the black river of loss whose other side is salvation
Emmrich/Olivia Ingellvar. Angst, hurt/comfort, birthdays, poor decisions, love, happy ending. AO3 Link.
Emmrich cut two slices of hazelnut torte, kindly gifted by Myrna, with almost ceremonial care, lifting each peace with steady concentration and placing them on the little dessert plates he had Manfred fetch from the kitchen. Olivia accepted hers with a strained smile she tried to hide, stomach too full of nerves to feel properly anticipatory for dessert. She took one bite because he was watching, and because his birthday cake, in the memory of his mother, deserved to be tasted.
“Oh,” she whispered, letting the taste linger on her tongue before swallowing.
His expression changed. “Good?”
“Very good.”
He smiled, lifting his plate toward him to take in the aroma. “Not too much cream?”
She smiled back. “I would never complain about too much cream.”
“No, you would likely declare it structurally essential.”
“It is!” She insists, managing a laugh despite her exhaustion and the pounding in her head.
Emmrich took a bite and stilled. Not dramatically, but enough. Olivia watches him closely, noting the jump in his brow, and the twitch in his mustache. “Close?” She asked.
His gaze lowered to the plate. “Not exact,” he said softly. “But close enough to be kind.” Her heart squeezed, and she fought back the urge to reach for him. They ate in quiet for several minutes, the fire crackling in the grate. Gradually, the cake disappeared. Tea warmed her hands. And the folio, waited.
Finally, Emmrich set down his fork and lifted his eyes. Her heart began to pound, and she sucks in a small breath. “May I?” He asked. She nodded.
Then, because her courage needed somewhere to stand, she said, “It took me longer because I wanted to get it right. Not perfect, but right.”
“You need not look so worried, my dear,” he said, concern crossing his features. He reached for the folio. “Are you positive you are feeling well?”
She wondered what he saw. If there were leaves in her hair, shadows under her eyes. If she looked weaker, or wounded. “I’m fine.”
Emmrich’s brow furrowed, and that was never a good sign, but he untied the ribbon. The sound was very small, but it felt like the whole room paused to listen. Olivia held her breath as he opened the folio.
Where, beneath a protective sheet, waited the faces of Rupert and Elannora Volkarin.
For a moment, Emmrich did not move. At all. His hand rested on the edge of the folio, one long finger resting at the lifted corner of the protective sheet. The fire popped, its dancing shadow trembling over the paper. The room held its breath around him. Olivia sat very still on the chaise, her untouched tea cooling in her hands as if reflecting the icy grip around her heart.
She had imagined this moment in several ways. In one, he looked confused. In another, pained. Otherwise, terribly polite, which she felt would have killed her more efficiently than any malign spirit. She had not imagined a silence this deep. Emmrich’s eyes moved over the drawing slowly. Rupert first. Then Elannora. Rupert’s hands. Elannora’s eyes. Emmrich’s mouth, which she’s focused on so often lately, parted slightly, as if some answer had risen and failed to become sound.
His face did not crumple. It did not harden. It became younger in a way Olivia had no defense against. All the years of scholarship and grave gold and practiced composure falling quiet before something older than them.
A boy, perhaps, looking through the man’s eyes. Olivia’s own eyes burned.
“I know it can’t be exact,” she whispered almost frantically, because the silence had become unbearable. “I know I never met them. And I know it might not be –.”
“Stop.”
The word was soft. Emmrich closed his eyes, his hand lifting from the folio to press against his mouth. Not dramatically, and not to hide tears, exactly, though when his eyes opened again, they were bright in a way that made her chest ache. It was as if he had to keep every part of himself in place by touch alone.
“Olivia,” he said. Her name broke halfway through.
She rose, panic flooding her veins. “Is it wrong?”
“No.” He looked down again. “No.”
One tear slipped down his cheek, and Olivia froze. Emmrich Volkarin. Beautiful, severe, immaculate Emmrich, did not seem to notice. His gaze remained fixed on the portrait, and the tear moved unchecked along the line of his face until it reached his jaw.
“Her smile,” he whispers, voice barely there. “My mother’s smile.”
Olivia’s hand flew to her mouth, and she was crying too. Emmrich reached toward the page, then stopped just before allowing himself to touch it, as if frightened his hand might disturb what time had returned.
“And his hands,” he said. “Father’s hands. I had forgotten the length of them. I remembered they were strong, but not…” His breath shook. “Not that.”
Olivia did not speak. She couldn’t. The headache, the night, the terror of a hundred invisible fingers, the hours spent over the page until the world narrowed to charcoal and memory…
It all fell away beneath the impossible tenderness of his recognition. He knew them. Not perfectly. But he knew them.
Emmrich bowed his head. For one awful, beautiful second, Olivia thought he might fold over the drawing entirely. Instead, he set both hands flat on either side of the folio, careful not to touch the portrait itself, and breathed as if he were relearning the practice. Manfred, who had been standing near the hearth with his birthday card clutched to his ribs, slowly sat down on the rug. He made no sound. Even he understood.
Olivia moved closer, but stopped before reaching him. “I’m sorry.”
He looked up sharply. “No.”
“I mean –.”
“No, my love.” His voice was rough. “Do not apologize for this.”
Tears continued to spill down her cheeks, immediate and helpless. “I was afraid.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t know if it would hurt.”
“It does,” he whispered. Her expression collapsed. Emmrich reached for her hand, and she gave it instantly, his fingers closing around hers with familiar warmth.
“It hurts,” he said. “Because it matters.” She nodded, unable to stop her tears.
He looked back at the drawing. Thought.
“How?” The question was quiet. Not accusation, not yet, but it landed between them with the full weight of what he had already begun to understand. Olivia’s fingers tightened in his.
“Olivia,” he said, softer. “How did you do this?”
She looked at their joined hands. His thumb brushed over her knuckles. There was no version of this where she could lie to him. Not after giving him his parents. Not on his birthday. Not when he had just called her my love in a voice broken open by grief.
“I went to the gardens last night,” she began, hushed. His thumb stilled. She did not look up. “I thought night would be quieter.”
“Olivia.”
“I know.”
His voice grew tight. “How long?”
She swallowed, silent, and he already knew. The silence was answer enough. “How long?” He repeated.
“All night,” she whispered, and Emmrich went utterly still. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know this would happen. I didn’t know I’d be there all night. I opened the door too wide, and then there was…Emmrich, there was so much. Too much.” Her voice catches. “I must have passed out.”
The words were small, but in the room they were enormous. His face changed as she spoke. Grief, wonder, love, and fear collided so visibly that she almost stepped back from the force of it.
“You lost consciousness in the Memorial Gardens,” he said. Whatever tenderness in him now had teeth.
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“Yes.”
He stared at her. And in that stare, she saw a man who watched a building collapse on his parents, and a terrifying mistake collapse on her. “You could have been harmed. You may be harmed.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“You could have been overwhelmed beyond your ability to return.”
“I know.”
“You could have –.” His voice stopped. Caught. He let go, his hand rising to his mouth.
Died. He did not say it. He didn’t have to. Olivia’s tears fell harder. “I know.”
Emmrich’s jaw trembled, then tightened beneath his hand. He stood, turning away, pressing both hands hard against the mantle. The motion was not rejection, but containment. She recognized it, even now. He was trying to put his fear somewhere it would not fall on her like punishment.
The folio remained open on the table. His parents looked out from the page. And Olivia stood very still.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice breaking.
Emmrich breathed in, and out. Then again. When he turned back, his eyes were wet and fierce. “My love,” he said, voice low. “I am so angry with you.”
She flinched. He saw and crossed the room at once, stopping before her, but not touching until she allowed it. “And I am so moved I can hardly stand,” he said. “And I am terrified. And grateful. And furious. If I attempt to sort these feelings elegantly, I may require another fifty-six years.”
A broken laugh escaped through her tears. He did not smile.
“You were reckless.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Dangerously reckless.”
“Yes.”
He drew in a breath. “Olivia, do not say yes as though agreement repairs it.”
She looked down. “It doesn’t.”
“No.”
“I thought if I told you, you’d stop me.”
“I would have.”
“I know.”
“And that is precisely why you should have told me.”
Her mouth trembled. “I wanted to give you something no one else could.”
His expression broke. Not fully, but enough. “Oh, Olivia.”
She looked back up at him. “I wanted you to see them.”
He reached for her then, unable not to, and gathered her against him carefully, but fiercely enough that she felt the fear in his arms. She sobbed once into his waistcoat. “I wanted you to have them back.”
His hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading into her curls. “You impossible, generous, maddening girl.”
“I thought it would be beautiful,” she cried.
“It is.”
“And I thought maybe beautiful would be worth frightening.”
“No,” he said at once, voice rough against her hair. “Not if the frightened thing is you.”
She cried harder. He held her through it, though his own breathing was not steady. For a long while, the only sounds in the room were the fire and Olivia’s tears. When she finally quieted, Emmrich drew back just enough to look at her. His thumb moved beneath her eye, catching tears as he had done before. He studied her pallor, and the circles under her eyes.
“You will be examined,” he said.”
She nodded quickly. “All right.”
“By Myrna. By me. No argument. And you will rest. Not draw. Not revise. Not add just one tiny shadow to my father’s collar.”
Her eyes widened. His narrowed. “Do not look so surprised. I know artists.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Olivia.”
“I was thinking about it,” she relents with a watery, guilty smile. He looked as if he might scold her again, but instead his gaze drifted to the drawing. The anger did not leave him. Neither did the fear. But the portrait pulled at him like gravity. He returned to the table slowly and sat before it.
“May I?” He asked.
She exhaled. “It’s yours.”
The words made him close his eyes briefly. Then he touched the edge of the paper with reverent fingertips. “My mother,” he whispered.
Olivia stood by the chair, a hand over her mouth.
“Elannora,” he said, as if introducing the name back to the face. “Look at you.” A small, aching smile touched his mouth. “And Father.” He let out a breath that might have been laughter if it had not been so near tears. “You look as if you disapprove of the chair construction.”
Olivia laughed softly, still crying. “He did,” she said before she realized. Emmrich looked up at her, and she flushed. “I mean…there was an impression. Not words exactly, but…he seemed very opinionated about stability.”
Another tear slid down Emmrich’s cheek. “Yes,” he said. “That was him.” He looked back at the portrait.
“She loved him,” Olivia whispered.
“I know.”
“She teased him.”
“Yes.”
“And she loved you.” Her voice trembled. “There was so much of that. She loved you.”
Emmrich bowed his head. His shoulders shook once. Only once, but Olivia saw. She reached for him, then hesitated, remembering his anger, his fear, and the enormity of what she had done. He caught her hand without looking and pulled it to his lips. The kiss to her knuckles was not restrained, it lingered. Grateful, devastated, and a little desperate.
“Thank you,” he whispered against her hand. She cried again. “I’m still angry,” he added.
“I know.”
“Do not think tears and artistic brilliance absolve you.”
“I don’t.”
“They help,” he said, voice thick.
She laughed through a sob. “Do they?”
“Immensely. Infuriatingly.”
Shuffling movement and the click of bone on bone made them remember Manfred on the carpet, and he slowly raised his slate. It read: NO NIGHT GARDEN.
Olivia looked at it and winced. “Agreed.”
Manfred underlined it. Then added: GOOD DRAW.
Emmrich laughed then, helplessly, wetly, and the sound eased something in the room. Olivia sat beside him at last, close enough that their shoulders touched. He did not object and leaned into it by the smallest degree, taking her hand once more. The hazelnut torte waited half-eaten. The tea cooled. And in the open folio before them, Rupert and Elannora Volkarin had faces again. Not as they had been perfectly, and not as any portrait from life might have held them. But as love, memory, and one reckless young necromancer had dragged them gently from the dark.
Emmrich sat very still, and looked at his parents for a long, long time. Finally, he said, “This is the greatest gift I have ever received.”
Olivia’s breath caught. He turned to her, eyes bright and severe. “And you are never to do anything like it again.”
She nodded.
“Say it,” he said.
“I will never do anything like it again.”
“Once more.”
“I will never open my mental door that wide in the Memorial Gardens at night and, pass out alone in the grass while trying to draw your parents for your birthday.”
His mouth twitched despite himself. “An admirably specific vow.”
“I thought specificity would comfort you.”
“It does. Marginally.”
She smiled, exhausted and tearful and unbearably dear. He touched her cheek. “My impossible love,” he murmured.
Her eyes softened. “Happy Birthday, Emmrich.”
He looked once more at the portrait, then at her. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It is.”
