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It was the afternoon of Emmrich Volkarin’s 93rd name-day. He was hidden away in his study, resting on a worn leather chair that was nestled in a cosy alcove. The room was a modest size, in actuality, the smallest one in his manor house. Even so, bookshelves lined the quarters from floor to ceiling, stuffed full of various tomes and precious keepsakes.
The fire to the right of Emmrich cracked and popped, roaring flames keeping the crisp autumnal weather from creeping in through the floorboards, and worse, from seeping into his bones. A mere drop in temperature was all it took to cause his knees to ache, his knuckles to lock. He was unaccustomed to these irksome symptoms of aging, something new and unexpected seemed to surface practically every day since his 90th voyage around the sun. Emmrich was fortunate it didn’t impact his mind, nor his magic. Although his wrists would tire after writing one or two messages—a disappointing predicament, as he used to spend hours with a quill and a pile of parchments, often into the wee hours of the morning, before even a hint of a cramp manifested. Mercifully it only took but a flick of a finger to conjure a spell that could pen his words for him. That, or Rook, his dearest Rook, would oblige Emmrich when the mood arose, always the expert in dictation.
To his left, large oval windows covered the walls, showcasing exquisite views into the sweeping Nevarran countryside that surrounded his property. The trees were peppered in rich yellows, reds, and oranges—golden sunlight filtered through the windows, its soft rays providing a soothing ambience for any task at hand. Every so often, Emmrich caught himself peering outside, distracted, as he sought just another glimpse—treasuring the simplicity of nature, its stark beauty, fearing the leaves might suddenly change colour, or the world would disappear at any given moment.
A thick wool blanket was draped over Emmrich’s lap, and he was leisurely making his way through a stack of congratulatory missives. Well wishes for his day of birth, to health and prosperity—one might’ve found these types of words quite repetitive or borderline dull throughout the course of their existence, but Emmrich cherished them all the same, year after year. He was able to ascertain quite a lot by the penmanship of the author—how well they were faring financially or mentally, by a mere signature alone. Did they depict their thoughts with brevity? Their name hastily scribbled and with scarcely any ink remaining? Or was the letter overflowing with thoughtful words, their handwriting delicate and connected, the parchment a piece of art in and of itself?
Despite the copious amounts of time Emmrich acquired after retiring from the Mourn Watch, he hardly had a moment to focus on his social engagements. Well, with all his travels across Thedas, to reading and obtaining new volumes, the list of never-ending personal projects quickly accumulated. Regrettably, unless his dear friends purposely called upon Emmrich and Rook, or if they received an invitation to an old colleague’s soirée, these missives were the only connection he had left to his past—each one a different greeting, a welcoming embrace or a soft kiss to the cheek, as it filled his heart with gratitude.
Emmrich let out a contented sigh as he finished re-reading Bellara’s missive. He folded it carefully, holding it close to his chest. It was a habit of his, something he tended to do exclusively with letters from the Veilguard companions. He knew it was frivolous. Emmrich had been mocked on more than one occasion from Johanna Hezenkoss on the matter, hence why he moved her skull to the foyer—but it simply couldn’t be helped. As he read their letters, in his mind’s eye, he imagined they were all once again sitting around the table in the Lighthouse’s library—in their mismatched chairs, fussing about what they would make for tea, in between sporadic talks of battleplans or debating the meaning of Solas’ memories. How odd it was yearning over his memories, to suffer from these bouts of nostalgia even now.
Bellara’s missive was nearly five pages, full of her exploits in Arlathan, and her findings from the latest exploration into the Fade. The Veil jumpers carried on making progress, all thanks to Nadas Dirthalen’s vast knowledge. Bellara rounded off the missive with a snippet of a new serial she had been working on, a romance turned murder mystery, with an all too familiar backdrop of doomsday looming over the protagonists—apparently she was now quite the famed author, albeit using the pen name Amaryllis Quinn. She was always timid in taking proper credit. Nonetheless Emmrich was delighted for her, for them all.
He spun a wrist and a spectral quill materialised before him. Emmrich held out Bellara’s folded missive, and the quill pulsed above it, ready for him to action it with his words.
“Note for tomorrow. Stop. Request a full copy of Bellara’s latest work. Stop. Inquire if she has any further ideas. Stop. Perhaps a chapter, or two, on the mysteries of the Fade will add intrigue to the subplot. Stop.”
He sliced through the air with his index finger and the quill disappeared.
Emmrich tilted forwards, with the full intention of adding the missive to the ‘read’ pile on the floor beside him, when the air shifted. All manner of happiness evaporated in a matter of seconds as the light in his study darkened. He stilled, breath catching, the hair on his arms standing tall in warning. A chill crawled up the back of his spine as a voice broke through the silence.
“Emmrich Volkarin.” It announced—the cadence was airy, weightless, but still managed to reach the depths of his soul, numbing his centre.
Out of the corner of his eye, a dark figure took shape, an emerald green glow pulsing from its form. It was just out of view, yet patiently standing by for his full attention.
“Ah.” Emmrich slowly released his hold on the missive, his grip nearly crumpling the parchments. He added it to the pile with as much dignity as he could muster, and folded his hands across his lap. He squeezed his fingers, attempting to stop them from trembling, but it only made it worse. Emmrich desperately wanted to hide under his blanket, hold it in front of him as if it were a shield, yet there was nothing to be done on the matter.
Emmrich steaded his breath and turned his head, finding the Spirit known as Death hovering in the shadows that clung to the corners of the room. When Emmrich met its gaze, its form glided in his direction, the autumn light vanishing as the darkness encroached him. Even the fireplace dimmed as Death stopped in front of it, the flames extinguishing as if they’d been snuffed out.
Death wore Emmrich’s face, and he stared back at himself—his own eyes surveying his form, yet there was never any ounce of judgement. Its visage was understanding, devoid of any sensitivities save for sheer tranquility, the stark opposite of Emmrich’s current bloodless expression—his eyebrows knitting, mouth twisted in a deep frown. Death towered over Emmrich, wearing nothing but a black robe with a flat hood. Its arms were covered in grave gold, Emmrich’s grave gold, the very pieces he donned throughout his life to date. In one hand it held a small emerald lantern, and the other was unfilled, resting at its side. Black wings sprouted from its back, taking up more than half of the study.
“It seems the hour has struck.” Emmrich eventually whispered, barely managing to swallow, for his mouth was drier than the Hissing Wastes.
“So it has.” Death spoke with a defining finality to its words, no different to how its spoken in the past, but on this occasion, Emmrich knew it was different. It was there to claim him.
Death extended its hand towards Emmrich, a comforting act, palm extended as it waited for him to take it. He could only stare at it in turn, attempting to remain calm, stoic even, yet his heart betrayed him. It rapidly pounded against his chest, as if it was trying to squeeze through the space between his ribs and flee. As it should have. Emmrich knew he wouldn’t get far if he attempted to escape, he had seen what Death could do when forced to chase after an expired soul.
“Perhaps you may indulge me, old friend? If I may be so presumptuous, in my final moments.”
Death titled its head, an eyebrow raising only just.
Emmrich's thoughts went to Rook, seeking images of her reassuring countenance, as he pondered his next words conscientiously.
This name-day was meant to be uneventful. Emmrich didn’t want anyone fussing over him, and he never bothered to celebrate them in the past, but Rook invariably insisted. His adoration for her was his true weakness, and he could never resist her simple demands, immediately caving in. It had been this way since they wed 40 years ago.
Emmrich had merely requested a meal with his beloved wife, and to spend it at home. Rook had gone into the local village an hour or so ago, hoping to purchase a few last minute items and missing ingredients, as last night she had a sudden inclination to make him a hazelnut torte. It had been years since Emmrich last consumed his mother’s scrumptious recipe, and Rook wanted to do something special, something different for him. ‘Whatever you think is best, dearest. You know as well as any, I’ve always been quite amiable.’ She confirmed with a kiss, hands running through his snow white hair, making him feel wicked, undeserving, like he was once again a spry 52-year-old.
“Today is my 93rd name-day.” Emmrich began, never once looking away from Death’s glance. His stare. His eyes.
It remained silent and Emmrich’s next notions flickered to Manfred. His ward. His companion. And by extension, his first and only son. Manfred’s development surged in the years since the downfall of the Evanuris—his speech and cognition were extraordinary, and his magic exceeded Emmrich’s own a decade prior. Manfred was likely in his quarters far away within the Necropolis, or perhaps somewhere in the Memorial Gardens, where he spent most of his time tending to flowers, in between his work in the Mourn Watch. Manfred had visited Emmrich a week ago, distressed he would miss his name-day. Emmrich insisted it was ‘quite alright and nothing to fret over,’ as Manfred had attended enough name-day dinners in past years—this one was due to be no different than the last lot. And oh, how painfully erroneous he had been in this assumption.
“I’d love nothing more than if you spent the remaining hours of my name-day in commemoration with me. To life and making the culminating passage through the Veil. It would mean everything, and dare I say, be a fitting conclusion.”
Death brought a hand to its face, resting it on its chin, as if to ponder the ask.
“I’m not one to grant courtesies, Emmrich Volkarin.”
“No, I suppose you’re not. Although you’ve been known to make exceptions in the past. All I can do is attempt to tip the scales—after all, I’ve nothing left to lose.”
“You are correct.”
“And this is no ploy, nor an endeavor of making a last minute bid for immortality. That’s something I chose to forsake long ago.”
Emmrich’s fists clenched around his blanket in suspense as Death grew taller, its head reaching the ceiling, its wings stretching wide. It studied Emmrich, its leer penetrating the deepest parts of his psyche, his entire essence, sifting through his past actions, every word that’s ever left the tip of his tongue, exposing all of his greatest fears and weaknesses, his regrets and failures—his entire life, 93 years of it, on display so readily.
Death exhaled, its breath ancient and long, like air released from a tomb that had been sealed for centuries, never meant to be opened. It was haunting, uncomfortable. Instantaneously the study was full of a dramatic gust of wind, a cyclone forming around Death. The wind slapped against Emmrich’s face, picking up momentum as it pulled at his blanket, throwing books and vases off the shelves. All he could do was bite his tongue, he’d dare not complain. He'd dare not move. He’d dare not scream. He’d dare not look away, not even a blink, for a chance of penalty. Death stood still against the tempest, its expression unreadable. Emmrich found the courage to keep his equanimity, despite the concern of what was to come, expecting his soul to be pulled from his body and thrown into the Fade. Nay, the Void itself, as punishment for ever attempting to make such a selfish request.
“Very well, Emmrich Volkarin.”
The wind ceased and Emmrich gasped, somehow breathless despite not moving a muscle.
Death raised the lantern high, its emerald glow intensifying, like a star on the verge of explosion. “You are a friend to mortals and spirits alike, a rarity on this plane of existence, and to which I deem you worthy of such a request. When the hour strikes twelve we shall depart. Until then, you may continue as you wish.”
“I’m grateful, truly.” Emmrich choked on the affections that threatened to consume him, clearing his throat as he nearly sank in his chair. “And you shall remain? Until then?”
“I shall indeed.”
Death lowered the lantern, and the room was restored to its former likeness. The books that had flown off the shelves, and all the broken figurines and vases, had been repaired, placed back into their original locations. The fire was at full blaze, and the autumn foliage, as seen through the windows, was as bright and cheerful as ever. It seemed merely a second or two had passed since Death’s grand entrance.
“Then we can’t afford to waste anymore time.” Emmrich reached for the staff next to his chair, wobbling to his feet. “Come. Let us walk the gardens, one last time, as we await Rook’s return.”
Emmrich led Death out of his study, his steps lighter, full of purpose. The apprehension remained however, it always prowled beneath the surface, but it was overtaken by wonderment—his brief extension had been granted, a new chance of life, however fleeting. The additional hours gave him meaning, like experiencing the world afresh. Everything was more vibrant, the cracks in the walls alluring, bursting with symbolism—every breath that filled his lungs delicious, exhilarating.
He would make the most of it, of this 93rd name-day, and show Death what made every moment worth living.
Death, it seemed, was Emmrich Volkarin’s oldest acquaintance, and not by choice, but rather, by grave circumstance. It was a complicated relationship, one he coincidently respected and deeply feared. One would’ve assumed, due to the nature of Emmrich’s profession as a necromancer and being an acclaimed specialist in all manner of topics relating to the Fade, it was only natural for Death to be a constant presence in his life. Naturally Emmrich should’ve grown detached from bearing witness to Death’s jet black wings spreading wide—its skeletal arms extending and mantled in tattered robes—as it summoned yet another mortal to walk through the Veil. They couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Emmrich’s correspondence with Death should’ve never come to be, at least not so informally—it was an anomaly, and what began arguably on the most devastating day of his youth.
It had been just another Wednesday for Emmrich. A rare occurrence, when both of his parents were home during the same period. He typically spent the mornings with his mother, in various cramped kitchens across Nevarra City as she went about her day as a cook.
Every sunrise he’d watch her get ready, following her around like an excited pup through their tenement house. Without fail, his mother would lick her index finger, running it delicately over the red paint by the building’s entrance on the ground level. She’d use it to colour her cheeks—all the women did—and once even Emmrich made an attempt, though not quite applying it correctly, as he received odd looks and giggles throughout the day.
It was a marvel getting to follow his parents around, just for a chance to explore the city, and of course, seeing their unique routines. The notion of working alongside them was frightfully exciting to his 9-year-old self, even if he had not quite grasped what earning wages exactly meant, or how taxing 70-hours of labour a week could be on any living soul. It was new. Thrilling.
‘Wouldn’t you rather stay with me, poppet?’ Emmrich’s dear mother had whispered on more than one occasion, offering a wink, after his incessant questioning on why he couldn’t spend a day with his father. ‘The butcher is no place for a child.’ And rightly so—the first time Emmrich was actually allowed to visit the local shop, and saw his father at work, he gaped, eyes wide in abject wonder and horror, at the rhythmic cutting of bloody slabs of meat.
Emmrich understood then, and had been somewhat relieved, for the sight of his father tearing through pigs still haunted him—carcasses hanging from their hind legs, beheaded and sawed clean through the middle added fuel to his nightmares. And yet, the work Emmrich did as a Watcher was not so dissimilar. Oftentimes while staring at a fresh corpse on a slab, preparing it for burial, his memory would flicker, showcasing glimpses of his father placing a cleaver through the ribs of a pig.
That fateful Wednesday, Emmrich and his parents were in their single room they called home. It was on the first floor of a three story building. At one point, there had been over 80 other people living in the tenement. He could hear them all, practically every day—their private dialogues trickling down from the top, arguments filling the hallways at all hours, and the cries of children keeping him up at night. Emmrich was told he should be thankful whenever he complained about the cacophony or the putrid smells from the shared toilets—he could’ve been out on the streets like so many other children, or worse, forced to sleep in the basement or crammed into rooms with strangers, sleeping on the same bug infested mattresses and fighting over days old bread, so hard it could break one’s teeth.
His parents had split their room up into sections with partitions, sometimes a bed sheet or a piece of furniture was used to designate a new living space. When they managed to save up enough gold, they replaced it with wooden dividers to make it appear more substantial. The ceilings were high, and the separations only managed to reach about halfway up. It was enough though, to give everyone privacy. Their own perfect world amidst the chaos of their circumstances.
Their home was also afforded with two large windows that looked out into the back gardens, where Emmrich would sometimes watch the other children dart around and play or the neighbours tending to the community plots. Emmrich’s own bed, consisting of a straw mattress, was placed in one corner of the room. The fireplace was next to him, which meant he never spent a night too cold. From his bed he could see the kitchen table, and a few cabinets and bookshelves at the far end of the room. There was one partition that was used for his parents bedroom, and the other to separate the kitchen space. They had a small cast iron range, and a series of cabinets for storage of pots and pans and any food they had at hand.
It was nearing midday, and his mother was busy baking. What she was attempting to make for them would remain a mystery to Emmrich, a secret only his mother held, but the smells that filled the room were incredibly sweet—hints of cinnamon and sugar made his mouth water. It still did, if he allowed himself to relish in the memory.
Emmrich was under the kitchen table, his favourite spot, playing with Neverran tin knights and cavalrymen. From the contentment of his hideaway, he was able to distance himself and yet feel present, included. His father sat at the table with him, mumbling something to himself about politics and the state of Nevarra City, as he read a week old paper—which he was likely planning to use as kindling later that day. Emmrich pretended his father’s massive feet were mountains, having the cavalrymen climb all the way up and down his calves, to the tip of his knees, like they were the highest peaks in Thedas.
Without notice, the ground trembled, knocking over some of the knights, but Emmrich ignored it. He simply picked the toys back up and continued with his make believe, stuck in his own fantasies. A place he sometimes wished he never left, that had never been disturbed. The tremors worsened, and not only did the knights and calvarymen fall over again, but it brought down pots, pans, and dishes that were hanging on hooks throughout the kitchen, some of them rolling into the main living space. The partitions came loose from the walls, falling flat on the floor. With that any makeshift cupboards opened wide, its contents spilling out like the room itself was expelling them.
Emmrich was about to ask his father what was happening, a part of him irked his playtime was ruined, when screams from the neighbours interrupted his train of thought. The room shook harder, the walls groaning, cracking, dust and bits of plaster raining down from the ceiling.
His father leapt from his chair, just as his mother shrieked in horror. Emmrich lost his hold on his father’s leg, seconds away from crawling after him. He never made it out from underneath the table, as the ceiling caved in, throwing Emmrich into utter blackness.
The screams lasted an eternity but the darkness was brief, the dust settling soon after the building collapsed. Emmrich’s right hand was pinned underneath the kitchen table, the wood cracked down the centre, taking the brunt of the weight from the sea of bricks and stones that sat on top of him. The same right arm was bent, broken, and throbbing with pain every time he breathed, even worse when he sobbed. He was on his back, looking out into the ruins of what he used to call home. A sliver of grey light peeked through a fissure in the rubble, and he caught sight of what he knew was his mother’s bloodied hand. Emmrich recognised the wrinkled skin, the thin scar that ran up the middle of her palm—a burn from a cooking accident years ago. Her wrist poked out of the remains like a damaged flower, fingers curled back, wilted. He stared at it, waiting for her to move a digit, for any sign of life.
Emmrich’s wails joined the discord of pain and misery, calling out to his parents, pleading to anyone for assistance, to pull him out of that premature tomb. Yet no one answered, except Death.
A black speck manifested near his mother’s hand, a floating orb with small tendrils initially, until it grew bigger, forming into the shape of a human. It was enormous, with slender shoulders, the tallest thing Emmrich had ever seen. The figure’s garments hung loosely off its frame, the face concealed in nothing but shadows. One of its hands held a small glowing lantern, emerald light pulsing from the core. It took in the surroundings, unbreathing, unnatural. Massive black wings spread from its back, fluttering silently before folding carefully behind it. Emmrich shivered as he watched the figure kneel, ice crystals forming along the base of the table, his breath trailing up like smoke. It extended a hand towards his mother, the thin fingers as pale as bone.
“Get away from her!” Emmrich hollered, attempting to remove himself from under the table, to push the figure away. He screamed, sharp pain radiating through his arm, reaching the tips of his fingers.
The mysterious figure paused, its fingers inches away from touching his mother’s hand. Its head tilted up, and although Emmrich could not see a face, deep set eyes appeared from the centre of the hood, floating in nothingness—they were kind and calming, the gaze absorbing Emmrich‘s.
“Curious. Unexpected even.” Its melodic voice did not frighten Emmrich, as he thought it would. It eased his nerves and his heart silenced, the world itself seeming to stop all manner of movement, of life, just to hear it speak.
“Emmrich Volkarin.” The voice continued, and Emmrich gasped.
“Y-you know my name?”
“You are special, child. You can see me, most mortals cannot.”
“Who a-are you? Do you know my p-parents?”
“I am Quietus. I am the beginning and the end. I am Repose, endless sleep, wandering in perpetuity. I am known as Death, to some mortals.”
“Death?”
The figure called Death rose to its feet and bowed deeply, respectfully, like Emmrich was royalty. Despite the movement, its robes remained stationary, permanently fixed in place.
There were a lot of things Emmrich wished he told Death that day, words his young mind couldn’t quite grasp, sentences he wouldn’t know the meaning of for many years. One thing he did understand, however, was the dread building in the pit of his stomach at the mention of death, at putting a name to the figure before him. It was impossible to inhale from the weight of the rubble pushing down against him and from Death’s icy glare alone. An odd sensation curled its way across Emmrich’s neck, as if it was Death’s black tendrils, squeezing tighter the more he tried to resist, to look away, to deny it.
Death was a word Emmrich heard a thousand times and was told to ultimately ignore, to ponder when he was of a more deserving age.
‘This is a matter for adults, poppet, far too serious for youngins.’ His mother whispered late one evening, after Emmrich had been caught eavesdropping.
He couldn’t sleep, having spent the night staring at the walls, watching the shadows twirling across the cracks and mold that populated the ceiling. The only expression he picked up in their communication was the mention of death. His mother showered him with kisses after they discovered he was awake, promptly tucking him back into bed. ‘You’re young, Emmrich. You shouldn’t have to worry about such things. Enjoy your youth, my sweet boy.’
Death was a word that fluttered past Emmrich’s ears from passersby as he played in muddy streets, a word he overheard in boisterous kitchens as the cooks engaged in gossip over boiling pots and sizzling pans. It was a notion he read about in his books, featuring tales about brave soldiers charging into battle, gorgeous heroines putting their livelihoods at risk as they opposed traditions, and antagonists, always the villains—who sought power, acclaim, and a chance at securing everlasting life.
Even Emmrich had joked about death once, with his little games of tin knights and cavalrymen. He’d flick his fingers, causing the toys to fly across the kitchen floor, in mock reenactments of grand battles, or various other fake scenarios he’d conjure up on the spot. He never expected to come face-to-face with Death, or that it would be shaped like a human, although wearing wings darker than night. And he certainly never imagined Death would come for his parents. Foolishly enough, Emmrich had believed they were invincible, that they’d live forever.
“Just g-go away! You don’t need to t-take them.” Emmrich choked on a sob, his chest burning as dust filled his lungs. “Please.”
As Emmrich wondered where his father was and if he was still beside him, horrid images sprang to mind. His father’s crushed skull and bruised torso, his mother’s crumbled limbs. Emmrich shut his eyes, but the visions followed, chasing him yet he had nowhere to run, to hide. If Emmrich had only held on to his father longer, pulled him under the table with him… they would’ve at least been together. He wouldn’t have to face Death alone.
When Emmrich’s tears ran dry, Death spoke again.
“My condolences, Emmrich Volkarin. Your parents are beyond saving. I am merely here to collect what is owed.”
Death extended its hand once more, palm facing up, index finger curling back into a beckoning motion to someone, or rather something, unseen. A dark blue orb floated out of the rubble next to Emmrich, followed by a purple orb popping up from the centre of his mother’s palm. The orbs hovered about Death, flitting around each other as if in an intimate dance, their final waltz. A moment or two passed before the orbs flew into the lantern, their colours waning as they merged with the emerald light.
“W-we were supposed to go to the p-park. Today. And t-then after, we—”
“This was always their endpoint. What was meant to be, what will always come to pass, time and time again. There was nothing that could have been done.”
“You're wrong. Give them back!”
Death regarded Emmrich, its wings extending fully, blacking out the surroundings. Despite the absence of light, Emmrich could still make out the soft edges of Death's body due to the glowing lantern. It pulsed softly in its hands, like a heartbeat, a living entity housing the souls of the departed. Death’s wings passed straight through the rubble and reached Emmrich, touching his shoulders. The movement was smooth, and not with malice, but with an odd tenderness.
“Do you wish to know your death, child?” Death’s tone was curious, helpful, as if the knowledge might ease Emmrich’s tortured mind, console his grief that had just begun to manifest.
Emmrich only stared at Death, frowning as he thought of his answer. Death honoured the spell of silence that fell over them, clasping its hands over its body, grip never loosening on the lantern. The light seemed to beat faster in expectation, brightening the longer Emmrich debated his response.
After a time, Emmrich made his decision. He was at the brink of saying yes, discovering how long he had left before joining his parents—ready to follow them through the Veil then and there, terrified of being left alone, of what the future had in store without their guidance, their love, However Death’s hand slashed through the air, taking any words Emmrich planned to say out of his mouth, fully rendering him speechless.
“No. Perchance not, child. A misstep to ask such a thing of you. Certain knowledge, hidden in the depths of the abyss, will corrupt even the brightest minds, and you have a lot to offer. You will progress with your journey, your thread is vast.”
“What does that—I don’t…”
“One day you shall comprehend. Or perhaps not. Time will tell, indeed.”
Death stayed with Emmrich, for what must’ve been hours. They had no more words to exchange, but he watched the figure floating idly by his mother’s hand. Not even the wind that followed the evening’s cold temperatures stirred Death’s robes, it was like it wasn’t even present.
Sometime later, Death tilted its head, nodding softly, as if listening to a phantom summoning.
“Until we next meet, Emmrich Volkarin.”
Death’s form dissipated like thick morning fog before Emmrich could find a voice to respond, just as a familiar face appeared through the crack in the rubble. It was Mrs. Ackerman, a woman who lived in one of the other tenement houses on his street. She carried a torch, replacing the space Death previously occupied. Mrs. Ackerman’s gaunt cheeks were a most welcoming sight to Emmrich—he couldn't utter a single word when she called out for survivors, aside from a pitiful croak. That was enough, for her eyes grew three sizes when she realised he was still living—practically jumping for joy as she rallied others to aid her. Heaps of torches came into view, followed by frantic buzzing as they quickly began their work extracting Emmrich.
It took the group a little over an hour to safely remove him, careful to take away each individual brick, each slab of stone, for fear it might cause the rubble to cave in on itself, instantaneously ending him. Once he was free, they carried his body to the nearest infirmary, ushering him to the children’s ward for emergency care.
Emmrich had a gruesome gash on his head, sprained ribs, and his right arm was bent in ways that reminded him of a broken tree branch after a terrible storm. In fact, his comminuted fracture resulted in the bone piercing straight through his skin, which he didn’t realise, until he saw something sharp sticking out above his elbow. He vomited on a poor nurse maid’s lap soon after. Emmrich’s right hand had been nearly crushed from the kitchen table, and was covered in lacerations from the back of his hand all the way to his forearm.
Recovery of such injuries was torturous for any child—despite the modern miracles of magical healing practices, it didn’t take away from the crippling pain of feeling his bones shifting inside his skin. Even the ligaments that weren’t damaged reconstructed themselves, moving under his muscles like beetles burrowing in the sand. The open wounds burned as they resealed, leaving unique scars in their wake.
While the marks on Emmrich’s head disappeared with time, the ones on his right hand and arm did not. His fingers were disfigured, the surface of his skin rough and unappealing. Where the cuts had been were now raised blemishes that travelled from the base of his wrist to his elbow, snaking around his forearm. He kept the evidence concealed with a leather glove and long sleeves, initially out of embarrassment for how it made him stand out amongst others, and to avoid the scrutinizing looks he came to despise. When he made peace with his tragedy some years later, the glove became a way to honour his parents’ memory and the gift of life—no longer feeling shame or guilt about his past, but reverence for it.
Emmrich hoped that was the last he’d ever see of Death, until, well, his time came. However after their first introduction, Death seemed to be everywhere Emmrich looked, waiting for him in every room, in each new city. It made frequent appearances throughout the course of his life, as if it was purposely following him, watching from the distant gloom as he grew into an adult, perfecting his magical talents, and furthering his career as a Watcher.
Death was omnipresent, even when Emmrich was in the comforts of his own bedchambers he was never truly alone. It appeared in his dreams, its winged silhouette haunting any respite he hoped to gain within the Fade. Its eyes were always on him, any movement and train of thought under observation. When Death wanted to make itself known, but not engage, the temperature would drop a few degrees, sending Emmrich into near convulsions as the shivers ran through his body. Emmrich could see movements in his peripheral, a hint of an emerald light glowing faintly, a flutter of a wing, but when he turned his head, or brightened the lights to coax it out of hiding, there was nothing there—the only sounds filling the room were his rapid breaths and jittering teeth.
If Death chose to communicate, its chats were brief and never pleasant, despite Emmrich making an attempt to switch the narrative for the sake of his sanity. Death was cordial, but its words had deeper, sinister meanings—ancient riddles laced with abject threats and horrors that would make any man mad if they took it at face value. Emmrich relented, biting his tongue, nails digging into the base of his palm, treating Death with respect and the same kindness it once showed him, until it withdrew again.
With Death’s appearances came the sheer terror, the cold sweats and panic attacks that would render Emmrich all but useless in the face of his impending doom. To die. To embrace the unknown. To be forgotten. The accolades he achieved, the knowledge he gained, the relationships built along the way, would ultimately amount to nothing. Gone from this plane with the first gust of wind, receding with the melting snow as spring promised warmth along the horizon. The only proof he had ever lived would be his rotting flesh, the gold sitting atop his bones. And who would come to care for his grave then? It would become a relic, fading into obscurity within the Necropolis’ vast tombs, another ruin for its growing aggregation.
Death lingered close to his friends and colleagues in the years following his initiation into the Mourn Watch. There were few in the Necropolis who could see Death, barring the Lich Lords and Vorgoth. The select number of Senior Watchers he attempted to confide in on the matter were able to sense Death’s nearness within the halls of the Necropolis, or its lasting touch on a fresh corpse, but no more than that. They instead debated Emmrich on his irrational trepidations, what happens when one’s soul enters the Veil, and if Death, as Emmrich had stated, was really a Spirit or a figment of his imagination.
It was Johanna who believed Emmrich, to a certain degree. She had called him all manner of names from ‘insufferably scatty’ to a ‘certified crackpot’ when Emmrich bared his soul to her—she waved away his feelings and forebodings like an irksome rodent, though never once discrediting his declarations on Death.
“You mean to tell me you’ve conversed with it?” Johanna inquired, adjusting her hexagonal glasses whilst staring daggers at Emmrich. “As if Death was one of those mindless wisps that follow you about like a stray dog?!”
Johanna had joined Emmrich in his flat. They were hunched over a table stacked with copious amounts of tomes and parchments. The pair were in the middle of reviewing some of their latest research on the deeper Fade—if it was possible to reach it with the practice of lucid dreaming, and if that alone might have consequences on the mortal rationale. Johanna had also made headway exploring the possibility of future expeditions into the Fade while opening borders in the waking world, and whether or not having proper equipment for such a journey was necessary.
As they were partway through editing a page—Johanna feverishly scratching out her work and grumbling in annoyance—Death revealed itself, hovering over her shoulder. Emmrich nearly fell out of his chair when he looked up from his own scroll, hand clasping his chest as he took a sharp intake of breath. Johanna scoffed at his juvenile behavior, demanding an explanation.
“I‘ve only ever spoken plainly on the matter, Johanna.”
“And where is it now, pray tell?”
“Directly behind you.”
Johanna shot to her feet and turned around, sticking her arm in front of her. It went clean through Death’s body, her fist peeking out of its back. She punched at the air and wiggled her fingers, cackling as she exaggerated her physicality. Death did not react to the fact Johanna was attempting to make a mockery of it. Emmrich winced nonetheless, predicting a backlash—for Death to take Johanna straight by the throat as she kicked and screamed, throwing her into the Abyss. Where she rightly belonged at that moment.
Death remained still throughout her antics, its face concealed by the shadows of its hood. Its imperceptible glare did a number to Emmrich’s composure as its eyes crept over his body, digging deeper into his core, as it always did.
“Is this an attempt at pulling my leg, Volkarin? How debasing.”
“I‘m all for a proper jest, Johanna,” Emmrich retorted, reaching for a lilac coloured handkerchief in his shirt pocket, lightly dabbing at the budding sweat on his forehead. “But I’m being perfectly serious. Do you really disparage my accounts? Or must you believe everything that comes out of my mouth is but a fib? If so, I’m afraid you’re no better than the others.”
“Obviously not, you festering fool! Maker’s bloody breath, your hysterics are tiring. I simply refuse to concede you’re a cut above me at anything. It’s perplexing how you, of all imbeciles, can interact with Death. The very thing that causes you so much despair! And yet it refuses to exhibit itself to anyone else? A folly, surely.”
“Careful, Johanna.” Emmrich uttered a frustrated huff, delicately folding the handkerchief into a perfect square before putting it away. “Your envy is showing, and it’s quite unbecoming.”
“Pah! Is that damned thing still here? I wish to speak with it.” Johanna snarled, her body distorting as her rage progressed, like a kettle on the cusp of overboiling.
“I’m afraid not. It left midway through your last diatribe.”
His eyes quickly darted between Johanna’s worsening glower and Death, who in fact, still remained behind her. It made a small movement, a bow of its head, before it melted into thin air—just as Johanna chucked a massive tome over her shoulder, shouting expletives that would’ve made the Divine blush.
Emmrich brazenly tried to stop Death once, thinking it might listen to reason. He had ventured into Nevarra City to acquire some new artwork for his residence. The thoroughfares were teeming, full of men and women of all shapes, sizes, and statuses—musicians with calloused palms busking, their chords far too good for the grimy streets, to Lords and Ladies fawning over each other as they window shopped, and the gaggle of maids with laundry baskets cradled in their arms, huddling in the corners and snickering mischievously. Emmrich had nearly reached the art collector’s address when he stopped in his tracks, spotting Death at the opposite corner.
It was hard to ignore, a speck of black, of decay, in a sea of otherwise vibrant colour. Its wings were outspread, encircling a random woman—who must’ve been in her late 30s—in a fatal hug.
Emmrich threw the stacks of parchments he had been holding aside, sprinting towards the woman. He shouted at her, in warning, and at Death, beseeching for it to wait. To stop. It was all for naught, for she immediately keeled over. By the time Emmrich reached her, she had expired. An apparent heart attack, he would later discover. Death extended its hand and an amber orb rose from the woman’s chest, floating smoothly into the lantern.
“You cannot forestall the inevitable, Emmrich Volkarin.” Death warned in its typical tone, cheerful yet aloof. “To defy me, is to deny actuality. Is that how you wish to exist?”
“Of course not—”
Death had already departed, leaving Emmrich with a fresh corpse and a growing crowd of nosey onlookers.
Decades came and went, and as Emmrich grew older, Death’s visage began to morph into something kindred, resembling him. A face took shape under its hooded cloak, forming Emmrich’s elongated nose, replicating the mole on its right side. Death stole his dark eyes, and even his perfectly trimmed mustache—not a hair on its head was out of place. It was as if Emmrich was looking into a mirror, Death masquerading as his doppelganger. What joy, he had pondered drolly, to see himself growing senescent in real time. And the force behind it? His deepest perturbations.
Eventually Emmrich, as providence provided, found himself in the company of some of the most valiant idividuals he had ever encountered. Not to mention, committing himself to a whirlwind romance with Rook, the dazzling, miraculous woman who led their eclectic band of heroes. And to his utter disbelief, their bond only grew stronger perennially. All it took was the threat of the Veil collapsing, and two blighted Evanuris on a spiteful rampage, to unite them.
None of the other companions, nor Rook for that matter, were aware of Death. They could not see it sauntering through the ever-changing rooms of the Lighthouse, standing at the head of the kitchen table as they ate their meals, or joining their impromptu meetings in the library; as if Death might add to their discourse on the fate of Thedas.
It wasn’t until Johanna’s infelicitous demise, her lone skull taking up residence in Emmrich’s quarters within the Lighthouse, that she met Death; joining Emmrich in the select few who could interact with it.
“It seems I’m aligned with your perspective after all, Volkarin.” Johanna proclaimed, her voice low, timid.
“I beg your pardon?” Emmrich was lost in his wavering thoughts, busy flipping through a tome by the fireplace.
“That thing. It’s here.”
From the goosebumps that cascaded across Emmrich’s arms, the hairs on his neck standing upright, he could only guess Death was in the room. He didn’t turn around to face it, not immediately. He attempted to continue with his reading, but abruptly forgot what he had been searching for within the text, his fingers unstable as he tried to turn a page.
"It’s always present, Johanna. Taunting. Marking its time.” Emmrich exhaled, slamming the tome shut and placing it back on the bookshelf. He slowly turned, moving to his desk, and surely, Death was standing in the centre of the room. In this instance, Emmrich was free of its inspection, as it was focused on Johanna, gliding closer to her. Veilfire pulsed underneath her skull as it rattled against the wards holding her in place.
“Johanna Hezenkoss.” Death announced, the wings on its back fluttering, extending sharply.
The fire around Johanna’s skull grew in ferocity, trickling down the plinth she sat on, pouring out of her eye sockets like silent tears.
“Why does it have my old form? What’s the meaning of this, Volkarin?”
Emmrich dared not interrupt Death, for it was now directly above Johanna.
“You have eluded me, such risks to avoid your fate, yet here you remain. Such triviality. Interned for oblivion. Was the cost justifiable, Johanna Hezenkoss?”
Emmrich braced himself for Johanna to retaliate, to insult Death as she would anyone who dared belittle her, to avow she was anything less but exemplary. For entirely selfish purposes, he wished he could’ve been able to hear her thoughts, to read her expression—to see the colour draining from her cheeks, panic-stricken eyes widening—to witness what he so often had to endure alone. Johanna solely remained silent, the veilfire around her skull dulling, no doubt in shame, in fear.
“So be it.” Death murmured, its form promptly fading away, dissatisfied with whatever it was seeking to gain from her.
Emmrich took a seat at his desk, waiting for Johanna to speak, to offer her opinion on the matter; though only the ambient sounds of the Lighthouse groaning in its orbit answered him. It appeared she was too stunned, silenced into submission for perhaps the first time in her entire existence.
He chucked, tension releasing from his shoulders, as the corners of his lips curled into a cheeky grin. “Perhaps Death should visit more often,” Emmrich crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair to face Johanna head on, “for the sake of your temperament alone. The quietude suits you.”
Death was there during the final weeks leading up to the fall of the Evanuris, and when Solas ultimately closed the Veil. It flickered in the middle of the chaos, in the never ending blight, on Tearstone Island—inert against the darkspawn that surrounded the companions, ignoring the cries of anguish, of horror as they fought tooth and nail to eradicate Ghilan'nain. It chased after Harding’s soul when she bravely made her sacrifice, falling lifelessly into the blighted pit. And for a moment, it flickered next to Rook before she too disappeared, sucked into the Fade.
‘NO!’ Emmrich had folded in on himself, fingers digging into the corrupted soil. ‘YOU WILL NOT TAKE HER!’ He wept into Taash’s chest as they carried him away. ‘No. Not now. Not now.’ Emmrich repeated, fighting against Taash’s hold, yet they pulled him further away from the island, from Rook.
As Emmrich worked tirelessly to find Rook in the Fade, his exhaustion reached new bounds. He fell asleep at his desk, on the steps of the library, and sometimes during the middle of a meal. When his subconscious allowed him to conjure a dream, or two, during his odd sleeping schedule, Death was always at hand, waiting in the wings for its cue.
“May I pose a question?” Emmrich asked on one such occasion, standing in the greyness of the Fade. The landscape of his dreams were barren, bleak, and bitter. Death was a few paces in front of him, its lantern raised perpendicularly.
“If you wish, Emmrich Volkarin.”
Emmrich’s stomach twisted into knots, and yet he took a step closer to Death, bridging the gap between them. A bold move, which he had hoped would give him a boost of grit but only made the cramps in his side worsen, even in this vision. He should’ve been looking for an escape, not seeking remembrance of the horrors that awaited him in the waking world.
“Rook. Do you know if—” Emmrich’s words jumbled, his voice quivering. “Have you seen her here? In the Fade? Do you know where—is she…”
Death shook its head and Emmrich shuddered, on the edge of shattering into a million pieces. Its answer could’ve meant anything. Did she perish? Could she—
“I know all souls who pass beyond the Veil. The Rook you speak of has made no such journey as of yet. Though perhaps it will imminently occur, if she is left in such an exposing locale.”
Emmrich woke up from that dream screaming, his clothing drenched in sweat, limbs stiff, and his heart racing at such a speed it’s never beaten before. His cracked lips stung from the salty tears that ran down his cheeks. It was Johanna’s voice that pulled him back to reality, her fleeting words that checked the cracks in his facade. With her guidance, his breathing regulated. He no longer choked on the air like it was made up of toxic clouds, recognising he was in his laboratory, neck aching after falling asleep at his desk.
“It was here, Volkarin. That thing. Watching you sleep.”
”Yes. A reasonable explanation. I presume it’s made an appearance with every one of my dreams as of late.” Johanna’s silence at the statement was enough of a confirmation for Emmrich, and he proceeded. “I managed to exchange a few words with it.”
“And?”
“Rook lives, evidently. That’s all I know. It's what I have to keep trusting until we find her.”
“You honestly believe it? Death?”
“I must Johanna, I must. Hope keeps the internal flame alight, without it, we’d be nothing. There’d be no purpose. Even if hope was but a grain of sand, I’d hold it close to my heart. That would be enough to sustain me.”
Emmrich and Rook were inseparable when she returned from the Fade. They spent the first evening in Rook’s quarters, bodies interwoven on her chaise lounge. Where it had previously been cramped and uncomfortable—their limbs dangling off the sides, either one of them on the edge of falling to the floor with the slightest movement—that evening the piece of furniture seemed to grow. The Lighthouse accommodated their reunion, giving them all the space they needed to celebrate in peace, rejoicing in the rhythm of their breaths, the drumming of their hearts synchronising.
Emmrich brushed his fingers through Rook’s hair, unable to stop himself. It was a nervous habit, but an activity she enjoyed, found calming after a draining excursion, or a particularly taxing fight. Sometimes Rook would nod off while Emmrich braided her hair, and he let her lay there, despite his own position straining his neck or back, refusing to disturb the rest she was afforded so little of.
With Rook once again in his arms, Emmrich fell back into the old routine straight away. Naturally to ease Rook’s woes, to coax her body to relax after enduring such stress, but he knew it was for him most of all. He would not deny it. Emmrich clung to her. She was his salvation and he would not let go, he would not look away, never again. He dreaded the moment Death might appear in the corner of his eye, pointing its lantern at her, at them, and cutting their time short, before he had a chance to air his true feelings, to account for all his past mistakes.
“You know…” Rook started and Emmrich paused, nearly halfway through a braid, delicately lacing the strands of her hair. “There was something weird about that place, Emmrich.”
“I imagine so, dearest. There are things in the Fade which are still beyond me. I’m not quite sure if I’ll ever be able to scratch the surface of its peculiarities.”
“No, this was… I dunno how to explain it, or if it will make much sense.” Rook’s body tensed and Emmrich released his hold on her hair, loosening the unfinished braid. He sat up, leaning against the back cushions. He guided Rook up to him, so she was sitting in between his legs. He focused his attention on her shoulders, massaging the knots he discovered under the surface, one appearing after another.
“Do go on, Rook. I’m sure I could make some semblance of sense if you at least tried. Your words are safe with me, always.”
Rook sighed, sagging against Emmrich’s chest as he continued with his ministrations.
“There was someone, I mean, maybe something, watching me. Again, I’m not sure. I thought it was part of the prison, but it wasn’t like the statues of you, or Lace, or even Bellara that popped up. It wasn’t a regret. They followed me, they looked like me, Emmrich. My face was half-covered, but I knew it was me, how they moved, mimicked my actions. Except well… they had wings. It was huge, like some kind of monster Davrin might carve. I was just so—Emmrich? Are you OK?”
Emmrich hadn’t realised, but at some point when Rook was speaking, he had stopped massaging her shoulders, and was now holding her—his arms wrapped around her chest, hands digging into the flesh of her arms.
“Forgive me, my darling,” Emmrich whispered, his entire face flush as he let go. He glanced at her limbs, red imprints from his hands dotted against her milky skin. “That which you describe was something else entirely.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s—” Emmrich hesitated, questioning whether he should burden Rook with the knowledge of Death, his long standing relationship with it outside of his fears of mortality, or how it might impact her life in the future. “It’s an ancient entity. Ever-watching. Something I hope you never have the misfortune of coming face-to-face with again.”
“So it was just some weird old demon?”
“In a way, yes.”
“Oh, OK then. The way you reacted, I thought it was maybe uh… something worse.”
‘It was, darling, it was.’ Emmrich wanted to say, ‘It was Death. The very thing I abhor. The thing I wish I could single handedly vanquish from the face of this existence. For you. For us. It will take you from me one day, separate us, that much is certain. And if you happen to depart before me, it will turn my food to ash, my world bereft of any colour, of any feeling, without you by my side.’
“Have you seen it since, Rook?” Emmrich cleared his throat, forcing his throbbing heart back down to his chest, and stopping any more intrusive thoughts from sneaking through the weaknesses in his equilibrium.
“No, just in the Fade. Should I be concerned?”
Emmrich made an effort to smile, even though Rook could not see his features, but his lips remained flat. He kissed the back of her head, resting his chin against the crook of her neck. She had been gone for so long, yet nearly smelled the same. He could discern no scents of vanilla, but the traces of jasmine were still lasting. His favourite.
“Not at all. Pay no attention, darling—it’s merely the perturbations of a fatigued, old fool.”
Death’s proximity diminished as Emmrich allowed himself to drown in marital bliss. Days turned to years, and eventually decades since Emmrich and Rook eloped—incapable of waiting for the wounds to heal across their bodies after the Sixth and Final Blight concluded. If Death had shown up unexpectedly throughout that period, Emmrich did not care to notice, as he was too smitten, savouring this new flavour of domesticity he had longed for. If a chill happened to slither along his tailbone in the middle of summer, or if he saw the faint gleam of an emerald light pulsing in the corner of his vision, he batted it away nonchalantly—putting on another jumper or snuggling underneath the covers.
Emmrich didn’t ponder much about Death again until he was a nonagenarian, understanding the next time he likely saw his old friend, it would not be here for a brief visit, to lurk, to taunt him with the filtering sands of time—but to procure what had always belonged to it.
And Emmrich would never be ready, no matter how hard he strove to lie to himself.
Midnight was forthcoming. Thick curtains were drawn across the windows in Emmrich’s bed chambers, and a small fire was lit at the opposite end of the room, providing enough illumination to keep the quarters in an agreeable atmosphere. Silhouettes from the flames danced across the intricate wallpaper, skirting over framed photographs and past achievements of his time in the Mourn Watch. A small mahogany clock was placed on Emmrich’s bedside table, minutes away from striking 12—its hands gradually crawling across the dial, signifying the end of his life as he knew it. Next to it sat a weathered book he had attempted to read after supper, an anthology of children’s stories that were dear to him, but it was left discarded on the first chapter. His mind was distant, unable to retain focus on a single sentence for more than a second at a time.
He instead went through the old Watcher breathing exercises, his inhales long, deep, controlled. Yet his heartbeat harmonised with the continuous ticking of the clock, short and erratic, no matter how diligently he attempted to reduce it. It will stop beating, soon enough.
Emmrich sat in bed, soft feather pillows keeping him upright. He was unable to move due to the crippling anticipation of his upcoming expiration, and from Rook—who was nuzzled against his chest, keeping him anchored as she clung to him in her slumber. Tears formed at the corner of his eyes, threatening to cascade down his aged jowls, as he looked fondly at his wife—noting her dainty wrinkled hands, arms flecked with aged spots and faded scars. How fortuitous he was to have seen Rook age so exceptionally, every year she was more stunning than the last. Unsurprisingly so. Even now, he doted on her like a lovesick clod, as if he was admiring her enchanting beauty anew. Her cropped hair was entirely silver now, like glittering moonlight—any hints of her amber locks had blanched long ago. Rook’s erratic snores kept him company as he waited for the inevitable, otherwise the stillness of this circumstance would’ve been suffocating.
Emmrich’s last day in the waking world had been unexpectedly pleasant, and would’ve been an otherwise humdrum affair if it hadn’t been for Death appearing shortly after teatime.
He strolled with Death through the winding gardens and greenhouses behind his manor house, pointing out the variety of flowers and trees he had expertly curated from all over Thedas since purchasing it. Glowing sunbeams lit the paths as they proceeded, making sure no part of the grounds went unexplored.
Death never responded to Emmrich’s passionate anecdotes on why this was his favourite part of the property, how many hours he used to spend tending to the gardens with Rook and Manfred at his side, or the significance of certain species of plants being able to thrive despite the threat of winter encroaching. It didn’t need to acknowledge Emmrich’s words, it had never done so since he was a child. Emmrich was memorializing, absorbing every possible evocation he could into his subconscious, so he could take them with him as he crossed the Veil—if such a thing was even allowed in dying.
Rook had returned just as Emmrich and Death ambled to the front of the house, the clattering of horse hooves signalling her arrival. Emmrich greeted her, paying no mind to the sharp pain in his knees as he dropped his staff, teetering to hold her in his arms, kissing her passionately.
“What’s gotten into you, Emmrich?” Rook chirped, happily returning another kiss while juggling sacks of fresh food.
“Indulging in life’s simple pleasures, treasuring the return of my delightful wife.”
Rook sighed dramatically, though her face was bright, those pale blue eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I should’ve known. Must you always be this silly? I wasn’t gone for that long.”
“It was an eternity for me, dearest. It always is.”
Emmrich snapped his fingers and a series of green spectral hands appeared before them. They promptly began unloading the contents from the carriage in place of Rook, taking the sacks of food out of her hold, and flying through the front door—likely unpacking every box and bag in the kitchen before they could even walk past the threshold. Rook huffed in annoyance at the action, he was used to it, as she so often refused his help. Emmrich grinned, linking arms with her as they began to walk inside.
Death followed at Emmrich’s heels and a faint gust of wind bit at the back of his neck. He shuddered, huddling closer to Rook as they reached the foyer.
“Oh, Emmrich.” Rook hugged him, stroking the sides of his arms in their embrace. “You shouldn’t have gone out just wearing your jumper. Considering your years it could easily t—”
“Tut-tut. All is well, dearest. Just a hasty draft, that's all.”
Rook nipped into the boot room, taking off her jacket and clunky footwear, before returning with a shawl. She swathed it over Emmrich’s shoulders, kissing him on the cheeks.
“Ugh. How infelicitous. The vexatious inamorata, back so soon.” Johanna barked from a perch in the centre of the foyer, her chiding welcome echoing throughout.
“Hello to you too, Johanna. Haven’t heard that one in a while.”
With Rook still at Emmrich’s side, he bowed his head slightly. “Good afternoon, Johanna.”
“And Volkarin! You p—”
Death beat Emmrich to it, sailing across the wooden flooring. It stopped in front of Johanna, as if to greet her, yet it remained hushed. Her eye sockets burst with a flash of veilfire until she went nearly dark, as if she was holding her spiritual breath.
“Well—you look positively putrescent, per usual.” She finally clamoured, regaining her tenacity. “And what age are we this season? You must be approaching well over a 100 at the rate of your suppurating form. Just look at the state of you.”
Rook tittered and Emmrich’s ears burned. He shook his head vigorously, finding himself rolling his eyes so far back into his skull he was sure it would take him to at least 9:53 Dragon. And how he desired that such a thing were possible, it would’ve given him another prolongation.
“An honour, Johanna, to have experienced your flattering phrases for so long.”
Rook turned to leave, but Emmrich’s feet remained planted, kindly relinquishing her arm.
“Dearest, I’ll meet you in the kitchen. I must exchange a few more words with Johanna.”
Rook raised an eyebrow, cocking her head curiously. “Well, better you than me.” She had nearly disappeared through the back doors that led to the lower levels, stopping to turn and wink at Emmrich. “And be nice, you two. I don’t want a repeat of what happened that one Wintersend.”
Once Rook had made her leave, Johanna’s skull vibrated atop the plinth, veilfire swirling at the base of her bones.
“Volkarin.” His name was spoken with fervour, sadness making its way through Johanna’s cadence, no matter how hard she tried to disguise it—juxtaposing the chaotic energy forming around her. It was a clear understanding of the magnitude of Death's reappearance, the conclusiveness of this conversation.
Emmrich approached Johanna’s skull, placing a hand atop her calvaria. “I haven’t much time remaining, Johanna, but I was sincere earlier, when I stated it was an honour.”
Johanna’s veilfire grew, trailing up Emmrich’s arms until enveloping his entire body. It was cool, ticklish even, but above all, it was a deed that was a rarity with Johanna’s personality. Not even when she was of flesh, had she given him a proper hug. Perhaps a pat across the forearm or a crooked smirk for good measure, but nothing above that. His vision blurred, lips twitching, tears streaming down his face before he could even attempt to hold them back. He was unsure how long he stood there, his existence slowing as they said farewell, the closest thing to an embrace they’d ever get to experience.
Emmrich had been expecting this moment, and had all the necessary bequeathments set in place—which he naturally updated practically every other week after the events of the Sixth Blight, on the off chance he might perish prematurely. Rook knew where to find all the parchments and how to dispel the numerous security wards he had installed in his study.
He had written a detailed letter to Manfred, outlining the course of his future studies and what he’d like the manor house gardens to look like in the distant future. It was enough to keep him busy for decades, possibly even centuries if Manfred followed the routine to a T. Emmrich, of course, also noted how pleased he was with Manfred’s growth—how he set a pristine example to other Watchers, and how much he admired Manfred for his passion and perseverance. And above all, how proud he was of him. ‘Wear the Volkarin crest proudly, my boy.’
When it came to Rook’s letter, Emmrich had written and rewritten it thousands of times since their first kiss. It was what could’ve been considered as a light novella, expressing how much he adored her, cherished every waking moment throughout the entirety of their relationship, and how much her presence in his life meant to him. He would be nothing without her, she made his shattered heart whole, healed the gaping wounds he never thought could be repaired. It was difficult for Emmrich to consolidate his vast feelings—which ran deeper than the Waking Sea—despite how much love trickled through his fingertips and into the parchments. The letter was the last thing he would ever give Rook, and he wanted it to be perfect, an extension of his devotion, a piece of his soul.
The remainder of the day went by in a blur. He spent the later half of the afternoon in the kitchen, helping Rook, when she allowed it, with food preparations; otherwise watching her assiduous work from the sidelines.
The dinner itself was intimate and simple, encapsulating how they’ve shared every meal from their days in the Lighthouse—the only thing missing was, naturally, the inquisitive wisps. There was never any need for grand table settings nor lavish rooms to eat in their household. Their dining room had a humble setup, with a plain wooden table, chairs, and storage cabinets—the only aspects to hint at any amounts of wealth were Emmrich’s artwork collection, complete with landscapes and classical portraits that lined the walls.
The highlight of the entire evening was when dessert was served. As soon as Emmrich took a bite of the hazelnut torte, he nearly wept again. His vision threatened more tears as he was inundated with long lost snippets of his mother in their home in Nevarra City. He could just about swallow the dessert, contesting against the rush of feelings for fear of upsetting Rook. The least he wanted was for her to believe it was unsatisfactory. He had three slices of torte in the end, very much to Rook’s bemusement—there would be no consequences to his digestion, as the next day would never come.
Emmrich and Rook retired to bed at nearly a quarter to 11, once everything had been cleaned and cleared away. She could barely keep her eyes open, dozing off as soon as her head rested against his chest. He only kept her awake briefly, nudging her shoulder to kiss her goodnight. His lips lingered on hers, softly rubbing their noses together.
“Thank you for everything, Rook—for the most wonderful life. I love you dearly.”
“Hmm?” Rook hummed, holding Emmrich closer as she wrapped a leg around his shin. “Oh. Yes. G’night. Hope you had... hope you had a good name-day. See you in... morning. See you.”
“I’ll see you when you wake, dearest.” Emmrich kissed her forehead and she smiled, muttering incoherently to herself. He let her talk nonetheless, happy to listen to her voice, until she fell fast asleep.
When the clock struck twelve, Death was prompt, making no grand arrival, rather taking shape from the shadows at the foot of the bed. Its face beamed at Emmrich, stretching its wings wide, in a welcoming gesture.
“Emmrich Volkarin, are you willing?” Death asked, extending its arm.
“In truth? No, but alas.”
Emmrich accepted Death’s hand, their fingers fitting perfectly into place. He felt pulled towards it, tethered by an invisible string, and with great care, it helped him out of bed. Peculiar. Emmrich didn’t need Death’s assistance, for he was suddenly weightless, free of all the pains that had ever plagued him. His knees didn’t crack, his back didn’t make him wince. He could’ve run for leagues if he had the opportunity. Emmrich was unencumbered by the weight of his existence, absent of his fears, of his troublesome anxieties and emotions. How splendid!
A rift opened where the fireplace should’ve been. It was blinding, panoptic, multicoloured weaves from the deepest parts of the Fade thrumming inside—a plethora of colours, feelings, and whispers in all octaves—every possible voice he could imagine called out to him. A chorus of congratulations, encouragements, and endearments. It was profuse yet not extravagant, he was swept in a sea of repose, edging closer to the beyond.
The voices were out of sight, yet recognisable, vocalisations he last heard when he was a boy. Friends. Colleagues. Neighbours. Spirits. Could that be… his mother beckoning him? No. Yes. And that was most certainly his father. It had to be. Emmrich took a step without thinking, and then another, approaching the opening, eager to see their faces. Despite his enthusiasm to continue, he dawdled at the threshold.
All at once Emmrich remembered Rook. His Rook. His darling. His everything. He looked over his shoulder, watching her sleeping, holding his body. No. His corpse. His lifeless form was pale, a gentle smile left on his lips when his spirit departed the vessel. May Rook find comfort in that.
Rook. Yes, Rook. Rook. Rook! Emmrich missed her already. Rook’s name on his lips, her smell, her laugh, her entire being. He didn’t want to go, he couldn’t. It was so soon. He wanted to experience the world with her, all over again. There was so much, so much…
“When the time is right, I will bring Rook to you.”
Emmrich nodded, trusting Death’s speech. It was genuine, raw, its phrasing veritable. His mouth opened, endeavoring to bid Death adieu, but all manner of articulation was nonexistent. He took a final step through the rift, finding himself pondering the communication systems within the Fade, as the world vanished around him.
“Rest well, Emmrich Volkarin.”