Chapter Text
“Professor Volkarin, most senior watchers already have several.” Myrna sat at her desk. It was pale, bone-white and appeared made from numerous remains. Skulls and femurs, ribs and spine, but with a closer eye…marble. A singular block carved with the care of a master over years. The thing had drawers.
FOES VISAGED SURROUND FRIENDS BEGIN TO FADE
“Thank you, Vorgoth.” Emmrich nodded to the hooded mist flanking Myrna. Stood before them both with staff in hand. A requirement these days, reports of attacks on the Senior Watch were circulating. “I have begrudgingly taken the precautions you have suggested so far.”
The staff wasn’t the only clue to rising tensions in the Necropolis. Instead of lighter teaching attire, Emmrich was dressed suited more for the Shrouded Halls.
“All this does is add more work, I have plenty matters to mind already, too many. You know sure as I how capable a member of the Senior Watch must be. We all learn self defense, it’s part of the curriculum, and you know I personally see to the most troubling issues that concern the Necropolis. How will a singular man help keep me safe? I'm in no danger.”
“He comes highly recommended by Archon Pavus.”
Emmrich’s skin went cold, flesh prickled. That spoke to nothing. That spoke ill. Myrna kept speaking. Was listing the proposed bodyguard’s accolades, but he couldn’t hear for the ringing in ear. The new Archon might have helped keep the Veil intact, might finally bring change to Tevinter, this recommended ‘bodyguard’ might come highly esteemed, he was proud of his former pupil. But Dorian was not one to miss a chance for…he refused to liken it to humor. This had to be in jest, a seized moment amidst Nevarra's troubles for an old pupil to play. Emmrich’s face kept still, too still, his breathing too measured to be easy. But his heart finally settled, the thumping ringing faded, and he blinked, Myrna still spoke.
“…and he was a Grey Warden.” she continued, met Emmrich’s eye, and her brow rose as the professor gave minor huff. Well that didn’t sound promising. What sort of Warden left the order? “The Archon says they’ve routed the Venatori from Minrathous and they might seek new ground in Nevarra. Especially given the…interesting. That he would know that.” Myrna took that letter and handed it to Vorgoth. Folded her hands. “It would seem the news is spreading, all the more reason to see to the security of the Mourn Watch.”
A STUDENT ARISES MASTER. BEGS AT FIELD PEAK CAUTION
“Exactly, Vorgoth. Volkarin. Either accept this Rook Thorne at our behest or accept the twenty that will see you safely to Minrathous for sabbatical until matters have settled.”
He sputtered, staff quavered, “This is completely unnecessary. I have no ties to nobility. No desire or avenues for political standing. None of this concerns me. Myrna, I’m busy enough teaching, looking after Manfred, pursuing… he’ll be a burden.”
LABOR IS DANGER TO PARTAKE IS TO RISK
“Please, Vorgoth. Thank you. But…”
“One or twenty Professor.”
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A few hours later twelve souls kept company. Emmrich was back at the lectern, ten students stared rapt at him. The bodyguard, newly arrived halfway through the hour, stared into space. Drummed fingers on desk and leaned back in his chair, a gentle creak in the movement. The professor’s mustache twitched, calm veneer kept as he faced the board.
Rook felt a tickle in throat, cleared it with a low closed-lipped cough, a nearby student glared at him, then hurriedly turned attention back to fore. The rogue only raised a brow at the judgement, he’d been eager to hear something that wasn’t about "theoretical miasmatic planes spanning Fade, dreams, consciousness…” he rubbed his eyes after the attempt to listen in. Pleasant as the lecturing voice was, the material might as well be uttered in elvish.
He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, watched some dancing veil fire for a while. Lids went heavy, that voice was putting him to sleep. He dropped his head back down. Forgot a moment where he was and yawned. Loudly. A mild screech of chalk on board, Rook halted middle mouth stretch. He watched the mage, jaw still dropping, anticipated reprimand, anything? But the noise at board was a long line. Though maybe, perhaps, there had been a twitch at the corner of that hazel. He snapped his mouth shut and took in a heavy breath through the nose.
Upon entering the classroom his ‘principal’ had appraised him with a countenance so indifferent, so apathetically cold…he did wonder if he had the right space, the correct man.
Oh he’s an absolute pleasure, Rook, the friendliest fellow. You’ll have the time of your life shadowing him around. Just remember to be yourself and never change, okay? For me?
He was going to hug Dorian so tight when next he saw him. The man wouldn’t have breath to say the same again. This professor he spoke so sparingly of, always with such a sparkle in the eye, hadn’t said a word to him. Pleasure. No. This man was petty.
But there was no chance of error. Vorgoth physically led him here. Needed to. Attempts at taking direction had gone overlong - he groaned loud at the recent memory. Winced at the flick of fierce looks thrown his way. Then frowned back petulant, none of this was his fault. Thankfully the old man at front was asking for an answer to question, and the gathered herd turned, couldn’t thrust wiggling fingers high fast enough. Did he use enchantment on them? He scratched his head.
The answer, the call, the clarified equation, the aching rhythm began again. Quills scratched at paper, professor droned on about plates or holes or some such magic. Spoke using more words Rook didn’t know than did. He chewed at his cheek, that habit blessedly silent. Maker, did none of them know how painful this was?
Rook leaned forward, chair squeaked, and reached a hand beneath his shirt to scratch at an itch on spine. That couldn’t be too loud. Itch and scratch, moved lower, leaned back, tilted, chair squeaked, only two legs on floor, he scratched, fingers at waist hem, tilted further still, scratch, and there was one long held creak…before a resounding crash.
The room went silent at the clatter, the thud, the grumbling pained chuckle.
Professor Volkarin barely flinched. Had the epaulets been an inch shorter no eye would have caught the mild rise. The room held breath as the necromancer pivoted. Ten round stares watched the smooth movement. The gentle click of heel the only reveal of step in glide. Eyes moved first, then heads, as their professor’s stride passed them by.
Rook noted first the shadow. Was extricating a leg from legs and wincing at his touch to check a growing egg on the back of his head. Froze as he noted the change in shade. Hand cupped round the lump, fingers scratched at edge. Because his heart felt like to burst from chest under the gaze that met his looking up.
Andraste bless and preserve the Archon maybe he knew a few things.
The asset’s face was calm. Lips in firm line, graced by perfectly trimmed mustache, storied cheekbones, long hands fine, gilded, manicured at side, brow…oh he shaped those…and was that a delightful mole by his…Eyes. His breath caught. What color, what variance, such soft browns with verdant green easing in, oh how they burned.
Greener still as he met them, head back, folded on the floor, soft grin seeming to excite a faint quiver of delight under their appraisal. The weight of gaze above was a driving pressure down but he managed a tiny wave.
Blinked, eyes wide a moment at a recalled memory he held up a finger for patience, then dug a well worn but still sealed letter from his pocket and offered it up. The professor’s gloved hand reached out, graceful fingers descended, Rook held his breath, and they passed by the paper.
Pinched his ear instead.
“Professor Emmrich Volkarin, of the Mourn Watch.”
The pressure tightened, three fingers secured grip with practiced twist. Rook swallowed a noise coming up his throat as measured steps began the procession to the door. Head wrenched to the side, feet and hands scrabbling to follow the pull of pain, now full grinning, grimacing, face flushed red, he coughed,
“I’m Rook.”
The professor might have felt the heat of skin through his glove. Might’ve been surprised at Rook’s limbs losing any semblance of working. He did, in a manner, have to drag the man out. And drag he did. Without a break in pace. All the way to the door, which he held lightly open. And tossed him out. Looked down at where Rook flopped in the hallway, and brushed the gloved hand on his coat with an obvious grimace.
“Charmed.”
Then shut the door.