#elgar’nan x rook

[elgarnansdalen]

[quyeningellvar]

[starsabounded]

obey me, worship me, love me, and kneel.

[eldritchlabs]

There are things I would have of you, Rook.

Draw closer. You will learn what they are.

Full (nsfw):

[honeyynymphh]

elgar’nan x rook fic wip that I’ll probably never finish 🙃

no real warnings in this part but mind control. set in act 3.

“You are not my god,” she spat.

His head tilted to the side as he regarded her and she felt his mind brush against hers, that heavy and intoxicating feeling she had experienced when rescuing the Dalish in Arlathan.

“Mmm.” The sound was mocking and Rook tried to move toward him but the blight held her fast. “You’ve flown all this way to see me, Rook. To try and fight. Yet you are nothing but a trapped little bird now. I wonder if you will sing for me.”

The words tried to wrap around her, Rook could feel the insistent way his mind pressed against hers. But she mentally swatted it away. She had survived his temptations in Arlathan, she could do so again. “Let me go and face me without your trickery! Fight me with some semblance of honour!”

“Honour.” His words were growled out, the first real semblance of anger Rook had witnessed. “You speak of honour yet you defy your god.”

You will kneel before me.

The voice was in her head and she watched the corner of his mouth quirk into a horrible smile as she flinched at the mental blow. She refused to back down, to look away from his burning stare. But the crushing weight of his will was against hers, breaking and snapping through every sinew in her body until she was kneeling on the ground. Whatever attempt at control before had clearly been no effort on his part. Rook tried to stand, to push up through the sheer force of Elgar’nan’s mind but it made everything within her scream in pain. The sound of his laughter echoed around her. “Da’len, your defiance is admirable—a weak pet is so dull—but this is beginning to bore me.”

She could feel the tears running down her cheeks as she tried to resist. His voice was everywhere, it surrounded her and echoed within her mind. A low, gentle sound that lulled her even further away from reality. It told her to relax, that the fight was already over—she needed to rest. And that he, her god, was here. He would protect her, keep her safe.

But only if she worshipped him. Loved him.

Rook sluggishly shook her head, trying to think of her companions, of the people she was fighting for. But she couldn’t even remember their names let alone envision their faces. Who had she kissed this morning? She couldn’t recall.

It didn’t matter anyway.

[gob-hob]

Gift of the Sun - Chapter 6

Pairing: Elga'nan x Rook Rating: Explicit

Read it on Ao3

[elgarnansdalen]

I can’t stop thinking about this. He literally offers his mercy over and over again, specifically to Rook, saying things like “ugh, you could have had such a place of honor as my disciple,” offering a higher position because he knows the weight of having the dread wolf’s pawn on his side instead. He gives Rook 2nd, 3rd, 4th chances to change their mind. Him offering his mercy over and over is almost Elgar’nan’s way of begging Rook to comply so he doesn’t have to fight them. After all, Elgar’nan is not much of a fighter as a first resort, it’s a last resort for him, he expects all to comply and immediately recognize him as their master. In his mind, there is no other path, any ‘child’ of his breaking that path is simply misled. He is calculated & patient. And when Rook breaks through Elgar’nan’s spell after the fire & ice quest, Elgar’nan says “Ever defiant. For now.” Meaning he expects there will come a day when Rook will not defy him, and instead worship at his feet. It is not so much he wants to fight / get rid of Rook, no, Elgar’nan wants Rook nice & compliant by his side.

He just wants to guide Rook and be loved & worshipped in return for that guidance. “A common mistake for those who lack a master’s gentle guidance” he says, literally word for word telling Rook they need a master’s (Elgar’nan’s) guidance.

The tension between Rook and Elgar'nan for real. Like, "there are things i would have of you Rook." Like okay??? And constantly saying he would let Rook join his side and that it is not to late for his mercy? Hmmmm

[deputyrook]

In Her Absence: Lucanis/Rook/Spite.

A03 link! Female Crow Rook x Lucanis. Lucanis POV.

Takes place when Rook is in the fade prison, because 1) I love angst and am a big softie; and 2) I wanted to try to work out the logistics of what the team did in Rook's absence, and how they managed to reach her.

---

In the four days that Rook’s been gone, the Veilguard has devolved completely into infighting.

Taash wants to know why they can’t just “break into the fade and pull her out.” And no one really wants to hear Emmrich’s overly technical explanation as to why that’s not feasible, least of all Taash, who’s grieving and angry. Davrin keeps saying that it should have been him instead, which isn’t helping, and no one even wants to think about what’s happening to Bellara right now. 

Harding is dead. Bellara is kidnapped by Elgar’nan and Maker knows where. They’re a mess as a group, angry and hurting. And Rook...

Rook’s gone.

Neve is the only person who remotely has their shit still together, and for that at least, Lucanis is thankful. 

Because he absolutely does not have his shit together. Maybe the others can’t tell, since he’s not arguing or yelling or breaking down, but his thoughts are spiralling so badly that he’s barely said a word in three days. All he can think about is Rook.

He loves her. He loves her. And she’s lost somewhere, trapped and alone, and they have no plan whatsoever on how they’re going to get her back. 

He never told her. It’s tearing him up inside. The thought that he might never hear her voice again. Never hear her make some stupid pun, or hear her teasing, or hear her give them all one of her legendary pep talks. Never hear her laugh again-

“Lucanis,” Neve’s voice is firm, dragging him out of his despondency, “You need to focus.” 

How can he possibly focus? “You’re right,” he says instead, voice tight, because Neve is right. Standing around brooding isn’t getting them any closer to getting Rook back. What he needs to do is act- but how?

Solas is a God, and even he couldn’t break out of that prison. This isn’t the kind of problem Lucanis can solve with a dagger. He can’t stab at the prison walls until they crumble away- but Maker knows if that could work, he would stab until his daggers shattered and his body collapsed. 

What is he supposed to do? What can he do? How can he help them, when all he knows how to do is kill things?

No. Spite says to his left, his voice hard and determined, No! We will find Rook. Won’t leave them there. 

Neve puts a hand on his shoulder, and gives it a squeeze. 

“When has Rook ever been content to sit and wait to be rescued?” Neve says, and he lets out a long, even exhale, because it’s exactly what he needs to hear. “I’m worried too. But Rook would chew off her own leg to escape a trap. If there’s a way to get out, she’ll find it. Have some faith in her. In all of us- and in yourself.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice quiet. After a moment, he adds, “…Someone should let Viago and Teia know.”

That, at least, is a burden he can bear. 

But the days stretch into weeks. Elgar’nan seizes control of an already broken Minrathous, and even Neve has a hard time keeping herself together after that one. 

Lucanis is in no place to offer comfort. Without Rook’s leadership and steadfast optimism, the lighthouse has gone dark, leaving them all ships to smash into a rocky coast. He won’t soon forget the way Viago’s eyes widened when he told him what had happened to Rook, nor the look of horror that flashed across his face before his expression settled into stony devastation. 

Strangely, it’s Spite that keeps him from falling apart completely. He refuses to accept that Rook is gone. Every time that Lucanis’ mind whispers to him that this happened because he wasn’t good enough, and that he’ll never see Rook smile at him again- Spite cuts him off with an angry, defiant hiss of NO. 

Rook is strong. Rook is smart! Rook will not allow herself to die in a prison. She would not let you die in prison, either. We will not let her. We will find her. We will find her!

He repeats the words in his own head, holding onto them like a buoy. Right, yeah. She’s good at prison breaks. It’s enough to make it through the day.

Sometimes- although Lucanis would never admit it to the others- he realizes that Spite is the one who has been moving his body,  keeping him working while he’s been stuck in his mind, ruminating and aching with missing her. It’s been Spite that’s forcing him to eat, to bathe, to sleep. Spite is keeping him alive. 

Will not let you do this to us. Rook needs us.

It’s that thought that ultimately gets Lucanis to snap out of his despair. 

It’s not over yet. He agrees, finally. Rook needs us. 

Finally! Spite snaps back.

---

First, they try to make a copy of the dagger. Something that will be able to slice through the fade prison, so that they can cut Rook out of it. That’s how Solas left, after all- by tricking her, and stealing the dagger to cut himself free. 

But a dagger of pure lyrium isn’t exactly easy to replicate. Brilliant as they are, Emmrich and Neve can only do so much. So after days of meticulous work, they end up with a dagger that looks identical to the real thing, but doesn’t actually work. Great.

Next, Emmrich hypothesizes that in order to get to Rook in the fade, they’ll not only need to figure out how to access the fade prison, but also to figure out where the prison actually is, physically within the fade.

It is, apparently, not as simple as yelling out “ROOK? CAN YOU HEAR US?” from the top of the Lighthouse, which has been Taash’s strategy. Spite, too, is ready to start just travelling through the fade, for as long and as far as he needs to until he finds her. Lucanis is doing what he can to support the group, cooking the meals and making sure Emmrich and Neve are able to stay on their feet.

Word gets to them that Solas is in Minrathous, keeping the rebellion alive. The news poisons Lucanis so thoroughly with hate that he nearly can’t stomach it. Spite has been so determined to save Rook that Lucanis almost forgot how it felt when he was really, truly spiteful. 

Hearing Solas is pretending to be a hero in Tevinter, after consigning Rook to take his place in a prison? Yeah. That’ll do it. The things he’d wanted to do to Illario after his betrayal had left him conflicted. He is not remotely conflicted about what he wants to do about Solas.

What they want to do. Spite agrees with him on this one. He hurt our Rook.

Finally, Emmrich and Neve work out a real plan, with the help of the Veil Jumpers. It’s based largely on luck, but it’s something. It’s a sliver of hope. It’s enough to keep them all going.

First, they need to find a spot where the veil is particularly thin, where the fade peaks through the seams of reality. Then, they need to use an artifact of the Veil Jumper’s to do… magical, fade, location-y… stuff. Emmrich actually uses a bit of Rook’s blood for this part, located on some stained clothes that Assan had dug out in her room. 

Blood magic. Ordinarily, Lucanis would be opposed. But no one says a word against it. They are all desperate for this to work. 

The first day they try it, it doesn’t work. They make some adjustments, and try again.

The second day, it doesn’t work. They make some more adjustments, and they try again.

On the fifth day, Spite says it in his ear, voice sharp with excitement.

I can smell her- I can smell Rook!

Lucanis’ heart feels like it’s about to burst from his chest. He’s yelling, “Rook?” into the rift before he can stop himself, but the team’s caught on already that this isn't like the other times they’ve failed to make their plan work. The rift is spitting and spasming sparks of magic, and they can see through it in a way they’d never been able to before. They can see a light in the rift.

Emmrich seems to throw caution entirely to the wind, rolling up his sleeve and plunging his arm into the rift. The energy is wild, unrestrained, and they’re all calling out to Rook, reaching and trying to get to her.

“I’ve- I’ve got her!” Emmrich yells out, and Lucanis swears he can see Rook’s wavy form on the other side of the rift. Like looking through a fishbowl, or the walls of the Ossuary.

He reaches in too and grabs her hand with Emmrich, and they yank. Rook stumbles out, collapsing onto the ground.

“Varric’s dead,” she says, voice hollow and wobbly.

Neve shoots Lucanis a confused, concerned look, but he’s too relieved to care. He’s grabbing at her shoulders, pulling her into a tight embrace, and his throat feels like it’s closing up on him. Tears prick at his vision. She’s safe. She’s alive, she’s free, and she’s safe. She’s back with them.

They all want to hug her, and make sure she’s actually, really okay. But Lucanis gets to first.

Told you. Told you, told you! Spite repeats, ecstatic, She’s back!

“Are you okay?” He murmurs, pulling back and looking her over critically, trying to see if she’s been hurt or if anything has changed. But no. It’s just her. Like not a day has passed.

Rook nods slowly, and Lucanis smooths a hand down her hair, before cupping her cheek in his hand. All he wants to do is hold her, but he can’t be that selfish and drag her away from the others. Not yet, anyway. 

Pulling back, the others take the moment to rush in, making similar careful assessments and doting over Rook. The last few weeks have been almost unbearably difficult. There’s been little to celebrate. But this is joy again. Hope. With Rook back, not everything is completely fucked.

Davrin pulls her into a crushing hug, and Taash joins in, and they’re all hugging and crying a little. The trip back to the Lighthouse is a blur, with Rook thanking the Veil Jumpers and swearing to them she’ll get Bellara back.

How she can already be so determined, so ready to act, Lucanis will never know. He is, as he has so often found himself, in awe of her ability to forge forward, the light cutting through the swathes of dark that seem to surround them.

Spite is just about ready to try to crawl out of their skin in impatience, but they have work to do first. They all brief Rook on what has happened in her absence, and learn- horrifically- that she’s somehow been brainwashed into believing Varric has been alive, for months, by Solas.

Not for the first time, Lucanis feels anger and spite bubbling in his veins and vows to himself that he will not let Solas get away with hurting Rook. God or not. He finds it hard to fathom why he would mess with her head like that, if he wanted her to succeed in at least stopping Ghilan’nain. It reminds him too much of the mind games that his captors would play on him when he was in the Ossuary, tormenting and confusing him for no other reason than to break him down. Was that what Solas had tried to do to Rook, too? To break her down mentally, so she’d be easier to manipulate and trick?

It seems to take forever, but finally, Lucanis gets to see her alone. She’s lying down when he enters her quarters, her eyes closed, but the words spill out of him before he can even consider leaving her to rest.

“I cannot believe we found you,” he says, voice soft. All of the fear he’s felt for weeks, the doubt and the despair that Spite had helped him just barely keep at bay… the relief, now, is making him lightheaded. 

“I’m a little surprised too, honestly.” It’s a testament to the gravity of the situation that she’s not trying to make light of things. The words aren’t meant as a joke. 

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he admits.

“And I didn’t think I’d ever get out of there,” Rook tells him in turn. It leaves him cold, to think of her there, alone and believing she might never be found. “How do I know if I really did? This could be... more of the fade.”

Lucanis realizes then, that he’s never seen her vulnerable like this before. Emotional, yes, but lost? Frightened? Rook has always been the solid centre of the group. Unmoving, unyielding, steady. Utterly dependable. 

It’s almost surprising that she’s not actually invincible. She’s so consistently been their guiding light. But more than shock, more than anything else-

He wants to protect her. He wants to hold her until her worries melt away, to chase away the horrible memories of the last several weeks and see her smile at him. He wants her to know that he won’t let anything hurt her. He wants to kiss her until she feels safe and warm again. 

So he does. Kneeling down in front of her, holding her hands in his own, Lucanis reassures her she is real. There’s so much he wants to tell her, that he’s been praying he’ll get the chance to say. But now that Rook’s in front of him again, he can’t seem to find the words for everything he’s been feeling.

So he kisses her. So, so gently. And when he keeps kissing her, pressing her back against the chaise as she wraps her arms around his neck? It seems Spite is right there with him, because the wings unfurl right in that moment, curling around them both protectively, like he wants to help shield them from anyone in the world who might try to hurt them.

[fanfoolishness]

messy

When Elgar'nan and Solas battle in Rook's mind, she gains a new sense of empathy for Lucanis' struggle with Spite -- and Lucanis finds a new fear. Lucanis x Rook, a little angst, a little whump, lots of cuddles and conversation. 2500 words, post-"Blood of Arlathan."

---

Lucanis followed Rook and Neve, his senses muted and muffled. This was not the real world, this trap of Elgar’nan’s. He knew that much even without Spite raging in the back of his mind. The world shimmered around them, gauzy and insubstantial, as they tried path after path only to be transported back to the beginning.

“We’re wasting time,” Rook lamented, her pale eyes wide with worry. Soot and blood smudged her cheeks, remnants of their earlier battles against Ventatori and darkspawn. “We have to find the clan!” She charged forward again into the fog, then stopped suddenly, looking confused.

“Did you two hear that?” she asked, gaze fixed on something Lucanis couldn’t see. 

“Hear what?” Neve asked, giving Rook a curious expression.

There is nothing here, Spite agreed. Trapped! We cannot get out!

“No,” Lucanis said, troubled.

Rook took a few more steps into the mist, then stopped, twisting her head to one side as she had when Elgar’nan had attempted to sway them all. She rubbed at her face, her eyes darting wildly. “I just heard Solas. Tell me you heard that.”

“No,” Lucanis said slowly as Neve shook her head. Rook winced, distress crossing her face.

“I don’t know how, but I can hear him. He says there isn’t much time, that he’s going to try to distract Elgar’nan somehow. Come on. I think it’s the only chance we’ve got.” She led them into the haze, and Lucanis matched her pace to stay by her side. 

He had long ago learned to control his fear, something all Crows faced young. One could not survive as an assassin by operating from a place of fear. Fear led to exploitation by enemies, to holding back when the killing blow was at hand. He had not been afraid for his own life for many, many years.

But seeing the way Rook stopped abruptly, tilting her head with one long ear pressed against her shoulder, her grey eyes vacant -- new fear roared up within him, and he did not know how to quell it. 

He waited for her to speak, praying that she came back to him.

“They’re fighting,” Rook said, each word looking like it took great effort. “It’s nasty. They loathe each other.” She gritted her teeth. “Come on.”

“Are you all right, Rook?” Neve asked, reaching out and touching her on the shoulder. Rook startled at the touch, her eyes wide and haunted. 

“I’m fine. We’ve just -- got to keep going.”

Not possessed! Something else, Spite said urgently, and Lucanis wanted to believe him. But Spite was a normal demon, if there was such a thing; he was not a god, and he did not have the powers of one. Who knew what Elgar’nan and Solas could do to Rook?

Mist billowed around them, then a sensation of shifting, the sense that they were back on solid ground. “You led us out!” Lucanis said proudly. 

Rook gave him a wan smile. “Thank Solas, not me, and hurry.We’ve still got time to save the clan.” She broke into a run over the stonework path, staff held tight in one hand, and Neve and Lucanis ran after her. 

“She’s got this, Lucanis,” Neve said under her breath. “I don’t think whatever’s happening is hurting her, exactly. We’ve just got to hope it helps.”

Can’t see it. Can’t hear it! Spite said. I would know a demon!

And a god? Lucanis thought. But then Venatori rounded the corner, rushing at them, and he and Spite flowed together, a blur of blades and blood. Neve was right. They had this, and they would find a way to stop the sacrifice and save the Dalish. 

He parried a Venatori’s blade, then drove his own deep between the man’s ribs, Spite cackling with glee. Around the battlefield magic flew, the iron stench of blood magic, Neve’s crisp clean ice spells, the musty-sweet scent of Rook’s necromancy. The tide was turning --

“Rook! On your left!” he shouted as a Venatori knight rushed her from the side, shield raised and sword at the ready. She should have sidestepped, skimming across the surface of the Fade to reappear safely on the other side. He had seen her do it a thousand times. 

But she didn’t turn, didn’t respond at all, and his heart leapt into his throat. “Rook!” He ran to help her, Spite urging him on faster. He was nearly there when a burst of ice magic shattered against the knight just as he reached Rook, battering her with a single blow of his shield as the chill took hold. She crumpled. Lucanis’ dagger tore through the man’s throat an instant later, and he shoved the body aside, turning his attention to Rook.

Lucanis dropped to the ground beside her. “No, no --” He turned her over, his heart pounding, Spite incoherent and frantic. Relief washed over him.

She was pale but alive, dazed but conscious. His hand scrabbled at his belt for a healing potion, and he forced himself to steady his hands as he tilted it to her lips. She swallowed, coughing, the color in her cheeks looking better instantly. “Thanks, Lucanis,” she gasped, taking his proffered hand as he hauled her to her feet. 

His heart slowed again, and Spite ceased his agitated chatter. Rook. Is all right!

Lucanis scanned the battlefield. There was only one more enemy left, and with a howling blizzard conjured up by Neve, the Venatori mage collapsed and breathed her last. He let out a long sigh and turned back to Rook. “What happened? I tried to warn you, but I couldn’t get there in time --”

“I couldn’t hear you,” she admitted, nearly in tears. “They’re deafening.” She winced as he reached out to touch a slash on her head. “Never mind. We have to --” She grimaced, twisting her head to the side, one ear down toward her shoulder. “Shut up already!” 

Neve reached them, her face tight with worry. “Rook. Come on. I know you have this,” she said. 

“Yeah,” Rook said, breathing heavily. “Let’s finish this.”

Rook hurts. Help Rook!

I don’t know how, he thought, and he shoved the fear down as deep as it could go.

---

It seemed like days since the battle and rescue at Arlathan Crater, but realistically it was a matter of hours. They’d found the elves at last and gotten to safety. Somehow they made it through what happened: the hike back to the Veil Jumpers’ eluvian, making sure the rescued elves were safe, tending to injuries and meeting with the team. 

So much in such little time. Lucanis felt the exhaustion deep in his bones. He knew there was still so much more to come -- slaying Elgar’nan’s archdemon and killing the gods, aiding Treviso, Minrathrous, their team. He hoped he could manage to sleep tonight after everything.

But he knew he’d never manage it if he still feared so for Rook. The way she’d gone so distant, face empty; he’d lost her even though she was right beside him. That loss, even for a moment, had been terrifying. And the thought that kept crawling back into his head, just as terrifying --

Is this how she feels when Spite takes over?

He shook the thought away as best he could. She was here now, safe from Elgar’nan, safe from Solas doing whatever he’d done. He had to believe it, for her sake as well as his own.

He took the stairs lightly, then made his way down the narrow hall to her room. He raised a hand and rapped at the door. “It’s me. May I —“

The door swung open before he could finish the sentence. Rook smiled tiredly at him, a welcome sight. She’d traded her armor for soft linens in Mourn Watch greens and violets, and she’d let her dark hair down for the evening, hiding some of the fresh scratches on her face. “Well, well, well. I’d been getting ready to come see you. Thanks for saving me the trip.”

His face creased into a smile. “You’re all right.”

“In a manner of speaking,” she said. She smiled back at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Anyway, do come in. I wanted to say… that is, there’s some things I wanted to…” She crossed her arms, heading back to the settee. He followed her and closed the door behind him, and they sat down together. “Eurgh. I’m a mess right now.”

“A beautiful one,” Lucanis pointed out.

She snorted, then laughed. “How are you somehow the most earnest man who ever lived?”

“It is easy to be earnest when speaking the truth,” he said, shrugging with a soft smile. He hoped to have put her at ease, but as her laughter faded, he could see something dark and shuttered behind her eyes. Not all right, then.

He reached out cautiously. Their first attempt at a kiss had been disastrous, but he was growing more comfortable with the language of touch, especially smaller touches like her hand in his, a close embrace, small, still-clumsy kisses. But those had been moments of stolen sweetness, not attempts to offer comfort after dark times. He rested his hand on her shoulder, hoping this was right. 

“How are you really?” 

She looked up at him, her smile gone, her face stricken. Then she closed the distance between them, scooting beneath his arm and resting her head against his chest. He froze for a moment in surprise, then softened, welcoming her closeness. 

“Sorry,” she said, her voice muffled as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “I just — wanted to feel you were here. That I was here.”

He let his arm relax around her shoulders and pulled her closer, sighing. “You have nothing to apologize for.” He took a deep breath. Her hair smelled freshly cleaned, with faint scents of lavender and woodsmoke —

Smells like fear. Confusion!

He frowned. “So… you are all right. Only in a manner of speaking.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

”For what?” he asked, bewildered. “You led our team safely through a den of vipers. We rescued the elves. What more could you have done?”

”It’s not that. It’s… I understand better now. What it must be like to have Spite in your head, all the time.” She lifted her head, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. “Solas has been in my head since this all started, but… it’s different. The connection between us is tenuous, and he’s only been able to make contact through the Veil when I meditate and drop all other thoughts. It’s been my choice to contact him. The prison he’s in in the Fade is powerful, and it keeps him bound.” She shivered. “Until Arlathan.”

”What did you hear?” Lucanis asked gently. “Neve and I never truly heard what you did. You said that Elgar’nan and Solas fought —“

”It wasn’t just words,” Rook said, releasing her arms from around him and leaning back against the settee. She reached up to where his arm circled her shoulders, and took his hand in hers, squeezing tightly. “It was all-encompassing. It was difficult to see, to fight, to walk, even to breathe. Their rage was so tremendous. Their power. I felt like an ant beneath them, and as for my own thoughts — when I could get them back — I kept thinking, And Lucanis struggles with Spite, all the time.”

We have a deal! Spite chimed. Not a struggle! Not now. Not so much.

“It is better between us,” Lucanis said. Not a struggle still wasn’t exactly true, but it was not like the early days, when he stayed awake for two or three days at a time, refusing to sleep and lose control. He shivered. “Not like a god. I think… I know how to bear him now.” He sighed. “But you, Rook… it was hard to see you like that.” He squeezed her hand, his heart aching.

“Why? What was it like?” Rook asked haltingly.

He thought for a moment. “You are fierce in a fight, you know. Your focus, your power, your magic -- you are brilliant.”

She gave him an awkward, surprised smile. It was terribly charming. “I’m sorry, was I asking why I’m so incredible?”

Lucanis chuckled. “You may as well have been.” His smile faded. “But seeing their voices in your mind, knowing I couldn’t help you -- it frightened me, Rook. And I am the sorry one.”

She reached up, laying her hand against his cheek. “What could you have to be sorry about?”

“If you -- feel as I do --” He ducked his head. “Then seeing Spite take control of me must be…” He exhaled heavily, and she looked at him, her eyes too bright. He closed his own, hesitating.

“Before, I did not wish you to see me that way for my own sake. But now I wonder if you felt this same fear as I did. Seeing the woman I--” Not that word, not yet. But… soon. “-- care about, struggling against what could not be controlled, knowing I could do nothing to save you --”

She gazed into his eyes, then rested her head on his shoulder again, drawing him close once more. “Lucanis, you never need to apologize for who you are. For what Spite is. If I worry for you, that’s mine to bear. What was it you said before? ‘I deserve better than you and your mess’? Well, it’s too late for that now. It’s our mess.”

She felt so right in his arms, solid and true, warm and close. He bowed his head over her. “Our mess. I think I can handle that.”

She laughed, warm huffs of breath against his neck. He shivered. Oh, but she felt good this way.

“Lucanis?”

“Yes, Rook?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“But of course.”

She sat up, the smile on her face fading. “Would you… stay the night tonight?”

For a moment his mind whited out, Spite curious and cackling in the background, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest. Rook’s face flashed immediately with understanding, and she rested her hand on his vest. 

“Not for that. I’m exhausted, and I know you’re not ready,” Rook said gently. “I just meant, could we fall asleep together?”

He felt a smile slide over his face. To hold her in his arms for longer, to wake up beside her in the morning? That would be a fine thing indeed.

“I am yours, Rook.”

---

They did not sleep at first; there was still much talking to do of the elves, of the gods, of Treviso and the Antaam. Her determination and her clever plans were just as intriguing to him as her smile and her laugh. But when at last Rook’s eyes fluttered closed and her breathing grew deep and heavy, Lucanis leaned back against the settee, finding a way for them to fit together. Her elbows nudged his ribs, and her chin was somehow dagger-sharp, digging into his breastbone. But she was warm and soft and safe within his arms, and he fell asleep beneath the Fadelight, his fears at last forgotten.

[eisvogel-art]

Another take on the Rook x Lucanis dynamic might be obvious, but I can't get it out of my head.

When Rook returned from Solas's Fade prison and Lucanis spent the night with them, he didn’t want to fall asleep. He said, “I’m not afraid of him. I just don’t want to waste time now that you’re here.”

He felt that at least one of them might not survive the fight against Elgar’nan, and he simply couldn’t bear to waste a moment of whatever little time they might have left. Maybe he was even preparing to sacrifice himself to protect Rook.

Right before the battle, he adds, “Tell me this ends with me asleep in your arms, and I’ll kill any god you ask.”

When they finally defeated the gods, he knew no one would be able to keep them apart. For once, he could let himself ‘waste’ time sleeping in his love’s arms, knowing they’d have a whole life ahead of them.

[justvessel]

approval [Lucanis x Rook headcanon]

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little hc for when Lucanis decided he wants to make Rook a Dellamorte

heavy spoiler warning

word count: ~700

warnings: typical crow things slightly mentioned

used they/them for Rook

The demon of Vyrantium, first Talon, slayer of Ghilan’nain, hero of the Veilguard - Lucanis hold many names, but one of them was Catarina Dellamortes favourite.

She is a strict and prideful woman, who led the antivan crows by respect and cruelty. A way to prepare especially her two grandsons for the burden life would bring as a crow and to ensure her heir (and their survival but that would be a bit too sentimental to speak out loud).

Lucanis always had the feeling that nothing he could do would be enough to please her. Nothing would live up to her legacy, no matter how hard he tried. But indeed, it was her, who thought nothing could ever be enough for him. Nothing would satisfy her when it came to Lucanis. She lost almost all of her children and grandchildren, of course she was protective of Lucanis and Illario in her very own way, which leads us to the following situation.

The world is saved, Rook and Lucanis finally spoke about their feelings (like really admitting everything after the weight of the world's fate lifted from their shoulders and they could finally take a long needed nap), but Lucanis knew that it won’t get easier. He thinks of himself as a complicated and dangerous man with an even more complicated and dangerous life and yet Rook did nothing but accept everything and stayed by his side. He knew, if they’d let him, he would take their hand in marriage straight away but there is one thing holding him back (and it’s definitely not Spite).

Catarina’s approval.

He barely received approval, even for the simplest matters, but choosing his life long partner as the now first talon…

Now imagine Lucanis who is sure he’d never find someone like Rook again, and he would never want to even try, not after he had almost lost them. Rook, a person that would share everything with him, and would still loot at him like he’s the most precious thing they have ever seen, because that’s exactly how he looks at them. Spite who clings onto them like a lifeline. Both of them who fell in love like the very first second they got them out of the Ossuary. Despite all the risks and dangers (Let's be honest, being the partner of the first Talon, people would definitely try to use Rook against him), he wants to make it official. So when Lucanis asks his grandmother for a coffee at Pietra’s he’s sure she will decline his request, but he will try. He will show Catarina how important Rook is to him. So they sit down, have their usual check up and formalities and before Lucanis can even ask her, before he can start his literal powerpoint on why Rook would be the perfect addition to the Dellamorte house, Catarina does nothing but pull the opal ring of his mother out, the ring she had once given to show her favor, and hand it him. The usual thin line of her lips slightly curved up. You could almost misinterpret it as a smile, and Lucanis takes the ring with the highest gratitude he felt in a while. The weight of his shoulders was gone. “Grazie mille” is all he can say and Catarina nods. She knew from the very first beginning that Rook could be enough. Not because of them being slayer of Elgar’nan, not because of them choosing Treviso over their own city (my rook was a shadow dragon), not because of them putting together the Veilguard, not because of their strength, not because they saved the freakin’ world. No, simply because they saved her grandson in so many ways possible. She sees how Lucanis lights up as soon as Rook walks into the room and she’s once reminded how it felt to be truly in love, to feel like nothing else matters but the person in front of you. How could she not approve the happiness of her favourite, when it could be so easy.

[elgarnansdalen]

Rook being the only one that can comfort big scary Elgar’nan

[quyeningellvar]

[emmg]

I still don’t really understand why Elgar’nan is so horny for Rook. I mean I’m totally here for it and they need to have nasty angsty hate sex, but like why lol

If anything I’d imagine him getting the hots for Bellara or even Lavellan. Like Lavellan would be cool to read actually, really stick it to Solas (in more ways than one lmao)

All-Daddy basically moans every time he gets to chat to Rook

Lovely

We need more works in the Elgar’nan x Rook tag on ao3, get on it people

[loredrinker]

Inflection, Context, and Elven: Lavellan’s Veilguard Ending (romance state)

Lately, I’ve seen quite a bit of criticism directed at a romanced Lavellan on my dash - particularly in the Veilguard ending, interpreting her as needy, egotistical, or entitled.

And I am wondering: Did we watch the same ending? (I find it fascinating how differently people interpret the same moments - such a reflection of the human experience.) And I couldn't help myself! I felt compelled to share my interpretations so I punched this out the last few days.

The sticking point seems to be Lavellan’s words, especially the ones spoken in Elven.

It seems like a common interpretation of Lavellan’s words here are: 

“It won’t be terrible if you’re with me.” (Implying possessiveness or entitlement - and that she alone will make it better.)

The game’s delivery offers no inflection on any word though. For me, it’s always been: 

“It won’t be terrible if you’re with me.” 

It’s subtle, but very different. This is just one micro-example of how much nuance is packed into the dialogue in the Veilguard ending. These lines shouldn’t be taken in isolation - especially not the Elven ones. They should be understood in the context of what Solas says to Lavellan in Elven just before, and beyond that, within the history established in Inquisition and Trespasser.

Indulgent Solas x Lavellan post ahead.

Note: I respect and appreciate all Solas ships and I will never post negativity towards other interpretations in this space. Everyone deserves to enjoy their creativity and find joy in their community. There’s more than enough Solas to go around. As for Lavellan’s portrayal in VG, it's not perfect. I understand the devs had the impossible task of balancing every interpretation of her. Some dialogue between Rook and Lavellan took me out of gameplay a bit. But I recognized then they had to condense countless versions of her into one, and perfection wasn’t possible. In general I have honest criticisms about the game but try to keep my posts positive overall.

Still here? Excellent. (And sorry, it's another long post.)

"Elven is often a game of intents, not direct mapping of phonetic meaning." The language doesn’t rely on straightforward translations of sounds or words into specific meanings. Instead, it operates on a deeper level, where intent and context carry as much weight.

Earlier in the game, when Solas confronts Elgar’nan, he says: “I must speak to you in this tongue. It seems Elven is beyond your grasp.” This insult implies that Elgar’nan has lost the ability to understand the nuanced, metaphorical nature of the language. Elven relies on shared understanding, rhythm, intent, to convey its full meaning. By Lavellan and Solas choosing to speak Elven to each other it's an acknowledgement of their shared understanding - a connection rooted in their history going back to Inquisition.

Which is why I embrace it in my interpretations.

I disliked that Veilguard kept out the Elven words and left only the English translations in. They can be found here: (Elven Language - Dragon Age Wiki)  But for funsies, let's take Lavellan’s actual Elven dialogue and translate it literally: Banal nadas. Ar lath ma, vhenan. We already know from Inquisition that Banal nadas translates roughly to "Nothing is inevitable" - the same phrase Solas uses when confronting the Nightmare Demon. So Lavellan is saying: "Nothing is inevitable. I love you, my heart."  The gall of this woman! 

Since I do my best to keep my posts playing in the game’s sandbox, I’m going to just look at what the game tells us the translations are and not get into actual translations (others have done that far better than I ever could). There are some great fandom language resources linked at the end of this post. 

Let's start where Lavellan enters and speaks in the common tongue: 

This is personal and expansive. On one level, she’s speaking as someone Solas has wronged, reminding him of the pain he’s caused her directly. But on another, she’s channeling the voices of countless others whose lives were affected by him and who will be shattered by his actions. It’s a challenge that blends her role as both an individual and the Inquisitor.

It’s also not a condemnation. Lavellan doesn’t lash out or accuse him of being irredeemable. Instead, she questions him, cutting through to reach the man beneath. She’s speaking to Solas (wisdom).

"Vhenan" is acknowledging his love for her but it’s also symbolic of his heart, the part of himself he’s buried and tried to ignore, suddenly reappearing. Solas has spent much of his journey detached and isolated, removing his heart metaphorically to push forward with his plans without the weight of emotional ties. Lavellan’s presence makes it impossible for him to keep it hidden. His heart is right there, exposed and speaking. And the ellipsis - so many words unsaid.

Immediately Solas looks down (I read it as shame). It’s a reaction back to what he said in Trespasser: that he would not have her see what he becomes. And yet, here she is. She sees him, the terrible path he has chosen, the blood on his hands, the awful things he has done, and what he’s about to do. In that moment, his shame is palpable - because Lavellan is one person he couldn’t bear to face in this state. 

And Lavellan doesn’t hesitate. Her next words are as much about holding him accountable as they are about reminding him that there is still another path. 

This isn’t some starry-eyed, naïve Inquisitor we’re dealing with (at least mine isn’t). Lavellan is fully aware at this point. But her stance is clear: no one is beyond redemption, not even the Dread Wolf himself. And she wasn’t the only one – this message is repeated throughout the game by others. 

Her words challenge the belief that has kept Solas shackled to his path. He’s convinced himself that his guilt and mistakes are too great, that there’s no turning back, and that the only option is to see his destructive plans through to the bitter end.

She doesn’t beg or demand or frame it in a way that’s grand and sweeping – she simply says “you’re wrong.”  

She’s not trying to erase his mistakes or pretend they don’t exist. She's saying, Yes, you’ve done terrible things, but that doesn’t mean you’re beyond the reach of change.

Lavellan’s journey as Inquisitor began with the Anchor - a mark born of Solas’s mistakes and choices. From the moment she touched his orb (yes, it sounds dirty), her path became entwined with his. This isn’t Lavellan selfishly claiming Solas’s path; it’s an acknowledgment that their journeys have run parallel.

Their connection was forged long before either fully understood its implications. Lavellan’s work to stabilize Southern Thedas mirrors Solas’s aim to restore a broken world, including the burdens of being forced to take on titles and labels. She is revealing her own struggles with devastating, blood-soaked choices - choices that, like his, have carried profound consequences.

Solas believes he’s been walking this path alone, but Lavellan shows him she's been walking alongside him this whole time. Now, as their paths converge again, this is a reminder of the power of connection and the burdens they’ve both borne. He's actually not alone.

Her words also carry an unspoken promise: she is ready to continue to bear the consequences with him. She knows the road ahead is painful and fraught with difficulty, but she is steadfast.

Why do I feel that people sometimes forget Lavellan’s role as Inquisitor? She wasn’t defined by Solas; she was the leader of a powerful military and political organization, forced to make horrible decisions. Whether you choose the mages or templars in Inquisition, you doom thousands to torment and death. The Empress of Orlais can live or die based on the Inquisitor’s choices. And if you’re like me and made the wrong calls on the Dalish clan war table operation, her own clan can be murdered and wiped out.  (Yes, I’m still haunted by that moment.) Her hands have blood on them too. This makes me wonder: does some criticism of the Solas/Lavellan romance stem from failing to see Lavellan as her own person? I love Lavellan for who she is as the Inquisitor - not because of Solas. Likewise, Solas is fascinating on his own. Their romance is one layer of the story, not the foundation of either character. Sometimes it feels like there are even some Solas/Lavellan lovers who have a tendency to overlook the depth and individuality of both characters outside of their romance.

Solas’s statement is a raw admission of all the guilt he carries for his deceptions and the pain he has caused her - lying to her about his identity, betraying her trust - not just as the Inquisitor, but as a person he loves.

His words are not an attempt to seek forgiveness but an acknowledgment of the truth - no matter how painful it is for them both. He knows his choices have caused devastation to the world and to her specifically. He's exposing the full weight of his dual burden: the grand, world-altering consequences of his plans and the personal betrayal of the woman he loves, who trusted him. 

Perhaps, on some level, he hopes that reminding Lavellan of his lies and treachery will convince her to abandon him, sparing her further pain. His guilt and self-loathing are so entrenched that the idea of being forgiven - or even supported – either confounds him or terrifies him.

But Solas’s confession is not just a shield to push her away. It’s also an invitation for her to see him - not the wise, compassionate companion she knew, but the flawed, broken man beneath.

This moment to me shows that Solas still values Lavellan’s understanding (we also saw it in his letter to her). He doesn’t diminish the weight of his actions but wants her to see the cost of his deception - not just for her, but for himself. To Solas, his betrayal is unforgivable. 

And yet - this "selfish" woman dares to forgive him anyway. 

Forgiveness is an act of wisdom because it requires understanding - and she reflects that wisdom right back at him.

"All you have to do is stop" is heavy with meaning. Yes, on the surface, it’s a plea to stop tearing down the Veil, to reconsider the destruction. But it’s also a plea for him to stop running, to stop isolating himself, and to stop punishing himself for his failures. She’s asking him to step out of the shadow of his self-loathing and see that there’s another way forward, not by demanding or commanding, but by offering him compassion (forgiveness). (Cole, I miss you.) 

But Solas’s guilt and self-loathing run deep.

With these words, Solas apologizes to his heart - hardening it once more. For a moment, it had softened, cracked open. But he shuts the door.

The bow that accompanies his words is loaded. A bow carries layers of meaning depending on context - reverence, respect, gratitude, apology, greeting or farewell, a spiritual act, acknowledgment, loyalty, mourning, or even a romantic gesture. Solas’s bow can mean all of these. 

He is physically reinforcing the gravity of his apology. It’s a solemn moment. He is bowing to her strength, to all she has endured because of him. And when he calls her "vhenan," it is personal. It's an apology to her and to his own heart for not choosing the life he wanted to have with her.  “...to stay by your side as Solas...as I wanted.”  

The bow also carries guilt. He is acknowledging the pain he’s caused and humbling himself before her. And his eyes in the animation during this moment – I saw haunted, tormented, tired eyes – the eyes of a man grappling with the weight of his choices and the thought that he cannot accept redemption, even if it’s offered freely.

Time for a an indulgent moment - a bow can also symbolize acceptance. What if, in that moment, it’s not just an apology? What if it’s Solas saying, “You’re right. You have walked this path with me. I acknowledge that.” The bow could be a tacit agreement - a recognition of a future with her. What if he’s asking: I’m sorry, but I can’t stop, are you still coming with me? And Lavellan’s eyes right after? She looks down, like she’s contemplating this - what if he tears the Veil down? What happens next? What do I do? Anyway, maybe I indulged with this thought a little too much.  

But, as I’ve said before, it takes a village to stop a Solas. Cue Morrigan and Mythal - but I’m not diving into that dialogue rabbit hole in this post.  

But this scene with Mythal is important. Lavellan has just watched the man she loves completely crumble in front of Mythal. He’s bent over in grief/pain, utterly vulnerable. She hears him say, in anguish, “The things that I have done.” She sees him lift the dagger - perhaps to surrender it, to shield himself from Mythal, or even as a plea to Mythal to end his torment. Whatever the intent, Lavellan is witnessing the rawest, most broken Solas. His guilt is overwhelming, and this is the first time she’s truly seeing the full weight of it laid bare (as is Rook). It’s a moment of heavy sadness for her – and for us as players. 

This scene seems to have created a universal understanding among players who love Solas, regardless of who you ship Solas with. We are all witnessing Solas in this moment of pure vulnerability. Let’s honor that shared empathy. 

Solas is bent over with the emotional collapse of centuries of obligation and guilt coming to the surface. Mythal’s departure leaves Solas vulnerable, stripped of the purpose that has guided him for so long. He is alone in his pain.

For Lavellan, can you imagine the helplessness? All she can do is offer her presence, understanding, and faith in him afterward. That might feel like so little in the face of such immense pain, but it’s all she has to give. 

Where Mythal’s words, spoken in the common tongue, are authoritative and final, Lavellan’s are intimate and personal. Her choice to speak Elven reflects her desire to meet Solas where he is - connecting with him on an intimate level.

Only after Mythal has left him exposed - that Lavellan uses the Elven language. In this moment, stripped of his defenses, he is finally open to hearing and feeling the full significance of the words and their intent.

Lavellan’s words challenge the notion that fate is immutable or inevitable. When she says, “there is no fate...,” she isn’t diminishing everything else in favor of her love; she’s rejecting the tyranny of inevitability. Her words assert that choices - rooted in love, connection, and shared purpose - have the power to shape their path forward. She reframes love as a force just as powerful as fate, capable of creating meaning and direction where there once seemed to be none.

Atonement

And at this point? Lavellan has no idea what Solas will do next. None of them do. But the combined efforts of Rook, Lavellan and Morrigan get through to him. Because Solas makes a choice - a monumental choice. He binds himself to the veil, committing to atonement. Atonement is a powerful, active word. It evokes the gravity of recognizing wrongdoing and the courage to address it. His decision to seek restoration with the Titans, to deal with the Blight, to return to where it all began, reflects the depth of his remorse and his willingness to rebuild the balance he disrupted – from the beginning. 

Solas equates atonement with isolation, believing that his punishment must be borne alone. To him, atonement requires severing ties, including the possibility of love. He doesn’t ask Lavellan to join him because he cannot conceive of burdening her with the weight of his choices and the path he must walk.

But Lavellan’s words - once again - challenge that. She offers him the possibility that his actions, no matter how devastating, do not erase the love and faith others still have in him. This is an invitation.

She's also being vulnerable here. She’s offering herself to him, knowing full well that he still might say no. A risk she’s willing to take. 

He doesn’t try to shut her out or push her away this time. Instead, he shifts the focus - he needs her to understand the gravity of the path they are about to walk. His response reflects his own vulnerability as well, he wants her to know what she’s choosing, but he can’t bring himself to reject her offer outright. 

Solas responds in Elven - his acknowledgment of their shared understanding and their entire relationship and journey that has shaped them.

His words also mark a turning point: for the first time, Solas allows Lavellan her agency. Throughout their relationship, he has taken her choices away. He broke off their relationship in Inquisition. He vanished after Corypheus’s defeat, leaving her no say in it all.

And he knows this! During their confrontation in Trespasser, when Lavellan demands answers, he justifies his deception with, “And what would you have had me say? That I was the great adversary in your people’s mythology?” Her cutting reply, “I would have had you trust me!” lands with devastating clarity. His face falls, struck by the hard truth: the man who values freedom has stripped hers away. And he's going to do it again.

This moment in Veilguard feels like a callback to that. Lavellan is asserting her choice. And this time, Solas doesn’t take it from her.

By framing his destination in such stark, "terrible" terms, Solas isn’t pushing her away out of cruelty. He’s laying bare the enormity of what lies ahead, warning her of the peril while giving her the freedom to choose for herself. It’s his way of ensuring she understands the stakes.

Solas is doing what she requested long ago - trusting her - and what a choice to place that trust in. He’s entrusting her to make an informed decision about stepping onto a path that could shape the future of Thedas. He is trusting Lavellan’s strength and resiliency. And in trusting her, Solas reveals a quiet, unspoken truth: he doesn’t want to face this journey alone. By even presenting the choice, he reveals a quiet hope that she might go with him, despite everything.

To me, what makes this moment so achingly beautiful is the duality in his expression. His eyes seem to plead two things at once: “I don’t want to put you in harm’s way,” and “I can’t deny wanting to be with you.” There’s a raw vulnerability in the way he looks at her.

“It won’t be terrible if you’re with me.” 

Lavellan’s response is a direct challenge to Solas’s warning. He tells her the path ahead will be awful - because of him. But she counters, saying that it’s because of him that it won’t be. This isn’t her forcing herself into his journey or suggesting that she alone will make it better. Instead, it’s her way of expressing that his presence will give her the strength to face whatever lies ahead. She’s trying to ease his mind, while also signaling her willingness to trust him again.

At the same time, her words acknowledge the weight of Solas’s suffering, offering herself as a partner to bear that burden together. She isn’t dismissing the risks or downplaying the severity of what’s to come - she’s choosing to stand beside him, fully aware of the challenges ahead.

It’s not about personal gain; it’s about shared resilience. Lavellan’s focus is on what they can endure together, not on what she might receive from the journey.

And since the Fade reflects emotions, as many have pointed out, their combined trust and love could manifest in ways neither of them can predict. Their bond has the power to shape not just their path but the very world around them.

This declaration is past, present and future; it’s a reaffirmation of their bond, a recognition that they’ve been walking the path of the dinan’shiral together all along. It’s future focused - she is offering to shoulder the burden with him going forward.  

She’s also telling him that she won't abandon him, no matter how hard the road ahead may be. 

And at the end of the day, she's a woman who still loves him. What does Prince Lir say in The Last Unicorn? "I love whom I love."

I've never interpreted Lavellan as someone sitting by a window for ten years, writing sad poetry and sighing into the wind, longing for Solas. She’s been busy - rebuilding a fractured world, navigating political fallout, and seeking understanding. Lavellan’s love for Solas isn’t blind devotion; she’s holding onto the possibility of redemption and the deep impact he had on her life. In my world state, Lavellan’s clan is wiped out. The people of the Inquisition have become her family, the ones she fights for and protects. And indirectly, Solas gave her that family. Despite the pain he’s caused, her love for him reflects the complexity of her journey - one defined not by a single relationship, but by hope, resilience, and the connections she’s forged along the way.

Lavellan then leans in to kiss him, and Solas allows himself to be drawn in. This moment is acceptance - a silent vow, a promise sealed in their shared vulnerability. It’s an intimate connection forged in front of those who have just witnessed the emotional storm that brought them to this point, as if to say, “This is where we stand, together.”

While I won’t dive into fly-cam images (you can find some here), there are some tender subtle details: the way he caresses her hands with his thumbs, the way he holds onto her one hand as she pulls away, as if he’s not ready to let go. But I promised to stay within game constraints.

And then Solas turns to Rook and says, “Thank you.”

Solas doesn’t thank Rook when he hands them the dagger, nor when he’s preparing to walk into the Fade. He says it after the kiss. Make of that what you will but Rook’s is symbolic for me, especially after thinking about this ending a bit.

In thanking Rook, Solas acknowledges not only their actions but also their understanding of the connection he shares with Lavellan. Rook, transformed by their own relationships and the bonds they’ve formed throughout their journey, embodies the themes that have always defined Dragon Age to me: connection, fellowship, community, love, and redemption. These games (again, for me) have always been about how people, despite their flaws and struggles, can come together to make the impossible possible.

Rook’s symbolism in the redemption ending feels like the culmination of this ethos. They represent how even those who begin on the periphery of great events can become central to forging bonds and creating change. Solas’s gratitude is for Rook's empathy, their recognition of the importance of connection, and their role in bringing these threads of love and redemption together. I'll go cry now.

And off they go into the Fade.

The Final Translation 

"With Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain dead, and the Inquisitor finally reunited with her true love, it looked like one of the biggest stories the world had ever seen was finally drawing to a close."  

Varric’s narration ties the ending image back to the connection between Inquisition and Veilguard. Inquisition is the Inquisitor’s story; Veilguard is Rook’s. Solas serves as the thread linking them. Varric frames this moment through Lavellan’s perspective, narrating the story like one of his novels - not to diminish Solas, but to highlight the Inquisitor’s journey. After all, Veilguard wouldn’t exist without Inquisition. Rook wouldn’t be working with Varric or searching for Solas if not for the Inquisitor.

As much as I would have loved a deeper focus on Solas, Veilguard wasn’t his story. If Inquisition is the Inquisitor’s story and Veilguard is Rook’s, this ending is a shared culmination: for a romanced Lavellan, it’s the personal resolution of her journey; for Rook, it’s recognition of their critical role in saving Thedas.

Okay, indulgence over - whew, that was long! I really need to practice shorter posts.

In the end, those who dislike this romance or this ending probably always will. That’s fine; I just wanted to share my interpretations because I genuinely love this story for all its complexity.

To everyone who made it to the end of this post - thank you for joining me in my indulgence. May your own Solas ships continue to bring you joy and inspiration.

Elven language resources: 

Project Elvehn on AO3 

Elven Translator 

World Anvil Elvhen Resource 

Reddit on Elvhen Poetry 

[sorceresssundries]

The Warden's Watcher

Chapter 3

AO3 link

Pairing: Emmrich x Female Rook

Warnings: Talks of death, infertility. Will become explicit in later chapters.

Little note - Taash's journey will be covered briefly in this fic, and as such their pronouns will be altered in line with the events of the game <3

“What makes you the right person to lead the fight against Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain?”

The arrogance of the man. The sheer audacity. She had spoken to him only a couple of times  in this haunted and bleak place, but she understood why he was so vilified. 

His entire demeanor bristled with confidence: the cocky lilt of his voice, the faint smirk tugging at his lips. He was a prisoner who believed himself a god. On what ground? Where were his worshippers? His temples? He was no god of Grace’s. He was a soldier who had lived so long that all he knew was war. A tired rebel who didn’t know how to function without a cause.

She didn’t know if this was truly the Fade, or some intrusion into her thoughts—or worse, some awful melding of the two. She didn’t know who was questioning who, who held the upper hand.

But Maker help her, she was tired. And angry.

“Someone has to do something,” she replied evenly, “and I am willing and able.”

“Is that all it takes?”

Solas was baiting her, of course. His words slithered in and around her defenses, searching for soft, malleable places to sink his teeth. A wolf in chains is still a wolf, and this one howled lies and half-truths. She didn’t trust him. And yet...

She needed him. Painful as it was to admit, she needed his knowledge.

Her gaze narrowed. How does one outplay the god of trickery? She tilted her head, mimicking his infuriating calm. No—she’d find his cracks, his weak points.

“Well,” she began, voice heavy with sarcasm, “unfortunately, I'm no leader of an inquisition. Perhaps, if I had a mark of Andraste...”

Ah, there. A slight tightening of his jaw.

“Is that what’s required? To be groomed by one God into the false herald of another?” she crooned.

The response was instantaneous.

“I did not groom—”

“Didn’t you?” she cut in, sharp as her Warden’s blade. “You just let her believe she was chosen? Gifted with a mark and a divine purpose that you caused ?”

His silence was damning.

“Is that what it takes, Solas?” she pressed, stepping forward, her voice gaining force. “Do I need to be another one of your pawns to be deemed worthy? You lied to all of them and used them for your ends. Am I next?”

Solas’ voice dropped low, quiet, and far too dangerous. “I suppose you’re nobody’s chess piece, are you... Rook ?”

Her lips tightened, but she didn’t respond. She knew exactly what he was doing—trying to prise apart her trust in Varric, trying to isolate her so he could divide and conquer. Chess moves upon chess moves.

“Have you been completely honest with your team?” His words slithered back in, needling. “Do they know each chapter of your past?”

The weight of his gaze pinned her in place.

“Do they know why you became a Warden?”

A cold wash moved under her skin.

“Do you ?” she bit back.

Solas tilted his head, as though to study her from a new angle. “You helped Varric pursue me for the better part of a year. It would have been foolish not to learn who was hunting me.”

Grace straightened her shoulders, masking her discomfort with a shield of indifference. “My past is of no consequence to the cause. A Warden sheds their past when they take the oath and survive the Joining. It’s what we get in return for our sacrifice.”

“So, your past is irrelevant, but mine condemns me?”

“Your past is all you are,” she snapped. “It consumes you—it is your future. Mine is dead and buried. I’ve made my peace with it. I am atoning for my sins.”

“As am I,” he said, clearly, unwaveringly.

Grace balked. Did he truly believe this was atonement? Atoning to whom? To a race long dead? To an age reduced to ruins and memory?

Surely atonement achieved through destruction could only pave the way for more destruction. For more apologies. For more empty gestures of growth built atop ash and blood. The cycle would continue, endlessly feeding on itself, each act of penance creating fresh sins to be answered for.

And atonement that only begets the need for more atonement—could that ever lead to true redemption?

Could he really not see that? Or was he willfully blind to the futility of his actions, convinced that the weight of his guilt demanded something—anything—even if it meant dooming others to pay the price for his absolution?

“They trust me, and I trust them. That is enough,” Grace said firmly, shaking the dark thoughts from her mind. “We have a strong group. We’ve just recruited a Dragon hunter, as well as an expert in the fade”

Solas smirked again. Even though the chasm between them was vast and uncrossable, for one brief, tempting moment, Grace considered risking the leap—just to punch him square in the face.

“I was a trusted Fade expert once, too.”

Her eyes narrowed, the edges of her temper fraying. “Well,” she retorted, voice dripping with venom, “this one’s far more charming—and isn’t an arrogant piece of shit. So, we’re already one up on the Inquisition.”

She had expected him to look thunderous, to bare his teeth like a hungry wolf. Instead, his expression remained infuriatingly calm—the smug face of trickery itself.

“Enough of this,” she snapped, her patience frayed to the edge. She was done trading barbs with him. “Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan each control an archdemon,” she said, exhaling sharply as she rubbed her temples. Sparring with Solas was exhausting, and not the reason she had come here. “A blighted archdemon.”

The smirk vanished, replaced by a grim, thoughtful line.

“The life force of those archdemons is bound to the Evanuris as both power and protection,” Solas said gravely. “You will not be able to kill—or even harm them—until their dragon thrall is slain.”

The odds kept stacking, impossibly higher and higher.

“Anything else?” she asked, her tone dulled by weariness. The bite in her words was gone; she was too tired to flash her teeth anymore.

“Even with their dragons dead, they will not be easy to kill. You will need to use my dagger.” His words came measured and steady, as if weighing the burden he was about to place on her. “It will pierce their enchantments and end them once and for all.”

The edges of the Fade began to shimmer and blur. She felt herself slipping, like falling away from one dream into another.

“This opportunity will be fleeting and costly,” Solas continued, his voice turning somber. “You will not have another chance to catch them unawares.”

The blurring of the Fade softened him, his face flickering with something unfamiliar—genuine sadness, perhaps. Or regret. Grace couldn’t be sure. For just a moment, he didn’t seem like the arrogant wolf she had fought so hard to keep at bay.

“If you see the Inquisitor...” His voice faltered, and his expression tightened as if bracing himself. “Please tell her...”

But the words, like him, vanished into the Fade, swallowed whole by the shifting dreamscape.

The next thing Grace knew, she was awake—her body heavy, her limbs slow—as she returned to the room that wasn’t hers. Yet the Fade’s echoes clung to her, a faint hum of its magic lingering in her chest.

And as she lay there, caught in the fragile space between asleep and awake, she heard it again. The Calling.

It was still just a whisper, faint and distant, more a hum than a melody. A sound so small, so hidden, it was only discernible in the stillest of moments - the delicate hours when the night before surrendered itself to the day after, when even the sharpest troubles stretched, yawned, and softened. In that fragile quiet, the sound crept in, threading through her thoughts like a shadow slipping through cracks, settling itself down just at the edge of her awareness.

It was no bard’s tune, no hymn for a harp or lute. It was a whisper with a heartbeat, temptation with a rhythm. Both unknowable and inexplicably familiar. 

It felt like turning to see the outline of someone following you, someone you half-remember from a time you wish you could get back to. I know you, you might say, though their name eludes you. Although disconcerting, there is comfort, it is a relief to see them there. 

The song was like that - a longing you could not place, a desire as old as to feel familiar ground beneath your feet. It didn’t ask for much, just a moment’s indulgence, a step toward the pull. Just one step. And then, why not another? And then one more?

Grace knew when it called to her fully, there would be no hesitation. She would follow. It wasn’t coercion - it was inevitability. Perhaps that was the greatest comfort of all, to know there was no fight to be had. 

Not that it mattered any more. She would never need to follow it now. 

The Gods could not be killed until their arch-demons were slain. And, well, as a warden who was already hearing the Calling, it made sense that she should be the one to strike the blow and give what little life she had left in exchange for the dragon’s. It was logical. Straight-forward. Indisputable. 

The months she thought she had left had dwindled down to mere hours, and she was relieved.  

She wouldn’t have to endure the Calling growing louder, the insidious whisper of the darkspawn growing stronger in her mind. She wouldn’t have to watch her skin pale and her eyes redden until she became something ghoulish, a shadow of herself. She wouldn’t have to walk that mournful march below the earth, into the Deep Roads, to fight an endless tide of darkspawn until her strength gave out and they dragged her down to a painful end.

In Death, Sacrifice.

Maybe, her sacrifice could be more meaningful than she’d dared to hope. Perhaps she wouldn’t fall in some forgotten corner of the world. Perhaps she could take her sword and plunge it into the skull of an Archdemon, strip the twisted divinity from a vengeful god that threatened the world she had sworn to protect, and trade her life for a glimmer of hope.

She hadn’t told anyone about what she had been hearing, and now she wouldn’t need to. At least that was one weight off her mind. 

It had been a few weeks since the full group had last gathered at the lighthouse. They were still new to one another, strangers navigating unfamiliar bonds. She had been so consumed by tasks and planning that the haunting melody of the Calling had been all but drowned out, leaving her with little time to dwell on it. 

The stillness around her was broken by the unmistakable cadence of voices drifting up from the atrium. Grace stirred, the distant melody of the Calling pushed aside by the more immediate, bracing familiarity of Taash’s voice—blunt as a mace and often hitting just as hard.

“…if you had just left it alone.”

“Taash,” came Emmrich’s measured tone, a practiced counterpoint to her impatience. “There is no need for dramatics.”

Grace descended the stairwell slowly, her fingers brushing the railing, her expression carefully neutral. As she entered the atrium, she found Davrin seated at the table, arms crossed against his broad chest. Emmrich leaned against the back of a chair, his demeanor composed, while Taash paced like a caged animal, her movements sharp with frustration.

The trio had just returned from the Hossberg wetlands, where the spread of the Blight had been causing serious problems. Grace had stayed behind to talk to Solas. Judging by the tension in the room, it seemed neither mission had gone well.

“It’s bad,” Davrin said, breaking the strained silence.

Grace’s gaze snapped to him. “How bad?”

“The Blight is fast-moving. And worse, it’s… changing.” His discomfort was palpable, his words cautious as he glanced at the others in the room.

“Did you find Evka and Antoine?” she pressed, catching the subtle flicker of unease in Davrin’s expression.

“Yes, Antoine can sense something…” Davrin admitted reluctantly, his voice low.

“They’re gathering evidence for the First Warden,” Emmrich interjected smoothly, his tone less guarded. “I managed to gather some samples myself, I'm quite skilled at alchemy, perhaps with some further study of my own I may be able to…”

“The whole thing fucking sucked.” Taash said, arms folded. “Blight cysts and boils everywhere. Darkspawn running rampant. Demons down wells. It sucked.”

Grace’s lips quirked upward “I can always count on you for a thorough report, Taash.”

“They spoke highly of you,” Emmrich said, his voice lighter, as if deliberately steering the mood to calmer waters. “Lovely couple. They had a lot of interesting theories about the blight’s  adaptability. They believe it’s developing patterns of behavior. Targeting places of greater strategic importance. As though something—or someone—is influencing it. Guiding it.”

Grace felt a cold weight settle in her chest. The implications of such a development were too terrible to ignore.

“Does the First Warden know?”

“Not yet,” Davrin admitted. “Antoine and Evka are to make the report in person. The wardens are being called back to Weisshaupt. Something big is coming.”

Grace glanced between them, her mind already racing through strategies. The world was shifting again, tilting closer to chaos, and she felt the all-too-familiar pressure of decisions that carried the weight of countless lives.

She wanted to ask more—press them for every scrap of information they had—but the ache of the Calling tugged at the edges of her mind, a reminder that her time was running out faster than she cared to admit. For now, she would focus on the present, on what needed to be done. She couldn’t think about dying now. 

"Emmrich, I need to borrow a book from your study." She didn’t, she just needed to be warmed by the fire and his company. 

"Of course," he replied.

They left Davrin and Taash to argue over blight and monsters and dragons, and she followed him into the room that had quickly become her favorite in the lighthouse.

A beautiful spiral staircase wound upward, coiling like a ribbon of dark wood to a small balcony near the top of the tower. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books, trinkets, and instruments whose purposes Grace could only guess at. The fireplace was alive with a crackling fire, sending out warmth that settled into her tired bones. 

The study had surprised her. She hadn’t expected it to feel so welcoming. Every room in the lighthouse seemed to mirror the tastes and desires of its inhabitants, but this room? She had expected something austere, reflecting Emmrich’s darker sensibilities. Stone walls, perhaps, cold and smooth as marble. Flickering green lanterns that spilled veillight across a shadowed floor—something that spoke of his familiarity with death and decay. It still held a gothic charm, urns with imposing skull lids, an examination table stained with something she would rather not think about.

But the comfort, and vibrancy of his study was a pleasant surprise. The warmth of it drew her in, beckoning her to linger. She noticed how it had appeared next to her own room, as if placed there deliberately. The air was rich with scents that she couldn’t resist: spiced wine, the faint acrid sweetness of fireplace smoke, and the unmistakable crackle of magic.

The lighthouse had not offered Grace a room of her own. Instead, there were subtle, almost intimate hints of magic. She would come back to find bunches of delicate purple flowers arranged in vases. Books, ones she hadn’t noticed before, would show up, their pages folded at key passages. Trinkets, small and thoughtful - stones with strange markings, a carved pendant, even an old, weathered map with sections highlighted - would find their way onto the dresser. 

For the others, entire rooms had appeared and formed and flourished to their needs and personalities. Grace was forced to stay in Solas’s old room, laying on the sofa with the light from the aquarium dancing across the walls. At least she had the scent of her favourite flowers.

But there was always Emmrich’s room, and no magic could create anywhere more inviting. 

“You were after a particular book?” Emmrich asked, with a glint in his eye. 

This was not an unusual step in their intricate dance. Often, she would knock on his door with some pretext to speak with him—asking about his history, seeking his advice, or simply to borrow a book and read by the fire. Each encounter added to the growing collection of stolen moments that she carefully hoarded, even as she reminded herself of the rule she had set.

She would not develop feelings for him. 

That was the line she had drawn. She would not allow herself to dream of nights wrapped in his arms, of his rich, knowing voice whispering sweetness in the whorl of her ear. No. It was impossible. Disastrous.

But… a little flirting would be safe, surely? Why shouldn’t she indulge herself, just a little? If her time was running short, surely she could afford to spend some of it savouring the velvet comfort of honeyed words exchanged with Emmrich. He was a delight—a rare and intoxicating thing she wished to enjoy, if only for a fleeting moment. Just a taste. Just flirting. That would be fine.

She had never been in love, and didn’t plan on falling into that trap at this stage in her shortened life.

Since she was twenty, she had been a sword and shield against the dark, and others had always treated her as such. Sharp. Solid. Edges folded over and over again until she became a being of tempered steel.

Now, at thirty-five, as the end barreled toward her—merciless, inexorable—she found she no longer wanted to be the shield holding back her own oblivion. There was no beating back the inevitable. For a while, she longed to be something softer, stitched from silk and sighs. A sip of rich wine on a parched tongue. A balm, not a blade.

She wanted to be savoured like the last days of summer, all slow heat and light that lingers. She wanted to be Grace, and not Rook. But… such moments were no longer hers to hope for. 

She had known romance, of course. There had been fleeting entanglements, most often with other wardens, but they had always carried an undercurrent of tragedy. Every touch, every stolen hour, felt like a prelude to the inevitable. Each affair began with flowers and shared wine, only to be set aside and left to gather dust. Beautiful. Impermanent.

That was fine. She had accepted it. Grace was prepared to make peace with a short, adventurous life that had never been centered in someone else’s heart. If love wasn’t hers to hold, she would settle for the steady thrum of her own, echoing in her chest. A rhythm that would persist, unyielding, for as long as it could.

For as long as she could.

Emmrich was speaking to her again, his voice a warm current that swept her away, carrying her thoughts to treacherous waters. She found herself wondering how he kissed. Would it be like a gentleman—deliberate and refined? Or like a cad, all heat and urgency, stealing her breath like a desperate thief? Or perhaps like the scholar she knew him to be, curious and thorough, exploring her with the precision of one seeking to master every sigh, every shiver?

“Grace?”

Her name, spoken in that familiar timbre, pulled her abruptly from her reverie. She blinked, realizing with a flush of embarrassment that she had missed whatever he’d just said. His head tilted slightly, and a faint smirk curved his lips, amusement glinting in his eyes.

Maker, that smirk was going to be her undoing. 

“Sorry,” she said, her voice a little too quick, a little too light. “I got distracted.”

“Clearly,” he replied, his smirk deepening. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

“Um…” 

He just laughed at her as she felt herself turn even pinker. 

“Your blush turns you such a beautiful shade.” He said nonchalantly, “Where did you drift off to?”

“Oh, sorry. A lot on my mind. Blight. Gods. The inevitable confrontation that we’re unlikely to survive. That sort of thing.”

“Right, of course. What a silly question.” He smiled and she tried her best not to melt. 

“I was wondering.” It was his turn to look a little flushed, which was odd for him. “if you wouldn’t mind accompanying me to the Necropolis? I have a task to perform, and would like some company.”

There was a second of fear, where she looked at the line she had drawn and it shimmered and bent. 

Flirting would be fine. A little time together would be fine. Harmless. Besides, she didn’t have many chances left to be alone in his company. 

She would take a little warmth where she could.

⎯⎯⎯⎯ ♜ ⎯⎯⎯⎯

Emmrich met her at the entrance to the memorial gardens, his expression warm, his hand extending toward hers in a gesture both formal and intimate. Grace placed her hand in his, and he led her down the wide, well-maintained steps. They were designed thoughtfully, ensuring even the most elderly of mourners could descend them safely, but the gallantry of the gesture touched her anyway. 

“Part of my duties here includes tending to these rites of remembrance,” he explained as they began their stroll through the gardens. “It’s an important part of my role. Even though I’m technically away on leave, there are some things I still feel compelled to attend to. When I can.”

They moved slowly, the tranquility of the gardens wrapping around them like a gentle embrace. The air was cool but not biting, and the faint rustle of leaves intermingled with the soft crackle of the candles they lit as they went. Emmrich would pause now and then, murmuring words that were too quiet for Grace to hear. As they passed certain corners, wisps of light trailed close beside them—spirits, bright and curious, drawn to Emmrich’s presence. He acknowledged them with respect, his interactions natural and unforced, as though speaking to them was as simple as breathing. Grace watched, fascinated.

“This is where I feel it most,” Emmrich said softly, “The presence of the Veil. The closeness of the spirits. They aren’t angry or vengeful here—just… watchful. Grateful.”

“You must live a busy life,” she said quietly.

He gave a faint, almost wry smile. “Teaching, researching, performing rites, guarding the necropolis… It does have a way of filling the hours.” He paused, his steps slowing. “But this place—this work—has always been more than just a duty for me.”

She could sense there was more to say, and so she waited, letting the silence stretch between them until he was ready.

“I came to the Necropolis after I was orphaned” he began, his voice steady but laden with a quiet grief that felt well-worn, like a cloak he had carried for many years. “A collapsed building. Swift deaths. After the funeral, the watchers took me in.” 

The admission hit Grace like a quiet, unspoken blow. She tried to imagine it—a little boy suddenly without parents, ripped from his home and taken to live in a place where death was ever-present. Did it help, she wondered, being surrounded by others who mourned? Did their shared grief make his own any easier to bear? Or had it only made him feel more lost, more alone?

“How did you cope?” she asked softly, her words tender with genuine curiosity.

“I didn’t. When I first came here, I was terrified.”

“And you still joined the Watchers?” Her tone carried a note of admiration she didn’t bother to hide. “That’s… remarkable.”

“They’re what saved me,” he said simply. “It was terrifying in a way I couldn’t name then. To feel so small in the face of something so vast, so unchangeable.”

Grace felt her fingers twitch, an instinctive desire to reach for him, to offer some kind of comfort. But she held back, knowing instinctively that he needed to let this out, uninterrupted.

“The watchers showed me a different way to look at it,” he said, his tone softening with something akin to gratitude. “Death wasn’t just loss to them. It was… continuity. A thread that connected everything and everyone. They taught me to honour it, learn from it. And so, I did. Even though it still scared me.”

Grace nodded, his words drawing her in like a quiet tide. There was a stillness to the way he spoke of death.  She felt the urge to open up, to share her own fears, the ones she usually buried beneath duty. But this wasn’t about her. Not now. She wanted to hear more of Emmrich, to know him better while she still had the chance.

“So, you’ve stayed here since then?” she asked softly. Her next words came with more hesitation. “And you… never… married?”

It wasn’t the first time she’d wondered. She’d spent countless quiet moments admiring the intricate jewelry he wore—grave gold, he called it. Bangles and rings, their worn surfaces catching the firelight as he turned pages in a book or gestured passionately in conversation. The way they adorned his elegant hands seemed so fitting, so beautiful, that she couldn’t help but wonder if one of the rings might be something more—a wedding ring, perhaps.

For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw his gaze flick to his hands, as if he, too, knew what she had been looking for all along. Then he smiled faintly and shook his head.

“Ah, no. I’m afraid not. I had a picture for a little while, as people tend to do. An imagining” He waved one of his hands as though it were a wisp to be shooed away. “Marriage and children. Little footsteps in a little house filled with laughter and clutter.”

His smile was a small thing that looked more sad than happy. 

“What happened to that picture?”

He paused, his fingers tracing the air with practiced ease. A vine had uncoiled from its support, its tendrils twisting like a gentle serpent. With a subtle flick of his wrist, he guided it back to its place, the magic flowing through him like a quiet breath. The vine settled, curling gracefully, and in the blink of an eye, delicate white flowers began to bloom, soft and luminous.

“It gathered dust I suppose, as things left unattended always do.”

They walked for a little while, and Grace had to fight the urge to let her hand brush against his. Every now and then he would stop to read the message on a headstone he had read a hundred times before, or bow his head before one of the graves. 

He was even more beautiful here, stately and ethereal. Kind to those who could never offer it back. It moved her in the little ways that turn moments of sadness into minutes and hours and days of hope. She understood now, why people like him were needed in a place like this. The gentle, and the warm - beings of persistent light in a place where it is all too easy to become lost in the dark. 

“It isn’t too late, you know?” She offered

“Oh, well I am content with my teaching and research, and an occasional dash of adventure to keep me spry.” He glanced at her with a sparkle in his eyes. 

For the briefest of moments, she allowed herself to indulge in her own fleeting imagining - a glimpse of a future she knew would never be hers. Not with Emmrich exactly, but just with somebody, somehow. 

Her mind, though stubborn and fortified, knew better. She had steeled herself against such fantasies, reminded herself that a life of that nature was not for her. And yet, despite all the logic in the world, it did nothing to quell the ache in her chest. The heart, it seemed, had a way of feeling things before the mind could catch up. Those little sorrows - small, tender things - drifted there first, nestling into the chambers where logic had no sway, and in their quiet persistence, they made themselves felt. They throbbed and ached. Burning fiercely within her, all the more intense for being ignored, for being left alone to smolder in the dark.

As quickly as the image appeared, she folded it back up and put it away. It hurt too much to keep looking at it. 

She was angry at him a little, for acting like he was nearing the end when there was so much further for him to go. He had the privilege of gathering dust, where she would only become it. 

There were lines in his face that would never deepen on her own, etched there by years of frowns, of laughter, of experiences and moments so uncountable they had made themselves a permanent home in the kind, handsome features of his face. Like the creases of a well-loved storybook. A life well-lived. A life that was not yet finished.

“What does the future look like for you?” Emmrich asked gently, his tone inviting but not insistent.

What to say to that? That there was no future? That this was it? That her flame would snuff out in a matter of hours when she killed the archdemon?

“Oh, the usual things! Fighting darkspawn, killing dragons, one-upping the God of trickery that lives in my subconscious… you know, what every little girl dreams of.”

Her attempt at humor didn’t land the way she’d hoped. He didn’t laugh or even crack a smile. Instead, his expression softened into something that looked suspiciously like pity, and it made her angry in a sharp, immediate way. She didn’t need pity - it was useless. It took up too much space and offered nothing in return.

Grace hesitated. She wasn’t ready to tell him everything. But she owed him something, a piece of herself in return for the piece he had shared.

“When I was little, I wanted to be a blacksmith,”

“I think you’d make a fine blacksmith,” Emmrich replied, his tone so reflexively polite that it tugged a laugh from her despite herself.

“I used to play a game with my sister,” she said. “I’d be the blacksmith, and she’d be the horse. I’d coax her over with treats I’d stolen from the kitchen, stroke her hair, and measure her feet for horseshoes.” She chuckled, louder this time, her laughter rich with the sweetness of nostalgia. “She’d stomp around the garden, pretending to throw the shoes, and I’d chase after her, yelling about how she was ruining my finest work.”

Emmrich’s smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Do you see her often?” he asked, careful but curious.

Grace faltered. The warmth of the memory faded, and the smile slipped, falling away to somewhere she couldn’t quite reach.

“No,” she said quietly, “Not at all. We write to each other occasionally. But when I became a Warden… I gave up my family. It was part of the agreement.”

“Wardens don’t have to give up their families, do they? They can keep their names and connections, as far as I’ve ever understood. The oath comes first, but I thought…”

“My circumstances were a little different,” she interrupted gently, not meeting his gaze. “There is no family for me. Not the one I was born into, and not one for me to make on my own.”

“You never wanted to…?” he began, his voice trailing off, careful.

“Oh, I never really thought about it.” Grace shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I was engaged for a little while, just before I became a Warden.”

She sensed his surprise, though he didn’t voice it.

“It didn’t work out, obviously,” she added, her tone light and detached. “It was a formal, arranged thing that never particularly interested me. And then, when I became a Warden… well, I became a Warden. Relationships were sweet and fleeting, usually with other Wardens. And children…” Her voice trailed off for a moment, a flicker of something unspoken passing through her expression. “Children were not an option.”

“No?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, she hesitated. There were veils and shrouds draped over the truth of the Grey Wardens, hiding their sacrifices. Maybe to keep people from being dissuaded from joining, or maybe to maintain the illusion of the Wardens as unshakable heroes. But Grace had learned early on that the taint was more than just a curse that shortened her lifespan. It was a quiet thief, stealing things she hadn’t even known were precious.

“Wardens can’t… biologically have children,” she said finally, her voice steady but soft.

“Ah. I’m so sorry,” Emmrich said simply. 

“What for?” she replied, forcing a small smile. “I never wanted children, really. But still, something that belonged to me was taken.” She shrugged. “It’s how it is. It’s what I chose. I’m a Warden.”

“You are many things,” he said, his voice filled with such sweet sincerity that it made the ache in her chest bloom anew. “And you should have had the choice to be many more.”

The words hit her harder than she wanted to admit, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she looked away, blinking against the emotions welling in her chest, and let his words settle over her like a quiet, lingering comfort.

“You told me you would tell me the story of why you became a warden, over a drink if I remember correctly.” He said

How she wished she could. What a joy it would be, to dust off her secrets and offer them out to someone who would treasure them. She couldn’t. Not now. It was too late. 

“One day soon.” She said sadly, “When there are fewer Gods and dragons to worry about.”

They had stopped walking now, pausing beneath a great and ancient tree that dominated this part of the memorial garden. Its trunk was a labyrinth of twists and knots, as though it had once been many trees. Over time, they seemed to have reached toward one another, their branches entwining like clasped fingers. Together, they had grown upward, merging into one inseparable whole. The blooms that now drifted softly to the graveyard floor were all the same—identical petals falling from what had become one living thing.

Grace reached out and let a bloom land in her open palm. It was delicate and pale, trembling slightly in the breeze before settling. She studied it for a moment before releasing it again, watching as it spiraled down to join the others in a soft, fragrant carpet.

“You possess a bravery I could only ever dream of.” he said, unable to take his eyes off her. 

“Oh? You seem pretty brave to me.” The urge to slip her hand into his, for even just a moment, was becoming more and more fervid.

“I’m afraid not. I possess a great terror of dying. It goes beyond dread. It can’t be reasoned with, or soothed over, it comes without warning. In the dead of night, in sunlit streets… A raw, strangling fear that strikes somewhere deep past the heart.” 

She did reach for him then, to place a gentle hand upon the crook of his arm. She wished to clasp his hand between hers, or even to touch his face and lift his chin to look at her, but she resisted.

“That must be an issue, for a necromancer”

The look he gave her then, with her hand upon him, made her doomed heart stumble.

“There are struggles, but a watcher must always find peace amongst the graves.” His eyes flickered briefly to her lips, before he seemed to think better of herself. “Come now, I have been maudlin enough.”

To do what he did, to live amongst the dead - and to honour and respect and be so devoted to them despite his phobia of one day joining them, to her seemed like the bravest thing she had ever heard. 

Grace’s hand lingered on his arm a moment longer before she let it fall away, though the warmth of the contact lingered between them. The great tree above them whispered in the breeze, its petals drifting down like snow, and for a moment, the world felt quiet and still, as if holding its breath.

The ache returned, sharper this time. It wasn’t the thought of her death that made her falter; it was the wish—raw, yearning, and impossible—that tore at her insides. She wished she could stay. Stay here with Emmrich. Walk the gardens a little longer. Sit beneath the ancient, entwining trees with him and feel his warmth beside her. Put her hand in his, even for just a little while.

“I think…” her voice came softly, tentative, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile moment between them, “I think I would like to be laid to rest in a place like this.”

She flushed as she spoke, the heat rising to her cheeks. The words felt like a request for something she had no right to, like asking for permission to intrude on something sacred that wasn’t hers. She wasn’t Nevarran. This wasn’t her people’s way. Wardens went to the Deep Roads, their bodies left to rot where they fell. In the Free Marches, the dead were cremated.

But she liked it here. The peace, the reverence, the idea that someone—someone like Emmrich—might one day come to light a candle or place a flower, to be kind to her even when she was no longer living. 

Emmrich turned to her, his expression open but solemn. His lips parted as if to speak, but for a moment he seemed to hesitate, searching for the right words.

“Well,” he said at last, his voice firm but warm, “you don’t have to worry about that for a long time. I’m certain of it.”

It was both hopeful and unbearably naive, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I’ve heard of Wardens living decades after the Joining,” he continued, his tone insistent, as though sheer conviction could make it true. “And none of them could have been as…”

The ache in her chest sharpened further, pricking at the corners of her eyes. She felt the sting of tears but refused to let them fall. She wouldn’t look at him, couldn’t risk meeting his gaze, afraid that the sight of his kindness would undo her entirely.

“…as vivid as you are,” he finished softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

It was enough to crack her armour, even if just a little.

He had taken a step towards her, and she couldn’t help it, she looked up at him and she knew her eyes were misty and her cheeks were flushed and she wore her vulnerability bright and clear in front of him. She didn’t care at that moment, she just wished to look at him in the dim light of the garden, under the tree where the blossoms fell. 

The line she had drawn between them wavered, blurred, and she longed to seize it—to bend it, break it. She wanted to be soft, just for a moment. To be gentle and unguarded, a woman of silk and fresh cotton instead of steel and leather.

“Grace.” He was so close now, she realised her back was bowing, pushing her towards him like a willow tree. 

He took her hand in his, and without taking his eyes from hers, brought her knuckles up to his lips and placed a kiss upon them. Knuckles that had only ever been bloodied and bruised from fights, were now forever changed because Emmrich Volakrin had placed his lips upon them.

“I would very much like to spend more time with you. Alone with you. Times are fraught, and danger is imminent, I understand that.. But with you.. I…”

He hesitated, the words caught somewhere between his heart and his lips.

Her own heart screamed at her to give in. To let him finish.

But she couldn’t.

She broke the spell. Taking a step back, she withdrew her hand from his, the warmth of his touch vanishing like smoke from an extinguished fire. She turned herself back from Grace into Rook. From the woman standing under the blossom tree to the Warden in indelible armour. 

“This has been lovely, Emmrich. I’m grateful for your company, and for showing me the gardens” She dared not look at him. She kept her voice clear, it didn’t sound like hers any more. 

“But.. I don’t think that is a good idea. I think..” The ache was now a fracture. “I think we should focus on what needs to be done, and leave this here.”

She wished him farewell, without looking at him, and left him amongst the graves. 

A bell rang out from where she had left him, mournful and slow. And she tried with all her strength, to feel glad that she had done the right thing. That a tough choice had been made to safeguard both their hearts. 

At least his. Gratefully, his. And even though hers felt punctured and swollen and bruised beyond repair, she knew it would not hurt for much longer.