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Chapter Text

The wooden ceiling and supports creaked and groaned under the weight of the Hall of Valor's guest list, but Isabela's focus was miles away from Rivain. She was hunched over a table in her room in the archive, reading and rereading the letter the spy had sent, as if the small collection of words on the saltwater-sodden parchment would suddenly change to a less ill omen.

The snakes seek their clutch.
Stow away your little bird.

Isabela startled upright, snatching the missive and crumpling it with a hand as the door swung open. Her posture relaxed when her wife's face poked into the room, and she let out a breath.

Marian Hawke. Solver of problems, calmer of worries. And the most beautiful, thoughtful woman in all of Thedas. Isabela couldn't do this without her.

"Glad you're here," she said, removing her bicorne and tossing it onto the table. "I was just about to start tearing my own hairs out, one-by-one."

"You said it was urgent," Hawke said carefully, closing the door behind her and offering a look of deep concern. "Took the first ship back. Even thought about bugging the elves to use one of those magic mirrors."

Isabela tried to laugh. To crack a smile. Something, anything that eased the growing tension on her partner's weathered face. All that came out was a puff of hot air.

"The Venatori," she started, her voice tight as she did her best to smooth out the note before Hawke crossed the room to read it. "They're looking for their little lost elves, it seems." Hawke shook her head, piles of golden curls bouncing off of her cheeks. "I suppose it's a good thing we hid away nearly all of them."

"All but one." Hawke's face was etched with deep concern, now. Isabela offered little more than a solemn nod. "Shit."

"He's not safe here," Isabela pointed out. "I could hide him in the heart of the volcano if I wanted to, and those damn Venatori would still sniff him out. I know it."

Hawke nodded, perching on the corner of the rickety table and laying a hand on her forearm. Isabela could see hundreds of plans forming in her mind already, and she shook her own head with a rattle of gold.

"I knew having a kid wouldn't be easy," she continued before stuffing the note into Hawke's hand. "I had hoped it wouldn't get this hard."

Hawke let the parchment burn up in her palm with a spell, and stared towards the decorated wall of the makeshift office. It had been eight years since the Lords of Fortune took on a Venatori fleet. Eight years since they rescued a dozen and one elven children from a raving cult of blood mages on their way to Minrathous. Eight years since she and Hawke had adopted one of the children, and raised him as their own.

Isabela couldn't bear to see him dispersed and sent away like the others. "Safely relocated", Varric had called it when he showed up to help. The child that had clung to her for dear life on a sinking ship as flames roared around them, with tears staining his freckled and sigil-marked cheeks and a crooked fishing knife clutched uncertainly in his too-small hands.

He was Rivaini. Isabela knew with just a look, and was able to work a shaky confirmation out of the teenager as they escaped the wreckage together. Sending him to the South with the other children was a thought she pushed from her mind in an instant. Rivain was where he belonged, not in snowy Southern Thedas where the magic he was already harnessing would be punished instead of celebrated. Not where his skin and ears would make him stick out like a sore thumb, to anyone who might have come around looking.

"So we need a plan," Hawke said, cutting into Isabela's thoughts. The decision had been selfish, if she was being honest with herself. And now it was back to bite her, Hawke, and the kid, in the ass. Maybe more than that. "Are the others…?"

"Safe? Not entirely, but close enough. Magpie's somewhere in Orlais, even I don't know where. Raven joined the Inquisition as a scribe, last I heard from the inside. And Jay— Maker, why did Varric have to give them all such ridiculous nicknames?" Isabela rubbed the bridge of her nose. Hawke smiled softly and took her hand.

"Makes 'em harder to find," she said, mimicking his gravelly tone. "Plus, kids like a good nickname."

"Dami didn't stop grinning for a whole week when he called him Rook," Isabela groaned. "A beautiful elven name, full of Rivaini valor, and he hardly ever uses it now."

"Kid looks up to him," Hawke chuckled quietly. "A lot. You know, he's taking a team on an expedition across the water from Kirkwall in a few weeks. Could probably use an expert on old ruins."

"Far enough from both here and Tevinter to at least throw them off the trail," Isabela agreed. Sending him out of the country was one thing, but Kirkwall? At least he could be safe with one of the people that ran the city. "Think Varric will go for it?"

"Varric loves him," Hawke assured. "He'll be happy to spend some time with his 'favorite and only nephew'. I can send a letter and have him on the first caravel Southward in the morning."

"Great. Make sure to tell him to treat it like a normal trip, all right?"

"He doesn't… You didn't tell him?" Hawke said slowly, looking at her palm where the missive had burned up a few moments prior. She blinked slowly, her tawny eyes shifting to staring at her owlishly. "That explains why you had one of your lower members spying, and not your best one."

"Precisely."

Hawke shuffled uncomfortably, the staff on her back knocking against a table leg loudly. "You're… Not going to tell him at all, are you?"

"And have him jump ship, swim back to shore, and try to fight off a fleet of Olde Imperium cultists all on his own? Fat chance," she answered, barely holding in the scoff that was threatening the back of her throat. "You know for a fact he's not leaving this coast willingly if he thinks even the tiniest little thing is fishy."

"I still remember when we started sending him to the Crows for the summers," Hawke sighed, folding her arms and staring up at the ceiling, as though it was showing her the memory in real time. "He didn't want to let go of my cloak in Treviso. Just looked up at me with those big old eyes and asked, 'is it because I said I don't want to be a girl anymore?'. Maker, I didn't know what the hell to say to that one."

"We had him train with their Spellblades for this very reason," Isabela added grimly. "Although, I think all the coffee they kept giving him stunted his growth."

"Don't let him hear you say that," Hawke laughed. She straightened her expression and took Isabela's other hand. "Even if they manage to catch up to him, he's prepared for a fight like that. And he's not alone. Varric's no pushover, you know."

"He is when it comes to Rook," she answered, inwardly cursing herself for getting so used to the nickname. Varric and his need to re-name everyone he ever met. "He'd probably let the lad captain the whole team if he asked nicely."

"Is, I know you're scared," Hawke said, a softness reserved only for her spouse entering her voice and clearing the edge away. "It's the safest place we know, and the one we trust the most."

"In the morning, then," Isabela confirmed. "We don't have enough time to come up with anything better than that."

"Or more convincing," Hawke added.

"Have I ever told you how much I love you?" Isabela asked, laying her head on her wife's shoulder wearily.

"Only every time we manage to see each other," she sighed, folding her arms around Isabela's back. "But it still feels good."

Hawke pressed her lips to the top of her head and murmured into her dark hair. "Everything's going to be all right. It'll only be a few months. Just have faith in everyone."

They separated after a long moment, and Isabela took up her hat again. Outside, a rhythmic thumping could be heard, picking up speed and approaching the direction of the door with alarming ferocity. The door burst open and a flurry of gold, brown, and teal rushed right for Hawke.

"Marian!" Hawke laughed as she was embraced in a tight squeeze by an elf, clad in cropped armor that barely covered half his vital organs. Isabela wondered just when she started worrying about that kind of thing. He shouted again, hugging her more tightly as she patted his tattooed back.

"My little Rook," she cooed, in a voice that only Isabela and Varric had ever heard her use in private quarters. A mother's voice, Isabela always thought. Hawke reached up and snagged a tangle out of his dark, mossy hair with her fingers. "I missed you so much."

"You're not supposed to be back for another three months," Dami said, wrinkling his nose and letting go of her to look up at her face. His eyebrow raised, definitely taking note of the armor she was still wearing. "Is something… Is everything all right?"

He turned worried, topaz eyes to Isabela, now, and she straightened up and gave him her best smile. That inquisitive brain was firing, and she needed an excuse before it got too far with conclusions.

"Perfectly fine, only some orders of important and urgent business," she said quickly, fiddling with his armor and straightening it out when he turned away from Hawke. The other eyebrow joined the first, now. He wasn't having whatever this was.

"What… Kind of business?" he asked slowly, his gaze sharply focusing on her. Isabela flashed him another sideways smile and turned him towards the door. Time to play the game.

"Nothing that concerns you, Dami dearest," she said dismissively. She patted his dark, freckled shoulders for good measure. "Varric's on the hunt for gold and glory offshore, not a fighter who's got big shows in the pit all week."

"Big shows, meaning more spirits of Valor playing around because no one else volunteered?" he scoffed, and Isabela could almost feel his eyes rolling from behind him.

"Not everyone likes being hit with lightning, my dear."

"Or magical knives," Hawke added. He laughed.

Then, he stiffened. He sniffed out the bait, but not the hook behind it. "Wait, Varric's going somewhere?"

"A little outing near Kirkwall," Hawke confirmed as he whirled around. "Old elven treasure."

Dami's eyes lit up, and his gaze snapped between the two of them.

"Ancient elven ruins? And you didn't tell me about—" He blinked, leaving his mouth open for a beat. "—Oh. That's why you're here."

Isabela kept her relief as invisible as possible and locked eyes with Hawke.

All you.

"Got a spot on a caravel with your name on it," Hawke said, resting her hands on her hips and fixing him with a crooked smile. Isabela had seen him mirror this same pose thousands of times as he grew up. "Leaves at sunrise."

"Really?" He was practically bouncing with excitement, now. He glanced back over to her. "Wait, really? Isabela, are you sure? You're not—? I mean, this is…"

Isabela's smile almost faltered. It would be his first time on a ship without any of the Lords, since he had been adopted. For the journey there, his first time alone on a ship since the Venatori galley he had been cooped up below deck on for half his childhood. This time, Isabela wasn't sending a whole crew out with him. This time, he just had Varric, and it would have to be enough.

"You're an adult. You're more than ready to go out on your own," she assured.

He wasn't.

"And you'll be perfectly safe with Varric and his friends," Hawke added.

So long as templars and Venatori didn't happen to run into him.

"I'll… Go pack my things," he said slowly, taking a step towards the door. He sounded hesitant still, but he went anyway. Isabela waved as cheerfully as she could.

"See you in the morning!"

Isabela let out a loud breath as soon as he was gone. Whatever happened now, it was out of her hands.

"I'll make sure Varric gets him back as soon as this is all over," Hawke said, approaching her with another gentle hand on her shoulder. "And I'm staying. When they come, I'll be here."

"You'd better be," Isabela huffed. She wrapped her in a tender embrace. "I didn't have you yanked out of the Fade for nothing, after all."

Chapter Text

Hawke,

Please, tell me that letter doesn't mean he's already on his way. With the way things are going down here, I can't guarantee smooth sailing. A Rivaini apostate is certainly going to turn some heads, and the road to Kirkwall has been crawling with Templars lately.

This isn't exactly a Tevinter Magister on official business with the Inquisition, you know. I'll do what I can to keep him out of sight, but you know how he is. Takes after you.

Say hi to Isabela for me.
-Varric

"Varric!"

"You make it in one piece, kid?"

"Mostly," Rook chirped, leaping from the bow to the boardwalk before it was fully finished docking. A few passengers waiting to disembark normally via the gangplank stared at the wiry elf with displeasure. "The tea was cold and the food was stale, what's not to love about a month-long trip to the Free Marches?"

Varric chuckled and steered him away from the harbor, back into the city proper. He looked him over as they went. He hadn't carried a staff in years, so at least that would work in his favor. His Rivaini outfit stood out, cropped and baring more of his dark skin than anyone else typically dared to show the world outside their home. It wouldn't be enough to make anyone approach and question his presence, at least, not with Varric there. He didn't outright look like a mage, anyway. The enchanted blade that hung from his hip could easily be passed off as a very normal dagger, to those who didn't know any better.

"Isabela explained the magic situation to you, right?" Varric asked, anyway. You could never be too careful with Templars just outside the walls.

"Yes, yes, I remember," Rook groaned, following Varric into his home. He leaned against the kitchen table, short enough that Varric's dwarven furniture made no difference to him. Except, maybe, in terms of width. He was somewhere in his twenties, now, but he hadn't grown a smidge since he was fifteen. "No summoning orbs in public, no Fadestepping to get places faster, and don't go around making things float. I know."

"Just looking out for you, kid," he said carefully, holding his hands up. "People are a little more testy about mages down here, that's all."

"And elves," Rook reminded him sourly. "You'd think their magical savior or whatever being both would have changed a lot more things."

"You know, the Inquisitor's Northern, too," Varric pointed out, moving to light the stove while Rook unpacked a few things from his bag and flitted around the downstairs. "Dalish. Ahri and Dorian got a lot done between the two of them, but it doesn't exactly mean everyone agrees with them."

"What's he actually like?" Rook questioned, straightening up and glancing over from the spellbooks he was digging out. "Did he ever hang out when he wasn't glowing and being important?"

"Sometimes. Took him a while to stop being a stuffy, awkward, bookworm, though." Varric shook an old kettle, checking the water inside before settling it onto the stove fire. "Well, not entirely. He's still all those things. He's just also a little fun, too."

"I can't imagine the most important man in the whole South trying to be fun," Rook chuckled.

"I couldn't either, and I was there to witness it. Went from Chantry Enemy Number One to kissing a Tevinter necromancer at the Winter Palace in front of the Maker and everybody, and yelling at the top of his lungs about elven freedom."

Rook took over at the stove, readying tea for both of them while the kettle did its job. He was worrying at a tea towel with his fingers, pulling at a loose thread here and there and kneading at the fabric with his fingertips. Despite the distant look in his eyes, there was some sort of sharp focus behind it.

The brain is working, Isabela would say. Not good news for Varric's peace of mind.

"So, then. Before we get too deep into dubious storytelling," Rook started, casting a shaded glance across the table. Varric paused on his way to a seated position, just long enough to be suspicious. "Care to tell me what I'm really doing here?"

The kettle only had time to sound out the shrill, beginning build of a whistle before it was cut off. With a quick, practiced gesture from Rook's hand, the fire underneath the iron pot shrank back into nothing. He turned with the kettle, facing the table —And Varric— with barely enough time for the dwarf to cool his expression into a reactionless pool. He wasn't as good as the kid was at playing aloof. He lacked the elven grace it took to look casually composed. Careless. However, he played a mean hand with what he had.

"Helping me sift through some old ruins," Varric said carefully, spreading his hands out over the table as though to play a hand of Wicked Grace. A dark, scarred eyebrow went up across the table. The game was on. "Can't get to that artifact without an expert, so I called in a favor."

"Right," Rook said thoughtfully, nodding along as he fixed two cups of tea. His eyes trailed towards a small window with a view of the harbor. "Except that I checked your crew list, and I'm not on it. And two people who are, happen to be experts in elven artifacts."

"I— When did you—"

"You left it on top of your things, by the sofa."

Rook produced the paper as he sat, scrawled in Varric's handwriting, from underneath a book about Ferelden mushrooms he had been glancing at while he worked. Varric paled, looking down at the offending parchment. So much for playing a mean hand. Rook was playing a different game entirely, and he had planned his moves before Varric even knew it.

"Only took the time water takes to boil for me to remember some of the names from your stories."

"…Ah."

"So, clearly you weren't expecting me to arrive, or you'd have at least been more methodical about hiding this," Rook explained aloud, pushing the list across the table before wrapping his fingers around his teacup. "And Marian, back months early from a very important mission, only to wave me off before we've even had breakfast? Very unusual, isn't it?"

Check. All Varric could do from here was move pieces around, ducking and dodging the inevitable. He took a deep breath. A little to the left.

"But you agreed to go, anyway?" Varric scratched at his beard, distantly annoyed at the carelessness that had allowed it to engulf half his face to begin with. "No arguments, just hopping on the boat like you're told? Not like you."

"There was some kind of look Isabela kept giving me I've never seen before," Rook said slowly, staring into his tea as it cooled. "Like she was… I dunno, like she was afraid of something. Something big."

"And you thought, what better person to hound information out of than tired, old Varric," Varric sighed, resting his hands on the tabletop. "And, a free adventure out of it to boot."

"Gold and glory," Rook muttered over the rim of his cup, fixing him with an even gaze that was only interrupted by the hint of a smirk. "So let's have it. Rivaini crown wants my head over some treasure? The Chantry's coming to give the Lords a right talking to? Surprise magical training, again?"

"Why assume it's your fault?" Varric countered. Rook's mouth pulled into a tight line.

"I'm not. I'm overwhelming you with bullshit until you have no choice but to answer me."

"Who taught you that?"

"Varric." It came out as a groan, Rook's voice dipping into an octave and roughness that wasn't present the last time they met. He sat up and jabbed a scarred finger in Varric's direction. "Marian and Isabela may treat me like a child, even Rowan sometimes, but you? You know better."

"You're right," Varric finally relented with a deep sigh. He was getting too old for this. And Rook? He was just getting started. "Look, you know your moms wouldn't just shove you onto a ship without any explanation unless it was really, really big, right?"

"How big are we talking?"

Rook's expression shifted to curious, but businesslike. Like they were discussing a regular mission. Varric struggled to remember exactly how old he was, now. It had been a few years since the last job he brought him on. Twenty? Twenty-two? Would it be weird to ask him? He meant to catch up about everything, especially the drastic changes Rook had gone through, but the kid had ambushed him. Set up a trap for him in his own kitchen, and snapped him up in it as soon as he missed a step.

Checkmate.

Keeping up was getting harder. "About the size of Thedas, kid."

Both of his eyebrows went up, this time. Varric watched him work through several things before speaking. Regret? Maybe. Definitely confusion and concern at the front, though.

"I am asking you this," he said carefully, staring at his half-empty cup while he pieced his words together. "Not as my employer, or a friend of my mothers, or the whatever-count of Kirkwall— I am asking you this as my uncle, my family. Varric— I need you to tell me what's going on."

Varric let out a sound of defeat, somewhere between a balloon deflating and a gust of wind. Hawke was going to murder him in his sleep.

"Dami," Varric said softly. Rook's nose wrinkled, deep geometric etchings blurring in the creases. This was serious. "The Venatori are looking for the thirteen elves we… Well, you know— You were there." He paused for breath, trying to avoid meeting the growing horror in Rook's eyes. "The Lords got tipped off that a ship full of them was on its way to the coast."

"So you all decided that it would be best to keep that from me, and send me halfway across Thedas instead?" The shock faded, replaced quickly by guilt as he kicked a thick, sturdy table leg. "And I agreed to it, like an absolute— Fuck, me—"

"Listen, I had nothing to do with that decision," Varric defended, holding up his hands. "I told her it was a bad plan, all right?"

"That doesn't make anything— Augh—" Rook paused, letting out a frustrated half-scream into his palms before scrubbing them over his face. "A month I've been gone, Varric— Please tell me one of them at least sent word."

"If you tell either of them I told you—"

"Calm your chin-fur, I'm not going to do anything," he grumbled, drumming his spidery fingers on the tabletop. "Yet."

"I don't like the sound of that," Varric muttered, shaking his head. "But, to answer your question in a way that hopefully helps— Yeah. Venatori are crawling up and down Rivain but all's clear thus far. Helps that you were seen joyfully sailing off into the sunrise a month ago."

"I could be—"

"What?" Varric cut him off with a grimace. "Could be what, Rook? Charging headfirst into a pack of cultists and getting yourself dragged away in front of everyone? In front of the two people trying their damnedest to protect you? One of these days, you're gonna get yourself hurt, and there won't be someone around to pull you out of it. Think, kid."

Rook started at him in shocked silence, long enough for Varric to notice that his voice had been steadily raising. Okay, so the Venatori situation was getting to him more than he was letting himself admit.

"I—" Rook blinked a few times and shook his head slightly, like he was trying to redirect his whole brain. "I don't know. I don't know what I would have done."

"Something impulsive and ridiculous, most likely," Varric sighed, finishing his tea and pushing the cup away. It had gone cold and unpleasant in the stillness. Rook copied the gesture, tilting his cup to glance at the leaves left behind before setting it to the side. "And if I had known, I probably would have shown up ready to do the same. Which is probably why they blindsided both of us with this."

Rook let out a deep sigh, falling back in his chair. "Then we're both fools."

"Useful ones, Rook," Varric corrected, thumping a thick finger on the table. "Useful ones."

Chapter Text

Viago,

Bad news, kitten. The Antaam we drove off are headed right across the bay for your adorable little city. I'd say you and yours have just a few days to prepare for whatever they're planning. I suspect more are on their way to our coast.

I'll send you some supplies, but no guarantee our boat gets there before the Qunari do. Good luck and keep your knives sharp.

-Isabela

"How did they have time to set up an outpost like this, already? This is ridiculous."

"Keep your voice down," Lucanis hissed, keeping his eyes on the flickering of torches and lanterns far below them.

"The Qunari do not have hearing that good."

"How do you know?"

"We could solve this problem now, you know."

"Ilario."

"What?" Ilario straightened up from the ledge and shrugged. "It is one little camp."

"With more on the way," Lucanis argued, not removing his gaze from the movements of the Antaam. "We are here to observe and report. The killing part is later."

"Says the Talons, who are listening to chicken scratch sent by the Pirate Queen," Ilario complained. "And how long before ten Antaam turns to twenty? A hundred? Cousin, we are already here."

"Could be seconds," Lucanis said. "We have no idea how many there are. Which is why we are here."

"Riiight. Of course. To report back to the Talons, and then come back when it is too late." He could see Ilario's eyes rolling just at the edge of his vision. "You know, if anyone could do it, it's us. And then it would be over."

Lucanis stifled a sigh. Ilario insisted on rehashing this same conversation every few years, despite Lucanis's protests and assurances that he actually liked his job. We don't have to be assassins. We don't have to take contracts. We don't have to do what Caterina and the Talons say.

No matter how many times Lucanis repeated himself, Ilario just didn't seem to get it. He was fine with it.

"I am not in control of your life," he huffed. "You can do as you want, just like I do."

"Is that what you do? What you want?" Ilario challenged. "Or is it what the Crows want, huh?"

"Mierda," he sighed, sitting back from the ledge and finally tearing his eyes away from the Antaam encampment. "Why does it even matter? Why do you always pick the worst times for this?"

"Do you even know what you want, cousin?" Ilario somehow looked smug and sad at the same time. "Have you ever even wanted anything?"

"Of course I have. That is why I visit the market. Because I want things that are there." Lucanis folded his arms and turned to glare, but a distant light that wasn't the glow of a lantern caught his eye. Fire. He froze, watching the little flicker and trying to discern its origin.

"That's not what I mean," Ilario groaned.

"Shh— What is that?" Lucanis gestured towards the light. Ilario turned and squinted.

"I don't see any—" Suddenly the light grew, surrounded by a dozen others blinking on and off like fireworks. A second later, the accompanying booms reached their ears and reverberated across the roof beneath their feet. "—What!?"

"This is not good," Lucanis muttered, glancing down below. Antaam warriors were spilling out of the encampment, shouting over one another and sprinting towards the source of the explosion. "And it wasn't part of the plan."

Ilario narrowed his eyes, glaring at the column of smoke that had begun to rise. "If I didn't know any better, I would say that has the young De Rivas written all over it."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Lucanis commented.

There was a beat of silence before Ilario spoke again. "Viago is going to kill them both."

Lucanis nodded, then jerked his head towards the gathering invaders. "And if the Antaam catch them first, he is going to kill us."

Ilario paled, then turned and made a beeline for the edge of the roof.

"Time to go, then. We'll finish our talk later."

"Hopefully not," Lucanis muttered, leaping to a lower roof and rushing to catch up with the Qunari before they reached the ground.

By the time they had dealt with the group of Antaam, forced them to retreat to their encampment, and snuck back to the Cantori Diamond, Viago had nearly shouted himself hoarse. Still, he could be heard snarling as they climbed to the top, oscillating rapidly between violent threats and disappointed admonishments.

Lucanis rounded the final doorway to see Viago pacing back and forth, while Teia leaned against her desk with her lips pursed and a firm look in her eyes. In front of them both, heads bent in shame as they were scolded in front of a dozen Crows, were the younger siblings of Viago de Riva, Fifth Talon. Lucanis scarcely saw either of them, but he recognized both of their dark messes of curls immediately.

Valentín, Viago's half-brother and newly appointed Crow, muttered half-hearted apologies and stared at his boots while Viago continued to lay into him. Mela'din, House de Riva's elven adoptee and only mage, picked at their cloak and mumbled defenses and excuses in between doses of Viago's ire. All three of the de Riva siblings looked ready to explode.

A very normal day in the Diamond.

"—You are both lucky that Lucanis and Ilario were there to see your idiotic mistake, and stop you from being killed—" Viago paused his animated pacing and chattering to straighten up and flick his wrist towards Lucanis. "And that neither of them were injured in the process. Lucky."

"S-sorry," Valentín mumbled in his direction, lowering his head enough that his chin-length curls enveloped most of his face. Mel's were tied back in a high knot, leaving them with less cover for their mortification. Ilario rolled his eyes and hung back.

"Sorry, Lucanis," Mel said, sounding a little more sincere than their brother did. "We didn't know, and we didn't mean for—"

"You didn't know, because you weren't supposed to be involved," Viago growled, walking in between the two of them to meet Lucanis. He turned to cuff both of them on the backs of their heads. "Straight home. Both of you. We will discuss this there."

The two of them snapped upright and stared at him, wide-eyed, then tore out of the Diamond. Viago rubbed his temples and muttered several choice words under his breath before letting out a frustrated sigh. He shook his head, finally facing him.

"Another Antaam encampment," he explained, his voice strained from all the shouting. "The two idiots decided they would 'break it up' before they could finish setting up. It did not go well."

Lucanis gave Ilario a very pointed look, which he ignored.

"Their hearts are in the right place, at least," Teia sighed, pushing a pile of curls back over her shoulder. The more glimpses of the younger de Rivas he got, the more he thought Mel looked like a cross between Teia and Viago. They probably could have passed the mage off as their own child, and no one would have questioned it.

"That won't help them when the Antaam are hammering them into the street," Viago sighed, taking the space against the desk next to her in a slump. "Maker, if I have to call in the pirates for help again… I hope you make this contract quick, Lucanis. Otherwise, I am going to just send them out of the city until this Antaam mess is cleaned up."

"I always do."

Viago nodded, then allowed Teia to lead him off, most likely back home so he could continue his tirade. He could feel Ilario's eyes burning into his back, but he refused to turn around. They had already had three arguments about him accepting the contract. He had been requested, specifically. No one else. He didn't really have a choice.

"An assassination in the middle of the sea," Ilario complained. Lucanis began walking out of the Diamond, but he followed. "Are you really going to leave Treviso for another contract? That makes three this month."

"What would you have me do?" Lucanis defended, accepting that Ilario was going to continue this, whether he liked it or not.

"If I were First Talon? Take a vacation. A day off," Ilario said, exasperated. "When is the last time you went a day without working?"

"Never," Lucanis admitted. "When you are First Talon, perhaps you can convince me to take one."

"Lucanis," Ilario said slowly, shaking his head. "Do you really think Caterina is going to end up giving it to me?"

"Why not? You have been training for it."

"And yet, she is still going to name you. We both know that."

"We do not," he argued. "I don't want to be First Talon. I like where I am, perfectly fine."

"You think what you want is going to stop Caterina from doing what she wants?" Ilario spread his arms wide. "It never has before."

Ilario wasn't letting up as they entered the villa. Lucanis let out an exhausted sigh. "You picked a bad time for this. Again. I have to leave in the morning, Ilario."

"You could always walk away," Ilario suggested. Lucanis frowned deeply.

"A Dellamorte does not walk away," he retorted, heading for the stairs that led to his room. "Especially from a contract. You should know that, if you are going to be First Talon."

"It doesn't have to be this way," he said softly.

Lucanis shook his head and started up the stairs. This was all overly dramatic, even for Ilario. And he would rather be getting some sleep before he had to be stuck on a boat in the middle of nowhere for days. Not having an argument over whether or not the Crows should be a part of their lives.

It had always been this way. Nothing had changed, except for the names of the Talons that surrounded Caterina. Nothing was going to change. This was how things were, and he didn't get what was so difficult for Ilario to understand. If Ilario wanted to leave, that was his own business. Not his.

"You can complain all you want when I get back," he said, yawning as he kept trudging upwards. Ilario hung there, still at the bottom. Hesitating.

"…Lucanis—"

"Good night, Ilario."

Chapter Text

Marian,

Things are going fine, here. Varric and I have spent the last six months tracking down this artifact, and I think we're close. Nice to hear the Lords are doing well. Nothing to worry about on our end, I promise. We have been keeping perfectly safe, and absolutely staying out of mortal danger. Tell everyone I said hi.

Love you both,
DL

Cold and dark.

Dami fought the fog threatening to rip him from consciousness as he kicked at the rubble, his momentum slowed considerably by the water rapidly filling the chamber. He blinked silt away from his eyes and let out a frustrated bubble before kicking again.

Something almost gave way. Again. Varric's hand was on his shoulder, now, gripping tightly against the current. Again. The flow of water was changing. A little vortex appeared, swirling towards the heap of drowned stone. Again, and finally—

He felt the water take hold of his body, sweeping him out and dumping him onto the muddy ground outside of the temple. He struggled to his hands and knees and tried to gasp in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut against the bright sun. Nothing came, though. His throat caught and he opened his mouth again, desperately trying to breathe.

A thick, heavy hand clapped down on his back, causing him to retch a lungful of water out onto the ground. He gasped, hacking and sputtering as his airway finally cleared itself as painfully as possible.

"You're all right, kid," Varric's voice rasped above him. "Everyone's all right… Well, except for, you know."

Varric gestured to the collapsed entrance, where the remaining member of their expedition was sealed forever in his flooded grave.

"W-what a prick," he croaked, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm and glaring at the rubble that had caved in behind him. "How was a fucking Rivaini—" He paused, coughing up another spasm of water. "—Working for the Venatori?"

"Take it easy," Varric soothed, pulling him to his feet. "He didn't get the artifact, no one who's actually on our side is dead, and we can still make the meeting with Harding tonight."

"Ugh," Dami groaned, wiping mud off of his knees. He looked at Varric as the rest of their crew put themselves back together. "Are you sure we should be involving… Chantry people with all this?" He made a dismissive, flopping gesture with his left hand.

"The Inquisition's different from the big Chantry," Varric sighed, squeezing water out of the hem of his shirt. "You already know Harding, you've worked with her twice, now. You'll be fine."

"See, you say that…"

Varric chuckled and slid off his damp coat. He threw it over Dami's shoulders, providing little warmth. They were both soaked. Hopefully, he could actually dry off by a fire before they made their meeting. The scout already thought he was enough of a mess without both of them showing up completely disheveled and damp.

"Come on, kid. Let's get these people paid and dropped off at an inn that's got a big hearth. We'll talk on the way."

"Harding! Long time, no see."

"Hey, Varric," a cheerful, ginger dwarf beamed at him from where she sat at the pub table.

Varric reached up to clap a hand on his shoulder and steer him into an empty chair. "You remember Rook, right?"

"How could I forget?" she giggled, wrinkling her nose while Dami returned a friendly smile. "The pirate named after a bird."

"Small, fast… Motivated entirely by food and shiny things," Varric chuckled, ignoring the scowl Dami was leveling him with. "How's Lefty?"

"Inquisitor Lavellan is doing fine. Sends his regards, best wishes, all of the other super-polite things that take up half his letters," Harding said with a giggle. "Wishes me luck on another adventure with the two of you."

"You don't need it," Rook answered with a smirk. "You've always managed fine without any at all."

"Very funny," she laughed. "Speaking of, did'ya get anything good?"

"Almost didn't," Dami sighed, sliding the little brass artifact from his pocket. "Turns out, the Venatori wanted this thing as much as we did."

He passed it over and she held out a palm for him to drop it into. She brought it close to her face and squinted at it. "Looks like… Some kind of container?"

"An arcane battery of some sort is my guess. Maybe your experts can figure it out," he said, waving a hand for her to take it. "It's old enough that I have no clue what it's for. Just that when it went off, it did it with enough force to cause a whole cave-in."

Her eyes went wide. "It 'went off'?"

More specifically, he had been clutching it when the traitor on their team tried to stab him for it, and he had accidentally set the thing off with an electrical charge. Harding didn't need to know that detail, though. Varric wasn't in any position either to tell her that he had pretty much committed a murder over it. Accidentally.

Dami nodded. "Yeah. I'd be careful with it if I were you. There's a clan in Arlathan that might be able to help you sort it out. Maybe start there."

"And you're just… Giving it to me?" She turned to Varric, eyeing him suspiciously. "Are you sure he's a pirate?"

"Harding, please. We're friends, aren't we? But, on the matter of payment," Dami said slyly, grinning and hooking his thumb towards Varric. Varric chuckled and revealed a large leather pouch that he dropped onto the table with a tumble of noise. "I think you'll find us more than compensated."

"Enough shiny baubles here to hire a hundred Crows," Varric said proudly. He patted the bag with a loud clink. "If there even are that many."

"Gold and glory. Besides," Dami chimed back in, leaning forward with an elbow on the table. "The information you're here to give us is much more valuable than the Inquisitor's coffers."

"I never fail to see why the two of you are a team," she said, with a bell of laughter at the end. "You could probably talk a merchant prince right out of his entire estate."

"And then some," he replied wistfully.

"So, what does the all-important Inquisition want with us?" Varric's eyes gleamed with interest, but his shoulders were tensed.

Harding suddenly grew serious. "Solas is on the move, again. We're not sure what he's doing, yet, but the Inquisitor says he's been up to some pretty big rituals. Residual magic like he's never seen before."

Solas. Varric had told him about Solas enough times for him to know exactly who he was. Even then, the other names he was known by were even more familiar to him. Fen'Harel. The Dread Wolf. Dami felt faint. That was a god, or at least someone who had the power of one. Surely she couldn't be getting at what he thought she was.

"And, I'm guessing, you want us to go after him," Varric said.

"That's why I called a meeting here, in Kirkwall," she answered, glancing around the slowly emptying pub. "One of his agents has been up to something right here in the city."

"Do you think he's gonna—" Dami's question was interrupted by a violent flash of green light, pouring in through every window and bathing the dining area in a sickly glow. Varric swore. Others rushed to the windows, exclaiming loudly.

"Yep," Harding said, pushing her chair back and swiping her bow from the seat next to her. "I do think he's gonna."

"Andraste's tits," Varric hissed, standing up on his chair and turning to the front of the pub with a horror-stricken look. "Got the information a little late, did we?"

Dami stood with a hand on his dagger. He whirled towards the front door, Varric's coat whipping around his legs as he moved. Beside him, he heard the familiar clack of Varric readying Bianca, his crossbow. Silence fell over the space for a brief moment, so abrupt that it made his ears ring.

Everything that followed was a nauseating mess. Windows shattered in the pub, followed by scattering, screaming patrons. Varric shouted something, but he couldn't hear him over the whirlwind that was whipping through the newly exposed interior. He was shoved, and he finally forced his legs to move.

Outside, standing at the heart of an arcane maelstrom, was a pale elven man that Varric had described to him hundreds of times before. Hairless, with a straight posture and striking eyes. Solas.

The fucking Dread Wolf.

Chapter Text

Lucanis was awake.

For the first time in… Well, he had no way of knowing if it had been days or weeks, and the demon settling itself into the back of his mind seemed too preoccupied to tell him.

Blood… Magic.

"We are on a Venatori ship," he muttered, inspecting the opaque crimson barrier before him. He couldn't hear anything through it, but that wasn't any different from when he had been sealed inside of the Ossuary. "They do blood magic, yes."

And. Something… Else.

"What?" Lucanis was already irritated with this voice, and it had only been showing itself to him for a short while, now.

Mage… Not. Venatori.

Lucanis frowned deeply. Something was wrong, here. A low rumble made its way through the ship, boards above him creaking under some kind of unseen pressure. He peered up at the wooden ceiling, wondering if there was some way he could break out through the planks.

His plan only had time to form itself as a suggestion before his ears were assaulted with noise. The glassy barrier cracked and shattered, broken by interference of some sort. The room was eerily empty and quiet, despite the sounds of a violent storm raging all around the ship.

Thunder boomed as Lucanis heard what he could only assume was a bolt of lightning crack down on the deck of the ship, loud enough to send vibrations several levels below.

Time. To. Move.

But where? He was still on a ship, despite whatever emergency was befalling it. He couldn't exactly take it over and start sailing away. Still, he rummaged around the small brig, finding a few of his belongings locked away for disposal —or sale, he tried not to think about it —before he crept to the thick wooden door.

He opened the door just a slit and was met with the sounds of distant, panicked screams. Not quite terror, but it was close. His gaze trailed down the dimly lit corridor and fell on two shapes outside the door.

Venatori. The ones who were supposed to be guarding the room he was in.

Lucanis opened the door fully, eyebrows raised high, and slipped into the corridor to get a closer look. They were mangled, bodies twisted as though they had been thrown against the walls in separate directions with great force. A gaping hole sat directly in the center of the chest of the one he knelt down to examine. He slid the Venatori's mask off, widening his eyes at the sight of the man's face.

A feathered, tree-like pattern covered seemingly every inch of the cultist's skin, seared black into the deceased flesh. Like he had been struck by lightning.

A mage. One that didn't seem interested in any sort of efficiency or reasoning to their actions, Lucanis observed as he quietly made his way to the next door. Half a dozen bodies littered the next room, gored open and still leaking crimson onto polished decking. Nearly all of them sported the same black scarring. The ones that didn't suffered burns severe enough to render them completely unrecognizable. The only sound in this room was the quiet dripping of blood onto damp, charred wood.

He made to continue, but something stopped him. The demon, slipping its way into his vision. A mirrored spirit that looked just like him, waving frantically and standing near a shelf. Lucanis hesitated.

"…What? What is it?"

The. Blood.

Lucanis stepped closer, wincing when another booming shook the room, rattling glass vials against each other. Batteries for the Venatori's blood magic. Spite was gesturing to a large one that sat in the center. He leaned over to get a closer look, then raised an eyebrow at the demon.

"Mine?" he questioned. Spite shook his head.

Ours.

"Semantics with a demon," Lucanis sighed, before reaching out and tipping the vessel onto the floor. It shattered with a loud crash, spilling cold blood dangerously close to his shoes. He jumped back a bit to avoid the mess. "Is that the only one?"

Yes.

"Good." Lucanis rested his hand on the grip of his reclaimed rapier, eyeing the next door. His skin was on edge, prickling and itching. Something was tapping into the Fade, hard and fast. "Let's hope that storm mage is friendly."

Lucanis laid a hand on the door and took a deep breath, silently praying that it was one of the Crows' allies, and not some random band of buccaneers that decided to board and loot a Venatori ship. And, that they would be open to letting him hitch a ride back to dry land. The itch crawled over his skin, nearly vibrating through his skull.

No. Ship.

"What do you mean?" Lucanis paused with a hand on the door.

Just. Mage.

Lucanis grumbled and pushed the door open, shoving the demon back into the back of his mind. He didn't have time to try and figure out whatever he was growling about.

The smell of ozone greeted him as soon as he stepped through. He could barely make out a Venatori from the back, but the torches in this chamber had gone out in the midst of the attack. The air in the room crackled and hissed and a strangled scream flooded his ears. A brilliant blue light illuminated the entire chamber as the Venatori… Exploded.

At least, that was the best word Lucanis had for the sight and sound that accompanied the scarlet mist that doused him seconds after passing through the door.

So much for staying dry and clean.

One moment the cultist was there, shrieking in pained terror, and the next they were nothing more than suspended droplets. Vessels for tiny tendrils of lightning that arced from one conductive liquid to the next as the brief flash subsided. He only heard one heaving breath besides his own as the room was plunged back into darkness.

Then, a sharp inhale and a rush of motion. Not an approach, he noted, listening intently. The mage stayed in the same spot. A swishing of fabric and clink of gold, like a flourishing gesture. A spell.

Lucanis jumped when the torches flared back to life, prompted by the flick of a gold-adorned wrist. Across the room, an elf that measured no taller than Lucanis's shoulder froze, honey-colored eyes fixed firmly on him. Lucanis felt his own breath stutter to a halt, staring back at the mage. His messy, dark hair bristled out in all directions, held aloft by a static charge invisibly skittering across his whole body. He looked positively furious. And, quite possibly, absolutely stunning.

A year in the Ossuary had done a number on him.

The twitch of a thin, enchanted dagger in his left hand, however, drew Lucanis's attention away for a moment. He glanced between the blade, and the tiny little bands of light he could see leaping between the fingers of his opposite hand. A chilly quiet settled itself over the boat, and Lucanis realized that the cacophonous storm overhead hadn't had anything to do with the weather.

Spite was right. There was no other ship. No boarding crew. Nothing but one, singular mage.

Chaos.

The elf shot him a puzzled look, but didn't move from his spot. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking even more confused by the second. It was evident that he wasn't here for Lucanis, or he would have already reacted. So why was he here, then? Lucanis let go of his rapier, moving deliberately. He turned his palms towards the floor in front of him in an attempt to calm the mage. He took a step, then stopped when the elf straightened up, eyes wildly darting about the room.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said carefully. Not entirely a lie. If the mage moved to attack, he was at least going to try and do exactly that.

"Why are you here?" the elf demanded. Lucanis felt the blood rush to his ears as soon as he spoke. Airy and rough, with a lilting accent that softened consonants into bare wisps of sound. A voice that didn't belong to a Venatori torturer, or a demon. It sounded lovely, even as guarded and wary as he was. Lucanis took another step, getting close enough to take in more details.

"I could ask you the same thing," he said coolly, following a constellation of dark freckles up to markings that made him frown. Geometric lines and shapes, sharply cut and tinged with a deep red. The tattoos hadn't been applied in a kind way, from the looks of it. They looked nothing like any tattoos he'd ever seen on an elf. "Last I checked, there was only one unwanted guest on the list."

"I…" his face screwed up, then broke as he chuckled. Lucanis felt a knot loosen itself in his stomach as the elf pushed hair away from his brow. "Ohh, I've broken something important, haven't I?"

"Only whatever was powering the only thing holding me back," Lucanis answered, glancing at the blade. Even out of arm's reach, he could feel the magic spasming off of it. "Would you mind putting that away, now that you're decidedly not in danger?"

"Has that been decided?" he asked absently, shrugging with the long dagger still in his hand. Lucanis bit his tongue. If he got close enough, maybe he could disarm him. "Know that if you do try to hurt me, I have no idea what I'll do and I'll probably do it without hesitation."

"Noted."

The mage paused for a moment longer, then hooked the dagger onto a belt inside of his coat, where it hung there unprotected beneath a strange ring. He smirked and made a show of spreading out his hands for Lucanis to see that there was no kind of spell waiting to hit him by surprise, wiggling ring-clad fingers. Lucanis wondered how he didn't cut himself on the sharp blade, or how it even stayed sharp being cared for so flippantly. He thought about asking, but didn't think that was a good place to start.

I like him. He's fun. You're never fun.

The elf gave him a puzzled look, and Lucanis felt his breath stop again. Had he…? No, there was no way. The elf adjusted the too-broad coat and stared at him expectantly.

"You are not a Crow," he blurted, unable to think of anything else to say. The mage stepped closer, this time. His eyes widened, and the apprehension on his face melted into something close to fascination.

"And you're possessed by a spirit," he said, standing on the toes of his boots to look him over. "Whoa."

"Spite is a demon," Lucanis corrected. The elf shook his head with a tremendous amount of metallic noise and pursed his lips.

"Not like any one I've been near," he said, leaning to the side to inspect his coat.

Lucanis scanned his face, landing on his short nose and the tilt of his eyes. "You're Rivaini."

"Right." The left side of his mouth angled up into a smirk and he spread his arms out, gesturing to himself. "What else you got?"

Lucanis's eyes followed a line of gleaming ear piercings to the thick gold links that wrapped around his neck, suspending three coins from it. It looked valuable, but that wasn't what caught his attention. It was the distinct emblem stamped into the middle one. A kraken.

"And… A Lord of Fortune," he added, nodding at the pendant glinting in the torchlight. At least one thing was going well. He wasn't an enemy. The elf smiled politely. Another pendant hung from his neck, a mismatched and haphazardly strung metal ring. An oddly plain and dull thing for a treasure hunter to be wearing.

"Right again. You're a Crow, then, yeah?" He barely gave Lucanis time to nod before he was talking again. "Good. Means I'm technically obligated to help you get out of this mess."

"That… Would be appreciated," Lucanis said slowly, after a few silent moments of contemplation. It was either that, or jump ship on his own, which he wasn't exactly keen on. "Lucanis Dellamorte," he introduced, with a polite bow.

The elf gawked at him, then nodded, clearly having trouble suppressing his reaction. "Like, the Mage-Killer from Treviso?"

"The very same."

"Riiight…" He eyed Lucanis carefully, resting his hands on his hips. Lucanis let out a short laugh.

"Unless you are a Venatori, or you've angered the Crows lately, you have nothing to worry about," he assured.

"If only," he sighed, leaving Lucanis to take a turn with the confusion. The elf hesitated, before finally answering with a simple word. "Rook."

Not. True.

"Sorry— It'll have to do for now," he excused, flinching as the ship began to lurch. "We should probably move."

"Do I smell… Smoke?"

"Yeah, maybe… Maybe we ask less questions until we're on dry land," Rook said sheepishly, glancing away. Lucanis raised his eyebrows.

"What did you do?"

"Less questions, Lucanis," Rook repeated, spinning back around to face the door and grabbing his sleeve. His name sounded nice with his accent. "Less."

"Fewer," Lucanis corrected as he was pulled forward.

"Don't think I won't kill us both, just to be petty."

If Lucanis had any further questions on the elf's present emotional state, they were cleared up as soon as they emerged onto the smoldering deck of the ship. Thick black soot marks spotted the flooring in several directions, flames lapped at a stairway leading back down into another area below deck, and the ship was gaining an obvious list. He let out a long breath.

"Maker—"

"You try fighting your way through a Venatori ship and making it clean," Rook defended, letting go of him and jogging easily across the tilting deck. Lucanis had a bit more trouble, wobbling slightly as he struggled to maintain his balance.

"Speaking of," Lucanis started, clutching onto a railing as Rook peered over the edge. He glanced back to him briefly. "How, exactly…?"

"Thought I was sneaking onto a normal merchant ship headed to Tevinter," he said hurriedly, reaching out to yank at a mess of tangled rigging. He growled in frustration when it didn't give. "Turns out— fuck's sake— turns out, it was whatever all this is. You can imagine the kind of day I'm having, surely."

"That would be the Venatori dumping their failed experiments far away from their prisons," Lucanis offered. He reached out to help, peeking over the bow and spotting a shabby lifeboat dangling precariously above the water. Good to know, the mage was absolutely insane. "That's your plan?"

"And you've got a better idea?" Rook challenged. He shrugged and held a hand over the ropes, shooing Lucanis away. "What do you mean, experiments?"

Lucanis moved his hands away from the rigging and gestured to himself. "Zara Renata's demon factory."

Rook made a face of disgust as a bundle of flame burst from underneath his palm, searing through most of the ropes. The final one looked like it might snap at any moment. "Well, shit."

"I agree."

Rook glanced over the bow again, apprehension creasing his brow this time. He nodded to himself, then flattened his palms on the creaking railing with another quick look back at the growing fire. "Hope you can stick a landing."

"I suppose we'll see," Lucanis said quietly, staring down at the churning water below. Rook chuckled, pushing himself onto the railing in a crouched position. He reached out and thumped Lucanis on the shoulder.

"Well, if this kills us both," he drawled, "then it was nice to meet you, Lucanis."

"If it doesn't, remind me to finish the job," Lucanis muttered, grabbing the railing and heaving his knees up onto it. From here, the jump looked a lot more dangerous.

Rook didn't respond. He just smiled apologetically before sucking in a breath and pushing himself off with a leap. Seconds later, he landed in the lifeboat with an echoing thump. Lucanis watched him turn and gesture proudly upwards. The rope gave, and a look of panic crossed the mage's face as the boat crashed down onto the water. Once it settled, though, he just grinned up at him.

Now or never, warned the heat of the flames behind him and the desperate cry of a sinking ship.

Why did it have to be a pirate? Lucanis let out a long groan before sending himself away from the splintered railing and towards the depths below.

Chapter Text

Dami watched in awe as the human —Antivan? —Lucanis —fell slowly, almost gliding downwards while spectral, violet wings fanned outwards from his shoulder blades and caught the air.

Okay, he didn't know very many Crows, but he was pretty sure that wasn't normal for them.

At least, no one in House de Riva could do that. That was probably for the greater good.

He hugged the tattered coat Varric had loaned him tight around himself, trying to ignore the sharp ache that radiated through his side when a cold wind passed over him. One of the Venatori had struck him harder than he thought.

Too careless. He could almost hear Varric's voice in his head, sighing over another mistake.

Except, Varric wasn't here. If he was, he would be laying into him for not one mistake, but a string of several, leading to him waiting politely while a dangerous, deadly assassin landed in a teetering little boat a few feet away from him. A stupid decision after a whole mess of stupid decisions, stemming from a short lifetime of even worse ideas.

But, no. Varric was drifting somewhere through the Fade, while he ran from his problems as fast as he could and lost sleep to horrible nightmares of a wolf that tore animals apart in front of him in a reflection of the forest. A nightly plague that had come to him ever since he had touched that fucking dagger. Every time he woke up he couldn't tell if it had actually happened, or if it was just a regular dream.

Why did he have to get on the caravel?

Lucanis was staring at him, again. Dami blinked, shaking water from the spray of the sea off of his hair. He should probably say something.

"You… Have wings," was all he managed. Dami Laidir, master of speechcraft and maritime rescue. Lucanis shrugged.

"Spite does, it seems" he answered, grimacing as another salty spray misted over them. He didn't know? "To be honest, I hadn't expected him to actually help."

"Spirits like helping," Dami said simply, rooting around in the little boat for an oar. "Even spirits of Mischief like to do useful little things now and then."

"You know a lot about—" Lucanis paled as a rogue wave hit the little lifeboat, rocking it dangerously close to tipping. "—Mierda. This is not safe."

"Neither is a Venatori ship on fire," Dami pointed out, finding the oar and sticking it into the water with a glance at the sinking ship. "It's going to be even less safe if that goes under. The waves it's sending off will be the least of our problems."

"Do I want to ask, exactly how bad?"

"Probably not, but you probably will anyway. If we get caught up in the water it draws down with it, then, well…"

"Down we go," Lucanis finished with a grimace. Dami nodded, trying to move the boat away from the ship. His body protested the motion with a dull thrum of pain, almost in rhythm to the water.

The waves were jostling the boat around from every direction. A pending shipwreck meant the water was chaos. Unnatural. Uncontrolled. And it would be for a while, even after it sank below the surface. The whole current was thrown off-balance, and he couldn't make up for it in a tiny little boat. As it was, he was already expending more mana than he could afford just to keep the thing from flipping over. He couldn't do anything else without exhausting himself. All he could do was focus on correcting the way the waves bounced them about while trying to get some kind of movement from the oar.

"At least we can see the shore," Dami groaned, plunging the oar back into the water despite his shoulder's stiff protest. "I've been in worse."

"Have you?"

Dami paused. He glanced at his right leg, remembering the weight of the rubble on top of him. Varric. Everything. Yeah, Kirkwall getting leveled was pretty bad, compared to being a little wet and tired. "Yeah."

It had all happened so fast. Meeting up with Harding. The Dread Wolf showing up. Harding taking a shot that sent both Fen'Harel and Varric grappling through a tear in the Fade. The dragon that showed up after. Running from Kirkwall as it was reduced to a frozen ruin.

The last person he had run into before Lucanis had been Treyan, an elf he remembered from the Venatori ship. One that had turned out to be one of Fen'Harel's agents, and turned on him over the stupid glowy dagger that he recovered from the attack. He was supposed to be helping. That was why he snuck off with him, when he was meant to be following Harding back to Skyhold.

Dami could still feel the slick warmth of his former friend's blood between his fingers. The weight of the Lyrium dagger in his hands, plunged perfectly between two ribs. He could still hear his voice snarling in his ear as he died, much more quickly than he should have.

The Evanuris will come. Corrupted. They will take everything.

"Are you all right?" Lucanis was leaning forward to look him over, now, swiping water out of a dark and silky beard absentmindedly. Dami sat up straighter, nearly wincing when he felt a rib shift. Those weren't supposed to move.

"What?" He looked back at the ship. The waves had pushed them further away, but not enough to escape the churning tide. "Why do you ask?"

"You sound…" Lucanis frowned, gesturing pointlessly. Exhausted, Dami finished in his mind. Lucanis tried again. "Well, you look…" Bad. "I, uh… I don't—"

Rook. Is. Hurt.

The sharp, growling voice he had heard on the ship was back, cutting through the sounds of wind and sea to meet him. Spite, Lucanis had called him. He flapped his free hand in the breeze dismissively.

"It's fine," he assured quickly. "I'm fine."

Smells like. Blood.

Lucanis raised an eyebrow. Dami shook his head. He didn't have time to deal with this. He stuffed his hand into the pocket of his coat and stopped short when his fingers jammed into the leather pouch he had stuffed in there. He made a curious sound and brought it back out with his hand.

"Mage-Killer, huh…" Dami eyed the bag that he and Varric had made off with. Enough to hire a hundred Crows, if there are even that many. He didn't have much use for it, really. He had his own money, albeit most of his fortune was back home, stashed away in several different spots along the coast. "How much does hiring someone like that cost, I wonder?"

"You sound like you have an idea," Lucanis offered, thankfully changing the subject from his condition. Dami leaned forward, propping himself up with elbows on his knees. Dark, brown eyes watched him intently as he worried his fingers into the worn leather.

"I usually do," he replied, lobbing the heavy purse over to the assassin. "That enough for a hundred Venatori?"

Lucanis caught the pouch easily, although he looked bewildered. He shook it for a moment before peeking inside with an interested hum.

"Normally, contracts like that require the approval of several Talons before being accepted," Lucanis said, turning the sack of gems and gold over in his hands. "And, for a proper meeting with the client."

"Pardon my decorum," Dami said with a snort. "I'm afraid you'll have to settle for bartering in a shitty boat and shaking hands with an elf. If that's a yes, anyway."

Lucanis considered the pouch for a few more seconds, then the waves beating the sides of the little boat. Dami wasn't even sure he knew why he was doing what he was doing. He just knew that he didn't want to be alone for it, anymore. Maybe picking the first person he had met since Kirkwall that didn't promptly attack him wasn't the best idea, but it was the only one he had. And, judging by the remoteness of the distant shoreline, another chance to speak to an actual person wasn't coming by again for a while.

"I suppose it is," Lucanis finally said, tucking the bundle of treasure away into his coat. He extended a hand towards him. "I accept."

"Great," Dami breathed out a sigh of relief, slipping his hand into the assassin's. He let him jostle his arm around, still unsure of why humans were so into the gesture, before letting go. If he couldn't help the way his eyes lingered on the man's short fingers and impossibly thick forearms as he drew back, it wasn't his own fault. He licked salt off of his lips and turned his head, looking to the shoreline instead. "So, first order of business… Maybe figuring out exactly where we went down, and how far from home we are."

"Treviso, or Rivain?" Lucanis asked. Dami shrugged.

"Both?" He nodded towards the horizon that faded into the glittering sea. "It's not like we don't live a bay away from each other."

"Is step two finding another boat?" Dami scowled when he looked over to see Lucanis smirking. "One that is not filled with cultists?"

"Oh, you're welcome, by the way," Dami retorted. Lucanis chuckled.

"You have my utmost gratitude," he clarified, smoothing down his damp coat. "You could have just as easily killed me back there."

"Really?" Dami perked up, a little. "You think so?"

"No," Lucanis admitted. "But, you would have really slowed me down."

Dami grumbled and rowed the boat a little further, pushing hard with the shoddy oar. Lucanis offered him an apologetic smile. One that faltered when the boat tipped far enough for an alarming amount of water to splash inside.

"Shit," he hissed, trying to right the tiny vessel when another rogue wave rocked into them from the side. Cold engulfed his body as the boat capsized, plunging him into icy water. He wasn't sure how long it took for him to come back from the fuzzy blackness that overtook his vision, but he was too far below the surface for comfort when his brain finally snapped into action.

He kicked upwards, grabbing the side of the little boat when he made it back, pushing up to try and right it. He glanced around in the dim, murky light. Where had Lucanis gone? He tread the water, keeping a hand on a seat of the overturned boat while he looked down.

Oh, no.

A dark shape in the water let out a weak trail of bubbles as it rapidly sank down towards the bottom. Dami glanced at the boat, then back down at Lucanis, then made a decision that was very likely about to get him killed. Another tally in the list of terrible ideas.

First, he pulled himself up into the empty body of the capsized boat, gasping in a breath as soon as he broke the surface. Then, he dove, wriggling out of his coat as he went. The soaked wool would only slow him down, and make it even harder to swim back up. Getting a new one was going to be a pain.

Oh, well.

At least most of his things were in his own satchels, although they were already filling up with water. A problem for later, if he managed to come back up.

He hooked his arms underneath the assassin's, hauling him upwards and kicking away from the bottom. He was definitely unconscious, and the spirit hadn't seemed to be able to stay in control through the lack of oxygen, either. Dami broke the surface first, yanking Lucanis's head above the water as soon as he did. He leveraged him in the water, and looked around for the boat.

A wave slapped him in the face like an insult as he spotted the stern, just before it disappeared under the water and gave itself to the sea. He let out a wet groan and shifted carefully, getting underneath Lucanis's body so he could swim towards the shore more easily. He was heavy.

"Isabela's dungeoneering tips: never go out in anything you can't swim in," he muttered, barely keeping his chin above the water under the weight of all the clothes Lucanis was wearing. "The Crows didn't get that same lecture, huh?"

Lucanis didn't respond, but he could just make out the sound of raspy, stuttering breaths. He was still alive, at least. So long as Dami didn't accidentally drown him. So far, his rescue-to-drowning-victim ratio was not looking good. He tried to let the waves push and pull them closer to the shore, but he was still breathless and exhausted by the time he felt the tips of his boots brushing the shallow bottom.

Lucanis wasn't still breathing when he dragged him past the tidal line and dumped him into the sand. He knelt down and turned his head, pushing on his chest for a few measured beats. A gurgle of seawater erupted from between the man's parted lips and he let out a weak cough before drawing in a shaky breath. Dami sighed and sat back, clutching at the searing pain blooming once again across the side of his body.

Underneath his palm felt warm and slick. His vision was beginning to blur. He caught himself on a hand, struggling to keep the shoreline around him from spinning into a nauseating rush. The waves crashing blended with the humming sounds of nature from the forest nearby, growing in his ears to something that sounded like crackling static.

Something struck him along his right side, pressing into his body and face. He blinked, struggling to make sense of the world's shifting angles. The ground. He had hit the ground. Hard. His muscles protested when he tried to force them to move. They weren't safe here, he had to move. He had to.

Still, the hazy seashore dissolved into a dark nothingness before him and he slipped right into it.

Chapter Text

Wake. Up.

Lucanis felt his eyes snap open and he threw an arm over his face to shield himself from the bright sun directly overhead. He took a deep, laboring breath, listening carefully. The sounds of crashing waves rose to meet him, and a soft breeze tickled at his chin. He was… Alive.

Up. Up!

"Could you give me a second?" Lucanis hissed, pushing against the sand. He dropped his arm when he managed himself into a sitting position.

No. Rook. Is hurt.

"What? Who—?" Lucanis shifted and a heavy pouch within his sodden coat slapped him in the ribs. He bolted upright. The pirate. He had almost forgotten. "Oh—"

He staggered to his feet and glanced around. There was wreckage dotting the shore he had washed up on, but it didn't take him long to find Spite. And, the shape he was kneeling down next to. He stumbled over, unable to stop the sharp gasp that leapt into his throat.

The sand was bloody underneath him. Without the shabby coat he had been wearing on the ship, a litany of injuries was easily visible. The dyed armor he was wearing, if Lucanis could even call it armor, covered little more than his shoulders and the top of his chest, with leather bottoms that barely reached his upper thighs. In fact, the most protective thing he was wearing was a pair of closed boots, with golden plates fixed to the shins.

It was no wonder, then, that the next thing his eyes fell on was a vicious wound along his left side. It was jagged and reached from above his ribs nearly down to his hip, and it was still bleeding.

"Fine, he says" Lucanis spat, kneeling down in the sand to get a closer look. "You little liar."

Help. Him.

"Yes, Spite, I am trying to," he groaned. Then, glanced over at the demon. He wanted to… Help? Spite was staring intently at Rook, who had begun to quake slightly against the sand. His breath was a wheezing rattle. Lucanis winced, then reached over his body and gingerly took an arm. "Sorry about this."

As carefully as he could, he maneuvered the elf over his shoulders, trying to stay mindful of the open wound still letting out a steady trickle of blood. He couldn't stay here, within sight of a Venatori shipwreck. Spite stood, hunting around for something.

Lucanis spotted it at the same time the demon did. A nearby stream that emptied itself out into the sea from a rocky little trail. His eyes followed the water to where a waterfall roared from a high cliff, but something was off. The flow of the water from the stream was different. The waterfall wasn't feeding it. He moved.

Spite followed, sticking close and leaning around every few seconds to check on Rook. It almost felt like he was… Worried? Anxious, was more like it. He trudged up through the ankle-deep stream and held his breath before ducking underneath the waterfall. He hoped he was right, or he had just wasted time and gotten more wet for nothing.

Sure enough, a little eroded cave sat behind the rushing water. It was dark, the light from outside barely piercing through. He could hear a trickle from the stone on the far side, likely where the stream fed through. He knelt down, patting around for a dry enough spot to set Rook down, then carefully slid him onto the ground.

He was back outside a few seconds later, rushing for the nearby trees. He poked around for a minute, grabbing whatever loose, dry twigs and branches he could find quickly, then jogged back to the fall. He frowned at the water, glanced at the bundle he was holding, then started shrugging off his coat. He slung it over the wood, hoping it would keep it dry enough, before ducking back into the natural shelter.

Wasting time.

Spite was getting more and more frustrated by the second. Lucanis ignored him, balancing the kindling in a small pile.

"I need light and heat, or I can't do anything," he sighed, feeling around on the ground for a couple of stones. "It would be helpful if the mage was actually awake, though."

A little magical fire was too much to ask, it seemed. Rook stayed firmly unconscious and barely breathing in the dark cave. Still, he managed to get a pitiful little fire started after a few minutes of frustrated rock-smacking. Good enough for the time being.

He slid Rook as gingerly as he could towards the flickering pile, before sitting back and searching through his coat. He didn't have many things left on him. The Venatori had taken nearly everything. Nothing that provided any actual healing or aid turned up, so he looked down at Rook, next.

"Apologies, again," he offered, before digging through the few pouches attached to the mage's hip. The first and second turned up nothing of use, just gold and trinkets and a few now-waterlogged scrolls. The third, however, contained a handful of miniature glass vials. Each one swirled with a different color of liquid, and Lucanis felt the needling vibrations of the Fade on all of them.

That one. THAT one.

Spite was clinging to his shoulder, leaning over him and jabbing excitedly at a scarlet tincture. Lucanis set the others down, holding up just the one.

"Are you sure?" Spite jostled him and pointed at it again.

That. One.

"All right, just calm down," he sighed, making his way back over to Rook's shivering form. He knelt back down with a grimace, touching two fingers to the side of an ice-cold shoulder. "Sorry. I need to figure this out, first. You know, so you don't die."

Rook didn't respond to him, not that he expected him to. Lucanis just needed to fill the silence with something other than the sound of Spite's voice. He turned Rook onto his side, exposing the full wound. It was still difficult to see, but he could manage. He cracked the glass open on the rocky ground, shook the tiny amount of potion out onto the gash, then waited.

The bleeding was slowing, at least, and appeared to be stopping entirely. Rook's breath shuddered, but didn't halt. Lucanis sat back and watched for a few more moments, half-expecting him to actually wake up. His luck, however, wasn't that good.

Half an hour later, he had managed to hunt down enough loose wood for the fire to be warming the entire chamber. It cast an uneven glow that bounced off of the stone walls. It would be enough, though. He leaned down to check on Rook, who was lying still against the ground.

He had more than just one injury, that was certain. And, it looked like he was prone to getting them often. Lucanis swept his eyes over tendrils of dark scarring, reaching from his waist and wrapping around his body. He leaned over, and could follow the pattern to where matching marks streaked up his tattooed arms. In fact, scars and tattoos covered just about every bit of visible skin he had. This one looked like a blast from a spell, or something that had exploded close to his waist.

Lucanis prodded at the immodest armor, making sure that nothing else required immediate attention. Just below the bottom of the teal-stained leather piece sat two other marks. Long, thin scars running horizontally on either side of his chest.

Oh.

That wasn't an injury. Lucanis was familiar with scars like that, and knew more than a few crows who sported the exact same ones. He had even helped Illario care for the ones he had, and tried to protect his cousin from the worst of Crow training while he was recovering. Those were personal.

Lucanis moved his hands, letting the armor come back to a rest where it sat and prodding at his limbs. A sharp intake of breath came from his unconscious form when Lucanis got to his right leg. Another injury, although nothing was visibly wrong. Lucanis assumed it wasn't broken and moved on.

The tear in his side was healing slowly, but it was matted with dried blood and speckled with sand, now. Lucanis eyed the little stream being fed through the rocks and into the ocean.

"I hope saltwater is enough," he said quietly, bending down to lift Rook into his arms. He felt like he weighed next to nothing. "Because they do not let you have first aid supplies in prison."

Rook let out a creaking groan when he was lowered into the cold stream, but his eyes stayed firmly closed. Lucanis dipped his hand in the water and flicked a few icy droplets onto his face. Rook flinched unconsciously at the feeling, but otherwise didn't stir.

"Not going to be that easy," he sighed, letting the water loosen up the dirt and matted blood before he started scrubbing at it with a damp sleeve. There hadn't been enough potion to fully do the job —clearly those vials were for emergency use —but, it looked like the skin had mostly knit itself closed into something that looked little more than a day old.

He shuffled the now-shivering elf back over to the fire when he was finished, watching him anxiously for a few more minutes. Then, he scooted him a little farther from it, just in case the precarious pile decided to collapse while he was gone. He hesitated again before shrugging his somewhat dry coat off and draping it over him. It engulfed him, making him look even smaller against the damp stone. Lucanis frowned and shook his head, then darted back to the outside.

Despite the sun beating down, it was cold. He wasn't even sure what he was doing out here, besides avoiding being cooped up in an enclosed space with nothing more than Spite and a dying mage to keep him company. Lucanis shook his head again, as if to banish the thought. He wasn't dying, was he? He was still breathing. He just wasn't doing… Much of anything else.

Lucanis searched his memory for which plants were medicinally helpful, but there weren't any that he actually recognized in the vicinity. They had to be somewhere in the South, then. He wondered if Rook had been somewhere nearby, before the ship.

He leaned down to examine a bush full of thorns and little round berries. No idea what those were. Probably a bad idea to try and find out. He straightened up, wondering what the nutritional value of a nug would be, or if wherever he was even had nugs. The sound of a subtle, distant movement told him there was something alive out here, though.

Lucanis turned, scanning the forest in the direction of the sound but finding nothing. Still, that didn't ease the tension that was creeping up his spine. He felt like he was being watched. He turned his head, picking his way through a patch of brush and moving closer to the direction he came. It was probably just an animal, curious and afraid of whatever was rummaging through its home.

We're not. Alone.

Spite's confirmation didn't bring him any comfort. It only served to rise his worry as he sped up, putting a tree to his back and making a beeline for the edge of the forest. He halted in his tracks, though, when something whistled past his ear. Close enough for the wind to disturb his hair, before sinking into a tree with a loud thunk.

Lucanis widened his eyes, gawking silently at the arrow as his hands instinctively raised to shoulder-height. He heard more of the same sounds as before, but closer behind him and advancing, now. That wasn't a good sign.

A sharp voice barked out something he didn't quite understand. Elvish, he realized, turning around with his hands still up. Four of them that he could see, draped in Dalish garb, stood just a few meters away. Three of them had arrows nocked and trained directly on him, and one was holding up a single flat palm. The only thing stopping them from filling him with steel and splinters was that hand.

"Uh," he blurted, feeling his voice catch in his throat. "I— I was just passing through?"

"You trespass," the man in charge spoke in Trade tongue, this time, with a heavy accent. He motioned and two of the archers advanced. "Hours after the Venatori infest our waters."

"I had nothing to do with—" Lucanis paused. Well, technically, he did. "We were attacked."

"This is not my concern," the man dismissed. The two other elves were close enough to grab him, now. He froze. If he got dragged off by a Dalish clan now, Rook probably would die. Or, he'd wake up and think that Lucanis skipped with his gold, and then the Crows would have even bigger problems than the Venatori and a demon. "You are not permitted here, and you have taken from our forest."

"Wait!" Lucanis felt a hand encircle his arm, closing in. He didn't want to attack these elves. Especially not if they could actually help him. "Wait— My— My... Friend. He's injured. I need to—"

"The fate of shemlen intruders and thieves is of little importance," the man said. He flicked his wrist, and Lucanis felt the elves tugging on him.

"—He's an elf," he said quickly, hoping that information was worth something. The man paused, and so did the other two. He took the opening. "The Venatori hurt him. Badly. He needs help." Lucanis thought for a moment, before adding, "I think he might be dying."

The younger elf that had hung back lowered her bow slightly and spoke up.

"Hahren," she said softly. Lucanis recognized that word. Some of the younger elven Crows used it with Caterina. Elder. The only word he understood after was Elvhen.

They bickered back and forth in Elvish for a few tense moments, while the two archers exchanged looks of exasperation. Finally, the elder gave up, and stalked out of sight. The younger elf nodded, then strode over to him and gestured for the other two to release him. They did, but stood close by, bows still in hand.

"Ir abelas, shemlen. Venatori have the Keeper acting rash, lately... You're not lying?" she asked in the same thick accent, eyeing him up and down with caution.

"I am not," he confirmed.

She nodded again, one sharp gesture that made a dark braid at the back of her head flick upwards. "Show me."

Chapter Text

The elven mage —Thierin, she had said— handled Rook less-than-carefully, humming curiously as she poked and prodded. Lucanis watched from a few feet away, still flanked by the personal guard that had accompanied the woman. She ran her fingers along the jagged, vicious wound and made a more concerned sound.

"He is poisoned," she announced. Lucanis raised his eyebrows.

"What?" he demanded. He hadn't seen any evidence of any kind of poisoning. He leaned down to examine the slash again. "With what, exactly?"

"Lyrium," she answered. She traced a finger down a faint, veinous line that traveled parallel to the cut. "Likely a gift from the Venatori."

Thierin cast some sort of spell over him that Lucanis hoped was healing-related, then stood. She folded her arms and fixed him with a serious look. "You are correct. He is dying."

"Can… Can you help him?" Lucanis felt the worry creeping back into his bones. All that, for him to be magically dying? Damned Venatori. Thierin let out a short huff.

"You want honesty?" Lucanis nodded. "Fine. I have no idea. Our healers are good, but Lyrium poisoning is often fatal for a mage."

"But, you know how to help?"

"Yes. The good news is: if he wasn't a mage, he would already be dead." She lifted a hand, beckoning for the archers to come closer. "Take the elf."

She turned to Lucanis while they lifted Rook from the mossy stone floor. He retrieved his coat from the ground and shook it out. "You're uninjured?"

"As far as I am aware," he answered.

"Hm." She gave him a disapproving glance, like he was somehow at fault. "Come. We will see what can be done."

Lucanis quickly extinguished the smoldering little fire and moved to follow her, while the two other elves carried Rook's limp form just behind them.

"I expect Keeper will have questions," she said, leading the way through the dense forest. "I hope you're good at answering them."

"I am not Venatori, if that's what you're asking," he chuckled. "They don't get along well with Antiva."

"Few do, from what I've seen," she retorted, glancing sideways at him. "You are far from home."

"So is he."

Lucanis tried to ignore the dozens of stares as they emerged into a large camp. Rook was quickly whisked away to the far end of the main clearing, where he was placed on a cot and surrounded by healers. He followed, watching while Thierin briefly explained what had happened and what was wrong with him. He kept an eye on Rook while they murmured amongst themselves.

He was unconscious, but he didn't look the least bit relaxed. His breaths were jerky and uneven, and his face contorted with pain every so often. He focused on the mage's face, examining the dark linework that traveled down his nose and chin. He knew he had seen markings like that before, but where?

As if on cue, a memory placed itself at the front of his mind. Spite's doing, not his own. Zara and her Venatori assistants, preparing a torturous experiment of blood magic while he watched helplessly, confined in an arcane hold. He blinked, staring at Rook's marked forehead and connecting it to what Spite was trying to show him.

The sigils that Zara had drawn to amplify the twisted rituals she was performing. They weren't exactly identical, but they were close enough that it was no coincidence. Lucanis thought back to the look in his eyes after he had killed a cultist in front of him. The brutality with which the entire crew had been ripped to pieces.

Venatori. Lucanis felt his hand tighten into a fist. Whatever they had done to Rook, it was likely just as bad as what had happened to him. A light tap on his shoulder tore his attention away from watching the elves work. He turned his head to see Thierin, fixing him with an odd look.

"I'm going to forage some supplies," she said, glancing over at Rook before meeting his eyes again. "Would you care to come with?"

Lucanis didn't feel like it was a question he was in a position to decline, and he was thankful for a chance to escape the curious stares that had started to edge closer to where he was standing. He nodded and turned away from Rook to follow her back towards the woods. A small group of children wandered closer as they passed, all trying to get a better peek at him and look inconspicuous while doing it.

Thierin finally spoke up again once they were away from the sounds of the camp. "You do not know him."

It was a flat statement, nowhere close to a question. Lucanis did his best to not look surprised. "What makes you say that?"

"You look at him with curiosity. Not knowledge," she explained her reasoning, not sparing him a glance as she knelt down to dig up a plant Lucanis actually did recognize. Elfroot. Useful for healing. "Like you have no idea what he is."

"We met this morning," he confessed. She held out the plant by a stem, and he took it. "I know he is a mage from Rivain, but not much else. He hasn't been very talkative since the shipwreck, you see."

She let out a breathy chuckle, picking through the dense brush for something else. "You do all of this for an elf you just met?"

"Technically, I work for him," Lucanis replied thoughtfully. "It would be bad business to let the client die right after accepting their contract."

"There are already whispers around the clan," she said, glancing up at him as she produced another elfroot. "Some of them think he belongs to you."

"What?"

"His face. He has markings that aren't vallaslin. Human ones," she said quietly, standing up and dusting off her knees. "The ones they put on slaves, to be exact."

Was that what they were? Lucanis was too busy gawking to respond. The tattoos on Thierin's face were distinctly different, a twisting pattern that flowed gracefully across her forehead. A mimicry of the beautiful creations of nature. Rook's bloody Fade sigils certainly stood out, and of course they would have been a buzzing topic as soon as enough of the Dalish elves got a glimpse of him.

That, and the outlandish way he was dressed. More gold than clothing, and freckle-dusted brown skin exposed everywhere you looked. Rivaini fashion wasn't uncommon to see in Treviso, especially when the Lords and the Crows struck an alliance and shiny, gilded mariners began to visit the city more often. In the chilly and chantry-devout South, though, he was probably a shocking sight.

"People talk," Thierin shrugged, turning to move further into the wood. "It's what they do."

"It would be easier if they didn't," he groaned, tucking the next few plants she handed him into a bundle with the others.

"It shouldn't matter to you, anyway," she said with a sigh. "It's not like you're staying here, and I don't think the Keeper would welcome him."

"Why not?"

"He is a mage. Our clan has just enough, any more and someone has to move away. Likely to a Circle," she explained. "He also looks Dalish, but has shem branding where vallaslin should be. That, and he is dishonest."

"What?" Lucanis nearly dropped the next thing she handed him: a handful of dark flowers. "What do you mean?"

"The scars on his body. He has altered it to be what he is now." She said the next words with distaste. "Defiance of Ghilan'nain's creation. It is a sign of dishonesty, and could mean dishonesty in deeper matters. He simply wouldn't be trusted."

Lucanis felt his face heat up. That wasn't really any of her business, or the rest of her clan. She was supposed to be helping, not telling him things he wasn't even supposed to know. Or complaining about a body that belonged to someone else.

"That's not— What? No," Lucanis shook his head, taking care not to accidentally crush the herbs he was holding onto. "That has nothing to do with anything. If he is a dishonest person, it is because he's a thieving pirate, not because he is— because he hasn't got any— Mierda—"

He let out an exasperated groan, not even sure of the words to use to prevent the situation from becoming any worse. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, trying to calm his irritation. "It shouldn't matter to you, anyway. Like you said."

"I… I suppose that's fair," she said with a shrug. "Anyway, he's got nothing on him from any kind of Circle, so I'd guess he's an apostate, too."

"Maybe he lost it," Lucanis suggested. "We did get thrown into the sea. I have no idea what happened to him before that."

She shrugged again, dismissing him as she headed back the way they came. Lucanis hoped she was at least wrong about that one. He knew there was a Circle in Rivain, but the likelihood that the kind of magic he was using had been taught there was painfully low. If anything, the aftermath was oddly similar to the magic that the Heirs taught the young Crow mages.

Thierin, thankfully, ended her barrage of questions and judgements for the remainder of their walk back. She took the herbs from him when they arrived, and shooed him away while she organized them. Finding nothing better to do than standing around and getting stared at, he made his way back over to where Rook still was. One of the healers stepped close to him, clutching a small alchemy satchel in her hands.

"You are…?" She hesitated, looking him over. She had nearly identical tattoos to Thierin's. "You brought him?"

"Lucanis," he introduced politely. He nodded towards Rook, who looked much less distressed than he did before. "He's my friend."

"Cora," she answered, with a slightly friendlier smile.

"How is he doing?" Lucanis moved closer to the little wooden cot. He didn't look like he was still on the verge of death.

"He Dreams in the Fade," she answered, sounding fascinated. "He is not with his body. I expect he will wake, though."

"Oh," he said simply, not sure of exactly what that meant. Mages did that, right? That was probably normal. "I see."

"Does he normally do that?"

"I… Think so," he responded blankly. They didn't really need to know he was technically a stranger. As it stood, he didn't plan to let Rook out of his sight, and that included being asked to leave the Dalish camp for not actually being needed.

"There is an empty shelter, if you'd like to move him," she offered, gesturing to a large tent nearby. "Perhaps he might prefer waking up to something quiet, first."

"Right. Thank you." Lucanis nodded, then bent down to scoop him up. His skin was still cold, and the gold clinging to him was even moreso. He quickly carried him over to the tent, not wanting to be manhandling the poor elf any more than he needed to.

"You are going to freeze to death before we make it out of this forest," he sighed, kneeling down to set him on the tent floor. He glanced around at the modest inventory of the tent and found a small blanket, made of some kind of wool. Lucanis draped it over him before settling against a pile of firewood on the other side. "It would also be very helpful if you were conscious."

Chapter Text

Is it…

Over?

Dami flexed his fingers, feeling cold stone underneath his hands. He took in a deep breath and the familiar cling of magic held onto every molecule of air.

Nope.

He drew himself up to his knees, taking in the shimmery ruins surrounding him. Wherever he was in the Fade, it wasn't where he usually went when he was asleep. Still, it felt strangely familiar. Like he had been there once before.

He combed his memory, trying to remember just how he got here. He had been running. From Kirkwall. Trying to find a way back home without any direction. A ship… A ship?

The Venatori. Dami gasped, remembering being cornered on the ship. Fighting his way through. A human. One who didn't belong there, either. Sharp pains running through his body. Water. A lot of water.

Oh, shit. He needed to wake up.

"Okay," he breathed, a shiver running through him when he heard the distant cry of a wolf. "The Fade. No problem, you've been here before. Just… Wake up."

Nothing. He groaned and paced, looking for any kind of path. Each direction seemed to end in a steep drop into nothingness. He crouched down, covering his ears against the sounds of the Fade. The sounds of the wolf.

"Come on," he muttered. The howling picked up, echoing on the wind. "Wake up, wake up, wake up—"

"Precisely how much experience do you have, exactly, bringing yourself from deep dreaming to an awake state?"

Dami's head snapped up and he froze. An elf stood some distance away, watching him with sharp violet eyes. He was pale and hairless, with striking features.

"Leave me alone," he said firmly, quelling the tremble that threatened his voice. He closed his eyes, going back to willing himself awake.

"It's not going to work," the elf said, sounding bored and annoyed. "You have been struck with Lyrium."

"I'm not listening to you."

"You're dying."

"If I am, it's your fault," he hissed, pressing his palms tighter against his ears. He was pretty sure he liked the nightmare better when it was the wolf itself hunting him down. "All of this is your fault."

"From where I've been observing, I would venture to say that it is actually yours," he retorted. Dami could hear a step echo against the stone and he turned away. Stay over there. "You know who I am."

He shouldn't respond. Shouldn't engage with this entity whatsoever. He should just keep his eyes closed and ignore the spirit until he woke up and it went away. Instead, he dropped his hands, lowering them to the ground beneath him and opening his eyes.

"Fen'Harel."

"For a Dreamer, you have atrocious training," he sighed, striding close enough now to lean down and scrutinize him.

"I don't have any training," he snapped, glaring up into the man's eyes. He opened his mouth, but Fen'Harel cut him off.

"I suppose you're about to imply that's somehow my fault, as well?"

"It might as well be," Dami answered, staggering to his feet to face the Dread Wolf. He was easily a head taller, and looked amused by the gesture. "You're the one who started all this, yeah? That's what Varric told me. Before you dropped a dragon on him, anyway."

"The blighted dragons are beyond my control."

"Bullshit," Dami spat, glaring up at the smug elf. "You've been running around for millennia, calling yourself a god, and you've come to tell me that you can't control any of this?"

"I never claimed to be a god," he answered with a simple shrug. "The Evanuris granted themselves that title. I was named by those who opposed me."

"Riiight. And one of your own agents dropping your name when he tried to kill me?"

"You have my dagger," Fen'Harel replied, staring down his straight nose with displeasure. "It is natural that I should want to reclaim my possessions from a petty thief."

"So you can tear the Veil down with it?" Dami demanded. "Drown the world in demons to fix the problem you started?"

"My plans are beyond both your concern, and your understanding," he said, producing a lifelike mimicry of the Lyrium dagger. He held it dangerously close to Dami's face. "You are nothing more than a child, meddling with forces you have no hope to control."

"You don't know anything about me," Dami argued. The dagger touched his jaw, cold against his skin. "And you can't hurt me in here. This is my own dream."

"Your confidence is astounding," Fen'Harel answered, flicking his wrist. Dami felt a sharp pain slash across his cheek. He gasped and retreated a step, but the Dread Wolf followed in time. "It is you who knows nothing, Dami'Vallas. You, who sheds enough blood everywhere he goes for the Dread Wolf to have more than enough to slip into your dreams. What I can control, 'Rook', is this. You feel whatever I want you to."

Dami clutched his cheek, staring in shock. A few drops of blood hit the crumbling stone beneath him. Was that real? His back connected with a pillar, halting his movement as Fen'Harel invaded his space.

"So, what?" he said carefully, eyes trained on the tip of the dagger. "You're just going to keep coming back here? Giving me nightmares until I give up? What do you want?"

"To finish what I started. With my dagger."

"Ah, sorry— You'll have to pick something else. I lost it."

"You are not a good liar."

"I disagree—" Dami's voice stopped when the tip of the dagger aligned with the center of his throat. He was pretty sure he couldn't kill him here, but he could definitely cause him a lot of pain.

"You talk far too much," Fen'Harel snarled. Dami swallowed carefully.

"Yeah," he croaked. There was a beat of silence, before Fen'Harel withdrew. Dami sagged against the column.

"Because of your actions, I lack the ability to stop Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain from breaking free of their imprisonment," he said disdainfully. "Since you were so determined to stop me, I am sure you can handle that problem."

"How am I supposed to do that if I'm dying from Lyrium poisoning?" Dami demanded, throwing his hands up. "You said I was dying, right?"

He paused for a long moment, considering the question.

"I suppose your one useful skill seems to be the ability to make friends."

"What does that even mean?" Fen'Harel didn't answer, so he scoffed. "If you're not going to help me, are you at least going to stop eating rabbits and halla in my nightmares?"

He felt something tug at his back, and the shimmer around him brightened to near-blinding. Fen'Harel broke into a wicked grin as he was swept out of the Fade.

"Perhaps."

Chapter Text

A rustle of movement caught Lucanis's attention, just as he was beginning to accidentally drift off to sleep. He shook himself awake. He couldn't sleep here. He couldn't let Spite just wander around a bunch of Dalish strangers, in his body. He rubbed his eyes and looked over to the hide that Rook had been sprawled out on, shifting in his sleep every so often.

He let out a breathy groan, stirring more than he had before. Lucanis watched him move, gingerly brushing fingers against the bandages wrapping his bare chest. Then, he raised his left hand above his face, lazily looking over the same bandages, wound and cinched tightly from his palm to his elbow. Another groan came, this one sounding more exhausted than pained, and he dropped his arm back to the tent floor.

Lucanis planned to let him come to on his own and not startle him, but Spite darted across the small space with plans of his own. Lucanis reached out, just missing the demon as his fist closed.

"Spite—" he hissed. Too late.

Rook.

Lucanis heard an intake of breath, and Rook slung his less-bandaged arm over his eyes. "Mm. Hi, Spite. Oh—"

He sat up slowly, as if he had just remembered that the demon was actually attached to something, easily finding where Lucanis was sitting on the floor. Lucanis held up a hand, tilting it in a small wave.

"You are awake," he said. "I was starting to think you might starve to death, first."

"That's… Still entirely a possibility," Rook said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "Lu… Lucanis, right?"

"That is correct." Lucanis nodded, doing his best to not feel a little disappointed that he had an easier time remembering Spite. Rook chuckled in disbelief.

"Wow." He propped himself up on his elbows and cocked his head to the side. "I'm surprised you didn't leave me there on the beach. I would have left me there."

"Would you have left me there?" Lucanis questioned, raising an eyebrow. Rook's face twisted in thought for a moment, then he sighed heavily.

"No. Probably not," he admitted. "You seem nice. I'd feel bad."

Rook. Pulled. Us. Out.

"Oh, right," Rook said with a nod. His choppy hair bobbed around his face with the movement. He jabbed a finger at Lucanis. "You sink like a rock, did you know that? Who taught you how to swim?"

Lucanis remembered, now. Hitting the icy water with a gasp. His body locking up with shock as the sea slipped right into his mouth. Things going dark very quickly.

So, that was how he ended up on the shore.

"No one did," he defended, folding his arms tightly. "It was more useful to learn not to fall into the water in the first place."

Rook rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, wonderful. You're a drowning risk."

"Me?" Lucanis shoved himself to his feet, trying to keep his voice even. "What about you? What kind of Circle lets a mage run around blowing things up and conjuring lightning storms?"

"I…" Rook froze in the middle of struggling upright, a telling look of panic on his face. "Well. You see— I don't exactly— Well, I'm not, uh—"

"Mierda," Lucanis sighed, rubbing at his temple. Thierin had been correct. "You are an apostate."

"I'd agree with you if I had any idea what that meant," Rook huffed. He slowly stood, with a lot of effort.

"It means you're a magical outlaw," Lucanis explained with some frustration. Rook nodded, not the least bit bothered by the information.

"Among other things," he added thoughtfully. "I'm Rivaini. The Lords practically raised me, I don't see why I'd need to have anything to do with the Chantry."

"Rivain has a Circle," Lucanis pointed out.

"Maybe in Dairsmuid," he challenged, spreading his arms out with a slight wince. "Do I look like I'm from the city?"

"Not really." He looked more like a wet, angry cat than anything else, Lucanis decided. He was reminded of the ragged little black kitten that hung around outside the villa, hissing and seething at anyone that wasn't himself or Caterina and glaring with bright golden eyes. Caterina never let him bring it inside.

"I don't know the first thing about humans and their Templars and their gods," he spat, settling his hands on his hips and spinning himself into a rant Lucanis felt was directed at someone else entirely. "Or the South. Or whatever bullshit the Venatori are up to and why they're absolutely bloody everywhere. I have no idea what I'm doing and I saved your life and dumped half the gold I have on you because I thought you could help. Not call me a criminal, and drag me off to… To... Where even are we?"

He settled down, peering around the tent curiously. Lucanis was reeling from the sudden outburst, but Rook seemed like he was finished. For now, anyway. He had a short fuse, but it burnt out very quickly. Or, he was simply too exhausted to put up any more of a fight than that.

"A Dalish camp," Lucanis said softly, relaxing his posture and hoping the mage would do the same. He felt a slight relief when he actually did. "I think they were going to kill me, actually, before I told them I had an injured elf with me."

"Ah," Rook said, his voice much quieter. He glanced up, meeting Lucanis's eyes. "Thanks, uh. For that. Most people I've met lately have been a lot more interested in doing me in immediately."

"I can't say I blame them," Lucanis teased, smirking down at him. "You are a very annoying little man."

"I'm not a man," Rook laughed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a finger. Lucanis blinked, frozen in place. He felt heat flare across his whole face.

"Oh. I… I thought—"

"Before you ask, no. Not that one, either," he clarified, nudging him in the arm with another chuckle. "I just like how 'he' sounds. Rolls off really nicely."

"I see." Lucanis nodded knowingly. "There are more than a few Crows who swap their identities. And some who are just… Neither. It is not uncommon."

"Great. Saves me a headache's worth of explaining myself, then," Rook sighed, looking relieved, before he turned towards the tent's closed flap. "Come on. I wanna see if they've got food. And like gold."

"I hope you're also planning to see if they have clothes," Lucanis remarked, following him back out into the camp. "Unless you would prefer to freeze to death."

"Don't tell me you're already complaining about the view," Rook joked, turning to flash him a sharp-toothed grin over his bare shoulder.

"Do not put words in my mouth," Lucanis replied, earning him a loud laugh that turned several disapproving heads in their direction. Rook offered them an apologetic gesture with clasped hands and kept walking.

"Seriously," Lucanis spoke again, following him through the grove. "You cannot possibly be comfortable."

"I'm not," Rook admitted, smiling back at an elf that greeted him in passing. "I'm absolutely fucking freezing. I'm just trying to act normal about it."

"You are ridiculous," Lucanis sighed, rolling his eyes as Rook bent down to speak to the same group of children as before. He held out a hand and let a few vivid blue sparks fly from his fingertips, laughing brightly when they all exclaimed in wonder.

"I've been called worse," he said, elbowing him as he straightened back up.

"You shouldn't be doing that openly," he scolded. Rook ignored him, turning to flatten a palm onto a handmade table and smile warmly at the elven woman behind it.

"Aneth ara, lethallan," he said, putting an overt friendliness into his voice that sounded markedly fake to Lucanis's ears. He chatted with the woman in Elvish for a few moments, listing a handful of items every so often. When he was finished, he dropped an assortment of coins and jewels from one of his satchels before turning away. "Ma serannas."

"Dareth shiral, da'len."

"They really don't like you," Rook said, trotting back the way they had come. He shifted, holding a bundle of leather and fabric precariously in his arms.

"I gathered."

"We probably shouldn't stay long," he said, gazing at another elf's tattoos and fixing him with another friendly fake-smile. "Don't have the best feeling, here."

"Your call," Lucanis replied, falling into step closely enough to lower his voice. "You are the one who talks to spirits and walks around in the Fade."

"And, you already know far too much about me," he sighed, ducking back into the tent. He hesitated, catching his eye while holding up the bundle of clothing. "Not that I'm gonna argue, but… Do you plan to stand there the whole time?"

"What—? Oh—" Lucanis flushed and turned, hurrying for the opening. "Apologies."

His cheeks only flushed deeper at the sound of quiet snickering from behind him. He stood just outside the tent, staring at the dwindling daylight in the sky. He was never going to make it back to Treviso. This elf was absolutely going to be the death of him.

He counted backwards, resting his eyelids closed until he heard no more movement in the tent behind him. He reentered, startled by a sharp cry.

"Ahh! I wasn't ready!"

"Sorry—" Lucanis froze, scowling when he saw that Rook was fully clothed, mouth open in a silent laugh. He folded his arms, unimpressed. "I like you better when you're asleep."

"Most people do," Rook laughed, raking his fingers through a layered mess of tangles. A glint of brilliant gold and turquoise stood out against the other rings on his fingers.

That was a ring he had only seen twice before, in his life. An elaborate kraken, with turquoise eyes that was intentionally crafted, smithed with precision and only given to the top-ranking Lords of Fortune. Their captains. Lucanis managed to keep his face free of surprise and searched his mind for the names of important Lords.

The Crows knew who all the captains were. At least their buccaneering names, if they were the lesser-seen ones who never visited Treviso. Rook, however, wasn't one of them. He knew that much. The Pirate Queen was easy enough to rule out. He had met Isabela, when she first came to pitch an allyship to Caterina. She was a human woman, and definitely not a mage. Bharv was an odd name that didn't sound remotely elven, so he cast that one aside as well. Besides, that man's reputation was dirtier than the rest of the Queen's whole fleet combined.

That only left just a few others, then.

The Keeper stopped Rook as they exited the tent again.

"Andaran atish'an, da'len," the elder greeted, not even looking towards Lucanis. "You are looking well."

"Ma serannas, hahren," Rook said politely, looking slightly past the man. "My friend and I appreciate the help. I'm afraid we do have to be on our way, though."

"That is preferable," the Keeper answered. "Are you from the alienage? I am happy to give you directions back to Denerim."

Rook raised an eyebrow, but didn't otherwise react. He hesitated for a slight moment, glancing at Lucanis, before answering. "Yes."

He listened carefully while the man rattled off directions through the forest, describing a day's trip to the north. Rook nodded, then took a step away from the man.

"Thanks," he answered with a dismissive wave. He ignored the way the elder's mouth twisted in displeasure at the harsh sounds of Trade replacing the flourishing Elvish he had been slipping into moments before. "Just going to buy some supplies from your merchants and we'll be on our way."

"Dareth shir'al." The Keeper shot Lucanis a sour look before slinking away.

"Banal nadas," Rook muttered, as soon as he was out of earshot. He turned to another stall, rattling off various words Lucanis had never heard before while pointing out several items. The man stuffed an assortment of supplies into two packs, thanking him profusely when he paid again.

Rook's expression was less-than-enthusiastic when he turned, slinging one pack over his shoulder and dropping the other one into Lucanis's arms. He picked up two steaming buns from another stall, thrusting one at Lucanis before hurrying towards a trail. It smelled like spices, and some kind of meat.

"Sooo," Rook held the sound like a note, leaning backwards to look at him. "Denerim, then?"

Lucanis nodded, eyes fixed on the sheet of freckles across his face. He ducked his head, pretending to examine the food, instead.

"Denerim."

Chapter Text

"What's an alienage?" Dami asked, unable to hold the question in any longer. He bit into the fried bread, staring at Lucanis while they walked.

"What?" Lucanis raised his eyebrows. "You didn't know?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking," he insisted, elbowing him in the side.

"Good point."

"So…?" Dami stuffed another bit of the roll into his mouth, prodding at him again. "You know what it is, right?"

"It's…" Lucanis sighed, shaking his head as he lifted his food back to his face. Dami couldn't help the way his eyes lingered on the assassin's arms. They were huge. "It feels wrong to be explaining this to an elf."

"That bad, huh?"

"The Alienage is where the city makes elves live," Lucanis said, sounding like he was picking his words delicately. "It is… Not nice. A lot of very poor elves living in a very small space, with not enough to go around for any of them."

"Oh," Dami said quietly, gazing down at his boots. Yeah, that was pretty bad.

"You're not from any city at all, are you?" Lucanis asked, giving him what passed for a sympathetic look. Dami shook his head.

"No. I've mostly been at sea, or in the Hall of Valor. Whenever I was on land, it was just the beach. Or the forest." He poked at the bits of meat inside of the breading, mulling over just how careful he should be with his words. "I've been to Treviso, a few times. And Kirkwall, with… With my uncle."

He decided to omit Varric's name from his recounting, sure that it was a little too recognizable. The less Lucanis knew, the better. Especially if the Venatori actually caught up to them. Dami still didn't know what they wanted him for, but he knew it wasn't going to be anything good if they were sending entire fleets to Rivain to find him. He thought of the twelve —eleven —other elves, trying to work out just where Denerim actually was on a map. Did the others know? Was Isabela the only one that was tipped off?

Could he even find any of the others to warn them what was coming? Varric and Merrill had done a pretty good job scattering all thirteen of them and covering up the evidence.

Until now, anyway. If the Venatori and the Dread Wolf had caught something on the wind then, surely, he could dig something up. Hopefully, before any more of them started hearing whispers from gods that told them to stab each other to death.

Fen'Harel guides my hand.

"Treviso? I haven't seen you before."

Shit. Dami grimaced as he wiped his now-empty hands off on the smooth trousers he had put on. Some sort of soft, tanned hide. Halla, maybe.

"Y-yeah… It was supposed to be a secret," he chuckled sheepishly, flicking his right wrist into an arcane flourish near where his dagger hung. A round, crackling orb brought itself to life in his palm. He held it up, showing it to Lucanis. "The Heirs train in the same kind of magic I've got. My folks thought it would be a better idea to send me off to them, instead."

"Crow training isn't exactly kind," Lucanis remarked, fixing him with a serious look over the focus. Dami's lips tightened into a frown. He shook the orb away, cracking his knuckles as residual arcs skittered between his fingers. Lucanis watched them silently until they went away.

"No," Dami confirmed quietly. Lucanis didn't say anything else on the matter, though. It seemed like whatever question he had, had been answered for him.

"Are neither of your parents mages?"

"Do you always ask so many personal questions?" Dami blurted. He sensed Lucanis's step faltering for a moment, and he deflated. "I— Sorry. I'm not… Trying to be rude."

"You don't trust me," Lucanis offered. Dami returned an apologetic smile.

"Not really," he admitted. "There's not much stopping you from killing me, besides a parchment-thin treaty neither of us wrote and my own irresistible-yet-limited charm."

Lucanis chuckled and shook his head.

"It is understandable. No offense, but you are also a dangerous, armed apostate. One who is, despite his best attempts to be subtle, very obviously not where he is supposed to be."

Dami's nose wrinkled. "You're perceptive. I hate that."

Lucanis let out another dry laugh. Dami smirked at him, before continuing. "Besides all that, the less questions you can answer correctly about me when the Venatori catch up to us, the better."

"Fewer," Lucanis corrected, before finishing his food. Dami stared at him blankly, then trudged ahead with a scowl.

"Fuck off."

He ignored the satisfied chuckle he heard behind him, marching faster in hopes that the human would end up stumbling in the dense underbrush. Lucanis, however, easily caught up to him.

"You should probably go easy on your injuries," Lucanis suggested.

"I'm fine," he retorted. He sighed and slowed his momentum anyway, giving up on outpacing someone who was a bit taller and much stockier than him. He was thankful he actually wasn't running from the man, because he was pretty sure he wouldn't make it very far.

"So," Lucanis started, after a long silence. Dami held in a groan. Was this what it was like being around him? Sorry, Varric. Lucanis smiled and held up his hands. "No identifying questions the cultists can use against you… How long have you been a mage?"

Dami let out a long breath. Fine. It was either get to know each other in some capacity, or hike around in complete silence indefinitely.

Fuck it.

"Let's see," he finally said, trailing off as he counted backwards on his fingers and hoped Lucanis didn't notice the involuntary wince that shifted his shoulders. It had been right before he and his mother were taken. "I think I was… Seven? Maybe eight?"

Lucanis nodded, eyes wide. Dami lowered his hands. "Is that normal?"

"It is unusual," Lucanis answered, carefully picking his way over a fallen tree. Dami hopped on top of it, dropping down into the soft dirt on the other side. "You don't know many other mages, do you?"

"No," he said quietly, watching the trail ahead of them. "Not really. My father is one, I think, but I don't even know his name. My mother didn't really have time to show me anything before…" He shook his head, tossing the thought overboard before he could finish it. "Anyway, one of the people who took me in is a mage, but she's a spirit healer, so she couldn't really help me with the... Y'know, lightning bits. So, I had to go on a lot of trips to Treviso and Arlathan, where there's storm mages."

He flexed his fingers, trying to work some warmth into them. The cloak wrapping around his body felt heavy and restricted his movement, and the sleeves underneath only made it worse. He felt trapped.

"Ever see any wyverns while you were out marauding?"

"Mm-mm." Dami shook his head, bringing his hands to his mouth and breathing on them. "I don't think they can fly well enough to go out to sea. There's none in Rivain, Kataranda would probably scare them off."

"Is that a dragon?"

"The Stormrider," Dami confirmed with a short nod. "Lightning dragon. Fabs was on a crew once that pissed it off. Pretty sure half of them got turned into beach glass."

"Gruesome," Lucanis commented, sounding intrigued.

"That's why you don't steal from a dragon that's still alive," Dami pointed out. He chattered on, deciding talking about the Lords was a safe enough topic.

By the time they reached a decent spot to make camp, he was worn out, but not feeling as wound up as he had in the Dalish camp. Still, he couldn't shake the way the stares from the other elves had unsettled him, with each of them sporting the vallaslin of Ghilan'nain.

As much as he didn't want Fen'Harel to be right, something was going on. And it seemed like every elf in Thedas except for him, was in on it. He busied his thoughts by rattling off seafaring stories, embellishing here and there just to make the Lords look a little bit more impressive. Lucanis seemed content with that, and didn't make any move to stop him from talking at any point. It was kind of nice, actually. Most people would have looked for a shallow stream to drown him in, by now.

"So, what do we do after we get to Denerim?" he asked, picking out a spot for a fire and wearing down the dirt with a boot. Lucanis stopped, hand inside of his pack, staring blankly.

"You mean don't have a plan?"

"Well, I didn't exactly plan much farther than getting out of the wilderness and into something that sounds like a city," Dami argued, keeping his eyes on the ground as he snatched up a few large rocks.

"Denerim is a city, yes." Lucanis went back to digging out supplies.

"Don't patronize me," he grumbled, arranging the rocks in a circle while Lucanis looked for a flat spot to roll out a little bit of bedding.

"Have you even been inside of a school?"

"What'd I just say?" Dami hissed, throwing his hands up over the empty ring he was making. Lucanis held his own hands up in defense, smiling politely. He went back to fixing the stones with a scowl. "The answer's no, if you must know. And, I taught myself how to read. Trade and Elvish, thank you very much."

"Impressive." Lucanis was smirking, now.

"I'm not an idiot," he defended, standing up and brushing the dirt from his knees. "I just… Don't know about a whole lot of things. Just like a whole bunch of other people don't know anything about sailing. Or treasure hunting. Or cultural artifacts."

"All right," Lucanis chuckled, attempting a calming gesture. "I get it."

"I read a lot of books," he added, immediately feeling even stupider for having said it. Lucanis laughed, this time.

"All right, Rook. I'm sorry," he said, exasperated, stooping to pick up a few loose branches by his feet. He handed them over, leaning in close to say his next few words carefully, right next to his ear. "After all, you would have to be a very capable person to be wearing that captain's ring, right?"

Dami froze, hands half-gripping the bundle of kindling so that a few of them loosed themselves and clattered to the ground. He swallowed a dry lump in his throat, trying not to look down at his hand. Lucanis stepped back, a perfectly innocent look on his face.

So much for laying low.

"Point in your favor, I suppose," he sighed, dropping the rest of the bundle and crouching down to arrange them properly. He didn't look up to meet the man's eyes. "Yeah. I guess I should have thought about that, huh? I don't think I'm very good at stealth."

Lucanis laughed softly above him. "You don't have to tell me if you really don't want to. I just thought you should know that you're very bad at hiding in plain sight."

"Among other things," he said in long notes, scowling when the kindling toppled over. Lucanis knelt down on the other side of the stones, reaching out and rearranging it. "Thanks."

"No problem," Lucanis returned, polite as ever. Dami wafted his hands, gesturing for him to move back. He did, settling back on his heels curiously to watch whatever it was he was going to do.

Which was hopefully something, with whatever he still actually had the energy to pull. He was tired. They had been walking for hours.

He closed his eyes, shutting off the intense stare and the darkening clearing around them. He relaxed as much as he could, pain still rolling across his legs and shoulders as he murmured to himself. Lucanis, thankfully, stayed perfectly quiet and still. There were some perks to having an assassin around, instead of a ship full of rowdy pirates, it turned out. Focus came much more easily.

He reached for the Fade and felt the warmth reach the tips of his fingers. Not a lot, but he wasn't trying to burn up a whole galley. Just a little touch, this time. He tried to make it work its way through the air slowly, safe and unstartling, if not to prove a point than anything else, but it was no use.

The fire left his fingertips the same way any other spell did. A crackling burst that zipped right into its target and consumed it quickly. Destructive. Lucanis let out a soft, "Oh!" and sprang to his feet, quickly moving to find more wood before the whole pile could burn itself up.

"I, uh," Dami started, staring at his hands as Lucanis returned with something closer to actual firewood. "Sorry. It's not easy to get the other kinds down. It's always sort of…" He trailed off, miming bolts of lightning with his fingers.

"Violent?" Lucanis finished for him. He half-shrugged.

"Maybe," he answered, flicking his fingers over the tip of the fire. "Mateo says even when I try healing magic, it's painful. Like rubbing sand on it."

"Weird." Lucanis sat down, his face visible across the fire. Dami thought it lit up his skin nicely. "You know I have no idea who any of those people are, right?"

"That's fine," he said, reclining back on his hands. "It's just, easier to talk without stopping to explain every little thing. You don't even care who they all are to me, anyway."

Lucanis shrugged. "What does he do with the Lords?"

"Who?"

"Mateo. The one you just mentioned."

"Oh." Dami blinked. "Well, he mostly stays at the Hall. Buys whatever doesn't go into the archive or back to its home country, sells whatever he finds or doesn't want anymore. He goes out himself sometimes, but it's been a while. We've been friends since we were younger."

Lucanis nodded thoughtfully. Dami frowned and sat back up. "You know, you don't actually have to be stuck with me. I'm not bleeding to death, and killing a bunch of Venatori doesn't have to include wandering around while I try to figure out where the fuck I am."

"You did offer to help me get back home," Lucanis answered, holding his palms near the fire. "You could have let me drown, just as easily, and no one would have even known."

"Why would I do that?" Dami asked, his voice a little louder than he intended. Lucanis chuckled, as if there was some kind of joke only meant for himself. He didn't answer.

"I don't think it's a bad idea. It is a lot more fun than being stuck out here alone," he said. Dami felt heat prickle the tops of his ears. Fun. He thought he was fun. "Besides, you are not even close to the most annoying mage I've ever met. I could think of a few dozen Venatori that are much worse. And one Crow that I probably would have smothered to death by now, and told Viago it was an accident."

Dami didn't tell him he actually knew that name. And, could guess exactly which Crow he was talking about. Lucanis should have suspected it, but he was pretty sure he had already forgotten that he recognized his name on the ship.

Near death experiences sure made time slow to a crawl and blur into one big mess all at the same time. Dami flopped over onto his bedding, closing his eyes and steeling himself for whatever horrors Fen'Harel was going to send him tonight.

"Good enough for me," he sighed. From the other side of the fire, Lucanis didn't move. "See you in the morning, then."

"Good night."

Chapter Text

Rook let out a long, amazed sound when they finally arrived in Denerim. He stood on his toes, craning his neck to look in every direction. Lucanis glanced back and forth, frowning at the discontented stares the two of them were already collecting. He walked forward towards a large downhill slope, taking a hold of Rook and pivoting him to his side while he pulled him along.

"Stay close to me," he hissed, not releasing his grip on Rook's narrow shoulder.

"Have you been here before?" Rook's eyes widened at a huge towering fort, with a spire jutting up into the sky.

"No."

"Oh—" Rook made to pull away towards a market stall, where a human woman was already looking at him like he was an approaching wild dog. Lucanis tugged him back on course, picking up his pace.

"Rook," he warned, opening his mouth to say something about not running up to angry-looking Southern humans, when he felt him shrink into his side.

He felt like a little fire, radiating a welcome heat in the cold breeze. A little nudge of wonder came, of what it might feel like if he wrapped both arms around the bundle of warmth and gave him a squeeze. He banished that thought as quickly as it came, straightening up and clearing his throat into his free hand. He shot a glare at Spite, who grinned and shrugged innocently. Rook didn't notice. His eyes were wide and fixed on something in the distance.

"Templars," he whispered, his shoulders bristling. Lucanis followed his gaze to a man in heavy plate armor, sporting the sunburst of the Chantry in as many places as it could fit.

"Then act normal," Lucanis muttered back, shaking him a little. "You're not an apostate, and I'm not an abomination. Just keep walking."

Rook. Is. Afraid.

"Not helping, Spite," Lucanis whispered. He changed his grip, smoothing out the cloak over Rook's opposite shoulder. "Just two perfectly normal travelers who have no reason at all to be arrested."

"I don't think we're gonna pass as normal, Lucanis," Rook murmured, catching the glare of a man who was practically snarling at him.

Lucanis grimaced and reached back, grabbing hold of the cowl attached to Rook's cloak. He tugged it over his head, covering up his ears and partially obscuring his eyes. It wouldn't hide his bowed elven limbs, or his diminutive build, but maybe it would keep people from looking twice. Most of them were only looking for pointed ears. Probably.

"I can't see where I'm going," he complained.

"You don't need to," Lucanis growled, marching him past the Templar and away from the market. "Do not whine about it. You wanted to come here. I thought it was a bad idea."

"Isabela said they hated elves in Ferelden, but… Shit," Rook said with a slight shudder. Lucanis glanced at him, surprised at how casually he had referred to the Queen of Pirates. "How was I supposed to know it was this bad? Anyway, there's probably a harbor here."

"You want me to get back on a boat?" Lucanis questioned, spotting an inn and steering him towards it. "After the day we just had?"

"Would you rather swim across the water back to the North?" Rook challenged, peeking up at him from under the cowl with a smirk. "Your impression of a sinking boulder is amazing."

"Be quiet." Lucanis practically dragged him to the counter, where a human man was wearing tattered leathers and picking at his nails with a knife. He stepped up, putting as much of himself in front of Rook as he could. He wasn't exactly a large man by any means, but he at least towered over Thedas's smallest elf. He smiled at the greasy little man behind the desk. "Hello."

"Nope." Was all the man gave in response. He barely even glanced up.

"I… Beg your pardon?"

"No space."

Lucanis leaned to the side, counting just how many keys hung on the wall behind him. Nearly all of them, if he estimated correctly. He looked at the man, who was already back to his crude task.

"You are sure you do not have even a single room?" Lucanis pried, leaning forward onto the counter and nodding towards the keys.

"Nope." He made the short sound again, raising a hand and flicking a wrist without looking up. Lucanis felt movement in the corners of the room, drawing close. "And take that ragged little knife-ear back where you found it, before there's trouble."

He felt Rook flinch behind him. Lucanis stepped back to his side, just as two much larger men moved within reach. He held his hands up, offering a smile with nothing polite behind it. They stopped their advance.

"Of course," he said smoothly. "My apologies."

Rook looked up, his lips parting like he was about to say something. Lucanis hooked a hand under his arm and retreated, causing him to stumble off after him.

"Come on, Rook," he grumbled, not releasing his arm until they were back outside. He glanced at him, stopping when he noticed two golden eyes glaring into the dirt path beneath their feet. "You all right?"

Rook didn't respond. He just chewed on his lip and nodded, still staring daggers at the ground. Lucanis sighed and took hold of his shoulder again, much less firmly this time.

"If we weren't trying to lay low, I would have probably killed him for that," Lucanis remarked, feeling a smirk tug at his lips when a chuckle broke Rook's silence. "If that helps."

"A little," Rook said softly, falling back into step with him. "So, no boat, then."

Lucanis let out a surprised sound, nearly stumbling over a loose rock in the path. "You're actually listening to me?"

Rook's shoulder shrugged up and down under his hand. "I won't lie, it's gonna be a problem. But there is another way."

Lucanis spotted another inn, and had to push into Rook's shoulder to propel him towards it. "Is it better than a boat?"

"Depends on how you feel about the Fade," he answered noncommittally. Lucanis didn't have time to question it, because Rook was being jerked from his grasp with a sharp yelp as soon as they crossed the threshold.

Lucanis spun, facing a muscular guard who had tugged Rook's hood down and latched a meaty hand onto the back of his neck. Rook scrabbled at fingers that nearly encircled his entire throat, squirming in his grip and shooting a panicked look at Lucanis.

"This belong to you?" the man grunted, squeezing firmly. Rook stilled, then let out a pained noise when the man reached down with his opposite hand and pinched one of his pierced ears harshly.

Lucanis glanced around, frowning at the patrons who had all very deliberately busied themselves with something else. His eyes returned to the man, and Rook's glassy look of terror. Lucanis felt his skin prickle, an almost-itch. He caught Rook's wide stare and shook his head subtly, just once. Rook grimaced, but closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Lucanis felt the scratching feeling back off, just a little.

Lucanis fixed the man with a smile and a shrug, trying to will Rook to remain calm and not make any kind of magical scene. A panicked mage was one of the most dangerous things anyone could be around, and if Rook lost control in here, it would be over for both of them.

"Yes," he answered, ignoring the smoldering glare that had rapidly replaced Rook's fearfully blank stare. "He is untrained. I apologize for any—"

"Slaves aren't allowed in this district, Antivan," the man growled, shaking Rook forcefully. Lucanis winced, feeling a crackle in the air that wasn't supposed to be there. "We don't got rabbit cages here."

"I was unaware," Lucanis replied, with a formal little bow for good measure. "If you would be so kind as to return that to me, I will be on my way."

The man toyed with Rook's neck for a moment longer, and Lucanis considered flashing a dagger to move the matter along. He finally released Rook, however, who stumbled forward with a raw cough. The man looked at him expectantly. Lucanis held his breath, hoping Rook would accept an apology later.

"Let's go," Lucanis said sternly, gathering up a handful of his cloak and yanking him towards the door. Rook let out a surprised grunt and stumbled as he was dragged back towards the door. "And don't speak a word."

"Keep it outside or take it behind the walls!" another unfriendly voice called, as Lucanis was nearing the exit. "Filthy fuckin' knife-ear. Bet he takes that thing home and…"

Lucanis yanked the door to the inn shut behind him with enough force to rattle the little windows at the top. The man's vulgar suggestion was cut off, his nasty tone still ringing in Lucanis's ears. He snatched Rook by the elbow again, gripping harder than he meant to as he sped away from the market district.

"Lucanis—"

"Not here," he interrupted, hauling him along a much less occupied path. He hated the South.

"But—"

"Rook, I need you to stop talking," he snapped, walking faster.

"You're gonna break my arm," he said in a quiet, whining tone.

"We need to move, before someone else does something worse," Lucanis hissed, stopping himself in his tracks when the harshness of his own voice met his ears. He let go of him, moving slightly off the path. Luckily, no one was passing through. "I— Look, I didn't know what else to do. I'm—"

"I'm not cross with you," Rook said quickly, wiping at his dirt-streaked face. Lucanis flattened the handmade cloak, straightening out the fabric he had crinkled. A ring of faint bruises was already forming around his neck. "I thought that was actually clever. It's just… I don't know. You're right, we shouldn't have come here."

Rook. Is. Sad?

"I'll be fine, Spite," he dismissed, waving a hand at the empty air. He turned, moving a little down the path. "Where are we going, then?"

"The Alienage," Lucanis answered, nodding towards the approaching walls. Rook grimaced. "I'm safer in there than you are out here, unless you'd like to spend another night in the woods?"

"The woods don't have hot tea, soap, and tavern food," Rook sighed, tugging his cloak tighter around himself.

"Ugh," Lucanis groaned. "Of course it has to be tea."

"I can like more than one thing, Antivan," Rook countered, nudging him as they walked. Lucanis wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, but every time he did that it sent jolts across his skin. It wasn't unpleasant, though. Not like when the Fade started crackling and hissing around him, shooting little needles through him every time. "Don't even try to argue, either. I've met your kind, and I'm not letting go of Rivaini tea as the superior drink."

"It is okay to be wrong," Lucanis said simply. Rook tread on his boot, deliberately passing in front of him as they crossed into a damp alley.

"Ooh, whoops," he called with a devilish smirk. Lucanis jabbed him in the ribs, on the side that wasn't still healing.

"You are lucky we are in public," he muttered. Rook clutched at his side, staggering around a puddle as he snickered.

Lucanis rolled his eyes, yanking open the entrance to the Alienage. He let out a low, quiet whistle at the sight that greeted him. Rook bumped into his side, his laughter stuttering into a sharp gasp.

"Oh," he said quietly. Lucanis pulled the makeshift gate closed behind him, turning back to face the muddied, lampless streets. Elves meandered around slowly, eyes cast downward and tattered, handmade clothing barely keeping them warm.

"Come on," Lucanis murmured, taking Rook by the elbow and heading to what looked like a small row of businesses, stuffed so close together that they seemed to be leaning into each other.

"You look like you're kidnapping me," Rook whispered. Lucanis slowed his pace and dropped Rook's arm, straightening out his own coat for something to do with his hands.

"Sorry," he whispered back.

"I don't mind," Rook clarified, then nodded towards a small gathering. "But people are giving you weird looks."

A woman with Dalish markings across her forehead glanced at Lucanis before muttering something in Elvish and speeding past him, clutching her belongings tightly to her chest.

"What did that mean?" Lucanis questioned, turning back to see where he was going. A single handcrafted lantern hung outside the largest of the pushed-together shelters. Somewhere to actually rest, he hoped.

"Technically, it was a prayer," Rook answered casually, leaning over to drop something into a beggar's plate with a loud clink. He straightened up, giving him a serious look. "One for Falon'Din, the god of death, to take you. With an added 'shemlen filth' for good measure."

"Well, then."

"Not any worse than knife-ear," Rook said with a shrug, spotting the lantern and heading right for it. "I mean, come on, there has to be a more creative one than that."

"You're saying you'd be less insulted if it was funny?" Lucanis questioned. Rook pushed open a rickety door and he felt a wave of relief when it opened to a tavern.

"I'm saying if you're gonna go for it, you might as well be original." Rook pointed out a sign half in Elvish that Lucanis couldn't decipher. "Rooms for rent. Also, they have coffee and tea."

"That, I can already smell."

Chapter Text

To Whom It May Concern,

I know that this will reach Detective Neve Gallus. I don't know how, but I know you bloody Shadow Dragons have your ways. Don't act like you don't. I've sent my messenger with enough gold to ensure that it gets where it's going at a reasonable time.

Varric's told me a lot about you, "Slick". Time to see if you're as good as everyone says.

I request a meeting. It wouldn't be wise for me to be seen strutting about Minrathous, so I'll let you pick the place. I've got a case that requires the utmost sensitivity and urgency, so it'd be best if you hopped on the boat with dear Hollix while you finish getting caught up to speed.

Swift sails,

Isabela, Lords of Fortune

"Aneth ara," Rook leaned on his palm, smiling at the woman on the other side of the counter.

Lucanis stood beside him, wondering just how many times he had used that sing-songy voice and practiced, fake smile. His genuine one was rarer, and a lot more crooked. Unintentional. He liked how it looked better.

"Andaran atish'an, lethall…" she trailed off, intensely looking Rook up and down before settling on ending the word with "…len." Lucanis made a note to ask him about the significance, later. Rook appeared to be satisfied with whatever the suffix meant. "Is there something you need?"

"A room with a bath and a cook that's passable?" Rook suggested, patting one of the satchels hanging from his waist. "We can pay up front."

At the sound of "we", her gaze forcibly slid over to Lucanis, looking hesitant. Lucanis held his breath, sure that they were about to be booted from this place, too.

"Is the shem with you?" She nodded towards him. Lucanis offered a friendly wave.

"Hmm?" Rook turned to him, acting like he had just remembered he was standing there. Revenge for earlier, Lucanis supposed. Rook hooked a thumb in his direction and prattled on, suddenly animated. "Oh, yes, my bodyguard. The shem are surprisingly excellent fighters, you know. Have you ever seen one of them with muscles like that? Really. You don't want to know how much gold he cost, either."

Very funny, Rook. Lucanis rolled his eyes, but neither of them paid it any mind.

"Riiight." Her eyes seemed to glaze over immediately, like it was a side effect of his rambling. She reached behind her and produced an old, scuffed-looking key. Rook opened his mouth again, and she looked all too eager to cut him off before he could trap her with his babble.

It struck Lucanis that that was exactly the point. Talk her ear off with inane nonsense so that it was easier to sell him a room just to get him away from her. His confidence earlier hadn't been unwarranted, he realized. The mage was sharper than he seemed. Bad at hiding, sure, but an expert at misdirection. The little charlatan was annoying on purpose. "Upstairs, last one on the right, don't cause any problems."

"Of course," Rook bowed his head as he grabbed the key, sliding at least twice what she had asked for across the splintered wood surface.

She muttered something about pirates as Rook hurried for the stairs.

"Is it that obvious?" Rook questioned, looking himself over as they climbed. "I mean, I'm wearing Dalish clothing."

"Dalish clothing that you covered in gold," Lucanis pointed out, flicking at the heavy necklace hanging in plain sight.

"This was hard gold to get," Rook defended, throwing his hands up. Lucanis could hear bangles clinking together underneath his sleeves.

"I'm sure you could be in a fine Antivan suit, and you would still look like a pirate," Lucanis mused, following him to a shabby door. He wondered if he could convince him to visit a Crow tailor when they got to Treviso.

"I think I'd die of heat exhaustion. How many layers are you even wearing, anyway? Four? Five?" Rook turned the key, grimacing at the tiny quarters with two beds haphazardly stuffed into it.

Lucanis counted in his head. "Five."

"That's too much. I wear one. Well, two if you count smallclothes."

"I don't think you do. I do not think two tiny pieces of leather can be counted as an entire layer. Or, even clothing at all."

"Now you're just being unfair," Rook sighed dramatically, kicking the door shut and dropping his things onto the floor. He claimed one of the beds by flopping unceremoniously onto it, his legs dangling off the side.

"Have you ever even put on a shirt before?"

"Of course I have," Rook said, lifting a hand into the air and twirling it around. "Once. I'm wearing one right now."

"I'll give you all your gold back right now if you can tell me what it's made of." Lucanis smirked at him, setting his pack down on a rickety chair.

Rook sat up, looking thoughtful as he wrestled himself out of the heavy cloak. He picked at the laces on the front of the shirt, then at the collar. Then, he sniffed it, working an amused snort out of Lucanis.

He shrugged, pinching the fabric at the hem between his fingers. "I have no idea what this is."

"Not even a guess?"

"Is it… From a plant?" he asked slowly, a strange focus crossing his face. Lucanis felt an itch crawl up the back of his neck. He narrowed his eyes.

"Did you use magic to do that?" Rook's eyes widened and he dropped the shirt, holding up his hands.

"No—" he said quickly, looking nowhere near innocent. "—Maybe. How did you know?"

"I can feel when someone's using magic. Like an itch. If there's blood magic, it feels a lot worse," he explained. Rook's eyes stayed wide with wonder and his mouth shaped itself into a little 'O'. "It's linen. From flax fibers."

"So… A plant?"

"A plant, yes," Lucanis confirmed with a nod. "But, you cheated."

"Did not," Rook hopped up from the little mattress. "It's not my fault I'm a mage."

"Try not to say that too loudly," Lucanis warned. Rook rolled his eyes and crossed the little room, tugging forcefully on his sleeve.

"Come on. I'm hungry."

"So what is a Lord of Fortune doing in the South, wandering around by himself without a ship?" Lucanis finally asked. Rook looked at him over the rim of his teacup, raising an eyebrow.

"Not many things I'd be willing to admit in public," Rook countered, pushing a bit of overripe fruit around on his plate.

"Or, you just don't trust me," Lucanis offered. He still didn't even know Rook's name. Rook's nose wrinkled and he gave him an odd look.

"All right, then. I got sent to Kirkwall a little over a year ago. Ended up having to stay there longer than I was supposed to. Then, a dragon turned half the city to ice and dropped the other half directly on top of me." Rook leveled him with a stare that he was pretty sure would have dropped him if he wasn't sitting down. Or, the things he had just said would have.

"Mierda," Lucanis said in a long breath. "You got attacked by a dragon?"

Rook's eyes flicked to the far side of the room, but he wasn't looking at anything in there. They were unfocused, hazy with whatever memory was running itself through his mind. He wasn't lying.

"Yeah," he answered, a slight crackle in his voice. "And no, I didn't kill it."

"I… Wasn't going to ask," Lucanis said softly. He reached for the center of the table, tapping gently and pulling Rook's attention back to the present. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me too," Rook sighed, clutching his teacup with both hands. He shook his head at something in his own mind. "Anyway, ran into Venatori a couple of times… And," he swept over the room with his eyes and leaned forward before continuing in a near-whisper. "Some elves that are very keen on ending me, for reasons I haven't quite figured out, yet."

"You have a lot going on," Lucanis observed. Rook sat back, raising an eyebrow as he took a sip of tea.

"So do you, I'm sure. You just don't know it yet," he said, wafting a hand lazily. "I'm not the only one who's been away from home for a year."

Lucanis stiffened. He was right. Lucanis had no idea what was going on in Treviso, or what plans the gathering Venatori had any better than Rook did. He had no idea if his family even knew he was alive. If the Crows were even still there. If Treviso was.

Kirkwall had been destroyed, he said. How many other cities were about to be attacked? Was Denerim in the same danger? Lucanis suddenly felt uneasy, sitting so casually in the tavern that could be a frozen wreckage in mere seconds. A dragon.

"Getting back home is a priority, then," Lucanis said finally, returning to his food. "A hundred Venatori will take some time. The contract will fill itself along the way."

Rook nodded slowly, watching him with a careful stare. "Right. We find a way to Treviso, then."

"And Rivain," Lucanis added. "I didn't mean just myself."

"Plan to come with, do you?" Rook's surprised expression slid into something more casual and amused. "Eager to see Captain Rook in his natural environment? A little beach vacation for the assassin?"

"That's not even your name," Lucanis laughed. "Keep it up, and I will arrange for you to be shipped back across the Rialto in a wine crate, instead."

"Ooh, that sounds fun," Rook said with a giggle that sounded like the ringing of gold to his ears. "The Lords love surprises."

"Are you finished yet?" Lucanis rapped gently on the wooden door, pushing his damp hair back with his free hand. "Spite is getting bored."

"You're getting bored," Rook accused through the door. "And yes."

"Are you actually done, or are you just messing with me again?"

"Hold on—" Rook chuckled, and he could hear a swishing of linen. "Okay. Now, I'm done, you great big prude."

Rook was tying his shirt collar when he entered, sitting cross-legged on the small bed. His hair was hanging loosely about his face, dripping water onto the soft linen. He looked like he hadn't even bothered to dry himself off before thrusting his body into clothing.

Smells like. Citrus. And honey.

"Spite," Lucanis hissed, closing the door behind him.

"It's called soap," Rook said, without looking up from his laces. "It is nice though, yeah."

"About your plan," Lucanis started, fishing a newly-bought comb from his pack and tugging it through his drying hair. "Assuming you've finally thought of one."

Rook shook his head viciously, spraying the wall behind him with a wet mist. He fixed him with a crooked grin that didn't make Lucanis feel like the idea was about to be a good one. "Ever heard of an Eluvian?"

Chapter Text

Lucanis didn't like waiting by himself. Denerim was bad enough, but the quiet path outside the walls of the Alienage felt worse. Exposed. He didn't know whether to put his back to the woodsy road, or the looming gate. He opted for leaning against a tree to the side of the path, facing the direct center of the intersection.

A few humans shuffling towards the fork that led into the main city spared him odd, unnerved looks, and Lucanis assumed the irritation growing on his face with every passing minute was doing him no favors. Be right back, Rook had said. Far too many minutes ago. Spite's annoyed mumbling was already getting on every last nerve he had.

It was going to be a long day.

Finally, the gate opened and Lucanis straightened up. Rook emerged, escorted by an older elf with a unique, asymmetrical artwork of shapes and lines covering his face. It looked Elven, somehow, but Lucanis had never seen anything like it. The two of them looked to be winding down a conversation, with Rook carrying a few more things than he had been before.

"Ma serannas, lethallin." Rook clasped hands with the man. The elf spotted Lucanis, and waved with the most genuinely friendly smile of anyone they had come across yet. Dumbfounded, Lucanis lifted a hand and waved back.

"Enansal enaste, da'len," the taller elf replied, returning to the gate. "Dareth shiral."

Rook turned to face Lucanis once the man was back inside. He reached into his pack and slid out a long roll of parchment.

"Sorry," he excused, adjusting the pack on his shoulders and starting down the path. "Did you get bored?"

"No." Lucanis pushed himself away from the tree and followed.

"I don't believe you."

"Who was that?"

"Someone who wants to help," Rook answered, without really answering. He spun around to walk backwards and thwacked Lucanis ceremoniously atop the shoulder with the scroll. "I have a map."

"Oh— Well done." Lucanis reached out for the parchment, and Rook swatted at his hand with it.

"Little off the path, first, yeah?" He faced forward again, falling back into step with him. "I'd rather not sit around scheming just outside a city full of Templars and very unfriendly people."

"Fair enough," Lucanis replied, resting his hands inside of his coat pockets.

Rook tilted his head, looking at him with a sidelong glance, before he spoke again. "You didn't sleep."

No, he didn't. He had spent half the night staring directly at the wall, and the other half staring at… He glanced at Rook, whose face was much more lively and much less relaxed when he was awake. "Why do you say that?"

Rook stopped abruptly on the empty path, turning inward to face him. Lucanis, perplexed, did the same, pinned to the spot by two big, honey-colored eyes. Rook reached up slowly, towards his face, and his lungs halted mid-inhale, holding stock-still with the rest of his body.

"Humans. When they sleep," he said softly, just barely brushing two fingers beneath his left eye. Lucanis was still fixed on his eyes, which followed the movement as he traced gently along one of the shaded circles Lucanis already knew were very visible there. "They don't get these."

"I—" Lucanis managed, unable to move. Rook smiled and picked the path back up, leaving him just a few steps behind by the time he recovered. His face felt like it was on fire against the cold morning air. "I couldn't sleep."

"Can't let one's guard down when there's a terrible, dangerous pirate mage in the same room," he teased.

"Or a demon," Lucanis corrected.

"I don't imagine you can keep that up forever," Rook said warily, giving him a quick frown.

"I can certainly try," he replied. Rook chuckled, then shook his head, his bangs falling over his eyebrows.

"I'm pretty sure you'd die," he pointed out. "Keeping you alive is a lot of work. The least you could do is help."

"Look who is talking," Lucanis retorted, plucking at the linen shirt that hung over the Lyrium wound. "You would not survive a day out here without me. Your sleeves aren't even tied."

"I only have two hands," he defended, holding his arms up with a defeated look as his loose sleeves sagged to his elbows. "It's harder than it looks."

"Have you considered buttons?" Lucanis suggested, pulling one of his sleeves where it was supposed to be and neatly knotting the laces.

"Have you considered simply, not wearing the shirt?" Rook shrugged, offering up his other arm when Lucanis held a hand out. "What do Antivans do when they get wet?"

"They don't," Lucanis said dryly, quickly fixing the other sleeve.

"I bet they just buy a new outfit and throw out the old one," Rook mused, wandering off of the path to a nearby patch of grass.

"That, too."

"I can't tell when you're joking, so I'm just going to believe everything you say," he said, squatting down and unfurling the map on the ground.

"I never joke," Lucanis said, fixing him with the most serious look he could muster. Rook stared at him for a few moments, then laughed, wobbling a little in his crouched position. Lucanis smiled and bent over, studying the map from the opposite side. "Where are we going, then?"

Rook perched an arm on one of his knees, holding himself up as he traced a finger along a marked road. He tapped a spot and Lucanis frowned deeply, measuring the distance from where Rook's finger had started. "Riiight… Here. That's where we need to be."

"I'm sorry…" Lucanis said slowly, taking a seat in the grass to examine the map closer. "You're suggesting we walk all the way to Redcliffe? Because of a magical mirror that might be there?"

"I said most likely," Rook recounted, then traced a different path. "Our other option for avoiding a sea full of Venatori would be trudging around the Frostback Mountains, through the Dales, fuck-knows how many monsters and bits of blight on the way. Then, a presumably unpleasant trip through Orlais— Crawling with Templars. And worse, Orlesians."

Lucanis chuckled, then took another look at the map. It was a long way, but their other choices were worse. If the Venatori were occupying the Waking Sea and the Amaranthine, trying to go that way would very likely end with them in the same position they had started in. Or worse. Going around the sea meant months of travel, and that was if they managed to stay unimpeded the whole time.

Blight spotted the South, and neither of them knew exactly where it was, which meant they had no way to avoid it. Mercenaries and bandits were the least of their worries, with Templars roaming most of the main roads in Ferelden and Orlais. They stood enough of a risk as it was even going to Redcliffe. Lucanis just had to hope that he knew what he was talking about, and that his information was actually correct.

"And this… Eluvian? Do you even know where it goes?"

"It should be Arlathan, if my… If what I've been told is still accurate," Rook said carefully. Whoever had made that thing, he didn't want to identify them. Lucanis hesitated, giving him a cautious look.

"Arlathan forest?" Rook nodded, seemingly unfazed by the prospect. "Haunted by thousands of spirits, filled with ancient elf artifacts that kill anyone who isn't an elf?"

"Yes, that one," he answered, with full sincerity. Lucanis let out a groan.

"You are unwell."

"Look," Rook insisted, scowling and gesturing towards the dark patch of uncharted wilderness on the map. "It's close to Treviso, and I know people there who can help us. A lot of them. And, they might know more things than we do about what's happening. All we have to do—" He tapped at the point on the map again, just before the mountains. "—is make it to Redcliffe."

"Oh, that's all," Lucanis said sarcastically. He pored over the map for a few more moments before giving up. "…Fine. But if we find a better option on the way, we are taking it."

"Deal," Rook said with a short nod. He reached down and began rolling the map back up.

"How sure are you that this magical teleporting mirror exists?" Lucanis questioned. Rook stood back up and headed back for the road.

"Positive."

"And how safe is it?"

"Perfectly," Rook chirped, glancing back to make sure he was following. "I've been through them before. I may not be a well-trained mage, but I did have a lot of people helping."

Lucanis took a deep breath and kept up with Rook. Through the Fade. Lucanis had never been there, not outside of his own mind, and even that was bad enough. Stepping into the real thing was something else, entirely. Something he had no way to prepare for.

Lucanis didn't sleep that night, either. Shortly after they made camp, Rook fell into what appeared to be a restless, fitful sleep. His mind wandered back to the Fade. The Dalish woman had said that he was dreaming there. Had she meant… Literally?

He is not with his body.

He watched Rook shudder against the ground with a pained look on his face and wondered if that was where Rook actually was. He knew several mages in the Crows, but none of them ever actually talked about the Fade like they had been there. Like Rook did. Lucanis frowned as beads of sweat slowly formed on Rook's tattooed forehead.

Was something… Bad, happening to him?

He glanced at Spite, finding him a short distance from Rook. He was kneeling down, leaning forward on his hands and fixing Rook with a long, distant gaze.

"Spite? Can you see what's—?"

Wolves.

"…What?" Lucanis stood and picked his way around the fire, as quietly as he could. "Can you actually see into the Fade?"

Not. Everywhere. Only sometimes.

"What about right now?"

Dark. Can't see.

A barely audible groan from below caught his ears. Rook shifted, clutching at his healing side. His breath hitched as another shudder wracked through him.

Something's coming.

"Here?" Lucanis questioned, straightening up to glance around.

No.

Spite nodded towards Rook, his stare unbroken. The Fade. So something was happening, and it wasn't good. Lucanis knelt beside him, reaching out to push his hair away from his eyes. He stopped short, hovering his fingers over his forehead. What was he doing? He quickly drew his hand back.

Wake him. Up.

Lucanis nodded. Right. That was a better idea. He didn't need to be comforted in his sleep by someone he barely knew. He reached for his upper arm instead, holding it firmly and giving him a little shake.

"Rook."

Rook flinched and mumbled unintelligibly, so he jostled him again. "Rook, wake up."

This time Rook's eyes fluttered open, darting about the silent camp. His gaze fell on Lucanis above him and he let out a soft gasp.

"I— How did you…" He sat up to press his palms to his eyes and took in a deep breath. "S-sorry."

"Are you all right?" was all he could think to say. Rook nodded, then peeked curiously over his fingers.

"Yeah. Just… A nightmare, only worse," he said, not really explaining anything at all. "No one's ever woken me up before, though. And, not for lack of trying, either."

"You are surprisingly alert for just having been asleep," Lucanis observed. Rook settled onto his knees and practically dragged himself over to the fire.

"The Fade'll do that to you," he sighed, fumbling for the steel kettle he kept near the heat and checking the water inside with a dissatisfied squint. He set it down on a stone close to the fire, anyway, and leaned back to yawn. "It doesn't feel much different when I'm asleep. Just… Weirder."

"I might not know many mages, but I cannot assume that's common," Lucanis pointed out.

"It isn't," Rook confirmed, lacing his fingers together and stretching his arms above his head. He stopped and raised an eyebrow at him. "But, neither is being able to yank a Dreamer out like it's nothing."

"I wonder if it has anything to do with Spite," Lucanis mused, sitting down opposite him as he started preparing tea. "What is in that, anyway? It's a lot of smells at once."

"Black tea, ginger, cinnamon, some pepper, a few other things I've never been able to identify," Rook listed, catching the kettle just as it began to boil. "It's better if you do it with milk and add a little honey, but it's perfectly passable this way."

Smells. Nice.

"Mhm." Rook yawned again after pouring his water. He shook the kettle, ensuring there was about a cup's worth left, then stood. He set it down in front of Lucanis and turned back towards his side of camp to pack up. "Here. I don't know how to make coffee, or else I'd offer. Was always someone else's job on the ship."

"I don't imagine captains make their own drinks," Lucanis said, pushing the container closer to the fire to keep it warm. Rook turned to flash him a smirk over the rim of his cup.

"They don't. Unless no one else can manage a simple fucking cup of tea."

Lucanis chuckled. If Rook noticed his lack of sleep this time, he mercifully chose not to mention it at all.

Chapter Text

"I first met the Lord of Fortune on a ship bound for Rivain.
She said, what's got you looking sad with eyes so full of pain?"

"I was not aware our contract involved singing."

Rook's eyes turned mischievous and he kept up his march, lifting his head to belt even louder. Lucanis groaned.

"And I said, my love is gone, it's a sad and tragic story.
She said, hang on lad, it's not so bad! You just need some gold and glory!"

"How long is this?" Lucanis questioned. "Are you making this up?"

To his dismay, Rook ignored him, gleefully keeping up his song.

"Lords of Fortune never want for drink or love or joy!
In holes and caves and treasure vaults, they find their priceless toys."

"I want for this to end," Lucanis complained.

"There's gold to fill your coffers, or glory at the worst," Rook spun around to face him, now, singing directly at him as he tried to keep his eyes on the road. "You seem a gentle Chantry lad, so we'll hit the gold holes first!"

Lucanis let out a short laugh as Rook mimed a swiping motion at his ribs. "All right, that part isn't bad."

"Gold and glory with the Lords, gold and glory with the Lords,
Past traps and guards and dragons lie countless shining hoards!"

"People have been killed for less, you know," Lucanis threatened. Rook snickered, still walking backwards.

"Don't you mean fewer?"

"You would be much easier to travel with if you were to suddenly fall unconscious," he suggested.

"All those opportunities to poison my tea, wasted," Rook sighed, feigning disappointment. "But then, who would summon fire so that you can stop and make twenty cups of coffee a day?"

"I think I could manage," he commented. "It is a miracle I even still have eyebrows after this morning."

"I said I was sorry. And I did tell you not to sit so close." Rook wobbled off-balance when his heel hit a stone. Lucanis's hands shot out to steady him, but he righted himself quickly and sheepishly fell back into step beside him.

"Has anyone ever told you that you lack a single drop of self control?" he questioned. Rook let out a burst of laughter that took him a few seconds to recover from.

"No, but I'm sure they've wanted to," he answered thoughtfully. "It's just that no one's been brave enough to say the things you do to my face."

"Then I am happy to provide criticism, free of charge." Rook laughed again, and Lucanis felt a smile tugging at his own lips. "I suppose having no clue who you even are helps with that."

"No clue? From a Crow?" Rook shot him a sideways glance. "I don't believe that for a second."

Lucanis raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"Absolutely not. If you really wanted to invade my privacy, you'd already have more than enough information to bury me with, with just a few minutes of snooping." Rook gestured wildly as he talked, a flourishing of movement Lucanis had almost grown used to already. "And, I'm willing to bet you'd be all smug about it, too."

"That is true," Lucanis stated.

"So… Why haven't you?"

"What?"

"Why haven't you done that?" Rook asked again, fixing him with an odd and guarded look. "You're an assassin. One people know. It's kind of… I'dunno. Your thing?"

"My thing has nothing to do with what other Crows do with their time," Lucanis answered with a shrug. "I happen to have my own behavior under control—" He threw a pointed look towards Rook, who smiled apologetically and held his hands up. "And it's about trust. I have several reasons to trust you. You have none, really."

"You do?" Rook picked at one of the laces on his sleeve absently.

"Of course," Lucanis answered, thinking while he watched Rook's fingers fidget with the thin string. "Several. You literally saved my life, Rook."

"Twice," Rook added for him.

"Don't push it," he groaned. "I think you had it worse than I did."

Rook winced. He glanced down at his side. "Yeah. I, uh… Really. Thanks for that. You didn't have to— I mean—"

"I had two choices, Rook. You died, or you didn't. It was easy." Lucanis lowered his voice, despite the fact that they were alone on the road. "How are you healing?"

"Fine," he answered, though it didn't satisfy Lucanis. He was certain that would have been his answer even if he was bleeding out right there. In fact, it had been. "And, I don't know… Not everyone would have seen it the same way."

Denerim was still fresh in his mind, but it wandered far from that. Lucanis wondered just how many terrible situations he had been put in before the ship. Before Kirkwall. Judging from the scars, Lucanis would guess far too many for him. For someone so—

He whisked the thought from his mind, resisting the urge to physically shake it off. So what? Annoying? Needling? Impulsive? Bright-eyed, soft-faced, and— Oh, Maker. He needed to get back into civilization, fast.

"Anyway," he said abruptly, interrupting his own mental wreck. Rook's head cocked curiously in his direction, but he didn't say anything. "As I was saying— Besides being full of secrets, I have no real reason not to trust you."

The fact that he was a pirate might have given him pause, but the Lords were strong allies to the Crows. It would be as simple as sending a letter across the bay when he got home if anything went wrong. Not that he thought it would, but it was an option.

Then, Rook blurted something he didn't expect. His tone was casual, but the bait behind it was clear. "I'm a murderer?"

"I have… Probably killed more people than you have," Lucanis said, wafting a hand through the breeze. "And I may not know you that well, but I would assume it was deserved."

"It's your job to do that," Rook countered with a huff. "I'm supposed to just step over skeletons and loot temples."

"I don't think it counts if it is self defense," he offered.

Rook laughed softly. "How do you know that?"

"You are small," Lucanis pointed out, glancing over at him to make observations. "The magic is deadly but takes a few precious seconds to cast. You have no reach with that tiny little dagger, unless you waste time with magic on that, and you don't even wear armor. I don't see you attacking first in many situations."

Unless he was cornered by a shipful of blood mages and assassins, and forced to fight.

Lucanis was a little curious to see exactly what he was capable of. Judging from the aftermath of the ship, it was explosive and impressive. Not just anyone could take on that many Venatori entirely by themselves.

"Rude," Rook sighed, shrugging with his hands. "But, fair."

"So what did you do?"

"Besides your normal, run-of-the-mill marauding? Stabbed an elf who was trying to kill me over a magic dagger, annnd drowned a teammate who turned out to be working for the Venatori. That one was actually more of an accident, but it worked out for everyone. Except for me." Rook rolled his eyes at something beyond Lucanis's understanding.

"Why is that?"

"Well," he said, with an embarrassed chuckle. He pushed his hair back with one hand and held up the other. "Turns out he was the Queen's cousin. You can imagine how that's going."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, the Lords are likely none too pleased with me. But, it'll be fine once everything blows over." He sounded ever-so-casual again, like he wasn't talking about something so important and weighted.

"Confident," Lucanis remarked.

"The crown has its problems with the Lords of Fortune, sure." He let out a scoff. "They've issued threats before, but they'd be up against quite the rowdy crowd. And its accompanying fleet. I think they know that. The biggest thing that really keeps them at bay, though, are the Antaam making a racket up north."

"They were trying to make their way into Treviso when I left," Lucanis said, a bitter taste in his mouth. Rook's lips drew into a thin line.

"That's going to be a problem."

"It better not be."

"If it is…" Rook paused, whatever he was going to suggest hanging in the space between them. "Well, if anything happens to Treviso, Rivain suffers, too. You know?"

Lucanis nodded, unsure of what to say. He really hoped it hadn't come to anything since he had left. That Treviso was still standing proud in his absence. That everyone was still there.

After a long silence, Rook finally spoke up again. One singular, unfamiliar word. "Dami."

"What?" Lucanis hesitated, then picked up his step when Rook didn't stop. He worked back through the other things he had said to the other elves, trying to figure out what it meant, but he hadn't used that one at all. Lucanis really liked how it sounded, though. "Is that Elvish?"

Rook laughed, harder this time, covering his mouth with a freckled hand. He met his eyes, still smiling. "It's my name, Lucanis."

"Oh—" Lucanis stared at the back of his head until he realized he had stopped walking again. Oh. He felt all of the air leave his lungs in a rush. "It— It's nice."

YES!

"It's Elvish though, yeah," he confirmed when Lucanis found his feet again, hurrying forward to catch up. "The literal meaning is 'little blade'? Or, if you want to be very generous, 'dagger'. Although, it's not very threatening either way, is it? 'Look out! Here comes Captain Tiny Knife!'"

Lucanis couldn't help the laughter that spilled out of him. "When you put it that way… Not that you were threatening before."

"Anyway, I save it for friends— we are friends, yeah?" He elbowed him and continued without waiting for an answer. "—and Captain Laidir for the ones who don't like me. Although, most of the time, it's just 'that damned elf again'."

Lucanis drew in a breath, finally making the connection, and looking him over again. He wasn't lying, but his reputation was… Well, it was much bigger than he was. "So that's you."

"The Rivaini Tempest, at your service," Rook said proudly, spreading his arms and dipping into a performative bow. "Curiosity sated?"

"Not in the least," Lucanis chuckled.

"Whatever you've heard, assume maybe half of it is accurate," he said. "I'm not exactly truthful around the tavern story table. None of us are. In fact, I might be the least likely to embellish."

"Fighting a cetus?"

"Oh, that happened," Rook chirped. "We didn't win, though. Lost two ships and barely rescued the crew from both. We only managed to get away because I distracted it with a storm half the size of Tevinter."

"You can do that?"

"Not on purpose."

"Killing a dragon?"

"Noo, that one we made up," he admitted. "Taash, Hollix, and I thought it sounded a lot tougher than, 'we fed a grumpy dragon an entire bear to calm it down'."

"How did you get a bear to follow you into a dragon's lair?" Lucanis questioned.

"Very carefully," Rook said solemnly. "And with a lot of fish."

Rook spent the rest of the afternoon correcting stories of his relentlessness and brutality, in between Lucanis telling him about what happened in the Ossuary. At least, the parts of it he could stand to talk about. Complaining about Ilario and Viago, and telling him about his more interesting contracts was much easier.

Rook laid down after a dinner of meager camp rations, leaving Lucanis to stare at the fire with his name running through his head over and over again.

Dami. He hadn't been able to bring himself to repeat it, even though it had been on the tip of his tongue since Rook had said it. He wondered if there was more to it, like Teia and Mel's names had. He busied himself cleaning his knives and trying not to stare at the way Rook's hair fell over his face. Or the way the fire lit up his freckles, casting a soft golden glow across his skin where it reflected off of his jewelry.

Before he could finish any sort of thought, he found himself face-to-face with a Rook that was wide awake, resting on his knees, eyes wide with concern. Lucanis tumbled backward, landing on his back with a thud and a cough. Rook's face slid into view above him, increasingly more worried by the second.

"Are… Are you all right?" He moved back, still watching him carefully as he sat up. "I think you were sleepwalking."

"Spite was sleepwalking," Lucanis grumbled, rubbing his head. He met Rook's perplexed gaze. "Are you all right? He didn't—"

"No," Rook assured quickly, shaking his head. "No, it was fine. A little… Confusing, but fine. Everything's okay."

"I apologize," he sighed, looking away from Rook.

"Really. It's all right. You had to know it was bound to happen eventually, Lucanis."

"I didn't want you to see that," Lucanis argued, looking up and freezing in place. Rook had moved closer. Too close. He was peeking up at him through soft, dark tangles with a dangerous look in his eyes.

"I haven't seen anything that makes me want to look away," he murmured, leaning in a little further than he should have. Lucanis's throat felt like it was starched dry.

"I—" he croaked, trying to find his voice. A faint snap made both of them bolt upright. Rook's brow furrowed and his eyes darted around. He started to stand up.

"Did you hear —!" Rook's voice was silenced as soon as Lucanis's palm pressed over his mouth.

"Be quiet. And stop moving," he hissed. Rook stilled, the gold on his body making far too much noise in the process.

Danger.

A slight rustle. Closer this time, but still outside of the firelight's reach. Lucanis glanced in the direction of the sound, but couldn't make anything out. He glanced back to Rook, who was beginning to look annoyed. A remote forest or the middle of the water was one thing, but here in the middle of Ferelden? If that sound was Templars, or someone who might go running for them…

Rook grumbled and pushed at his wrist and shoulder, but didn't have the strength to move his hand. He muttered something unintelligible and Lucanis felt an odd tingle travel up his arm.

"Don't even think about it," Lucanis warned in a near-whisper. The feeling backed off, and he pushed Rook back to the ground. "Stay here. And no magic."

Rook scrabbled at him when he let go, yanking on his sleeve when he tried to move away. "What? Are you—? Absolutely not—"

"Argue about it later." Lucanis stood. Surprisingly Rook stayed put, although he looked downright furious. He snatched his rapier from the ground. "You can start throwing illegal spells if it looks like I am losing."

Rook muttered something in Elvish at him as he slinked away, but he didn't move from his spot. Lucanis assumed it was something he didn't want the translation to.

"Spite."

In. The trees.

Lucanis rested a hand on one of his daggers and waited, hanging just outside of the light provided by the camp. Out of the corner of his eye he could still see Rook, gaze fixed on him intently. His vision was a little better, it seemed. A slight scraping sound of leather against bark told him just where to aim.

In one swift motion, he had the dagger tugged free and flung directly at the source of the noise. A man's voice cried out, and something heavy hit the ground.

"Shit!" Another voice rang out, and several bodies fled in several directions. Lucanis made note of each one and drew his rapier, easily sinking it into the next closest moving thing.

He managed to get a closer look as this one fell towards him. Old, dirty leathers and just a few weapons. Lucanis sighed. Bandits. He moved to the next attacker.

"H-hey! Augh—" Rook's exclamation was accompanied by the sound of a heavy impact. Lucanis whirled around and spotted one of the others with a bundle of Rook's shirt in one hand and the other curled into a fist, poised for another blow.

"Mierda," he groaned, trying to quickly down the one bandit in his way and move back to the fireside before Rook did something stupid.

He caught Rook's glance for a moment, silently willing him not to blow anything up, and slowed his pace when he saw him shift. Lucanis prepared for the worst.

He didn't feel the crackle in the air, however. Or any other accompanying discomfort. He watched as Rook moved in the man's grip just enough to bring his leg swiftly upwards, planting a knee squarely in a spot that did cause Lucanis a little discomfort to watch. The man released him with a strangled squawk and toppled over, curling in on himself as Rook scrambled to his feet.

Lucanis sank his sword into the man with a huff and stepped over him. Everything was quiet, except for the sound of the first injured attacker whimpering and retreating with an unsteady limp. Eventually, that faded away too, and Lucanis stowed his sword. He reached out without thinking, cupping a hand around Rook's face and turning his head to look at a nasty bruise that was already blooming up the side of it.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly. Rook laughed, reaching up as if to push him away. Instead, his fingers curled around Lucanis's wrist.

"He hit me once. I'm fine," he assured. He gave his wrist a squeeze and Lucanis felt his stomach roll over. "Twisted my arm a little bit trying to snatch my gold, but I've had worse. I'm not actually hurt."

Lucanis swallowed, unable to tear his eyes away from his face. He cleared his throat and dropped his hand before straightening up. "Right."

Rook let out a half-snort through his nose, then leaned to the side to peer around his arm at the motionless man behind him. "Did you get them?"

"Most of them," Lucanis answered with a shrug. He glanced over at the horizon, where the sun was starting to peek over the rim.

"Good enough for me."

"We should get going. In case they have friends," he sighed, finally stepping away. Rook turned away from him, performing a little gesture that put the fire out in one whiff. He nodded, eyes fixed on the charred coals.

"Yeah."

Chapter Text

"You're staring at them again."

Rook's voice was quiet over the fire. They were only a two day's walk from a town on the map Rook said was marked Lothering. The journey since the bandits had been thankfully uneventful, save for a couple of Venatori scouts that Lucanis had dispatched before Rook managed to get even a hand on his dagger.

Two down.

He tore his eyes away from where they had been following the pattern down Rook's short nose, where it stopped before picking back up into a finish below his bottom lip. He had no idea that he had even noticed.

"Sorry," he said, scratching at his beard and looking away from him completely. He poked at the charred bread in his hands, hoping that the town at least had food. They were starting to run low.

Rook shifted at the edge of his vision, picking up a long stick from near the fire. He jabbed it at the coals. "You probably want to know, don't you? If I was a slave. Everyone back at the Dalish camp was chattering about it, you know."

"So the healer said," Lucanis muttered.

"And, that human that snatched me in Denerim had something to say," he added.

He shook his head. "You don't have to tell me anything. It is not my business."

"So you're not curious about them?" Rook questioned, tapping at an asymmetrical one on his left cheek. A distinct loop jutted away into a sudden, deep scar, and the opposite side was oddly blank. Like his face had been torn away before it was finished.

Lucanis looked up, raising an eyebrow at him. "I didn't say that."

Rook laughed dryly, then trained his eyes back on the fire with a sobering look.

"Five years," he murmured. "A merchant ship came in from Tevinter, making a stop in Rivain. I don't think anyone expected there to be Imperial slavers aboard. They hit my mother's clan and took… I don't know how many of us, really— But they took us somewhere in Minrathous."

He took a deep breath, flicking his fingertips through the edges of the flames as he stared into the fire. Lucanis didn't say anything. Thankfully, Spite stayed silent as well. His face was crossed with focus as he recounted the memory, however old it was.

"I was bought by Venatori who dragged me off to one of their ships. I don't know if the sellers knew it at the time. I don't know if they would have cared. As soon as they found out I was already a mage, it got a lot worse." He lifted his head, fixing him with a sad smile that made his heart sink to the bottom of his chest. "Your Venatori had weird, fucked-up blood magic experiments? So did mine."

Lucanis felt a chill roll up his spine. "How did you escape?"

"Me?" Rook leaned back on his hands, his unlaced shirt sagging down his shoulders. Lucanis forced his eyes back up from his now-exposed collarbone. Not the time. "I didn't. The Lords of Fortune attacked a Venatori ship in their waters and boarded it. Imagine their surprise when they did the cultists in and found a whole bunch of magical, elven kids stowed below deck."

"Mierda," he whispered. He could feel a second source of anger, rising up just beneath his own. "Damned Venatori."

"They put these on me after a couple of years. Or tried to, anyway," Rook said, swiping a thumb across the bridge of his nose. "One of them said it was to make me 'easier to control' or something. All it really did was make their fucking blood magic hurt more."

"I… I am sorry, Rook," he said slowly. Rook let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

"Why? You're not a Venatori. And I'm not Dalish. Not really, anyway." Rook shook his head, tilting it to look at him around the fire. "You've no reason to be sorry. You have as many reasons to hate them as I do."

Friends.

"Spite gets it," he chuckled, letting out a yawn after.

"Still…" Lucanis trailed off, stuck on the numbers in his head. "The Lords took you in, then? How long have you been with them?"

"Long enough to get a shiny ring and a standing invitation to the Hall," he sighed, settling back against the ground. He laced his fingers behind his head and kicked a leg over his knee. "About eight years, give or take… Nine, now, I think. I don't really keep track until Taash bursts into my room, screaming about my nameday and gifting me a bunch of giant swords and axes I'll never be able to use. They do look nice on the wall, though."

Lucanis nodded through the rambling, though Rook couldn't see him anymore. He added those numbers into the other ones he was figuring, along with the oldest Rook could possibly be, and it was… Not good.

Dalish clans didn't tattoo young elves until they reached a certain age. Lucanis didn't know what that age was, but he guessed it had to be somewhere in the teens. So, he had been at least younger than that when the slavers invaded. He had to have been…

Maker. He couldn't have been older than ten when it happened. Probably even younger than that. Lucanis felt disgusted. Livid. Just as many reasons. Besides his parents, the Venatori had only started causing problems in his own life a few years ago, well into his adulthood. But Rook?

A child. He had mentioned before that several of the Lords had raised him. The Venatori had brought the same torturous nightmare they had inflicted upon him, down on a mere child. For five years, and likely would have kept it up for many more until they killed him. He hadn't been in a literal prison, but it didn't make a difference.

The Venatori had ruined his life and taken everything. From the Rivaini wilderness, to being enslaved by a cult. Then straight into a life of fighting, gold, and blood. He never even had a chance. Lucanis thought of the sinking ship, and the unbridled violence inflicted throughout the destroyed structure. Then, the pain in his eyes as he barely touched the surface of what they had done to him. The anguish and regret of losing everything before he even had it.

Lucanis knew what that felt like. What Rook felt.

"A hundred of them is not enough," Lucanis muttered. Rook didn't respond, already fast asleep in the short silence. He found the steel kettle as quietly as he could and checked the water, stealing a glance over at him. Lucanis lowered his voice as the water heated up by the fire, eyes fixed on the healing bruise still visible on his temple and cheek. "I would kill every one of them to never see that look on your face again."

"Holy fuck—" Rook's breath fogged in the cold morning air.

Lucanis stood stock-still, frozen on the road. Or, what was left of it before it was interrupted by a massive crack in the earth. Beyond that, a heap of bulging tendrils and ugly scarlet boils that seemed to grow right out of the blackened ground.

"Blight," Lucanis observed with dismay, swiping the rolled map that was sticking out of Rook's pack. He surveyed their surroundings, then looked down at where they seemed to be. "Oh… Oh, no. Rook—"

"Lothering," Rook said slowly, taking a step towards the crack. Blight seemed to ooze up out of it, crawling towards his boot. "No, it can't be. We've been walking for a week. It has to be here. This is— It's gone. The-there's supposed to be a town—"

Everything. Is dead here.

"Rook," Lucanis warned, dragging him back by the elbow as he stepped closer. "Whatever it was, it looks like it's long gone. We should find a way around it."

"But… What happened here?" Rook shook himself out of his grip, moving to investigate a hissing puddle on the ground. Lucanis groaned. As the days crawled by and the temperature steadily dropped he wasn't sure which one of them was more uncontrollable; Rook, or Spite.

"Nothing that needs us to figure it out," he growled, grabbing him by the back of his cloak to stop him from getting any closer to the Blight. "Rook, ascolta— please. I do not want to have to kill you if you get yourself blighted."

Rook blinked at him, wide-eyed, finally seeming to understand the danger. He relented, moved away from the puddle, and allowed Lucanis to steer him in the opposite direction from the writhing mass that might have been a civilized spot many years ago. Lucanis let go of him and handed him the map before folding his arms.

"New plan?" he asked, gesturing at the parchment. Rook nodded and unfurled it, concentrating as he sank to the dead grass with it.

"Redcliffe is only a couple of days away, if we move quickly," he said, skirting his finger around the blighted area next to them and into the plains nearby. "We'll have to leave the road for a while, but we wouldn't lose that much time. We'll have to make camp out there. Which means hunting or hoping for good foraging, seeing as we're running dangerously low on supplies."

Lucanis nodded, watching his hands flit about the map as he talked. "And if Redcliffe looks like this?"

"Then we improvise," Rook stated, rolling the map back up and stuffing it into his pack. He pushed himself to his feet and glanced once more at the blighted area. "And we try not to run into it. I'm not too keen on following in my dad's footsteps."

"He died of Blight?"

"Worse," Rook answered, elbowing him with a smirk. "He's a Grey Warden."

"You're right. That is worse." Lucanis followed him as he picked a direction and left the path. Rook laughed.

"I've never met him," Rook explained. "Off on Warden business before I was even born. Guess it wasn't anything to do with stopping the Blight in Ferelden."

"My parents were assassinated by the Venatori when I was young," Lucanis offered. "I am adopted, too. Neither of them were wardens, though… Or mages."

"Or elves, I assume," Rook joked, reaching up and playfully poking at the top of his ear. Lucanis felt his face flush and he turned his head, keeping his eyes on the growing wilds.

"Both normal, nonmagical humans," Lucanis confirmed. "The Dellamorte family is surprisingly unremarkable."

"I can think of one that's pretty impressive," Rook hummed, traipsing past him and changing direction, making for a large loop around the blighted area. Lucanis's face burned hotter, this time. "I've never seen anyone move like that with a sword. I was kidding at the Alienage, but, I mean. Wow."

"All right," Lucanis chuckled. "I am good at what I do. You have me there."

"I'm sure you're good at more than just that," Rook taunted.

Less than you think, Lucanis thought. He stared up at the clouds lazily drifting across the sky, willing his pulse to slow itself down from the lethal speed it was racing at.

"Not really," he admitted, barely keeping his voice even. Rook turned to raise an eyebrow at him. "I don't have time for much outside of… Well, work."

Rook chuckled and dragged a hand through his hair. He brought his arm down and picked at the strings on his sleeve, nearly undoing the ties Lucanis had to fix for him that morning. He fought the urge to grab his hand and stop him. He could just fix it again later if it came undone. He wouldn't really mind, either.

"Yeah," he responded quietly, looking off towards the crumbling road to make sure they were still on track. "I get that. I mean, I love being with the Lords and all, but, I don't know. I don't really have a lot of freedom when I'm stuck at sea, or underground in the middle of nowhere. Surprisingly few social opportunities. Or hobbies that don't involve swinging a dagger around and blowing things up."

"I have been meaning to ask," Lucanis said, taking Rook's silent offer to change the subject and eyeing the thin blade. "Where did you get that, anyway?"

"Hmm?" Rook glanced down at his dagger, then unhooked it, minding the odd artifact that hung above it. He held it out to Lucanis. "Treviso, actually."

Lucanis took it carefully, trying to ignore the sensation that spread up his arms and caused the backs of his eyes to itch. It was heavily enchanted, and holding it felt like standing underneath a lightning storm.

"Impressive craftsmanship," he marveled, turning it over in his hands and balancing it. It was beautiful, made of high-quality silverite and detailed with gold. He had a plain one similar to it at home, albeit without the surge of magic coursing through it. "The maker of this is a Crow."

"Right," Rook chirped, hooking it back into place when Lucanis handed it back. "I got it for surviving Heir's mage training and not blowing my cover while doing it. Well, I got it for myself, but it still counts. No one else was going to."

"Heir trained you? No wonder that magic kills on contact," Lucanis chuckled.

"And a human in Arlathan named Myrion," he added, leaning over to inspect a small burrow. He let out a sharp tsk. "Abandoned. Anyway, like I said... I've had a lot of help. Some more or less patient than others."

"You are not bad, for an apostate," he commented with a smirk. Rook scowled at him.

"I'm not an apostate. I'm not even Andrastian."

"I don't think that matters to the Templars."

"Big talk from the man with big magical wings," he said, folding his arms and sticking his nose into the air. "We're both affronts to Her Holy Chantry, I'll have you know."

"You are not wrong," Lucanis said, holding his hands up. Rook rolled his eyes, but dropped his posture and kept moving along.

They made camp that day much earlier than usual. They were out of food and exhausted, and Rook wanted to try and find something edible once they got far enough away from the Blight for there to be nature around them again.

Lucanis let himself relax while Rook busied himself with the fire, breaking up whatever kindling he could find. His rhythmic movement, combined with his soft notes as he hummed to himself, made Lucanis slip his eyes closed to rest them for a moment. Just for a moment.

"—Lucanis!"

He opened his eyes, nowhere near the spot he had sat down. In fact, the camp was barely within sight and he was at the edge of a thin forest. He blinked a few times and looked down to where Rook was clinging onto him.

"Spite," he groaned.

"He just started walking off," Rook explained, still hanging onto his arm. Behind him in the dirt were several short, straight marks, like Rook had dug his heels in and been dragged by someone stronger than him. "Kept talking about 'getting to the mirror', now."

"Mierda." Lucanis let out a deep sigh and Rook finally let go of him. At least it was still daytime. He hadn't been out for long. The fire looked tiny, barely coughing up flames from the pitiful pile Rook had managed to gather. "This cannot keep happening."

"Maybe you should try talking to him," Rook suggested, swiping his hands down his sleeve and straightening it out.

"To what? Make a deal with my own demon?"

Rook shrugged, looking away. "I'm just saying it might help."

Lucanis slouched, leaning in towards him. "Maybe you're right. I will… Think about it. And I am sorry that you had to deal with him. Again."

"I don't mind," Rook said softly, looking up at him and moving his hand towards his face. "If I did, I wouldn't still be—"

"Rook," Lucanis said, his voice straining in his throat. He caught his wrist, holding it gently before he had the chance to finish the gesture. "I don't think you know what you're doing. What…" He cleared his throat, trying to find words despite the golden eyes gleaming up at him. "What you do."

Rook narrowed his eyes, lowering his hand as Lucanis let go. He raised his chin, challenging him. "I think you're severely underestimating me."

Was he?

Lucanis fixed him with a serious look and stepped into his personal space, following as Rook took a startled step backwards. He didn't stop until Rook's back connected with the thick trunk of a tree and he had fully crowded him in. He was close enough to hear his breath stutter to a halt.

"And I think this," Lucanis said, meeting his wide, sharp stare as he rested an arm above his head, "is a very bad idea."

"I have a lot of those," Rook whispered, leaning up towards him.

"You get yourself into far too much trouble," he chuckled, ghosting his other hand across Rook's hip. He felt a little hum of static buzz across his skin.

"And what's trouble into?"

Lucanis could feel the heat of his face as he closed his eyes. His hand came up to Rook's uninjured cheek, his thumb swiping across the soft skin, over the texture of the scar there. He was close. Too close. He froze, just short of dipping his head downwards and doing what he desperately wanted to do. Something incredibly foolish that was going to end with a perfectly nice mage getting terribly hurt.

"Rook, I—" he croaked, straightening up. It was every ounce of strength he had to tear his hand away from Rook's face. He met his eyes, which was immediately a mistake. "I don't— I can't—"

Rook slumped against the tree as he took a step back, his gaze dropping to the ground. He drew in a short breath and held it, not looking up at him.

"I'm… Going to go look for firewood," he said into the silence. Rook gave a slight nod, his head hung low. "I-I'm sorry. I… I need to think."

"Yeah." Rook's voice was barely audible. Small. "Okay."

He heard a shaky sigh behind him as he bolted, trying to put some distance between himself and the situation that he had created. When he was far enough away he doubled over, groaning loudly into both of his hands.

"Fuck."

Chapter Text

Dami waited until he couldn't hear Lucanis's footsteps. Then, he gave himself another few minutes before sliding down the trunk of the tree and hitting the ground with a rattling of gold. Stupid, it had been stupid to say those things. Especially when they still had so far to go, stuck with each other and the position he had foolishly put them both in.

Lucanis was caring. And attractive. And strong. And good at everything he did, so effortlessly. He felt safe and warm, and he had been inches away from finding out just how well he fit against that broad chest, and Lucanis just… Literally ran away from him.

"Good going, asshole, you've scared off a perfectly nice man," he grumbled, thumping the back of his head against the trunk. He sighed and pushed himself to his feet, wiping the dampness away from his eyes before Lucanis had time to come back.

He had to come back eventually, Dami assumed. Unless he had opted for just running off into the woods and leaving him there. He was fairly certain he wouldn't have done that, though, no matter how badly Dami had fucked up their mostly peaceful expedition.

Redcliffe couldn't come soon enough. He felt like he would have thrown up, if there had been more than a few chunks of singed bread and some water in his stomach.

Lucanis eventually returned, cradling an armful of firewood as promised. He hesitated at the edge of camp for a moment, like he was waiting to be invited back in. Dami glanced up at him, then returned to making tea. He wasn't sure how to make it any less awkward than Lucanis already was, so he was going to leave that one up to him.

Discussing complicated feelings wasn't something that was covered by the Lords of Fortune. In fact, he had never even acted that way with anyone who he was actually attracted to. It was a distraction. An opening to mislead, cut, and hightail it out of sight. Flirtatious behavior was just another way to get a job done, get guards off your ass, or get the gold moving more quickly.

That was before he actually met someone that gave him feelings complicated enough to have to think about them.

"I don't know if I got enough," Lucanis said finally, bending down a few feet away from him to set the foraged wood on the ground. Dami held in a groan and nodded, focusing way too hard on making a simple cup of tea.

"Thanks. I can probably find more later."

Lucanis was quiet for a few more moments, arranging the wood into a small pile for far too long. He picked up one of the little chunks and absently turned it over in his hands.

"Rook," he started, staring at the thick broken branch in his hand. "If I could— I want to— I'm… Mierda, I don't know what I am trying to say."

He sighed and hunched over, finding a spot to place the wood that wouldn't collapse the campfire. Dami watched him closely.

"I'm sorry," he said, refilling the kettle when he was finished with it. "I shouldn't have—"

"No," Lucanis interrupted, looking up from the growing fire. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. I just… I need some time to think. About… Everything. Is that…?"

Dami nodded slowly, chewing on his lip. That wasn't a no. At least, it didn't really sound like one. Lucanis didn't seem like the kind of person to be shy about rejecting someone outright.

"Yeah," he answered, flicking a bit of soot off the rim of his cup. Time. They certainly had plenty of that, out here in the middle of nowhere. "I can manage that."

"Are we still friends?" Lucanis smiled, making his heart stutter just as much as touching his face had. Dami laughed.

"For now," he teased. "Even though you already forgot my name's not actually Rook."

"Dami," Lucanis said. The sound swam in his ears and the warm smile that accompanied it was dizzying. "I don't think I should risk letting anyone else know it, though."

"Good point," he replied, tapping at his chin. He was sure he was right, even though there was no way he was avoiding it for just that reason. "Maybe you should have a secret bird-themed name, too. Ooh, I've got an idea—"

"Not funny," Lucanis groaned. He laughed, feeling some of the tension in his body ease its way out. "Where did you even get that name, anyway?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Have you lied to me yet?" Lucanis questioned. Dami thought about it.

"Technically, no," he answered. Lucanis raised his eyebrows.

"Wait, what does that mean?"

"Varric Tethras."

"No," Lucanis whispered loudly, in a long breath. "You mean— You know him?"

"He's my uncle," Dami said proudly, laughing at the look of horror that spread across Lucanis's reddening face. He covered his eyes with a hand.

"Mierda," he groaned. "I've read his books."

"Wait—" Dami let out a louder, accusatory laugh. "You mean all of them?"

"Tell me you haven't," he said, removing his hand as the color drained from his face.

"No," he snickered. "No, I wasn't allowed anywhere near them. He would have had my head if he found out I'd read his filthier material. You, on the other hand—"

"I like reading," Lucanis defended. "Sometimes… You run out of books. And there are other books around. And they are definitely not what you usually read."

"Who's the liar now?" Dami asked smugly, watching the heat flare back across his cheeks. That was never going to get old, he was pretty sure.

"I am not being judged on my morals by a pirate," Lucanis complained, storming over and snatching the kettle from in front of him. "That is not what is happening right now."

"Not morals, Lucanis," he corrected, sipping his tea with a satisfied smirk. "Taste."

"Por el amor del Hacedor— Please, stop talking."

"Anyway, he's—" Dami paused, trying to find the right words. What was he? His fingers found the worn out necklace, the only thing that wasn't whisked into the Fade besides his journal. "Well he's not dead, but he's not exactly having a great time, either."

"What… Does that mean?" Lucanis asked, looking up at him over the fire.

"Hes, uh, stuck in the Fade, currently," Dami explained. "No idea where. I'm hoping to find that out, once I figure out… Well, how to find that out."

"Sounds you have a lot to do," Lucanis commented as he returned to his coffee-making.

"You have no idea. At least I have you around for this part, right?"

Lucanis let out a short breath and nodded, a smile smile playing on his lips.

"You do."

He wasn't sure if it was the ache in his stomach or his chest that woke him up in the middle of the night. Either way, he felt terrible. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes and taking in the quiet campsite. Lucanis was fast asleep, and it seemed like Spite was actually letting him. Dami stared at him for a moment before his own body started fighting his urge to go back to sleep.

He let out a sigh, standing as carefully and quietly as he could and scanning around in the dark for any signs of wild animals around the camp. Nothing moved or made sound besides a quiet breeze, so he started towards the trees a short distance away.

Rook.

He paused, facing the growling voice. Lucanis was sitting up, now. Except he wasn't. Spite was, taking over his body again as soon as he noticed him. Of course, the spirit probably didn't actually sleep, and had very likely been just hanging around nearby and watching him the whole time.

"I'm just going out for a moment," he whispered, motioning for him to lie back down.

I want. To come.

"Let Lucanis get some rest," he sighed, not wanting to explain the functions of having mortal organs to him in the middle of the night. "I'll be right back, all right?"

Rook. Can't be. Alone.

Dami hesitated. Were those Spite's words, or something Lucanis thought? He shook his head, motioning back towards where Lucanis had been lying.

"He needs to sleep, Spite. I won't be long, I promise."

Spite let out a long, wordless grumble. Dami chuckled, trying to keep his voice low so Lucanis didn't wake up.

"Tell you what— If I'm not back in an hour, wake him up so he can hunt me down. Okay?"

YES.

"Shhh," Dami held a finger to his lips, trying not to laugh. "If he doesn't start sleeping, I'm going to be upset with you."

Yes.

Spite's voice was an exaggerated whisper now, and he nearly lost his composure.

"An hour. I won't even be gone close to that. All right?"

Spite nodded, thankfully laying back down and releasing Lucanis's body. Lucanis didn't wake up, and Dami wasn't even sure if he could at that point. He had already nodded off twice in one day. He slinked off towards the darkness of the forest.

Lucanis would thank him later.

His mind wandered as he picked his way through the forest to a clear spot. The Blight. The dragon. The threats hiding around every corner, from a peaceful Dalish camp to a major city. A ship full of Venatori and somewhere around two weeks traveling alone with a curt, brooding assassin.

Isabela was wrong. He wasn't ready for any of this. Not even close. So far, all he had managed to do was successfully make a mistake every step of the way and edge bad things closer to worse.

He couldn't do what Varric did. He didn't know how. Varric was a leader. A real one, and not just someone whose mother handed them a ship and a crew. He was in over his head, with no one to pull him back out. And if Harding managed to catch up to him, she would certainly drag him to Skyhold and have him tossed through an Eluvian straight home. Or, whisked away to another hiding place instead of being able to do anything useful.

He spotted a few fallen branches on his way back and he knelt down to grab them. The fire probably wouldn't last until morning, and he didn't want to wake up freezing half to death. He clutched at them, turning back the direction he came.

Or… Was it the other direction? He turned again, squinting in the moonless darkness and trying to pick out whatever footsteps he might have left, but he couldn't make much out in the blackness of the underbrush.

Oh, no.

He walked a few feet, then stopped. How long had he walked into the forest for? Just a few minutes, surely. He spun around, trying to spot some kind of light in the distance from the campfire. The forest was a lot denser here. There were enough trees staggered between himself and the camp that he couldn't see anything.

"Shit," he muttered, heading in a direction and then hesitating again. "Shit, shit, shit."

He stood still. Was Spite any good at keeping track of time? He had told him an hour, because the thought of being lost just a short distance away from camp had been funny.

It wasn't funny, now. He wrestled with his thoughts, wondering if he should keep trying to pick his way back in the right direction. Or, if he should stay in one spot and wait for Lucanis to come find him. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, shivering against a cold wind. There were no wolf howls, but he still felt exposed. Unsafe.

The Veil Jumpers had told him that if he ever got lost, to stop moving and start calling for help. He hadn't traveled anywhere alone in Arlathan, though. Not even a few feet. He opened his mouth, then froze when he heard a steady noise from behind. Distant, but growing. Rhythmic.

Footsteps. More than one set.

He dropped the branches, swearing under his breath when they clattered to the ground loudly. The marching picked up into a run and he took off, staggering blindly through the trees. He reached for his hip and swore again.

His dagger was at camp. He ran forward in a panic, crashing through the underbrush and making much more noise than he should have. Whoever was behind him was closing in, fast.

He opened his mouth to yell for Lucanis, hoping he would be loud enough for at least Spite to hear, when a massive weight knocked into his back. It sent him sprawling forward to the muddy ground. His wrist bent painfully as he tried to catch himself and he felt something land at the base of his spine, firmly planting him there and knocking the rest of his breath from his lungs.

Something cold and steel pressed against the side of his neck, stilling his struggle. A sword.

"Not a single move, apostate," A voice above him snarled. The boot pressing into his back thumped down as a warning and he let out a weak cough.

"I-I don't— I'm not—" Dami tried to catch his breath. The sword bit into his skin and the pressure on his spine increased.

"You're not the elf that's been reported prowling around the area, starting fires and attacking Fereldans?" he questioned, grinding his boot down painfully. "You left one of your victims alive, mage."

Fuck. The bandits. Lucanis had let one of them get away and they actually had brought company. Did they know he wasn't alone?

"Clever move for an apostate, hiring yourself some protection," he mused, lifting his boot for two others to start yanking him upwards by his arms. Heavy gauntlets covered their hands. "Unfortunately for you, you can't stay attached to your human forever."

Dami's stomach flooded with ice as he was hauled up to his knees, finally catching sight of the man's shiny armor, a massive sunburst on his chestplate barely visible.

Templars.

"H-hang on!" He tried to tug his arms out of their grip, but they weren't budging. He kicked at their legs as they easily lifted him to his feet. "Wait! Th-that's not what happened— They attacked us. I didn't do anything— Please, listen to—"

He stopped short when the sword returned to his neck. The breath he was struggling to take stopped, as well.

"You will be listening to me," the Templar boomed, looking disinterested. He waved a bored hand, like jumping people in the middle of the night was routine for him. "By the power entrusted to me by the Divine and her Chantry, you are under arrest."

"Like hell I am," he muttered, feeling static crawl across his entire body. He let the feeling loose, sending tendrils of lightning towards every nearby object. He couldn't fight all three of them off, but he could possibly buy himself enough time to run. Or make a lot of noise.

The two Templars instinctively let go of him, but they didn't seem affected by the spell. He froze, watching the one in charge barely move as the crackling magic seemed to move around him, arcing across the outside of his armor.

It hadn't worked.

He tried again, stumbling back as a searing flash sprawled outwards from his hands. This time, the man stalked forward through the spell, reaching out to grasp a fistful of his shirt and yank him off-balance. He gasped, trying not to slip on the damp ground beneath him.

"Most mages know better than to try that," he growled, pulling him up by the fabric and nearly choking him with it. The other two laughed as useless little bolts continued to skitter across the Templar's armored forearm. Dami's eyes went wide. It wasn't going to work.

Shit.

"W-wait!" he cried, throwing his hands up as the man raised his other arm.

Too late. The sheer force from the gauntleted hand snapped his head backward as it struck the already bruised side of his face. He had just enough time to gasp in a breath before the next blow landed squarely in his middle, sending the air right back out of him in a rush.

His knees buckled and the commander let go, allowing him to fall to the ground as the other two advanced. A heavy kick shot pain up his back and he felt his hair wrenched as he tried to flinch away.

The Templar pulled him close with a firm grip on his scalp, easily forcing him inches from his face. Large hands grasped his arms unkindly, twisting them behind his back. He squirmed, choking on his own breath and staring into a dark void within a plated helmet.

"You don't belong here," he hissed, holding him still. He felt something heavy and metallic snap around one of his wrists, then the other. Panic stirred up in him again, but he managed to keep from making things even worse with more magic. Another hard hit as the hand released his hair sent him tumbling back to the ground, unable to stop his head from smacking hard enough against the forest floor to blur his vision. "You should have stayed where you came from, elf."

He closed his eyes, silently agreeing with the man who was poised for another strike just above him. The others eagerly closed in, reminding Dami of starving wolves stalking towards their injured prey. Staying hadn't been an option, but he didn't have the sense or the resolve to try and argue. Especially not while he was being knocked silly against the dirt just a short distance away from safety.

The Templars didn't give a shit about the Venatori. Or, whatever war was going on outside of their job description. They were just here to find mages, beat the living daylights out of them, and drag them off to never be seen again. If anything else mattered, he wouldn't be there. He wouldn't be slowly fading out of reality, thinking of the only tangible thing he even had left after Kirkwall while most of his bones threatened to break.

It was the only thing he could think of, though, besides how much damage the pommel of a broadsword could do to an elven skull. Or the ribcage, that one surprisingly hurt much worse. Once again, he was stuck with only one way out of his situation. One he really hoped meant it when he talked about trust.

Lucanis.

Chapter Text

Lucanis.

"What?" he grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut. Spite shook him again, more forcefully this time.

Wake. Up.

"I wasn't—" He sat up, rubbing at his eyes. Oh. He was asleep. He froze when his eyes fell on the empty spot across from the fire. The spot where Rook was supposed to be sleeping. "Where is…?"

Not. Here!

"Not— What do you mean?" Lucanis bolted to his feet, hurrying around the fire to look at Rook's bedroll. His dagger was lying next to it, untouched. Lucanis shook his head. "Spite… He's probably just gone out for a moment to—"

One hour. Then. Wake Lucanis up.

"One… Hour?" Lucanis repeated slowly, glancing back down at Rook's things. One hour. For what? He felt the color drain from his face. "Oh, no. Tell me he hasn't been gone for a full hour."

Yes.

"Spite," he groaned, scrubbing a tired hand over his face. "And you just let him?"

If Lucanis doesn't sleep. Rook will be upset.

He blinked, processing what Spite was trying to tell him. He had actually spoken to Rook, then.

"And, of course, you listened to him," he sighed. He retrieved his weapons and his coat and glanced at the steadily lightening sky. "Come on. He's probably at the bottom of a ravine, yelling for both of us right now."

After the run-in with the bandits, Lucanis hoped the worst that had happened was Rook falling over and hurting himself. He followed shallow footprints in the soft earth, trying to make out enough details to figure out just where he had gone.

Whenever he found him, he was going to give him a nice, long talk about running off on his own. He should have at least taken Spite with him.

"Next time he does that," Lucanis muttered, kneeling down next to what appeared to be a small, intentionally collected bundle of branches. "Wake me up immediately."

Okay!

"Mierda, now you're starting to talk like him," he grumbled, straightening up from the foraged wood. Two odd marks twisted the dirt a few feet away from them, deeper than the other footprints. Like someone had turned and ran in a hurry. A sinking feeling was settling its way into the pit of his stomach.

They were the only ones out here. Something had happened.

"Ohh, please don't be dead," he whispered, following the marks as they dug deeper and became more erratic. He leaned in close to a tree to inspect black marks fanning across the bark. Like veins. "Maker, what happened?"

Something else caught his eye a few feet away, catching the faintest light and reflecting it back in every direction. He approached the little sparkle, winking at him from the mud and inviting him over. He neared it, crouching down low to reach for the ring. He already knew what it was going to be, but a sharp gasp still fell from his lips when he turned it over and met the brilliant turquoise eyes of a little golden kraken.

His lurching stomach plummeted to the bottom of a chasm when he saw what else the damp ground was trying to show him. Something dark, splashed against the dirt and across grass at random, leaving glistening little splatters that were almost unrecognizable in the dim pre-morning light. He knew as soon as the breeze carried the metallic scent up to him along with the pines.

Blood. Rook's blood, judging from the fact that Spite was going ballistic just behind him. It wasn't from a blade. There wasn't enough of it for that. Something had struck him with force, several times.

Lucanis stood abruptly, staying hunched over to scan the ground for any more clues. Maybe he had tripped and scraped himself up, and he was somewhere nearby. Or, he had been attacked by an animal, and not something worse.

"Rook?" he called out. The only sound that answered him was the dull thrumming of insects. "Rook, can you hear me?"

He paced while he waited for the sun to come up enough to provide some kind of light, pausing to swear loudly and yell Rook's name a few more times. If Rook could hear him, he wasn't responding. Or, he wasn't all right.

He finally found another set of tracks once the dawn light began to seep through the trees. Then another, and another. Three sets of prints that didn't belong to Rook, coming from another direction and leading to what looked to be a scuffle. Then, long marks gouged into the dirt between the larger tracks. They were identical to the ruts dug by Rook's boots when he tried to stop Spite from running off. Someone had been dragged, and he didn't have to guess who.

The footprints weren't big enough to be Qunari, he figured. So the Antaam were probably out. Definitely not Elven, they were wide and sunken into the earth as though a heavy amount of armor had been weighing the owners of the prints down. Spite darted back and forth, trying as much as he was to make sense of it.

Humans. He had been attacked by humans. If the bandit that got away had come back with friends, why hadn't they gone for him? Or the camp, where Rook had left most of his gold and jewels in a small pile, and hadn't put them back on after he slipped off to the river for a bath? Why take Rook, and not their valuables, or weapons, or attack Lucanis in retaliation? It wasn't adding up.

Then, Spite made an announcement that flooded his veins with ice.

Smells like steel. And. Lyrium.

"Templars," he growled, tightening his fist around the Captain's ring Rook had left behind. He hadn't taken it off whatsoever the entire time they had been traveling together. It was intentional. "We have to go."

He raced back to camp with Spite close on his heels, clutching the ring tightly. Rook wanted him to find it, in that exact spot. He wanted Lucanis to find him.

"I'm going to," he assured the empty air, packing everything up as quickly as he could. "I am coming, I swear."

He abandoned anything he didn't need, collecting as many of Rook's things as he could. He headed back to the crime scene, a little more slowly toting two packs and whatever water they both collectively had left. He set everything down in a spot that looked untouched and returned to his investigation.

This way.

Spite was following the tracks, too, just a few steps ahead of him. He stopped abruptly, causing Lucanis to walk right through him.

"What—"

THAT. What is that.

Lucanis examined the ground, where the tracks changed drastically. The long marks were thinner and straighter now, accompanied by deep u-shaped gouges in the dirt instead of heavy boots.

"Horses," he groaned, kicking at a clod of dirt. A little spray of mud splashed across the tracks. "The Templars kidnapped him, probably beat him unconscious—" he winced, thinking of the different spatters of blood at the site. Each one very likely a different blow. "And threw him into a cart. He— He's gone."

NO.

Spite shook him roughly by the shoulders, but he didn't look at him. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the cart tracks extending off into the distance, with no squad of Templars in sight. They were days ahead of him, by now. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think, but all that was coming up was Rook's face. His wide eyes, looking so softly and hopefully into his in the shade of the forest.

I haven't seen anything that makes me want to look away.

Find. Him.

"Spite," Lucanis said, feeling his voice break in his throat. "I don't know if I can—"

At least I have you around.

He had to do something, though. He couldn't just give up before he even tried. He followed the tracks back to the location of the incident, glancing around for anything else that could help him while he collected their belongings.

Rook. Is our friend.

"I know," he muttered, trying to wave him off as he returned to the wheel marks.

We are friends, yeah?

"Damn it, Rook." He started slowly down the same path as the tracks, hoping they would at least lead back to an actual road. "You'd better be alive when I get there."

"You seem a little lost."

Lucanis startled, his hand on the door to his room. A little village he had come across mercifully held a tiny tavern where he could buy some supplies and plan in private, but no one who had seen any Templars roaming around. Or a loud-mouthed elf with a short temper and a dull-knife haircut. At least he didn't have to worry about spending the night out in the open, alone and exposed. So he thought.

"I'm… Sorry?" He turned to face the woman who had spoken and recognized her from downstairs. She had been casting glances at him from afar for most of the evening. Some hostile, others more cautiously curious. "Do I know you?"

The dwarf took a step forward, folding her arms and glowering up at him through a curtain of red hair. She definitely looked upset, but Lucanis couldn't place why. He spared a quick glance at the heavy bow slung across her back. A little brooch holding her cloak together sported the sigil of the Inquisition. Her tone was accusatory when she spoke up again.

"Who are you?"

"I— what? None of your business—"

He backed against the door and she closed in, darting a hand into his coat pocket. Lucanis, too stunned to stop the tiny little woman, just raised his hands. His mouth fell open when she held Rook's ring up in front of his nose. What did the Inquisition have to do with Rook? Wouldn't they have known about the Templars?

"Okay, how about a different one, then," she said, her tone downright dangerous. "Where did you get this?"

"I-I— H-hold on," he stammered, trying to calm her down. Did she know him? "Listen, it is not what it looks like—"

"Really." Her lips pulled into a tight line and she snatched the ring away when he tried to reach for it, poking a thick finger into his sternum. There was fire in her eyes. "So, an Antivan Crow just happens upon this ring? And shows up in a tavern in Ferelden, carrying two people's worth of stuff… With the ring's owner nowhere in sight?"

"Keep your voice down," he hissed, fumbling behind him for the latch to his door. He could hear the faint creak of a stair down the hall. "I swear I will tell you everything, all right? Just— Please, tell me you're one of his friends."

"Close," she said, looking over the ring. He watched her turn it over and inspect the initials etched on the inside before returning her seething glare to his face. "One of Varric's."

"Honestly? That is more frightening," he said quietly, finally getting the door open a crack behind him.

"Good." She pocketed the ring, not taking her eyes off of him. "What happened?"

Lucanis opened the door to his rented room, stepping aside and gesturing for her to enter. "I am afraid you are not going to believe me."

"No, I've met him," she sighed, bristling past him and into his room. "Whatever you've got probably makes more sense than you think."

A short time later, Lace Harding, dwarven scout of the Inquisition, was fixing him with a hard stare over the rickety little coffee table that held his empty cup and Rook's ring. She shook her head when he finally finished recounting everything he could remember, with a few interjections from Spite. He ignored most of them.

"You were right," she said slowly, watching him as he prepared another cup of coffee. "I don't believe you at all."

"I told you, you wouldn't," he said simply, shrugging one shoulder. He set his cup down and reached out, plucking the ring from the table before she had the chance to take it back. To take it away from him.

"See, I don't have a hard time believing Rook would team up with an assassin and a demon," she said, shaking her head again. "I find it harder to believe that you'd want to help him. For no reason."

"A contract is a very good reason," he pointed out. "The client dying in the middle of the job is not a good look. Besides, the Lords of Fortune are allies. I think the Talons and the pirates would have me publicly executed if I let anything happen to one of their captains."

"And yet," she said, gesturing to the empty room, devoid of Rook. Lucanis winced, hiding the motion by reaching for his cup. She noticed, anyway. "Yeah. You messed up, Crow."

"I get it," he growled, after nearly scalding his mouth on the too-hot coffee. "I lost him, all right? Is that what you would like to hear, Harding? That is going to get him back from wherever the Templars drug him off to?"

Harding paused, blinking at him in disbelief. "Okay, wow. You— You sound like you actually do care."

"More than I have about anyone else I've just met," he muttered, glancing towards the window. In fact, he had already known Rook for longer than he had ever known anyone who wasn't another Crow. "If anything happens to him, it will be my fault. I don't exactly want to live with that. He may be a pirate, but he is far too nice to be left hanging for no reason."

And just before the Templars caught him in the middle of the night, he had hurt Rook. He could still see his dejected slouch. The pain in his eyes that Lucanis had put there. Lucanis had felt his own shame and regret reflected in the soft features of his face. He hated that it was his fault. Rook wandering off in the middle of the night alone very likely was, too.

He definitely wasn't ready to leave things like that. And if he had to fend off a small army of Templars to make things right with Rook, then so be it. Lucanis Dellamorte didn't leave a job half-finished.

"We… We need a plan," Harding sighed. He nodded.

"I'll give you everything I know, but…"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm gonna have to trust you, and believe you're telling the truth and that you didn't just stab him and stick him in a hole somewhere." She shook her head, then kicked back on the sofa. "Fine. But one wrong move, and you'll find out the kind of archery skills ten years of scouting can get you."

"You have my word," he assured. It would have to be enough.

"And when we do find him, he's coming with me," she stated. He lifted an eyebrow and met her fierce gaze. "I'm taking him to safety. Away from you."

You can try, he opened his mouth to say, but decided against it.

Lucanis could fix this. He had to.

Chapter Text

He spent the first few hours after he woke up in a dark, windowless chamber. Cold stone pressed into his busted cheek when he opened his eyes, and his shoulder protested with a blinding ache when he tried to move. His arms were still twisted around behind him, and he was laying uncomfortably on one that had gone numb. He tried to shift his weight off of his shoulder and found himself fixed to what felt like a wall.

Great. They had dumped him in some kind of prison, chained him up, and left. Somewhere Lucanis probably wasn't going to find him, he realized. And he had no clue how long he had been out. Hours? Longer, maybe?

Was he even looking for him, or had he already moved on, determined to get home with or without him?

You don't trust me.

Dami closed his eyes, resting his bruised forehead against the stone. How was he supposed to do that? So far, all either of them had managed to do was run from one problem to the next, and then make up their own in the middle of all of it. At that point, Dami wouldn't have been surprised if Lucanis decided to cut and run just to avoid a discussion about what had happened underneath the tree.

And, he probably wouldn't blame him.

Lucanis, however, had seemed determined to earn his trust. Even after weeks of annoying the living daylights out of him on purpose. He should have said something sooner. Opened up to him more, maybe. Maybe things would have gone differently.

It took some time for anyone to come check on him, flooding the tiny room he was stuck in with torchlight as soon as the door was cracked. Two Templars surged into the room, wasting no time in releasing him from the wall and jerking him upwards by his bound arms.

He grunted in protest and struggled listlessly, too worn out to actually fight them off. His muscles were barely responding to him and his head throbbed painfully with every heartbeat. They paid no heed to his muttering swears as they dragged him out of the chamber. He lifted his head and tried to get his feet underneath him, but they were marching along much faster than his body had the will to move. Passing Templars barely spared him a glance, though it was the others that caught his eye.

Humans shrank away from the Templars as they hauled him forward, casting their eyes away but trying to steal a look at him. They were all wearing the same long, draping robes in dark shades with neatly hemmed gold trim at the edges. Each one of them sported the same little suns and odd, rounded sigils in varying spots.

It wasn't until he was halfway down the chamber that it hit him. Mages. They were all mages. He hadn't just been arrested. He had been taken to a Chantry Circle. He let out a pained groan, which the Templars dutifully ignored.

Isabela was going to kill him.

He was finally released once they were inside of a larger, rounded room filled with Chantry robes and armor. He made to move his arms in front of him to check the damage, but left them hanging at his sides when the broad side of a sword appeared beneath his chin.

"You really think I'm a danger up against, what— Twelve Templars?" he demanded.

Or, tried to. His voice cracked and his throat was dry. He was pretty sure he didn't sound the least bit intimidating. An older-looking mage stepped forward, his robes rustling as he leaned down to look at his face.

"It's not often one of the North's apostates is stupid enough to cast magic out in the open, and then attack several Templars," he observed.

"Not stupid enough to do it twice," Dami muttered. Three times, if anyone was counting. "And I didn't— Okay, well… It was an attempted attack. Because they kidnapped me."

"The Templars apprehended an uncontrolled apostate following an altercation with Fereldan citizens," the man replied with a short shrug. One of the Templars behind him gave him a shove, forcing him closer to the blade. "To put it in terms you might be able to understand: When you break the law, you get arrested. Yes?"

Dami swallowed, just on the edge of saying something that would have brought more than just one sword to his throat. "Then why am I— Wherever this is? And not in a dungeon?"

"The Circle Tower East of the lovely Lake Calenhad. Not that you'll get to appreciate the outside of the walls," he said, sounding impatient. "Chantry law states that apostates must immediately be subjected to the Harrowing before any other matters can proceed. As First Enchanter, I am obligated to follow that law."

"The wh-what?" He was shoved forward again, this time past the sword and towards a thick cauldron. He gasped at the brilliant cerulean liquid filled nearly to the top. Lyrium. He reeled back and was blocked in immediately. There was nowhere to run. "What is that?"

"Not very well-educated, this one," the enchanter announced, drawing chuckles from the surrounding onlookers. "A demon will be summoned to the same place in the Fade, at the same time as you. Normally, mages are trained from an early age to resist possession, in preparation for their Harrowing. You, unfortunately, will simply have to figure it out."

"Th-that's—" He shook his head, struggling as he was gripped tightly by the arms and forced closer. "Are you insane? I won't be possessed, I'll be ripped apart!"

"That tends to happen more often," he answered casually, delighting in the look of horror that spread across Dami's face. "If you would rather refuse such a ritual, of course, I will be forced to have the Templars in this room subdue you. By law, you will be either slain or tranquilized, and that choice will not be up to you."

He froze, giving the Templars enough time to finish heaving him up the small platform to the cauldron full of Lyrium. A cold chill spread across his body. So it was either get killed by angry spirits, or get killed by Templars. Or, lose his magic. And his dreams. Possibly everything.

He knew what a Tranquil was. It didn't take being close to the Chantry to hear stories of glassy-eyed former mages, shuffling around with dead gazes and no will at all. No feelings. Empty shells of nothingness. He felt a shudder roll through him.

"And what if nothing happens?" he asked slowly, unable to stop his voice from trembling. "What if I'm perfectly fine and walk back out?"

"Then you belong to the Circle, where you remain until you're no longer of any use," the enchanter answered, with an expression just short of rolling his eyes. He leaned in close, muttering angrily. "Maker— For your sake, I hope you learn quickly."

He felt another pressure from behind. A sword this time, prodding him even closer to the shimmering pool of Lyrium. Something that had already nearly killed him, and now they wanted him— To do what, exactly?

"What am I supposed to—"

"Once you place your hands into the basin, the rite can begin." He sounded beyond exasperated, now. Dami must have been looking at him funny, because he reached out and tore open his sleeve, wrenching his arm closer to the liquidized Lyrium. "Unless you'd rather I mark you down as a danger to yourself and others, perhaps?"

For a moment, he considered making a break for it. However, he had no idea where the actual exit was, and the windows looked to be barred thinly enough that not even a mouse could squeeze through. Or, a mage that could turn into one, he guessed. Besides that, a whole gathering of Templars that seemed to be immune to the effects of magic stood between him and the exit to the room, likely already prepared for him to try and run. Three of them had planted him into the ground and knocked him out cold within a minute.

A dozen Venatori while he was armed and full of adrenaline was easy work. A dozen Templars with no weapons, no magic, and barely enough energy to remain standing upright, it turned out, was completely impossible.

"Fine—" Dami snatched his arm back, jerking on the laces to his other sleeve. "If the other option is literally taking my head off, I'll fucking do it."

A few disapproving mutters echoed around the room and silenced themselves quickly. The enchanter nodded, pursing his lips tightly.

"Go on, then. And I do suggest making it quick," he warned, gesturing to the Templar with the same armor as the night before. "The commander seems very impatient to get his job over with."

If the man didn't just outright stab him as soon as he entered the Fade, anyway. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to step close to the cauldron before anyone else could do it for him. Still, he felt one of the Templars take a mirrored step, clutching at a sword and sticking close. He reached out slowly, hesitating with his palms hovering over the Lyrium.

He could do this. It was just the Fade. After that, they probably planned to keep him locked in the tower, trotting around in the same stupid, stuffy robes all the other mages were wearing. He was sure he could find a way out, but not if they hauled him back to a cell. Or killed him. Or worse.

Maybe he could get a message out to Rivain, somehow. Or anywhere, really. Harding might have returned to wherever the Inquisition was, and he was sure he could figure out where exactly that was.

He stood a better chance with a corrupted spirit than he did with a bunch of seething Templars and a high-ranking mage. He already knew he could talk to one and come out of it safely. That was all this was. Just one little spirit, and he would be okay. A shifting of armor behind him warned him that he needed to get a move on, though. Whatever was about to happen to him, it most likely hurt less than taking a massive sword through the abdomen.

He closed his eyes and lowered his hands into the freezing liquid. It didn't feel much different than a Lyrium potion did, just sharper with cold. And the sensation of magic was much stronger. He felt himself pitch backwards, acutely aware that not a single body had moved from its position to stop his fall.

It wasn't stone tiles he struck when he hit the floor, though. It was soft grass. A breeze that carried a blooming, herbal scent along with it. He squeezed his eyes closed tighter and moved a hand, feeling the dewy blades beneath his fingers. Gentler than Fen'Harel's strange nightmare prison. This was where he usually went. He could feel it in the air.

He sat up, greeted by a hazy echo of Arlathan Forest. It was silent and still, with none of the usual woodland creatures leaping around. He was alone, here, in the same clearing where Myrion first taught him how to summon miniature storm clouds straight from the Fade. And, how to arc a bolt so that it blew a hole in a straw bale from forty meters away.

This was where he truly learned magic. The Venatori forbid, and punished harshly, any casting that wasn't commanded and directly supervised and Heir had only taught him how to sharpen his abilities into a lethal and efficient point. Here, in the forest, he had learned to develop it, and even direct it. He paced around, finding the stump that he had singed the very first time he ever cast a fire spell.

It was clean, with none of the scarring he knew that particular stump still sported. It always was when he was in the Fade. Everything was as nature made it, not humans and elves. He paced to the other side of the clearing, trying to figure out what it was he was supposed to expect.

Then, it happened. A steady sound, a barely audible howl. It was nothing like the wolf. Fen'Harel wasn't a spirit. Judging from the feeling creeping up his spine as the forest canopy darkened, this thing wasn't, either.

It was something much older. More menacing. Something that had its unseen eyes directly on him, though he wasn't sure quite how he knew that.

"I'm not afraid of you," he called out, wincing at the unsteadiness of his tone. The howl grew into something that roughly mimicked laughter.

"How you lie," a whisper rattled itself through the trees. He backed up a few steps, but it seemed to be coming from every direction. "How you refuse to know yourself."

"This is a trick," he muttered, making an effort not to look at the looming shadows that seemed to be drawing closer.

He had seen spirits up close. And corrupted ones. And whatever in-between Spite was. This wasn't any of those things. He froze when he felt massive fingers slide onto his shoulders, baring down with sharp tips.

"Fen'Harel wastes his time trying to claim you," the monster whispered, hooking a long claw around his throat while another tapped at his temple. He took a deep breath, trying to stop himself from darting out of the thing's grasp and setting it off. "You are marked for your blood. Not for him."

What was that supposed to mean?

"Let go of me," he said, loudly and clearly. The entity didn't budge, though. It simply coiled itself around his body even tighter.

Stay calm, he reminded himself. Even if it wasn't a spirit, it was still very likely to respond to his emotions. Which he barely had under control as it was. Just stay calm, or you're going to die.

"Why?" Cold fear gripped him as the pressure increased and he found himself unable to breathe. "Dont you want to belong? To something powerful?"

He shook his head rapidly, beginning to panic as he struggled against the weight.

Stay calm. The Templars are watching every twitch.

"Daaa'leeennn," the voice crowed, sounding like it was right inside both of his ears. He couldn't lift his arms to cover them. It was too much. "Dami'Vallas—"

A loud crack rang out through the forest and his surroundings illuminated with a fearsome violet. A deafening roar of feathers accompanied an enraged growl that sounded menacing enough to send the offending anomaly reeling far away from him with a shriek.

Dami's mouth fell open at the sight of a familiar assassin, bathed in shadows and wild tendrils of violet magic. Huge wings unfurled, illuminating the clearing further and bathing it with a soft glow as the shadows shied even further back.

Lucanis?

Rook. Is. NOT. YOURS.

Not quite.

"S-Spite?"

ROOK!

"Oh, fuck—" He crossed the clearing and threw his arms around the mimicry of Lucanis, hugging the spirit tightly as he let out a surprised grumble. Then, he drew back, examining his face closely. It looked like Lucanis, but he had never seen Spite before. He had only heard his voice.

"How do I know it's actually you?" he questioned, letting go of his shoulders and hesitating, just in case he needed to run. Spite reached out and grasped his face with both hands.

Dami. Magic pirate.

Spite squeezed his cheeks between his palms.

Friends.

"Okay," he chuckled, patting one of Spite's arms when he didn't let go. "That's good enough for me. How did you find me?"

Rook goes to the Fade. I. Started looking.

"You…" he paused, trying to make his words sound normal with his face still squished between two large hands. He remembered that? "You waited around in the Fade for me to go to sleep and show up somewhere?"

Yes.

Dami smiled, tugging Spite's hands away and patting him on the wrists. "Good job. You found me."

Yes!

Spite clutched at his shoulders, frowning at him.

Where is Rook?

"I'm not quite sure," he confessed. "I got them to tell me Lake Calenhad? Damned if Lucanis knows where that is, because I don't. I have a map somewhere in my—"

Spite let out an irritated growl and shook him a little.

LESS words. WHERE.

"Okay," he said slowly, trying to condense what he needed him to actually tell Lucanis. "Calenhad. Lake. Mage tower. Tell him to use the map."

Okay!

Spite nodded fiercely and Dami surged forward, hugging him tightly again. "I need to wake up, or Templars are probably going to hurt me. Okay?"

Spite grumbled, but let go of him with a sour face.

We. Are coming.

"You'd better be," he sniffed, reaching out and flicking at the ghostly beard that matched Lucanis's. "I don't know how long I can stand this fucking place. O-or what they're gonna do to me when I wake up. So, please hurry."

Spite tugged him forward by an arm, giving him one strong squeeze that he was certain would have broken bones if he was in his actual body.

Coming. Promise.

Spite muttered into his hair before being whisked away on the breeze, leaving him alone in the clearing. Thankfully, the thing that had been there before was either absent or silent, finished with whatever mental torment it had been trying to enact. Dami sat down in the grass, trying to focus on waking up while he still had a living body to return to.

Lucanis and Spite were coming. He just had to survive until then.

Chapter Text

They spent half the night planning the next day's investigation. Harding's voice was beginning to turn to background noise amidst the stress and exhaustion that kept him hunched in a half-slouch over the table the whole time. The dwarf stepped away to fetch water and he returned to the mess strewn about the table, poring over stained and smudged letters and other things they had dumped from Rook's pouches.

Some were uninteresting, lists of artifacts and coordinates, maps, and a partial key for some kind of cipher that he assumed the Lords used. He shuffled them aside, eyeing the next letter that looked to have gone unsent.

Marian,

I know about the Venatori.

If she comes by, tell Harding I'm sorry about giving her the slip. I don't know what's going on, but I'm not going to sit around and be kept out of it any longer. Not after Kirkwall. After Varric.

If this gets sent, I'm doing fine. If it doesn't, then you're probably better off not knowing whatever happened to me.

See you when I get back,
DL

Lucanis hummed curiously, rereading the parchment before pushing it to the side. Marian. His adoptive mother, maybe? One of the Lords he was close to? It sounded like it was meant for someone who cares about him. Someone he believed he was letting down. He skimmed the next one, an angry-sounding missive addressed to Dami about the demise of a Venatori-allied Rivaini noble, and an informal note from the Rivaini crown suggesting his arrest. That, Rook had told him about, but his eyes bulged when he saw the sign-off as he was putting it on top of the other pile.

We welcome your return when this bullshit blows over.

Lots of love
Isabela

He stared at the signature and the words, mouth hanging open. A whole page of scolding, followed by a tender sentiment? Clearly, he was very favored in the Lords. It was no surprise, if he actually had been there since he was a child. The next letter, however, outdid even that one and nearly knocked him out of his chair as soon as he recognized the thick handwriting.

Dear Useless Pirate Idiot

You were due here THREE DAYS ago to be briefed on this contract. I know your ships don't move that slowly, and I KNOW that you turn up late to these jobs on purpose.

Do it again, and I will dangle you from the top of the Diamond by your ankles for all of Treviso to mock. I will not be insulted by your petty antics any further.

-Viago de Riva

Lucanis let out a snort despite his shock. It appeared to be at least a year old, but it was written by Viago, all right. But he and Rook… Knew each other? It sounded like they had worked together more than once. That was news to him.

Viago had some interesting questions to answer when he made it back to Treviso. He set that letter aside, separate from the others. A basic, friendly update from a Grey Warden named Davrin was next, which he slid away as not being useful. Several pages of ramblings signed V were grouped together.

A quick read of the first few and the way they were written quickly revealed just who that was. Varric Tethras, renowned author from Kirkwall and heroic traveler. That man being responsible for Rook explained a lot of things. He sighed and pushed the letters all into a heap, opting instead to flip through a few of the books that were in Rook's pack.

Spellbooks made up the majority of it, he noticed. Rook was trying to get a better handle on his magic, at least. He ignored the couple of small books about Fereldan foods and Orlesian teas in favor of a larger, scarlet tome with dozens of bookmarks sticking out of it.

Rook's journal, maybe? It seemed to be enchanted somehow. There was very little damage down to the book itself, and faint remnants of the Fade were vibrating off of it. The very first page corrected him as soon as he cracked it open. It belonged to Varric. The itch was evident and familiar, though. Rook's magic was warding it. He flipped through it, noticing that a few notes had been scrawled in Rook's looping script and jammed in between pages. Corrections on Elvish, updates on artifacts and events, and a few lengthy descriptions of the Fade.

One name stood out to him, though, from the bottom of a faded letter pressed between two pages.

M. Hawke

He blinked at it, snatching up the letter from before and digging through the stack for something else. Something with the same initials. He snatched a page up written in a similar handwriting to Rook's, only neater and more practiced. The exact same writing on the letter to Varric Tethras. His eyes slowly moved to the bottom of the letter, skimming over ecstatic words of praise that described being proud of him for completing a mission.

Love always,
Marian

It wasn't from a Lord of Fortune. It was from someone who was rumored to be married to one of their members, although her spouse's identity managed to remain a secret even to the Crows.

Marian Hawke.

The Champion of Kirkwall was Rook's mother. Or at least, the one that had adopted him. Hawke was a human, he knew that much. And she was one of the most formidable mages in all of Thedas. That certainly brought the urgency of finding him to a whole new level.

If he didn't, he was going to have to contend with one of the most dangerous and deadly women on the entire continent bent on hunting him down. If the scout didn't manage to get to him first.

Suddenly, he was less worried about Zara Renata. And more worried about what the Champion of Kirkwall would do to him if he didn't return to the North with her son in one piece. Or Viago, from the looks of things. The letter had sounded angry and threatening, but he knew Viago all too well. Rook was important to a lot of very powerful people.

No wonder he tried to keep his identity a secret.

He finally found a weathered journal that looked like it belonged to Rook, buried underneath everything else. A plain little brown leather book, damaged by water and travel. Curious, that he hadn't decided to protect this one. He hesitated for a few moments before flipping the cover open. Maybe there would be something helpful inside of it.

He definitely didn't keep a tidy log of anything, Lucanis noticed. Many pages were written in Elvish, appearing to be scrawled lists or some kind of recipes. Some others were in Rivaini, and there were pages that looked like spelling practice for several other dialects. Lucanis wondered just how many languages he actually did know. It was thoughtful, anyhow, for a sailor who traveled the seas with a very diverse crew to brush up on more than just his own tongues. A page towards the end of the journal caught his eye as he continued browsing.

Thirteen names were written on the page, with one of them crossed out. Rook's name was included in the list, but Lucanis noticed Mel's written, as well. Theirs was the only one that had anything written next to it: Treviso. Most of the names appeared to be elven. It was odd, but there was no information or context besides the list. Rook was even more private on parchment, it seemed.

There wasn't much after that. A hastily scribbled map of the area they had been traveling, a few arcane sigils, and a page that was just doodles of different types of fish. Lucanis chuckled before closing the journal and settling in to examine the map, trying to figure out what routes the Templars could have possibly taken.

Lucanis closed his eyes for just a moment to block out the candlelight that was beginning to give him a headache. When he opened them, the ceiling of his room was filling his vision and Spite was shouting like an alarm bell.

Lucanis! Wake. Up.

"I am awake," he grumbled, sitting up and stopping halfway through. He was… In his bed? Had Spite put him there?

"Do you… Talk to yourself often?" He jumped, bolting upright at the sound of a voice from the other side of the room. Right. He forgot about Harding.

"I wish it was just myself," he groaned, pushing himself up from the dingy bed. He glanced at the cup in her hands, recognizing the earthy, spiced smell from the wooden box of teas he had refused to leave behind. In fact, he sacrificed three of his brand new shirts from Denerim just to make room for it.

"I'm gonna pretend like I have no idea what that means," she sighed, taking a sip.

Lucanis drifted passed the sofa, towards the tiny little wood stove that accompanied the room. He nodded at the cup as he went by. "That's Rook's."

"If we find him and save him from Templars, I'm sure he won't mind losing a few tea leaves," she assured, waving a hand dismissively. She let out a sigh when she noticed his scowl. "I'll apologize and offer to buy him more. There."

Rook.

"I know," he muttered, turning around to light the stove. "We're going to find him, all right?"

I. Found. Rook.

Lucanis froze, pinching the match between two fingers as it crackled and sputtered. "You what?"

ROOK. I know. Where ROOK is.

"Please… Explain?" Lucanis shook off his hand, dropping the match as it burnt down to his fingers. He stuck the end of his singed thumb in his mouth, fumbling for a new match as Spite excitedly climbed on top of the stove in front of him.

"Do I want to know who you're talking to?" Harding called, turning around on the sofa to stare at him with deep discomfort. He sighed, deciding he was no longer taking Rook's casual and friendly response to Spite for granted.

"A demon," he said, leaning down and lighting the stove successfully. "He says he found him."

"Riiight. The demon that's possessing you. That demon?"

"The very same."

Tower. Mage tower.

"And we're supposed to, what? Listen to him?" she questioned in disbelief. Lucanis thought hard, trying to figure out what Spite meant.

"Spite," he said slowly. "Did you see him?"

YES! Rook HUGS. Feels warm. Nice.

Lucanis shook off the bite of jealousy he felt when Spite beamed, proudly telling him the wrong part of what he needed to know. Great. Rook was happy to see Spite. That didn't help him, though.

"Did he say anything?" Lucanis pressed, shooing him off of the stovetop so he could place a kettle. Spite moved, tapping at his chin in thought. Finally he answered slowly and carefully.

Lake. Mage tower. Cal…en…had?

Spite nodded sharply, sure that that was the right word.

"Anything else?" Lucanis held his breath, committing the few words Spite was giving him to memory.

Rook isn't safe. Tell Lucanis to HURRY.

"Well?" Harding piped up, moving from the sofa to cautiously enter the kitchen area. "What's the demon say?"

Not taking Rook. From us.

Lucanis hushed him with a hand and turned back to the stove. "A mage tower by a lake. Calenhad, he thinks."

"A tower? There used to be one out that way, dunno if they ever rebuilt it," Harding questioned, her face dropping. It added up for him at the same time. "Wait... That means—"

"Mierda," he hissed, darting away from the heating water to yank the map from Rook's pack. "They took him to a Circle."

"Well, he is an apostate," she said, watching as he unfurled the map and set it on the floor. The kettle whistled and he ignored it. Harding thankfully, pulled it away from the stovetop after a few shrill seconds. "Now we know they didn't kill him."

"There is no guarantee they still won't," he pointed out, finding the lake on the map and tapping at a large structure labeled in Elvish next to it. He couldn't read it, but he was sure that had to be it. "And now we have a location."

"I can send a letter to the Inquisition to have him released," she offered. "As far as I'm aware, no circles in this area are even authorized to make arrests like that. Not anymore. If this is a Circle tower, it's going off the books."

"Right," he scoffed, rolling the map back up and stuffing it into his own pack. "While you write a letter politely asking them to write another letter to let an apostate pirate go free and slowly post it to the Frostback Mountains, I am going to start walking. You are free to come along while you work."

"And your plan is…?"

Lucanis was quiet for a moment as he went back to fixing a cup of coffee. He shrugged and poured water over the grounds, watching it slowly trickle down into the cup. "That tower is at least a day away. I have time to come up with one."

"You're just as bad as Rook and Varric, aren't you?" she sighed, grabbing her small pack from the sofa and slinging it over a shoulder. "Fine. We'll try it your way, first. And when you get cut in half by Templars, I'll get him out myself."

"Keep those arrows handy," he suggested, nodding towards the quiver lying by her feet.

"I always do," she assured, flicking her long braid over her shoulder. "You can tell your demon that, too."

"Oh, he can hear you."

"Good."

Harding was mostly quiet for the journey, making him miss Rook's endless, unyielding chatter. She made a few passing comments here and there, clearly trying to get a rise out of him, but he wasn't having it.

She was angry. He understood that. And it was, in a lot of ways, his fault that Rook was locked away in a Circle tower and not where he was supposed to be. Or where he wanted to be. Judging from the unsent letter, he was supposed to have already returned home, shepherded by Harding herself. Instead, he had run away with a head filled with plans of his own.

Lucanis wondered if it was the first time he had ever made a decision for himself. Something that wasn't directed by the Lords, or requested by the Crows, or ordered by the Venatori, or harped on until he became cross enough to relent. Ilario's words echoed in his own mind.

How long are you going to keep doing this? Caterina's bidding.

Just like himself, Rook seemed to be trapped by others' expectations of him. Maybe a simple little contract made in an unsteady boat to hunt down Venatori was more to him than just a sudden, ridiculous idea. Maybe it was something both of them wanted to do. Something they needed to do.

"I hope you know the Inquisition's gonna have a looot of questions for you," Harding spoke up, about halfway through the trip. Lucanis glanced over, surprised by the break in silence.

"I hope you know that I will be long gone and far away by the time anyone shows up to ask them," he countered.

"You don't plan on dragging Rook along with you, do you?" She furrowed her brow at him. "I do have to tell you that I don't plan to let you do that."

"He is not a child," Lucanis argued, feeling his irritation rise. "Neither of us can force him to go anywhere he does not wish. Surely you know this."

"You sure he's actually following you around? And he's not just afraid of you?"

"Are you sure you aren't?" he challenged. She didn't answer and he shook his head. "And no. Spite and I chose to accompany him. Not the other way around."

"Ohh. Stalking, but up close. Gotcha," she glanced sideways at him and continued along the path.

"Mierda," he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I am going to apologize to him as soon as I see him, for ever even implying that he was annoying. This? This is much worse."

"How old are you, anyway?"

"I am ending this conversation," he grumbled, trudging ahead of her. "This is where it is stopping."

"Whatever you say," she sighed.

Chapter Text

It wasn't the Harrowing chamber that surrounded him when he awoke. Instead it was a bare cell, similar to when he first arrived. The only light was dim and filtering in from a slit in the door. Someone had come in briefly to inform him that the Harrowing was considered a failure, but refused to tell him why. Whatever happened to him next would apparently be up to some kind of council.

He briefly wondered if they ever had any intentions of letting him roam around freely as his thoughts caught back up to him and the aches of being conscious slammed back into his body all at once. He groaned, barely pushing himself back on a little cot before he collapsed against it again.

He could hear muffled chatting in the corridor outside. Templars, most likely. He didn't want to know what their plans were, but he was certain he would find out soon enough. He drew a heavy breath and stared at his hands. Two of his fingers were bandaged together, bruised and unbending. Broken, along with an unknown amount of other things. He let his mind wander while he remained in the room, the last little bit of peace he was probably going to have while he was here. For however long he was stuck here.

Lucanis and Spite were coming to get him. He didn't know how, but he had his own plan forming to help things along already. He just needed the right moment.

A Templar shuffled into the cell eventually, quiet and slow. He gestured for him to stand, looking apprehensive over the neck guard of his armor. He heaved a tired sigh when Dami didn't move and spoke with a heavy Fereldan accent.

"Listen. Kid. I really don't wanna have to drag you around, okay?"

Dami blinked and shifted hesitantly, surprised that one of them was actually speaking directly to him. And not just yanking him out in a silent rage. The Templar grimaced before leaning back and surveying him with a hand on his hip. Not on his sword, Dami noted.

"You seem like you're new to all this," he sighed.

"That's an understatement," Dami muttered, averting his gaze to the stone wall. He nearly jumped when the Templar let out a loud, breathy chuckle.

"So he speaks," he laughed. He didn't seem to be in any kind of a hurry. He didn't move any closer, he just shifted to fold his arms. "What's your name, then?"

"Rook," he mumbled. The man nodded, humming thoughtfully.

"Sure. Let's pretend I believe that." He gestured broadly with one of his arms. "Are you coming, then, 'Rook'?"

"Where?" Dami finally looked up. The Templar scratched at short auburn curls and shrugged.

"Right now? Off to a room where an ancient old man is going to rattle off a bunch of annoying questions," he explained. "Between you and me, I don't think anyone answers them truthfully."

"And then?"

"Dunno," he admitted, shrugging more deeply this time. "I haven't been told yet, I just know that you've been enough trouble that they've been arguing about you up there for hours."

"Good."

The Templar chuckled again and shook his head.

"Yeah, I'm not surprised," he sighed, looking towards the ceiling. "So, how about it? Up and moving? Would it help if I patted the sword and acted like I meant it?"

Dami pursed his lips, holding in the chuckle that was threatening to bubble out. There was, perhaps, one semi-normal human in this entire tower. He sighed and held up his hands, scooting himself to the edge of the cot and swinging his legs over.

"Fine, fine, if you're going to be so intimidating about it," he groaned, earning another peal of laughter from the Templar. He smirked and pushed himself to his feet.

He could use this.

"Off we go, then?"

He followed the Templar out of the room, opting to stick close enough to him that he didn't feel the need to grab him. The human glanced over a few times, finally deciding on a topic after staring at him for a few seconds too long.

"So. What's up with the bits all over your face?"

"Slavery," Dami answered dryly. He felt the Templar's step falter just a bit.

"Ah," he said sheepishly. "Bad question to ask, then. Ryland, by the way."

"Are you from Fereldan?" He ignored the stares of the Templars and mages they were passing by and stole a quick glance at Ryland's armor. He kept his sword on the right, the opposite side Dami was walking on.

"Yep," he answered in a long note. "Denerim, actually. Don't know what's more shit, the city or the tower."

"I was in Denerim a couple of weeks ago," Dami said. "I'll let you know if I figure out the answer."

Ryland snorted, maintaining his rhythmic gait. "You're a funny one. I like the funny ones."

"Have you been arresting innocent mages for very long?" Dami taunted, testing just how far he could push it. Ryland chuckled.

"About a month," he answered, reaching up to scratch at the back of his head. "Got transferred here by the boss."

"Where were you before?" he questioned.

"Top secret," Ryland answered with a broad grin. He stopped by an open door and gestured to it. "In you go. Don't be too hard on the poor old man, now."

He sat himself down in a wooden chair in front of a thick, sturdy table. A Templar waiting inside the room instructed him to keep his hands visible and not move from his spot until told otherwise, before moving to stand guard outside the door. He grunted in displeasure when he saw Ryland standing outside. The other Templar merely cocked his head and offered a friendly smile.

"Ir lasa din'an," he muttered as the door slammed shut, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath.

Lucanis is coming, he reminded himself. Of course, he wished he knew how soon. Maybe Spite would be able to find him again when he fell asleep. If he even managed to do that in this place. It wasn't a prison, technically, but it sure felt like one. Just one where they only put mages they didn't like.

A man finally entered, a different enchanter than the one who had threatened him before. A lower rank, he guessed. This one sat across from him with a leatherbound journal, already scratching something down in it and humming with aloof disapproval. Dami was really starting to get tired of what the humans in Ferelden were like.

"Name," the man croaked, his voice a gutteral groan that brought his assumed age up a few decades.

Dami hesitated, flattening his palms against the table and resisting the urge to fidget with his hands. "Rook."

The man lifted his head, giving him an odd look over the top of the book. "That is the only name you have?"

"Yes," he answered. The enchanter shrugged and scribbled in his book.

"Are you Dalish?" he asked.

"No," Dami said quietly. The mage cleared his throat with a rolling gurgle.

"Hmph." He didn't miss the way the man's eyes raked across his forehead, and down the arch of his nose. "Slave, then. That explains the lack of magical education and the poor personal care."

Dami opened his mouth to correct him, and quickly thought better of it. The truth would get him into a lot more trouble than just letting the old man make assumptions and get it over with. "…Yeah."

"What is the inherent type of magic you possess?" He paused to yawn, oblivious to Dami's scowl. "That is, what comes to you most easily?"

He knew what he was asking the first time. He bit his tongue, nearly drawing blood from the effort it was taking to not start shouting over him. Fine. He could play dumb.

"I'm not sure," he said slowly, flexing his fingers against the tabletop. "I don't really know how to do much. Lightning, I guess?"

"Storm," the man corrected with a heaving sigh. Dami knew that, but chose not to say anything else.

"Do you know anything of your lineage?" he asked, before rephrasing the question again as if he were speaking to a child. "Your parents? If they are mages or not?"

"No," he lied, staring into the wood and hoping it passed for a pitiful look instead of trying to think of something. Something other than wisps of memories, his mother's face, barely even still there. "I— I don't know who they are."

The man grunted and scribbled again. "Fine. Typical, even. Let's try something easier, yes? What are your duties as assigned by your masters?"

Dami felt like he was about to bite a hole through his cheek. He thought hard, hoping he didn't notice the shudder that rolled across his shoulders as he tried to remember what he had actually done, whenever he wasn't being used as a battery for blood magic for the best of the Venatori, and a warm body for the worst of them.

That ship had taught him just how many shades of evil there could be.

Ferelden was teaching him that there were more.

"The library," he answered, remembering instead the feeling of different spines and covers in his hands. The smell of books, comforting even in his worst nightmares. Learning what all the words and symbols printed inside of them meant. He could still feel scars across his back tugging at tightened skin, from the few times he had been caught sneaking books out to study. "Organizing, cleaning, shelving. Whatever else they tell me to do. Sometimes I help out in the kitchen."

More of that grating scratching sound of ink on parchment. "You are able to read?"

"Yes."

"Do you speak any languages outside of Trade?"

That was a safe question. One he could answer honestly. In this kind of interrogation, it was a trap. A setup to get him speaking truthfully so that he might slip up when it circled back to harder questions.

"Only Tevene. My Antivan isn't very good."

"No Elvish?" he questioned, fixing him with a disappointed look. Dami shrugged.

"I only know a few letters," he said sheepishly. "I don't know any other elves."

"That will do," he sighed, scratching something else down. "Until something more fitting arises, or a decision is made by the tower's council of enchanters, you will be assisting the Tranquils in the archival wing and reporting to them."

Great. So he was right back where he started, only more ridiculous. Dami tried to cover up the disgust on his face with a cough, but that only drew the man's attention right to him. He seemed disinterested in a confrontation, however, and moved right along.

"Are you affiliated with any known groups or organizations?"

He was starting to get irritated, now.

"What happened with the Harrowing?"

"Please answer the question."

"Why am I still locked up? What did they do?"

"The results of your Harrowing were inconclusive," he sighed, relenting to Dami's insistence. "The enchanters did not detect that you interacted with a demon whatsoever. In plain terms it was a failure. Now, please continue—"

"What does that mean?" Dami interrupted, leaning forward abruptly enough to cause one of the guards to take a step closer. "Why am I being treated like a prisoner?"

"Because you are," he answered gruffly, no small amount of frustration in his voice. "Perhaps you will be allowed to attempt the rite again in a few years, after extensive training and education has been—"

"Years?"

"Perhaps not," he huffed, glaring down his nose. "It is not my decision. My job is placing mages in the appropriate positions in the tower, apprentice or not. Now, if you would please, answer the question on your affiliations."

"No," he finally answered, keeping his voice measured. "None."

"Do you feel as though your magic is a danger to others?"

"No," he lied again.

The questioning went on for long enough to leave him dizzy and exhausted before the enchanter finally waved him off. He exited the chamber, glancing behind him when Ryland began to follow him closely.

He wanted him to walk willingly, right back into the cell they were keeping him in.

And if he didn't manage to do that properly, he thought, peeking at an older mage's scuffed and bruised face as he passed by, there was likely to be another round of violent consequences. Maybe not from the one who seemed shy about getting rough, but there were plenty of others about.

Apparently, the Order's idea for keeping mages in check was a towering prison and frequent beatings. No wonder the South had so many problems with magic users going wild and getting possessed. Everyone in here looked either on the verge of a mental breakdown, or so tired they could barely shuffle along to whatever their next mandatory task was.

Except for the few he spotted who were standing perfectly still, fixing everyone who passed by with placid and polite looks. Most of the mages steered just as clear of them as they were doing to him.

Tranquils, he guessed, from their distant gaze and hollow voices as they greeted passers-by at random. He looked to Ryland, who was simply cheerfully greeting them back, uncaring that they were oblivious to his friendliness.

He needed time to plan, but he wasn't going to get that being watched every second and locked in a windowless room until he went mad. He felt a breeze gently nudge his loose, torn sleeve and he glanced down the spiraling corridor. He realized two things in the short span of a second.

One, they were on the ground floor of this tower. And two, a door had just opened to let in a group of mages from the outside. He slowed his pace, watching them filter in with a Templar stationed at the front and back of the group. They were chattering about some sort of exercise that had been going on outside.

"Don't even think about it," Ryland warned quietly, elbowing him in the side. Dami glanced over to see him staring right at him. "They'd have you in irons before you even made it to the— Oh for fuck's sake—"

Too late. They had made the mistake of leaving him alone long enough to rest. Meditate. Reach for the Veil unsupervised. With a sharp step backwards, he was in and out of the Fade, several paces away from Ryland in a flash.

"What did I just say?" he hissed. Dami could hear the thunking of boots behind him, but he kept running for the open door. The Templars flanking it moved to close it in a panic, shouting over one another.

Too slow. Another step into the Fade, and he was through the doorway before they could finish slamming it shut. Sure, magic didn't work on them, but as soon as he realized it would still work around them, the game was on.

Chasing after a half-asleep mage in the dark of the woods was easy. Lumbering after one in heavy plate armor on soft dirt was another thing. Dami outpaced them swiftly, heading straight for a crystalline lake that sparkled brightly in the sun. If they could barely run in armor, they were going to have an even harder time swimming after him.

He closed in on the lake, shutting out the clamoring and shouting behind him and focusing on the edge of the water. Just when he had sand beneath his boots, a sharp tugging pain exploded across half of his body. He went down with a startled cry, clutching at his shoulder. Inches away from the water.

A second arrow struck him as soon as he figured out exactly what the first hit was. The shouting grew closer, and the sound of his own breathing was getting loud enough to nearly drown it out. He felt nauseous and tired. Another pain tore at his shoulder, and he could feel his body moving around in the haze. Either the lake was ridiculously foggy this time of day, or the arrow had been coated in something.

He was aware of the water slipping away from him, the sounds of clanging armor, and a strange feeling of weightlessness. Being lifted from the soft ground and pinned to something much stiffer as his vision kept swimming in a blur of directions. The Fade drew him close, while the waking world held tightly onto his body.

Chapter Text

"So… What's being possessed feel like?"

"Unpleasant," Lucanis sighed, accepting Harding's question as a break from her pushy interrogating. "It's complicated. But I think I am finding ways to manage."

Rook.

"We seem to have a common goal for the moment, at least," he added with a short nod. "I am sure that helps."

"You know, Varric used to know an abomination," she said, too busy scouting ahead to notice the way he cringed at the term. "Anders. Dunno what happened to him."

"The… Man that blew up a Chantry?" Lucanis questioned, bewildered.

"Yep. It was back when he was running around with Hawke," she explained, oblivious to his increasing shock. "I think they were all friends. At least, he talked about them all like they were his family."

"You don't think he is alive," Lucanis accused, raising an eyebrow at her phrasing. Harding took a deep, uneven breath.

"I think I know what I saw back in Kirkwall," she corrected. "There wasn't anything left. No one could have survived that."

"Rook seems to think otherwise," he commented.

"Rook is young, and still thinks magic can fix everything." Harding adjusted the long bow hanging across her shoulders. "You've met him. He's not exactly the most practical thinker."

"And somehow, it works for him," he chuckled with a shake of his head. "I wonder if Spite can find him again when he goes to sleep."

"It'd be a lot harder. He would have been put through the Harrowing as an apostate, if they took him to a Circle," she stated. "If your demon found him in the Fade that quickly, that's probably what happened."

"What… Exactly does that entail?" he questioned. "I thought it was just a test that mages took."

"Not quite. According to the Inquisitor, who's Dalish and has never done it mind you, they use a bunch of Lyrium to draw a mage to the Fade," she explained. "Then, they summon a demon."

"Mierda. That does not sound safe."

"From what I hear, it isn't," she said grimly. "A lot of them die, and a lot of things go wrong. Dorian once said it was like lighting a beacon in the Fade that pointed right to the mage. Vivienne said there were four demons at hers."

Lucanis was amused by the fact that she did the same thing Rook did, with dropping names and not explaining who any of them were. He didn't tell her he didn't have a clue who those two were, though, because there wouldn't have been any point. Maybe Rook knew, and he could ask him later whenever they freed him.

"So you're saying the Circle accidentally summoned Spite?"

I found Rook!

"Or," he added, correcting himself, "it was big enough for Spite to notice. And he came running."

Yes! Protected. Rook.

"Were there other demons?" Lucanis questioned.

No. Something else. Bigger. No face.

Lucanis grimaced. Whatever had been about to happen between Rook and whatever that was, it sounded like Spite managed to put a stop to it. He nodded. "Good work."

Yes.

"You know I can't hear what it's saying, right?" Harding said, annoyed. Spite let out a strange hiss in his ear and he rolled his eyes.

Right. He had gotten a little too used to Rook being able to hear Spite's voice. It appeared that others couldn't. Or, at least, Harding couldn't.

Maybe Rook was right, and it was a Rivaini thing. He would just have to find out later.

"He says something worse than a demon wanted Rook. Spite scared it away."

"He's probably scared out of his mind," she sighed, focusing on the road ahead again. Lucanis let out a snort, pretty sure Rook was already out of his mind, and that a little fear wasn't going to stop him in his tracks.

"He is probably plotting several crimes at once and insulting Templars in a language they don't understand," he mused, picturing his furious little face snapping threats in Elvish. Even if he was afraid of them, Lucanis was sure that wasn't even going to stop him from being a problem. He was exceptionally good at making trouble. "I am doing the same, but in my own head."

"Does any of that include forming an actual plan?" she questioned. He nodded once.

"Of course. Enter the tower, retrieve Rook, and leave," he stated.

"Yeah. I don't think it's going to be that easy."

"It never is."

They were halted by the same thing that had stopped him and Rook in Lothering, or what was left of it. Harding had told him that the town had actually been lost for decades. He slowed to a stop, watching the same scarlet mass ooze out of the ground. Blight.

"Mierda. It is everywhere down here," he breathed, keeping his distance while Harding searched for a way around it.

"This isn't right," she murmured, tracking close to one of the boils. "I scouted this area last year. The Blight wasn't anything close to this."

"Maybe you missed some," he suggested helpfully. She shook her head and straightened up, her lips pulled into a thin line.

"I don't miss," she retorted. She turned to examine the Blight again. "But… This is different. I don't know. It feels different somehow. It's like it's—"

"Alive," he said, his eyes widening. "Harding, this is— This is a Blight. An active one."

"That's—" she gasped, eyes wide. "That's impossible."

"Is it?" he asked, gesturing towards the mass. "Because I do not think that it is."

"We're going to have to find a way around this," she said.

"And it's going to slow us down," he sighed, looking up at the sky. Again.

Spite didn't find any signs of Rook in the Fade that night. Lucanis didn't sleep, either. He made supper for both of them at camp, wishing he had anyone else besides an angry Inquisition agent that hated his guts to share it with. Rook would probably like his cooking, instead of picking at it like it was poisoned and then going to bed without a word.

Lucanis spent the final leg of the journey thinking up a hundred different ways to apologize to him whenever they caught up. Some involved food, others various blades and books he wouldn't have to begrudgingly purchase for himself, and a couple even included using his actual words to speak to the only person he ever found talking to easy.

I need some time to think.

Well, he had gotten exactly that. Days to think about walking away from the one thing he had ever gotten close to allowing himself to want. Days to spend wondering what it would have felt like if he hadn't walked away. He had been given far too much time to think, and he had his answer.

Harding was more right than she knew. He had a chance, and he had sent it up in smoke. If he ever managed to get a second one, he was going to be a lot more careful.

Chapter Text

The Fade was warm. Temperate. A lot nicer than the approaching winter in the waking world, even if it was devoid of any other life. For the time being, anyway.

Dami sat up and rubbed at his head, looking around to take in the odd wilderness he found himself in. The slope of the land told him he was some ways up a mountain or a very large hill, and there were conifers all around him. He stood, walking through the trees and inspecting the way their needles danced in the breeze.

He wasn't in any rush to wake himself up, this time. He didn't want to know what was happening out there. He didn't want to face it. He hiked along, carefully stepping over a bubbling stream and settling onto a flat rock on the other side. From here, he could see down into a valley overflowing with grasses and flowers.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus. Maybe Spite was wandering around somewhere. Or maybe, he could start looking for clues to where Varric was. Nothing happened after a few minutes, though, so he sighed and opened his eyes. He caught a tiny movement to his left and turned his head to spot a colorful spider slowly inching its way up a shrub.

"Curious," he murmured, holding out a hand next to the branch. "I don't usually see creatures here."

Except for Fen'Harel's nightmares.

"Perhaps you haven't looked closely enough," the spider replied. He nearly fell off the stone in shock, barely catching himself before he slipped off into the stream.

"I— what?" He blinked, staring at the collection of eyes that was looking back at him with a strange awareness. "Okay. Not normal. A little unsettling, if I'm being honest."

"Has anything that's happened to you been normal?"

"Are you a spirit?" he questioned, leaning in closer to inspect the spider. "What are you doing here?"

"Watching you," the spider answered, wobbling on its legs like a gesture. "And no, I'm quite mortal the last I checked."

"Who are you?"

"Are you truly prepared for the answer to that question?" Eight eyes glittered in the echo of sunlight. "Someone who's walked a similar path, Dami'Vallas."

"You know," he sighed, pulling his legs up beneath him. "I'm starting to get tired of everything in the Fade knowing who I am."

"Would you rather all of Thedas know who you are?" the spider mused. "I can say, it's not as great as it sounds."

"So what do you know that I don't, then, mysterious spider?" he sighed. Might as well play along. At least it wasn't a wolf. Or something worse.

"Technically, a lot of things," the spider answered, crawling its way to a higher branch. "But, I have a feeling you're not going to ask me about potion recipes or the differences between breeds of cat."

"You're a mage," he guessed. "Aren't you?"

"Clever one," the creature chuckled. "All right, what do you want to know?"

"What do you know about the Venatori? And the Evanuris?"

"Straight to the point, huh?"

"I need to know," he insisted. "Before more people die. Or before I do, from the looks of things."

"That can't always be helped, you know," it replied, then settled back against a wide leaf. "I know that they're connected. The Venatori and the Dalish both seem to believe their Old Gods are speaking to them. There are whispers about bringing them back."

"So the cultists think their dragon gods are in their ears, while Fen'Harel and the others scheme with the Dalish," Dami surmised, tapping at his chin. "But then what've we got to do with it? The elves from the ship, I mean."

"Don't know," the spider answered, moving in a way that seemed like a shrug. "Could be something to do with blood magic, or they could just really want their elves back. That one's up in the air."

"Blood magic," he muttered, staring down into the valley. "Is that how the Dread Wolf's been getting into my dreams?"

"I believe so."

"Is that what you're doing right now?"

The spider shifted, seeming uncomfortable. "…Yeah. A little bit."

Dami sighed. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by that, at this point."

"Desperate times."

"Do you know what happened to Varric?"

"I don't," it answered grimly. "I know something terrible happened in Kirkwall, and now half of Thedas is looking for you. I'm just as curious as you are as to why."

"I have the Dread Wolf's dagger. That might be some of it," he confessed. The spider seemed surprised by this.

"You do?"

"Well. Not at the moment. I really did actually lose it this time," he said, gesturing aimlessly with his hand. "Sort of. I think Lucanis maybe has it, and he's probably on his way to find me?"

"Oh, dear," the spider sighed, tapping a foreleg against a thick, waxy leaf. "This is off to a bad start isn't it?"

"Can you fucking blame me?" he demanded, flicking a wrist towards the sloping hillside. "I was tossed onto a ship with no warning, then summoned to participate in a war I didn't even start."

"So you ran."

"I didn't—" Dami paused to let out a frustrated growl and flop backwards onto the cool stone. "Okay. Yeah. I sort of did exactly that. But, I'm trying to fix things. If I could just get some answers."

"Heart's in the right place, even if the head's a mess," the spider sighed. "And, you're not far from the right track. Maybe you just need a hand."

"From a stranger in the Fade?" he asked dryly. A chuckle echoed from the shrub.

"No. I can't do much besides watch, for the moment."

"Helpful."

"Do you plan to hide in here forever?"

"It's technically an option," he replied, staring up at a bright and sunless sky. "At least there's not an arrow sticking out of me in here."

"You sure know how to get yourself into it," the spider said. If it had the ability to roll its eyes, he was sure it would have. "Thing is, I'm the one that's keeping you asleep."

"…Oh."

"Uh-huh. And blood magic isn't cheap," it scolded. Two forelegs raised into the air, showing a glistening pair of green fangs. "Come on, then. Time to face your fears."

"I'm not—"

Before he could finish defending himself, he was slammed back into his body. He gasped in a breath, flinching against the cold metal pressed into his back. His arms were above his head somewhere, but yanking on them sent a burst of pain through his shoulder that knocked his teeth together and nearly blacked his vision. Even trying to move his head caused tugging at the wound site, enough to still him again as he hissed in pain.

He kicked a leg out, next, and was met with resistance and a loud rattling sound. The only range of movement he seemed to have was the ability to twist his hips this way and that against whatever he was laying against.

Pinned to was more accurate, he decided, tugging uselessly on his right wrist. A thick, sturdy piece of metal held it firmly in place, like the rest of his limbs. He didn't even have enough wiggle room to reach out and touch his other hand.

Not a problem. He knew the weak points would be wherever the hinges holding the things together were. He just needed to reach out with a little magic and apply the right amount of pressure to—

He writhed, nearly screaming at the fierce burning sensation that fired through his body like an arrow as soon as he tried. He let out a stuttering squawk when it finally relented, collapsing against the surface as his muscles finally stopped spasming. He clenched his teeth, trying to slow his heaving breaths through his nose.

"Did you think they wouldn't be enchanted?"

Dami groaned, the sound creaking in his dry throat. Of course they hadn't left him in here alone.

"Worth a shot," he wheezed, trying to regain his senses. The Templar commander circled around the table he was bolted to, leering like a wolf.

"What demon did you interact with in the Fade?"

"Right into it, then?" His voice was barely audible, but elevated into a scream when another surge of pain enveloped his body. One of the enchanters had to be in here, there was no way the Templar was doing that on his own.

"I would recommend answering questions when asked, elf. You would be surprised what a mage's power can do to them from the inside."

"I liked the other Templar better," he groaned, trying to stop his head from lolling to the side. "Th-that one had— had a sense of humor."

The next forceful surge was unsurprising, but just as painful as the last. He writhed, twisting aimlessly as it seared through every nerve. Something tore in his injured shoulder and he could feel dampness seeping through his tattered shirt.

"The— There weren't—" Dami gasped, tensing his body in an attempt to stop his limbs from quaking. "There wasn't a demon—"

"You expect me to believe that a Rivaini mage entered the Fade and interacted with nothing?" Dami swore, not even bothering an attempt at denial. "The senior enchanters may not have cared about your lies, but I do. What did you contact?"

"Nothing," he managed through his teeth, glaring up at the armored maniac holding him captive. His voice came out shaky and uneven. "It was your ritual. You're the ones who summoned a demon."

"According to the enchanters, the demon wasn't summoned at all," he revealed. "Because you were drawn out of the ritual."

"Sounds to me like your ritual failed," he retorted. "Not me."

"I think you fail to understand the situation you're in, apostate."

He expected another flare of blinding pain, but it didn't come. Instead the Templar reached down out of sight and straightened back up, holding a long, thin piece of metal. He brandished it, waving the strangely shaped end above his face. A perfect circle, with a dozen wavy little arms radiating outwards. It looked like a sun.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, turning the instrument over in his hands. Dami didn't answer, and just barely stopped himself from shaking his head. "No, I wouldn't expect a trespasser to know anything of Southern customs."

He had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn't going to like the answer, though.

"Of course, it's perfectly clean at the moment," he said, eyes locked onto the sun rays as he twisted the rod around. "It's much more threatening when it's been coated in Lyrium."

His eyes widened as he stared at the odd implement. Why would they need to do that? What was it for? He took a deep breath, pushing back memories of the Venatori that stood over him in the same position, wiggling knives and glowing red crystal shards at him. Taunting him and torturing him while sigils were slowly chiseled into his face.

"Are you aware of how painful the Rite of Tranquility is?" he asked slowly. Dami felt his entire body lock up, freezing cold and still. His breath caught in his throat. "The worst thing a mage will ever feel, just before they feel nothing at all."

"That's— You-you can't—" he stammered, losing his voice when the cold metal sun came to a rest against his forehead.

"The Rite takes a good deal of time to prepare, you know," he droned on, ignoring Dami's stuttering protests and thrashing. "It could have been over with by now, if not for your little stunt."

"Please," he rasped, his voice barely above a crackling whisper. "You can't do this."

"What is the demon you contacted?"

"I didn't—"

"The Fade can be scried upon during a Harrowing," the Templar interrupted with a hiss, twisting the instrument against his forehead. "Did you know that? Enough to notice when you slip out of the area we sent you to—" The sharp ends dug in deeper, drawing a grunt of pain from his throat. "—And commune with a demon."

Dami could hear a loud shifting of armor plates as he straightened up, taking the brand with him out of sight. He couldn't slow his breathing. He couldn't hold in the flinch that jerked his whole body when the brand clattered loudly onto some other surface. He couldn't focus his thoughts on anything besides the feeling of cold, dark, nothingness.

They were actually going to do it to him.

"I'm not telling you a damned thing," he growled, jerking against the restraints and wincing when his shoulder flared in pain.

"Just as well," the Templar chuckled, resting a heavy hand on his waist. "Perhaps we can pry the answers from your mind just before it's erased."

A shudder ran through him as the man squeezed hard enough to bruise. The hand traveled up his side, underneath his tattered shirt. He flinched, trying to twist away from the grasp as his lungs burned and his mind raced with panic. There was nowhere to go.

"Mages are much more useful as Tranquils, I think," he murmured, leaning in close and digging his fingers into Dami's ribcage. A cruel grin spread across his face when he choked out a faint whimper. "Quite complacent, as you'll find. Agreeable. Unfortunately, I've heard the ritual is extraordinarily agonizing. Something all of them seem to remember."

He stepped away, leaving Dami to shakily struggle against the cold metal. He tried magic again, gritting his teeth and trying to hold in a scream when another excruciating surge of pain gripped his body. The Templar ignored him to address whoever else was in the room. "Prepare the Lyrium basin for the ritual. Take whatever blood you need from the elf. We shall begin at sundown."

He froze. Blood? Did it involve blood magic? He shrank back inadvertently as the armored man loomed over him once more.

"Nothing to say, now, apostate? It's always the pretty ones that cause the most trouble," he hummed. Dami set his jaw and jerked his head away when he felt thick fingers trailing through his hair. His grip tightened, tearing at his scalp as he was forced to face the Templar. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to feel his molars break the soft skin and the taste of iron fill his mouth. "And yet, they all fall silent right around this moment."

"You want my blood?" Dami seethed, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering in the frigid room. "You can swab it off of your floors after you fucking kill me."

Then, he spat through his teeth, spraying a crimson mist that splattered across the man's face before he had time to reel back away from him. The Templar stood still for a moment, contemplative, before snapping his head back by the scalp and slamming it into the metal table, dazing him. He brought a heavy elbow down on his stomach hard enough to knock the wind out of him. As he was gasping for air the spell went off again, searing through his body with an intensity that increased until a howling scream emitted from his throat.

The harder he thrashed against his bonds, the worse the pain became, until the edges of his vision were white and his voice was pitched and fried. After what felt like several minutes of being torn apart, it finally subsided and he sagged, unable to so much as twitch a limb without feeling residual sparks of pain.

"The Rite itself will be far more painful than that," he snarled, clutching his jaw so hard he felt like it might break in his grip. Dami could respond with little more than a wheezing cough. Hot tears streamed into his hair and he could feel drying, cracking blood sticking to his lips.

"First, I want there to be nothing left of you but this," he muttered, tilting his face and looking him in the eye. "This fear. Anguish. Hopelessness. And then, once you get turned inside out, it'll be the only thing you remember."

He squeezed, forcing a sharp cry from Dami as he squirmed underneath him. As soon as he let go, another shockwave sparked through his muscles. He could barely see straight. He couldn't think. His own pulse was hammering in his ears. The Templar murmured something at the far end of the room, and an enchanter stalked forward. He let out a dazed groan.

He was fucking done for.

Chapter Text

Lucanis eyed the tower from a safe distance, while Harding watched him from even further away. To his surprise, she had eventually agreed to stay out of sight. At least, until she thought he was taking too long. He was certain she would leave without him, instead of risking her life for someone she barely knew.

So, why was he doing it, then?

Well, for one, Rook had saved his life twice already, nearly losing his own in the process. So, he still owed him one. Beyond that? He actually wanted to. And, maybe, he wanted to prove that he could do something beyond the confines of a contract.

Even if no one was actually there to prove it to.

Lucanis assessed the size of the tower and noted how few windows there were. The only ways in seemed to be through just a couple of exterior doors, which he assumed to be heavily guarded on the inside. There had to be an easy way inside, he thought. The place was designed more for keeping mages in, than it was for keeping anyone else out. If he had to, though, he was confident about taking out a few slow-moving Templars and their aging mage friends.

"Planning to just waltz right through the front door, are you?" a snide, monotone voice greeted him from behind. He whirled to see an elf with stark white hair, leaning against a tree with his arms folded. Strange, white markings traveled down his face and neck and a large broadsword hung across his back. "I wouldn't recommend it."

Where had he come from?

"Who are—?" He thought about signaling for Harding when the elf interrupted him.

"I know you," he said slowly, loping forward and scratching absently at a marked chin. He leaned down, like he was inspecting him. Vivid blue eyes like he had never seen searched him over. The elf straightened up and sniffed, turning his head back to the tower. "Well, this just got a lot more interesting."

"I— How do you…" Lucanis snapped his mouth shut. Whoever this man was, he didn't trust him. And he had already given away too much simply by reacting.

"Fenris," he said, striding past him to look over the slope that led to the tower. He didn't offer a hand. "Don't worry about how I know things, I'm sure your questions will eventually answer themselves."

"Why are you here?"

"Don't take well to suggestion, do you?" he asked, rolling his eyes as he tilted his head back to look at him. The hilt of the sword obscured part of his face. "Would you like your friend back or not?"

"I would," Lucanis said quickly, abandoning any attempts at secrecy. "And since I am still standing, I assume you are here to help?"

"You assume correct. See? What'd I tell you? They answer themselves," Fenris said with a satisfied nod. He jerked a thumb towards the tower. "You might want to come up with a plan, because if you're here for the elf I think you are, you haven't got long."

"What exactly does that mean?" Lucanis asked. He felt his throat tighten.

"You know him, don't you? You Antivans are sharp. What do you think happens to mages as troublesome as that one?"

Lucanis didn't want to think about it. He knew quite well what the typical procedure was for a mage that the Circles couldn't control.

"Fenris?"

"I was wondering when you were going to say something." Fenris fixed Harding with a displeased look when she stepped into sight. "You do know I live in Hightown, don't you? Or did, until very recently."

"I, uh," Harding started, looking away from his icy blue glare. "I kinda… Forgot."

"I didn't," he said dryly, his expression moving to a slight scowl. "Well done preventing an attack on the city, by the way. Top marks for the Inquisition."

"What are you even doing here?" she sighed. Fenris turned to survey the tower, again.

"Two things," he said flatly, raking his eyes over the structure. "Ahrevas asked me to check up on a rogue enchanter and his Templars answering to neither the Inquisition or the Chantry, and suspected of a string of local abductions."

"And the other?"

"A favor, against my better judgment," he sighed, nodding towards the tower. "It seems the Templars in question have captured themselves a very important elf."

"For who, exactly?" she questioned.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he retorted, the hint of a smirk pulling at his lips. "I'm afraid that's a secret, Lace Harding."

"Of course it is," she sighed. He cast an inquisitive glance towards Lucanis.

"Why have you brought the Demon of Vyrantium with you?"

Harding grimaced. She opened her mouth, but Lucanis answered before she could.

"Rook is my friend," he explained quickly. "We are traveling together. Also, we have a contract."

"A mage-killer, awfully determined to break into Chantry property and get his hands on a mage," Fenris mused, looking over his swords and daggers. "That doesn't sound suspicious in the least. I'm convinced."

Lucanis ignored him. "So how are we supposed to get in, without raising the alarm and putting a tower full of mages in danger?"

"Sympathy from the assassin?" Fenris questioned, raising an eyebrow. "Well, we would have to double back a bit, but there's an annoying little natural breach in their security that's been there for decades."

"You mean like a cave?" Harding questioned. Fenris nodded.

"Precisely. I believe it was used as an archive, back when the tower was running legally," Fenris explained. "As far as I'm aware, it should lead right into the sub-levels of the tower."

"And into the awaiting swords of whatever Templars are guarding it," Lucanis suggested.

"According to Lavellan's spies on the inside, it's 'guarded' by a couple of Tranquils who don't know an escape route from a mousehole. And the only thing they keep down there anymore are old books and mages they've managed to enslave."

"I didn't know the Inquisitor had spies in mage towers," Lucanis said.

"Only when they start causing problems." Fenris gestured lazily towards the woods and began walking off, not waiting for either of them to catch up.

"Don't look at me, I didn't know about it either," Harding said, jogging to meet him. "How did you know we were going after Rook?"

"You're both quite loud in tiny, crowded inns," he answered, amused. "Besides, the Inquisitor already told me that you had lost him."

"So that was you I heard," Lucanis sighed. He needed to start being more careful. Between that and the bandit survivor, a year away from work had made him rusty. Careless.

"I didn't lose him," Harding defended in a huff. "He's… He's really fast, okay? And he can do this weird teleport-y thing I've never seen anyone besides the Inquisitor even do."

Lucanis was bewildered. "He can?"

"Fadestepping," Fenris told her, pushing a hanging branch out of Harding's way as he led them through the woods. "Doubtful he has the sort of rigorous, veil-manipulating training Ahri has, so he must be a Dreamer."

"He is," Lucanis confirmed, shrugging when Harding gave him an incredulous look. "At least, I think so. I haven't seen him do that, but he did do a lot of damage to a Venatori ship before—"

"He what!?"

"I have said too much," Lucanis replied hastily, meeting Harding's red-faced scowl. "Nothing happened, actually. Not a thing. He is very good at making campfires appear and nothing else."

"I'm gonna drag him back to Skyhold by his pointy little ears," she muttered, shaking her head angrily. Ginger braids whipped around her face wildly. "I can't believe this. I take my eyes off of him for one second, and he's starting a war with the cultists!"

"Isabela is going to be furious," Fenris mumbled. "She might actually kill one of us for this."

"If she doesn't, her wife will," Harding sighed.

"Oh please, Hawke loves me. She wouldn't lay a finger on me. You two, on the other hand, might be acceptable casualties."

Lucanis nearly choked on his own breath. Had he… Heard that right? Surely, that wasn't what they had said. He numbly stumbled after them as they slipped into a crevice that led underground, his mind racing.

Isabela wasn't just soft on Rook. She was Marian Hawke's wife, and Rook's other mother. And Rook wasn't just one of the Pirate Queen's captains.

He was her son.

He had been wandering around Ferelden with the heir to the Lords of Fortune.

Fenris smirked when he caught sight of whatever look Lucanis was wearing across his face. He nudged Harding. "I don't think he knew."

"I did not," Lucanis said weakly. "I only figured out he was the Champion of Kirkwall's son the other night."

"That doesn't surprise me," Harding giggled. "Rook talks a lot, but he's pretty good at keeping secrets."

"Rook, isn't even his name," Fenris snorted. Harding paused, blinking widely in the dim cavern.

"It's not?" She lowered her voice, cringing when it echoed slightly against the walls. "No way. I've known him for years. You've never even met him, how do you know?"

"It really isn't," Lucanis confirmed. The passage narrowed, winding down deeper into an old archive. A worn, weathered door adorned the end of the path. "If it helps, I have no idea how he gets away with these things."

"From what I hear, he doesn't," Fenris sighed, dropping his voice to a whisper and pressing an ear to the door. "Isn't that why we're here?"

"Good point."

"So what's the plan?" Harding whispered, carefully sliding her bow off of her shoulders.

"Right. The Inquisition's given me the go-ahead to clear this tower out. You and I can handle that, since we'll be able to recognize friendly faces from Skyhold," he said quietly. "The Crow heads for the top and finds our little apostate."

"And your plan for the chaos once you open that door?" Lucanis asked, keeping a hand on his rapier.

"Yell 'Boo!', chase everyone outside, and hope that I've given enough time for the Inquisitor and his friends to arrive," he said smugly. "Did you think I would come break into a tower full of Templars and angry mages all by myself?"

Lucanis shrugged. "That's what I was going to do."

"And that's why you aren't the one giving orders with a very big sword."

Lucanis rolled his eyes. "Fine. Let's get this over with while he's still alive."

"And still has a personality," Fenris commented. Lucanis ignored him again, focusing on the door. It was silent beyond, but it wouldn't be that way for much longer.

With little more warning than an itch at the back of Lucanis's eyes, the tattoos covering Fenris illuminated, casting a blue glow across his face and the door in front of him. Then, he simply walked forward, passing through the door as though it wasn't even there.

Lucanis blinked several times, staring at the spot where the elf had just been standing. "…What?"

"Yeah, he does that," Harding murmured, stepping close to the door as it unlatched from the other side. "You get used to it. Kinda."

"Is he a mage?"

"Nope."

Fenris threw the door open and drew his sword before jerking his chin, signaling them to enter the room. Harding stepped in first, followed by Lucanis. He grimaced at the sight of several elves shrinking away from them, speaking to each other in hushed whispers and watching with wide, fearful gazes. Memories of an old job with Ilario bubbled to the front of his mind as Fenris slowly approached them.

It wasn't the first time he had run into a mage's terrified slaves. He shook off thoughts of the wigmaker and his horrendous blood magic and kept his sword close, peering around the room for any threats. Besides the elves, the only other people in the room were human mages. Or at least, they were at some point in their lives. None of them reacted to the intrusion. They just stood perfectly still with their hands by their sides and placid, neutral expressions painted onto their faces. Each one of them sported a sunburst emblem seared into their foreheads.

Tranquils. Every one of them unable to even summon so much as a wisp of confusion, let alone be alarmed that three armed strangers were breaking into the tower. Except for one.

The Tranquil closest to Lucanis lunged at him, grasping him by the arms tightly. He was trembling and desperate, a sharp contrast to the vacant void that had been his face merely seconds prior.

"Maker," he warbled, clinging onto a startled Lucanis. "So much pain. It hurts. It hurts. Everything hurts."

"I— Harding?" He pried the man off of him as he continued to babble. Harding shook her head, looking just as confused as he was. Lucanis took a few steps back and the Tranquil calmed, returning to a stock-still position as if nothing had even happened. "What… What was that?"

"Normally a side effect of a Tranquil coming into contact with an Abomination," Fenris muttered from the other side of the room, followed by an annoyed tsk. "I don't suppose you could have mentioned that detail?"

"How was I supposed to know?" Lucanis hissed, taking another couple of steps back to distance himself from the group of Tranquils that Harding was trying to shepherd into the archive. "What does that—" He gestured to the Tranquils. "—Have to do with demons?"

"Don't you have a job to be doing?" he clipped, turning back around and trying to calm the now-panicking elves. "Do whatever you want with the enchanters, I don't really care. Just make sure at least some of the Templars are still alive to arrest."

"I charge extra for that," he commented, checking to make sure Harding had gotten the rest of the Tranquils safely away from him before crossing the room to a far set of doors.

Fenris grumbled something in Tevene, but didn't otherwise respond. Lucanis held his breath, listening intently to the silence on the other side of the doors before slipping through.

So far, the alarm hadn't been raised in the tower. That was good. It was quiet in the lower corridor, but the emptiness didn't help to quiet his nerves as he ascended a dark, winding staircase. Rook was up there somewhere, but if he was too late—

He shook it off, sticking to the shadows as he approached the next door. Of course, it wouldn't be so easy as climbing one flight of stairs the whole way. He listened closely at the door, waiting for an inevitable sound of movement.

It came in the form of a weight against the door. Someone leaning, in plate armor from the sound of it. Judging by the soft thunk about six feet up, the wearer wasn't sporting a helmet. He calculated the height, then subtracted what he estimated the size of the head to be. Then, holding his rapier aloft with one hand, he reached up with the other and gently rapped at the door.

"What—?" The armor slid slightly as a man spoke. Turning to the side, but still leaning against the door. Comfortable. "Who is it?"

Lucanis hadn't been expecting a conversation first. He shrugged. "The Inquisition."

"Wha— Is this a fucking joke?" The voice grumbled then the armor lifted itself from the door. The knob began to turn. "Which one of you idiots is—"

He didn't have time to finish the question before the blade was through his throat. His voice died with a shocked, gurgling wheeze and his body began to sink downwards.

"The Crows send their regards," Lucanis growled, catching the man's body and lowering him slowly to reduce the clanking of his armor. He twisted the sword that was still impaling his vocal cords before wrenching it out and continuing on. The next set of stairs was plainly in view, and he took those twice as quickly.

Something. Is wrong.

"I know," he muttered, blinking hard as the itch in the back of his eyes began to grow into a burning discomfort. "I feel it too."

The Veil was weak and volatile here, enough for him to sense it. He had experienced the same feeling enough times over the years to be able to recognize it in an instant. Blood magic gone wrong. One little spark of errant magic could set off an entire flood of chaos, and the whole tower felt like it was on the verge of pure disaster.

"Maker," he gasped, tugging the door at the top of the stairs open to a sea of noise flooding the spire.

His assumption couldn't have been more right, although his timing was just behind reality. Screams echoed throughout the structure, amplified by smooth bricks and ornate tile floors. Accompanying the sounds of terror was the howling cacophony of dozens of demons, swarming the tower and darting after anything that moved.

Lucanis dodged an arrow meant for a demon and started running. He didn't have time to fight through all of this to get to the top. That was going to have to be Fenris and Harding's job once they reached the ground floor. Stealth was out of the question, but taking out a few demons on his way before they could possess anyone didn't take up any of his time.

A rage demon skidded in front of him, ignoring him completely to pick a Templar off the floor and twist his body, wringing it like a damp dishtowel. Lucanis kept moving, following Spite towards what he hoped would be another way up.

There are. So many.

"We don't have time to deal with it," he said, finding the next flight of stairs and taking them several at a time. "We get Rook first. Then, maybe, we figure out why the Fade is getting turned inside out."

I want. Rook. Back.

"I know," he huffed, shouldering open the next door and skewering a wispy, withering demon with his sword. He argued in between strikes as he moved, downing demons and Templars alike. He just hoped none of them were the Inquisitor's people. "That is why— We are here— In a tower full of demons— You know, he might be the first actual friend I've ever had— That isn't my cousin."

Our. Friend.

"This is not the time," he groaned. One Templar stood between himself and the door to the source of the itching and needling. "If he is in there, I am killing everything inside."

Yes!

"H-hey—!" The Templar shrank back against the door as Lucanis stalked forward. "Who are— What— You can't be here— Ser, I am warning you to halt—"

He reached out, covering the Templar's mouth with his hand and smashing the back of his head against the thick wood. The man's eyeballs shook and he let out a dazed groan. Lucanis stowed his rapier and pointed at the door.

"Is there an elf in there?" he asked. The Templar hesitated, then nodded weakly. Lucanis sighed. "Good for me. Bad, for you."

He grabbed the back of his head with his other hand and twisted, snapping his neck in an instant. He released him, raising a boot to kick the door open as the body crumpled to the floor.

The sound of the door colliding with the wall caused three enchanters within the room to bolt upright, their concentration on whatever spell they were casting broken. The painful tingling and itching of nearby blood magic let up, if only just a little. They had been hunched over a motionless form, partially obscured by their bodies and shackled to a table. He didn't have to guess who.

Another body in the room caught his attention, as well. A heavily armored Templar, mangled and withered, emptied of blood. Near the mages sat a cauldron, filled to the brim with Lyrium and radiating surges of arcane energy. Lucanis stepped into the room, kicking the door closed behind him.

"I see you're summoning demons," he observed, tightening his hand on the grip of his blade. "You got one."

"How are you here?" The enchanter wearing the heaviest, most decorated robes sputtered, stricken with shock. He gripped a staff with a glaring red crystal floating at its crest. Lucanis barely recognized him in the dim light of the chamber, but his face fell. "You— You're dead."

A Venatori leader, from Vyrantium. One that had managed to slip away so many years ago, before a contract could even be put out on him. It had been so long ago, he couldn't even recall the man's name. It didn't matter now, anyhow. Lucanis felt a small smile creep onto his face.

"Step away from the mage and I promise to make it quick," he offered, drawing his rapier and holding it aloft.

"Whatever your contract is, I'm afraid it won't be fulfilled," the mage sneered. Behind Lucanis, Spite was emitting a guttural, feral snarl. "This one belongs to the Venatori."

No. Our. Rook.

"The Crows always finish their contracts," Lucanis answered. He took a step, coming close enough to hear the sound of ragged breathing from in between them. Rook was alive. "Besides, he isn't the target."

The enchanters on the same side of the table as him moved, both of them readying spells. Lucanis felt Spite move with him this time, closing the distance between them in a blink. He had the blade of his rapier thrust through the first one's wrist just as he was raising a hand to cast. His agonized howling startled the other, just long enough for Lucanis to swiftly kick the staff he was holding.

The mage made the mistake of turning his body, in an attempt to stop his focus from leaving his reach as it clattered across the floor. Lucanis drew a second sword and had both of them speared into his side, through his ribs. And, from the sound of the wrenching, wet wheezes he was choking out, right through both of his lungs.

The first recovered from his shock and made to tackle him, grabbing him from behind. Lucanis grunted and yanked one of the swords out of the dying enchanter. He thrust it backward, smirking when he heard it pierce neatly through robes and flesh. A quick jerk on both hilts and both mages were down, with ugly slashes exposing blood and bone.

He spun on the leader, who was raising a hand with his palm facing Rook. Lucanis felt the air around him ripple, crackling with energy. A breathless cry escaped from Rook and his eyes snapped open as his body thrashed about in his confinement. Tiny rivulets of blood sprang to the surface of his skin, along the lines of his tattoos. Lucanis could sense a spewing of magic, pouring out of one body and into another.

Blood magic. He was harvesting magic. From Rook's blood. He closed a fist and Rook's body seized, convulsing against the table erratically. Spite roared, seething with rage.

No! Get. AWAY.

"Another step closer and I'll rip out his arteries," the Venatori hissed. Rook's head shifted slightly.

"L-Lucanis…"

Lucanis gritted his teeth. The Venatori grinned devilishly, clearly pleased with Rook's distress. Whatever he was doing to him drew a rasping scream from him that echoed throughout the round room, ringing in Lucanis's ears.

Spite moved first, this time, and Lucanis felt his body respond to the demon's will before his own as he leapt for the enchanter. Whatever arcane gesture he was performing was cut short by a boot to the chest, and Rook's voice fell into quiet heaves. Lucanis grabbed hold of the enchanters robes and yanked him to the side. He dropped the staff and Lucanis pulled him towards the looming cauldron, tripping him and using his momentum to smash his head against the iron rim.

He screeched in pain, blood erupting from his nose and mouth and several other places he couldn't quite pinpoint. Lucanis gripped the back of his neck and plunged his head into the glimmering blue liquid in the basin, holding on tightly as the man thrashed and frothing bubbles broke the surface.

Lucanis didn't let go until the body had slumped and the water had gone motionless, the crystalline blue tinted a cloudy brownish-purple. He released the enchanter, flicking Lyrium potion off of his hands with a scowl and facing the table. Rook was breathing heavily with his eyes squeezed shut, his expression twisted up in pain and discomfort. Lucanis felt like he could cry out in relief when he saw that there was no sun-shaped brand adorning his forehead.

"Rook," he whispered, leaning over him to inspect the restraints. There wasn't a lock, at least not one that he could see, but there was something radiating menacingly off of the metal cuffs that sent an itch all the way up and down his spinal column.

Blood magic. He focused on it, tracing it down to where it seemed to be coming from. His eyes fell on the abandoned staff, its crimson crystal tip still pulsing and glowing.

"Why is it never normal magical locks?" he muttered, stomping down on the crystal hard enough to shatter it.

The shackles fell away and he quickly returned to Rook's side. He carefully cradled his face with one hand, trying not to touch any of the sigils that looked like they were still bleeding. The tips of his fingers brushed against damp, matted hair, sticky with blood. "Rook, can you hear me?"

Rook let out a voiceless grunt and his eyelids fluttered open. He was dazed and it took him a few moments to focus on Lucanis. He blinked slowly. "...You're late," he croaked.

Lucanis breathed out an exasperated puff of air.

"And you're still you," he sighed, running his hand over tattered, blood-soaked fabric clinging to his shoulder. "Mierda… What did they do to you?"

"Nothing good," Rook groaned, wobbling while Lucanis helped him sit up.

He stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed. Lucanis could barely make out a thin rim of gold at the edge of blown, black pupils. He was concussed, and Maker only knew how many other injuries he had. Rook pushed himself forward, swinging his legs off the edge of the table and throwing his arms around Lucanis's shoulders. He hugged him tightly, his body trembling.

Lucanis froze, stunned for a few silent seconds, before gingerly placing his hands on Rook's quaking back.

Rook is hurt.

"I'll live," he murmured with a weak chuckle. He squeezed Lucanis harder and buried his face in his shoulder. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course," Lucanis said softly, resting a hand on the back of his head. "I couldn't just leave you here."

"You could have—"

"—No," he interrupted, standing up straight and thumbing a splotch of blood off of Rook's jaw. "I couldn't have, Rook. Trust me."

Rook's mouth twitched into a lopsided smile and he swayed slightly. "I do."

Lucanis barked out a short laugh before carefully taking hold of his waist. He maneuvered him into a position where he was easier to carry. "If I had known all I had to do was fight my way through a tower full of Templars, cultists, and demons, I would have done that sooner."

Rook straightened up, looking panicked and appalled. "What do you mean dem—"

An ethereal shriek sounded off from somewhere in the tower, close to the top floor. Rook turned his head towards the noise, then back to Lucanis, a scowl forming on his face. "You could have mentioned that."

"Sorry," he excused as he slid an arm underneath Rook's legs. "I have been in kind of a hurry."

He lifted Rook and barged into a side room of the chamber that looked to be an office, slamming the door shut behind him and kicking a rickety bookshelf over to block it from opening again. He set Rook down on a wide desk and approached the colorfully stained windows that adorned one side of the wall. He began feeling around for a latch somewhere, but a dull thud behind him forced him to turn back around.

Rook had collapsed. He was motionless, slumped over a stack of papers and moaning quietly. Beyond the office, the sounds of demons approaching, banging against walls and doors outside the ritual chamber, grew closer. And louder.

We have to move. NOW.

"On it," Lucanis huffed, hoisting Rook up onto his back and abandoning any attempts at opening the window any reasonable way. He kicked out a pane and jumped, hoping Spite got the message on what he was supposed to be doing.

Halfway through his winged descent he felt Rook shift and let out a warbling groan. Then, a pained grunt as he landed onto the soft ground below. Lucanis looked up and saw red and gold banners marching towards them. A sharp intake of breath sounded off right next to his ear.

"Lucanis…?"

"Hmm?" Lucanis adjusted his grip, careful not to let Rook slip onto the ground.

"Why's… The Inquisition here?"

Lucanis shook his head with a humorless chuckle. "You tell me."

"Aw—" Rook's head fell hard against his shoulder and he made a quiet, wounded noise. "I'm in trouble, aren't I?"

"You are," Lucanis confirmed, walking towards the approaching detail. "Just not with me."

Rook grumbled into his coat. "Yet."

Lucanis laughed.

"Give it time."

Chapter Text

The main doors to the tower burst open as Lucanis was rounding the building. Demons spilled out of the opening, quickly overtaking the outer grounds as they hunted down Templars and mages alike. Many of the mages seemed to spot the Inquisition's heraldry and made a break for their lines in an attempt to get behind some sort of protection. Armed soldiers rushed forth, engaging with the Templars and providing them more cover.

Lucanis, however, found himself quickly surrounded. A demon swooped towards him and he staggered back, nearly losing his hold on Rook in the process. Just as he was maneuvering to draw his sword, though, an eerie green rift tore itself open a short distance away. Lucanis watched in shock as the demons were swept into the fissure within seconds, followed by the Templars all being forced to the ground at the same time, as though a great and invisible weight had suddenly dropped itself onto their heads.

"Andraste's tits," Rook mumbled into his shoulder, half-conscious now from all the chaos. Lucanis felt Rook's head shift, and he turned to face whatever it was that had caught his attention. "It's him."

There, standing a few paces ahead of his own front line and holding a staff aloft with one hand, was a man Lucanis never expected to set his eyes upon in his entire life. A man whose sun-beaten auburn hair and gleaming armor he had seen in hundreds of paintings, the image striking and frequent enough throughout his life that he recognized the figure immediately.

Andraste's sacred herald. The elf that had stopped the entire world from being torn apart and, by all accounts, was quite possibly the most powerful mage in all of Thedas.

Ahrevas Lavellan, whose words were powerful enough to become law wherever they reached. Including Treviso.

When Fenris said that the Inquisitor's people would be coming, he evidently forgot to mention that the summoned cavalry included the Inquisitor himself. Lucanis tentatively approached the man while Fenris came tumbling out the front doors, and Harding showed up at the rear of the Inquisition with the following Tranquils.

The Inquisitor let his spell wane, lowering his staff when his soldiers obtained the upper hand and began apprehending the Templars and remaining ‘enchanters’. His eyes flicked over Lucanis's shoulder and went wide. He spoke with a soft, nasally voice that Lucanis wouldn't have expected to come out of him in a hundred years.

"Oh, dear."

He was also, most notably, much shorter than Lucanis had ever imagined. Maybe just an apple's height taller than Rook, and nowhere near as muscular.

"Rook!" Harding shoved her way to the front, leaving the Tranquils for a few other Inquisition members to sort out. Fenris traipsed right past him, on his way to help with the unexpected rescues. "Is he—?"

"He is alive," Lucanis sighed, crouching so that Harding could help carefully lower him to the ground. "Injured— I think he has a concussion, he's lost a lot of blood, and I am not sure what else."

Rook mumbled something that was barely audible, and nearly unintelligible. Still, Lucanis craned his head and was able to make out the words "—Several arrows," before his breath hitched and he groaned in pain.

"He'll need healing," the Inquisitor remarked. He knelt down beside Rook and began casting a spell over him, strong enough that Lucanis could feel the warmth of it through the Fade. "—And likely more than just magic… But, he'll recover."

"Sounds like we made it just in time," Harding said.

Lucanis let a long breath out through his nose. "You have no idea."

“I suggest we move somewhere safe,” the Inquisitor said. He straightened up and beckoned a few armored knights over. “The Inquisition has an investigation to finish here, and I've got a few questions.”

“Right.” Harding nodded, gripping her bow. “He’s going to Skyhold.”

“Are you joking? Not in this condition, he isn't," Lucanis snapped. He filled the spot the Inquisitor left and gently waved away the armored guards, opting to carefully lift Rook himself. “He would not survive the trip up the mountain. Besides, I am not letting you lock him up in a castle while he is knocked out.”

Harding opened her mouth to argue, but the Inquisitor stepped in with a gentle hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him with a look of near-betrayal as he spoke.

“I'm afraid Mr. Dellamorte is right, Lace,” he said softly. Lucanis paused, partway to hefting Rook into a position that was easy to carry. He stared at the Inquisitor, mouth open. “Dragging him up a mountain right away probably isn't the best idea.”

“But—”

“A few days to recuperate and plan our next move, Harding. I assure you, I don't intend to leave any of you behind.”

“You know who I am?” Lucanis questioned, wincing apologetically when Rook let out a soft grunt.

“Doesn't most of Thedas know who you are?” the Inquisitor retorted. He strolled ahead, tapping him on the shoulder with the staff as he passed. “Perhaps not by name, but by reputation. I'd hardly be doing my job if I weren't aware of both.”

“Where are we going?” Lucanis hesitated for a brief moment before following him. A small company of armored knights and mages trailed behind them, as if they were just assigned to tail the Inquisitor at all times.

“An Inquisition keep not far from here, to the North. Just outside of Crestwood.”

“Is that where your tower spies came from?”

“Perhaps some of them.” The Inquisitor’s amber eyes held a twinkle of humor as he answered noncommittally. He wasn't going to tell Lucanis a thing about Inquisition business.

“How do you know Rook?” Lucanis had thousands of questions for the man, now that he was this close. “Do the Lords work with the Inquisition?”

“Not often,” Lavellan chuckled, seeming unbothered by the sudden field interview. “Varric Tethras is well known about Skyhold for not shutting up about his nephew. Nor Isabela and Marian Hawke about their son, if you get either of them started.”

“Speaking of…” Lucanis hesitated, unsure if he should mention what Rook told him.

“I'm already aware of what happened in Kirkwall,” he said gravely. He shook his head, keeping his eyes on the path ahead. “I regret not sending a larger detail, if I'm being honest. Harding shouldn't have had to face something like that alone.”

Lucanis was bewildered. “You could not have possibly predicted, your worship—”

“Ahri,” he corrected, holding up a hand. A strange, enchanted prosthetic. Lucanis tore his gaze away, forcing his eyes not to linger on the limb. “Please. If I recall, you are in line to inherit First Talon, yes? The Crows needn't be as formal as they are with us.”

Lucanis grimaced. First Talon. He hadn't thought about it in so long, now. “Right…”

“Not a fan of agreeing with him, but… Yeah,” Harding chimed in. “I don't think sending more agents to get iced by a dragon would have been as big of a help as you think.”

“You never know.”

She sighed in defeat, clearly used to losing arguments with her employer. Lucanis spent the better part of the rest of the journey telling the Inquisitor— Ahri— everything that had happened since he met Rook, while the older man listened intently. Every now and then he asked a clarifying question, or Harding would jump in with something that happened before Rook found him on the ship, but he mostly just took everything in.

The pace picked up as soon as they reached the keep. An elf named Charter took one look at Rook and went pale as parchment. She began barking out commands to her surroundings subordinates, with Lucanis hurrying along to keep up with the sudden flurry of movement. Murmurs bubbled up around them when they reached the inner walls of the keep, nearly exploding into excited chatter. Lucanis had a feeling the Inquisitor’s presence was the only thing stopping the whole fort from descending into gossiping chaos. Or, partly, the warning glances their commander was intermittently spearing them with when their curiosity grew too loud and too close.

Not even the Inquisition itself was immune to making a spectacle, he mused.

He didn't let Rook out of his sight for even a minute, this time. He followed the swarm of healers and medics, paying rapt attention to every little instruction and insisting on transporting Rook himself every time someone asked. At this point, he would have carried him all the way back to Treviso on his own if he had to. They brought him to a clean and clinical chamber deep within the keep, where he finally laid Rook down on a cot with a groan. He straightened up, rubbing at the middle of his back. At least Rook wasn’t wearing an extra hundred pounds of gold. Lucanis found a chair out of the way of the healing work and planted himself firmly there, gaze fixed on Rook.

He managed to hold his stare when the Inquisition got to work, though a grunt of displeasure bubbled its way out of his throat when they cut away what was left of Rook’s shirt, exposing a mottled mess of dirt and blood. His composure held, somehow, as they went injury to injury, cleaning and stitching fatal wounds and re-breaking bones that had gone too long without setting. He didn’t look away. Not even when the basins of clean, clear water by the surgeons ran scarlet. Every little crack of bone and unconscious gasp of pain was like a poisoned arrow, each one striking a different part of him until he felt faint and short of breath.

At some point, he had fallen asleep during the ordeal. He awoke to Spite, not having budged even a muscle, his eyes locked on the same spot Lucanis’s had been. Watching and waiting. He felt another presence in the room, however. One that hadn’t been nearby just before he lost track of time.

The Inquisitor nodded at him from the other side of the chamber, where he was leaning against the door frame and watching his healers finish up. He had traded in the armor for a more diplomatic red and white outfit, and a matching scarf. Crimson elven markings were just visible against bronze, freckled cheeks. They made his small, angular face look strikingly draconic. “I had hoped to meet either of you under much different circumstances… And, I would have also expected to do so separately.”

He moved into the room, glancing at Rook before coming to claim an empty wooden chair near Lucanis. He looked weary. Aged beyond his years.

“What are the circumstances, exactly?” Lucanis asked. He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I would assume you know more about what’s happening than he does.”

“You would be correct,” Ahri said. “What has he told you, exactly?”

Lucanis shook his head. “Oh, no. You first.”

“It's never just a simple conversation with the Crows, is it?” He sighed, then chuckled softly. “All right, then. So far, the information that Charter and Varric have obtained for us pertains to mainly two things: the Dread Wolf’s Lyrium dagger, and the thirteen elven mages bound to it by blood magic.”

Lucanis blinked rapidly. The Dread Wolf? He was real? “What… What about the Venatori? And what does it have to do with Rook?”

“The Venatori are the ones who got their hands on the dagger, and attempted to use it on their slaves nearly a decade ago,” he explained, stroking a tattooed chin in thought. “Rook and Varric were in charge of the team assigned to tracking Solas— The Dread Wolf— down. Either him, or the dagger itself, before he could get his hands on it.”

Thirteen elves.

“What does it do?” Too much was swarming in his head at once. The Venatori. A Magic Dagger. An evil Elven god that the elves didn't even believe in anymore.

A magic dagger.

“According to our intelligence, Solas plans to use it to tear down the Fade… Effectively wiping out anything that isn't Spirit or Elf in one breath.”

Lucanis’s eyes widened and he leaned back as far as the wall behind him would allow. “Mierda.”

“The elves that Solas has managed to rally to his cause are convinced that giving the dagger to the Dread Wolf will achieve harmony and peace. Many of the Dalish are in favor of obtaining the artifact to break the Evanuris free from the Fade,” he went on, leaving Lucanis to reel from even more outlandish information. “And the Venatori seem to think that making a large enough number of sacrifices will summon their dragon gods from their ancient slumber.”

Lucanis hoped that his expression stayed placid and normal, despite his racing thoughts. “And where is this dagger now?”

“We don't know,” Ahri admitted, his thin lips pulled into a grimace. “Varric recorded the possible coordinates in his journal, but we haven't managed to recover it. I believe that it's been drawn into the Fade.”

Lucanis said nothing. Rook had kept Varric’s belongings from the Inquisition for a reason, he was sure of it. There had to be something he knew that even Ahri and his people didn't.

“He is one of them, isn't he?” Lucanis asked softly, turning his attention back to Rook. “The elves.”

“He is.”

“It is risky of you to tell me this,” he pointed out.

“From what I hear, the two of you are allies,” Ahri said, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “And, I think the man determined to protect him would benefit from understanding the gravity of such a task.”

The gravity. The price of failure, he meant. Like, complete annihilation of the world as he knew it. What had happened to Rook in the tower was a minor consequence on the spectrum of things that could go horribly wrong. Demons all over Thedas. Cultists controlling dragons. Mass extinction.

He wouldn't have believed Rook if he had been forthcoming with what was going on with him. In fact, he barely believed that the Inquisitor was telling him real facts, and he hadn't gone mad from ten years of isolation in a frozen mountaintop castle.

But he had witnessed firsthand the kinds of rituals and experiments the Venatori had been up to in the last year. What they were still up to, if his own eyes were to be trusted. He had read thirteen elven names in Rook’s journal. He saw the coordinates in Varric’s, crossed off one by one until the markings suddenly stopped. He listened to Rook’s constant chatter, silently committing every word to memory, grasping for the smallest bits of disclosure and candor.

This was real. This was happening. He got himself imprisoned for a year, and someone went and started the end of the world.

Lucanis felt nauseous all over again.

“The bodies of a dozen Chantry enchanters were found within the tower,” Ahri said quietly, breaking the silence once the physicians and mages had cleared out of the room. “Along with more than a few Templars.”

“The Venatori.”

“Precisely. I've only obtained the report a few hours ago, but…” He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. “If they're infiltrating the Chantry, I've no hope of colluding with the Divine on this one.”

“Are you… Asking me?” Lucanis straightened up. The Inquisitor was asking him for help. "To do something about all of this?"

“You, the Crows, the Lords, whomever else I can dig up that's not affiliated with the… Well, the proper diplomatic processes, so to speak.” Ahri stood and crossed the room to look over Rook. “Solas must be stopped at any cost, and I'm prepared to offer whatever that takes. The Inquisition would be indebted to all of Treviso. Perhaps even more than that.”

“You want me to keep a god from touching him?” Lucanis met him by the cot. He bent down, gingerly scooping Rook into his arms and straightening back up. “Easy. I can do that.”

The Inquisitor led him out of the sterile room, towards guest lodgings at the edge of the keep. He raised a scarred eyebrow as Lucanis fell into step beside him. “And if it comes down to killing a god?”

“Then, I will kill a god,” he answered simply. “As many as it takes.”

Ahri seemed satisfied by this, because he took Lucanis by surprise by saying, “I'm sure Skyhold will have whatever you supplies you require. Please let me know when you're both ready to leave.”

“Of course,” was all he could think to say, and the Inquisitor was off. Lucanis bit his tongue and shouldered the door open, careful not to knock Rook’s head on the frame.

Just like that, he had signed up to go to the very last place that he and Rook had planned to be. Rook wasn't going to be very pleased about that. Lucanis laid him down on a clean bed and stretched his back out before looking back down at Rook with a sigh.

“What am I going to do with you?” he muttered, reaching down to his elbow and trailing a finger along a tattooed wave. Dark, Rivaini indigo ink rested underneath the skin, crisscrossed on the surface by scars fresh and old. Rook shifted and shuddered in his sleep and Lucanis frowned.

He found a blanket underneath the bed and carefully unrolled it. Rook stirred again as he was pulling it over his bare shoulders. He blinked and grunted, moving to sit up but collapsing back onto his back. "Lucanis...?"

“It's all right,” Lucanis murmured. He pressed him back into the thin mattress with one hand and brushed a lock of tangled hair out of his eyes with the other. “We are somewhere safe. You're all right.”

Rook mumbled something under his breath, and his eyes slipped closed again. Lucanis waited for his breathing to slow, and the rise and fall of his chest to even out before stepping back and finding a spot to settle in for the night. Now, he had to think of how to explain everything that he had just done and agreed to, to Rook once he woke up.

And hope that lightning wouldn't decide to strike him when he did.

Chapter Text

Everything hurt.

It felt like his face was covered with a sunburn, something he hadn't gotten since he was a child. Every bone and muscle ached and seared, and there was some kind of sling holding his left arm at an annoying angle. He turned, trying to find a position that didn't have his limbs screaming out in agony, so that he could get just a few more minutes of sleep. He wasn't ready to get out of bed just yet.

Dami stiffened.

Why was he in a bed?

His eyes flew open and he was greeted by soft torchlight and a chiseled stone ceiling. The sound of little flames crackling and hissing echoed in the small room. He opened his mouth, a grunt of surprise falling from his lips.

“Rook.”

Lucanis was at his side in an instant, moving swiftly and silently. His eyes were wide, almost fearful. “Are you all right? Don't try to sit up—”

Rook. Is hurt.

“I'm fine, I—” Dami faltered as he moved himself upwards, nearly blacking out from the pain that rolled through his body. He dropped his head back to the pillow. He felt dizzy. “…Yeah. Yeah, no, okay. Never mind.”

Lucanis huffed and knelt down to help him slowly, carefully sit up. Dami rested his back against the wall and tugged on the lapels of his coat, wrapping his free arm around him in an awkward hug.

“Thanks,” he mumbled into the side of his neck. “I don't know what I would have done without you.”

“I am glad you are alive.” Lucanis held him for a moment before drawing back, a hand lingering on Dami’s arm. He looked like he was holding back the next thing that was coming, but he let it out anyway. His eyebrows furrowed into a deep crease and he squeezed Dami by the shoulder, shaking him a little. “What were you thinking? Going off by yourself at night? Not waking me up at all? Telling Spite an hour!? You could have been killed, Rook, or worse. Do you know what they were going to do to you?”

“I— I wasn't trying to—” Dami made to argue, but cut himself short when he saw the look blazing in Lucanis's eyes. His body was stiff and tense, and he was breathing heavily. He looked down. “I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking, and I did something incredibly stupid. I should have listened to you.”

WHAT.

“And Spite,” Dami added, patting Lucanis on the forearm until he loosened his grip. “I should have listened to to you and Spite.”

THANK you.

“Please,” Lucanis breathed. He dropped his forehead onto Dami’s blanketed thigh with a quiet groan. “Please, Rook, don't ever do something like that again. I am begging you. You have no idea what we went through to get you back.”

Dami straightened up, his body going stiff and cold. He tapped Lucanis on the side. “We?”

“Lace Harding hunted me down and accused me of your murder,” he sighed, turning his head to scowl through a curtain of loose hair. “You are lucky she asked questions first, instead of shooting.”

“…Ah.” Dami swiped Lucanis’s hair out of his face and let his hand fall to his shoulder. “I, uh…”

“Have a lot to explain,” Lucanis grumbled, burying his face in the blanket again. “But it doesn't have to be today.”

Dami nodded, brushing his fingers back and forth idly against the fabric of his coat. “Okay.”

“I mean it, Rook,” Lucanis said. His voice was muffled, but stern. “This cannot happen again.”

“All right, I get it,” Dami groaned. “I'll be more careful. I promise.”

“You had better.”

“You're a fucking traitor.”

“I'm sorry.”

“An absolute bastard. You know that?”

“I had no other choice, I swear. He didn't even give me one.”

Rook let out a frustrated growl from between clenched teeth and stared daggers into him through the wind and snow whipping around them. They had been hiking for ages, following behind Harding, the Inquisitor, and the rest of the detail they brought from Crestwood. Rook had complained loudly about not even getting to enjoy the lake before they left but Harding had forced him out the doors of the keep and onto the road, lecturing him about water temperatures and climate differences.

“I can't believe you.”

“You are the one that got us into this,” Lucanis reminded him, reaching out to adjust the sling that had started to come loose. “Stop flailing around so much. You are going to hurt yourself.”

“You're lucky I haven't flung myself off of this mountain,” Rook hissed. Lucanis let his eyes roll freely.

“You would not make it to the cliff.”

“I bet I'm faster than you.”

“We are not testing that here,” Lucanis said, chuckling at the end. “You are wrong, though.”

“How much farther do we have to go?” Rook’s whining carried far up enough for Harding to turn around ahead of them and shoot him a warning glare. He grumbled in her direction and shook himself off, shivering against the damp air.

“Not much,” Lucanis said. He shrugged at Harding, who sighed and trudged on ahead. “I think. You should have found another cloak before we left.”

“I didn't think about it,” he admitted. Another shiver caused his whole body to quake. “Why didn't you say anything until now?”

“I thought you would be smart enough to do it yourself.”

“Fuck off,” Rook spat, shoving at him. Lucanis chuckled. “Maker’s breath, you sound like my mum. ‘Is your armor wet, love? Well, you should have thought about that!’”

“Which one?” Lucanis questioned, glancing over at him. “The Champion of Kirkwall, or the Queen of Pirates?”

Rook opened his mouth, but all that left his throat was a choked wheeze. He cleared his throat and a pinched, near-hysterical laugh came out, next. “The, ah— The… Uh, the second one.”

“Hmm.”

Rook looked away, folding his arms the best he could with one of them stuck in place. “When were you going to tell me you know about that?”

“Right now.” Lucanis began unbuttoning his coat. “When were you going to tell me you knew Viago?”

“I, uh—” Lucanis could almost see all of the blood draining from his face, in real time. He looked like he might faint. “Well— Never, really, and he's going to have my head once he finds out— Is this really the time to be talking about this?”

“I concur,” a blonde, armored man marching near the Inquisitor called, turning his head to address them. He was fixing them both with a peeved, disapproving scowl while the Inquisitor hid his amusement behind the spine of a spellbook. “I can hear you both from all the way up here, and it's been sufficiently annoying as is.”

“La, viran se lan'aan?” Rook’s tone was dripping with venom as he straightened up to address the man. “Ghilas erelan’dala, alin shemlen.”

“Rook,” Lucanis groaned. He had no idea what he said but the man was red-faced, now, and the Inquisitor looked like he was about to fall over.

“I understand Elvish, pirate,” he spat over the wind. Rook’s eyes went wide and his mouth snapped shut. Lucanis turned his head to laugh. “And I'll have you know that the Inquisition Knights are no longer Templars, nor do they operate as such.”

Rook let out a guttural-sounding scoff. “Tel'abelas.”

“What I wouldn't give for a very strong wind right now,” the knight said. He heaved a tremendous sigh and did his best to ignore Rook, who was now making faces at him.

“Cullen, please do be mindful of our guests,” Ahri said, interrupting what was sure to be something explosive between the two. “Not every nook and cranny in the North is aware of the goings-on at Skyhold.”

“Indeed, your worship,” Cullen agreed, sparing Rook another pained glance before facing the front again. “And some, nothing at all.”

“Hey,” Rook started, but the man was pretending he couldn't hear him at all. Lucanis snorted and shrugged off his coat.

I don't. Like him.

“Give it a rest,” he sighed, addressing both of them as he draped the coat over Rook’s shoulders. He buttoned it at the top, so that it wouldn't flutter away in the icy wind. “You can menace the Inquisition plenty when we have actually arrived.”

“Things have been rather quiet, lately,” Ahri remarked. He laughed through his nose and kept walking when Cullen elbowed him sharply, his scowl deep enough to permanently mark his face. “Oh, never mind, then.”

“So much for Redcliffe,” Rook said with a groan. He drew the coat in tighter around himself, his shoulders coming nowhere close to filling it out. “…Thanks, but… Now you're gonna be cold.”

Lucanis tugged his sleeves down to his wrists, already feeling the bite of the cold deep in his skin. Rook shuffled closer, a little sensation of warmth coming along with him, until their elbows were nearly touching.

“I don't mind,” he lied.

Skyhold was worse than Denerim. Lucanis could barely contain Rook, who was trying to sprint off in several directions at once, and whining that he had never seen a castle before, not one that still had walls and people inside of it, and why wasn't Lucanis letting him have fun?

The Inquisitor instructed them both to pick out a place to sleep, much to the dismay of Cullen, before they met with him again for a proper conversation. Or, an interrogation, as Rook had distastefully put it.

The sprawling grounds had buildings all over, including a tower packed with mages and scribes and dozens of lodgings within the palace itself, but something caught Rook’s eye from the courtyard and he was tearing off towards the tavern outside of the main hall.

Lucanis followed behind him at a leisurely pace, and found him upstairs in a round room lined with wide windows. There wasn't even a bed inside of the turret, but Rook beamed and plopped himself down on one of the colorful window benches, clearly satisfied with his discovery. Not wanting to be too far away, Lucanis opted for an actual bedroom just off of an upper floor of the same tavern. There, he could easily slip out of his door and have a vantage point of both floors below, including the entrance to Rook’s room.

The Herald’s Rest, proudly announced a plaque by the door as they exited a short time later.

Lucanis let Rook do the talking when it came to telling the Inquisitor what had happened, especially since he had been the one directly present and involved. Lucanis learned two new things during that conversation that would have left him shocked and speechless, if not for the other outrageous pieces of knowledge that were still fresh in his memory.

The first thing was that this Dread Wolf, Solas, had been present during the dragon attack at Kirkwall. Physically, along with hundreds of demons. Rook hadn't mentioned either of those things to him.

The second, more concerning news was that Rook’s nightmares weren't just nightmares. Just as Lucanis had feared, something was going on in the Fade. Spite was close, only it wasn't wolves. The Dread Wolf himself was stalking around Thedas, invading Rook’s dreams and terrorizing him through the Fade.

If Lucanis didn't have enough of a reason to want to take him down, he surely did now. The stress etched on Rook’s face whenever he woke up, the exhausted hunch in his shoulders every time they started walking, they were all because of him. Some ancient, egotistical mage that thought he could open up the world and do whatever he wanted with it.

Lucanis was good at giving mages nightmare of his own. The elves and the Venatori that thought they could lay a hand on Rook would soon learn that.

Rook stopped him on their way back into the tavern, tugging on his arm and staring at a huge Qunari man seated in a far corner. He was shirtless despite the biting cold, and sported an eye patch and an unfathomably massive set of horns.

“That's The Iron Bull,” Rook whispered, nodding towards the man. “He used to be a Qunari spy or something… Oh man, Charger is going to lose it when I tell them— Taash isn't going to give a shit that I was at Skyhold, but everyone else is gonna be jealous.”

A beardless human man chuckled over his drink as they walked by. Lucanis shook his head and followed Rook up the stairs. “So, what now? You are up to something, aren't you?”

“Not so loud,” Rook said, hushing him with a bandaged hand. “That Qunari isn't the only spy here. I'm pretty sure most of them are, the Inquisitor included.”

“Did Varric tell you all of this?” he asked. Rook chewed on his lip for a moment, staring out one of the open windows in his room, before he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his gaze fixed on the courtyard below. “Yeah, probably hundreds of stories about this place… The people here. Enough times that I can recognize some of them, just from the way he talks about them. I think a bunch of them have left, by now. One of them is even the Divine, but he never told me which one it was.”

Rook silently watched the grounds for a few moments, then nodded towards something out the window. Lucanis stepped closer to follow his gaze.

“That's Cassandra,” he said, looking at a weathered woman in heavy armor. She was talking to a man who looked much younger than her, maybe around whatever Rook's age was. “She was a Seeker, before she found out that it was a really fucked up thing to be. Dunno who that is she's talking to, though.”

“Recognize anyone else?” Lucanis asked, leaning an arm on a beam in between windows and peering down.

“Besides her? That pale man, Cullen, actually,” Rook said with a smirk. “Varric says he's a nice guy, but I couldn't resist teasing a Templar.”

“You are too much trouble,” Lucanis laughed. Rook flashed him a grin and jabbed at his ribs.

“Not for you,” he said, darting out of reach before Lucanis could catch him. “Come on. I wanna see how many forbidden doors I can open before somebody stops me.”

“Rook.”

“I'm kidding. I just want to find food, and maybe see if they've got some kind of market.” He paused, halfway through the curtained doorway. He turned back slowly, fixing him with a worried look. “Do… Do I have any gold left?”

“Your things are with mine… Well, whatever I could carry is.” Lucanis smirked, reaching into his pocket while he patted Rook on the shoulder. “What kind of Crow do you think I am?”

He produced the kraken ring, chuckling when Rook gasped and gawked. He carefully slid it back into its proper place, mindful of the sling Rook’s arm was in and the bruising on his fingers. Rook examined it, tilting his head to get a look at his hand without tearing his shoulder, then grinned up at him.

Rook reached down with his right hand and took hold of Lucanis’s tightly. Lucanis was sure his heart stopped at some point during the gesture. His breathing was audible, and he was very aware of that fact.

“The best one,” Rook said, squeezing his hand. He turned and, without letting go, bounded out of the room to go get whatever it was he wanted.

Lucanis followed, because, how could he not?

Chapter Text

Isabela,

I've heard that you've been sending out every spy and smuggler you can get your hands on, seeking information regarding either myself or one Thalia Laidir. I have decided to end your tireless hunt on one account (before you resort to conscription) by penning a personal letter to be delivered to your “Hall of Valor”.

I'm afraid I have no knowledge on the whereabouts of Thalia. For this, I am deeply regretful. I don't know if there may be information still lingering about Minrathous, but it's a start.

At this time, I am unwilling to put myself and my contacts at risk by leaving the hollow. However, if what you have told me about your ward is true, I am interested in doing what I can to help. I will be in touch again, soon.

Best,

Surana

Lucanis strolled through the lower courtyard lined with stalls of traders from all over Thedas, traveling far and wide to sell their wares to Inquisition agents and traveling nobles. There was one in particular, though, that he had seen on the first day. They had arrived late, after most of the stalls had packed up for the day, but Lucanis knew the markings of a Crow trader when he saw them.

The stall was manned now, in the early hours of the morning, along with several others that he planned to stop at after he was finished. He was surprised to see his first truly familiar face since leaving Treviso: a dark skinned elf with tight, packed coils of hair that hung loosely about his shoulders. The top was bundled into a neat tie, out of his face. The man’s meticulously oiled eyebrows went straight up, and his mouth fell open. He was just as shocked to see Lucanis.

“Río Cantori,” Lucanis greeted. His gaze wandered over the tailor's stock, unique pieces of armor and clothing that all had a subtle Antivan flair. Teia’s cousin always did have an eye for fine art.

“Lucanis Dellamorte,” he breathed, his eyes wide. “I heard the whispers you were here, but to see you alive with my own eyes… That is something else.”

Lucanis frowned. “Am I not supposed to be?”

“Captured and killed by the Venatori, according to… Well, everyone,” Río explained. He waved a hand in the breeze flippantly. “Apparently, that report was exaggerated.”

“I was one of those things,” Lucanis said with a scowl. “I escaped, as you can see.”

“So I heard,” Río said, giving him a peculiar look. “With a Lord of Fortune, no less. They certainly do live up to their name, don't they?”

“A captain, actually,” Lucanis corrected. Río let out a whistle, but his expression didn't become any less stoic. “Perhaps you know of him.”

“No way— The miniature elf everyone is whispering about?” He folded his arms. “He’s one of the captains? When I heard he was a Lord, I just assumed he was one of their spies.”

“Word travels fast, here.”

“Skyhold is smaller than it seems,” Río chuckled, leaning back against a storage crate. He crossed his legs at the ankles leisurely. “Besides, they've got their own Crow outfit here. Word travels even faster if you're one of us.”

“Where are the other Crows?” he questioned, peering around as though they would suddenly pop out of the shadows.

“Not dressed like Antivans,” Río said forlornly, batting at a hanging silken cape. “No matter how hard I try.”

“Speaking of—” Lucanis nodded towards a carefully carved mannequin that was tastefully dressed. Río’s face brightened, and his lips curved into a smile. “I didn't come here just to chat.”

“Finally,” he sighed, standing up straight. “I barely get one customer a week. That damned Orlesian armorer keeps snatching everyone up.”

Lucanis examined several pieces carefully, moving on whenever one set turned up a feature he didn't like, or lacked something he considered essential. “Is there any chance of an Antivan discount?”

“I charge an extra twenty percent for everyone who asks that question.”

Lucanis scoffed. “I see why you're not popular.”

Río’s face tightened into an almost-sneer. “Shut up and buy something, gilipollas,” he said, opting to insult him in Antivan for good measure.

Lucanis smirked and went back to examining armored outfits. Spite caught his eye as he was rejecting one for being far too heavy, and gestured towards something smaller and more out of sight. It was understated, mostly flexible leather and protectively woven cloth. There was a thin, delicate-looking silverite chest plate that went down just far enough to cover the most important organs and bones without sacrificing movement or speed, and it looked like it came off very easily if the wearer so chose. The sleeves were simple and easily modified, with ties that ran the length of the inner arms and stood out in bright crimson. It was perfect.

He traded in his tattered, damaged coat and shirt for a new one, and talked Río into selling him a few skeins of yarn and some of his personal tools. He was growing increasingly bored, especially at Skyhold, and needed something to pass the time while Rook was asleep or otherwise busy. He couldn't always find an excuse to tail him, so something to keep his hands occupied would probably help.

“Mage armor?” Río questioned when Lucanis picked out a few things for himself, then gestured towards the outfit. Still, he began gingerly disassembling and packing it away. “This is far too small for you.”

“I am aware,” Lucanis said. He dropped a small pouch of money onto the table and waited for Río to examine it. He didn't. “It's for the mage.”

“Interesting,” Río hummed. He didn't comment otherwise, and Lucanis left as quickly as he could.

Rook wasn't in his room when Lucanis returned, after dropping some things off upstairs. A few windows were open and a light breeze ruffled sheer, pastel curtains that had been recently hung. Besides those, Rook hadn't opted to decorate the space whatsoever.

“You Crows always have that look when you're hunting for someone.” A deep, rumbling voice caught him off-guard back downstairs, and he barely managed to keep himself from reacting. He turned, and the giant Qunari man was seated right where he was before. “I don't know why you do it.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Lucanis feigned, looking away while still trying to scan the dining room.

“Mhm.” The Iron Bull took a long swig from a huge silver tankard. He paused, considering something for a moment. Then, “He's in the kitchen.”

“Thank you,” Lucanis muttered, before speeding off to the bar and ignoring the Qunari’s satisfied smirk.

“Mhm.”

He excused himself past the barman, who muttered something about guests respecting private spaces, and pushed open the door marked KITCHEN STAFF ONLY. Clearly, Rook wasn't interested in following any kind of rules while they were here. Or ever, probably. Settle down didn't seem like a phrase that was in his admittedly expansive vocabulary.

“Lucanis!”

Rook grinned at him from the other side of the kitchen, where he was standing atop a stack of books while a very harried cook was fussing about behind him. In front of him was a large iron pot, filled nearly to the brim with some sort of stew. Lucanis could smell meats and vegetables and spices already simmering. The sling was already off, and he was in a short-sleeved tunic despite the chill in the air. Tight, compact muscles peeked out from beneath the sleeves, decorated with freckles and inky artwork like a delicate painting. Lucanis batted the thought away immediately. Spite, however, did not stop staring.

“There you are,” Lucanis sighed, closing the door with his hip. He eyed the long stirring ladle in Rook’s hands, and the woman behind him, wondering just how this situation had come about.

“The other way, love,” she griped, pushing at his elbow while he scowled. “And you've got to do it hard.”

“I am! What's it matter which direction it goes, anyhow?” Rook argued, throwing an exasperated gesture at the huge pot. “It's bloody soup, isn't it?”

Lucanis hesitated, unsure of just what to ask. “What is…?”

“Oh? Oh!” The human woman blanched, glancing back to Rook with a mortified look on her face, as though she had figured out why Lucanis was staring at her for so long. “It's not— He offered to help, and wouldn't take a simple no, I swear I didn't snatch him up just for this!”

Lucanis raised an eyebrow at Rook, now. “Are you bothering the Inquisition staff?”

“No—” Rook said quickly. He leaned a hand on the rim of the pot, then quickly yanked it back with a hiss. “—Ow.”

The poor chef let out a fluttering sigh and drooped against a nearby counter. “He's a very lovely lad, really. A big help. Knows shit all about cookin’, though.”

“Hey!”

“I don't think he's ever done it before,” Lucanis said to her. He crossed the room and leaned over the pot, wrinkling his nose. “And I don't think I'm going to let him do it again.”

“What? What's wrong with it?” Rook demanded, shrugging at the dreary pot of bubbling liquid. Several things, just by smell alone. Lucanis rolled his eyes and grabbed hold of the back of his tunic to tug him away. “Aww. I was enjoying that.”

“If you really want to learn how to cook, I'll teach you,” Lucanis chuckled. He held open the door for Rook. Rook stared at him, flabbergasted.

“Wait, really?”

“Of course,” Lucanis said, ushering him out of the kitchen and back into the tavern proper. “Food is important. The most important thing, possibly. Every little detail matters. The heat, the proteins, how fast you cook it— Everything.”

“I dunno, I'm still alive, aren't I?” Rook teased. Lucanis stopped on the staircase and reached down, taking hold of his wrist with one hand. He brought it up between them, his fingers encircling the entire limb with his thumb and forefinger generously touching. If a Qunari or a strong enough human really wanted to, they could snap it like a twig.

“And it is a miracle that you’ve made it this far without eating food properly,” Lucanis replied, giving his bony forearm a squeeze before letting go. “You’re very lucky you’re a mage.”

“Pffft. Know-it-all,” Rook muttered behind him. “What're we doing?”

“I have something for you,” Lucanis said, entering Rook’s room and relaxing on one of the window benches. He gestured to the parcel.

Rook tilted his head, looking at the package with deep suspicion. “Is it food?”

“Is that the only thing you think about?”

“I also like gold,” Rook hummed, approaching the gift like it was a wild animal. He poked at it, then looked at him again. “It's for me?”

“Rook,” he groaned, scruffing a hand through his beard. “Mierda. Just open it.”

“Sorry— It’s just…” He frowned, then shook his head. “Well, I wasn't expecting—”

“You don't expect gifts, Rook,” Lucanis said slowly, gesturing to the parcel again. “You just take them.”

“Right,” he said, his voice quiet. He picked up the package and turned it over in his hands. “I'm just not used to it, you know? Besides getting older every year —nameday, birthday, whatever you want to call it— I've always just… I dunno, taken whatever I wanted, I suppose.”

A thought struck Lucanis like a stray arrow. “You've been away from home for a year,” he stated.

“Mhm.” Rook began tearing at the parchment, a distant look in his eyes. “Maybe a little more.”

“Your birthday… Did it already— When is it?”

Rook grimaced, hesitating with the gift in his hands. “…Some time ago. While we were in Denerim.”

Oh.

“Rook, I— I'm— Why didn't you tell me?”

“Well, it wasn't really important,” Rook argued.

“It is to me,” Lucanis insisted. Rook stared at him, his face turning several shades darker, before sputtering and tearing the package open the rest of the way.

“Whoa—” Rook gasped, brushing the packaging away from the armor. He ran his fingers over the gleaming plate, and started examining the leatherwork right away. “Holy shit. This is— I don’t— Lucanis—”

“You're welcome,” Lucanis offered. “There is a coat that matches, as well, but it's in my room. I didn't think you were going to put it on.”

Unless he was forced to. The armor itself was enough of a gamble, and he was sure Rook was going to complain about it being too much. Rook, however, had already torn off his tunic and whipped it across the room, displaying a litany of scars, freckles and tattoos across a sea of dark skin. Lucanis stared at what looked like a dotted map trailing down his right arm before he made a choking sound and turned to face the window.

“Mierda—” Rook’s trousers were being pitched against a shelf, now, revealing even more skin and ink and the shortest pair of smallclothes he had ever seen in his life. The cabaret performers of Treviso had nothing on Rook’s audacity and shamelessness. He covered his face with a hand. “A little warning, perhaps?”

“Are you always like this?” Rook’s voice sounded exasperated.

“Are you?” Lucanis gestured broadly without turning his head or moving his hand from his face. “It's not normal to just get naked at the drop of a hat, Rook.”

“I'm not naked,” Rook huffed. Lucanis could hear a soft snap of fabric in response, and he lifted his eyes upward behind his eyelids. He was trying to kill him. “And maybe it's not normal for you— I mean, do you really think there's a whole lot of privacy in the Lords of Fortune?”

“You… Make a good point,” he admitted. The pirates were not known for their modesty, indeed.

“And you look ridiculous.” Rook paused, and there were several struggling sounds. “Okay, um… Well.”

“What's wrong?”

There was a sound of skin on skin. Rook folding his arms. Without a shirt. “I… I don't know what any of this shit is.”

Lucanis groaned and dragged his hand away from his face, peeking towards Rook out of the corner of his eye. He had the thick, soft trousers on and nothing else. The rest of the armor was in an indecipherable pile, already creased and heaped and tangled up. Rook looked towards him helplessly, and he sighed.

“All right,” he said, gesturing to the empty cushion beside the mess. Rook sat and waited while he sorted through the pieces.

“You didn't have to, you know,” he said quietly. He took the shirt once Lucanis had it shaken out, and slid it over his head. “I probably would have gotten something myself before we left.”

“Your armor got ruined when you jumped into the ocean, and you had to leave most of it behind,” Lucanis excused. Rook held out an arm and he began tying each little red cord, one by one. They looked dramatic against the deep midnight color of the sleeves. “It looked expensive, and a few pieces of hide and a cloak from the Dalish aren't going to protect you.”

“It's cute that you're concerned about my safety,” Rook teased, leaning back against the window while Lucanis moved to the other sleeve. His face burned red-hot and he tucked his head down to concentrate. “I was kidding about the whole bodyguard thing, you know.”

Lucanis didn't reply to that. Instead, he dropped his voice to a level that he was sure only Rook’s sensitive ears could hear. “You do plan to leave, then.”

“Mm.”

“When?”

“As soon as I know where it is.”

“Where what is?” Lucanis beckoned him upward and he stood. Across the room, Spite grew disinterested with the curtains and perked up to listen. “You don't mean…?”

The. Mirror.

“Mhm,” Rook confirmed, the sound a whisper of breath. Lucanis fiddled with the leather pieces, situating them around Rook’s waist and trying to relax when he realized he was probably clenching his jaw hard enough to crack a tooth. “I know it.”

“You know who made them,” Lucanis suggested, glancing up at his face. Rook’s gaze cut away to the window and he nodded once, ever-so-slightly. “All right. I'm with you.”

“You trust me?” Rook raised an eyebrow. Lucanis finished with the armor and straightened up to meet his eyes.

“I do.”

Yes!

Rook nodded again, looking more confident. “Good. Because it's probably gonna get real weird.”

“It already has,” Lucanis huffed, adjusting the armor and stepping back to take a look. “If the whole world is going to go behave como una cabra, I might as well be close enough to act.”

Rook laughed as he dusted himself off. “Glad to have you around, then,” he said softly.

“Of course—” Lucanis cleared his throat and glanced away, watching the curtains flutter and sway in the breeze. “How does it fit?”

“Perfect— I think. I'm sure I'll get used to it,” he said, closing the distance between them in a couple of steps.

He stood on his toes, and Lucanis could feel the heat of his skin close— too close— to his face. Lucanis felt his lungs break down to a screeching halt as his breath stood still in his throat. Rook balanced carefully and pressed warm, impossibly soft lips to the bare part of his cheek, just above where he had trimmed his beard back that morning. He drew back, and Lucanis felt feverish. Rook studied his face for a moment, then let out a burst of cheerful laughter. Lucanis was unable to move even a muscle.

“Thanks,” Rook said, pivoting on a boot heel and practically bouncing through the curtained doorway. “I'll find a way to pay you back, I promise!”

“It's not— I don't need— You— Qué cabrón,” he groaned, pressing a palm to his eyes. “Why is he like this?”

WHAT. Was THAT.

Lucanis opened his eyes and dragged his hand down his face. He stared at Spite. How was he going to explain that?

“Well… I think he just kissed me,” he said, then frowned. “…Us? Maker. I am not ready to figure any of that out.”

I. Liked it.

“I did, too,” he murmured, folding his arms and planting himself down on a bench seat. He directed a glare at the demon’s grinning face. Like a mirror, but the opposite. “Don't you dare tell him I said that.”

I want. To do it. Again.

Lucanis shook his head and leaned back. He closed his eyes. “Don't get your hopes up,” he muttered.

Rook. Likes us.

“We don't have time for something like that,” he explained, trying to let Spite down gently. “Neither does he. If anything happens to Isabela, he is the one in charge of the Lords. Once this is all over…”

Lucanis didn't finish. He didn't have it in him to say the words aloud. Spite didn't get it, though. He grumbled sourly, pacing back and forth in the little round room, before throwing his hands up with a scowl.

Coward.

“Spite. Enough.” He stood abruptly and headed out of Rook’s room. “Just drop it. We'll talk about it when we're out of here.”

He just needed to focus on working. He had his jobs, both from Rook and the Inquisitor’s informal request. And, the Talons would most likely have a list of things for him to deal with as soon as he set foot in the Diamond. As long as they kept moving, he could keep marking things off of his mental checklist and not think about the inevitable and painful.

If they just kept moving, maybe they could stay together just a little bit longer.

Chapter Text

Operation Eluvian, as Rook had insisted on naming it, was underway. Of course, they couldn't just walk around Skyhold talking openly about giving the Inquisition the slip, but Rook came up with a solution for that.

No one else could hear Spite. At least, not as far as they aware. So, communicating about their plans came via tedious, excruciating games of charades with the demon. Rook would have to drop vague hints and suggestions, and then affirm when Spite finally guessed correctly.

Lucanis tried to eavesdrop where he could, but the agents of the Inquisition knew better than to chat about Skyhold’s secrets with a Crow that didn't belong to them on the grounds. Río himself was tight-lipped, and suggested that he and Rook follow the Inquisitor’s suggestions and wait for him to move. Lucanis had argued that every minute he spent away from Treviso was another step the Antaam took towards it, but he wasn't having it. His allegiance was firmly with the Inquisition’s Crows.

The Inquisitor himself crossed his path that following morning, while he was roaming the courtyard and trying to figure out where Rook had slipped off to, this time.

“Looking for someone?” he asked, stopping to lean against a low wall. A scroll case and a spell book hung from his otherwise casual belt.

“Not really,” Lucanis answered, his eyes still wandering over the area.

“Just checking in, then?” The Inquisitor pressed, a fleck of amusement in his tone. Lucanis stared at him. “You needn't worry about Skyhold being a safe place, Mr. Dellamorte.”

“I'm not worried,” Lucanis defended, sure that he sounded completely unconvincing to the older man. The Inquisitor laughed.

“You can't protect him from everything in the world, you know,” he said, quietly and seriously, his stare fixed on something above them. “Or everyone.”

Lucanis followed his gaze to an upper balcony, where Rook was standing with a sour look on his face that made his heart sink. In front of him looked to be two Rivaini royals, and the three of them were engaged in a heated argument that he couldn't quite hear. Then, he remembered what Rook had said back on the road. And what the letter from his mother had confirmed.

Back in Treviso, Lucanis was sorely missed and highly respected. In Rivain, Rook was a wanted criminal, several times over if the crown finally got their say. He watched them argue, their voices growing loud enough for the throaty, rhythmic sounds of the Rivaini language to reach his ears. He didn't understand a word of it, but Rook sounded livid. He spat on the floor of the balcony, and performed a gesture with his fingers that seemed to deeply offend the two royals, and the argument grew even more ferocious.

Lucanis felt a hazy crackle in the air and an itch crawl up his spine. He moved to step forward, when the Inquisitor raised a hand and shook his head slightly. Lucanis stopped and looked back up. One of the humans pulled the other one aside just before he was about to blow, and began to bicker with him. The two of them went back and forth in hushed tones while Rook looked on, fuming.

They turned back to Rook and the two parties exchanged a few more words, tense and spewed through clenched teeth, before the royals finally looked to relent, their shoulders hunching as they offered a final response. Rook seemed satisfied, though still heated, and muttered something else before he turned and just… Vanished, into thin air. Lucanis blinked.

What was that?

“Trust takes on a lot of forms,” The Inquisitor mused aloud as he began to wander along the path, deeper into the courtyard. “Something to think about, perhaps.”

Lucanis wasn't quite sure if the man was of a sound enough mind to be running a whole Inquisition. He was, probably, the weirdest person he had ever met. He watched him leave, then glanced at the door to the palace. Rook hadn't come out yet, and there were over a dozen entrances to that part of the structure alone. He groaned and stuffed his hands into his coat, waiting for the feeling to return to his fingers as he stomped off towards the Herald's Rest.

It was fine. He could occupy himself without skulking around and watching Rook’s every move. Harding was probably already doing that anyway, and that Seeker woman, Cassandra, had her suspicious glare locked on Rook every time he was in her line of sight, like she suspected he might steal or break something at any moment. To her credit, Lucanis wasn't entirely sure he hadn't already done both of those things without his knowledge.

He could at least trust that Rook was perfectly safe in Skyhold, and that he could lay low and try to figure out where they were keeping a magic mirror that he still hadn't even seen or heard of before Rook had mentioned one.

After six hours of sitting in his room, occupying his hands with random tasks with his back against the door and listening to the tavern below, he still had nothing. He sighed and stretched, and headed downstairs for a cup of coffee before his brain went numb from boredom. The Qunari wasn't in his seat, and the smooth-faced human he often chatted with was nowhere to be seen, either. Lucanis hummed curiously and took his coffee outside, where he could hear voices around the corner.

The sound of Rook’s laughter met his ears first, and he couldn't help but smile slightly against the rim of his cup. He was in a better mood than earlier, Lucanis noted, listening to the ring of giggles on the evening breeze. He said something Lucanis couldn't make out, and a much deeper laugh responded. The Iron Bull.

Lucanis rounded the corner of the building to find Rook, Bull, and the human all outside. The Qunari was wielding a large, menacing branch, and Rook was wearing the armor Lucanis had bought from Río’s stall. Rook’s eyes snapped to him immediately, and he smiled.

“Lucanis!” Rook vanished again, like he had done on the balcony. Before Lucanis could question it, he reappeared right beside his elbow with a sharp-toothed grin. “Hey.”

Lucanis stared at him blankly, his mouth hanging open. “—What.”

Rook didn't seem to think anything was amiss, though. He blinked and tilted his head. “…What?”

“What… Did you just do?” Lucanis questioned, his eyes wide. He reached out and poked Rook in the arm. He was very solid, and he had just moved about ten paces in the blink of an eye.

“What do you… Oh!” Rook said slowly, confusion etched along the lines on his face until he seemed to understand. “Fadestepping? Marian says I'm not supposed to do it in public down here, but Ahri said it was fine around Skyhold.”

“Is—” Lucanis shook his head, trying to figure out how that even worked. “Is that the teleporting thing Harding mentioned?”

Rook shrugged a shoulder. “I dunno. Probably.”

Do it. Again.

“This?” Rook smirked and disappeared again, reappearing next to a laughing Iron Bull, then back to Lucanis. “Again?”

“How do you do that?” Lucanis asked incredulously. “That's amazing.”

“Really?” Rook screwed his mouth up in thought. “I just sort of… Pop in and out of the Fade really quick, you know? And then I move around a bit. Does that make sense?”

“No,” Lucanis sighed. Rook looked over his shoulder and waved at the Inquisitor, who was approaching from the palace steps. “Not even a little.”

“You really should learn more about the Fade,” Rook scolded, rolling his eyes. “Especially if you're going to be walking around with a—”

Lucanis reached around Rook’s shoulder and clapped a hand over his mouth in a hurry. Rook’s words fell off into a senseless mumble behind his palm.

“It is time for you to be quiet, now,” he muttered. Rook made a whiny, mocking sound through his fingers. “Stop that.”

“Bull,” The Inquisitor addressed the two men, stepping past him and Rook and politely ignoring the spectacle they were creating. “Krem. What are you two up to at this hour?”

“Boss,” The Iron Bull greeted back, thwacking the branch against his knee. Lucanis felt two sharp points prick the webbing of his hand, between his thumb and forefinger. He hissed and yanked his hand away with a scowl. Rook stuck his tongue out. “Kid said he wanted me to test out his new armor.”

“He hit me with a stick,” Rook announced proudly, his fists on his hips. Lucanis wiped his palm off on his trousers and rolled his eyes.

“That's what you've been up to all day?” he questioned.

“Not all day,” Rook defended, dusting off the now slightly-dented chest plate. “I also borrowed a few books.”

“Those do need to be returned to the library, if you would be so kind,” The Inquisitor piped up, turning his attention to Rook.

“I said borrowed, didn't I?” Rook gestured towards Lucanis’s cup, and he gave in and let him take it. “I'll put them back, your whateverness.”

“Rook,” Lucanis growled. Rook raised an eyebrow as he sipped from his cup and shrugged unapologetically. “I am so sorry for him.”

“Were I not accustomed to over ten years of it already, I'd still have the grace to be appalled by his behavior,” The Inquisitor sighed, shaking his head with a sheen of grief in his eyes.

“He means Varric,” Rook muttered, elbowing him before taking another sip of his coffee.

“Your mothers aren't known for their chivalrous manners, either, Captain Laidir,” The Inquisitor responded clearly. “Nor is the rest of your extended family.”

“Captain— Fuck, it's nice to hear that,” he chuckled into the cup, then sighed wistfully. “I miss my ship.”

The Inquisitor ignored him, turning back to the other two men, instead. “And Bull, I’m aware that he quite literally asked for it, but I'll thank you not to strike visiting royalty with sticks in the future.”

“You got it, boss.”

Rook choked on the coffee, sputtering and coughing. Lucanis barely managed to grab the cup before it could slip from his slender fingers. He hacked and doubled over and Lucanis patted him on the back.

“Wh- What the fuck did you call me?” Rook wheezed, coughing painfully again when he finally managed to stand straight up.

“Is that not what you are?” The Inquisitor questioned with a serious look. “The heir to the Lords of Fortune? Son of the Queen of Pirates, adopted or otherwise?”

“I mean—” Rook chuckled, his voice pitching up and cracking slightly. “No— No one actually calls her that.”

Lucanis leaned in, whispering next to a gold-ringed ear. “Rook… Everyone calls her that.”

“Oh, shit,” he said softly.

Lucanis scrubbed a hand over his face. “You didn't know?”

“I mean, yeah— I knew people talked and whatnot,” Rook said, shrugging with his arms. “I didn't know it was serious.”

“How did you even make it to captain?”

“Special treatment,” Rook chirped, softly punching at his arm. “And, besting a bunch of other captains in combat.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Titles and lines of inheritance aside,” The Inquisitor piped up, strolling towards them and motioning for them to follow. “I wanted to discuss something with the two of you.”

“Sure,” Rook said, falling into step beside the man. “Is it about getting us the hell off this frozen mountain?”

“Are you in a rush to leave?” The Inquisitor led them through the palace, into a private office. Rook stood still in the doorway and crossed his arms.

“Are you trying to tell me I can't?” he demanded. Lucanis felt like he might fall right through the floor at the sight of Rook trying to intimidate the most powerful man in all of Thedas.

Rook had quite a bit of pull as well, though, he reminded himself. Whatever had transpired on the balcony that morning had ended with Rook walking away freely, and two Rivaini royals scampering away with their tails between their legs. He was a threat, even if it wasn't to the Crows. Lucanis felt himself wanting to see Rook actually in action again, and not just the smoldering aftermath of his wrath.

“Of course not,” The Inquisitor assured him calmly. “You are free to come and go as you please. However, I do insist upon a regiment accompanying you to Treviso and Rivain, respectively.”

Rook's displeasure was clear on his face. His nose wrinkled and his lips pursed, his expression looking like he had just drank saltwater. He drew in a long breath through his short nose, and for a moment Lucanis thought he was actually going to let it go.

He didn't.

“An escort,” he said, his voice tight and his tone completely flat.

“Correct,” the Inquisitor confirmed. Rook’s mouth twisted.

“And why is that necessary, exactly? Don't you have an Eluvian here?” Ah. Rook meant to play the Inquisitor himself. Evidently, his patience had reached a limit. “A quick trip through the Fade is far less dangerous than walking all the way back to the North, babysat by your soldiers or no.”

“Accompanied,” The Inquisitor insisted, leaning against a solid wooden deck and breathing evenly, almost meditatively. Rook was stressing him out, and he was struggling to keep that unseen. “And, no. I'm afraid our garden Eluvian has been inactive for quite some time, and I can't get it going again. At least, not without that Lyrium dagger Solas has been toting around and a very complicated ritual that only Merrill knows.”

Rook cocked his head, his irritation swapped with confusion. “Merrill isn't here? Why not?”

“I'm afraid that's a secret.”

“Really?” Rook scoffed. “She's my godmother. I should at least know where she went after Kirkwall.”

“And does she know of your whereabouts, da’len?”

“That's—” Rook’s cocky composure began to falter, now. His arms tightened across his chest. “That's none of your—”

“—An interesting impasse we've found ourselves in, young Lord,” the Inquisitor said, clasping his hands in front of him. Lucanis shifted uncomfortably. This kind of verbal warfare was not his strong suit. He hated arguments. The Inquisitor’s tone softened. “I know you feel a personal responsibility in this, Dami. I understand, I truly do. But, the best course of action is the one I am providing you: safe and secure passage home, while my people handle the South and whatever the Venatori are up to here. Varric would have wanted you to—”

“—Would you cut it out?” Rook practically bellowed, throwing his arms open wide. “I am so fucking sick and tired of all of you talking like Varric is dead, and treating me like a bloody child. Isabela, Harding, and now even you. The best course of action? You don't even know a damned thing about me.”

“Rook,” Lucanis breathed, feeling faint. He took a step towards him, but the Inquisitor spoke first, his voice stern and solid enough to stop him in his tracks.

“Dami’Vallas Thalia Laidir,” he said, drawing himself to his full height as Rook froze with a look that was nothing short of sheer terror. “Twenty-two years old. Born on the Rivain Coast to Thalia Laidir, a Dalish fletcher, and sired by Halani'Vallas Surana, a Grey Warden. Your abilities manifested at age seven, in the form of storm magic and Fade walking. You were traded to Venatori slavers at age eight. At age thirteen, you were adopted into the Lords of Fortune, where you reached the rank of captain by age sixteen. On your third voyage as first mate, you experienced a shipwreck that resulted in only four survivors, including Varric Tethras. You are a career criminal, by all possible definitions, and a menace to every country in Thedas to the point of necessitating an armed escort through territories you aren't allied with… Shall I continue running down the list, or have I made enough of a point?”

Rook’s mouth, which had fallen open at some point during the Inquisitor’s monologue, snapped shut with the faint clicking of teeth. He stared at him hard, for a long moment that made Lucanis genuinely worry about whether or not he was going to lose his temper, then spun on his heel.

“Whatever,” he spat, shoving at the thick wooden door without looking back. “Give me a week, then.”

“Take all the time you need,” the Inquisitor called, sighing after he was gone. Rook had lost that one, but the man didn't seem to take any pleasure in his victory. He glanced at Lucanis.

“I am… Very sorry. About that.” Lucanis gestured aimlessly towards the still-open door, and the sound of Rook’s boots storming down the corridor. “He is… Well.”

“He is who he is, Mr. Dellamorte. I can do nothing to alter that reality. There is a reason I left the adoption process from that ship to those much wiser and more patient than myself.” He shook his head and let out a short chuckle. “No matter, my stately honor remains unshaken. You, on the other hand, might have a more important matter to attend to than being mortified on my behalf.”

As if to punctuate his suggestion, another door slammed somewhere down the corridor, back towards the main palace. The Inquisitor glanced towards the sound, then back to Lucanis.

“I can take a hint.” Lucanis hesitated in the doorway, turning back for just a moment. “Thank you for the talk. And the help.”

“Any time. Do take care, Mr. Dellamorte.”

Lucanis exited with a grimace and swung the door shut behind him. There was no way that man believed Rook was going to stay put and behave for a whole week. If Lucanis didn't already know for a fact that Rook was scheming, he would have simply assumed so. He didn't get where he was by sitting on his hands and following orders correctly, after all.

So that was his full name. It sounded complicated, and beautiful. A little bit like its owner.

“Spite,” he murmured, strolling down the corridor with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Help me out, here.”

Spite trotted ahead, gleefully following a path straight down the middle and stopping to look around when he reached the door.

Rook smells like. Oranges. Today.

Lucanis wrinkled his nose. The faint scent of citrus oil was trapped in the enclosed space with him. “That's because he had one for breakfast.”

Or, several, Lucanis hadn't been paying attention. He had made a mess of it, too.

This way.

Spite tore off down a corridor Lucanis hadn't been through, yet, following whatever scent he had caught off of Rook. They eventually emerged into a round, sunlit courtyard filled with lush plants and stone benches. Spite led him to a covered gazebo on the far side, where Rook was sulking cross-legged on the smooth granite floor. Lucanis made his way over quietly, stopping when he was a little over a step away from his knee.

“There you are.”

Rook let out a snort, but he didn't look up. “You're good at that.”

“Spite helped,” he confessed. Rook chuckled, then sniffed slightly.

“That's cheating,” he said.

“It is.” Lucanis bent, extending a hand down to Rook. “But it works.”

Rook finally looked up with a huff. He hesitated, then took his hand, allowing Lucanis to pull him to his feet. He shuffled a little closer, his eyes darting around the bustling garden.

“Can he tell where it is?” he whispered. “Because I haven't got a fucking clue.”

Hmm.

“It's okay if you can't,” he said softly.

Too. Much. Magic.

Rook let out a defeated sigh. “Probably because it's inert,” he guessed. He turned and headed for a gap in the low wall that led out of the courtyard, and Lucanis followed.

“We'll find it,” Lucanis assured. “We have time to figure it out.”

“I hope so. If I get dragged back to the Hall by armed knights, I'm never going to live it down,” Rook said with a frying groan. “And, it's loads more attention than I want to be attracting.”

“It's a little late for that.”

Rook rolled his eyes and elbowed him, scoffing loudly. “Shut up.”

“About what the Inquisitor said,” Lucanis began. Rook picked at a sleeve and stared across the courtyard as they walked.

“He knew my father's name,” Rook said, his gaze still somewhere far away.

“Right.” Lucanis looked over at him. He was chewing on his lip, again. “I thought you said you didn't know who he was.”

Rook pushed open the door to the tavern and faced the steps to his room. He didn't look at him. He broke away and paused with his foot on the first step and a shaky hand on the banister.

“I didn't.”

Lucanis was speechless. He watched Rook climb the stairs in a daze and flit into his room. He stared blankly, unblinking, until the curtain stopped moving.

What?

At some point after returning to his room, Lucanis accidentally fell asleep. He only knew this fact because his eyes slipped closed and, when he opened them, he was no longer within the frigid confines of Skyhold. Everything was flat and grassy, a tiny island lush with life. Except, the sky quickly darkened and a storm began to rage around him, churning the sea into a violent spray.

Several impossibly tall figures rose out of the fog and mist, and tendrils of blight crawled over every living thing, snuffing out the greenery and replacing it with sinister, tainted boils and creeping branches. Lucanis backed away from the scene and the figures, blinking against the rain and the wind.

“Lucanis!”

He spun around and his eyes landed on Rook, thrashing and fighting against blighted tendrils that surrounded him. And losing, from the looks of things. One lashed around his neck and dragged him to the oozing swamp that had overtaken the ground. He lunged forward, towards Rook’s outstretched hand that was already marred with blackened, swollen veins.

He couldn't get close enough. The wind and waves howled alongside lightning and thunder, and drowned out the sounds of his yelling. The last thing in the center of his vision was Rook, his eyes darkened and bloodied, gasping desperately for breath and twitching erratically as the Blight slowly enveloped his entire body.

His eyes snapped open and he shot upright with a surprised grunt. He clutched at his chest and tried to steady his breathing in the still room. Moonlight leaked in through a thin window far up the wall, and Spite was standing beneath it. Watching him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then held it as long as he could. He blew it out slowly and stood up.

According to the candle still burning on the desk, he had only lost an hour. He swept his hair back with a hand and kicked the chair back underneath the desk, trying to forget the nightmarish images that were still swimming through his mind. He couldn't push them away, and gave up after a few minutes of pacing.

Lucanis slinked to the door and opened it as slowly and quietly as he could before slipping out. He took the stairs one at a time, sticking to the sides so that they didn't make a sound. He froze halfway down, though, when he felt a pair of eyes on him.

The Iron Bull, sitting in that same damned chair again, even at this hour. He looked surprised to see Lucanis. He stared for a moment, then shrugged, lifting a large flagon of ale to his face and pointedly turning away from him to intently study a wall. Lucanis shook his head and continued on his way, quiet as ever.

Rook was fast asleep in his room, unblighted and perfectly safe. He was lying on his back, a blanket dangling from his knee and most of it touching the floor. Next to him, the window was open, inviting a chilly gust into the room every so often. Lucanis let out a breath and moved to stand next to him.

“You're going to catch a cold,” he said, reaching over him to close the window.

Rook didn't so much as stir in response. Lucanis bent over and picked up the blanket. He shook it out and covered him properly, careful not to brush a hand against his skin. He was almost certain by now that touch was the trigger that kept waking him up. He settled into a nook on the far side of the room and watched him closely for any signs that something was going wrong in the Fade.

Nothing seemed amiss, though. Rook let out a soft sigh and curled into the blanket, but didn't otherwise appear disturbed. Still, Lucanis couldn't shake the nightmare. After sneaking downstairs for a cup of coffee from the kitchen, he returned to Rook’s room for a night of being on watch.

Skyhold may have been secure, but the Fade was a different story. Lucanis wasn't going to let anything happen in there, either, not if he could help it.

He could keep him safe. He would. No matter what.

Chapter Text

A grassy, herbal scent filled the room when Dami opened his eyes. It felt a little stuffy, and much warmer than he expected it to be. He grunted and felt around for the window latch, fumbling with it once he found it and nudging the window open a crack.

He could have sworn he left it open.

“Good morning.” A voice that sounded like Antivan mousse drifted towards his ears.

Ah. Sneaky fucker.

Rook!

“Mm.”

Dami drew the blanket around himself and groggily sat up, searching for the source of the voice. Lucanis was sat across the room, and he nodded towards the low table once he caught his eye. In the center was a round, transparent glass teapot. Inside of the teapot, a colorful blooming flower stretched out, opening up and steeping slowly in the hot water. He had never seen anything like it before.

“Morning,” he groaned, rubbing at his eyes. He stared at the pot. “Is that supposed to be… Tea?”

“That's what they said,” Lucanis murmured, lifting a cup of coffee— not mysterious flower tea— to his face. “I didn't really question it.”

Dami yawned and shuffled over to sit on the floor in front of the table. He poked at the pot with a finger and eyed the steam condensing at the top of the glass. “You had them make tea?”

“Yes.”

“For me?”

“Yes.” Lucanis’s gaze darted away and he hid his face with the coffee cup, again.

What a perplexing man. He was stiff as a board whenever Dami got within a few feet of him, but then he was sneaking into his room in the night and closing his windows and tossing blankets on him. Ordering his morning tea from the staff of a palace, like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. He could easily allow himself to get used to that kind of treatment if Lucanis wasn't careful.

Dami wrinkled his nose when his eyes fell on the swamp-green sweater he had on. “Where in the world did you get that?”

“Hmm?” Lucanis glanced down at himself, as if he just remembered what he was wearing. Dami snorted and reached for an empty cup. “Oh. I made it.”

“You—” Dami set the teapot down once he had poured a cup. He had no way of telling, but he assumed it was ready to drink. “You made that? You know how to do that?”

“There are a lot of skills that translate well to the life of an assassin,” he said simply, pushing the sleeves up his thick forearms. Dami’s eyes followed the motion, and he made no move to hide it. “Hand-eye coordination and small, dexterity-based details, for example.”

“An assassin who knits,” Dami marveled, turning back to his tea with a chuckle. “Remind me to come to you if my armor starts to come apart.”

“I would be happy to repair it.”

He took a cautious sip of the peculiar tea. It wasn't bad at all. “So— Six days until His Grace summons a bunch of armed dickheads to walk us through a bunch of borders.”

“Not a lot of time,” Lucanis commented. There was a beat of silence. “What is the plan?”

Dami stretched his arms above his head, then leaned back on his palms. “Today? I'd like to go for a walk.”

“A walk.” Lucanis stared at him, unamused. Dami grinned.

“The best secrets are the ones you spot when you're not expecting them,” he explained. Lucanis let out a skeptical hum into his coffee. “I'm serious! Besides, how many opportunities are we really going to have to explore a place like this?”

“There it is,” Lucanis sighed. “You just want to get into more things before we leave.”

“Is that a crime?”

“That depends on if you commit one,” he said.

“No fun,” he muttered before taking another sip of tea. “No fun at all.”

“We can explore the rest of the grounds after breakfast,” Lucanis finally said, agreeing to his demands once he finished his coffee. “I'm not wandering around all day on an empty stomach, and neither are you. Fruit is not a meal.”

“Fine, fine. Food first, then getting into trouble,” Dami said with a nod.

“Rook, please. It is too early for trouble,” he groaned. Dami snickered and poured another cup of tea to bring downstairs with him.

“I sent a letter to Treviso,” Lucanis said as he followed him down the steps. “I recommend you do the same.”

“Why would I send a letter to Treviso?” Dami dodged the suggestion and passed by Bull, who opened up a broad hand for him to punch at.

“You know what I mean,” Lucanis grumbled.

“Harding moaned at me about writing home, too.” Dami glanced back at him. “Did she get to you too, or something?”

“No. I just think you should.”

“You're afraid of my mother, you mean,” he accused. Lucanis answered immediately, far too quickly for someone who wasn't afraid of his mother.

“I am not.” He puffed his chest out, and Dami would have laughed if he didn't look so serious. “But, your family should know where you are, Rook.”

He clicked his teeth in annoyance. This was why he didn't go around telling people who he was. Or who he was related to.

“Why does it matter?” The words left his mouth in a clipped rush, and Lucanis looked taken aback. “It's not actually anyone's business where I am, or what I'm doing.”

Lucanis leveled him with a grim look. “Including the people who are worried about you?”

“What do you—” Dami took a deep breath and held it in, until it felt like a torrent wasn't about to come out of his mouth. “Look, Ahri and a bunch of other people here are all buddy-buddy with both of my mums. They probably already knew when I got here.”

Lucanis stared at him with a slight grimace, but he didn't say anything. Dami let out an exasperated huff.

“I didn't tell her no, okay?” he admitted, sagging into a chair at an empty table. “I wrote one before I went to bed last night. She wouldn't leave my room until I handed it directly to her. Happy?”

He studied him for a long while, then finally appeared to decide that he believed him. He sat down much more gracefully than Dami did, and nodded once. “Good.”

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, wafting a hand to flag down one of the morning staff members. A few gold bangles clicked together, catching a young dwarf’s attention quickly. “Sometimes I wonder if you're trying to make me keel over from stress.”

“That wouldn't be possible if you took better care of yourself,” Lucanis suggested.

The woman jotted down their order, awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot while they bickered and zooming away as quickly as she could.

“You know— You are a very infuriating man,” Dami said, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You have no idea how to mind your own business, and you think you're the smartest person in the room and everyone else should know it.”

“And you have no idea how to hold your tongue, even when your life depends on it,” Lucanis responded, his voice aggravatingly even and calm. He met his eyes, and his sharp gaze pierced clean through him like a rapier. “You're upset about yesterday.”

Dami scoffed and threw back the rest of his tea. It had gone cold and stale. Damn him and that hyper-aware, assassin bullshit. He set the teacup down hard, and Lucanis merely blinked at the sound.

“Who the fuck does he think he is, anyhow?” Dami muttered, pushing the empty cup around in front of him. “And who says I even believe what he said?”

“Rook,” Lucanis said gently, placing a hand near the center of the table. “Are you… All right?”

Dami let out a frustrated groan and buried his face in his hands. “No. No, I'm pissed, and now I've got even less answers than I had before.”

Lucanis was silent for a long moment. He didn't even make a move to correct which word he used, even though he knew damned well by now that it was wrong after he said it.

Instead, he said something Dami wasn't used to hearing. At least, not from anyone besides Varric.

“Whatever it is, we will figure it out. Together,” he assured, leaning forward in his seat and fixing him with an intense stare. “It's going to be all right. We will go looking for clues, kill a lot of Venatori, and solve this problem. Both of us. All right?”

“And, kick the ass of an old, pompous elf man,” Dami added, reaching out and bumping Lucanis’s hand with his knuckles. He looked away, towards the kitchen. Anywhere but his face. “I… I'm sorry. F-for what I said.”

“That looked like it was painful,” Lucanis said, now smirking at him. “It came out a lot smoother when you still had a debilitating head injury.”

“Shut up, before I take it back,” Dami growled. “How To Apologize When You’ve Fucked Up isn't exactly a lesson the Lords teach. We have a different method of making up for saying stupid shit.”

“Oh?” Lucanis raised an eyebrow. “Please, elaborate.”

Dami sighed deeply. “I don't really know how to explain it. I think it was Bharv’s idea, way before I ever came along. You just sort of… Do push-ups, until everyone’s decided they're done being upset at you.”

“Now that, I would like to see,” Lucanis chuckled.

“Were you so lucky,” he said sniffing at the air. He leaned back so that a different staff member than before could drop off their food, and fresh pots of coffee and tea. “You'll have to work a lot harder for a view like that.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Lucanis said thoughtfully.

Dami rolled his eyes. The man flirted like a hostage negotiation, and he shouldn't have found it as charming as he did. All he wanted to do was take that preposterously uptight attitude he wore around and unravel it, thread by fine Antivan thread. He shoved the thoughts away as soon as they became filled with thoughts of wings and feathers and large, solid muscles—

Not the time. They were surrounded by spies and soldiers and, even though they weren't trapped here, Skyhold wasn't the place to discuss things like feelings. Not that a convenient opportunity was likely to present itself anytime soon. He pushed the sinking feeling back down to the pit of his stomach and carefully unrolled the cloth napkins the new employee had dropped off.

“Are you going to look for him?” Lucanis asked, after a few moments of silence. Dami didn’t look up from his plate.

“Who?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. It was too early to think about this.

“Your father,” Lucanis replied, lowering his voice. “You have a name, now.”

“Mm.” Dami pushed around a piece of grilled pork before picking it up. “Dunno where I’d even start.”

“You do know a Grey Warden,” he pointed out. Dami nearly choked.

“You were quite thorough, weren’t you?”

“Can you blame me?” Lucanis demanded, shrugging with open palms. “Rook. Give me a break.”

“Okay, yeah. You got me, there,” he admitted with a wince. Despite the Inquisition’s healers and surgeons, he still didn’t feel remotely back to normal. If Lucanis hadn’t acted as quickly as he did…

Well, they wouldn’t be sitting quietly behind the walls of a castle having morning tea. That was certain. Dami finished eating as quickly as he could and pushed his plate away. He drained the rest of his teacup and flipped it over, resting it inside of the saucer in front of him.

“Maybe if I’ve got time,” he said, finally. He stared at the cup, drumming out a soft rhythm with two of his fingers on the thick wood. “Or, if we find out he’s actually some kind of important, useful person. So far, he hasn't been anything at all. Not even a name, until now.”

Lucanis nodded, and didn’t press the issue. He looked as though he still wanted to say something, but he returned to his meal, continuing at a leisurely pace. “In the end, it is entirely up to you. You do not have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I do,” Dami sighed, rotating the empty cup thrice before lifting it again. “Quite often, actually.”

Across the table, Lucanis chuckled while he focused on the browns and purples in the silty cup. “You know what I mean.”

Dami hummed, following a trail of wet dust with his eyes that was staggered by a fang-like twig. Lucanis grew still, and he knew he had begun to watch him curiously. He propped his chin up on his hand and glanced at him over the rim. “Yeah. I’ll figure it out when I actually manage to get to it. Thanks, though.”

“Do you still want to go for a walk?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow when Dami turned his attention back to the tea leaves.

He finished the trail of leaves and silt to the end, where finely ground dust fanned out like a dark pair of wings. He grinned and set the cup back down with a sharp clink. “I’d love to.”

Lucanis reached out and swiped a drop of cold tea trailing down his wrist with a thumb, then stood. “Go get dressed properly, then. It is going to get cold.”

“It’s already cold,” Dami muttered, trotting up the stairs anyway to struggle into the outfit Lucanis had gotten.

It was warm, and by far one of the most comfortable things he had ever worn, despite the complexity of it. Lucanis knocked softly on the doorframe as he was flailing his way into the shirt, and ducked through the curtain when he grunted affirmatively in response. He crossed the room gracefully and lowered himself to the cushion next to where Dami was standing. Dami blinked at him, then stuck his hand into the space between them. He expected Lucanis to go straight for the ties, gingerly avoiding skirting his fingers or even looking anywhere else, but he nearly jumped out of his skin when Lucanis gently took hold of his wrist, instead.

Lucanis turned his arm over, inspecting the healed scrapes and scars that were still leftover. A blackened bruise around the same wrist had faded to a gradient of faint blues and burnt orange, still standing out against his skin. His eyes went hazy and distant and he ducked his head, tugging his sleeve down and starting the first tie.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was strained, and quiet in the spacious room. Dami’s eyes widened, and he just watched his hands move deftly down each lace. “Denerim… The tower— None of this should have happened.”

“Lucanis,” he sighed, drawing the sound out. He reached out with his free hand and rested his hand at the back of his hair, where short and silky strands blended into much longer ones. Lucanis stiffened, then swayed forward ever-so-slightly. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” he insisted, sounding desperate, this time. “I had exactly one job to do, and I didn’t. I failed. It will not happen again.”

He could have laughed at just how serious Lucanis sounded, but it didn’t feel like the time. For some reason, the urge to poke fun at him for being so straight-laced and defensive just wasn’t summoning itself to the front of his mind. Instead, he felt… Worried. Maybe the man’s anxiety was starting to bleed into him.

“Lucanis…”

“Rook,” he pleaded, finally looking up at him. He clutched at his forearm after he neatly tied off the last lace. “Just… Let me do this— Feel this way. Please.”

Let me feel responsible, he meant.

Dami stared at him for a long moment, evening his breathing back out. This… This was new. Some kind of fully uncharted territory that they were both just standing there in front of, almost daring each other to step into. His heart pounded and his throat was dry, and he felt like he could have been staring at a gargantuan serpent rising up from the fathoms as rain and lightning barraged the deck of his ship. Terrified. He was terrified.

Whatever this was, it scared him more than the monsters of the deep, the Templars, and the Dread Wolf combined. He pushed through a pummeling tidal wave of fear and took a step forward, nodding and trying to find his voice in a storm of confusion and concern.

“Yeah. Okay,” he said, feeling his voice crack as he moved in closer. He shook off the untied sleeve when Lucanis reached for it and stood between his knees, sliding his arms over his shoulders instead. Lucanis didn’t move for a long while, then leaned forward, burying his face in his stomach and letting out a quiet and agonized groan. “You’re sorry. Well… Then, I forgive you.”

At least, he hoped that would help. He found the fact that Lucanis even felt guilty at all in the first place very silly, but it was something that was important to Lucanis. And, when something was important to someone, you were supposed to say it.

Right?

It felt right. He chewed on his lip, feeling like he was being tossed about in the wake of a shipwreck again.

Say what you mean, Isabela always told him, because it’s a hell of a lot harder to explain yourself after you’re dead.

Of course, the most notorious liar in Thedas never led by example on that one. His chest ached, and he thought of the Inquisition’s couriers, risking their lives just to bring one little stupid piece of parchment through an endless expanse of blight and blockades. One little letter that was either going to collapse his mother in a heap when it arrived, or have his head taken clean off with a freshly sharpened cutlass as soon as he set foot in the Hilt. Four or five letters had been burnt to a crisp in his hand before he finally settled on telling the truth, and coming clean about what happened between Kirkwall and Denerim.

Harding would have told her everything, if he didn’t do it himself. And that would have been much, much worse. He was already petrified at the thought of stepping into Treviso, even with Lucanis looming at his back like a menacing shadow. Still, there was a tiny chance he wouldn’t survive the visit.

He couldn't say exactly what he wanted to. Not now, not without blowing everything up like a keg of blackpowder. For now, he would have to settle for coming close enough. At least he didn't suffer from the same debilitating sense of perfectionism as the man that felt like he was close to falling apart just underneath his arms. It was the least he could do to try and keep that from happening.

Lucanis drew in a deep, stuttering breath that scared him even more, and brought his arms up to squeeze him in a tight hold around the waist. Dami was certain he could have lifted him over his head with absolutely zero effort.

“Thank you.” His voice was muffled, his face still buried in layers of soft cotton and leather. Dami laughed and patted his back and he squeezed again, before letting go.

Something cast a dim, violet glow around the room and he furrowed his brow, looking up behind Lucanis. He let out a yelp when there was… A face. Right in his face. A man that wasn’t Lucanis.

He stumbled back a step, tripping over one of his loose boots behind him and tumbling to the floor before Lucanis could grab him. He landed on his rear and sputtered, staring up at two nearly identical versions of Lucanis. One was scowling and folding his arms tightly, and the other was beaming down at him with an unnaturally wide grin and the otherworldly aura of… A spirit.

Most curiously, Lucanis was the one that the fluttery, skeletal wings affixed themselves to, not the spirit.

“Fuck— Fucking shit—” Dami gasped, clutching at his heart and yanking the boot that was pressing painfully into the back of his knee out from underneath him. “Maker’s fucking scrote— What the fuck?”

Lucanis pressed a palm to his forehead and muttered an angry string of Antivan before dragging it down his face and making a wounded noise. “Spite. What is wrong with you?”

I want. To talk. To Rook. Too.

Dami blinked rapidly, his mouth hanging open. Spite was able to show himself? Had he been able to do that the whole time? Could Lucanis see him all of the time? He had so many questions. He stared between blank, illuminated eyes and the giant pair of wings folding themselves neatly behind Lucanis’s shoulders and let out a strangled wheeze.

“We need to have a talk about startling storm mages in closed quarters,” Lucanis sighed, falling back against the space between two windows with a rattle. Dami must have been giving off some kind of magical energy, because he was looking at him with a slight grimace. He took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly, and that seemed to do something for him. He really was trying not to affect whatever it was that kept causing him discomfort any time the Fade surged through him. “Apologize.”

Dami opened his mouth instinctively, but Spite scrabbled down from the back of the bench and leaned down in front of him, still grinning proudly.

Sorry.

“U-uh— I-it’s okay,” he stammered, pushing himself to his feet to get a closer look at the spirit’s dark, shadowy face. “It’s fine. Just… Be careful with that, all right? I’m very easily startled.”

“And he makes lightning when it happens,” Lucanis reminded him. Dami scoffed.

“Not every time,” he argued, then deflated when Lucanis shot him a pointed look. “Okay, well, not a lot of it.”

Lucanis sighed, then chuckled. He gestured at Spite, who was practically bouncing with excitement. “I was wondering if you would be able to see him, given your… Abilities.”

Rook!

“Looks like I can,” Dami laughed, standing still while the spirit walked around him in a tight circle, looking him all over. He nodded towards the wings. “Do you always have those?”

“No,” Lucanis said, glancing briefly over his shoulder. “I think Spite wanted to show off.”

Rook. Smells nice. Like flowers.

“Spite,” Lucanis scolded with a shake of his head.

Dami smiled, wrinkling his nose a bit. “I hate the soap here, honestly. But, I’m glad you like it.”

Rook is WARM.

“Spiiite,” he groaned. Dami laughed again and stepped closer to Spite.

“Okay, I think I get it,” he chuckled, folding his arms. “Spite… You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

Spite let out a wordless grumble and Dami pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh at him. Whatever it was he was feeling, it was probably best to let him work it out on his own. He couldn’t resist nudging him just a little bit, though.

“All right, you,” he giggled, opening his arms wide. “You can have one, too.”

Spite was crowding around him in an instant, having absolutely none of the reservation and carefulness that Lucanis had just a few minutes before. Instead, he folded thick arms around his entire chest, trapping his arms at his sides, and squeezed hard. A weak wheeze escaped from his throat, and he was pretty sure Spite was vibrating with energy. He was warm, and every part of him felt feathery soft.

It was nice, despite the fact that his body was being slowly robbed of all of its oxygen.

“Spite, that’s enough,” Lucanis sighed, just when he was starting to feel dizzy and was patting at Spite’s broad back with an airy cough. “Let him breathe.”

Spite grumbled again, but released him and stepped back. Dami sucked in a rasping breath and straightened up. Lucanis rolled his eyes and mumbled something under his breath, crossing his legs and settling back against the wood behind him again. Dami snatched his boots from the floor and plopped down next to him to start pulling them on. Lucanis took his arm after and finished with his untied sleeve. When he was done, Dami elbowed him.

“It’s going to be all right,” he said, trying to summon even a fraction of the courage and confidence that Varric always gave him on expeditions. He was sure his attempt was miserable, in comparison. “We’ll get through it, yeah?”

“This is going to end. All of it,” he assured, staring straight ahead with his jaw set tightly. “It has to.”

“Not all of it,” Dami said, brushing his fingers just underneath Lucanis’s pushed-up sleeve. He couldn’t stop the static in his fingertips from snapping across his skin, despite his efforts to concentrate. Lucanis jumped slightly, but leaned towards him, anyway. He leaned in as well, perching his chin on a stone-stiff shoulder. Lucanis didn’t turn his head, but he glanced down in his direction. “If you think you’re getting rid of me that easily, you haven’t learned just who the fuck I am yet.”

Chapter Text

Rook’s patience had worn dangerously thin by the time Lucanis led him to the garden and found a sunny spot to sit. They had wandered the outer grounds of Skyhold all morning, eavesdropping, peering in windows, and sticking their heads through doors that led to the twisting passages beneath the palace. It had taken him the better part of an hour, and the bribery of a small basket of fresh fruit, to convince him to take a break and settle down for a few minutes.

They were no closer to figuring out where the Eluvian was, or what to do with it once they actually found it. Rook seemed less worried about the latter, which didn’t ease Lucanis’s discomfort about the whole thing. His Dreaming was one thing, but Lucanis knew that stepping into the Fade with one’s whole body, and bringing a completely nonmagical human with them, was a next-to-impossible feat. At least, without some powerful magic, anyway.

He just hoped that mirror held whatever it was that was the key to doing it.

Rook bit the cap off of a strawberry, then spit it into the dirt between his feet. “This is bullshit.”

“This was your idea,” Lucanis reminded him, reaching over to take one of the fruits from the basket in his lap. “I didn’t think it was going to work from the beginning.”

“Why didn’t you say that?” Rook asked, hulling another strawberry with his teeth.

“You would not have listened.”

“Probably not.” Rook tilted his head back, launching the green stem farther away, this time. “I thought it was a good idea.”

“You thought that the answer would just walk right in front of you?”

“Kinda, yeah.” He picked at the next berry with a fingernail, flicking a sunburnt bit of skin away before popping it into his mouth. “People who hide stuff are never as sneaky as they think. Especially if they’re not actually trying to hide it.”

Lucanis hummed and thought about it while he took another piece of fruit, surveying the garden carefully. He usually didn’t go looking for secrets, or information. Most of his time was better spent tracking down targets, and stalking them until the right moment presented itself. Filling contracts and sending messages to other groups and families in Treviso didn’t lend a lot of time for treasure plundering and espionage. Ilario took those kinds of jobs. Lucanis preferred a direct route. And Caterina was more than happy to give him the contracts he excelled at.

Rook, though, seemed to be experienced in those matters. With the way the Lords of Fortune worked, it didn’t surprise him. Rarely were their jobs about ending a life, and cutting down opposing forces was just a side effect of exploring hostile lands and smuggling illicit goods. Rook had mostly behaved himself, at least when it came to making trouble and taking things, so he hadn’t thought about the fact that being one of their higher ranks likely meant that he was a masterful thief. Ironically, the exact type of mage he would find at the top of a contract, if the treaty between Isabela and Caterina wasn’t protecting him from the business end of the Crows’ blades.

One that, had even a single thing in either of their lives been slightly different, Lucanis would have been sent after in a heartbeat.

And, one that he probably would have struck down without a second thought.

Although, when he was standing right there in front of him, rapier in hand, surrounded by exploding arcs of lightning and a flood of violence, he didn’t.

He shook the thought away and instead focused on watching the people move throughout the garden, passing in and out of the different doorways all around them. He did his best to think like Rook, like an explorer who could spot shortcuts and chart a map at a glance, and who could navigate a foreign forest like it was his own home. To the north, a woman draped in Andrastian robes wafted out of a doorway with a basket laden with herbs. She leaned over a pot and began pruning the plants inside. An Orlesian nobleman hurried across the courtyard and into a door to the west, dragging an expensive trunk stuffed with documents behind him. He watched as each door opened and closed, with people passing through them with differing levels of urgency and speed.

Well, nearly every door. He sat up, eyes fixed on the one across the courtyard from them that he was sure hadn’t opened a single time since they sat down. Rook peered at him curiously, loudly sucking all of the juice out of a strawberry. Lucanis ignored him and kept staring at the door. Three people passed by it, and didn’t even spare it a glance. It looked weathered, and the handle was less polished. Less maintained.

“That’s it,” Lucanis whispered. Rook made a quizzical noise through a mouthful of berry and tilted his head to follow his gaze. “It’s in there.”

“What?” Rook chirped, the noise sounding more like Wot? while he tried to keep from spilling juice down his chin. He swallowed, then wiped at his mouth with a sleeve. “You sure?”

“It has to be,” he said, nodding towards the door as another group of people passed by without touching it. “There is no way it’s just an empty room. I would put money on it.”

“Well done,” Rook chuckled, clapping him on the back. “Come on. I need a drink.”

Lucanis took the rest of the basket and followed him out of the garden, resisting the urge to glance back at the door and make sure that absolutely no one was even thinking about going into it. Rook plucked another berry out while they walked, and looked up at him.

“I hope you’re right,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Because if you’re not, we’re getting dragged back to Treviso like a couple of criminals.”

“So do I.”

“If I get arrested again after I just got away with it, it’s going to rain wherever you go, for the rest of your life.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

Lucanis stopped outside the thick, wooden door to his room. Rook caught up, nearly stumbling over him when he stopped. He bumped into him and let out a soft chuckle, the scent of wine filling the space between them. He steadied Rook with a hand on his back while he unlocked the door.

Rook stood next to him expectantly, and he paused with his hand on the knob. Rook hadn’t been up here, yet. Every time they talked or planned, he had come downstairs to the bright little sunroom Rook was staying in, instead. It wasn’t exactly his house, but he still felt strangely uneasy about opening the door to his space and letting Rook walk right into it.

Still, he managed to bury the feeling and push the door open. Rook brushed past him and entered his room, peering around while he made his way over to the little wooden desk against the far wall. An observant and inquisitive gaze took in every little crack and seam in the walls, the candle stubs on the desk, and the bare bed swiftly. He perched on the desk once he was done, leaning against the wall and watching him with eyes that looked like a sunset in the darkness of the room.

“I haven’t… Done anything with it,” he said, shutting the door behind him and standing in front of it awkwardly.

It was a bare stone room, with just a small bed and the desk he had been using to write and read at. And, enough floor space to exercise. Rook nodded, flicking his wrist with a soft murmur falling from his lips. The candle on the desk next to him flared to life, along with several torches so far up the high walls that Lucanis hadn’t even noticed them.

“That’s better,” he sighed, swinging his leg and kicking the chair towards Lucanis. “Let’s plan, yeah?”

“Right.” Lucanis sat, trying to ignore Spite when he flickered into view and leaned against the wall closest to Rook. “Clearly, we shouldn’t try to make a move in broad daylight.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” Rook groaned, flicking his fingers in an annoyed gesture. “Can’t be helped, I guess. I can lose a couple hours of sleep.”

“Rook. Be serious. Please.”

“I am!” Rook crossed his arms, his legs still swinging playfully beneath him. “All right, all right. What’s your idea, then?”

“First: Do you know how to make it work?” Lucanis remembered that the Inquisitor had said that the Eluvian was inert. And, the only person that knew how to activate it was… Merrill? The woman that had started the entire mage rebellion in the first place, if he remembered correctly. “If it’s not active, then we are just opening the door to look at a giant piece of glass.”

Rook looked at him, then looked away. “Do you have my dagger?”

Lucanis gestured to a pack that was still filled mostly with Rook’s things. Rook hopped down from the desk and squatted next to it, digging around inside with both hands. Eventually, he made a little hah! sound and drew out both his enchanted dagger, and the peculiar ring that had been hanging from his hip before.

“What is…?” Lucanis started, then trailed off when a brilliant flash of blue lit up the space in front of Rook. He blinked, and Rook was clutching what appeared to be a handle, with the ring on one end, and a blinding cerulean blade on the other.

Lyrium. He could feel its vibrations, even from several feet away, and an itch was squirming through his skull. Air that felt like short, cold breaths radiated from the edges of the blade. That was the dagger that apparently the entirety of Thedas was killing each other over. And Rook, somehow, was able to just hold it as though it were a perfectly normal knife like any other. By all calculations, he should have been writhing on the floor in unimaginable pain while the thing tore him to shreds from the inside out. A choked gust of surprised air escaped his throat. He figured Rook had the dagger, but he hadn’t expected to see it.

Rook dispelled the blade and hung it from his hip, along with his enchanted silverite and gold dagger. He spread his arms out, palms open like he had just done a cheap magic trick in a market square. “That thing can tear into the Fade. And I happen to know exactly how my godmother opens Eluvians. I’ve watched her do it.”

Something in that sentence didn’t settle his nerves one bit, though. “You’ve never done it yourself?”

“Well— No, not exactly,” Rook admitted, crouching back down to adjust the contents of the pack. “But Merrill’s done it loads of times, and I’ve gone with her.”

“How many times?”

“Huh?” Rook glanced over at him. Lucanis knew very well that he had heard him.

“How many times did you go into it?” He asked, directly this time.

Rook shifted uncomfortably, balancing his weight from one calf to another, then finally answered. “Three.”

“Mierda,” Lucanis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That is not loads of times, Rook.”

“Yeah, well… It’s gonna have to be good enough,” he retorted, closing the pack and rising to his feet. “Because we’ve got one idea at the moment, and one chance to make it happen. Luckily for you, this is where I do some of my best work.”

“Or, it’s where you get ripped apart by magic you’ve never used before, in front of all of Skyhold,” Lucanis insisted, standing up and abandoning the chair to stalk over to him. Rook looked up, his eyebrows raised. “This is a very bad idea. I don’t think you should use that thing.”

“Look— You do knives and jumping around on rooftops. I do magic,” Rook said, reaching up and squeezing his forearm firmly. “I know what I can and can’t handle, and I know the Fade. You’re just gonna have to trust me.”

Lucanis sagged, feeling like he might faint on the spot. “I do. It’s just that…” He trailed off, gesturing aimlessly into the empty air.

“I’ll be fine,” Rook assured, answering the thoughts he didn’t have the strength to say aloud. “And, you and Spite will be right there with me. I’m perfectly safe.”

Lucanis nodded, wrestling against a foreign and immense pressure swelling in his chest. “All right.”

Rook dug into the pack and produced two chiseled, ruby-colored gemstones. He fussed with them for a few moments, muttering to himself in a deep focus, before a surge of magic zipped from somewhere in his body and into both stones. Lucanis watched him closely, silent and still in case he accidentally interrupted whatever it was he was casting. He had been a little sensitive to the Fade being played around with before, but Spite’s influence made it exponentially stronger. It was both strange and fascinating to be able to feel, nearly see, magic itself being drawn forth and manipulated in real time.

He felt a pull at the corners of his lips when Rook looked up, grinning at him with his hair suspended, drifting slightly outward on a static charge. He snatched them both from the floor in front of him and bounced up to his feet, holding one out to him.

“Qué mago,” Lucanis complimented, holding his hand out for the crystal. Rook dropped it into his palm. It was warm, and gave off a buzz of magic. “What is it?”

“It’s an Elven Stone,” Rook explained, tapping at the one he was still holding. To his surprise, the sound echoed from the one resting snugly in his palm. He lifted it closer to his face, raising an eyebrow. “If we ever get separated again, now we can talk.”

If. Lucanis tried to move past the word in his mind, but his breath still left his lungs far too fast and didn’t come back quickly enough. He shook his head and pocketed the stone. On the way to Treviso. Rook had clearly meant on the way to Treviso, and not in general. Obviously.

“It won’t happen,” he said, squeezing his teeth together so that it was all he said. So that the words ever again, wouldn’t sneak their way out.

“Well, now you don’t have to worry,” Rook suggested, like there was any chance at all that he wasn’t going to worry. “I’ll be, quite literally, a stone’s throw away at all times. Okay?”

Lucanis nodded. “Thank you. It… Helps.”

“So, we'll meet back up after dark, then?” Rook asked, tilting his head a bit and glancing upwards. “It's nearly evening, now.”

“Midnight,” Lucanis said. “That will be easy, and the knight that roams the walls will be away from here.”

“Midnight.” Rook crossed back to the desk and rooted through the drawer, plucking out a sewing needle he had stored there. He stared at the burning candle, his lips parted and barely moving. It looked like he was… Counting, under his breath. “Got it.”

He pushed the needle into the candle wax, a few inches down from the top. He tapped the brass dish that held the candle upright with a fingernail when he was done.

“There,” Rook said with a satisfied nod. “That should wake you up, in case you fall asleep.”

Lucanis leaned over to examine the little makeshift clock with a chuckle. “Very clever… But, what about you?”

“Spite can do it,” he suggested, turning to flash a bright smile at the demon.

Spite straightened up, his eyes wide, and pointed to himself.

Me?

“Mhm. All you need to do is come to the Fade and tell me to wake up when this—” Rook tapped at the top of the candle, next to the burning wick, then a little bit above the needle. “—burns down to here. Got it?”

Okay!

Spite nodded emphatically, with a wide grin, and Rook laughed. Lucanis kept his eyes on the flickering flame while he calculated the risks involved, and tried to put together just how Rook was planning to pull this off. There was a faint gust of air near his left side, and Rook’s voice sounded much closer than it was before. A warm hand settled onto his shoulder, then glided gently down his arm.

“We’ve got this. At least this part, anyway—” Rook’s fingers found his hand and wound tightly around it, then squeezed. “Whatever happens next, we’ll get that, too.”

That was complete nonsense. Lucanis couldn’t help the breathy chuckle that escaped him. He swept his hair back with a hand and let out a tired sigh. At some point, between the Venatori, the Crows, and his own family, he had lost that kind of brazen confidence that Rook displayed so easily. Or, he never had enough of it to begin with.

“Rook,” Lucanis said quietly, meeting his wide stare. “If this doesn’t work, I want—”

Rook scoffed and brought his other hand to his face, cutting him off. He rolled his eyes. “Don’t hex it,” he scolded. “It’s going to work.”

“I still don’t like it.” Lucanis tugged Rook’s hand away, and finally gave in. He took a deep breath, pushing back the same apprehension that overcame him as he leapt from a burning, sinking ship. “All right. Go. Get some rest.”

Rook tilted his head, searching his face with a serious look for a few seconds, before he huffed. He lowered his head, and a thick skull thumped into the middle of his chest.

“Stubborn man,” he muttered, headbutting him again softly before he turned to leave. “Good night, both of you. I’ll be back at midnight.”

Night!

Lucanis shut the door behind him when he left and sat back at the desk with his arms folded, staring at the candle flame. He glanced above his head and let out a quiet groan. Rook hadn’t snuffed the torches before he went back to his room. There was no way he was getting any sleep, now. He wasn’t sure how long he watched the candle flicker back and forth, but the sun had disappeared from the high window when he looked back up. He blinked at the candle, the melting wax now significantly closer to the needle than it had been before.

A startled, wordless exclamation from Spite was the only warning that came before someone who wasn’t Rook spoke, from within the room.

“He cares about you.”

“Pinche mierda—” Lucanis shot out of the chair, nearly toppling the candle and brass plate onto the desk. He searched the room, his eyes falling on a thin blonde man he had never seen before standing just inside of the door that led back out to the ramparts. “Who— What—”

“Quite deeply,” the man continued in a hollow voice, not making a move to step any closer. He stared past Lucanis through an unkempt curtain of dull blonde hair, almost like he was looking right at Spite. "I haven't seen anything like it since Dorian saw Ahri. Maybe before."

“Explain yourself,” Lucanis demanded. Then, remembering that he himself was a guest at Skyhold, added a curt, “—please.”

“This is my room. Or, it was… Sometimes still is, but only when I need it to be,” he said, speaking slowly and evenly and still staring over his shoulder. “I don’t need it to be, right now, though.”

“You… Live here?” Lucanis asked, trying to figure out exactly what it was he was saying. He looked around the room. When he had arrived, it looked like it had never even been used once. In fact, it was full of debris and dust and he had spent half the night cleaning it up. “So, you are with the Inquisition?”

He eyed his weapons, which sat on the floor between him and the stranger. They both stood the same distance from them, but Lucanis was certain he could move faster.

“Sometimes. I only come back when something big is about to happen.” He looked around the room, examining the candle clock Rook made, then back to the wall. "An archer used to sleep where your mage friend is. She isn't very nice, but she's kind. I like her."

"Something... Big." Lucanis shifted uncomfortably. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he said, craning his neck and still fixed on where Spite was standing. “Two different people. A human, and a Spirit of Determination.”

A what? Lucanis turned slightly to stare at Spite, keeping the peculiar man in his periphery. “Spite? You can see him?”

Spite growled, seething and glowering at the man.

Compassion. Ugh.

“Cole, actually,” he corrected. He didn’t look like a spirit, but Spite seemed to think he was. Then, it finally clicked. Varric Tethras and his lengthy novels about the Inquisition.

“You were the spirit-boy,” Lucanis said, bewildered. He couldn’t believe the things in those books had actually been real. “The one Varric Tethras and the Inquisitor turned into a human.”

“Solas helped, back then,” Cole said with a solemn nod. “He thinks he’s helping now, but he’s only hurting. Lots of people want him to see that before he hurts them, too.”

“Honestly? I don’t think that is going to work,” Lucanis admitted, cautiously taking a seat back at the desk. The not-so-spirit didn’t seem to be a threat, for now, at least. “And I don’t share their sympathy— Especially not if he gets close to Rook again.”

He snapped his mouth shut, shaking his head ferociously. Why was he telling him any of this? He didn’t know this man, no matter how long he had been around or who he was to the Inquisition. Still, it was almost like conversing with him was untangling his nerves, if only just a little bit. It didn’t do anything to drench the searing worry that was wearing a hole right through him, though.

“You should tell him,” Cole said casually, as though he weren’t plucking information right out of his very soul and tossing it up in the air. “He already knows, I think. Two, but it feels more like three. You feel it, too, but you don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m not… I don’t…” Lucanis scoffed and shook his head, glancing back at the candle. It was close enough. “No, I do not.”

Go. Away.

“Spite.” He turned to face the angry demon so that he could scold him properly. “Don’t be rude— This isn’t even our room.”

Spite emitted a hissing growl and glared at him, but he just sighed and shook his head. “Go get Rook.”

...FINE.

What was getting into him, lately? He waited for Spite to vanish, before turning back to face Cole and apologize for his behavior, but the man was gone without a sound. He hadn’t even heard the door, let alone any footsteps exiting the room. He let out a puzzled breath and sat back to wait for Rook, nearly startling at the clattering of the needle in the brass dish at the same time a soft knock came from the outer door.

“Mierda,” he muttered. Spite walked through the door and grinned as he gestured to it. “Too much magic and too many ghosts. It is time to leave this place.”

He waved a hand swiftly over the candle flame, whiffing it out with the force of the air behind his palm. He smirked a little, reminded of the spell Rook used to extinguish flames instead of simply blowing a candle out. What a show-off.

Rook slid his pack through the door as soon as he opened it, pitching it into the room between his leg and the doorway. He was partially dressed, like he had thrown everything on with his best guess, and his hair looked like he had tossed himself out of a window. Lucanis blinked at him.

“Why are you at this door?”

“I climbed around,” Rook answered, patting the wall next to him. Lucanis peeked around and spotted a thin, crumbling ledge with a sheer drop to the frozen ground below. “Are you gonna let me in?”

Lucanis fixed him with a stern look. “You could have slipped. Why not come through the inside?”

“And risk being spotted by Bull and his Chargers? I’d never come out from under guard again as long as I lived,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Besides, I’ve been up way higher than this, in salt and wind and pounding rain. Loosen your corsets a bit, yeah?”

Lucanis examined him closely, from the slouch of his shoulders to the slightest wandering of his eyes. “Are you… Drunk?”

“Hardly.” Rook elbowed him with a lopsided smirk. “The wine here was practically made for children.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but a noise behind Rook stopped him. Rook turned around, and they both spotted one of the guards coming through a far door across the rampart. He stopped after a few steps, staring questioningly at Rook, then Lucanis. Rook locked eyes with the human and chuckled, reaching up and flattening a palm in the middle of his chest. Lucanis froze, trapped in place by the sudden warmth and the way his pulse doubled as Rook stepped closer to him, practically melting against his side. Spiced, fermented fruit clung to the air around him, indicating that Rook had indeed revisited the bar downstairs after he left his room.

“You don’t want to know even half of what I’m about to do to this man,” Rook said to the guard, whose reddening face Lucanis could see even from where he was standing. Lucanis raised a hand to his face and covered it, feeling an even worse heat flare across his own skin. “I recommend you forget you even saw this.”

“Rook,” he groaned as the man made a hasty, sputtering retreat. “¿Qué carajo?”

“Works every time.” Rook snickered and pushed him inside, closing the door behind him with a boot. He stepped back, taking the warmth with him, and glanced at the desk. “Did you get any rest?”

“Of course.”

“Sure you did,” Rook said, grabbing his pack from the floor and swinging it over a shoulder. “And I’m a firebreathing half-dragon.”

“Does sitting quietly and reflecting not count as rest?” Lucanis watched him check over a few satchels, counting vials and herbs and oils and softly muttering to himself. Rook rolled his eyes and shook his head as he continued his preparations. “I hope you know where this mirror goes.”

Rook paused, his fingers on the stopper of a small glass bottle, and winced. Lucanis folded his arms.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know where it goes,” Lucanis said, his voice firm. Rook set the little blue bottle down and held up his hands.

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly, waving his hands in the air slightly like he was trying to dispel Lucanis’s negative thoughts. “It’s a place in the Fade called the Crossroads. Sort of a connection spot that leads to other places.”

“Is Treviso one of them?”

“Provided Viago hasn’t tossed a stone through Teia’s Eluvian in a fit of rage,” Rook muttered, flicking his fingers at the air in annoyance, “then, yes.”

“You have a few things to explain on the way,” Lucanis sighed. Rook made a face at him, and he chuckled. “And, you shouldn’t be drinking before a dangerous ritual.”

Rook let out an incredulous laugh. “You’d have better luck convincing a fish to walk,” he huffed, nudging Lucanis’s pack towards him.

Lucanis picked up his belongings and stopped Rook with a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You are sure you want to do this? We can find another way, if—”

“Lucanis.” Rook pried his hand off and squeezed his wrist. “Everything is fine. We’ll be in and out before anyone even notices, Inquisition or otherwise.”

Lucanis let out a deep, drawn-out breath. He was just going to have to work with what Rook was giving him, he supposed. “All right. Let’s—”

He froze. Something was wrong.

The still, silent night was pierced by a single, long note. A high-pitched, bloodcurdling scream that rang across Skyhold, bouncing off of polished stone and carrying unabated in the snowy air. It sounded close, in the direction of the small mage tower that sat across the courtyard. He stood straight up, and Rook huddled closer to him, his grip on his arm tightening into a vise. Every torch in the room blinked out in an instant, and the only sound that followed was a soft gasp that fell from Rook.

They both shared an apprehensive look, and Rook seemed to make the same decision as him, because the two of them turned and burst through the door, speeding away from the garden and straight towards the commotion.

Something was very wrong.

Several others made it to the mages’ quarters before the two of them did. Knights, half-dressed mages who had been woken in the middle of the night, and the Inquisitor himself crowded around a scene that caused Lucanis to halt in his tracks and swear loudly as even more tired occupants shuffled into the tower and began to panic. Two young Elven women lay in a growing pool of blood, both attacker and victim completely dead. The killer, judging by the wounds on the other woman’s hands and arms, was lying facedown and still clutching a twisted, crimson dagger.

Red Lyrium.

Rook took a step forward, his whole body trembling, and Lucanis finally noticed what his glassy, fearful gaze was trained on. Her face, with tattoos nearly identical to Rook’s, only more intricate. Finished, if Lucanis guessed. His eyes went wide as he realized that this wasn’t just some sort of illicit, foul act on a random member of the Inquisition. It was planned. She was a target.

She was one of the thirteen elves, just like Rook was.

“Y— Yriel,” Rook croaked, pushing his way through a pack of gawking mages, his shoulders heavy with grief. “Raven— Oh, shit—”

The Inquisitor, Cullen, and Cassandra shuffled back a bit, giving Rook space as he fell to his knees just outside of the blood creeping along the grain of the floors. Beside the woman he was hovering over, mumbling shaky Elvish under his breath, a couple of the knights turned the murderer over onto her back. Lucanis’s eyes fell on her, now, and he felt his stomach drop at the sight of her face.

The same woman from the camp they had visited, the one Rook was in a hurry to retreat from. The elf that brought him into the forest to pick herbs and argue about Rook’s body and his magic and their alliance. She had separated him from Rook, so that their mages could freely cast whatever they wanted and scry on his dreams while he was recovering. He should have known something was off. All at once, everything from the Dalish settlement to the Inquisitor’s explanations added up in his mind. This wasn’t a murder. It was a sacrifice. But, for what purpose? Which side was this supposed to help?

Lucanis tread carefully across the room, making sure to avoid disrupting the investigation that had already begun or stepping in any of the blood. He knelt down behind Rook and gently set a hand on his back, close enough to hear his voice over the buzz of everyone else’s.

“Fenedhis— Yriel, ir abelas,” Rook whispered, leaning forward enough to brush two fingers across her tattooed forehead. “Enasal enaste. Elgar’ghilana enas din’an.”

“Rook,” Lucanis said softly when he stopped speaking, getting his attention. Rook looked up, his eyes red and damp. “I… I’m sorry.”

A deep rumbling shook the grounds of Skyhold, causing a dozen or so people still in the room to gasp and huddle together. Rook wiped at his eyes and took his outstretched hand, letting Lucanis pull him to his feet as he stood with him. Another quake shuddered the walls and windows, and Rook brought his mouth close to his ear to be heard over the increasing panic. “We need to go.”

“Right.” Lucanis kept hold of his hand and turned, slipping into the scattering crowd as the Inquisitor began shouting orders over the swell of voices. “Stay close.”

An awful storm was whipping into a frenzy outside, turning the courtyard into a flurry of rain and snow and slippery, freezing ground. He tightened his grip and ran for a door across the grounds that led back to the garden, when Rook shouted something he couldn’t quite make out over the howling wind and the screams that began to tear through the roaring and pounding. On the other side of the walls, rising to an impossible height far above the highest turret, was a freakishly slender figure. Its too-many limbs stretched out, bowing and bending horrifically as the creature let out a deafening shriek from beneath a shadowed crown of horns.

Rook’s voice finally cut through the swell as he wrenched the door open, rough and growling. Enraged.

“Ghilan’nain.”

Chapter Text

Lucanis threw himself against the heavy wooden door, fighting the blizzard that was raging just outside. Dami shook snow off of himself and stared at the giant mirror looming at the other end of the small room, his mouth slightly open. It was actually there.

“Rook!” Lucanis called, shoving at the door with his whole body, as hard as he could while the howling wind pushed back. Dami raised a hand, ready to slam it with a spell, when the Inquisitor’s voice carried through.

“Solas—”

Dami gasped and rushed over, huddling against the door next to Lucanis and peeking out, trying to make out anything in the freezing storm. There, far on the other end of the garden, violet eyes snapped right to him. Fen’Harel.

Ahri stepped into sight with an emerald flash, putting himself in front of the doorway, in between Fen’Harel and the two of them. He threw out an incantation, a thick wall of stone that the Dread Wolf was already dispelling as he advanced. The Inquisitor turned his head to be heard over the noise, looking at Dami as he raised his hand.

“Run, Da’len.”

He skidded backward as a heavy force knocked into him, the door slamming shut and leaving them in a sudden and abrupt silence. Just on the other side of the door, he could still make out distant shouting and spells tearing at the air and ground. He lunged for the door, but it didn’t budge even a hair when he yanked on the handle. An intricate, indecipherable ward covered the entire room that he couldn’t even wedge the tiniest bit of magic into.

The Inquisitor had locked them in, and he had no idea how to break a spell that complicated. “Oh, he’s good.”

Lucanis picked himself off of the floor with a huff. “It doesn’t look like we are joining that one.”

“Not this time,” he agreed, kneeling down in front of the Eluvian and gathering what he needed. “Looks like it’s not broken, so we should be able to—”

“—Ohh, no you don’t.”

Harding stepped out from behind the mirror, her bow held high, and Dami swore with his thumb on the stopper of a Lyrium potion. He looked up, following the arrow that was drawn back and pointed not at him, but at Lucanis. Directly at his heart. Dami set the bottle on the stone floor and quickly straightened back up, holding out his hands and taking a step toward her.

“Harding,” he said softly, trying to break her attention away from Lucanis. The bowstring tightened so far he could hear it creak. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I told you, I’m not letting you drag him off to—” Harding began, practically snarling at Lucanis. Dami let out a sigh and stepped in between them, close enough that the tip of the arrow made a sharp scraping sound against the thin plate covering his chest. Her scowl deepened. “Rook, move.”

“Absolutely not.” He pushed the arrow to the side with a finger. Lucanis let out a strangled wheeze behind him, sounding something like his real name. “You’re being ridiculous. We don’t have time for this.”

“Okay,” she challenged, lowering her bow and grabbing the arrow by the shaft. She brought it up between them, the pristinely sharpened head right underneath his chin. “Then I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t be— ugh,” he scoffed, raising his hands when the arrow jabbed into his jaw. “Harding.”

“Dead serious,” she answered, fuming. “You wanna stop me, Captain? Go right ahead.”

He wasn’t going to, no matter how capable he was of doing just that, and she knew it. Harding could have speared that arrow right through him, and he wouldn’t have laid a finger on her. He glanced behind him and Lucanis met his eyes, shaking his head once. He faced Harding again, who was glaring at him and refusing to back down until he answered her.

Why were they both making him make the call?

“Fine,” he growled, and he could hear Lucanis mutter something in dismayed Antivan behind him. “But, I’m not holding your hand through the Fade, and you’re sticking with us. Got it?”

“Fine,” she repeated back through her teeth. She finally lowered her hand, stuffing the arrow back into her quiver. “And, I’ve got my eyes on him.”

“Should have your eyes on where we’re bloody going,” he muttered, bristling past her to start his preparations.

She didn’t move from her spot. She just remained there, huffing and puffing at Lucanis. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he sang back, sinking back to the floor and flicking the stopper from the potion. “Welcome aboard, I said.”

On the other side of the room, he could hear Lucanis cough out a short, rough laugh, before he cleared his throat into his hand. He smirked and leaned back, tipping the freezing cold bottle up and downing as much of it as he could in one go.

“I hate when mages do that,” Harding mumbled, shaking her head. “Weirds me out.”

“Do you want me to die?” Dami defended, dropping the empty flask back into a satchel and freeing the Lyrium dagger from his hip. “I’m not Merrill, you know.”

“You said it was safe,” Lucanis hissed, keeping his distance. He flexed his fingers, feeling a cold surge of magic zip through him. It was probably best that he wasn’t up close for something this big.

“It is.” The blade appeared as soon as he wrapped his fingers around the handle. “With the proper preparations.”

“I am going to kill you.”

“Careful,” he murmured, standing with the dagger in his left hand and raising it to the Eluvian. “Harding might take that as an actual threat.”

“You have the dagger?” Harding’s voice was nearing a scream, now. “No, never mind— I’m killing you, too.”

“Get in line,” he groaned, trying to concentrate. “And if you’d both shut up, I could be done with this.”

Harding started to say something else, but Lucanis shushed her and stood perfectly still. She grumbled but complied, falling silent as well. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and closed them instead, trying to pinpoint exactly where the connection between the Eluvian and the Fade was. He drew the dagger across the frame, feeling the Veil itself drag and ripple along with it as he spoke the words Merrill taught him, but… Nothing happened.

The Eluvian didn’t activate.

He blinked, trying again and knocking at the stony surface with his right hand. The dagger was doing something, but it wasn’t doing it right.

“It— It’s not working,” he said, smacking the edge of the frame with the ring attached to the pommel. “This should be exactly it— I’ve seen her do it.”

Something wasn’t right. He had the ritual memorized. Every little movement, every little hard-to-pronounce ancient syllable in the incantation.

“Rook,” Harding said softly. He swiveled on her, and she flinched. “Now might… Be a good time to tell you something about Merrill.”

Dami stared at her blankly, and she grimaced before continuing. “She, uh… She’s a blood mage. I-I thought… You knew? Oh, Maker, I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was gonna have anything to do with the Eluvian—”

He tuned out her babble, staring down at the dagger in his hand. The raging blizzard outside sounded more distant, now, along with the raining spells accompanying it. They were still somewhere at Skyhold, though, and Fen’Harel wanted one thing. Or, maybe two, he still wasn’t sure what the man actually planned to do to him once he got his hands on him.

Blood magic. Fen'Harel was doing it, that mage he had run into in the Fade after he was downed at the lake had done it, and the Venatori were lousy with it. It shouldn't have surprised him that Merrill had used it as well, but it was more troubling that she had never told him. The Eluvian had to be activated one way or another, though, and they couldn't exactly wait around, trapped in a magically sealed room until a blood mage who knew Eluvians maybe showed up. The other option was waiting for the whole room to collapse, and fight their way out of Skyhold the hard way.

He groaned and reached up with his right hand, tugging off a soft leather glove with his teeth.

“Desperate times,” he echoed quietly, clutching the dagger tightly and staring at the lines across his palm. He held his breath, willing his hands to stop trembling at the mere idea of what he was about to do. “This had better fucking work.”

A warmth covered his left hand and he looked up, meeting Lucanis’s eyes. He hadn’t even heard him move across the room. His fingers pried his hand open and he took the dagger, his face twisting up in deep discomfort as soon as he touched it.

“Lucanis—” he started. Lucanis shook his head and took his wrist, flipping the dagger upside-down in his palm.

“The longer you argue— The longer I am holding it,” he gritted out, shaking his wrist until he finally opened his hand. “Hold still— And, I’m also sorry about this.”

“Yeah, me too,” he grumbled, looking away as Lucanis brought the blade to his palm. “Just get it over with, yeah?”

He felt the cold crystal just barely touch his skin, light as a feather. “You’re left-handed,” Lucanis murmured, swiping a thumb over his wrist.

Dami’s fingers twitched and he fought the urge to grab hold of the man’s head and squeeze.

“Not the time,” he growled. He was about to scold him further, when Lucanis flicked his wrist, leaving a shallow slash across his palm. He gasped and Lucanis smirked, handing him back the dagger. “You did that on purpose.”

“I did,” Lucanis confirmed. “It’s easier when someone’s distracted.”

“Dickhead,” he muttered, squeezing his hand into a fist and approaching the mirror again. A few drops of blood leapt out from between his fingers, splattering on the stones as he stepped up to the Eluvian. “Get ready— If this works, we need to move quickly.”

This time, the dagger’s magic caught on something, he did his best to not think about what, and the dull front of the Eluvian shimmered, rippling into a glasslike surface. He opened his mouth, keeping his eyes on the flickering image that he couldn’t quite make out in front of him, and not the crimson threads settling themselves into the structure itself. He let out an incredulous chuckle.

“It worked,” he laughed, thumping Lucanis on the shoulder. “I actually fucking did it.”

“Don’t sound surprised,” Lucanis said, picking up his pack and shoving back at him. “You are a good mage.”

“So long as none of us ever mention any of what I actually just did,” he mumbled, poking at the Eluvian. His finger didn’t stop at the surface, breaking through into the Fade, and he jerked his hand back. “Who’s going first?”

Harding and Lucanis were dead silent. He shook his head and dispelled the dagger, stowing it safely before facing the mirror again. “No one, then? Fuck, me.”

He held his breath and stepped forward, slowing a bit when he felt Lucanis grab hold of his wrist and move, just behind him. He did feel a little better that he wasn't walking through it entirely alone. He stopped, gawking at the sight of the Crossroads as Harding came through behind Lucanis.

“Mierda,” Lucanis gasped, letting go of him to stare at their surroundings. “This is the Fade?”

Brightly colored trees bloomed around them, and several paths trailed off into the distance, some of them ending at marked cliffs. Beyond the central island, he could see dozens of others, suspended in thin air, and bits and pieces of old rubble and ruins aimlessly floating along by themselves. A bright blue beacon shone straight up into the sky far in the distance.

Dami turned, facing the Fade side of the mirror and squinting at it. He opened his hand and stared at it, little threads still reaching out of the cut and trailing towards the Eluvian. His palm flattened against the not-glass, careful not to go through it, this time. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, severing the connection with a crackle of static that reverberated across the surface of the mirror. The mirror turned black and solid and shattered beneath his hand, reverting to a giant useless hunk of ornate stone and silver.

“It’s going to be a pain to fix that,” he said, flicking his hand off and turning back around. “But, now he can’t follow us this way.”

“Good idea,” Lucanis said, reaching for his hand to examine it. He waved him off and moved past him, towards the only actual structure nearby. An odd, ornamental metal tree. “It will be much harder to get back if we need to, though.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” Dami turned his head towards the tree statue, staring at it for a moment. He could have sworn he heard something on the breeze, like a whisper. He shook his head and moved towards the cliff when he didn’t hear it again. “For now, we need to figure out how we get to the other Eluvians.”

“Others?” Harding questioned, squinting off into the distance towards another floating island. Dami cast a light healing spell over himself before sliding his glove back on. He grimaced when the magic stung and ground into his palm, the skin knitting back together painfully. Lucanis had a light touch, but it was still probably going to scar, anyway.

“One leads to Treviso, one to the Hall of Valor, there should be one that directs to Arlathan, but I imagine the Veil Jumpers have tampered with it by now,” he rattled off, searching around near what looked suspiciously like a dock.

“Should,” Lucanis muttered, folding his arms and leaning against a thick boulder. He shrugged, then let out a long sigh. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to see if anyone else has been here,” he said, stopping in his tracks when he spotted a little statuette tucked away in the colorful foliage. “Gotcha.”

Dami brushed vines away from the object, taking care to not prick his hand on large, menacing thorns, and extracted a meticulously carved halla. The very same one Merrill kept in her home in Kirkwall, right by her door, as long as he had known her. It was unmistakable. He had touched the little carving every time he visited her, on his way in and out of her home. He had played with it when he was younger, under her nervous supervision just in case he broke anything off of it. It had been carved by a Grey Warden she knew, according to her stories.

The man that went on to become the Hero of Ferelden, or so she claimed. She never revealed exactly who that man actually was, and none of the books he had read ever seemed to mention anything about the man besides what he did. Merrill and Varric kept whatever happened during their very first adventures together locked down tight, no matter how hard he tried to pry.

The halla being in the Crossroads instead of the iced over ruins of Kirkwall could only mean one thing. Merrill had gotten out, and she had already beaten him to the Eluvian. Of course, it could have been dragged into the rift along with Varric and half of the city, but the odds of that were outrageously low. Besides, the statue hadn’t landed there accidentally. Merrill placed it there, for either himself or Varric to notice. He tucked it away into his pack and stood, facing the other two.

“Merrill’s been here,” he announced, resting his hands on his hips with a short sigh. “So, she’s alive, at least. There should be a way to— To… Oh…?”

Dami trailed off, his mouth still open as he watched what appeared to be a long skiff drifting atop an unseen river, rowed by a cloaked spirit standing at the stern. Lucanis and Harding noticed it next, with Lucanis taking a startled step back away from the ledge where it was docking and swearing under his breath in alarm. Dami chuckled and walked past him to meet the spirit.

“Hello, there,” he said cheerfully, once again shaking Lucanis off as he tried to pull him away from it. “Who are you, then?”

“Rook,” Lucanis groaned, sounding strained. “Do not talk to it.”

“Yeah, I’m— I’m agreeing with the Crow, again,” Harding said, her fingers wound tightly around the grip of her bow. “Maybe be careful, Rook.”

Its voice echoed from the helm atop its structured, glowing form. It sure looked like any other spirit, but it was odd that it was dressed. And armored. And doing any of the things it was doing, really.

Caretaker. Needs provided. Paths traversed.

“Okay,” he said slowly, mulling the cryptic words over in his mind. He glanced a the boat. “You want us to… Get in?”

The Evanuris reach for the Crossroads, Dweller. It is wise to move quickly.

“What is it saying?” Lucanis whispered, leaning over slightly. Dami blinked.

“What do you mean?” he questioned. “You can’t understand it?”

“Not really,” Harding said, this time. She peeked around from behind him, staring at the spirit— Caretaker? —with caution. “It’s pretty, but it’s that old, nonsense Elvish.”

“Huh.” He shrugged, stepping forward into the skiff while the other two groaned at him. “Just sounds normal to me.”

He sat near the bow, stretching his legs out in front of him, then glanced back up. “Are you coming, or not?”

Lucanis grumbled, but carefully stepped into the boat and sat down firmly next to him, his arms crossed and a deep look of annoyance on his face. Harding sat across from them, gripping the seat tightly as soon as the vessel began to lurch and tack, pivoting away from the ledge they had stepped off of and sailing towards a distant shore.

The spirit shoved off as soon as they stepped onto solid ground, not giving him the chance to question it any further. Still, he didn’t think it was going to be the last time he saw it, so he shrugged it off and faced the path ahead. He could see more than one Eluvian in the distance, standing tall and gleaming in the bright light.

“What’s that smell?” Harding asked, wrinkling her nose as they trekked into denser foliage and hot, humid air. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It felt like home. “Smells like burnt dirt and acid.”

“It’s coffee,” Lucanis answered, visibly offended. “I would recognize that smell anywhere.”

“Must be echoing into the Fade from Rivain,” Dami guessed. He gently pinched a wide, waxy Colocasia leaf as he passed by it, the first plant he had seen in over a year that was familiar. “They still grow it in Kont-arr, and the Dalish have a pretty sizeable operation on the coast in Llomerynn. It’s a lot easier to get than the stuff from Par Vollen. That, you’ve either gotta steal or talk your way into a shit deal on a meager shipment— And that’s only if you can talk the Qunari out of boarding and conscripting you, first.”

“Your job sounds much more stressful than mine,” Lucanis chuckled. “Most of my problems can be solved with a contract and a dagger.”

“Why waste the parchment and steel when you could just give them a push?” he snickered, stopping in the center of the cluster of mirrors to take a look around.

Harding didn’t look nearly as amused as the two of them. In fact, she looked horrified. “Have you done that?”

“Of course not,” Dami said, sticking his nose up in the air. “I order someone else to do it.”

That earned him a full, honest-to-goodness laugh out of Lucanis while Harding scowled even more ferociously than she was already doing. He quickly composed himself, and Dami offered him a wicked grin. He elbowed him in the side, slipping away from Harding’s increasing fury and speeding towards the closest mirror.

“Come on,” he chuckled. “Let’s figure out which one goes where.”

“A forest,” Lucanis hummed, joining him and jabbing the pommel of a dagger at the one in front of them.

“It’s not Arlathan,” Dami hummed. Lucanis grimaced. “Looks older. The Arbor Wilds, maybe? It doesn’t look like the part of the Brecilian we were in.”

“Not that one.” He turned away from it, approaching the next one. Dami could already see the reflection through the shifting surface. Piles and piles of gold, gleaming and glittering, lining a path that wound through a wooden structure. “Closer.”

Dami followed Lucanis as he examined the Eluvians, lingering on the one that led into the Hilt. He felt a pang in his chest, a mixture of homesickness and apprehension and guilt, churning against each other and making him feel like he was sinking into the sand. It was every ounce of willpower he had to walk past it, to not turn and dart through the Veil and ruin their journey with his own selfishness.

Still, he managed to keep up, tearing his eyes away from the image of home, shimmering and sparkling and just out of reach. The Lords could wait. This was more important. He stopped next to Lucanis, looking to the Eluvian he had come to a halt in front of. He could make out a dark room, but not much else. Lucanis leaned forward, narrowing his eyes and looking intently through the mirror at whatever pieces of furniture and architecture he could make out.

Then, finally, he straightened up and announced, “This one is Treviso.”

“You sure?” Harding asked, looking unconvinced. Dami couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was just a little nudge of familiarity about the obscured space. “I mean, this could literally be anywhere.”

“It is inside of the Diamond,” Lucanis said with a nod. “I am positive.”

“Well, that’s good enough for me,” Dami said, stepping up and putting a hand on the surface. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come.

Treviso.

Chapter Text

Lucanis squinted in the dark room, trying to make out anything at all beyond just a few vague shapes and covered chairs and sofas. He felt Rook brush up against him, looking around curiously at things only he could see.

“Rook, would you mind—?” he started, then several candles stationed around the room flickered to life, illuminating the space a little bit better. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he said with a lopsided smile, then turned to peek under a dust cover. “Must be Viago’s storage. Figures he’d shove the Eluvian in here.”

“You still haven’t explained that one to me,” Lucanis said, leaning against a draped armoire near the door and meeting his eyes. “You might want to, while you still have a chance.”

“Don’t tell me you’re friends with more than one crow,” Harding groaned. Lucanis rolled his eyes and ignored her.

“We aren’t friends.” Rook heaved a throaty sigh and pressed a shoulder up against the armoire next to him. “Viago’s the one that oversaw my training when I came here for the summers, and he’s also the one that’s in charge of contracting the Lords for… diplomatic voyages.”

“You mean he pays them to kidnap people and sink ships so he still looks good,” Lucanis pointed out. “I have been wondering where his resources come from.”

“He’s got Mourn Watchers in his pocket, too,” Rook added, looking thoughtful. “But, you didn’t hear that from me. How he hasn’t done in with the whole lot of you and taken First Talon for himself is beyond me. For some reason, he’d rather use up his energy yelling at me and threatening his siblings, instead.”

“Why do I feel like that isn’t the whole thing?” Lucanis raised an eyebrow at him.

“Because it’s not,” Rook answered matter-of-factly. “You’ve only had to be on the receiving end of his attitude. If it weren’t for the treaty between Caterina and Isabela, I probably would have been tied to a rock and tossed in the Rialto, by now.”

“That’s because you antagonize him,” Lucanis chuckled, shaking his head. Rook scowled.

“You’re not allowed to read my letters, anymore.”

Footsteps barrelled towards the door to the storage room, with Harding stepping away from it and moving a hand towards her bow. Lucanis stood in front of the door, and Rook was close behind him, nearly pressed against his side. Two hushed whispers argued on the other side for a moment, and Lucanis felt an immense swell of emotions. He knew both of them.

The door flew open and he saw Teia first, who froze on the spot and stared at him with wide eyes. Then, Ilario, who looked even more appalled to see him, paling and falling backward against the opposite wall of the narrow hallway. He clutched at his chest, eyes darting wildly between himself and Rook and the Eluvian behind them as he let out a string of curses. Teia was still standing completely still, staring blankly in abject shock.

Clearly, despite his communication, no one was expecting to see him. At least, not alive. Up until this point, he had barely even been expecting to make it this far. He hadn’t even thought about what he was going to say once he walked back into Treviso after well over a year of being missing in action.

“Lucanis?” Teia’s voice was barely above a whisper as she stepped forward into the candlelight, reaching up to touch his cheek like she didn’t believe he was real. “You— You’re—”

“It’s me,” he answered, reaching up to touch the back of her hand as proof. Behind her, Ilario let out a long, strangled wheeze of sheer confusion. “I brought some friends. I hope that is all right.”

Harding’s scoff just behind him caught her eyes first and she looked like she was about to start asking questions, when she noticed Rook on his other side. She dropped her hand and rushed for him immediately, leaving a space for Ilario to stare blankly at him, still half-collapsed against the far wall.

“Dami,” she gasped, grasping Rook by the face and scrutinizing him deeply while he tried to squirm away. “What are you doing here? Mi pequeño grajo— You look terrible.”

Rook’s tongue clicked against his teeth and he scowled. Teia began plucking at his long, unkempt hair with a deep frown. “…Yeah. Thanks. Long story.”

“What are you doing here?” Ilario finally managed between his teeth as he collected himself. Lucanis faced him, leaving Teia to fuss over the shabby hair in Rook's eyes and introduce herself to Harding. “I— We— There was a funeral, Lucanis.”

“So I heard,” he said quietly, looking over his cousin. He had lost weight, and he didn’t look to have had a full night’s rest any time recently. “Ilario. I would have come back sooner if— If there was any way. I—”

“You are here, now,” Ilario waved him off and laid both hands firmly on his shoulders. None of it felt real, even now that he was here in front of both of them. Ilario looked to be wrestling with it, too, his brows in a deep crease and his lips pressed into a thin line. “That is what matters… Viago is going to lose his mind.”

“I sent a letter to Caterina,” Lucanis explained. Ilario scoffed and stepped back, his expression turning to a full scowl. “I had expected her to tell everyone else.”

“It sounds like we need to have a meeting,” Teia chimed in, pausing long enough for Rook to scrabble his way out of her tight embrace. Lucanis lifted an eyebrow at him and he muttered something under his breath. “With all of the Talons. You can come, too, Ilario.”

Rook chuckled at Ilario’s sneer and fell into step with Harding at the rear, while Teia led the way back upstairs into the Cantori Diamond. Already, he could hear the casino floors bustling with activity, Crows and guests alike chattering and making deals and passing information back and forth.

Home.

“Why did you bring him with you?” Ilario questioned, leaning in with his voice low. “An Inquisition scout makes some sense, but the prince of pirates?”

“He is the one who stopped the Venatori that captured me,” Lucanis explained, glancing at his cousin. Ilario’s face was a mix of confusion and upset. Clearly, he didn't like Rook. “You know him?”

“I have never met him,” Ilario answered with a quiet scoff. “I just know that he is trouble.”

“Do you also know that he is an elf?” Lucanis questioned, an involuntary smirk pulling at his mouth. Ilario blanched. “And that he can hear you?”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Rook sing-songed, snickering and stepping forward to peek around him. “You’re welcome, by the way... And, that’s Captain, to you.”

“We have a contract, and he is still an ally.” Lucanis patted Ilario on the back and kept walking, hopefully dispelling some of the intent behind the murderous stare he was directing at Rook. “Keep your blades to yourself. I have seen that magic up close.”

Harding chuckled. “You get used to him.”

“Lucanis,” Ilario groaned, rubbing at his face. “You cannot possibly be serious—”

He stopped abruptly, halting in his tracks when a sudden silence fell over the main floor of the Diamond. Lucanis stopped as well, causing Rook to collide with him and steady himself with an arm on his shoulder. On the far side, Viago glanced up, hunched over a scatter of documents on his desk. He looked at Teia with confusion, then Ilario, then his eyes fell on Lucanis, and his mouth hung open. Everyone was staring. Every single eye in the room was on them. Him.

The Diamond erupted into a chaotic flurry of noise, and Viago was charging right in their direction. His gaze caught something else, though, and his surprise blazed into rage as he stalked right past him. Rook let out a stuttering squawk as he snatched a fistful of leather and fabric, shoving him backward into the doorway hard enough that the back of his head made a sharp impact loud enough for Lucanis to hear it over all the noise.

“You.”

“Haa— U-uh— V-Viago, I— augh—”

“Be quiet,” Viago hissed, lifting him away from the frame and thumping him back again, rattling the door still ajar beside them. Lucanis felt heat flare up from his stomach, nearly spilling into his throat. “You have pushed your luck too far, this time. You lose contact for months. You run away from the Inquisition scout. You summon the Queen of Pirates, the Champion of Kirkwall, a Tevinter detective, and Maker knows how many other meddlers to my city, to disturb and harass my business.”

“Viago,” Teia tried, lowering her voice and gesturing to the lingering onlookers. Viago, however, wasn’t having it. He was focused solely on Rook. “We don’t need to do this here. Lucanis is—”

“—And you walk back in here like you have done nothing wrong,” Viago spat, gesturing towards where he and Ilario were standing while he gave Rook a violent shake. His voice was beginning to rise to a near-shout. “Practically hanging off of a Dellamorte, of all things. You will be lucky, Captain, if you ever make it back to your ship or see the light of day again.”

Lucanis had enough. More than enough, by this point. He had more important things to get to now that he was home, than standing around and watching Viago behave like a child and make a spectacle of himself. He ignored Ilario’s annoyed huffing and marched forward, reaching up to lay a deathly grip on his shoulder. Viago froze.

“Remove your hand,” he said, just barely containing his voice to a normal and even level. Rook was looking at him, now, his face slack and fearful. Viago didn’t move, so he let out a tsk and flexed his hand, his thumb digging into bone and tendon. “Now, Viago.”

Viago turned his head slowly, staring at him blankly. Then, at Rook. Finally he scowled and swore, releasing his hold on Rook’s armor and letting him sag against the doorframe with a cough. Viago shook himself out of his grip with a scowl.

“I am going to get Caterina and the rest,” Viago clipped, shooting a seething glare back at Rook before he turned on his heel. “This discussion is not finished.”

Lucanis turned back to Rook while he stormed away, and Teia began apologizing profusely to Harding. Lucanis didn’t blame her, either. No matter how he and Rook felt about each other, there was no excuse for making a scene in front of a guest from the Inquisition, self-invited or not. Treviso was supposed to be better than that.

Something was getting to Viago.

“I hope you don’t plan to sleep here, tonight,” Rook muttered, elbowing him. Lucanis scoffed.

“Viago De Riva does not frighten me.”

“Wow,” Harding said, breaking their bubble of silence when the Diamond started to return back to something resembling normal. The stares remained, however. “He’s one of your Talons, huh? That guy is intense.”

“You get used to him,” Ilario mocked.

“You should meet Josephine,” she giggled, shaking her head. “She’s all smiles and fancy gowns and then ‘—oops! Dropped my glove and murdered a super important diplomat! Silly me!’”

Ilario rolled his eyes, seeming disinterested in making friends with either Harding, or Rook. He straightened up suddenly and Lucanis followed his gaze, nearly falling to the floor when Caterina came into the Diamond, moving quickly despite her age and tailed by the rest of the Talons. She was the only one that didn’t appear the least bit surprised to see him.

“Caterina—” Lucanis felt his voice break as he closed the distance, reaching out to gently clasp her face in his hands. “I— I’m home.”

“Lucanis,” she whispered, returning the gesture with a small smile. “My grandson. I knew you would come back to us.”

She fussed over him for another brief moment, then moved to Rook. He stood up straight, looking startled and anxious.

“Son of Isabela,” she said proudly, patting him on the shoulders. Lucanis was floored. Caterina had never greeted anyone with anything more than a curt nod and a single word. “The Rivaini Tempest, according to your Lords.”

“Dami is a lot easier to say,” he offered, smiling politely and dipping into a little bow when she stepped back. Caterina looked him over, almost sizing him up. “A pleasure, Hahren. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Your mothers talk too much,” she scolded, playfully smacking at his cheek. He laughed, and Lucanis just watched blankly, unable to react. Viago didn’t have the same trouble, judging by the furious gesturing and muttering coming from the front of the Talons. “Thank you for bringing him home.”

“I— Well, I was already— I-I mean,” Rook stammered, clearing his throat with a nervous chuckle. The haughty attitude he had served Ilario was nowhere to be seen, carried away on the wind as soon as Caterina stepped into the room. “It’s nothing. I’m happy to help.”

“To me, it is everything,” Caterina replied, looking back at Lucanis with her eyes shining.

Teia hustled everyone into a meeting room, where the questions began to fly. Where had he been? How did he survive? Who were these people with him? What was going on? Why hadn’t anyone known he was coming? What happened in Kirkwall? Why had they fled Skyhold in a hurry? The three of them answered everything they could, except for the looming question of why no one was expecting him to be alive and well and standing in front of them.

Caterina was silent, her lips pursed and her eyes following the conversation as it passed from tense moment to anxious question. When everything died down and most of the room was looking to her, she spoke.

“I knew the day we put that body in the ground that it was not my grandson,” she said, the revelation causing a shocked murmur to roll through the group of Crows. Viago looked furious, but no longer at Rook, and Ilario was beside himself. “It was altered— With blood magic, and a poor imitation of his clothing. When he and the Crows at Skyhold confirmed his survival, I was not taking any risks with his return.”

“So we were all left in the dark?” An elf from House Valisti spoke up, gesturing broadly. “We let the Lords of Fortune retrieve one of our own, instead?”

“First, that human from House Arainai is killed when those Antaam flood us, and now this?” another one muttered under his breath, shaking his head. The elf sitting in the Eighth Talon seat, a young member of House Arainai he didn’t recognize, winced slightly. Lucanis shifted.

“The Antaam are here?”

Every Crow in the room stiffened, turning apprehensive stares in his direction. The Third Talon from House Valisti grimaced before looking around, as though they were waiting for someone else to say something, first.

“About six months after you… Left,” they answered gingerly. Rook let out a sharp grunt like he had been struck and braced himself against a heavy bookshelf. “They sunk many lower portions of the city and destroyed many others, including the main harbor.”

“Fuck,” Rook breathed.

“They have taken everything over except the Cantori Diamond,” Teia said, her bright features turning grim. “And the grounds of our own homes.”

“Crow homes,” the grumbling, older Talon raised his voice. Bolivar Nero, Sixth Talon. Lucanis recognized him, although he looked much more weathered than he had before. “Everyone else’s were forfeit. Hundreds of Trevisans on the streets, while we let the rest of our Crows carry on in luxury.”

“Without the Crows, Treviso would not be standing at all,” Viago argued, then faced Caterina. “Why? Why keep this from all of us?”

“I do not believe in coincidence, Viago.” Caterina sat up, resting her hands on the broad meeting table. “Lucanis does not get captured on accident, and the Antaam do not slip through our blockades and erect their own this easily.”

“Caterina,” the Second Talon gasped. “You are not suggesting that a Crow is responsible for any of this?”

Caterina’s quick glance to the member of House Arainai wasn’t missed by Lucanis. Or the way her gaze flickered over the new Talons, some of whom were replacements several times over. “It would not be unheard of, and I chose to take every precaution necessary to retrieve my grandson.”

The argument died quickly, at that. Except for Viago, who was glowering in Rook’s direction once again.

“But why hire a pirate to do it?” he questioned. “We have a perfectly good standing contract with the Inquisition, and there is already a scout with him.”

“I did not hire him,” Caterina stated. “Or the scout.”

Everyone’s attention was on Rook, now, who had gone longer than Lucanis had ever heard without saying anything. He stiffened where he was lazily leaning against the bookcase, his arms folded just under his chest. He chuckled and offered up a polite wave.

“Captain Laidir,” he said, sounding almost professional. Several eyes in the room went wide, except Ilario, Caterina, Viago, and Teia. They had no clue it was actually him. The Talons that had insulted him murmured brief apologies, and he shrugged them off with one hand. “We’ve, ah, worked together before, though I’ve only ever met Viago and Teia. And yeah, I sort of… Ran into him, while I was busy scuttling a Venatori ship. Honestly, it’s lucky I didn’t accidentally kill him while I was at it.”

“We only left Skyhold a few hours ago,” Lucanis cut in, willing Rook to stop talking before he made one of the old Talons faint. Or, violate a treaty. “We were unable to contact anyone until we arrived.”

Then, Rook opened his mouth again, and explained the Dread Wolf and the Evanuris to them. He was dismayed that Rook was choosing now to drop that information on their heads, but none of the Talons seemed to act like it was unbelievable. In fact, they barely even reacted outside of a few irritated mumbles and disapproving tuts. Ilario looked properly confused, as did Rook, but Harding was just standing there with a victorious smirk on her face.

“I almost forgot why I wanted to come to Treviso,” she said, eyeing Caterina with amusement as she stood and crossed to a locked bureau. “We’ve got a deal with you guys.”

Viago still looked upset, but amused as Caterina brought a very old-looking contract back to the table, encased in a silver and glass frame. He snorted. “I always thought that was a joke.”

Rook pushed away from the bookcase and leaned over the contract, humming with interest and sweeping his eyes over the whole thing. “I mean… I don’t blame you. How old is this thing?”

“Much older than the Inquisition,” Caterina said, gently blowing dust off of the frame. “Though, they currently hold possession of the terms.”

Rook was beginning to look pleased, now, as he kept staring at the contract. Lucanis read over it, taking his time to piece together the outdated language. A contract from the Divine herself, or, one of them.

“A standing contract, should the Chantry regress,” Rook said aloud, oblivious to Lucanis’s sudden awe. “And a false prophet arise to threaten the Divine— Should have written prophets, really, but who would have thought? I think it should still count.”

“You can read Antivan?” Lucanis questioned, staring at him with wonder. Rook shrugged without looking up, still poring over the contents of the document.

“I can read lots of things,” he said simply, tapping at the tattoos on his chin for a moment. “For instance, a contract between Inquisitor Lavellan and Varric Tethras, leaving a certain dwarf in charge of the whole operation. Now, it makes sense why they were hunting Solas down.”

“Varric isn’t here, though,” Harding pointed out. “So, no one’s in charge of it, right now. Unless everyone in here votes or however it works, it’s kinda useless.”

“Bribery also works,” Lucanis pointed out.

“That’s why you make what’s called a contingency plan, Harding,” Rook said, the smirk on his face downright devious. He drew Varric’s journal out of his pack and knocked at it, breaking one of the wards that he had set. “One such plan like, oh, I don’t know, having a promotable second in command in writing? Signed off on by the aforementioned Inquisitor himself?”

Rook tossed the thick book onto the table, letting it fall open to a page Lucanis hadn’t seen while combing through it. The matching contract that Caterina was holding, along with a line of command succession that didn’t stop at just Rook. Six or seven names came after his, meaning that they had prepared for losing more than just one expedition leader. The name directly after Rook’s appeared to be Cassandra Pentaghast, the ex-seeker that Rook had pointed out. Rutherford Cullen and The Iron Bull were on the list, as well. He assumed the Inquisitor himself was the final person, if absolutely everything else went awry and all was lost.

“If we’re all in agreement that Varric Tethras is out of commission,” Rook said, looking right at Caterina. “Then, the Divine’s contract and the Evanuris’ hunt falls to me. And, whatever team I want to hire. And I want the Mage-Killer.”

Lucanis let out a low whistle as he read over the secondary contract. It was airtight, not even a Crow Guildmaster could poke a hole in it. “Impressive.”

“Looks like I’m still in charge,” Rook teased, flicking at the notebook and stepping back for the Talons to examine and mutter over. “Although, I have a feeling it’s going to cost me.”

“They definitely won’t let you get away with this for free,” Lucanis laughed.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come here prepared to gamble?” he asked, tilting his head to give him a serious look. “If I lost a negotiation with the First Talon, I’d never be able to show my face at the Hall again. Fuck however much gold I have to cough up for it.”

“You don’t let me forget why we take contracts from the Lords of Fortune,” Lucanis mused with a slight smile.

Never before in his life had he seen someone outsmart every one of the Talons, all at once. Harding may have pulled one over on him and Rook to get herself to Caterina and the Talons, but Rook had been sitting on this contract from the very beginning, waiting for just the right moment to make his move. There was more to his rank and responsibilities than his adoption and a few successful scraps with other Lords, that was obvious. Whether Rook was modest, oblivious to his own hold over a significant portion of the realm, or truly just making his best guesses at the very right moments, that was still entirely unknown.

The Talons had finished bickering and were now looking at Rook again, a spectrum of hesitant approval and reproach. Rook was right, it seemed. He was the one holding all of the pieces, and the Crows were going to have to play the way he wanted.

Lucanis shook his head with a short, low laugh. He held his hand out for a formal shake and Rook took it, allowing him the gesture. “Then, I look forward to working with you, Captain.”

Lucanis returned from the villa after dark, sneaking up to the guest floor of the Diamond. He had gone home to spend time with Caterina and Ilario, and pick up a few of his things. Rook and Harding had already retired by the time he left, with the Talons promising a planning meeting the following day. Spite stalked ahead of him, sniffing at the air and scurrying past closed doors until he stopped at one.

The room was silent when Lucanis pushed the door open, letting himself in and closing it carefully behind him. He looked around the room in confusion. It was empty. The bedding was rumpled, like it had been recently lain on, and Rook’s things were tucked beneath the desk by the window. Rook, however, was nowhere in sight. He sat down on the mattress, folding his arms.

There was a small gust of air next to him, and he turned his head to meet Rook’s face inches from his own. “Boo.”

“Rook.” Lucanis chuckled and shook his head, and Rook laughed. “What are you doing?”

“Spooking you,” he said, sitting down from the crouch he had appeared in. He tucked his legs underneath him and grinned. “I figured you couldn’t resist skulking about.”

“You could have just waited for me,” Lucanis said, rolling his eyes. Rook laughed again and fell against him, toppling him to the mattress.

“But, then, how would I catch a Crow?” he asked, lying over half of him and trapping his right arm underneath his shoulder.

“Rook,” Lucanis scolded, pushing at him as he laid more weight on his chest. “You should be resting.”

“I am,” Rook insisted, slinging an arm around his middle and making it even harder to get him off. He fixed him with a stern glare. “You haven’t slept in days. I’m not letting you up until you do.”

Lucanis reached up with his free hand, lightly pinching the top of a jeweled ear. “You know that I can throw you, right?”

“So do it,” Rook huffed, making himself perfectly comfortable and nestling his head in the crook of his arm. “I dare you.”

Something else glistened in his eyes, though. Fear. They were barely a few hours from what had happened at Skyhold, and what Rook had seen. There still hadn't been any updates from the palace since they left, although Lucanis guessed it would take much longer to get any sort of message through.

Lucanis groaned and grumbled, but Rook didn’t budge a single muscle. He meant it. He really wasn’t going to let him get back up, unless he literally fought him over it. Rook didn't want to be alone, even if he wasn't exactly shouting that at his face. And, Lucanis wasn't particularly comfortable with leaving him in the Diamond and staying on the opposite side of the city for an entire night. Lucanis let out a defeated sigh and shifted, freeing his shoulder from the loss of circulation and moving Rook so his hair wasn’t tickling at his beard.

“Fine,” he said with a scoff. Rook snickered into the side of his chest. Lucanis let his arm fall, folding neatly across Rook's back. “You win. I will stay right here until the morning.”

“And you’ll sleep,” Rook added, already sounding groggy as he settled into his side and relaxed. Lucanis reached down and dragged the covers up, trapping his warmth underneath with them.

“No promises.”

Chapter Text

Dami balanced on a tree limb, his legs dangling below him as he surveyed Arlathan, or at least what he could see of it before the rest of the trees grew too dense and tall to make out anything beyond them. The wind breathed through the trees, shuffling the leaves in hushed whispers that sounded like rain.

No one was here.

“Come on, old man,” he groaned, kicking his leg out at the air and squinting at where the grove beneath him led back into the woods. “How come you’re never hanging about when I actually need you?”

Something stirred below, a small shape that darted between two trees and disappeared into the dark foliage. Dami sat up straight and braced a hand on the tree, his eyes fixed on where the movement had been.

“H-Hello?” he called out, but nothing answered him. Not that anything was supposed to, apart from whomever else was brave enough to venture this far in the Fade. “I saw you, you know.”

Further in, a tiny sapling jerked to the side. Whatever the thing was, it had heard him and bolted. He climbed back down to the ground, staying low, and went after it before he had the chance to think about what he was doing. He chased the sound of twigs and leaves through the forest, emerging into another clearing he hadn’t yet seen before. Nothing else seemed to be here with him, but there was an audible, eerie ring to the wind that was picking up around him.

Dami looked around, gasping out loud when his eyes fell on a massive, ruined temple. Some parts of it trailed around the broken structure in a slow ring, and others sailed off into the hazy sky. A few pieces sat suspended in thin air, just like some of the rubble that had been floating around the Crossroads. Far in the distance, he could just make out another tall beacon, like the one he had seen before, beaming up into the endless expanse of sky. He carefully moved forward, treading as quietly as he could as he approached the tall steps leading into the ruins.

He spotted something at the top, and stared in awe as he came to realize what the heap of soaked fabric was: Varric’s wool coat, the one he had shaken off and sacrificed when he dove down into the dark after Lucanis. At least, it appeared to be the same coat from where he was standing.

“Varric?” he called out, but only the strange, chiming tones around him replied. “Anyone? Weird spider-mage? Fen’Harel? Hello?”

Still, nothing. He kept his eyes fixed on the still-sodden coat, wondering just how it managed to drag itself from the bottom of the sea, all the way to this specific spot in the Fade. And why. Had someone placed it there, just like Merrill’s halla? He held his breath and took a step, placing one foot on the bottommost step. A terrible anxiety washed over him, coupled with an even stranger feeling. Almost like… Loss. An aching, longing, loneliness that filled every part of him and froze him where he stood before he could ascend any further.

“Da’len.” Dami startled at the gruff, weathered voice behind him, jerking back away from the step and breaking free of the peculiar feeling. “What are you doing?”

“Strife! I was just—” Dami turned away from the ruins and faced the old Veil Jumper, folding his arms and trying to appear casual. “Nothing, actually— I was looking for you. How… Are you?”

The old man sighed and shook his head, every crease in his deep, wind-weathered face wrinkling as he grimaced. “You shouldn’t be out this far, Dami.”

“I know that,” he said, scrambling to follow the elder as he led the way back into the forest. “What is that thing?”

“Nothing you need to be exploring, Da’len.” Strife waved him off. “I take it you and your human friend didn’t make it to Redcliffe, seeing as our rendezvous is— Well, right now.”

“We didn’t,” Dami confirmed. “I ran into Venatori Templars. Did you know they had their own Templars now? Because I didn’t.”

Strife didn’t reply to that. Instead, he fixed him with a very serious and stony gaze. “So, did you want to explain to me why you’re standing in the middle of Old Arlathan, calling out the Dread Wolf’s name?”

Damn. He really couldn’t do anything in here without the old man catching it on the wind.

“He’s, ah… Sort of been showing up,” Dami admitted. Strife looked concerned, now. “It’s been a little while, but he’s come for me a few times.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“I have now,” he muttered. “Lucanis and the Inquisitor know. Maybe Harding, I actually haven’t asked. He… He was at Skyhold when we left.”

“And?”

“And I want to know why.” Dami half-jogged to keep up with the much taller elf as he traipsed through a foggy glade. “He’s after me for more than just his dagger, I know it. There was also this… This thing in the Fade, when they threw me into the Harrowing.”

“Fen’Harel’s dagger? You still have it?” Strife glanced down. He stopped at the edge of the glade, where the trees became more sparse as they led towards the coastline. “Your letter also didn’t mention a Harrowing.”

“Yeah. We should, ah… Talk,” Dami said, staring through the trees. “Before any more Evanuris and dragons start sprouting up.”

“There’s been Venatori activity coming through the Eluvian,” Strife mentioned, folding his arms and examining the distant coast below them. “The mirror’s shut down, right now, but I’m also worried about the Dalish that have been spotted following our expedition groups.”

“Has anyone gotten close enough to make out their vallaslin?” Dami picked at a tree trunk, plucking bits of lichen from the bark. “Ghilan’nain is already up and about, but Fen’Harel said something about Elgar’nan, too.”

“Not under the masks they’ve got on,” Strife sighed, shaking his head. “And none of them have gotten close enough to talk to. Whoever they are, they’re fast. And they don’t like being noticed.”

“I’ve no doubt it’s something to do with the Evanuris,” Dami said. He tapped at his chin, staring at the glittering haze over the sea. “It sounds like Arlathan is our next big stop, then.”

“Take your time. The Antaam have the shores blockaded, and it’s going to take a while to clear a spot for your ship that won’t draw all of their attention at once.”

“So they’ve been stomping around out there, too,” he groaned.

“Longer than you’ve been tousling with them, actually,” Strife said. “They come and go. Let the Veil Jumpers deal with the Qunari. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to sail.”

“Got it.” He wasn’t happy about another delay, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. “I have a few things to square away with the Crows and the Lords, so just as well. I hope you don’t mind me bringing company.”

“Whatever you have to do to get our forest back under control, Da’len,” Strife said, squeezing him on both shoulders. “I need you do do it damned well.”

“Have the Lords of Fortune ever let the Veil Jumpers down?” Dami stepped back and offered a short salute. “I’ll be seeing you, hahren.”

Strife’s exasperation faded away, broken up as he opened his eyes to a blanket of darkness. He was enveloped by a shroud of warmth and a soft, barely visible glow. He shifted his head and something like large feathers swept across his cheek. The surface beneath him rose and fell, and the only sounds filling the space around him were breaths and heartbeats.

Rook.

Dami slid his head across a broad chest, peeking out from underneath a huge, ethereal wing at two bright, violet eyes. He blinked, then squinted. “Spite… Lucanis is supposed to be sleeping.”

Lucanis. IS. Sleeping!

A pair of arms already wrapped tightly around him gave him a firm squeeze, and he laughed. “He’s not getting any rest if you’re up all night in his body.”

Spite let out a low grumble from Lucanis’s throat, and the wing fell over him, fully covering him back up.

Rook. Feels NICE. Warm.

Dami chuckled, then sighed heavily. He shifted to make himself more comfortable in Spite’s hold, and closed his eyes.

“All right, then,” he huffed. “Just a few more minutes, though, okay?”

Yes!

He didn’t manage to stay awake long enough to hold him to that, though. Within just a few minutes, he had already slipped back off to sleep, surrounded by a dark, magical warmth. The Fade was empty this time; no drifting artifacts or ruined temples, and no sign of anyone other than himself.

Still, it didn’t stop the creeping feeling that a pair of unseen eyes was on him at all times. Every now and then, the breeze through the trees whispered and groaned, sounding almost like voices. No matter how far he walked, or how fast, it still felt like there was a presence just a short distance away from him. It felt familiar, and older than anything else he had ever sensed.

Whatever it was that had come after him during the Harrowing was still watching. Waiting. Stalking around until it felt like he was going to give it what it wanted, whatever that was. He ignored the anxiety, and set about wandering the Fade and looking for more signs of Varric, instead.

Ancient spirits be damned, he had a job to do.

Chapter Text

Rook’s room was empty when Lucanis awoke, startling slightly at the sight of an unfamiliar room. It took him a few moments to remember exactly where he was, and why he had been asleep, and he sat up and dragged himself to the edge of the bed. Spite was near a low window, staring out of it at the streets and canals far below. Lucanis scrubbed at his face with a hand and looked around.

“Where is Rook?”

Up above.

“You didn’t go with him?” Lucanis questioned, frowning. The Diamond was full of Crows, but none of them were exactly keeping an eye on him. Spite growled in frustration.

Drinking TEA. Reading BOOKS. Not. Fun.

“You got bored,” Lucanis chuckled.

YES.

“I see.” Lucanis stood and dragged his boots out from underneath the bed. “Why don’t we go see if we can do something else, then?”

YES!

He found Rook easily once he got upstairs, since he was one of the few people actually awake this close to sunrise. He was seated at a round table by himself with a teapot and a half-eaten torta in front of him, his eyes raking back and forth across the pages of a book Lucanis didn’t recognize. It was what was in his other hand that made Lucanis frown, though. A poultice of some sort, that he was pressing against what looked like a large, fresh bruise over his brow. Lucanis was next to his seat in an instant, reaching down to tilt his face up into the torchlight with a scowl. On the other side, a split that looked like it was from a ring had only recently stopped bleeding.

Rook stared at him with wide eyes, the book falling from his hand and resting open on the table. He blinked a few times as his focus on whatever he was reading broke. “L-Lucanis…?”

Lucanis moved Rook’s hand, his tongue clicking sharply against his teeth when he saw the skin blackening around his left eye. He straightened up, shooting a glare across the floor of the Diamond. “Where is Viago? When I find him—”

“Wha—? Oh for— for fuck’s sake,” Rook sighed, sliding over and tugging him down into the seat by a shirtsleeve. “I hit him first, Lucanis, loosen your bloody corsets.”

Lucanis grimaced and took the poultice from his hand, examining the bruise before pressing it back over his face. It didn’t look too bad, at least. The bandit back in Ferelden had struck him much harder. It was clear that Viago wasn’t trying to hurt him, but he still felt irritated. “What happened?”

“Viago De Riva thinking he runs the whole damned world, what else?” Rook huffed, wincing when he brushed a thumb over the split at the corner of his mouth. “It’s fine. Teia already tore us both up over it, and made us swear that it wouldn’t happen again.”

“Viago is tense, right now,” Lucanis said, picking up a cloth from the table and dampening it with some of the condensation on the teapot. “Between the Antaam, and myself… I cannot imagine he is in the best state to discuss anything with.”

“Yeah. Figured that out.” Rook managed to hold still while he wiped the dried blood from his face. He rolled his eyes. “Speaking of, I think the Talons are going to want us to take care of a few things before we head to Rivain.”

Lucanis set the cloth back down, then froze. Right. He was going with Rook, now. He hadn’t actually expected to keep going after they got to Treviso. In fact, he didn’t think Rook was even going to stay in the city for more than a few minutes before he headed straight home. He glanced at Rook, who was trying to reach for the teapot without moving his head. Lucanis slid it closer to him and sighed.

“Why do you have that look in your eyes?”

“What look?” Rook grasped the teapot and snorted. “You mean eye.”

Lucanis rolled his eyes and moved his hand, dropping the poultice onto the discarded cloth. “The one that you get before you do something I am not going to like.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rook said, lifting his chin in the air and taking a long, measured sip of tea. Then, he fired. “We’re going to Arlathan.”

“No way.”

“On my ship.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Past an Antaam blockade.”

“Did Viago knock your brains out of one of your ears?” Lucanis hissed, staring at him while he casually drank tea and refused to meet his eyes. “Do you have gold poisoning?”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Rook. Sangre del Hacedor. Why?” he groaned, a headache coming on that threatened to double him over. “I thought we had avoided the Elven forest of certain death.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” Rook sighed, setting his teacup back down and finally looking at him. “It’s safe. It’s not like it’s the Tirashan.”

“You went somewhere,” Lucanis said quietly, the realization finally dawning on him. So, some of Rook’s knowledge was coming directly from the Fade. “What do you know?”

“I know the Venatori and the Antaam are both converging on one place,” Rook replied, kicking back in his seat and crossing his ankles. “And that I’m going to need more than one Crow and a dwarven scout to deal with that. No way the Talons are going to give me anything besides you without letting go of another small fortune —which Isabela might already kill me over —so I’ve gotta go make a visit.”

“You don’t mean just your ship.” Lucanis rubbed at his beard, nodding thoughtfully. “You want the Lords to come with us.”

“The ones who actually work for me, anyway,” Rook chuckled, elbowing him in the side. “Besides. I’ve met your family, it’s only fair you get to deal with mine.”

Lucanis stiffened at the thought of exactly what that entailed. Isabela and Marian Hawke. Never mind hundreds of loud, rowdy marauders and fighters, and hedge mages openly casting spells all over the place. The two most intimidating women in all of Thedas that weren’t the Divine, Caterina, or Venatori leaders. Suddenly, he felt very cold and faint. His hope that Rook hadn’t noticed any change was dashed by a snicker from beside him.

“Arlathan Forest isn’t so scary anymore, is it?” he teased, picking up the rest of his food. A strangled groan worked its way out of Lucanis’s throat.

“Stop talking.”

The Talons, it seemed, were more interested in negotiating with Rook than suffocating him with questions. At least for now, anyway. Lucanis spent just a few minutes going over what had happened in the Ossuary, and his escape, leaving out the part where he and Rook had both nearly drowned in the process. Rook didn’t seem in a hurry to add that information, either, but he did discuss their plan of heading to Rivain via the Fade, then the forest by ship.

Viago was oddly quiet for the beginning of the meeting, but the glances he was throwing towards Lucanis felt nothing short of seething. After catching the fourth or fifth glare from Viago in less than an hour, he began to suspect that Rook and Viago’s fight that morning had something to do with him. It was true that Viago didn’t frighten him, but the barely-concealed rage he kept directing his way certainly made him feel uneasy.

He remembered him laying into Rook for showing up with ‘a Dellamorte, of all things’. Clearly, he had something against Rook working with Crow houses that weren’t De Riva. His glowering stare dissipated, however, when Rook mentioned a group of elves in Arlathan being in trouble. Veil Jumpers. He had never heard of them, before.

“Valentín and Mela’din are with them,” Viago said quietly, his body swaying slightly before he straightened up. “You are telling me they cannot get out?”

Rook swore, rubbing at his forehead in frustration. Teia covered her mouth. “Maker’s—” Rook sucked his teeth, glancing around the Talons as he picked his words carefully. “Viago, I didn’t think you were serious when you said you’d send them off to the forest… Who else is out there that’s not a Veil Jumper?”

“I am not sure,” Viago admitted, folding his arms. “A Grey Warden, working with the griffons, and a few others.”

Lucanis blinked. Griffons? They weren’t extinct? No, that had to be some kind of elaborate code-word for something else. Surely he would know if griffons still existed. Someone would have told him.

“Davrin,” Rook groaned. Lucanis remembered the name from his journal. “Son of a bitch.”

Rook winced, looking at Caterina apologetically, before continuing. “All right, then. Whatever you need us to take care of here, we’ll get done. I’ll get word to Strife and the others to get everyone back to camp as soon as possible, and we’ll sail out as soon as the Veil Jumpers can get us an open landing.”

“And you will bring them home,” Viago insisted, staring at him intently. Rook nodded.

“If I’ve gotta drag them back onto the ship myself,” Rook said, rolling his eyes and holding out a hand for a missive another Talon was handing him. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s important. I get it.”

The rest of the Talons cleared out after a few more short discussions, and many promises from Rook that he would stick around and help Treviso with the Antaam. To Lucanis’s surprise, he was completely genuine when he swore that he would come back, and not leave the bay until the threat was entirely gone and dealt with. Back in Denerim, Lucanis remembered, Rook had been about to promise him the same thing. He was serious about the Antaam, and he was willing to do whatever it took to get rid of every last one of them. Even if, Rook insisted, that included camping out in the harbor until he went completely mad.

Teia snatched Rook by an arm before he could turn to leave, looking displeased with him. “You. You are coming with me.”

“What?” Rook batted at her, but she didn’t loosen her grip. “What did I do now?”

“Walked into my house with this dead bird on top of your head,” she scolded, flicking at the fraying strands hanging well past his eyes. “When is the last time you bathed?”

“Last night,” Rook defended, trying to stop her from dragging him out of the meeting room. “Lucanis— Help—”

“No,” Lucanis said, leaning against Viago’s desk and folding his arms. “I agree with her.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it!” he cried, letting out a quiet scream as Teia continued carrying him away. Lucanis chuckled and shook his head, then froze when he felt a silent glare return to his back.

He turned his head, glancing sideways at Viago while he just stared. Lucanis waited a moment, then dropped his voice, sure Rook was far out of earshot. “Is there something you want to say, Viago?”

Viago muttered something under his breath, then brushed past him. He stopped and sighed deeply, his shoulders dropping just a bit. Finally, he faced him, looking worn-out and stretched thin. Stress was etched into every angle of his face.

“I am glad you are home, Lucanis,” he said, glancing away for long enough to make Lucanis feel like that wasn’t everything he had to say. “We need you— More than ever, and especially if Dami and the Inquisitor are right about these… God-mages. If you had been here, maybe—”

Viago shook his head and let out a long breath. Lucanis knew just as well that there was no point in thinking about whether or not he could have stopped the Antaam from moving all the way into the city. That thought would have been useless as soon as it had happened. The only thing he could do now was help clear them back out.

“These Evanuris and Venatori can burn everything else they touch, Viago,” Lucanis assured. “We are not going to let Treviso fall.”

Viago nodded, then stared slightly past him. Lucanis raised an eyebrow, waiting. He looked to be fighting with something, then he finally returned his eyes to his face with a searing glare.

“I don’t know why it has to be one of mine, or how any of this even happened,” he said, his voice tight as he gestured towards him flippantly. Lucanis blinked, a second eyebrow joining the first one. Viago leaned down, close enough that Lucanis could feel the angry heat coming off of him. Lucanis shifted back, just a little. “But I will tell you this, only once, Lucanis. If anything happens to him, not a single Dellamorte will be left.”

Viago turned on a heel and stormed out of the room, leaving Lucanis to brace himself with a hand on the desk, reeling. There hadn’t been an ounce of insincerity in his words, either. He knew it wasn’t an empty threat, especially since there were only three of them left after their house had been thinned out several times. Lucanis let out a lengthy breath, staring at the opposite wall for a long time.

He is. MEAN.

“He is a Crow,” Lucanis huffed, pushing himself away from the desk and trying not to think about whether or not his next meal would be poisoned. “I suppose you will get used to it.”

HMPH.

“Viago De Riva does not frighten us,” he reminded Spite before making his exit, the opposite way Viago had gone.

“Not one bit.”