kikitakite

[kikitakite]

This is so well written omg! 😫

In an attempt to uncover the identity of a Venatori spy, Emmrich, Renwick, and Neve infiltrate a sumptuous masquerade, where romance inevitably mixes with business.

@dragonworms Thank you so much for commissioning me! 💜

That day, Dock Town was smouldering.

Ash clung to the charred wood of the collapsed storehouse like clotted blood. Smoke drifted across the shattered boardwalks, rippling in the wind off the bay. Renwick stood at the edge of it, cradling the scrap of cloth he'd found amongst the wreckage—soft as a whisper and spattered with soot.

"Cashmere," Neve said, rubbing it between her fingers. "Spun only in the upper reaches of Minrathous."

"Is that significant?" Ashur asked as he stepped over the Venatori corpses—the ones who had killed their friend, a merchant who had summoned them with the promise of vital information.

Unfortunately, they had arrived too late; his name had been outed by an unknown recreant. The Venatori had descended on him like a pack of ravenous wolves, slaughtering everyone, including his workers, and burning his business to the ground.

When the Shadow Dragons attacked, they managed to fell only a handful of assailants before their leader—an unknown woman cloaked by her hood—ordered a retreat.

"The dye's a proprietary blend," Neve said, swallowing her grief. "The phlox tint is a symbol of station and wealth."

"I can smell perfume," Renwick added. "It's faint, but it's there. Imported from Orlais."

"Orlais?" Neve didn't need him to elaborate; she knew he was right. "Well, that settles it."

"Meaning?" Tarquin asked, sheathing his sword.

"Meaning..." She patted the ash from her robes with a determined glower. "Our Venatori wretch is a noble."

-----

Now, a piece of the cashmere was tucked into Neve's glove, her fox mask perched elegantly atop her nose. The estate gates loomed tall and gilded, flanked by hedges sculpted into songbirds, elephants, griffins, and more. In true Minrathous fashion, even the guards wore embroidery.

"Let me do the talking," she said, her voice a velvet purr.

She presented a folded invitation to the footman, its wax seal glinting in the light of the lanterns above.

A perfect forgery.

The man barely glanced at it before stepping aside.

Inside, the masquerade spilled like honey from the marble terrace to the courtyard—colour and sound in equal measure. Fire bowls hovered in the air like captured fireflies, casting a golden hue across the masks of guests laughing into their wineglasses. A fine orchestra played from a raised platform. Lovers philandered by the fountain. Servants—or perhaps slaves—offered food and drink with polished flair.

It was off-putting, at least to Renwick.

He fiddled with his swan mask, its wings curling upwards like baroque filigree wrought in silver. He felt the weight of his staff pressing against his palm—it steadied him, yes, but it also made him stand out. There was no hiding here.

"This way," Neve said, leading them towards the terrace stairs. "We'll split up here."

"You're not staying with us?" Renwick asked.

"I'll take the inside. You two search out here—we'll cover more ground that way." She looked at Emmrich. "Emm, with your presence and prestige, you're both intimidating and imposing. Use that to your advantage."

"I wasn't aware we were threatening anyone tonight," he said dryly, his skull mask gleaming as if in reproach.

"We're not," Neve clarified. "But a reputation can be useful—and confidence, even more so. If that Venatori spy is here, she may be tempted by either one."

Emmrich gave a modest shrug.

"You remember the scent, Ren?" Neve asked, tapping his shoulder.

He nodded. "Nocturne Étoilée. Notes of blackcurrant, jasmine grandiflorum, and bourbon vanilla." His voice was quiet but certain. "Very rare. Very expensive."

"Much like her taste in couture," Neve added. "Capital. Ren, you track her by the smell, if possible. Emmrich, you and I will search for the cashmere."

"How do you know she'll be wearing the same colour tonight?"

"No guarantees, but that particular shade of purple is bold. I'd put coin on it being her signature." She crossed her arms, contemplating. "I don't care what methods you use, just get her to introduce herself. We only need her name."

"People aren't supposed to ask for names at masquerades," Renwick said. "Isn't that the rule?"

"More of a suggestion," Neve chuckled. "This is Minrathous, darling. Everything here is political. Everything is calculated. If someone asks who you are—or chooses to introduce themselves—it's because they see you as a potential asset."

Emmrich raised a brow. "So when you told me to flaunt my 'prestige'... you didn't mean for me to use a pseudonym?"

"No. The Venatori don't know you're aligned with us yet. If anything, your fame might work in our favour." She reached out to adjust Renwick's mask. "But you? They've heard of you, thanks to Varric's stories. If anyone asks for your name, lie."

"Lie?" Renwick murmured.

She nodded. "In your case, in this city, the less memorable you are, the better."

"That won't be a challenge," the elf tittered—but Neve sensed the pain behind it, though she hadn't the time to unpack it.

"Good luck," she waved, then disappeared into the throng.

Renwick winced. "Don't say that..."

-----

The courtyard buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and nefarious conversation. People swayed like moths—gorgeous, glittering moths. Renwick couldn't see it, but he could hear it, feel it: the swish of gowns in his ears, the soft gasps of swooning women, the telltale whispers of scheming.

Unsettling.

Renwick stayed close to Emmrich's side, gripping his staff, head tilted slightly as he tried to scent the air. But there were too many smells—too many bodies. He couldn't orient himself the way he usually did, his other senses overwhelmed, his focus hindered. Every time he thought he had it—that strange, sophisticated perfume—it vanished, lost beneath rose oil, wine, and sweat.

"Are you all right?" Emmrich asked, glancing down at him.

Renwick smiled. "Yes."

No. He was uncomfortable, but Emmrich didn't pry. They wove through clusters of silk and feathers—the swan and the skull, both of them hunting. Emmrich's eyes scanned for purple; Renwick's nose for the elusive Étoilée.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Renwick's head started spinning. Then, someone bumped him—hard. An elbow stabbed at his side. A stiletto trampled his boot. His staff slipped. He lost his balance. The ground seemed to warp beneath him, and he went down—fast.

But Emmrich's arm caught him, steady and strong.

Suddenly, Renwick found himself pressed against the older man's chest, his fingers curling into the fabric of his waistcoat, and the world slowed—reduced to nothing but the rhythmic beat of Emmrich's heart.

So safe. So intimate.

Renwick's cheeks flushed.

"I'm sorry!" he choked, mortified. "P-perhaps I should use my sigil from here on out."

"No need to apologise," Emmrich said—and the words were so kind, so immediate, that Renwick's breath hitched. "No need to use your sigil, either. I'll not have you exhaust your magic—and, by extension, yourself—just because some people are too ill-mannered to watch where they're going."

Renwick's blush deepened as he realised Emmrich was pointedly chastising whoever had shoved him—his words carried unmistakably through the crowd. He heard a scoff, then footsteps retreating hastily, the stranger rightfully embarrassed.

"Honestly," Emmrich huffed. "What an inexcusable lack of decorum."

He bent, retrieved the fallen staff, and slid it into the holster on his back. Then, before Renwick could protest, Emmrich wrapped his arm around his.

"Wh-what are you doing?" the elf stammered, flustered by the rush of contact.

Emmrich smiled. "We came together. Why don't we walk together?"

Renwick hesitated, his mouth opening and closing like he might object—but instead, he accepted, hugging Emmrich's arm, his pulse racing. He had longed for this in private moments—for him—strolling with Emmrich in the night air, basking in each other's embrace, though he'd never dared voice it.

Yet here it was, real and warm beneath his fingers.

Minutes stretched. Then an hour. Then more. They searched endlessly—hopelessly—on the verge of surrender.

Until—

"There!" Renwick piped. "I smell it. Just over there."

Emmrich followed his gesture—and through the crowd, he spotted her. A woman draped in purple. The exact shade. Cashmere sleeves brushing a diamond goblet.

"Well done," he said, leading Renwick forward.

The woman turned as they approached, her mask rococo, her chin sharp. She had been ensconced in lively gossip, but paused when Emmrich offered a courteous bow.

"Pardon the intrusion, my lady," he said, his voice refined and tinged with admiration. "I simply couldn't help but notice your raiment. That colour is especially fetching."

"You flatter me," she said, preening. "But then, so have half the other men—and even several women—here tonight."

"None, I'd wager, have an eye nor an appreciation for colour as I do." He peered up under his lashes. "That shade... a relatively low colour value, yes? Phlox forty-seven, perhaps?"

"Impressive," the woman sang. "Do you possess any other talents, sir—?"

"Professor," he said, rising to meet her gaze. "Professor Emmrich Volkarin, at your service."

Her eyes lit up. "Volkarin? You, sir, are a household name even in Minrathous." She pushed her suitor aside in not-so-subtle preference to him. "Fascinating dissertations on spirits and the Fade."

"You humble me."

She smirked coquettishly. "And who is your charming companion?"

Renwick froze, then fumbled. "I—I'm Amun. Amun... Volkarin."

The shock was felt in every direction.

"Oh," the woman hissed, her tone cooling. "I didn't realise the esteemed Professor Volkarin was married."

"Married? Me? Oh, dear lady, I'm afraid not. He's my cousin,” Emmrich declared.

The lie slid off his tongue smoothly, but it pierced Renwick's soul like a blade. Still, he nodded, understanding the cruel necessity.

"Yes. His first cousin once removed."

The woman frowned. "You're clinging to his arm like some shameless paramour."

Renwick panicked.

"I'm blind!" he blurted.

He lifted his mask to show the woman his eyes—clouded irises, blackened sclera.

She flinched.

"This party is... a bit overstimulating," Renwick explained, drawing himself up. "Emmrich is being kind enough to act as my guide."

"Goodness." The woman softened instantly. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to offend."

"No offense taken," Emmrich assured her—though he pulled Renwick discreetly closer, as if in apology.

"How gracious of you," the woman said approvingly. She then extended a hand. "Baroness Emilia von Arbin."

"A pleasure, my lady."

He brought her fingers to his lips, the sound making Renwick shudder. Emmrich was likely used to this—kowtowing to the elites in these circles—but he shouldn't have had to. The very thought of him forcing himself to kiss her hand made Renwick sick.

"You must visit my estate after the party," the Baroness said. "I have many books I'd love to hear your opinion on." Her smile darkened. "I'm also involved in... let's just call it an exclusive guild. One that, I believe, would benefit greatly from your expertise."

"I would be honoured," Emmrich replied.

"Most excellent. It's the von Arbin Estate on Justinian Via. I trust I'll see you there?"

"You can be sure of that," he vowed. "Until then, enjoy the festivities, my lady."

"Likewise, Professor."

They began to take their leave, but as they did, Renwick stumbled into a nearby table. A wine bottle teetered precariously, then tipped over—sweet crimson liquid soaking his sleeve and dribbling down his hand.

"Oh no, what have I done?" he cried, rummaging for a serviette.

"It's all right," Emmrich said quickly, coaxing him away from the mess. "Come on. We'll get you cleaned up."

-----

The garden beside the estate was pure beauty and shadow, veiled in ivy and the glow of braziers that flickered like stars trapped in glass. The bustle of the party faded in the hush of hedges and flowers, replaced by the quiet dripping of Renwick's sleeve as he walked beside Emmrich in silence.

"Don't look so down," he pleaded. "You did wonderfully."

"I nearly exposed us..." Renwick rued.

"No, you—"

"And I nearly chased the Baroness away. The second she thought we were married, she lost interest." He hung his head, defeated. "And then the wine..." He winced, stomach churning. "What a disaster. You and Neve would've been better off without me."

Emmrich's brow furrowed, pained by the bitterness in Renwick's self-directed scorn. With a grunt, he stepped in front of him and grabbed his shoulders—not roughly, but with woeful desperation.

"Listen to me, please. If you hadn't been here tonight, I doubt Neve and I would've ever discovered the spy was the Baroness." He groaned, mentally kicking himself. "I must've laid eyes on that woman a dozen times, but I never noticed. Not until you caught her scent. The scent you alone identified from a half-burnt piece of cloth."

Renwick, though unable to see, lifted his gaze as if trying to find him, unravelling beneath his hold. "Emmrich, I..."

"You are extraordinary, my dear. Never let anyone convince you otherwise."

Renwick tried to speak, to argue, even to thank him, but his throat tightened. He had long believed himself cursed—or worse, the curse itself. Yet Emmrich, this kind, compassionate man, saw only someone worthy of praise.

"Come," he insisted, then spotted a bench tucked between two twisted hawthorns, partially bathed in moonlight. "This will do nicely. Please, take a seat."

Renwick settled down, cradling his soiled hand in his lap. Yet before he could do much else, Emmrich knelt at his feet, pulling a pressed handkerchief from his pocket—the rustle of fabric revealing his intention.

"I can clean myself," Renwick said bashfully.

"I know you can," Emmrich replied. "But I'd like to do it, if that's all right with you."

Then, he took Renwick's hand like it was something sacred—fingers splayed across his palm, wrist turning gently. He moistened the handkerchief with dew from the hedge, then began to dab at the wine, the cloth staining red.

Renwick tensed, the sensation stirringly pleasant, heightened by the care in Emmrich's movements. But he soon relaxed, sinking into the bench as the older man tended to him with the patience, reverence, and virtue only a member of the Mourn Watch could.

"Thank you," Renwick whispered.

"Of course."

For a while, neither man nor elf spoke, but eventually, Emmrich's voice flowed like a breeze through twilight.

"Why did you... use my family name?"

Renwick's heart jumped. "I—uh—" He floundered nervously, then sighed. "It just... felt right."

Emmrich paused, fingertips trembling. Of course it felt right—achingly, unbearably right. He'd been enamoured from the very beginning—from the moment Renwick clasped his hand and gave him a bright, unadulterated smile. That same day, he had watched in awe as the elf stood beside him in the Necropolis, choosing mercy over violence—banishing the enraged spirits when it would've been so easy, and far more convenient, to let his foreign companions destroy them along with the Venatori.

He'd wanted him ever since—craved him—but he couldn't indulge. Not with someone so young. So unspoiled.

"I humiliated you... didn't I?" Renwick asked, mistaking Emmrich's silence for revulsion. He tried to withdraw his hand, but Emmrich wouldn't let go.

"I liked it."

The words escaped before he could stop them—unbidden, accidental.

Both of them froze.

Emmrich's eyes widened.

"That is to say—I didn't mean—!"

But it was too late. Renwick's chest fluttered with something fierce and unfamiliar—a surge of resolve he never knew he possessed.

It had felt right.

Emmrich had liked it.

What more reason did he need?

He tore off his mask, dropping it to the grass, his lilac eyes shining with desire. Then, without a word, he reached out and did the same for Emmrich, gently removing his mask from his face. The moment their skin touched, the final thread of restraint snapped within him.

He'd spent a lifetime certain love wasn't meant for him—but maybe, just maybe—

Emmrich stilled as Renwick's slender fingers traced the curve of his cheekbones, his jawline, the delightful wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. When his thumb swept across Emmrich's lower lip, the older man shivered, his breath turning shallow and uneven.

"Wh-what are you... doing?"

"Emmrich, I—" He leaned in. Slowly. Tentatively. "May I—?"

Emmrich couldn't move. He should—he knew he should—but Maker, he didn't want to. Renwick's lips hovered just above his, so close the heat seared through him. So close nothing else existed. A little more, and the unthinkable would happen.

The most reckless, most exquisite thing.

"Where have you two been?" Neve's voice rang out from the path like a thunderclap, and both men jolted apart.

Renwick scrambled back against the bench, eyes wide, face blazing. Emmrich, with only slightly more composure, cleared his throat and snatched up both masks like makeshift shields.

"We found her," he announced. "The Venatori spy. But Ren—uh, Amun—had a bit of an accident."

Neve stood with her hands on her hips and an expression—the kind someone wears when they realise exactly what they've walked in on.

"Right," she said, dragging the word out. "Well, when you're done with your... accident, I'll be at the gates. Meet me there." She then turned and traipsed back to the party, a small chuckle trailing behind her.

Once she was gone, Emmrich sighed and rose to his feet. Renwick did the same, turning away to soothe himself, feeling like a monster.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered. "I don't know what came over me. I didn't mean to—I just—"

"Darling," Emmrich said softly.

He reached out and took Renwick's hand—this time with purpose—brought it to his lips, and kissed it. Not with the performative grace he'd used on the Baroness, all politics and pretence. This was a choice. Meaningful. Lingering.

Real.

Then, with a delicate slide, he lowered the swan mask back over Renwick's face and pressed his lips to his forehead, just above the browline.

Renwick melted beneath it. It was both a confession and a caution—an admission of mutual longing, tempered by the truth that here, in the enemy's garden, was not the place to explore it.

"We must... discuss this later. Perhaps in the splendour of the Necropolis?" Emmrich asked, putting on his own mask and offering his arm. "Will you join me, 'Amun'?"

Renwick blinked. Then, beaming beneath his mask, he slipped his arm through Emmrich's.

"I'd like that."

[kikitakite]

It always hurts...

"WIll I ever see you again?"

[kikitakite]

The ultimate cure. 😌

This felt appropriate to make at 4am... I am mentally unwell about this man...

[kikitakite]

He does say he's afraid to use his powers to talk to his parents because he was so young when they died, he's afraid they won't recognize him anymore. 😭

But he also talks to them the same way Rook talks to Varric. The same way A LOT of people talk to the dead. He clearly wanted to show her that it's normal to talk to the dead, even if they don't talk back. 🥺

I still think about how cute and awkward it was when Emmrich introduces Rook to his parents. No matter what background you choose, he just… does it. He speaks to them so openly, expecting Rook to understand and be okay with it.

As a player, I remember thinking, ‘Oh, he’s a little awkward, but it’s sweet, and clearly, he’s grieving.’

But then on a second playthrough, you realize… Emmrich has never met Varric. And yet Rook talks to Varric constantly in his “room.” They mention him in passing like Emmrich is fully aware of his existence.

The way I, the player, felt watching Emmrich introduce us to his dead parents for the first time…. is exactly how Emmrich felt the first time he saw Rook talking to and about Varric.

Emmrich can literally speak to the dead, but he chose to ‘talk’ to his parents the same way Rook does with Varric. He wanted to show them that even with his ability he still speaks to the dead the way they do. 🥹

Pic by @themournfulwatcher 😘❤️

[kikitakite]

This was sexy AND romantic! 💜💜💜

Part twenty-six of my appreciation project.

@velvettsage A fic based on their wonderful art piece here and here. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

A dizzying sense of disorientation—that's what Emmrich felt as he curled inwards, arms tucked to his chest, a low groan escaping his lips. Everything around him rocked gently—wood creaked, water sloshed, straw poked at his back. The air was damp and musty, and golden slivers of light pierced through gaps in the cover above. He blinked, slow and groggy, adjusting to the gloom. Then, a weight pressed against him.

A warm weight.

As his vision sharpened, he looked up—only to be snared by what he saw.

Kaelus was wedged between his legs, bent awkwardly over his torso—one arm braced above his head, the other pinned at his side. Their eyes met: Kaelus', heavy and garnet; Emmrich's, wide and hazel.

Both of them flushed scarlet at once.

"P-Professor, are you all right?" Kaelus asked hastily. "I mean, I'm not—I wasn't trying to—this isn't—I think we're in a crate."

"Yes, I've gathered that," Emmrich said, his eyes darting anywhere but the elf's face. His hips tingled where Kaelus' thighs squeezed them, and he swallowed, desperate to ignore it. "What happened?"

"Your gift. The gemstone," Kaelus assumed. "When I handed it to you, there was a blinding flash, and then... this." He gestured vaguely at their predicament.

Emmrich, recalling the strange event, unfurled his hand and gasped. There, resting in his palm, lay the smooth lilac gemstone Kaelus had given him—still glowing faintly.

"Of course," he said, donnishly. "Smuggling. This must be an enchantment keyed to discreetly relocate contraband—likely triggered when it comes into contact with something valuable. Such as my rings."

Kaelus winced, guilt gnawing at his chest. "I knew I shouldn't have trusted that shady merchant!"

"Then why did you?"

"Well... he wasn't all bad. I just thought—he had such nice teeth."

Emmrich tittered. "Yes. Charming dentistry is always a mark of trustworthiness."

He flipped the gem in his hand, muttering an incantation under his breath. Almost immediately, runes shimmered across its surface, and Kaelus felt it forge a link with the Fade.

"What are you—?"

"I can reverse it," Emmrich explained. "But it needs time—it's recalibrating, calculating the spatial tether between our current position and the Lighthouse."

"So until then, we're stuck," Kaelus mumbled, his voice strained. "Like this."

There was a long, unbearable silence, their bodies still huddled together. Emmrich's breath began to quicken despite his efforts to compose himself. He hadn't had someone this close to him in ages—and of all people, it was the elf who'd been shamelessly flirting with him for months.

"Professor?" Kaelus shifted, attempting to readjust without jostling the older man. "Professor, I... I'm sorry. This is my fault—we ended up here because of me."

"I-it's all right, Rook. Just... let's not move too much."

"Hold on. Let me see if I can get us out. I might be able to—"

As Kaelus pushed upward, searching for leverage on the lid, his pelvis pressed hard against Emmrich's—a sudden, heated connection that stole the breath from them both.

"Stop!" Emmrich yelped, the sensation far too intimate. "Please... stop moving."

"Shit." Kaelus stilled, shaken by his blunder. "Sorry, Professor."

Emmrich stifled a moan, feeling like a wanton fool. He had believed himself beyond such urges, but having Kaelus so inappropriately close was unravelling him—leaving him aching and unmoored, at the mercy of his own treacherous body.

Then he couldn't help but chuckle, hoping to distract himself.

"At this point," he murmured, "I think we can dispense with the formalities. 'Emmrich' is just fine, Rook."

The younger man flinched, then smiled. "'In that case, I'd prefer if you called me Kaelus."

There was another moment—quieter, calmer—before Emmrich looked at the gem in his hand once more.

"Why did you think to give this to me?" he asked—not accusing, only curious. "All things considered, it was incredibly kind, and most unexpected."

Kaelus hesitated, his blush deepening. "Ever since you joined the Veilguard, you've been good to me—always checking in, offering help, worrying about my wellbeing. I'm not used to that." He paused, his nails scratching the grain of the wood beneath him. "I just... wanted to give you something to show my appreciation."

Emmrich glanced up, touched by the raw honesty in his voice.

"It's my pleasure," he said, but his breath hitched when he saw the expression on Kaelus' face: desire. Severity.

Confidence.

Slowly, the elf leaned in, his breath hot against Emmrich's face, lips barely skimming the space between them. Emmrich's pulse raced—not with certainty, but with a tentative fire. He was older, so much older, and the weight of years loomed over him like a shadow.

This was wrong. This was reckless.

Yet, despite every caution warring inside him, a carnal longing stirred—a need impossible to ignore. He tilted his head upward, drawn irresistibly closer to Kaelus, unsure if what was about to happen was a mistake—or the very thing he'd been yearning for.

Then, suddenly, the gem shone, and they were teleported back to the Lighthouse—to the study they'd been whisked away from.

As clarity hit him like a battle axe, Emmrich averted his gaze, the gem still humming in his palm. His features tightened in shame. Kaelus sought his attention, trying to hold onto the moment, but the older man refused—and that refusal hurt.

For a while, neither spoke.

"Thank you," Emmrich eventually said, trying to bring levity to the tension, "for the gift. It certainly made for an interesting morning."

"It wasn't supposed to—!" Kaelus bit his tongue, then offered a humble bow. "I'm sorry. I should've been more careful when buying back alley runestones. It won't happen again."

Then he turned and fled the room, utterly mortified.

"Wait!" Emmrich reached out, but it was too late.

He stared at the door long after it had slammed shut, wondering what, precisely, he would have done had the teleportation taken a second longer.

-----

Evening fell like a plague, and Emmrich paced the halls, his mind a cacophony of regret. Since their jarring return—since their almost-kiss—Kaelus had spent the rest of the day avoiding him, leaving the weight of unspoken feelings to hang between them like fog.

Ignoring it hadn't helped.

It clawed at Emmrich now, tormenting him. He hadn't meant to humiliate the younger man, nor spurn his advances, and he certainly hadn't meant to make him bolt from the room as though he'd been scalded. But he couldn't blame Kaelus—especially since he'd recoiled as though the very idea of his kiss was repulsive.

Determined to make amends, he seized his coat, hurried down to the basement, and disappeared through the eluvian.

-----

The Rivaini night air wrapped around Emmrich like a balm—mild, soft, laced with the sound of waves and the scent of salt and stone. The moon hung low over the horizon, half-veiled in clouds, and the beach stretched before him, silvered and still.

Footprints broke the surface of the sand—light, measured, familiar.

Emmrich followed.

They led him past the dunes, through the scattered palms, to an oasis nestled at the edge of the cove; the breeze waned, quieting as if out of respect—and there, shirtless, barely more than a silhouette, stood Kaelus.

His bow was drawn, elegant and effortless, his body taut with focus as he loosed an arrow into the tree ahead. It struck with a satisfying thunk, followed by another. Then another.

Emmrich stopped just short of the clearing, his heart pounding.

Say something.

But words stuck in his throat. All the rehearsed apologies, the explanations, slipped like sand through his fingers. He managed to say only one thing: "Excellent form."

Before Kaelus could turn, the clouds shifted. The moon emerged, bathing the clearing in pale light—and Emmrich's breath caught.

Dozens of scars ran down Kaelus' back—harsh, ragged lines etched deep into his skin like history carved in flesh. Some long-healed, some fresher. They crisscrossed his spine, shoulders, sides. Each one a story he hadn't told aloud.

"Professor?" The elf faced him with a tender smile, as if the unpleasantness from that morning never occurred. "What are you doing out here so late? You're usually asleep by now."

Emmrich didn't reply. His eyes were locked on Kaelus' body, wide with sorrow. It took a moment before his voice returned.

"Those scars..."

Kaelus blinked, then peered over his shoulder. His brow furrowed, but he let out a dry laugh. "Ah. That. Comes with the life of a Crow, I'm afraid."

"Lucanis doesn't look that—" Emmrich trailed off, struggling to find a word that wouldn't offend.

"Bad? Marred? Unsightly?"

"Seasoned," he insisted.

Kaelus' jaw clenched, his smile faltering. "No, Lucanis wouldn't. He wasn't an orphaned mage boy raised in a house full of initiates who loathed his very existence."

Emmrich stepped forward, his hand clutching his chest as if he could soothe the ache inside. "That must have been... Maker, Kaelus. That must have been awful."

The elf lifted a hand, fingers brushing the scar that ran along his cheek. "It was," he whispered. "Until this one. Most of my scars came from combat training. But this one..." His gaze dropped to the ground. "Do you know how hard it is to train with weapons when your mana is constantly begging to be used instead?"

"I can only imagine," Emmrich said with a wince. "A young boy, in the throes of puberty, coming into his powers—at an age when instinct rules everything."

"It was brutal," Kaelus admitted. "My senses fought me at every turn, often leading to a failed parry or a weak defense. So... sometimes, I let instinct take over. The other boys didn't like that very much."

He paused, drawing a breath. He wasn't sure why he was telling Emmrich all this—only that, for some reason, he wanted to.

"They decided to brand me," he continued. "Make sure I'd never forget my place. As if I ever thought I was above them. I was just... eager to hone my magic. To grow stronger. I never saw myself as superior."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"That day... I lost control. It's all a blur—electricity, fire, shouting. One of them, the boy who led the assault... he died. After that, no one ever touched me again."

Emmrich didn't speak. He saw the pride Kaelus tried to force into his expression—the defiance, the attempt to convince himself the boy had deserved it. But beneath it, plain as day, was pain.

The silence lingered, filled only by the soft lapping of waves.

"Why are you here, anyway?" Kaelus asked, glancing up at him. "Surely not to admire my archery. Although, if that's the case, I'm not opposed to you watching—"

Before he could finish, Emmrich closed the distance between them and pulled him into a tight embrace.

Kaelus froze.

The sudden warmth of Emmrich's arms around him, the firm pressure, the gentle tracing of fingers over his back—over those scars—undid something inside him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he melted into it, burying his head in the crook of Emmrich's neck.

"I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm sorry for how you were treated. I'm sorry for embarrassing you in my study. And most of all, I'm sorry I didn't do this sooner."

He pulled back, cupping Kaelus' cheeks, his thumb caressing his scar. For a fragile moment, he simply held him, searching his face—not for permission, but for the courage to act.

Then he kissed him.

Kaelus stiffened, his eyes widening—but the shock lasted barely a beat before it broke. His bow slipped from his grasp, forgotten as he grabbed Emmrich's coat, clinging to him as though the sea might pull him under, and Emmrich was the shore. He kissed him back fiercely, with a kind of hunger that wasn't merely want, but a plea—to be seen, to be heard, to belong.

Emmrich let him take the lead—until he felt Kaelus stumble, overwhelmed by the passion. Then he moved in, claiming control, his lips teasing the elf's jaw, then his throat, then the bare skin of his chest, savouring the taste of sweat and ocean air.

Delicious.

Kaelus gasped, the pleasure edging towards something too intense to bear—then shuddered as Emmrich sank lower, unfastening his trousers with a reverence that made the whole encounter feel like a dream.

"E-Emmrich," he stammered, giving him a chance to reflect, to reconsider. "Are you sure you want to—? Agh!"

He cried out—loud and breathless, stunned by the heat and conviction, by Emmrich's mouth, his hands, all of it. His back arched, his knees buckled—but Emmrich caught him before he collapsed, arms steady as he laid him on the sand.

"What do you say, my dear?" Emmrich grinned. "Shall we pick up where we left off?"

"Where we left off?" Kaelus wheezed, his chest heaving.

Emmrich nodded, wedging himself between Kaelus' legs and bending comfortably over his torso—one arm braced above his head, the other pinned at his side. Their eyes met: Kaelus', wide and garnet; Emmrich's, heavy and hazel.

Both of them flushed scarlet at once.

[kikitakite]

🥺 True love's kiss 💋

@bankabb A short fic based on your art here. Emmrich breaking into the Fade Prison to save his beloved!

The Fade had never felt like this.

When Emmrich stepped through the Veil, he expected dreams—ethereal colours, strange echoes, wandering spirits. Anything—or perhaps everything—he'd grown accustomed to in his decades of research.

But this place was different.

Ash blanketed the ground like snow, bitter and lifeless. The air hung heavy with cold that sank into his bones, and the gravity felt fractured, shifting beneath his feet like unstable stone. Worse still was the weight that crushed his chest—misery, thick and cloying, radiating from every shadow and broken whisper around him.

This was indeed a prison. Not built with bars, but with sorrow.

Solas' curse.

He turned, hoping for the comfort of the portal's glow—but it was already fraying, green light cracking at the edges like splintered glass.

He didn't have long.

"Dahlia!" he cried, his voice swallowed by the grey mist. "Dahlia, my love, where are you?!"

He moved quickly, the twisted path beneath his boots crumbling with each step. Soon, the ghosts began to appear—not true spirits, but fragments, statues reduced to rubble. One was Neve, tangled in Blight, half her face chipped away. Another was Harding, her stone eyes wide in silent accusation. And then Varric: mouth open in a frozen scream, a blade plunged between his ribs.

Emmrich stopped, clutching his chest as grief surged raw inside him. He could only imagine Dahlia seeing them again and again—fingers pointed, voices warped by rage and loathing, blaming her for their fates. This curse didn't merely trap her. It tormented her.

Condemned her.

"Dahlia!" he shouted again—louder, more desperate. "Darling, please!"

Then he saw her.

In a clearing of shattered memories, she stood like a ghost herself. Motionless. Trembling. Her arms hung at her sides, fists clenched, jaw tight. Her eyes were squinted shut, as though refusing to watch the nightmare around her.

"Dahlia!" Emmrich gasped, running to her, stumbling as the ground quaked underfoot.

The moment he reached her, he pulled her into a fierce embrace, his arms tightening enough to hurt. Her face pressed to his chest, and he sobbed—ragged, uncontrollable. It had been so long. So achingly, unbearably long.

Pure torture.

"You're alive," he rasped, barely able to stay upright. "I thought I'd lost you."

But her arms didn't move. She was paralysed—breath shallow, skin cold. His relief curdled into panic.

"No..." he murmured, pulling back to cup her face. "Dahlia, can you hear me?"

Her eyelids twitched. Lips parted, ever so slightly.

"...You have to leave," she choked. "Before I kill you, too."

"...E-Emmrich?" Her voice was strained, weak, buried under layers of pain.

"Yes. Yes, I'm here, my love! I'm right here!"

"No." He shook his head fiercely. "Don't say that. None of this is your fault."

He tried to summon the portal—reaching out with everything he had—but it wouldn't move. It flickered in the distance, fragile and shredding like cloth.

Not enough time.

"Darling, we need to go," he urged. "Now."

"I can't." Her throat clenched. "I deserve to be here. Everything—everything that happened—it's my fault."

"No," he declared, gently brushing the tears that slid from her still-closed eyes. "Harding knew the risks. Neve knew. Varric knew. This is the gods' doing, not yours. Don't let their sacrifices be in vain."

She flinched, her brows twitching, but the spell held firm.

"Do you think they regretted meeting you?" Emmrich asked softly. "Do you think I do?"

No answer.

"You make lives better, Dahlia, not worse. You made my life better." He leaned in, his voice warm with emotion. "My darling, you gave me something to hold on to. A reason to stay mortal. I... I need you."

Her lips parted, quivering at his words. Her eyelids fluttered once, just faintly.

The portal behind him gave a deafening groan.

It was failing.

"Tell me..." he said, so close she could taste his aftershave. "Do you regret meeting me?"

Her brows furrowed.

"Do you regret this?"

His lips met hers, fervent and true, brimming with all the longing, all the terror, all the love that had swelled in her absence. He kissed her like it was the last chance they'd ever have—each shuddering breath between them sparking fire, every touch igniting a hunger neither could deny.

And then, she responded.

Her fingers gripped his sleeves. Her lips pressed back. Her eyes opened.

Vivid lilac—Maker, how he'd missed it.

When they broke apart, she stared at him, eyes shining with gratitude. "I could never regret loving you," she whispered.

Emmrich smiled—bright, wild—and took her hand. "Come, darling. Let's go. Everyone's waiting for you."

Together, they ran—hand in hand, soul to soul, through the cold and ash and heartbreak, towards the faithful light.

Towards hope.

[kikitakite]

Too relatable...

DOCTOR WHO (2005 - ) I 8.01

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They all deserve so much more time✧⁠

[kikitakite]

Beautiful!

The Romance of Ser Volkarin & Lady-Knight Ingellvar (Medieval Mulan AU) is completed and up on AO3.

Art by the incredible, singular, stupendously talented @svanha who brought Knight!Emmrich Volkarin and Lady Evie Ingellvar to life. Her art is absolutely stellar and I just keep staring at her pieces like a moth drawn to a flame. Her stuff belongs in a museum. She deserves her own exhibit like Picasso or Michelangelo. Watching her draw is incredible (she should sell tickets).

This is was written to be part of the discord sever collab event The Fade's First Collaboration Event.

Want to know more about the story? It's under here. :)

Ser Emmrich of house Volkarin, seasoned battle mage, veteran of the Great War. He fought alongside countless others to defeat the darkspawn great blight, including King Alistair and Warden Queen Evangeline Amell.

Lady Evelyn, adopted daughter of disgraced house Ingellvar. Her financially-ailing house was wiped out in a war five summers before, leaving both herself and her ward Franny without male representation and on the brink of destitution. She gives Ser Emmrich her favor during a tournament, and finds herself the object of affection for the long time bachelor knight.

Their budding romance shifts to the sidelines when another civil war with the restless undead brings danger to Nevarra’s doorstep. With all the houses expected to send aid, Evie sees no other option but to don battle mage armor upon her soft maiden skin and report for duty. Hiding her identity behind the Rook persona, can she get away with this ruse and lead her family back to glory? Tension rises between the disguised Ingellvar and Knight Volkarin, who refuses to leave their side…and as they travel towards the final battleground, they continue to grow closer…

[kikitakite]

EXCUSE ME??!!! SPICY?! This was the whole Carolina Reaper!!!! 😫😫😫😫😫

From my Bellara to Emmrich swap 🖤

[kikitakite]

I need a fanfic immediately...

There have always been ghosts in the machine. Random segments of code that have grouped together to form unexpected protocols. Unanticipated, these free radicals engender questions of free will, creativity, and even the nature of what we might call the soul. One day they'll have secrets. One day they'll have dreams

[kikitakite]

This is so cute.

🐥🐣🐤

my telegram: @sir_lance_official

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@falesiastuff Couldn't resist writing a little angsty snippet for your art here. As always, thank you for feeding the fandom!

Smoke swelled in the air like a living curse, curling through the blackened trees and licking at the edges of the battlefield. Craters smouldered, corpses lay still—and at the centre of it all, Emmrich knelt in the ash, cradling her.

Kate.

Her blood had soaked into the fabric of his shirt. Her lashes fluttered faintly, but her eyes wouldn't open. Her breath—Maker, it was there, but it was shallow. Far too shallow.

"Darling?" Emmrich whispered, his voice cracking. "Kate, my heart... please. Say something. Anything."

She didn't move.

His vision blurred. Becoming a lich or remaining mortal. Destroying the gods. Saving the world. All of it was meaningless if she left him now. His fingers trembled as he pressed a glowing hand to her side, the emerald threads of his magic weaving through skin, bone, and blood. Her breath caught—he felt it—and steadied.

That was all he needed. That—and time. But time had never been kind to Emmrich.

In the distance, the Venatori charged, shouting in a cruel, wordless chorus—a small army, staff-bearing, blade-wielding, driven by malice. Drunk on power and vengeance, their eyes gleamed with madness.

And Emmrich stilled. He had already killed so many. What were a few dozen more?

Gently, he laid Kate down and brushed her raven hair from her forehead. "I won't let them hurt you again," he vowed, pressing a firm kiss to her cheek. "You'll be safe, no matter the cost."

Then he stood—and something inside him snapped. No incantation. No scholarly restraint.

His grief bloomed into fury.

Magic surged through him like wildfire, a sphere of energy hissing in his hand like a lit cannon. His collar fluttered in the wind. His eyes glowed—beryl and endless—as if the Fade itself stared through him. His arm swept outward, and the ground heaved, an explosion of pure energy ripping across the battlefield. The corpses of the dead Venatori twitched—then burst into clouds of phosphorescent ash.

The first wave of attackers was obliterated before they could scream. The second wave faltered—some fleeing, some too slow. They were lifted, flung backwards like ragdolls caught in a hurricane. Bodies slammed against trees, weapons shattered mid-air. Ghostly hands clawed from the ground to drag the rest into writhing earth.

This magic was forbidden, heretical, against every Necromantic Oath. Emmrich could feel his soul weeping, the strain coursing through his limbs.

And yet—

"You will not touch her again!" he roared, his voice reverberating like thunder across the scorched land.

The last of the Venatori stumbled, dropped his blade, and tried to run.

Emmrich didn't let him.

There would be no survivors today—only a message to the gods and all who served them.

"Please, don't—!"

No mercy—for they had shown none to Kate.

-----

The fire died as quickly as it had come. The world fell quiet once more—except for the laboured breath of the necromancer, smoke curling from his fingertips, ash drifting around him like snow.

He turned back, then dropped to his knees beside her once more.

"Kate? Darling? It's over. It's all over."

Her eyes flickered open—just barely, just enough.

"E-Emm..." she rasped.

Then, just as before, she was gone.

Emmrich's breath hitched. Tears fell freely as he gathered her to his chest, his arms shaking.

"I'm here," he sobbed. "I'm right here."

What had he done?

There would be consequences—of that he was certain—but first, he had to get her home. Carefully, tenderly, he picked her up, flinching at the sound of her pained groans, and began the slow walk back to the eluvian.

[kikitakite]

Another banger, my friend! The part with Femi made me cry. 🥺

Part 23 of my appreciation project.

@sofiemystique A fic based on their wonderful post here and many beautiful screenshots. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

The Tombs of the Nameless and Forgotten were quieter than usual, if such a thing were possible.

Emmrich's footsteps echoed along the stone corridor, the emerald light of his staff guiding the way. The walls—shrouded in the secret history of the unclaimed and unremembered—seemed to close around him. He had known this path for decades, yet every time he descended into the lower sanctums, he felt its gravity pressing down like dust on old bones. It was a beautiful place, where the unknown dead could be honoured as they deserved—but it was also unshakably sad.

"I wonder what's keeping her," he muttered to himself.

Dinner was long underway, and Allette—expected nearly an hour prior—had yet to arrive. Though he hadn't come to scold, only to find her.

The viridescent glow ahead told him where she'd gone. The Tombs' main preparation chamber—the one reserved for those who arrived without name, story, or family—felt colder than the others. When he entered, the smell of preserving herbs and freshly cut lyrium hit him, mingling with something sour.

And there she stood—Allette, hunched over the altar, head bowed, her ashen hair cascading over her shoulders like snow.

"Still working?" Emmrich asked, approaching with unhurried steps. "Did you forget our dinner plans?"

There was no malice in his voice. Just warmth. Just a man who came to collect the woman he loved.

Allette gasped—barely audible. Quickly, she wiped her face with fumbling hands, then straightened and turned to him with a smile so obviously forced, it hung on her lips like a thread ready to snap.

"I'm sorry, my love. I must have lost track of time."

Emmrich froze. He saw it instantly—her red-rimmed eyes, the gloss she tried to blink away.

"Darling," he winced, stepping closer. His hand reached up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing along the swollen trail where tears had fallen. "What's wrong?"

Then he saw it.

A child on the altar.

A small, stunted body—skin blistered with frostbite. Limbs too thin, face sunken. Gender only a guess—perhaps a little girl. A grey hue of peace lay over her now, but her life had not ended peacefully.

"She was found outside the city walls," Allette whispered, her brows furrowing. "Taken by the freeze. Probably a refugee from Tevinter. Starving. Alone. So close to making it..."

Emmrich didn't speak. He simply wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest. His eyes stayed fixed on the child's body, his own expression unreadable.

Embalming children was always the hardest part of a Mourn Watcher's duty. Even in the Necropolis, where death was a daily companion, the loss of such innocence—so young, so defenceless—left a scar that never quite healed.

Allette trembled against him. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice muffled against his coat. "I can usually handle it, but... entombing a child in this place—"

She couldn't finish, but Emmrich understood—the child was likely an orphan. Unwanted. Abandoned.

Just as Allette had once been.

"No," he said, rubbing her back in slow, tender circles. "Don't apologise, my darling."

She clung to him a moment longer before reluctantly pulling away, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve—and Emmrich caught the flicker of shame in her lilac eyes. Maker, how it pained him to see her suffer.

"I can finish the preparation," he insisted.

Allette shook her head, but he guided her behind him, as if shielding her from the idea that had suddenly taken root in his mind.

"Darling, perhaps I could..." He hesitated, standing over the body with a wary gaze. "Children are difficult. They seldom respond, and when they do, it's often with extreme emotional distress. But I could attempt—"

Allette grabbed his arm. "Wait, you're not seriously thinking of—?" He was. She could feel his resolve. "What if it turns into a possession?"

He gave her a reassuring smile over his shoulder. "I won't let it come to that. The moment I sense anything sinister, I'll sever the connection. I promise."

Allette held on, her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat—but after a heartbeat, she nodded, her hand rising to her chest in a quiet gesture of hope. If anyone could reach a departed child's spirit, it was Emmrich. Of that, she had no doubt.

With her approval, he raised his hands over the child's body, magic already thrumming at his fingertips. He moved with care, every wave of his hand laced with compassion—calling not to the Fade, but to the light that lingered just beyond the Veil.

"Let flame rekindle your sight. Let breath and light rise again."

The air, already frigid, dropped further still, charged with unseen energy. Though his back was turned, Allette could see the effort—the strain—as he searched. It took time, and more than once he hissed through his teeth, goosebumps flaring as the child's injuries rippled through him—the pain not his own, but deeply felt.

Allette wanted him to stop—for his sake—but she knew better than to speak. Summoning a spirit so delicate demanded complete focus, or the cost could fall on both spirit and conduit alike.

"Please, little one," he begged. "Follow the sound of my voice. I only wish to meet you."

The child stirred.

Her mouth opened, her lungs crackling and wheezing. Her limbs twitched, and then a high voice—faint but clear—escaped her lips like a breeze.

"...Where am I?"

"You're safe," Emmrich answered, his voice calm and soothing. "In Nevarra."

"...It's cold," she whimpered.

"I know. We're going to get you nice and warm."

Keeping her soul tethered, he reached out and grasped her fragile hand with his bare one, offering her a semblance of heat. Allette didn't move, watching in aching silence as he worked, his voice beginning to shake.

"My name is Emmrich Volkarin," he said, kindness flowing through his words. "What's your name, little one?"

There was a pause. The child blinked slowly, disoriented.

"Femi. Femi of... Hollis and... Assata."

Emmrich's breath hitched. Allette clutched her robes, biting back a sob. He had done it—he had learned her family name.

"How lovely. And where are your parents, Femi?"

The child writhed, the question nearly too much. "Mama died... when I was born. Papa died... two winters past."

Emmrich swallowed, steadying himself. The poor girl couldn't have seen more than eight or nine summers herself. To be left to scavenge and survive at such a vulnerable age—he knew that kind of sorrow. But Allette knew it even more intimately—and the thought that this could have been her fate, had Vorgoth and the Mourn Watch not taken her in, shattered him.

Dspite the inescapable tragedy, he took solace in knowing he had aided not only the woman he loved, but also the unfortunate child.

"You did well, Femi. You should be proud."

"I'm scared..."

"I know." Emmrich smiled through the tightness in his throat, squeezing her hand. "But you're not alone anymore. We're going to take care of you."

Her body stilled. A breath escaped, soft and final.

"...Thank you."

"Return to your rest."

The spell waned, the glow in Emmrich's gloved arm fading as the chamber fell silent once more.

Allette came to his side and gently placed her hand on his back. "Yes," she whispered. "Thank you."

He turned to her, eyes damp but tempered by relief. "She deserves a proper headstone."

"Yes." She laid her head on his shoulder as they both paid their respects. "I'll put in a request."

And together, in the place where the forgotten dwelled, the two Watchers stood vigil over the girl who would be remembered.

-----

Dinner came late.

Very late.

The small brass table between them bore two plates of spiced lentils and root vegetables, reheated with Emmrich's usual care. It should have been a comforting meal, but the air still carried the heaviness of the Tombs, dulling every flavour.

Allette sat across from him, her posture slouched, eyes fixed on her plate. She pushed her fork through the food with slow, absent motions—each bite more habit than hunger—while Emmrich didn't eat at all. He only watched, concern etched into his features.

When Allette noticed, she stiffened, masking it with a weary smile.

"Thank you for cooking," she said, her cheerful tone brittle beneath the surface. "It's delicious, as always."

"Darling..." Emmrich sighed, reaching across the table to gently grasp her hand. "You needn't pretend everything's fine."

Her fingers flinched beneath his.

"But I—" She grimaced, eyes dropping back to her plate. "I feel bad. For ruining the evening."

"What?" he gasped, taken aback. "You didn't ruin anything. No one did. Sometimes... these things just happen."

"I suppose, but... I know you were looking forward to it. Ever since we got back, it's been nonstop work. We haven't had many chances to eat together, and—"

"My love, not every meal needs to be a romantic escapade. You're allowed to be upset, especially after today."

There was a long silence, pierced only by the clink of jewellery outside their door—someone down the hall, perhaps. Then Allette breathed out, the tension ebbing from her body.

"I know," she said, her smile small but genuine. "I'm still getting used to... this."

"This?"

"Being with someone who cares how I feel."

Emmrich rose abruptly and stepped around the table. Allette turned in her chair, confused, but before she could stand, he gently cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin.

"I'm here," he vowed. "To listen. To help. That's the kind of man I want to be for you."

"You are," she whispered, leaning into his touch. "And... thank you."

"No need to thank me. Sharing our pain, supporting each other—that's what matters most in—"

"For what you did for Femi."

He frowned, tilting her chin up. "You needn't thank me for that either. It was the right thing to do. I'd have done it regardless."

"I know." She placed her hand over his, eyes fluttering shut. "That's exactly why I love you."

"Darling..."

He bent down and kissed her—soft at first, then deeper as she melted into it, clinging to the comfort, the warmth. She needed it—and he was happy to give. His hand moved to cradle her head, fingers threading through her hair, his tongue teasing the seam of her lips.

"SALUTATIONS."

They broke apart with a start.

Vorgoth had materialised beside them—looming, dark, imposing. Emmrich nearly collapsed against the table, clutching the edge for purchase, while Allette's hand flew to her mouth, her face suffused with a bright, incriminating red.

"Vorgoth!" she squeaked. "What are you doing here?!"

"URGENT TIDINGS," they bellowed, with all the severity only a two-metre-tall, robed, floating necromantic guardian could summon. "THERE IS A HAUNTING IN DOCK TOWN THAT REQUIRES IMMEDIATE ATTENTION."

They turned to Emmrich, fingers steepled. Despite having no visible face, Emmrich felt the judgment radiating off of them like smoke from a funeral pyre.

"WHAT," they said, drifting closer, "ARE YOUR INTENTIONS WITH ALLETTE?"

The woman burst into laughter—brief and stunned, the sound giddy despite her flushed cheeks. She doubled over slightly, hands covering her face.

"Vorgoth, stop!" she blurted, half-mortified, half-amused.

"I AWAIT YOUR ANSWER," they boomed.

Emmrich's lips parted, still recovering from the unexpected intrusion. "I—uh—well..."

He glanced at Allette—still giggling in spite of her embarrassment—then let out a shaky chuckle himself.

Well, indeed.

It wasn't how he imagined the night ending—but seeing her laugh after so much grief?

He'd take it.

[kikitakite]

Doctor Who The Interstellar Song Contest

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Are you kidding me?!!?!

Thought I make a master post with all my Emmrook sketches so far for all the lovely new followers, but turns out I can only include 30 images and I have way more than that :’D

edit: I got flagged so I removed all explicit content, so… those can be checked on Patreon🤍

[kikitakite]

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! Emmrich gets a baby???!!! 😫

Part 22 of my appreciation project.

@toonybrin A fic based on their wonderful art piece here and here. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

The chamber reeked of sweat and fluids, the heavy scent of blood rising through the floral incense like something defiant. Millicent, teeth bared and claws like razors slashing through the air, writhed against the linens—her deep blue complexion turned a sickly ash, a tortured shriek tearing from her throat as her body clenched in agony.

With shaking arms, Emmrich eased her back upright along the bed, his voice a hoarse murmur against her ear—pleading, promising, praying. There was nothing more he could do. Veins stood out on her neck as she arched, limbs spasming with the kind of pain that looked like it could unmake a person.

"I'm sorry," Emmrich choked. "I'm so sorry, my love. It's nearly over. You're doing so well."

The Necropolis was home to death, but this was something different. New. Stone effigies watched from their alcoves in solemn silence, guardians of the hallowed rhythm that moved through the Qunari Mourn Watcher. As she bore down with another scream, Emmrich wiped her cheek with trembling fingers, his eyes glistening—not with fear, but admiration.

It was time.

"Push, darling. Push."

A wet sound split the air—too slick and violent to feel holy—and for a moment, he thought she'd succumb. Vanish beneath the weight of it. But her hand found his shirt, clutching hard, and he saw the fight still burning in her eyes. She kept pushing, kept straining with gasps and wails—until a second voice overshadowed her own: a shrill cry, fussy and miraculous.

She had done it.

The baby was here.

-----

"Please try to hold still, dearest," Emmrich begged, pressing the stethoscope to Millicent's bulging stomach. "If you move around too much, it could interfere with the results."

"Emmrich," she huffed, her hand bracing her back, "we don't have to do this every day."

"Better to err on the side of caution," he countered. "Pregnancy is a risky affair, my love—especially for couples like us, being of different races. You know that better than most."

"I also know it's incredibly rare for a nine-month-old fetus to flip from cephalic to breech in the span of—what? Ten hours since you last checked?"

"Twelve hours and thirty minutes."

She rolled her eyes with a smile. "And even then, the baby was kicking upwards."

"No changes?"

"No, Emmrich," she grumbled. "Still kicking upwards. Right into my ribs, staging a full rebellion."

"Good, good." He moved the diaphragm, barely catching the bite in her tone. "That is—! Good for the baby!" He pulled away, glancing up at her. "I'm sorry, my love! Are you in pain? Is the kicking getting uncomfortable? Wait right here, I'll brew you something to help with the—!"

Millicent pushed a finger to his lips, her other hand squeezing his shoulder. "Relax, sweetness. I was just being facetious. There's pressure, but it doesn't hurt."

Emmrich sighed, relieved. She should've known better than to tease him. He'd been insufferable ever since she told him her cycle was a week late. Now, so close to delivery, he was even worse—a whirlwind of anxious devotion, hovering over her horns like a cloud.

He tracked every jolt, hiccup, and craving in a leather-bound journal, cross-referenced with three different midwife guides, and adjusted her pillows hourly for optimal lumbar support. He insisted she drink exactly twelve glasses of water a day—no more, no less—hand-feeding her each one like it was a sacred ritual. He timed her naps, rubbed her feet like they were Nevarran treasures, and banned anything with stairs, uneven surfaces, or "suspiciously creaky floorboards". When she sneezed, he flinched. When she groaned, he recited her breathing techniques back to her verbatim, completely missing the unimpressed look she gave him over her bump.

It should've driven her mad—but Maker help her, every panicked, over-prepared, utterly exhausted thing he did made her love him more.

"Ah! There it is," he hummed, practically singing with glee. "Her little heartbeat." He closed his eyes, smiling from ear to ear as he listened. "She sounds strong—just like her mother."

Millicent frowned. "Emmrich, I really wish you'd stop calling it 'she'. Makes me worry you'll be disappointed if it's a boy."

Emmrich winced, meeting her gaze again. "What? No! Never." He gently ran his hand over her skin. "A boy—little Emmrich the Second? Darling, I'd be ecstatic."

"And what makes you think he'd get your name?" she quipped.

He laughed, then stared at her stomach—rapt with wonder. "That said... I can't explain it, but I have a feeling. Intuition, perhaps. I think it's a girl."

Millicent's breath caught as she watched him, her heart swelling at the unmistakable adoration in his bright hazel eyes. In that look alone, she saw the truth: their child would never want for anything—not for a single second.

"Elannora," she whispered.

Emmrich raised his head. "Pardon?"

"If it's a girl. Elannora."

His lip quivered. "My mother's name?"

"It's a pretty name. And it means 'shining light'." She reached out, combing her fingers through his hair. "Just like her father, who brought light into my dreary life."

"Darling..." Emmrich swallowed, a lump forming in his throat.

"Do you like it?"

He whimpered, turning his head to kiss the inside of her palm. "Yes, yes, of course! I love it!"

She smiled, giving him a moment to compose himself before pulling her hand away. "Are you almost finished?" she asked, wobbling slightly. "I, uh... I'd like to sit down soon."

"Maker, forgive me! Yes, I've heard everything I need to—" As his ear returned to the diaphragm, he froze, his eyes widening. "She kicked! Stars above, she kicked!"

He let the stethoscope fall, pressing his lips to the spot where he'd heard it. It tickled, and Millicent couldn't help but laugh, one hand rubbing his back while the other slid over her belly. For a moment, it seemed he might stay there forever, kissing their child as if no barrier existed between them—until he jerked back with a sudden yelp.

"Mmph! Another!" he cheered. "She kicked me right in the mouth! She's so lively! Manfred, you simply must come try this!"

Manfred, who stood several feet away, pointed at her stomach with a hiss. "Bad!"

"No—no, Manfred," Emmrich stammered.

Millicent laughed.

They had tried, more than once, to explain the concept of pregnancy to the anxious wisp. They'd even ventured into descriptions of pleasure, parenthood, and the act of intercourse itself. Occasionally, a flicker of understanding would appear—but every time Millicent suffered a cramp, morning sickness, a backache, or anything alike, that fragile progress dissolved entirely.

He hissed again. "Bad!"

"Manfred, it isn't—"

Millicent tapped Emmrich's shoulder. "Let him be, sweetness. You, of all people, know you can't force understanding onto a spirit."

"Of course. I only meant to—"

"He'll come around, Emmrich. On his own time."

He smiled, wrapping his arms around her hips. "I suppose you're right. Now, let's get you settled on the sofa—nice and cosy. I'll make you some toast with egg, garlic, a bit of onion, and a dash of pepper."

-----

Emmrich could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, his hands numb as the midwife, Maja, whisked the newborn away. It continued to wail—a fine, blaring cry that filled the room—and for a brief moment, Emmrich hesitated. His eyes darted between the infant and Millicent, torn between the overwhelming urge to see his child and the equally powerful pull towards his wife.

"Is—is the baby...?"

"All's well, Professor. Allow me a moment to cleanse it."

It was a bittersweet sense of solace. He wanted his child—desperately—but Maja knew what she was doing. He had ensured she was the best in all of Thedas. And what right had he, he thought, to see their child first—before the mother who'd spent seventeen hours in labour?

Heart still hammering, he returned to her side, reaching for a damp cloth to wipe the sweat from her brow.

"You did it," he praised, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. "It's over, my darling. You did it."

Millicent didn't respond, her chest heaving as Emmrich whispered selfless reassurances, recalling every passage he'd studied on post-birth care—how to keep her warm, how to soothe the afterpains, how to make her feel safe. He offered her sips of water, gently supporting her head, and pressed light kisses to her temple while Maja tended to the newborn nearby.

"You're incredible," he said, his throat tight. "And I—I am hopelessly in awe of you, my love."

"You..." Millicent managed a weary smile, her eyes heavy-lidded, her voice frail. "You handled it well."

"I was a wreck," he chuckled, almost apologetically. "I truly thought I might faint."

"You were brilliant," she wheezed, her tone brooking no argument. "You didn't yell, not once. Didn't rush me. You held my hand—even when I know my nails were digging into your flesh—and you did everything Maja asked you to. I felt you there, steady and protective, holding me through it all. You were... you were everything, Emmrich."

His tears threatened to spill, but he held them at bay—for her sake—as she sank back against the pillows, her hair matted and face still flushed from the toil of childbirth. She looked utterly spent, and it pained Emmrich to see her so. He wanted her to rest, to find peace in the quiet that followed—yet he ached for the moment they would share, when at last, together, they would meet their child.

As if drawn by the weight of his longing, Maja soon approached, swaddled bundle in hand—and Emmrich's breath stilled.

"It's a girl," she said, her voice aglow with the joy of a calling she'd never tire of. "A beautiful, healthy baby girl."

"A girl," Emmrich said, his voice cracking. "Maker preserve her."

Millicent grabbed his arm, and he collapsed into the chair beside her, his legs folding under the flood of emotions he couldn't describe.

"Your intuition was right." She beamed. "It's a girl."

The tears finally fell, rolling down Emmrich's cheeks like rain on dry earth. Nestled in a soft cotton blanket was their daughter—tiny, wriggling, and letting out a weak but defiant squawk. Her skin was a rich, velvety purple—a hue neither of them had expected—with a pink sheen that caught the candlelight. Two pale, rounded nubs peeked through the short fuzz on her head—a promise of horns to come—and her eyes were shut tight, her face scrunched with the effort of simply being alive.

As Millicent reached for her, hands trembling, Maja carefully eased the infant into her arms. A brief lesson on how to hold her—measured, precise—and then Maja withdrew, giving the couple space to savour this unforgettable first.

"She's perfect," Millicent giggled, pressing her daughter to her chest.

"She is," Emmrich sniffled, leaning closer.

He watched as she gently patted the baby's back, rocking her with the grace of someone who'd done it a thousand times. There was something about it—about her maternal instinct—that sent heat rushing to the older man's cheeks. He had always known women were extraordinary, but his wife most of all. Barely a mother for five minutes, yet already putting every book and expert to shame.

"She looks just like you," she said, pulling him from his trance. "Look at those dimples—and that big, clever cranium."

"Me?" Emmrich tittered, wiping his cheeks with his sleeve. "I think she looks like you. That stubborn frown? That's pure Millicent."

"That's not a frown," she parried. "That's regal bearing."

Emmrich laughed, then reached out, hesitantly brushing a finger across their daughter's cheek. Her skin was impossibly soft—plump and warm to the touch. And when she yawned, her tiny, toothless mouth opening and closing as if the world were already too much, he felt his soul rejoice.

This was a love he had never known, never dreamed would be his. He'd given up chasing it years ago, believing age had slammed that door shut forever.

"Do you want to hold her?"

The colour drained from Emmrich's face, panic surging like a stampede through his ribcage—what had once been the fear of death, now replaced by something greater. Had his legs recovered, he might have sprung from the chair and fled.

"No!" he blurted. "I-I can't."

"What do you mean?" Millicent asked, arching a brow. "You've been looking forward to this for months—counting down the days, the hours, the seconds. What changed?"

"What if I frighten her?"

She nearly scoffed at the absurdity. "What if you—huh?"

"What if I squeeze her too hard?"

"Emmrich—"

"Spirits above, what if I drop her?" He shuddered, hugging himself as though he'd already done it.

"Emmrich, listen to me—"

"My darling, what if I mess this up? What if I hurt her? What if I—?"

"You won't, sweetness."

And before he could blink, she carefully slipped the baby into his arms.

"Darling, wait—!"

Emmrich tensed, every muscle in his body locked as he cradled her, terrified of holding something so small, so delicate. But then, she shifted, her stubby fingers twitching against his waistcoat, and the gesture stole the air from his lungs.

She was real. Glorious. A part of him that would live on long after he passed.

His daughter.

"Elannora," he stuttered. "That's your name. Elannora. My dear, precious baby girl."

He'd been crying since he laid eyes on her, threadlike tears rolling down his cheeks—but holding her, feeling her stir, breathing in her scent—that shattered him. A sob tore from his throat, raw and unrestrained, and he clung to her as if she might be snatched away by some unseen force. His shoulders shook, the weight of years—of loneliness, of doubt, of believing this would never be his—collapsing all at once.

"Elannora Lace Volkarin," Millicent added.

He sobbed again, his face twisting, red and streaked with tears. "Lace?"

"If that's all right with you."

Emmrich nodded, unable to speak as he tucked the baby under his chin.

Their best friend—her life sacrificed to save their own. Of course their daughter should carry her name.

"Thank you," he wept, meeting his wife's gaze. "Thank you for this... this gift."

Millicent felt tears prickle at her own eyes—but whether from exhaustion or a desire to let Emmrich bask in the moment, they refused to fall.

"You know you did part of the work, right?"

He chuckled. "Ten percent, perhaps."

"That doesn't seem accurate."

"Five percent."

Maja laughed, approaching with gracious steps. "There's more work to be done, I'm afraid—though most women find the afterbirth stage rather relieving." She tapped her patient's knee, her touch consoling. "Deep breaths, kadan. Should be any moment now."

------

The end. Millicent had finally reached it. She'd been washed and redressed, the sheets replaced with fresh silk. The scent of blood had faded, the basin emptied, the table cleared.

Only enervation remained.

As Maja readied to leave—heavily thanked and overcompensated despite her protests—she let out a short, startled screech. Manfred stood just outside the door, his gemstone eyes fixed not on her, but on the couple behind her.

"Manfred!" Emmrich called—hushed, so as not to wake the baby. "It's all right, Maja. Let him in."

She nodded and stood aside, but Manfred didn't move, swaying uncertainly near the threshold.

"Come, my dear boy," Emmrich urged, holding out his hand. "It's all right."

A flock of other wisps flew in, swirling and dancing overhead, enthralled by the scene, but Manfred stumbled back, his slender fingers curling at his ribs.

"Pain. Screaming," he whined, practically catatonic.

Emmrich's heart sank. "You heard it?" He stood immediately. "Goodness, were you outside the whole time?"

Manfred squeaked, his bones quaking.

"Blast it, that's the last time I trust Myrna with anything!"

"Don't be upset," Millicent intervened. "He probably snuck off without her noticing."

"Case and point."

She snickered, but didn't respond. "Manfred, let Maja leave, please."

Manfred perked up at her voice, lifting his skull to study her. Then his gaze drifted to the midwife, who offered a tender smile. He caught the scent of Millicent's blood beneath her nails, her sweat, the trace of fluids no washing could fully erase—but sensed no malice in the woman.

She was friendly.

"No hurt Millie?" he rasped.

"No. She isn't hurt," Maja explained, coaxing him inside. "She had a baby. I was helping her. That's my job."

Manfred let her usher him forward, but he stopped just a few steps in, peering at the bundle in Millicent's arms. His usually carefree demeanour dimmed, overtaken by wariness, and he gave the newborn a low, curious hiss.

"He's not sure what to make of her," Millicent chuckled, on the verge of passing out.

"Understandable," Maja said. "For the past nine months, he's likely associated your daughter with pain." She placed her hand on Manfred's shoulder, her touch feather-light. "But that's a natural part of pregnancy. Sometimes it hurts, so we know the baby's alive."

"Alive..." the skeleton clicked. "Good. To be alive."

Maja nodded and gave the couple a courteous bow, which Emmrich returned, before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

"Manfred," Emmrich said, kneeling before him. "Come meet your sister."

He tilted his skull, confused. "Sister?"

"Yes. Your sister," Emmrich repeated, gently tugging at his hands. "Her name is Elannora."

"Ela..."

With Emmrich's guidance, Manfred crept closer, hovering mere inches from the bed. When he saw the baby—a miniature Qunari, the spitting image of her mother—he pointed at Millicent.

"Millie?"

She smiled. "Does she look like me?"

He looked at the newborn again, then turned to Emmrich—and understanding dawned anew.

"Emmrich." He pointed at him.

"Millie." He pointed at her.

Then he pointed at Elannora. "Baby?"

Emmrich gasped. "Yes! Yes, that's exactly right!"

Manfred rattled his arms—an expression of bliss—then turned back to the bed. Slowly, cautiously, he leaned in and poked the tiny foot that had somehow slipped free of its swaddle. Elannora gave a sleepy coo, her toes flexing, and Manfred paused.

"Sister," he chirped.

"Yes!" Emmrich cried. "She's your sister, Manfred!"

The skeleton spun in an excited circle, then leapt onto the bed, looming protectively over the baby as he watched her with rapt attention. Without realising it, he had already assumed the role of her big brother.

Emmrich, reeling once again, staggered to the other side and joined them on the mattress.

"Darling, can you believe this?" he asked, fascinated by the interaction.

"Told you he'd come around..."

"You were right," he whispered, tears welling in his eyes. "As always."

"Charmer..." Her eyes fluttered closed, her voice waning. "Emmrich, I..."

"Sleep, my love." He cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. "Maker knows you've earned it."

Before she surrendered to slumber's sweet embrace, he kissed her with an aching passion—grateful, awed, undone. His lips lingered on hers, in celebration of the miracle they'd created, and Millicent smiled into the warmth of his mouth.

Then, she was gone. Emmrich laid her head onto the pillows, his other hand securing their daughter.

"Goodnight, my darlings."

The four of them sat together—mother, father, spirit, and child—as the Necropolis settled into reverent silence.

A welcome for the family come home.