Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dated January 3rd, 1946, an excerpt from a gossip column entitled ‘Hezenkoss’ Hollywood.’ A syndicated series published weekly across North America. Penned by none other than Johanna Hezenkoss, a notorious gossip columnist and failed actress. Although she asserted the contrary in her autobiography ‘Truth Unfiltered: The Decay Behind the Glittering Facade.’

A Perennial Mystery

And now moving on to Emmrich Volkarin and his romantic pursuits, or if you’d permit me in saying, lack thereof. The pantywaist, despite his notable acclaim as both a stage and film actor, has just as many Academy Awards as ex-wives. The twice divorcé is an enigma that has plagued me, and practically every working professional in Tinseltown, for decades. So much so the topic of Volkarin has been discussed ad nauseam.

Yet it is because of you, dear readers, that I must persist with wasting such precious time. Somehow, you audiences adore him, which is surprising in and of itself. How anyone could find Volkarin and his deteriorating lineaments dishy is beyond me. That mustache, for starters, is archaic and ostensibly, rather itchy to kiss—as past leading ladies have disclosed. He’s frightfully easy to pick out of any gaggle of stars, his physique looming over most like a tottering beanpole.

Regardless of all the wealth and gold that clads his wrists, none of that has been satisfactory in sustaining any long-term relationships since his last separation. That is likely due to the fact Volkarin is perpetually away with the fairies. At parties he entertains with the same tripe anecdotes, yet lingers. A nightmare! And of course there have been those sightings of him roaming the Hollywood Hills at the most peculiar hours...

Could this all be related to Volkarin’s adopted son, who appeared seemingly overnight nearly 7 years ago? Perhaps it's his guilty conscience finally eating away at him? It’s as evident as a sore thumb that he is a product of a love affair. But with whom exactly? Surely the child couldn’t have been delivered by stork, as he so often likes to jest?

In any case, Volkarin will begin shooting a new picture next month, which will likely be a disaster. His rumoured co-star is Rook Ingellvar, a complete unknown, who Kirkwall Pictures’ Varric Tethras has kept secret an…

This copy in particular—which had been discovered amongst Emmrich Volkarin’s archives after his passing on 5th March 1986—is singed along the edges, deeming the rest illegible, as if there had been an attempt to use it as kindling.

February, 1946

Emmrich Volkarin was a Hollywood veteran, a luminary amongst the brightest stars. He had been present during its conception, made the seamless transition from stage to silver screen, and was one of the more fortunate souls to have survived the dreaded ‘talkie purge.’

He had portrayed all manner of characters, from mustache twirling villains with the most delicious lines, to heroic figures slaying demons, and hopeless romantics doomed to live in despondency. More times than Emmrich cared to admit, his own life mirrored the tragedy which was depicted in his works, the discarded moments no one desired to experience.

Since Emmrich was but a boy, he had known nothing but vicissitudes, both death and heartbreak frequent players in his misery. Gaieties or telltale signs of a more promising future evaded him, no matter how actively he sought them, how he practically begged for any semblance of immutability.

In between film sets, solitude became his closest acquaintance. Much like the audiences who flocked to the cinema to flee the daunting realities of their everyday existences, Emmrich escaped into his work, into the world of his characters. But why, pray tell? To avoid facing his own shortcomings, naturally, his own mortality, and even worse, the cold empty halls of his mansion that were always awaiting his return.

Nevertheless, the one role which never quite stuck its landing in his longstanding career was that of a husband; no matter how devoted he had been to his previous spouses, or anyone who had given him even a hint of interest. Oh, Emmrich was far from virtuous. He had dabbled in his fair share of sexual exploits that had been afforded to him—those parties he held in the height of the roaring ‘20s were still talked about amongst his social circles—but even so, men and women alike seldom stayed within the comforts of his sheets, most slipping out of his embrace as soon as the sun’s warmth wrapped itself along the horizon.

Like any good soldier, he kept a stiff upper lip, championing his own cause whilst making one picture after another. He allowed himself to indulge in such fantasies of domesticity, albeit briefly, when he was playing in the land of make believe; absorbing what it would’ve felt like to have experienced a happy marriage, to have been loved unequivocally. His soul was a chasm, growing deeper as every year passed, longing for companionship, for someone to provide sufficient succour to his deprivation.

And so, on the eve before Emmrich’s next project commenced, he was hidden away in his Mediterranean-flavoured estate, nestled within the foot of the Hollywood Hills. The day was waning, and he had yet to retire, which was unusual for the senior actor, as his bedtime was typically 9pm sharp.

He’d been pacing the length of his bedroom suite for hours on end, mind chasing after fickle thoughts and agonising regrets he had long since buried. He was wrapped in his favourite cashmere dressing gown, hands clasped behind his back and muttering to himself like a lunatic. There was an uneasiness coiled in the pit of his stomach, something he couldn’t quite pinpoint, nor ease, no matter how much herbal tea he consumed.

Emmrich feared he had succumbed to the pre-film jitters, something he hadn’t suffered from since his youth. His next project was no different than the last, save for it being a rather ambitious spy noir, and of course, his new mysterious co-star, Rook Ingellvar.

Was he simply unnerved by the thought of sharing scenes with someone so… new, so young? And a dancer of all people? Utter hogwash! He shouldn’t have allowed himself to give into those blasted tabloids. If he went by the latest heresy from the papers, then his stint in showbusiness should’ve concluded at the invention of sound. Johanna Hezenkoss’ lies had always been penned against him, and besides, Rook wasn’t the first ‘unknown’ he’d be working with. Hollywood was built upon the appeal of unearthing hidden riches, at the potential profits a chosen benefactor might gain. Be that as it may, Emmrich prayed the girl could at least act. He’d hate to be the one to carry the entire picture… again.

“You senile old coot,” he moaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Emmrich settled on leaving his suite to roam the top floors, soon finding himself standing outside his son’s bedroom. He paused, placing a hand against the door. The dear boy had whittled his name into the walnut surface: MANFRED. It should’ve irked Emmrich, as it was quite an expensive finish, yet it was incredibly precious. He caressed each jagged letter, lips curving into a small smile at the uneven size of the text.

He slowly opened the door, peeking through the threshold. Manfred was fast asleep, his body splayed out on the mattress like a giant starfish. He had kicked off the sheets during his slumber, and they were piled by the base of the bed. Brown curly hair covered most of his forehead, and his mouth was wide open as he snored, Emmrich just about able to spot some of his missing teeth. The sight of his son momentarily vanquished all doubts, all fears—his heart swelling tenfold, pushing against his ribs and pumping furiously with nothing but adoration.

Emmrich entered the room on his tiptoes, careful not to step on any of the random toys littered about to avoid the risk of waking him. “My darling boy,” he whispered, picking up the sheets and draping them back over Manfred. “May your dreams always be pleasant.”

Emmrich departed for Kirkwall Pictures at first light, donning his finest navy blue suit and fedora. The backlot was already buzzing as he showed himself through the front gates, tipping his hat to Davrin, the head of security. His wire fox terrier, Assan, was at his feet, nearly doing a backflip as he barked his own morning greetings. The young man managed to look dapper in that ghastly studio uniform, and if the executives had any sense at all, they would’ve gotten him in front of the cameras immediately.

“Good morning, Davrin!” Emmrich chirped, bending a knee in a way as to not wrinkle his trousers. He pet Assan generously behind the ears, the dog leaning into his hand. “How’s your wife and daughter faring?”

“Morning, Mr. Volkarin. They're both swell, same as the last time you asked.” Davrin grinned, and Emmrich shrugged off the jab. “Beverly wanted me to thank you for those books, by the way.”

“Ah! Marvelous, marvelous. I do hope she enjoys them. When she’s through, you’ll let me know, yes? I’ve plenty more where those came from. She’s welcome to peruse my library if it might interest her. And I’m sure Manfred would enjoy another play date.”

Emmrich bid farewell and strolled through the paths leading to the back of the lot, to Sound Stage 7, or what Varric Tethras typically termed it ‘Lucky Number 7.’ As the head of Kirkwall Pictures, he had every right to name it such a thing; there hadn’t been a so-called ‘Box Office flop’ to emerge from that sound stage in its entire history.

Varric vetted most pictures that went through the studio circulation, making or breaking talent, and hand picking the current slate in production; especially those that were to shoot in the largest and most prosperous building on the property. He was a superstitious man by nature, notorious for shuffling pictures about at the last minute if he felt an alleged shift in the cosmos, or simply, after listening to what his gut told him at breakfast.

Stepping into Lucky Number 7 itself was like opening a portal to another world, or dipping one's toes into a new era all together, given the nature and scope of the project. Pre-production was a highlight for Emmrich, when the words on a page were no longer a figment of someone’s vivid imagination but brought to fruition. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but in Hollywood it could be constructed overnight, only to be replaced with cowboys or ghoulish monsters in a fortnight.

Set dressers, costume designers, assistants, electricians, practically an entire army of crew members, wiggled their way past Emmrich as he stood in awe at the entry point, mouth practically in the palm of his hands at the work underway. They moved as if they were in a chaotic dance, somehow perfectly coordinated despite having their own agendas. The sound stage was big enough to house nearly every location of the picture, pockets of the environments sectioned off throughout the building.

Emmrich ducked, side-stepped, and all but twirled to avoid a plank of wood from clocking him over the head, in time reaching a quieter part of the building that was more secluded for their inaugural cast meeting.

The usual suspects were already in attendance, all within proximity of the refreshment stand. There was Varric, who practically lived in the crevices of the backlot. He paced like a general on the verge of sending his soldiers off to war, twirling Bianca, his ivory Montblanc fountain pen, around his fingers. Despite Varric’s short stature, his presence commanded any room he entered, an intimidating aura clinging to his person. He was hammering off words to Iron Bull, their giant and bulky one-eyed director, who sported a golden eyepatch, changing the colour of his accessory with every new project. Kirkwall Pictures’ prominent screenwriter, Bellara Lutare, was already hard at work making edits to the script. She was perched on a stool, pencil carving into the pages as she scarfed down pastries.

And then there were his castmates. Dorian Pavus, one of, if not the most flamboyant actor in Hollywood, stood with his back straight and head held high, nibbling on a piece of toast with as much propriety as a Duke—not even spilling a single crumb on his plate. Pavus was prone to just as many hits from the tabloids as Emmrich, the pair once sharing a joint scandal after being spotted sitting a little too close for comfort at an after party. ‘We should’ve kissed,’ Dorian had teased, ‘it would’ve shocked the children.’

Lucanis Dellamorte and Cassandra Pentaghast were slouched together in the corner, silently brooding and staring off into the far distance as if they each had their own vendettas against a random set piece. And finally there was Leliana Nightingale, who didn’t bother to make small talk with anyone, she seldom did, and this was their fifth picture together. Emmrich simply attributed that to her being French. Leliana was already sitting at the cast table, taking slow drags of a dainty cigarette. She created tiny smoke rings as she exhaled, her attention fixed solely on watching them dissipate.

The rest of the ensemble consisted of minor side characters, who had one or two lines of dialogue at most, but all familiar faces nonetheless.

“Ah, Dorian. What a pleasant surprise.” Emmrich approached the beverages, making himself a generous cuppa.

“Is it?” Dorian discarded his empty plate, dabbing a serviette across his lips. “We’re on contract, Emmrich. I expect we’ll persist with being co-stars for the foreseeable.”

He waited for Emmrich to finish adding a spot of milk to his tea, before the two sauntered over to the table together.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Dorian, but didn’t you just threaten to change allegiance and sign with Evanuris Studios at the conclusion of our last picture?”

“Indeed, you heard right. I’ve given it some thought, but Varric always drives a hard bargain when it comes to contractual renewals."

“It’s Mr. Tethras to you.” Varric had practically manifested himself behind the duo as they took their assigned seats, placing a firm hand on Dorian's shoulder. “If you so much as think about leaving me for those scumbags, I’ll sue you to Hightown and back.”

“Message received.” Dorian nonchalantly waved the warning away as Varric resumed his patrol.

“Varric is serious, Dorian. He will take you to court.”

“Oh, I know. It’s called negotiating, old sport.” Dorian smirked and Emmrich buried his face in his hands, unable to fully communicate his incredulity. “All it takes is being seen at the same restaurant as someone, and it’ll instantly add a zero—or two if there’s any luck involved—to the end of your stipend.”

The table quickly filled up as the rest of the cast followed suit. Everyone was present. Well, everyone apart from Rook.

“And where’s our new star?” Emmrich glanced at the empty seat beside him, at the script with Rook’s name typed across the cover page. “She’s already late, and we’ve barely begun rehearsals. Dare I say, it’s a bad sign.”

“Give the girl a break,” Lucanis added, folding the corners of his script; a nervous habit Emmrich had heeded on their previous project. “There’s still a few minutes left.”

“Yes, well…” Emmrich took a sip of tea. “At least I pride myself on punctuality.”

“We know,” Cassandra groaned, rolling her eyes so far back into her skull her body nearly tipped over backwards, eliciting a guffaw from Dorian.

Silence suddenly swept across the table as Varric clapped his hands with enthusiasm. He disappeared behind Emmrich, everyone’s gazes following the movement. Dorian hummed in thought, adding a hushed, “Sunglasses inside, she’ll go far in this town,” but Emmrich didn’t bother glancing over his shoulder, unconcerned with what was holding everyone’s attention, or who Dorian could possibly be prattling on about.

“Welcome to the land of Glitz and Glamour, kid.” Varric’s voice sent a jolt through Emmrich, nay, it might as well have been a slap across the face at the stark realisation of who he could be addressing.

“A pleasure,” a gentle voice replied. “Grateful for the opportunity.”

Emmrich rose to his feet in nothing flat, beating everyone to it, as he twirled on his heels, finally coming face-to-face with Rook Ingellvar.

She was just as tall as Emmrich, and rather thin, but that was the norm amongst dancers. Her black hair was cropped, framing her face exceptionally. She had an angular jaw and equally strong facial features, her cheekbones alone could’ve pierced through the centre of the earth. Rook wore no makeup, save for cherry red lipstick, adding to her naturalistic appeal. Her clothing was black and plain, yet elegant, rich, a single diamond necklace draped above her collarbone. The outfit was complete with a set of jagged sunglasses, and all he could see was his own reflection as he stared dumbfoundedly back at her. He bowed his head slightly in a formal salutation, to reclaim the dignity he assumed he’d lost in the moment.

“Allow me to introduce you t—” Varric began, but Emmrich stepped forward, extending his hand.

“Emmrich Volkarin. How do you do?”

Rook accepted, but didn’t quite meet the zeal of his intended handshake, her grip less than ideal. As a matter of fact, it grew limp in his hands the longer they touched.

“Hello.” It was her only acknowledgement and Emmrich felt his eyebrows crawling up his forehead in offense at the brevity. Mercifully, before any more mortification could occur, Varric pulled Rook away, introducing her to the rest of the cast. Emmrich cleared his throat and resumed a seated position, watching as she fluttered around the table like a hummingbird, present yet aloof.

“Showoff,” Dorian whispered, and Emmrich restrained himself, seconds away from slamming his foot down upon Dorian’s toes.

There was another air of quietude, this one thick and clotty—ripe awkwardness and anticipation mixing no better than oil and water. Rook took her seat next to Emmrich and he was hit with the delayed scents of vanilla and jasmine. He inhaled the complementary notes, finding the choice of perfume daring and yet intriguing.

She removed her sunglasses, folding them away into a small handbag. He managed to catch a glimpse of her eyes, a hint of dark blue, like the deepest ocean. This time it was Dorian who prodded Emmrich, passing him a discreet, and nearly illegible, note that read, ‘you’re gawking like a pubescent school boy!’ Emmrich choked on his tea, nearly spitting it all over his script.

“Is everything OK, Emmrich?” Varric’s tone was flat, fingers white as they clenched the edges of the table. Their little act had interrupted his customary spiel, the same one he performed at the start of all his pictures.

“Oh, don’t mind the resident dotard here. These types of things can’t be helped at his age.” Dorian passed Emmrich a stack of serviettes, patting him on the back as he caught his breath, like he was some invalid in a nursing home.

Emmrich could see Rook staring at him from his periphery, and he refrained from turning towards her, resorting to staring at his damp suit. Giggles carried around the ensemble like a plague, but never reached Varric’s lips.

“I b-beg your pardon.”

“Do you need a new script, Mr. Volkarin?” Bellara was swift, already out of her seat and meaning to run back to her office for another copy.

“No, no, please. My dear girl, I must insist you sit back down.” Bellara froze, smiling sheepishly. She opened her mouth as if to utter something against Emmrich’s wishes, but closed it. “I’ll manage just fine. Thank you.”

“But—”

“I assure you, Bellara. And please, you can address me as Emmrich.”

“Oh, OK, Mr. Vol—ah! I mean, Emmrich. Emmrich! I won’t forget again. Apologies.”

“I bet he already has the entire screenplay memorised.” Lucanis leaned over to Cassandra, yet his whisper carried across to Emmrich all the same.

“And would that be such a crime, Lucanis?”

“We’re only pulling your leg.” Lucanis raised his cup of coffee in the air to signify a truce, but it merely came across as a cursory toast, a half-hearted apology. Emmrich did not return the gesture. “Mierda. After all these years you really don’t make it easy for yourself.”

“Are you all finished?” Varric’s voice was a dagger, slicing clean through their crosstalk.

“Quite.”

Varric carried on with his speech, much to everyone’s relief, and alas, the table read commenced. Already ten minutes behind schedule.

It went as well as expected. Due to Bellara’s concise screenplay, the pacing was tight, yet left sufficient room for the plot to breathe, for the suspense to weave its way through the characters’ actions. The film was titled The Blight Between Us, and featured a love triangle set in the aftermath of a World War, where an undercover agent is forced to choose between their country or the enemy. Emmrich’s character was responsible for recruiting Rook to the cause; training her to become a spy and sending her to seduce a war criminal, played by none other than Dorian. Throughout the film, Emmrich and Rook fall in love, yet must fight against the obligations to their stations. Do they choose their hearts in the end or the greater good of humanity? The film had everything: romance, mystery, and tragedy.

Emmrich read the script at least a dozen times since it was delivered to his door a month ago, but listening to the words in such a fashion was enlightening. It was Bellara’s finest work yet, the writer constantly raising the bar with each narrative she constructed.

In regards to Rook, she suited the role, although her line delivery left him feeling severely… underwhelmed. He fought against his inner voice, the one that practically shouted that he shouldn’t be so quick to judge her talents. Nothing mattered, not until they were in front of the camera and Iron Bull yelled ‘action!’ His interests were indeed piqued, but it still left a considerable amount to ponder. How well could Rook translate her performance to the screen? Could she even take direction?

Emmrich would soon find out, oh yes. That much was certain.

As it turned out, Rook was, in its purest form, a certified prima donna. There hadn’t been another woman to compare besides Johanna Hezenkoss herself, and she’d forsaken acting after her first box office failure. Thank heavens for that! Rook didn’t even have the working credits to support such a bloated ego, which was equally confounding. She was relentless, a force of nature, and Emmrich was convinced her sole motivation was to make his life as doleful as possible. A week of rehearsals were scheduled leading up to the start of principle photography, but that itself felt like decades had been stacked onto his life, pushing him closer towards expiration.

Emmrich’s seniority in Hollywood had opened him up to a multitude of personality types. He could, in theory, put Johanna out of business—filling various tomes with what certain stars demanded be put in their dressing rooms, who the designated narcissists were, and if he was feeling particularly sordid, which individuals he believed had the true talent; who deserved the prestige of having their handprints next to his own at the Grauman's Chinese Theatre. He would’ve gone so far as to denounce the performers who were too lackadaisical to memorise their lines, ruining takes by reading off queue cards. Shameful!

By the same token, it didn’t take long for Rook to butt heads with Iron Bull, questioning every choice he made, ignoring his directions altogether whilst making her own suggestions as to how to light her during close-ups. In all fairness, that was quite humorous initially, perhaps even a wee bit refreshing, despite the difficulties—watching as Iron Bull shrunk, squirming in his boots as he tried to figure out a way to politely decline her requests. It wasn’t until Rook went after Emmrich’s own acting techniques that he knew there was a fight ahead of him, one he wasn’t going to back down from so easily.

“Whatever are you doing?”

Emmrich and Rook were running through a scene for the second time that day, a moment in the middle of the film where the two spies rendezvous at a soiree; both characters finding themselves a bit drunk after downing one too many glasses of champagne.

“Getting into character.”

Rook had taken off her shoes and was twirling around the set repeatedly. The longer Emmrich watched her, the more it made his stomach churn.

“My dear girl, have you tried simply acting impaired? I promise you, it will be more sustainable in the long run.”

“That only makes you look like some stiff suit of armour playing dress up. My character needs to be more genuine than that. I want to feel what she’s going through, her pain, her exhaustion, her reality careening out of control.”

Rook precipitously stopped her absurd movements, ever graceful despite the attempts at unraveling. She teetered slightly as she neared the faux balcony of their garden set, leaning against it with one elbow and craning her neck up to the ceiling.

“I beg to differ. It’s not our job to pick apart a character's psyche, otherwise we’d all be condemned to the insane asylum.” Emmrich steepled his fingers, preparing to speak as if he was addressing an auditorium full of reporters. “As long as the audience finds us convincing, and believes the veracity in which we’re attempting to convey, no more needs to be done on the matter. That is the true wonderment of acting, my dear.”

Rook simply shrugged.

“Eh. Might be a little too archaic for my tastes. You do it your way, I’ll do it mine. We’ll see which is better.”

That evening, Emmrich waited until he was within the seclusion of his estate to fully release his pent up rage. “Archaic. Is she mad?” He stomped through his suite, nails cutting into his palms. “Was it being archaic that earned me two Academy Awards? And another five nominations? I dare say not!” Emmrich had read worse things in Johanna’s columns, but that single word from Rook crawled under his skin, digging through the sinews of his flesh.

Another incident that made Emmrich’s hackles rise befell on their final day of rehearsals. The ensemble had been given early dismissal, and with the entire afternoon now cleared, he found himself wandering the backlot; admiring the other productions which were in full swing, each at different stages in their respective pipelines.

As he neared the studio’s cafeteria he heard an all too familiar voice coming from an alleyway, the same cadence that now haunted his dreams, causing him to stand stock still.

“Why did I have to get paired with him, was he the only one left in this town? The man practically has one foot in the grave.”

Emmrich’s heart sank to the pit of his bowels, pulsing so rapidly its rupture was imminent. He crept to the side of the building, clinging to the walls as he peeked around the corner to confirm his suspicions.

“I could’ve been costars with Cullen Rutherford for my first picture. Cullen bloody Rutherford! Could you imagine? But noooo, it had to be Emmrich Volkarin. I didn’t even have a final say in the matter. No thanks to Varric.”

Rook was sitting on a stack of crates, sharing a cigarette with Leliana.

“Varric knows what he’s doing. And you’re being a bit harsh, no? I quite like Emmrich. He’s a far better scene partner than Cullen, I would know from experience.”

Rook groaned, taking another drag.

“Are we speaking about the same old jackass? Emmrich is dull, and frankly a bit of a git. Always disappears to his dressing room, doing God knows what. Probably going over his lines for the millionth time in front of the mirror. Acting, he calls it.”

An unseen force took over Emmrich, red lining his vision, a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Before he could think rationally, or come up with a series of possible dialogues in which to interrupt their conversation with, he took a commanding step forward.

Rook nearly toppled off the crates, her face dropping when they locked eyes, colour vanishing from her cheeks. Leliana tilted her head curiously, her neutral expression brightening at the sight of Emmrich, and perhaps with a flicker of amusement, at the scene about to play out before her.

“Perhaps I’d be less of a jackass, as you so eloquently put it, Rook, if I didn’t have the inconvenience of working with a woman who is habitually late and has yet to memorise her lines.”

He paused, being the gentleman he was, expecting Rook to have the gall to add a rebuttal. When no words left her mouth, eyes goggling and cigarette burning away in her trembling fingers, he carried on, his temper paving the way forwards.

“If you want me to show you the same level of reverence as, say, Leliana here, then you should learn to observe decorum. As I see it, you are far from what is acceptable for a leading lady. I care not what Varric spends to feed your vanity, but I will not stand idly by and allow this picture to suffer from your blatant incompetence, nor for you to drag our names through the mud on your quest for ‘authenticity.’ Now, if you’ll excuse me, as you’re well aware, tomorrow is an important milestone for us and I must be off. Good day to you both.”

“Good day, Emmrich.” It was only Leliana who echoed his sentiments and Emmrich nodded, swiftly withdrawing.

He was rather chuffed with his display, and how he handled such despicable conduct, but his chest sagged. He was never fit for confrontations of any sort, and was very thankful he didn’t have to face Rook, or anyone else for that matter, again until the morning.

Emmrich arrived on the backlot at 7am, an hour and a half before call time, in order to prepare for the long day of filming ahead of him.

As he approached the dressing rooms attached to Sound Stage 7, he was surprised to find he was not alone, as he usually was at cockcrow. The light in Rook’s room was on and the blinds were open. He curiously sauntered past the window and drew in a breath. There she was, sitting in a chair by the vanity mirror, drinking a cup of coffee and reading over the script. She was dressed in a sleek blouse and pencil skirt, with a shawl draped around her shoulders to ease away the morning chill.

“Hell hath frozen over indeed,” he whispered, rubbing his eyes in case it was his fatigue deceiving him. After all, he had spent another night tossing and turning, unable to ease his restless mind after their last incident. When Emmrich was positive he was not hallucinating, he knocked on the door.

“Yes? Come in.” She didn’t give him the courtesy of looking up when he opened it, and he strove to stand as gracefully as possible at the entrance.

“Good morning, Rook. You’re here rather… early.”

“Oh, hello Emmrich. Somehow I knew it would be you.”

Rook folded the script, placing it on her lap and greeting him with a curt smile.

As far as dressing rooms went, hers was modest in comparison to some of the other stars housed at Kirkwall Pictures. A built-in clothes rack was placed next to the vanity mirror, nearly taking up the entire side of the room. It was full of different wardrobes she’d be wearing throughout the film, including an assortment of shoes for each outfit. The room was nearly split in half with two modesty screens, giving anyone privacy if they wished to quickly change amongst guests. A pink velvet couch occupied the other end, complete with two matching chairs, and a coffee table in the centre. The only item atop it was a vase of flowers, a wild variety—orchids, lilies and peonies—all symbols of luck and above all, prosperity, as if the bearer was trying to boost their odds by gathering all the most fortuitous florets. Likely a gift from Varric.

“Did you happen to spend the night in your dressing room?”

“No. I went home, same as you.”

Emmrich felt rather bold that morning, taking off his fedora and entering the devil’s den, so to speak. He hovered by the flowers, leaning down to smell a lily. How sweet.

“And I suppose you aim to keep this timely record throughout the next few months?”

Rook resumed her attention on the script, or she would've liked Emmrich to believe as much, but he was too good at spotting shoddy acting from a mile away. Her fingers drummed against her thighs as she flipped through the screenplay, far too fast for someone so engrossed in ‘reading.’

“I don’t see why not.” Her voice was icy, licking her index finger as she sharply turned another page.

Emmrich abandoned the flowers, running his fingers across the arm rest of the couch, observing how the velvet material transformed with each motion, turning darker with one stroke, and lighter at the next.

“We’ll see.” He held his breath but his heart hammered against his sternum. The shot had been fired, innocent yet laced with only a smidge of poison.

Rook’s head jerked up, eyes narrowing. He gifted the vexed glance with his warmest expression, bowing as he turned to make his leave.

“Let’s bet on it then.”

“I don't partake in gambling, my dear.”

With a flick of the wrist, the fedora was back on his head, an old trick he had learned during his days in Vaudeville. He was nearly halfway through the threshold, an added spring in his step.

“You can’t be serious, Emmrich. Don’t be such an a—”

“What, pray tell?” Emmrich stiffened, twisting dramatically around to face Rook before she could finish her sentence, else he’d hear those damning words again. “A git, perhaps? Or no, what was it you said the other day? An archaic old—”

“No, no, just—wait a second.” Rook rose from her seat, taking a cautious step forward. “I’m sorry, Emmrich. I didn’t mean for you to hear that yesterday.”

“I imagine you’re only expressing remorse due to the fact you were caught. The next time you’re skindering, might I suggest you don’t do it so openly in public? The last place you’d desire to be is in one of Johanna’s gossip columns—she has eyes and ears everywhere, the gutter notwithstanding.”

And with that, Emmrich left Rook’s dressing room in a huff, regretting the decision to enter in the first place. He hurried to his own quarters, at the far end of the building, refusing to turn around even when Rook called after him, “I’ll show you just how prompt I can be, Emmrich Volkarin!”

The rest of the morning went by swiftly, and without further interruptions. Emmrich pushed Rook and her childish antics to the far corners of his mind, allowing himself to go through a series of vocal warm-ups and yoga. A standard rite of his own no matter if he was in a play, picture, or radio advert—it was essential to his craft, to getting fully in character. Once dressed in the appropriate costume, he headed over to the sound stage for hair and make-up. The final step of his transformation.

The building was rather congested that morning. Crew members were at the ready, and other eager faces from the backlot snuck their way inside—there were even a few individuals from the press he recognised, hoping to get a first glimpse of the film, or more presumably Rook’s debut performance.

Emmrich didn’t bother seeing who from the outside was lying in wait. He knew fully well once he searched the crowd, he’d discover Johanna staring at him with resentment through her hexagonal spectacles. Varric always invited her, acutely aware whatever she witnessed would be recorded in her next article, and not in his favour.

‘Let Johanna scrutinise from her little tower of bullshit! I welcome any and all publicity. And you should too, it’s what keeps you employed.’

Varric, as expected, was already waiting for Rook and Emmrich as they made their way to the set. He stood near the cameras, half of his body concealed in shadows, a fat cigar dangling out the corner of his mouth.

“Knock ‘em dead, kid.” Varric gave Rook a hearty welcome, patting her vigorously on the back as she walked past him. He greeted Emmrich with just as much gusto, gifting him with his best two-finger salute. “And break a leg, Emmrich.”

Rook had been unusually silent since their conversation in her dressing room. As a matter of fact, she appeared more detached, paying no attention to those around her, eyes downcast. In truth, The Blight Between Us had a new set of expectations to fulfill that dampened the atmosphere, clinging to Rook, and by proximity, latching on to Emmrich. It snaked around his chest, tightening with each inhale. He shook it off, visualising the anxieties were not tendrils threatening to end his existence, but nothing more than cobwebs. He could handle the mounting pressure, but could she?

What they were planning on shooting first was simple, Iron Bull’s preferred way of jumping into a new project. It helped set the expectations for the rest of the production, of mitigating any last minute nerves or grievances. Emmrich and Rook already knew the blocking, at least he hoped she had been prudent during rehearsals. The set up for the scene was a meeting at their spy headquarters, where the pair would be discussing the operation ahead. An intimate and tense moment staring at each other from across a table, going over casefiles, the stakes raised subtly through slow dialogue and close camera set-ups. Naturally, one of the twists of the film was that Rook’s character had no other choice but to accept the mission—it was either prison or an undercover operation—due to her familial connections with the enemy.

“Quiet on set!” Iron Bull’s voice cut through the melting pot of emotions, the set growing to a low murmur before hushing completely.

They took their marks, Emmrich standing by a closed door, and Rook a few paces behind him.

“Roll sound!” Iron Bull ordered, to which someone answered, “Sound speed!”

Perspiration built along Emmrich’s back while he waited, the lights shining down on them like the full power of the sun.

“Roll camera!” Iron Bull instructed, and a new voice confirmed, “Rolling!”

Emmrich glanced over his shoulder, finding Rook shifting uncomfortably in her spot. Her breathing was labored, body rigid, as if stretched on tenterhooks, fingers twisting while she held them in front of her. Emmrich was seconds away from extending a hand to ease her woes—to give her some encouragement that would’ve assuredly been ignored—when Iron Bull’s next charge nearly caused him to jump out of his skin.

“Marker!”

Emmrich turned back around, wiggling his limbs, forcing the rest of the willies out of his system.

“Scene Six, Take One. Mark.” Someone affirmed, and there was a loud clack as they slammed the movie slate closed. Its finality rang through the building, signalling the near end of their protocol.

For an instant, darkness encroached on Emmrich as his sole focal point became the world of the film set. There was only this moment, and nothing more, no crowd watching, no cameras filming his every gesticulation. Just him, his lines, and Rook. Emmrich took a deep inhale, his hand hovering over the doorknob.

“Action!”

He exhaled and counted to three, opening the door not as an actor approaching his fifty-third year, but as Roger. An overzealous government agent whose sole motivation was recruiting Eve, the young woman trailing at his heels.

There was a swagger to Emmrich’s step as he entered the conference room set. He paused by the door, extending his hand in a gesture of good faith towards Rook’s seat.

“Now, Eve, if you would so kindly—”

The rest of his lines vanished when he caught sight of Rook. She hadn’t moved a muscle since he last turned around, the poor girl paralysed with fright. Her face was ashen, eyes wide, lips twitching when she attempted to speak.

Emmrich gasped, fully comprehending the dilemma as the past week crystallized. Her conduct during rehearsals and her shifts in mood from this morning alone should’ve been obvious enough to him. It wasn’t an episode of stage fright she was battling, but a full fledged anxiety attack. Emmrich was all too familiar with the impediment, still not quite able to keep his own demons at bay. His years of experience granted him some cushioning when an impending attack was on the horizon, where he could, at the very least, shield himself from view before it took hold of him. Unfortunately Rook did not have that luxury. Her distance, her reservations against him, against this entire picture, was her way of coping. She was drowning, and all she needed was a helpful hand to help guide her back to safety. His hand, it seemed.

He faced away from the cameras and smiled at Rook, ensuring no one else would see the indication.

“Ah—” Emmrich chuckled, running a hand through his hair as he turned back to where Iron Bull was seated, switching effortlessly to playing the part of an embarrassed actor. “Evidentally the line has escaped me. Frightfully sorry, Bull.”

“Cut! Back to one!” Iron Bull bellowed, and the quietude ended just as fast as it had begun. “No problem, Emmrich. First day nerves, huh? It happens to the best of us. Don’t look so damn distressed.”

“You have my thanks.” Emmrich bowed deeply in gratitude, “Might I request a quick word with Rook before we begin again, please? It will only be but a moment.”

As soon as Iron Bull gave his approval, Emmrich dragged Rook away. Her hands were cold, fingers pressing into his flesh. He led her to the far end of the sound stage, searching for somewhere more private, finding a spot to hide in between a set piece. When they came to an abrupt stop, she collapsed to her knees, hyperventilating.

“Rook, my dear, you must breathe.”

Emmrich guided her back to her feet, gently holding her shoulders to keep her upright.

“Breathe, Rook. Here…” He took a deep breath in, “Follow my lead,” and then exhaled. He repeated the act, making each breath audible, until she mimicked his rhythm. “Very good. In. Out. Just like that.”

Rook’s limbs loosened and she fell towards Emmrich, arms wrapping around him in a sloppy hug. He flinched, hands extended in front of him, hesitating as to whether or not he should return it, pat her once on the back for good measure, or do nothing at all. He opted for the latter, patiently waiting for her to pull away.

“P-Please don’t tell anyone,” she sniffed, removing her hold at last.

Emmrich reached into his pocket when his arms were freed, pulling out a handkerchief, one of the many he owned with his initials sewn in the corner. “No matter what you may think of me, I’m not that type of man.” He gave it to Rook, and she used it to dab at her lower eyelids.

“T-thanks. I would’ve hated to re-do my m-make-up.”

Rook handed the cloth back to Emmrich, but he raised a hand in protest. “Please keep it. Consider it a memento from your first official day in Hollywood.”

She considered the item, folding it into a neat square. She proceeded to place it deep in her blouse, and Emmrich’s jaw practically fell off its hinges. Rook added, “No pockets.” As if that was an acceptable location for any object, let alone one from his material collection.

“Are you alright?” he inquired, sometime later, readjusting his tie even though he knew it was still perfectly set in place.

“I think. Maybe I was just spooked. I’ve danced on some of the biggest stages in Europe, but somehow this was, well…”

Rook laughed, colour fast returning to her cheeks. Her face softened, and through her vulnerability, something new presented itself, as if he was seeing her truthfully for the first time. No blockades, no tough acts set in place to deter those away. She was quite lovely, and even if she had been reduced to tears, nothing could’ve possibly detracted from it.

“Oh, it’s terrifying in comparison, isn’t it?”

Though, he failed to disclose to Rook that it was not as alarming as the uncertainty he felt now. Raw emotions he had discarded—cast aside in a fit of self-pity after each fruitless relationship—were steadily resurfacing. As he watched Rook gather her bearings, a flame ignited deep within his core, albeit small, enough to lift him out of his prolonged slump. He reeled between elation and fetching up his breakfast, infatuation squeezing itself through the cracks of his soul.

“Yes. How do you manage to do it so effortlessly?”

Rook waited, eyes searching his face for an answer when he failed to give one immediately. He panicked—gaze flickering to the ceiling, his polished shoes, the wooden walls of the set—anything to prevent her from looking too closely, troubled with what she might see beneath the surface.

“It's far from effortless, my dear.” He forced his eyes back to Rook, tilting his head to the side, as an act of nonchalance. “Focus on the present. The environment before you. If you ever start to fret, find an object, or a person, to keep you grounded. And if you still find your body quivering, moving against its own volition, tuck your chin down, it’ll conceal it from the cameras.”

“Huh, no kidding.” Rook placed her hand on Emmrich’s upper arm, a hurried action, but her touch burned through the layers of his suit. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

When Emmrich and Rook returned to set, they only needed one more take to finish their first scene; to the profound puzzlement of the entire crew, who were unquestionably expecting another mishap. Its conclusion was met with acclamation, led by none other than Varric.

“And that’s how it’s done!” he exclaimed, puffing vigorously on his cigar.

Although Emmrich was no sorcerer, he was quite certain that day he experienced the closest thing to magic, to ascension. Rook’s eyes, when lit under those pristine conditions, transformed from blue to lilac. A trick of the light, but the most breathtaking thing he had ever seen. A new favourite colour, he decided. A shade of Rook.

There was a hidden chemistry between the pair that unlocked the instant the cameras rolled, as they exchanged lines so naturally they might as well have been doing it together from the outset. It was no wonder Varric was a staunch supporter. Rook matched his fervour, easily slotting herself into character, giving him something to work with, to play with. And their rapport didn’t vanish into the ether when Iron Bull yelled cut—the air was still charged, his hair standing tall while they dallied around each other, stealing glances that spoke of their brief moment shared in secrecy.

“You seemed to be in good spirits today.”

Dorian’s voice interrupted Emmrich’s train of thought, far too gone in his own fantasies, as he watched Rook walking away with Leliana. The sun had already begun to set, the women's bodies soon turning into nothing but a spec in the distance.

“Hmm?“ Emmrich spared Dorian a glance as they began their own stroll to the front gates, only to find his companion simpering at him. ”Oh! Well, I mean, there was quite a lot of—er, yes, Dorian, what an interesting day indeed.”

Dorian nodded, as if confirming something to himself. And Emmrich, being so well acquainted with him, predicted mischief would soon follow the incessant prying.

“That would be putting it mildly, don’t you think? I haven’t seen you that animated in years.”

Emmrich tripped over his own two feet, Dorian grabbing hold of his elbow to stop him from colliding face first into the pavement.

“I know you, Dorian. Whatever you may be implying, this is simply a working matter! I’m a professional! I’m here for one thing, and one thing only, to serve this picture with excellence, as I’ve always done. I’m not aiming my sights on—” Dorian stroked the tip of his mustache, lips pursed, anticipating what excuse might come flying his way. “Must you always behave in such a juvenile fashion! You’re a delinquent, through and through!"

“And that’s why you love me. Come, it’s getting late, and this is cutting into my drinking time.”

Dated March 7th, 1946, this copy of Hezenkoss’ Hollywood remains in the possession of Emmrich Volkarin’s widow, Rook Ingellvar, who refused to part with it during a recent estate sale. She did, however, agree to have it photographed for use in public records.

Abnormal Happenings on the Set of ‘The Blight Between Us’

Things are stirring behind the scenes at Kirkwall Pictures. The buzz about town is the feigned compatibility between Emmrich Volkarin and Rook Ingellvar. Reports have disclosed their bond is so intense, so rousing, that the film strips are combusting. We all know that is a load of twaddle, as it came from the mouth of Varric Tethras himself.

Volkarin and Ingellvar have been spotted exchanging verbal jabs in the backlot one day, and the next they’re holding hands in their dressing rooms. So, which is it then? Are they enemies? Lovers? Mayhap both? Viler things have undoubtedly transpired in this cursed industry.

I, for one, remain unconvinced. I know Volkarin’s type. His past deficiencies should be enough to give us a clear indication of what's to come. In my humble opinion, Volkarin has always been a philanderer, no matter how hard he tries to deny it. And now, if these romance rumors ring true, he can confidently add ‘home-wrecker’ to his list of attributes.***

Oh, yes, my darling readers! Ingellvar is a married woman. And has been for a number of years. Where her husband is now, well, I couldn’t say for sure, but… put that in your pipe and smoke it!

***See previous issues IV: Something is Certainly Hard in Hightown, XXI: Arlathan Exposed! The Tell All, XXXVIII: The Mother of Halla and Her Many Faces, LXV: What Exactly is Stored in Lucanis Dellamorte’s Pantry?, and XCI: Stars! They’re Just Like Us! A Hollywood Retrospective, for further comments

March 1946

“You couldn’t have!” Emmrich croaked, eyes scanning the script on the off chance it was all some horrid mistake, a practical joke.

“Fresh off the press, a bonafide love scene—well, as close to one as we could get with the censorship halfway up my ass.”

Varric sat on one of the velvet chairs in Emmrich’s dressing room, feet propped up on the coffee table like he was right at home. Emmrich had been in the process of changing out of his costume when he barged in, personally hand delivering the latest script himself.

“But what’s the reasoning behind this, Varric? The story was perfectly suitable without one!”

“We had to take advantage of your dynamic with Rook. It was too good to resist. Bellara already re-worked the ending, so it fits. And if you ask me, it strengthens the picture. It’ll be the only thing people talk about for weeks! Just wait and see.”

Emmrich groaned, the news equivalent to having discovered the world was ending, a massive meteor plummeting towards Los Angeles. The epicentre? Kirkwall Pictures.

Varric chuckled, the sound reverberating deep within his chest.

“Come now. Don’t act so flabbergasted. This is what you two wanted, right? At least, according to Johanna Hezenkoss’ latest exposé.” Varric winked, and Emmrich collapsed into the nearest seat. “I’ve spoken with Bull.” Varric continued, “And we’re rearranging tomorrow’s shoot to focus on this. We gotta capture things while they’re hot.”

“Is it really that conspicuous?” The words left Emmrich’s lips in a pitiful whimper, yet it gave Varric pause as he made his exit.

“As plain as the creases along your forehead.”

A half hour passed before Emmrich forced himself to finish derobing, staring at the script on his vanity dresser as though it were the grim reaper, there at last to collect his sorry soul.

Things had escalated quickly in the past month. It was all a blur, a wonderful, delightful force that Emmrich was more than happy to let guide him, pushing him closer towards elation. And if need be, towards destruction if that was the final destination of his fate. For how else would this euphoria end, if not in calamity? A shadow loomed over his heart at the presumption of Rook’s marriage, a topic he still hadn’t broached with her, instead letting it fester in his thoughts for far too long. In spite of what preceded, he was besotted, through and through, and not even the implications of their bond could thwart the ardour from growing.

Emmrich and Rook were always the first to arrive and the last to leave the backlot. They’d alternate between dressing rooms; Rook resting against Emmrich’s shoulder, hands interlaced as they rehearsed their lines, or alternatively, sitting comfortably in silence. If he listened close enough, he could hear their hearts beating synchronously, a new tune constructed from their mutual fondness. They hadn’t progressed to anything more than that. Not even a kiss.

These junctures were their escape from prying eyes, from the rumours, it was their safe haven. He wanted to give her the world, but that would’ve been too outlandish, too glaring, and so he brought her books from his library as a substitute—curating which volumes would pair best with his endearments, novels that better expressed his hopes for their flourishing romance despite reports of conjugality. When she expeditiously returned them, her scent was left on the pages. Hints of vanilla and jasmine, the spines creased from her touch. He pictured her reading each one whilst in bed, a comfort in itself knowing she had held it so close, something so dear to him.

He assumed they had been discreet. They left an appropriate distance between themselves as they navigated the sound stage, dismissing the giggles that filled the air from their co-stars. It must’ve been the glances that gave them away. Or it could’ve been the minute movements, his hand that remained for a moment too long as he passed Rook a cup of tea, or Rook’s leg wandering, resting her knee outrageously close to his as they ate together in the cafeteria. Perhaps it was the fact they had been inseparable, gravitating towards one another, no matter how hard they tried to keep apart. Even so, how could that have proved anything serious was happening between them?! Hollywood was so quick to jump to conclusions at the first spark.

Emmrich was hesitant to find the correct words that described this newfound relationship. It was something deeper than friendship, that was an indisputable fact. Yet it wasn’t quite a fling either, as every day that passed, his affections grew stronger, the fever rising, and one he dreamt would never break.

With a heavy sigh, he made his leave for Rook’s dressing room. The lights were still on, a silhouette striding past the window. She was waiting for him, as she had done every night since that first day on set. Emmrich knocked on the door three times in a row, a pause, and three times more. Their signal. He opened it tentatively soon after.

“Are you ready to depart, my dear?”

Rook stood near her vanity, coat already draped over her shoulders, make-up scrubbed away from her cheeks. She looked terribly enervated then, dark circles carved under her eyes, posture wilted like a flower devoid of care. There was a brief flash of hesitation, and then she nodded. She grabbed the latest script off the coffee table, folding it under her arms. Seeing it in her hands made his chest tighten. What did Rook think of it all?

Their walk was slow, unnervingly so. Each step calculated, weighed down by undeclared sentiments, ludicrous notions of what their lives might look like if none of this existed.

As they reached an intersection within the backlot, marked by a massive watertower, Emmrich stopped. Rook bumped into him, that eyebrow he adored raising quizzically. He had the sudden urge to hold her hands, to kiss her knuckles—the closest thing he’d get to her lips—but then he remembered where he was, who she was, and what his intentions were that evening.

“There is a place I’d like to show you, if you would be amenable.”

“Sure. Oh wait, you mean right now?”

Before Rook could utter any objections, Emmrich moved to the left, ushering them down a path he had travelled often, but always on his own. A few turns later, they squeezed through gates that housed the skeletons of past productions—forgotten set pieces, relics weathered from the California sun—and soon reached the far side of the studio. At first glance it appeared to be a dead end. Rook gaped at the wall of thick, overgrown shrubberies and the massive hill that stood behind it.

She grabbed his arm, her face twisted with exasperation.

“Are you pulling my leg, Emmrich?”

“Do you trust me?”

Rook paused, deliberating. “I suppose.”

Emmrich smiled, propping open the bushes with a wooden board that was hidden within the greenery, revealing a set of steep rocky steps leading up the hill. He entered first, extending his hand for Rook to follow. She accepted, never letting go as he led her higher.

“I remember when Varric founded Kirkwall Pictures, purchasing this acreage and erecting the first sound stage in 1923. They had used this hill in a few films, westerns mostly, but moved on, building around it, until it was completely abandoned. However, it never fell from my memory.”

They reached the top, and it wasn’t as derelict as the entrance suggested. It was just dry, filled with spotted grass and dirt, leaving no opportunity to plant even a flower. A wooden bench was propped in the centre, overlooking the backlot and the city beyond. Los Angeles glistened around them, the surrounding mountains silhouetted against skies painted in dusk.

“Years ago, I took it upon myself to construct this,” he pointed to the bench. “From time to time I climb up here to reflect, basking in the solitude around the bustle of a working day.”

He approached the bench, taking out a handkerchief to wipe down the exterior, motioning to Rook.

“Shall we?”

She sat, crossing her legs, and Emmrich joined her, leaving no gap between them.

“Tell me Rook, why do you act?”

“Ha, good question. No one’s asked me that yet. I, uh—” She placed a hand on her chin, aggressively tapping her leg against the side of the bench. “I dunno, I guess I like it, always wanted to try. Thought it would be neat to be in pictures, dancing gets to be a bit repetitive after a while.”

“So, you were merely curious?”

“I’d say so, yeah.” Emmrich pulled his gaze away from Rook, fiddling with the buttons on his jacket. “And what’s your excuse?”

“Mine? I’m, well… it’s a bit more, it could be said that—oh, drat, how do I put this?” He halted, words tangled on his tongue. “Truth be told, Rook, I don’t know what the future has in store for me, for anyone.” Emmrich loosened his tie, unfastening the collar, yet that still didn’t ease the crushing sensation in his chest. “I’m frightened of death, you see, it leaves me powerless. I’m not a religious man, nor do I think much occurs in the afterlife, which, I admit, does not aid my struggles. But what I do know is that cinema, our very profession, is immutable. Our essence is captured, stored forever within these film strips. It’s extraordinary. What I hope, what I strive to achieve is to leave a legacy, to inspire. To be remembered. That’s all. And ultimately… it’s what led me to pursue acting.”

Emmrich was unsure why he felt the sudden urge to confess such trivial things to Rook. It wasn’t what he was planning on discussing. It just sprang to the forefront of his mind, slipping past his senses. Regardless, his ears burned, temples pulsing from the blast of exhilaration alone. He was quite thankful for the darkness, allowing him to hide his blushing visage from Rook.

“Apologies, my dear. I’m afraid that was a rather long winded reply.”

“Here I was, thinking you were only in it for the money.”

“Well, that’s added value. Who is unwise enough to resist a cushioned salary? Especially one conveyed on a silver platter?”

They carried on staring into the distance. The air was hushed, not even a breeze disturbing them. Until Rook broke the lull.

“I’m guessing you read it then?”

“The script? Of course. The new scene is qu—”

“Johanna’s articles.”

“Ah.” Emmrich looked down at his hands, wrinkled beyond repair, sprinkled with age spots, and then to hers; so smooth, delicate, yet to be worn down by senescence. And also bare of any rings, of any transparent commitments. “Is it true, Rook? Are you married?”

“Yes.” She answered immediately, matter of factly, and Emmrich deflated into the bench. “But it’s not what you think. I’m in the process of getting a divorce. My hus–my ex-husband refuses to acknowledge it. I’ve been fighting him for months, he just needs to sign the damn papers and the court will recognise it. I dunno how Johanna found out. Until then I’m stuck in limbo. Married by law, but not in truth.”

“I see. That does nothing to improve our current circumstances, Rook, even if I’m no stranger to annulments.” Rook’s eyes were glossy, and Emmrich leaned closer before she could shed any tears, wrapping his arms around her. He should’ve backed away, lengthened the space between them. But he couldn’t. Not now, not ever. “There are things I wish to do with you, Rook. Now and hereafter. A simple kiss, for starters, would be sublime, but I will not cross those boundaries, not until your divorce is finalised. Call me old fashioned, a prig, but you must understand.”

“I do, but I won’t pretend to like it.” Her voice wavered as she rested her head in the crook of his neck, fingertips tracing in a circular motion above his heart. “And a kiss, really, Emmrich? Is that all you want to do to me?” He made a strangled noise, unable to fully articulate his shock, and she went on. “You’ll get your chance tomorrow, in front of the whole set.”

Emmrich and Rook’s first kiss was shared in a room full of colleagues and strangers, their passion on display for all to see. And soon it would be depicted in cinemas all over the country. It was discomfiting. It made Emmrich want to seek the closest rock to hide under, going so far as to announce his imminent retirement. Standing by Rook offered no consolation, as she was equally pale-faced and strained.

The scene occurred at the end of film, where Emmrich and Rook’s characters shared a cabin on a sleeper train, months after the villain’s climatic demise. An injured Rook, healing from her wounds, sat coyly on the bed, meanwhile Emmrich worked on crafting martinis.

A sincere toast, a few sips of gin, and they kissed. Deeply, celebratory, souls merging. It was fleeting, no chance to taste Rook fully, or to explore her mouth with his own. A teaser of what was to come when the film faded to black.

Hollywood’s censorship only allowed a certain amount of seconds per kiss. And Varric being Varric, found a way around that rule. ‘They never specified exactly how many times characters could smooch each other, now did they?’

Another sip, and then a kiss, more words exchanged, followed by an accompanying kiss. This went on for three minutes. An erotic dance, the characters remaining fully clothed throughout, and still it edged dangerously close to transgression. It was dizzying, gratifying, and worst of all, gut-wretching. Each take was more excruciating than the last, leaving Emmrich panting, craving more. No better than a vagabond, reaching for a grubby penny on the pavement like his life depended on it; unsure if he’d ever get the opportunity to find one in his possession again.

They remained in each other's arms long after Iron Bull yelled cut. It wasn’t in the script for Emmrich’s character to show any emotions above lust, least of all sobbing. But it all came naturally to him. He hadn't registered the tears until Rook brushed something soft across one of his swollen cheeks, clearing away the wet streaks. He stopped her when she moved to the other side, confused initially at such an action, but then gasped when he found her holding his handkerchief. The very one he had bestowed to her. She squeezed his hand back, smiling, warmth exuding from her person, devoid of any judgement.

“That was some acting, Emmrich.”

“I don’t know what came over me.” He released his hold on her hand, allowing her to dab at the other side of his face. “My dear, thank you. I’m being sincere when I say that I will cherish this moment until the end of time.”

Rook pulled a face, one unlike he had ever seen before—an expression full of tenderness, mixed with disbelief and gaiety. She leaned towards him, arms enclasped around his waist, and he backed away, eyes darting around the set, petrified he’d find others watching them. Yet there was no one, they had been left alone. Rook kissed Emmrich on the forehead, moving along his eyebrows, his widow's peak, kissing his temples, sending him into another spiral. He was at the point of sniveling again, of burying his face in her bosom and never letting go.

April 1946

Disaster struck during the final week of shooting. Well, as close to a disaster as Emmrich could’ve imagined.

Manfred’s nanny had taken ill, and Emmrich was forced to bring him to work as there was no one else to replace her at such short notice. He knew he was making a flood out of a puddle, but he preferred to keep his son as far away from the spotlight as possible, and that included coming to the backlot. It was for his own good, his protection. He had forbidden even a visit after Johanna published her earliest articles theorising the nature of his appearance, spewing hateful rumours that marked him as a sinner ever since. Emmrich couldn’t shield Manfred forever, but it was his duty to keep the negativity away for as long as humanly possible, to make sure his son’s childhood was happier than his own upbringing had ever been.

Manfred was, of course, oblivious to Emmrich’s concerns as they entered the studio, clinging to whatever cover they could get as the darkness disappeared with the first signs of daybreak. Once they reached the dressing rooms, Emmrich released the breath he had foolishly been holding. Rook’s room was empty, lights out, no other signs of activity. It was a blessing, he thought, that she was not in any of the scenes they were shooting that day. It would’ve been most appalling if that was how she found out about Manfred.

While in the middle of unlocking the door, Emmrich was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. His first instinct was to hide, like he was a burglar with a pocket full of jewels. His second was to take off his jacket and throw it over Manfred’s body to conceal his identity, before whoever was coming got too close. Unfortunately he had run out of any other promising ideas, and the treading was only getting louder.

“Say, who’s this little fellow?”

The keys fell to the floor as Emmrich jumped, suppressing a yelp. He turned away from the door, slowly coming face-to-face with… Rook. Rook!

“Oh!” Was all he could say, regarding her as she knelt down to pick them up. That morning she wore a burgundy trenchcoat, cinched at the waist, a black dress peaking underneath the hem. A red beret sat atop her head, a pair of matching coloured shoes completing the outfit.

She peeled his hands away from his body, opening his fingers one by one and placing the keys in his palm. He gulped, undoubtedly rather loudly. He barely had a moment to fully lose himself in Rook’s gaze, before Manfred pulled hard on Emmrich’s jacket, ending the spell of infatuation.

“Papa, why is your face red?”

Rook’s eyebrow curled at the mention of papa and Emmrich backed away, running into the door with a loud clunk. He felt his cheeks, and as his son had noted, they were aflame.

“Are they, my dear boy?” Emmrich quickly unlocked the door, shepherding Manfred and Rook into the dressing room. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yes, why? It’s getting worse! You look just like one of those tomatoes!" Manfred laughed at his own joke, Emmrich joining in despite the efforts to regain his composure.

“You are quite inquisitive this morning, aren’t you?”

Manfred made his way to the couch, flopping down on it like a fish. He tested how it felt, giving it a few good bounces before moving on. He ran to the other end of the room, inspecting Emmrich’s costumes, playing with the shoes, and wearing his collection of hats. He was curious, wanting to get his hands on everything within his grasp.

Emmrich rearranged the pillows on the couch, putting it back in order before slumping into it with defeat.

“Good morning, Rook. I must apologise for all of this.”

Rook chose to stay standing, her attention on Manfred.

“So, papa, huh? That name’s tailor made for you.”

Half a sigh, half a groan later, “I was going to inform you, Rook. Eventually. I swear it. This is all rather ill-timed, yet another thing out of my control these days.”

Manfred circled back around, jumping on one of the love seats. He somehow managed to sit himself along the backrest, swinging his legs about like he was at a play park.

“Manfred. Manfred, sit still, please! That’s no way to behave in front of a guest. Good, thank you. Now can you come say hello to Rook?”

“Hi Rook!”

“Dear me, Manfred, no! Not like that. What have I taught you?”

Manfred ran over to Rook, extending his arm. She tittered as they shook hands. His son exaggerated the gesture, her arm flying up and down several times as though they were a pair of cartoon characters. It was endearing, but Emmrich would have to correct Manfred on his manners at a later date.

“Hello Rook! My name’s Manfred. Nice to meet you.”

“And you!”

Manfred, distracted once more, instantly disengaged. He made a bee-line to the vanity, blowing a few raspberries at himself in the mirror, dirtying the glass with saliva in the process.

“Charming little man. Did he come all this way just to watch you on set?”

“Far from it, I’m afraid. His nanny caught a terrible cold. I demanded she rest at once, for as long as she needed, but that left me in a bit of a… predicament, as you can see now.”

“I could watch him if you’d like?” There was no hesitation, her words flying out at rapid speed like she was reading from a script.

“Rook! Heavens no. Please, I don’t wish to put these burdens on you, and certainly not child care. Manfred is no easy task.”

She shook her head, that grin of hers turning more impish by the second.

“Well, that settles it then.” She sat on the couch’s armrest, placing a hand on Emmrich’s shoulder. “I wasn’t going to come in today, but I would’ve been bored out of my wits end at home. So, trust me when I say this is way more thrilling.” Her hand made its way to his cheek, tapping it playfully. “And besides, I have a lot of questions to ask Manfred about his father.”

Emmrich made every effort to convince Rook, beseeching her to leave, to return home, to do anything but watch Manfred. He would’ve paid her a small fortune if that meant she’d at least consider his pleas. But she fought him every step of the way. He relented, not because he was weak spirited or couldn’t hold himself up in a showdown, but because of the time. They had spent the entire morning arguing and it nearly made him late to set. Believe it or not, a first in his career.

“Why the long face?” Dorian probed, while he and Emmrich waited on their markers for Iron Bull’s next direction.

“This day is doomed,” Emmrich muttered, mind far away, already theorising a mountain of situations Rook and Manfred would likely get into by lunch time.

“I beg to differ.” Dorian tilted his head, signalling off to the side. “I think Rook and your boy are having a grand ol’ time without you.”

True to his word, Rook was by the cameras. She sat in a folding chair, with Manfred on her lap. They both waved when he acknowledged them. Rook whispered something into his son’s ears and he laughed, a carefree and innocent tune. It echoed throughout the sound stage, drawing out a glare from Varric and causing one of the production assistants to politely shush him.

If Emmrich was brave enough, if he had no shame, if he wasn’t so conscious of his public image, he would’ve marched directly to Rook on the spot, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her. Impulsively, romantically, and in that single act, confessed his undying love to her. Perhaps going so far as to propose marriage, despite her pending divorce. But alas, that was only fiction, and a future that might never come to be.

Rook kept Manfred entertained throughout the rest of the day. Apparently they had played hide-and-seek in the backlot, ate burgers and chips for lunch, and stopped at a convenience store, where Rook bought him far too many sweets. By the time Emmrich finished his last scene and met them in his dressing room, Manfred was well and truly spent.

They sat on the couch, Manfred fast asleep and his head resting on Rook’s lap. Emmrich paused at the threshold, breath catching as he took in as many details as possible before Rook moved, savouring the sweetness of them together. An image he’d look forward to revisiting time and time again. It was then he decided to be audacious, as a way to please himself, by nature, but to thank Rook for her hospitality.

“Rook, my dear, would you be open to joining us for dinner? I know this is quite last minute, and if you have other—”

“Nonsense, Emmrich.” Rook beamed, hands sifting through Manfred’s curly locks. “I’d love to.”

Emmrich didn’t expect to invite Rook to his home so soon, not until her divorce was resolved, and especially not when there was barely anything left in his pantry for a suitable dinner. This is why he seldom gave into such inclinations. It left him blindsided to the current realities, fully committing to these delusions of domesticity before checking all the facts or planning ahead.

Though, to his immense satisfaction, after spending a half-hour rummaging through his kitchen, he managed to achieve the impossible—gathering random ingredients to create an impromptu meal. He made an assortment of roast potatoes and stuffed peppers, creating a filling out of bread crumbs, rice, eggs, and various herbs and spices. For dessert, Emmrich would’ve preferred to make Rook a decadent cake of her choosing, but they made do with grapes and mixed berries. It was far from ideal, but it was appetising nonetheless, and Rook seemed to enjoy it, which mattered most to him.

Blessedly, Emmrich had no shortage of wine to keep them company. As it happened, he had a whole cellar full of rare vintages from all over the globe, always fully stocked.

He opened up their second bottle, another Bordeaux blend, escorting Rook to his lounge on the ground floor. Manfred was already tucked snugly in bed, and the kitchen had been tidied up shortly after supper, all as a result of Rook’s never-ending support.

The lounge area was cosy, ideal for relaxation of any sort. One end of the wall was decked in fine art he had collected during his many European escapades. The other was lined, from floor to ceiling, with books. This was not his main library, but a glimpse into his more expansive collection. Stained glass windows looked out into his backyard, and at the far end of the room was a hearth. A massive brown leather couch was placed in front of it, and it was there that Rook and Emmrich sat. The couch swallowed them whole as they nestled in each other's arms, staring contemplatively into the dancing flames.

“Rook,” Emmrich began, taking a long sip of wine for assurance. The liquid trickled down his throat, warmth pooling in his core. “There’s a secret of my own I wish to disclose to you.”

“Oooooh.” She looked up at him, chin resting on his chest, her breath tickling the side of his neck. “Are you married too?”

“Absolutely not. My dear, I’m twice divorced.”

“That’s right, I read about that, you know. And a few other things about your previous engagements.”

“You needn’t remind me.” Emmrich took another mouthful of wine. “This matter concerns Manfred.”

Rook leaned back, her face lit perfectly by the orange glow of the flames. Her stare was attentive, brows creased with concentration, as she placed a hand on his thigh. His own grip tightened around the stem of the glass.

“His mother?”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t care about such things, Emmrich.”

“But I do.” He suspired, sinking into the couch, lungs clearing of all the weight he had carried since Manfred first came into his life. “My son is adopted. I had found him abandoned on a street corner, stuffed in a wicker basket. The only thing left inside it, apart from tattered sheets, was a folded piece of parchment. ‘Please take care of the child. I’m sorry.’” Emmrich shut his eyes, recollecting Manfred’s wails as they reverberated in the empty thoroughfare, the letter written hastily and covered in watermarks. “In the end no one came to claim the baby, so I did the only sensible thing, I adopted him. I couldn’t let Manfred disappear into the foster care system, or face the horrors I had experienced moving from one orphanage to another.”

“Oh, Emmrich.” Rook’s visage turned grim, shifting in her seat to face him head on. “Why didn’t you say anything? The rubbish Johanna puts in those damn tabloids are, I mean it was—this would put her to shame. Once and for all.”

“Some things are best left undiscovered. In any case, the police are sworn to secrecy. If Johanna ever caught wind of this, it would be at my discretion.”

The flames slowly dimmed as the night progressed. There had been another shift, the final part of his facade crumbling to nothing but dust. He had revealed all there was to know about him. The truth was laid out on the table for her to accept, or not, if that was her decision. Rejection was a bitter, yet familiar taste. He would carry on, if she chose to part, as he had done with the others.

Though somehow Rook stayed. She didn’t recoil at his truths, nor did she turn up her nose at his unfettered love for Manfred. She held his hand, showering his cheek with kisses, as she asked him about his own childhood; his youth as an orphan, the day his parents perished in an earthquake, the fits of terror that were a result of his trauma.

There was still so much to discuss, so much to learn about each other, but the sands of time were cruel. They moved swiftly, constantly taking life and never granting it.

In a few days the filming would be over. And what would happen then? Rook promised divorce, that she would let him know of the outcome, but was she certain? Was there any verity behind her words? Until he saw the documents, he could not hope. He could not handle another disappointment, not so late in his years.

Emmrich was tempted to fetch another bottle of wine, head clouded with melancholy, but as he rose, he found himself trapped, anchored to the couch. Rook had fallen asleep. She clung to his side, drooling all over his shirt.

“Well, there have certainly been worse sleeping arrangements..." He kissed the crown of Rook’s head, as that was the only part he could reach, lest he disturb her. “Goodnight, my dear.”

Emmrich couldn’t remember when he closed his eyes, but he was unexpectedly drifting, floating through a void, as he edged closer and closer into slumber.

“That’s a wrap!”

The entire set erupted into applause as Iron Bull delivered the closing command. There was cheering, champagne bottles popping, endless trays of catering rolling out on Varric’s cues. The world’s rhythm came to a halt, the cacophony of celebrations dissolving as Emmrich locked eyes with Rook. She nodded from across the sound stage, feigning a smile, though he had no motivation to muster one himself. He turned away. It was simply too much to bear.

Reporters swarmed Rook like locusts, bulbs flashing and blinding anyone within the vicinity, all the while hounding her with questions. Emmrich used that opportunity to sneak away before anyone cared to notice. He refused to join in on the festivities, for he was already grieving. Instead, he made an effort to stop by Rook’s dressing room, no matter how each step brought him more torment. He pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket, kissing it tenderly, and slid it under her door.

A letter from Emmrich Volkarin addressed to Rook Ingellvar, dated April 29th 1946. The letter was penned in cursive and on his custom gilded letterhead. It is expertly preserved, save for deep fold marks in the centre of the parchment.

My dearest Rook,

It’s no exaggeration that you tempestuously came into my life, weaving your way into the depths of my heart. Your name is etched into my bones, and at night I whisper it as if it were an incantation; hoping to encounter you in my dreams, where we’d have no limitations looming over us, and can thus embrace each other freely.

There are matters I dread in this existence, Rook, and one of which is losing you. To time, to your marriage—if you were to change your mind—to another man who is more youthful, more befitting of your beauty. Even so, if we are destined to remain apart, if this is truly goodbye, then let it be known I’ll never stop caring for you. All the love I have, all the love I could ever give, every fiber of my being, belongs to you. For my darling, you are my last love.

Meeting you has altered me, opened my eyes to miracles I never imagined I’d get to experience. My world is so much brighter, so much more delightful, with you in it. A fantasy of mine, as simple as it may be, is to share the rest of my days with you. And Manfred, my beloved boy, has not stopped talking about you since his visit to set. I can’t help but wonder how he may feel if he were lucky enough to have you by his side. I will only hope, and continue to envision, that one day, you’ll be here with me, and our future will begin anew.

Forgive me for not delivering this letter myself, for I’m far too weak to have faced you in such a state. I could never express myself so verbosely before you without falling to my knees and weeping.

With all my deepest love and adoration,

Emmrich Volkarin