Chapter Text
The Mourn Watch is a respectable order within Nevarra, and it is an honor to be a watcher. Yet, to be a part of a respected order and to be respected are two concepts leagues apart, and the latter is far out of your reach. There are worse lives you could be living, certainly, but if you could roll the dice and be someone else–you’d do it in a heartbeat.
A better life is but a blink away, always residing in the back of your mind. While you toil away at your day job, a daring adventure plays out in a daydream, saving you from the monotony of daily life.
Wake, clean, study, repeat.
To clean up after the real masterminds of this place is a privilege to those unable to contribute in other meaningful ways–as Matron Thistle is fond of saying. You could recite the jab in your sleep, and the ensuing spite fuels your day to day grind. It works, you suppose, but this amount of ill will can’t be good for your fragile mental health.
Studying is the only part of your day that is entirely yours. A refuge and a hobby, you research the nature of the Fade, venturing into metaphysics more often than not. There are many theories surrounding the Fade’s properties, but so much is unknown.
It fascinates you to ponder the different possibilities of what's out there. Looking not only for answers to humanity’s greatest questions, but of other worlds and dimensions.
Maladaptive daydreaming with your nose in a book is how you spend most evenings, nestled away deep in the catacombs. People never tread these quiet, hallowed halls, and for that, you are thankful. Most people your age have moved far beyond your current status, and your fellow janitors are a rotating door of freshmen having drawn the short stick for work duty.
Friends are impossible to come by for you, these days. Not that it’s ever been easy for you. Solitude is a solace, allowing you to be yourself unapologetically.
This cozy, abandoned corner you’ve come to call yours has a stone table in the middle of the small room. Its walls are lined with urns containing remains of the unidentified dead, instilling the stagnant air with a chilling sadness.
The stone walls and floors match that of the rest of the Necropolis, gray bathed in green veilfire. Sand collects in little piles and thin lines along the edges of the room, ever present in these parts. Sweeping wouldn’t do much good–you know from experience. The sand falls from the Fade, and there is nothing anyone can do about it.
There is comfort among the forgotten–a kind of kinship, even. The wisps in this area have taken a liking to you as well, their shimmering cyan forms with tendrils stemming from a center point gives them the appearance of an etheric dandelion.
Two of them float and bob around weightlessly to the same beat as your hips, swaying to an unheard rhythm. Too antsy to sit, you stand as you read with your back to the open hallway. Humming and singing errant lyrics absentmindedly, you tear through a text on an obscure theory of the Fade recorded hundreds of years ago.
Despite life’s general malaise, it was a good day. Matron Thistle ate something that disagreed with her and you had an amazing day without her nagging your every move. You’re so relaxed from the quiet day of work, you could kiss those skeletons on cooking duty.
A man clears his throat, announcing his presence behind you. You freeze as if you’ve been caught, and turn around slowly.
“Ah, hello! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The man clasps his hands together. “It’s rare to find another person among these forsaken souls.”
How long has he been standing there?!
With a perfectly cordial tone, his carefully modulated voice complements his fine clothes and jewelry, giving him a distinguished air enhanced by his crows feet and gray hair. Going from his grave-gold, he is a prominent member of the Mourn Watch, and you adjust your behavior accordingly.
“Sorry, I can go.” Your book closes with a heavy thud and you hastily grab your bag off the floor.
“No, please. These halls could do with a bit of warmth.” He smiles, pointing to the wisps with his gloved hand. “They’re quite fond of you.”
“Oh-uh, yeah. They keep me company while I read.” Your fingers trace the intricate grooves of the book cover nervously.
“Personal or academic study? If I may ask.” Interested or nosy, you have the handsome man’s full attention.
The wisps investigate him and you relax a little. They are excellent judges of character, or at least you choose to believe so. The man greets the wisps with the same respectful manner he used with you, and the gesture softens your guard.
“Personal.” The man’s silence pushes you to say more. “It’s about the possible multi-dimensional properties of the Fade.”
“How interesting! What drew you to that line of inquiry?”
“Uh-just, you know…” you clear your throat and try to string some coherent words together. “I like the thought of other worlds out there. From subtle differences to global changes–the possibilities are endless.”
“Ah, yes! Fascinating to think about, isn’t it? I spent some time in my youth researching multi-world theory. An under-appreciated topic, unfortunately. I can count on one hand the number of sources,” he sighs wistfully. “I apologize for putting you on the spot. All topics of the Fade interest me, deeply. Learning about its mysteries is one of life’s greatest pleasures.”
With an agenda all their own, the wisps leave the two strangers alone, their ethereal laughter fading quickly. And with them, the little peace of mind you obtained vanishes.
“What-uh, brings you down here?” you ask, shuffling nervously.
“Ah, well . There is a rumor of a haunting in this area. Have you seen any wandering, restless spirits?”
After a moment of thought, you shrug and shake your head. “Not that I know of.”
“Ah, good. Are you down here often?”
“Mhm. Almost every night.” Your answer seems to satisfy his curiosity.
Anxiety worms through your stomach because you revealed more than you’re comfortable. His kindness is too disarming–or is it because you haven’t stopped blushing this whole time? Are you imagining the connection you feel?
Probably.
“My rounds should be made with ease, then. Thank you for the riveting conversation. I apologize for interrupting your private study, and I hope you have a pleasant evening.” With a little bow, he makes his exit gracefully.
You manage an awkward, “It’s ok! You too.” Waving nervously after him.
Why the fuck did you wave. That’s not something you do normally. Place a hot old man in front of you and your brain leaps into the void.
Looking back at the closed book that held your attention in a vice only moments ago, obscenities leak from your mouth. You didn’t mark your page, and you lack the motivation to find it again. Sighing heavily, you gather your things and head back to your living quarters for the night.
The jingle of your keys as you unlock the door is outmatched by the growl of your stomach.
Wishing you could ignore it but knowing you can’t, you drop your things off in your room and follow your nose to the kitchens. The cafeteria is closed this time of night but the kitchens are always open to those who need a snack.
The sleepless skeleton cooks greet you with excited hisses, bringing a smile to your exhausted face.
The warm yellow light of the fire is a welcome change from the green-tinted surroundings. Dried garlic and herbs hang from the walls, pots and pans litter the counter tops, and a wooden table rests off to the side with three mismatched chairs.
You’ve developed a rapport with the regular cooks, teaching them how to add more flavor in little ways. A skeleton with a bow tie brings you a bowl of soup before you can even ask.
“Oh, thank you, Francis. You’re too kind.” You notice the droplets of orange oil floating at the top of your corn chowder. “You even added chili crisp! You’re the best.”
Happily slurping away with not an ounce of grace, you barely hear the footsteps approaching.
You place the bowl on the table with a heavy thunk , rake a napkin across your mouth, and turn to face the visitor.
“Hello again!” he greets.
It’s the same man from before, but this time he has a skeleton at his side. They are wearing an acolyte’s robe and goggles, which tickles something at the back of your mind.
You’ve gone twenty years without seeing him in the Necropolis and now here he is, twice in one day. What are the odds?
“Oh, hey! Find any hauntings?” you ask.
“No restless spirits tonight. Though, I doubt there ever was one.”
“Oh?”
“ Several people have reported ghostly singing echoing through those halls,” he pauses, choosing his next words carefully.
The pieces begin to fall into place through the silence, and embarrassment tints your every move. Eyes cast down, you fidget with your hands, waiting for judgement.
“You have a lovely voice,” he finishes with a kind smile.
“What?— oh , uh. Thank you,” you smile out of reflex.
His words are slow to process. Lovely? You count your blessings that you were singing something pretty and not screeching like a banshee. It’s surprising this hasn’t happened sooner, now that you think about it.
“Manfred!” The skeleton hisses, pointing a boney finger at its chest.
“You’re right , Manfred! Where are my manners? I never properly introduced ourselves. I am professor Emmrich Volkarin, and this is my pupil, Manfred.” Emmrich steps forward, offering his ungloved hand.
Your name sounds dingy in comparison with no title or accomplishments to go along with it. But it’s hard to dwell on such things when his hand is warm in yours, skin weathered and soft.
Emmrich Volkarin. Emmrich Volkarin…
“Wait—not the Professor Emmrich Volkarin that took a sabbatical to save the world?!”
He laughs, lighthearted and breathy. “The very same.”
You relinquish his hand, cringing. Handshakes aren’t supposed to last that long, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Quite the opposite, actually.
“What were you singing before? If I may ask,” he inquires.
Caught off-guard once again, you look at him blankly. You should have known he would have questions.
“Just something that came to mind,” you offer, shrugging.
Please be enough. Don’t make me explain.
Emmrich hums thoughtfully. You’ve disappointed enough people to know the look of disbelief when you see it, but he doesn’t push the topic. Something else catches his attention off to your side.
“Is the soup too spicy for your liking?” he asks.
“Oh no–It’s delicious ! I’ve added chili crisp to my food so much the cooks have caught on–they’re so thoughtful,” you blurt out, all too excited to talk about your newfound way of adding flavor to the normally-dull daily soup.
“Ah–so you’re the mysterious mentor! The Watcher overseeing the kitchens was quite perplexed at the altered menu,” Emmrich reveals.
“...altered menu? Wait–they made it this way for everyone ?!”
Emmrich nods, “I appreciate a little spice now and then, but a Matron admitted herself to the infirmary early this morning.”
“Not Matron Thistle?!”
“You know her?”
Flabbergasted, you look at Francis. Bow tie quaking, he backs out of the room slowly at first, and then skitters away. Laughter bubbles up from your chest, unbidden. You cover your mouth, but you can’t hide the shit-eating grin splitting your face as you devolve into a fit of giggles.
You’re the reason she was out today?! This puts the cherry on top of your rarely acquired good day.
All at once, awareness smacks you in the face. You’re laughing at someone's misery in front of an esteemed Watcher .
Unable to hide the amusement still plain on your face, you place a hand on his forearm, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. “ Please don’t tell her it was me! She already hates me! I promise I didn’t tell the cooks to add it to everyone's food!”
Francis, you betrayed me!
He chuckles, placing a hand over yours. “I assure you—your secret is safe with me.”
The contact makes your heart race. Your eyes flick down to his lips then back up to his enchanting eyes. It was only a millisecond, but you’re worried he noticed.
“You’re sweet,” your mouth moves before your mind. “I mean— thank you !” Shaking off the slip of the tongue.
Stop it. Why am I flirting??? Who even am I right now.
With a sassy tilt of his head, Emmrich doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s not my favorite Watcher, either.”
You share a lighthearted smile and bite your lip.
Shit. He’s so charming!
He pulls away and you miss the warmth of his hand as the moment ends, wishing for more.
Emmrich hesitates, mulling over something silently before asking, “Would you be interested in having tea with me sometime? It would be my pleasure to get to know you.”
“ Me ?! I’m not that interesting,” you pause, redirecting your thoughts. “I’d love to!”
“There is more to you than meets the eye, dear.” Softly chastising, he takes a moment to admire your bashful look. “Everyone is entitled to their privacy—it is not my place to pry. However, I hope you feel comfortable enough to trust me, in time. How does Tea in the Garden sound? Let’s say–noon?”
“Tomorrow?” You ask with a dumbfounded expression.
Not only does he want to date you, but so soon as well? What does he see in you?
Emmrich nods, “Unless you’re busy, of course. We can always reschedule for another day.”
You typically get an hour for lunch, so you’re eager to agree. If it goes over, you won’t have the strength to end it early.
But….
What Matron Thistle doesn’t know can’t harm her.
“Tomorrow’s perfect!” you blurt out excitedly.
“Yes!” Manfred hisses, his excitement palpable in his raised arms.
Emmrich’s eyes brighten, shimmering in the dim room. “Wonderful! I’m looking forward to it. Now, please, continue your meal. I am sorry to interrupt you yet again.”
“You can interrupt me anytime.” The words stumble out of your mouth easily, but lose volume by the end as your confidence wanes.
Emmrich takes your hand in his, dipping gracefully to kiss it. “Goodnight, dear.”
“G-goodnight!” you stutter, mind utterly broken from the small token of affection.
“G’night!” Manfred waves, and you return his gesture with a small laugh.
“Goodnight, Manfred.”
After they leave you collapse back into a chair, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
You want him in ways you thought had dried-up long ago. But the water has been set free, careening through the familiar, desiccated paths it left behind. It’s nice to feel desire again, after all this time. But it feels laced with danger–hoping for something you’ve never truly had with a man you barely know.
It’s just a matter of time before he sees in you what everyone else does. Nothing . No prospects, no friends–not anymore, anyway.
The one friend you had was sent away for causing too many fights, finally earning a prolonged stay in the most dangerous part of the Necropolis. You haven’t heard from her in six months, and count yourself left behind.
Even through the doubts, you smile as you finish your meal. A warm blush settles across your face that not even walking back through cold halls can extinguish.
A soft noise pulls you from your reverie. You come to a halt, the ruffle of your clothes fading to silence as you listen.
The hair on the back of your neck raises, and you start to panic. Eyes darting around the empty, seemingly endless hall for a threat with fisted hands.
“Mreow!” A black cat emerges from a dark corner, its green eyes matching the surrounding lamps.
Heart pounding in your chest, you let out a breath of relief, feeling quite silly now.
“Hi there!!! You’re so pretty!” you coo, all too excited to see a new furry friend.
The cat rubs up against your leg, doubling back in between them like a figure eight. Its fur glistens in the dark, thick and healthy looking, and its figure is lean and muscular, befitting an outdoor cat.
“Ooh, thank you! You’re so cute. Can I pet you??” You lean down, offering your hand.
The cat sniffs you for only a moment before rubbing its cheek against your fingers. Cautiously, you scratch behind its ears and your heart melts as it chases your touch, raising its head into your palm, eyes closed.
“Such a trusting lil guy, huh? Do you wanna come home with me?”
As soon as you think the cat distribution system finally got to you, the cat perks up as if it heard something, and then scampers away.
Maybe another time.
Sighing heavily, you return to your room alone with a mind swimming with possibilities and failures.
You need to get some sleep.
You have a date tomorrow, after all.
Butterflies flutter in your stomach, threatening your peaceful rest before a busy day. Lazily humming a relaxing tune, you let your mind wander, never staying on any specific thought, and the day fades away to a fitful slumber, plagued by dreams.