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Lucanis often wonders how Rook manages to keep up with herself.
It seems like she’s always going at mach-speed. Like anything less than constantly vomiting words out of her mouth is a catastrophic failure on her part.
There's rarely a moment of quiet if she’s in the room. If she’s not excitedly discussing things with the rest of the Veilguard, then she’s narrating everything she does to Assan or Manfred. If she’s not doing either of those, she’s muttering under her breath to herself. Lucanis would think she was the one possessed by a demon if he didn't know better.
She's no different on the battlefield. She’s constantly moving, bobbing and weaving and slashing. He’ll think he’s finally locked onto her position so he can cover her, and then suddenly she’s 40ft away again, screaming a battle cry and diving into the fray before anyone can even think to stop her.
He thinks she’s probably never done anything quietly in her life.
He sees it too, in the way she cares for everyone around her. The way she’ll help every wayward vagabond that looks at her with slightly wet eyes, or the way she’ll rush to be a shoulder to cry on for any of her friends. The way she stoops to put a coin in every panhandlers tray, and the way she coos at every flea-ridden feline in all of Thedas that comes within arms reach. Of all the things Rook does loudly, she loves the loudest.
He found it overwhelming when he met her. A year of near constant isolation, and the first friendly face when he found his freedom was this bundle of energy and noise. Some days he would escape to the pantry purely so that he could find silence. It’s safe to say, between her and Spite, he never found any.
But things are different now. Spite is quieter, and Rook… Well, Rook isn't. And yet Lucanis finds he’s glad for it.
She’s taken to keeping him company while he cooks. He stands over the stove and she leans on the counter next to him, talking. He mostly just listens, making a few affirming noises when it feels right. He never says more than a few words, and she never runs out of things to say. If it was anyone else, maybe he’d find it tiring, but it’s not anyone else. It’s Rook.
While Rook is around to fill every silence, there’s still a chance they can win.
While Rook is keeping him company and talking his ear off, they’re safe.
She’s safe.
He’s not sure when that became important to him, but it is now.
So now he relishes it. Every muttered curse directed at no one in particular, every compliment offered to every mangy cat. Every strange gargled noise she makes at Manfred, and every time he can hear her behind him on the battlefield. All of it means there's still hope that they make it out of this. All of it means she’s okay.
And if he’s starting to say more than a few words? If he’s started making comments about things he knows will send her on a tangent while he peels the vegetables?
Well. Maybe he’s trying to love loudly, too.