keep time on me
Emmrich Week Day 2/3 - Family & Thanatophobia
this one got a bit away from me so here's a link to ao3 if you would like to read it there!
“Emmrich?” Her voice carried down the corridor, footsteps echoing as she followed the trail to his workroom.
He tapped Manfred’s patella lightly, testing the hinge before setting the leg down with a satisfied hum. The resin-and-oil scent of joint lubricant mingled with chalk dust and old leather. Yearly checkup complete: bones realigned, ligaments taut, sockets gliding without scrape. Manfred could maintain himself just fine these days, but habit drew him back to Emmrich’s table—and Emmrich never minded the company.
“There we are,” he murmured. “Good as new.” Manfred hopped off the stone slab with a cheerful clatter that coaxed a smile from him. “In here, my dear,” he called, tucking his tools into their roll with deliberate care. His fingers ached more than they used to, stiff with the reminders of passing years. He creaked almost as loudly as Manfred when he straightened, and the sound set a chill through him—an echo of what he dreaded most. Each groan of bone and sinew felt like a whisper of time running thin, a cruel reminder that no repair he made on himself would ever be so simple as tightening a joint or smoothing a fracture.
The footsteps approached, and Francesca stepped through the doorway. Watcher livery sat clean and dignified on her frame; grave-gold gleamed at her throat and ears. Her hair—once streaked—was now almost wholly silver, swept half-up in a style that was at once practical and elegant. To him, she seemed timeless and yet not immune to time. Every line at the corner of her eyes, every glint of silver, struck him as both beautiful and cruel—reminders that even she was touched by the years. His chest tightened at the thought: if age marked her, then it was marking him twice over. He could mend the world of the dead, but nothing could slow the steady, inexorable march that lived in her reflection and his own.
Concern flickered across her face before it softened into a smile—melting first for Manfred, and then, lingeringly, for him. That smile unraveled him; it had always unraveled him. Yet now, it carried with it the ache of impermanence, a sweetness sharpened by fear.
“Oh, hello, Manfred,” she said, warmth brightening the fine lines at her eyes as she crossed the room and folded him into a hug. Emmrich watched, noting how her old coat still hung from Manfred’s shoulders, layered over sturdier wrappings to shield bone from wear. The sight made him smile—and yet, beneath it, a whisper: coats fray, bones weather, and all things, even the strongest bonds, lived at the mercy of time.
“We haven’t seen you in months,” she chided gently, stepping back to study him the way mothers do—checking for cracks the eye can’t see. “How were the expeditions?”
Manfred’s chuckle had grown fuller over the years, though an airy hiss still threaded it—like a laugh that remembered how to rattle. “Long,” he said, “and exciting.”
“I hope you’ve been staying out of scrapes,” she chastised lightly, her eyes darting between the two of them. “I trust it wasn’t anything too serious.”
“A few minor dents and an alignment,” Emmrich answered, fastening his pouch shut before turning his full attention to her. “Nothing too serious.”
Manfred bobbed his head in earnest agreement. “Nothing too serious,” he echoed, flashing her a wide, toothy grin.
Francesca arched a brow, unconvinced, though the fondness in her expression betrayed her. She reached out and patted Manfred’s arm, the gesture soft and reassuring. “Well then, your timing is perfect. Bellara should be arriving at the townhouse any minute now—with the children.”
Manfred’s eyes lit with mischief and surprise. “Bellara? A mother?” he marveled.
Emmrich chuckled as he gathered his things beneath his arm. “Not exactly,” he replied, the smile lingering in his voice. “We’ll explain on the way home.”
Francesca took Emmrich’s arm as she explained how Bellara’s “children” were young mages from the clans that had gathered among the ruins of Arlathan. From time to time, Bellara would guide them through the eluvians, showing how magic shifted and sang differently in each place. Nevarra was often a stop—where the Volkarins welcomed them and taught of the Watchers’ reverence for spirits and the honored dead. The tradition had only begun earlier that year, but already Francesca and Emmrich had met well over a handful of the children.
They rarely stayed long—just a few days, enough for a handful of lessons and a wander or two through the Necropolis. Francesca doted on them as though they were her own, while Emmrich pressed as much wisdom into their curious minds as he could before they departed. The partings were always bittersweet, softened only by the promise of future visits, or by the journeys Francesca and Emmrich sometimes made to Arlathan themselves. Yet those visits had grown scarce of late.
Not long after they arrived back at the townhouse, a knock sounded at the door—three quick raps that echoed through the modest, lamp-lit parlor. The air smelled faintly of beeswax polish and the dried lavender tucked into vases along the mantle.
Francesca pulled the door open, letting in a draft of cool night air and the earthy scent of the road. There stood Bellara, travel-worn and smiling, her leathers dusted with the scent of smoke and pine, a sturdy pack strapped to her back. Two little girls hovered at her side, cheeks pink from the chill, their small boots scuffing against the polished floor as they peeked past her. Emmrich recognized them at once.
“Oh, what a lovely surprise,” Francesca murmured, bending to draw the girls into her arms. Their cloaks were cool against her cheek, and she held them close for a heartbeat before pulling back. “Sharla, Varisa—welcome back.”
The sisters, no more than ten and a couple years between them, smiled shyly, the tips of their ears burning red as they shuffled inside. Their muffled laughter rang in the quiet parlor, filling it with sudden warmth. Bellara followed, her energy like a burst of sunlight after rain.
“Oh, Bel—good to see you,” Francesca said, embracing her.
“Hey, Mamae Ches,” Bellara grinned, squeezing her tight before pulling away to catch Emmrich in an even more exuberant hug. The scent of leather and pine swept into the room with her, settling over the homely fragrance of beeswax and lavender until it felt like both worlds had met at the threshold.
“We missed you,” Emmrich said as Bellara finally let him go, her travel-worn backpack slipping from her shoulders and landing with a dull thud on the floorboards. “How has adventuring through the Fade been treating you?”
Bellara’s grin was ready, bright as ever, but her words faltered as her gaze caught on something behind Emmrich. Her expression shifted, surprise sparking like flint to tinder. “Manfred!” she exclaimed, rushing forward to envelop him.
The embrace looked almost strange and tender all at once—her warm arms encircling his cold frame of bone, draped in the patched garments Francesca kept mending for him. He returned the embrace with careful gentleness, skeletal fingers pressing lightly to Bellara’s back, before lifting one hand in a small wave to the children who stood frozen at the sight. Their eyes were wide, not with fear but with wary fascination.
Emmrich lowered himself stiffly beside them, his knees protesting the motion. The children pressed closer at once, clinging to his sleeve as if his steady weight could keep unease at bay. Their trust warmed him, though a flicker of fear stirred beneath it—a quiet awareness of how time wore at him, how the day might come when his strength would no longer be enough. He pushed the thought aside, letting their nearness steady him instead. Bellara drew back with a tender smile, her hand slipping through Manfred’s arm, and for a moment the heaviness faded.
“This is Babae Emm’s son, Manfred,” she said with unguarded pride.
Manfred tilted his skull in a polite gesture and lifted his hand again. “Hello,” he said, his voice soft and airy, like a breath over glass.
Sharla, the older of the two, clutched tighter at Emmrich’s sleeve, her small fingers knotting into the fabric. But Varisa, braver, stepped forward and gave a little wave in return, her cheeks coloring with shy courage.
Bellara’s smile widened at the simple exchange, and she clapped her hands as though to seal the moment. “Oh! I nearly forgot—I brought a surprise as well.”
She spun toward the doorway past Francesca and slipped outside again, her boots ringing quick against the steps. When she returned, she ushered in a tall figure who nearly filled the threshold. Davrin entered, broad-shouldered and a touch sheepish, his sheer presence commanding the room.
Francesca went still, her composure breaking like glass under strain. In a breath her arms were thrown around his neck, pulling him close as if to assure herself he was truly there. Her eyes glistened, the tears barely held back as she buried her face against his shoulder.
“Figured it had been long enough for you to miss me,” Davrin said with a chuckle, the sound low and fond as he returned her embrace with surprising gentleness.
When at last he let her go, it was only to sweep Emmrich into the same crushing hug.
“You’re looking well, Davrin,” Emmrich said, his smile touched with warmth as he slid an arm back around Francesca, steadying her trembling shoulders. She leaned against him, still overwhelmed, tears glimmering but unshed, as though afraid to blink and lose the moment.
“Feeling well too,” Davrin replied with a shrug, though the brightness in his eyes betrayed more than casual ease. “It’s been five years—not a single Warden has heard the Calling.” His voice carried a note of genuine relief.
Emmrich’s smile widened, surprise flickering across his face. “That’s incredible,” he said, and he meant it.
“Davrin’s been tagging along on some of our recent trips,” Bellara added, her smile quick and a little shy. “But he’d usually turn back toward Lavendel before we reached here.” A faint blush rose in her cheeks.
“Finally decided to stop in and give us a visit?” Francesca accused playfully, giving Davrin a light swat on the arm.
Davrin’s grin faltered just enough for him to glance at Bellara. Her blush deepened until her ears turned pink, and she ducked her head. He hesitated, then shook his head slowly. “We have a lot to catch up on.” His voice softened as he reached for Bellara’s hand. She let him take it, sheepish, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand.
Emmrich’s brows arched, and a spark of recognition dawned in his expression. His smile stretched wider, knowing. “We certainly do,” he agreed warmly. Then, with a sweep of his arm toward the dining room, he added, “And we can discuss everything over dinner, and I’ve a hazelnut torte in the oven for later.”
Bellara and Davrin exchanged a glance, a silent conversation in the tilt of their smiles, before they guided the children toward the dining room, Manfred trailing happily behind them.
Left behind in the parlor, Emmrich looked down at Francesca. Her own brows had risen, and her lips twitched until she pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. The sound escaped anyway, soft and bubbling, her eyes gleaming with delight.
Dinner unfolded in easy warmth. Between courses, Davrin and Bellara spoke of how their paths had drawn them together—of years spent side by side, he in the training fields with griffons, shaping them into guardians, she in quiet halls, giving voice to the true history of her people. Both had carried struggles too heavy for others to share, and only they could understand the weight of what they had endured. In time, that understanding became a bond, and fate—slow, inexorable—guided them into each other’s arms. By the time the plates were cleared, the hazelnut torte lay half-finished on the table, its sweetness lingering in the air, twining with the rising steam from porcelain cups of tea. From the parlor drifted the faint timbre of Manfred’s hollow voice, gentle as he showed the children small sleights of hand, conjuring wisps of harmless magic. Their giggles chimed back into the dining room now and again, a playful counterpoint to the calm that lingered around the table.
“About time,” Francesca laughed, and when they both gaped at her, she only shrugged. “You two were so focused on doing your own thing while the rest of us were pairing off,” she teased.
Emmrich chuckled, nodding along. “And the only two still working side by side, carrying that same experience we all once shared. It’s only natural that time and proximity would eventually shape themselves into something deeper.” He caught himself and lifted a hand with a sheepish smile. “Not to get too technical about it.”
Davrin and Bellara shared a glance and a soft laugh, their fingers interlaced. “Yeah, I suppose so,” Davrin said, giving Bellara’s hand a light squeeze. She let out a steadying breath before her expression sobered.
“Yes, well—that’s not all we came to talk about.” Her gaze drifted past them, toward the hallway where the faint echo of children’s laughter carried from the parlor. “Sharla and Varisa,” she began, then her voice lowered. “Their parents died on an expedition through the Crossroads.”
Emmrich straightened, his heart dropping as the pieces fell into place. Of course—that was why this second visit carried a different weight. “And you’re caring for them,” he said quietly, though it was more realization than question.
Bellara hesitated, glancing toward Davrin before she nodded. “For now. Dalish tradition still binds them somewhat. As mages, only one is supposed to remain with their clan. The other would be sent elsewhere. They would be separated.”
Francesca’s brow furrowed, her voice tight with disbelief. “I didn’t realize the Dalish were still clinging to that after Arlathan. They shouldn’t have to fear Templar interference anymore,” she murmured.
Bellara’s shoulders sank. “They are still limiting their numbers to protect the clans from uncontrolled magic. Every other child we’ve brought through has been placed in different clans across Thedas. The eluvians make it easier now, but…” Her voice wavered. “Sharla and Varisa are so young.”
“We’ve done what we can,” Davrin added, his tone steady but his eyes heavy. “But we’re always moving. They need stability—somewhere safe. Somewhere they won’t be torn apart.”
A strange chill curled in Emmrich’s stomach, a tide of fear braided with anticipation. His tongue felt thick as his mind chased the unspoken suggestion. Images pressed close: kneeling beside the two girls earlier, his knees stiff with the ache that never quite left him, the creeping reminder of time’s toll. His gaze shifted to Francesca—her furrowed brows, the silver overtaking her dark hair, the fine lines etched at her eyes and lips. She met his look with a wry, tired smile, one that told him she was thinking the same thing.
The years weighed on them, heavy as stone. That weight carried its shadow—the quiet terror of how little of it might be left. Yet through it threaded something else: the echo of a family they had never been able to hold, and the tremor of hope that what had once been denied might still be given space to grow.
“What are you suggesting?” Francesca finally voiced the question that pressed on both their minds.
Bellara’s wide eyes lifted to hers, glistening with nerves. Emmrich knew, even before she spoke, that whatever she asked of them, they would not refuse.
“Well—we’re not asking for anything permanent, and the Dalish aren’t exactly keen on letting their mages be taught by humans,” Bellara began, words spilling fast, tripping over one another. “So we figured, well…”
“Would the Mourn Watch take them in?” Davrin asked, his tone careful, deliberate.
“Yeah, they took you as a foundling,” Bellara added quickly, then turned to Emmrich. “And you, after your…” Her voice faltered, trailing into silence.
A lump rose in Emmrich’s throat, thick and unyielding. He wasn’t sure whether their answer was the one he wanted—or feared. Under the table, Francesca’s hand pressed into his, steady and warm. He turned, and her wry smile met him like a candle flame, fragile and unwavering.
“I’m sure the Watchers would be more than happy to take them in as students,” she said.
Bellara lifted her hand in defense, eyes wide. “It would only be for half the year. That way they could still return to Arlathan, still learn from the Keepers. It would keep the clan satisfied—and keep them together.” Her voice shook with urgency, a ramble born of desperation.
“And we could care for them the rest of the year,” Davrin added, leaning in, his words firm but hopeful. “Make sure they’re still learning Dalish traditions while honing their magic in a safe environment”
Emmrich’s brow tightened, a lump rising in his throat as the truth settled—this choice was not wholly their own, but the echo of their clan’s will. He swallowed hard, his voice rough when it finally broke the silence. “What do you want for them?” His gaze moved between the two of them, sharp and unyielding, as though he might pierce past duty to uncover the heart beneath. “Not the clan’s will. Yours. As their guardians.”
They exchanged a glance heavy with meaning, then Bellara looked down at their joined hands. She gave a humorless chuckle. “Do you remember back when the world was ending? We’d do anything to keep the mood light, to keep from spiraling.”
Emmrich’s heart clenched as he watched her wrestle with words too heavy for easy telling. Davrin’s thumb brushed over her hand, anchoring her.
“We used to joke about you two being our parents,” Bellara said at last, her smile trembling with sadness. “Even before you were together. Sure, because you were older, but more because we could always rely on you. Mom and dad of the Veilguard.” Her laugh was soft, brittle at the edges.
Warmth surged through Emmrich, flooding him, and he gave Francesca’s hand an answering squeeze. He looked at her with quiet love, and her smile rose to meet his. “We remember,” he said gently. Then, lifting his brow toward Bellara, he added, “I also remember you accidentally calling us that more times than I can count.”
Bellara’s laugh was sheepish, but her eyes carried nothing but sincerity as she met both their gazes. “It’s not an accident anymore,” she said firmly. “I call you Mamae and Babae because that’s who you are to me now. And…”
Davrin leaned forward, his voice steady, filling the silence she couldn’t. “What Bellara is trying to say is she—we wouldn’t trust those girls with anyone else.”
And there it was. The words, simple yet shattering, set both hope and dread to simmer in Emmrich’s blood. Age weighed heavily in his bones, and with it the old shadow of fear—of time running thin, of promises cut short. His gaze found Francesca, violet eyes shimmering as she pressed trembling fingers to her lips. His Ches. His wife. His family. She and Manfred had been enough; more than enough. They had never dared dream of more—not at their age, not after all they had endured. Yet when she lifted her gaze to his, her smile unraveled the knot in his chest, easing the chill he had carried for so long. Just as she had all those years ago, she stilled the fear of endings and filled its hollow with something brighter, warmer. She gave him what he had now—love, and the sudden, staggering realization that the family he had carried in his heart was no longer only a dream. It was here, unfolding before him.
His eyes shifted to Bellara, and clarity struck. Hadn’t he thought of her as family long before this moment? If he was honest, she had been his daughter from the first night she crept to him, sleepless and anxious, and he guided her through meditation until rest finally came. That lump rose in his throat again as the truth settled over him: they had always had a family, and now it would only grow.
“Well, Bellara,” Emmrich said, his voice rough, forcing past the thickness in his throat. She looked up at him, eyes wide, glistening with hope. “If Babae is elven for father… then what is the word for grandfather?”
Bellara’s expression broke open, a laugh bursting from her lips even as tears gathered. “Babaela,” she said, almost choking on the word as she dissolved into laughter. “Are you serious? You’ll do this?”
Francesca sniffed, her own smile breaking through as she reached across the table. “Of course, Bel,” she said softly, taking her hand. “You’ve been like a daughter to me since the moment we met. Maker, you even introduced us—we owe you the world.” She paused then, eyes shining as she turned her gaze to Davrin. “And you, Davrin… you deserve the world.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mamaela,” Davrin teased, though his voice was warm. “You’ve no idea what a handful those two are yet.”
“Mamaela,” Francesca echoed softly, savoring the word as she released Bellara’s hand. She lifted her gaze to Emmrich, her eyes bright with a love reborn. It astonished him—how every moment revealed some new facet of her, how each turn of fate gave him a new way to love her. This title, gifted to them by those they had guided and guarded, was yet another bond, another widening of the heart he thought already full.
He felt the world shrink until it was only her, this woman who had carried his heart through absence and ruin and somehow still gave it back to him whole. With trembling tenderness, he lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it softly. It was a kiss not meant for the room, but for her alone—a vow in the quiet language they had always spoken best.
And in her answering smile, he knew: whatever came next, their family was already here—his wife at his side, a daughter returned to him, a son born of wisp and bone, and two bright grandchildren to bind them all together. He had found not only home, but a heart wide enough to hold it all.
