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Neither of them were exactly killers, by trade. Sure, Rook had gotten used to dealing with the Antaam in Rivain before Varric had come calling, but it wasn't like she was a Warden or a Crow, killing for a living.
Emmrich was not a killer either, she noted, and she wondered if that had drawn her to him in a way that she hadn't been drawn to Lucanis or Davrin, as lovely as they were.
Emmrich was a gentle soul — something Rook would never dare to describe her as. If anybody called her gentle to her face, she was sure she'd laugh at them. Her? Gentle? Jog on, mate. Emmrich was gentle in a way that Rook wasn't sure she'd ever seen, his quiet encouragement of all of them — but especially Manfred.
Rook wasn't sure she'd ever quite get used to the quiet clattering of bones in the corridors of the Lighthouse, as Manfred came barrelling towards her or whoever was there. If he hadn't been holding a tea tray when she'd first seen him in the Necropolis, she'd probably have pulled a weapon on him. There was a bizarre comfort in it, though — the rattling, that was — when she couldn't or wouldn't sleep, and she'd hear Manfred exploring of his own accord, or on a mission for Emmrich.
She did find it almost aggressively charming, the way Emmrich would give Manfred tasks to do during the night, things to keep him occupied. It was also useful, once she and Emmrich started sleeping together, keeping Manfred well out of the way. Gallantry wasn't his primary motivator, she was sure, but he had noticed very quickly that she was much more likely to get some proper rest if he was near — and having Manfred popping his head in to ask things of Emmrich was not restful, if rather sweet.
Rook was having all of these thoughts as she lay in the bath, warm steam full of herbal and floral scents swirling around her, in the bathroom that had recently appeared adjoining Emmrich's bedroom. Emmrich had enchanted the runes underneath the bath to keep hot whilst she was in there, her aching joints used to the hot springs of Rivain. Only once had he joined her, and he had been amazed at how hot she'd been able to stand the water.
She heard Emmrich's footsteps getting closer, but her eyes remained closed. She was, to all intents and purposes, asleep. She heard Emmrich pull up a stool and sit behind her, running his fingers through her hair. He pressed a gentle kiss to her hairline, as if anxious not to wake her. He knew, of course, that she was awake. He could hear it in her breathing, through a thousand infantessimal tells that told him she was just pretending.
"My dearest," He murmured against her damp skin, mindlessly sponging at a particularly stubborn bit of blight caught in her hair, "I don't like killing, but I'll do it for you. How you have bewitched me, woman, into a level of devotion I did not know I possessed. There is nobody else I would do that for, you know, none I ever have — but never have I loved as I love you, Rook"
It took all of Rook's strength not to respond as she heard him say that — those three little words that they hadn't yet been brave enough to say whilst waking — but she knew Emmrich was under the impression she was asleep. She wanted to bite back with a snarky comment, something that would utterly draw them out of the moment, but instead she kept it in, bit it back, basked in the moment of adoration that Emmrich was showering her with, all whilst washing blight and darkspawn from her skin.
Oh, if Isabela were to see her now. She'd wonder who she was, and what she'd done with the Rook she'd known in the Lords. Rook didn't know if she felt completely unlike herself or more like herself than she ever had done, if a moment of peace in a manic, chaotic world had broken her or awoken her.
She hummed in relaxation as Emmrich ran a comb through her hair, pressing kisses to her scalp as he went. The lavender scented soap he'd acquired for her — had gone back to Nevarra City specifically to get for her — helped relax her aching bones, the aroma helping her forget all of her troubles for just a few minutes.
"Oh, so you are awake then?" He whispered, leaning down to find the damp, warm skin of her neck.
"Thanks for getting that tough bit of blight," Rook replied, gesturing to the patch of hair he had attended to, "that one was a real bastard".
Emmrich smirked, "An accurate description of blight, darling".
Neither of them mentioned what he'd said. Rook just pulled him in for a kiss, wet hands fisting into his crisp shirt, handprints soaking through and warming the skin of his chest. His fingers carded through her freshly combed hair, gently working through any last remaining knots. As she kissed him, Rook knew one thing:
She didn't like killing, but she'll do it for him.