Emmrich x Rook NecRomance

“I will be but a moment,” Emmrich says, gracing her forehead with a smooch like he’s heading off to grab milk and not vanishing into the depths of the Grand Necropolis. Off he goes to do whatever it is necromancers find utterly fascinating(debating the emotional integrity of femurs, cooing at runes, reorganizing skulls by sentimental value) while the rest of the world collectively shits its pants at the mere idea.

It is absolutely not just a moment.

It’s a whole cascading avalanche of moments. Hours, really. She’s done everything short of starting a one-woman interpretive dance routine to keep busy, and she is so done. It’s cold. It’s dark. Everyone here is approximately seventeen ancient tomes smarter than she is and smug about it. She’s not even sure they breathe oxygen.

She wants to go back to the Lighthouse, curl up on her unfortunate green settee and pretend the only dead things in her life are the flowers she keeps forgetting to water.

Eventually, she finds Vorgoth.

"Hey, Vorgoth," she says. "Do you think you could, I don't know, send Emmrich a heads up that I'll be heading back soon? I really can't keep waiting for him."

"HE ENTWINES THE FLOWS OF UNSPEAKABLE RESONANCE BENEATH THE SEVENTH STRATA OF THE CHARNAL PYRAMIDS."

"All right," she says, not even listening, "that’s great, I’m thrilled for him, truly, but I am also incredibly hungry, so like I said I’ll be—"

"IT IS DISAGREEABLY CURSED. THE GATES OF BONE MUST NOT GAPE IN THE PRESENCE OF UNVERIFIED WILL. THE SIGILS REMEMBER WHAT THE LIVING HAVE FORGOTTEN."

She takes a moment to stare at Vorgoth, at the tendrils of smoke, or shadows, or possibly some kind of sentient ennui, spilling from beneath their hood.

“Amazing. Well. I don’t plan on poking around in any cursed pyramids, disagreeable or otherwise. I do, however, plan on returning to the Lighthouse and collapsing onto something soft, vaguely clean, and deeply un-haunted. So could you please—"

She’s already turning away. She knows exactly how many steps it takes to reach the eluvian; has counted them, loathed them, prayed over them. Maybe the Caretaker will be in a talkative mood, or at least let her loiter without judgment while she waits for it to ferry her back to the Vi’Revas. She really wants to gossip about that horrendously attractive Antaam stomping around the Crossroads.

Vorgoth catches her off guard.

"THE VESSEL OF FLESH REBELS. HIS BODY PURGES THE RESIDUE OF THE INNER ROT. HE MUST NOT BE DISTURBED."

She falters.

"...What the fuck? Is he—are you saying he’s on a toilet?"

"THE THRONE OF AGONY KNOWS MANY FORMS."

She takes a full step back. “All right. All right, but you’re saying a throne. Like, metaphorical? Or are we talking a literal, haunted latrine situation? Does he need tea? A compress? A medic? A priest? A bucket?"

Should she get Lucanis? Wait, why Lucanis? What is he going to do? Sneak up on the diarrhea and assassinate it? Whisper menacingly to Emmrich’s lower intestine until it falls in line?

Maybe Davrin, then. Maybe he could lend her Assan, and the griffon could majestically swoop through the Necropolis to deliver Emmrich a roll of paper and a heartfelt “get well soon” screech. She could even pack a snack basket. Some dried fruit. A scented candle. A handwritten note that says “please stop being like this.”

Why is she thinking about this? Why is she building an entire rescue operation in her head? Why is this the hill she has chosen to die on today?

"THE STENCH OF PURIFICATION IS UNYIELDING."

"Oh my Maker, he is on a toilet," Rook whines. "He's been gone for hours, Vorgoth. Hours. What did he eat? Was it cursed?"

"THE SACRED INTESTINES OF KORTH’S FALLEN BEASTS—"

"NO. Nope. I don’t want to know. Take it back. I un-ask the question."

There’s a pause. A long one. The kind of pause that suggests even the shadows are contemplating whether to kill themselves rather than continue existing in a reality where this conversation is happening.

"...HE PERFORMS THE RITE OF BINDING. THERE IS NO TOILET."

Her eye twitches so violently she briefly wonders if she’s about to have an aneurysm. She thinks she might be about to throw up. Right into Vorgoth’s hood.

“Why... Why would you say all that other stuff first, then?”

"THE MORTAL TONGUE LACKS PRECISION."

She feels something rupture in her brain.

"I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU, VORGOTH!" she yells, just as Emmrich materializes from thin air and wraps his arms around her middle and starts dragging her away from the robed figure.

"Ah, you found Vorgoth," he says. "Did they help?"

"NO."

Emmrich and Rook Ingellvar are both scholars of similar topics, both academics--Emmrich canonically and Ingellvar mostly by implication, given the nature of the Mourn Watch. People who are very intelligent and very educated and very in love with each other tend to Yap, and this creates a perfect environment for one of my favorite things: Argument Missionary Sex.

It's not deep, it's not serious, but Rook has a different opinion of an article in last year's Annual Review of Necromantic Studies. They're wandering around the room, fingers on book spines, listening to Emmrich go on.

"I mean, you're wrong," Rook tells him, not unkindly. "Like, I understand why you might think that, but you're wrong."

"Darling, metaphysics is my area of expertise."

"Your expertise is spirit-summoning," Rook says, rolling their eyes. Just a little.

"Which you cannot do if you don't have a robust grounding in certain metaphysical theories, like spiritual exchange--" Emmrich's doing that cute little thing he does sometimes, his hands in fists by his hips, wiggling.

"Do you want to have sex?" Rook asks, eyes trailing up and down Emmrich's long body.

"Don't change the topic," Emmrich says, snippily.

"Oh, I'm not," Rook says. "I just think we might as well have sex while we're talking about this. Bellara and I are leaving for Arlathan in the morning, we'll probably be gone a few days. Do you want to have sex before I leave?"

"Well, yes," Emmrich says, like this should be obvious.

"Then let's go." Rook turns around, mounts the staircase. "You can fuck me while I tell you how wrong you are."

Emmrich makes a series of spluttering noises as he climbs the stairs behind them. A few minutes later, he's bracing himself against the headboard, hand on Rook's chest and hair drooping enticingly over his long nose as he pants, "A spirit cannot--exist in both the Fade and in the material world simultaneously, it isn't physically--"

"It's not simultaneous," Rook groans, fingers steepled into Emmrich's narrow hips. "It's a theory that a spirit can--move so quickly through the Veil--oh, fuck, faster--"

"The theory is unproven, unvetted," Emmrich says, and then he's blessedly fucking quiet as he takes Rook's nipple in his mouth. He bites a little too, the shit. Rook digs their heel into his ass.

"You're just mad you weren't consulted for the experiment," Rook huffs, and wiggles away from the deliberate scratch of Emmrich's mustache against their ear. They wrap their hand around the back of his neck, panting.

"They could have at least asked," Emmrich mutters, and Rook laughs, and Emmrich buries his face into their neck with a kind of chuckle-moan that warms them down to their toes.

"I love you," Rook murmurs into his ear.

"I adore you, my darling," Emmrich replies. His hand finds theirs on the mattress, entwining their fingers. When he pulls back, the expression on his face is smitten, gentle, and...smug. "Even if your opinions on spiritual transference are patently wrong."

Emmrich walks around the Lighthouse for the next couple of days with a dark purple hickey on his neck too far up for any of his collars to cover completely. Rook refuses to admit they did it on purpose.

Here, take a new batch of Emmrook sketches ✨

I’ve almost fainted

These sketches are incredible!!!

Emmrich Volkarin / Dragon Age The Veilguard / pencil on paper A4

Everyone needs to see this person's art!!! It's amazing!!!

Ever since this moment, the sound of Orion's heartbeat for Dorian is very soothing and he often puts his head onto Orion's chest to hear his heart when he doesn't feel well, needs some reassurance, or just something to sooth him before sleep

#oh my poor heart ❤️ 💙 💜

I appreciate it when people draw Emmrich mole. Odd, I know, but it just feels incomplete without it.

I do this every damn time but I’m like “oh I’m just gonna write their prompts as short one shots” and “oh I don’t wanna write too much cause I have a ton to do and write” and “oh it won’t go to crazy, not too much” 11K WORDS AND IM STILL NOT DONE I AURHGWHSHEN

BUT I should hopefully be done today

I have so much editing to do when I finally finish this part but I know all the EmmOz lovers deserve it so it’s worth it 💙

Also of course I do it for them because if you think I haven’t stopped thinking about these bastards for a second for like 2 months oh boy you’d be wrong

For @otterpocketz and their Rook, Vanyel 💜 Hold on for the angst train...this one comes while Rook is trapped in the Fade

My dearest Vanyel,

If this letter reaches you, it will be by mercy alone. I no longer know what is possible and what is lost to the Fade. I only know that I cannot bear the silence any longer—not the kind that filled the air between us before you were taken, and not the kind that surrounds me now like smoke that won’t clear.

You are gone. And I am still here, with all the words I didn’t say, unraveling in their absence.

I told myself that I was being noble. That I was sparing you from a life shadowed by my age, by the grief I thought inevitable. I told myself that I was protecting you from me. But it was cowardice, my love. Nothing more elegant than fear. You gave me your trust, your curiosity, your maddening affection—and I gave you silence.

You loved me. You didn’t say the words, not aloud, but I know you did. You showed me every day—in the tea left waiting for me before I asked, in the food you cooked even when you claimed not to be hungry, in the thousand little ways you saw me. All of me. You, who had every reason to run from someone like me, stayed. You asked questions instead of recoiling. You looked at my work and saw something to understand, not something to fear. And I… I should have said it then.

I am in love with you.

I am in love with you, and I have been from the moment you first looked at me like you were trying to decide if I was worth the risk.

I am in love with your cleverness, your temper, your impossible sweetness. I am in love with the way your voice catches when you try to flirt with me—me, of all people—though you do it so easily with everyone else. I am in love with the way your braid starts to slip loose by evening, and how, when it does, all I can think about is sinking my hands into your hair and forgetting every responsibility I ever had. I am in love with your questions. Your fire. Your laugh.

You told me your real name. No one else knows it. And now I am the only one left to say it aloud. I do, sometimes, just to hear it. Just to feel close to you. It never brings you back.

This is a crueler thing than death. At least the dead speak to me. At least I know where they are. But you—I cannot reach you. I cannot find you. I have scoured every text, begged spirits for signs, tried every thread of magic I possess to trace you—and nothing. I cannot even scream into the Fade without it swallowing the sound. It is as if you have been plucked from the world entire, and I am left behind to search an empty sky for stars that no longer shine.

I would give every secret the dead ever whispered to me—every spell, every rite, every answer I ever learned—if it meant I could see your face again. If I could hear you call me Emmy in that exasperated, fond little voice you use only for me. If I could say your name and have you answer.

You loved me, and I repaid you with fear. I thought I was sparing you pain, and instead I gave you nothing but the pain of my absence. I hate myself for that.

But if you return to me—if some divine or spirit or stroke of impossible fate allows it—I will never hold back again. No more cowardice. No more silence. I will tell you how I feel every hour of every day until you tire of it. And even then, I’ll keep going. I will fight for you with every part of myself I once tried to shield. You will know. You will never wonder again.

Come back to me, my darling boy.

Please.

Emmrich

A HUGE THANK YOU TO @draco-illius-noctis !! This letter is both wonderful and sob inducing. It is utterly perfect. (Yes, I so cried when I read it).

Also, I am sorry (mostly) for the emotional scarring my letter request has inflicted on the EmmRook Fandom (and myself). Emmrich gets his Rook back so it's all ok. ❤️

Part thirteen of my appreciation project.

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

The clinking of chains was the first thing Emmrich heard. Then, the murmurs of broken voices. His grip tightened around his staff as he and Rook crested the hill, the scent of churned earth and sweat heavy in the air. Below them, a ragged line of elves trudged forward, bound at the wrists and ankles, heads bowed in submission.

Tevinter slavers, six of them, prodded their captives along, laughing amongst themselves. The mere sight of them made Emmrich's blood boil.

All your stories are so damn amazing! Thank you sooo much for sharing these. ❤️

Emmrich sounds so good in German 😩

For @otterpocketz and their Rook, Vanyel Mercar 💜 I love their dynamic! Here's a bit of lovesick professor -

My dearest Vanyel,

It is far too late in the evening for such indulgences, and yet here I am—ink-stained, heart full, and unable to sleep for the thought of you. A wiser man might have resisted the temptation to write. I have never claimed such wisdom, particularly where you are concerned.

You brought me tea this morning without a word. Just the right amount of honey, no milk. I watched you set the cup down beside me, your fingers brushing mine, and you smiled like you didn’t mean to. And I—pathetic creature that I am—spent the next hour pretending to read while memorizing the curve of your braid where it had slipped loose. You make me a fool, Vanyel. A willing one.

I do not know what alchemy transpired between us that day we met. I only know that you—sharp-tongued, golden, impossible—looked at me with something other than suspicion. I told myself not to trust it. But then you smiled. And asked questions. And listened. And by the time you kissed me, I was already yours.

There is a part of me that cannot reconcile this, your affection. I have loved before, or thought I had. I have been wanted, in ways that left me feeling hollow. But you… you asked about my homeland with reverence. You speak of the dead without flinching. You do not merely tolerate my work, you seek to understand it.

Manfred is quite fond of you, in case you had not noticed. He gets positively puffed up when you speak to him directly. I’ve caught him reorganizing my tools in ways he seems to believe you would prefer. I suspect he is attempting to impress you. He’s not alone.

You give so much of yourself to others, my love. You burn bright for your friends, for your cause, for those you protect. And somehow, impossibly, you turn that same light toward me. I do not know what I’ve done to deserve it. I only know that I would do anything not to lose it.

There are moments I find myself on the edge of saying too much. You tilt your head and call me Emmy, and the words catch somewhere I cannot reach them. I have never been particularly good at silence, but with you, I find I would rather stay quiet and simply be.

And yet, here I am, writing instead. Because when you are not near, I miss you with a ferocity that borders on absurd. You have ruined me for solitude.

If I am too much, you need only say so. I will not press further. But if there is still space for me—for this—then know that I will wait. And I will write. And I will be thinking of you, always.

Until I may see you again— Yours, in thought and in foolish, aching heart, Emmrich

A huge Thank You to @draco-illius-noctis for this Emmrich letter to my Vanyel "Rook" Mercar. It is utterly amazing and I love it!

Shhh, my favorite show is on

Finished fan art for @spinfins The Gift of Elger'nan ♡

GUYS! Come and BASK in the beautiful art that @toonybrin made of my fic. I can’t believe this!

Brin this is amazing! 💖 lookit the detail on this. The peacock robe is better than I could have imagined. And their poor faces are breaking my heart (my Rook’s expression, and Emmrich’s bruises)

This is absolutely beautiful. It’s like you reached in and plucked it right off the pages. I LOVE it. No i’m IN LOVE with it. I’m just gonna sit here and stare at it for a few hours before I get back to writing 💜💜💜

Chat what do we think Emmrich’s underwear situation is? Long undies and sock garters?