still connecting them. Perhaps he’s been stuck in the past more than he knew how to admit, or perhaps they moved on much faster than he was ever able to.

“Amatus.”

Rook’s voice is a deep rumble against his back. He sighs.

“Yes, darling?”

“You’re doing it again, I think.”

“Doing what?”

“Getting lost in your own head. Overthinking it. Before too long, you’ll have convinced yourself of the worst version of reality again. Don’t do that to yourself.”

He takes a moment to consider Rook’s stance. Rook would never deliberately lead him astray. Was he truly just so anxious, so caught up in his emotions regarding his parents’ deaths, the life that was ripped away from them, that he was completely unable to see things clearly? Is the need for connection and the fear of rejection so much greater than his ability to observe what’s in front of him?

Granted, he thinks to himself, it took him months to realise Rook was flirting with him. In hindsight, that should’ve been blithely obvious from the start as well.

“You don’t agree I’ve made a fool of myself?”

“I don’t.”

“And you truly believe all will be well?”

“I truly believe all is well. You and I are the only ones who know what happened in your head before, during and after seeing them. All they saw was a perfectly pleasant man, who handled a difficult situation with as much grace as he could. Elise clearly appreciated that, and Angelica is – is hurting. She’ll come around.”

Even so: what comes next? Does he write to them? Does he lick his wounds and wait to hear from them? Delicately navigating difficult conversations is something he considers himself quite good at, but it would seem his skills don’t translate particularly well to every situation.

“But what do I do, Rook?”

“You give it time.”

Emmrich makes a vaguely despairing sound. “Is that truly all there is to be done?”

“Yeah,” Rook chuckles softly, once more kissing his shoulder, “I’m afraid there is. All you can do is give it time, and try not to be so hard on yourself in the meantime.”

“But shouldn’t I write to them? To thank them for taking the time to come see me?”

“You could. There’s no harm in it.”

But it’s not what he wants to do, Emmrich realises. He doesn’t want to be the one to write, this time. Rather, he wants to be the one to receive a letter saying how lovely it was to meet him, how they should all do this again sometime. His heart so desperately yearns for that acceptance, that warm welcome back into the family fold that he can feel it bleeding in his chest. 

“I–... I’ll think about it.”

“That seems like a good idea,” Rook agrees. His thumb brushes back and forth against Emmrich’s shoulder. “There’s no rush.”

Isn’t there? 

“I suppose there isn’t.”

Again, the outline of Rook’s smile against his skin. He’s not buying it in the slightest.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. Another welcome change of subject.

Emmrich supposes he feels a little lighter, all things considered. At least regarding the matter of his cousins. The raw grief he feels with regards to his parents, a hurt strangely akin to losing them all over again, is just as painful as it was when he was sodden with rain in the Memorial Gardens.

“Not as bad as I could be feeling,” Emmrich says with a sigh. “Thank you, darling.”

“Mm… I’m not done listening if you’re not done talking.”

Silence. Emmrich can’t think of what to say. 

Rook nudges him, gently. “What happened in the gardens?”

Nothing. Nothing happened in the gardens. It was the result of a lifetime spent carrying a pain in his arms so vast, so unresolved that he couldn’t hope to contain it forever. He can’t. That which needed to happen for the events in the garden to occur happened long ago.

“When I was a boy, my father would oft remark that I was my mother’s son. My mother was… Headstrong. A fighter through and through in spite of her aches and pains. Father often worried about my bloodied knees and dirty hands, but mother simply – understood. She never worried. She’d turned out fine, and so would I.”

“You did,” Rook insists, but Emmrich places a placating hand on Rook’s, silently urging him to withhold his commentary.

“But I turned out rather differently. I’m nothing at all like the child I used to be. The boy they knew.”

Behind him, he can virtually feel Rook fighting not to say something. It almost makes him smile, but only almost.

“Today has… Has forced me to acknowledge that I am no longer my mother’s son. I changed when they couldn’t.”

“Bullshit,” Rook says immediately, “sorry. I’m… I’m sorry, but you are, of course you are.”

It’s out before he can stop his treacherous tongue from forming the words.

“You wouldn’t know, darling.”

Discontented rumbling against his back tells him that was most definitely the wrong thing to say.

“Don’t piss me off. You think I don’t listen to you when you talk?”

“Of course you do, but–”

“So when you tell me your father despaired over how to keep you clean, and you lost your mind the other day because Manfred came in with muddy boots, I’m supposed to pretend you’re not exactly like your dad?”

“I–”

“And when you say your mother was tall and suffered back pains from standing over a stove that was too short for her, am I not supposed to notice when you stretch your back after you’ve cooked us a meal? Why do you think I do most of the bloody cooking in this house?”

“Well, because–”

“Yeah, you changed. They would’ve wanted you to, because your parents wanted to see you grow. Growth means change. So what if they wouldn’t recognise you in the first three seconds of seeing you again? You think they wouldn’t be proud of you regardless? Curious about all you’ve seen and done and– and become?”

But those three seconds would be too much to bear. That is the material point. 

“I can’t… I can’t face them, Rook.”

“You don’t have to. You don’t, but I wish–... I wish you’d stop giving yourself reasons to believe that they wouldn’t love you all the same.”

“How disappointed they would feel, that I waited forty years to call upon them–”

“Didn’t your magic manifest after you came here? This is what I mean–”

“Yes, well, a technicality that matters very little–”

“It matters a great deal, amatus. Stop blaming yourself–”

Emmrich whirls around once more. “There is no one else to blame, Rook!”

Rook sits across from him, stunned. He shouldn’t have raised his voice. After all, the poor man is only trying to help. 

“For what?” he asks, devastatingly softly, glossing over Emmrich’s outburst as if it was nothing. “I don’t want you to blame yourself for not taking action as a child, but I don’t think that’s what you’re talking about at all.”

No. It isn’t.

“I’ve allowed myself to become alienated from who I used to be,” Emmrich says, scarcely daring to look Rook in the eye, “I… As though I’m ashamed. That’s entirely my fault.”

“But you’re not ashamed. Not then, not now.”

Looking off to the side, he’s forced to admit that much is true.

“Maybe so,” he agrees, “but we neither of us can deny that that is exactly what it looks like to others.”

“Who cares what other – No, wait, do you think your parents will think you’re ashamed of them? Of yourself?”

Or in the very least, that he’s deliberately moved away from who he was. If his parents were to see him now, they would see a well-to-do scholar married to an upper class mage from a nation most well known for its rampant slavery and abuses of magical prowess. His own dislike of nobility wasn’t born of his time in the Necropolis, it came into being long before that. His parents taught him the value of kindness and compassion. To always be as graceful and generous as one could manage, and to never give in to greed or entertain any sort of delusions of grandeur. What else could they possibly conclude? 

But he’s evidently been silent for too long. Rook’s hands find his beneath the water, squeezing tightly. 

“Emmrich, c’mon. You know better than that. You do.”

Another pregnant pause. Emmrich looks at their joined hands beneath the shimmering waters and sighs once more.

“Do I?”

“Yes, of course y– Fine. We’ll try another way. When we die, Manfred will live on. For centuries, possibly. If he were to reach out to us three hundred years from now, the head of a vast, skeletal, magical dynasty–”

Emmrich snorts. Rook smiles hopefully.

“Would you feel ashamed of him?” Rook asks. “He’d be just as kind, as clever and just as much our son as he is right now. There’s nothing nefarious about the power he holds. Would you?”

“I… No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”

“So why would your parents be ashamed of you? You’re to them what Manfred is to us.”

On an abstract level, where he apparently took it entirely for granted, Emmrich knows this. He knows he loves Manfred the way a father would his son and that Manfred loves him like a father in turn. The enormity of their shared feelings isn’t lost on him. What was, up until now, is that his own parents must have loved him just as fiercely. Loved him enough to violently throw him out the door just before the house collapsed. Always their first priority, until he was both the first and the last, ever.

Fresh tears threaten to spill down his cheeks. The void being filled doesn’t mean it’s gone. It will always exist within him. All this debacle has done is remind him just how much he misses them, and how there wasn’t nearly enough to recover from the house to remind him of who they were. All he has is a meagre collection of fading memories, and a piano that will never again produce the same tunes his parents played.

Rook gently tugs on his hands. Emmrich lets himself be pulled into his lap, grateful for the solace that can be found in a pair of strong arms. Seemingly without the awareness that he’s doing it, Rook rocks him back and forth as he cries. He doesn’t stop until Emmrich’s sobs subside and his tear ducts fail to produce any more tears.

Emmrich sniffles and closes his eyes, his head safely held to the crook of Rook’s neck.

“I’m sorry I’m so terribly obstinate–”

An indignant huff sounds above his head as he’s squeezed tightly to Rook’s chest.

“No. You’ve hurt yourself enough for one day. You’re navigating a very difficult situation. It’s hard, it was bound to be. Don’t be so unkind to yourself on top of it.”

After another prolonged silence, Emmrich heaves a big, shuddering breath.

“It’s been many years since I’ve last missed them so terribly.”

Leaning back, Rook brushes a hair from Emmrich’s face and looks him over carefully.

“The ancestral pageants are next month,” he offers. Laughably unhelpful, but Emmrich appreciates it anyway.

“We never partook, I’m afraid. I see no reason to begin now. Even now that I have the funds to hire a skilled actor, I… What would I tell them to reenact?”

“Mm…”

Seemingly at a loss for what to do now, Rook begins the slow and tender task of washing his husband. Emmrich lets him fuss, content not to have to say any more.

“Maybe missing them is just fine, for now,” Rook says eventually. “I’ll miss them with you, if it helps.”

It brings a genuine smile to Emmrich’s face for the first time since leaving the teahouse.

“Would you?”

“Of course. You may not realise it but their and mine struggles aren’t so different. Your father despaired over how to keep mud out from underneath your fingernails,”

Rook raises Emmrich’s soapy hand to illustrate his point: there’s still a fine layer of dirt underneath his nails. 

“And I despair over how to keep you from smelling like resin and oil before we go to bed. The more things change…”

The more they stay the same. The more he’s stayed the same. Yes, he talks differently, and he looks different, and his material circumstances are night and day compared to his childhood. But is he not still that headstrong boy with dirty hands? Is he not still–

“You even still have scuffed knees, occasionally. That’s mostly my fault, though,” Rook concludes, a small smile playing about his lips. “I shouldn’t have made you kneel in an alley.”

Emmrich laughs softly, tension draining from his body at last. Affection blooms like a spring flower in his chest: Rook takes such good care of him. Watching him carefully brushing away the dirt from his nails inspires a tenderness he was certain was out of reach today.

“A hardship that was borne with pleasure, I assure you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Darling?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“Everything,” Emmrich clarifies, pulling Rook in and kissing him. “Even my darkest hour knows a bright spark because of you.”

He feels Rook’s smile against his lips as he says, “I did vow to take care of you.”

“And you’re doing an impeccable job, my darling.”

“Are you hungry yet?”

“I am, rather.”

“Good. C’mon.”

Still drained from the day’s harrowing events, Emmrich opts not to bother with doing much of anything to help. Manfred and Rook don’t need it anyway, and his one step into the cooking area was met with playful scorn. He is to do nothing at all and, in Rook’s words, ‘just sit at the table and look pretty.’ Content to do exactly that, though he’d never put it that way himself, he sits and observes his son and husband pottering about the kitchen. His family.

Sounds of domesticity reach his ears. The boiling of a kettle, the clinking of cutlery and dishes. Rook’s soothing voice as he instructs Manfred on what to do, followed by the sound of ceramic scraping against stone as the pie is removed from the oven. The kitchen is filled with the comforting, hearty scent of leek and potato pie. His eyes move from Manfred carrying the pie to the table to the back of Rook’s broad shoulders as he cleans off a couple of plates.

His thoughts threaten to drift to the dreaded afternoon once more, and Emmrich shakes himself just in time. He needn’t encourage the pit in his stomach to grow ever wider. Give it time, Rook said. In hindsight, the passage of time has occasionally been more than helpful. His relationship with Rook has known its fair share of struggles that, ultimately, could only be resolved by being kind, graceful and patient. In fact, the relationship itself never would’ve existed if Emmrich hadn’t spent actual decades hoping and wishing for a romance such as this. It’s not as if he had to dodge offers of marriage left and right, but it did require him to never commit to anyone he was sure wasn’t the one. If memory serves, he nearly made that very mistake with Rook: on the eve before they were to kill a god, he ran out of time to give.

He’s torn away from his ruminations when a plate is placed in front of him. Rook sits by his side and gently grasps his knee.

“Alright?”

Emmrich smiles and leans in to kiss his cheek. Rook’s stubble scrapes gently against his lips.

“Quite,” he says softly, pulling back to marvel at the pie on the table. “You’ve prepared us a feast, darling. I daresay there’s not a Watcher in this place who eats as well as I do.”

Rook snickers as he takes Emmrich’s plate and serves him first.

“Don’t say that. Schmidt’s wife is a wonderful cook.”

“I’m sure her cooking is splendid, if only her husband can be bothered to make it home in time…”

“You make it sound like he’s a philandering ne’er-do-well.”

“Alexander doesn’t have time to philander, as we all know.”

Rook snorts and turns to him, eyes crinkling with mirth.

“You’re still upset his research proposal got through while yours didn’t, aren’t you?”

“Between Tessa becoming our new leader and Alexander’s research - far less groundbreaking than all that we learned in the last year and a half - I’m beginning to feel that the faculty doesn’t value me nearly as much as it used to,” Emmrich bemoans, only half serious. Yes, he’s still sore over Alexander’s research getting the go-ahead where his didn’t (too expensive, too time-consuming, too big of a distraction from teaching his pupils), but he can hardly complain about not being at the head of the Mourn Watch. 

Not that Johanna agrees, although she’s been surprisingly mild in her criticisms of late. An encouraging sign. Perhaps if she would finally share the details of her dealings with the Venatori, he could still find a way to do his research after all…

“Well,” Rook says, laughing, “you can always take another sabbatical to remind them what they’re missing.”

“Mm, and spend it doing what, exactly?”

“Me, obviously.”

“Rook!” Emmrich shouts, scandalised for all of a moment until Manfred flicks a small orb of water across the table, thoroughly soaking Rook’s head. “Manfred!”

“Well done!” Rook exclaims as he wipes his face. “Maker, you’re much better with water than I’ll ever be.”

“Yes!” Manfred agrees, Rook’s faux-pas forgotten already in the face of earnest praise. 

Emmrich sighs. “What did we say about magic at the table, Manfred?”

A hiss that vaguely approximates a humanoid grumble emanates from Manfred’s skull. Duly chastised, he sits back in his chair and crosses his arms. It’s so petulant that Emmrich has to shovel a heaping fork of food into his mouth to hide his smile. Next to him, Rook is doing the exact same, all the while keeping his hand on Emmrich’s knee. 

Dinner is an otherwise quiet affair. Manfred excuses himself to the laboratory afterwards, while Rook once again instructs Emmrich to sit tight as he takes care of the washing up. And so Emmrich finds himself staring at his husband’s back for the second time this evening. The only remaining sounds drifting through the space are the sloshing of water and the clinking dinnerware within. The rain outside is barely audible at all, but Emmrich is keenly aware that it’s there. It’s the absence of it within their shelter that hammers home the point that he is dry, warm, safe and loved. 

It hits him, as sudden and enormous as the sweep of a dragon’s tail. A long forgotten memory from his childhood of a dark, dreary day in late autumn. He can’t have been older than eight, coming in from the rain, dripping and dragging mud into the house. His father’s strong arms effortlessly lifting him up and unceremoniously depositing him into the wooden tub they kept in the corner of the room. Shivering in the cold as he waited for the water to warm. His teeth chattering until the room filled with steam.

But more than anything, he remembers watching his mother cook over his father’s shoulder as he was being scrubbed down. How she turned her head, gave him a once-over and winked at him as if to say: good lad, well done.

It’s an utterly unremarkable memory, as things go. There must’ve been hundreds of similar afternoons. Perhaps it’s the utter mundanity of it, so similar to this very moment in his own kitchen, that’s so utterly devastating. Is this not the very essence of his desire? To simply return home and be welcomed? For him to be able to open the door and immediately be greeted by the sight of people he loves deeply?

If so, why does the thought of this afternoon still inspire such profound sorrow in him? Why can’t this be enough? 

In spite of Rook’s instructions, Emmrich rises from his chair just as the former turns around, drying his hands on a towel. He doesn’t move, merely observing Emmrich’s approach and opening his arms to him the moment he steps in close enough.

The shape of him in Emmrich’s arms is familiar, comforting. From the soft curve of his stomach to the way his head tucks perfectly underneath Emmrich’s chin. Rook slowly strokes his back and gently scratches at his spine, loving little touches silently bestowed. The raging storm inside of him allows itself to be tamed by the nurturing hands of the man he loves most in this world. Temporarily, to be sure, but it’ll do.

“I love you, darling,” Emmrich whispers, tightening his hold, “more than you know.”

Rook’s soft chuckle puffs out against the skin of his neck. “I like to think I know. I love you, too.”

Emmrich remains exactly where he is, not letting go. Rook seems content to stay in the embrace as well, still slowly stroking his hand up and down Emmrich’s spine. Up, down, up, down, as rhythmic and reliable as the ticking of a clock.

“Harding was right, you know,” Rook says, suddenly. “You do give the best hugs.”

Lace. How he misses her. 

“She would have some choice words for me about my current predicament, I’m sure.”

“I can hallucinate her for you, if you like.”

Though it brings a smile to his face, Emmrich shakes his head.

“No, thank you. I think… I think I’d much rather it be just us this evening.”

A tender kiss is pressed against his throat.

“You’d have to wait until tomorrow morning, anyway.”

It takes more and more time for Rook’s mana imbalance to become problematic. Training and fighting with Taash - and, occasionally, Emmrich - while also teaching offensive magic has likely expanded his natural reserves quite a bit. 

And – well. Perhaps they’ve gotten a little less careful as time’s gone on. Emmrich is, after all, an expert mage. He can handle what Rook’s body throws at him. The furniture, less so. But that only served as an excellent excuse to purchase a new bed without Emmrich needing to confess just exactly how much he wanted to do that anyway.

“Hmm,” Emmrich hums softly, smiling to himself as he pretends to consider it, “and waste what precious minutes we have in the morning together? One can think of better ways to make use of your gifts.”

“And turn another bedframe to ashes?”

“There’s always the laboratory.”

Rook pulls back to look at him, eyes searching. Emmrich can’t stand to see him so uncertain and leans in to kiss him. Softly, tentatively, testing the waters. The entire blasted day has been spent asking himself what he wants, what he expects, what he can expect. With regards to his family, he can scarcely stand to answer any of them in full. With Rook, however, he’s quite sure he knows exactly what he wants, and he definitely knows exactly what he can expect to get.

So when Rook’s arms tighten around him, he knows and takes that to be a sign to continue. He runs his hand through Rook’s slightly damp hair, fingers tangling in the strands, and tilts his head back. Their eyes meet, half-lidded and full of promise. Distantly, lightning strikes beyond the hills.

“Did I mention,” Rook asks, one hand sliding down Emmrich’s side and squeezing his hip, “that you look especially beautiful today?”

Yes, he did. Just this morning in fact, right after Emmrich walked into the kitchen after getting dressed. Emmrich had been so nervous and in his own head that he hadn’t even heard him say it the first time. The second, spoken right up against his lips, had been hard to miss. 

“You did.”

“It bears repeating.”

“I’m sure I’ll understand the metrics by which you measure my attractiveness one of these days.”

“Not bloody likely. I don’t even understand it. How do you keep becoming more and more handsome the longer I know you?”

“I daresay you’re fairly biased, dearest.”

Rook’s smile says that he has no wish to deny it. In spite of their playful banter, his eyes still spell concern. If he has to guess, Emmrich would wager that he’s at war with himself. One side fighting to give in to his own desire for intimacy, while the other - entirely occupied with his duty of care - holds fast. 

But in keeping with the theme of the day, Rook was right. Emmrich has suffered enough for one day, self-inflicted or otherwise. He longs for a distraction. For a brief respite from the parts of himself that can’t seem to stop turning the day over in his head until he’s looked at it from every conceivable angle. If Rook is too hesitant to initiate, then Emmrich is happy to do the seducing.

After all, Rook becomes delectably wide-eyed with excitement when he does, and maybe all he wants today is for someone to look at him as if they’re happy to be near him.

“Although,” he says, sweetly rubbing his nose against Rook’s, “I suppose the same must be said for me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, professor,” Rook murmurs, stealing a kiss. “You’re a scholar of utmost integrity. You’d never succumb to your biases.”

Slowly, Emmrich takes Rook’s face into his hands, watching with great interest as his eyes grow darker. 

“When it comes to you, my dear,” he whispers, lips barely brushing against Rook’s, “I fear I succumb every time anew.”

He draws Rook in as close as he can and kisses him again, sweet and tender, taking his time. When Rook opens his mouth to him, breath shuddering against his lips, he smiles but doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he moves to the side, relishing in the sensation of Rook’s stubble against his skin, and kisses his neck. 

Rook’s arms tighten for all but a second. Still unsure, barely moving, but he tilts his head to the side all the same. Pleased, Emmrich moves his hands to the back of Rook’s neck, thumbs caressing just behind his ears. When Rook leans into it, Emmrich kisses his throat, then the bit of exposed skin above his shirt’s second button. 

“Amatus…”

How lovely he sounds, how affected. It would be unkind to leave him questioning things even a second longer. Emmrich slowly rises to his full height, taking in Rook’s scent along the way and sighing into his ear as he leans in.

“I’d very much like to take you to bed, my darling.”

He can virtually feel Rook getting weak in the knees. His voice trembles when he asks, “Are you sure? You’ve had a long day. I’d be just as happy to call it a night, if that’s what you need.”

Emmrich shifts his stance and firmly presses his knee between Rook’s thighs, feeling the heat of him even through their layers of clothing.

Rook gasps, “Ah–”

“Would you? You’re right, of course. I was struck with a rather acute bout of melancholy this afternoon,” Emmrich says, straightening once more and slowly rubbing his hands up and down Rook’s chest. “For which I cannot think of a finer remedy than making love to you, my sweet.”

He captures whatever Rook’s reply might’ve been in another kiss, happily giving in when Rook’s tongue teases his own. Quiet, unbidden whimpers escape Rook as he hesitantly starts to grind against Emmrich’s leg. With each twist of his hips, his stomach pushes up against Emmrich’s slowly hardening cock, and Emmrich takes his hand and places it there.

“Touch me, Rook. Let the end of my long day be a long night spent languorously held in your arms.”

Rook greedily rubs the length of him through his trousers, palming at him until he’s fully hard. All the while, they move and grind together, hearts beating in tandem. Breaths stolen between kisses as sweet as summer fruit are all that sustains them. Amidst this loveliness, this gradual and delicious fading away together until he can’t tell where he ends and Rook begins, the worries of the day inevitably fade into the back of Emmrich’s mind.

“Come along now, darling,” Emmrich whispers eventually, extricating himself from their embrace with some effort. He takes Rook by the hand and guides him towards their bedroom. Rook follows wordlessly, his dazed, half-lidded gaze never leaving Emmrich’s. 

Their bed - new, softer than the one before, and layered with far too much bedding on Rook’s side now that autumn’s welcome chill has returned to Nevarra - yields happily to their passion. Emmrich lets himself fall onto his back and Rook is on top of him in the next second, hands squeezing Emmrich’s waist before he wraps his arms around him, holding him to his body as he kisses and nuzzles at his neck. 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he murmurs. “Maker, I’d follow you anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

“The Fade, the Deep Roads, into an archdemon’s maw if you asked me to.”

His mouth is hot with devotion against Emmrich’s skin, and Emmrich arches against him.

“Oh, darling–”

He’s laid back down on the mattress. Nimble fingers deftly undo the buttons on his vest, then his shirt, while Rook’s lips trail eagerly behind. One soft, wet kiss for every button, until Emmrich is squirming beneath him.

“I haven’t got the words, Emmrich,” Rook says, breath hot on his stomach, “just – haven’t got the bloody words.”

“W-what for, dearest? Ah– Nn–”

Rook kisses his shaft through his trousers, lingering to feel it twitch against his lips. 

“What you do to me. What it feels like to be wanted by you.”

That, Emmrich can sympathise with very much. It’s hard to put into words what being loved by Rook is like. He sits up and pulls Rook up to kiss him again, tugging his shirt from his trousers and undoing his buttons with trembling hands. Rook’s hands cradle his head, fingers twitching against his scalp when he hungrily wraps his arms around him and digs his nails into his back.

Warm, so warm. Even a year later, Emmrich still marvels at the heat of the body in his hands. He kisses Rook’s chest and tastes the salt of his sweat upon his tongue, feeling the way Rook’s muscles contract and move beneath the skin. 

“My dearest heart,” Emmrich sighs, rolling them over and capturing Rook’s mouth once more, “my love, mine…” 

Rook shudders beneath him, and gasps softly, “Yours– Fuck, no one in my life’s ever made me feel this way.”

Curiosity and a sore heart get the better of him.

“And how is that, darling?”

“I–” Rook tries, before thinking the better of saying it without looking Emmrich in the eye. Gentle hands lift Emmrich’s face until their eyes meet, and Rook says, “I’ve had to bury so many dreams, wishes, futures. Laid flowers at their graves every time I cried about what could’ve been. My life has been – a cemetery, and you– you… You made those flowers bloom. Thousands of them. The sun to my rain. Over the past year my life has started feeling more and more like a – a bloody meadow to frolic through, rather than a graveyard.”

Emmrich tries to blink the blurriness clouding his vision away, only for a tear to run down his nose and fall on Rook’s cheek. An apology has already formed on his lips when Rook lays his thumbs over his mouth, preventing it from ever being spoken.

“I know I’m a poor replacement for the family you should’ve had,” Rook then says, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Gods, you – you should’ve had a gaggle of kids and a huge, happy extended family. It’s not fair, I know it’s not, but I hope – I hope I make up for some of it.”

“Don’t say that, my darling,” Emmrich tearfully implores, sniffling, “please don’t say that. You’ve not replaced anything, poorly or otherwise. You’re a miracle unto yourself.”

“But–”

“You’re – you’re the love of my life, Rook. You may not be what I expected, or what I thought I wanted. But when I – when we’re together, I can’t–... What could be more perfect? Have we not our own little family?”

Rook wipes the tears from his cheeks and pulls him in for another kiss, one that mutually stuffy noses won’t allow to last longer than a few seconds. 

“We do. I love you, Emmrich. No matter how many years we get together, as long as I live, I swear I’ll never love another.”

Emmrich’s thought about this, in the darkest hours of the night. He’d never admit it to Rook, of course. It’s the height of selfishness and vanity to even think about depriving him of another great love in his life, even if the very thought of it makes him want to vomit. The relief and elation he feels at Rook’s sworn vow is shameful, but he’s only a mortal man. A shattered, grief-stricken man who is not at all immune to the idea of being so important to someone like Rook.

His husband. Maker, how hard it is to believe sometimes.

“You shouldn’t–” Emmrich begins, even if it’s only a token protest, the right thing to say from a moral point of view, only to be cut off by a kiss as fierce as it is loving.

“But I will. I’d rather spend my final years reminiscing about all that we had than spend them looking for anyone else. Who could even hold a candle to you, who you are, what you mean to me?”

Under the weight of Rook’s ardent, lasting commitment to their love, Emmrich crumbles. Rook takes him into his arms as if to hold him together as he falls to pieces. They cling together, and he feels Rook’s chest jolting against his own with suppressed sobs. 

All his life he wondered what it would feel like, to look at someone and know them to be one’s true love. What he expected was to feel like he’s floating, carried upon great wings of love, never to come down. The reality is a great deal more painful. A love so all-encompassing, so consuming that it makes him ache to know that it must end one day. It’s not unlike bleeding, he realises. A massive haemorrhage originating from his chest, blood as warm and copious as desert stands spilling forth from his heart until he’s covered in it, all the way down.

Emmrich swallows around the jagged lump in his throat and kisses Rook’s temple, wetting his lips on the moist trails left there. Rook turns his head for a few hastily exchanged kisses, breathless presses of lips that only barely meet their target. 

“I love you,” he says again, “I love you, I love you, I– I’d write it into your veins if I could. Fuck me, there’s not enough time in the world to tell you how much I love you.”

For a man who consistently claims he doesn’t have a way with words, Rook’s heartfelt sentiments, expressed with such fervour, threaten to dissolve Emmrich into a puddle of his own tears.

“Oh, darling,” he sighs, wiping at his eyes to prevent further weeping onto Rook, “I’ve never known a love like yours. It’s – overwhelming, exhilarating. You spark such joy, my – my Rook, my dearest, darling Rook.”

The way Rook smiles at him makes his heart skip a beat inside his chest. 

“Yeah?” Rook says, somehow sounding full of disbelief in spite of the fact that they’re quite literally married. Foolish man.

“Yes. Don’t let my tearful display fool you into thinking otherwise.”

Rook chuckles softly and nudges his nose against his. “Hardly the first time one of us has cried before, during or after sex.”

True, but it’s not exactly what he set out to do when he decided to seduce Rook. In fact, now that he’s quite done blubbering, he should probably get back to it. He takes a deep, steadying breath and kisses Rook softly.

“If you’re still amenable, darling, I’d quite like for us to continue.”

“You’re sure?”

“Very much so.”

That, it appears, assuages any remaining concerns Rook might have. He stretches lazily, showing off with his arms over his head, and spreads his legs farther. 

“At your leisure, professor.”

Emmrich wipes the last of the moisture from his eyes and laughs softly, sitting up on his knees.

“Does it still excite you to call me that, even though you’re no longer one of my students?”

“Of course it does.”

“Pray, why?”

“Because I know it makes your dick hard.”

“Crass.”

“True. Last time I called you professor during lunch you couldn’t get up from your chair for twenty minutes.”

“If memory serves, you called me that after describing in vivid, lurid detail how you spent your morning alone that day.”

Specifically, how he’d spent the morning pleasuring himself while denying himself release. He’d practically been vibrating with tension in his seat by the time they sat down to eat together. 

“It was a very good morning,” Rook comments, smiling mischievously, “would’ve been better if you’d been there.”

“To deny you?”

“It’s all the sweeter when my dear professor does it for me, after all.”

“You’d have been positively feral by lunch.”

Rook raises his brows and says, “I can behave.”

“Can you?”

“Better than you, at any rate. If I leave you hanging in the morning, you usually have me bent over your desk before the day is out.”

An idea crystallises in his mind. He dismisses it at first, fearing it juvenile, but then… Rook does love a challenge.

“It rather sounds like this is something you’d like to put to the test, my dear.”

“What?”

“Whether you can ‘behave’ when your needs aren’t met.”

Rook’s laughter is filled with, in Emmrich’s view, unearned confidence.

“I should warn you,” he says, leaning up on his elbows, “I’m the undisputed champion of many a celibacy pact. I’d also remind you that I hadn’t so much as kissed another person in at least a year by the time we met.”

“Very impressive credentials, indeed,” Emmrich replies drily, “but I hold firm in the belief that my age and experience will see me through to victory.”

“In that case, I’ll leave it up to my senior colleague to set the rules.”

Emmrich feels the strong and sudden urge to bite him, but it’ll have to wait.

“No sex, obviously.”

“Of course.”

“No foreplay, either.”

“Define ‘foreplay.’”

It is rather a broad category, Emmrich supposes, and he doesn’t want to ban touching outright. He hums, tapping his fingers on Rook’s knees as he thinks about it.

“No touching below the belt?”

“Way to take the fun out of it, amatus.”

“What? How else–”

“It’s about enduring as much as it is about resisting, isn’t it?” Rook muses. “So… No touching beneath our pants seems a fair compromise.”

“Darling, forgive me for asking, but when has underwear ever formed an effective barrier to our lovemaking?”

Rook only smiles and tilts his head to the side. He’s being cute and he knows it, Emmrich thinks. Insufferable.

“Well?”

He caves.

“I… I accept your compromise.”

“Thought you might. That’s much more in your favour than it is in mine, after all.”

True, and Emmrich begins to wonder whether or not he’s playing right into Rook’s hands. 

“Obviously, masturbation is out of the question.”

“Naturally.”

“The first person to either achieve orgasm or initiate sex loses. Are these terms agreeable?”

“Small caveat, sweetheart: during periods of – prolonged abstinence – I’m bound to come in my sleep.”

“It goes without saying that you’re permitted to have your nocturnal emissions as usual, darling. There’s nothing to be done about it.”

“Then your terms are very agreeable, though I’d propose a time limit.”

“Does that not defeat the purpose of the challenge?”

“Your birthday is in three weeks,” Rook points out with a grin so full of intent that it makes a little shiver run down his spine, “and I have… Something planned.”

Three weeks. Emmrich is beginning to realise what he’s about to set himself up for, and during such a sensitive time no less.

“I see.”

“And I’m confident this’ll be over long before then, regardless.”

Overconfident, perhaps. Emmrich smiles down at him and tilts his chin up with his fingertip.

“Then we’ll start tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be sure to put out your robes for work, then.”

“I do so appreciate your ability to think ahead, darling.”

“We can’t have you sporting an erection while you have a corpse on the table, can we?”

“No, certainly not in our line of work.”

“Glad we agree. Now,” Rook says, hooking a finger through Emmrich’s locket chain and pulling him down, “do us both a favour and fuck me.”

Emmrich’s smile almost keeps him from kissing Rook. “If you insist.”

Knowing it’ll be their last for at least several days, if not weeks, they take their sweet time. Hushed, half-swallowed words of encouragement are uttered between kisses, the only audible sound outside of skin slapping against skin. Rook gasps for breath as he tells Emmrich how good he feels inside of him, how he doesn’t get this wet for anyone but him. That Emmrich is the best, most satisfying lover he’s ever had, and Emmrich doesn’t care whether or not it’s true. It’s praise lovingly bestowed, and his body doesn’t know the difference anyway. His blood surges with every compliment, shudders taking him out of his rhythm when Rook tells him how big he feels and how he’s sure to still feel him all day tomorrow.

“Don’t let me forget who I belong to,” Rook purrs into his ear, thumbs teasing his nipples, “take me. You clever, gorgeous man, take me.”

Hours later, Emmrich finds himself unable to sleep in spite of giving Rook the rogering of a lifetime. Next to him, Rook snores soundly, curled in on his side with one hand loosely held in Emmrich’s. Evidently, Emmrich thinks with a smile, he’s not likely to forget that anytime soon.

Four days later, when Emmrich is already thoroughly regretting ever proposing not having sex when he’s as tense as he has been, a large crate is delivered to the Necropolis. It’s addressed to Emmrich, though he cannot fathom what he might’ve ordered that would warrant such enormous packaging.

“Fuck me,” Rook says from over by the kitchen counter, halting midway through peeling a potato, “tell me that’s not tea. We barely have space for what we already have.”

“I should hope not, though I couldn’t tell you – oh! There’s a note.”

He unfolds the slip of paper and reads. Rook moves to stand next to him when Emmrich doesn’t say a word for more than ten seconds, hooking a thumb through his belt loop as his eyes scan the text upon the paper.

After another thirty seconds, he chuckles, kisses Emmrich’s shoulder and mutters “told you” before returning to the counter. The sound of potato peeling resumes.

Emmrich reads the note again, just to make sure he’s not suffering some sort of abstinence induced hallucination:

 

Dear Emmrich,

We wanted to thank you for inviting us to the city, and for taking us out for tea. Times are tough, but we were grateful to be able to leave ma’s house behind for a little bit. Thank you for giving us a good excuse to go out, even if it was just for a couple of hours.

When we got back to it, we found all of aunt Elannora’s letters. We knew ma had kept all of them, but there were more than we thought. Way, way more. Turns out the ones she kept out were only the last five or so. The oldest we were able to find date back to before you were born, when ma still lived outside of the city. 

We think you should have them. We had ma and her stories to remember her by. Aunt Elannora’s memories should be with you. 

Things are going to be busy for a bit, and it may be sometime before we meet again. Let’s keep writing in the meantime, and maybe when the seasons are kinder and the roads clearer, we can meet again come spring. Our kids want to meet you, too. 

(And Rook. Theo, my oldest, was very specific about wanting to meet Rook. He’s fascinated by the war, Maker bless him. We’re hoping Rook can set the record straight on some of his more imaginative ideas.)

We’d also like to take you up on the offer to add ma to the memorial in the Necropolis. She missed her sister so much, especially during the last couple of years, we think it’ll put her soul at ease to be reunited with her. 

That’s all for now. We hope to hear from you soon. 

Sincerely and with love,

Elise and Angelica

 

His eyes keep returning to that one phrase: ‘Aunt Elannora’s memories should be with you.’ The very thing he sought to find. They’ll never be complete, of course they won’t. That would’ve required his parents to live out their whole lives. But the bits and pieces of herself and his father contained within those letters might just come together to create a picture, a story he can come to know and understand. A history.

The next several hours are spent reading at the table. His left hand perpetually holding a letter while his right holds a fork, a glass, and eventually, Rook’s hand as they read the letters together. Years worth of correspondence, half of which can never be recovered, but which he can piece together well enough based on his mother’s responses. How thoughtful she was, Emmrich realises, how considerate. He never experienced his mother as cold or unfeeling, but she was hardworking and – quiet. Emmrich wouldn’t go so far as to call her stoic, but she kept her feelings close to her breast. Her innermost thoughts and feelings were evidently relayed primarily upon the paper to a most beloved, trusted sister.

But even within these letters there is not a single mention of his father’s family or lack thereof. It’s simply never spoken about, much the same as when he was a child. A disappointment to be sure, but he hadn’t expected any different. There is the occasional mention of his ‘uncle,’ Albrecht, who was indeed a close friend of his father’s rather than his brother. 

One of the things he’s delighted to learn is how excited his parents were to have him. When his mother fell pregnant, she wrote a letter that was over ten pages long. An exorbitant length, especially considering the price and availability of paper. In it, she wrote about how she was dead certain she’d be having a boy, and that he’d be a ‘right little bastard’ because he was already giving her terrible morning sickness. She wrote of her hopes for her little boy, her dreams. That she wished he’d grow up happy, healthy, and with a good set of brains between his ears. That if she got her way, her son would want for nothing. Sadly, she remarked, she didn’t marry rich, and so he’d have to want for some things. 

And, she wrote, they’d already decided on a name: Emmrich. A strong name for a strong lad. 

His mother wrote that she couldn’t wait to meet him. Couldn’t wait to see him grow up.

I’m sure he’ll be tall as two trees, his mother wrote halfway through her pregnancy, he’s kicking me like he doesn’t know where to put his damned legs.

To his surprise, most letters are accompanied by little drawings in the margins. Birds, flowers, trees, exquisitely drawn. It isn’t until the letter where his mother announces his birth that he comes to know who put those there. In that letter, there is a small portrait of him as a baby. Lovingly rendered by an expert hand. Rook gasps with delight the moment he sees it.

Rupert drew a little portrait of Emmrich, his mother wrote. I keep telling him our boy looks like every other baby: like a sugar beet, or a potato. Rupert swears up and down that he’s the best looking baby he’s ever seen. Let me know what you think. 

In her next letter, it becomes apparent that aunt Esther rather agreed with his mother’s assessment, which clearly prompted his father to fill the margins of the entire first page with drawings of his root vegetable-like, infant countenance. 

Rupert says he didn’t really get his likeness right in my last letter, his mother explains. The sudden, jagged handwriting suggests she was laughing, or so Emmrich likes to think. He hopes you’ll be convinced this time. If not, he insists you’ll just have to come over and see him.

Emmrich struggles to imagine a pencil or a brittle piece of charcoal in his father’s thick, calloused hands. When did he ever witness his father drawing? How did he not know about this at all?

He startles when Rook’s hand lands on his shoulder. 

“What?”

“Come to bed. It’s late.”

“I… I will, darling,” Emmrich promises, “I won’t be long.”

Rook’s smile tells him that he knows he will be. He leans down to kiss the top of Emmrich’s head and retreats to the bedroom.

By the time Emmrich does make it to bed, it’s the very small hours of the night. Rook doesn’t wake when he lies down. In spite of his every intention to go to sleep, Emmrich lays awake and stares into the darkness until the sun comes up. It’s so much to take in. He still doesn’t feel like he’s properly grasped who his parents were as people, but he’s made a start. There’s still a good amount of letters to go, and he plans to reread each and every one regardless. It’s a treasure trove of insight, memories he’d forgotten about, and fragments of his parents’ lives that he never knew of. More than he was expecting, less than he’d hoped for.

Could it be enough?

He turns his head to watch Rook sleep, and feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Perhaps it could be. He’s got a family of his own now. However small it may be, it is precious beyond measure, though it may still grow with time. It won’t be what his parents imagined for him, and it remains to be seen whether it will be all that he wants it to be. But looking at Rook’s sleeping face, utterly at peace, it’s easy to remember that he’s also been given more than he ever could’ve dreamed. Manfred, Rook, the adventures they’ve had together, and the many years that are yet to come.

It could be enough, he thinks as he closes his eyes. It very well could be.

Chapter 11: Autumn II

Notes:

Sometimes you don't upload for two months, sometimes you write 28.000 words in about a week.

In fairness, it's like, 20.000 words of porn with bits and pieces of plot sprinkled in. Someone asked for a celibacy pact and I truly don't feel one can do that justice below 15K.

It should also be noted that 7 fics into this series I went: "What if Emmrich DOES have a breeding kink after all?"

So if that's not your thing, I'm sorry to hear it.

Enjoy the calm before the storm!

“Are we all set?”

Rook is standing in the middle of a very busy tavern. It’s bustling with carpenters and other workers carrying beams and all sorts back and forth across the space. Marie stands next to him, hands on her hips, looking mighty satisfied with herself in spite of the chaotic state of her prized establishment.

“I think so,” she says, looking away from a very busy handful of workers engaged in placing the new windows, “payment’s been taken care of, builders reckon they’ll be done in less than two weeks, and the furniture’s comin’ in tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Where are you gonna keep it all?”

“Upstairs, for now. We’ll make it work.”

“My sympathies to you and Bart.”

Marie laughs. Her husband is famously unhappy about the renovations being done, and finds something new to complain about every day. Not that he wouldn’t otherwise. He is, by far and away, one of Rook’s favourite people in the city. Bart always asks how they’re doing, how Manfred’s coming along, and how he’s finding life in Nevarra. Never an unkind word to say about anyone, but even as he’s earnestly inquiring after one’s day, he’ll look like he’s got a sore tooth and a headache. Marie had once explained his demeanour as ‘thunderclouds during a heatwave’: lovely but incongruous. Bart could find the cloud in every silver lining and complain about everything from the tableware to politics, but put a person in front of him and he becomes the nicest man around. Rook finds him fascinating, and completely delightful.

“And you?” Marie then asks him. “Is all well on the northern front?”

“If you’re asking whether I can play Elannora’s insane notation yet, the answer is... sort of. I’m getting there.”

“Dad used to say that she could make the piano smoke if she really got going.”

“I believe it. And I don’t have a lot of time to practice. Emmrich’s… home a lot, lately.”

Rook bites his tongue to keep from saying any more. By ‘home’ he means ‘all over him,’ and she doesn’t need to know that much. Marie’s enormous smile, however, doesn’t bode well for his attempt at secrecy.

“I see. Well, love, if you ever need a strong brew to put that man to sleep, you know where to find me.”

“I do,” Rook says, leaning over to kiss her cheek in parting. “I’ll get on. Let me know if there’s anything we still need. Manfred will come by a few days beforehand with the garlands and… All that.”

Marie squeezes his arm with delight. “They’re finished?”

“Almost. Emmrich’s going to hate it, though. Until I tell him Manfred made them, of course.”

“Of course. I’m sure they’re not that bad, though.”

“You’re underestimating how ugly that quilt is. Emmrich was so happy to be rid of it.”

“He thinks you tossed it?”

“It’s no longer defiling our couch, and he assumed. I just smiled and nodded.”

“You’re very sneaky, aren’t you?”

Rook grins. “Not nearly as much as I used to be. Before I go: Bart’s picking up Albrecht afternoon of, right?”

“He is. Albrecht can’t carry that painting on his own.”

“Good, yeah. He’s getting on in years, poor man.”

“He is. Can’t stop talking about how much he’s looking forward to seeing Emmrich again, though. He’s full of stories.”

“I’ll make sure Emmrich’s on time to hear all of them.”

“You do that,” Marie says with a wink as she nudges him towards the door, “and I’ll make sure he eats well before the evening starts. Your Emmrich’s a very fun drunk.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Ah! None of that randy talk in here. Get on!”

They part with laughter and matching waves, and Rook huddles in his coat on the walk home. It’s dry for once, the twilight sun hanging low on the horizon, but the wind is harsh and cold, his hair whipping mercilessly about his face. 

Emmrich offered to cook today and Rook had no objections. If anything, he foresees a nice opportunity to rub Emmrich’s back later. They’re a little less than a week into an utterly pointless, silly, but admittedly very thrilling challenge of who can go without the longest. Rook is still confident that he’ll win, even if he’s also certain that he’s suffering the most. It takes Emmrich no effort at all to take him right to the edge and leave him there, while the reverse is regrettably untrue. On the other hand, however, Emmrich’s desire for intimate lovemaking, particularly in the form of penetrative sex, is slowly but surely starting to tear him apart at the seams. When he’s home, he can’t keep his hands off of Rook. Even when Manfred’s home with them, he’ll be petting Rook’s head, holding his hand, or standing at his back with his hands on his hips. 

It’s a good thing that Rook isn’t all that in need of personal space. In fact, he relishes every opportunity he gets to touch Emmrich. Maybe he’ll even make it home in time to distract him from cooking for a bit. Walking faster, Rook smiles to himself: he’s sure Emmrich won’t mind. 

On his way home, he stops in on his own office, where Manfred is dutifully working away on his other father’s birthday garland.

“Hello, Manfred,” Rook says, leaning over his shoulder to have a look. “How’s it coming along?”

“Almost finished.”

“Fantastic work. Dad’ll love it.”

“Yay!”

“Are you coming home for dinner?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Memorial g–gardens.”

“Ah. Your turn to light the lanterns?”

“Yes!”

“Alright. I’ll tell dad. He’ll be very proud of you.”

Manfred hisses softly, sounding vaguely pleased.

“See you later, dear boy. I love you,” Rook says, kissing his skull. Manfred turns his face and Rook turns his cheek, feeling the cold press of Manfred’s teeth against it. 

“Love you!”

Rook waves and closes the door behind him, smiling so wide it almost hurts. Emmrich’s birthday will be perfect. He can’t wait to see the look on his face when the time comes and he sees all his friends and colleagues at the tavern. After all the effort Emmrich went through to make his first celebrated birthday feel special, Rook refuses not to go all out. 

But, unfortunately, it requires a fair amount of subterfuge, and he takes a deep breath before opening the door to their home to wipe what is sure to be an inordinate amount of joy from his face.

“I’m home!” he calls once inside, already spotting Emmrich at the sink, his back turned to Rook. Maker, but he is a specimen. Even without seeing his face, Rook’s hands itch to touch him.

Emmrich, however, has spent the day - simply put - suffering. Hoisted by his own petard, of course. Abstaining from sex just so he could watch Rook squirm has backfired significantly more than he was expecting it to. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the wait, the building of anticipation, or the constant simmering passion just beneath the surface. He does, very much so. Rather, it’s the fact that it’s proving very difficult to resist Rook. Specifically his begging for Emmrich to fuck him already. Rook goads him, teases him, begs and pleads with him until even Emmrich is sure he’s one wrong word away from giving in. Only then does he retreat, leaving Emmrich gasping for breath and with his heart pounding in his chest. 

Rook called himself the ‘undisputed champion of many a celibacy pact.’ Emmrich thought he was boasting. More fool him. Yes, Rook is incredibly easy to rile up, something he’d expected to be in his favour. The unfortunate reality is that it’s being used against him, maddeningly so. How is he supposed to resist Rook’s siren call for another two weeks?

Patience, he tells himself, and takes a deep breath.

“Welcome back, darling,” Emmrich says, elated that Rook is finally home. “Impeccable timing, as usual. Might I request a moment of your time?”

After taking off his shoes and coat, Rook appears at his back.

“You may have all of it, in fact. Manfred’ll be home late. It’s his turn to perform the rites.”

“How lovely! He’ll do a wonderful job, and the wisps will be pleased to see their friend.”

“Mm. What did you need?”

“I just need a splash of cold water.”

Rook looks past him to see what he’s doing. There’s a bowl in the sink and Emmrich’s hands are covered in a mixture of what appears to be flour, butter and eggs. He places his hands on Emmrich’s waist and hums thoughtfully.

“Hmm…”

“Rook?”

“Can’t really use your hands without getting everything dirty, can you? We can’t have that.”

“Rook, darling–”

“You’re wearing trousers today. Did that seem wise?”

“You rather uncharacteristically left me be this morning, and I had an office day. It seemed perfectly suitable.”

“Noted, amatus,” Rook murmurs against his spine, one hand slowly moving to Emmrich’s chest while the other creeps towards his crotch, “I’ll be sure to pay attention to you tomorrow morning.”

Emmrich is about to plead for some sort of mercy when Rook’s fingertip lightly circles his nipple through his shirt. He should’ve left his vest on, but he always gets flour on himself, and he hadn’t expected Rook home for another thirty minutes or so.

“Mm… Mnh…”

“You could end this any day.”

“As could you, my darling– ah–...”

Rook is fondling his soft cock through his trousers. Slow but firm touches until his bulge nicely fills out Rook’s hand. Skillful fingers pop his buttons and slip inside, his underwear doing next to nothing to dampen the sensation of Rook’s hand around his cock.

“I know,” Rook says pleasantly, “but I won’t. I’m very stubborn, you know.”

A gasp he barely manages to play off as a chuckle escapes him. “Are you? I h-hadn’t noticed.”

“And we both want the same thing, don’t we?”

Asking for clarification is sure to prove not only futile, but potentially fatal to his resolve. Plus, he knows the answer already.

“I’m – I’m sure we do, darling.”

“You don’t sound sure,” Rook points out with a good squeeze of his cock, “don’t you want to fuck me?”

A ridiculous question that Rook has asked him just about every day for the past week now. Of course he does. Over the course of the last several days, he’s already had to walk himself back from the brink of doing just that more than once. If it weren’t for this self-imposed torture, he’d have Rook bent over the kitchen counter already. For Rook to corner him when he can’t use his hands is diabolical. He can’t retaliate, not without wasting precious pastry dough.

“I – I’d like to get on with our dinner, if it’s– Ah!”

A small electric pulse. This entire week, Rook hasn’t resorted to using his magic yet, but it would seem he’s remembered his trump card. Another pulse has him hunched over the counter, leaning on his elbows. His body quivers, taut with tension and arousal that he can’t hope to curb.

“And I want to suck your cock and choke on it until you come down my throat, but neither of us are getting what we want today.”

Emmrich tries his hardest not to think about it, but he sees it in his mind anyway, clear as crystal: Rook on his knees, staring up at him with tear-stained cheeks and Emmrich’s cock pulsing in his mouth. His hand fisted in Rook’s hair as he pushes deeper one more time, draining his balls until his cock softens. He whimpers softly and pushes into Rook’s hand, cock twitching desperately at the very thought.

“You’re so hard already, sweetheart,” Rook coos against his back, “and – oh my…”

Rook’s middle finger teases his cockhead through his underwear, rubbing at a damp patch that he couldn’t prevent from occurring. After a week of this, his cock leaks at the slightest touch, making for many an uncomfortable, sticky pair of underwear. Behind him, Rook moans softly and presses up against him more firmly. 

“I’d gladly take part of the blame if you did decide to fuck me now, amatus,” Rook says, retreating with one last, firm squeeze to Emmrich’s cock. He reaches over and briefly turns on the tap, giving Emmrich the splash of cold water he requested. Then, he leaves, an unwelcome chill replacing the heat at Emmrich’s back.

With great effort, Emmrich straightens himself, feeling his cock poking into the counter. Wonderful.

“I’m sure you would,” he says shakily, resuming the kneading of his dough at last. His body shudders with directionless need, something he’ll make Rook pay for later. 

Much later, as it turns out. Other than hands venturing slightly farther up thighs and down their backs than they normally would at dinner, the evening is spent in relative peace. Emmrich reads his mother’s letters with his legs laid over Rook’s lap, while Rook massages his feet with one hand and reads a novel with the other. Manfred is sitting on the rug, trying - and so far failing - to turn a floating orb of water into a ball of ice.

“I had a thought the other day,” Rook says, breaking a long but very comfortable silence.

Emmrich, knowing the impending consequences, says, “I do hope you didn’t injure yourself.”

Relentless tickling of his footsole ensues. Rook doesn’t stop until Emmrich’s panicked laughter makes him snort like a pig.

“About mother’s letter.”

“I– I see,” Emmrich replies, utterly out of breath, “please, enlighten me.”

“She might’ve written it before we were even finished with father.”

“Entirely possible, yes.”

“The letter she wrote to Vediovis…”

Was written later, yes. They know this.

“Likely written during late autumn last year.”

“And Vediovis said that the reason she couldn’t leave father was because of the rite. Which begs the question–”

“How did she survive us killing your father?” Emmrich finishes, laying his head back. An interesting query. It’s surprising they hadn’t thought of this before, but then, maybe Rook was simply too caught up in his emotions to think too much about it. “Do you suppose it’s possible that she wrote both letters simultaneously and the one to Vediovis was simply lost in the post?”

“Unlikely. She’ll have dated it. If it was sent months before he got it, I think he would’ve told us.”

“Hmm…”

“Maybe Elgar’nan had something to do with it, or the blighting of the magisterium.”

“You mean to say his magic might’ve interfered with the rite?”

“Could be. The much more terrifying alternative is that my mother is a mage of such tremendous power that she broke the rite herself at some point between my leaving and meeting her again.”

“... Does that seem likely?”

“Given what I know about the rite now, no, it doesn’t,” Rook says, sighing. He turns his head to look at Emmrich and grimaces. “But given what I know about her, it’s entirely possible.”

“And if she has?”

“Then I have to reckon with the possibility that she could’ve broken it long before I left.”

Far be it from Emmrich to vouch for Rook’s blasted, good-for-nothing mother, but he doesn’t want Rook to hurt over what is speculation at best.

“That’s only one of several possibilities, darling.”

“I know,” Rook sighs, idly stroking Emmrich’s bare ankle, “I know.”

In bed that night, Emmrich forgoes a perfect night’s rest to be Rook’s big spoon. It’s become apparent over the last several days that while their infernal ‘pact’ lasts, there’s very little point in wearing his nightclothes. Instead, they lie pressed together from head to toe - or head to Emmrich’s shins, given that Rook can’t reach any farther - beneath the sheets, skin to skin and perfectly warm all the same. Not having sex has made them seek out intimacy in other ways, he’s noticed.

It’s still dark when he wakes unexpectedly for reasons he can’t immediately put his finger on, until he feels Rook twitching in his arms. He feels hot to the touch, and for all of a moment Emmrich fears he’s running a fever. It isn’t until Rook pushes his hips back and moans softly in his sleep that Emmrich realises what’s actually going on. Sleepy though he may be, his cock is clearly wide awake and standing at attention. His hips thrust of their own accord, once, and Emmrich has to bite his lip to keep from moaning out loud. Rook has confided in him once that he really wants to wake up to Emmrich fucking him, sometime. So far, Emmrich hasn’t found the opportunity to do so. Tonight would’ve been perfect. 

Once again, Emmrich resents his choices.

Rook whimpers again and continues to grind against him. Emmrich is torn: if he lets this continue, Rook will come. It would be but a small relief of the tension that’s been building in him, and it wouldn’t cost him his potential victory. It would be unkind to interrupt.

Or, Emmrich thinks, he could wake him and finally repay him for that little stunt at dinner.

“I think not, darling,” he says into Rook’s ear, “wake up.”

With a slight jolt, Rook gasps awake.

“What?”

“You seemed like you were having some very pleasant dreams.”

Rook stares at him for a minute. They can barely see each other, but Emmrich doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s absolutely furious. That much he can tell just by the sound of his breathing.

“... You woke me up on purpose.”

“I did.”

“Because you wanted to keep me from coming.”

“Yes.”

Emmrich waits for it.

“You’re a real cunt, you know that?”

There it is.

“Would you believe me if I told you you’re the only one to call me that in some twenty-odd years?”

“Where you can hear it. You said I was allowed my bleeding ‘nightly emissions’!”

“Not to worry. I didn’t stop you because you’d be breaking the rules otherwise.”

“Then why!”

“I woke you in the interest of fairness.”

Rook is actually speechless. He’s been woken up from an absolutely lovely dream where Emmrich was railing the living daylights out of him because Emmrich is jealous?

“You’ll pay for this.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Emmrich says cheerfully, before pushing Rook onto his front and crawling over him, “but I intend to enjoy it first.”

“Enjoy it how– Oh fuck, oh, mmh–”

Emmrich takes Rook’s hands and interlaces their fingers, holding on tightly as he rubs his cock against Rook’s ass. For all his protesting, Rook wordlessly spreads his legs for him and raises his hips, pushing his cunt up against Emmrich’s cock. Where Emmrich had initially voiced his concern over underwear proving an ineffective barrier, it’s now very much the only thing standing firmly between him and finally making love to Rook.

“So eager, darling,” Emmrich moans, teeth scraping Rook’s shoulder, “so very sensitive… How you’d whimper and beg if I were inside of you…”

He doesn’t know the half of it, Rook thinks. His cunt is throbbing, and even though he’s not hitting his clit at all, the persistent pressure of Emmrich’s cock against him is driving him mad. Another slow, measured thrust, and he feels his slick coat his labia. Emmrich is sure to feel it any moment now.

“Fuck me, then,” Rook growls, pushing back harder to a delightful gasp over his shoulder, “fuck me, you know you want to.”

Emmrich’s cocky little chuckle only makes him want it more. He hears a soft, wet squelch when Emmrich pushes up against his cunt again, and they both moan.

“Mmh… I do, but not nearly as badly as you, it would seem.”

“You seemed to want it pretty bad, earlier.”

“Ah, your cowardly assault upon my defenceless person. Allow me to pay your kindness forward, darling.”

One hand briefly leaves Rook’s as he adjusts himself, pushing the head of his cock up against Rook’s hard, engorged clit. Rook buries his face in the pillow beneath and moans desperately. Taking pity fairly quickly, Emmrich withdraws slightly and resumes thrusting, slowly feeling Rook’s warm, tacky slick coating his underwear and cock.

“Fuck, fuck…” Rook groans. His body can’t take much more of this, it’s too much. Emmrich kisses his ear and sighs, a soft and pleased little sound that makes Rook feel hot all the way through. “Oh gods, please, fuck me–”

“You do make it very tempting, my dear. You’re quite ready for me, aren’t you? Ohh… To be inside of you, darling, would see my greatest wish fulfilled.”

“Then please–”

“Oh, no. Certainly not tonight. But when I do, I’m not stopping until you can’t stand on your own two legs anymore.”

“Fuck! Gods, yes– I–”

Rook tilts his hips again and grinds up against him, meeting each of his thrusts. It’s... divine, electric. Torture that knows no end. Emmrich moans and sinks his teeth into Rook’s shoulder, feeling his cunt twitch against his cock. He pushes into it and Rook gasps, whines and pulls away.

“You f-fucking– stop that, you’re going to make me come. That’s fucking cheating.”

Emmrich smiles and soothes the bite with a kiss. “It’s admittedly unsportsmanlike.”

“And what is this, anyway? This definitely counts as masturbation on your end.”

“I’m not using my hands.”

“You need your hands to masturbate? Amateur.”

Emmrich can’t hold back his laughter, and Rook joins in almost immediately. After a minute, feeling that he’s made his point, he moves to roll off. Rook stops him. 

“Nooo,” he mewls pitifully, pouting, “stay. It’s nice.”

“Like this?” Emmrich asks, laying down on top of him, his whole weight spread across Rook’s body. Judging by Rook’s brief, happily bouncing feet on the mattress, he’d wager he’s got it right.

“Yeah, like that.”

Taking each other’s hands again, they lay like that for a long while. Arousal thrums in the background, and Emmrich spends most of his time kissing Rook’s shoulders and neck. Rook’s soft moans and sighs of pleasure keep him hard for much longer than a man his age has any right to. It’s the sweetest pain he’s ever known.

In the morning, they’re both exhausted. By the time the afternoon rolls around and they make it home for lunch, they collapse on the sofa together to nap for an hour instead. Held in Rook’s arms as he dozes off, Emmrich thinks even a sore back couldn’t make him regret this. Not for the world.

Three days later, Rook destroys a boulder with a mighty blast of thunder out of sheer frustration while training with Taash. They stand by him, arms crossed, looking mightily unimpressed.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m just... tense.”

“Work or relationship stuff?”

“Work and relationship stuff.”

“You and Emmrich fighting again?”

If only. If they were fighting then Rook could go and make it right, and then proceed to beg for forgiveness on his knees with a cock in his mouth. No such luck.

“No. My students are all incapable. I know it’s my job to make them capable, and I will, but... fuck me.”

Taash nods, slowly. 

“So it’s relationship stuff.”

How? How do they – nevermind.

“Emmrich proposed a stupid – we’re doing – we’re not having sex.”

“Why?”

It’s mortifying to admit, Rook realises. Why are they doing this to themselves? 

“He wanted to see who could go without the longest.”

“Oh,” Taash says, “I did that with Harding once.”

“And?”

“We made it about three hours.”

“... I see.”

“And you?”

“We’re about a week and a half in.”

“Vashedan. Are you kidding me?”

“I wish I was.”

“Why not just–... lose?”

“Well, because… because then I lose.”

Taash laughs at him. Rightfully so, Rook thinks.

“You’re an idiot. You’re both morons, actually. Go home and fuck your husband.”

Back at the Necropolis, Emmrich is grumbling to himself as he’s correcting what is possibly the most vapid, least researched piece of writing he’s ever had the misfortune of reading. When another furious swipe of his quill threatens to tear the paper, he puts it down and sighs. Johanna, apparently, is watching the spectacle with some interest.

“Something the matter, Volkarin?”

“No, no. All is well.”

“All is rather evidently not well.”

“Perhaps, but we needn’t discuss it. I know how it bores you to discuss my private life.”

“I see. So it concerns the wh– your husband.”

“Yes, and I feel that perhaps it’s pertinent that I not discuss these matters with you.”

“Why? Are we not friends?”

It’s the first time she’s called him that in over thirty years. If, in fact, he can ever recall her calling him that out loud at all. Small, frail hope blooms in his chest: is she not utterly beyond redemption, after all?

“Johanna! I was unaware that you – I mean, we certainly used to be, but–”

“Ah, but I am of course a former paramour.”

“Yes, and that makes discussing these things rather awkward. Not to mention, I don’t think Rook would appreciate my discussing it with you.”

“Hm. Suit yourself. I do hope you resolve this… situation… soon. You’re no fun at all when you’re moping.”

Moping. The last person to accuse him of that had been Lace Harding. It brings a smile to his face.

“I’m sure I will.”

The fact that he will not be resolving this situation very soon at all becomes clear the second he gets home. He’s just in the bedroom to take his vest off and change into a more comfortable shirt when Rook steps out of the bathroom, stark naked and covered in fresh bruises. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” he says, voice gruff with want. Emmrich feels his cock filling in his trousers just from looking at him. His body’s become so accustomed to sex after Rook’s outings with Taash that it’s come to expect it. 

“No healer today?” Emmrich asks, approaching him slowly. Rook doesn’t take his eyes off of him, not even when he’s stepping into a new pair of underwear. 

“It was just me and Taash.”

“And you didn’t see fit to heal your own bruising?”

“I just thought you’d do a better job of it.”

“Did you,” Emmrich mutters, trailing a fingertip across damp, clean skin. The bruising isn’t particularly extensive. Rook could’ve healed this in less than five minutes himself if he wanted to. “You came all this way, in pain, just so that I might take care of you?”

Rook’s heart is pounding in his chest. His entire body is screaming at him to throw the man before him to the bed, climb on top of him and ride him into the sunset. He won’t, but Maker does he want to. 

“I did. You’re very good with your hands, after all.”

Not deigning that worthy of a reply, Emmrich lets his magic flow, green flashing around his hands, a bruise at Rook’s side effortlessly fading into nothing.

“Taash sends their regards,” Rook says, still staring at Emmrich’s face.

“How are they?”

“Good. Same as always.”

“Hmm. Had a productive training, did you?”

“I did. I got some – useful advice, too.”

“Oh?”

“Taash is of the opinion that we’re, quote, ‘morons’ and that we should just have sex already.”

Emmrich’s disapproving look shouldn’t arouse him, but Rook can only think of how he looks the same when he’s ‘disciplining’ him. If he had a tail, he’d be wagging it.

“And you discussed this matter with them, why?”

“They thought we were fighting, and I didn’t want to lie,” Rook says, smiling innocently. It’s the truth, and one he knows Emmrich can hardly fault. True to form, Emmrich still doesn’t look happy about it, but his acquiescing sigh says he’s not going to protest.

“You must’ve been very tense.”

“Oh, I was.”

“Even though you clearly had your fair share of… exercise.”

“I’m personally of the opinion that my exercise regimen has been sorely lacking of late.”

“Ah, yes. My apologies, dearest. I’m sure you’ll find the strength to break our impasse soon.”

Rook opens his mouth to give some sort of clever retort, but Emmrich’s gaze finally meets his eyes, and Rook forgets what he wanted to say. 

“After all,” Emmrich says as he sinks to his knees to heal the bruises on Rook’s legs, “it won’t do for you to be so dreadfully on edge.”

Emmrich sees Rook’s hands balling into fists at his side, knuckles paling when Emmrich’s hands travel up his thighs. 

“Spread your legs for me, darling.”

He was sure Rook would say something to that, but it’s conspicuously quiet in the room. He spreads his legs as instructed, and Emmrich can clearly see the small bulge where his rigid clit is poking out from between his labia. Unable and unwilling to resist, Emmrich leans in and kisses it. 

“Nh– You can’t be serious–”

To prove that he is, Emmrich presses the flat of his tongue up against Rook’s underwear, before teasing his clit with just the very tip. Rook’s hand is in his hair in an instant, yanking his face away. Eyes hot as burning coals look down at him.

“Amatus,” Rook says breathlessly, “you’re– you’re playing with fire.”

“Naturally. I’m playing with you, am I not?”

Rook’s soft huff of laughter sounds as jovial as it does dangerous.

“You’re aware you’re breaking the rules, yes?”

“I most certainly am not.”

“Oh?”

“You asked me to define foreplay. I offered that we shouldn’t touch below the belt. It was you who asked that we work along the definition of not breaking beyond the borders of our undergarments. As you can see,” 

Emmrich pinches Rook’s underwear between two fingers and lets it snap back against his clit, earning him a little gasp and a tug on his hair.

“I’m well within the established set of rules.”

After a moment of silence, Rook snorts. “You’d be a phenomenal magister. And what of it being ‘unsportsmanlike’ to keep forcing me to almost come?”

“Ah. That’s rather simple, you see: it can’t be helped.”

“And why is that?”

“It was my sworn, everlasting vow to be devoted to your pleasure. I shan’t break my vows to you because of a frivolous challenge.”

“That you posed.”

“Indeed.”

“And why should I let you continue?”

At this, Emmrich smiles sweetly.

“Because you want me to.”

For a moment, Emmrich is certain Rook is going to call him something less than savoury again. Then, the hand in his hair loosens and Rook leans back against their wardrobe.

“Go on, then.”

Emmrich, with some effort, closes his lips around the tip of Rook’s clit through his underwear. It doesn’t take much for Rook to start trembling, or for the first of his slick to seep through and touch Emmrich’s lips. The taste and texture of it on his tongue set his blood alight, and his hands flex where they’re resting on Rook’s thighs. He wants nothing more than to touch himself, to take his cock out of his trousers and stroke until he comes across his own fingers. But that would be an act of rebellion that even he cannot bend the rules enough to justify. For any and all relief, he’s completely reliant on Rook. 

He shudders. For Rook to be so utterly in control of his pleasure is frighteningly thrilling. When Rook once again yanks his head away, his underwear already ruined and his slick all over Emmrich’s lips, Emmrich can only hope he’ll have mercy.

“Darling…”

Rook tugs, urging him to get on his feet. The second he’s standing, Rook pushes him towards the bed. When Emmrich threatens to stumble over his own feet, he lifts him by his waist and throws him onto it. Emmrich can scarcely think for how desperate he is to be touched, sitting up and reaching for Rook immediately. 

“Yes, yes– Come here, darling, quickly–”

“What’s the rush?” Rook asks as he crawls over him. Emmrich pulls and pushes at him, but he stays right where he is. “Something you want?”

Powerless to resolve his own needs, Emmrich digs his nails into Rook’s thighs. 

“Touch me. For pity’s sake, Rook, please–”

“Pity? For you? You’ve got some nerve, I’ll give you that much.”

Looking down between them, he smiles at Emmrich’s straining erection. His hand comes up to touch Emmrich’s face, stroking a finger along his cheek before he presses his thumb up against his lips, wiping away the residue there.

“Enjoyed yourself, didn't you?”

“I always do,” Emmrich insists, eyes following the trajectory of Rook’s thumb like a hawk and feeling his cock jump in his trousers when he licks his own slick off. “Few things bring me greater pleasure, my darling. To taste you and please you, what could be more perfect?”

“Pity you can’t touch yourself though, isn’t it?”

If only he knew. Those - unfortunately rather frequent - moments when Rook isn’t around and all he can do is wait for his erection to abate are by far the worst parts of this entire affair. The only brief respite he gets is when they touch each other, even if there’s no release to be had. 

“Hence, the reason I turn to you. I asked… very nicely, Rook.”

Rook takes his face in his hands and leans in, eyes closed, and kisses him. It is the gentlest tease of his tongue, a kiss so slow and sensual it makes Emmrich’s toes curl. When Rook breaks away from it with one last kiss to his nose and opens his eyes, Emmrich repeats his plea once more.

“Please, darling–”

“I’m afraid,” Rook interrupts him as he sits back up, “that you didn’t ask nearly nicely enough for me to even consider it.”

And just like that, he gets off of Emmrich’s thighs and walks back to the wardrobe to continue getting dressed. Emmrich stares after him, mouth agape. Surely he’s not planning on just... leaving him like this? Throbbing, desperate and unable to think of anything but his husband’s touch?

“I’ve never known you to be this cruel.”

“I’m being much nicer to you than I could be after that bullshit you pulled a few days ago.”

“Ah. A greater transgression than I was aware of,” Emmrich says drily, “how can I make it up to you?”

Rook turns around and smirks at him, making no moves whatsoever to put on the shirt he’s holding in his hands. 

“You could fuck me.”

“Out of the question.”

“Then I fear there’s very little you can do.”

Emmrich’s hands curl into fists in the sheets. He can’t recall if and when he’s ever felt this desperate. Perhaps he should just give up. 

No. That’s precisely what Rook is trying to make him do. All he has to do is ask more nicely. 

Surely.

“Please, darling,” Emmrich tries again, “I promise I won’t… retaliate.”

Slowly, taking his sweet time and thoroughly enjoying watching Emmrich squirm under the weight of his gaze, Rook walks back to the bed. 

“Sweetheart, you’re hardly in a position to bargain.”

“I must try, all the same.”

“Must you? Is it that bad?”

Worse. Emmrich is so hard it’s almost painful, but that’s not even his most urgent need.

“I–...”

Rook wants to tease, to push him to his limit, but something about the way Emmrich looks at him gives him pause. There’s much more than want behind his large, green eyes, and the way he reaches for him once again feels more like a need, a desperate grab for a lifeline, than it does pure base desire. 

“Oh it is,” Rook purrs, throwing his shirt towards the vanity and not caring to see where it lands, “it is that bad.”

“Come to me, darling,” Emmrich whispers, swallowing hard, “please.”

Who could ignore a plea that desperate? Rook kneels between Emmrich’s feet at the edge of the bed and squeezes his shins, his calves. Grounding touches meant to soothe, but all Emmrich can think about is how much he wants to feel Rook’s whole body on top of him. How he longs to hold him in his arms, to move together in tandem and feel his hot breath on his ear. To smell the musk of him, the pervasive scent of their lovemaking, and to whisper his devotion into Rook’s sweaty skin. 

Above him, Rook’s been quietly observing him. 

“You do look a bit uncomfortable.”

“I– I am, but that’s of no consequence–”

Rook’s fingers brush against his cock on their way to his buttons, and Emmrich cuts himself off with a quiet gasp. 

“Oh, I think it matters a great deal,” Rook says calmly. He undoes each button with an unnecessary amount of touching, pretending to be overly careful of the tender flesh beneath, and proceeds to pull Emmrich’s trousers off entirely. “There, that’s better.”

In spite of the fact that there’s not a soul in Thedas who’s seen more of Emmrich’s body than Rook has, he feels incredibly exposed. He can feel the chill of the room against the small damp patch at the tip of his cock, and shivers when Rook’s fingers slowly but surely inch up his legs. His body yearns for more of it, arching into his touch, unseemly eager.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, “I was surprised, you know. That out of the two of us you were the one to propose this stupid, pointless game.”

He spreads Emmrich’s legs with his thighs as he advances. In the meantime, Emmrich’s heart makes a valiant effort to fight its way out through his throat.

“Truth be told, dearest, I– I was confident one or both of us would’ve succumbed by now.”

“Confident I wouldn’t last this long, weren’t you?” Rook says with a laugh. “What was it you said? That I’d be ‘positively feral’? Look at you now.”

In just a shirt, his underwear and his socks, his hair no doubt sticking up in all directions from where Rook has grabbed it, and his cock steadily leaking precome just from the mere thought of having sex…

“... I suppose I must look rather out of sorts.”

“Why did you want to do this?”

If he wasn’t already feeling hot, he’s sure his face must be shockingly red by now. 

“I wanted… That is…”

Rook takes his legs and puts them around his waist, leaning forward until his face is hovering over Emmrich’s. 

“You wanted to see how much I need you, didn’t you?”

“That’s… I fear that’s a rather reductive way of looking at it, darling–”

“But is it true?” Rook asks, teeth nipping at Emmrich’s bottom lip. “You thought I’d be tearing the clothes off your body, isn’t that right? Too eager to keep my head?”

“I– Well, I was… I’d hoped you might, certainly, but…”

Then, he pulls Emmrich’s hips in, pushing his ass flush against his–

“Ah– D-darling, you can’t–”

“Can’t what?” Rook asks, pushing his bare, hard cock up against Emmrich’s clothed hole. “I’m not using my hands, I’m not underneath your underwear…”

“Y-you’re very much outside of yours–”

“My hand slipped while applying the glamour, what can I say?”

Emmrich grabs Rook’s shoulders and, upon another dry thrust to his hole, digs his nails in. It’s maddening. The sensation is rough, a little uncomfortable, but the mere implication that Rook might fuck him is–

“Rook, this is– This is too far, you can’t–”

“Shut up,” Rook growls into his ear. “You were at least an inch deep inside of me the other night. I won’t do that to you, so you can just be quiet about it.”

Rook’s cock rubs tantalisingly along his cleft, his own cock pressing up against Rook’s stomach. Emmrich gasps and whines, aware he’s losing his head and powerless to stop it. Oh, Maker, he can’t do this. When Rook roughly grabs one of his cheeks to spread him farther along his cock, he drags his nails down Rook’s chest. Rook moans sharply. 

“F-fuck– Do that again.”

“W-what?”

“Your nails. You haven’t cut them. Do it again.”

Spreading his fingers, Emmrich regards his hand for a moment. His nails are rather long. Rook lifts his head and kisses three of his fingertips before taking his index finger into his mouth and moaning lewdly. Emmrich watches, transfixed, feeling a droplet of precome drip from his cock. What he wouldn’t give to feel Rook’s mouth on him, his tongue, the tightness of his throat… 

When he’s let go, he obliges happily and covers Rook’s chest in long, precious tracks of red. 

“Oohh, fuck–” Rook groans, “Maker, the fucking– things I’d do to you–”

Emmrich is… dazed. Out of his mind with lust. What’s the point of this? Why is he depriving himself of one of the most awe-inspiring, joyful things in this world? 

“Do them,” he says breathlessly, taking Rook’s face in hands and kissing him hard, “please–”

Rook’s eyes flash hot with lust. “Careful, amatus–”

“I – I don’t care, Rook. I don’t care who wins or loses–”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, please, Maker, I need you to–”

It’s over, he thinks. Sweet, merciful Maker, it’s finally over. Rook lays him down against the sheets and moves down his body, fingers resting at the edge of his underwear as his mouth ghosts over his cock. His mouth briefly closes over the head, tongue pressing against the tacky patch of precome, and Emmrich feels his resulting moan reverberating through his entire body. With mounting desperation, Emmrich bucks his hips and fists his hand in Rook’s hair.

“Rook, I beg of you–”

“Oh, sweetheart…” Rook sighs, looking up from between Emmrich’s legs and smirking. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer.”

Emmrich feels as though his ears are ringing. He didn’t hear that right. Can’t possibly have.

“I… Beg your pardon?”

Rook gets up and, vanishing his glamour, steps out of his dirtied underwear to retrieve a clean pair once more. He tuts as he tosses it into the washing basket, seemingly blissfully unaware of Emmrich’s baffled, distraught gaze on him.

“You’ve given me a frankly absurd amount of laundry to do, you know that?”

Laundry? The blasted laundry? That can’t be what they’re talking about. Emmrich is sure he’s having a stroke, or an aneurysm, or maybe he’s factually in the process of dying. It certainly feels that way. 

“You’re–... Where are you going?” Emmrich asks, sitting up. Rook finishes doing up his shirt and looks at him as if he wasn’t seconds away from buggering him into next week. 

“You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

Forgotten? 

“What?”

“We’re having dinner with Greta and Alexander tonight. They’re expecting us in fifteen minutes.”

Emmrich can only stare at him for a moment. His brain is pure static. The words that fall from his lips do so entirely of their own accord.

“You could inspire a monk to homicide.”

Rook smiles at him, self-satisfied and entirely too smug. “And what about a scholar of the Mourn Watch?”

Dinner is an excruciating two hours of sitting through talk of Alexander’s research, getting Manfred to behave at the table, and Rook’s hand resting against his inner thigh. He’s not even doing anything, but it’s a constant, grating reminder of what he can’t have. Or rather, what he won’t allow himself to have. All that’s truly on the line is his pride: he was the one to issue the challenge. No man worth his salt issues a challenge he can’t win.

During their walk home, Rook’s hand now safely in his own, he continues ruminating.

“Copper for them?” Rook says eventually. Manfred is walking out ahead of them, eager to get home and play with a souvenir Rook brought him from Rivain: a lovely collection of sea shells. Manfred delights in lining them up and sorting them according to their shape.

“I’m ruminating on the benefits and pitfalls of giving up.”

“Giving up?”

“Indeed.”

“On what?”

“One’s pride, one’s vanity. Our egos demand that we protect them, protect ourselves from the shame and disgrace that might arise from making a... tactical retreat.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Are you contemplating a ‘tactical retreat’ from not fucking me?”

“Rook!” Emmrich hisses, glancing at Manfred. “Maker’s breath, behave yourself!”

“Aren’t I? Has my behaviour not been exemplary?”

Like the clouds parting before the sun, Emmrich suddenly feels the warming light of a bright idea shining upon him.

“No. In fact, I believe you’re rather in need of disciplinary action.”

Rook, for all his bluster and confidence, finds it takes effort not to pant like a dog at the implications. Then, he clears his throat.

“Well, maybe not when Manfred’s home–”

“After, darling. Though I should think it a lesson in learning to keep one’s mouth firmly shut all the same.”

“And my legs open, I’m sure,” Rook mumbles, loud enough so that only Emmrich can hear. Emmrich firmly squeezes his hand in response, looking straight ahead with a healthy flush high on his cheeks.

Four days later, Rook still feels the sting of Emmrich’s hand on his ass whenever he sits down. When he winces as he sits down for yet another blasted faculty dinner, Tessa asks him if he’s alright.

“I’m fine, thank you. Just took a hit to the arse from–... one of the students.”

“Ah,” she says, smiling with good humour, “the old ‘arse-first defence’ didn’t work?”

“Not this time, but it worked wonders against Elgar’nan, if you’ll believe it.”

She laughs, and continues making polite conversation. Across from them, Emmrich quietly sits and observes the conversation. It’s been a long day, and he frankly can’t wait to get away from here. He wants to return home, go to bed, and go to sleep. Keeping up this streak of self-inflicted abstinence takes an embarrassing amount of energy, especially given that neither he nor Rook seem inclined to keep their hands off each other. 

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Frustrating though these past two weeks have been, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt closer to Rook. There’s scarcely a moment they’re not touching, and he continuously finds himself looking forward to when he next gets to see him. Even Manfred seems to share in their joy, more often opting to sit with them in the evenings when they’re lounging on the sofa. They play cards, or teach Manfred new words, or practice magic together. It’s perfect. 

A pair of fingers snap before his eyes.

“Hello? Anybody home up there, Volkarin?”

Alexander. 

“Beg your pardon, Alex, I was miles away.”

Alexander grumbles, “So it seemed. I asked if you want another bottle of that whiskey for your birthday.”

The same bottle Alexander Schmidt has gifted him for the past thirty years. This particular conversation is a time-honoured tradition.

“Ah, the Fereldan one?”

“Barrel-aged, like velvet on the tongue.”

“From– what was it, 9:01?”

“A very good year.”

“I shan’t say no to such an exquisite gift, Alex. Thank you.”

“Good. I’ll bring it by when – I – Uhh–”

Across the table, Rook is staring daggers at Alexander. Emmrich blinks.

“When?”

“When– it’s your birthday. When the day comes. It’s five days away, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. That should be fine. Have we any plans for the day, darling?”

Rook has, so far, more or less managed to dodge having to talk about what he’s got in store for him. Part of the reason why he doesn’t want to talk about it is because it makes him incredibly nervous: he still hasn’t fully mastered Emmrich’s mother’s compositions, and there’s been a very small delay in the renovations at the tavern that might mean they need to finish on the day itself. Just thinking about it makes him want to chew his nails off. Why Marie insisted on expanding so close to the date, he will never understand.

“We do, but you needn’t worry. Alexander will know where to find us.”

“Oh, are you in on the conspiracy, Alex?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re referring to,” he says gruffly, his bristly moustache and eyebrows mostly hiding how flustered he is.

Five days, Emmrich thinks as the conversation moves on. Five more days until he can take Rook in all the ways they’ve denied themselves. It’s all he can think about for the rest of the dinner, and by the way Rook’s foot keeps moving up and down his calf, it’s all he can think about, too.

Once back behind the safely closed door to their bedroom, they fall into each other’s arms almost instantly, wordlessly landing in their bed together. It’s become something of a ritual, these past few days. They’re in the midst of the chaos, the usual hustle and bustle of the days preceding the ancestral pageants. They get the week off to attend the festivities, which means there’s a mountain of work to get through right before. Emmrich has fifteen - fifteen! - papers to grade and provide with appropriate and constructive feedback, while Rook is busy conducting exams for all of his first years. A monumental task, and it’s evidently taking its toll, both timewise and in terms of expended energy.

Right now, this is the time they get. Clothes are efficiently stripped from their bodies down to their undergarments, and Emmrich hurriedly crawls on top of Rook. With each passing day, there is a mounting sense of urgency. Dozens of fruitless attempts to break each other’s resolve have ultimately devolved into this: ceaseless, frantic lovemaking in almost all that the word implies. 

“Explain to me again,” Rook says between open-mouthed kisses, “how this isn’t sex.”

To emphasise his point, he harshly grinds his sodden, clothed cunt up against Emmrich’s hard, leaking cock.

Emmrich grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back, teeth bared against his throat as he moans.

“Mmh, darling… There is a vast difference between the pleasure of teasing you, and the transcendent ecstasy of being inside of you.”

Rook snorts, then whimpers when Emmrich bites his neck, and says, “What a– oh, fuck– n-narrow view to take of s-sexual intercourse, professor.”

“One must set parameters,” Emmrich says lightly, eyelids fluttering shut when his glans rubs up against Rook just right, “ohh… Oh, dearest…”

Magic sparks along his spine, sending fireworks of pleasure through his nerves. It forces him to stop moving, whimpering desperately against Rook’s shoulder until it passes.

“Take them off,” Rook whispers into his ear, “that’s not against the rules. We agreed, didn’t we? So long as you’re not underneath mine, and you don’t touch yourself…”

His breath shudders against the shell, and Emmrich feels himself arching into Rook, who pleads, “please, I want to feel what I’ve been missing.”

Without hesitation, Emmrich lowers his waistband until his cock springs free. He’s rock hard, hot, and his balls feel heavy with all the seed he’s retained. Slowly, he rubs the entire length of it along Rook’s cunt, feeling his slick coating the underside of his cock. Exquisite, tormentous pleasure. He can’t take this for very long.

Beneath him, Rook struggles to breathe, both legs trembling. He has to keep still. The slightest movement could make him come, Emmrich knows. 

“Like this, darling?” he asks, hanging on by a thread himself. He pushes the head of his cock up against the glistening wet spot at Rook’s vagina and imagines plunging deep inside, feeling the heat and wetness of him surrounding his cock. “I don’t know whether this is wise–”

“It’d just be an accident, wouldn’t it?” Rook interrupts him, breathless, raising his hips and teasing his cunt against the thick head. “Would it even count, if you just… slipped inside?”

An accident. Emmrich feels such a strong surge of arousal that he has to retreat for a few seconds.

“Nnh… It… I fear it would, dearest.”

Rook takes his earlobe between his teeth and flicks his tongue against it, “Please… I know you want it, too. I can feel you leaking on my thigh.”

“Mmh… Oh, darling, if only you knew…”

“I do, I do know. You can’t hide this from me, Emmrich. Fuck me, just fuck me already. I’m s-so fucking wet for you, sweetheart, don’t let it all go to waste–”

With a groan, Emmrich kisses Rook so forcefully that it’s sure to bruise his lips. 

“It is a waste,” Emmrich says hotly, licking into Rook’s mouth and delighting in the quiver of his cunt where it’s pressed up against his cock, “I’d savour every last drop of your nectar if I could, darling, but we must bear it as best we can.”

“Can’t you tell how tight I’ll be?” Rook babbles, feeling increasingly incoherent. “T-three weeks of nothing but this- I want you inside of me, please, I- fuck!”

Emmrich has to pull back, cock throbbing harshly, twitching in anticipation of an orgasm he can’t allow himself to have. Rook arches beneath him, hips rising to the empty air, and whines. He was just as close.

“We have to stop,” Emmrich says between gasps of air. “We… We can’t continue.”

Parting with great reluctance, Emmrich moves to his side of the bed and wills his body to calm down. Rook plasters himself against his back and doesn’t move away the rest of the night. It’s perhaps the first time his need for closeness has been as pronounced as Emmrich’s own. He takes Rook’s hand from his chest and puts his lips to each of the rings he didn’t bother to take off, lingering over his still bare ring finger. Their wedding is only a few months away now. It won’t be long before the matching rings he’s had prepared will take their eternal place on their fingers. 

The next day, as Rook is practicing Elannora’s arrangement once again, he flubs the most difficult section and slams his fist down on the keys, too frustrated to stop himself.

“Ow, son of a–”

He rubs his sore hand and tries to think. For pity’s sake. She wrote and played this. Hundreds of times, if he’s to believe Albrecht. By Emmrich’s account, she had awful joint pain in the colder seasons and suffered aches even in the summer. How could she play this if her hands wouldn’t cooperate at all? Flexing his fingers, he stares at his hands and wonders what hers might’ve looked like. Longer, surely; some notes are so far apart that he has to move his hand in order to reach, where she could probably just spread her fingers to do so. Rook just can’t comprehend how. If her joints hurt, stretching and flexing her hands constantly was likely very painful. It’s frustrating, not knowing. Having to guess at how Emmrich’s mother played because nobody but another pianist would pay attention to the way she placed her hands, or how she moved - or didn’t move - her fingers. He has to get it right. Getting it wrong would be embarrassing at best, and insulting to her memory at worst. 

Maybe he needs to approach this less like a pianist, he thinks. He stares at his hands again and thinks more about her hands. Were they stiff? Malformed? Could she move her fingers separately very well at all?

When he tries again, he doesn’t make nearly as much of an effort to stretch his fingers to reach the farthest note. Instead, he moves his hand every time rather than some of the time. He shifts in his seat to more easily reach the sections of the piano that are farther away. It goes against everything his mother ever taught him, and his stubborn hands can’t get it right the first, second, or even the third time.

Rook was taught to sit still, upright, and play with dignity. Dignity meant: never show too much emotion when playing. He smiles to himself, and remembers the first piece he ever played for Emmrich. A piece that, in order to play it right, required him to abuse the instrument beneath his fingers. To beat the despair the music conveys right out of the keys.

Maybe this isn’t so different, he realises. Letting go of what he knows, he bounces in his seat, moves his arms, sways with the rhythm until it clicks. Music flows, rich and joyful, from the piano. The bench creaks underneath him as he moves, but it obediently holds Rook’s weight even as he moves up and down, side to side. 

Elannora has been described to him by Albrecht and Marie as an incredibly impassioned pianist. That it seemed like she and the instrument were one, and that she could never sit still. He finally understands why. She wasn’t just animated in her play, no: it was a necessity born of her body’s limitations. One that, at least to those who bore witness to her outstanding musical prowess, immensely enhanced her play. Given the dates on the notations – most dating from before Emmrich was born – she might’ve written them when her hands were in a much healthier state, and then adapted her play in order not to have to give it up.

Sighing and taking the sheets off the piano before Emmrich can see them, he smiles to himself. He can only hope Emmrich will appreciate it, and that he does his mother’s music justice. 

Rook gets up from the bench and turns around, nearly dropping every last one of the fragile, browned papers to the ground when he spots Emmrich standing by their front door. He stands, stock-still, eyes wide and full of – hurt? Confusion?

“I–... Uh…”

“Darling?” Emmrich asks, his voice sounding heart-rendingly small. “Was that…?”

If he wants to keep it a surprise, he has to lie. That’s the very last thing he wants to do. Emmrich has clearly heard and recognised what he was playing, and to lie would be to add insult to injury.

“It… It was meant to be a surprise.”

“Surprise?”

“For your birthday. I… I’ve been practicing–… It’s a long story.”

Slowly, Emmrich walks over and takes the sheets from Rook’s hands. Reluctantly, Rook lets them go, feeling like an idiot for getting lost in playing and not hearing the door opening behind him. The papers shift and shake in Emmrich’s trembling hands, and Rook hears him swallowing a sob.

“Mother’s–… Mother’s music.”

“Yeah.”

“H-how… Where…”

Telling him that would blow the lid right off of his surprise, but Rook can’t say nothing, under the circumstances.

“Through entirely legitimate means, I promise,” he says softly, his hand rubbing circles on Emmrich’s back. “I’ll tell you the rest when it’s your birthday.”

Emmrich looks at him, eyes brimming with tears. The first several fall and barely miss the papers, at which point Emmrich immediately gives them back. 

“I… I care not, darling. You could’ve stolen them from the king and I'd still be overflowing with gratitude.”

Rook blinks and asks, “You are?”

“I am, I… I feared my parents’ piano would never again produce the… upbeat tunes, the tavern music they used to play. More so my mother, but father often joined in. For you to carry on their legacy, it’s–”

He takes Rook into his arms and kisses his head, twice. After taking a deep, deep breath, he tearfully says, “It’s more than I ever dared to hope for, darling. Thank you.”

Rook carefully puts the notations down on the table and returns the embrace. He can practically feel Emmrich falling apart in his arms, and walks him over to the sofa to lie down together. Long minutes of holding Emmrich to his body as he cries follow, with Emmrich’s dear, handsome face burrowed in his neck. Tears wet his skin, and he can feel each gasp for air and sob as it rocks his body.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs eventually, when Emmrich has mostly stopped crying. “I didn’t mean… I hope I didn’t make you feel–”

In an instant, Emmrich is leaning up on his arms, looking mightily scandalised.

“Y-you’ve done nothing untoward, dearest,” he says fervently, the effect greatly lessened by how bunged up he sounds. Rook can’t help but smile. Cute. He touches his knuckles to Emmrich’s cheek, letting his rings glide against the slight stubble that’s grown there during the day.

“But I made you cry, and you’ve had a long day as it is–”

“Tears of joy, my love, tears of – utter joy, and the grief that comes with loss.”

Emmrich wipes his eyes and sighs, smiling down at Rook. Rook still looks unsure, and Emmrich cannot fathom why.

“Did I…” Rook begins, clearly debating whether he should even ask. “Did I get it right? Did it sound like her?”

How can Emmrich begin to explain that hearing the sound of music flowing through the door the moment he stuck his key in the lock nearly made him fall to his knees and weep? How can he explain what it was like to be transported back to the living room of his childhood, where his parents sat side by side and played together, sharing kisses in the midday sun? 

Swallowing down his grief once more, he smiles at Rook and leans down to kiss the tip of his nose.

“I think you understand more of her than I do, darling.”

Rook’s eyes widen with terror. That’s not at all what he wanted to achieve.

“I’m– I’m so sorry–”

“No,” Emmrich says, kissing his lips, “no need to apologise.”

“Y-you’re sure? I mean, with all that’s happened–”

“This… ‘Journey’ of sorts that I’ve embarked on, I–... I was rather of the impression that I wasn’t the solitary occupant of this ship, darling.”

In other words: he’s not in it alone, and he doesn’t want to be. Rook feels his body sag with immense relief.

“You’re not, but I still don’t want to overstep.”

“You haven’t… Though the mind boggles at how you possibly managed to obtain... that is, I… I thought all but the piano was lost.”

“It’s wasn’t,” Rook says, “but I… I can’t tell you, not yet. It’s bad enough you found out about this because of my carelessness.”

“Even though it brought me great joy?”

Rook laughs softly and kisses him again. “Yeah, even then.”

The kiss deepens, and minutes pass before Emmrich properly comes up for air again. Between his general exhaustion, the shock of hearing his mother’s music again, and a kiss that has him delightfully dazed, he’s feeling a little hazy.

“One wonders what else you’ve unearthed,” Emmrich muses, trailing a finger past Rook’s bottom lip.

“You’ll have to wait and find out.”

“Mm, is there nothing I can do to convince you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Four days to go. His tongue feels particularly loose, his mind stumbling to make sense of the mass of feelings and sensations coursing through his body. Relief, sorrow. An indescribable depth of unfulfilled desires.

“Are you certain?” he asks, slowly dragging his hand down Rook’s chest and stomach. “I do believe I’m in possession of a most sought-after… appendage.”

It’s clumsily worded, and Rook bursts into laughter even as Emmrich is undoing the laces on his trousers.

“So you are. What about it?”

Emmrich lowers his head and kisses Rook’s neck, pushing past the barrier of his trousers to lightly drag a finger along his clothed slit. 

“I’m offering you a trade, my darling,” Emmrich whispers, “your victory in exchange for information.”

Rook raises his hips to meet Emmrich’s fingers, but they retreat before he can get any friction. So that’s how it is.

“You’re saying you’ll fuck me if I tell you about everything I’ve got planned?”

“I am.”

“I’ve never known you to be so averse to surprises before.”

“I’m not, generally.”

“This is why I didn’t want you to find out.”

“I’m sure. Well?”

It’s only four more days, Rook reasons, and they’ve made it this far. The parts of his brain that are not, however, concerned with reason – which is to say, the vast majority of it at present – are entirely focused on the fact that the fingers gently rubbing at his vagina could very well be replaced by Emmrich’s cock. All he needs to do is say the word. 

Rook sighs, deeply. He’s spent weeks setting everything up.

“I don’t think so.”

“Ah,” Emmrich says, fingers retreating, “a pity.”

Figures. Rook smiles and cradles Emmrich’s face as he kisses him.

“I love you,” he says, “but it must be said: I despise what you’ve become throughout these last few weeks.”

Emmrich’s laughter alone makes it all worth it. Kissing him as he’s chortling feels like drinking a sip of sunshine.

After a night spent playing cards as a way to punish Emmrich for being a tease, Rook wakes alone in their bed the next morning. As he always does, he rolls onto Emmrich’s side and hugs his pillow. Strangely enough, his side of the bed is still warm. He can’t have left that long ago.

Just as Rook is taking an embarrassingly large whiff of Emmrich’s pillow, the man himself steps out of the bathroom, nude but for a towel low around his waist. Caught red-handed, Rook doesn’t bother to hide it and doubles down, burrowing further into the pillow.

“Good morning, dearest,” Emmrich says, sitting on the edge of the bed and tenderly running his hand through Rook’s bed-messed hair. “You’re looking very pleased with yourself.”

Rook grins and slowly sits up, abandoning the pillow in favour of his husband. “I was, I’m even more pleased now that you’re here.”

They kiss, briefly, until Emmrich puts a finger to Rook’s lips and pushes him away.

“I’ve got class to get to, Rook.”

“They’ll wait,” Rook murmurs, gently grasping Emmrich’ waist as he kisses along his shoulders, pausing to nuzzle at his nape. “I want my allotted five minutes of your time, even if I have to tie you to the bed to get it.”

Emmrich feels every last hair on his body standing on end. If he is to leave on time, he has to extricate himself from Rook’s temptation immediately.

“Darling,” he says, trying to get up but held back by Rook, “I really– it’s much harder to get dressed with an erection.”

Glad Emmrich can’t see his smile, Rook hums inquisitively and presses a slow, wet kiss just behind his ear.

“I’ve barely touched you. Don’t tell me you’re going to bar me from kissing my husband just because you get a little easily excited.”

“If that was a jab directed at the great ease with which you inspire stiffness in my lower regions nowadays–”

“It was.”

“Then I have two things to say to you, my dear. One: you should be glad. There are many men my age who can’t say the same.”

“Noted. The second?”

Emmrich turns around, reaches into the covers and gingerly touches his fingers to Rook’s stained, slick underwear.

“And two: that is rather rich, coming from you.”

With another kiss, Rook lets him go. 

“Fine. Three more days, amatus.”

But with his hand on his prize, Emmrich is reluctant to do the same. Instead, he pushes Rook onto his back and pushes his fingers deeper between his labia. At least in this regard, Emmrich’s point stands: Rook might as well not be wearing any clothes at all. Emmrich has made him come like this countless times over the past year.

“Five minutes, you said?”

Rook laughs and, surprisingly, doesn’t resist whatsoever. He spreads his legs and encourages Emmrich to continue, barely able to keep his eyes open. 

“Nnh… I t-thought– Fuck… Thought you didn’t want an erection–”

“It’s entirely too late for that, darling.”

Instantly, Rook’s hand is on his inner thigh, grasping his cock through the towel and stroking him. He’s gentle, so very gentle, and it’s precisely the lack of pressure that threatens to make Emmrich particularly late for work this morning.

But five minutes, he can do. It’s five minutes of completely ruining Rook’s already severely compromised composure, of making him whine and beg and pant for a release Emmrich was never going to give him. By the time Emmrich gets up to get dressed, Rook is a sweaty, desperate, flushed mess. 

“Three more days,” he says with one last kiss to Rook’s reddened lips, “you’ll manage.”

“Oh, I’ll manage,” Rook agrees, getting up to go wash, flinging what is sure to be among his last pairs of underwear into the laundry basket. Emmrich himself resorts to wearing robes rather than trousers, feeling pretty good about himself.

This, it turns out, proves instrumental later in the day. Halfway through the afternoon, Rook happens upon him by chance in a mostly deserted section of the library. Emmrich is engrossed in a particularly niche tome on the nature of lichdom, hoping to find some answers on what Johanna did to herself. She’s still keeping mum about what she did exactly, and what the mechanics of half-lichdom meant for her specifically. 

The book is filled to the brim with dense jargon that requires his utmost concentration to decipher, and so he doesn’t notice Rook until he’s pressed up against his back. Emmrich jumps, but a pair of strong hands on his waist firmly keep him from turning around.

“Good afternoon, professor,” Rook whispers, squeezing Emmrich’s sides. “Lovely meeting you here.”

“Rook–”

“Ah, shh. Be quiet, now. We wouldn’t want to disturb anyone, would we?”

Emmrich’s mouth feels dry, and he swallows harshly. This is disastrous. What is Rook going to do to him? What if anyone sees or hears them? There’d be no salvaging his reputation.

The real danger of getting caught makes his cock stir beneath his robes. He bites his lip and tries to focus on the text on the page, but the anticipation of whatever Rook might do proves fatally distracting. The hands at his waist linger there for what feels like an eternity, and nothing seems to happen. 

Rook smiles to himself. He can hear Emmrich’s breathing pick up, and he’s sure that if he were to reach into the robe’s pocket to have a feel, he’ll find Emmrich most of the way hard already. An excellent start to his plan.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he then whispers, “or not much, anyway. I’ve decided that you deserve… some information about what’s to come.”

It’s tempting to reply with something along the lines of ‘us,’ and Emmrich realises Rook’s sense of humour is rubbing off on him. So much so that it takes him a second to realise what he’s being told, promptly followed by the awareness that he is, indeed, in trouble.

“Oh?”

“You were so very giving this morning… I feel that I should return the favour. It only seems fair.”

What? Rook had seemed perfectly content to let Emmrich have his way. Why must he be punished?

“I… I thought you enjoyed–”

“Resistance seemed rather futile,” Rook explains, “and we had precious little time.”

“But why now? Why here?”

Rook’s quiet, devious little chuckle once again inspires the instinct to bite him, but he can’t turn around.

“Because I know this excites you. If I wanted to, I could take out that big, neglected cock of yours and stroke you until you come all over these precious books.”

“These are property of the Necropolis, Rook!” Emmrich hisses, scandalised and failing not to get harder at the thought.

“And I’d lose, so I won’t… But I will tell you why I imposed a time limit on your little challenge.”

Oh, Maker. It’s true: that’s why they decided on three weeks to begin with. Rook had ‘something planned.’

And he intends to tell him, right now. The best Emmrich can do is try and reread the same paragraph for the fifth time. Anything else would only make his situation worse.

“Do you remember when I told you, months ago, that I’d quite like to have a second you on occasion?”

Emmrich remembers him saying something to that effect, yes. He never did get around to experimenting with that kind of magic. But what does that have to do with–

“I… I do,” Emmrich says breathlessly, heady with anticipation of what Rook might say next.

“What I rather forgot to mention is that I mastered that little party trick a long time ago.”

It’s been decades since Emmrich last participated in a tryst that consisted of more than two people. He remembers it as being very… busy, but then, neither of his bedfellows at the time were Rook. Being the sole focus of Rook’s desire is already overwhelming at times. For two of him to lavish him with his attention–

His tongue nervously darts out to lick his lips. “I see… And you intended to–”

“I intend,” Rook corrects and interrupts him, taking a single step forward and forcing him up against the bookcase, “to do everything your heart desires. To eat your pretty little hole while I suck your cock, for example.”

The visual is accompanied by Rook’s hand leisurely stroking and squeezing his backside, but making no move to tread beyond the cleft. Emmrich shakily closes the book and lays it upon the shelf before holding on to said shelf for dear life. Between his body and the bookcase, he can see the slight bulge of his cock even with his robes covering it.

“Mm… Mhm… Th-that sounds–”

Rook pushes up against him again, forcing his cock up against a shelf at just the right height. Emmrich gasps and snaps his mouth shut so quickly his teeth clack.

There’s another squeeze of his cheek, and Rook says, “Hush, professor. I’m not done, and I’ll stop if you make too much noise.”

They should stop. It’s improper, and dangerous. It’d be mortifying if they were discovered, and Emmrich fears he’ll need at least thirty minutes before he’s presentable again regardless. He’s got work to do! He hasn’t got the time for this.

“There you go,” Rook purrs against his back, “well done. If you’re good for me, I might allow you to rut against my hand while I tell you what I’m going to do to you.”

Emmrich fights the urge to moan. Maker’s tears, no, he doesn’t want Rook to stop. 

“P-please,” he whispers, his voice trembling, “do go on.”

Another chuckle, no more than a breath of laughter. 

“I’m going to take my time working you open, and you’re going to put that clever tongue of yours to work on my cunt while I do. You won’t be allowed to come at that time, just so you know.”

Deep breaths, Emmrich tells himself. So long as he can focus on his breathing, he can keep from moving.

“Darling, I’m… I’m not confident I can last through such admittedly delightful proceedings after all this time.”

“You’re going to have to. I’m not about to allow you to come anywhere else but buried so deep inside of me that I can taste it. While I’m fucking you as well, obviously.”

“Nnh…”

“What was that?”

“N-nothing, dearest.”

“Good,” Rook murmurs, finally moving his other hand from Emmrich’s waist and firmly wedging it between the shelf and Emmrich’s cock, “you may.”

Emmrich doesn’t even wait for his permission. The moment Rook’s hand is on his cock he thrusts into it, feeling rabid with tension. How far he’s fallen, rutting against Rook’s hand like an animal in public. How little he cares.

Pleased, Rook even allows him a little squeeze. “There you go,” he says quietly.

For several months now, Rook has had a theory of sorts about his dear husband. It’s entirely half-baked and there’s a decent chance he’s way off-base, but it’s worth testing. When Emmrich proposed a celibacy pact, Rook decided that this would be the best possible opportunity to do so. Either it would prove an unbeatable trump card, or nothing would happen. Both perfectly acceptable results.

There’s something about the way Emmrich makes love, about his preferences, that Rook suspects goes a little deeper than Emmrich just enjoying being inside of him. And if that’s the case, then the reasons Rook doesn’t know about it seem entirely obvious. For different but similar reasons, Rook hasn’t brought it up yet, either.

But what’s more important is that Rook, in considering this theory, has found that he’s not averse to the idea at all. He finds it difficult to explain, even to himself, why the idea suddenly interests him after twenty years of exploring his sexuality. If Emmrich is at all amenable to indulging him…

Only one way to find out.

“There’s another matter, amatus,” he whispers breathily, listening intently to Emmrich’s increasingly ragged breathing. “Since our days in Minrathous, I’ve… I’ve felt safe to explore parts of myself that I haven’t allowed myself to think about, ever.”

This piques Emmrich’s interest. It’s clearly important. Why Rook is bringing this up now, of all times, is beyond him, but he forces himself to listen. He slows his movements and waits for him to continue. It’s a welcome respite: he was teetering along the edge as it was.

“And I’ve wanted to tell you, but I feared it might make you… sad, or uncomfortable. I don’t mean to be selfish.”

Overcome with the urge to embrace him but unable to, Emmrich briefly reaches back to squeeze Rook’s arm.

“Tell me what, darling?”

“... When we’re together, when… When you’re my professor and I’m your student, our suspension of disbelief remains firmly intact, wouldn’t you say?”

Emmrich has no idea where he’s going with this, but he can play along.

“I’ve always been under the impression we’re quite immersed in our play, as it were, yes. And I am. Your professor.”

Rook smiles and tells himself to be brave, closing his eyes even though he can’t see Emmrich’s face to begin with.

“I told you in Minrathous that you should keep trying to get me pregnant. What I didn’t know at the time was that I meant it.”

Silence. The only tangible response Rook gets is the sudden stiffening of Emmrich’s body and the ardent twitching of his rigid cock against his palm. Emmrich’s breathing has quieted to the point where he can barely hear it. 

“Amatus–?”

“Stop,” Emmrich gasps softly, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, “talking. Please.”

Only then does Rook feel it: a distinct, warm wetness against his fingertips.

“Did you–”

Emmrich grits out, “Not. Quite.”

His body is on fire. Emmrich has to keep absolutely still or he’ll completely soil himself with semen in the middle of a reasonably busy library. He almost did already, barely able to stop himself before his body could reach full orgasm. Not on his life, not ever, did he imagine Rook would want this. Rook made it explicitly clear very early on that he chose to make himself infertile shockingly young. Even without knowing the exact reasons why until several months ago, that alone was enough for Emmrich to never so much as think about indulging in this particular predilection with Rook. It had felt like nothing at all to give it up, even though he still returns to it occasionally when he’s alone.

Rook hadn’t wanted to tell him because he feared it’d make him sad. If it wouldn’t attract the highly unwanted attention of everybody in the library, Emmrich would laugh until it made him cry. Previous partners had occasionally indulged him in this, but none had truly shared his enthusiasm. Plus, it had often been part of the reasons for why they generally found him overbearing before too long. Another reason not to bring it up too quickly, or at all.

Moreover, Manfred alone has successfully kept his mind off of the loss of not having children for many years. And now that he’s the proud uncle of several rambunctious little scamps – who demand his presence at every outing in every letter Rook receives – it has come to matter even less.

Rook’s little confession very, very nearly cost him his victory. It still might, if he thinks about it too much. The very thought that Rook wants him to– to pretend that he’s fertile, that he’ll bear his children– 

He shudders, feeling another thick drop slip free from his cock. There’s absolutely no chance he can return to his office. Either he’ll run into someone with what must be a very noticeable stain on his robes, or he’s bound to succumb to the temptations of his hand. It’s too much. Going home, however, where the object of his affections will no doubt unleash more mischief on him, is also unlikely to help.

When after two minutes Emmrich still hasn’t spoken, Rook decides to go for broke.

“Maker, I want you to breed me, Emmrich. Until even I’m not sure that it won’t take.”

Emmrich roughly pushes back against him, smacking Rook’s hand out of the way as he desperately reaches for and squeezes the base of his cock through his robes. He whimpers pathetically, his whole body trembling, and Rook presses a single kiss to his spine before disappearing into the various aisles of the library again as if he didn’t just drop the equivalent of a bomb into their sexual relationship.

When Emmrich emerges from the nigh-inescapable pit of arousal that he suddenly found himself in, he leaves the book he was reading and marches out of the library as quickly and with as much dignity as he can manage. Rook, as far as he can tell, is nowhere to be found. That can only mean he’s either gone back to work, or gone home for the day. 

Very well. Rather than return to his office, Emmrich makes a beeline for Rook’s classroom. He’s got to do something. This simply cannot stand. Rook has one over on him – and then some – and he refuses not to at least make an attempt at winning back the ground he’s lost. Even if it’s an enormous risk. If Rook doubles down on this, it could cost him. He decides that this is an acceptable risk, and an acceptable loss. For if he loses, he’ll immediately get to indulge. 

The door to the arena is ajar, and Emmrich steps inside to find Rook standing at the centre of it, tidying up. When Emmrich closes the door behind him a little harder than he needs to, Rook turns around and looks up to see him descending the stairs.

What a picture, Rook thinks with a smile as he leans on the broom he was using. His tall, statuesque husband, slowly descending the stairs with his hands behind his back, walking as if he owns the place. As if he hasn’t just had a ruined orgasm in a conveniently dark corner in the Necropolis library. 

Not that Rook has a leg to stand on, in that regard. Beneath his own robes, he’s not even wearing any underwear: Emmrich ruined the last pair he still had this morning. The very reason he decided to confess today: to see if Emmrich would finally break. If this didn’t do it, then nothing could, and he’s frankly unwilling to take another day of not wearing underwear. Too uncomfortable. Today he either wins or loses.

Not that he could ever truly lose anyway, he thinks with a smile. He’s the champion for a reason.

“Do I amuse you?” Emmrich asks as he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

“Often, yes.”

“Today?”

“You’ve certainly entertained me, but I don't know whether ‘amuse’ is the right word.”

“No,” Emmrich agrees, coming to a halt before Rook, forcing him to look up, “neither do I.”

“Is there something I can do for you, professor?”

Emmrich smiles. How he loves this man and his immensely frustrating, infuriatingly arousing antics. 

“No.”

“Then might I ask why you invade my classroom at this hour?”

“Because,” Emmrich says softly as he kneels before Rook, “I rather believe there is something I might do for you.”

Rook lets him lift his robes, smiling all the while.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“Whatever do you–”

Taking the robes from Emmrich and holding them up for him, he watches as Emmrich takes in the fact that he isn’t wearing any underwear. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this disappointed with it before.”

Immensely frustrating, infuriatingly arousing antics, indeed. Emmrich can smell the heady scent of Rook’s musk, see the way his pubic hair sticks together with his slick. He even sees the slight glistening of his inner thighs, how a fat droplet sticks to the bottom of his labia. 

But he can’t touch it. This is not what he’s prepared to lose to.

Does that matter?

Did it ever?

“I’m not disappointed, darling,” Emmrich says softly, looking up, “I’m enthralled, and… defeated.”

Rook’s eyes widen. “Oh? Are you?”

“I am. Resoundingly so. You win, my dear. To the victor,” Emmrich says, leaning in, mouth watering in anticipation of finally tasting Rook properly again, “the spoils.”

Right before he can get his mouth on him, Rook takes a handful of his hair and harshly pulls him in, forcing his mouth up against his cunt. The broom clatters against the ground next to them.

“Ah– Aahh– There, n-now we both lose– Fuck, oh gods– ”

Emmrich doesn’t respond, though he’ll have some choice words for Rook about letting him reach this point only to then share his victory - or his loss, depending on one’s perspective – after all. Absolutely unacceptable, and frankly abominable sportsmanship. 

For now, however, he moans with immense delight and sucks on Rook’s clit. He grabs Rook’s thighs and brings him in closer, drawing back slightly to drag his tongue along the entire vulva, quivering with pure satisfaction. Finally. Finally. 

“Emmrich–” Rook gasps, his grip on Emmrich’s hair tightening, “please– D-don’t fuck with me now–”

“Oh, I’ll fuck you, my sweet,” Emmrich says hotly, feeling - indeed - positively feral with lust, “until your legs go numb, but not before you’ve come for me.”

Immediately, he takes Rook’s clit back into his mouth and roughly rubs the flat of his tongue along the underside before sucking once more. Rook quakes against him, his other hand on Emmrich’s shoulder to keep himself steady. His every whimper is short of breath, hips jerking as he tries to hold back even a moment longer, but inevitably, he succumbs and comes on Emmrich’s tongue with a swallowed cry.

Emmrich feels Rook’s knees buckling, and he barely catches him in time before he crashes to the stone floor. For at least a minute after, Rook twitches in his arms with the aftershocks.

The door creaks open. Emmrich holds his breath.

“Oh dear,” sounds Tessa’s voice, “is everything alright?”

Rook can’t speak, and Emmrich himself is sure he’ll sound like he swallowed a frog. Worse, he can't possibly show either his or Rook's face. His own in particular is out of the question.

“Just fine, thank you!” Emmrich says, shielding Rook’s face from her view. “Rook’s rather exhausted from a week of examinations and took a stumble. He’ll be fine in a minute.”

Tessa, frowning slightly, takes another step inside. 

“Rook?”

Hoping he doesn’t look as thoroughly fucked as he feels, Rook raises his head enough to look at her.

“I’ll be fine. Emmrich knows how to take care of me.”

She still doesn’t quite look like she’s buying it, but she does seem to understand that her help isn’t needed here.

“If you’re sure… I just wanted to make sure this room’s been tidied before the pageants start. Carry on.”

With that, she leaves, closing the door behind her. Emmrich takes a deep breath, and Rook laughs softly, trailing off into silence when he lays his eyes upon Emmrich’s face. He wipes Emmrich’s nose with his index finger and brushes his thumb past his moustache, before licking both fingers clean.

“Thank you for that.”

Emmrich doesn’t immediately respond, first cleaning his face properly with a handkerchief. Pointless, likely, but it’ll at least ensure he doesn’t embarrass himself on the way home.

“Are you fit to walk?” he asks Rook, who raises his eyebrows.

“More or less, but… We don’t have to leave, if– uh…”

Rook trails off. Emmrich regards him with a quiet but burning, scalding intensity. With unexpected tenderness, he brushes a hair out of Rook’s face, trailing the long strands with his fingers. His long nails barely scrape Rook’s jaw, but it’s enough to elicit a small intake of breath. 

“Have you already forgotten,” Emmrich asks, voice dripping with seduction, “what you’ve done? What you’ve awakened in me?”

Still feeling confident, Rook grins. 

“I haven’t. This was my plan all along, after all.”

Emmrich blinks. 

“I beg you pardon?”

“Took me a while to put the pieces together–”

“You knew?”

“You got all wide-eyed and flustered when I told you I wanted you to come inside of me the first time we had sex,” Rook reminds him, eyes softening with the memory. “More so than other men I’ve been with. You’ve told me that there’s times when nothing but being inside of me can sate your lust. The only time you don’t come inside of me is when you come in my mouth or it’s you getting fucked. None of those things are noteworthy on their own, but put them all together… I had my suspicions.”

Knowing that it’s redundant to ask but needing the clarification, Emmrich asks, “And you’re certain you’re amenable to the idea?”

“I thought I made my position very clear, honestly.” 

“But…”

Rook rolls his eyes, smiling still. “I should’ve told you sooner.”

“What?”

“That when I saw you with Rose, I… I imagined myself carrying your child. And for the first time in my life that wasn’t a horrific, nauseating thought to have.”

Hardly an endorsement, but still. Emmrich understands the enormity of it to Rook.

“And then…?”

“And then I–… I thought about it. About how I never wanted kids, but that being Manfred’s father has made me happy. I know that’s… different, but… Either way, I realised that… Had my life been different, I might’ve… I’m not saying I do–”

“You’re saying you would’ve liked to have been able to discuss it with me,” Emmrich says softly, feeling… many things. Warm, first and foremost, but also a touch melancholy. “You will never know what you might have wanted, had nobody tried to force it on you. It brings you joy to imagine having the possibility; for the choice to be truly yours.”

Thank the Maker one of them understands, Rook thinks. It’s no surprise that it’s Emmrich. Ever the smarter one.

“Yeah. Something like that. Well, anyway, from there I wondered how you might feel, and then…”

He gestures, vaguely indicating that it all sort of snowballed from there. 

“And this did not… bother you?”

Rook, tired, pathetically horny, and desperate to get going already if Emmrich is going to insist on fucking him at home, doesn’t bite his tongue in time.

“What, that you get incoherent at the mere thought of impregnating me? I’ve fucked myself silly to the thought of you not pulling out in time at least twice–”

Emmrich takes a breath and holds it. Rook’s eyebrows raise as realisation dawns.

“Oh, you like that-”

“It’s– That is, it’s highly ungentlemanly– I don’t– That’s not at all a reliable way–”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Rook sighs with a smile, “that is very much the point.”

It’s not something he’s ever admitted. Not to himself, and certainly not out loud. The idea that he could be so lost in pleasure, so overwhelmed with passion that he should completely lose his head and–... do something he’s not meant to do. It goes without saying that it would be consensual, that it’d have to be discussed beforehand, but it shames him that the idea of making that mistake should thrill him so, let alone doing it on purpose.

Rook watches closely as Emmrich - predictably - overthinks it. If he allows this to continue, he’ll talk himself out of it. After Rook’s finally worked up the courage to ask, no less.

Incorrigible worrywart, Rook thinks fondly, pulling Emmrich into his arms and softly kissing the shell of his ear. “Professor,” he whispers sweetly, pressing himself up against Emmrich, throwing all of his charms into a war he’s already won, “I’m afraid I’ve run out of essence of witherstalk.”

It breaks right through Emmrich’s carefully constructed boundaries of what he should and shouldn’t find arousing. Yes, very well, Rook has made his point. Emmrich can’t deny it any longer. He’s been found out, and Rook intends to act on it. There’s no fighting against this particular storm, nor does he want to.

He puts his trembling hands in his lap to hide and push down his erection. It’s a well-rehearsed part of their play, those times they pretend to never have had sex before. “O-oh, oh dear, that’s–”

Rook glances down and feels his clit throb with anticipation in spite of the fact that he’s just come. Emmrich pretending to be a bumbling, flustered, morally conflicted professor gets him going just as much as… everything else he does, really. He was expecting to be tied down and fucked until the sun comes up, not to have to seduce Emmrich into their bed. If this is the angle they’re taking today, he’s all for it. Not that it matters. More than likely, the former scenario will still occur.

“Inconvenient,” Rook sighs regretfully. “I can’t afford to be unsafe, professor. Would you be so kind as to brew me some?”

“Well… I… I suppose I could, if you insist. When did you last take it?”

Leaning back and letting Emmrich go to better immerse himself into his role, Rook says, “A few days ago. It might still be effective, but I’d be risking a lot.”

Emmrich clears his throat and stands, offering one hand to help Rook to his feet.

“I understand,” he says, folding his hands over his throbbing, weeping cock once more, “it shouldn’t take long… If – perhaps… That is, you might accompany me to my laboratory.”

Rook steps in close and tries not to smile when Emmrich takes a step back. So very committed to his part. He reaches out and lightly trails a finger down Emmrich’s forearm. 

“I’d like that.”

On the way to Emmrich’s laboratory, Rook tactfully walks in front of him. It should be the other way around, they both know, but in the interest of nobody noticing Emmrich’s erection, they make the concession.

It goes without saying that Emmrich is perfectly content to enjoy the view.

Once inside, Rook seats himself upon the large marble slab in the centre and crosses his legs. Knowing full well he’s laying it on a little thick, he pulls up his robes until the bare skin of his thigh is showing. Emmrich notices and makes a show of not looking at Rook while he’s laying out his ingredients.

“Now,” he says as he begins the careful work of preparing the witherstalk, “as I’m preparing your medicine, I’ll ask you some questions pertaining to your general health. If you wouldn’t mind, of course.”

Rook squeezes his thighs together and bites his lip. Fuck, that shouldn’t be such a turn-on. Somehow managing not to sound too much like he’s absolutely gagging for it, he replies, “By all means.”

“Do you have any allergies?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Any family history with regard to particular diseases?”

Smiling ruefully, Rook says, “I wouldn’t know.”

“... Right. Apologies.”

“No worries.”

“Are you currently taking any other medicine?”

“No.”

“Use of narcotics or hallucinogens? Alcohol?”

“Not recently, and the occasional drink. More if there’s an occasion, but that rarely happens.”

Emmrich looks over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. ‘Not recently?’ Most interesting.

“Very well,” he says, turning back to the sap he’s extricating from the stalk. It’s finicky, and his hands aren’t nearly as steady as they need to be. Fortunately, he’s not planning on letting Rook consume this at all, and so it doesn’t matter if the final product is utterly unusable.

“I must also ask some questions of a more… personal nature, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine.”

“Are you… Are you sexually active?”

“No,” Rook says, his voice husky and low, “but I’d like to be.”

When Emmrich drops the tool he’s holding and it falls, loudly, to the table he’s working on, he’s only barely pretending.

“I– I see.”

“You don’t sound as if you believe me, professor.”

“No, I– That is, of course I believe you.”

“But…?”

“Well, a… A handsome man such as yourself, I rather thought…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say nobody’s interested,” Rook drawls, watching how Emmrich’s back straightens when he says it, “but I’m very… particular about what I like.”

“Are you?”

“I am. I like a tall, distinguished sort of man,” he says, carefully lowering himself to the floor. “You know the type. Too clever by half, a little stubborn. Kind, gracious, patient. The type of man who is utterly unaware of his own devastating charms. Who gets flustered when you tell him how handsome he is, how smart…”

Emmrich’s hands shake terribly when he attempts to empty a dropper filled with the stalk’s sap, producing a rapidly repeating clinking sound against the glass tube he’s holding it over. 

“I, ah…”

He jumps when he hears Rook’s voice right beside him. When did he–?

“I enjoy a man who’s very capable. Who’s good with his hands,” Rook continues, slowly looking over Emmrich’s entire body. “A man who can handle me. Do you understand me, professor?”

It’s not hard to play at being a sputtering, bumbling buffoon. Emmrich regularly feels like that in the face of Rook’s seductive abilities anyway.

“Well, I… I can certainly see… I’m– I’m sure you’ll find him soon, Rook.”

Taking another step closer, almost touching but not quite, Rook rests his hand besides Emmrich’s on the table.

“I think I already have.”

“Oh?” Emmrich says, swirling the substance in the tube and holding it up to the light if only to look away from Rook. “Marvellous news.”

Rook has to bite down on his lip hard to keep from breaking character. He looks away until the laughter stops tickling his insides, slowly exhaling.

“He’s a bit dense, though,” Rook then says, and he catches the way Emmrich’s lips threaten to twitch into a smile, “hasn’t noticed me yet.”

“I can’t imagine that’s true.”

“Can’t you?”

Emmrich finally looks away from the tube to gaze into Rook’s eyes, allowing a moment of silence to pass between them.

“No, Rook,” he says softly. “I can’t.”

Tentatively, Rook touches his index finger to Emmrich’s left little finger. When Emmrich’s gaze flits to their hands, he lays his other hand on the small of his back. The quickening of Emmrich’s breathing isn’t part of their little theatre, he knows. He feels hot to the touch even through his robes. Rook is willing to wager he’s still rock solid underneath there, too. 

“And what if he can’t? Notice me, I mean?” Rook whispers, pressing in that much closer. Emmrich’s eyes fall to his mouth, those dear, sweet lips he hasn’t kissed since this morning. Not yet, he thinks. Not quite yet.

“I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“Our respective… Positions within this institute might make things… difficult.”

“How so?”

“He’s my professor,” Rook finally confesses, his thumb stroking the back of Emmrich’s hand, “and I am his student.”

He watches Emmrich’s throat move as he swallows. For a moment, Emmrich looks away to put the tube into its holder on the table.

“That’s… highly improper.”

“So it is, but I can’t help myself.”

“You must.”

“I can’t stop thinking about him, professor. Can’t stop… touching myself to the thought of him.”

Emmrich is barely keeping it together. The building of anticipation, the teasing, the praise – it’s all delicious, but it’s been weeks since he’s last fucked Rook. His heart beats fast, and he almost gives in to the desire to lean in, to be closer. Instead, he tears his gaze away once more.

“You shouldn’t tell me that, Rook,” he whispers frantically, “I don’t– It’s unwise.”

Rook ignores him. “I want him to touch me. For him to know what he does to me.”

“I’m– I–”

“Professor,” Rook sighs sweetly, placing his hand over Emmrich’s on the table and slowly guiding it towards his cunt, “please.”

It’s the most hesitant of touches, and a lot of pretending he doesn’t know where his fingers are. Emmrich could find Rook’s clitoris blind if he had to, through however many layers of clothing, but here he only brushes up against it by accident. It’s a very thin robe for the autumn season, he realises: how far ahead did Rook plan this? 

Devious little imp, Emmrich thinks. Taking a deep, trembling breath, he retrieves his hand. 

“W-we mustn’t do this, Rook–”

“Don’t you want me?” Rook asks, his voice but a whimper.

“It’s– It’s not a matter of wanting to–”

“Isn’t it?”

Emmrich rubs a hand over his face and turns away, trying to calm himself before he ruins a perfect fantasy with his own eagerness. 

“I– I do want you, Rook. In body and soul, but I… I can’t– We can’t allow this to happen.”

Rook presses, “Why not?”

“If anyone finds out–”

Taking Emmrich’s hand and slowly turning him back towards him, Rook says, “No one has to know.”

Slowly giving in, Emmrich steps closer. He has to make at least a few more protestations before he can properly let go.

“Why pursue me with such eagerness when you could have anyone else and spare yourself the trouble?” he asks, evidently much too earnestly for Rook’s liking. The sudden fire behind his husband’s eyes is real.

“Did you miss everything I said just now?” Rook asks, rapidly losing patience. He lays a hand against Emmrich’s cheek, finding the fraying thread of said patience tested even more when Emmrich turns his head and kisses his palm. He lingers, masterfully acting the impassioned but restrained lover.

“I heard every word, but I… I can’t imagine you were talking about me.”

Rook carefully pulls him in and whispers, “I was.”

The first kiss is chaste. A press of lips, no more. 

“Rook…” Emmrich murmurs, moaning softly when Rook steals a second kiss from him. “Mmh… We shouldn’t– It’s not right–”

“It’s not wrong, either.”

“It–... It’s… What about your reputation, what about–”

“I don’t need the Mourn Watch,” Rook replies fervently, gently nudging his nose against Emmrich’s, “I need you.”

When Rook next kisses him, he teases the tip of his tongue against Emmrich’s lips, and he crumbles at last. His hands take Rook’s face between them so that he might claim his mouth properly, the slide of their tongues so divine that he can’t help but whimper into the kiss. He tilts Rook’s head back and kisses his neck, his jaw, giving in to his every desire as sloppily and desperately as he can.

With the table uncomfortably pushing into his ass, Rook is looking for a way to move things along. He needs – no, it is paramount that he gets Emmrich’s cock inside of him as fast as physically possible. Glancing to the side, he notices the nearly finished essence of witherstalk still sitting in its tube on the table. Without sparing it even one more thought, he bumps his hand into it and sends it crashing to the floor.

Emmrich startles and looks to the floor, then back up at Rook. Did he do that on purpose? Unsure, he stammers, “I– I’m so sorry, I should’ve been more mindful of how unstable this table is–”

“Not to worry, professor,” Rook says airily, “after all… A man of your age and considerable experience should have no trouble controlling himself… Right?”

Most definitely on purpose. Before he can even respond, Rook walks him backwards, all the way over to the slab until it hits the backs of his thighs. 

“R-Rook, I really think we should, perhaps, talk about this–”

As Rook slowly undoes the sash holding Emmrich’s robes together, he asks, “What’s there to talk about?”

Firmly gripping Rook’s hands to stop their dangerous advance, Emmrich says, “The– The inherent risk involved in what you’re– if you’re planning to–”

“Have sex?” Rook asks huskily, just within reach to brush his knuckles against the bulge showing through Emmrich’s robes. “Unless you don’t want to, but this suggests otherwise.”

Emmrich pushes into his hand, knowing he’s mere moments away from finally feeling Rook’s touch again and throbbing at the thought. 

“Y-yes, we should talk about… What might happen if you– O-oh– Rook–”

Rook has sunk to his knees before him, carefully peeling away the layers of his robes until he finally lays his eyes upon Emmrich’s cock, valiantly held back by his come-stained underwear. The evidence of his near-loss is unmistakable: there’s still a thick, white drop of come sticking to the bottom, and Rook can’t help himself. Can’t keep himself from closing his lips around it and sucking it off the fabric, nor from saying, “You fucking liar. You did lose in the library.”

There’s really nothing keeping Emmrich from pushing his underwear down and offering Rook his cock. It’s all but guaranteed that they’ll proceed just fine from there, but he can’t. For one, because it would break his immersion completely, and two, because what Rook says simply isn’t true. 

And that, of course, cannot be borne.

“I most certainly did not,” he says indignantly, choosing to break character. “I assure you that if I had, you would’ve known. And so, I fear, would the rest of those present in the library at the time.”

A fair point. It did seem like Emmrich was able to hold back earlier. Plus, for how much he’s sure to have retained, these precious few drops can’t be all he has to offer.

“Weren’t far off though. You’re a mess.”

Emmrich’s hands grab the edge of the slab, squeezing the cold stone into his palms to get some sort of hold on himself.

“Darling, due to your incessant, most exciting ministrations these last few weeks, I’ve found myself ‘not far off’ the majority of the time,” he says, fighting to keep still, “and so I must urge you to get back to it.”

“Enjoying yourself, were you? Fine.” Rook presses a kiss to his thigh and gasps softly. “Professor…! Maker, your staff is clearly not compensating for anything.” 

“I’m– I’m sorry, my what?”

Rook pulls his underwear down and tries not to slobber like a dog when Emmrich’s cock, fully hard, darkened a deep red and coated with precome, springs free. Barely able to restrain himself, he touches it with his fingertips, tracing the shaft. 

“You won’t object to this, will you?” Rook asks, still only barely touching it, brushing the underside with the tops of his fingers. When he lightly presses his rings up against the glans, Emmrich’s cock twitches and bounces obediently. So sensitive, so deprived. A small bead of precome forms at the tip. Rook looks up to find Emmrich staring down at him, brows drawn, his hairline darkening with perspiration, mouth slack and almost panting with excitement.

“Hah… Ahh… A-are you sure you want this, Rook?”

Kisses, feather-soft, the salt of Emmrich’s premature spend upon his lips. Rook could do this for hours. The persistent trembling against his shoulder suggests that this is not so for Emmrich.

“I’m on my knees for you,” he whispers, “and still you doubt?”

Before Emmrich can answer, Rook indulges himself and takes Emmrich’s cock into his mouth, holding back from allowing him into his throat. 

“Ahh– Ah–”

Just a few bobs of his head, a few swirls of his tongue. Emmrich’s thighs quake against him as broken, needy little whimpers escape him. Clearly, he can’t take too much of this. Rook keeps going until he feels the salt of Emmrich’s precome hitting his tongue, then pulls off.

“I want you to fuck me, professor,” he says, slowly getting up as he strokes Emmrich’s cock. He’s captured in a kiss the second he’s standing, Emmrich moaning into his mouth and thrusting into his hand. “Anytime, wherever. Want you to make me come on your cock in the coffin storage, up against the shelves in the library. Bend me over your desk and fuck me until I’m dripping onto the floor–”

Emmrich’s hips stutter and he pulls back, but Rook only loosens his grip, still touching, still teasing.

“And when you’ve brewed me that essence of witherstalk, I want you to fuck me against your lectern until you come inside of me–”

Rook feels Emmrich’s teeth against his neck, his ragged breaths against his skin.

“And then force me to sit through a lecture, having to wait until it’s over before you make me come.”

If Emmrich is to last long enough, he has to find a way to get Rook to shut up. He raises his head and kisses Rook again, taking the quiet that earns him to come down from the edge. When he feels fit to stand on his own two legs again, he switches their positions.

“Oh?” Rook says, beautifully feigning surprise. “Professor?”

“If only you were this overeager a participant in my classes, Rook,” Emmrich bemoans, lingering in another kiss to avoid laughing at the way Rook’s eyes narrow at ‘overeager’. “You’d be my best student.”

“Aren’t I regardless?”

“You’re certainly my favourite, pet.”

Pet. Rook’s clit throbs so desperately it almost makes him gasp. That’s an endearment only used very sparingly between them. 

“Lay back,” Emmrich says softly, bending down to push Rook’s robes up and over his hips. “Let me taste you.”

Such a benign, common request. So very easy to take at face value, but Rook knows what’s in store for him when Emmrich spreads his legs and kisses his thighs.

Emmrich moans softly against the soft skin beneath his lips. “Perfect,” he sighs, “beautiful, oh, Rook…”

They both know Rook has recuperated by now, and Emmrich takes his sweet time pretending to get to know every inch, every curve, what makes him sigh and moan and whisper his pleasure into the room. He makes Rook curse under his breath and grab at his hair, but he doesn’t allow him to come again. Not yet, at any rate. 

“Exquisite. Divine–”

“Fuck, you’re so good at this–”

“It’s my pleasure,” Emmrich replies softly, raising his head enough to kiss Rook’s stomach, “my– My–”

“Yours,” Rook adds, running a hand through Emmrich’s hair. “Professor–”

“I fear the man I shall become,” Emmrich says, wiping his mouth with his thumb and licking off the last of Rook’s slick, “knowing that this is mine. You’ll ruin me, Rook.”

Quivering with need and out of his mind, Rook replies, “Hopefully a man who’s a little quicker about it.”

A light smack to his bottom reminds him of where - and who - he is at present. He snorts and looks away, taking a second to let the giggles subside. Emmrich kisses his knee, his own quiet laughter warm against the skin.

“Come now, Rook,” Emmrich says, still chuckling, “from the top, once more with feeling.”

Rook’s laughter is loud, unabashed. Emmrich watches his body shake on the marble slab, the way his eyes crease at the corners. He’s seen it a thousand times or more, and yet…

“Darling…”

Wiping at his eyes, Rook sits up and scoots down to the edge of the slab. Something shifts, nameless but present, and their next kiss is sweet and familiar. Theirs, the way they kiss when they greet and say goodbye. The kisses of good mornings and goodnights, of ‘I love you’ and ‘I missed you.’

“Professor…” Rook says, unable to keep his smile in check. “Say that again.”

“Darling,” Emmrich obliges, stepping in close between Rook’s legs, cock brushing up against his vulva. “Say my name, darling… Please.”

A kiss, a shared breath. “Emmrich…”

“I can’t refuse you, darling. I am… powerless to resist you.”

“Then don’t,” Rook sighs, wrapping his arms around him. He hooks his ankles behind Emmrich’s thighs and pulls him in.

One arm hesitantly wraps around him, his other hand placed firmly upon the table. Emmrich’s fingers drag against the stone as the tip of his cock dips between Rook’s labia, fighting – warring with his desire to take the plunge. He sucks a mark into Rook’s neck and bites him on the shoulder, feeling his chest arching into him. 

“There’ll be no turning back from this, Rook,” he rasps, his voice rough with want. “I can’t– I can’t guarantee–”

“It’ll be fine, Emmrich,” Rook assures him, “the essence still in my system should protect me well enough if you don’t come inside of me.”

Rook feels Emmrich’s fingers digging into his back, nails stinging his skin through the thin fabric of his robe. When tensions are less high, Rook is absolutely planning on rubbing it in Emmrich’s face how bloody right he was about this. But not now, not when he’s finally about to get fucked.

“You can do that… Can’t you?”

“I… I shall endeavour to–”

“Perfect,” Rook says immediately, using his legs to forcefully push Emmrich into his cunt. “Ogh– Oh, fuck–”

“Ahh-ah! D-darling, oh darling… Darling, are you–?”

Gods, it burns. Three weeks of not so much as a finger and he’s back to square one, it would seem. It’s– it’s–

“Fuck me, gods, it’s–” Rook begs, head falling back, “s-so good, Emmrich, please–”

“Good?” Emmrich responds hotly, pushing the full length of his cock inside. “T-that doesn’t begin to describe… Oh, darling…”

They exchange sloppy kisses as he thrusts, slowly, not daring to pick up any sort of tempo fearing he’ll come prematurely. Unfortunately for him, Rook has other ways. His hand disappears between his legs, fingertips grazing Emmrich’s cock as he plays with his clit.

“Ahh… Mmh– I didn’t think you’d be this big, fuck–”

Emmrich moans and roughly pulls Rook’s hips even tighter against him. “You take me so well, darling. You were well-prepared for me, weren’t you?”

“W-wanted you for weeks–”

“So wet, my sweet. You were dripping onto the table as I feasted on you. Take me deeper, darling, like that… Mmh… Very good...”

His cock is squeezed tightly as Rook’s cunt quivers with anticipation of his release. He stills, certain he’ll come if he keeps moving throughout Rook’s orgasm. 

“No, please,” Rook whines pathetically into his ear, “professor, please don’t stop–”

“I-I can’t–”

“Please, don’t you want to feel me c-come? I want to come while you fuck me hard–”

“Rook–”

“P-please, please–”

They both know he’s going to fold like parchment, but Emmrich wants to draw it out, wants it to last, wants to–

“Just don’t come–” Rook gasps, furiously working his clit between them, “y-you’ll get me pregnant–”

He folds. Rook has only just started to come when he rams his cock back into him, and again, and again. As Rook thrashes against him, his cunt clenches and throbs, resisting the rough thrust of Emmrich’s cock, squeezing tighter and tighter. 

“Darling–” he whimpers, feeling his cock going completely rigid inside of him. Not yet, not yet–

“K-keep going, o-ooh gods, please–”

Emmrich grits his teeth. “S-so tight, darling… You’re going to make me come–”

“N-no, professor,” Rook gasps, the utterly delighted smile on his face not at all in line with what he’s saying, “don’t– don’t come inside of me–”

Rook’s perfectly tight cunt grips him again, and he can’t hold it a second longer. He reaches for his cock to pull out and stroke himself, but Rook’s legs wrap around him and pull him flush against him, trapping him.

“Darling! Darling, I– Ah- Aahh-!”

With several strong, harsh thrusts, Emmrich comes, filling Rook with his seed until his legs are shaking. He groans loudly into Rook’s neck with every pulse, nails dug deep into Rook’s back as he buries himself as deeply as possible. It doesn’t seem to end, and he’s lightheaded when it finally does. 

“K-keep going,” Rook begs into his ear, “f-fuck, you promised–”

Until his legs are numb. Yes, Emmrich did promise something to that effect. To his own surprise, he’s still hard.

“Off,” he commands, pulling out and watching as copious seed flows out of Rook and onto the floor. “Turn around. Bend over.”

The second Rook’s cheek touches the marble, Emmrich puts his boot between Rook’s feet and spreads his legs roughly. 

“What was it you said in the library, my darling?” Emmrich asks hotly, rubbing his cock through the creamy slick between Rook’s labia. “Remind me.”

“Breed me,” Rook whimpers, desperately pushing back against Emmrich’s cock, “Fuck your seed back into me and make sure it stays– there–”

Emmrich pushes into him at the same time as he takes a fistful of Rook’s long, soft locks and yanks his head back. Rook cries out, babbling incoherent pleas to be fucked harder, faster, deeper. It makes his blood boil in his veins, sweat beading along his forehead as he thrusts with total, reckless abandon. When he looks down and sees his cock sliding in and out of Rook’s cunt, seed and slick mingling and steadily dripping down Rook’s legs, he groans through gritted teeth.

“How long have you suspected?”

“M-months– Oh fuck, oh fuck-”

“To think I could’ve had you like this for months,” Emmrich growls, tightening his grip on Rook’s hair until he’s sure it must be painful, but Rook’s breath hitches in his throat before a broken, stuttering moan breaks free. “Offering yourself to me like a prized mare–”

He stops himself, shocked at the ease with which he spoke the words. Oh, Maker, why did he say that? He’d never mean to imply–

“Oh fuck–” Rook cries, gasping for breath, “for you to fill with your brood–”

His cock swells inside of Rook, already throbbing again. Is Rook merely… Indulging him, or–? 

“D-dearest–”

But Rook is completely lost to him. Lost in him, rather.

“Y-your womb to fill–” he babbles, eyes squeezed shut as his sore cunt rapidly barrels towards its third orgasm, “T-to bear your children– Fuck– Ohh– Ah! Right there– Keep going– Keepgoingkeepgoing– Fuck! Fu–uck Emmri–i–ich!”

Emmrich hears and feels it before he knows what’s happening. The buckling of Rook’s knees, the wild spasming of his body as he comes. The warm, rapid dripping of it down his balls, accompanied by a harsh splashing sound against the stone below. He feels it hitting his boots, feels the second wave when Rook’s cunt contracts around him again to another onslaught of curses and rabid gasps of air. Only when Rook’s cries have been reduced to whimpers does Emmrich slow his thrusting. 

“Oh, darling… I’d no idea this excited you so, I–”

“D-don’t stop–”

“Are you certain? I know how sore this makes you, darling–”

“We’ve got tomorrow off, please–”

“Very well,” Emmrich acquiesces, pressing a kiss to Rook’s spine, “I shall grant you one more.”

“You shall ‘grant’ me however many I’ll take from your cock–”

Emmrich slams his cock deep inside, cutting Rook off mid-sentence. 

“As you wish.”

Rook only takes one more from him, and in turn Emmrich takes from him until Rook is so sensitive it hurts. They’re both upon the slab now, Emmrich sprawled out along Rook’s body as their breathing slows. Emmrich feels Rook’s chest shake beneath his head, and looks up to find him wiping tears from his eyes. 

“Alright, my darling?”

“Yeah, fuck,” Rook says, sniffling and laughing, “we’re never doing this ever again.”

“W-what?”

“Oh, the– the fucking pact, not– this. This was lovely.”

“Ah. Quite right.”

Rook looks up, confused. 

“What? You want to do it again?”

With remorse written all over his smile, Emmrich shakes his head.

“No, but… I’ve enjoyed feeling so close to you these past weeks.”

This, somehow, had gone completely over Rook’s head. But now that he thinks about it–

“Yeah, me too. But we don’t have to do this shit for that.”

Emmrich laughs softly and leans in to kiss him. “There wouldn’t be any point. You truly are the undisputed champion.”

“Obviously.”

“It seems rather the opposite to me. When I first proposed denying you your release, you said you were, if memory serves, ‘terrible’ at this particular game.”

“I was far, far more often on the verge of losing than you were, amatus.”

“Hence why I assumed I’d emerge victorious rather quickly. Why are you the champion, darling?”

Rook grins and says, “You don’t have to be good at a game to enjoy it.”

“... You… Enjoyed…”

“Preferably not for three weeks at a time, no, but it’s hardly news that I like it when you’re in control of whether or not I can come.”

It isn’t. Before they started this, Emmrich did wonder if he was playing into Rook’s hands. It would seem he has.

“This is why you issued a veto on not touching below the waist.”

“Yes.”

“Because you wanted me to touch you.”

“Yes.”

“And then not allow you to come.”

“Yes.”

“Darling?”

“Yes?”

Emmrich smiles at him, drowsy and profoundly shagged-out.

“You’re a bit of a cunt, I fear.”

Rook’s laughter can be heard all the way down the hall.

Three days later, Emmrich is woken with twice as many kisses as usual. As he’d thought, making love to two of Rook is akin to trying to stay afloat upon the raging seas, on a crumbling raft, during a hurricane. He can’t think, and luckily doesn’t have to: four capable hands push, pull and guide him exactly to where he needs to be. The only thought he has, which occurs to him as he’s wedged between two warm, soft bodies, with Rook’s lips on his own and against his spine, is that he’s never been happier.

After, when he’s laid between two Rooks and basking in the afterglow of a lovemaking that rivals their carnal reunion from three days ago in its intensity, he asks, “Darling?”

Rook, barely awake, grunts, “Hrngh?”

“It’s my birthday today.”

Emmrich watches Rook’s lips twitch into a smile as he slightly opens one eye to look at him.

“Really?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I was unaware, amatus. Forgive– M– S-stop it–”

The Rook at his back – the copy – wraps his arms around him, strong and unmoving as a band of iron, preventing Emmrich from tickling the Rook at his front. 

“If you won’t play fair,” Rook says, touching the tip of his nose to Emmrich’s, “then I won’t, either.”

“You must allow me my little joys, Rook. Imagine the devastation your enemies might’ve wrought had they known that the hero of Minrathous is ticklish.”

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take that knowledge to your grave.”

Emmrich smiles sweetly, wondering what could be better for him than a slightly disgruntled Rook on a mission to ensure he pays his penance for his indiscretion. Pulled from his thoughts and into a kiss, Emmrich murmurs, “I wouldn’t dare plunge the world into the next war so soon.”

Chuckling softly, Rook happily loses a few minutes just to kissing. They’ve got all the time in the world today, and aren’t expected down at the tavern until at least noon. 

“Happy birthday, my heart,” Rook whispers eventually. “Fifty-five. It’s a shame we didn’t celebrate last year.”

“In fairness, we were rather in the midst of several life-threatening, world-ending catastrophes.”

“Not anymore, and never again, if it were up to me.”

“Hmm? Are you saying my brave, strong husband can’t prevent every plausible disaster? For shame, Rook.”

“I shall endeavour to do better,” Rook says, stealing one last kiss before rolling out of bed. “Starting now. Allow me to prevent you from leaving the house smelling the way you do.”

To Emmrich’s surprise, they shower with the three of them. Or rather, Emmrich enjoys a thoroughly stimulating wash at the - four - hands of Rook. When he questions why Rook is keeping his copy around, all he gets in reply is a kiss and the instruction to be patient. Once washed, they take breakfast together with Manfred, who presents Emmrich with a clumsily wrapped package.

“Happy birthday!”

“Thank you, Manfred. How very kind of you, I–”

It’s a framed drawing. Dents in the paper suggest it was made by skeletal hands. The overall mastery of anatomy and perspective only further confirm his suspicions. 

“I think he noticed the way you kept looking at your father’s sketches,” Rook says, looking over his shoulder. “He’s… Very talented.”

“Maestro!”

Emmrich looks at Manfred, baffled.

“Lucanis,” Rook says by way of explanation.

Looking back at the drawing in his hands, Emmrich feels tears welling in his eyes. It’s – perfect. His life’s essence: himself, Manfred, and Rook. They’re depicted as skating on the Minanter. No more than stick figures, but it’s clear as day. Rook on his ass on the ice, Manfred off to the side. Emmrich skating past Rook with his scarf trailing behind him.

“It’s perfect, Manfred,” Emmrich says, voice breaking. He pulls Manfred into a hug and kisses the top of his skull. “And this frame… Is this… Is that dried pasta?”

“Yes!”

Fighting his entire body on the instinct to laugh, Rook explains, “He really wanted to decorate it. The gold leaf is a nice touch.”

“I see. Thank you, my dearest boy. I shall find somewhere to display this where I might look at it every day.”

“You’re welcome!”

Tea is served with a kiss, and Emmrich watches with some astonishment as Rook’s copy moves about the kitchen. There’s a fire going in their oven, and he’s shaping a blob of some sort of dough on the counter.

“It’s really quite impressive, Rook. Doesn’t it take an enormous amount of mana to maintain?”

“It does, so I won’t keep him around for much longer. There’s just one more thing.”

“Breakfast?”

“Hungry, are you?”

“I’m rather famished after this morning’s rigorous performance, yes.”

“And what a performance it was, amatus. I’m shocked the neighbours didn’t come knocking to tell us to keep it down.”

“Contain yourself, darling.”

“I’m trying.”

Manfred is eyeing a copy of a particularly dense tome to whack his parents with. Both of who, it would seem, have forgotten that he’s standing right there.

“But, the copy?” Emmrich asks, taking his cup and inhaling the blend’s sweet, floral aroma. 

“Is making sure we have bread for your cheese toast. I made the dough last night while you were taking a nap.”

Somehow, Emmrich feels that’s hardly a reason to expend so much mana. “And then you’ll vanish him?” 

Rook looks down at him and grins. “Just drink your tea, dear.”

“You only ever call me that to vex me.”

“I thought I only did when I was trying to placate you?”

Emmrich reaches behind the back of his chair and pinches Rook’s ass.

“Oi.”

“Don’t be a menace, darling.”

“Be nice to me. I got you that disgusting Orlesian cheese you’re so fond of, and I got you fresh honey with it, too.”

“That sounds wonderful, darling.”

Gazing into each other’s eyes, Rook says, “You’re wonderful.”

“So you say, my love.”

Manfred conjures his largest orb of water to date. Emmrich clears his throat and puts his hand back in his lap. Rook smiles into his mug of coffee.

With the bread inside the hot oven, Rook – to Emmrich’s great surprise – sends his copy towards the piano. Kneeling down next to Emmrich’s chair and taking his hand, he says, “I’ve several confessions to make, amatus.”

“Oh?”

“When we got back from Minrathous and you got all those letters, all those… dead ends to your search, I felt so sad for you. I wanted to help, but I didn’t want to get your hopes up only to have to crush them at a later time if my attempts turned out to be fruitless as well.”

Given that he found his mother’s old sheet music, they clearly didn’t. Thankfully so.

“I understand, darling–”

“No, no. Let me finish.”

“Very well.”

“I’ve spent the last couple months turning over every stone in Nevarra in search of your family. And if not that, then at least their memories. I won’t tell you everything just yet–”

“But–”

“As all will be revealed later today, but among your mother’s music I found the most beautiful piece. Precious, soft, love in music notation. Unfortunately, she left it unfinished. I think I can guess why.”

Emmrich swallows, heart beating fast. “Why?”

“There were a few iterations. The piece is called ‘For Emmrich,’ and the last version she wrote is dated about two days before you were born.”

She ran out of time. After his birth, she had completely different things to worry about.

“So, I hope you don’t mind,” Rook continues softly, squeezing Emmrich’s hand, “but I finished it, and I’d very much like to have this dance with you, Emmrich.”

Wordlessly, they move to the centre of the room, the bit of space they have between the kitchen and the living room. Rook places his hand in the centre of Emmrich’s back, the other held in his. Emmrich lays his hand on Rook’s shoulder and asks, “What’s the dance, darling?”

“Whatever we want it to be, I think.”

Leaning in until they’re cheek to cheek, Emmrich waits with bated breath for the music to start. When it finally does, when the first familiar notes drift through the room, all he can do is follow Rook as they slowly step about the room.

He’s heard this before, he’s absolutely sure of it. There’s no memory attached to it, no image of his parents at the piano, no time of day or even year. Just a distant, far, far away nostalgia that washes over his mind like the sea kissing the shore. His grip on Rook’s hand tightens as his eyes close, his other hand moving across the back of Rook’s neck to his other shoulder, holding him closer. 

Rook responds in kind, with a kiss to Emmrich’s jaw. He counts the steps under his breath and guides Emmrich as best he can. It’s been years since he’s properly danced, but his body never quite forgot the steps to all those blasted dances he had to learn. Something that came in very handy when they first attended a Necropolis gala together. Thank the Maker Emmrich knows how to follow even when Rook technically isn't leading.

“I think it was meant to be a lullaby,” Rook whispers halfway through the song, “but your mother had such fire… It’s in everything she wrote.”

The melody has all the gentleness of a lullaby, but Emmrich agrees that it doesn’t sound like it would encourage an infant to sleep. It’s almost romantic in its quality.

“She did. Mother was… hardened, in many ways, but she never allowed it to quite erase the softness of her heart.”

After a beat of silence, he adds, “You remind me of her, at times.”

Pulling back slightly, Rook kisses him. “Thank you. I do take that as a compliment.”

Emmrich tucks his and Rook’s hands between them, held tightly against his heart. “It was.”

“I’m glad to say you almost never remind me of my parents at all.”

He frowns. “Almost?”

“You can be a bit pissy at times. Like my moth–”

“I would advise, my dear, that you think the better of finishing that sentence.”

Rook’s mouth snaps shut and he smiles, disarmingly charming. 

“I love you,” he says instead, sure that there’s never a wrong time to say that much.

“And I love you,” Emmrich replies, well aware he’s being played. “Thank you for this, darling. You’ve gone to such lengths, I…”

“Don’t thank me yet, sweetheart. There’s more to come.”

In the carriage on their way to the city, Emmrich wonders how Rook managed to find the things he did. He feels he used his network within the city to the best of his ability, and having lived here for over fifty years, he imagined it rather extensive. And yet, Rook, who has next to no network in this city whatsoever, somehow found things Emmrich imagined lost long ago. 

But, he thinks as he shakes himself from his thoughts, all will be revealed very soon. He’s vaguely nervous: it’s been ages since someone’s made such a production out of his birthday. 

“Darling, will you at least tell me where we’re going?”

Rook slowly tears his gaze away from the window and looks at him with open amusement.

“Why would I do that?”

“To sate your dear husband’s boundless curiosity?”

“Your curiosity about the surprise we’re currently on our way to?”

“If you’ll indulge me.”

For a moment, Rook looks like he might give in. Their hands rest, entwined, on Emmrich’s thigh, and he raises them to kiss the back of Emmrich’s hand. With his eyes closed, he sighs deeply.

Then, he says, “Not a chance.”

“You’re most cruel, Rook.”

“I thought I was being nice. I would’ve blindfolded you if I thought you’d be able to keep your composure.”

Emmrich’s eyes dart to Manfred across from him and back to Rook. He bites his tongue, for now.

“Will you at least tell me how many people will be in attendance? I know Alexander is coming, you know.”

Rook snorts and decides that this is mostly harmless, if not helpful.

“Ah… Couple dozen?”

“A couple of–... Truly?”

“Yes? Is that too many?”

“No, just… I rather thought that if many of the Mourn Watch were to be present, then perhaps we’d be celebrating at the Necropolis–”

“Not that many. A couple of our colleagues, sure.”

“But… Then who–”

“That’d be telling.”

“And what of my–”

“Ah, no,” Rook says, silencing Emmrich with a flick of his wrist. A highly elementary silencing spell, but it gets the job done. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

Emmrich breaks the spell with a deeply offended wave of his hand. “Rook!”

“What?”

“You do not use magic on me–!”

Rook looks at him. Stares at him, in fact. 

“... Without my consent.”

And raises his eyebrows. Emmrich’s hand tingles with electricity where it touches Rook’s.

“You’re insufferable,” he sighs, and Rook leans in to kiss his cheek. 

“But I’m yours.”

To his own chagrin, Emmrich’s smile won’t leave his face for the rest of the ride. When they get off at the tavern, Emmrich’s eyes widen as he gasps, “Oh, my–!”

Rook feels his body sag with relief. The builders finished in time. Furniture has been set up, the sign has been cleaned and is hanging outside again. All is well.

“This is where we’ll spend the day,” Rook tells him, finally able to divulge his plans, “and where you’ll now get to meet–... An old friend.”

“An old friend?” Emmrich asks, turning around. They’re in the middle of a busy street, and Manfred’s already headed inside. Rook is beaming with joy.

“Yeah. C’mon,” Rook says, taking his hand and stepping inside, “let me reintroduce you.”

The first thing Emmrich notices once he's inside, other than how much bigger the tavern is now, is the garlands hanging over his head. He’d recognise that revolting quilt anywhere.

“I thought you said you disposed of it,” Emmrich says, looking at the way they span the entire length of the tavern, criss-crossing back and forth until the entire ceiling is jovially adorned with the most offensive colour combination to ever disgrace the place.

“I didn’t say that. You did,” Rook responds, grinning. “I thought it was a good way to use it, since you refuse to. Manfred made them.”

“Manfred–?”

“Yes! Happy birthday!”

“T-they’re wonderful, dear boy. Thank you. Such… fine craftsmanship.”

Rook tugs on his hand, biting his lip with utter glee. 

“C’mon, this way.”

Introductions, it appears, are entirely unnecessary. The moment Emmrich’s eye falls upon the elderly gentleman sat at the bar, he knows.

“Uncle Albrecht!”

Albrecht is a man approaching his eighties. His beard and hair are white as snow, a stark contrast to his skin and kind, dark eyes. His skin has wrinkled and stained with age, his back is hunched, and he looks almost nothing like Emmrich remembers. But fact of the matter is that in Emmrich’s memory, Albrecht was only ever doing one of two things: horsing around with him, or sitting at the bar making conversation with whoever was behind it at the time. This time, that happens to be Bart. 

“Emmrich!” Albrecht exclaims, his voice rusty with age. “Oh, Maker, come here, my lad, come here. How long has it been?”

They embrace, Albrecht patting Emmrich’s back when they do. Rook takes over making small talk with Bart, keeping an eye but otherwise leaving Emmrich to reacquaint himself with his uncle.

“Over forty years,” Emmrich says, sighing deeply. “You must think me a complete stranger.”

“Hogwash! You’re taller’n me now, and you’re… Well, I doubt you still have to sew patches into your trousers. But–”

Albrecht’s - shaking, Emmrich notices - hands come up to his shoulders, and he takes a long, good look at him. Then, he smiles and pats the stool next to him.

“You and your da are two drops of water, I tell you.”

“I– Are we? I don’t…”

“Oh, aye. Anyone who knew him would be able to tell. Right down to that bit of scruff you’ve got on your upper lip.”

Emmrich hears Rook snort into his drink, immediately followed by a coughing fit. Serves him right.

“I suppose I don’t wear it as well as he does,” Emmrich concedes with a smile, sitting down on the stool.

“Nonsense. Bart, bring us some tea, would you?” Albrecht says, before looking back at Emmrich, eyes full of wonder. “Oh, lad… Look at how you’ve grown. I think about Rupert and Elannora still, you know. Often. Good people. Gone too soon.”

“Thank you, I– I quite agree.”

“Raised a fine son in spite of their absence though, didn’t they? I wish they could’ve seen it. Wish I’d seen it, for that matter, but it all happened so quickly, I…”

Having learned a great deal from the last reunion with his family, Emmrich lays a reassuring hand on Albrecht’s arm.

“It matters not. We’re here now.”

Bart is grumbling about how the tea towel he uses to take the kettle off the stove does nothing to keep him from burning his fingers clean off as he carries over their tea. Emmrich glances at Rook, who’s watching Bart with great amusement and some degree of fascination. 

With tea in hand at last to accompany his stories, Albrecht effortlessly captures Emmrich’s attention for the next several hours as he regales him with tales of his and his father’s adventures together. Some he already knows: those that took place in Nevarra City during the years before he was born, and a short time after that. One or two of them are among the canon of his childhood, stories oft repeated at gatherings or particularly rowdy evenings at the tavern. What he hadn’t noticed as a young child, however, is that his father is always the voice of reason in them. Albrecht, a man who worked the river docks all his life and longed to see what was beyond the waters he looked at twelve hours per day, was always out seeking adventure. Rupert was always the one trying to talk him out of it and, failing to do that most of the time, reluctantly trailing behind. 

“A real stick in the mud,” Albrecht says, sounding exceedingly fond, “and proud. Principled. Never met a man in my life that was as full of pride and honour as ol’ Rupert.”

Emmrich is ashamed to say he’s not quite sure what Albrecht means. His father was proud of him, yes, and he taught Emmrich how to tell wrong from right. But these do not strike him as extraordinary things for a person to do, or at least not as noteworthy as Albrecht is making it out to be.

“I remember him as a very kind man, if slightly impatient.”

Albrecht chuckles at this. “Aye, makes sense. There was many a year between his arrival here and when you were born.”

His arrival here?

“What do you mean? I thought… I’d always been under the impression that father was born here.”

For a long moment, Albrecht only looks at him. Then, he sighs and returns his gaze to the cup of tea in his hands. His fourth, if Emmrich’s counted right.

“I suppose it’s about time you knew. Your da never wanted to talk about it. He told me this story exactly once, and I’ve never forgotten. Made us swear not to tell anyone. Never quite explained why, but he was so bloody serious about it that we promised.”

On the edge of his proverbial as well as his literal seat, Emmrich asks, “Tell me what?”

“Your da was born in the Free Marches. Lived there all his life until–... Until the Nevarran conquests in 8:82.”

A brief but incredibly bloody campaign ended that same year, if Emmrich remembers correctly. Knowing he can only expect one answer, he asks, “What happened?”

“The bastards burned his whole village to the ground. He was just a lad at the time, eighteen, seventeen maybe. The way he told it, the sole survivor. Escaped by jumping into the river and letting it carry him downstream. Obviously, that carried him into Nevarran territory, where I fished him out of the water.”

Albrecht shakes his head and huffs a quiet laugh, cup barely resting against his lips when he adds, “He hated Nevarrans. It’s why he stayed a butcher even if it made him nothing but coppers here. Just to spite the lot of us.”

And who could blame him? Emmrich is reeling. No wonder his father never spoke of any family: he didn’t have any left, and what memories he had were probably too painful to discuss.

“Could stand me well enough, though,” Albrecht continues, unaware of Emmrich’s inner turmoil, “and then I introduced him to Elannora and…”

He gestures with his hand: the rest is history. Emmrich gives himself a moment to take it all in. His father loved his mother so much that he settled down in the homeland of the legions that destroyed his home, his family, and large swathes of his country. Who wouldn’t have hesitated to slaughter him as well if they’d discovered him floating down the river.

“Father did always say it was love at first sight,” Emmrich recalls, eyes getting misty. “Extraordinary.”

“I reckon you can sympathise,” Albrecht says, nodding his head towards Rook with a knowing smile, “you and your mother have a taste for strong men of stronger principles.”

Emmrich looks over Albrecht’s shoulder at Rook, still engrossed in conversation with Bart. He sighs, smiling, and softly says, “In our defence, those men are often the hardest to turn away from.”

“And easiest to fall for. Aye, I know. My Gerhardt was the same.”

What? Emmrich feels his eyes bulging.

“You were married?”

“Long ago. I lost him not long after you were born, as it happens. I spent a lot of time with your parents and your aunt that year.”

After a pause, Albrecht suddenly remembers something and lays his hand on Emmrich’s on the bar.

“I’m sorry about your aunt Esther, lad. She and your mother were thick as thieves. The stories she could’ve told you…”

“Thank you. Her daughters were kind enough to give me all of mother’s letters that she’d kept. It’s been… An education.”

“She was only here for about two years. Moved here after her husband was killed by the dragons–”

“What?”

“The year you were born was also the year the dragons came to the countryside, remember?” Albrecht explains gravely. “Poor thing. She was pregnant an’ all. For about a year, you and your cousin Elise slept in the same cot. Did you know that?”

Emmrich is unsure whether he ever did, but if he did, he completely forgot. “I… I had no idea.”

“Aahh, cutest babes I ever did see, but– Oh! Well, there you’ll have her.”

Only when he turns around does Emmrich realise the sun has gone down in the meantime. He’s been talking to Albrecht for hours, and the tavern is steadily starting to fill up. Starting, it would seem, with his cousin. Elise walks in and Emmrich doesn’t hesitate this time: he stands up and greets her with a warm embrace that she gladly returns.

“Happy birthday, Emmrich,” she says earnestly, kissing his cheek, “from me and Angelica both. She couldn’t get away from the farm, but she sends her love.”

Emmrich chooses to believe the reason given and says, “Thank you. I… I can scarcely believe you’re here. I assume Rook is responsible?”

Elise laughs and produces a small parcel. “You assume right. Here, take this.”

He opens it and finds a collection of a total of four tea blends, all from the countryside. 

“You mentioned you wanted to try them in one of your last letters,” Elise explains, “and Angelica just so happens to have started a few shrubs a few years ago. She’s waiting for your review.”

“I… I don’t know what to say, thank you, I–”

The door opens again. Neve and Lucanis.

“There you are, birthday boy,” Neve says, a big, crooked smile on her face. 

From there, it’s one long line of congratulatory kisses and hugs, gifts, and how-are-you’s. Bart and Marie ensure that food and drink flows freely, while Rook entertains the growing crowd with music. It’s possibly the biggest party in his honour that Emmrich has ever attended, and utterly overwhelming in all the best ways. When it’s clear that all he can do is give in and let it wash over him, he lets go of his nerves and just enjoys himself. 

Halfway through the evening, when Emmrich is deeply engrossed in a conversation with Bellara about the mechanics by which Anaris came back or remained alive, Albrecht taps his shoulder.

“I’m goin’ home, lad,” Albrecht says, clearly exhausted, “but I’ve got a gift for you, before I go. Reckon it’s about time it’s in your hands.”

Albrecht leads him into the pantry where, carefully tucked away in a corner, stands a massive, wrapped package. Judging by the dimensions, Emmrich assumes it can only be one of two things: a mirror or a painting. 

“Your da made this for me a couple of years after he arrived here. Paint wasn’t cheap to come by but he managed, somehow. Felt like he owed me for savin’ him and no matter how many times I told him not to be daft, he wouldn’t let it go.”

A painting, then. Emmrich’s hands itch to get the protective paper off and have a look.

“I’d advise you to leave it wrapped ‘till you get home,” Albrecht says, noticing Emmrich’s eagerness and laughing. “Tried my best to keep it in good condition, but ah… All things age eventually, don’t they? The note your da left with it is still tucked in the back, so be careful with that.”

A note? His father left… something else behind? Emmrich doesn’t know what to say. All he has is his ring. He looks down at it, the green gem reflecting the dim light as he turns his hand. It was given to him after his parents passed, just like everything else he still has of them. 

Emmrich swallows and takes a deep breath, “Thank you, Albrecht, I… It means more than I can say.”

Albrecht gently pats his back.

“Come visit me sometime, won’t you, lad?”

“I will, I–... Now that I know, I will.”

Dazed, Emmrich walks back into the tavern in dire need of a drink. Marie serves him one with a wink, and another one when he downs that one almost immediately.

“You’re not usually this impatient with your drinks,” she points out as she slides another cup across the bar. 

“I’m not usually this loved,” Emmrich replies with a smile.

“Oh, I doubt that very much.”

Manfred appears before him, reaching up to drag Emmrich down to his level before he presses his teeth against Emmrich’s cheek.

“Byebye! Going home!”

“Oh?”

Then, Manfred points towards the door where Bart is just about to carry Rupert’s painting out, Albrecht following slowly behind. Emmrich looks back at Manfred and only now notices the crate of gifts on the ground next to him.

“I help!”

“You mean you’re helping– Nevermind, dear boy. We’ll see you at home then, if you’re sure.”

“Yes! Bart… Funny.”

Emmrich sighs as he watches his son leave. It’s entirely Rook’s fault, of course, that he should find Bart’s curmudgeonly disposition so amusing. After all, Rook spent months encouraging Manfred to vex Emmrich at every given opportunity. 

At least he stopped referring to Rook as ‘darling’ relatively quick. That one Emmrich found particularly bothersome. It goes without saying that Rook encouraged it more than any of Manfred’s other antics.

Sure that there’s nothing to worry about other than Bart potentially cursing around Manfred, which the latter should mostly no longer regard as the single funniest thing in the world, he continues making his rounds. 

Neve leans against the wall by the piano, watching Emmrich walk from group to group.

“He’s having fun,” she says to Rook, who’s only left the piano once or twice to relieve himself this evening. “You did good, Rook. Setting this all up.”

Rook smiles at her for a second, before once again focusing on the notation before him. His fingers are sore, and his arms are sure to be killing him tomorrow, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

“I’m just glad he isn’t pissed I went behind his back.”

“Couldn’t be helped. Shadow Dragon work happens under the cover of darkness.”

“Exactly.”

“Seems he’s rather forgotten you’re here too, though.”

Laughing, Rook turns the page on his music and shrugs.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m the one that gets to take him home, after all.”

“You’ll have to carry him, by the looks of it.”

“Good thing he weighs nothing.”

“You sound as if you’re speaking from experience. Lots of piggyback rides at the Necropolis, are there?”

“No. Primarily a good amount of porking.”

Neve snorts and smacks him in the shoulder. “Still catching up for those months at the Lighthouse where you two were dancing around each other like butterflies?”

Rook thinks of those first few months and how anxious he was. How much he wanted to have Emmrich, but couldn’t properly attach himself to a man who would pursue undeath. Thinks of how their time together is now very, very finite.

“If anything, I’d say we’re trying to stay ahead.”

Taking a sip from her drink, Rook watches her eye travel to Lucanis on the other end of the bar.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” she remarks softly. “Falling in love this late in life.”

Sighing, Rook says, “Yeah… I’d give almost anything to have another fifty years with him, but… That sort of thing comes at a very dangerous price.”

After a poignant pause, Neve concludes, “And it still wouldn’t be enough.”

A few hours later, when Emmrich’s hoarse in the mouth and swaying on his legs, he suddenly realises that he hasn’t said a damned word to Rook from the moment they got here. Searching among the crowd, he finds Rook at the piano still, playing the same tunes that used to grace this tavern over forty years ago.

He makes his way, swaying slightly, and wraps his arms around Rook’s shoulders from behind. How lovely, to bury his nose in his hair and smell the essence of him even through the tavern’s overpowering bouquet of scents.

“My love, my darling…”

“Hello, amatus,” Rook says, sounding stone-cold sober. Emmrich sniffs the cup of clear liquid sitting upon the piano and – water. Just water.

“Have you–... Mm… Have you not imbibed this evening, darling?”

Rook grins and shakes his head. “Of course not. Someone’s got to take you home at the end of the evening. Can’t both be legless.”

“I am not… legless,” Emmrich insists as he’s stumbling over his legs to sit down on the bench next to Rook. “Scoot, darling.”

When Rook obliges, Emmrich plunks down and immediately proceeds to snuggle into Rook’s side, arms wrapping around his waist as he buries his face in Rook’s neck. Somehow unperturbed, Rook continues playing.

“No, indeed,” Rook agrees, his voice dripping with lighthearted sarcasm, “you’re as sober as I am.”

Barely managing to lift his head from Rook’s shoulders, Emmrich whispers, “If I were, darling, I’d be fully erect as we speak.”

A loud, dissonant note slips into Rook’s play, and he curses softly. 

“You can’t be serious. I fucked you within an inch of your life this morning.”

Yes he did, Emmrich thinks, fondly reminiscing. His mind feels fuzzy, slow, and very singular in its desires.

“Would it be too much to… ask for a reprise? I rather, ah… I rather like getting fucked when I’m drunk.”

Another wrong note, followed by Rook’s quiet laughter.

“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”

“Well?”

“Sweetheart, I… I don’t know whether the flesh or the spirit is more willing, but I fear you’re not going to get much more than my glamour for your troubles regardless.”

“Hmm… That ought to be enough.”

Rook shakes his head in disbelief, still not taking his eyes off of the sheet music. He asks, “So if I lay back and let you have your fun, I can trust you not to get seasick?”

Emmrich, not at all stopping his very public display of affection, kisses Rook’s jaw. “I can hold my drink, darling… I shall gladly commandeer your ship. After all, all the good boys do love a sailor.”

“Oh, no. You’re not calling me that. I’m far too old for that.”

“Apologies, my Lord. Allow me to make it up to you later.”

“You’re unbelievable. How are you this riled up in such a publ– Nevermind. I don’t know why I asked.”

One hand moving to the inside of Rook’s thigh, Emmrich says, “Truly, dearest, you should know by now that you married an insatiable old man.”

“Really? I thought I married a gentleman of middle age.”

“I must note that ‘insatiable’ was rather the operative word.”

“How much did you have to drink?”

“I rather lost count after number six, I’m afraid.”

“Maker, alright. Who’s still here?”

“Taash, Myrna–... Davrin’s just left, I believe…”

“Right. People we see regularly enough. I think it might be time for me to take you home.”

“To have sex?” Emmrich asks hopefully.

Rook wonders if he could get away with sneaking a nap while Emmrich bounces in his lap. Between this morning’s exertions and the late hour, he’s dead on his feet. But then Emmrich bumps his nose into his cheek so sweetly, shaking with unceasing giggles, and Rook momentarily forgets how tired he is.

“Yeah, yeah. You can have your five minutes of functional bull riding before you fall asleep on top of me.”

“Thank you, darling.”

He sounds so earnest that it makes Rook laugh out loud, and he gives up on the piano for the night. 

It’s raining when they exit the tavern about twenty minutes later, Emmrich stumbling into Rook with every other step. There are no more carriages at this hour, and they’ll have to walk the entire way home. 

“This is dreadful,” Emmrich complains, wrapping both arms around Rook’s as they walk. “Can’t you cons– consh– conjure a portal for us?”

Thinking back to his conversation with Neve, Rook offers, “I can carry you, if you like.”

Emmrich, apparently, doesn’t need so much as a second to think about it. The moment Rook stops walking, he drapes himself across his back, arms around his shoulders. Rook lowers himself enough to take Emmrich’s legs and boost him all the way onto his back.

“Ridiculous. Your feet are only barely above the ground.”

“Mm… Hmm…” Emmrich is snickering to himself. “My precious Lordling.”

“Are you calling me short?”

“I’m calling you precious.”

“I think we should perhaps take the long way home,” Rook says cheerily, impervious to the rain thanks to his ring, “that seems like a fine idea.”

It’s becoming harder and harder to string coherent sentences together, but Emmrich makes a heroic effort anyway.

“Darling, it’s… late, and cold.”

“Then perhaps you should be nicer to the ‘prized mare’ that’s carrying you home.”

Emmrich instantly feels hot with shame. Shocked into a harrowing moment of sobriety, he says, “I’m so sorry, darling.”

“What? What for?”

“For– For implying that you’re… Female, in any way.”

Rook bursts out laughing, having to stop in the middle of the street lest he drop Emmrich to the mud below.

“Oh, fuck me… You’re fine, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it.”

“But–”

“Look,” Rook says as he continues walking, “since you’re plastered, I’ll keep it short–”

“I’m not–”

“If you’re trying to get me pregnant, and you’re nothing if not a stallion, then what am I but your brood mare?”

“But you’re not–... If… I object to the implication that… Ah…”

His jumbled thoughts roll about his skull like marbles carried on a breakfast plate. What is he trying to say?

“You said something in the heat of the moment. Something that directly caused me to squirt all over your boots, mind. I think you’re fine, Emmrich.”

“But you’re not a woman…!”

“… Amatus, when it comes down to it, I’m not a horse either.”

After a prolonged silence, Emmrich mumbles, “... I’m still sorry, all the same.”

“Very well. I accept your apology. Please do it again next time.”

Silence passes between them. The rain continues to soak Emmrich even though Rook keeps up a steady pace towards the Necropolis. Emmrich’s mind wanders.

“We’d have beautiful children,” he mumbles, unsure whether or not he’s sad they’ll never have them.

Rook has thought about this enough to agree. “I know.”

“But I… I like our life.”

“Me, too.”

“And you’ve given me… I can’t begin to describe…”

“You don’t have to. I know.”

“No, I must… It’s important to be grateful.”

“I know you’re grateful, sweetheart. I do.”

“And how did you… I sent out inquiries, I…”

“You did what you thought would return the most trustworthy results, and they were.”

“But they were so… limited.”

“Official channels often are. It’s why we as Shadow Dragons don’t tend to use them.”

“So what did you do?”

“A lot of legwork. Talking to people. Visiting places your parents used to visit. Most of your mother’s sheet music came from the tavern. Turns out Marie’s father had kept it in a box somewhere after she passed. Marie didn’t know about it until she started emptying out the attic for the expansion.”

“And the lullaby…?”

Rook chuckles softly. “That came from your personal collection.”

“I… What?”

“Horace found it when he tuned the piano last autumn. There’s a custom-made compartment underneath the lid. Why, I have no idea, but that’s where she kept her sheet music.”

But Emmrich knows the reason. Their roof leaked. The underside of a piano lid was probably one of few places where she could guarantee they’d be safe and dry no matter how bad it got. Maybe his father made that compartment for her. The piano itself, Emmrich learned today, had been a gift from Marie’s father. It was his old tavern piano, which was replaced by the current one that Rook played today. 

“I… I had no idea.”

“Keeping it under my hat was the hardest part.”

“Mmm… You’ve deceived me, darling.”

“So I have. I’m sorry.”

“You must… Make it up to me.”

Rook has an inkling of how Emmrich would like him to do that. “What would you have me do?”

“I shall… I shall think on it.”

“Oh. Here I thought you were going to ask me to fuck you.”

“I– Yes, obviously, but how–”

They’re nearing the Necropolis. Rook chuckles softly and says, “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

Once inside, Emmrich wisely keeps his mouth shut as he’s carried home. Rook only lets him stand on his own two wobbly feet when they reach their door, one arm keeping him upright while his other hand unlocks the door. 

“Alright. C’mon.”

Manfred greets them from the living room, where he’s sitting on the floor as he practices his less flammable magic. 

“Hello!”

“Hi, Manfred. Did everything make it home okay?” Rook asks, trying to get Emmrich’s coat off but greatly impeded by the many, many kisses he’s demanding.

“Yes!”

It’s difficult to navigate their flat with Emmrich clinging to him as if he’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing. Emmrich is lavishing his neck with sloppy, wine-drunk kisses as Rook tries to get him a glass of water. Ideally, if he can manage it, with a few drops of healing potion mixed in for what is certain to be a dramatic hangover tomorrow morning. 

“I love you,” Emmrich whispers, his voice hushed with passion as he clumsily attempts to undo the buttons on Rook’s shirt, “I love you, I– Let me love you, dearest darling–”

If Rook weren’t so tired, he would’ve folded long ago. “Mind where we are, amatus. You can have your fun after you’ve had this. Come on, sit down. Let me take your boots off.”

Emmrich begrudgingly drinks his water while Rook kneels before him and gets to work on his boots. He can barely keep his gaze focused on him at all, his vision swimming, but Rook somehow seems to get closer and closer, until–

Rook pushes him back upright against the chair with one arm, laughing.

“And you wanted ‘relations’ tonight. You should be glad to find your way to bed, I think.”

“We… Shall see.”

“I’m sure we shall,” Rook agrees, pulling one boot off and getting started on the other. “Drink.”

Emmrich’s eyes drift across the room, drowsily taking everything in. Then, his eye falls to Albrecht’s gift, stashed up against the back of the sofa. When Rook takes his other boot off, he rises to his feet and - using every piece of furniture along the way to support himself - makes his way over until he can sit down in front of it. After a moment, Rook sits down beside him, giving up on getting Emmrich to drink his water.

“Go on, then,” Rook says, smiling softly.

Hands trembling against the wrapping paper, Emmrich asks, “Have you… seen it?”

“I have, when I first visited Albrecht.”

“I still can’t… I never knew father painted.”

“According to Albrecht, he only painted a few pieces after you were born. Until his paint ran out.”

And then they had another mouth to feed, and no more money for such a thing. Needing to see what his father left behind, he tears the paper until the picture reveals itself. 

Flowers. A vast sea of them contained within an idyllic meadow. A pastoral little scene of a bright, late afternoon, the sun setting over a field of shockingly blue flowers. Rook reaches behind the frame and retrieves the note Albrecht had mentioned.

“Careful,” he says as he places it in Emmrich’s hands, “it’s very fragile.”

Already blubbering, Emmrich blinks the tears from his eyes and reads:

 

Albrecht,

 

For all that you Nevarran dogs are renowned for your art, you simply don’t have the land to paint to make it worth looking at. 

This meadow bloomed every year in spring. A stone’s throw away from the village. I’m sure the legions burned it down. There’s no beauty worth preserving in the eyes of the king’s bloodhounds. 

I’ve never seen them grow anywhere else. Part of me hopes they still grow there. The last remains of my home, rising from the ashes once every year to bloom and die again. 

Thank you for all you’ve done. For introducing me to Nora.

 

Rupert

 

Rook rubs Emmrich’s back as he sobs his heart out. Between the evening's copious drinks and reading the only words his father left behind in this world, there’s no stopping the deluge of tears. Manfred gets up and joins them on Emmrich’s other side, leaning into his dad and hissing softly. Emmrich wraps his arms around Rook and Manfred both. The unconditional, wholesome support of his family only makes Emmrich cry harder, until he’s got snot running from his nose and saliva dripping onto his trousers. 

Sniffling, hiccuping, he finally turns his gaze to Rook. Drunk and bunged up, he mutters a few incomprehensible half-words and sags against him. Rook tries not to laugh: it’s unkind, but he’s having trouble keeping his smile in check. Emmrich’s rarely this discomposed.

“Alright?” he asks softly, squeezing Emmrich against him. 

After a few seconds, when Emmrich’s processed what he’s being asked, he nods.

“Ready for bed?”

Another nod. Rook helps him to his feet and slowly walks him to the bedroom, Manfred supporting him from the back until they’re past the threshold.

“Goodnight,” he hisses, evidently still a little worried.

Rook sits Emmrich down on their bed and gets to work on unbuttoning his shirt. When Emmrich looks up, all teary-eyed and his face splotchy with grief, Rook can’t help himself and steals a small kiss.

“Y-you shouldn’t… Kiss me,” Emmrich mumbles, wiping his face on his sleeves, “I’mn– n-not… clean.”

Rook smiles at him, wiping another tear from the corner of his eye. “Sweetheart, I had half my tongue in your arsehole this morning.”

“Roo- hic- ook!”

“Yes?”

“C-crude!”

“But true. Besides, what sort of husband would I be if a bit of snot and spit scared me off?”

Emmrich doesn’t argue. Can’t, really, what with how badly the world is spinning around him.

“Oh dear,” Rook says, rushing to the bathroom for a bucket. He makes it back in the nick of time, and spends the next several hours making sure Emmrich doesn’t get sick on himself. 

“‘I can hold my drink,’” Rook mutters to himself as he’s emptying the bucket again. He cleans it out, again, and carries it back to the bedroom, again. As he sits down on his side of the bed, Emmrich groans miserably and reaches out to touch a finger to Rook’s arm.

“Thank you, darling,” he rasps, pitifully pale and slightly sweaty.

“Sleep, amatus. I’ll clean you up properly in the morning.”

“Mm…”

Rook settles against his propped-up pillows and closes his eyes. He’ll get at most another twenty minutes before Emmrich’s stomach starts protesting again. It’s been nothing but bile for the past two hours, but that hasn’t stopped his body from trying to expel the poison all the same. 

“I’m sorry,” Emmrich then says, earnestly rueful.

“For?”

“Ruining a… perfect night.”

Chuckling, Rook says, “Crying and throwing up have historically been part of some of my best nights. Don’t worry about it.”

“I should… I’d…”

“Hmm?”

“My father’s village… The meadow… I’d like to go there.”

“A perfect destination for your next sabbatical.”

Emmrich nods, weakly. “With you.”

“We’ll have to see if I can also get the time off–”

“No point…” Emmrich sighs, finally feeling slumber digging its claws into him, “if it’s not with you…”

Rook mightily disagrees, but he won’t speak against Emmrich’s wishes. Not when he won’t remember them in the morning, anyway. 

Not to mention, he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Chapter 12: Autumn III

Notes:

And that's the end of it! Not of this series, of course. By the end of this I'm sure you can all see which direction we're going in for the next fic.

I hope you guys will enjoy this, even if it is sad. Once again I promise they won't be sad forever.

Thank you for reading, and thanks for all the comments on this fic. You've said some lovely things and I hope you'll share your thoughts again <3

“This is stupid,” Rook grumbles as they approach the Archon Palace’s principal ballroom, “I never should’ve let you and Dorian talk me into this.”

The evening of the dreaded soirée has finally arrived. Rook and Emmrich are dressed in the finest clothes they own - as is everyone else in attendance - and all they have to do tonight is not stand out for all the wrong reasons. Ideally not for the right reasons, either. As far as Rook is concerned, they make the necessary small talk and then sneak off into the night somewhere. Emmrich has spent the past several days buttering him up, assuring and reassuring him that he'll never leave his side, and that showing up once a year in order to continue being a force of good is worth it. Now that they're finally here, Rook wants nothing more than to turn tail and go right back home.

Emmrich squeezes his arm and says, “Think of all the good you’ve done, darling. All the good you’ll continue to do. The unpleasantness of this evening will be forgotten before you know it.”

“I hate this. I always have and I always will. Even Dorian’s best attempts to turn this showing of the magisterium’s finest parade horses into a party can’t make me like it.”

“Truly? I should’ve thought that, given your recently acquired equine disposition, you’d be more excited.”

Rook’s lips twitch, a smile tugging valiantly at the corners of his mouth.

“I thought you felt very sorry about that.”

“One’s regrets can only stretch so far in the face of your boundless enthusiasm.”

“Let me know when you’re ready to call me a bitch.”

Emmrich’s cheeks flush hot with indignation. “I beg your pardon…! I’d never – I cannot think of a thing more inappropriate.”

Rook’s shoulders shake with poorly restrained laughter. Emmrich shuts his mouth and realises he’s being joshed. He should let Rook have his fun: he’s wound tight like a spring. As they stand before the double doors and Emmrich takes Rook’s arm, he can feel how tense he is. His jaw set, eyes staring stubbornly ahead. Trying to force his way through it as if he’s nothing but a battering ram.

“Last time I was at a magisterium soirée,” Rook says softly, “I was seventeen, and I had an entirely different man on my arm. He was about your age though, at the time.”

No matter how he tries to make light of it, Emmrich’s stomach twists into knots every time he thinks about it. Maybe pushing Rook to do this wasn't his finest idea, after all.

Continuing, Rook says, “I was introduced first, as my House was of a higher station, and he was introduced as my betrothed. We danced one dance together, because we had to for appearance’s sake, I imagine. We spent the rest of the evening sitting off to the side until it was time for him to take me home. Dreadfully boring, but at least my dear Lord father wasn’t shouting at me.”

Sometimes, Emmrich remembers Vediovis’ letter, and the way nobody was truly brave enough to save Rook. How every little kindness bestowed upon him had to be cloaked somehow, veneered until it was no longer recognisable as such. Incomprehensibly cruel. He will never understand how every last one of the adults surrounding him at that young age failed him so spectacularly.

“Honestly, Emmrich,” Rook says, swallowing, “why are we here?”

“Because, as you say, you are the magisterium’s foremost parade horse. I do believe it’s something to do with you saving the world.”

Rook grunts, unable to deny as much.

“But we’ll go home as soon as we’ve done the bare minimum?” he asks, hopefully.

Emmrich takes his hand from his arm and kisses it. “I promise.”

“There’s something else you need to promise me.”

“What’s that, darling?”

“Promise me that halfway through this godsforsaken evening you’ll sneak me off somewhere and fuck me.”

Tutting and rolling his eyes, Emmrich says, “Really, Rook.”

“What?”

Then, he looks at Rook with a small smile on his face. “Perhaps you’d also like me to promise you that we’ll sleep in the same bed tonight? That I’ll bid you goodnight with a kiss, and that the sun will rise tomorrow?”

The doors open, and Rook is certain he’s never greeted this room with a bigger smile.

It’s as extravagant as Rook remembers, albeit more tasteful. Floating planters, candles, the enchanted ceiling; its excess at its most elegant, courtesy of Dorian’s taste, no doubt. 

Dorian announces their arrival personally, as good personal friends as well as the heroes of Minrathous. Politely restrained applause follows, and Rook takes Emmrich off to the side as soon as it’s appropriate to do so. 

“Right,” he says, looking around the room, “we’re expected to make the rounds, I think. Even Dorian can’t change the bloody magisterium and its ancient traditions in a year.”

“To what end, precisely?”

“Showing our faces, primarily. Convincing everyone that I deserve to have my seat. In spite of the fact that I don’t want it and couldn’t care less if this entire palace went up in flames tomorrow.”

“A waste of the fortune you spent restoring it, to be sure,” Emmrich remarks drily, looking out the window and up at the tower outside. Still in scaffolding, even after all these months.

Rook follows his gaze and scoffs, “Only for them to not even finish it in time.”

“In fairness, dearest, you were the one to bring it down in the first place.”

“Yes, and the rubble almost crushed a god to death.”

“But not quite.”

“Doesn’t sound nearly as good in the papers, does it?”

They smile at each other, both aware that they’re stalling for time. Rook takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, steeling his resolve.

“I should probably warn you.”

“I was wondering when you might.”

“There’s more of my family here than just the people we like.”

“Oh?”

“I have a lot of cousins. They’re not all terrible, but…”

“Only most.”

“Yeah, most of them are.”

“I’ll follow your lead, darling.”

“Shame. I was hoping to see you rolling up your sleeves and getting into a fistfight over my honour tonight.”

Emmrich hums contemplatively, then says, “There are other ways to make one’s adversaries realise the error of their ways.”

“‘Adversaries,’ huh? Are you going to haunt them the way you haunted that merchant?”

“I’ve not the faintest idea what you’re referring to, dearest.”

Rook laughs and squeezes Emmrich’s arm. 

“I’d give anything to be anywhere else with you right now. But since I have to be here, I’m glad you’re here with me.”

“My place is by your side, Rook,” Emmrich replies emphatically, “always.”

“When you say things like that it makes me want to tear the clothes right off you. You know that, yes?”

Emmrich’s answering smile tells him all he needs to know, and they set upon their rounds about the room.

They’re scarcely ten seconds into an interaction with what is purportedly Rook’s least favourite cousin when Emmrich feels the instinct to pummel the man into the floor. His name is Darius, and he looks every bit the rich, pompous Tevinter noble that Emmrich imagined encountering this evening. The man in question appears to have taken it upon himself to ensure that Emmrich won’t leave here tonight without an even worse opinion of nobles and nobility than he already has.

“Why ‘Rook?’” he asks, swirling a well-decanted wine inside his glass as if it needs it.

“I like birds,” Rook answers calmly. 

“Hm. It’s not a very strong name.”

“It’s short. Easy to remember. You knew my name before I got here.”

“Perhaps,” Darius concedes, tilting his head. He regards Rook through a monocle so thoroughly stained that he can’t possibly be seeing much of anything. “Well, you never were a very pretty girl.”

Shockingly rude. Emmrich finds himself staring at the man with his mouth agape in bafflement. How dare he? 

Rook, on the other hand, cheerfully replies, “Thank you.”

“And I assume you’ve had all the work done? Given that you seem to have… lost some of your former, finer attributes.” With a chuckle, he adds, “And gained some less desirable ones.”

Emmrich takes one step forward. Rook tightly holds on to his arm to keep him by his side.

“Do you want to see, Darius?” Rook asks, his voice perfectly neutral. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had your nose up my skirt, after all. It’ll be like old times.”

Emmrich’s head snaps to the left, eyes bulging at Rook. 

At that, Darius’ bloated face rapidly changes colour. “I… uh…”

“You’re unmarried still, aren’t you?” Rook then asks. “A word of advice: a family tree is not a list of candidates.”

With that, they move on to the next group, leaving a sputtering Darius behind. Emmrich is speechless. Eventually, he asks, “Did he really–?”

“Yes. We were teenagers at the time.”

Rook’s jaw is set, his eyes staring straight ahead. 

“Darling, are you…?”

“I’m fine.”

They stop walking at the same time. Rook’s teeth worry at the inside of his lip. Emmrich lays his hand over Rook’s where it rests in the crook of his arm.

“Say the word, my darling,” Emmrich says softly, “and I’ll take you home this instant. You do not owe these people your presence. I was… This is too high a price to pay.”

“We have to at least make it through the first dance,” Rook insists, “after that… We’ll see.”

“When’s the first dance?”

“After Dorian’s speech.”

“Which is…?”

“After all the guests have arrived. Which, as magisters enjoy being fashionably late, could potentially be in about two hours.”

Emmrich looks around the room, already teeming with people, and frowns.

“You can’t possibly fit more people in this ballroom.”

“It’s likely only a handful of guests we’re still missing. People whose arrival is so singularly important to them that it therefore can’t possibly happen when anyone else is also arriving.”

“I truly wasn't expecting this evening to raise my estimation of the Nevarran nobility,” Emmrich mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. “Very well, where to next?”

None of Rook’s cousins, except the ones they’re now in regular contact with, prove even the slightest improvement upon Darius. Emmrich keeps his hands behind his back to hide the fact that they are perpetually balled into fists.

“Whatever happened to the former Lord Vediovis?” one asks, whose name Emmrich swiftly decided not to bother trying to remember.

Rook easily answers, “He lives in Rivain now, from what I know.”

“Ah. Old boy ran with his tail between his legs after you jilted him, eh?”

He’s barely opened his mouth to answer when Emmrich beats him to it.

“Do you share the late Lord Mercar’s affinity for child brides?”

It’s a strange sensation, to feel Emmrich’s magic pouring out of his skin. Like the ice breaking on an old well, frigid water running over. Rook estimates he’s seconds away from doing something terribly inadvisable. His cousin, none the wiser, regards Emmrich with steady curiosity.

“No,” the man responds, earnestly enough, “but it would seem that my dear cousin has kept his affinity for older gentlemen.”

“Good talk,” Rook says immediately, sounding vaguely bored. “I think we’re due some punch, amatus.”

It takes more effort than expected to drag Emmrich away from him than he anticipated. As Emmrich is devising a way by which he might make that man’s blood freeze in his veins out of sheer fright, Rook pulls him over to the comically large, crystal punch bowl. Rook ladles a hefty spoonful into a glass for each of them and gives one to Emmrich before downing his own in one go. Emmrich follows suit.

“Alright?” Rook asks, eyes darting about the room and wondering if the evening could somehow get any worse.

Emmrich straightens his vest and puts his glass back on the table. The mere implication that he is at all like Vediovis makes him want to engulf the man in Veilfire, but Rook was wise to take him away. He can’t let these… rich, spoiled cretins get to him. Certainly not at the cost of Rook’s reputation.

“There’s a rather persistent itching in my hands. Nothing to concern yourself with, darling.”

“Now do you understand why I didn’t mind taking part in the duels that much, back when I was a kid?”

“I do. I rather believe you were too soft on them. Were they always this… boorish?”

Rook snorts and says, “Uh… They used to be much worse. The only reason Dorian allows them here at all is because they do decent work and have chosen to unlearn the worst of what their parents taught them.”

Emmrich finds himself staring into space for a moment as he considers it.

“I can’t imagine.”

“There might be duels tonight,” Rook then says, pointing at a couple of magisters in the distance whose magic is already sparking above the crowd. “Sanctioned or not. Magisters and drink usually means there’ll be a contest or two.”

“At the risk of sounding rather unkind, I implore you to grind your more unsavoury cousins into dust beneath your heel.”

“Maker, if you’d talked to me like that during the war we never would’ve gotten anything done.”

In spite of all there is to loathe this evening, Emmrich finds himself smiling.

“Truth be told, dearest, I don’t think I would’ve minded getting less done if it meant talking to you more back then.”

Wrapping an arm around him and settling his hand on his waist, Rook gives Emmrich’s side a little squeeze.

“‘Talking,’ hm?”

“Among other things,” Emmrich says. He takes a deep breath, feeling the tension slowly leaving his body.

Rook strokes his back. “Feel better?”

“A bit.”

“You sure? There won’t be an incident when the next one inevitably implies you’re with the family’s ugly duckling who fled the nest to philander with the elderly?”

“Your engagement was never legitimate. Therefore, you didn’t philander,” Emmrich grumbles stubbornly. “But much more importantly, I…”

He stops himself. Should he tell Rook this?

“What?”

Emmrich considers his options and sighs softly. Rook has never held his honesty against him, so far.

“They appear to be unaware of the fact that I’ve seen your portraits. You were far too young for me to say anything untoward, but I’ll say this: from the way you looked in your late teenage years, it was quite clear you were always going to be a vision, darling. No matter which route you’d set upon as an adult.”

Rook’s eyebrows rise considerably. There’s a twinkle in his eyes.

“Are you saying you think I was a pretty girl?”

“I–... I feared my saying so would be offensive, but–”

“No, no. That’s alright. It’s sweet,” Rook says, standing on his toes to kiss Emmrich’s cheek. As they stare at the crowd together for a moment, he abruptly adds, “It’s a shame they made me so unhappy. I had gorgeous tits.”

It shocks a laugh out of Emmrich. “Did you?”

“Yeah. Huge. Gave me lots of grief and back pain. Impossible to bind away without hurting myself… You get the picture.”

“I do. If you don’t mind my saying so, I find your chest most… alluring as it is.”

“Oh, I know. Don’t think I can’t tell where you’re aiming when I’ve got you in my lap, amatus.”

Emmrich clears his throat and straightens himself. “I shan’t apologise.”

“Nor would I ever ask you to. You haven’t answered my question.”

“Forgive me. You were saying?”

“There won’t be an incident?”

“Darling, I somehow endured both encounters with your parents with a relatively cool head. I should think your cousins can’t do worse.”

Rook, doubtful but accepting of the consequences, smiles up at him. “Okay.”

About five minutes later, they’re greeted by welcome, cold evening air out on the balcony. Emmrich marches over to the bannister immediately and spreads his hands on it, the cold stone doing very little to calm him down. Rook saunters behind him, turns around, and sits on the edge. For a moment, he simply enjoys the wind blowing through his hair. 

When Emmrich doesn’t speak, he asks, “Didn’t like Julius?”

He watches as Emmrich’s jaw clenches. Given that he just expended his magic to temporarily sew the man’s mouth shut, evidently not. Maybe Rook shouldn’t find that arousing, but he does.

“Rook.”

“I know. He’s a cunt.”

Emmrich pinches the bridge of his nose. “Must you entertain their inappropriate questions every time?”

“It’s easier if I do. It bores them. They’re trying to get a rise out of me. Give me an excuse to, as you said, grind them into dust.”

After a pause, he chuckles and says, “But I don’t think they expect you to step in. The look on his face–”

“It’s not funny, Rook.”

“It’s a little funny.”

Sighing, Emmrich turns around and sits down next to Rook.

“Why are they taunting you? Aren’t you all part of the magisterium?”

“Well, yes, but I’m… Look, Dorian lets me get away with not doing my duties as a magister because I give him a lot of money–”

“And because you’re friends.”

“Yes, but more importantly, because I’m a convenient ambassador to have. We have connections with other nations. It’s a role that potentially holds a lot of sway and power. They don’t like me having that.”

“But you make no effort whatsoever to use any of it.”

“No, but they don’t know that. They assume I’m like… the next Inquisitor.”

“Which I’m sure Dorian wouldn’t appreciate.”

“No, not at all. Trust me, if the Inquisitor had been Tevene, he would’ve made her his right hand straight away.”

“Had she not joined Solas in the Fade, of course. I do wonder how they’re getting on, those two.”

“Famously. Inquisitor Lavellan confided in me back then that they’d never been intimate. Whatever corner of the Fade they’re in, all they’re manifesting the coming years are beds and meadows to roll around in.”

Emmrich sighs, deflated. “To think I very nearly made us suffer the same fate…”

“What, breaking us up before we had sex?”

Even now that they’re married, with their new wedding rings safely stashed in the nightstand on Emmrich’s side of Rook’s bed in his family home, thinking back on that argument still makes him cringe.

“I’ll regret what I said that night until the end of my days, Rook.”

“No need. You’ve long since made up for it.”

“Have I?”

Rook takes his hand and pulls until Emmrich is standing between his legs, towering over him. With a finger hooked through his locket chain, Rook pulls him down for a kiss.

“Yes, you have. I don’t even remember what you said back then.”

“Rook–”

Another kiss. “I remember what happened after, though.”

“We’re quite in view of the other magisters, darling, I…” Emmrich protests, even as he plants his hands on either side of Rook and leans him back as they kiss. “Mm… Perhaps…”

Slipping his hands into Emmrich’s coat, Rook squeezes his waist. “Perhaps what, amatus?”  

“It’s occurred to me that now might be as fine a time as any to find a secluded spot for us to have… a quiet moment to ourselves.”

Sincerely doubting they’ll be quiet but more than willing to play along all the same, Rook says, “The evening can hardly get much worse. We might as well make it better.”

Emmrich does feel a little bad. A year ago, Rook had told him that he could survive one night a year so long as he had Emmrich on his arm. What Emmrich hadn’t considered at the time was that ‘survive’ wasn’t nearly the euphemism he took it for. Rook is suffering, all the while trying to keep his head high and managing to do so with remarkable aplomb, as far as Emmrich’s concerned. As his husband, the least he can do is ease his pain.

He leans in further, kissing Rook’s temple, his hairline, the shell of his ear, and whispers, “I fear I’ve rather neglected to tell you that you look enchanting this evening, my darling Rook.”

Leaning back, he looks Rook over once more, as he has many times this evening already. Aside from the very fine set of dark robes he’s wearing, accented with greens and golds to match Emmrich’s own, he’s decked out in jewellery that Emmrich selected for the occasion. A set of bangles around each wrist, a few extra rings from his personal collection, and an elaborate hairpiece that strongly resembles a crown of flowers. He’ll have to be mindful of it when he whisks Rook away for a bit of fun: its beauty is only matched by its fragility.

“You know you don’t need to flatter me,” Rook responds, tilting his head back when Emmrich leans down again to kiss his neck.

“I’m not. In fact, one could argue I’m rather stating the obvious.”

Rook chuckles and gently pushes Emmrich back. “You’re giving all of these… terrible, terrible magisters quite the show.”

“And you’d prefer we keep it to ourselves, just this once?” 

“You’ve still not forgiven me for making you come in the library, have you?”

“I didn’t – I shan’t waste my breath on this debate again, darling.”

“No, you’re right. Your precious breath is needed elsewhere this evening.”

With a last kiss to Rook’s lips, Emmrich straightens himself. “Where might we find a suitable ‘broom closet?’”

“Delighted as I am to see your standards lowered, I think we can do better than that. There’s a gorgeous painting on the second floor. How about I take you for some sightseeing?”

Emmrich waits for Rook to take his arm before he says, “Lead the way.”

They make their way through the crowd as leisurely as possible. The last thing they want is more gossip, or for anyone to follow them. They spend a few minutes at the painting, making idle conversation about the artist, the depiction of the battle on the canvas, the quality of the brush strokes, etcetera. Only when they find themselves alone out on the gallery does Rook lead them to an innocuous looking section of the wall. Making sure they’re truly alone one last time, he waves his hand and reveals a door, quickly sneaking them both inside before reapplying the illusion.

“Dare I ask how you knew this was here?” Emmrich asks, slightly baffled to find himself inside of a small but well furnished bedroom. 

“Oh, I think you’re clever enough to figure that out yourself, sweetheart.”

Maybe he can. Properly taking Rook into his arms, Emmrich gently rubs their noses together. Soft and tender kisses follow. It’s much lazier than he’d imagined this would be, not nearly as rushed nor as feverish. He walks them backwards towards the bed and carefully takes out Rook’s hairpiece, laying it on the nightstand behind him. Leaving the rest of the jewellery, he runs his hands through Rook’s long, soft locks and gently scratches the back of his scalp. 

Beautiful, he thinks as Rook’s eyelids flutter shut and he sighs with pleasure. Rook waxes poetic about his beauty at every opportunity, but Emmrich conversely finds he's sometimes speechless. Diction and language at large occasionally fail him, swallowed whole by the depth of his desire for Rook. With the tension finally gone from his face and his plush lips reddened from their kisses, now is one such time.

“Darling…”

Rook briefly opens his eyes, only to see where his hands are as he pulls Emmrich back in for another kiss, falling to the bed and taking Emmrich with him. The bed feels the same, the room looks the same. The man couldn’t be more different. Nostalgia eludes him in favour of appreciation for the present moment, with Emmrich hot and willing in his arms.

“We might not have much time,” he says, gasping when Emmrich bites and sucks at his neck, slow and deliberate with teeth and tongue and lips. “Oh, Maker–”

Emmrich sighs a long, languid breath, and asks, “What could be more important than this?”

“Not a matter of importance, but – oh!” He bites his lip when Emmrich’s thumbs press and rub against his nipples. “B-but we’re expected to dance.”

Rolling his hips, Emmrich presses his hard cock up against Rook’s thigh.

“Is this not dancing, my love?”

Rook laughs and arches into Emmrich. “Not the s-sort I’d do in front of Dorian and my cousins, no.”

“A fair point,” Emmrich concedes, finally undoing the first of Rook’s many layered robes. Each new fabric brings with it the excitement of knowing what lies beneath, until he finally gets his mouth on Rook’s naked chest. 

“Truly, don’t m-mean to rush you,” Rook stammers as Emmrich lavishes his chest and stomach with kisses and nips of his teeth, “but I have to spend the rest of this awful evening in these–” He wiggles his hips to indicate his trousers and underwear. “So… Kindly get me out of them.”

Emmrich’s quiet chuckle fans out against Rook's chest hair, but his fingers curl around his waistband all the same. He pulls them down as far as they’ll go, impeded by his boots. Satisfied with Rook's trousers dangling around his ankles, Emmrich crawls back up, kissing his way up his soft, thick thighs. 

“They’re quite safe, my darling,” he whispers, kissing the bulge of Rook’s stomach, then his mound. “Though the same cannot be said for your robes, nor these sheets. How excited you are already…”

He’s hauled up by his coat collar before his tongue ever meets with its prize. Rook’s plea to be kissed barely leaves his lips before Emmrich is on him, his hands on that dear face, kissing until he’s breathless with it. 

“I want–” Rook says, interrupted by another kiss and his own impatience. He rolls Emmrich onto his back and, clumsily, struggling greatly with his trousers around his ankles, gets between his legs to undo the row of buttons beneath Emmrich’s waistband. “I’ve wanted to do this from the moment you put these on. Fuck, you’re stunning. I can’t believe you’re real half the damned time.”

Emmrich chuckles bashfully and raises his hips enough for Rook to pull his pants halfway down his thighs. In the next second, before he’s so much as had a chance to take a breath, Rook’s mouth is on his cock, and all he’d intended to say simply slips from his mind. Leaning back on his elbows, he watches, rapt, as Rook sucks his cock, teases the glans with his tongue, kisses the shaft, licks and teases until he’s twitching in Rook’s hand. He knows very well that Rook enjoys this as much as he does. That he listens for every sigh, every gasp, every whisper of his name as he pleases Emmrich. So he tries to hold out, to let Rook have his fun for as long as he can take it. But when Rook looks up at him through his lashes just before he takes him deep into his throat, he shudders and runs his fingers through Rook’s hair. 

“O-oh darling,” he moans, gasping softly when Rook pulls off, “will you let me have you?”

As if he has to ask, Rook thinks with a smile. “Any way you want me, amatus.”

“How fortunate that any and all ways of making love to you are equally splendiferous, my sweet. Come here, lie down for me.”

With his robes bunched up and spread out behind him, Rook is sure he looks ridiculous to anyone but Emmrich. But his husband, of course, takes him into his arms with the sort of reverence he’s only ever witnessed other people holding for a god. He’s kissed as if he’s singularly precious, and when Emmrich pushes deep inside, he sighs with profound satisfaction. 

“At last,” Emmrich whispers, thrusting slowly, “finally… What I wouldn’t give, my sweet, to not have to leave this room again this evening.”

“I told you it’d be miserable,” Rook replies, hushed. He gasps and tilts his head back, moaning when Emmrich lifts his legs around his waist. They’re utterly trapped in their clothes, sweating, flushed and rumpled – it’s perfect. “Are you – mnh – are you eating your words yet?”

Emmrich huffs a laugh and nips at Rook’s bottom lip. “I am. I am, darling. How foolish of me to have ever doubted you.”

“Mm, very f-foolish – oh gods, yeah–”

“Allow me to make it up to you,” he says, thrusting deeper. Rook gasps for him with every long, slow stroke of his cock, whining when he hits the very back of the canal and pain mixes with pleasure. “My beautiful Rook, my darling, my – oh, my love…”

“S-so good, p-please, faster–”

Slowly losing himself in Rook, so much so that he cannot oblige, he whispers, “I shall think of nothing else but this all night. From the way you take me to your cries of ecstasy, darling, you shall occupy my every thought.”

“Sweet talker,” Rook murmurs, chasing the compliment with a heated kiss. “I love you, even if being here was mostly your idea.”

There’s a smile on his face, and his eyes crinkle with mirth. Emmrich touches their foreheads together before kissing him once more. 

“I shall take full responsibility.”

“Yeah, you’d better. Put your back into it while you’re at it, won’t you? I might not forgive you if you don’t – oh – yeah, like that – fuck!”

For all that Emmrich had intended to take his time, there’s not much he can do to stop Rook from digging his heels into his back and demanding that he give him more, give it faster, harder, deeper. He’s only a man, and even a man of great restraint has his limits.

“Darling–” he gasps, rhythm faltering. He’s helpless, drowning, falling – it’s pure bliss, intensified tenfold when he’s pulled into another searing hot kiss.

“Come inside of me,” Rook urges him breathlessly, “please, I want you to fill me properly–”

“B-but… y-you said–”

Rook grins and clenches his cunt around Emmrich, drawing forth a broken, shuddering groan. 

“You’ll clean me up after, won’t you?”

Oh, Maker. Emmrich moans loudly and buries himself deep inside. He’s throbbing, so very close to coming, but he doesn’t want it to end. Doesn’t want to have to go back out to a vast sea of people, most of whom actively make Rook unhappy. He wants to stay here, tangled together as one with the man he loves so ardently. 

“O-Of course, I–”

“Come for me, sweetheart,” Rook purrs, rolling his hips and disallowing Emmrich his moment of respite, “let me feel you come… Nhg… That’s it– Mmh!”

Emmrich moans his pleasure into Rook’s mouth, his whole body shuddering as he spends himself deep inside. Rook keeps grinding up against him, demanding more from him until he’s too sensitive to keep going. When his cock begins to soften, he parts from Rook with one last kiss before moving down his body. Rook’s hand is in his hair even before he gets his mouth on him, and tightens the second he laps at the seed spilling from his cunt. It’s divine, delectable. An exquisite delicacy that he doesn’t savour nearly often enough. What could be sweeter than the nectar of their love? What could be more precious?

“R-right there,” Rook whispers, hips bucking, “f-fuck, right there – keep going– fuck–”

He teases two fingers along Rook’s cunt, feeling him quiver. Emmrich knows he wants nothing more than to have his fingers inside of him, to clench down on them and soak them down to his rings with his juices. Only when Rook’s clit goes rigid against his tongue and his breath hitches in his throat does Emmrich give in, pushing three fingers deep into his cunt and gently curling them. Rook clamps down on him like a vise, muffled cries of pleasure stifled only by the fist against his mouth.

Minutes later, when Emmrich has cleaned his face and Rook has pulled his pants back up and closed Emmrich’s for him, they hear Dorian’s magically boosted voice echoing up to the gallery. His grand, pointless opening speech to a soirée that’s been going on for hours already. 

“Shit,” Rook says, sighing.

“Surely we can afford to miss this,” Emmrich mumbles sleepily, wrapping his arms tighter around Rook. He yawns. It’s already late.

“We shouldn’t. Dorian doesn’t like long speeches. We’ll miss the dance.”

“Mmm… I’ve come to realise that I rather like dancing in close quarters with you.”

Rook knows Emmrich expects him to make a joke. To quip that their dancing requires a lot less clothes than what they’re about to do, and that an audience isn’t desired for that sort of dancing anyway. But the urge passes with ease, because Emmrich looks so happy, so content that he forgets to do what’s expected of him. He whispers, “I love you. I… I’m not glad we’re here, but I’m glad I’m with you.”

Emmrich kisses him, lingering, terribly reluctant to part. 

“I love you, too, darling… and next year, I shall endeavour to look much more menacing next to you.”

They laugh, noses bumping against each other as they seek the last moments of quiet, intimate affection they’re likely to get this evening. Eventually, they do get out of bed. Emmrich lovingly combs Rook’s hair with his fingers until it’s neat enough to put the hairpiece back in, while Rook fixes his rumpled clothes until he looks mostly presentable again. Then, he finds a bottle of perfume in the back of a cabinet in the room and quickly sprays both of them with it to mask the conspicuous scent of musk and sweat. Rushing down the stairs as casually as they can manage, they reach the ballroom near the tail end of Dorian’s speech.

“Rook!”

He knows that voice. After scanning the crowd, he finds Doris, Lydia and Thetis mere steps away from them. Relieved to finally see some friendly faces, they immediately move to stand by them.

“Where were you lot all night?” he hisses good-humouredly. “I’ve had to fend off our entire extended family in the meantime!”

“Kids,” Doris sighs apologetically. “Lily got sick before I left. I had to leave her with Tom.”

“Ah, shame. He’s not here?”

“No, bless him. Not that he’s sad to be missing any of this, mind.”

Thetis sniffs the air, then looks right at Rook with a knowing smile on his face.

“Someone’s spent some time in the guest room.”

Emmrich colours red all the way to his crown. Rook looks straight ahead.

“Shut up, Thetis.”

Lydia sighs and shakes her head. “Can’t believe they still keep that same scent up there.”

“Rook?” Emmrich asks quietly.

“Yes?”

“How many people are… aware of the meaning behind the perfume you’ve so kindly just doused us in?”

Rook shifts uncomfortably. “Some.”

“Within this crowd?”

“Oh, no,” Lydia reassures him sarcastically, “within this crowd, most everyone knows.”

Emmrich nods, immediately resigning himself to being gossip fodder for the rest of the night. “Marvellous.”

“Sorry,” Rook mutters. “I didn’t think it’d be that obvious.”

“It matters little, darling. There’s nothing in this world that could make me regret–… what happened. Besides,”

He squeezes Rook’s hand and smiles at him. “Gossip is the weapon of the envious.”

Rook’s answering smile is radiant, and his eyes full of promise. Emmrich can’t help himself and leans in, pressing a soft kiss to his temple as he whispers, “I love you. We’ll be home before you know it, dearest heart.”

“Gods, I hope so,” Rook answers earnestly, laying his head against Emmrich’s shoulder.

Lydia leans in and asks, “Leaving so soon?”

“Sooner if I could get away with it.”

“Mm. After-party at yours then?”

“Gods, no. I’m headed straight to bed.”

“Shame. Dor?”

Doris sighs. “I can’t. I should get home to Tom and the girls.”

Weighing in, Thetis says, “I’m sure they can miss you for a few hours.”

“Fine,” Doris says after a beat of silence, “but don’t let me near the mead.”

Emmrich chuckles softly. “I do believe everyone’s learned their lesson after last summer.”

Lydia snorts. Rook gently elbows Emmrich’s side, biting his lip and failing to hide his smile.

The dance, to Rook’s great surprise, is lovely. Maybe it shouldn’t be that surprising. Being in Emmrich’s arms is always a relief. Returning to the palace is not a homecoming, but stepping about the room with Emmrich is. So long as he’s with him, he’ll always belong somewhere, even here. 

“Careful, darling,” Emmrich says at one point, his cheek pressed to Rook’s and his voice like velvet in his ear, “I daresay you’re beginning to look as if you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Forgive me. I’ll do my best to look utterly miserable while you dance with me as if you’re trying to court me.”

“Aren’t I?”

“We’re married.”

“Ah. Do you imagine this means my pursuit of you has ceased?”

Rook laughs softly. “What is there still to pursue?”

“The next kiss,” Emmrich answers, pressing his lips to Rook’s jaw, “the next touch of your hand. I will spend my life chasing the words from your lips, anticipating every breath, and I shall do so with great pleasure.”

“Emmrich…”

“I’m terribly sorry that this evening has caused you such anguish, my darling. I hope I can make up for it, even if only in some small part.”

Rook’s hand squeezes his. “You have. It… It’s not so bad with you here. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Rook. With all that I am.”

They don’t let go when the dance ends. Emmrich’s hand remains on Rook’s waist as they leave the dance floor, and lingers there still when they go to say their goodbyes to Rook’s cousins. Finally, he thinks, they’ve made it through the night. Now all that remains is to return to Rook’s bedroom, sleep, have breakfast with Neve in the morning, and finally returning home to the Necropolis together with Manfred. Emmrich looks out of the window at the dark, overcast night sky, and wonders how Manfred is getting on with Neve.

“What do you think, amatus?”

Emmrich looks back at Rook. “I’m sorry, about what?”

Outside, a blinding flash of light. A spell misfiring during an elaborate show of force between two inebriated magisters of no particular renown. The winds are strong tonight. Had they not been, then the great, blazing ball of fire might’ve hit anything else but the one remaining tower still in disrepair. The moment of impact shakes the entire structure, rattling windows in their frames. The groan of bending and breaking steel as the scaffolding collapses sounds like thunder in the sky.

Inside, almost everyone notices too late. Rook is distracted, making plans and promises both to each of his cousins to visit soon. Yes, he’ll come see the triplets as soon as he can get away from the Necropolis for a few days again. Yes, of course he’ll bring Emmrich. Manfred too, if Thetis’ son can promise to leave his gems in his eye sockets this time. They should ask Lydia to come, too, but she’s on the other side of the ballroom. Yes, he’ll make sure to run it by her before they leave.

But Emmrich hears the crashing and breaking of stone before the rest of them do. As if he knows it’s coming, an awareness triggered by a memory that he’d give anything not to have, he looks up to see the ceiling caving in from the weight of the collapsing tower.

It all happens so fast. It has to, logically. Seconds at most, if that, even if it feels like minutes to Emmrich.

“Darling!”

Rook looks at him, alarmed, then up at the ceiling. His gaze darts frantically between his cousins, Emmrich and the other people in the room. Guilt. Emmrich is sure he saw the guilt in those eyes, the anguish. Rook’s hands come up, magic sparking between them, energy building and building until–

“Emmrich–”

Emmrich is launched backwards. The last thing he sees before he blacks out is the tower crashing through the ceiling and landing right on top of Rook, Doris, Thetis, and several other attendees. This floor, too, yields to the immense weight, sending both the rubble and the people underneath it falling to the ground floor below. Marble blocks from the shattered ceiling crash down into the ballroom, claiming gods know how many lives. There’s panicked screaming all around, Dorian’s voice rising above the rest to issue the evacuation order. Magic flashes, glass shatters. 

Seconds, but the world might as well have stopped turning. As Emmrich regains consciousness, the first thing he notices is that he can’t move. He can breathe, but only barely, and must do so through a mouthful of blood and dust. There’s an immense weight on his back, and his whole body aches. When he opens his eyes, he can’t make out the dark shapes before his eyes, only the faint colours of the ballroom in the background. 

His ears are ringing. An urgent call sounds above him, but he can’t make sense of the words the first three times.

“Professor!”

Blinking until his vision clears, he raises his head to see the figure kneeling before him. Dorian.

“Thank the Maker. Stay still. Rook will end me if I let you die. Amatus, if you please.”

“Got it,” sounds an as yet unfamiliar voice at his back. The weight is lifted, and Emmrich inhales a huge, desperate breath, only for his chest to constrict and force him into an agonising coughing fit.

“Easy…” Dorian says, inspecting the damage. “Let me help.”

“Rook–” Emmrich chokes out, memories rushing back to him with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. He tries to swallow and gags on the blood and grit stuck to his tongue. “Please– You have to help Rook–”

“Where is he?”

The only answer to that is: underneath the rubble on the ground floor. Buried beneath the unbearable weight of the stone, his body trapped and crushed. His voice betrays him; his tongue refuses to form the words. Can Rook still move? Do his lungs still draw breath? Does his heart still beat? The spark in Emmrich’s ring, Rook’s captured heartbeat, still beats. Would it stop if Rook ceased to live? Would he realise at all?

He stares, wide-eyed with horror, at the massive hole in the floor, still crumbling away. Dorian follows his gaze. His breath hitches in his throat, and he looks from Emmrich to the chasm, torn. 

“I’ll survive,” Emmrich rasps, weakly grabbing Dorian’s sleeve and pulling, “please.”

It’s a lie. Or at least, it’s not a certain truth. The damage is centred around his hips, his lower back, and possibly his spine. If severe enough, he might well perish here. His heart, undamaged but for its ceaseless bleeding for Rook, beats fiercely in his throat when Dorian dashes towards the hole and stops short of jumping in. Emmrich can’t see his face, can’t see the moment Dorian sees whatever is down there.

He stands, stock-still, on the edge. Then, he walks back. Emmrich can only barely hear what he’s saying when he speaks to The Iron Bull.

“Get everyone out,” Dorian instructs him, sounding grim, “and keep them out. Except–”

Lydia doesn’t say a word as she strides past with brisk, hastened steps. The click of her heels accentuates her hurried stride, the sound echoing through the enormous room.

Dorian, concluding his sentence, says, “for her.”

She levitates down to the floor below. Emmrich’s nails scrape against the stone floor with how badly he wants to follow her, but he can’t. Air wheezes painfully from his lungs past his lips, tacky and tasting of iron.

“You gonna be okay up here?” Bull asks.

“Yes. I’ll come outside when I know… When I know how many didn’t make it.”

Footsteps disappearing behind him. Dorian’s words echo in Emmrich’s ears like an explosion in a cave. Did nobody survive the fall through the floor?

Is Rook dead?

Dorian kneels by his side again. He tries to move his legs but feels such a sharp stab of pain in his spine that he cries out and has to stop. 

“Stay still,” Dorian repeats harshly, “you’ve broken– kaffas, who knows how many bones. It’s a miracle the spire didn’t cleave you right in half. Give me a bloody moment to stitch you back together.”

“Rook,” Emmrich sobs, gasping for breath, “Rook, I…”

“We’ll go the second you can stand, but you must stay still.”

They never should’ve come here. Didn’t he have that same thought a year ago, stuck on the blighted rooftop of Rook’s home? Another thing he encouraged Rook to do that he shouldn’t have. This time, it might’ve cost him his life. He should’ve taken Rook home the second he looked uncomfortable, which was before they’d even made it through the doors to the ballroom. All evening, Rook has told him that his presence here made it bearable, but that’s as far as he went. It was miserable, he was miserable. 

And now this. They could’ve stayed home in Nevarra with Manfred, safely tucked away in their corner of the Necropolis. It was only a matter of time before this evening would turn into a disaster. Should’ve known. Should’ve listened when Rook outright refused to even think about becoming part of the magisterium. Why did he insist? Did he not think Rook had done enough?

Rook. Rook. 

Sensation returns to his lower body, slowly and painfully. Dorian’s hands disappear from his back. 

“I’ve done the best I can, but lest we risk permanent damage, you must see a healer as soon as possible. Can you move?”

Emmrich’s limbs tremble with the slightest exertion. Pain lances through his entire body as he gets up on his knees, but he grits his teeth and pushes through. Dorian helps him the rest of the way up and supports him with an arm around his waist. He’s already out of breath, panting as he tries to steady himself.

“Take me to him,” Emmrich pleads, already limping forward, “please, I… My husband, my… I need to see him.”

During the walk to the edge and the slow fall to the ground floor, Emmrich feels as though he’s watching a spectacle unfold. It doesn’t feel like it’s him shuffling ever closer to the edge of the destruction. From an indistinguishable point of view, he watches himself and Dorian floating down together, every heartbeat felt like a sledgehammer to his sore chest. It doesn’t feel real. It can’t be real. Any moment now, he’ll wake from this nightmare to find himself safely enclosed in Rook’s arms in their bed. It’ll be the early morning of this awful day, and Emmrich is going to tell Rook that they don’t have to go. They don’t, and he’s sorry. He’s so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry. 

But he doesn’t wake, and the nightmare doesn’t fade into nothingness. The carnage on the ground floor is almost indescribable. There are at least ten people who were caught in the immediate crash, trapped and crushed underneath the tower’s enormous weight. Emmrich can immediately identify five that are certainly dead and beyond help, whose bodies even the best healers couldn’t put back together. His eyes frantically search for Rook, Doris and Thetis, but he can’t see any of them. Nor Lydia, of whom he’s certain she’s in the room. It’s too dark, he can’t see– 

A faint red glow from the corner of the room. Then he feels it. His hair standing on end with alarm. The acrid scent of blood magic. 

“Vishante kaffas,” Dorian curses, callously dragging Emmrich along, “Lydia, dear, are you aware that I’ve rather explicitly outlawed the use of blood magic? There was a vote and everything, if you recall. I do believe you were present.”

Behind a collapsed pillar, among large, neatly arranged sections of rubble, they find them. Emmrich wrests himself free from Dorian’s grasp and stumbles the rest of the way, falling painfully to his knees by Rook’s side.

“Darling… Oh, darling, what…”

Words fail him. Rook’s body is covered in dust, grit and blood. Emmrich can hardly bear to look at the state of his legs, his stomach, but his chest still moves. He’s breathing. His eyes are closed, his lips and hair are crusted with blood and dust, but he’s alive. How, Emmrich doesn’t know. What little logic his mind can still supply suggests that it was likely Lydia who uncovered him and arranged the stones nearby. He glances past Rook and finds Doris and Thetis similarly hurt, freed from the crushing confines of the fallen stone, but utterly unmoving. Lydia is on her knees between Rook and Thetis, holding their hands. 

Only then does Emmrich realise they’re all holding hands. Thetis’ and Doris’ look like they were arranged. Rook’s other hand is laid in Doris’ open palm, his own hand holding… His mother’s locket? 

Emmrich reaches for his throat and finds it’s no longer there. When? How? 

The memory flashes in his mind: Rook’s hands reaching for him moments before the magic’s force tore them apart. He’d assumed it to be the locket, but it was Rook who pushed him away, taking the locket for himself to guarantee his own survival while trying to also secure Emmrich’s. It was a gamble, and the guilt he saw in his eyes finally makes sense.

If he hadn’t, it’s likely none of them would’ve survived. Evidently, even the locket could only withstand so much weight. It couldn’t prevent the damage done just from being crushed, even if it might have negated the initial impact.

“Vita… mutatur… non… tollitur.”

His eyes snap back to Rook’s face. His lips are moving, uttering raspy whispers on every wheezing breath. Emmrich goes to lay a hand on his face when Lydia shouts, “Don’t! You’ll be caught in the ritual.”

Ritual?

Dorian scoffs, “Illegal ritual, I might add.”

“What’s happening?” Emmrich asks, his mind scrambling to figure out what’s going on. Rook needs help, healing, potions, anything– “What ritual?”

“Did you at least bother to see if there were any survivors before you defiled my palace?” Dorian presses, ignoring Emmrich’s questions.

Lydia swallows. After a few tense, silent moments, she says, “There was one survivor.”

Emmrich and Dorian both look at Rook, then Doris and Thetis. 

“... I see.”

“Vita… mutatur… non… tollitur.”

Silence reigns, with the exception of Rook’s weak, repeated chants. When he can’t take it anymore, Dorian asks, “Will this work?”

“Yes,” Lydia answers resolutely. 

Emmrich doesn’t know what to feel. Relieved, because Rook survived. Deeply concerned for the wounds he’s suffered. Terrified of what this ritual might entail. Shocked and bursting with questions about why Rook is using blood magic again. At what cost, and what for?

Dorian breaks the silence once more. “Was this your idea?”

Lydia shakes her head. 

“Rook’s idea, then?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. Fantastic.”

Barely maintaining a grip on his composure, Emmrich grits out, “Would you please… tell me what’s happening?”

When Lydia doesn’t answer, Dorian sighs deeply and crosses his arms. 

“The Mercars are gifted blood mages, as I’m sure you know. A long, corrupted lineage of practitioners purportedly dating back all the way to the Towers Age. Over the centuries, they’ve developed what amounts to their own school of blood magic. Highly specialised, powerful spells tailored specifically to their blood. This… resurrection you’re witnessing is one of them.”

Lydia presses her lips together. Emmrich frowns and looks up at Dorian. How can that be? That shouldn’t be possible. If that’s true, this ritual is doomed to fail.

Unless.

“But… But Rook wasn’t born a Mercar,” Emmrich says, confused and hoping fervently that his deduction is wrong. "He was a foundling.”

Dorian says nothing. Lydia, too, lets the silence linger. A deep, unsettling feeling crawls its way up Emmrich’s spine. Rook’s breath hitches in his throat for a moment, but he resumes his chant. His bottom lip trembles. A tear rolls past his temple. The hand held in Lydia’s tightens imperceptibly.

“Vita… mutatur… non… tollitur.”

It’s too much to take in. Emmrich can’t begin to comprehend the implications. He’s suspended in a purgatory of torment that he can’t see the way out of. His body demands he pay attention to his pain but he cannot. Rook is here, he’s alive, and hopelessly corrupting himself for the sake of two out of three remaining family members that he loves. Biological family members, as it turns out. Was he aware all along? Why didn’t he ever mention it? How can he hope to survive when he’s expending so much blood in his weakened state?

Emmrich’s chest feels impossibly tight. His heart hurts with the effort of pumping blood through his battered body. Control. He needs to regain some sort of control.

“What is the spell exactly?” he asks, fearful of the answer but unable to divert from his basic instinct to gather as much information as possible. Knowledge is power, and power is a way out of this situation.

“A transfer of life,” Lydia says calmly, “some of ours so that they may have all of theirs.”

What does that mean? Emmrich’s stomach turns at the idea of Rook giving up any life at all. 

“At what cost?”

“Time.”

“And the usual drawbacks of an excess of blood magic use,” Dorian adds, sighing. “I’ve no intention of stopping you–”

“Good,” Lydia answers curtly, “I had no intention of letting you.”

“I must tend to the fallen magisters, I…” Dorian trails off, sighs once more, and turns around to begin the arduous task of recovering the bodies from the rubble. 

Emmrich’s mind is reeling. He can’t touch Rook. Can’t do anything. Useless tears gather in the corners of his eyes until they spill down his cheeks, falling to Rook’s dust-covered chest. 

Then, suddenly, two simultaneous, heaving breaths from Doris and Thetis. Rook breaks the chain with a gasp and a pained groan. Lydia, breathless as well, stumbles from where she’s sitting to kneel between Thetis and Doris. With hushed, gentle whispers of comfort, she takes their hands, joins them together and heals them. More blood magic, as far as Emmrich can tell. It can’t be helped, he knows: no other healing will prove effective for the next several hours. 

Terribly cold fingers touch his face. Emmrich looks away from Lydia and back to Rook. He looks– He–

Time. He understands it now. There are unfamiliar strands of gray among Rook’s hair. Starkly pale hairs scattered throughout his scruff. The creases around his eyes have deepened slightly. His smile lines are more pronounced, and the veins in his hands stand out stronger than before. When he looks at Lydia again, he notices that the striking gray section of her hair has expanded a fair amount, that the bags under her eyes look darker. 

“You–” Rook tries, but his throat is too dry. He coughs and winces, blood and air rattling in his throat, then tries again. “Are you real? You feel… real.”

Of course. Hallucinations, nightmares, sleepless nights. Itching beneath the skin, muscle pains, the overall sensation of being unwell. Emmrich takes his hand and observes the paleness of his fingertips, the peeling skin. Frostbite, possibly already past the second stage. The consequences of blood magic, but that’s not all. There’s blood in his throat, which possibly means blood in his lungs. Have his bones punctured his organs? If so, how many? Which ones?

Emmrich’s hands shake as he positions them over Rook’s body, magic sinking in as he surveys the flesh beneath. Rook’s hand falls to the ground, his eyes still fixed on Emmrich’s face. He hasn’t moved his other arm at all: it’s possible he can’t.

There are multiple bleeds, Emmrich concludes. The initial strike of the falling tower might not have killed him, but the damage done by the sheer weight of the stone will if they can’t heal him. Which they can’t, not while Lydia is indisposed, and who knows how much further she can stretch her magic regardless. 

“Emmrich…”

He can’t breathe. The damage to Rook’s legs is extensive. Even with a skilled healer, a full recovery could take months, and even then he might get stuck with a limp for the rest of his life. And that’s in the scenario that Rook can survive multiple damaged organs, broken bones, blood loss–

“Sweetheart…”

Emmrich is hunched over, magic faltering as sobs wrack his aching body. Is this it? Has his hubris finally cost him everything? Is there truly nothing he can do when it comes to it?

Rook’s hand closes around his wrist. His grip is weak, and his fingers won’t close all the way, but he tries all the same.

“Amatus.”

“Rook…” Emmrich sobs in reply, body sagging all the way to the ground. Rook winces when he turns his face to Emmrich’s, their noses barely touching. Laying his hand against Rook’s bruised, dirty cheek, he says, “I’m so sorry–”

“No,” Rook says immediately, voice trembling. Tears spill from his eyes and drip to the cold floor below. “No. You didn’t do this.”

“But I–”

“D-don’t… make me silence you.”

His quivering lips attempt to curl into a fragile smile, but it’s as weak as he is at present. Emmrich’s throat threatens to close with panic entirely, and he frantically inhales a huge breath. 

“T-tell me what to do,” he begs, “please, darling… I’ll do anything. Anything. I can’t lose you.”

“I’ll be fine. As soon as Lydia–”

“We don’t have that kind of time!” Emmrich hisses, his heart beating out of control in his chest. “You’re… You’re dying, Rook. I can’t heal you. I…”

Rook’s eyes widen slightly, and he stares past Emmrich for a moment. 

“... Fuck.”

His eyes refocus on Emmrich, and he swallows. “I… I’d never ask this of you–”

“Please, Rook.”

“Find… find a sharp stone.”

Emmrich scrambles to his knees and, while breathing through the pain, finds a nearby broken chunk of marble that has a sharp point. He returns to Rook, who brings his hand up.

“Cut my palm… and yours.”

He remembers this. Rook did the same when Emmrich nearly bled out after they fought Rook’s father. Hesitating for all but a second, he slices Rook’s flesh with the jagged stone, then his own.

“Hold my hand.”

Entwining their fingers together, Emmrich waits for further instruction, but gets none. Blood drips, thick and oozing, past their wrists and down their forearms. Until it stops, unnaturally sudden, and draws back up to their joined palms. 

The world darkens at the edges of his vision. Emmrich’s tongue feels heavy and clumsy in his mouth. Rook is taking his life force, and he would lay down and let him take all of it if he needed to. He must take what he needs, no matter how much–

Rook lets go of his hand, breaking the spell. 

“That’s enough,” he whispers, eyes falling closed. “I won’t take more from you.”

Slowly, fighting through the feebleness, Emmrich sits up. His hands feel numb, blood still dripping from his palm as his magic once again seeps into Rook’s body. The internal bleeding, at least, appears to have stopped for now. He collapses to the floor again and takes Rook’s hand, tucking it against his heart and closing his eyes. If they must die, he thinks, let it be together. There are worse places to die, worse circumstances, than together on the floor of the palace where they were to be married.

As he falls asleep, he thinks of Manfred. The last thought he has is that he’s so, so sorry.

When they next wake, they’re no longer in the palace. Rook is the first to regain his senses, opening his eyes to find the gaudy canopy of his own bed looming over him. He can move his legs, somewhat, and his right arm no longer feels like it’s both broken and dislocated, but he hurts all over. His skull is either split or attempting to be, and his entire abdomen feels… tender, at best.

Turning his head to the right, he finds Emmrich still unconscious next to him. They’ve both been undressed for the sake of healing, it would seem.

“Ah, welcome back,” Dorian says. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed at the ankles. “About time you woke up. I can’t stay here all night, you know. I’ve still got grieving families to offer sympathies to.”

Rook sighs. “Dorian…”

“I know. Terribly callous. You’ll forgive me.”

After today, he can hardly hold it against him.

“I will.”

“The question, of course, is whether I will forgive you for conducting blood magic on my grounds.”

“If you wish to dissolve my seat, be my guest. I never wanted it to begin with.”

“That would be rewarding you for your poor behaviour, I believe,” Dorian says with a scoff. “Why, Rook? Of all the bloody spells, too–”

“Don’t pretend,” Rook snaps, “that you don’t understand. I won’t take that from you. Not after what you did for Alexius and his son for two entire years.”

Dorian stands and steps away from the bed. “That was different.”

“It wasn’t. Doris and Thetis, they… they’ve got little ones, Dorian. You would’ve done the same.”

Rook is sure he must look very convincing, because Dorian’s hands flex at his sides before he turns his back and folds them. He doesn’t argue the point further.

“Well, I… I suppose you knew it would work.”

“I didn’t. I was sure it wouldn’t. Didn’t work last time I tried to use it.”

Instantly, Dorian turns around. “You were certain it wouldn’t work and tried anyway?”

“What did I have to lose?”

“Then how did you…?”

Briefly closing his eyes, Rook swallows and says, “Lydia. She tried to stop me.”

Because Lydia was taught the spell and told of its restrictions as a child. The moment she saw Rook initiating the ritual, bending broken limbs just to be able to get to Thetis, to Doris, she tried to stop what was certain to be a futile attempt. But it wasn’t. His cousins are alive.

So why does he feel so hollow?

“... I see. She didn’t know either.”

Rook’s eyes open, slowly. Something in the sound of Dorian’s voice makes his heart skip a beat in his chest.

Then, Dorian clears his throat and changes the subject. “They’re with her, by the way. Doris and Thetis, that is. I made sure they all made it to–”

“Did you know?” Rook asks, looking right at him. Dorian doesn’t answer. He rocks back on his heels. Rook knows that habit: he’s nervous and hiding something. Pieces fall into place alarmingly fast.

“Get out,” Rook says, barely keeping his temper in check. It hurts to breathe, he shouldn’t wind himself up.

“Rook, calm down. Let’s not–”

“Get. Out. How dare you– How long?”

“... I’ve had my suspicions from the moment I met you.”

Rook grabs the candle from his nightstand and hurls it at Dorian with all his might, ignoring the stabbing pain in his shoulder. Dorian dodges it, and the brass holder bounces off the wall before falling to the floor with another violent clang. 

“Get out!”

This, at last, wakes Emmrich. He jolts awake and tries to sit up, only to wince and lie back down immediately. Rook reins it in, breathing hard. Dorian clears his throat.

“We shall discuss this another time,” he says, having the good grace to sound a little ashamed, but not nearly enough for Rook’s liking. “In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do anything rash.”

“I’d appreciate it if you left. Quickly.”

After a tense silence, Dorian inclines his head and leaves, closing the door behind him. Rook wishes he could scream. 

“Darling…?”

Emmrich. Rook closes his eyes for a moment to calm himself, taking a deep breath. These new revelations will have to wait, even if his stomach is roiling, even if he wants to claw his way out of his skin.

He turns his head and slides his hand across the covers until he can touch Emmrich’s arm. They stare at each other wordlessly, until Rook can’t take it anymore.

“Amatus…”

Slowly, as if he can’t quite believe it’s not a dream, Emmrich turns onto his side and moves closer. He lifts the covers to look at Rook’s bare torso, eyes roving over him until they eventually settle on his face. 

Tears well in his eyes immediately. Rook has no idea what he sees that invites such distress, but he lifts his arms, careful not to move too quickly, and touches Emmrich’s face with stinging, bruised fingertips. No nightmares as yet, no hallucinations. The side effects are surprisingly mild, for now. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks, catching a tear with his thumb as it brushes past Emmrich’s cheekbone. “Someone healed us, I don’t know… I don’t know. Don’t care. Are you alright?”

Emmrich doesn’t know either. There were dozens of magisters present at the soirée. Any one of the survivors could’ve healed them. All of them have some affinity with blood magic, after all.

His body feels tight, sore, and he still can’t quite move without pain, but he’s sure to be fine with enough time. Rook, however… Emmrich brushes some hair from Rook’s face and watches the gray strands fall from his fingers. No amount of healing can return the time he’s lost. His wounds, the nightmares, the pain, the sickness; all of that will fade, but this…

For the entire duration of their relationship he’s boldly assumed that - war, illness and accidents notwithstanding - he will pass before Rook. A terrifying prospect, one that makes him feel cold down to his bones. He can’t bear the thought of leaving Manfred and Rook behind. But how much of his life did Rook give away to rescue his cousins from death’s eternal grasp? Ten, fifteen, more? Emmrich has always thought that Rook’s aged very gracefully. What if he’s now biologically ten years Emmrich’s senior? What if he goes first?

“Breathe, Emmrich. Listen to my voice.”

His lungs are burning with the effort of getting air into them. All he can manage are shallow, insufficient gasps. He can barely see. When did he become drenched in sweat? 

Rook throws the covers off and swings his legs out of the bed. It’s so painful that he’s almost certain he’ll collapse if he gets up, but he has to get Emmrich outside. There’s a cane by his nightstand. An old one of Neve’s, judging by the snake motif on the handle. He takes it and with great effort and eye-watering pain in both legs, he stands. Powering through, he turns and takes Emmrich’s hand, much more mindful of his pain than his own as he pulls him out of bed.

“Come with me. C’mon. I’ve got you.”

Emmrich’s legs are only slightly more functional than his own. It’s a slow, painful, awkward stumble to the balcony, leaning on each other and the wall for support. Rook barely manages to open the balcony doors without falling over completely. 

Cold air whips them in the face, fateful winds still blowing strong. Rook staggers over to the bannister and perches himself on it. Emmrich heaves a terrified gulp of hair when he thinks about what happened here so long ago, when he imagines the fall–

“Look at me,” Rook says, taking his face in his hands. There’s still barely any sensation in his fingertips. “Don’t look down. Look at me.”

But Emmrich’s eyes squeeze shut, tears streaking his dusty cheeks and leaving almost pristine trails behind. The first sob is so quiet, so restrained. A single man, weakened and terrified, trying to hold back an unstoppable flood. He clings to Rook so very tightly, unaware of the immense pain he’s causing, for Rook, too, stands and braves the waters, even as his limbs shake with the effort of holding Emmrich in his arms. This must be borne. It must.

As if called upon, the skies rumble with the impending storm. The first drops of rain fall to Rook’s bare skin. For once, he’s grateful not to be wearing his rings. He turns his face up and closes his eyes. Lightning flashes behind closed eyelids. Emmrich sobs again, and again. 

Then, he whispers, “C-come away from there, darling.”

“You need fresh air,” Rook answers calmly. The rain picks up, cold and welcome. How many nights did he not spend out here on this balcony like this, staring up at the sky and wishing the rain would wash him away?

“I’m f-fine, I’m… I’ll be fine, I – it’s v-very windy, dearest, please–”

Rook swallows down his own tears. Is this how he made Emmrich feel every time he swore up and down he was fine when he clearly wasn’t? Did it tear right through him, too?

“You’re not fine. You can barely breathe–”

“Rook,” Emmrich sobs, desperately trying to pull Rook away from the bannister, “please.”

They make it two steps away from the bannister. Their descent to the stone floor is best described as a managed collapse. Emmrich holds Rook to his body as if the balcony might still crumble beneath them and he’s the only thing keeping him from falling through another floor this evening. Rook grits his teeth, his body locked in place as the immense pain of bearing his full weight down on his knees momentarily paralyzes him. Rain pours down on them, washing the dirt and blood from their bodies until the water gathering around their legs is cloudy with it. 

“S-sweetheart,” Rook chokes out, “I can’t… sit like this for very long, and I don’t… I don’t think I can get up by myself.”

Immediately, Emmrich lets him go. He’s frantic with panic, trying and failing to get up himself, stammering apologies through tearful hiccups as his hands and feet slip on the wet stone. Rook can’t recall a time where he’s seen Emmrich this distraught. He drops the cane to the floor and takes Emmrich into his arms, paying no mind to his hushed, rambling protests. Behind his back, Rook conjures a flaming butterfly to go and retrieve Manfred.

He watches, horrified, as his fingertips split open. Boiling hot blood trickles, bubbling and steaming, down his hand. Rook recoils and pushes Emmrich back. It hurts. It hurts. It’s like holding one’s hand into an open hearth and keeping it there. Even the cold rain does nothing to soothe the scalding sensation in his fingers. 

“W-what’s happened?” Emmrich asks, his hands cupped around Rook’s, eyes wide. “Why is this–”

“I cast a spell–”

“You mustn’t–”

“I had to–”

“No, you didn’t!” Emmrich shrieks, his voice raw with sheer bloody fright. “You didn’t, you shouldn’t have–!”

Rook looks at him, breathing hard. He swallows and opens his mouth to speak, then thinks the better of it. This conversation is no longer about casting a simple spell to fetch Manfred. Staring at his bloodied, burning hand, he thinks it’s but a small price to pay for the lives of his cousins.

Emmrich buries his face in his hands and heaves several deep, long breaths. 

“Y-you gave so much,” he says, utterly hoarse, “so much of yourself–... I c-can’t bear… I…”

“Aged that poorly, did I?” Rook mumbles humourlessly. 

“This is not a laughing matter!” 

Thunder explodes the skies above. Blinking against the raindrops in his eyes, Rook looks up at Emmrich. 

“I thought you’d understand. You gave up tens of thousands of years for Manfred. I gave far less than that for Doris and Thetis.”

“How many?” Emmrich asks immediately, heart lurching with fear. “Tell me how many!”

Rook shakes his head and shrugs. It could be anywhere from five to twenty-five. Lydia’s aid probably means he gave less than he could have. “Fifteen? It’s… it’s not a very exact science.”

Potentially, they’re now the same age. Or thereabouts. Potentially, Rook is now far older than him. The lack of a concrete answer makes Emmrich’s skin crawl. Among the turmoil of fear, grief and shock, anger makes itself known.

“You gambled years of your life without any guarantee that it would work?! Without any knowledge of what you were giving up?!”

“Don’t do this, Emmrich–”

But Emmrich can’t stop himself. There’s no stopping the outpouring of vicious poison that’s gathered in his gut from the moment he saw the tower collapsing on top of Rook. It’s acid and bile unleashed, flowing forth from deep within the most fearful depths of his heart.

“Not to mention the immense repercussions of such powerful, unholy magic!”

“Like the survival of my cousins?”

“Don’t be rid– You’re being deliberately obtuse!”

Rook fails to bite his tongue and says, “And you’re picking a fight because you’re scared. It’s not the first time you’ve done this, and I wish you’d stop it.”

Emmrich’s lips curl with displeasure, but the door to the bedroom opens before he can retort. Manfred scuttles in, hissing loudly when he notices both of his fathers collapsed outside in the rain. He helps Emmrich up first, shuffling him back to bed with quiet words of encouragement. Little hisses of ‘keep going’ and ‘almost’ until Emmrich is firmly and safely sat down on the mattress. Rook, too, is retrieved this way. With Manfred on one side and his cane on the other, he makes it back to bed without further incident. Rook and Emmrich sit wordlessly side by side. Manfred stands in front of them, assessing.

Then, he lays one hand on either father’s head.

“Be nice.”

Emmrich looks at Rook, who turns his head away, jaw clenched. What are they doing? What is he doing? Fear rends his heart asunder, constricts his throat until he feels like he can’t breathe. Last time his profound terror of death and dying struck this deep, he made the catastrophic decision of trying to break things off with Rook. And now, here they sit. Rook won’t even look at him. His own son has to tell him to behave. In the meantime, Rook’s hand still bleeds, sizzling droplets falling to the floor. 

“Thank you, Manfred,” Rook says quietly, “I… Can you help me get dressed, dear boy?”

“Okay!”

“Dressed?” Emmrich says, baffled enough that it shocks him out of his thoughts. “What for?”

“We’re going home.”

He can’t be serious. “You’re in no state to be moving–”

“I can make my own decisions, thank you,” Rook says, calm but cold as ice. “If you don’t want to join me, that’s–... I’m going home. I can’t stay in this fucking city a moment longer.”

Maybe he doesn’t mean for Emmrich to hear it, but he does. The resigned, deeply regretful sigh as he mumbles to himself that they should’ve just stayed home. Guilt sinks like lead to the bottom of his stomach. What has he done? 

Slowly, his eyes turn towards the nightstand on his side of the bed. Hidden within its drawers is a small, ornately handcrafted, gilded box holding their wedding rings. Emmrich hid them there when they arrived this morning. They were to be used in Minrathous for the first time anyway, and Rook is far less likely to accidentally stumble upon them here than at home.

The wedding. Emmrich can’t think of a place he’d now like to get married less than the Archon’s palace, now partially in ruins once more. Even if the repairs are finished in time, he can’t stomach the thought of going back there. They’ll have to call everything off.

His gaze turns to Rook, who’s struggling to get dressed even with Manfred’s steadfast aid. Who never wanted to come back here, who did so at Emmrich’s suggestion. Even with Neve here, and his cousins elsewhere in Tevinter, Emmrich doesn’t think Rook would ever willingly set foot on its soil again if no one asked him to. Being here was, is, and will always continue to be torture for him. 

And Emmrich was one of two people who asked him to consider it. 

Haunted by what he thinks he’s done, Emmrich stands and stumbles to his side of the bed. Through the haze of panic and adrenaline, he remembers waking up to the sound of Rook’s enraged shouting. The ringing of the candleholder as it spun upon itself on the stone floor, and the tense exchange that followed. How Dorian left without another word. What was said before he woke up? Does it matter? Does Rook not have every right to anger, especially with the man who asked him to be part of the very institute he despises?

Emmrich opens the drawer and retrieves the box with trembling hands. Is Rook angry with him, too? Has he once again succeeded at inspiring aversion in a partner? It certainly seems like it, and Emmrich did just berate him for saving the only family who’s ever cared about him.

He has to make this right, somehow. Earlier, he would’ve given anything to save Rook, to keep him. It’s no different now.

Turning around, he says, “We don’t have to get married again, my darling.”

Rook looks at him, face utterly impassive. Emmrich can’t tell what he’s thinking at all. Then, he turns his attention back to Manfred doing up his buttons. 

“You don’t mean that.”

“No, I… I do.”

“We shouldn’t be talking about this now, Emmrich.”

“You’re my husband,” Emmrich stubbornly insists, “you have been… my husband.”

Rook closes his eyes and sighs deeply. Resigned to discussing the topic, but still somewhat relieved to not be talking about everything else, he says, “We’ve spent months planning–”

“The palace is in shambles. We can’t… I don’t wish to return there.”

Nor does Rook, when it comes to it. “We can use the house.”

“No. I shan’t ask that of you.”

“Then I’ll ask Marie if we can use her tavern, and–”

“I no longer wish to have a wedding,” Emmrich croaks, interrupting him. Between staggered breaths, he adds, “It’s no longer important.”

It’s a lie. By far and away the biggest lie he’s told over the entire course of their relationship. He does want a wedding, to declare his love to and of Rook where everyone who cares to attend can hear it. But what he wants much more than that is for Rook to stay. For things to stay exactly as they are, or rather, how they were before they came here today. Before today, Rook was his husband. That’s all he wants, all he needs there to remain after this forsaken day is done. It’s the only thing that matters.

Rook stares at him. He doesn’t know what to say. His body is in agony, he’s bleeding, his skull throbs with the worst headache he’s suffered in years. Memories of the crash, the death all around him, the discovery of his true heritage and the pain, the intense pain of it all, still invade his mind with every blink of his eyes. All he wants is to go home. He doesn’t for the life of him understand why Emmrich is bringing this up now.

When the silence doesn’t end, Emmrich staggers towards him and presents him with the rings. Beautiful, ornate gold bands, twisting and curving with golden stems that erupt into beautifully handcrafted, impossibly tiny flowers that resemble a Shroud’s Kiss. The main setting, a gorgeous green gem that Manfred picked out for them - Emmrich disallowed him to take any more of his own eyes - shimmers beautifully even in the dark. The bands are enchanted to always be linked together. So long as both rings exist in this world, they’ll be able to find each other. 

They’re perfect. Emmrich was so happy when he received them from the jeweller. Ecstatic when he finished the enchantment successfully. Now, filled to the brim with dread over their immediate and distant future, they feel like the last and only things he can offer Rook to appease him. To beg for forgiveness for ever daring to ask him to come here, the promise never to return contained within. Slowly, carefully, he takes Rook’s left hand and slides the ring around his ring finger. 

After hesitating for long, terrifying seconds, Rook takes Emmrich’s hand. “Hold it there,” he whispers, before taking the remaining ring from the box and putting it on Emmrich’s finger. He holds Emmrich’s hand in his, thumb stroking his fingers, brushing past the ring and sparking pins and needles under his skin. Looking at Emmrich, he knows they’ll regret this, but fighting him on it only seems to distress him further. The last thing he wants is to argue more. Emmrich is frightened out of his mind, and Rook is struggling to keep it together as well. They shouldn’t be fighting. With a soft sigh, he asks, “Are you sure about this?”

Emmrich, holding back tears of relief, stammers, “Y-yes… yes I-I am.”

“... Alright. Alright, sweetheart. Come here.”

He wraps his left arm around him and carefully keeps his - still bleeding - right hand out of the way. Emmrich returns the embrace, what little tears he still has left in him spilling down his cheeks and into Rook’s hair. Manfred wraps his bony arms around them and hisses softly, his skull pressed up against their stomachs. 

“Let’s go home,” Rook says eventually, “And let’s not return here, for–... for a bit.”

Manfred is the sole reason they make it home at all. He’s the one to bandage Rook’s hand and help Emmrich get dressed. The one to carry their belongings home while his parents silently trail behind him. It’s an agonisingly slow journey to the Necropolis, and climbing its many stairs to their home alone takes them over an hour. There is so much they need to talk about, so many things they haven’t said, and yet not a word is spoken between them. Manfred keeps looking up at them, but even he doesn’t seem to dare to break the silence.

At home, Manfred brooks no argument and marches them into the bedroom immediately, fluffing pillows to ensure that they’ll be comfortable and once more offering his aid with undressing. Rook stares at himself in their wardrobe mirror for a long time. Emmrich watches him, only now noticing the slight sag of his skin on the rest of his body, the new moles, the smattering of gray among the hair on his arms, his stomach, his chest. In his abject terror, he's failed to consider how Rook himself might feel.

“Y-you haven’t aged poorly, darling,” Emmrich says eventually, still struggling to acknowledge that he’s aged at all. “It was… It was rather a shock, is all.”

Rook, still staring into the mirror, agrees. If anything, he finally looks his age. Biologically, he’s anywhere from forty-five to sixty. Probably. It’s not at all terrible. With time, it might even help Emmrich with any remaining insecurity over their age difference. But none of these thoughts manage to drown out the incessant noise of one particular truth. One that he's never once in his life dared to acknowledge, and for the longest time had the most watertight excuse not to.

He looks like his father.

“I know,” Rook responds. He swallows down his tears and smiles at Emmrich. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

Emmrich shakes his head. “No, I… Had you not thought and acted as quickly as you had, I…”

None of them would’ve survived. Not Rook, not himself, and not Doris nor Thetis. Emmrich’s vision blurs once more with unshed tears, and he looks away. Rook, using the cane for support, slowly hobbles over to him and sits down next to him on the bed. He produces the locket from his trouser pocket and puts it into Emmrich’s open palm, gently folding his fingers over it and resting his own hand on top.

“In that case… Thank you for letting me borrow this.”

“I… It… It belongs to you, I–”

“It belongs to the one I love the most,” Rook says, his smile faltering at the edges, “and that... is you.”

Emmrich looks at him with big, shining eyes. Rook doesn’t seem angry, or hurt, or any of the other things he has every right to be. Evidently, calling off the wedding was the right decision. Rook is still here with him. Still his husband. He lays a hand against Rook’s cheek and kisses his forehead, tears falling as he closes his eyes.

“I thought… I feared–”

“I know. I’m here. I’m… bruised and messed up, and it’ll take… it’ll take a while before I’m back to normal.”

Hope blooms in Emmrich’s chest. “Normal?”

“Yeah, until the side-effects fade. I can’t… I can’t cast spells, I probably won’t be able to sleep… But I should be alright in a couple weeks. Older and grayer than I was, but alright.”

… And is swiftly dashed into nothingness. 

“A-ah. I see. I’m… I’m glad.”

Rook looks down at his bandaged hand and sighs. “I’ll stay here tonight. I wouldn’t leave you alone for the world after today, but–”

What? 

“W-what?”

“I should stay in the laboratory until I’m… normal again.”

His brain is frightfully slow to catch up, but Emmrich gets there eventually. He can’t cast spells without enormous harm to himself. Not casting spells will cause his mana imbalance to act up again. For however long it lasts, he’ll hallucinate, discharge volatile magic at the slightest fluctuation in his emotions, and suffer nightmares. 

And he intends to suffer it alone.

“Please, at least let me stay with you–”

“Amatus. No.”

“I-I’ll be fine, darling. I’m protected, I’m–”

“The enchantment has its limits… clearly,” Rook mutters, not meeting his eye. “It’s not safe. You’re hurt, and Manfred should have his dad around.”

“But–”

Rook takes his hand and kisses his knuckles. “It won’t be too long. I promise. I know it’s hard, I… I’ll miss you, but…”

But he won’t risk it either way. Emmrich flounders. All of this could’ve been avoided. All of it. 

In the end, Rook stays awake with him throughout the night. Emmrich doesn’t know whether he does so because he’s in too much pain to sleep, or because he, too, dreads the morning light and having to sequester himself in the laboratory next door. They don’t talk about anything anymore. The only words shared between them are endearments, sweet nothings poisoned with remorse. When Rook inevitably leaves him, Emmrich sinks into the warmth he left in their bed and stays there until the unwelcome day passes into night once more.

The three weeks that follow are frightfully reminiscent of the three weeks Emmrich spent despairing while Rook was trapped in Solas’ Fade prison. He barely sleeps, tormented both by nightmares and the empty half of the bed beside him. Alexander covers his classes for him while Emmrich recuperates from, apparently, being crushed by the tower’s spire. One week into Rook’s absence, he brings Emmrich a full pan of vegetable stew lovingly prepared by his wife. 

Emmrich can only stare as Alexander walks into his home as if he lives there. He feels hollowed out, like the tree trunks in a dying forest. Death haunts him in his dreams and lingers in the corners of his vision during his waking hours. Sometimes, when he wakes drenched in sweat and alone once again, he’ll get up and sit by the door to the laboratory. If he listens closely enough, he can just make out the sound of Rook’s snoring. Affirmation that he's still very much alive.

It’s one of the only comforts he has. And now, apparently, stew as well.

“Sit,” Alexander grunts, pulling out a chair with one hand while putting down a bowl with the other. The pan of hot stew sits in the centre of the table, a ladle already inside. He puts down another bowl for himself and ladles both full of hearty stew. Emmrich sits, stupefied, until Alexander quite literally takes his hand and puts a spoon in it. “Eat.”

The food smells delightful, and Emmrich realises he’s quite hungry. He must’ve been for a while. They eat in total silence, but Alexander speaks the second Emmrich empties his bowl.

“So,” he says, folding his hands over his belly, “how are you?”

“I’m… I’m alright, under the circumstances, thank you. My mobility is improving day by day, and I think it won’t be too long before I can return to my place at the lectern.”

“Emmrich.”

“Yes?”

“You look terrible.”

Alexander Schmidt is not well known for his tact. It’s actually something Emmrich enormously appreciates about their friendship.

“... I’ve not been sleeping well, or much.”

“I can tell.”

“Yes, thank you, Alex.”

“You ever leave this place?”

“I–... Well, not much. I can’t walk very far as of yet–”

“Your office?”

“I suppose I could make it to my office.”

Alexander hums. “You should go. Read some books. Bicker with the witch–”

“Half-lich,” Emmrich reminds him for the thousandth time, sighing.

“Distract yourself. Rook’s okay?”

Yes, Rook is allegedly perfectly alright. Lonely, yes, but otherwise recovering well. He writes notes to Emmrich that Manfred dutifully delivers when he takes him his meals. Emmrich reads them every night, and wishes time and time again for tomorrow to be the last day of this fiendish separation.

“Still recovering, I’m afraid. I’m sure it won’t be long.”

The ensuing silence is deafening. Neither of them believe it.

“Well, either way,” Alex says as he gets up and tidies away the dishes, “try to get out more.”

He means well, Emmrich knows. He’s a good friend, even if his advice is terrible.

“Thank you. I’ll… I’ll try and make it out to my office later this week.”

“Hm. And come over for dinner sometime. Shouldn’t be eating by yourself. It’s not decent.”

Emmrich only smiles at him, too polite to refuse outright. He doesn’t want to stray from his home and Rook any farther or any longer than he has to. Not until things are back to any modicum of normal.

By the third week, Emmrich is a husk of anxiety and little else. Even Rook’s notes, filled with hope and little anecdotes, do nothing to abide the prevailing sense of dread. He's unable to work, unable to see Rook, unable to forget the feeling of Rook’s dying body beneath his hands. Not an illusion, this time. It was real. Blood gushing where it shouldn’t, his heart valiantly trying to keep him alive but slowly losing strength. 

He barely remembers how he got to his office at all.

“Volkarin?”

Johanna. 

“Johanna, I… I’m…”

“Not well, by the looks of it.”

“No, I’m– I’m perfectly fine, I–”

“You’re sweating like an apprentice at their first raising.”

Is he? Emmrich drags a hand through his hair and feels the wet strands sticking to his fingers. So he is.

“Ah, I… I fear the walk was more taxing than I’d… anticipated…”

“Sit down before you keel over, you buffoon.”

Emmrich collapses into his reading chair, his hand over his chest. His heart beats rabbit-quick beneath his fingers.

“What happened to you? I haven’t seen you this debilitated in months.”

“There… was an accident. At the soirée.”

“Oh?”

As he’s explaining to her what happened, it occurs to him that he has no idea why he’s telling her any of it. Maybe because it feels oddly familiar to share his woes with her, the way he used to. Or maybe he’s just too tired, too lonely, and too afraid to hold it in any longer.

“Magisters. Such amateurs,” she bemoans when he’s finished talking. “Can’t make it through an evening without causing a calamity.”

“It would seem so,” Emmrich agrees. “I never should’ve taken Rook there.”

“Well, you can hardly lock yourselves inside. You both are only mortal, after all. Something is bound to do it.”

Emmrich swallows. He’s painfully aware of that.

“One never… never imagines finding oneself in such a situation.”

“Accidents? No. These are things you hear about happening to other people. But now? Well…”

Now Emmrich knows exactly how fragile life is. Even Rook’s, who had seemed so invincible up until now. 

"I never imagined... I..."

“And you say his blood magic aged him?”

“Yes, he… he….”

Emmrich is struggling to breathe, and he loosens the top two buttons beneath his collar. It doesn't help. 

“Easy, Volkarin. You do remember how to breathe, don’t you? Do that silly exercise you used to do when you had your… episodes.”

Right. He remembers that. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Count to four, five, six… 

“Most fascinating, I must say. One wonders if there are ways to reverse it. Blood magic is complex, and the way it affects the body need not be permanent.”

It's like the banter they used to share. He's sure he remembers this from back then. In spite of her acerbic disposition, she would always talk shop with him when he suffered his panic attacks. It helped.

“I… I’m quite certain it’s irreversible. If there was a way, Rook would be the one to know.”

“Hmm… Plenty of alchemists have tried to reverse aging, of course. Some to moderate success. If I recall correctly, one of the early Pentaghast kings had a personal advisor who was said to have worked with enchanted glassware–”

“Rumours,” Emmrich says stubbornly, “and conjecture.”

“Suit yourself. Were I in your position, I would be reviewing my histories. Of course, I no longer possess the body to do so.”

Roused by scholarly debate, Emmrich sits up. His heart has calmed, his breathing steadied.

“Even were I to entertain the possibility, there is no guarantee the alchemical ingredients and compounds are at all available to use anymore. Hundreds of years have passed!”

“The Necropolis keeps extensive stores and records, does it not? Has this place fallen so far since my departure?”

“I–... Well…”

Emmrich stares at his bookshelves. His A Comprehensive History of the Pentaghast Dynasty, volumes I-XXVI stand neatly arranged at the top. He never has much reason to reach for them, and reading about the unsavoury history of his country’s ruling family has never inspired great joy or peace in him. 

But if there’s even the slightest chance… 

“I would recommend starting with volume three.”

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 7 of The EmmRook fics