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Chapter Text

Its an unusually loud night in the Necropolis Gardens. So loud that the murmurs of the restless spirits can be heard from the main chamber itself. In fact, its loud enough that Vorgoth must follow the chatter. For anything that can upset the spirits so must be dealt with and swiftly.

The wisps are so bright that the gardens are lit by the radiance of them, the braziers and lanterns snuffed out. By whom, he wonders softly, but continues towards the monument to lovers, following the glow.

It is hard to see through the light of them, but as he steps closer they part, revealing the true cause of the murmuring uproar. "Ah," he murmurs back, staring at the grey, one horned babe laying in the grass, its fingers grasping up toward a spirit of curiousity as it waves and bobs above it. The small creature giggles and turns it eyes towards him, reaching its small chubby fingers out towards Vorgoth, who suddenly feels something like the sensation of moths in his chest cavity. 

"Hello, Little One."

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"Ulria, Little One. You can do this. One step at a time."

The small girl babbles up at him, tiny hand clenched around his fifth phalange, and Myrna's pinky finger in her other hand.

Myrna's voice is soft but still detached when she speaks, "Yes, Ulria. You have shown capability for this. We believe it is something you can do."

She doesn't walk, she stares up at him. She sits on the ground and plays with the wisps, laughing and giggling but making no move to stand.

Not until Myrna waves herself away, kind but distant as she goes. Not until she sees he is alone and gets up on chubby legs and stumbles toward his chair, hands making sweet grabbing motions up at him until he lifts her into the air. His chest fit to burst with warmth.

The moth feeling is still there a year later, but so is a feeling of dread.

He sees other Watchers pass, faces distant, disdainful and even occasionally cruel. There are no other children in the necropolis and no time to raise a child as one should. Is this the right thing, he has found himself asking lately.

He rubs a bony finger over one of her pointed ears as she curls into his ribcage, softly drifting to sleep to the soft murmur of his magic, and worries.

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The Nevarran Boarding School Ulria Ingellvar grows up in is prestigious, and beautiful, and socially cold. The other students there treat her like she is a blood mage, horrified or even cruel when she tries to interact, but fascinating to study. She learns quick that the other students are not her friends, and the teachers though kind, are always going to seem distant the way many of the watchers back in the necropolis had been.

She pours all of her energy into her studies, writing letters back to Vorgoth, feeding the creatures she finds around the campus, and training with her blade and orb. Sometimes, when she's alone, she thinks of home; the gardens, the spirits, Vorgoth, and cries herself to sleep.

_______

No one but Vorgoth recognizes the freshly adult qunari who returns to the Necropolis, and even he is stunned to see the young man before him. He knew that they had changed, but the change in identification is not what alarms him, but rather the downtrodden look in his little one's eyes. He is tall, towering over even Vorgoth himself, but he holds himelf like a much smaller man. His violet eyes are distant, the right one hazy from as accident that he wrote home about a few years before. His vision dimmed in that eye. His hair was shorn close to his head, making his broken horn stand out more against the soft curve of his other whole one. Vorgoth wonders what haunts him, and worries.

"Ulrik. Welcome home."

The smile he receives is small but warm, also a little unsure.

"Thank you." The eyes of fellow watcher turn to stares and many of them begin to recognize the small child who was sent away, their eyes seem to make him shrink even smaller. "I am...grateful to be home."

-------

Its not even two weeks before Vorgoth sends him off on a mission, unable to watch him flinch and shrink around the other members of the watch. They are not unkind to him, most of them anyway, but there is a distance there that Ulrik cannot bridge, and Vorgoth cannot find the cause of. So he does what he can, and sends him away to deal with unruly spirits, or for diplomatic tasks, and brings him to stay in his home when he returns for his brief stints at the necropolis.

It makes the watchers more judgmental, more cruel, but his Little One smiles again, properly this time, even though he is not so little anymore.

Vorgoth thinks it is worth it.

_______

The War of the Banners should never have happened. And it is all Vorgoth's fault. 

He takes the responsibility and sends his Little One away. Although he is fully a man now, 42 years of age and world weary, but still so good. Vorgoth does not blame him for the choices he made during the War, in fact he would have done the same, but he cannot be a fath- ...he cannot be a father right now.

So he sends him on his way with a pack, and clothes and food, gives him a few leads on some people who need some work or fighting done and clasps his hand in his bony fingers before he goes. The moths more like an agitated bees nest and the deepest sorrow combined.

"I will write, Little One. But you may not return."

And Ulrik just smiles at him, warm and soft, like he hasn't since he was that wee babe toddling toward him in the necropolis. His eyes are teary but focused. His hand clenches around his bones.

"I know Vorgoth. And I...I look forward to your letters. As always."

And then he is gone.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ulrik with everyone else:

Ulrik with the Veilguard:

Chapter Text

The first time Ulrik Ingellvar meets Lace Harding he doesn't know what to think.

She's kind, but wary in a way that he both respects and envies. He can tell just from one glance at her that she knows how to use the bow in her hands and use it well, and that despite her friendship with Varric he only has one chance to not fuck this up before he ends up on the business end of it.

So he steps back and lets Varric do what he does best, talk.

When he looks back on it now hes surprised by how standoffish they were with each other at the start. Only really interacting with words when Varric was around and expected it of them. It was clear that for a long while that something about him rubbed at her. Whether it was the necromancy or the mercenary work or that he was qunari (but not Qunari), he never asked. But the bad taste in her mouth reminded him too much of the looks he got at hom- the necropolis. So distance was kept.

However on the battlefield, they quickly became each others support. Rook fighting back enemies too close for Harding to shoot, and Harding saving him a few times from a knife to the back he hadn't seen coming. Fighting with her was like magic. And then they take on Solas, properly this time, and something between them eases.

They dont really bond properly until after her magic manifests, when they become close friends. He loves spending time with her. She got a quiet fierceness to her than reminds him of a thunderstorm. Both calming and dangerous.

Its not until the he escapes Solas's trap that he realizes what had eased between them. They had come together out of grief he hadn't even realized.

He lets go of his regrets enough to leave the fade prison, but every year on the anniversary of her sacrifice, he goes to Ferelden to visit her mother for pie and to talk about her. He thinks it heals them both.

Chapter Text

They finally find Solas, and along with him the infamous Neve Gallus.

She's clearly a capable woman, and cuts a mean figure if he does say so himself. She's stunning and she knows it, so he's not afraid to let his eyes wander when he sees the look she sends him. He's older now, but he knows he looks good in a rugged drifter kind of way. The exaggerated wink he shoots makes her laugh regardless, and if nothing else he counts that as a win.

She clearly finds him gruff but still slings banter his way with a wit that impresses him with its speed. He likes her, he decides. She'll be good for him.

---------

When he tells Varric he cant talk Solas down his heart is racing, but nonetheless he has to try. When minutes and demons later the fade is still coming down on top of them he knows he need a backup plan.

He takes Neve with him when everything falls apart, hoping that their magic combined might be enough to get them both out of this alive.
It almost isn't.

----------

Neve is a sharp woman, and she reads him like a book, even with a headache and a shiner. She wants to fight him when he asks her to stay behind. He can see it on her face, but she concedes anyway. He's grateful for it. When she demands to come later he returns the favour. He's both glad he did and wishes he hadn't. He doesn't regret leaving the mayor despite how much it displeased her. But he regrets upsetting her.

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There's something between them. A will they, wont they thing that never full settles into will. Its clear they respect each other, hell they're certainly attracted to each other, but something just isn't there.

Despite the uncertainty, Neve is his rock. As they collect more members for their team, as they fight more Venatori, more darkspawn, as more pressure is piled on his shoulders Neve stays forever the same. Maybe softer? But after the harder missions he finds himself drawn to her like a lighthouse on the sea.

When the dragons attack, he sees the same look in her eyes that he sees in the mirror, and then he goes to her. He has no choice.

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There is grief in her eyes--for Treviso--despite hoping they may be fast enough they know it will not be the case, but gratefulness too. He loves her. He trusts her.

He is not in love with her.

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The next few weeks and missions and conversations between them are rawer. She teases him for being a sap and he stops flirting and is just more vulnerable with her. She smiles, because she sees him like no one else has ever seen him, except maybe Varric, and returns the favour.

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He holds her that night, after Aelia returns and Neve shakes with sadness and rage and grief after the Blood Mage escapes again. And she lets him.

She holds his hand. Coaxes air back into his lungs as he shudders and shakes, back pressed to her freshly closed door. His conversation with Lucanis, so freshly devastated and haunted by the destruction of his home, fresh in his mind.

They sit together on the chaise in his room, shadows from schooling fish passing over their faces when she first teases him about Emmrich.

He glances at her, unsure. He needs her to know that even if he falls in love with someone else he will always love her.

Her face is warm and understanding.

He gets to return the favour two weeks later when he finds her and Lucanis canoodling in a corner. The bright pink flush on her cheeks makes him laugh, and makes her punch his arm.

"You're my best friend, Neve Gallus" he says.

She smiles at him. "I know."

Chapter Text

Ulrik learns quickly that talking to the elven god of lies and trickery is a pain. Solas may have thousands of years on him but he's lived enough life to not fall for his half-truths.

So he calls him on it. Again. And again. And again.

He's good at reading people, and despite what Solas may think he's not so good at hiding his thoughts. Especially when the inquisitor is mentioned.

Rook thought him callous, but no man who looks like that at the thought of the woman who loves him is unable to be saved.

So for her, and maybe even for Solas too, he tries.

He listens for the betrayals, preparing himself. Brushing the hurt off like water. He lets Solas help where we can. And is honest, with his anger, but also with his hope. He wants to get out of this having saved this god, elf, man who he sees so much of himself in.

And then he's standing in grey, but he's not dreaming. And he's surprised to feel the hurt.

Solas looks him in the face, and tells him he groomed him for this and it hurts.

He looks at Lucanis's body, Bellara's statue, then Harding's and hurts.

And then the gates open before him. And he breaks.

When the prison is left behind, he clings. Face curled into Emmrich's shoulder, hand clasped to Neve's, Harding's blanket pressed to his cheek and lets it all out. Sobbing through his words as they finally understand why he's always talking to himself. Crying his heart out for himself, his friend, and the god, elf, man he stupidly thought could be.

In the end, he yells. Tells Solas exactly what he thinks of his cruelty, but still pushes him to repent, to save the veil. To be happy.

There is a look shared between them, right before Solas disappears into the fade with his love. It says "I'm sorry" and Rook knows that for once, he means it.

"Its too late." He whispers into the open air as the rift finally knits itself back together.

Chapter Text

Varric Tethras is an enigma.

The first time Ulrik Ingellvar meets him he's drunk off his ass in a bar in some nowhere town in Rivain. He hasn't belonged anywhere in years, despite the letters that somehow manage to find him no matter where he is from Vorgoth; but he's got a room upstairs, food in his belly, a drink in his hand and two silver in his pocket after he tossed his last gold at the small boy begging outside. If he's still there when he wanders out for some fresh air before bed he'll give him his bread too. Its not a bad night.

Its quiet in the tavern tonight. He's been here for two weeks chasing down some lords missing book. Not a fancy job, but an easy one. He's got the tome locked away in his chest upstairs and warded to hell and back so it doesn't go missing while he becomes a person again. Sitting in a tavern bar isn't the same as actually interacting with a person, but its close enough to curb some of the loneliness.

"Fancy a hand of Wicked Grace?"

The dwarf in front of him is odd. There's a familiarity in him that tells Ulrik more about his personality than anything. From looking at him Ulrik can tell he's smarter than he likes to tell people he is. He knows he's never seen this dwarf before but his eyes are kind, and he did come down here to interact.

"I could play a hand or two."

-----

Ulrik drinks with Varric every night for three days. He should be headed back to Antiva to receive his payout, but something keeps him here.

Tonight Varric stares at him over his cards, eyes assessing and way too sharp.

"One of these days you have to tell me your strategy. Every time I think I have you pegged you always surprise me."

Ulrik smiled wolfishly back at him, placing down the angel of death and showing his perfect hand.

"Now where's the fun in that?"

------

When he leaves two days and fourteen hands of wicked grace later, unable to delay his contract any longer, Varric smiles and tells him where he and his mysterious cohort 'Harding' are headed.

"Just in case." he says, face in a grin so warm Ulrik wonders if this is what having a friend is like.

He gets his money and finds them down by the docks in Minrathous about 3 week later, multiple dead Venatori sprawled on the ground by their feet.

Harding, a redheaded dwarven woman, jumps and knocks an arrow when she spots him, but Varric...Varric just looks up and smiles.

"Rook. You made it."

Chapter Text

Rook has always loved children. He doesnt know why. Children were horrible to him in school. The teens at the necropolis were often cruel. But ever since he was a young girl he'd wanted to be mother, and later after he had found himself, the idea of being a father someday was one of the things that kept him warm at night when he was at his lowest.

He gives up on that dream at 40.

At 45, completely against his will, Rook becomes a dad.

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"Hah!"

The construct in front of him freezes in mid air, still whirring in it attempt to attack him, and then all of a sudden it falls to the ground, the magic in it sucked into the gauntlet of the young elvhen woman behind it.

"Gotcha!"

He clocks her as soft immediately; kind and gentle, but also fierce. There's a buzzing of thoughts as she stares down at the magic still flowing through the gauntlet, picking it apart as it flows. Her gaze is calculating, and despite how innocent she seems he's desperately hoping she's the Veil Jumper they're searching for. They need someone who has a proper idea how anything magically mechanical works and she knows.

"Oh! People! Where'd you come from?"

-------

Befriending Bellara is like basking in the sun. She radiates kindness and warmth in an effortless way, and it does not take long for Rook to decide to protect that peace at all costs.

D'Meta's Crossing throws a wrench in that plan.

It's horrifying. Truly it is. Parts of it turns even his hardened stomach, leaving him hanging behind as they spread out to search, hand pressed to his face and eyes closed to block out the sight and smell and sound of the corpses and blight strewn about. Its only Bellara's hope that maybe the Veil Jumpers still live that keeps him going. It's not enough.

He grabs her hand, gentle, because it feels like the right thing to do as she watches someone who was her friend draw their last breath.

-------

He has a tough sense of justice. Hardened by his years in exile, but never cruel. The mayor however, he deserves his fate.

When Bellara grabs his hand back on the way to the boat and squeezes, just once, any regrets he has fade away.

-------

Bel settles in to the Lighthouse like she's always lived there. Flitting about like a honeybee drawn to every piece of elvhen machinery and magic she can find. Something about it makes him smile.

He knows he's still a bit of a grump, and awkward, but it doesn't seem to phase her. She always seems to meet him where he's at, and she even laughs at his silly jokes, which they both know are terrible. He laughs because she does.

He brings her every little thing he can find that he thinks she might enjoy tinkering with, shows her any new rooms that appear, and when he quickly realizes how terrible her sleep schedule is, tries his best to make sure she eats and sleeps at reasonable times. Lucanis stepping in to assist with mealtimes once he joins on is a boon he's never been more grateful for, as his cooking skills have never surpassed beef stew. So she eats balanced meals now, even if he has to distract her from her projects to get her to actually chew.

He hopes no one thinks its weird that a man twice her age is spoiling her like this. Its not like that. He's just fond of her is all, she reminds him of everything good in the world. And he wants her to thrive here.

-------

Rook stumbles home one night from Minrathous the kind of bone deep tired that aches down to his toes. He wants to be horizontal more than anything, but he has a routine. So first, he's going to swing by everyone's room to make sure they're safe--and hopefully--sleeping, and then he can crash on his chaise and sleep for the next 6 hours if he's lucky.

Neve and Lucanis pat him on the back as they pass him in the library both wishing him goodnight as they go. He peeks in on Emmrich, who smiles up at him from his notes and promises to go to bed shortly. The smell of sleepytime tea lingers from where Manfred steeps it in the corner, and he waves at the skeleton as he leaves.

Harding is tucked into her tent when he checks on her, so he closes the door softly behind him as he goes.

And when he looks in on Davrin he finds him slumped over in his chair by the fire, carving and knife held loosely in each hand. He gently takes them to set them to the side, shaking the groggy elf awake long enough to send him to bed. He leaves Assan dozing by the fire, just tucking his tail out of the way to avoid burnt feathers.

He peeks into the kitchen long enough to see Lucanis making coffee, and resigns himself to deliberating over the next few days with Emmrich to see if they can find a way to let the poor man sleep.

Neve's curtains are drawn for once, probably in the hope of some rest, although he'll check on her again in the morning. Today was a rough one. But he knows she'll at least attempt to rest, that sharp mind needing whatever sleep it can get.

However, Bellara's light is still lit.

"Bel?" He knocks gently, "You okay?"

There's scrambling and then a soft but wet, "Yeah. Uhm. I'm okay."

She's the worst liar. Normally he finds it adorable, now he's worried.

"Bel. I'm-...I'm coming in."

She looks half asleep, clearly awake but still sluggish. But its the tears running down her cheeks that stop him in his tracks.

"I'm okay Rook I promise. It was just a bad dream ya know? Like I know its not real but I just...." The little sob she chokes out makes his heart wrench in his chest.

"You want to talk about it Sunshine?" he whispers, kneeling down next to her, pulling her hand into his own to give it a squeeze.

She smiles faintly, but shakes her head. Eyes blinking away the new tears that are falling.

"Can...Can I have a hug instead?"

He's awkward, he's never done this so he knows he is, but he knows if he hesitates she'll talk herself out of it and she so rarely asks for anything. So he scoops her up immediately wrapping his arms around her and tucking her head into his shoulder.

"Anytime you want one Sunshine. You come find me. There's always a hug for you."

If the way she sobs into his chest and then slowly, softly quiets says anything, she needed that hug as much as he needed to give it.

------

The next time she finds him it's two weeks later and he's curled up on one of the library couches, deep into a book on spirits in the hopes of helping Lucanis's problem. It's late, and he knows it, but he wants to finish this chapter before he pauses for the night.

Her feet are soft against the floor, but his large ears have always had better hearing than most. He turns toward her, eyes crinkling in concern at her dull expression. He slides over, leaving her room to sit if she wants and he smiles when he feel her sink into his side. He curls his closest arm around her, pulling the soft blanket from the back of the couch around her shoulders.

Something tells him she doesn't want to talk so he tells her his favourite story about the time he snuck a skunk into a nobleman's house because he had kicked at a young boy in the market. The animal had sprayed everywhere when the staff had tried to grab it and his house had stunk for days afterwards. She huffs a laugh at him and something in his chest loosens. So he keeps talking.

He finishes his fourth story before he glances down at her, finding her face soft with sleep, hand curled tightly into his shirt. The smile on his face is warm as he resigns himself to a sore back, grabbing his book to finish the chapter, his sunshine tucked to his side.

Chapter Text

The first time they clash, it takes about 3 seconds for Rook to want to pull his hair out.

It starts with Spite, as most conversations about Lucanis unfortunately do, and Davrin's distaste with the Crow's profession. Lucanis kicks in with a jab about the Wardens and Assan (like Ulrik hadn't seen him sneak the griffin a treat not even two hours ago) and then the two are scrapping and he has to pull them apart and send them to their rooms like unruly children.

The sigh he lets out in the courtyard is so heavy it causes Neve to laugh and sarcastically wish him luck as she passes on her way to the kitchens. He swats at her arm and huffs a laugh as she dodges. The little shit.

--------

The conversations he has with them separately don't make it any easier.

"HE STARTED IT! ANYONE WHO TALKSS FOR HOUSE DELLAMORTE AND THE CROWS LIKE THAT MUST BE DEALT WITH!"

"ROOK YOU HAVE TO SEE THAT HES JUST A MURDERER! HOW DO YOU KNOW HE WONT STAB YOU IN THE BACK?"

"THE WARDENS LIED ABOUT THE GRIFFINS! WHOSE TO SAY THEY ARENT STILL LYING TO YOU?"

"THE DEMON IS A THREAT! WE HAVE TO KEEP ON EYE ON IT!"

By the end of it he's told them each at least four separate times to play nice and to at least try to be civil.

They both, reluctantly, agree.

----------

They are terrible at being civil. He's caught them shouting at each other at least 4 separate times, has stopped taking them out on missions together because the tension has started giving him headaches, and the glares alone could freeze all of Thedas.

Then Weisshaupt happens. And the anger gets worse.

-----

It's Davrin that takes it too far.

"They are DEAD. YOU missed you shot and now they are dead. THIS IS ON YOU."

It's Lucanis flinching that pushes him past his limit.

"THAT. IS. ENOUGH."

The silence is deafening.

He's always been a gruff, awkward man, but most of the team has never heard him shout, let alone at them. But his voice holds a steel edge when he continues, "That was uncalled for and you know it Davrin." The quiet is weighted, sitting like a knife balanced on its edge, everyone in the room waiting to see which way it falls. "We need to work together. We will not succeed if we go out of our way to hurt the members of our own team. And I will not stand by and let you do so. Do you understand me?"

The silence sits.

"Do you understand me?!"

There's a nod. Short, succinct, but there. His voice, still gruff, softens.

"Good. I've let this go on long enough. You two need to find some common ground. I don't care how, but we cannot go on like this. This team cares about you both, and we need to be able to work together without you two constantly going at each others necks.

Today was...." His voice cracks, he clears his throat.

"Today was bad. Too many good people died. Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain got away. We lost Weisshaupt. But we killed an archdemon, Ghilan'nain is weak, and we will take her down the next chance we get. We will kill her, for Weisshaupt, and for us." His eyes meet Davrin's across the table, the pain clear in his eyes. His voice softens even more. "I swear it."

Then he sends them off to rest, knowing that no one is sleeping tonight.

---------

"Hey, can we talk?"

Rook smiles distractedly at Davrin, but waves a hand to have him join him on the floor of the balcony before turning back to stare out at the fade once again. Manfred, the empathetic little guy he is, wanders down the stairs and away with an soft hiss, most likely headed to Emmrich's room for tea or a lesson.

Davrin waits until he's settled beside him before he speaks, his voice soft, almost a whisper, "You were right you know."

Rook turns his way with an open look but says silent.

"I...apologized to Lucanis. What I said went too far, and I could see it hurt him. I wanted to hurt him. I..." Davrin breathes a little too harshly, "I was hurting and I wanted him to hurt too."

The smile Rook shoots him is small, but warm, and he reaches the small distance between them to nudge him with his elbow. "Thank you. For apologizing..." He shoots a look back out at the sky before turning his face back to Davrin, "Its a fucking hard thing to do."

The small huff of laughter from Davrin makes his smile grow.

"I mean it. I don't expect you two to get along immediately, but apologizing means you're trying and I appreciate the effort." He turns his gaze to his fingers, picking at the skin of his cuticles distractedly. "How did Lucanis take it?"

"Well, I think? There was no screaming or assassination attempts so I'll count that as an improvement. Although if there's a contract on my life I hope you'll avenge me."

It's Rooks turn to laugh, the snort escaping before he can help it. He wraps an arm around Davrin, clapping his hand on his shoulder and squeezing.

"Baby steps?"

Davrin's grin is sharp, but fond, "Yeah boss. Baby steps."

--------

"Rook?"

It takes an extra 5 days for Lucanis to seek him out, and he laughs to himself when he realizes that he expected this.

The day after Weisshaupt, and the blowup that came after, he knew Davrin would come find him. Made himself available and easy to find. He knew that the tension between them would eat at him, cause him to confront it as soon as possible. Knew that his impulsiveness and forwardness would not let him wait for later.

Its that same knowledge of his team that's lets him know to wait for Lucanis. That his patient, thoughtful, and meticulous friend will need time.

He sees in the interim the work they put in. Insults still fly but they are more friendly, more a tease than a taunt. He finds them more than once sitting through awkward small talk, and the attempts become less and less forced each day.

It isn't until he sees the improvement in their relationship that he realizes how tense things had truly been. Its like the team can finally relax (as much as a group set out to stop ancient evil gods can anyway) in their little fade sanctuary away from home.

"In here Lucanis!"

He's digging through some of the boxes in the music room. Hoping to find some doohickey that Bellara described at breakfast this morning that he's sure he saw in here at one point or another. But of course as soon as he'd started searching he'd found notes, and artifacts and little bits and bobs and now that he thinks about it he's probably been in here for hours. In fact, the ache in his knees as he stands and brushes off his pants confirms it.

He finally glances up to find Lucanis stood awkwardly at the doorway, his hands surprisingly absent of his usual cup of coffee, or the knives he often uses to occupy them even in his downtime. He looks out of place in the music room but only because he clearly feels it, his shoulders hunched just slightly and mouth turned down in a frown.

Rook's heart is warmed to know he wouldn't show this level of discomfort with anyone but a friend.

"Hey. Come sit?"

The piano bench is small, but they can both sit comfortably on it, even if only with their shoulders touching. Lucanis flinches a bit at the first contact, but when Rook jostles him a little in jest, his awkwardness softens into reluctant fondness and even leans a little into the touch. Rook resolves to hug him more now that he's figured out how nice it is.

"You wanted to talk?"

"I...yes."

Ulrik watches as he subtly fiddles with his fingers, hands clearly aching some something to hold. His fingers clench in sympathy, itching to give him something to hold if only to soothe his anxiety.

He turns suddenly, a full 180 degrees on the bench, until his fingers fall on the keys.

"Do you play?"

It takes a moment for Lucanis to catch up, his face still bewildered as he turns much more slowly, mimicking Rook's pose.

"I... do. Yes."

It takes three notes, plucked quickly by Rook's fingers for Lucanis to laugh. "You must be joking?"

Its easy for Rook to laugh with him. "What's so funny?"

"Where did you learn an Antivan children's song?"

Rook's smile is more bitter, but there is a fondness in the memories distance. "My music teacher in Nevarra was Antivan. She was a stoic lady, known for being very strict.

She...She was the closest thing I had to a friend as a child I think. She'd always sneak me treats, and spent extra hours teaching me when I showed interest in the piano. Heart and Soul was always my favourite because we could play it together."

Lucanis is quiet, but Rook knows he is listening, absorbing, remembering. For once the silence is not damning but rather vulnerable and soft.

"Which part would you like?"

Rook's heart aches, and his eyes fill with wetness, but he is warm. "Primo?"

Lucanis smiles, "Then I will play secondo."

It takes him a minute for the muscle memory to kick in, his fingers clumsy, but once the first eight count passes, Lucanis leans ever so softly into his shoulder and suddenly his hands are sure.

It isn't until the last note has faded to silence, both their hands still resting at ready on the keys that Lucanis speaks.

"I am sorry my friend."

Rook angles his body towards him but doesn't speak.

"I let my anger get in the way of our mission, our contract. I cannot let that happen again."

"Lucanis..."

Lucanis's head turn sharply toward him, his eyes burning with something between self loathing and righteous fury.

"No! Please listen to me. I put myself before the team, I missed my shot at Ghilan'nain and because of me so many people died. I cannot make that mistake again."

Its easy to grab him by the shoulders, hand firm but gentle as Rook bends his head to look Lucanis in the eye.

"Lucanis. Luca. Listen to me."

Lucanis tries to shrink away, averting his eyes, but Rook bends his head to follow, refusing to let him escape.

"I gave you a task, and with that I put impossible weight on your shoulders, and for that I am sorry. One day, we will finish Ghilan'nain, I promise you that, but I need you to know that in no way do I see your previous attempt as a failure. You set out to do what I asked of you at a time when we just weren't ready. And we couldn't follow through. Not yet. And that is okay. There is no blame to be placed here. In fact I believe Davrin apologized for placing blame at your feet out of anger already yes?"

"Yes. But..."

"Listen to me. Please." Rook squeezes his hands and Lucanis completely melts under the attention. "There is no fault to be laid here. The mission at Weisshaupt was doomed from the start, and we still managed to score a win by defeating the archdemon. As for the anger, I have seen the work you and Davrin have put in, the whole team has. You both are trying and working hard at it. I am so proud of both of you. Both as your leader and your friend."

Rook scruffs the back of Lucanis's neck fondly, tilting his head back, " Do not carry this weight alone. Let us help you. Okay?" And he finally pulls him into a hug.

This close to him, Rook can feel the stutter stop of Lucanis's heart, but he also gets to feel him sink into the hug, the weight sloughing off his shoulders like an ill-fitting cloak.

"Okay, Rook."

------

After their drunken chat in the kitchens Davrin and Lucanis get on like brothers.

They still scuffle but its more of fond roughhousing, and the only times Rook has to step in is when they accidentally get to close to the edge of the fade or if Lucanis has forgotten he was cooking when they started. And their banter is legendary, so perfectly balanced between care and absolute chaos that every once in a blue moon they have to pause mid mission for Rook to get himself together so as to not give their position away with his laughter.

-----

Slowly, they include him too.

Davrin takes to fondly beating him up, punching him in the shoulder, slapping in in the back, and on one memorable occasion starting a poke war that lasted so long and got so bad that Neve had to step in and call for a truce before someone got actually hurt. The commiserating smirk they shared over the table got them both slapped on the back of the head by an angry mage, but it was worth it.

Lucanis on the other hand is softer with his affection, bumping shoulders with Rook and shouting encouragement across the battlefield. Every once in a while Rook will hear the soft clink of keys as he passes through the library, and he'll join Lucanis at the piano bench for a duet, shoulders pressed together and practiced hands working in tandem.

But the first time Lucanis and Davrin team up to throw a joke at his expense its at dinner, Rook freezes mid-bite of his sandwich, a tevene pickle dropping onto his shirt. The whole table laughs, and despite the embarrassment pinking his cheeks, he laughs with them, throwing the pickle at Davrin and kicking him under the table as he grabs Lucanis by the shoulders, rubbing his knuckles into his hair until he pushes him away with a grin.

He always wanted siblings.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The first time Ulrik meets Taash all he sees is himself.

They seem surprised to see a non-Antaam qunari, or maybe its that he's a mage and not a warrior despite his build. And in between the verbal jabs at him and Davrin, and the literal jabs at the Antaam he decides he likes the scrappy little shit. Disrespect and all.

Their mother is unexpected. She reminds him too much of the watchers; smart and stately, opinions set with no flexibility. A pressure he sees Taash bending beneath. He plays nice but something about their interaction, how she decides what is best for Taash without asking, makes his teeth itch. They go the instant Taash is packed, and it isn't until they've entered the crossroads and Davrin jogs to catch up with him and ask "Everything okay Rook?" that he realizes his shoulders are up around his ears. He makes himself physically relax, breathing slow and deep, but heads straight to Neve once they've returned to the Lighthouse and settled Taash in. It takes hours for the itch to disappear.

_______

He asks Taash the next morning to teach him to fight. He's quick with a blade and a spell but weak with his bare hands, and he figures getting his butt kicked for a few hours might help them bond. So they take up sparring hand to hand together, but outside of them shouting "Again!" or "Hit harder!" at him there isn't much talking. It isn't until they're both worn down, sweating despite the nothing temperature of the fade, and Rook shaking with exertion that he looks at them and asks the question that really brings them together.

"You hungry?"

_______

"Nobody likes being a woman."

When Taash talks about their gender for the first time something just clicks into place. He's glad its him and Neve with them. They've both done this before and come out the other side stronger. Although neither of them are nonbinary, they know what they wish they could have heard, how they wish they could have been treated.

"I do. But it took me a long time to realize I did. That being a man felt wrong."

"And I didn't. But I was a young girl when my gender started to itch at me and I realized that being a boy felt better instead."

For once Taash's face is soft, their usual defensiveness dropped in their surprise. "Oh."

Ulrik feels so much warmth for this kid, barely 22 and only just finding themselves. "Only you can decide who you are Taash. Just like I got to decide who I was, and Neve got to decide who she was." He glances at Neve, her face softer than she usually shows others, soft like she always is with him these days. "There's no time limit or right way to do this kind of thing. You take whatever time you need, think about what you like and don't like. How you feel. Then you tell us who you are, and we respect it. That's how it works here."

"And you come talk to us," Neve interjects, "if you have questions, or need support, or even just need someone to have your back."

"Anytime." He adds with a grin he knows is crooked and goofy, to make them laugh. When they huff at him in amusement, quiet but there, it feels better than defeating gods (he imagines).

"Okay...I...Thanks."

_______

For Taash, Shokra toh ebra is a prison.

Shathaan is not a woman Ulrik likes, the weight she puts on her child is heavy, and she balks when they carry it differently than she expects. Ulrik watches her face when Taash comes out to her. There is confusion in her eyes, but also understanding. A understanding that Taash is their own person, one she can influence but not truly mold. Her grip lost on something she was sure she held firm. 

When Shathaan dies, there is not only understanding in her eyes, but acceptance, and fierce motherly love. He knows she sees the same fire burning in his eyes, has seen it every time he sat with them at the table, ready to give his all for her child over something as small as dinner and as big as saving the world. Her eyes close once, and then stare into his soul, and he immediately knows what she's going to do. Ulrik may not like Shathaan, but in this moment, he respects her.

"Rook. You will keep them safe."

For Ulrik,  Shokra toh ebra is a promise.

_______

Ulrik has to literally pull Taash from the mountain, one hand clasped to their shaking palm and the other holding the blade that shore their mothers horn. The only piece left of the woman that raised them clenched desperately in Taash's other hand as they stumble through the volcano and out into the Rivaini sun.

Taash is quiet on the trip through the crossroads, pulling away from him and escaping to their room when they stumble through the Eluvian, Ulrik on their heels.

When he pushes through the door behind them they've shut down the grief, arms lifting their weight in pull-ups that shake with the tremors they can't hide behind strength.

"Taash."

His heart aches for them. This barely grown kid that he's grown so attached to in so little time.

"Leave me alone. Rook."

"Hey", he grabs their chin gently with his fingers, turning their face to his. His other hand warm on their shoulder. "I've got you. You can cry Taash."

They stare at him through sightless eyes, and then like they were waiting for permission they drop to the floor and weep, deep raw cries that tug at something deep in his chest. He holds them as they throw everything they can reach and he holds them as they sob and beat at his chest, screaming about how its not fair. He holds them until his arms go numb and then longer still, and when he leans his forehead to theirs, pushing his strength to help soothe their hurt, they lean into his weight.

This kid.

_______

His own hands shake as he pushes the door open. His hands itch for a bow he's never held, his fingers twitchy to tug at pigtails in a tease that he'll never be able to do again. Taash is knelt in front of their mirror, their mother's horn on a beautiful golden chain clutched in one fist, a cord with a smooth speckled stone in the other. He doesn't need to see their eyes to know they're wet, but he looks anyway. "Taash?"

"Why does everyone I love die?"

His heart clenches in his chest, a soul-crushing thing that aches more than any blade he's experienced. 

"I'm sorry Taash." His own eyes are blurry when Taash's turn to meet his, "I'm so sorry."

Before he can blink the wetness away hands grab his in a grip so tight it grounds him. And then, a forehead pressed against his with too much force, clumsy in grief but all the more genuine for it. "You've got me, Rook?"

The breath he lets out is shaky, but he feels stronger than he ever has.

"Yeah Taash. I've got you."

His kid.