#davrinweek

Davrin Week Day 2: Arlathan

It was a known fact by everyone who knew him that Rook was never one to sit still. He'd practice his spells when he should be sleeping, then spar after he woke. He'd pace around any room he was in while lost in thought, no matter how long a day it had been. The fellow Grey Warden simply didn't relax, it seemed to Davrin, especially when he should.

After Weisshaupt was no exception.

Despite the broken ribs and concussion from being slammed into a wall by an ogre, Rook was once again not resting and instead pacing around the main hall of the Lighthouse. From a distance, he appeared unharmed and moving in his usual stride, but as Davrin climbed the stairs he could see the injuries starting to make themselves known— a hint of a limp on his right side, jaw clenching when he took too deep a breath. Bruises were beginning to bloom along his exposed collarbones and down his chest, Davrin could only imagine what the rest of him looked like.

“I know, I know. I should be resting,” Rook breaks the silence, having finally noticed him while he'd been too busy thinking of bruises.

“You're right, you should be. I watched you get thrown like a ragdoll today. I'm surprised you're still standing.”

“I will admit, I am too.” He chuckles for a moment, before his hand flies to his injured side.

“Then why are you?”

Rook is quiet for a moment, unusual for him. “Trying to sleep in an illuminated fish bowl doesn't really help headaches,” pale eyes flick downwards, something left unsaid before continuing, “Can't sleep either?”

How could he? Weisshaupt was gone, a pillar of Grey Warden history destroyed by a god in one night. Losses in the hundreds, a gaping wound worse than even the Hero of Ferelden had to witness. Not to mention the heroic death from killing an Archdemon had been nothing, an unreachable final act.

“Not really, no.”

They stand under the blue glow of the main hall in a shared loss. He knows Rook had to make difficult choices, stand against impossible odds. He navigated danger like it was second nature, never backing down from what he believed in. Always going forward, a fierce flame of hope.

One that was dangerously close to flickering out from exhaustion any moment. The adrenaline must finally be fading, the full weight of the day catching up as Rook sways a bit on his feet.

“Rook, you're going to rest even if I have to carry your sorry butt there.” He rests his hand gently on Rook's shoulder, “So let's make this easy.”

Rook all but leans his entire weight against him as they descend the stairs and head towards his quarters. Going up proves to be much more difficult, but they eventually make their way inside.

Davrin leads him towards the bed, the furthest thing from the Fade light and guaranteed to be dark, “You can take the bed, Rook. Should help with that headache.”

Rook pulls away, eyebrows raised in mild shock, “What? Davrin, you don't have to do this. I'll fit in the chair just fine.”

He shakes his head, “Assan doesn't share that spot with just anyone.” Rook is about to object again but he cuts him off, “If I can do one good thing today, let it be this.”

It quiets Rook's protests, “Fine, but can I ask a favor first?”

“Sure, you name it.”

“Would you… brush my hair? Lifting my arms is hell with these broken ribs.”

It's not a request Davrin expected. Rook was protective of his hair, didn’t let anyone touch it, “Uh, are you sure?”

“If you don't, it'll be even worse tomorrow.” Rook says, a sly smile forming, “Don't worry if it hurts, though, I can handle it rough.”

Davrin chooses his next words carefully, “Oh, I don't know. Why don't we do gentle, see if you're not begging me to keep going.”

Rook blushes, the tips of his ears matching his cheeks. He follows Davrin to the arm chair, sitting gingerly on the floor between the other's legs, using the seat of the chair to rest his back on.

Davrin never understood why Rook had kept his hair so long all these years. It had to be hot in the summers, always in the way at the worst of times, and a hassle to care for…and yet, it was nothing if not beautiful to look at. A silvery blonde, surprisingly soft.

Davrin works his way through the first of the tangles, careful not to pull too hard as he frees the strands. It becomes a rhythm, and Rook melts into it. He gives off a slight hum with every sweeping motion, softening inch by inch.

“For what it's worth Davrin, I'm really glad you're alive.” Rook's voice was murmur, wavering ever so slightly but he says nothing more. Instead, he leans his head against Davrin's thigh.

The motion was so simple, yet Davrin felt a flutter in his stomach. He's only felt that flutter when he's caught Rook staring on more than one occasion, but then again he's done the same to Rook just as many times. He couldn't remember the last time he had someone who understood him. Someone who knew what it was like to leave what you knew behind, how to fight for those who need it most. To be a light through all the darkness.

Rook's hair was more than smooth, now. Davrin sets the brush down when he hears it. Soft snoring.

Did Rook… fall asleep sitting like this? He watches the rise and fall of his shoulders, slow and even. Sure enough, he had.

Well, better to let him sleep for a bit. He sits back, staring at the fire until his own eyelids begin to droop. The weight of the day was still there, yet Rook's weight against him lessened the load.

Murder Nugs

"Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness." — Vir Adahlen: The Way of the Wood

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