Muthos et Fabula

Rook disappeared from view, but only for a moment. When she reappeared at the top of the staircase, she was rubbing her arms. A telltale habit, one he recognized as uncertainty.

“I… might have something that could help?” she offered, hesitating just enough to give herself away. Her words hung in the air as her cheeks flushed pink. “Ah, only if you want to, of course!”

Lucanis paused, tilting his head at her, intrigued.

“I learned some massage techniques…” She trailed off, her voice quieter now. “Long story, but I could help ease some of the discomfort. I know where and how you ‘rest’ and that’s only going to make it worse.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, but when she finished, she froze like a statue, bracing herself for his response.

Lucanis crossed his arms, leaning back slightly on the balls of his feet. He didn’t speak right away.

Rook’s face faltered—just barely, but enough for him to notice. Her smile returned a tad too quickly. “Never mind,” she said, her voice light, her words rushed. “Forget I asked.”

In truth, he was conflicted.

A part of him, a loud, insistent part, longed to say yes.. To let her closer. To feel her warmth, not just in her laugh or the brightness of her smile, but in her touch. The kind of touch that wasn’t born of battle—when outstretched hands met to steady or warn—but something softer, more deliberate.

He envied the others sometimes, how freely she gave her affections. The way she hugged Bellara and Harding every morning, unreserved and easy. How she bumped shoulders with Davrin and Taash, playful and familiar. The way she leaned in conspiratorially with Neve, or the quiet focus in her hands when Emmrich taught her a new spell.

But with him…

She always kept her distance. She’d step aside to let him pass, hand him a blade so their fingers wouldn’t brush. Her laughter and her smiles she gave him freely, but her touch? That, she withheld.

He’d start to think Rook did not care for him, now that he was a literal demon.

But the truth was, he did the same to her. Illario had always been the suave one. How

Lucanis exhaled softly, shifting his weight. “Rook,” he began, his voice low.

Her eyes snapped to his, cautious but still hopeful.

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer,” he said. A small smile tugged at his lips. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

For a moment, her expression was unreadable. Then, a bright, genuine smile broke across her face. “Of course. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.” She took a step back on the landing. “Give me a minute,” she said, “let me grab some stuff. Meet you in your room?”

He did not trust his voice anymore; so he only nodded. The soft fast taps of her bare feet on the wood betrayed her enthusiasm she hid so well in her words and voice.

Was this really happening? Had he actually said yes, letting her get just a little closer? The last five minutes kept replaying in her mind, over and over, as she hurried back to her room.

The thought was still a whirlwind as she dumped her pack onto the bed, rummaging frantically for that small tin of numbing balm. Her fingers closed around it, and before she could lose her nerve, she was rushing back down the hall toward the dining room.

It was late—thank the Maker—so she didn’t run into anyone. Rook was grateful for that, sure that anyone who saw her now would immediately notice the telltale flush on her cheeks. She did have a reputation to uphold.

She skidded to a halt in front of the large doors of the hall. A deep breath in. A deep breath out.

She stamped her feet lightly on the floor, a giddy little motion that she immediately scolded herself for. Stop that, Rook. Compose yourself. She shook her head, willing the excitement to settle. The last thing she wanted was to scare him off now. Not when he’d finally let her in, even just a little.

Steeling herself, she raised her fist to knock on the pantry door when his voice called out: “Come in, Rook.”

Of course he’d heard her coming.

Her heart gave an unsteady flutter as she pushed the door open, just enough to peek inside. There he was—Lucanis, sitting on the edge of his cot, a coffee cup in hand. His posture was tense, his right shoulder slightly drawn back in a way that made it clear to her that he was in much more pain than he’d ever let on.

“I got the stuff I needed,” she said, her voice coming out softer than she intended. She hesitated a moment, then stepped fully into the room, holding up the small metal tin for him to see. “For your shoulder,” she added, a bit sheepishly.

The words hung in the air, and for a fleeting second, her nerves threatened to overtake her. But then, his gaze met hers—not sharp or dismissive, but steady, with the faintest flicker of something she couldn’t quite place.

It was enough. She took another step forward and closed the door behind her.

“How do you want to go about this?” Did he sound nervous?

“Well, it’d be easiest if you sat on the ground... Then I could sit behind you on the cot.” She hesitated, then added quickly, “Oh, and no need to take off your shirt! I’ll be careful not to get any balm on it.”

He regarded her silently for a moment before lowering himself to the floor, cross-legged and straight-backed, as always. She’d never catch him slouch, she was sure. He placed the empty cup on the crate he used as bedside table.

On the tips of her toes, she moved to perch behind him on the cot. Normally, she’d steady herself by slipping her legs around the person she was working on. But not this time. She tucked her legs beneath her, sitting back on her knees instead.

The tin resisted her efforts, her fingers fumbling briefly before she finally pried the lid open. The faint scent of the balm filled the air as she dabbed some onto her fingers. But then, just as she was about to begin, she froze. Her hands hovered over his shoulders, unsure.

“Ready?” she asked softly.

Lucanis didn’t answer, only nodded, leaning back ever so slightly. Barely noticeable, but enough.

Now or never, before the spell broke.

The warmth of his skin was immediate, still lingering from his pacing in front of the fire. He stiffened at her first touch, muscles rippling beneath her fingertips like a coiled predator, taut and poised to strike. The tightness where his shoulder met his neck spoke of strain—too much time spent on edge.

She started lightly, her fingers brushing across his neck and shoulders, searching, mapping. Prodding carefully here and there to gauge his reactions—was the discomfort from pain or from her touch?

It didn’t take long to find the source of his pain: a stubborn knot along his scapula, the skin warm with tension. Her movements grew more assured when he didn’t flinch or pull away, her hands working in firm, measured circles.

“Tell me if it gets to be too much,” she said, her voice steady but low. “Or if you need a break. Just say the word, and I’ll stop.”

His reply was a hum, deep and low, vibrating faintly through her hands. She’d take that as consent.

They sat in silence for several minutes, broken only by the occasional soft wince when her fingers pressed a tender spot. Her nose was scrunching in concentration.

At this point, Rook was sure she was more nervous than Lucanis. Finally, she felt him begin to relax under her touch, his tension melting away bit by bit. Emboldened by this shift, she rested her free forearm on his opposite shoulder, subtly bracing him against her as she applied a bit more pressure.

The silence lingered, heavy but not unpleasant, until it was finally broken by his low voice. “Where did you learn this?”

Her hand stilled for just a moment before resuming its rhythm. “When my mother died,” she began, her voice quiet, “and before he lost his fortune, my father got involved with a courtesan. She... took pity on me. I guess she saw a young girl without a mother figure and wanted to help. She called them ‘useful life skills.’” A faint, hollow laugh escaped her lips. “Let’s just say this was the one I kept up with. I realized it could come in handy in more ways than one when I joined House de Riva.”

Her hands faltered again, this time longer, as she blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears that blurred her vision.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Lucanis said gently, his voice softer now. She felt him shift, starting to turn toward her.

Panic flickered through her. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her cry. “Ah, no, don’t move!” she said quickly, patting his shoulder to keep him in place. “You’ll pull the knot. Stay still.”

Her words were firm, but her touch was light, her fingers resuming their work with renewed focus. She hoped the slight tremor in her voice had gone unnoticed.

Despite herself, wanting nothing more than to stay this close, Rook finally asked, “How does this feel? It should be better now, right?”

Lucanis flexed his shoulder and stretched out his arm, testing the range of motion. “Ah, this is much better.”

Rook leaned back on her legs, settling her hands in her lap. Already, she missed the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers. She tried not to dwell on it as her fellow Crow turned toward her.

“Thank you, Rook,” he said, his tone sincere. “I must admit, I was… a bit hesitant. But this really eased the pain.”

His eyes met hers—warm, dark, and so impossibly soft.

“Well,” she replied, trying to keep her tone light despite the flutter in her chest, “can’t have you out of commission. I’ve got to keep my team in fighting shape.”

A chuckle escaped him, followed by a small shake of his head. But before Rook could savor the moment, he winced sharply, his hand flying to his face.

“Lucanis?” she asked, instinctively reaching out.

He waved her off, his other hand resting on his knee as he shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just Spite.”

“Did I upset him?” she asked, her voice tinged with worry.

Those dark eyes found hers again, holding her gaze for a moment longer than she expected. “Trust me,” he said, his voice low, “you’re not the one he’s upset with. On the contrary.”

The last part was barely above a murmur, so faint Rook wasn’t sure if she’d truly heard it or imagined it entirely.

“I better get another brew going. There will be no sleep for me tonight.”

“You do need to sleep, Lucanis.” Rook did not say it outright, but the implication hang between them: the only reason Lucanis got hurt, was because he lost his edge in the field. Another night of no sleep. A moment too slow and the Antaam’s hammer had hit him square on the arm.

She stepped off the bed and motioned for him to sit back down.

“I’m fine, Rook, really,” he protested.

Rook wasn’t having it—not now, not anymore. The nervousness she’d felt earlier in the evening had burned away, replaced by a sharper edge of worry. She’d deal with the implications of bossing a Dellamorte around later. Right now, she spoke as his leader.

“I know some other techniques that might help you relax,” she said firmly, her tone leaving little room for argument. “I can stay here, keep an eye on Spite.”

A flash of panic crossed his eyes, brief but unmistakable.

“Lucanis, please.” Her voice softened. “Let me help. Next time, you might not get off with just a stiff shoulder.”

At last, his resistance cracked. He sighed, shoulders slumping. “What do you need me to do?”

She stepped closer, leaning over him to grab a cushion and placed it against the opposite side of the bed. “Lie down,” she instructed.

His movements were slow, reluctant. As he lowered himself onto the bed, she grabbed another blanket from the corner, folding it neatly and plopping it on the floor by his headrest. She could feel his eyes tracking her every move.

He lay back at last, arms crossed over his stomach, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m not sure about—”

“Same as before,” she cut him off gently. “Just give the word, and I’ll stop. But let me try before you call it quits. Can you do that?”

A pause. Then a nod.

Rook moved behind him again, settling onto the folded blanket at the edge of the bed. Her hands, still slick from the balm, hovered for a moment before she went to work.

This time, she let her fingers drift along his throat, up his jaw, and into his hair. His breaths deepened, steady and slow. A soft hum of appreciation escaped him, so low she almost didn’t catch it.

Rook couldn’t suppress the small smile that crept onto her lips. Not so bad after all, she thought.

She kept up her slow, rhythmic movements until she was certain he had fully surrendered to her ministrations. His breathing softened, slowing to the steady cadence that teetered on the edge of sleep.

Carefully—so carefully—she slipped one arm along the curve of his neck, letting her hand rest lightly on his chest. Beneath her palm, she felt the faintest hitch in his breath, a tiny stutter that made her pause. But he didn’t pull away or speak. Instead, after a moment, his breathing evened out again, the tension melting from his body.

With her other hand, she tilted his head ever so gently until his cheek came to rest against her forearm. His eyes were closed now, lashes dark against his skin. For the first time in what felt like ages, that perpetual furrow between his brows had smoothed out. His face, so often marked by strain or focus, was slack and soft in a way she’d rarely seen before.

Her fingers traced lower, brushing along the line of his neck and dipping toward his collarbone. His chest rose and fell beneath her touch, his breaths slow and deep. At last, she was certain he’d fallen completely asleep.

Still, Rook didn’t stop right away. She kept going for a while longer, her movements gentle and unhurried, until her fingers began to cramp. Only then did she still her hands—one resting on his chest, the other cradling his head against her arm.

She sat there quietly, gazing down at the man in her arms.

Catching herself, Rook tried to pull her arms back, ready to let the man finally sleep undisturbed. But as she began to lift her hand, it was caught by another—his.

Her breath hitched as she looked down to see a faint purple glow streaking through his eyes. The voice, low and resonant, was unmistakable. “Stay.”

His hand rested heavy over hers, a weight that felt both firm and pleading.

“Spite,” she said. She ran her free hand gently through Lucanis’ hair again, her fingers combing through the dark strands with deliberate care. The response was immediate: a satisfied hum, deep and almost content, reverberated through him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised.

The demon’s eyes drifted closed, and his voice followed, barely a whisper, rough around the edges. “Rook is safe. Warm. He dreamt of this. Stay.”

Did he really?

“I’ll stay,” she said softly, finally, her hand stilling against his hair, resting there like an anchor.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. The soft tapping beneath his hand stirred him awake, all his senses snapping to attention. Blinking against the faint glow of candlelight, he glanced down to find the source of the sensation: a hand, covered by his own, twitching faintly in sleep.

His gaze followed the hand to its owner. She sat behind him on the ground, her head resting on her other arm, blonde hair falling messily across her face.

The events of the night before trickled back to him slowly. The offer. The warmth. The weight of her presence at his back. It all came rushing in, a quiet tide that brought with it an unfamiliar sense of calm.

His slight movement must have disturbed her, because she began to stir as well.

“Oh, good morning,” she murmured, her voice soft and tinged with sleep. A yawn escaped her lips. “Is it morning?”

“Spite says so,” he replied, his voice lower than usual, still rough with lingering sleep. “We slept a few hours, at least.”

Rook pulled her hand free from his, and already he missed the weight of it. She stretched lazily, arching her back with a contented sigh.

“Must say,” she began, a teasing lilt in her voice, “not the worst place I’ve slept. At least there are no fish here to judge me.”

He blinked at her, caught off guard. “The Fade fish are judging you?”

“Yes, the beady-eyed bastards,” she replied without missing a beat, tilting her head as though to listen for any phantom aquatic critics.

Lucanis stared, equal parts bewildered and amused.

“No one in the kitchen yet,” she observed, brushing her hair back and rising to her feet. “You want some coffee?”

“I’ll make it,” he said quickly, pushing himself upright.

“Oh, that was a quick dismissal,” she laughed, raising a brow.

He smirked faintly, shaking his head. “Viago taught you a lot. Unfortunately, I must agree with him on one point: the tenaciousness of your Ferelden heritage.”

“Tenaciousness?” she repeated, crossing her arms and mock-scowling at him.

“You at least appreciate coffee, which saves you from complete condemnation,” he continued, his tone turning dry. “But between you and Harding, I’d never willingly accept a cup from either of you. No offence.”

Rook gasped, clutching her chest in exaggerated horror. “Oh, no offence at all! Next time, I’ll be sure to serve it lukewarm and watered down, just for you.”

“Kind of you,” he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching.

She laughed again, the sound warm and bright, and he felt the strange tension of the morning ease just a little.

“I hope you got some rest, Lucanis.” Her tone softened, becoming more serious.

“I... did. Thank you.” He inclined his head in a small bow, his hand resting lightly over his heart. But then, he hesitated, tilting his head with a faint look of surprise. “Spite wants to thank you as well, it seems.”

“Sit,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll make you something.”

She hesitated but eventually dropped into a chair, leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “You don’t have to, you know. I can fend for myself.”

“Clearly,” he muttered, retrieving a pan from its hook.

Rook watched as he moved around the kitchen with his usual precision, his movements fluid and deliberate. The faint scent of oil heating in the pan filled the room as he fetched a loaf of bread and began slicing it.

“You’re very particular, you know that?” Rook remarked, propping her chin on her hand.

Lucanis glanced at her briefly, one brow arching. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, it’s impressive. You’ve got this whole kitchen organized like a battlefield. Everything in its place, ready to go.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The pan sizzled as he placed slices of bread into it, the rich smell of frying dough filling the air. Rook’s stomach growled again, louder this time.

Lucanis flipped the bread with a practised motion, his gaze focused. “Is it always like this?” he asked after a moment. “The hunger, I mean. I didn’t realise Wardens dealt with that.”

“Pretty much,” Rook admitted. “It doesn’t matter how much you eat during the day. By the time night rolls around, you’re starving again. It has something to do with the taint in our blood, but they never really explained it.”

He took the golden-brown slices from the pan and placed them on a plate. Carrying it to the table, he set it down in front of her with quiet finality. “Here.”

Rook’s grin widened as she reached for the bread, taking a bite and groaning in satisfaction. “Maker’s breath, this is delicious.”

“Try not to choke,” he replied dryly, returning to the counter to tidy the mess she’d made.

Rook swallowed and smirked. “You know, for all your grumpiness, you’re surprisingly good at this hospitality thing.”

“I’m not grumpy.”

“Okay, poor choice of words. Reserved, then. Hard to get to know.”

“You want to get to know me?” Lucanis asked, his tone unreadable. He didn’t wait for a reply, methodically returning the jars and containers to their proper places.

“Of course,” Rook said, her voice softening. “Not just you, but everyone. Especially the people I rely on. If we’re going to do this—really do this—we need to trust each other. It’s early days, but trust and friendship are going to matter.” She gestured to the plate in front of her. “But, after this? You’re officially my favorite.”

Lucanis leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. “I suppose you’re right… about trust.”

“Not always,” Rook replied, taking another bite. “But sometimes.”

“Coffee?”

Rook winced. “Ah, this is awkward. I do drink coffee, but I prefer tea.” She added with a cheeky grin, “This is where you stab me, right?”

Lucanis smiled faintly. “You’re safe… tonight.”

Rook arched a brow, impressed. Humor? From the assassin? First time for everything. She watched as he retrieved the tea Bellara liked and began preparing a cup.

“You know how to make tea?” she asked.

“Bellara likes tea. And now that I know you do, too, I’ll make sure we never run out. Sugar?”

“Three, please.”

“Three?” Lucanis raised an eyebrow slightly.

“It was one of the few things we had plenty of at Weisshaupt. Have you ever tried bread and butter with sugar on top? It’s the stuff of gods.”

Lucanis tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “No, I haven’t.”

Rook gestured to the loaf. “Well then, bring it over. And the butter. And the sugar. You need to experience this.”

The requested items were retrieved and placed in front of her. Rook carefully sliced a piece of bread, spread it with butter, and sprinkled a generous layer of sugar on top.

“It’s the cheapest dessert around,” she said, handing him a slice. “But it hits the right spots.”

Lucanis took a cautious bite, his expression neutral at first. The sugariness hit immediately, balanced perfectly by the richness of the butter. “It’s… good,” he admitted.

“You know, Lucanis, some things don’t need to be elaborate to matter. Simple food —even at this hour—can make the moment.”

He studied her for a long moment, her easy grin and bright eyes concealing a depth of strength he now saw more clearly. Without a word, he pulled out the chair across from her and sat, taking another bite of the sugary bread. He let the sweetness linger on his tongue before finally speaking.

“I think it's the company, not the food,” he said quietly, surprising even himself.

Rook didn’t respond immediately, didn’t trust herself to without fumbling over something. Instead, she wrapped her hands around the tea he’d made for her, the warmth spreading through her palms like a quiet reassurance.