#Candlehops are already in Tevinter

[thesummerstorms]

I just think it would be really funny if the candlehops followed Rook de Riva back to Antiva.

[linposter]

INJURY Writing Prompts - Rook 🩸 pt 1

It took me a few days to put these together (and I'm still not done!) cause y'all were so kind and gave me LOADS to work with. So thank you everyone who made a request <3 I've really enjoyed doing this, I feel like I know Rook a little better now and figured out a lot about my writing process. Hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

⚠️ Obvious TW for injuries and abuse / violence.

Prompts list here, requests still open.

2. “Someone get the medic. Get the medic!” - @bubblecat-co

Finally, as the red sky began to dissipate and the remaining Gods faded again into obscurity, throughout Thedas a collective breath was exhaled. Sighs of great relief, and sighs of howling grief as reality settled like the dust and debris on the remains of Minrathous.

But for Lace Harding, her breath tore from her throat, choked by blood and grime as she rasped; "Someone get the medic! Get the medic!" She and Lucanis had barely made it to Rooks' side as their body hit cold stone. Both the Inquisitor and Morrigan turned at Hardings call, just in time to see their head hit the ground with a wet thud, the once fearless leader now collapsed into a puddle at their feet. A puddle, that was now so clearly blood under a sky untainted by blight, Harding had to wonder how none of them had noticed it growing at Rooks' feet as they talked down the Dread Wolf from world destruction.

Near instantly, the Inquisitor began sprinting to find help as Morrigan knelt at their side, doing her best to heal the pallor elf. Already their skin was ashen, it clung to their bones and hollowed their eyes to dark pits. There seemed to be more blood on the ground than in their body now, yet as Morrigan tore away at Rooks armor to find the source there were few wounds to be found. Though their body shone with bruises, their skin seemed to remain vastly unbroken. Until she uncovered the elves arms.

Like a withered lotus, Rooks' skin was riddled with puncture wounds, each no bigger than a pea yet perfectly uniform in pattern. Upon further inspection, the layout perfectly match some 20-odd points that lined the inside of their vambrace. "It seems our friend has been making use of blood magic to keep Elgar'nan at bay while the Dread Wolf fought Lusacan." Morrigan surmised, hands wrapped tightly around the elves wrist as her healing magic stitched together their tattered flesh.

A growl that had simmered in Lucanis' chest finally boiled over, "Why?!"

"Same as Davrin." Harding whispered in reply, her tone somber as she looked to the Crow cradling Rooks head in his lap. "Victory, no matter the cost."

6. “We’re gonna fix you up, brand new. I promise.” - @lifegoblet

Rook wasn't much of a tinkerer. Maker, they'd hardly even call themselves handy at the best of times. But there was something about Candlehops that Rook couldn't help but feel sorry for. 'Don't shoot the messenger' they say, but clearly no one thought this included Tevinters' littlest messengers. Back in the Lighthouse, under the dim light of the Meditation Chamber tank, Rook sat on their 'bed' surrounded by scattered sheets of paper, books on magical constructs, and the remains of a broken candlehop. With unsteady hands, they methodically put the courier back together piece by piece.

"We're gonna fix you up, brand new. I promise." They mumble, uncurling one of the beings bent hooks. Whatever unusual magic gave these constructs sentience thrummed at their finger tips, somehow dim yet vibrant with the will to go on.

Yearning tells them it's grateful.

Vengeance tells them the name of the one who hurt it.

A job for another day. Tonight, Rook twists the final limb into place before gently settling the limp marionette by the glass tank. They return to their mess, making space amongst the chaos to finally rest.

And when they wake, the candlehop is gone.

7. “No. No, stop. Stop talking like that. You’re gonna be fine.” - @a-mumbling-nerd

With Taash's help - and Assans' concerned lack-there-of - Rook carried the wounded Grey Warden through the Vi'Revas and up the seemingly endless stairs into the infirmary. The last brawl with the blighted Revenant Dragon had been nasty, and though Rook wasn't Dalish (more-so now than ever) they couldn't help but silently thank Mythal for her timely arrival before anyone else got injured.

The oversized elf was dropped unceremoniously onto one of the beds, with barely enough time to groan in pain before his bulky armor was stripped and tossed aside.

"What in the hells happened, kid?!" Rooks hears Varric call from another bed.

They toss a pauldron noisily to the ground, barely missing Harding and Emmrich as they appear with rags and fresh water. "Damned idiot thinks a shield is enough to protect him from a dragons tail."

"Shame I had to die to learn that lesson." Davrin groans, the noise morphing into a yelp as Rook rips the last piece of armor from his injured leg.

"No. No, you don't get to say that. Stop talking like that. You’re gonna be fine.” Their voice shakes, their hands shake, the world feels like it's shaking as Rook dabs the dripping cloth to their friends injured head.

"…Hey." Warmth wraps around their wrist as Davrin stills their hand. "I'll be okay, Rook."

More often than not, when Davrin's voice was directed Rooks way it was lilting and jovial, or in the heat of battle it may be commanding or rough. It was a first for Rook to hear him speak to them so softly. Like the warmth around their wrist, the rumble of the elves baritone voice squeezed at their chest until it loosen the knot of anxiety threatening to choke them.

"I know." Their voice breaks. "I know you will."

And the trembling stops.

9. “I know, I know it hurts.” - @i-created-au

Bloodied bandages litter the polished marble ground, red spilling between the cracks to gather, layer upon layer, upon decades worth of blood from victims long since gone. The room is filled with the smell of burning hair and flesh. The walls reflect the quiet sobs of the obedient, and the wailing cries of the untamed.

Laetan Averius sat in the corner of the room, eyes fixed on the young Dalish as she dragged his blade across a child's skin. Even through mild sedation, the child still squirms and screams. Tears rolled down their cheeks, stinging the fresh wounds on their skin, and giving them further cause to struggle and cry. The cuts she draws are rough and shaky. She fights the sobs that threaten to rip from her throat as the smell of her older brothers burning body overwhelm her senses. She hears her littlest brother by the Laetans side as he struggles to refill the mans' goblet. Had wine always looked so red?

The child in her arms struggles to pull their head away again, skin only half decorated, with a scream that pierces her ears and shakes the windows. "Shhh. Shhhhh, da'len. It will be over soon. Please stay still. Ple-"

"Quiet it, Muris." His voice cuts through the air and causes her muscles to stiffen. "I'm certain you would rather not dispose of 2 bodies tonight."

She wishes she was faster, like a rabbit. Fast enough to rush him, hold his knife to his throat, skin him like this poor child. She wishes she knew magic. Or to fight. To be brave. She wishes her Gods would appear in this room and free her people, her family, this child, from men like Laetan Averius. She wishes many things then.

Instead she steels herself and presses her lips to the child's blonde hair, matted and stained with blood, and hums to it softly.

"I know, I know it hurts. Ir abelas, little lamb. Ir abelas."