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Emmrich Volkarin bustled around his apartments in Nevarra City in a flurry of nervous energy. Though, should he overhear anyone speaking of his activity as such, he would have offered a polite critique of the description (particularly of the use of such adjectives as bustle and nervous) and humbly offered the alternative that he was simply being thorough. After all, it wasn’t every day one hosted the leader of Arlathan’s Veil Jumpers. Particularly when said leader was one’s paramour and had needed some convincing to agree to an evening spent away from the forest.
Though the threat to the Veil had been neutralized, with the number of ruins still to discovered and the many artifacts they were still uncovering and researching, the alliance had remained plenty busy in the months since the battle in Minrathous. That final confrontation with the ancient elven gods had meant, rather unfortunately, Emmrich and the rest of the Mourn Watch had quite had their hands full themselves. The pair of them had been so busy, their schedules had rarely allowed for them to meet, restricting much of their budding relationship to correspondence. Strife, as it turned out rather unsurprisingly, was not as prolific a letter writer as Emmrich though he treasured each and every missive from the Dalish elf.
Activity around the Grand Necropolis had slowed and just in time for the winter solstice. Emmrich had very little hopes of it remaining so (as the solstice tended to bring its own different sort of busyness in funeral work) but the week leading up to the holiday proved calm enough that he’d chanced extending an invitation. He’d been delighted when Strife had replied accepting. Thrilled all the more when, upon second and third reads, he’d detected hints at a longer visit should it be amiable to them both. Emmrich rather hoped it was the case but the prospect seemed to inspire a sort of anxiety in him he had not experienced since his youth. His greener days may have been behind him but even he was not yet immune to butterflies, he surmised. For flutter was an apt word for the feeling in his belly that was not quite unpleasant for all it made him feel slightly nauseated.
The feeling had only intensified as the day grew until finally -- finally -- at last it was here. The final hours before Strife’s arrival had ticked by so slowly, the minute hand on his watch seemingly unmoving, as he tried to busy himself with ensuring the evening ahead of them would go off without a hitch. Of course, fastidious as he was in all aspects of his life, everything that he could control was already well enough in hand that it had turned to matter triple and quadruple checking. While he would never say one could be too careful in such measures, there was, perhaps, a point in which one simply had to take ones hands off or risk failure by too much meddling with the components. He knew this, often relayed such sentiments to his students, and yet his limbs twitched with a frenetic energy, urging him to action, in a way he was unaccustomed to.
The cleanliness of his apartments was faultless. The guest room (should Strife have need of it) prepared with fresh bedclothes and flower arrangement he’d picked himself. A matching one graced the small dining table where the meal he’d painstakingly prepared lay waiting. Delicate, etched glass wine goblets waited next to a bottle of Antivan Red from one of the Dellamorte vineyards (a gift sent by Lucanis along with a recipe for caponata). A blazing fire crackled in the fireplace, contrasting the cool tones cast by the veilfire lanterns, and creating a cozy atmosphere in the main room.
There was naught left for him to do but wait.
The knock at the door came sooner than he expected, in the end. After straightening the hem of his waistcoat, and ensuring the gold collar chain lay neatly against his shirt front, he laced his fingers behind his back and waited his guest. A long moment passed before a second knock came.
“Manfred,” he sighed aloud. He’d tasked his skeletal assistant turned pupil with fetching Strife from the Eluvian within the Necropolis and guiding the elf back to his apartments, with confidence the former spirit of curiosity had advanced enough to take on such independence.
Clearly, there was room for improvement.
Opening the door himself, any disappointment vanished as the silver-haired elf came into view. Emmrich’s expression softened as he gazed upon him, taking in the details of the Dalish’s sacred vallaslin, the fine lines creasing the corners of dark eyes that warms as they met, the stern set of his mouth that twitched with a humor few often saw from the faction leader. Without hesitation, he reached for the man’s hand with one of his own, smiling when he received it. Raising it to his lips, he lightly grazed the man’s knuckles with his lips before covering it with his other hand.
“Hello, my dear,” he said, unable to keep his smile from widening. “I trust your journey was not too arduous?”
Before Strife could answer, Manfred appeared just over his shoulder.
“Strife!” The skeleton hissed proudly.
“Yes, Manfred, thank you,” he replied patiently. The interruption did serve as a necessary reminder that it was unconscionably rude to keep his guest standing in the doorway. Apologizing, he stepped aside to allow them both to enter.
“To answer your question,” Strife said as Emmrich secured the door. “It wasn’t terrible. Things have been quiet in Arlathan for which I, and the remaining Veil Jumpers, are grateful.”
“Oh, I am glad to hear it,” Emmrich replied, more than a little relieved he was not causing any inconvenience by tempting the man away from his work. If only for a little while. “Please, make yourself at home. I have dinner prepared if you’re hungry or, perhaps I could give a tour if you were interested in such a thing?”
Glancing around the room, he was suddenly very aware of the fact this was the very first time Strife had been inside them and, just as suddenly, he was very unsure whether his own design choices were to the tastes of a Dalish elf. Perhaps lilac draperies lay outside the preferences of one who made a home of the forest. His smile faltered as his confidence did but Strife was looking only at him.
“I find I am a great deal hungrier than I was before,” Strife said somberly, though his eyes were warm in a way that made Emmrich’s face heat.
“Well, then, Of course, let us eat,” he replied, waving the man toward the dining table. Over his shoulder, he looked to the skeleton. “Manfred. Remember your instructions.”
“Stay in room!” Manfred said, marching in that direction as he recited the rest of them. “Make no noise! Fred not here!”
Emmrich waited until he’d disappeared into the small study he’d converted into a room for Manfred before glancing sidelong at Strife. “He must have extrapolated that last one from the others,” he said thoughtfully, distracted by the implications. “I do believe this is evidence he might be starting to understand context in such a way as to be able come to his own conclusions. Extraordinary.”
Strife chuckled. “Em,” he said, closing the distance to gently take his face between his hands. His warm calloused hands. The touch was enough to distract the mage from all prior thought processes. Lips parting a little in surprise, he met the elf’s laughing eyes as the man ordered, “Not tonight.”
He was a little disappointed when the elf released him, turning his attention to the food laid out on the table. It was of no little relief there was something other than Strife on which to concentrate, though Emmrich feared he began to babble as enthusiastically as Bellara over the first course. But Strife only listened, offering a question or word of approval as Emmrich described everything from the ingredients to the preparation to the proper way in which to serve it. All things he’d thoroughly researched beforehand though not exactly with the intention of sharing them. Eventually, however, he did seem to regain his equilibrium but, as the meal wore on and the bottle of wine slowly emptied, Emmrich found himself unable to look away from the other man’s mouth.
“Emmrich?”
“Hmm, yes?” He asked, blinking. “What was the question?”
“There wasn’t one,” Strife replied with a crook of his brow. Loosing a breath, the elf stood up from the table. Fearing he’d done something wrong, Emmrich followed, ready to rectify the situation. With an efficiency that ought not to have surprised him, Strife pulled him in for a kiss before Emmrich could speak.
The man had the audacity to grin at him when they parted.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” he said, voice low as a murmur.
“As it happens,” Emmrich replied equally as soft. “So have I.”
This time it was Emmrich who initiated the kiss. Placing his hand in a less-than-respectful place at the small of the other man’s back, he pulled Strife to him, capturing the other man’s lips gently with his own. Emmrich sighed against his mouth as Strife held his face once more, the fervency building slowly as they found their rhythm, the familiarity of prior intimacies returning despite time and distance. He could feel his heart rate increasing the longer they stood there, reacquainting themselves with one another. It was not moonlit walks in the forest or nights spent inside Strife’s tent that Emmrich thought of, however, as Strife dragged his mouth away to kiss along his jaw. Leaving the remainder of dinner behind, the pair of them retreated to the bedroom on the opposite side of the apartments -- far from Manfred.
◦ ❖ ◦
Emmrich lay on his side, propped up on his elbow as he gazed down at Strife, who appeared to be dozing, one arm tucked behind his head. But his other hand clasped Emmrich’s. The necromancer studied their entwined fingers, working out what he wished to say. All that he felt. Everything -- every worry, every impossibility -- he’d thought of in all the time they’d spent apart. They were both of an age in which even casual dalliances were few and far between. Yet, their lives were so different, called them to different places, it seemed inevitable the factors involved would eventually call whatever was between them to an end. He thought he had made peace with endings. His calling had afforded him an intimate understanding of partings, of the grief associated with them, and how to mourn healthily. But it was so much easier with death than living beings. He missed his friends quite terribly, of course. Though there was Manfred and his work with the Mourn Watch to fill his time when he could not see them.
However, the thought of parting with Strife, of never receiving another of his succinct letters, filled him with a dread he was not certain how to contend with. Even looking at him now, in his bed, so close, he feared it would all end too soon. Before he was ready. For all his thinking, he had not yet found a solution to his fear, only more questions. What if this? What if that? What if Strife grew tired of trying to keep up? He was quite loyal himself when his heart was committed, of which he was certain it was though he had kept the revelation to himself. He knew too well that possessing feelings was no guarantee they would be reciprocated or even welcomed. They had struck up their relationship amidst terrible danger, fearing the worst for themselves, to say nothing of the world at large. Now the danger at large had passed, they had yet to speak of it in any concrete terms. Emmrich had almost convinced himself he did not need such things to enjoy Strife’s company or anyone else’s, for that matter. Not anymore.
But…too large a part of him wished to know, all the same. Before any more of his heart could be compromised.
He must have sighed too loudly for Strife’s eyes opened.
“What is it?” The elf asked, voice brusque with the sleep he was putting off.
“Nothing, darling…nothing,” he reassured him softly. “I was only mourning the thought of parting with you.”
Strife snorted, adjusting to wrap his other arm around his shoulders. Emmrich dropped his elbow, allowing the elf to gather him close. The embrace was comforting and allowed him to hide the sudden vulnerability that had come over him. It wasn’t as if he was new at this, he thought to himself in mild frustration. It wasn’t even the first conversation of its kind he had initiated. But something held him back. Something soft and fearful and wanting. Something he hadn’t allowed himself to consider in years.
“You know,” he began, lightly tracing a scar across Strife’s abdomen. It was old, faded, but hurt him to imagine the wound that had caused it. He dragged his thoughts away from the thought. “The team is gathering at the Lighthouse for the solstice. If you wished to stay…if you could be spared a few extra days…” He tilted his head to look at Strife’s face, hopeful. “I could accompany you back to Arlathan then?”
Strife’s mouth curved softly as his eyes slid closed.
“I’d like that,” he said before drifting off to sleep.
Watching him fondly, Emmrich decided that was enough for now.