#broodwrites

There was a power in her. She was slight, for a human, with a delicacy to her carriage that made her look far more fragile than she was. But he knew—from ample, bitter experience—just how capable she was. As a mage. A fighter. A hunter. A tactician.

He respected her.

But he could not allow that to sway him.

"Calpernia." Her eyes narrowed slightly, and he wondered at it. Was she offended by his return of the familiar form of greeting? Suspicious? Analyzing?

Tired?

Many questions, and so few answers. But at least these were new questions, something different from the monotony of his agony. He had done well in designing this prison. Too well. The irony that he suffered his own design was not lost on him, no more than the irony of how constantly he suffered his own designs was lost on him.

"Or do you prefer 'Rook,' now?"

"I prefer answers, Dread Wolf."

"As do we all." She blinked. Surprised by his candor, perhaps?

Or it was just a blink. If he let himself, he could find patterns in the rush of wind, in the sighs of strangers, in the movement of clouds. He tried to not let himself, but it was harder here, now, with so little to occupy his thoughts aside from misery. Still, better to remain focused: a deep analysis of this conversation would follow, and he needed to pay attention to what was before he determined what it meant.

"Here I thought Wisdom had all answers." His lips curled at the obvious contempt in her voice, but he resisted the petty urge to bare his teeth. He would not be transformed into the beast he had so often been called.

"You've much to learn about wisdom," he said after a moment, "and about me."

"Why?"

He tilted his head, surprised by the question. She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. She was tense, guarding, shoulders raised. He had the brief thought, absurd under these circumstances, that she would be sore later.

"Wisdom is worth learning. Worth committing to learning, for it never ends. As for me? I should think that obvious."

"There's Pride."

He grinned, sharp and bright. And if he bared his teeth now, well, so be it.

"Quite so." His smile faded, searching her eyes across the divide. "I do not offer my history. I do not offer my thoughts. I do not offer my feelings. None, save those few that may be of benefit. Now, surely you have questions for someone who knows your enemies, who spent millennia with them?"

"I do have one question." He inclined his head slightly, an encouragement. "Why?"

He laughed, and that seemed to surprise her more than anything else had, but how could he not? "Oh, is that all?" Humor remained thread through his voice, lilting across the divide between them. "Which why, Rook? There are many."

"All of it." She spread her arms, encompassing the prison, but he knew she did not mean this cage. "All of it, Dread Wolf. Why?"

"Surely you have been informed," he pointed out, her scoff derisive, sharp. He should be frustrated by it, but instead he found himself oddly pleased. There was something appealing about her sharp edges.

"I would have it from your mouth."

"Simply, it was necessary." She stared at him, clearly waiting for more, but he only met her eyes. Eventually they narrowed. A tension built between them, a thrumming force, exacerbated by the Fade itself. Emotion was powerful here; his own were as leashed as they could be, under the circumstances, but she did not keep hers similarly in check. And she was a mage. The Fade was trying to form around her, tendrils of power invigorated by her intensity. A warning was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back.

And why he held the warning in reserve? Why he did not give voice to caution? It was too plain a reason. Pedestrian. But powerful nevertheless, immensely tempting. It was a distraction. If he was particularly lucky, an opportunity. But he did not suspect anything would come from it, save perhaps a brief antidote to his boredom. Strange, to be bored here. A theater of misery, of despair, and certainly it did elicit such despair often enough. But it gave so little to consider. Reaction, emotion, but no thought. No consideration. No questions.

Calpernia, by contrast, gave rise to countless questions. Her very presence was a puzzle, her entire being a remedy to what ailed him. Even after she left, her presence—however brief—would sustain him. He knew as much from experience. He would ease the ache of boredom (of solitude, of loneliness) with the memory of her existence.

He studied her, analyzed her frustration, and awaited her behavior. He knew he could outlast her. There was no contest; he had existed among immortals. He still measured time differently. To wait years was inconsequential, impatience spanning decades.

Well. Whenever possible, at least. All this? The Evanuris, their cage, his ritual? He had not been able to wait so long. And the rush showed, for despite all his best efforts, all study honed and concentrating on a single moment… he had failed.

He was here.

And he had only one chance.

And she was staring at him.

"You are incredibly frustrating."

His answering grin was sharp, her sigh a stark punctuation.

"You are not the first to say as much," he admitted readily, and her little huff was—

Charming?

That was unfortunate.

He set the thought aside, but he felt it still. It was as a bruise, something with a deep, warm ache that part of him yearned to press his fingers against, to awaken the pain of it in full. But as a bruise, it was easily ignored if one could simply refrain from stimulating it.

Difficult to achieve, given its origin was currently meeting his eyes, but he could—and should, and must—fix his attention upon the moment itself.

He did wonder what answer she sought, though. She was not so foolish as to believe he would tell all simply because she asked. Given her history, he would not put it past her to be doing exactly as he was, trying to trigger reaction to analyze it. But he suspected there was more to it.

"Do you still seek your Tevinter reborn?"

The silence hung heavy between them.

"Do you still seek your world reborn?"

His smile was wan but true. "I desire as much," he answered, if the deflection could be so called. She scoffed, catching the way he didn't answer, as he all but knew she would. Still, it was satisfying.

"Well, I desire information that will help. And it seems you have none."

"On the contrary," he objected idly, something in him delighting at her obvious exasperation. He could not tell it from a fond pleasure or a cruel one, but it did not particularly matter. "Shall I solve it for you, Rook?" He had to fight back a grin as the air seemed to shudder around her, idly wondering if the group she was gathering realized quite how much she struggled with her feelings. It was a surprising trait for a mage.

"Must you toy with me? Is it not enough that I am forced to clean up your mess, I must also amuse you in the doing?" His grin fell away, an avoidance of baring his teeth. She was infuriating.

"My mess? As I recall, Rook, you were the one who brought a statue down on a delicate spell. It is surprising to find a mage so careless." Her eyes flashed with a fury he shared, a sharp burst amidst the thick, soft flow of the Fade.

"To stop you destroying the world!"

"That you might destroy it yourself?"

"I will have my home preserved! Restored!"

"Ah, yes," he threw his arms open extravagantly, "let's fix Tevinter! Surely a magical iron fist is better than a religious one!"

"And what would your world be, Dread Wolf? The iron fist of a spirit? Of the Evanuris? Or perhaps you'd seek a different title. God, perhaps?"

He scoffed, crossing his arms before him. It took a moment to realize he was repeating her stance.

He kept his arms crossed.

"I am no god," he spat, "and you are no saint. You, who commanded the Venatori. You, with the blood they've spilt upon your hands. You, who would see half the world in ashes that your Tevinter may rise."

"You speak from experience, Wolf." It was not a question, and he narrowed his eyes. Her own anger was even more evident, radiating off her in waves, the very fabric of the Fade crackling in proximity to her emotion. "Or did you believe your death toll would have been bloodless? If furious spirits, twisted and enraged, transformed into demons… if they ripped people apart, then it was an accident, is that it?"

"I was—" he cut himself off, the fight going out of him all at once. Suddenly, it all seemed terribly absurd. He wanted to laugh. "There is more blood on my hands than you will ever know," he said at last, watching the anger drain from her just as abruptly. Something in his voice, or perhaps his face, it tore the fight from her. "But, Rook. Calpernia. If you are not wary, there will be more blood on your hands than you can tolerate." He smiled, and felt its grimness himself. "After all, I speak from experience."

She stared at him. Then she drew a hand across her face, and it seemed to him as though she was indicating a veil, a mask. She did not touch her face, did not rub at her eyes, as he had seen others do. As this flesh had prompted him to do to himself. Instead it seemed a gesture, a deliberate restoration of some control.

"I did not come here to fight," she said at length, her hand dropped away, whatever meaning behind it remaining a mystery. "I did not come here at all. You trouble my dreams, Wolf. You make them nightmares, complete with dire warnings. Is your wisdom so callous, that I must debase myself to deserve it? Does the Dread Wolf speak only in riddles, a child's cruel cleverness, preening yourself upon your liar's tongue, never lying?" Her gaze seemed to pin him down. No, it seemed to open him up, and he found that he would have preferred the former. Somehow, she rendered him vulnerable, bare.

"There is no grand mystery," he told her bluntly, when he felt he had found his voice once more. "You face terrible foes. My fault, yours, ours… it changes nothing. I am imprisoned, and you are free. You have the dagger. You have the route. If you do not destroy them, they will destroy you." She did not move, did not respond. He swallowed. "You have found those who would support you. They will be necessary. There is little I can say that will truly prepare you. You might lose some of those who follow you: you know this. You might be killed, yourself: you know this, too. You might succeed, or you might fail. I know your foes better than you do, but I have not known them for centuries, I do not know what they have become in their imprisonment. I can not tell you the breadth of their power, I cannot reveal to you the specifics of their aims, only my interpretations. But you hold me in such doubt, such contempt, that to share my suspicions may cause you to reject them as possibilities outright. I would not soothe my ego by awakening yours. You will have from me what you can ask for, but it is not to toy with you."

"You think," she said coldly, "that my contempt for you is greater than my desire to win? That I would ignore information that might aid me just to spite you?"

"I think," he countered, working to keep his voice even, "that it is a very—forgive me—a very human characteristic."

"Ah." Her voice dripped with palpable deirision. "As opposed to elves? Or is this human as opposed to spirit?"

He threw his arms open once more, frustrated: "both. Either." He sighed, arms dropping to hang limp at his sides. "Or have you never encountered someone unwilling to hear the truth because you are the one speaking it? Have you never been rebuffed by those who reject any lesson they do not come to independently?" That seemed to give her pause, her gaze darting away.

"That, I will concede." Her voice was remarkably soft. He blinked, feeling unbalanced… for it was as though he now saw her in an entirely different light. Had her sharp edges dropped away, or had his sight slipped beneath them, finding a vulnerable core that ought to have been secret? It felt like a violation to witness this, somehow. But he did not look away, as much for selfish reasons as practical ones, and he watched as she considered. Watched as she nodded, apparently to herself, and lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the rocky ledge across from him. "Tell me. I will hear you."

He raised a brow, but did not comment. Instead, after a moment of consideration, he opted to mirror her position. His armor was not terribly conducive to sitting cross-legged, but he did not want to tower over her across the divide as he explained, still not entirely sure it was the right thing to do. "Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain," he began, "are powerful foes, as you are well aware. The Dalish call Elgar'nan the All-Father; in this, they are not wrong, for he was first-born." He shrugged. "So to speak. He was the first to create a body for himself from lyrium. It was…" he hesitated, trying to find a way to describe it accurately, "a tremendous accomplishment. Nothing like it had ever been attempted. Nothing like it had ever been conceptualized."

"You almost sound like you admire him," she pointed out dryly, the comment surprising him. But then he smiled.

"I do not, but I did at the time. I admired such ingenuity." After all, how could he not? "And we did not yet understand the terrible price."

"But surely you knew he made his body from lyrium?"

"From a powerful material found within the earth, yes. But we did not understand what it meant to the Titans, that it connected them."

"Connected?" Her head was tilted, her curiosity evident. His smile was fonder than it ought to be, especially over such a grim topic.

"Yes. The Titans… well," he demurred, "I will not pretend to fully understand them. Lyrium is perceived as their blood: while not a false view, it is a limited one." He held his left arm out, displaying the length of it, as he traced a path from his wrist to his shoulder with his free hand. "In these bodies, blood flows. It functions. As it did within the Titans. But," here he tapped his arm before settling his hands in his lap, lightly clasped, "the role our blood performs is all internal. Yet, many lyrium veins are outside of the Titans. Why do you think that is?"

For a moment, he thought she would press him for the answer. She looked as though she would, impatience tightening her features. But then she seemed to reconsider, her gaze settling in the space between them, although he thought she saw nothing of the Fade now. He noticed then that she worried at her lower lip as she thought, wisely—for once—averting his eyes and his mind from the observation.

"I might assume," her voice came as a surprise, although it should not have; that it did was indicative of how quickly and deeply he had fallen into the trance of his own thoughts, and he resolved then to insist upon an awareness of the moment, "that it has spread beyond them as the result of violence. As though it was spilt and hardened, stone and soil growing up around it until it was buried, becoming a natural part of the earth." He nodded, pleased by her considered response, although perhaps moreso by her willingness. But her gaze hardened, shaking him from this simple pleasure.

"Well reasoned, but not quite. This state is natural. They spread, growing far past the fixed confines of their individual bodies." He looked at her, had been looking at her, watching her face for reaction. As such, he could clearly witness the moment that she understood, but this time restrained himself from showing his satisfaction.

"Then, the lyrium was a part of them, but outside of them… and you spoke of a connection." He nodded, and this time she seemed too engrossed in the considerations to be annoyed by it. "They use it to communicate? Or," she continued before he could say anything, "likely not to communicate as we know it. As we are."

"Quite so."

She seemed to have entirely forgotten—or set aside—her frustration with his praise or acknowledgement. Without it, the atmosphere between them softened somewhat, from a sharp tension to the gentle crush of a page that had been worried overlong.

"Then, to sense, perhaps? Well," here she seemed to gather herself, pulling her wandering mind back to the present, "whatever the… mechanic employed, the result is the same. When you—when the Evanuris—" he did not think her specification was meant to soften his role in it, "took the lyrium, it is possible you stole communication, or part of it, rather than form itself."

"And?" He prompted, wanting to pull her past that particular conclusion. It unduly gentled what they had done, as if their crime was lessened that they did not cut into flesh, rather committing a crime far more abstract.

"And…" she hesitated, and he did not know her enough to parse uncertainty from care. "The lyrium that was taken, it was not cut out of beings. It was of them, but not in a way that you recognized." She searched his face, and apparently found her confirmation within it, for she nodded slightly. "You admired him when you thought he did something admirable with a… a component, I suppose. A mineral."

"Yes."

"When did you learn it was something much more?"

"I should have realized upon his emergence, as they earth seemed to shudder with what he did, but it was not the first time I had seen such shaking. But upon Mythal's emergence and the repetition I was convinced it was something dangerous, and I hesitated to take a form of my own. When I did, the shaking came again, but this time I felt it."

"You don't mean the trembling," she pointed out, and he could feel how tight his smile was.

"No. I felt that, too, of course, but what I felt was… them. I did not know them, but I felt them. It was…" there was a growing frustration in him as he struggled to explain. "Have you ever been preoccupied, but suddenly drawn to the present because you feel watched? It was akin to that. I felt a stirring as of a slow waking, a discordant pressure that I struggled to witness, disoriented as I was."

"You stole their voice," she said, and the simplicity of the statement was devastating in its accuracy. "You stole their voice, and you wore it as flesh."

"Yes." He could say no more. He could barely say that.

For a time, there was a silence between them. But even around the old despair this conversation had awoken, a sediment that her careful steps into his world stirred, he recognized the comfort of this silence. Not that it was a comfortable silence, but there was a comfort within it. It was the absence of isolation, he knew. Could not fail to know.

Here, in this bitter prison he had built, he was never alone. Never alone. Haunted by memory made manifest, haunted by his ghosts except that they could touch him, could stare at him, plead with choked voices he'd thought forgotten. Wished forgotten. Mourned that they were forgotten… mourned, now, that they were remembered, pulled whole out of some deep pit within him and strung up like a macabre play of every single thing he had ever done wrong. But none of the specters were a true presence, and even with all the weight strung between himself and Calpernia, even with her caution and her contempt and her frustrated anger, she was real. She was a pulse in this pulseless place.

As absurd as it was, he did try to not think about it. To not think about how she—and she alone—alleviated his isolation. How eager he was for these times, and how much deeper his loneliness felt after she left, the Fade echoing with her presence. Like a scent, suspended in the air and stirring deep memory, a nostalgic despair for something only moments past.

In the lingering silence, he found he could think of nothing else.

He knew better. He did. It was more than foolish, it was the height of folly. As if he had made some sick game out of always finding the worst path forward. But knowledge and emotion, they were separate forces. They wove together, of course, waxed and waned together, breathed and bled together, but they were separate. And logic could not bury emotion, try as it may.

He knew her face. He knew her eyes. He knew the way she held herself, the way she carried herself, the gap in her smile that filled him with such raw tenderness…

The height of folly, indeed.

Within him, sour in his throat, were bubbling cruelties. Ways he could wound her, could drive her away, could make her leave. She would return, of course, but he could make those experiences brief. Ever the bare minimum.

As his mouth opened, cruelty and kindness warred, and out slipped—

A hum. A single, soft, thoughtful noise, the kind of considering sound he had made often in his life. Was it habit, then, that gentled his response? Was it uncertainty? Or was it simply that he…

That he wished to continue?

She was focused on him, drawn to him… No, he chided himself. No, not that. What else would she be drawn to, in this place? Her focus was practical, and he must be practical in turn. She had come to him, not for the pleasure of his company, but for information. Such information as she would need to do what must be done. And it was a bitter thing, that; each aid provided would push her towards the great cruelty he would have to enact. It soured his mood, soured even the familiar desire to share, but he had done grim tasks many times before. This would be no different.

"The Evanuris," he continued, as if there had been no pause, no disruption, no cloying doubt, "are skilled, powerful, and they have been Blighted. The Blight they wield is an ancient thing, perhaps…" he paused, considering. "Perhaps primordial, in its way. The Blight that these lands have faced is something changed by time and in many ways dulled, but what Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain bring is strong and violent. It has an innate power, a consumptive hunger, even greater than the Blights you know. You have seen the effects of it already, but there will be more ahead."

"I know," she said, and he had to resist smirking. She did not know, could not know, not truly. But he was aware that wasn't what she meant, just an acknowledgement that she would face the Blight again. "It is why we approached the Wardens."

We. That was interesting, although after a moment, he decided it was not surprising.

"You were wise to do so," he agreed, allowing her to interpret the 'you' as she would; herself, or the group she had gathered around her. "But you will need more than the Wardens and their knowledge." He thought of Scout Harding. Thought of the pulse he had felt richochet throughout the Fade, something he at first found unfamiliar, before realizing it was such an ancient familiarity that he had all but forgotten. He did not know that it was her, but it stood to reason. He said none of this, only hoping that Calpernia would understand that this connection to ancient dwarven magic may be what turns the tide. The Evanuris were familiar with it, of course, but they would not have planned for it, would not have expected it.

And yet, that may be the lesser benefit.

The Blight was born of the Titans themselves. Sundered from themselves, enraged and wounded, a twisted connection had been formed. One unexpected consequence of many. He could not say what Harding's awakening may do to the Blight, or to the Titans themselves, or even if it would have any impact at all. He did not know. But it seemed unlikely that nothing would come of it, whether risk or boon. He wanted—no, he needed—Calpernia to be prepared.

"What more?"

"Anything," he answered in the same open-ended manner she had asked. "Everything. Whatever knowledge you can find, from whatever source. Although…" he smirked, and she glared, "I need not tell you to be cautious. Hear what it said, know it, but do not trust it."

"You're right," she said icily, "you do not need to tell me that, Fen'Harel."

There was a small surge in him. He thought it anger, for a moment, but… no, not anger, but something that was kin to it. When he realized, it did not come as a surprise, although a part of him wished it had.

He was not angry: he was eager, engaged, wanting to dig in, to argue with her more. He was enjoying it. Enjoying the sharp, biting back-and-forth, enjoying the hard edges of her frustration, enjoying the way it sparked in her eyes. She was a bright flame here, a stark contrast to his low burn, and he wanted to bask in that warmth.

Selfish. Irresponsible. Foolish. Foolish above all. Wisdom, the eternal fool. None of that came as a surprise, either.

He felt the tug as she began to ease towards consciousness, something growing painfully tight in his stomach, mourning the loss of it. Of this. But he could not let his anticipatory grief be known. "Eyes open, Calpernia," he said simply, smiling at her.

She gave him a strange look. A searching one, although that was not the strange aspect. No, it was that it seemed… almost wistful. Before he could crush the thought, it rose in him, a treacherous rush of hope: she wanted to stay as he wanted her to stay.

Wisdom, the eternal fool, indeed.

He blinked, and just like that, she was gone. Just like that, he was alone.

He ignored the press of ghosts, their thin, fractured voices an attempted denial.

The fleshy sound of the impact filtered in at a delay, mind struggling to interpret the situation as he writhed in his bondage, panting and gasping. His stomach was still throbbing with the first when she kicked him again, his whole body jolting as with a shock. She did not give him time to adjust, each kick crushing his tender sac against the unyielding plane of his pelvis.

Conscious thought fled, replaced by a razor-sharp surrender to anticipation and sensation. His cock throbbed wantonly against his belly, drooling pre with each strike. His knees ached but it was a distant, blunt pain compared to the brutal, sharp stab each kick forced stronger.

He twitched. Spasmed. Thrashed, as much as the rope would allow. But it was his trembling that was unending, as was the roiling mass of agony reverberating through his stomach.

She kicked. Crushed. Brutalized. And each violence drew him closer, until he felt his cock swell with the first pulse of his orgasm.

He rode her boot as he came, crushing his balls between it and his body on his own.

"Please."

He realized he was chanting it as he forced himself against her, as he humped her boot, a brutal engagement of his own agony.

She drew back and he nearly sobbed with the loss, the noise transforming into a scream as she kicked him again.

And again.

And again.

They bolted upright, shirt undone and eyes wide, but they were still alone. When the reality settled over them they hissed, slumping back against the couch.

"Fuck off," they told him, crossing their arms.

"The connection is strongest when you are in the Lighthouse. You have the right to know."

Oh.

Great.

"If need be," he sounded so formal, "I can attempt to distract myself for a time. Perhaps meditating would be sufficient—"

"No. No, forget it. It's fine."

Their arms were still crossed.

…and they were really, really wet.

"Rook," oh, great. Now he sounded condescending. "Your attention is divided. It is best to deal with this."

"So now you want me to masturbate? Wow, didn't know the Dread Wolf liked to watch." They were just messing with him, but the silence was a long one.

"…apologies. I see now it was a mistake to make my presence known."

"Woah, what? So you did want to watch?"

"No! I only meant—" His sigh sounded loud and put out, echoing in their mind. "You should be able to… relax, without feeling surveilled."

They opened their mouth to respond before thinking better of it. It was fun to fuck with him, but he actually seemed sincere. And he had been trying to protect their privacy. They appreciated that.

So this time, they thought it through before saying anything. And when they opened their mouth again, they were confident: "it's okay. I get it. And I'm glad you said something. Definitely better to know. And…"

Well. Mostly confident. They thought this would be easier, considering what they've already done, but their mouth felt dry, as if to suffocate the words before they could emerge.

"…I don't mind." He said nothing, and they felt a different kind of heat flooding into their cheeks. "I mean, if you want, you could— stay. Or I could just not, I mean, that's an option too—"

"Rook."

Oh. Oh, that was different. They swallowed. Settled. Let their legs spread. His voice… warm, rough, thick with yearning. They liked it. "What do you feel?"

"Hm?" They grinned, flattered. They weren't sure they'd ever heard him so distracted before.

"With me. Is it feeling? Seeing? Sensing?"

"Ah. It is… sensing is fitting, yes. I feel, to a degree, but only what you are focused on. Pain. Or…"

"Or," they agreed, letting their hand settle over their clothed cunt. His gasp echoed their own as they started grinding against their palm. "You like it?"

"As much as you do," his agreement came fast, the voice in their head stuttering a little. Was he touching himself? The thought spiked in them, a rush of heat, and his exhale sounded so close that they wanted to claim his mouth and swallow it whole.

Instead they rose to reposition, knee bent on the couch as they mounted the arm, clutching the back as they started grinding against it. Solas' pleasure emboldened their own, fed it rather than just fed from it. They felt desperate, hips moving quicker, the couch creaking as they humped it.

Head thrown back. Breathing fast and shallow. Swelling pleasure.

It was more. So much. So strong. Bleed of a god's arousal. Hunger of a lonely soul. "Are you—"

"—yes."

"I'm—"

"—yes."

"Gonna—"

Their whole body locked up as they came, a bolt of exquisite pleasure ricocheting madly through them. It felt so good that it nearly hurt, their muscles clenched hard as they found their blissful release.

They felt it pouring from their cunt, trembling at the rush of wet heat, and only then did they register that the panting moans were not from them but within them.

The image—the fantasy—of him on his knees, jerking his cock until he came all over the ground, had their hips moving again. Too much. Too soon. Too good.

But his breaths… short, sharp, cut off. Addictive. They needed more.

They fell sideways onto the couch and shamelessly shoved a hand down their breeches, fingers finding their swollen clit as they used their free hand to clumsily loosen their clothes. They tugged at it, breath stuttering, and imagined him in the same position, hard cock in hand, slippery and shiny with his seed.

They tugged impatiently at their breeches, freed just enough to press a finger into their hungry cunt. They moaned— or did he? Who whined? Who gasped?

A second finger. Edges blurred (fantasy or reality?), with their eyes closed they couldn't tell. Was he the one fingering them hard and fast, was he the one driving the movement of their hand?

Their muscle, his will.

Fingers curling, pressing, digging in—

Him or them?

Didn't matter. It didn't.

Except for the way it did. The way they wanted…

His pace. His pressure. His strength.

They wanted him. Atop them. Below. Beside. In front and behind. His scent on their skin, their hair, their clothes. Wanted his sweat, his heat, his heartbeat.

His cock splitting them open. His tongue cleaning them out.

Flash of his fucking smirk, the expression transformed with perspective; contemptuous in the Fade, lascivious in their fantasy with his face between their legs, lips obscured as he bent in towards them.

"Yes," the growl—nothing else they could call it—burst a fresh heat in their belly. A coil of shame followed, like swallowing a stone: could he see their thoughts? These innermost fantasies?

Distracted, desperate, a little panicked, they did the first thing that came to mind.

In this fantasy, in this image of the Dread Wolf burying his face between their legs…

They imagined him with wolf ears.

Amusement was something bright and quicksilver in them, but it didn't stop the movement of their hand. He hummed, but they couldn't tell if it was satisfaction or questioning the shift in their mood.

But it was enough to reassure them. They dismissed the image (for now, anyway. They had a feeling it would serve them again.)

Relieved, confident that their thoughts remained private, they returned their attention to the matter very much at hand. But they had regained something in the distraction, and it was their fingers plunging their depths.

They missed the fantasy. The illusion. The way it had felt as though they were overlaid, edges blurring, sensation twining and twinned.

Still, heat remained. Their fingers squelched, cocooned in hot slick, as they listened to him finding his pleasure and feeling theirs.

Oh.

Feeling their pleasure… that meant…

They abruptly stilled, fingers buried within but unmoving, and his protest was immediate, a curling whine echoing through their head until he caught it and choked it back. "Rook?"

They grinned. "Yes?"

"Why did— mm. Are you… okay?"

"Quite well, thank you for asking."

"I see." Two words, delivered deadpan, and their grin grew.

"How are you?" As casual as you please, Solas' sigh a different kind of sharp satisfaction.

"I'm wonderful, thank you for asking," he told them sourly, and they snorted.

Giggled.

Started laughing.

"You are absolutely maddening," he told them plainly, but that only made them laugh more.

"I— oh gods, this—" they rolled onto their side, still giggling. "I gave a god blue balls!"

"You— you did no such thing!"

He sounded so shocked and defensive. Their cheeks ached from smiling.

"It's okay," they told him, dropping their voice theatrically low, "I won't tell anyone that you got all blocked up as soon as I stopped touching myself."

"Have a care, Rook. Ego can always be your undoing." He was all but pouting as he said it, but the irony of it all…

"You're accusing me of an overabundance of ego? Really?"

"A fitting accusa—" Oh, that was satisfying. They had started fingering themselves again, hand slick, and he had cut himself off with a sharp grunt.

"You were saying?"

"Rook…" He sounded as exasperated as someone could, with the rich heat of a moan in his voice. Something about this was impacting him. Strongly.

Their amusement vanished, displaced by a hectic sentimentality. They no longer wanted to tease; instead, they wanted to embrace him, to whisper gentle encouragement as he rutted into them. They wanted to surround him in such softness that it swallowed even his sharpest edges.

"Solas." Their voice was different, too. His gasp was electric, a thread of power coursing through their spine. "You're touching yourself?"

There was nothing of mockery left. Nothing of contempt. Only heat, only desire, evident in the rush of the question, the way their fingers moved faster. Pleasuring him as much as themselves.

"I… yes."

"Good," they said aloud, his breathing shuddering. The rest, they did not dare voice.

I'm happy and you deserve it and I gave this to you and you gave this to me.

They felt drunk on affection, desire, and a strange, humbling power. They had brought a god—their god, his ink on their body—to his knees. Not by conquest, not by violence, but through the consuming force that was this mutual need. By tugging relentlessly on this strange tether that had grown between them.

It was wrong. They were sure it was wrong. A weight sat in them, pulled at them, reminded them: the god of lies; betrayer; deceiver. But in this moment, that weight was only a distant tension, a faint pressure, head twinging for the gathering storm.

And right now the skies were clear, his moans were beautiful in their mind, and they were getting closer as they moved fast and hard within their depths. They dragged their fingers across the soft yield of their interior, toes curling with the stimulation, eased by so much slick that it began to slip down to their thigh, wicked away by their smalls. They'd have to clean those.

Worth it.

"Solas," their hips rocked forward, "I'm close. I'm going to— fuck, I'm going to come, I'm almost—"

"Daw!"

They twisted and buried their face against the couch, muffling their helpless cries. He said it, he said their name now, like this, and they soaked themselves to hear it. His gasping moans were in tandem with theirs and it was so beautiful. So perfect.

Flash of eerie light, of stone, of robes spread out, of a hand around a weeping cock.

Blurry rush of sentiment, of Rook, of Daw, a tongue forming the words with something like familiarity.

"What—"

"I…"

"—was that?"

"Ah. Hm." Their was a catch in his voice, something thick. "Apologies. It will not happen again."

"Wait, but what was it?"

They waited. Their hand was still down their pants, fingers still buried in their cunt, the flesh occasionally convulsing, but the silence grew. "… Solas?"

The silence remained.

"Oh, you fucker," they snarled, yanking their hand free and collapsing onto their back.

"Rook," he said again, and again that delicate scrape as the word-title-name was formed and fallen, born on his tongue and sunk into their neck like the heat of his breath.

They moaned, tipping their head back.

Presenting.

Solas' shudder, the way long fingers dug hard into their hips, the way his stiff cock pressed its insistent arousal against their cunt, neither of them even undressed yet. Everything experienced through a remove.

Like them. The thought, unbidden, was shoved away. There would be time enough for that after. There always was.

But when they had him atop them, hard and needy and messy, much of his armor—literal and metaphorical—shed, they would not allow themselves to be distracted by the presence of some armor.

Could the Wolf even exist without it?

Could they? The armor that was their title, the distance that was Rook on his lips rather than their name.

Not Solas, but Fen'Harel.

Not Daw, but Rook.

Armor and armored.

But they wanted. They wanted something that bypassed the armor. They wanted something that bypassed their skin. They wanted the Wolf's fangs penetrating them, his cock penetrating them, his desperation, his need, his lust, (his love—)

They gasped as he bit, moaned their encouragement as he deepened it, and frotted against his cock while his teeth just entered. They felt dizzy with their desire, terribly close, hips moving hard.

His were, too. He was humping them (like a dog) as he tasted them. Moving fast. Clothing (armor) in the way, saturated by their desire (affection), soaked until it felt thin.

If they continued, fragile armor may tear. Moisture and movement weakening it, until one hard thrust pulled at the seams and opened them to one another.

His teeth already embedded in their neck, their nails digging crescents into his as they held him in place (when had they moved to do so?), the thought of opening further was too much.

Terrifying.

Tempting.

They wanted it. Rut against me until we're bared. Until all is exposed. Until you see my beating, bloody heart and I see yours.

Instead they cried out as they came, a low whine emerging from the back of their throat as he kept going, harder, faster, more, grinding against their wet, their slick—

"What I would like to know," he continued calmly, as if Solas' strong reactions were nothing at all, "is where you took my slaves." He kept Solas dangling, his reactivity slowly calming until eventually he just hung limp. He could still breathe, and although the grip was painfully tight, it was not doing any substantial harm. He could tolerate this, and did not wish to bring a greater punishment down on himself. "You seem to believe you can save them. That you can offer them some grandiose utopia. But I offer them a purpose. Protection. Guidance. The Elvhen are a powerful people, but young. Untested. However, they can be shaped into something profound. What can you possibly offer them that is better than that?"

"Freedom," he rasped, voice tight. Elgar'nan shook him; gently, but the swaying was still disorienting and pulled hard on the muscles of his neck and shoulders.

"Ah, yes. The freedom to die on their own, is that it?" He abruptly let go, Solas plummeting to the cold stone floor with a sharp grunt, pain throbbing through his knees and palms. "You must paint them a fine picture. The liberated few, now…" the pause was deliberate, and he could imagine Elgar'nan's smug smile, "indebted to you. Tell me, does it quell your envy to have your own slaves? Does it soothe your pride to have them believing their enslavement a gift?" He tasted bile and swallowed, body trembling with rage that he wanted to loose.

But that was the point, and he would not play the role Elgar'nan wanted him to. He would not let anger loosen his tongue. No more than it already had.

He regretted the response. Not for Elgar'nan's reaction, which was to be expected, but as a confirmation of what he was doing. It had served him—served all of them—to have it as an open secret. In a single moment, a burst of anger, he had ruined that thin benefit.

Grief doused his anger like water over a fire. Someone else should be doing this. Someone else should be leading. Someone better, someone—

"You look pitiful." Elgar'nan's cold judgement brought him harshly back to the moment, to the varied aches in his body, the sting of blood in his mouth. Perhaps he bit his tongue as he fell. It did not matter. "It is almost enough to leave you in this state." He glanced up, met cold eyes with a heat of his own, and Elgar'nan smirked at his display. He wanted to bare his teeth, wanted to bite into the man's thick neck, fangs tearing through muscle and blood bursting in his mouth, dousing him in its metallic tang. Like an animal. At least the thought sickened him. "But then, what kind of father would I be if I let you escape your punishment? It would hardly be fair."

Ah.

Of course.

Still dreaming of violence, a cold reserve began to settle over him. He stayed on the ground, unwilling to contribute to his 'punishment'. He wondered what it would be, then tried to quickly put such considerations from his mind, refocusing on Elgar'nan's throat. On how his blood would taste.

Elgar'nan permitted his study, and Solas tried to ignore how smug the other man looked. To stare at his throat inevitably kept his face in view, his expression clear despite Solas' best efforts to see nothing save the tender, fragile flesh, pulsing with a flow that could be interrupted, stopped…

Consumed. For he still imagined the taste of it flowing over his tongue, the wet, hot mass pooling in his mouth until he swallowed.

He no longer begrudged himself these fantasies of violence. He had taken the form of a wolf many times. Had fought battles with tooth and claw as often as magic and blade. He knew the metallic tang of blood flowing over his coarse tongue, draining like inevitability into his throat.

He had swallowed that violence. His stolen flesh utilizing it. Stolen and stolen again. And now? Now it would be abused. This flesh which carried hints of so many others would be brutalized until Elgar'nan was satisfied.

Perhaps it was just. Perhaps deserved. Not for whatever had angered the All-Father, but for sins that ran far deeper.

The silence was so long, Solas slipping so deep into himself, that Elgar'nan's voice was like being doused with cold water: "get up."

He met the man's eyes. Golden.

They should be beautiful. Warm and rich. They were not beautiful.

Solas rose.

He did not want to, but he knew to deny it would be worse. Elgar'nan could kill him. It had always been a possibility. There was only so far he could dare to deny him, and he could see that the All-Father was in no mood to extend patience.

His golden eyes were not warm. They were not rich.

They were hungry.

He felt the tension of a spell a split second before it was cast, his will half-forming a barrier before his mind caught up and forced it away.

His fine robes unraveled. His high collar unwound. His leather wraps peeled and cracked until they fell away in thin sheets, leaving him bare, his modesty coiled in layers around his feet.

He did not cover himself. He did not shrink away. At least they were in the privacy of Solas' own room. A small blessing.

"If you care for the slaves as much as you insist," Elgar'nan began, holding Solas' gaze, "you will accept punishment as one of them."

He had known. He had. But still, the words were like a stone in him, a deep, sinking despair, horror bright and hectic on its tail. But he did not falter. He stood tall.

Pride, indeed.

"Of course," Elgar'nan continued, slowly pacing around Solas, "a pup should be properly adorned." The All-Father's presence at his back was like standing too close to a raging hearth, skin feeling brittle and sore with the heat. The hand that settled across his mouth made him flinch despite himself, Elgar'nan's laugh like something toxic. But his hand was hot, hotter then the heat at his back. He felt certain that his lips were burnt, as they might be from the sun.

As potent as the pain was, he was still distracted from it by the new rush of magic, aligned with Elgar'nan pressing his two middle fingers between the scorched seam of Solas' lips.

He reacted rather than thought it through, mouth falling open at the pressure, cursing himself inwardly as the fingers sank within. It took everything in him to not bite down on the offending fingers and their violation, although a significant portion of his anger was directed at himself.

Who parts their lips at pain? What kind of pathetic creature was he, that his body receives abuse and its instinct is to open up to more?

In his self-recriminations, he'd nearly forgotten what Elgar'nan had said. But as the fingers circled inside his mouth once, twice, and a third time, he tasted something hot, acrid, like a storm building on the horizon. He felt the pressure surge in his mouth, following the circle Elgar'nan's fingers had traced, something taking form behind his front teeth.

After a moment—and a single, thoroughly condescending petting of his exposed tongue—Elgar'nan withdrew his fingers from Solas' propped-open mouth. He felt that hot hand stroking down his jaw, the thumb digging in just under his ear. "That's much better, isn't it?" With a voice thick with artifice, sickly-sweet, the All-Father continued to idly stroke Solas' face.

But no gentleness now would ease what was to come.

His mouth was forced open by a gag which tasted of Elgar'nan's power. It was a promise: that he would make noise, noise the All-Father wanted to hear.

Here he stood, exposed even beyond the nudity, unable to do anything other than await the beginning. He could not yet think of the end. Couldn't allow himself to.

The beginning.

Elgar'nan was in no rush.

For a moment, he tried to imagine their roles reversed. Would he relish drawing out the suspense in this way? It was difficult to think about. Distressing, really, which was a grim kind of amusement given the current situation. That was what distressed him, while he awaited certain torture?

But his mind grasped again for the consideration. It was a problem to be solved, however pointlessly.

He balked at the general consideration, the idea of taking such vicious pleasure in suffering, but then he found himself moving from the general to the specific. Less a question of whether he would want to do this to someone, more whether he wanted to do this to Elgar'nan.

And he found that he did.

The All-Father forced to his knees before him, powerless and at his mercy. He, too, would want to draw it out. To extend anticipation and—his heart seemed to skip a beat—retribution alike.

"You're trembling."

The observation, spoken almost absently, forced him back to the moment more effectively than a strike would have.

Trembling. Showing fear. He did not want to show fear.

"I am going to enjoy this."

He was sickly grateful when the hand tracing his jaw clutched his neck, the anticipation snapping as it began. He was thrown to the ground, taking the impact on hands and knees. Elgar'nan made a low sound, something vaguely frustrated. "That's no good, is it?" He used his foot to shove Solas to his back, staring down at him appraisingly.

His lip twitched right as he felt the pressure of his will. Elgar'nan—without needing to touch him—forced Solas' arms in front of his chest, forearms together, hands just under his chin. He grimaced as the thick, tight binding materialized, coiled rows of stark red leather. "Hm. It appeals, but I think we can do better." He watched as the red faded until a creamy white remained. "Let's see if you can dye it back, shall we?"

He felt himself pale, Elgar'nan laughing above him. He reached down and grabbed at Solas' bound arms, using them to lift him. It made him aware of a band that wound beneath them and around his chest and back, keeping his arms in position against his body even as he was hoisted by them. He dangled freely, body arched, Elgar'nan seemingly expending no effort to hold him.

He did not fight. He did not strain to raise his head. He let himself go limp, trying to conserve whatever strength he could for what was to come. He felt Elgar'nan's weight shift a moment before it happened, flung forward, barely time to register the suspension of his body in the air before he landed on his desk, scattering his books.

He wanted to curl up on the familiar surface, as if the wood grain he knew so well could possibly shelter him. Instead he forced himself to remain in the awkward position he'd landed in, one hip and back against the cool wood. Elgar'nan reached out and shoved him so that he lay instead atop his bound arms.

It ached. And he embraced this pain, knowing it would be the gentlest to come.

A burst of magic, a flare of heat, then his ears caught it first, a sharp crack as something traveled through the air before a strip of brutal heat cut across his back. He tried to jerk away but there was nowhere to go, a second strip following, then a third. Forth. Fifth. As each new one was laid the others seemed to burn anew. Sixth. Seventh. He only slowly realized he was screaming with each strike.

Eighth.

Ninth…

Tenth? Twelfth? He lost count, mind unable to hold onto something as irrelevant as a number amidst this agony. His throat burned and he was sobbing wretchedly as he was struck again and again.

From the back of his neck to his knees, his flesh was a screaming mass of pain. "Thirty." The word felt important somehow, but he could not make sense of it. Another line seared into his back. Another. Another.

Another.

The world narrowed. It was as if he slept in the brief interludes between lashes, utterly unable to do anything other than wait passively. Mind empty and body reacting.

"Forty."

What did it mean?

"Fifty."

He screamed with an empty voice. A vague impression came that he was dead, unable to accept that this could be living.

"Sixty."

Something was there. Something in the voice. It was shaky, hoarse. The brutality slowed, but did not stop.

His body spasmed with each strike. They sounded wet now, accompanied by a thick splattering sound. The longest pause yet, his mind beginning to return. He made out another sound, a different sound, but before he could even attempt to make sense of it his flesh was introduced to a new agony.

"Mm," a horrible grating pressure, pain a jagged protrusion trying to rip free of him. "You make me an animal. But it feels good to be a beast. And you, a beast yourself, you can take it."

He woke.

Elgar'nan's hands on his raw shoulders. Elgar'nan's weight on his flayed back. Elgar'nan moving back and forth.

Back and forth.

He knew what was happening, retching, but nothing emerged but bloody spittle. He could feel it now, the firm line drawn against his brutalized body.

Elgar'nan was fucking him.

Fucking his open back, whipped raw. He wondered if skin remained, but could not tolerate the idea that a cock stroked against his bare muscle.

"I'm close." He moved harder, faster, and Solas saw stars as he lingered in one area, some of the line he'd felt before seemingly absent.

Where was it? Where? Elgar'nan was gasping, thrusting hard in the same spot, as though he'd sheathed his length within Solas' body.

He thrashed, a blind terror overtaking him, somehow even more powerful than the pain. But Elgar'nan just grunted and laid over him, gasping and moaning against his ear while something shattered in him.

"Mm, yes, I'm— there."

Hips jerking as he came. Each coarse rub of his body against Solas' a fresh agony. The violation as appalling as the pain, mind shying away from the brutal reality that Elgar'nan was orgasming within his body, that his seed slicked across Solas' interior, in places where nothing should ever reach.

He could not feel it within, but it was no blessing, his entire body throbbing with unyielding suffering.

Elgar'nan slowed, panting against his ear, while tears pooled beneath his cheek. He felt himself drifting again, mind numbed by shock and horror, and this time he welcomed it, surrendered to any respite.

He did not move, not even when Elgar'nan grunted and began to thrust again. He felt the vague sense of fingers digging into his neck, but he could still breathe. It only slowly occurred to him that the man was making sure he hadn't died.

Apparently, he would not want to fuck a corpse.

Solas wished he was a corpse.

Time stretched and contracted strangely, and he felt dazed, disoriented. He knew there was something he should feel, but each time he reached for it some part of him demanded he stop, so he did. There was a peace here, after all.

He felt nothing. Knew nothing.

He was empty.

All things were just a sensory tease, a flutter at the farthest edges of his awareness. Was that a sound? A smell? A sensation? He did not know, and it did not matter. He was nothing, nothing surrounded by nothing, and that was as it should be.

That was the only thing he knew.

Change occurred at the periphery, easily set aside.

His entire body rocked, and again, again, then it stilled. And he drifted.

He sensed himself at the edge of something enormous. A chasm. An eternity. A promise. He did not know.

But its presence was like force and absence. Something different. Demanding in its strangeness.

Like pleasure and—

Pain.

Pain.

It tore through him and he felt himself shredding in its wake, unbecoming, unmaking and unmade. His power pulsed around him and the bindings were smoke, his body twisting as he dislodged all parts of this heinous violation.

Elgar'nan fell and Solas followed, keeping them close as he sank his teeth into the meat of his throat and tore. Blood burst hot in his mouth and Elgar'nan's gasp was liquid and it made him want.

He swallowed, nearly choking on the evidence of his violence, only to do it again. The blood splattered across his face in a hot arc and he felt dizzy with desire.

He would have stayed here, biting and swallowing, until the man was nothing but a weight in his gut, but he was pushed aside. He screamed as he landed against his skinned back and then Elgar'nan was atop him, his anatomy exposed by the ragged holes Solas had torn in his flesh.

He did nothing to stem the blood that streamed from his ruined throat.

Solas met his eyes.

It was an awakening. Everything changed. How had he never seen, never known?

Instead of flinching away from it, he laid down flat, letting the pain overwhelm. He gasped at the glut of sensation, eyes fluttering shut.

This is what flesh gave them. This is what immortality granted them.

All experiences were a gift.

"I knew it." Elgar'nan's voice was wretched, hoarse, wet, and utterly ruined, but the words were just able to be understood. "I knew it. I knew you were like this."

Solas felt him bend in near, the blood that poured over him even hotter now. "You're just like me."

He shuddered, something wet between them. It took him a moment to place it as an orgasm. The pleasure was just another sensation. Elgar'nan put a heavy hand on his bare waist, fingers just catching the edge of his torn skin, and he yanked. Solas threw his head back with a loud crack as the motion tore strips of flesh free, panting and wanton.

"I saw it in you," he continued in a way that might be conversational if not for his voice. "It took time to emerge in me, too. But I needed it. Do you understand? I needed this—" he released his grip on Solas' waist to grab his head, shoving it into the bloody wet ruin of his throat as he cried out with his ruined voice.

Solas consumed. He gulped the thick blood, iron blooming across his tongue; he tore at flesh and muscle; he worried delicate tubes until they snapped in his mouth and he knew their flavor. All the while Elgar'nan trembled, hips thrusting.

He understood. He understood.

The pinnacle of sensation.

It was not pleasure. It could not be pleasure.

It was pain.

It was being destroyed and surviving. It was being killed without dying. It was what they alone could do.

This was not bestial. No, a beast would kill to feed or to protect. This was not bestial at all.

They were spirits who had taken flesh.

This was only for them.

No one and nothing else could understand.

Time lost meaning as they explored. He lapped at the interior of a body, grazed his cheek against the underside of skin, feeling how soft, warm, and wet it was. He drew his tongue across the ridges and divets of muscle, exploring the mechanics of organic propulsion. This let Elgar'nan move, let him command, let him call out.

Solas learned.

He could barely breathe as he pressed deeper in, blood running down him in layers, growing tacky against his skin even as it coated him anew. Suffocating in this violence did not matter, did not disturb—only another experience. He would not die, and perhaps when he woke Elgar'nan would have exposed a different part of Solas, or a different part of himself, to their mutual fascination.

A vibration against his skin as Elgar'nan moaned, hips jerking as he came between the press of their bodies, Solas feeling every ragged sound he managed to make despite the ruin of his throat.

This flesh was forged of violence, of violation. It haunted him, that cruelty, but it had felt inevitable… Mythal had needed to try and control Elgar'nan, and when she needed his help, how could he possibly deny her?

She was everything to him. He had been everything to her.

But flesh changed them both. It did not destroy, but it complicated. It complicated beyond reason, for here he was, supping upon tender violence like it was the only thing he knew.

Tactics had been abandoned. Logic, too. There was nothing but their strange desires, foreign and wretched and perfect. He was not trying to kill Elgar'nan, this man who had formed Solas' fate; he was sating himself.

He had been shown.

But it waned. His guilt interfered. How could it be harder to bear than the ruination of his back, than the layers of muscle he no longer tried to deny that Elgar'nan had penetrated, fucking into him until he spilled, his pale seed mixing with Solas' own dark blood?

But it was. It was.

He pulled away and Elgar'nan gasped, fingers scraping at his skull. "No, no—"

He had never thought to hear the All-Father sounding so desperate. It ached to understand.

They were alike. So alike. Even among the Evanuris, Solas could not fathom another favoring these extremes of violence. He knew as he drew away that he was rejecting something precious, something profound.

Such bliss. They could have this for eternity, doing nothing but exploring the furthest reaches, pushed and pushing. They could bear it: more, they could revel in it.

But he couldn't. Having the disposition did not force him. And it could not turn him away from his goals.

For if he gave in, even if he drew Elgar'nan into an eternal confluence, he would be standing aside while the others did whatever they so chose. He would be permitting empire to rein.

He could not.

He pulled himself out from under Elgar'nan. He told himself that dragging his ruined body across the ground hurt, that it was agony, that it was undesirable.

He met golden eyes.

He looked away.

Such sorrow… he had never expected to see it, not on that face. Elgar'nan looked as though he had lost the most important thing in the world.

Perhaps he had.

Perhaps they both had.

When it was clear that Solas would not look at him again, he felt the surge of the man's magic like an angry throb as he healed his throat. Solas did not watch him dress.

He waited until he'd left before healing his back.

Not because it made him suffer…