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He waved his hand.
The skull appeared. Surrounded by green flame, it perched with its jaw atop his waiting palm, as his carefully wrapped, skeletal fingers curled gently to cup its occiput.
He waved again.
The skull vanished.
As he sat on the edge of his desk within the laboratory in the Lighthouse, he crossed one leg over the other, shifting his weight out of habit rather than for comfort. He heard the sound of his robes sliding across his bones and boots and he felt the sensation of his limbs touching one another. But while the feeling was familiar, and recognisably his, it was disconcertingly foreign at the same time.
Because a part of his body was now no longer where he expected it to be.
His sense of proprioception, acquired over the first half-century of his life, had changed in an instant. Though the changes brought about by casting aside flesh for bone seemed small from the outside, from within his own body they were enough to leave him feeling like an adolescent struggling to adjust to a body that was neither the size nor shape it had been yesterday.
His sense of space and time was forever changed, and so was he. Since his death and rebirth, his perspective had re-shaped itself to rest at the scale of planets and stars. It was both beautiful and terrifying and overwhelming and exciting all at once.
So used was he to being the one offering the wisdom of his experience and years, the self-assured and self-possessed Professor felt somewhat adrift within the discomfort of being the newest and least experienced of all the Lich Lords.
He felt like a child who had been given the gift of an infinitely large coat and an eternity in which to grow into it.
A babe in the arms of the universe.
He waved his hand.
The skull appeared, once more upon his waiting hand, motes of wisp-light gathering about it like a halo.
He watched them play, darting in a sinus, out an eye socket, peeking from behind the jaw.
He waved again.
The skull vanished, and the wisps scattered with a chitter.
He found the practice comforting, familiar, an ordinary habit that grounded him here in the present when the universe was still too newly vast. An anchor for his thoughts, when he found himself worried that he may get lost in the infinite wonder of the firmament, and lose his connection to the timescale where his companions needed him. Where his Rook loved him.
Dearest Rook. My darling Rook.
It felt like only seconds had passed since he'd sat in this very place and shown them the deeper Fade.
He waved his hand.
The skull reappeared, and he placed his hand upon its crown. As he did, he swore that, just for a moment, he felt the warmth of Rook's hand beneath his. So strong was his recollection of the thrill of holding their hand that first time. Even seen through veil-sight, there was no star in the heavens that could outshine the rapt wonder of Rook's eyes that afternoon.
He traced the jaw of the skull on his hand with a long, linen-clad finger. He wondered whether this was what Rook felt when they caressed his face.
"You don't have to hide your face from me."
He waved again.
The skull vanished.
The Lich sighed.
Had he been given eternity to decide whether Rook would return his affections, would he ever have moved? Immortality warps one's sense of purpose and urgency. When one has aeons to ponder even the smallest decision, then everything becomes something for tomorrow and apathy silently creeps in to fill the cracks.
But everything about his beloved exists here, in this timescale, where lives are lived counted in years and minutes and days. The presence of a tangible, ever-present mortality demands choices be made, risks taken. Mortality is not a flaw in the human condition, rather it is the primal source of passion, devotion and courage. They flourish here because time is limited, not in spite of it.
He waved his hand.
The skull appeared. A totem of mortality, made of fade-magic, shaped as bone upon the bones of a man reborn from death.
Today matters because tomorrow is not guaranteed.
Losing Rook in the Fade had taught him this, a lesson learned the first and last time.
He waved again.
The skull vanished, leaving only faint green embers of magic behind.
It retreated back into the Fade whence it was called to await the next. Not unlike the Lich Lords, he thought, hidden away from mortals with their limited lifespans by a grand detachment. The luxury afforded by a so-called greater purpose within the Necropolis.
But not Emmrich. He refused to let eternity make him forget, to lose his urgent passion for learning, his newly-won desire to explore. He would keep his perspective anchored in the scale of mortal heartbeats, warm skin and fleeting hours.
He would bear the price of losing those he loved for the privilege of loving them.
He heard the sound of footsteps approaching on the stairs behind him.
He waved his hand.
The skull appeared on his hand once more. His eyes' green flames stared into the nothingness of its empty orbits.
He looked up as the steps approached, into the eyes of his beloved Rook, filled with simple delight at finding him here, wrapped in his thoughts and magic in what passed for afternoon sunshine at the Lighthouse.
Their diamond life-flame, coursing strong and beautiful within, as they were without.
A skeletal smile now seemed a poor vessel to share the depth of his love for his Rook. He poured his eternal heart out to them instead through his words and the warmth of his voice.
"Oh, do come sit beside me, dearest."