Maidhel

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“I've changed, too,” the spirit said. “I’m Spite now. But I wasn't before. And you weren't Rook. I forgot for a while, but then I remembered. Names blur when the essence is twisted.” She looked at him sadly. “I'm sorry you had to go through that.” Her change of identity couldn’t be compared to the change in his very being that Spite had suffered through. Twisted from his purpose, thrown into a body of mortal flesh that didn’t even belong to him. Zara’s death had been too quick for what she deserved. However, Spite shook his head. “Don't be. I have you,” he said, so naturally, so effortlessly. Rook envied how easy it was for spirits to simply speak what was on their mind without fear. “You’ve always been my favorite.” She swallowed, feeling slightly overwhelmed by his affection. “Don’t let Lucanis hear that. He might get jealous,” she joked, incapable of processing such sentimental matters in any other way. Spite wrinkled his nose in displeasure. Then he closed his eyes, and when he looked back up again, the glowing purple had been replaced by warm brown. “Did I hear that right?” Lucanis asked, an eyebrow raised. Rook opened her mouth, dumbstruck, then closed it again and pouted.  “Spite!” she complained. Lucanis’ lips twitched in amusement. “Should I be jealous, then?” he taunted. “What? N-no! That's not—” “I'm kidding,” he said, his gaze soft as he brought her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles. “Can't blame Spite for feeling that way when you're quite irresistible. He and I have that in common. You're my favorite too.” Rook averted her eyes, fighting off a blush. Sometimes Lucanis was too charming for her own good. She cleared her throat. “I'm sorry we woke you up. You should be resting for tomorrow.” “As should you. You’re sleeping less these days to read to him,” he said. “Come. Spite can survive a night without you.” Lucanis tugged her down under the covers, barely giving her time to set the parchments on her side table before he wrapped her in his arms. She settled against his chest, breathing in the warm smell that characterized him. “Are you sure he can? I’m his favorite, after all,” she replied, the amusement curving her lips now that the embarrassment had faded. “He can fight me for it if he disagrees.” “I'm not sure you should be giving him ideas.” Lucanis snorted. “Probably not. But I'll live.” “If he gives you too much trouble…” “He won't. He always listens to you,” Lucanis said. “We always listen to you.” And she felt so undeserving of that, that if she thought too much about it, her instinct to flee would kick in. So she didn't.

“Just the two of us?” Lucanis asked, immediately straightening.  Rook’s lips twitched. “Unless you want to invite someone else?” she joked. “No,” he said, tone serious. And then, leaning to whisper in her ear, “I’ve been dying to have you all for myself.” Hearing that, his breath caressing her skin with each word, she had to suppress a shiver. “Lucanis,” she complained, very much aware of all the eyes at her back.  He had the gall to chuckle. It seemed Lucanis had noticed the effect that voice had on her. Rook glared at him without any real heat, and huffed. “I’ll take my things.” She had a plan for what she wanted to do in Treviso, and with well-practiced nonchalance, she told Lucanis as much as they crossed the Eluvian into the Cantori Diamond. “How about we go to Café Pietra? The sun sets in that direction, right? Their terrace must have a beautiful view of the sunset,” she proposed, feigning ignorance. “And then we could get some churros and—” However, it wasn’t meant to be, because the moment they stepped into view of the Talons, Viago called out to them. “Rook, we were about to send a message,” he said. By his side, Teia stood with her arms crossed, a frown on her face as she looked at whom Rook recognized as the Governor.  She resisted the urge to sigh. “What’s the matter?” “We have a contact who offers access to the Butcher and information on the gods,” Viago answered. Rook tilted her head. “That sounds too good to be true. Are you going to meet them?” “They asked for you.” Right. Of course they did.

Lucanis watched as Rook shifted restlessly on her couch. He was getting ready to go out with the team to keep helping their allies, trying to make sure that they would be ready when the inevitable final confrontation with the gods came. Since she’d gotten hurt, the eight of them had mostly stayed together, only going their own ways when the plan was obviously and undoubtedly low risk. It was the wake-up call they all needed, the stark proof of what could happen if they tried to tackle more than they should. Until now, Rook had seemed like a winning hand at Wicked Grace, one no one could beat except the most skilled players. Her self-assurance had been contagious, but if not even she was free from a misstep… Rook didn’t seem to be aware of how close she’d come to dying. And if she was, she didn’t care. It was infuriating. If Lucanis could, he'd keep her confined until the gods were dead, safe and away from any harm. That moment when Rook had lost consciousness in his arms — her body too cold, her heartbeat almost nonexistent — haunted his nightmares. Nightmares that Spite had been trying to devour for him, but that always returned with renewed intensity.  They had started to replace the memories of the Ossuary. “Varric said that the Inquisitor wants to talk to you again,” Lucanis commented, trying to distract himself from his spiraling thoughts. Rook immediately made a move to get up, but she stopped when she saw his scowl. “Not now. We’ll go once Emmrich has confirmed that you’re healed.” She sighed defeatedly. “I'm not made of glass, you know. I can walk. Surely a simple talk in the Cobbled Swan—” She didn't get to finish her sentence. Taash rushed into the room with frantic eyes. “We need to go. They have my mother.”

Lucanis frankly didn’t care much about the whole discussion beyond what weaknesses they could use against the Dread Wolf. And so far, they didn’t have much. Solas’ memories, while groundbreaking, didn’t offer much insight into what could be done to stop him. “This is not enough,” he said, arms crossed and a deep frown on his face. “What are we going to do with this information? Guilt-trip him into surrendering? That didn’t work for Varric or the Inquisitor. Rook’s tied to that bastard. We need a backup plan for when he inevitably stabs her in the back.” The team exchanged glances. It was Emmrich who spoke first. “Perhaps there’s a possibility of tricking him. Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain need an eclipse to craft their own dagger to sunder the Veil. If Solas somehow manages to escape his prison—” “ —He’ll try to retrieve his dagger, for lack of a better option,” Neve concluded, bringing out the lyrium dagger for all to see. “What do you suggest? A decoy?” “Would that even be possible? The magic at work here…” Harding wondered. “It won’t be easy,” Bellara said, shifting closer to look at the blade in Neve’s hand. “But… maybe. Maybe we could do it. What do you think, Professor?” Emmrich moved to inspect the dagger too, his eyes adopting a clinical glint. “It’ll take weeks, but I believe it could be doable, with your expertise in ancient elven magic and some powerful materials.” “We could consult Dagna, too. Do you think we could get in contact with her, Varric?” Harding asked her fellow dwarf. As the conversation shifted toward the necessary steps for crafting a fake dagger, Lucanis’ worries didn’t lessen. The plan wasn’t a bad one, if they somehow managed to outsmart an elven god of lies, but it wouldn’t prevent Rook from getting hurt. What good would deceiving him be if she ended up like Mythal? His eyes shifted toward her recently vacated chair. He didn’t like this. Was there really no alternative? Just wait and hope for the best? It was frustrating. What was worse was that Lucanis was now sure that Rook had gone soft on her opinion of Solas, her empathy making a very unfortunate appearance. Even if she still didn’t trust him, Lucanis feared she’d eventually lower her guard. Spite materialized by his side, a matching frown on his face. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said, voicing what Lucanis had just thought. If there was one thing both the demon and he agreed on, it was that Rook’s safety was the priority.

Waking up with Rook by his side was something that Lucanis could easily get used to, and something he hoped he’d have the chance to. He observed her in silence: the peaceful rise and fall of her chest, the minute twitch of her eyelids, likely dreaming about something. Her red hair fanned across the pillow, catching the warm light slipping through the window. Before he could think better of it, he took a strand between his fingers, marveling at how soft it was. ‘Rook’s hair is pretty. Like spilled blood on a battlefield,’ came the sudden voice of Spite leaning by his side of the bed. Lucanis had to suppress a snort. Most people wouldn't consider that a compliment, but coming from a demon that was probably the highest praise.  Spite was right, though. Her hair did resemble the color of fresh blood, a very rare shade that Lucanis didn't think he’d ever seen before. It was fascinating. And yes, pretty too. It was then that a fleeting realization crossed his mind. Was it his impression or was Spite’s dialogue evolving? The structure of that sentence sounded almost human-like. His thought process got derailed when Rook groaned softly and turned on her side, burying her face against his chest. “Did I wake you?” he asked, threading his fingers through her hair. She sighed in contentment. “No, it must be the hour I usually wake up,” she answered groggily. She half-opened one eye to look at the timepiece above her desk, lifting her head just a bit before she burrowed back against him. “Yeah, it's time for breakfast.” “I should slip out before someone notices I've slept here,” he commented. Rook grumbled something that sounded like: “Especially Varric,” but it was muffled against his shirt. He chuckled. “Yes, especially him.”

“I don’t like this.” Lucanis raised his faraway gaze from his steaming cup of coffee to look at Rook striding into the dining hall. It was an ungodly hour in the morning, probably before dawn in Thedas, but she looked completely awake and alert, as if she hadn’t slept at all. Maybe she hadn’t. Even though her armor was different from the day before, her red hair looked exactly as it had after her usual evening bath, not a single wave ruffled or out of place. “What?” he asked, automatically pouring her another cup and offering it to her as she leaned on the counter next to him. “Rushing blindly. Again,” Rook answered, accepting the cup gratefully and taking a long sip. “It’s like they don’t have any sense of self-preservation. And it’s only a matter of time until our luck runs out. Why do they keep insisting on risking their lives like that?” Lucanis blinked, a bit taken aback by her vehemence. “You are against rescuing the Dalish?” She let out a harsh sigh. “It’s not that. I just don’t agree with the team putting their lives on the line with a half-baked plan just to save some strangers. And I understand that they’re innocent in this, but we can’t save everyone.” He set his cup down, turning to look at Rook with incredulity written on his face. “But you did exactly that in Treviso,” Lucanis pointed out, confused. “You rushed in without a plan to save the city from the dragon attack.” Rook set her cup down too so she could cross her arms. “I had a plan. And I didn’t do it for the city,” she said with a scowl. “I did it because you were going to risk your life saving it, and it was going to crush you if you couldn’t.” That was— Lucanis wasn’t sure what to feel about that. He’d known that she had chosen to go to Treviso to help him, but the fact that it was only for him, even when they weren’t even friends…