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"Ah! My favorite necromancer," Dorian calls, when Emmrich steps out of the eluvian behind Rook, Harding, and Neve. "Besides myself, of course."
"Of course," Emmrich agrees, striding forward to shake Dorian's offered hand. He hasn't seen him in quite some time, and given the unrest in Minrathous as of late, he's glad to see his former pupil safe and well. "How are things here, as the Shadow Dragons begin to rebuild?"
"Worse than I'd hoped, but far better than I'd feared," he replies, gesturing to the safehouse around them. It's not as well-furnished as the previous one had been; they're focusing more on restoring the Shadow Dragons' operations than investing in creature comforts at the moment. Still, there's a roaring fire and several sturdy chairs arranged around it, and while the mood is somber, Emmrich is pleased to see that work is still being done. The recent rise in the Venatori's ambitions has set the Shadows back but not defeated them, and if Dorian has time to check in personally, that can only be a good sign.
"And how have you been, Dorian?"
"Quite well, I assure you. My enemies may be numerous, but they are rarely clever." Dorian sighs and waves a dismissive hand in the direction of the door, indicating the city outside. "Only three attempts on my life this week, and they were all appallingly childish. Truly, did they think I'd be caught by a variation of Grevari's Enthrallment cast on my own doorstep?"
Emmrich snorts dismissively. He'd be insulted if an enemy made such a weak attack against him. "An amateurish attempt, especially against a mage of your caliber."
"My caliber," Dorian repeats smugly. "Where was praise that high when I was your student, Professor?"
"I recall having plenty of praise for you," Emmrich says. "Perhaps more than you deserved, considering your comportment."
Harding laughs. "It's hard to imagine you as Emmrich's student, Dorian," she says.
Emmrich turns to see her and Rook watching the two of them with interest, while Neve speaks quietly with Tarquin on the other side of the room.
"Where do you think my interest in necromancy began, dear Harding?" Dorian replies. "The good Professor's lectures were quite engaging. I only ever fell asleep a handful of times, and that was because I'd been drinking with other students far too late the night before."
Emmrich purses his lips and decides not to remind Dorian of the early morning exam to which he'd arrived still intoxicated, possibly not having slept at all. He'd performed brilliantly despite his sorry state, a fact which had impressed Emmrich as much as it had frustrated him.
"He was quite dashing then, you know," Dorian murmurs. He's still facing Harding as he says it, but Emmrich thinks he sees his eyes flick to Rook's. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her eyes sweeping over Emmrich's form but dancing away before he can catch her gaze.
"I'd believe it," Rook says softly.
Harding snickers, bumping her shoulder playfully into Rook's hip. "You don't think he's dashing now?" she asks.
Rook freezes, her smile suddenly forced. "I—" she begins, but her attention is drawn away by Neve calling from across the room.
"I have our lead," she says. "Rook, Harding, are you coming?"
"Yes, just a moment!" Rook calls back, sagging in what looks like relief. "Emmrich, do you want to meet up with us later? Neve wanted to get dinner after we chase down this lead, if we don't run into too much trouble."
"I'm not sure how difficult it will be to find the ingredients I require," Emmrich says, "and I'd hate for you all to wait on me. I'll find my own way back to the Lighthouse, I think."
"You're sure?"
Emmrich nods decisively. The thought of dinner with the three of them does appeal, of course, but he isn't entirely sure he'd be as welcome as Rook makes it seem, and he truly doesn't know how long his errands will take him. It will be easiest for everyone if he makes his excuses now.
"All right," Rook says. A smile flits across her face as she nods a goodbye—a tiny, fleeting thing, but a precious gift all the same. "Dorian, lovely to see you."
"A pleasure, as always," Dorian says smoothly. "Professor, could I interest you in a drink before you go? It's been quite some time since we've had the opportunity to chat."
"You need not call me 'Professor' anymore, Dorian," Emmrich grumbles, and the grin on Dorian's face tells him this response is exactly why he chose to do so. "But yes, I'd be delighted."
As they settle into two chairs near the fire, cups of strong black tea in hand, Emmrich sees that Rook and the others have stopped to chat with Lorelei, who's regaling them with a story he can't quite hear but which must be very amusing, given their reactions. He watches some of the exhaustion leave Rook's face as she laughs, and wishes he could see her look so carefree more often.
He wishes, too, that he could have a closer hand in alleviating her stress and worry, and contributing to her happiness; this wish, however, he does his best to stamp out and ignore the moment it surfaces. He has had to stamp out many such wishes, in recent weeks.
"Ah," Dorian says, smiling fondly as he follows Emmrich's line of sight. "I recognize that look."
Emmrich is only halfway paying attention to him, watching for any signs of pain or stiffness in her stance. She'd wrenched her ankle terribly only the day before, stumbling on the uneven stonework of the old Warden fort in Rivain while fighting a group of particularly aggressive Antaam, and while she'd insisted she felt well enough to be back on her feet again, Emmrich hadn't been fully convinced. He'd healed it the best he could, of course, but such injuries need rest to truly heal, regardless of the skill of the healer, and Rook rarely manages to rest as much as she should.
He suspects she hasn't been getting enough sleep lately, based on the dark circles under her eyes, deep violet-blue against the slate gray of her skin, and the tired slump of her shoulders. Rook is strong and her endurance is truly impressive, but ever since the fall of Weisshaupt she's been pushing herself hard—too hard, Emmrich privately thinks, although he understands why. They're all under immense pressure, and Rook has not just her own burdens to bear but everyone else's as well. Her impressively broad shoulders may be a marvel to admire, but they're still not wide enough to carry them all.
He knows it would likely be unwelcome if he were to suggest she take longer and more frequent breaks between missions. He doubts she'd be receptive to the idea. Still, he hates to see her like this. He wonders if it would be overstepping to invite her to share tea with him some evening, just as he and Dorian are doing now. Would she find an hour of quiet conversation relaxing, as he does? Would she find his company tolerable enough?
Emmrich suddenly realizes that Dorian's been talking to him for at least a minute and he's missed all of it, too captivated by the sight of Rook's backside and his worries over her well-being to take any of his words in at all. "Hm?" he asks, turning to face Dorian more directly and trying not to look as distracted he feels. "My apologies; my mind was miles away. What were you saying?"
"That expression on your face," Dorian says, mischief creeping into his voice as he gestures in Emmrich's direction. "It's the same one I used to have while watching the Bull from afar, I'm sure. How fascinating, to see it on someone else."
"The Bull?"
"The Iron Bull," Dorian says, and the way his voice shapes the name tells Emmrich this is someone Dorian loves dearly. "Leader of the Bull's Chargers, a valued member of the Inquisition's forces, former Ben-Hassrath agent. My amatus."
"Your amatus?" Emmrich asks, leaning slightly forward. "I wasn't aware."
Dorian sinks more deeply into his chair, pressing a hand to his chest. "Why, Professor Volkarin, you haven't heard the nasty rumors about Magister Pavus' barbarian qunari lover? About how he returned from his time with the Inquisition poisoned not only by the ideals of the South, but by the touch of his nation's greatest enemy?"
"I will admit I have not," Emmrich says, after taking a moment to process this information. In a nation where men are permitted to keep intimate company with each other only if they keep it quiet, only if they never let their affairs interfere with the business of producing magical heirs through carefully-arranged marriages, Dorian is rather publicly known to be an exception. Emmrich knows this, although his knowledge comes not just from current gossip but from what he observed during Dorian's time in the Necropolis; he hadn't been shy about propositioning other students (or, on one rather uncomfortable occasion, Emmrich himself). "I believe I'd heard you had a secret lover during your time in the Inquisition, but nothing beyond that; such gossip is not in my nature to pursue."
"A pity," Dorian sighs. "The stories the papers tell are much more outlandish than the truth, but they are a great deal of fun to read. The illustrations are never quite handsome enough, though—for either of us."
He reaches into an inner pocket of his robes and pulls out a small rectagular case which opens to reveal a portrait in miniature of a battle-scarred qunari man. His horns are enormous, shaped in a way Emmrich hasn't seen before, and one eye is covered by an eyepatch, giving him the look of a rather jaunty pirate. The portrait shows most of his torso, battle-scarred and bare except for a leather harness that wraps over one shoulder and a large tooth hung around his neck.
"Handsome indeed," Emmrich murmurs; the gentleman in question isn't entirely to his taste, but he can easily see the appeal. He'd be a hypocrite and a fool to discount the charm of such a partner. "How your attractive paramour relates to my face is beyond me, however."
"Come now, Professor," Dorian says airily. "You don't see it?"
"I'm afraid I don't." Emmrich frowns, increasingly concerned that Dorian is poking fun at him.
"Truly?" he asks, raising an eyebrow as he inclines his head.
"Speak plainly, I beg you, if you have something to say," Emmrich says icily, his patience at an end. It's far harsher than he knows is polite, but Dorian only gives him a sly half-smile before he continues.
"Who would have guessed," Dorian says, his hands moving animatedly as he speaks, "that I, a foreign mage in a land where no one understood my culture, convinced that the manner of love I so desperately wanted was entirely outside my grasp, would through some unknown miracle manage to find it? Who would have guessed that I would find myself enthralled by a qunari large and strong enough to break me in half, who I would come to trust absolutely?"
He leans forward and gives Emmrich a hard, piercing look as he lowers his voice. "Or that I would waste precious time talking myself out of revealing my feelings because I believed myself unworthy of reciprocation?"
"Ah," Emmrich says, embarrased to be seen so clearly. "Yes, that does sound rather familiar." If Dorian's found him out, there's no use in denying it. While he may have a barbed tongue at times, he isn't cruel, and Emmrich is relatively sure he can trust him with this information—with his ridiculous infatuation—in confidence.
"Your secret's safe with me," Dorian assures him, sensing the direction of Emmrich's thoughts. "But given the way you look at her, I suspect Rook may figure it out herself before too long."
"Then I shall make more of an effort to school my expression," Emmrich says stiffly. "She has enough on her mind without dealing with an old necromancer's unwanted attraction."
"Or," Dorian says, teacup rattling in its saucer as he sets it down on the table between them, "perhaps she has so much on her mind, so many impossible choices to make every day, that the attentions of a kind, mature gentleman would be a welcome distraction."
"I don't want to be a distraction," Emmrich snaps. He shakes his head and exhales deeply, struggling to pull his emotions under control. "My apologies, Dorian. I've been trying to rid myself of this…" he trails off. "I hardly know what to call it. Fascination? Infatuation? But despite my best efforts I am very taken with Rook, far more than I have any right to be. I don't want to be a distraction or a form of stress relief, I want to…"
"Yes?" Dorian asks, when the rest of Emmrich's thought goes unsaid. His voice is gentler now, as if coaxing a nervous horse to accept a lump of sugar. There's no mischief, no smug self-satisfaction in his voice any longer.
"I would court her, if she'd allow it," Emmrich says quietly, giving voice to his feelings for the first time. "I'll never ask, of course, but I've thought about it. Gifts I'd give her. Lovely places I might bring her, if we were to have some precious time alone. It—I shouldn't be thinking about it, about her, at all, but I'm finding it difficult to stop."
"Why should you stop? Why not ask her?"
"I'm twenty years her senior at least, surely."
"Not everyone would mind that," Dorian points out. "It would have its own appeal, for some. Does Rook strike you as the sort to be offended by your interest, even if she doesn't return it?"
Emmrich sighs. "No, Dorian. She does not."
"I'm afraid any suggestions I'd give you from personal experience would be unhelpful, unless you've spent the last several weeks trading innuendo poorly disguised as insults about each other's homelands."
"There have been no insults," Emmrich says firmly, "and certainly no innuendo!"
"Still," Dorian presses, "I can say that trying to convince myself I wasn't falling for the Bull brought me nothing but pain. You surely know what life in Tevinter is like for men such as myself?"
"Not in intimate detail, no, but I understand the general atmosphere," Emmrich says. "A level of tolerance as long as your affairs are neither public nor disruptive to the business of building a family legacy."
"Precisely," Dorian says, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "The expectation was clear from the moment my preferences made themselves known. I knew it was pointless to consider that I might be falling in love because I knew love was not an option for me. I hid from it, even long after Bull and I had begun sleeping together, long after the sex had become more than stress relief, more than companionship." He sighs heavily. "I nearly lost him because I couldn't bear to be cared for the way he came to care for me. I couldn't believe it was real. I was a wounded animal, lashing out because I was too desperate for his love and too afraid of having it taken away."
He falls silent, then. Emmrich sips his mostly-cooled tea.
"It may be terribly impertinent of me to advise my old professor," Dorian says.
"Surely no more impertinent than you were in every one of my classes," Emmrich replies tartly, but there's warmth in his voice as he does so. Dorian may have been exasperating at times, but Emmrich had always had a soft spot for him, impertinence and all.
Dorian barks out a sudden laugh. "Ha! Quite right you are, Professor. You suffered my poor behavior then so surely you can suffer it once more. Do not reject yourself on Rook's behalf. Let it be a decision she makes for herself, instead of one you keep from her out of fear. Surely she will be kind in her rejection, if it comes to that, but if it doesn't—which I certainly think is likely—you will think yourself a fool for having waited so long."
"I already think myself a fool," Emmrich murmurs, "but thank you, Dorian. I appreciate you sharing something so intimate with me."
"I'm sure it won't happen again," Dorian says, slipping back into his regular tone of voice, and Emmrich realizes how much of a shield his outwardly flippant nature must be, and how lucky he is to have seen beneath it for a moment. "I hate to cut this short, Professor, but there's only so much seriousness I'm capable of in a day, and I have a dreadful meeting to attend to shortly where I will have to be very serious indeed."
"That's quite all right, Dorian," Emmrich says, waving him off with a graceful hand. "I'm glad you could make time for me at all, and I do appreciate your counsel, truly. I will think on what you've said."
"Please do," Dorian says, as he rises from his seat. "If I see you still moping after her in the future, I reserve the right to be quite cross with you."
And then he is gone, leaving Emmrich to stare into the fire and finish the dregs of his strong, bitter tea (is every drink in Tevinter over-brewed?, he wonders, thinking of Neve's coffee) and wonder if his longing for Rook can ever overcome his fear of her refusal.