#lucanis x f!rook | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

partially-controlled-chaos · 5 days ago

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Pairing: Lucanis Dellamorte X f!Rook (Veil Jumper Rook. Unnamed, but heavily implied backstory) Rating: Good for everyone because it's fluff. Warnings: Mentions of nightmares and possibly PTSD from Rook, but mostly just sad Rook and fluffy Lucanis. Also grumpy Spite because it's Spite. Summary: After the dragon attack in Minrathous and Treviso, the choice that had to be made haunts Rook. Guilt and shame snake their way into her dreams, causing sleepless nights and panic induced episodes of sleepwalking. Her hands are stained with the blood of innocents and who better to wash it off than an assassin for hire. Word Count: 11.9K

an: I'd taken a bit of a break from writing, but the brain rot caused by Lucanis Dellamorte has struck me hard. This was originally supposed to be a little drabble, but it very quickly got out of hand. Set after the dragon attack in Minrathous and Treviso, but before Siege of Weisshaupt.

Full can be found under the cut or in the link above on AO3!

The rich, aromatic scent of a special Antivan blend coffee filled the dining hall as it sputtered and rippled through the coffee maker, the smell soothing Lucanis as he fought off the ever persistent gnawing of his demon. His eyes remained focused on the coffee maker, watching the brew with a scowl as Spite scratched at the edges of his mind, clawing and snarling with a ferocity that had been dormant for a few days. But, that was the routine he now faced. Even with coffee, days without sleep was making his control over the demon more and more precarious. He couldn’t remember how many cups he’d had over the course of the day and into the evening, but considering he was running low on clean mugs, it told him all he needed to know.

We had an agreement. Spite hissed beside Lucanis, crouching like a caged animal. We. Want. Out!

Lucanis ran calloused hands over tired eyes, letting out a lengthy sigh as he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. Spite had been incessant for most of the day. Screaming and shouting in riddles and half formed sentences about agreements and leaving, making less and less sense the longer the day dragged on. He was tired, both from the lack of sleep and the constant snarling of the demon that inhabited his body. Perhaps with a few hours of sleep he could think with a clearer mind and satiate the mad ramblings that bounced off the inner walls of his skull, but it was too risky now to try and rest. With the rest of the team asleep or in their rooms for the night, it wasn’t wise to rest his eyes. It would almost be inviting for Spite to take control and send them into the endless abyss of the Fade or through the evluian to Maker knows where in an attempt to escape.

“Enough!” He shouted at Spite clawed at his back, the flesh burning and itched under phantom nails and fingertips. Spite appeared in front of Lucanis again, teeth bared and almost frothing at the mouth as he prepared to either lunge or actually rip at the tender skin of Lucanis’s throat, but stopped almost instantly. The demon stood straight, his mood instantly calming as he sensed the approach of the one person he actually liked.

Rook.

Spite turned towards the door, his nose pointed towards the ceiling, sniffing in short bursts. His face twisted and contorted as he searched for the right words.

No. Not right. Rook is here. But also. Gone.

Before Lucanis could question in incoherent ramblings of the demon, the door to the dining hall swung open suddenly, the force behind the shove strong enough to knock the solid wood against the stone wall with a sound that echoed in the near silence of the room. Rook stumbled into the dining hall, her bare feet padding against the stone floor with an uncoordinated haste. The doors to the dining hall closed, cutting off the ever illuminated sky of the Fade outside and bathing the room in firelight once more. Both demon and assassin watched in uneasy silence as Rook clumsily made her way towards the wash basin, seemingly not noticing Lucanis’s presence in the room.

Rook discarded the blanket that she had wrapped around her form, unceremoniously dropping it to the ground as she made her way across the room, making Lucanis avert his gaze at the sight of so much bared flesh. Even in her downtime, Rook was never undone in the way she dressed. When not clad in armor, Rook could always be found in well put together Arlathan leathers that covered most of her freckle-kissed skin. Lucanis had never seen more than the skin of her hands and bare feet as she flitted around the Lighthouse with a graceful ease, but now there was very little that wasn’t covered.

Dressed in nothing more than a simple sleep tunic, Rook appeared rather disheveled. The collar of her shirt had slipped over the elegant curve of one shoulder, revealing skin that rarely saw sun or the gaze of another. The hem of the tunic opposite of the bared shoulder had been lifted with the shift of the fabric, teasing the smallest hint of the smallclothes that beneath the off-white fabric. Her legs were bare, toned muscles flexing and tightening with each frantic footstep towards the sink, illuminated nicely in the crackling light of the fireplace.

Smells like. Sweat and leather. Afraid. Although Lucanis had looked away from Rook in such a vulnerable state, he was powerless over the infatuation Spite had over the amount of skin on display.

Rook stood at the wash basin, bumping into the counter with a light grunt before her hands began tapping almost blindly around for whatever she was searching for, her movements almost frantic as she went. Eventually, she grasped the carafe of water by the edge and tipped it over, the stone of the water container clinking against the wooden bowl as water poured from the spout and splashed against the sides of the basin. Rook pressed her palms against the bottom of the washing bowl, submerging her hands in the cool water before rubbing them together in an attempt to clean them hastily.

“Rook?” Lucanis called from across the room, his body still partially leaning against the coffee counter as he observed her unusual behavior, yet was met with only silence.

Before he could recall his personal demon from slinking around Rook, Spite had scuttled up to the elf, watching her with absolute curiosity as she scrubbed more and more frantically at her skin. He pushed himself off the counter, slowly meandering towards her, a hand wrapping around the knife he had stashed behind his back in his waistline.

Although Rook had a tendency to rush into things head first and think about consequences later, she was still careful when it came to combat. She moved with an almost otherworldly ease and swiftness combined with a deadly accuracy when equipped with her bow. She preferred attacking from a distance, allowing her an advantage and better opportunities to see the battlefield as a whole instead of having something sneak up in the heat of the moment. However, she wasn’t afraid to jump into the middle of the action with a sword and rapier.

Such an opportunity had arisen earlier that day in the Hossberg Wetlands, which left an unpleasant taste in Lucanis’s mouth as his mind started to form unfounded ideas as to what had Rook in such a frenzy. He, Rook, and Davrin had been knee deep in mud and sludge collecting blight samples for Antoine and Evka when they had been swarmed by a group of darkspawn. The battle that ensued was fierce and bloody, leaving everyone exhausted and soaked from head to toe in swamp water, although relatively unharmed. The singular casualty of the day came in the form of Rook’s leathers, which had been sliced through cleanly with a javelin on the upper arm. Rook was more upset about damaging her favored armor than she was the wound that had been inflected on her flesh, but had later admitted to how the cut ached after the adrenaline had worn off.

Lucanis had patched her up quickly enough in the moment with a few swipes of a clean rag dampened with part of a healing potion and wrapped the wound in a scrap of cloth to protect it from any other impurities in the water they trudged back through to get home. The cut had appeared fine at the time, large and deep enough to bleed but not enough to scar. But, most importantly, the wound and surrounding area had been cleaned well, he was sure of it. She had acted normally on the journey back to the Lighthouse through the Crossroads, showcased her usual appetite at dinner, and had joined him for their nightly cup of cioccolata calda after almost everyone had turned in for the night.

For a brief, fleeting moment, the horrid idea that blight had gotten into Rook’s system through the unassuming cut struck Lucanis in the heart like one of his knives, twisting and wrenching as he inched closer. He wasn’t sure how to put it into words, but he had begun to care for Rook in a way that was equal parts exciting and terrifying. Relationships, either platonic or romantic, were not his strong suit. He was much better equipped with a blade than a quill for fine words and romantic gestures. As far as he could tell, there was nothing romantic going on with Rook, but there was something present that he couldn’t quite place. She’d pulled him from the Ossuary after a year of torment, taken him in and trusted him despite being possessed by a demon of spite, and she was always so, so kind to him even when he couldn’t find kindness for himself.

He wasn’t completely oblivious to her moments of flirtatious banter, but he always took them with a grain of salt. Rook was kind and gentle and flirted with everyone on the team; it was her nature. But sometimes late at night when he fought sleep, he liked to imagine that perhaps she flirted with him a bit more than everyone else. That maybe the softness and warmth in her eyes when she looked at him meant something more than simple friendship brought out by a job, but he would never admit it aloud. The thought alone terrified him, but also brought feelings of sorrow. He was a deadly assassin possessed by a demon; death, pain, and spite were all he knew. It wasn’t the type of misery to share with someone else, especially not someone who had done so much for him in so little time.

However, in this moment the thought that terrified him the most was thinking that everything could come to a complete halt if she was indeed infected with blight. No one lived long once they’d been blighted. By the time Lucanis had settled at her side, Rook had found the bar of soap sitting on the edge of the basin and held it firmly enough to where her knuckles had turned white. Her nails dug into the hard soap as she soppily scrubbed her hands and fingers, even reaching up to her forearms. He cleared his throat, hoping the noise would be enough to get her attention, but was once again ignored. His eyes fell to her bare shoulder where her tunic had fallen and realized it was the same arm that had been bandaged earlier in the day.

With a gentle touch to not startle her, Lucanis used two fingers to peel back the edge of the fabric of her shirt and expose more of the bandage. At first glance, the wrappings around her arm appeared to be fine with nothing oozing, leaking, or smelling. Slowly, he placed the very tips of his fingers to her skin. It was warm, but not in a way that was alarming. In the few times she touch had met his, he was always met with a gentle and wonderful warmth; something that was mild and soft. He’d half expected her skin to be ablaze with heat and pulsing with blight, but his fears held no weight when he saw she was of normal temperate and complexion.

“There’s blood on my hands,” Rook said finally, her voice soft and on the verge of breaking, “can’t you see it?”

Lucanis quickly snapped his touch from her arm, thankful that she had not mentioned the intrusion. A twinge of guilt settled in his chest for the inspection, knowing Rook didn’t particularly care for causal touch. He glanced to her hands, finding them to be soapy and pink from her frantic scrubbing, but blissfully clean of blood. His gaze then shifted to Spite, who had already taken to sniffing along Rook’s personal space.

Smells like. Lavender and salt. No blood. Only fear. Spite picked up the scent of lavender and salt from the bar of soap she’d purchased from the vendor in the Veil Jumper camp; something to remind her of home, but he too sensed no blood.

“It won’t come off,” she continued, her voice now turning into the whine that comes before a sob as her lip trembled lightly, “I can’t get it off.”

His eyes traveled to her face, looking over her features for any signs of blight. No darkened tendrils had sprouted from around her eyes and the orbs were still green and not reddened from corruption. His gaze traveled lower, cautiously inspecting what he could see. There were no blotches of darkness cascading down the column of her throat, but one thing did catch his eye. Deep red scars on her chest appeared in the absence of her tunic to keep them covered, the wounds almost purple with how deep they went. He’d never seen the marks before, given that she always kept herself well covered, but she’d also never mentioned them. They ran parallel with her collar bones, turning sharply and descending along the length of her sternum. Each line was dotted along the sides with pinpricks for holes, evidence that at one point they had been stitched together. Lucanis yanked his gaze back towards Rook when he realized that has inspection of her scars had him staring at the curvature of her breast and the realization that nothing else was underneath the shirt in terms of clothing.

He found it to be good timing as Rook all but threw the bar of soap in the basin and reached for the hard bristled brush that was used to scrub pans. She began raking over the soft skin of her fingers at a distressing pace. Rook’s eyes were typically bright and clear, a piercing green that always had a warmth to them, but had gone dull. Her gaze was almost glazed over as if her mind were in a thick fog or if she was somehow looking past her hands and to some inner depths of the Fade. With eyes that were half-lidded and heavy when she blinked, Lucanis recognized the look. Rook was sleepwalking.

Here. But also. Gone. Spite’s ramblings now made sense. Rook was in the Lighthouse, within arms reach, and safe. Perhaps a little confused, but nothing that couldn’t be solved by getting her back into bed and asleep. But, as Spite noticed, her mind was gone from these walls and wandering somewhere in the Fade, the realm of dreams, and was disturbed by whatever she saw that her own physical body had to run away. He admittedly gave a small sigh of relief, pleased to know it was simply a bad dream that had her acting erratically and not blight coursing through her veins. Lucanis removed his hand from the hilt of his blade and wiped his palms on the front of his vest, smoothing the fabric.

“It won’t come off.” Rook whispered, her eyes met his, but her consciousness seemed far away.

“May I?” He motioned towards her hands with a quick nod of his head, seeking permission for a touch before simply reaching out. Even dazed by a dream, there was a hesitancy within Rook. Her body bristled at the question, her heart thrumming and was evident by the twitching pulse point in her neck; fear.

Rook was finicky. She could charge head first into battle against Venatori or Antaam without hesitation or fear, but flinched under a seemingly friendly touch. Of course essential touches were different and most certainly welcome, whether it be wrapping a bandage around a teammate after a particularly brutal fight or being hoisted up on a roof when she nearly missed a jump. She wasn’t obvious with the aversions she did have, but after years of working as a Crow, Lucanis knew how to read body language. Sometimes there was a subtle tightening of her muscles, an intake of breath, clenching of the jaw, a smile that was a bit too practiced to remain polite as she dodged a pat on the shoulder; rehearsed and performed more than once.

Although he couldn’t put a definitive answer as to why she shied away from physical contact, there was something lurking beneath the surface to her aversion, but would never explicitly state why. Rook was a closed book when it came to sharing personal details, which he can’t say he didn’t sympathize with given that he often did the same. Lucanis knew she had joined the Veil Jumpers not long before she paired with Varric and hailed from Arlathan Forest, but much more past that was a mystery.

Perhaps the only member of the team that knew anything about Rook was Bellara, who had known Rook before she ever got the moniker or agreed to fight gods. But, being the ever loyal and genuine friend of their leader, Bellara had sworn herself to secrecy. Lucanis had lost count how many times Neve had cornered the mage in the kitchen to get the tiniest bit of information about Rook. Apparently even the greatest detective in the Tevinter Imperium couldn’t dig up anything about Rook.

The sudden movements of Rook’s nodding head pulled Lucanis from his thoughts. Carefully, he took the scouring brush from her grasp and placed it back along the edge of the wash basin. He took her hands in his own, glancing to her eyes once more to look for any of her usual signs of discomfort, but was met with her sleep heavy eyes and the same trembling lip that had greeted him earlier. The backs of her hands were swiped over a few times before he began rinsing. Cupping one of his palms, Lucanis poured handfuls of water over her fingers until they were mostly free of soap. He worked quickly, hoping to get her calmed and back to bed before she either collapsed from exhaustion or found herself wide awake holding hands with an assassin while being a hair’s breadth away from standing nude in the dining hall.

“No!” She whined, freezing Lucanis in his spot, “Not clean. Blood. Dripping.” For a brief moment she almost sounded like Spite with his unusual way of describing the world around him. Water dripped from the tips of her fingers as they hovered over the wash basin, her dream controlled mind mistaking the droplets for something far more sinister.

With a light nod, Lucanis set to his task properly. Picking the bar of soap up and out of the basin, he twirled it in his grasp a few times, lathering his own skin in a thick layer of the scented solution. He took Rook’s hands in his own again, carefully smearing the tops of her hands and palms with the lather before settling on just one hand at a time. Her hands trembled and shook against his own, fingers tightly clenching around his. He softly thumbed over her knuckles in an attempt to soothe, waiting for her grip to loosen before continuing. He wasn’t entirely sure if the trembling was a result of the nightmare or that he was touching her.

“Whose blood is it?” He moved methodically, gently cupping her wrist with one hand while the other set to the task of properly washing over her skin. His thumb moved across the back of her hand in sweeping motions, lathering each bit of skin with the floral soap, Spite watching in awe at the bubbles that formed with the movement. Lucanis took each finger one by one in his own, lathering soap along one side from knuckle to fingertip, swirling around her cuticles and along the underside of her nails before descending back down the opposite side and repeating again.

“Minrathous.” The sob she tried to suppress earlier finally broke free as tears fell from her eyes. Lucanis felt his heart clench at her words and tone.

When dragons attacked Minrathous and Treviso, Lucanis had hoped deep down that Rook would come to his aid in his city, but never expected it. He was all too familiar with the threat the Venatori posed if they managed to take Minrathous and, in hindsight, knew in his heart that Treviso was not the wise choice. A merchant city was nothing when compared to the heart of Tevinter, but it never stopped him from pleading his case to Rook. He’d left before she’d made her call, never expecting to see her twisting through the streets of Treviso to stop a blighted dragon.

He couldn’t describe the feeling that latched onto his heart when he saw her running at full speed towards him in the city, jumping over rubble and ice to find him. Her bare hands had found his cheeks, the warmth of them melting away his icy exterior in a few heartbeats. She’d held him firmly in place, checking him over for injuries before simply asking if he was all right. He remembered nodding as an answer before she pulled from him to turn to Teia and Viago, who gave her as much information as they could about the dragon haunting the skies. His cheeks burned for the remainder of the fight, but he was certain it wasn’t from exhaustion or the battle.

Rook fought the blighted beast brilliantly, landing more hits on the abomination than he or Davrin combined. She showed no fear when standing face-to-face with a god, even going so far as to taunt with the enchanted dagger she kept on her hip. All done without fear or hesitation to help his city. To help him. Ever since that day, Lucanis found himself smiling more, especially when she was around, and even cracking a smile at her godsawful puns. His face was quick to flush if she ever looked at him for more than a moment and would have trouble finding his words when they spoke, more so than normal.

But while he had found himself almost a touch lighter in recent days, he knew the same couldn’t be said for Rook and Neve. Neve hadn’t returned from Minrathous since the attack, staying behind to help and reverse some of the damage. He wasn’t there for the conversation, having stayed behind in his own city to quell small fires and coordinate with the fifth and seventh talons, but the unusual silence and somberness from Rook signaled that Minrathous had not fared well and Rook had been ribbed fairly well. Rook had offered to stay and help Minrathous how she could, but she later in the dead of night, she confided in Lucanis that Neve wanted nothing to do with her for the time being, understandably so.

Rook wept that night in the safety of her room in the Lighthouse, away from prying eyes and hushed whispers. Lucanis had only noticed that she cried more than she slept when she crept into the dining hall in the early hours the following morning to steal a cup of coffee and bread from the night before. Her eyes had been red-rimmed and wet and her voice was hoarse. He invited her to sit at the dining table and made the coffee for her, sitting with her in silence as she drank; never explicitly asking her to discuss the issue, but offered an ear if she wanted to talk. She never did.

Rook placed a high value on living creatures, only considering the death of someone when it was absolutely necessary and even then there was some degree of remorse. Saving lives is what had her exiled from the Veil Jumpers and she had expressed countless times that saving the lives of fellow jumpers was much more important than any knowledge that could have been found some flimsy old map. The loss of life showcased in Minrathous had weighed heavily on her and Lucanis could only assume that it was heavier than she let on because she was the one who decided to go to Treviso instead.

“Their blood is on my hands.” She whispered as tears streamed down her cheeks, “They’re all dead because of me.” Rook took a sucking breath, the air catching in her chest before the exhaled and tried again.

“Shhh.” Lucanis shushed softly, the sound slipping from behind his teeth as he shook the soap and water from one of his fingers. When his skin was dry enough, he hesitantly reached forward, his thumb barely grazing the skin of her cheek as he clumsily wiped away falling tears. Rook leaned forward and pressed her head against Lucanis’s shoulder at his touch, her body relaxing against his. Lucanis cleared his throat awkwardly, hoping that maybe the sound would be enough to have her straighten back up. Instead, she remained pressed against him, the occasional warm tear slipping from her skin onto the pressed fabric of his shirt.

With her ear pressed firmly against his chest, Lucanis could only hope that she was oblivious to his heart pounding away in his body. He tried to distract himself by resuming his duties of hand washing, but Rook’s breath was warm against his throat. Her breath came in even, steady puffs that slowed as time went on. It didn’t take Lucanis long to realize that she was falling asleep. Lucanis gave a few final strokes of his fingers against her skin before lacing his fingers with hers, gently turning her palm towards the ceiling, using the leverage of intertwined digits to seamlessly shift her hand. His thumb rubbed small circles in her palm, showering the skin there with the same amount of care and attention he had previously shown the top.

They spent the rest of the moment in silence, Rook’s eyes beginning to droop as sleep beckoned her once more and Lucanis repeated the cleaning process on her opposite hand. Her hands were surprisingly soft, given her skill with both blade and bow. She had the faintest beginnings of callouses forming on her fingertips from the string of her bow and a few forming along the heel of her palm from her sword. He imagined they’d formed more quickly since their fight against the gods started.

Once he, and of course Spite, were sure her hands were thoroughly scrubbed, Lucanis poured the remaining water from the carafe over her hands. Rook shuddered at the cool water, her eyes fluttering open briefly, but not enough to wake her from her dream-induced midnight waltz to the dining hall. She settled back against him rather quickly, dangerously close to falling asleep in the kitchen and on top of Lucanis.

“Is this better?” Lucanis asked quietly once the last traces of soap had been rinsed away, craning his neck as best he could to steal a glance at her face and see if she was still awake. Rook brought her damp hands up towards her eyes and gave a half hearted attempt at an observation, but was ultimately happy with their cleanliness.

“Better.” She echoed his words with a weak nod, her voice was slurred and soft with exhaustion as her eyes gave another slow blink. Satisfied with her answer, Lucanis took a dish towel from the counter. He placed it over her damp skin and blotted Rook’s hands dry, being careful not to tear the small cuts that formed with the dish brush she had raked frantically over her skin.

“Come on, Rook,” he said after tossing the dish towel into the wash basin, “you need rest.” Rook’s eyes were fully closed by now and she merely gave a small hum in recognition, but made no effort to move.

Lucanis managed to pull his arm from between them, pressing his palm against her mid back as he gingerly nudged her from his chest. Rook was uncooperative and instead doubled down, leaning more heavily against him, her fingers hooking around the small crow buttons on his vest. He floundered momentarily, unsure of exactly where to place his hands against her to guide her back towards her quarters. The night shirt she was wearing had shifted with her movement, twisting tightly around her body and bunching together in the wrong places.

“Mierda.” He whispered harshly as his fingers grazed a piece of bare skin somewhere along her stomach as his free hand latched there in an attempt to have her stand straight. He desperately tried not to think about how he was certain his little finger ghosted over the hem of her smallclothes. Spite snickered from behind Rook’s shoulder, finding Lucanis’s struggle to be immensely amusing. Lucanis shot his a straight lipped glare as his mind raced for a solution.

These situations were always much easier and significantly more romantic in the novels he read at night than it was in reality. He knew that if this was literature, he would have swept Rook up into his arms like a true romantic and carried her bridal style across the courtyard, up the spiral stairs of the library, and through the heavy doors leading to her room. From there, he would drape her across the chaise lounge that she considered a bed and she would wake up in just enough time to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him into a searing-

He shook the thought from his head with an actual shake. Now was certainly not the time to indulge in unrealistic daydreams while he supported a rather vulnerable Rook against his person. Lucanis ultimately decided that dragging Rook back to her room was out of the question. Carrying her while draped across his shoulder might actually make Davrin or Harding think he’d killed her if they happened to cross paths. Instead, he settled for shuffling across the dining hall and to the couch he’d almost forgotten about while Rook leaned heavily against him, her feet only working to take a step wither every four of his. Spite remained on their heels, assisting Lucanis in thought more than action.

It took a bit of time and maneuvering, but Lucanis was able to finally guide Rook to the couch near the door, using two hands to make sure she was firmly planted against the cushions and not at risk of falling forward and onto the stone floor beneath them. Her eyes cracked open just enough for Lucanis to see that they were still glazed over and that she more than likely had no idea what was going on around her, but he couldn’t help the warmth that crept up his neck when she gave him small, blissful smile.

Leaving her perched precariously on the edge of the couch, Lucanis retraced their steps and found himself by the door, standing over the blanket she’d hastily discarded when she entered. He bent forward, scooping up the knitted mass in his arms to return to Rook. The fabric was soft and ever so faintly warm in the centermost parts, suggesting that this was a blanket Rook used while sleeping. It was sage green in a chunky knit and very obviously well loved. The fabric was thinned in some places, fading along the edges, and had torn and been mended by Rook to the best of her abilities. Perhaps in his spare time he could make her a new one to keep as a spare. Knitting was good dexterity training, after all.

Spite had left his post from beside Rook and appeared next to the blanket, sweeping his nose across the surface of the fabric and inhaling sharply.

Smells like Rook. He said simply. Smells. Nice.

Lucanis hummed in agreement, running his fingers over the fabric a few more times before returning to Rook. By the time he’d come back to the couch, Rook had slumped to the side, her head resting awkwardly on one of the small decorative pillows that sat in the corner of the seat while her legs remained in their previous spot. Her eyes were closed and her breaths were slow and deep, signaling that she’d finally returned to sleep. Lucanis smiled softly to himself as he glanced to her face, which seemed much more relaxed than he’d seen in the past few days.

He tossed her blanket at the foot of the couch, letting it rest momentarily as he focused on making her as comfortable as possible. Gently, he secured his hands on her calves, lifting gently until her legs were lying along the length of the couch, being careful not to lift her shirt in the process. He once again averted his gaze as her tunic shifted and bunched anyway as her hips and legs adjusted, still wanting to give her as much privacy as possible. He couldn’t help but notice the scars on her legs that matched the ones on her chest in both color and depth, suggesting that maybe they occurred at the same time. Once seemingly wrapped around her knee on one leg and another around the ankle of the opposite with one particularly deep one on her thigh.

Once Rook was secured, Lucanis snatched one of the pillows that sat in the chairs that Neve and Bellara frequently used when they chatted in the dining hall. Being gentle and careful not to wake her, he placed his hand on the underside of her neck, lifting slowly until there was a space large enough to slide the pillow into. With the extra support, Rooked appeared to be much more comfortable and hummed softly as she nuzzled into the fabric. Finally, Lucanis took her blanket into his arms once more and spread it over her sleeping form, lightly smoothing over the fabric with his hand without putting too much pressure on her.

“Keep an eye on her.” Lucanis said to Spite, pointing from the demon to the elf finally sleeping peacefully. He didn’t have to tell the demon twice. Almost immediately, Spite had crouched on the ground beside Rook, his arms crossing on top of the cushions on top of the cushions before he rested his chin on his own arms, simply watching.

With the excitement of the evening dying down, Lucanis felt the ever familiar lull of sleep calling his name from the inner depths of the Fade. Spite had finally calmed because of his current fascination of watching the steady rise and fall of Rook’s chest or investigating every little whimper or mumble that passed through her lips as she slept, which left Lucanis in actual silence for the first time in days. He still didn’t feel comfortable, however. Spite could easily take over while he rested and he didn’t want to entertain the thoughts of what Spite might do to Rook while inhabiting his body.

Coffee. He needed coffee.

Thankfully, the pot he was brewing when Rook barged in was still hot and fresh and he promptly poured himself a cup. He gave a content sigh as the steam from the coffee wafted into his nose as he brought the cup to his lips, the familiar smell bringing a sense of comfort. Lucanis took a long, slow sip, the brew was wonderfully dark and rich and just the right balm to soothe the fraying edges of exhaustion. Initially, he’d planned on returning to his cot in the dimly lit pantry with coffee in hand to attempt to finish the latest serial Bellara had given him, but now that Rook was asleep in the dining hall, he felt conflicted.

On one hand, Rook deserved some semblance of privacy. She was barely dressed in a communal space after experiencing what must have been a rather disturbing nightmare, so a peaceful sleep for the remainder of the night was certainly needed. She frequently spread herself thin between elven gods, blood mages, a brutish army, and requests from the team that ranged anywhere from walks in the forest to life altering decisions; she needed to rest and needed to do it without disturbance.

On the other, Lucanis didn’t fully trust that Rook wouldn’t sleepwalk again and do something dangerous. She was already near the door and it would take would be to take one too many steps once outside and plummet into the abyss of the Fade surrounding them. Honestly, he found it to be a miracle that she didn’t lose her footing on the questionably floating stones of the courtyard on her way over to begin with; forever thankful that she decided to go to the kitchen and not to see Bellara or Harding with their questionable masonry.

Ultimately, Lucanis decided that if he went back into the pantry, he would drive himself mad with checking on Rook every once in a while to ensure she was still firmly seated in place on the couch. To reduce possible noise disturbance from repeatedly opening the pantry door and for the sake of his already frazzled sanity, Lucanis pulled up a chair from the corner of the room and drug it near the couch. He was within arms reach of Rook in the event something were to happen, but angled himself to where she could sleep without being watched head on.

Stepping inside the pantry for a brief moment, he pulled the loaned book from his cot and brought it back with him to his seat in the dining hall. Lucanis eased into the chair with a tired sigh, nestling his back along the hardened frame while perching the ankle of one leg atop the knee of the opposite, laying the open book in the triangle crated from the bend at the knee. The handle of his coffee mug remained looped around his two middle fingers as it rested on the arm of the chair, still steaming in his grasp.

Lucanis ran his fingers along the edges of the pages as he read, quickly getting lost in the words on the page. He found it astounding with how much easier and more enjoyable reading was when he didn’t have a demon screaming in his ear every waking moment. It was peaceful, even, which was something he hadn’t truly felt since before his imprisonment in the Ossuary. He never thought that he could find a peaceful moment as an abomination, either through the stigma that brought or the actual antics of the demon, yet he found himself enjoying a book and a cup of coffee in pleasant, although sleeping, company.

He glanced to Rook, a small smile tugging at one of the corners of his mouth as he watched her steady breathing and listened to the small whimpers she would release on each exhale. She looked as peaceful as he felt, hoping that whatever dreams that came to her were pleasant ones. It was the least she deserved after all she did for the team, but especially for him. Lucanis never expected someone who valued life so highly to want to be close to someone who dealt death so freely, but Rook always managed to seek his company and seemingly never judged him for it. She knew his trade and knew that he had killed countless people over the years. He was dangerous and lethal, yet she accepted him for it without hesitation.

And that danger was only enhanced now that he shared his body with a demon of spite, and yet Rook was unfazed by the spirit. Although she couldn’t see Spite, it never stopped her from including him in daily life around the Lighthouse. Asking how they were both doing as she cleaned dishes after dinner, inquiring about what scents Spite preferred to make him calmer, even going so far as to entertain his incessant questioning with a genuine response. It was no wonder the demon favored Rook. Perhaps it was naivety on her part, given that he wasn’t exactly sure how familiar she was with the world outside of Arlathan, but perhaps it was a wisdom far beyond what he could comprehend. He wondered if he should be concerned with just how fascinated Spite was with Rook in return, but for the time being he relished the calmness of the moment. The feeling created a fluttering in his chest that he didn’t quite understand.

In a sudden movement, Rook groaned softly as she shifted in her sleep, rolling onto her back and releasing a long sigh before quickly settling back into place. Her arm shifted as she did and slid over the edge of the couch, bending at the elbow and dangling just above the ground and straight through the astral being that was Spite’s leg. Lucanis could see the visible excitement on Spite’s face as he ghosted his touch over the bared skin of her arm, enthralled with how her skin prickled at the mild electricity that emanated from Spite’s fingers.

“Spite.” Lucanis said firmly but quietly, not wanting to wake Rook. He nudged the demon with the toe of his boot, shaking his head slowly, signaling him to stop his investigation and let Rook sleep in peace. Spite grumbled for a bit before ultimately settling back down, not wanting to miss a moment of being this close to his favorite person.

Satisfied, Lucanis took a sip of his coffee before returning to his book, running his fingers over the edges of the pages once more while Rook slept soundly for the rest of the night. Hours passed before Lucanis pulled his gaze from the pages of his novel after hearing a small whine that turned into a deeper groan. Rook’s limbs and body were moving, her arms lifting upwards and then straight back as she pulled them into a deep stretch, her back arching up and off the cushion of the couch with a few audible pops of her back. Her legs stretched out in front of her, trembling after a few moments with the intensity of the stretch. Lucanis looked back towards his book as half the blanket covering her body slipped off her form with the movement, exposing her legs to the warm air of the dining hall.

Rook’s body relaxed into the cushions once more with a satisfied huff, her eyes remaining closed as she rolled onto her stomach, one arm snaking under the pillow as she scrunched it under her head, her hand hanging over the edge of the cushion landing delicately atop Lucanis’s thigh. His body tensed at the touch, unsure of her state of consciousness, although ultimately deduced she must have been somewhat aware of her surroundings as her touched changed. Instead of simply resting against him, Lucanis felt Rook’s fingers begin to move across the fabric of his trousers, blindly patting up the length of his leg in and attempt to figure out what she was touching.

“Rook.” Her name fell from his lips in the form of a croak, the wandering and curious nature of her hand lighting a flame that burned across his cheeks. The movement on his leg froze, Rook’s fingers scrunching into a ball before slinking back and from under the pillow like a viper in a hole. Rook raised her head, her eyes finally opening as she slowly blinked.

“Lucanis?” Rook asked groggily, her eyes squinting to adjust to the little bit of light radiating from the fireplace. He stole a quick glance as she remained on her stomach rose onto her elbows, the corner of his mouth turning upwards at her appearance. As all great romance novels portrayed, people just waking up were the epitome of beauty and grace, waking up blissfully with perfect hair and perfectly pressed night silks. Rook, on the other hand, was plucked out of Arlathan Forest and not a romance novel. Her hair was messy and wild from tossing and turning before marching into the kitchen, she had sleep crusted in the corner of her eyes, and he thought he saw the faintest remnants of dried drool stuck to her lip; far more beautiful than anything he’d found in a book.

“Good morning.” Lucanis tried to say as casually as possible, purposefully keeping his gaze on anything but the delicate skin between her neck and shoulder or down the expanse of her bare leg. With a small grunt, she flipped to her side once more, scratching the remnants of sleep from her eyes as the collar of her tunic slipped over the crest of her shoulder again.

“Why…” She paused momentarily as she glanced around the room once more, “am I in the dining hall?”

“You don’t remember?” He asked softly. Rook looked at him quizzically, head tilting to the side as she took in his response, “…You were sleepwalking.”

“Ah. Of course.” She said, almost sorrowfully. “Must have been a bad dream.” Lucanis hummed, confirming her suspicions, but didn’t press the issue further. Using the heel of her hand, Rook rubbed at her eyes as a deep yawn overtook her. She buried her face into her pillow and released a long groan, making Lucanis keenly aware that Rook was not a morning person.

“Coffee?” He offered after a long pause, waiting to see if Rook wanted to discuss her late night journey further.

“That sounds wonderful.” Her voice was muffled by the pillow. Lucanis stood silently, placing his book in his chair before making his way to the coffee pot across the room.

This wasn’t their usual morning routine, but Lucanis found it peaceful regardless. Typically, Rook found him in the early mornings before the others could come from their rooms and make their way to the dining hall for breakfast. It would begin with the distinct creak of the dining hall door opening just enough for Rook to slip through before closing with a soft click. From the silence of his cot in the pantry, he would listen as her bare footsteps padded closer to the door, noting on the pace. Quick, light footsteps meant she was in a particularly social mood and he could expect a chatty morning. If she hadn’t slept much the night before, he could tell from the slow and heavy footfalls and he always made sure to brew a strong roast. Usually, her pace was steady and soft and the direction the morning conversation took would depend on him.

As she trotted her way to the pantry door, he would wait for Rook’s usual knock before calling her inside. A quick set of three, one single, and two final knocks greeted him every morning before Rook would poke her head inside and greet him with a smile that was always warm and friendly. Lucanis insisted every time that she didn’t need to bother with knocking, considering he’d decided to sleep in the pantry, but Rook would have none of it. She always rebutted by saying he deserved a sense of privacy and a place to call his own.

Lucanis scooped beans from his strongest variety of coffee into the grinder, ensuring there would be enough for the two of them. As he set to work on milling the beans into a fine grind, Rook stayed silent. By the time he’d finished grinding and had begun scooping the beans into the coffee pot, Lucanis heard a soft rustling and another yawn behind him. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder as Rook began sitting up, pausing briefly to give a final stretch of her arms over her head. He averted his gaze once more as her tunic twisted and clung to places that would have left very little to the imagination had he kept looking.

“Do you sleepwalk often?” Lucanis asked as coffee began to bubble and brew in the pot.

“Not as much as I used to,” Rook as she sat up fully, pulling her tunic back atop her shoulder, “but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t doing it more often recently.”

“And you said this is because of a nightmare?” In as many mornings that they shared together, Lucanis couldn’t recall a time that Rook had been up and wandering around. In fact, he always assumed she slept pretty soundly given that she was always properly dressed and put together by the time she made her rounds.

“If a dream gets bad enough I’ll get up and walk around. I guess it’s some last ditch effort to wake myself up.” She said with a shrug, “Usually I’m awake by the time I get to the library, but I guess I was in too deep this time. I also tend to have more clothes on…” Rook’s voice tapered as she overlooked her sleeping ensemble, a blush forming on her cheeks.

“Same dream every time?” Lucanis pulled the two remaining clean mugs off the shelf in front of him, a matching pair from the tea set Rook had purchased for him not long after they met.

“Oh, no, they vary. Back before Varric found me, I always dreamed about…,” Rook paused suddenly, as if she realized something private had slipped out, “but lately it’s been about whatever new horror we stumble upon. New experiences. New regrets. New nightmares. Vicious cycle.” She changed course quickly, wrapping her blanket around herself as she stood before joining Lucanis beside the coffee maker.

They stood in silence together as they watched the coffee drip into the lower reservoir of the machine, the drops fast and frantic against the stillness of the dining hall. The fire in the room had begun to die down from its roaring blaze, blanketing the room in a soft glow. Lucanis wanted to say something to make Rook feel more at ease; something to take some of the weight off her shoulders and let her breathe. But finding the right words never came easily to him. He was much better at stuffing down his emotions and letting them fester and brew until they hardened within him. In an impromptu attempt at comfort, he reached forward to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but decided against it at the last second. Thankfully, the bowl of sugar cubes sat beside her elbow and gripped that instead of her arm.

“I don’t even remember what I dreamt about last night.” Rook glanced around the room, her brows knitting together in thought, “Why did I come in here?” Her head rolled to the side, looking to Lucanis for answers.

“You came to, well, wash your hands.” Lucanis wanted to find a way to mention the sleepwalking without divulging the reason why. He wasn’t particularly keen on reopening freshly healed wounds.

“To wash my hands?” Rook’s face scrunched at the thought, nose crinkling in confusion, “I walked all the way in here just to wash my hands?”

“You were very adamant that they were clean.” Lucanis plucked cubes of sugar into Rook’s coffee mug until three rested neatly on the bottom, sliding the sugar bowl away once he was finished. Although he preferred his coffee rich and black, he knew she preferred hers sweet, as she did most things.

“I’m sorry,” Rook said softly, “I feel bad for troubling you.” Lucanis waved his hand in a dismissal of her apology.

“Don’t be. You’re no trouble. You slept well once we got you to bed.” He avoided her questioning gaze as he began to pour fresh coffee into each of the cups.

“We?” Rook all but squeaked, the slightest bit of panic hiding in her voice.

“Spite and I.” Lucanis reassured gently, “I believe he thinks he was more help than he actually was, but he did keep watch.”

“Maker, take me.” Rook groaned as she ran her hands down her face, “You shouldn’t have had to make sure I didn’t tumble head first into the Fade.”

“Of course I did,” Lucanis said matter-of-factly, glancing up from his cup, “how else would I get paid?” Rook snorted a chuckle which quickly turned into a fully bellied laugh.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said with a wide grin, her laugh subsiding, “I wasn’t aware you were being paid, Master Dellamorte.” Lucanis scoffed at the name.

“I’m contracted two kill two elven gods and I don’t get a single gold piece?” Lucanis said with feigned offense, “That’s not exactly a fair trade, Rook.” He tried to sound firm and insulted, but the smile on his face quickly gave him away.

“Is that why you have a contract negotiator?” She teased, leaning her hip against the counter as her blanket slipped from around her shoulders.

“Precisely.” As a final step, Lucanis stirred the sugar in Rook’s cup of coffee until it was dissolved.

“But if you kill two gods, you can increase your prices tenfold. I’m helping you invest in a very profitable future.”

“Work for free while building that experience and I have to make all the coffee?” He asked with a playful lilt to his usually smooth voice. He handed her the steaming cup of coffee, pleased as she waited to reply until after she’d inhaled the aroma.

“Well, would you rather me make the coffee?” Rook took a long sip from her mug, the little moan she made when the brew touched her tongue was enough to make his heart pound in his chest and encourage Spite to join in the conversation, the demon lingering between them as he sniffed at their coffee and made comments on the differences in aroma.

“Rook, I’ve had your coffee and that was the closest anyone’s ever gotten to killing me.” He shifted beside her, being mindful to keep a bit of distance between them. And even though the distance between them was small, Lucanis could still smell the faintest hint of sea salt and lavender from her skin, the scent mixing with the strong aroma of the brew.

“It’s not that bad.” Lucanis shot her a deadpan look as he paused from sipping his own beverage.

“Honestly, I don’t know how you manage to do it.” He continued, his fingers pinching together and his hand shaking to embolden his words, “You pour water over coffee grounds and it comes out thicker than cioccolata calda. What do you do?”

“Secret recipe from Arlathan that I’m not allowed to share.” She quipped, trying desperately to suppress a series of giggles, but failing spectacularly.

“Mierda, Rook,” Lucanis grumbled, leaning back against the counter, “you keep your secret recipe from Arlathan far away from my coffee pot; you and Neve.” The simply memory of Neve’s boiled coffee was enough to make him shudder.

There was a sudden change in the air, the mood of the conversation quickly shifting from something playful and, dare he imagine, even flirtatious, to tense and uneasy. Rook’s grip tightened on her cup, her fingernail picking at the embellished rim as she sighed heavily. Her eyes shifted downwards, no longer wanting to meet his gaze.

“Neve…” Rook said softly, the smile having quickly disappeared from her face and replaced with something somber. Lucanis cursed himself for bringing up the detective.

Idiot. Make. Rook. Sad! Spite growled from between them, snarling at Lucanis with bared teeth and squinted eyes.

“She’s won’t actually say it, but she’s so angry with me.” Rook muttered after a stretch of silence, “Not that I can fault her. I also wouldn’t blame her if she doesn’t come back.”

“She will,” he said simply, not exactly sure how to remedy the situation, “You know she can’t leave something unsolved.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that, but it doesn’t seem to make things better.” Rook mumbled, still not meeting his gaze. Instead, her eyes remained glued to the floor and she shifted against the counter, anxious and ready to move.

Rook had a hard time staying still when something rested heavily on her mind. It wouldn’t be abnormal to see Rook pacing the courtyard after a particularly rough day or to find her lapping the inner circle of the library if she couldn’t quite figure out a deeper question in the fight against the gods. Rook shook her free hand by her side with a slow exhale of a breath, something she frequently did when the group encountered something tough out in the world. A way to relieve nerves before they weighted too heavily on the mind.

“Rook-” He said her name in an attempt to calm her down and bring her back to the moment, but she cut him off before he could try and soothe her nerves.

“The people of Minrathous are dead because of me. I made a choice that got people killed. People died, Lucanis.” Tears began welling in her eyes again, but she hardened, refusing to let them fall and show vulnerability now that she was conscious and free of her nightmare.

“You’re blaming yourself for something out of your control.” He countered.

“Am I not to blame? I made the call.” Her voice was unusually short, the sorrow she’d previously felt being very quickly replaced with anger.

“It was an impossible choice. If anyone’s to blame, it’s the gods. Neve may blame you for now, but it’s unjustified and she’ll see that with time.” Rook scoffed, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe he couldn’t see the logic in her argument.

“She is justified. Look me in the eyes right now and truthfully tell me that if you went home to Treviso and found hundreds dead and blight infecting the canals that you wouldn’t look at me differently.”

With that, Lucanis looked away. His gaze fell to the floor as he pondered her question, effectively giving her the answer she was looking for. He would like to say that he would stand behind Rook no matter what. She had saved him from the Ossuary, returned him to his family, and treated him like an actual living person despite the demon that infected his body. Yet, there was hesitation when it came to answering. His heart cracked at the idea of seeing his home, his city, infected with blight.

He imagined tendrils of black and red ooze wrapping around the buildings, longer pieces stretching high into the sky like damnable fingers that clawed at the heavens. The thought made I’m sick to his stomach, an uncomfortable combination of fear for what could have been if Rook had chosen Neve over him and anger for the actions of the so called gods. But in this came the realization that if this had been the outcome of that fateful day, he knew in his heart that they would not be standing here now sharing an easy cup of coffee between them.

“I don’t know why Varric chose me.” She said softly, her voice once again breaking through the increasingly loud thoughts in his mind.

“Do you wish he hadn’t?” He asked quietly, seeing that her anger had faded and was once again replaced with something sombre.

“Sometimes,” Rook’s voice was small, almost whispering, “and I can’t help but think that I’m getting people hurt with every decision I make.”

“As long as those people are our enemies-” Lucanis started to say, but Rook quickly cut him off again.

“And what about when they aren’t? People are dead because I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time. I tried to stop Solas’s ritual and Varric paid the price. I had to make a call on Minrathous or Treviso, but no matter what my choice was, it would have ended in death and destruction for one of them.” She took a long drink of her coffee, eyes closing as she savored the taste and tried to swallow the rising fear with the drink.

Lucanis listened quietly, not knowing what to say that could make her feel better. He could see himself in her when he thought about her struggles to lead and his destiny to become head of the Crows. They were both being thrust into a positions they never asked for and had the weight of their respective worlds crushing them without mercy. Responsibility weighed heavily on her shoulders in the same way it clung to his, pulling them both into a world swirling in nightmares and sorrow.

“I’m afraid that I’m going to make one stupid decision and get everyone on this team killed.” Rook continued, her eyes still closed, “One decision already lead to Minrathous being destroyed and Neve will never trust me again. How can anyone trust me to make the right call when this all comes to a head? How can I trust myself? ”

She was open and vulnerable, falling prey to the beast of self doubt and despair. Rook was normally the strong one of the group, letting anyone lean on her if they needed. She very rarely took time for herself and he could see the cracks beginning to form in her ‘fearless leader’ mask. She was asking for a shoulder to cry on and Lucanis wanted to be that support for her.

“The Grey Wardens already hate me. The Shadow Dragons would never stand with someone who let their city burn. Don’t even get me started on Strife and the Veil Jumpers.” She exhaled sharply at the mention of her former companions, “And we haven’t known the Mourn Watch or the Lords of Fortune long enough to build a decent connection.”

“You have the strength of the Crows. They’ll stand with you for what you did for Treviso,” Lucanis said confidently, “…and Teia is already fond of you.” His statement caught her off guard. Rook raised an eyebrow in his direction, the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.

“Teia likes me? Should I be worried?” Rook asked playfully.

“She’s already made it clear that if you ever decide to join the Crows, she gets first shot at asking you to join House Cantori. She said that your strong will and refusal to give up would make you the perfect asset. That and she actually enjoys your company.”

“Oh?” Rook was smiling now, very much enthused by the sudden change in conversation.

“Viago disagrees, of course.” Lucanis continued casually, resting one arm on the counter behind him, “He thinks that your knowledge of plants and the life you had in Arlathan would make you a better fit for House de Riva. Poisons, antidotes, venomous snake, all of that.”

“I’d have to get on board with the whole ‘murder for hire’ thing first, don’t you think?” Lucanis chuckled around the rim of his mug as he drank the last of his coffee.

“Well, you better get on board fast, Rook. Teia’s already designing you your own cape.” He was delighted to know that his quick diversion had lifted her spirits, but he made a mental note to tell her later that he was also telling the truth. Teia was planning a way to sneakily take Rook’s measurements for a properly fitting cape.

No! Spite yelled suddenly. Tell Rook we. Want her. They. Cannot have. What is ours!

Lucanis grimaced at the sound of his voice, not wanting to admit that he shared the sentiment. Rook did not belong to him. Rook did not belong to the Crows. But if by some grace of the Maker she did ever decide to join the Crows, he would want her to choose to join House Dellamorte. He had not know Rook for too long, but he already couldn’t imagine not seeing her every day. He was fond of the time they spent together from their shared coffee in the mornings to their adventures in whatever city needed them; as long as he could spent time just being around her, he was happy. And he did not want to let those moments go.

But deep down, Lucanis knew Rook would never do such a thing. Once the gods were sorted, everyone would go their own way. He would return to Treviso and try to live life as a changed man without the ever steady support he found in Rook and she would go back to her life in Arlathan. She would never want to join the Crows. She would never want to join a dying house with an abomination at the helm. She would never want him.

“Rook, I’m not…good at talking to people. At finding the right words,” Lucanis said softly, “but if it helps, I want you to know that I trust you. You’ll make the right decisions.”

Spite also. Trusts. Rook!

“…And Spite also trusts you.” He added reluctantly, peering around Rook’s shoulder to briefly glance at the demon sporting a wide grin. Rook couldn’t help but crack a smile at the comment.

“How long has he been standing there?” She asked, peering behind her shoulder to the empty spot she assume Spite to be standing in. She couldn’t see Spite, but Lucanis could feel the excitement radiating off the demon as Rook glanced in his direction as if she were actually seeing him.

“Too long,” he muttered as he glanced towards Rook, “and don’t stare; you’ll only encourage his behavior.” Rook stared at the empty space between them for a few seconds more before returning back to the cup in her hands. She wiped away tears that threatened to fall with the heel of her palm, sniffling softly.

Lucanis had read enough romance novels in his time to imagine that now would be the time to reach up and gently cup her cheek, wipe away her tears with his thumb, and kiss her softly, but he didn’t. Rook wasn’t a damsel in distress that needed to be swept off her feet at the climactic end of a book, she was real and she was hurting. He wasn’t good with sweet talking like Illario was and if the end result didn’t involve killing someone, he felt almost useless in the face of Rook’s worry. However, there was one thing he could offer.

“Do you want anything to eat?” He asked suddenly, “I could make breakfast.”

“I don’t want to make you do more for me.” She said with a final sniffle, “Maker, you’ve already stayed up all night making sure I don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m up every night,” Lucanis said with a light chuckle, “…but I picked up more of those cured meats you liked so much the last time I was in Treviso.” Rook’s expression perked at the suggestion. If there was one thing he knew for certain about Rook, was the easiest way to win her over on something was with the promise of good food.

“And I stashed away some of the good cheeses you like to snack on in the pantry so Harding wouldn’t find them. We have fresh eggs and cream…” He gently nudged her foot with the tip of his boot, pleased at the sweet smile that slowly started to form.

“Maybe a quiche?” She asked hopefully. An easy smile spread across Lucanis’s lips.

“Just say the word.” His voice was smooth and low, surprising even himself with its sound.

“Well,” she said quietly, leaning towards him ever so slightly as she met his gaze, “if you’re going to twist my arm like that, how could I say no?”

Don’t. Hurt. Rook! Spite all but howled, his teeth once again bared and ready for a fight.

“Mierda,” Lucanis spat, “it’s an expression, Spite. I’m not actually twisting her arm.” The demon growled lowly, settling back beside Rook, keeping a wary eye on his host.

Rook giggled at the exchange, elating both Lucanis and Spite at the sound. They stood in silence for a stretch. Both having finished their coffee, but not quite sure what to say next. There was still something tender in the air, Lucanis knowing that what he told her had temporarily soothed the ache in her heart, but also was aware enough to know that the wound had not healed. But Rook, being the ever persistent one that she was, would locked it away and not show weakness in front of the others. She would be bubbly and perky by the time they all settle at the table to eat, pretending that nothing had been wrong only hours before. They counted on her to make the right choice and she couldn’t afford to show any sense of having something bothering her. She and Lucanis really were alike in a lot of ways.

“I should probably get dressed before breakfast,” Rook sighed after a while, “I can’t let everyone know how much of a mess I am.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” Lucanis placed one hand over his heart while raising the other, mimicking the action of taking an oath.

“Ma serannas.” She thanked him in elven with a slight bow of her head, her voice quiet as she spoke. Although Lucanis wasn’t completely sure what she had said, he understood the sentiment.

Leaving his coffee mug on the counter beside him before smoothing out his waistcoat with his hands. He met Rook’s gaze, finding her expression lingering in the realm of wanting to speak but not having the courage to do so. He excused himself quietly so he could begin breakfast, stepping around Rook to head into the small alcove that was the actual cooking area. As he made it a step behind Rook, he felt her touch graze his.

“Hey,” Rook reached around as Lucanis passed by her and wrapped her little finger around his, squeezing gently, “thank you.”

“It’s a quiche. I’ve made much harder dishes.” With a roll of her eyes, Rook gave a light tug and pulled Lucanis a step closer.

They were close enough to where he could feel the echo of her warmth in the blanket as it brushed against his hand. He could smell the faint aroma of coffee as it lingered on her lips and the dying breath of lavender hand soap. Rook adjusted her grip slightly, her fingers climbing against his until they were interlocked securely with one another, firm yet gentle. The previous night aside, this was the most outward physical affection he could recall Rook partaking in and despite being so simple, it was enough to make his heart flutter in his chest.

“I meant for last night. And this morning.” Rook’s voice was sincere and warm, “Thank you for listening.” In all his romance novels, this would be the time to press his lips to knuckles in a chaste kiss, but he knew better. Instead, Lucanis simply gave a small smile.

“Of course. If you need me again, I’m yours.”

Rook returned the gesture before parting. She still held his fingers in hers as she stepped away, her touch lingering in a reluctance to let go of the moment. Ultimately, she decided to part ways, her grip slipping from his before being tucked into the safety and warmth of her blanket. Her eyes remained on his for two additional steps before finally pulling away and focusing on the door ahead. Rook left quietly, her footsteps treading lightly against the stone and the door closing with a soft click.

Once Rook had slipped through the doors to the dining hall, Lucanis released a held breath as his mind tried to fully wrap around the events of the night. He kept his eyes fixed on the door in the off chance she might slip back through, but soon left to start on the meal they had planned. As he began gathering ingredients, his hand tingled where her touch had been. Her skin was soft and warm, gentle and something to get lost in. While he worked, he could smell the faintest hint of lavender, sea salt, and something that was distinctly Rook.

#lucanis dellamorte #datv rook #lucanis x f!rook #spite dellamorte #dragon age the veilguard #datv spoilers #possible datv spoilers #datv fanfiction #rookanis #lucanis x rook

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corvid-kore · 29 days ago

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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!

#lucanis x rook #lucanis dellamorte x rook #lucanis x f!rook #dav fanfic #rookanis #rook x lucanis #rookanis fic #lucanis fanfiction #lucanis fic #corvid-kore fics

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esta-elavaris · 2 months ago

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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.

#lucanis x rook #heed the disclaimers im begging u #lucanis x f!rook #esta's reverse secret santa

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