Chapter Text
Kirkwall Theater vibrated with anticipation. It was a sensation Emmrich Volkarin knew better than his own heartbeat.
He stood at the podium, bathed in a golden wash of stage lights, guiding the MournWatch Symphony Orchestra into the first measures of Daphnis et Chloé. The small green skull that crowned his baton caught the light as it carved arcs through the air. At his signal the strings entered, and Emmrich’s mouth softened into a smile as he coax sound from silence.
Fifty-two years had carried Emmrich across Thedas. Antivan opera houses gilded in gold, Tevinter conservatories carved from ancient stone, Orlesian palace halls where politics clung to every breath. Each place had its own cadence, its own dialect, its own rules of conversation.
His father, Professor Rupert Volkarin had devoted his life to languages, and raised Emmrich to chase them with the same fervor.
“To speak to another soul in their own tongue,” his father used to say, “is the closest we ever come to dissolving the space between us.”
Emmrich remembered the endless struggle of his youth, conjugations blurring across notebooks, nasal vowels that refused to sit correctly on his tongue, idioms that twisted through his mind like delicate chains he could never quite untangle. No matter how many languages he learned, barriers still remained.
Some phrase he could not translate.
Some meaning that slipped through his grasp.
But here, on the podium… nothing escaped him.
No nuance lost. No intention misunderstood. The slightest lift of his hand, the smallest shift of breath, and a hundred musicians spoke with him in a language that struck deep, pass the heart, straight into the audience’s soul.
Music required no shared homeland. No ancestry. No dictionary. It was the one language in which he had never once felt alone. And in this wordless communion, Emmrich felt closest to the man who taught him to seek connection in the first place.
He dedicated every performance to his father, hoping that somehow his father might hear him from beyond the grave, and realize his boy had achieved his dream, albeit in his own different way.
The final chord dissolved into silence. Emmrich lowered his baton slowly.
Then the applause began. At first a ripple. Then a wave. Then a riptide. Kirkwall audiences were not known for subtlety, they stood almost immediately, cheers echoing. Someone in the back shouted his name.
Emmrich bowed then turned to the MournWatch Symphony. His orchestra.
His family.
Violins glistened with sweat, brass players shakily let out breaths, the concertmaster gave him a smile.
He pressed one hand over his heart.
Backstage, the noise of the hall bled into muffled thunder. Emmrich stepped into the dim hallway, his baton tucked carefully into its velvet-lined case.
His assistant handed him a glass of water. “Immaculate as always.”
“It was adequate,” Emmrich murmured, sipping from the cup before handing it back to Vorgoth.
A voice called out from the corridor’s brighter end.
“Volkarin! There he is!”
Varric Tethras strode toward him. Short, broad, and exuding the kind of confidence only politicians possessed. The dwarf was dressed in a tailored gray suit.
Emmrich straightened instinctively. “Senator Tethras. Thank you once again for inviting us to play tonight. I trust you found the performance acceptable?”
“Acceptable?” Varric snorted. “I’m pretty sure half the audience is going home tonight to reevaluate their life choices. I know I am.”
It was impossible not to smile at the man.
Varric offered his hand, and Emmrich shook it. “Magnificent show. Now, about your lodging, Kirkwall air traffic just sent out another advisory.”
“Ah.” Emmrich already felt the disappointment tug in his chest. He longed for Nevarra’s familiar scent of home, and of course the presence of Manfred waiting for him in his window. “A delay.”
“Storms over the entire coastline. Flights grounded until tomorrow evening at least. Don’t worry, I’ve arranged for your orchestra to keep their rooms one extra night, no charge.”
“That is… exceedingly generous.”
Varric waved him off. “You can thank me by grabbing a drink with me tonight.”
Emmrich blinked. “A drink?”
Varric grinned. “Come on. The entire world knows your music. But not much about you. And I’d sure as hell like to meet the man behind the baton.”
Declining would be rude, and Varric had done more than enough for his orchestra. So he nodded. “Very well. One drink.”
“Perfect.” Varric clapped him on the back. “I’ll take you to the best place in Kirkwall.”
Kirkwall had changed in the years since he last stood on its podium, but it remained unmistakably itself. Swamp air thick with ale and piss. Jazz echoed from waterfront lounges, raucous shouts drifting from iron wrought Hightown balconies, the distant toll of a Chantry bell keeping time like some ancient metronome.
Varric guided him with the swagger of a man who owned every block.
“Just up here,” the senator announced as they rounded a corner illuminated by neon violet. A sign flickered overhead, The Hanged Man written in glowing cursive.
Emmrich raised a brow. “A cabaret, Senator?”
“Relax,” Varric snorted. “This place has the best drinks in Kirkwall, and the best live music that hasn’t sold its soul to the Chantry.”
They stepped inside.
The Hanged Man was all velvet and gold. Deep crimson curtains framed the stage, where a jazz quartet played. Scantly dressed servers weaved through the tables with trays of gold-rimmed cocktails.
The moment they entered, a hostess recognized Varric and ushered them up to a VIP lounge.
Their drinks arrived quickly. Emmrich took his Nevarran brandy neat, Varric ordered something sweet and sour and questionably legal.
The jazz band drifted through the room, steady bass and a trumpet’s lazy ache. Emmrich found himself tracking the measures without meaning to.
Varric noticed. “Ever able to turn that off?”
Emmrich shook his head with a lift of his shoulder. “Not really.”
Varric clinked his glass lightly against Emmrich’s. “Cheers to the obsessive ones.”
The next question came casually. “So. Anyone waiting for you back home? Someone who complains about your hours?”
Emmrich hesitated. “No.”
“No one?” Varric pressed.
He took a sip. “People like to say I’m married to my work.”
“And are you?”
Emmrich allowed a small smile. “Yes. Quite contentedly.”
Varric huffed a laugh.
“But,” Emmrich added, “I am not without a family. My orchestra keeps me more than occupied. I’ve been invited to six children’s birthday parties this year alone.” He sighed, “And three upcoming university graduations.”
Varric lifted his brows. “Shit. That’s right. Graduation season is around the corner...”
Emmrich tilted his head. “Do you have any children graduating university this year?”
A strange smile crossed Varric’s face. “Almost,” he said.
The jazz played on.
Several rounds later, The Hanged Man had grown increasingly charming, though Emmrich suspected that had more to do with Varric’s state than the establishment itself.
The senator had begun the evening a confident, silver-tongued raconteur. He was now slouched on the velvet lounge like a man held upright only by Devine intervention. His tie hung off one shoulder. His chest hair attempting full mutiny.“Volkarin,” he slurred, lifting his empty glass, “you are… you’re alright, you know that?”
Emmrich arched a brow. “I’m relieved to meet your standards.”
“Not everyone does,” Varric informed him gravely.
“I imagine your standards fluctuate with your blood alcohol level.”
Varric pointed at him with exaggerated seriousness. “See! That’s what I’m talking about.”
Emmrich took another sip of brandy.
He had drunk precisely as much as Varric… and yet somehow retained the ability to stand, think, and keep his shirt properly buttoned.
It was one of the few benefits of spending a lifetime attending post-concert galas with overzealous benefactors.
A topless hostess approached. “Another round, gentlemen?”
“No,” Emmrich replied before Varric could open his mouth. “We’re finished for the evening.”
Varric waved his hand as though conducting an invisible orchestra. “Lead on, Maestro.”
They stepped out into the humid Kirkwall night. Streetlamps cast golden halos across the sidewalks. They walked slowly toward the waterfront towers, where the high-rise stretched into a storm-lit sky. The same building housed both Varric’s penthouse and the hotel wing where the symphony stayed.
Varric attempted conversation. Attempted… being the critical word.
“You know, Em-Emme…Emrich…” He squinted at him. “How do you say it again?”
“Emmrich.”
“There it is.” Varric snapped his fingers. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like you were sculpted by an angry Orlesian artist?”
“Only twice,” Emmrich murmured.
Varric laughed so loudly a flock of pigeons abandoned a nearby awning.
They reached the tower entrance. The glass doors swooshed open, releasing a rush of conditioned air tinged with expensive floor polish.
Varric leaned heavily against him in the elevator, humming a song that shifted keys every three seconds like a composer having a stroke.
The elevator chimed, they’d reached Varric’s floor, Varric slumped to the marbled floor just shy of his own door.
Emmrich sighed. “Of course.”
He pressed the doorbell, the soft chime echoing through the landing.
The door opened almost immediately. Warm light spilled across the room, and a young woman stood framed in it as though she’d stepped out of a painting. Green eyes, pink lips, delicate bare feet on carpeted flooring, and a startled look that seemed to sweep the entire night out from under him.
Emmrich blinked, gathering himself. Then out of instinct and politeness he spoke.
“Good evening. Senator Tethras is… ah, slightly inebriated.”
She only stared at him.
Not confused.
Not dismissive.
Simply silent… and it pressed uncomfortably against him.
Emmrich cleared his throat and tried again, gesturing toward Varric’s slumped body.
At last, she followed the direction of his hand, leaned past the doorframe and her eyes widened in immediate recognition.
She rushed forward and knelt beside Varric Her palm pressed to his forehead, brows pinched. She exhaled in a silent, exasperated sigh that made Emmrich feel oddly guilty despite having done nothing wrong.
He cleared his throat, trying to recover some dignity. “He’s unharmed,” Emmrich said. “Merely… in protest of gravity.”
Still nothing.
Her expression did not change.
No acknowledgment of his words reached her.
The silence stretched again.
Emmrich’s pulse shifted, a slight irritation arose, as if he were sensing a wrong entrance in the brass section.
He repeated himself, gesturing toward Varric again. “He’s alright. Just drunk.”
The young woman straightened and looked up at him… something in her gaze made him feel suddenly, absurdly tall… standing there in the spill of her doorway like an intruder.
He reached for formality, turning slightly and pressing the elevator button. It chimed upon arrival.
“My apologies for disturbing you. I’ll leave you to-…”
But before he could walk past the doors, the soft patter of bare feet hurried toward him.
A small hand caught his. He stared down at it before his gaze drifted upward to her face.
There was almost no distance between them now, her black hair fell like a curtain across both her cheeks. She released her grip and reached to tuck it behind her ear.
Her fingers brushed the small silver device nestled there.
A hearing aid.
Then she did the same on the other side.
Two hearing aids.
And suddenly the silence made perfect, devastating sense.
Her hands lifted, moving in a sequence of eloquent gestures. Her brows softened with apology or gratitude or perhaps both?
Sign language.
Emmrich’s stomach dropped.
He didn’t understand a word.
His embarrassment was immediate and visible as it flushed up his neck.
He fumbled for his phone.
“Please, ah, one moment,” he murmured, wincing when he remembered she could not hear it.
He opened his notes app and typed in hurried taps:
I’m truly sorry.
I didn’t mean to disturb you.
Varric is okay. Only drunk.
I just wanted to make sure he got home safely.
He held the phone out and she read it.
Then she smiled.
Not the tight-lipped smile he was accustomed to receiving at gala dinners or press conferences.
No… this was, luminous.
She took the phone gently from his hand and typed:
Thank you.
Sorry, he gets heavy when he drinks, which is saying a lot considering how heavy he is to begin with.
A startled laugh rose in his throat. He clamped it down to a polite chuckle, then, as if compelled by instinct, began to answer aloud.
“Of course. It was no trou-…”
He stopped.
Embarrassed again.
He took the phone back, typed:
Have a pleasant evening.
She nodded, lips curling at the corners. Then she signed something small, her hands forming a language he didn’t understand.
He nodded back, though he had no idea what she’d said.
He stepped into the elevator just as she returned to Varric’s side.
The doors began to close. And in that narrowing sliver he saw her nudge Varric with her toe.
The senator groaned.
She crossed her arms and gave him a swift kick, the doors fully closing before his grunt could form.
Emmrich’s face broke into a smile. He lowered his gaze to the phone in his hand.
Her tiny fingerprints smudged faintly across the glass, mingling with his own. He brushed a thumb over the screen as the elevator descended.