#dellamortecest

For a moment, Lucanis thought he was dreaming. But Spite’s claws flexed into the sheets, his magenta eyes narrow, bristling with alertness. Real, then. Or a hallucination. It didn’t matter.

"It’s in your head," Lucanis said, already reaching for his boots. "I’m coming. Breathe. Don’t—"

"No." The whisper fractured. "No, no. It’s real. I killed. I don’t—I don’t know where to put it. I don't remember doing it."

Lucanis froze in the doorway. The mansion held its breath behind him, Caterina’s presence a lead weight above, Illario sleeping somewhere in the dark. He moved like a ghost through it, silent and steel-spined, heading for his motorcycle.

Spite slithered across the walls. Sounds broken. Lucanis. You know what this means.

"I know", Lucanis answered in his mind."I’m coming," he said again to Aren. No room for hesitation.

The phone slid into his jacket—beside the pistol, the blade, the lighter Illario once gave him with a kiss and a laugh that tasted like smoke and blood. He kicked the engine to life. The growl shattered the stillness like a throat being torn open.

Spite hissed in his skull, Is it the shadows again? Is he seeing them?

The poorest district in Antiva, the Warrens, yawned open to swallow him. He cut through their rotted veins—alleys strung with rust and whispers, the reek of piss and meat, the wet sheen of desperation. Aren’s door hung ajar, a mouth mid-scream. But not open like an invitation. Open like a wound. Hinges bent. Frame splintered. Inside, the dark smelled wrong. Copper. Earthy. Dense.

Lucanis killed the engine. His hand pressed to the door, the other curled tight around the pistol as he made his way in the house.

Squelch. 

His boot sank into something warm.

Not just wet—warm. Pulsing. Like it had only just stopped living. He switched on the flashlight. The floor glistened. Not pooled. Swelled. Red tides in the seams of the wood, as if the boards themselves were bleeding, and the house didn’t want him stepping deeper.

Something shifted overhead. A whisper, maybe. A footstep. Or breath.

"Lucanis."

Aren’s voice. Not shaped right. Like someone else was wearing it.

Lucanis lifted the beam.

Aren stood at the top of the stairs, still as a crucifixion. He was red. Not covered in blood, made of it. Head to heel, soaked to the skin. Hair stuck in clots to his forehead, his cheeks, one eye nearly sealed shut. His face was a smear of colorless expression: blank, blank, then twitching slightly, as if he was trying to remember what a smile looked like.

Blood trickled down his chest in broken Rorschach stains, wide and abstract. The knife jutted from his shoulder like a bone sprouting wrong from muscle. He didn’t seem to notice it.

Spite lunged—black and smoke-eyed, claws curling, shaped by panic. Lucanis held before reaching him. His breath caught like a trap. "Shower," he said, voice flat. "Now. Don’t touch the knife."

Aren tilted his head. Slowly. Like a dog trying to place a sound. He moved. Too fluid, too slow—like he wasn’t in his body at all, just steering it from a great distance. He took the lighter Lucanis offered to him, to light the candles they both knew he kept there, with fingers that trembled at the tips. His hands were shaking, but his eyes weren’t. They stayed on Lucanis too long. Too still. His nails were black with blood. One had torn down to the quick. He didn’t seem to feel it.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him. The noise echoed—loud, final.

Lucanis exhaled and turned to the bedroom. The bed, or just a mattress, was ruined. Collapsed in on itself like lungs punctured by weight. Wet and reeking. The charcoal sketch of Lucanis, mid-laugh, could be found no longer pinned above the bed but lost somewhere in the ground, with a red footprint ruining it. He flipped the mattress over, grunting with effort. The cheap frame creaked like it wanted to scream.

There they were.

Four bodies. 

Tangled. Bent at wrong angles. Rigid with what came after death. But one still breathing—barely. A woman. Young. Her eyes fluttered open and locked to his. Her lips bubbled red, a thick froth of blood and spit. Her guts shimmered in the beam of his phone, coiled around her like ropes, wet, gleaming, still twitching.

"P–please—"

Lucanis didn’t blink. The knife slipped in, clean and practiced. Between ribs, through meat, silencing her last breath like it owed him something.

His phone rang once before Illario answered.

"What the fu—"

"Two cars. Four bodies. Blood everywhere. Aren’s cut up. Hurry."

No questions. Just motion, cold and sharp. That was Illario.

Behind the bathroom door, the water thundered. Pink spirals ran down the drain, winding and winding like they were trying to climb back out. Steam turned the mirror into a blurred smear. The air reeked of hot iron and candle wax. Aren stood beneath the stream like it wasn’t touching him. The knife gleamed in his shoulder, stupid and obscene. His skin steamed. His eyes were open.

Lucanis braced his phone on the toilet tank, comb already in hand. He stepped close. Close enough to touch. Aren didn’t flinch. Carefully—because careful was the only way Lucanis knew how to love anything—he started to braid the blood colored hair, letting the clots of ruin fall to the ground to be undone by water.

Aren swayed slightly. A tremor ran down his spine. His jaw moved, like he might speak.

"What happened?" Lucanis asked.

The answer came slow, words peeled from somewhere deep. "Lights… went out," Aren whispered. "Door opened. They came for the bike. I said no. One had a knife. I took it. And then I just…" He blinked. Stared at the wall. At nothing. His voice dropped again. Softer now. "…kept going."

Lucanis said nothing. He didn’t need to. "You’re going to the mansion," he murmured instead, still braiding. "The doctor will fix you."

Aren smiled. But it wasn’t a smile.

The water stopped. Lucanis wrung the braid once, gently, and let it fall against Aren’s shoulder. His fingers were pruned and red to the wrist.

Aren sat on the closed toilet now, shivering in the steam-drenched silence. Pale beneath the bloodless wash of his skin. The towel around his waist barely held. His mouth was open like he’d forgotten how to close it. The knife still jutted from his shoulder—Lucanis hadn’t dared pull it yet. Not until Illario came. Not without something to keep Aren from bleeding out entirely.

The floor thumped. A step. Two. The door opened. No knock. Just the soft, familiar sound of Illario existing like he always did; measured, precise, cold when he had to be.

He didn’t speak at first. He just stood in the doorway, leather coat spotted with rain, eyes moving like razors over the scene. Aren, nearly naked, trembling, painted in his own blood. Lucanis crouched in front of him, comb in hand, hands still streaked in red.

Illario’s jaw ticked. Aren blinked slowly. He looked up. His mouth twitched into a broken smile. "You came," Aren murmured. Voice glass-thin.

"I always do," Illario said. It was too quiet. And there was a line in his throat, something tight. His gaze flicked to Lucanis. "How bad?"

Lucanis wiped a streak of blood off his cheek with the back of his hand. "He lost a lot. Knife’s still in. He’s in shock."

"I’m here," Aren said, too quickly. His voice cracked like splintering ice. "I’m here. I was here the whole time. I think." He blinked again. Looked between them. Then his expression twisted. "Or I dreamed it. Maybe you’re not real. Maybe I’m dead." He started to laugh—high and threadbare. It died into a wet cough. He leaned forward, swaying, and Lucanis caught him gently by the jaw.

"Hey," Lucanis said, low. "Stay with me. You’re not dead."

"You sure?" Aren whispered. "Because it smells like hell. And there were… there were more. Before. I think. I remember their eyes."

"Don’t look at him like that," Lucanis said, not turning, just knowing. He could feel Illario’s stare.

"I’m not," Illario said. But his voice was careful now. Too careful. He stepped forward. Lucanis moved aside just enough for him to kneel too, on the other side. Aren flinched. Just a flicker—but Illario saw it. And it slowed him. Lucanis didn’t.

"You’re safe," Lucanis said. Again. Like a chant.

Illario’s hands hovered. "We need to get that blade out before he moves wrong. He’s already fading."

Aren was fading. His eyelids drooped, but not with sleep—with the sick pull of weakness. His blood soaked the towel now too. His legs twitched like he wasn’t sure where they were.

"You trust me?" Lucanis asked him. Aren gave the barest nod. Lucanis looked at Illario. "You hold him. I’ll pull."

Illario hesitated. Just a breath. Then he knelt fully, slid behind Aren, and wrapped both arms around his chest. Slowly. Cautiously. As if Aren might break, or bite.

"I’ve got you," he whispered into Aren’s neck.

Aren’s head lolled sideways. He pressed into the warmth like a child might. Fragile. Too trusting.

Lucanis wrapped his fingers around the hilt. The steel was black with blood.

"One…"

Aren didn’t tense.

Lucanis yanked.

Aren gasped, screamed and for a moment the air shuddered, like something had snapped loose in him. His legs kicked. His spine arched hard against Illario’s chest. Illario’s arms didn’t loosen. He held him through it. Even when Aren twisted, even when blood slicked both their chests.

It passed. Aren slumped. Lucanis tossed the knife into the sink with a hard clatter. He pressed gauze—ripped from the med kit—into the wound.

Aren whimpered. His face was buried in Illario’s collar now. "I didn’t mean to," he whispered.

"I know," Lucanis said.

"I know," Illario echoed.

But there was a line between his brows that hadn’t eased. A tension in his arms that didn’t belong to comfort. Not fully. Because Aren had meant to, at some point. And might again. His hands had killed. And his mind was slipping between places; then, now, not real, not yet.

Still, Illario held him. Lucanis sat there, red up to the elbows, holding gauze like a prayer. They loved him. They loved each other. Even if love meant bleeding with your teeth clenched and watching the man you share it with come apart in your arms.

By the time Illario emerged from the ruined house, the second car crew had already arrived. Quiet professionals. Faces like stone, eyes like glass. They moved with surgical precision, dragging the last of the black bags down the steps, bodies folded into unnatural shapes, zipped and silent. Blood left a trail down the porch like someone had spilled a bucket of paint and didn’t bother to clean it.

The trunk yawned open. One bag after another. The slam of it echoed down the empty street like a gunshot.

Inside the other car, Lucanis sat in the backseat with Aren draped against him, limp as laundry. His breath came in short, wet bursts. Fever clung to his skin like oil. His eyes fluttered open every so often, only to roll back again.

"I feel…" Aren whispered.

Lucanis tipped his head forward, pressing his mouth to his temple. "Don’t talk. We’re almost there."

Illario climbed into the passenger seat, his coat stained at the hem, his gloves peeled off and thrown aside. He didn’t look back, but his jaw was tight enough to cut glass.

The car pulled away, wheels whispering over wet pavement.

Aren trembled. Lucanis shifted, pulling him closer, unbothered by the blood. One hand cradled the back of his neck. The other rested over the fresh bandage, steadying the wound.

"It’s not real," Aren mumbled. "This isn’t real. I dreamed you. You’re not real."

Lucanis didn't answer. Just breathed through his nose and held him tighter. Outside, the slums faded—replaced by the jagged silhouettes of the outer districts, the iron gates, then the winding road up into the private hills. The mansion. Its shape emerged from the fog like something living, a black-boned cathedral of wealth and secrets. Lights flickered in the windows. Crows rustled in the trees overhead, disturbed from their roost.

The doors opened before they even reached the top step. The doctor was already there, an elf with white gloves on, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His face was set into a mask of calm brutality, blonde curls framing it.

"Inside. Quickly."

Lucanis carried him. Aren groaned, breath catching in his throat. His eyes were wide now, wild again. Everything was too bright. Too loud. The marble floors reflected too much light.

"Is this hell?" he asked, near tears. "Tell me the truth. Tell me if I’m dead."

"No," Lucanis said again, and it sounded like he was trying to convince himself too. "You’re not dead."

Aren twisted, nearly falling from his arms. Illario was there instantly, hand to his shoulder, not gripping, not restraining, just there.

"I’m sorry," Aren said, looking at both of them like they were ghosts. "I didn’t want you to see me like this."

"We’ve seen worse," Illario said, even though his voice cracked.

"You’ve done worse," Lucanis added dryly.

That almost got a smile. It didn’t last.

The doctor motioned toward the kitchen table. Already cleared, already covered in surgical cloth. Metal instruments gleamed under the sterile lights. Lucanis hesitated. So did Illario. There was something sacrilegious about laying him there. Like offering him up to be carved. Again.

But before they could continue with the motion, in the foyer, Caterina stood at the base of the marble steps, cold and radiant with rage—a statue carved from judgment itself. Her heels clicked once with her cane tapping the floor. Her eyes landed on Aren.

The air snapped. Thickened. Iron, antiseptic, and hate. Silence collapsed around her like a curtain. The kind before a scream.

"Lucanis." Her voice was a blade honed to the bone. Spite recoiled in his chest, snarling like a dog beneath his ribs. "You brought this into my house?"

He didn’t flinch. "He’s hurt."

"And whose fault is that?" Her lip peeled back from her teeth. "Now he’s bleeding out on my floors like some half-dead beast." Lucanis didn’t answer. "Look at him," Caterina spat. "You dragged that horned mongrel in like a stray. Do you think that makes you noble? Do you think it makes you kind?"

Illario moved to her side, voice almost soft. "Caterina, if you’re quite finished—"

"Silence." She didn’t even glance at him. Her fury was singular. Every syllable scorched. "You do not stain this house with this qunari filth and expect me to clean up the blood."

Aren stirred weakly, his voice thready, delirious. "Didn’t… ask for help."

"You don’t get to speak in this house."

Lucanis’ arm tightened, brutal and protective. "He stays."

"No." Her word cracked like a whip. "He leaves. Now."

Illario’s laugh came quiet and lethal. "Of course. Nothing screams ‘Dellamorte’ like letting family die on the street."

"He is not family," Caterina snapped.

Lucanis’ voice was steel. "He is mine."

Thunder in the bones of the house. Even the crows outside fell silent.

"You choose him," she said, eyes gleaming, "over your blood? Over everything we are?"

"Yes."

Aren winced. "Lucanis, don’t—Not worth—"

"You are." The words landed like a vow carved in stone.

Caterina’s laugh was jagged ice. "You would throw away centuries, for this? For a walking ruin? For some brutal, broken mistake who doesn’t even know how to die properly?"

Lucanis growled low in his throat. "I am First Talon. This is my house as much as yours."

"And if I disinherit you—"

"You won’t," Illario said smoothly, almost bored. "Not unless you plan to explain our thing to the other Talons. To Teia, to Viago. To the families. And you’ve never been one for public spectacle."

Caterina’s mouth shut like a vice. A vein ticked in her temple.

Lucanis leaned into the silence, twisted the knife. "Aren stays. Or you take this little tantrum to the other heads of Antiva and explain why your heir backed a bleeding man over your pettiness. See how that plays."

She stared at him. Pale now. Furious. But trapped. She’d never minded him loving Illario. That had always been acceptable, expected, even, a match of blood and beauty, power and pride. She’d looked the other way when he’d pulled Lucanis into their bed like a secret, like she didn’t know everything that happened under her roof. Had even smiled, once, when she thought it made them sharper. Stronger. United. 

But Aren was not fine. Aren was chaos in a skin suit. A fire with no hearth. She could stomach two wolves learning to share the same throat, but not dragging a rabid dog into the den with them.

Her lips pressed into a bloodless line. "Fine." She turned sharply, her skirts hissing against the floor. "But mark my words, Lucanis; this is the beginning of your end. You want to turn this house into a den of strays and addicts? You want to spit on everything I built for you?" She didn’t wait for an answer. "Then you can rot in it. I leave at dawn. And I won’t return until you come to your senses."

And she was gone.

Aren sagged in Lucanis’ arms, fever burning through him. "You shouldn’t have done that."

Lucanis barked over his shoulder, sharp and gutural. "Clothes. Towels. Now."

The servants scrambled. Illario remained still. Watching. Cool and unreadable as ever. A dagger sheathed but ready. "She won’t forgive this," he said finally.

"I don’t care."

"You will," Aren whispered. "Later. When I’m gone."

Lucanis looked at him—truly looked. At the blood, the fragility, the weight of everything he’d just sacrificed. But his grip never loosened. "No," he said. "I won’t."

And when hands reached to take Aren, to treat him, to fix what could still be fixed, Lucanis didn’t let go. He held him like something sacred. Like something final. Because maybe he was. For them.

The kitchen had been cleared. The warmth, the scent of garlic and wine, all gone. Replaced with floodlights, plastic tarps, and the sharp bite of antiseptic. Everything gleamed too clean, too white. Like a crime scene waiting to happen. They laid Aren across the long island counter. His body arched slightly, breath fluttering. Blood still wept from his shoulder where the gauze was the same black color as his blood. His skin looked wrong against the marble, too grey, too big, too inhuman.

"He’s going into shock," the doctor murmured.

"Then do something," Lucanis snapped.

"I am."

Illario moved to the head of the table, hand ghosting over Aren’s damp hair. "He’s freezing."

Aren stirred. His lips moved, no sound. His eyes barely opened, unfocused and glassy. Looking at the chandelier. Or through it. His breath rattled like wind through a broken flute.

Lucanis crushed his hand into Aren’s, grounding him. "Stay with me."

Aren blinked, slow. "There was… a bird. At the window. Thought it was you."

Illario exhaled like he’d been struck. He pressed his forehead to Aren’s, just for a second. "Stay," he whispered. "Just a little longer."

The doctor began. 

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

Aren convulsed. Screamed—this time, a real sound. High and cracked. Lucanis almost buckled.

"Done," the doctor said minutes later, breath harsh. "I need to close now. It’ll hold."

The worst of it passed in stitches and gauze. The room slowed. The lights seemed too bright. The air tasted like metal.

When the doctor stepped back, gloves soaked, he gave one nod. "He’ll live. If you keep him warm. If infection doesn’t take him. If you don’t move him for at least twelve hours."

"If?" Lucanis echoed, a threat hidden under the syllable.

"If," the doctor repeated. "This is a body that’s fought for too long. He’ll need weeks. Maybe months."

Lucanis looked at Aren, or what was left of him. Pale. Shivering. Alive. He bent low, kissed his temple. "That’s fine," he whispered. "We have time."

Illario rose like a shadow. "I’ll have a room prepared"

Lucanis nodded. Neither of them said anything else. They lifted Aren together. Wrapped in bloodied towels. He moaned once but didn’t wake. His horns bumped gently against Lucanis’ jaw.

"Easy," Illario murmured. "We’ve got you."The house had quieted. No servants in sight. Only the creak of stairs and the echo of old decisions. And at the heart of it, a boy bleeding into clean sheets. Aren. Alive. For now.

Notes:

Lucanis kneeling just gets me going i'm so sorry