#lucanis x f!rook

[partially-controlled-chaos]

Think Nothing, Feel Nothing

Pairing: Lucanis Dellamorte/unnamed f!rook

Rating: G for now but might get bumped to M for later chapters

Warning: Hurt and very little comfort for a while. Eventual happy ending. Lucanis is absolutely feral in the first days rook is gone.

Reposting because I was having link issues that aren’t completely fixed, but here we are. Please ignore the double posting.

Read below the cut or on AO3!

Raw energy flared upwards and out from the lifeless body sprawled at Lucanis’s feet, humming with power that grew in intensity with each pulse. The air surrounding him crackled and hissed with residual electricity, making the hair on his arms and back of his neck stand on end, his skin prickling at the feeling. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as his heart pounded against his chest, hands shaking from the residual force of dealing a killing blow to an elven god. He could taste the metallic tang of iron in the air against his tongue, the taste seeping from the spilled blood covering the ground and soaking into the dirt between stone tiles beneath his boots. The taste of iron mixed with the distinguishable rotten smell of blight as the previously pulsing boils began to wither and dry into blackened ash.

Lucanis frantically scanned over the body, searching for any lingering signs of life or reanimation fueled by blight and corrupted magic. Instead, Ghilan’nain lay motionless on the ground; broken and defeated. Despite the odds against them, Lucanis and the rest of the team had slain the elven goddess. It took a greatly combined effort from everyone and a fair amount of luck to get them this far as well as one notably honorable sacrifice by Lace Harding. In the end, Ghilan’nain was finally dead. Her lifeless body now a crumpled heap of tentacles and twisted flesh only a few feet from where he stood. The ritual dagger was lodged deep in the mage’s chest, stopping her heart as her writing body had stilled, but also begun to rip open the Fade at its contact with blighted elven blood.

The magic and power erupting from Ghilan’nain’s corpse grew rapidly, the very edges of reality that separated the real world from the Veil were beginning to thin, warbling and rippling along in thin threads. Wind began swirling around her body, harsh and sharp as a blade against tender skin. Shielding his eyes from the growing force, Lucanis took a struggled step forward, his free hand blindly swatting at the space next to him in a desperate attempt to find Rook in the resulting chaos.

After he had twisted his blade deep in Ghilan’nain’s chest, Lucanis sprung from her torso and landed firmly on his feet, Spite’s wings recoiling and disappearing back into the Fade as he rushed to Rook’s side. She had been flung to the ground like a discarded scrap of paper, her body hitting the stone with an audible thunk. He had helped her to her feet, quickly running his gaze over her to check for injury. In the brief time they had before the stability of reality began to shred, Rook held a hand to his cheek, her bright smile pulling across her lips as she congratulated him on his victory.

The moment was short lived when Elgar’nan made himself known, stepping beside Ghilan’nain as they shared a few final words before she collapsed with a dying breath and the first few licks of energy began sputtering from the dagger. Elgar’nan’s grief and fury then shifted to Rook, his eyes narrowing as his lips curled into a wicked snarl. Lucanis had stepped in front of Rook, his arm and accompanying hand acting as a makeshift shield between her and the remaining god. Rook, however, had neither time nor patience for coddling. She had stepped to the side, her own face twisted into a snarl as she approached Elgar’nan, never once flinching even when threatened with his red lyrium dagger. As the dagger began to chip away in the power emitted from the rotting god, Elgar’nan hid the weapon in his robes and vanished, not before muttering a final threat to Rook.

Time seemed to have stopped as Lucanis tried to walk against the winds, each step sluggish and slow as if he were walking through knee deep mud in the Hossberg Wetlands. He squinted against the light being emitted from the tears opening in the sky above, the brightness almost searing against his eyes as the energy began to pulse even harder, threatening to explode. Lucanis could hear the whirring of air and magic the closer he got to the body, the noise high pitched and shrill, yet almost hypnotic.

“Rook!” Lucanis shouted against the whirring of the chaotic magic swirling him. He heard nothing in response, but as his eyes cracked open against the light, he could see the faint outline of Rook just within his grasp.

With a final blast, a bolt of energy shot into the reddened sky like a beacon, the sheer force of the blast knocking Lucanis off his feet and slinging him back effortlessly. His back hit cold stone tiles, knocking the wind from his lungs and forcing a pained gasp to rush past his lips. His vision flashed a searing white as the back of his head cracked against a piece of debris from a nearby wall, dragging him to the edge of unconsciousness. Something warm and wet trickled down the back of his neck and into the collar of his undershirt, the taste and smell of iron intensifying.

For a moment, Lucanis simply lay there as he tried to get his bearings as the white of his vision gave way to a darkness that was tunneling quickly, threatening to engulf him completely. His eyes snapped open as he took in a sucking breath, the freezing cold air burning his lungs as the darkness in his line of sight began to fade and was replaced with a blur. His head throbbed with each frantic beat of his heart, the adrenaline still coursing wildly through his body. He was lightheaded and dizzy with an ache starting to form behind his eyes, the world around him spinning rapidly. His limbs felt like lead weights stuck in wet sand and it took nearly all of his energy and concentration to move the dead weight.

A sharp ringing emanated from deep within his mind and pierced his ears, muffling the sounds of disorder around him. Although muffled, Lucanis could faintly hear someone talking, more than likely yelling, off to his side. He shifted his gaze in the direction of the voices, his vision eventually settling enough for him to see Emmrich slowly fighting his way towards Rook, his mouth moving at a frantic pace. Bellara stood beside him, also shielding her eyes from the steadily growing energy, her expression a mixture of fear and confusion.

Mustering a bit of strength, Lucanis managed to roll onto his side, a groan rumbling deep in his chest as the movement agitated the freshly opened wound to his skull. Through blurred vision, he could see the silhouette of Rook fighting her way to reach Ghilan’nain’s corpse, her body being blown back by the raw magic being released into the air. He watched as Rook’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the dagger, pulling on the weapon with as much strength as she could find. Lucanis felt a change in the air as Rook pried the dagger from the dead god, the blade dripping with blackened ichor. Spite could feel it as well, the demon stirring in the back of his mind as everything began to still.

Smells like. Blood. And rot. Like. The Ossuary. Spite’s voice hissed in his mind, making Lucanis realize much too late that something was dreadfully wrong.

“Lucanis?” Rook’s questioning voice rang out and pierced the hazy thoughts of his mind, seemingly snapping Lucanis out of his stupor.

“Rook?” Lucanis called back, hoping to reach her ear. But again, he was met with no reply.

With an agonizing grunt, he managed to slip one arm underneath himself to allow for a bit of leverage, but had to pause when his head swam again and his forehead collided with the ground. The all too familiar pain behind his eyes had started as a dull ache now throbbing and searing. They itched and burned with an intensity he hadn’t felt since he’d faced Zara in Treviso. There was blood magic in the air, but Lucanis couldn’t see the mage responsible.

“Lucanis!” His name tore from Rook’s throat in an anguished scream, the sound making Lucanis’s blood run cold. His head snapped up quickly, eyes frantically searching for Rook, but was met with nothing.

“Rook!” Lucanis and Spite yelled her name in unison as he began to crawl, her scream and his inability to see her made another surge of adrenaline shoot through his body. Spite’s wings had unfurled and beat frantically against the dying winds, giving Lucanis more momentum as his arms and legs scrambled against the stone. He could feel his fingernails tearing from inside his gloves as he clawed at the ground below him, the toes of his boots scuffing as he pushed his overly tired body as fast as he could.

With a final burst of energy, the tear in the Fade sealed itself shut and Ghilan’nain’s body began to wither and decay like the surrounding blight boils, flakes of her ash floating upwards into the sky. With the dagger now free from her corpse, the air had stilled and the hum of magic had quietened, as if it had never occurred. An eerie silence blanketed the battlefield, almost deafening when compared to the excessive screeching of only a moment prior.

Lucanis’s chest landed firmly against the ground where Rook once stood, the clatter of his breastplate against the steps leading to the remnants of Ghilan’nain cutting the sudden silence. Pushing himself up on his hands and knees, Lucanis took in his surroundings; cold stone, ash, blood, and blight. Nothing had the thrum of a heartbeat or the inherent warmth of a living body. There was no sign of Rook or the dagger that she had plucked from Ghilan’nain’s chest. It was as if both had simply been snapped from existence and vanished into thin air. It almost felt like Rook had never been there to begin with.

He watched as Spite circled around him, his head wound seemingly left the demon untouched. On a normal day, Spite was erratic and twitchy, flitting from one space to another as he tried to understand the physical world. But now, the demon was almost completely feral. He jumped from stone steps to piles of ashy blight to the wall and back to the stairs, repeating these motions over and over as he sniffed at the air. Spite’s teeth were bared into a ferocious snarl, almost frothing at the mouth as a deep, unsettling anger took root.

No. He growled. Not here. Not right. Gone.

“Emmrich,” Lucanis rasped, “where’s Rook?” Emmrich had been the closest one to Rook when Lucanis had lost sight of her, surely the necromancer must have seen what happened.

Lucanis watched as Emmrich took a few tentative steps forward, his eyes growing wide as he processed recent events. For once, the professor was left speechless, his mouth agape as he searched and scrambled for the right words. Yet again, Lucanis was met with a soul crushing silence.

“Emmrich!” Tears formed in his eyes as he shouted at the necromancer, fear and sorrow beginning to fester in his heart as Lucanis toyed with the idea that Rook was simply gone. The idea was somehow worse than if Rook were lying dead at his feet. At least if she was dead and her body sprawled across the stone, he had something he could mourn. Something to hold for a few remaining moments while whispering apologizes and unsaid confessions of love through a shower of tears. But instead, Lucanis was left with nothing but t a gaping wound where his heart should be and regrets.

The silence of the moment was suddenly shattered as a great roar could be heard in the distance, a dancing parade of orange and yellow clashing against the reddened sky of the eclipse. Flakes of dusty ash landed in Lucanis’s hair and on his cheeks, something he hadn’t even realized were falling until someone behind him spoke up. Instead, he felt nothing at all. He was numb, frozen in place by the reality of the situation. He let tears freely fall from his eyes as he simply rested on his hands and knees. His eyes remained locked onto the place Rook had been, hoping and praying that she would return at any moment.

Elgar’nan’s unfathomable rage was quite literally burning across the island, the lush foliage of the trees had been quickly set ablaze as smoke began rising to the heavens. Sounds of engulfing flames steadily approaching filled the air, silencing the cries of the Antaam on the opposite side of the beach. The coldness of the moment was quickly being replaced by a scorching heat and a sense of dread.

Suddenly, Lucanis felt a firm hand grip his shoulder, abruptly yanking him back. Lucanis swung his elbow with a snarl in an attempt to break free of whoever had grabbed him. He made impact with a plate of armor, but his limbs and body were weakened from the wound on his head. The adrenaline that had coursed through his veins and given him sudden strength had started to wane, making his counter attack weak and useless. His fingers had started to grow cold and the heaviness of his eyes had returned.

“Lucanis.” Davrin’s deep voice cut through the every growing noise, “We have to go. Now!”

“Not without Rook.” Lucanis swung again as he felt Davrin grab at his armor again and give another sharp tug. But, like before, Lucanis’s attack held no weight.

“We don’t have time! Elgar’nan will burn us alive if we wait. We have to get to the boat while we still can!” Davrin was always calm, but even dazed Lucanis could sense the fear that shook his voice.

His breath started coming in shallow pants as he tried to get enough oxygen in his lungs to stay awake, but knew it was a losing battle. His arms and legs had grown heavy, his head bowing greatly as consciousness evaded him. With one final, fleeting burst of energy and a bit of demonic influence, Lucanis broke free of Davrin’s grasp and lunged forward, falling flat on his chest one again.

“We can’t leave…” His voice wavered as his vision once again began to tunnel, “without Rook.”

Numbness crept up from his fingers and into his arms, making Lucanis lose what little mobility he had. As his vision fully blackened, his eyes closed slowly and his head made one final dip towards the ground. His cheek settled against cold rock and the icy memory of his name being torn from Rook’s throat rang in his ears until he finally slipped into darkness.

[itsrainingpandas]

Me making sure I never have Lucanis and Neve on the same team because I want all the Lucanis banter for myself

[freedomatsea]

la petite mort (Lucanis x Rook)

Following the events of Dragon Age: The Veilguard Lucanis and Rook return home to Treviso to enjoy their happily ever after. Except it's not so happily ever after.

Rating: E Ship: Lucanis x f!Rook (de Riva)

Chapter 6 is officially live on AO3!

[corvid-kore]

Alone we are, unknown we are (Lucanis x F!Crow!Rook)

Work Summary: Lucanis and Rook set off to find a Warden in the Anderfels, and the consequences of refusing to sleep become impossible to hide.

Tags: Mentions and/or allusions to torture and its aftermath. Sleep deprivation and its effects. Mentions and/or allusions to child abuse (Cateirna). Spite is a little unsettling/inhuman but I love him. F!Crow!Rook x Lucanis, set in early game (a Warden's Best Friend), Lucanis PoV.

Word Count: 10k (10,041 words. I have issues.)

A/N: I've been meaning to explore how the lack of sleep and constant caffeine intake (plus struggling against Spite constantly, and the paranoia because he's deep in the "It Wasn't Illario" denial) should really be affecting Lucanis long before Weisshaupt. I have other ideas for other moments like this during the game, if you like this and want more let me know and I'll post them!

Also, Drusilla is mentioned here a couple of times. She's an OC I made up for my Rook's backstory (that I then had to try to fit into canon because I did not know Rook was going to be a de Riva), the Fifth Talon before Viago. Rook is considered her daughter, but she isn't.

Title from Better Love, by Hozier, because: "Staring in the blackness at some distant star, The thrill of knowing how alone we are, unknown we are, To the wild and to the both of us, I confessed the longing I was dreaming of."

He hears the almost-silent footsteps as Rook walks into the kitchen, and listens for the change in the cadence of her steps that tells him whether she is here to talk to him or simply to fetch something from the kitchen. Whenever she approaches the pantry, whether intentionally as to avoid sneaking up on him, or by instinct after having spent her life surrounded by Crows, Rook makes her steps louder, easier to hear. 

Spite’s forceful attempt to wrestle control over the body from Lucanis is sudden but thankfully over quickly when the demon encounters the familiar resistance. 

(Rook!) 

“Quiet.” Lucanis hisses at the demon, but it’s pointless, he can feel echoes of Spite’s delight at Rook’s presence in his own chest, in the restlessness the demon forcefully shares with him. 

Spite, in this strange mimicry of Lucanis’ image, stands by the door, slightly hunched as if a beast on the prowl, as he hears for Rook’s footsteps coming closer. 

(Rook! Is here!) 

“Lucanis?” A faint rasp of knuckles against his door, and at his call to come in, Rook peeks her head into the small room with a smile, “Up for a hunt, you and I? A Grey Warden.” 

___ 

“He couldn’t be in some secret mission somewhere sunny in Rivain, no. He had to be in the middle of an ocean of sand,” She complains, and her next step kicks up a little bit more sand, to which Rook simply sighs. He knows that more sand got into her boots by that sigh alone. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye and adds, “Preferable to having to find him in the middle of the actual ocean, mind you.” 

“On that, we are in agreement.” 

“I found Bellara writing down a list of questions about the Ossuary, by the way. When Caterina’s enchanter told us about the wards of the place, I thought that little boat was going to capsize with how much Bellara was fidgeting and gesturing,” She turns to him, a tilt of her head to the side, “Am I warning you in time or has she already gotten to you?” 

“She has…a lot of questions,” Lucanis admits, “I tried, but I couldn’t answer most of them.” 

(I can.)  

Spite sounds almost cruel in his glee, arrogant. 

(You don’t see. I do.) 

Lucanis ignores him, but the tinge of irritation isn’t something he can hide. Spite’s delight at having found something to prod at him with, at having found a means with which to spite him, is loud and uncouth and only deepens Lucanis’ annoyance. 

The two of them -though Spite insists on counting three- continue on their trek through the High Anderfels’ desert, while Rook recounts what Harding’s Warden contacts shared with her, and what Neve and Rook found out about this monster hunter through their Crow and Tevinter contacts. 

Before long, the sun has started to set. Lucnais watches in amusement as Rook narrows her eyes at the faint line of sunlight still lingering in the horizon with utter contempt in her gaze, as if personally offended by the fact that the sun is setting. 

Traveling with the caravan that Rook somehow charmed into taking her and Lucanis as close to the Warden’s last known location as their route allowed them to did save them both from the worst of the desert sun, but it also means they will have found no trail to follow in the first day, even if they did narrow the distance between them and their target. 

A small structure, what is most likely an outpost for travelers, cuts the vast nothingness of the High Anderfels, and without words they start heading towards there, to find shelter for the night if nothing else. 

The small building, emulating a fortress’ tower, has certainly seen better days, and both Crows are in agreement that daring to trust the roof won’t crumble over their heads is foolish, so they decide to stay on the outside. They make camp in the corner created by one of the building’s walls and one side of its small stone fence, taking cover from the worst of the desert’s winds and cold. 

While Lucanis sets up a small fire, Rook manages to sit still for a total of a minute and a half, her eyes trained on the structure, before she stands again and ventures into the dilapidated building. 

A flickering orb trails after her, lighting her way, though unlike the mage lights he has seen others conjure up, hers is tinged by a faint shade of violet, and if he focuses on the light, ignoring the way it worsens his already present headache, he can see faint shots of lightning dancing inside the orb of light. 

It seems the very stone that makes up the outpost trembles when she shoves her shoulder against the door to force it open, but she treads inside regardless. 

“Rook, I doubt that’s safe.” 

“It isn’t,” She agrees, but he still hears her boots treading on the rubble of the building’s interior. “But I want to know what’s in here.” 

(Curiosity?) 

Lucanis doesn’t acknowledge the demon’s question, and he isn’t even sure it was a question Lucanis was meant to answer anyways. 

A breath, two, and Spite refutes his own observation, answers his own question, 

(No.) 

“There’s a water pump!” Rook calls out, “And a lot of firewood, wh-…Oh, some people scratched their names into the logs!” 

___ 

Bedrolls laid out and the first watch given to Lucanis, Rook takes off her armor and sits before the fire. She announces her intention, with a tired tilt to her voice that speaks of reluctance, to clean her weapon from the Varghest blood still staining it after they ran into those creatures near the Eluvian that took them here. 

More abruptly that he would like, more eagerly than he would like, Lucanis offers, 

“I can do it.” 

“What?” 

“I…don’t mind taking care of that for you. It’ll give me something to do.” He assures her, gritting his teeth at the pull from the demon to voice other thoughts, to reveal what Lucanis has carefully pushed aside, ignored.

(You. Want to.) 

Lucanis doesn’t answer. He tries not to answer, usually. It gives Spite an incentive to keep prodding and pushing at the edges of his mind if Lucanis acknowledges him directly.  

A few breaths of silence, only the faint sounds of Rook moving about the small camp, before Spite prods again, unwilling to let go of his previous observation. 

(Why?) 

Why wouldn’t I? 

Spite crouches slightly at the quick response from Lucanis, resembling, despite the human form it takes, a beast lowering its body to the ground before it is to pounce. 

From the corner of his eye, he can see the demon’s shoulders rise with a deep breath it doesn’t need to take, and the grumbled sound resembling laughter that Spite makes as he breathes out sounds much closer than it should, the rumbling from deep in the demon’s chest resonating in Lucanis’ head. 

(Rook.) 

That’s all Spite says, as if that is an answer to some question Lucanis isn’t privy to, as if that explains something, before his attention is drawn to her and away from Lucanis. 

As if summoned, Rook returns to the small fire with a sheathed mageknife in her hand. After setting the bedroll down and spreading it as close to the campfire as she can, she sits down and offers the knife to Lucanis, handle towards him. 

“Only one?” 

“Viago hates it when I waste poison. More blades means more surface to cover,” She retorts, bringing one leg close to her chest and resting her cheek on her knee. “Besides, a mage is never disarmed.” 

A gesture of her hand, and a dagger, quite similar to the one now in Lucanis’ hands, materializes in her own. The spell is cast with such ease that only after the conjured knife is securely on her hold does Lucanis feel the familiar tell of magic in the pricking of his eyes. 

The dagger seems like a carefully crafted glass replica to the naked eye, but it thrums with latent magic, and the almost-violet tinge of the knife’s surface is painted by faint streaks of lightning every few seconds. 

Another gesture of her hand, a barely-there flick of her wrist, and the weapon disappears, a diminutive streak of lightning fading as if a flame smothered by lack of air. 

(We. Can do that.) 

Before the demon’s words are through, Lucanis feels the now-familiar -even if strange, even if uncanny- pull of the demon’s influence on the Veil to form once again the wings on Lucanis’ back.  

He rushes to interrupt him, for the first time in days intentionally turning to look at the demon that crouches beside Rook. 

No. And it’s not the same. 

Spite turns to him with a furrow between his brows. 

(Show her.) 

She knows already. 

(Show her again.) 

He ignores the petulant demand, choosing instead to return a fallen log back to its original position in the campfire. 

“I’m going to bed, but do wake me if anything seems off,” Rook states, toeing off her boots and placing them against one of the dilapidated walls. “I’ll be up in a few hours and take watch.” 

He almost tells her not to worry about waking herself up, that he won’t sleep anyways, that they needn’t worry about shifts in keeping watch, but there’s surreal normalcy in this. Even if there’s a lyrium dagger capable of killing gods on the sand next to her bedroll, even if Lucanis sees a demon of spite linger so close to her it seems like he’s sniffing her hair; there’s normalcy in this exchange, and selfishly, he doesn’t want to spoil it. In a manner most selfish, most weak, most unlike him, he wants this chance at pretending he is what he is supposed to be, even if he knows having to take this chance at all says a lot of what he has let himself become. 

“Rest well.” 

She answers only with a soft little hum as she adjusts in the bedroll, one arm folded underneath her head and the other bringing the blanket closer, tucking it under her chin. 

Rook closes her eyes and falls asleep turned towards the fire, and Lucanis realizes he had spent too long watching the little lights from the flames dance on her skin when he’s startled by Spite. The demon was previously crouching somewhere at Rook’s back, attempting to read the symbols on the building’s half-demolished walls, but now he slowly creeps up behind Rook, seeming more like an animal stalking its prey than anything remotely human as he crouches down until he can get his face -a mimicry of Lucanis’ but twisted in some sneering satisfaction, some cruel curiosity- in Lucanis’ field of vision. 

Though he’s startled by the demon’s silent movements and how uncannily inhuman they are even when Spite takes the form of Lucanis himself, what unsettles him most is that it is not Rook that Spite seems to have made into prey or enemy, as he would have dreaded but expected, but him. 

Spite says nothing. Lucanis turns away, grabs at the cloth and oil and gets started methodically cleaning the mageknife entrusted to him. Spite says nothing, and demons don’t need to breathe nor know discomfort, so Spite doesn’t move either. 

He resists the urge to ask Spite what it is that he is thinking, if only to try and predict him, guard himself and others against whatever the demon might attempt, but he refuses to give Spite the satisfaction of knowing he has unnerved him.  

So, he endures the persistent glare of a demon that insists on taking his own form staring at him for hours, never moving from where he crouches at Rook’s back like a bird of prey guarding its nest, never taking his vacant eyes off Lucanis. 

It is Spite that notices first when Rook starts to wake up, because Lucanis pretends he isn’t aware of the small change of her breathing and the muffled little whine she makes when she realizes she ought to wake herself up. 

They exchange a few words, she checks up on him and asks if anything happened while she slept; and while Rook gets up from the small bedroll and stretches in front of the fire, Lucanis notices Spite on the corner of his eye, still unnervingly still. 

The demon only moves when Rook moves to sit against the wall beside Lucanis, stretching her legs towards the now-quieter fire. Spite pointedly moves to sit -pretend to sit, Lucanis knows that the demon cannot actually interact with the world around him- on her other side. 

“I had never seen so many stars.” Rook admits, a breathy tone to her voice as she cranes her head back and admires the countless stars dotting the night sky. 

If she’s aware of the demon lingering close to her -if he even is close to her, and not merely a…a figment of Lucanis’ imagination, a representation of Spite’s wants, he has no idea how this works-, she makes no note of it, big eyes set on the skies above and uncaring that the demon comes awfully close, vacant eyes studying her with concerning intensity. 

Lucanis turns his gaze to the skies above them, to the thousands of stars scattered in the dark sky, glittering in different shades of silver and white. Some of them seem almost blue, almost violet, and he has the errant impulse to compare them to the hue that clings to Rook’s magic, that tinges every summoned strike of lightning. 

“The stars back home are much duller.” She mentions, so quiet the wind could carry it, almost a thought spoken out loud. 

“You can see plenty of them in Salle,” He argues, though he will admit even Antiva’s darkest night sky cannot show this many stars. Because since first meeting her -whichever first meeting he decides to count- he has never found himself without a question he wants to ask her, he prompts, “Did you ever live in Salle? I know Viago did.” 

It is selfish, not to mention entirely too forward, to wish to know things like these. To wish to hear her speak of things like these. But the home he left behind over a year ago feels a little more real, a little bit more like something he can one day return to, when Rook speaks of it. So he asks even though he knows the answer, when she speaks of the world past the timeless Lighthouse he prompts her to continue, and when she gives away an echo of home he listens. 

“Not for long. A little over two years, after Drusilla picked up her second stray,” There’s enough warmth in her words to tell him she speaks of Viago, even if this only further proves that she assumes Lucanis knows more about her history with the Fifth Talon than he actually does. Rook often downplays her importance to Viago and thus ignores how viciously he has kept most things about her a secret; or perhaps she simply is unaware of the extents to which her Talon has gone to in order to keep her away from the rest of the Crows since her mother’s death. Rook continues, “I haven’t been back in years, though. I think the last time I was there was when Vi became Fifth Talon.” 

“And Drusilla’s funeral, right?” 

“You know Viago, if we were going to gather a bunch of Crows in one place, might as well get everything done and over with,” She says, “For all his grumbling, he was a good host.” 

“Yes, he was. I was…I was there,” He doesn’t know why he feels as if it is wrong to say this, as if somehow she hadn’t known and this is a revelation. He doesn’t know why a knot forms in his stomach, or what to do with the realization that reminding her of this will only draw attention to all that has changed, all that he has changed. Still, he continues, “Caterina summoned Illario and I from Rialto so we could go with her to pay our respects.” 

He doesn’t tell her that his grandmother kept an incredibly close eye on the de Riva villa in Salle since the Fifth Talon died and her only daughter fled Treviso to find the bastard son of the King, that when he and Illario were summoned they were warned of the now-Talon’s ambition and the tempest in waiting that he kept close as if she were his own blood, that most Talons distrusted her mother and as a result were always wary of this child Drusilla raised as her own -surrounded by Crows, in the heart of Treviso- but that wasn’t formally trained as a Crow until much later in her life. 

He thinks she already knows how on edge every Crow that attended the gatherings for the late and emergent Fifth Talon was, how closely everyone was looking for the slightest provocation to neutralize a threat. He thinks she knew already then, and yet he still remembers how brazenly honest her every smile and every word seemed, he still remembers how she contradicted every expectation they had had of Drusilla’s carefully hidden spellblade. It was no doubt a mask, as she probably was aware she couldn’t afford her mother’s harshness or Viago’s coldness; and perhaps Lucanis was too young then, or her strategy too unfamiliar, but he believed her. 

And he thinks of the sound of her laughter as Neve shares a story with her and Bellara as he prepares dinner, of the comforting lull to her voice as she offers Harding advice on how to deal with her nightmares, or the way the consonants are a little rougher on her tongue when she is tired and doesn’t bother hiding her accent; and it is unfamiliar and perplexing, this irrational urge he feels to fight his every instinct and believe she is honest in her warmth and kindness now, even if she wasn’t once. 

Rook returns her gaze back to the world around them instead of the skies, turning towards Lucanis, soft smile pulling at the corners of her lips with an ease, an honesty, that hasn’t yet ceased to amaze him. 

“I remember.” 

(So do you. Tell her!) 

The demon’s demand startles him more than it should. For a moment, a breath, he was on an estate atop a hill in Salle and he had just heard her laugh for the first time. For a moment, a breath, things were as they might have been. 

He feels Spite now, prodding at his thoughts, trying to find memories to tear to pieces, to taint, to sully. Ever since he was forced onto Lucanis’ body, Spite has justified the painful incursions into memories both soft and jagged with the argument that this world to him is contradictorily sharp and blurred, and seeing it through Lucanis’ eyes helps the demon make sense of it all. 

And now Spite has caught a scent, and is trying to pry into vague memories of a chance meeting nearly a decade ago, distant visions of a woman he last saw in Neromenian nearly two years ago even though she didn’t see him; and Lucanis refuses to let the demon close to them. 

Because the longer he lingers on the warmth of Rook’s smile, on the thousands of questions lingering begging to be asked, Spite just seems to grow more and more agitated, louder, more demanding, Lucanis turns away. He turns to face the stars instead. 

“Still, Salle’s sky has nothing on this,” Rook argues, and Lucanis cannot disagree. The glimpses he caught of Salle’s night sky were in passing, a quick scan over unfamiliar rooftops to check for threats, a sigh and a glance at a dark sky as he asked the Maker for patience as Illario left him behind to chase after an unfamiliar Crow revealing entirely too much skin. Rook gestures with her hand, the back of her fingers tapping lightly against the outside of Lucanis’ thigh as she calls for his attention and quips, “You can’t tell Viago I said that.” 

A short chuckle leaves his lips, and he acquiesces with a bow of his head. 

“Your secret is safe with me.” 

Rook motions her thanks with a bow of her own head, a glint of humor in her eyes, before her attention returns to the stars. 

She takes a breath that leaves her in almost a sigh, and says, 

“In the South you can see the scar the Breach left in the sky. Have you seen it?” 

“I can’t say I have ever paid much attention to it.” 

He cannot help but think it a deficiency, a fault, that he never bothered with such things. It is irrational, he knows, but he resents not ever averting his gaze from the task at hand for only a moment, if only to gather stories to one day tell her, if only to have something to offer her now other than questions.  

“It’s always there. A soft glow, rippling, like you’re seeing it from a reflection in water. At night, it’s even more noticeable,” She recalls, absent curve of her lips as if through memories alone she is seeing the flickering lights of the Breach’s remnant on the sky above them. “It’s…beautiful, in its own way. If you forget the hordes of demons and the religious fanatics the Breach caused, you can even say the scar was worth the wound.” 

“I’d…have to see it to believe that.”  

He doesn’t tell her that he is inclined to believe it only by the awe in her voice when she speaks of it, that he cannot imagine anything that makes her smile like that is anything short of striking. 

“Viago and I were in Orlais when the Breach was opened, you know. Val Chevin, for a contract on a duke and his mistress,” She recalls. Lucanis’ head lolls to the side to watch her profile as she recounts her story, her eyes bright and still set on the stars. “Well, Vi was there for the contract, I was just the stowaway. I wasn’t even formally training yet. In my defense, I was happily sampling fine wine in Val Royeaux and he went to see me since he was in Orlais, so it’s his fault. He should have known I would tag along.” 

He had always believed her value to Viago as a Crow under his command and as a vestige of Drusilla’s influence was the reason for how protective he is of her, for how blatantly he displays his weakness for her. It is strange, it feels out of place, to think that long before they formally belonged to one House they thought of one another as family. But Lucanis is almost certain that says more about himself than either Viago or Rook. 

“Did you…tag along often?” 

“It wasn’t often that he knew I was tagging along,” She admits, before gesturing lazily with her hand and adding, “You cannot tell him that either.”  

“He probably knew.” 

The glint in her eye then, the way her smile widens with something youthful speaks of memories she doesn’t share and thoughts she doesn’t voice, but Rook nods once in agreement and turns to the stars again. 

“Anyhow, we were on a boat headed back home from Orlais when the sky was torn open,” Her smile softens a bit, and she shakes her head with a breathed little chuckle, as if she cannot believe that is a story she gets to tell, that the madness of the Breach is something she survived to remember. “The city fell into chaos. No one knew what was happening, people were running and screaming. So, naturally, Viago handed me a knife.” 

The helpless little gesture she makes with her hands, and the abruptness of her anecdote, make a bark of laughter escape Lucanis’ lips. 

“What?” 

Rook turns to him and shrugs her shoulders. 

“He just…handed me a knife. This…thing was on the sky, growing wider by the second, and then we heard this rumbling, like thunder. It sounded like the mountains were waking up,” Her words are trembling slightly with the threat of laughter, the quiet joy of her smile clinging to the sound of her voice. “And Viago just pulled out a knife and put it in my hand, like it would do anything against the end of the world.” 

They exchange stories and questions as they pick at the pumpkin bread Bellara made in her latest attempt to get Rook to admit to enjoying food from Tevinter, and mercifully the questions she asks are of the familiar, of jobs and targets, and there’s not much room to feel the sting of deficiency, the anxiety at falling short. 

He tells her of the many jobs that dragged on for months on end in Tevinter, she tells him of the time Viago had her thread through Seheron to kill a single qunari. She asks what being trained by Caterina was like and in exchange he asks what happened to the Templars that marched into Treviso to take the de Riva mage to a Circle. He tells her it was torture but that he cannot bring himself to resent his grandmother any longer, she tells him the first man she killed with a blade made the mistake of casting Silence. 

A few comfortable silences are scattered between their conversations, though Spite has disrupted them -thankfully only in Lucanis’ mind, as the demon hasn’t caught him by surprise for long enough to wrestle control of the body away from Lucanis and speak aloud- with strange observations and mutters. 

Spite lingers close now, he can feel him, prodding at his mind, trying to find an exposed nerve, trying to distract him, make him falter. 

(Rook. Smells happier here. Jasmine. And…) 

It is unlike the demon to hesitate, and it piques Lucanis’ curiosity, so, remembering a previous assessment Spite made of Rook’s scent, he provides, 

Ozone? 

Spite is quick to dismiss his attempt,  

(No. No magic.) 

(Something else. Sharp. Blood, but. On lilies? Rotten.) 

There seems to be genuine confusion in the demon’s assessment of that scent that clings to Rook, but Lucanis recognizes it, and so the clarification leaves his lips before he can think twice about it. 

“Felandaris.” 

He feels the weight of Rook’s gaze on him again in an instant, and resists the urge to make a face at the realization that he spoke the word aloud. It is difficult, sometimes, to remind himself that Spite isn’t really there, that while Lucanis might hear him as if he were there, when he answers in the same manner, people only hear him talking to himself like a madman. 

There’s a small furrow between Rook’s brows, and she prompts, “Huh?” 

“Uh, Spite had a question.” 

The elf sits up, folding one leg underneath her, stars forgotten. 

“Oh, is it about poison? Felandaris isn’t good for much else,” She asks, with more enthusiasm than he expected. More than she intended to show, it seems, because Rook chuckles and adds, almost sheepish, “You don’t spend a lifetime alongside Viago without picking up some of his…enthusiasm for the craft.” 

Any question that might be about to leave his lips, any normal response he might once have been able to give, are lost in the struggle for control against Spite’s unbridled fervor at Rook’s words.  

(I have. Questions.) 

No. 

(Let me. Talk. To her!) 

Resisting the urge to shake his head against Spite’s constant barrages against his control, Lucanis lets out a clipped breath and tries offering her an out. 

“You don’t have to indulge him.” 

“I don’t mind,” She says. “He’s stuck in this world, it makes sense he has questions about it.” 

(My turn. To talk. To Rook.) 

No. You tell me what you want me to ask her, and I’ll see if we ask it or not. 

(She. Doesn’t mind.) 

Take it or leave it. 

He feels Spite’s vacant eyes glaring at him, and after a breath Lucanis concedes and turns to look at the uncanny mirror of Lucanis that the demon chooses to show himself as. He tilts his head to the side and Spite mimics him, defiant, but after a few moments he seems to understand Lucanis willingly giving him control of his body isn’t going to happen, so he turns away from him and moves to sit on the ground. 

Spite crosses his legs underneath himself as he sits besides Rook, clearly mimicking her stance, and Lucanis doesn’t know what to make of that, of the demon’s clear fascination with the other Crow. 

Spite refuses to even look Lucanis’ way, vacant gaze intent on Rook, and Lucanis has the errant complaint that it seems the demon is willing to listen to her more than he does his host, that he displays none of this calm eagerness when Lucanis is trying to explain something. 

(Why Felandaris? Blood and lilies. Not Rook.) 

“He wants to know why…” He tries to find a way to voice this that doesn’t sound so…odd, but cannot find any. With a sigh, Lucanis relents, and asks, “Why you smell like Felandaris.” 

Rook doesn’t seem fazed by the strangeness of the question, which seems to delight Spite. She reaches back for one of the pouches on the discarded outer layer of her armor and pulls out a tiny flask of oil. It shimmers slightly in the moonlight, a deep amber in color. 

“Felandaris and deepstalker spit, mainly,” She lists out. “A hallucinogenic and a mild paralytic agent. Makes sense that you only smelled the Felandaris, since Deepstalkers are mostly odorless.” 

(Felandaris. Is new. Why?) 

“You haven’t used Felandaris in your poisons before. Why now?” 

“The Veil weakens near whoever is poisoned by it. It would make them vulnerable to my magic and to you, Spite. To the both of you,” She gestures with her hand towards Lucanis, before amending with another gesture, “Potentially. I haven’t really tested that last part yet.” 

He isn’t exactly sure what to make of her quick acceptance of Spite and how the demon’s connection to the Fade influences Lucanis’ abilities, and even if he tried he couldn’t voice the conflict within him of the apprehension that fills Lucanis and the delight that Spite tries forcing onto his mind; so instead Lucanis lets silence linger once again. 

But in the quiet of this place, with silence not made heavier by the vast expanse of the Lighthouse but instead made more comforting by the crackling of fire and the calm cadence of Rook’s breaths, it is harder for Lucanis to ignore his body’s demands for rest. 

It is easier to force himself to stay awake when in the Lighthouse, because as maddening as that place is for accounting the passing of time and providing structure to his routine, the constant daylight tricks his body into staying awake for longer, into avoiding deep sleep. 

It isn’t so easy here, where the sun actually sets and the night carries a chill that the fire chases away, providing a warmth that tries to lure him into letting his body rest. And Spite quietens around Rook in a way that if he thinks about for too long will make dread rise like a void within his chest, so he cannot even count on the demon and his glee at the prospect of gaining control while Lucanis sleeps to force himself into alertness again. 

He has felt the effects of his struggle against Spite on his body, in the Lighthouse and anywhere else he has been in since the Ossuary, but he has learned to live with it -with the near-constant headaches, the strange aches in his joints, the unnerving faltering in his balance-, he was made to endure much worse than this and he will. What he hasn’t felt until now, what he has been able to ignore, to push down, is how utterly tired he is. 

He hasn’t truly slept in over a year, since before…before. The reprieve that unconsciousness provided from Zara and her underlings' games wasn’t ever enough, as Lucanis resisted his body’s urge to give in every time, forced himself to stay awake even if all he managed was focusing his eyes on the red lyrium crystal hovering over them and thinking of nothing. Even when they left him alone, pretended to forget about him for weeks on end in a cage in some corner of the prison, and Spite -warbled sounds, inhuman sounding even in Lucanis’ own head, then, before the demon learned to talk how humans do- promised him he’d keep watch, Lucanis held strong, spine ramrod straight and hands curled around the bars of the cage until his fingers couldn’t move even if he wanted them to. 

And now, with a new place to call home -at least for now, and if he’s honest it is a welcome change when even the Ossuary hasn’t let him forget how much like a tomb the Dellamorte estate still feels-, with new people to protect, to care for, he refuses to sleep still.  

Spite’s demands and the threat that he will take over whenever he lowers his guard keep him awake out of fear but also shame. Spite wants to talk to Rook, he wants to see the wisps in Neve’s room, Rook brought new ingredients for poison and he has questions, he wants to go watch the reflections from the mirrors in Bellara’s room, Rook is training and she does it differently than Lucanis so he wants to go see. It is maddening, and endless, but the mere thought of indulging in the demon’s whims or failing to stop him brings forth a sense of shame, of indignity, that reminds him all-too-well of the time Caterina heard him beg the kitchen staff for food. Such lack of control is unlike him, such weakness is beneath him. He knows better, he is better. 

But he is tired. Tired of the way that what once was familiar is strange now, ground giving in under his feet even on well-treaded paths -the merchant’s smile is welcoming and familiar as they greet him, and there’s routine in the bow of fledglings’ heads and the greetings of Master Lucanis as he walks through the Diamond, but he cannot help the instinct, the voice older and more insidious than Spite’s that prods and wonders if he had accidentally let slip his next location the last time he saw them, if somehow they were aware of where that boat was taking him-, tired of how even what is new is grating, a too warm touch on frostbitten skin –Rook’s smile and the warm tilt of her voice when she greets him with a simple Lucanis aren’t a lie, he knows, he knows, but a part of him that he wishes he could credit to Spite taunts him and tells him there's no safety in this, and he sometimes cannot argue with it-.

He is tired, tired of all of it. Of the room he has made his own that is at once entirely too small to breathe in and too big to keep under his control, of the ways in which he has had to adapt his training because even his body isn’t what it was, of the way it is with more than disgust that his stomach flips whenever he feels a mage draw upon blood magic. 

He is tired, tired of all the reminders of what he let them take from him in that prison, of what he let them turn him into. He is tired. 

And now try as he might to force his gaze to focus, his vision blurs and it gets harder to force his eyes open after every blink, and though he is almost screaming inside his head to stay alert, it is hard to remember why he should. 

He is one breath away from hooking his thumb into his palm and squeezing his hand into a fist so that the pain might make him alert again when, as if she had read his mind, as if she somehow knew, Rook turns her head to look at him and says, 

“You should sleep, not listen to me ramble about the skies of Thedas.” 

Instead of saying something stupid, like that he likes listening to her talk, Lucanis clears his throat and admits, 

“It’s alright. I won’t sleep tonight.” 

“Hey, Viago trusts me to keep watch. Viago,” She stresses, “Do you have any idea what that means?” 

“It’s not you I don’t trust, Rook,” Lucanis promises, before admitting, “Spite is stronger when I sleep.” 

“I feel like there must be a better solution than just…not sleeping.” 

“There is: getting rid of him,” He answers, and as expected, Spite is quick to make himself known again, (You can’t. You can’t even. Get! Out!). Lucanis grits his teeth, refusing to give the demon the satisfaction of a rebuttal. Instead, he chooses to promise, “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about me.” 

She furrows her lips, and when she takes a breath to speak, she clicks her tongue slightly. He wonders if she is aware of how uncannily alike Viago’s own tells of concealed frustration her gestures are. 

“Your call,” She concedes, leaning back against the half-destroyed wall and fixing how the blanket lays over her legs. “Even if you don’t plan on sleeping, it can’t be comfortable staying in full armor the entire night. It’s safe here, we’ll see coming anyone stupid enough to try and attack.” 

“And you placed magical traps on the chokepoints leading here.” 

“Right. Mage-killer,” She chuckles. “I should stop forgetting that.” 

He feels a smile tugging at his lips at her words, and moves to undo the clasps by his neck and shoulders that secure the cloak to the rest of his armor. It takes a moment longer than it should, and something tightens in Lucanis’ stomach when he notices the faint tremble of his hands that complicates such a simple task. He tells himself that it will pass, that it is nothing. 

It is only when the cold air that lingers despite the fire grazes the newly exposed skin of his neck that he realizes how even such a small change is an opening he should know better than to give, a possibility for an attack he was trained not to allow. 

Not an hour ago Rook was brandishing a vial of poison, explaining her reasoning behind the ingredients with an ease only members of her House, namely her Talon, possess; and as he feels the cold air of a desert night hit the back of his neck he realizes he hadn’t even considered the few movements she would have to make in order to graze the newly-exposed skin with a poisoned blade before deciding to bare said skin. 

Out of the corner of his eye he notices Rook lean forward towards the roaring fire to fix the position of one of the logs, and he notices not only the exposed skin of her arm but the long line of her neck, exposed to any attempts on her life Lucanis could choose to make. 

He realizes then, how deliberate her choices in clothing back at the Lighthouse have been. A few buttons undone off the top of her shirt, rolled up sleeves, her hair pulled up to reveal her neck. They are all clear openings for any half-decent killer, not to mention any of the people she has brought into the Fade with her, Lucanis included. 

One of the first lessons he remembers learning was on an enemy’s openings. He remembers it well enough that he can still recall the ringing in his head from the hit that sent him to the ground after he mistook his trainer’s bait for a chance to win. 

Illario learned quite young to distract his enemies into making a mistake. A well-placed touch, a smile, to bait them into lowering their guard. If that fails, his cousin is willing to feign an injury, pretend an enemy’s attack unbalanced him more than it truly did, in order to get them to act rashly, to make mistakes. 

He has seen Rook do the same in battle, feign a stumble to goad a Venatori to come closer only to sneak a knife made of raw magic between their ribs, pretend to catch her breath with one knee on the ground so that an Antaam charges to deliver the finishing blow and she can take advantage of the reckless movement to send lightning into his bloodstream.  

For what is now shamefully a long amount of time, Lucanis thought her choices of clothing something similar. A dare, a display of strength, a bared throat to dare anyone to try and attack. He hadn’t considered it could have been a proof of trust instead. 

And he wonders now if he can offer the same. 

(Rook. Won’t. Hurt us.) 

For once, Spite’s sudden words don’t startle him, and he resists the urge to turn to look at him, to see if any of the almost-calm in the harsh voice of the demon is betrayed in his expression, if anything changes in the vacant light of his eyes when he speaks of her. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Spite’s head tilt to the side, not unlike a dog hearing an unfamiliar sound, as he watches her. The demon’s next words sound almost confused, 

(She can. She won’t.) 

If Spite is expecting Lucanis to provide an explanation he will be sorely disappointed, because Lucanis will admit he doesn’t fully understand it, understand her, either. 

He’s seen her cut through their enemies, from a Venatori ambusher to an Antaam brute, with impressive ease; he is certain even if she couldn’t kill Lucanis she could definitely make it hurt; he knew of her former Talon and knows the current one, so he knows she is well learned in inflicting pain. And while he knows she won’t hurt him, and he knows, he knows, that Spite’s earlier taunts of how suspicious it is that she isn’t willing to see him in pain when everyone else does are wrong and merely the demon’s attempt to get further into his head; he cannot help the instincts that often demand he defends himself against a threat he cannot sense but surely is coming, the irrational wish that his worst thoughts about his new companions, about her, were proven right if only for the expectation, the tension, to give way. 

Again Spite’s words reach him, but this time they sound more like an errant thought, like an absent observation, than anything said intentionally, 

(Rook. Answers my questions.) 

He takes a breath, and turns his left hand upwards to reach the lacing that runs through the underside of his bracers, intersected cords threaded together that he adjusted to the necessary tightness this morning. He reaches to undo the knot keeping them together, gritting his teeth at the faint tremble that once again makes it difficult. His hand keeps trembling, no matter how strongly he wills it to steady. 

It is the third time his trembling fingers fail to grasp properly at the cord threaded through the metal hoop of his left bracer that he feels his breathing quicken, his heartbeat start to pound in his ears. Entirely too alike a target’s response when they realize Lucanis is after them. Entirely too alike prey. 

Focus, damn it. 

He tries again, and again, and his grip isn’t precise enough, his hold slips, his hands are too unstable to manage such a simple task. 

(This is. Your fault.) 

Spite’s will surges, anger and something Lucanis doesn’t have a name for fueling the demon’s attempt to steal control of his body away from him. With a sharp breath through his nose and his own flare of anger, Lucanis refuses him again. 

(You fight me. Not them.) 

He refuses to answer, he refuses to acknowledge him, deciding to ignore him until he quietens again. He just needs Spite to be quiet, and his head to stop pounding, and his hands to stop fucking trembling. 

(You fight. And keep me. Locked away!) 

“Your hands are trembling.”  

Rook’s observation is a simple one, laced with confusion and perhaps a hint of worry, and the warmth in her voice when pointing out such thing isn’t familiar but the shame and dread that come with being witnessed like this are. 

He cannot find words to answer her with, and in the silence that stretches thin between them, in the rush of his heartbeat in his own ears, he hears echoes of a voice that brought a humiliating kind of fear to his heart whenever he heard it approaching his cell, 

There’s no point, you know.  

And Zara’s echo repeats words she taunted him with many times before, but being able to look at nothing but the armor that he cannot remove and the faint trembling of his hands that he cannot hide, now more than ever the words feel true, 

Nothing awaits you anymore. You’re long dead. 

(She will. Be right! If you. Don’t. Get out!) 

Spite’s voice reverberates in his head, his attempts to make Lucanis obey his commands feeling like sharp hits to his chest, forcing air out of lungs that aren’t yet ready to relent precious air. 

(You promised! Get out!) 

His eyes are trained on the intersected cords of the bracer, and he wants to try again, to reach for the lacing again and try, and succeed. He wants to try again, he needs to try again, but Spite prods and shoves and demands, and it’s all he can do to struggle for control -control he doesn’t have, who is he fooling, he attempts to control a demon yet he cannot even make his own hands obey him-, gritting his teeth. 

(Get out! Get out!) 

The demon grows more and more agitated, desperate. His head feels as if it is about to be split in two, his chest pinned under the weight of all that he let them do, all that they took, all that he failed, and he can’t… 

(Getoutgetoutgetoutgetout) 

“Enough!” The snarled order seems to resonate in the nothingness that surrounds them, too loud in his own ears and at the same time too easily drowned out by the crushing silence of this place. 

To his surprise, Spite relents. 

Lucanis ceases in the pointless attempts to remove the piece of armor with a breath that resonates in his head like the dying rattle of a target whose throat collapsed under his grip, his hands dropping to his lap with the defeated slump of a body giving up a fight when cold steel runs across a fragile neck.

The silence that follows this small defeat feels oppressive, like the faint but constant reverberations of the weight of a whole ocean atop a prison. 

This place is quiet, nothing but a faint crackling of dying flames and the beating of his own heart in his ears, and try as he might to hear something else -something that doesn’t remind him of that place, something that doesn’t make the last few weeks feel like a well-manufactured hallucination, something that doesn’t make him feel as if he’s still strapped to that table while blood magic ravages what was left of his body still in his own control- he can hear nothing. 

Because he knows nothing else, he brings a trembling hand to his inner forearm and tries again. Because even if he isn’t anything else, he is this. 

The rustling of clothing, and he turns sharply to the side, a breath he couldn’t control in time entering his lungs too loudly, giving away too much. Rook now sits right beside him, eyes on him with none of the pity he expected, none of the disgust or dissapointment he deserves. 

She just folds her legs underneath her and extends a hand, 

“I can do it.” 

To have failed like this, to have let her see him like this…he cannot help but think it a defeat, a loss of something he foolishly believed he could keep. 

He told himself he would perform as was expected of him, be what he is supposed to be -what he was, he reminds himself, but it is harder to remember a time he didn’t feel a fraud-. He told himself he was better than this.

He also told himself, once, that he wouldn’t give the Venatori the satisfaction of hearing him scream but the agony they inflicted upon his body clawed its way out of his throat eventually, that he wouldn’t fall for their tricks but they used blood magic to put Illario’s face on a corpse they threw at his feet and even after leaving that place sometimes this dread and grief fill him, that he would leave that place and return home but he isn’t sure he did leave it at all sometimes and home is still there but he isn’t sure he is.  

A slight movement, a faint wiggle of Rook’s fingers halfway between encouraging and impatient, as she holds her outstretched hand between them, palm up. Deliberate. Expectant.  

(Safe.) 

To think of accepting, it feels like failure, it feels like reprieve. Like fear, like hope. 

He puts his hand on hers. 

Rook turns his hand with gentleness but no hesitancy, deft fingers quickly starting to make work of the lacing. 

“I trust your judgement,” She starts. “So if you tell me I shouldn’t worry, I won’t. But I want to help if I can, Lucanis.” 

He didn’t realize his breaths were stilled until he takes in air in order to answer. 

“It’s…” He should dismiss the concern, grit his teeth and close his hand into a fist and remind her -remind himself also, perhaps- that it is his problem to solve, that he will fix it without causing trouble. But his gaze lingers on Rook, on her downturned gaze as she focuses on her task, his eyes trailing over the shade her lashes cast on her skin, the curve of her nose, lingering on that almost imperceptible furrow of her lips, and Lucanis hesitates. Her hands are still holding gently onto his own, one of her hands underneath his, holding his arm -palm up, vulnerable, expectant-, as her other hand works at the fastenings of his bracer, and Lucanis gives in, “It’s…because of Spite.” 

“Oh?” Big eyes lift to meet his, momentarily distracted from her work, and the weight of her gaze, of the warmth and certainty that she always gives away with her eyes alone, is enough to make him turn away. 

“He has been…a problem, as of late. I try not to sleep, to keep him from overpowering me, but it has it’s consequences,” He admits. He feels somewhere in the back of his mind echoes of the same protests the demon voiced before. He ignores him, and adds, “I-…this will pass, this isn’t-…I can still work, I’m not…affected in any way that will compromise my efficiency.” 

“I don’t doubt that, Lucanis,” She promises, but something like sadness seems to cling to her voice. She has finished with the piece of armor in his left arm, and discards it to the side, silently requesting his other hand. He obliges, and the weight of shame feels a little lighter this time. She starts working, repeating the same process as before. A breath, and Rook quips, “So it’s the eleven cups of coffee a day, then?” 

A laugh is almost startled out of his chest, but all that he manages is an exhale that in another life might have been a chuckle. The pitiful attempt at laughter still makes Rook’s shoulders drop slightly, like Bellara’s giggles do, like Neve’s sighs, like Harding’s ringing laughter, as if whatever he is able to offer is somehow enough.  

“Among other things.” 

To his surprise, Rook smiles, and he could swear the breath that leaves her lips is relieved. 

“I’ll admit, it’s-…well, it’s not good, but it’s far from the worst,” She admits, lowering her gaze to her work again, “I thought it was because of the Venatori, because of…well…” 

It is unlike her to choose her words, so he provides, “Torture?” 

“Any decent captor knows where to cut. A shallow cut to draw blood for blood magic, a single stab to bleed a victim out fast, a serrated blade to the right place and they can’t run,” She lists out, a momentary furrow of her nose that doesn’t linger enough for Lucanis to discern if it is born from disgust or anger. “Blood mages know better than most, I’d wager.” 

The last of the lacings is undone, the pressure of the bracer giving way. 

“The likes of Zara like to believe they won, like to gloat about their success,” He explains. He notices Spite pacing somewhere past the dying fire, and hears his angry hiss, (They Like. To break. To hurt. Cut pieces.). He ignores him, and focuses on explaining to Rook, “Doing something like that would have been an admission that she couldn’t defeat me fairly.” 

Her face scrunches up in disagreement, or perhaps merely anger, he cannot be sure. Rook pulls the bracer off his arm with one hand, dropping it in her lap while her other hand still supports Lucanis’. 

“Not much fairness with blood magic and a traitor giving her a chance to capture you, but I don’t expect sound logic from Venatori.” She states, tone clipped.

Her job is done, Lucanis knows he should move. It is beyond selfish, shamefully weak, but there’s solace here, in this small moment, and he doesn’t want to let go of it. So he doesn’t move. 

To his surprise, neither does Rook. Even after her free hand discards the removed bracer off to the side, it returns to his arm, fingers dancing idly over the bare skin of his wrist. 

“The Crows did it to my m-…to Drusilla, when she was in Velabanchel,” Her touch is delicate, featherlight, as if the gesture is thoughtless to her. He thinks of how easily she could summon the magic she wields in battle to her fingertips again, how easily a shot of lightning could follow the soft trail of her fingers over the inside of his wrist. Rook continues, her fingers trailing over a cut she imagines, a cut she knows how to make yet doesn’t, “Sliced right through the tendons, cauterized the wound so she wouldn’t bleed out, so it would heal wrong. She could never hold a knife properly again.” 

Lucanis has the errant thought that it would be preferrable, the lightning and the pain, over whatever it is her touch is doing to him now, with its gentleness, with its lingering warmth. It feels like an admission of defeat, of having lost something he didn’t even know could be lost, that he struggles to understand why, with the knowledge of how to hurt, with ample opportunity to do so, Rook simply refuses to. 

Perhaps he loses himself in his head too long and loses his chance to answer, perhaps she wasn’t expecting him to say anything at all, but Rook lifts her head to meet his eyes and lets go of his hand. Bereft of the touch of hers, it feels heavier. Colder. 

“Thank you, Rook.” Even to his own ears it sounds more like an apology than gratitude. 

Uncharacteristically, she hesitates for a fraction of a breath before answering. Her eyes jump between his for a moment before she leans and grabs at the mageknife resting on top of its sheath by the whetstone Lucanis sharpened it with earlier. 

Holding the knife on one hand and his bracer on the other, Rook offers the piece of armor back to him. When he takes it, she offers a smile, wide and warm and hers. 

He would like to blame it on Spite, but he knows it is something older, something born from endless days spent without food and barely any sleep, trailing the mark Caterina had set for him, studying a target -the cadence of their steps, the people they gravitated towards, the mistakes they made- until he found at least one sufficiently reliable weakness he could exploit; something resulting from stinging hits of a cane to the backs of his legs, the palms of his hands, if Caterina had set a test by changing something -a different shade in the curtains, a faded stain on the floor under the rug, a faint scent that isn’t familiar- in his room and he failed to notice; that makes him able to remember things with such clarity. 

Lucanis remembers. He remembers every name Zara mentioned, even those said in passing, even those said only once. He vowed to find them, he made a deal, with the demon stuck in his head, with the man he was that he is sometimes certain died in that place, to see them all die by his hand. 

He remembers every word his captors said, every insult spat in his direction, every taunt and every humiliation. He remembers the reason behind every new scar and the taste of the fear they managed to draw from him. He remembers each memory Zara’s Dreamer pulled from his unconscious mind and each corpse they dressed with an echo of home with their blood magic. 

And he remembers Rook, and how jarring it was to see her in the Ossuary, how antithetical her presence in that place seemed even then. He remembers she was the first person to say his name in over a year and not make it sound like a call for a dog to heel, like a taunt or a reminder of his powerlessness in that place, like an insult, like fingers prodding at a wound. He remembers her standing slightly in front of Bellara as if to protect her -from the Venatori? From him? He isn’t sure he wants to know-, and the warmth in her voice even though her eyes were wide and she was gripping tightly onto the mageknife in her hand. He remembers her quick acquiescence to getting the blood the Venatori had used to control him and then joining him in taking down Calivan. He remembers her smile, wide and bright and a mirror of the one she offers now, and he remembers her words, I’m sure we’ll owe each other before this is all over. 

So now he accepts the words she doesn’t say, and he doesn’t argue, even though he knows he should, feels he should, to her unspoken promise that they are even. 

She moves to put her knife away by her belongings, and her eye catches on the vial of poison she left nearby after explaining her use of Felandaris to Spite. 

“You said Spite…smelled the ingredients I used in poisons on me.” 

The demon forgets any previous attempt at calm, but Lucanis was almost expecting the forceful attempt to wrestle control from him, so Spite scoffs in complaint but relents. 

Lucanis’ brow furrows, but he answers anyways, “Yes.” 

Rook offers a thoughtful hum and returns to where she was sitting by his side. 

“Do you think he could…smell for the Warden? Follow the scent of the blight in his blood or something?” 

“He’s not a bloodhound.” 

But Spite cares not for any of Lucanis’ arguments, eager and forceful as he demands,

(I want. To try.) 

There’s a taunting smile curving at Rook’s lips, eyes narrowed as she reminds him, “He helped you find your blood in the prison, and I very clearly remember you sniffing the air, Lucanis.” 

(Rook wants. Us to try.) 

He doesn’t know what to do with the realization that the demon quite unabashedly simply wants to please Rook. 

“I…don’t think it will work,” He offers. He also doesn’t know what to do with the realization that Lucanis also quite unabashedly simply wants to please Rook, but before he can think twice about it, words are tripping past an eager tongue, “But we can try in the morning, if you want.” 

Thank you for reading, it was really fun to write! I would love to know what you thought of this!

[dracoangel]

Stay awake? All night? However shall we pass the time?

[esta-elavaris]

A/N: This was originally drafted before the news clarifying Lucanis’ sexuality came out – and also without my having finished the game yet. I do want to write a full fic of him one day with these new things in mind, especially as someone on the ace spectrum who loves to see representation in media because it so often goes unexplored or even written oddly robotically.

I do think when the news hit it ended up fitting into the original idea really nicely, and it presented my first opportunity to explore this as a personal concept in a fic, but I just wanted to get my disclaimers out of the way first! As of writing this, I’m not far beyond the Weisshaupt boss battle, and I’m trying to have this story reflect what Rook knows as of this point, but please keep that in mind if there’s something that happens later that I haven’t been able to take into account. I’ve more or less been able to avoid spoilers so far and I don’t want to seek them out!

Also as a final warning – there are vague themes of sexual assault in this chapter – nothing happens to Rook or any other character featured, nothing is depicted, it’s solely surrounding the fact that she and Lucanis will be on a job hunting down a man who likes to assault women, but it is a component here so if that’s going to make you feel shitty, please give this one a miss!

Rook had never been well-versed in matters of the heart. Or even just plain old ‘versed’ at all, really. Not because of a line of tragic failures, and not even really to her own great remorse, it had just never been particularly relevant. Nor pressing, nor all that interesting to her. Sure, every now and then she’d indulge in a trashy romance novel or two – much in the same way she’d grab a cake or a bottle of wine after a bad day – but beyond that, and a few semi-interesting diversions that served little other than to pass the time – matters of romance just never had a way of sticking out much in her mind.

And then came Lucanis Dellamorte.

Most people would probably be wiser if they were beginners when it came to romance. A handsome but bumbling market seller, a pretty serving girl who laughed at all of their jokes, that sort of thing. But Rook had always stood by the concept ‘go big or go home’, and she was quickly being forced to come to terms with the fact that she wouldn’t be able to get Lucanis out of her head even if she wanted to. The fact that she didn’t want to was becoming more difficult to grapple with as time stretched on. Mostly because the feelings were turning out to be anything but mutual.

It was understandable, wasn’t it? There were no two ways about that. He’d been through a lot, and they were all still going through a lot – only Lucanis had the added burden of a spirit spitting poison in his ear at every possibly opportunity, too. Love, relationships, even lust, were all likely (and painstakingly understandably) the last things on his mind.

She’d just...thought she’d caught hints. Early on, in the beginning. Otherwise she’d never have been so daft as to hope. Surely? He’d remembered how she liked her coffee, ever since that time in Treviso when she’d stupidly rambled on about how long it had been since her last first kiss, but...in hindsight...that was just how he was, wasn’t it? After all, that came after she’d trailed along by his side, watching as he carefully picked up wares from the market that would suit all of the others. Unless he also had a secret thing for Bellara, Harding, Neve, and Varric, it seemed that it was more just his way than a display of secret feelings.

No, the only stone-solid indication that she’d clung to regarding any sort of affections he had for her wasn’t even all that sturdy at all. When he’d admonished Teia, and asked her not to flirt with his...colleague. That pause. It was upon that pause that Rook had placed all of her early hopes. And that had just been incredibly stupid, hadn’t it? Perhaps not in the moment, when there’d been enough recent kinda-sorta hints to bolster her hopes, and there seemed to be this tangible...trajectory between the two of them. But then that died off, and she clung to that denial, and those little moments, blaming the situation they were stuck in, the fact that everybody here viewed her as their boss, and what all that he had gone through. As well as the fact that none of it was over.

Until he started flirting with Neve.

And then she had her answer. It hurt – because of course it hurt, but she did what she could to convince herself it was for the best. Logically, that was the truth. Emotionally, it took a bit of doing. More useful than the hurt, however, was the answer. Now she knew that his lack of response to her flirting long after – probably too long after – he stopped initiating it wasn’t shyness, not a desire to draw things out. It was merely a lack of interest. A polite lack of interest, at that, which was gentlemanly of him, she supposed. Though she still cringed whenever her mind flung the memory of the final time she’d tried at her. And yet I’m still here. He’d said nothing. Gods, he’d probably felt awkward as anything, all while she’d thought she was making an emotional statement that he could trust her. Trust this thing growing between them, that turned out to only exist in her own mind.

But, after a little private moping, she endeavoured not only to forget all about it, but to forgive herself. These were extraordinary times, but she was only a woman. Who wouldn’t swoon a little upon meeting Lucanis Dellamorte? Maybe the times even contributed, her mind trying to cling onto any sort of pleasant distraction it could amidst the bloodshed, the blight, and the vengeful evil gods. Yeah, a crush would’ve been a welcome distraction. Maybe he’d even understood that. Maybe that was why he’d been so polite in his quiet rejections.

So she acted accordingly. Though she remained polite to him, friendly even – because she would never be the type to punish someone for not being attracted to her – he no longer became a de facto member of her party when she ventured forth from the Lighthouse, which she at least hope he met with relief. Of course, she still journeyed out with him here and there, but now it was just about as much as she did any other. Sometimes she even took Neve along, too, braving the woman’s disapproval over her choice to go to Treviso first, and when she did that she always tried to give the two of them their space

Third wheeling was no fun in general, but third wheeling while trying to shove down unwelcome feelings towards one of the latter two wheels was torturous. It was a good thing she was a mage, and could seldom justify having two of three in her party be ranged combatants, if they didn’t want to leave their scraps bloodied and sore.  

Lucanis just...didn’t make it easy. Not on purpose, but through sheer virtue of existence. Every time she managed to dull the sadness down to a dull, numb sort of detached disappointment, he would do something. He’d prepare a meal that he recalled she’d particularly liked a week or two before. He’d appear at her side with coffee when she’d been too mired in work to justify sleeping. He’d make one of those dry, deadpan jokes in that voice of his. And it didn’t mean anything, not beyond anything platonic which was meaningful enough in and of itself. He noticed things, he was a Crow, it was part of the territory. And he was funny. He couldn’t help that. But none of it just made things particularly easier, and the sooner she got over this ridiculous crush, the sooner she could stop worrying that she was being too obvious and continuing to make him uncomfortable.

And then he approached her with the job.

“Rook.”

She had no idea whether he’d purposely approached silently, or whether she’d been too engrossed in the work before her to notice him. Ordinarily she worked in solitude, taking what she referred to as busywork to the Lighthouse’s central meeting hall only when she knew she had to make an effort to be available to the others living here, should they have need of her. At that moment, she was strategizing – going over everything they had to do, and working out the best order to go about it all in, depending on what was most pressing, who she would have need of, and where she’d have to be. From there, she could work out a plan of action that would make the most sense, a task at a time, until the impossible and overwhelming felt at all tackle-able.

“What can I do for you?” she greeted with a little smile, straightening up from where she’d leaned over the table.

“Is it so obvious I’ve come for a favour?” he asked, a certain reluctance taking hold of his entire body language.

“More business, I’d say, than a favour. I’ve developed an eye for these things – with everybody here, I mean. It’s not personal. You just look all business and-“ she was growing dangerously close to rambling and stopped herself short, sighing and forcing what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “I’m all ears.”

Lucanis did not laugh when she punctuated her final statement with a gesture towards the pointed ears that protruded from her long crimson tresses.

“I’d…call this a favour. Given what she’s asking,”

Seeing that this was no time to insist on making jokes, Rook shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“I think we should probably sit down, then.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But not here. Somewhere more private?”

As he spoke, his dark eyes flitted about the hall, pausing briefly upon any and every entrypoint that might find them interrupted by one of the others.

“My…quarters?” she suggested slowly, hoping he wouldn’t misread the suggestion.

But he didn’t hesitate. If anything, he seemed relieved, his shoulers loosening a little as he motioned for her to lead the way. They walked in silence, right up until the door to her quarters was shut behind them, and they sat upon the couch that faced the window.

“This is where you meditate, then? To go and meet with Solas?”

“Only when he’s very lucky.”

If he needed time to build up to asking for this favour, she could grant him that.

“He has a type, then,” Lucanis quipped half-heartedly.

He referred to the Inquisitor – a fellow redheaded elf, with missing vallaslin.

“Look at how that ended for her,” Rook muttered.

Surely that wasn’t what he wanted to discuss? Non-existent flirtations between herself and Solas? Fen’Harel would sooner stab her than kiss her – thankfully.

“...and he’s not the only one,” Lucanis sighed, “with a type, I mean.”

“I’m...not sure what you mean, Lucanis,” she said slowly, staring at him.

“Teia has written with a contract. Not the usual sort. It’s more personal than that, I think, from what I can glean between the lines.”

Did he need time away, to go and handle this personally? No, that couldn’t be it, surely he wouldn’t be so nervous just to ask her for that – she wasn’t a slave driver. She would’ve made a piss-poor Shadow Dragon, had that been the case. But she got the sense he was building up to something, and that to interrupt would quash his momentum, so she only waited, quietly and patiently, for him to make his request.

“Someone in Treviso, someone with wealth, is...having young elven women kidnapped. For reasons it doesn’t take much imagination to piece together. A group of those who live in the alienage have banded together to have a contract put out on him.”

“That doesn’t sound so different from usual Crow business,” she replied, quashing the sense of nausea and outrage that threatened to rise within her.

“How many alienage elves do you think can afford a contract with the Crows?” he asked drily, and then faltered. “I mean no offense, Rook.”

“None taken, you’re right,” she mused quietly. “But I never thought your organisation was so scrupulous about where the gold came from, so long as it was there. And this is a good deed, is it not?”

“The best deed,” he said quickly, “And the Crows don’t have scruples, but I have suspicions. Teia wants us to handle it, with as little fanfare as possible. Either she’s given them a steep discount...or she’s covering part of the cost herself. Either way, it’s not our way, but she knows we won’t ask the same questions the others in Treviso might, if it’s assigned to them.”

“I’m in. Of course I’m in.”

“Rook,” he sighed. “He works...cleverly. We’ll need to lay a trap, tempt him, and then kill him once he walks into it.”

“I don’t feel right about asking Bellara to be part of this,” she admitted quickly.

“Bellara would be no good to us here. He doesn’t like the tattoos – think it makes them look less pure,” his lip curled.

...Oh. Of course. Lucanis’ eyes were trained keenly on her face, and he hardly seemed pleased or even all that relieved when she finally understood what he was asking. She’d spent so long in Arlathan Forest these last couple of weeks, among elves that were far more elf-y than she, that it had impacted her logic, forgetting that to many humans, one elf was the same as another for all intents and purposes. The worst intents and purposes, as far as this particular bastard was concerned. But now her logic was in full working order.

“I’ll do it.”

“Rook.”

“I’ll do it!” she repeated firmly. “Of course I’ll do it. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

He breathed a tired, humourless laugh. “I didn’t doubt for a second that you would – but I don’t like it.”

“I might be a little offended if you were too enthusiastic about it,” she said, and when he didn’t laugh she sighed. “It’s just another job, right? We face worse every day.”

“That’s different,” he said doggedly, shaking his head. “We run into battle, with daggers and swords and we handle it. That’s more straightforward. You won’t be able to carry weapons – they’ll smell a rat from a mile away.”

“I’m a mage, I don’t need weapons.”     

They helped, sure, but they weren’t vital. She could get by.

“It’ll just be the two of us, or else the risk of going detected is too great. You staging the trap, me following along in the shadows.”

“...Oh.”

“If that changes things, I can-”

He watched her closely – so closely, in fact, that she couldn’t even take a chance to try and discern how he felt about the two of them working alone together without it falling under his scrutiny.

“No,” she interrupted. “I was only surprised because I assumed I was going it alone.”

“You’d have...alone? You’ll be the death of me, Rook,” he sighed, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.  

It felt dangerously like a return to their old ways, before things had gotten strange between them. That, in and of itself, was probably dangerous.

“I take that as high praise,” she smiled a little. “We should leave soon, right? Before he gets it in his head to take another?”

“Probably, yes,” he sighed.

“Tonight then,” she said, slapping her thighs as she rose. “I’ll go and prepare.”

A/N: More parts of this pairing to come -- and then I'll post 'em all on AO3 when this is done!

Dividers by cafekitsune.

[rin-hanarin]

They were sparring and things got a little heated. Antivans are passionate, and what gets things heated more than mock combat?

Also Neve doesn't care, she just prefers when private matters are kept private. What matters? Training with knives, I guess.

[hyperbali]

Someone asked who Deja is romancing

And I decided I’m going to make it clear she has an Older Man Fetish

But here’s the Lucanis piece for when I was planning on doodling each one separately

[mageofquandrix]

Hey, if any of you are m/m DATV shippers and make posts/fic/art about them, can you let me know so I can follow you?

Similarly, if you know of someone, can you direct me to them?

Many thanks!

[viennacherries]

Your Voice is a Comfort

Lucanis/f!Rook | 541 Words | SFW

Read on AO3

Lucanis often wonders how Rook manages to keep up with herself.

It seems like she’s always going at mach-speed. Like anything less than constantly vomiting words out of her mouth is a catastrophic failure on her part.

~~~

~~~

Lucanis often wonders how Rook manages to keep up with herself.

It seems like she’s always going at mach-speed. Like anything less than constantly vomiting words out of her mouth is a catastrophic failure on her part.

There's rarely a moment of quiet if she’s in the room. If she’s not excitedly discussing things with the rest of the Veilguard, then she’s narrating everything she does to Assan or Manfred. If she’s not doing either of those, she’s muttering under her breath to herself. Lucanis would think she was the one possessed by a demon if he didn't know better.

She's no different on the battlefield. She’s constantly moving, bobbing and weaving and slashing. He’ll think he’s finally locked onto her position so he can cover her, and then suddenly she’s 40ft away again, screaming a battle cry and diving into the fray before anyone can even think to stop her.

He thinks she’s probably never done anything quietly in her life.

He sees it too, in the way she cares for everyone around her. The way she’ll help every wayward vagabond that looks at her with slightly wet eyes, or the way she’ll rush to be a shoulder to cry on for any of her friends. The way she stoops to put a coin in every panhandlers tray, and the way she coos at every flea-ridden feline in all of Thedas that comes within arms reach. Of all the things Rook does loudly, she loves the loudest.

He found it overwhelming when he met her. A year of near constant isolation, and the first friendly face when he found his freedom was this bundle of energy and noise. Some days he would escape to the pantry purely so that he could find silence. It’s safe to say, between her and Spite, he never found any.

But things are different now. Spite is quieter, and Rook… Well, Rook isn't. And yet Lucanis finds he’s glad for it.

She’s taken to keeping him company while he cooks. He stands over the stove and she leans on the counter next to him, talking. He mostly just listens, making a few affirming noises when it feels right. He never says more than a few words, and she never runs out of things to say. If it was anyone else, maybe he’d find it tiring, but it’s not anyone else. It’s Rook.

While Rook is around to fill every silence, there’s still a chance they can win.

While Rook is keeping him company and talking his ear off, they’re safe.

She’s safe.

He’s not sure when that became important to him, but it is now.

So now he relishes it. Every muttered curse directed at no one in particular, every compliment offered to every mangy cat. Every strange gargled noise she makes at Manfred, and every time he can hear her behind him on the battlefield. All of it means there's still hope that they make it out of this. All of it means she’s okay.

And if he’s starting to say more than a few words? If he’s started making comments about things he knows will send her on a tangent while he peels the vegetables?

Well. Maybe he’s trying to love loudly, too.

[partially-controlled-chaos]

Think Nothing, Feel Nothing Ch. 3

Pairing: Lucanis Dellamorte/unnamed f!rook

Rating: G for now but will get bumped to M for later chapters

Warning: Hurt and very little comfort for a while. Eventual happy ending. Lucanis is absolutely feral in the first days Rook is gone.

Read below the cut or on AO3!

Hollow. Empty. Broken. Spite’s words cut like dull knives against Lucanis. Rook is. Gone. And you do. Nothing!

Sit and wait. Wait and weep. The demon circled the Crow sitting silently on the library lounge, snarling and growling like a feral dog. Lucanis sat hunched with his elbows resting atop his knees, his fingers loosely laced together as he stared at his boots. He could hear Spite, as he always could, but the words hurled at him meant nothing. Lucanis was too lost in his own self wallowing that even the never ending tirade of a demon wouldn’t reach him. Insults fell on deaf ears, which only angered Spite more with the lack of reaction.

Three days had passed since Rook simply vanished from their lives and Lucanis was no closer to finding her than he was to fulfilling the second half of his contract. Lucanis wasn’t a mage and he barely understood his situation with Spite, so understanding the intricacies that now kept Rook from him was beyond his understanding. He could offer no counsel to Emmrich and Bellara, who were doing a bulk of the research into her disappearance, and his usual kitchen duties had been hastily discarded and ignored. Why bother feeding himself to stay strong when he couldn’t protect Rook the first time? A grumbling stomach was hardly a fitting punishment for losing the one person he cared about, but it was a start.

He had sharpened his blades and mended his leathers, cleaned his boots, and even refilled his poison vials in the anticipation for a fight, but there was no fight to be had. Without knowing where Rook was or how to get her back, he and his weapons were not needed. Emmrich’s scrying had turned up no leads and the lack of news from their allies only told him that Rook was truly lost to him. Lucanis had mourned the loss of loved ones before, namely his parents, but this was a different type of sorrow. Something larger than he couldn’t understand and it was incessantly hungry. The pain gnawed his bones like a beast on a kill, sharp and unrelenting. The adrenaline he felt when he first regained consciousness had long since faded and had been replaced with something heavy and cold that sat deep in his chest and squeezed his heart with an iron grasp.

Useless! Spite screeched as he ducked under Lucanis’s drooped hands to meet his eye, fury blazing in the purple glow that belonged to the demon.

“That’s quite enough, Spite.” Emmrich scolded from across the library, his voice unusually firm and sharp. The necromancer glared in the general direction of the spirit over the rim of his glasses, which were perched precariously on the tip of his nose, and closed the book in his hand with a firm snap.

In a few short strides, Emmrich closed the distance between the bookcase he’d been standing by and the circular table seated in the middle of the room and placed his book down amidst the mess. The table top was covered in open books and scattered pages relating to anything and everything Emmrich thought might help the team find Rook. Lucanis glanced up for the first time in a while as Emmrich sat his spectacles beside the book and pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. His eyes closed as he let out a long exhale, exhaustion settling clearly on his face.

Mage works. You sit. Pathetic. Spite whispered against the shell of Lucanis’s ear, just out of earshot of Emmrich.

“You should rest, Emmrich.” Lucanis’s voice was hoarse with both fatigue and sorrow.

“Oh, I’m all right, Lucanis,” Emmrich said with a half smile as he reopened his eyes, “I actually believe I’m on the cusp something.” Spite and Lucanis both perked at Emmrich’s words.

You find. Rook? Lucanis was almost hopeful and Spite now hovered beside Emmrich’s legs.

“No, not quite,” Lucanis once again deflated, “but I am working with a theory on where she may have gone and how to-” The creaking of the library doors interrupted the conversation, pulling all eyes to the entrance. 

Bellara slipped through the opening quietly, a tray of steaming tea, and coffee for Lucanis, in hand. She padded across the floor quickly as Emmrich cleared off a spot on the table for the tray. Taash was close behind her, holding another platter of roughly cut meats, cheeses, and crackers; which had quickly become the go-to dinner option in recent days. Lucanis had not stepped foot in the kitchen since returning from Tearstone Island and Bellara was often busy assisting Emmrich in theorizing with the professor late into the night about their current situation. With no one properly cooking, scraps and thrown together meals were what everyone survived on.

“We found food.” Taash said while setting down their tray beside Bellara’s, snatching a few pieces of meat and cheese before sitting in their usual chair.

“Oh how delightful,” Emmrich said as he began to pour himself a cup of tea, “thank you both.”

“I know it’s not quite how you make it, Lucanis, but I thought you might like a cup. I know tea isn’t really your drink.” Bellara said with a half smile as she handed him the singular cup of fresh coffee. 

“Thank you, Bellara.” He said quietly as he took the cup from her grasp, staring into the inky, black liquid. The scent of the brew was familiar, but the usual comfort associated with it was absent.

To be polite, Lucanis took a small sip of the drink before simply holding the cup in his hands. The coffee tasted just fine, much to his surprise, but he had no desire to finish the cup. Truthfully, he had refrained from the drink since the team returned from the battle against Ghilan’nain. With Rook gone, he didn’t want to stay awake. He preferred to spend his time in a dreamless sleep with nothing but a black void to wade through. Blank nothingness was better than a world without Rook.

“Have you heard anything from the Mourn Watch, Professor?” Bellara asked softly as she took a seat beside Lucanis on the couch, “Or any of the spirits?” He voice was calm, but her fingers tapped rapidly against her teacup.

“I’m afraid not, Bellara.” Emmrich sighed as he sat in his usual high backed chair, a cup of tea in hand. “Although I’ve sent word of Rook’s disappearance to Myrna and Vorgoth and they’ve promised to alert me immediately if they find anything.” 

“Taash?” Bellara’s voice was small and feigned hopefulness, as if she already knew the answer to her next question before the words had left her lips, “What about the Lords? Have they found anything?”

“No.” Taash said flatly, tearing into a piece of cured meat with the flat of their teeth, “Isabella hasn’t seen her since the last time we had drinks at The Hilt. She’s got some of the others looking on the beaches and in the ruins.”

“I haven’t heard from the Veil Jumpers either. I was hoping that they might have seen something because of all the weird magic, but Strife says it’s nothing new.”

Silence fell over the room as the group waited for Lucanis to report in with news from the Crows, but he had none. In truth, Lucanis hadn’t yet told the other Talons of Rook’s vanishing. They would have so many questions, all of which he lacked answers to, and he didn’t have it in him to retell the story of his failure to protect Rook. He didn’t want to listen to Viago’s ire as he began to rant about missing information and losing allies. He couldn’t stomach the pity and the hand to his shoulder he knew he would get from Teia. If he had to look at the smug look that would grace Illario’s face he couldn’t promise himself that he wouldn’t brutally murder his cousin on the floor of the Cantori Diamond. But most importantly, he knew he wouldn’t be able to face Caterina, who had warned him against becoming too close to Rook. There would be no sympathy from her, only an intense look of satisfaction.

Before Lucanis could answer, heavy footsteps and a familiar series of squawks ascended the staircase leading from the eluvian room. Davrin rounded the top of the stairs, pausing just briefly at seeing the library full. Continuing his stride, he made his way to the empty spot beside Rook’s chair, a single piece of parchment clutched tightly in his fist. He raised the parchment into the air before finally speaking.

“I just spoke with Antoine and Evka,” he said with a huff as he tried to steady his breath, “they have news from the Wardens in Minrathous.” Assan circled at Davrin’s feet and Lucanis wasn’t entirely sure if the griffon was excited or anxious.

“They have word on Rook?” Lucanis asked, the words spilling from his mouth almost frantically, “They’ve seen her?”

“No,” Davrin said, almost reluctantly, “Minrathous is under attack. Blight is taking over and the gates to the city have been sealed. Rumor has it that the Archon’s palace has been overrun by Venatori. Some of the Wardens we helped in Dock Town managed to send notice to those remaining in Lavendel before everything was shut down.”

“It’s Elgar’nan!” Bellara shouted as she stood from her seat, suddenly overflowing with anxious energy. To avoid a spill, she sat her teacup down and buzzed with energy. 

“That’s not all.” Davrin tossed the parchment he was holding onto the table, “The Wardens in Minrathous wrote that they saw an elf leading a group of rebels against Elgar’nan in the city. Bald and dressed in armor and wielding some pretty powerful magic. Carrying a big, shiny dagger to boot.”

Lucanis bristled at Davrin’s words, his fists flenching until his knuckles were white. Taking a glance around the room, the answer was obvious. Rook had uncovered a handful of murals depicting various pieces of the Dread Wolf’s past and they had even heard those histories unfold from whatever arcane magic was held within the wolf statues. Solas’s image was painted all throughout the murals and Lucanis didn’t need to see him in person to know that he was the one that had been seen in Minrathous. 

“Solas.” Spite and Lucanis issued in unison, Lucanis’s sorrow quickly turning to a deep rage.

“Isn’t he supposed to be trapped in the Fade?” Taash asked while finishing off their meal, using the back of their hand to wipe any crumbs off their lips.

“That’s what I thought.” Davrin grumbled as he took his seat beside Taash. Assan followed, but stopped to sniff and bite at the food on display before being ushered away.

“But how did he get the dagger?” Bellara asked as she once again sat herself on the lounge, “Solas needs it to tear down the veil and Rook would never give it to Solas.” Her voice was low, almost threatening. The implications of Bellara’s words hit Lucanis in the chest, and he shook away the feeling as best as he could before it settled.

“We’ve seen what Solas can do. We’ve seen him lie and charm people into getting what he wants.” Davrin offered, “He killed Mythal, his closest friend, to steal her power. You think he wouldn’t kill Rook to get what he wanted? Especially after she disrupted his ritual?”

Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Spite chanted beside Lucanis, the demon hungry for violence.

Lucanis couldn’t deny that he shared Spite’s desire for retribution against Solas. God or not, it was clear to him now that he was the reason behind Rook’s disappearance. The right to kill Zara had been taken from him when her neck was within his reach, but the right to kill Solas for hurting Rook would not be taken from him. In the privacy of his quarters in the pantry, he and Spite would come to an agreement on the matter, but for now he knew that they both had Solas in their crosshairs. His death would not be clean or neat. It would not showcase the work of a master assassin. But it would cruel and bloody and most definitely the work of The Demon of Vyrantium. 

“Or he simply took Rook’s place.” Emmrich’s voice cut through the darkness that had begun to swallow Lucanis’s mind, temporarily breaking away from the desires brewing in his chest. “I’ve been ruminating about the matter for quite some time and I have reason to believe that Solas, through the use of magic and his own talents of manipulation, was able to trade places with Rook. Effectively trapping her within the Fade so he may walk free among the physical world once again.” Eyes were drawn to Emmrich as he stood from his chair, placing his cold cup of tea on the table before him. 

“You mean put he put her in the same box he’s been stuck in? The one for gods?” Taash asked.

“I believe so, yes.” Emmrich replied. 

“That’s vashedan,” they scoffed, “Rook isn’t a god. How do you put a not-god in a cage for gods? It’s messed up if he did.” 

“Regret, I’m afraid.” Emmrich sighed. He began to pace at the head of the table, his hands moving with his speech as if he was teaching one of his necromancy courses at the Necropolis. “Think about it for a moment, all of you, if you will. Regret is all around us. Solas’s murals and statues showcase and highlight the regrets in his life and I believe that this is what kept him in the Fade.” He gestured to the murals and accompanying statues that littered the main hall. 

Solas was angered that Mythal and Elgar’nan fought a war just to seize the title of godhood for themselves. Felt remorse for releasing the Blight by using the blood of titans to create physical form. He even regretted killing the essence of Mythal to take her power for himself. All were powerful moments in time that would cut deep into the conscious of anyone, but Emmrich believed that they weighed so heavily on Solas that it formed his own prison and held the key to finding Rook.

“I believe that his inability to work through his remorse is what kept him locked away behind the Veil after his ritual attempt. And under normal circumstances, he would be left with no ability to influence the world outside the Fade just like how Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain were dormant for so long. However, his only connection to the world outside was Rook.” Emmrich continued pacing, excitement building in his voice as he came to the crux of his discovery, “And, correct me if I’m wrong, but she is the only one of us who can hear him. She is the only one with that mental connection, but what connected them? Hm?” 

“Blood magic.” Lucanis growled. 

He, of all people, should have known right away that Rook was being manipulated by blood magic. The increased itch behind his eyes whenever he stepped foot in her room, Spite bristling when Rook mentioned speaking with Solas, even the icy feel that ran down his back when Solas spoke directly to her in Arlathan. How could he be so blind to something so obvious? It’s something he should have seen ages ago. Perhaps if he had noticed it sooner, Rook would still be here.

“Yes! That’s it! Precisely!” Emmrich quickly stifled the excitement of his discovery, remembering just why it was necessary at all, and smoothed his hands over his waistcoat. 

“Neve said that Rook hit her head during the ritual. She was in the infirmary for a day or so with a wound.” Bellara interjected, to which Lucanis continued.

“If Rook spilled blood at the ritual site, then it’s how Solas was able to connect to her.” He grimaced at the thought of Rook having the god of lies having access to her blood, memories of the Ossuary returning to the front of his mind. “It wasn’t enough for total control, but enough to let him get in her head.”

“Lied to. Rook.” His voice mingled with Spite’s momentarily before quieting down again. 

“Indeed. Shaping her thoughts and actions to suit his needs when she could go to him for counsel. And I believe he has shaped her in a way that couldn’t allow her to let go of her regrets.” Emmrich returned to his seat, thoroughly proud with his discovery.

“What does Rook have to regret? I thought she wanted to do this?” Davrin knitted his brows together as he looked to Emmrich for answers.

“She did,” Bellara said quietly, “…but Neve said that she felt so guilty over what happened to Varric. She hated knowing he was hurt because of her call.”

“And Harding.” Taash added, “Rook watched her die. She was only up there because Rook sent her to distract Ghilan’nain. She must have felt bad about that.” There was no anger in their voice, but everyone could feel their sadness as they mentioned Harding. Lucanis could see how it would be easy for Rook to blame herself. 

“She never forgave herself for the dragon attack in Minrathous.” Lucanis added solemnly, remembering the numerous nights he’d spent awake with Rook in the dining hall when she’d wake up from a nightmare. 

“And so, it is with those regrets that Rook was able to be molded in such a way that was so effective, that when the Fade was torn open when Lucanis killed Ghilan’nain, Solas was able to step forth into our reality and trap Rook in his when she touched the dagger.” Emmrich added softly. 

“Oh, I knew you’d figure it out professor!” Bellara shouted with glee, reaching over to pat Emmrich on the top of his hand.

As much as he hated the idea of Rook being trapped in the Fade by the god of lies, it did give him a glimmer of hope that Rook was alive. For days, the idea that Rook was dead had been gnawing at the back of his mind and he had to make a conscious effort to banish the idea from his thoughts. They had already tempted fate once and lost; he didn’t want to manifest something else into existence. But, the hope was short lived the more he thought about the logistics of living in pure Fade. Rook was mortal, indomitable, but mortal. Just flesh and blood and bone who needed certain things to survive. Food, water, and shelter were all things she required, but he didn’t think a Fade prison would provide. 

Rook had already been stuck in the Fade for several days and Lucanis knew that alone teetered on the edge of how long someone could go without the bare necessities of survival. She needed out and out now. The team, namely Emmrich, had discovered what happened to Rook and perhaps where to find her, but the question of how to pull her back out of the Fade remained unanswered.

“But how do we get her out?” Lucanis asked, a hint of desperation lacing his words.

“We will have no chance of getting into the Fade without that dagger.” Emmrich answered, “It’s the only tool we know of that can pierce the veil.”

“So we go after Solas directly.” Davrin said firmly, “Use the Eluvians to get to Minrathous. The gates to the city may be closed, but we have a direct line into the city at our fingertips. Go in, find Solas, and either take the dagger from him or kill the bastard out right.” Assasn’s head wobbled with excitement with Davrin’s confidence, the griffon ready to set out for battle.

“Preferably both.” Lucanis muttered. 

Admittedly, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of confronting Solas or taking on Minrathous without Rook, but Emmrich was certain in his theories. They had no alternative means of freeing Rook from Solas’s prison of regret and he knew they needed to get her out as quickly as possible. They needed to confront Solas, but they also needed time to prepare. 

“Then it’s agreed,” Emmrich said has he stood, clasping his hands in front of him, “tomorrow we head to Minrathous. Use this time to rest and prepare yourselves.” Emmrich was speaking to everyone, but the exhaustion on his face was evident. 

“Thank you, Emmrich. For everything.” Lucanis said softly. The necromancer responded with a small, but tired, smile. 

“I’d gladly do it again, Lucanis. Rook it’s important to us all, as is Neve.” Turning to the rest of the group, Emmrich continued, “Now let’s be off. Tomorrow promises to be a most crucial of days. Rest well.” With a series of nods, the team began to disperse to their usual corners of the Lighthouse, preparing to face the two remaining elven gods and find Rook. Lucanis stood from the lounge and promptly made his way towards the pantry, ready to make another deal with his demon.

[itsrainingpandas]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age: The Veilguard (Video Game), Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Summary:

After Lucanis reaches a dangerous point of fatigue in his attempts not to sleep, Rook volunteers to keep watch for Spite if he will finally get some rest.

[freedomatsea]

la petite mort (Lucanis x Rook)

Following the events of Dragon Age: The Veilguard Lucanis and Rook return home to Treviso to enjoy their happily ever after. Except it's not so happily ever after.

Rating: E Ship: Lucanis x f!Rook (de Riva)

Chapter 5 is officially live on AO3!

[artsywarden]

I’m in a silly mood , so I was wondering:

How does every LI react to Rook farting 😂?

Emmrich: oh, dear, don’t be embarrassed! It’s a natural occurrence of the body, nothing to be ashamed of. We even release gas after we die.

Lucanis: *massages Rook’s tummy*

Bellara: *jumps* was that you? I thought that was me, maybe it was me, too much fiber these days

Taash: do it again! I want to try something (Rook: no, Taash! Don’t set my farts on fire!)

Davrin: huh, did I hear a monster? Do I smell a monster downwind? *proceeds to make more monster fart puns*

Harding: ewww! Smells like a wet mabari, what did you eat Rook?!

Neve: *snort laugh, crunches her nose* I guess that means you’re comfortable ? I’m ok with that

[dracoangel]

You mean you didn't spend all that time dreaming about having coffee with your inner demon? And with you. But here we are. Whatever this is, I'll take it.

[eva-black]

ngl i find Lucanis romance lacking (like in cafe scene when he just stands awkwardly next to you like come on he could at least put his hand on your cheek or smh) but this scene is so nice and i love those first few seconds with Rook alone, exhausted, lying with eyes closed *chef kiss*