DreadRedQueen

Rook hadn’t been intentionally looking for him. At least, that was what she told herself. She’d happened to stop by the kitchen first. No Lucanis. That’s odd. Then she checked the pantry. Then the library. Then the infirmary. Then the Eluvian room.

And after that she stopped pretending it wasn’t deliberate.

The Lighthouse wasn't especially large in itself, but it had the capacity for infinite space, leaving enough rooms and alcoves that people could disappear into when they wanted privacy. Bellara was particularly good at this. But Lucanis was better.

Rook rounded another corner and paused.

There it was again. A faint clicking sound. Soft, rhythmic, but not quite loud enough to identify.

She followed it down a short corridor. The sound grew clearer as she approached one of the rooms tucked away from the main hall.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Rook pushed the door open. Then stopped. For a moment, she simply stared.

Lucanis sat beside the fire, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. Dark blue yarn pooled beside his chair in a wicker basket. Two knitting needles flashed in his hands, moving with practiced ease as loops of wool slipped from one needle to the other. His brow was furrowed in concentration, though not the sort she usually saw when he was planning a contract or listening to reports. This was calmer. Familiar.

Comfortable.

The fire painted warm gold across the sharp lines of his face. One sleeve had been pushed carelessly toward his elbow. The ball of yarn rolled slightly as he shifted, never breaking the steady rhythm of his hands.

Rook blinked. Then blinked again.

Lucanis Dellamorte. The Mage-Killer. The Demon of Vyrantium.

Knitting.

For a long moment she simply stood there watching. Then a smile tugged at her mouth.

“You're knitting?”

Lucanis didn't look up.

“I am, yes. A skill that Caterina insisted upon, to improve dexterity and patience.”

Rook waited. He continued knitting. Then, still without looking up:

“You are staring.”

Rook felt a heat on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the warm hearth.

“I just… it’s not…” she cursed her own fumbling. “You do grocery shopping, you cook, you knit. And you’re an assassin.”

Lucanis’ lips curved into that wonderfully crooked smirk.

“Yes?” he said, slow but amused. Rook said nothing. All words had fled her tongue the moment his lips shaped the smile that occupied her dreams.

For a few moments the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the soft click-click-click of knitting needles. Until Lucanis frowned. The movement was subtle enough that Rook almost missed it. He held the scarf up, counted something, then frowned harder.

“Strange,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“What is?”

“I was certain I was further than this.”

Rook tilted her head. She stepped closer, her gaze lingering on his profile, the way the firelight strung gold in his jet-black hair and the chocolate hue in his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

Lucanis turned the scarf over and counted a second time.

“I finished three rows yesterday.”

“Maybe you miscounted?”

His glower suggested she'd just accused him of forgetting his own name.

“I'm a Crow, I don’t miscount,” Lucanis examined the knitting again. “I distinctly remember finishing them.”

Rook watched him count again, his dark eyes flicking over the rows accusatorially. The scarf was turned over. Examined. Lucanis scowled.

“I know where I left off.”

“Maybe Bellara borrowed it?”

“For what?”

“I don't know. Bellara reasons?”

Lucanis considered that for a moment, then shook his head, “No. She would have asked.”

Rook perched on the arm of the sofa, watching him inspect the scarf as though it were evidence from a murder.

“Maybe it slipped when you weren’t looking.”

“It would leave loose stitches. And I always look.”

Rook couldn't argue with that. She knew nothing about knitting, beyond the fact that yarn sometimes became other things if one was patient enough.

Lucanis held the scarf up toward the firelight, and his frown deepened. Then he froze. His eyes had fixed on something near the edge of the knitting. A loose strand, barely visible against the dark blue wool. Slowly, he lowered the scarf into his lap.

“The missing rows only appear in the morning,” he said.

Rook picked up the ball of yarn and squinted at it. “How often has this happened?”

“Twice.”

Lucanis set the scarf in his lap and stared at it for a long moment.

“The first time it happened, I assumed I'd made a mistake,” he said eventually, the admission sounding almost painful. “I was tired. It was late. It seemed more likely than the alternative.”

Rook smirked and folded her arms. “You? Making a mistake?”

Lucanis threw her a wry smile.

“It’s rare, but it happens,” he said. His thumb brushed absently over one of the rows. “Now it’s happened again, and I know where I stopped yesterday. I know exactly where I stopped. But… there's less of it than there should be.”

For a few moments, the room fell quiet again save for the crackle of the fire. Lucanis counted beneath his breath, one finger tracing the neat rows of stitches. Rook watched him work through the problem the same way she’d seen him work through dozens of others - patiently, methodically, eliminating possibilities one by one. Finally, he set the scarf down.

“It seems to happen when I’m asleep--”

Rook’s eyes lit up, and she opened her mouth. Lucanis pointed a knitting needle at her before she could speak.

“Don't.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were about to.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. Unfortunately, he was right. Lucanis leaned back in the chair, gaze settling somewhere beyond the fire. The silence stretched. Then something shifted in his expression. Not realisation exactly. More like recognition. Rook had seen that look before. Usually it appeared moments before he solved a problem that had been bothering everyone else for hours.

“Oh,” he said.

Lucanis closed his eyes and nodded very slowly. A sigh escaped him. Then, despite himself, a reluctant smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

Unfortunately, that smile was enough to derail whatever clever response Rook had prepared. The thought scattered immediately. Lucanis, oblivious as ever to her gentle flirtations and not-so-gentle crush, looked back down at the scarf. A few seconds passed.

“Spite.”

The name hung in the air. Nothing happened. Rook waited. Lucanis continued staring at the knitting.

“Spite,” he repeated, more firmly this time, like a summons. Another pause. Then a violet flicker flashed across his brown eyes, and his posture stiffened. His fingers tightened around the scarf, not quite his own. When he spoke, his voice came through his mouth rougher, more jagged, almost a hiss in place of his usual smooth caramel tones.

“Made. Unmade.”

Rook’s gaze dropped to the knitting. Spite stared down at the scarf as if it had personally offended him. He began to unpick the loops with his stolen fingers.

“Knots. Holding. In place.” His mouth twisted, almost a scowl. “Pull one. Weakens. Pull more. It opens. Good.”

Rook bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from grinning. Lucanis’ hand dragged over the edge of the scarf, fingers catching on the loose strand. Spite looked down at it with hard, fascinated concentration.

“How long. Does it fight?”

His grip tightened, stubborn and possessive.

“It comes apart. I make it. Come apart.”

The violet faded from his eyes. Lucanis drew in a breath like he’d surfaced from water, then looked down at the scarf in his lap, at the undone loops, the stray strands and frayed ends. For a moment, he said nothing. Then his eyes closed.

“Of course,” he sighed. Rook made a small, strangled sound. Lucanis didn’t open his eyes.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are absolutely laughing.”

“I’m being very respectful.”

“You are shaking.”

That finished her. Rook pressed a hand over her mouth, but the laugh escaped anyway, bright and helpless. Lucanis looked wounded, though not especially surprised.

“He has been unpicking my scarf,” he said, each word carefully controlled, “because he wanted to see how long it would resist him.”

Rook lowered her hand, still smiling. “That’s very… Spite.”

“It’s very annoying,” he corrected, though the sparkle in his eye indicated he was more amused than he was letting on.

Lucanis looked down at the loose strand, then at the basket, then back at the scarf with the grim focus of a man reassessing enemy tactics.

“I’ll have to hide the yarn before I sleep.”

Rook’s smile softened. “You could teach him how to knit? He could finish the scarf for you when you’re asleep?”

Lucanis stared at her.

“Not happening.”

Rook watched him gather the scarf protectively into his lap. She’d always liked the dangerous parts of Lucanis. The knives. The grace. The deadly competence that had earned him his reputation.

But she liked this too.

The man who baked bread before dawn to make sure everyone had toast with their breakfast. The man who remembered that Emmrich doesn’t eat meat. Who kept the pantry stocked with everyone’s favourite treats. Who taught Neve how to make coffee without burning the beans. Who patiently answered questions about Antiva. And who quietly knitted scarves by the fire.

And associated shorter stories about the same crew, though most (all?) could be read alone and still make sense, I think:

stay quiet - pre-relationship, M, ~4k words, forced proximity trope you are my kryptonite.

the thing with petals - G, ~2k words, very many of them about why Mila is the best Warden I don't care that she's nine

with cause - pre-canon, M, ~4k words: "She wasn't always Rook. She was always a real pain in the ass."

strange things - Lucanis/Rook/Spite, E, 15k words: so! your demon needs sex-ed!

—Inexplicably, Command - T, ~4k words, written for Thorne day during Rook Appreciation Week 2025: "Three prompts, three parts, one absolutely baffled Junior Warden just straight up not having a good time."

on this far side - G, 1.8k words, a post-Tearstone conversation in the Absolute Worst Alternate Timeline™️that wasn't (but could have been).

and then there is this absolute silly business, written by Bellara, edited by Lucanis, transcribed by me: FIRST draft - No Peeking!!! (Neve that means you!) - G, metafic, to be continued probably when the silly strikes again

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Haven't drawn anything in a while, burnt out and the speed when I ran to my tablet when I saw this ref lol. Had to do a quick doodle