It had been so very long since Emmrich had felt the fluttering of attraction toward anyone, his work always taking precedence in his life, that he was forced to wonder if it wasn’t simply the pressures of stopping the Evanuris (and the dire consequences they all faced if they failed to do so) muddying the waters a bit. Yet, when he looked at the man, who was all muscle and stoicism, his blood stirred in that old familiar way. So different from himself, Emmrich couldn’t help but be intrigued by him and the life he led among the Dalish. Despite the seriousness with which Strife held himself, it hadn’t taken the necromancer long to realize there existed layers to him that presented a far more intriguing study than he’d originally guessed. 

As afternoon had turned to evening, their conversation had turned from academic to personal in a slow excavation of whatever this surprising connection was between them. Now, situated around a small fire Strife had built, warm and relaxed by a little wine from a skein shared between them, Emmrich was struck by the intimacy that had fallen over them. A sort of quiet coziness in the middle of a forest of dangers. Safe, in its way, even if it was only an illusion. 

Perhaps that was why he reached across the middling distance to take Strife’s hand in his own when he might have otherwise shied away from such presumption. The man did not immediately seek to remove it, but raised a brow at the action, his dark eyes reflecting the warm glow of the campfire as he turned them on the professor. There was a gentle softening of Strife’s expression, a subtle curiosity there Emmrich felt mirrored in his own. He was really quite certain the Veil Jumper had not offered his assistance entirely out of professional interest. Still, he wanted to confirm before he made an utter fool of himself—but how to broach the topic? 

Cradling the other man’s hand between his own, he felt remarkably calm as he looked into Strife’s deep brown eyes, so dark they glittered like polished jet. “I must thank you, dear Strife,” he said. “I have had a most illuminating day. To follow with such a wonderful evening… well, you must tell me if there’s anything I can do to repay your kindness.” 

A thick dark brow arched, disrupting the pattern of the man’s Vallasllin. “‘Dear’ Strife, is it?” 

Emmrich couldn’t even pretend to be embarrassed, the corner of his mouth ticking upwards at the sparkle of mischief in the Veil Jumper’s eyes. 

“No need for thanks,” Strife continued, notably leaving his hand in Emmrich’s possession. His mouth quirked as his tone turned wry. “I did have ulterior motives in getting you alone.”

“Ah.”

“To be honest, I did think it would be harder.” 

“Why, Strife, are you calling me easy?” Emmrich protested in mock dismay. Chuckling softly, he caressed the back of Strife’s hand before turning it over to map the creases in his palm, marked by callousing and long-healed scars. Tilting his head, he glanced at the man from beneath his lashes, and sighed. “You’d be quite right, I’m afraid. I simply cannot resist an opportunity to expand my knowledge in arcane matters, particularly in such ancient unknown magic,” he met the Strife’s gaze fully. “And with such an erudite individual such as yourself? Impossible.” 

The other man’s laughter reverberated in Emmrich’s chest; taken aback by the response, his brows rose curiously.  “I don’t know if erudite is the right word to describe me, professor,” Strife said on the back of a chuckle as the laughter quieted. “But I do know flattery when I hear it.” He squeezed Emmrich’s hand, his gaze turning heavy-lidded as it briefly dropped to his mouth. Strife met Emmrich’s eyes once more and smirked. A small, self-satisfied thing that set Emmrich’s blood fizzing as the other man studied him a moment. “Say, Volkarin, do you know how to swim?”