Chapter Text
Lucanis Dellamorte is an assassin and understands death. His parents were killed. He lived with the belief Caterina was killed too. He deals in death. Spite, however, apparently does not understand death at all.
“Smelled. Like. Regret,” the spirit hisses inside his head. It feels like a vibration coming from inside his skull. It’s just more violent than usual. Spite is angry. “A wolf cage. Fit for a bird.”
Everyone has gathered around the table. Quietly as if they could disturb the peace this place has held for a time. Peace this place will never know again. Everyone who has made it out and somewhat licked their most prominent wounds. Lucanis was bad at that. Bellara and Harding had to help him out. He simply couldn’t bring himself to care for a moment, all wounds were painless. What’s a wound compared to death? He had lost Rook. Fight was all he had. His friends had to remind him that he couldn’t fight if he died of blood loss. And Rook would not be proud of such an end for the Demon of Vyrantium.
Their little round table where everyone used to gather to discuss strategy and plans. To witness Solas’ painful memories. To be a team. But Neve isn’t sitting on the couch next to Harding. No Davrin whittling a miniature monster. No Assan nesting at Rook’s feet. No Rook.
He had them. He had them within grasp in those final moments. When he struck the final blow to Ghilan’nain. The warping of the Veil was so chaotic and violent that Lucanis thought his eyeballs would just pop like blood-filled balloons. But he had Rook in his grasp. He knew they lived just as he knew he breathed. But once Rook tried to retrieve the letter-opener, no trace of them has been found. Gone. Along with the dagger.
Ghilan’nain was dead. It was a costly shot they had taken to strike down a god. Davrin sacrificed his life to let everyone have this incredible victory. What has happened to Neve is something they would rather not imagine. Hope is a double-edged sword.
Rook had survived the encounter despite being in Ghilan’nain tentacled grasp. Lucanis had struck true, and the Goddess of Monsters was felled. Rook was gone. It was safe to assume Elgar’nan had taken his revenge. But if so, the Crossroads were still standing. Peacefully, even.
“Bird. Cage.” Spite hisses again, louder. The demon hasn’t stopped since they returned. The same tune over and over. Lucanis never thought death and grief were something a demon would have trouble working through.
Spite has been always awfully fond of Rook in his demon way, which is something that perplexes Lucanis to no end to this day. He asked his spirit friend previously, but the response is always cryptic. Once he said Rook smelled like freedom, whatever it meant. His inner demon also called Rook spiteful. Which, with all due respect to their leader, was true to the bone. Only a spiteful person would persist against impossible odds and take on two risen gods. After his relationship with Spite improved, Lucanis couldn’t help but ask why ask Rook for help. Not Emmrich who could speak and understand him, not Neve or Taash who never showed wariness around possession. Spite’s answer scares Lucanis still. ‘Not like others. Sharp truths. All painful. Bloodied teeth. Chewed glass. Truth-teller.’
Yes, that was his Rook. A truth-teller, always. Not without humour, not without fear. But always stubborn, always pushing forward, always breaking apart clouds of doom.
Spite’s unusual affection towards Rook was scary for a time. At first, Lucanis couldn’t have faith in the demon’s intentions. Then demonic fondness got tangled up with the assassin’s own feelings. That was the worst of it. Not knowing if his feelings for Rook were his own or merely reflections of Spite. Certain conversations with Emmrich shed some light on how spirits reflect feelings. That helped to untangle this complicated ball of anxiety, fear, affection and longing. Later, Lucanis simply started to care less. He knew he cared for them a great deal, and Rook felt the same. The rest could be dealt with. One problem at a time is what Rook taught him.
Now the difference between Dellamorte and his demon is most prominent. The Crow would kill for a moment of solitude, to grieve Rook as openly as he could. But he is never alone now, is he? As for Spite…It must be the first time to experience the death of a friend.
The demon demands again, “Bring. Back. Rook.”
“Rook is gone, Spite,” Lucanis responds, irritated. The hissing is giving him a terrible headache, a throbbing at the back of his skull he cannot quell. It is a pain, yes, but not that great a pain that would distract him from the bleeding wound on his heart. It just feeds his negative emotions like irritation and ire, and deep, profound sorrow.
“Are you okay, Lucanis?” Harding asks, concerned.
“No,” the answer is short, tempered, “but Spite is making it worse.”
“If you need—”
“I’m an assassin, Harding,” the man interrupts, “if someone understands deaths, it’s me.” He can grieve later when all of this is over. That is if there is a world left to grieve in.
The necromancer has been eerily quiet for a while, looking into space as if searching for an answer and actually finding it. “Many spirits have been watching Rook. They left an impact on the Fade with their care for the Crossroads and opposition to Elgar’nan.”
“Your point?” Taash bluntly interrupts. Dellamorte is grateful for that. His head is hurt enough to go through puzzles of the Fade and spirits. There is one particular spirit he finds plenty headache-inducing already.
“Under different circumstances, the spirits would let me know,” The Watcher hums for a moment, thoughtful, like working out an answer to a riddle. “But no spirit lingers near Elgar’nan willingly. And the ripple sent through the fade after Ghilan’nain’s demise has driven them away even farther.”
Harding is first to voice the deduction out loud, “If Elgar’nan has Rook—”
“No,” Lucanis sternly shuts down the thought. Ghilan’nain was twisted and utterly mad. She was powerful, cruel, and terribly… creative. But Elgar’nan is a different beast. Elgar’nan is egotistic, vengeful, and purposeful. The Mother of the Monsters was driven by desire to create twisted, horrific beings. Elgar’nan is driven by nothing but his ego, his spite for the Dread Wolf, and desire to dominate or crush. Rook has taken blow after blow to that massive ego of his. It would be a kinder fate for Rook to die than to be in the hands of a creature like that.
“We need the dagger to kill Elgar’nan,” Taash quickly changes focus. “What happened to it?”
“We don’t know,” Bellara answers for all of them.
It was there. Glowing and overflowing with power when it got stuck in Ghilan’nain’s body. The Veil twisting around it like a whirlpool, like a storm. And Rook attempted to retrieve it. They had to. Lucanis should have done it. The dagger was given to him. Rook trusted him with a god-felling weapon. And how did he repay that trust? First Weisshaupt, now this. They deserve so much better.
“Not! Gone!” Spite screams inside his head. The demon’s temper is growing only worse. “Wolf! Escaped! The birdcage! Smelled! Like! Regret!”
Lucanis gasps in pain. It feels like something caught him off guard and took a swing at the back of his head. The ringing, and familiar scent of copper. Warmth dripping down from his nose. Spite hurt him. It’s been a while since that happened last, he almost forgot the demon could do that.
“Lucanis!” Bellara begins to fuss. “Are you okay?”
The man gestures her to stop buzzing over him like a hummingbird, “I’m fine.” He wipes the blood off his lip. Honestly, he deserved it. He deserved more than just a nosebleed, than just a headache. He had failed his client, his dearest friend, his—
“Spite!” Taash challenges the demon like no other. “Why did you do that?!”
“He said something,” Emmrich attempts to gain control over the room. “Spite has been speaking to Lucanis, and, I assume, someone hasn’t been listening.”
“He’s speaking nonsense,” the Crow defends his position. It was nonsense. The demon speaks of bird cages and wolves, smells of regret. Also, who listens to what a demon says? Outside of Venatori, of course.
“What is he saying?” Harding inquires delicately.
The scout has told them tales from the Inquisition times. Some of those stories included spirits. Like the Spirit of Compassion who had joined the efforts at Skyhold. He called himself Cole. Dwarves don’t dream and do not care for the spirits or the Fade as a rule. But not Lace Harding. Her boundless compassion and belief in goodness extends even to those who don’t deserve it.
“An escaped wolf,” the necromancer recalls, “a birdcage, and scent of regret. I believe those three things come up constantly.”
“Yes,” Lucanis confirms, bitter and spiteful, “and it’s nonsense.”
Harding makes a surprised noise. And everyone’s attention is on the dwarven girl. The room feels still and silent. Even Spite is quiet.
A moment passes before Taash asks, “What? I know that face. You’re thinking of something.”
“Well,” The insecurity in her own thoughts and words are palpable to a possessed man. “It’s just a thought.”
“Please, do share,” Emmrich encourages, “because I have a thought myself.”
“Oh, you go first.”
“Cut the pleasantries,” Dellamorte interjects. “If Spite is making sense to you, I need to know.”
He knows his patience is wearing thin. He is short with his friends because he is in pain, because he is cross with himself. None of them done a single thing wrong. How he misses Rook. Their voice alone was comfort enough. And they seemed to have a natural affinity for Spite. The demon always listened to Rook.
An assassin knows when they need to pull away from the job. When they are more of a liability than an executioner. He knows he needs more time to process everything, to analyze what has happened. But they do not have the luxury of time or comfort. Davrin sacrificed himself to make this victory possible. Neve has probably been blighted into a monster if not killed outright. And Rook likely has been subjected to Elgar’nan’s revenge. The dagger is missing, an Archdemon lives, Elgar’nan is still invulnerable and unstoppable. And their team no longer has a leader.
“The caged wolf,” Harding says, avoiding the assassin’s gaze, “is probably Solas.”
“It’s definitely Solas,” Bellara adds. “That’s what spirits call him. And we know he has been stuck in the Fade all this time. Only Rook was able to reach him.”
“Solas told Rook it was because of the blood they shed at the ritual site,” Lace continues to explain, “and that connection was tenuous. Not that we can trust anything Solas says.”
Blood magic. Of course, an elvhen god would use blood magic. What is not below their level? Connection with Solas has served them and their goal to take down the gods. Trust was another matter entirely. What Bellara has shared of the elvhen lore, and the murals around the Lighthouse confirmed they shouldn’t trust someone like Solas. The Dread Wolf is not above lying, tricking, and sacrificing people if it means succeeding in his struggle. People are pawns, if not cannon fodder. Even Rook said they expected the god of, and he’d be quoting here, “lies, treachery, and rebellion” to turn on them.
“But when Lucanis killed Ghilan’nain,” Emmrich picks up the conversation, “the Veil has grown thinner. And the energies that were unleashed were unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.”
“You can start making sense any time now,” Taash huffs.
“Solas has found a way to escape,” the Scout says gravely. It was obvious the weight of this statement lays heavy on her chest. “Bellara was right.”
Harding had complicated feelings towards Solas. On one hand, she saw him during the Inquisition times. A thoughtful, lonely elf who spoke of the Fade and dreaming of things of the past. A humble apostate who made polite conversations with her in the halls of Skyhold. There was also another Solas. The one who joined the war against the Titans, the forger of the dagger that split the Titans from their dreams. Solas who conducted the end of the Titan song. Solas, whose body was made with the blood of her gods.
Neve always used to say “couldn’t be one god, had to be three”. She had a point as she always did. There is another figure on the board now. The Dread Wolf. He will not give up his plans to tear down the Veil. But that would be done after Elgar’nan is dealt with. Perhaps that’s why the world hasn’t begun to crumble yet. The spiteful millennia-old grudges are being worked out between two gods, distracting both from unleashing the horrors each has a fondness for, be that Blight or demons and wild magic. The world will start to fall apart when one of them comes out on top.
“I will kill him,” the assassin declares. “Free of charge.”
“Don’t!” Bellara jumps in. “Not until we get Rook back, at least.”
The sentence stuns him. The idea of having Rook back seems impossible. Unfathomable, even. The hope of being able to see them again twists inside his chest like a knife.
“Rook?” is the only word Lucanis can bring himself to say. It’s so hopeful, so fragile, and terribly sharp he cuts himself on the sounds of their name.
“Varric called them Rook for the chess piece,” Lace recalls with nostalgia. “One of the strongest pieces on the board but tends to think in straight lines.”
There is a sad smile on her freckled face. The story of Varric is something Lucanis has heard from Rook. A friend and a mentor to them. A person whose words guide them still. What Rook didn’t say is family. But Dellamorte knew they meant it whenever they spoke of the dwarf.
“But rook is also a bird,” the professor concludes. “I will ma—”
“But Rook is in the Fade then!” the Veil Jumper blurts out. “In a prison Solas made to contain gods. Powerful, evil gods.”
“Good thing Rook is not evil then,” Taash confidently puts worries aside. “And Rook’s power lies in us. Talk to whatever skulls you need,” they address the necromancer, “we’re breaking Rook out of there.”
Emmrich nods in agreement. It seems they have a plan now. Plan is good. It would give the assassin something to focus. He doesn’t let himself hope. Not yet.
“Bring. Back. Rook.” Spite hisses but less demanding this time.
“We will, Spite,” Volkarin says it like a promise.
It shakes Lucanis to the core. A promise is a dangerous thing. He has promised not to lose anyone again. And look how well he had done on that front. But hearing Emmrich promising Spite to bring back Rook gives him too much to hope for when hope is best left to rot. What if they fail? What if they cannot? And, worst of all, what if they are too late?
Lucanis Dellamorte is not a mage. Were he not possessed by a demon, his only magical talents are throwing knives and an itch at the back of his eyes when the Veil is being tempered with. But he isn’t ignorant of the fact the Fade is dangerous. And to be physically pulled into the Fade…with each passing hour… The Dread Wolf is an ancient spirit who manifested a physical form. Rook is but one mortal person. And that prison was designed by Solas to contain gods he spited since the beginning.
A Fade prison break. Sounds ridiculous. Seems impossible.
Dellamorte doesn’t notice that he has been following the necromancer to his study. A question is at the back of his mind. A question he doesn’t know he wants to ask, lest he gets an answer.
“I assume you are troubled, Lucanis,” Emmrich says sympathetically.
“We all are,” the man deflects.
“Yes,” the Watcher sounds more burdened than before, “but we know that you and Rook…”
The sentence was never finished out loud. During one of his many talks with Davrin — talks Lucanis will never have again — the Warden mentioned something intriguing. It was a fond memory for the Crow, a memory he will treasure now like a little precious jewel.
“You and Rook, huh?” Davrin asked.
Lucanis raised a brow, “Why?” The man was not even shy about Rook. He thought he would be. He thought it would be in his nature to keep them close and hidden. But for some reason, he didn’t mind if someone of the Lighthouse asked about him and Rook. Within reason, of course. And everyone came across as very supportive.
“Just—” The Warden drops the sentence, hesitant. It is very unlike him. “I guess what I’m trying to say is I should have seen it coming.”
“I didn’t even see it coming,” the Crow argued. Not because he didn’t want to see it, but because it was painful to watch. Dellamorte is of death. Killing a god is easy compared to forging a new path, building a relationship with another. Not a professional partnership, not a contract, or a necessary alliance — a relationship of trust, care, and unwithheld affection.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” the elf shrugs. And Lucanis bristled. That felt personal. “You were stuck in your own head after all. Literally, too.”
The Crow grumbled. It wasn’t wrong. It still felt like a jab. He had missed many things because he was stuck in the Ossuary of his own mind.
“I have seen that kind of turlum between two people once before,” Davrin continued.
“Turlum?”
“It’s what they call a connection between a griffon and a Warden. A soft of unity,” the elf awkwardly explained. “It is based on trust and faith in each other. Or that’s what Rook helped me figure out.”
“Am I the griffon then?” Lucanis cackled.
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve seen this turlum only once before?”
“Between two people? Yeah, only once before.”
“Are you going to tell?”
“Does it matter for you to know?”
It shouldn’t have mattered. Not even a little bit. The spirit bound to him was Determination, also known as Spite, not that of curiosity. That spirit followed a Mourn Watcher around the Lighthouse. It also liked to boil water.
“I’m curious now,” Lucanis admitted, suspicious. There was no reason for Davrin to withhold this information unless some more jabbing was coming. Their relationship significantly improved once they reached a common ground, an understanding, respect even. That didn’t remove other aspects of their dynamics, not entirely. It just removed the distrust and meanness.
“Antoine and Evka.”
“The married Warden couple?”
“The very same.”
“I—"
“Smells. Like. Regret.” Spite is always there to pull Lucanis back into reality. Sometimes literally.
Regret? Yes. Lucanis has regrets. He should have told Rook more of his thoughts. Of his feelings. He assumed they knew. But confessions right before a battle against a god felt too much like a goodbye. He didn’t need to hear it from them, not then and not now. What Rook feels for him is so obvious, it’s almost palpable. The Crow doesn’t understand how he knows. It’s simply there. Like a secret gift Rook had hidden inside his mind when they walked it. When they exchange knowing glances, when they speak his name, the expression on their face when he is bold with them. Perhaps it’s Spite sensing something and not telling him because… Well, it is “Spite”, not “Frankness”.
Rook has walked the dismal and bare place that is his mind, witnessed the scars that may never heal. The prison he may carry with him forever. And therein lies the problem: he assumed they know. And if it is known, it can remain unspoken. He should have spoken. In fact, he should have had trouble shutting up. He should have trusted them more, risked it all; he should have retrieved the dagger himself.
“What are our chances?” Lucanis asks directly. Forge steel while it's hot. A stab after stab stops being painful. Cut off the rotting limb. False hope is worse than no hope. False hope stews into all sorts of poison.
“I will not lie to you, Lucanis,” the Watcher says sympathetically, “the prison where Rook might be is made by a being much older and more powerful than anything Necropolis can offer. But that doesn’t mean I will spare any effort to retrieve Rook and bring them back to us.” There is something about the necromancer’s conviction that gives Lucanis hope against all better judgment. Emmrich offers a small, sorrowful smile, his gaze downcast. “They are dear to me, too, you must know. They have quite the indomitable spirit.”
“That’s what I love about them,” Lucanis whispers. That spirit alone had charmed him from the very beginning. To go down into the underwater prison filled with Venatori and their byproducts to seek a man who has been dead for a year. To proclaim war against the risen gods. To challenge a dragon with nothing backing them but an instinct to protect. To choose to save him even after he had failed. To continue to choose him even when he refused to be chosen. If by some miracle they can get Rook back, Lucanis will never let go of them again. He will not let this regret fester. Whatever chance he is offered with Rook, he will take it. However brief, however painful.
“They helped me overcome things I’ve struggled with alone for many years,” Professor continued. “I am braver for their influence and eternally grateful.”
“As am I.”
“Then we must keep faith. I’m certain Rook would not despair. They would seek a way out of their imprisonment, and we must persist in finding the door and open it for them.”
The Crow meekly nods in agreement. Rook would never quit on him. In fact, Rook never did quit on him. When they learned he was possessed. When Spite was being trouble. Even after Weisshaupt. After Zara. After he pulled away, after experiencing his brokenness…Rook has been taken from him. Fight is all that’s left. Fight for Rook. To have them back, to end this struggle so they may never lose each other again. And if not to have them back, then to not disappoint them.
The door to the study opens, and Taash comes in. “Lucanis? Are you okay? You’ve been here a while.”
“You keep track?” the man raises a brow.
“Of course I would,” they answer like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Sometimes the Crow is envious of the dragon hunter’s simple approach to life. Almost anything can be simple in Taash’s mind. The Qunari can break down complexities to bare bones, leaving only the necessary, only the consequential. It’s quite the talent. “You and Rook are a thing. Rook is missing. But we’ll get them back.”
“It’s so simple in your mind,” the Crow speaks with an equal measure of fascination and frustration.
“It is that simple,” Rivaini shrugs. “What are our chances without Rook and the dagger to kill Elgar’nan? We need to find Rook, and we can find the dagger again.”
Dellamorte promised to not lose anything. It’s a promise he intends to keep. However, he couldn’t help but wonder, “And if we don’t find Rook?”
“Then we take our last stand.” Once again Taash speaks like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We do not give up and we do not go down without a fight. Maybe we can at least kill Elgar’nan’s demon-dragon. Someone else will have to find a way to finish the job.”
“You don’t believe we can do it without Rook?” Emmrich inquires. There is no condemnation in his question. Lucanis deducts they are of the same mind, however unwilling they are to admit it. Without Rook, without the dagger… Their chances were not great to begin with, now they are abysmal. Not to mention the Wolf that got loose. Something deep and dark within the assassin tells him Solas will be a great hindrance, not an aid.
“Can we?” they cross their arms.
The door opens once again, and Bellara and Harding enter the room.
The elf is uncertain, “Is everything—” she stumbles over her own words, “everyone—"
“None of us will be alright for quite some time,” Emmrich gently helps her up, “but we are not arguing if that’s the question here.”
“Good,” Harding audibly exhales with relief. “I wouldn’t know if I could handle that. Usually, it’s—”
And the room grows quiet. The ending of the sentence is heard by everyone but only inside their minds. Usually, it falls to Rook to remind them they are a team. Usually, it falls to Rook to solve their conflicts, big or small. Usually. But Rook isn’t here.
“I’ve been thinking,” the Veil Jumper speaks up. The lack of confidence colouring her voice, but there is still conviction. “About what happened there. With Rook. And the dagger. And—” Bellara stops in her verbal tracks, looking at Harding.
“You’re doing fine,” Lace softly encouraged.
“Right,” the elven girl steels herself. Lucanis could see it in her clenched fists. “Spite saw more than any of us. Because he is a spirit. So, can we ask Spite if he has seen the dagger?”
The Crow is taken aback by the question. But it would make sense. Spite saw what had happened because Spite is of the Fade. Forced into the physical world against his will, he still retains some connection. Lucanis does not care. He gives Spite reign to speak without a second thought. Anything could lead them to closer to Rook.
“The Wolf has his Fang,” Spite answers.
“That’s good news,” Volkarin notes, “for now. Elgar’nan does not have the dagger—”
“Which means we can take it from Solas,” Lucanis gripes. Rook is not here. All he has is the fight. Revenge is a powerful motivator, he would know. The idea of revenge had carried him through a year of agony. “He betrayed Rook. They will decide his fate. My contract is for blighted gods, but a closure on a prideful one can always be added.”
“Oh!” Bellara gasps, surprised, utterly delighted. “You listened! You really did! To my rumblings about the elvhen gods and legends and—"
“Bellara,” he reminds.
“Righto.” The elf clears her throat. “You remember Solas is pride in Elvhen.”
Lucanis remembers more than just that. But the offence lies elsewhere. “Of course I listened.” Lucanis Dellamorte is a professional. Firstly, he needed to know what he was contracted to kill. Legends and myths aren’t the most reliable information but sometimes it’s all you have. And Bellara is an elvhen historian. Unlike Davrin. Secondly, the elf was sharing something important to her.
“I wasn’t trying to say you were bad at listening, it’s just—I was just— I didn’t— Rook—”
“You are sentences ahead of yourself,” Professor softly chides.
“I wasn’t trying to say you were a bad listener. It’s the opposite. Rook always said that. I see what they see now. Not that I didn’t— You aren’t— They weren’t—”
“Bella-ra,” Lucanis breaks down her name to get her to slow down. To focus her attention on the drown-out syllables of her name. It seems to work sometimes.
“I wasn’t asking Rook what they saw in you. It wasn’t like that. It was for my serial. They were helping me with my writing.”
Rook. The thought warms his heart that has known only desolation recently. Lucanis snorts, amused. “If you weren’t asking them what they see in me, I might have to one of those days.”
“Oh, I know what they see in you, I do!”
The mortification grips him. Lucanis needs to stop the elf from talking. He had unknowingly encouraged the Veil Jumper to speak up. “Bella—”
“You have a heart with many pockets.”
Lucanis thinks he could trade places with Rook. A prison would be preferable to the silence that fell after that sentence was spoken. It was like the tolling of the bell.
“This outta be good,” Taash encourages the elven girl further.
“Oh! I was asking Rook for inspiration. The romance was coming together, but I needed to know why. Why would a character go for another. Why them, you know? Why not someone else?”
The assassin all but stands there, powerless to stop the situation from unfolding. Sometimes, in the heat of battle, he swears the time itself slows down, and you can see the slow movements of your opponents readying to strike, feel the blade cut flesh layer by layer, and see the swing come in slowly to hit yet be powerless to avoid it. This moment is just like that. He cannot dodge and is powerless to stop what is coming for him.
“Rook told me that for them it was attention. Lucanis paid attention. To everyone. At first, they thought it was a Crow thing. But then… Ugh, how did Rook say it? ‘The closer you get to him, the more of you he gets to keep inside his heart. So, he pays attention in order to get more parts of you to keep.’ Something like that.”
What an awfully sweet and truthful thing of Rook to say. Well, one thing they appreciate about Lucanis is his attentiveness. Good to know. It is a Crow thing. To keep notice of things, even the smallest things. It can save your life; it can doom the life of another. It is also a Lucanis thing. It’s only natural to pay attention to what he deems important. And Rook was important to him before he started to fall like a helpless fool. He owed Rook a debt. A debt of life, a debt of honour. And then the debts only continued to pile up. Treviso. Antaam occupation. Zara. Spite. Illario. How could killing a god or two pay for things that are priceless?
They saved him more than once and in ways he didn’t know he needed to be saved. Rook.
“So,” Taash’s voice pulls him back to the present, “how many Rook-filled pockets do you have?” They think they are being cheeky.
“Not enough,” Lucanis answers simply, turning away. A thought flashes through his mind. It’s dark and violent. And then the present feels heavy. The present is suffocating. His mind started to unfurl as if he accidentally pulled a string he shouldn’t have. It’s a rush of blood to the head.
‘There’s no need to doubt yourself, Rook. And if you do, I’ll be there to convince you.’ Making promises you cannot keep now? Since when does a Dellamorte give his word and break it? How much convincing have you done? It was always Rook’s job to convince you. To persuade you to leave Weisshaupt so you could live another day. To leave the prison and heal again, to give yourself and Spite a chance. It was always on Rook to do the heavy lifting, wasn’t it? When you doubted yourself, when you thought you’d lost it, it was Rook who told you otherwise.
“Lucanis?” the voice calls his name. “Do you want a hug?” Bellara offers, sounding a little surprised herself.
“No,” the assassin declines. His family wasn’t made of huggers. And physical contact — the sort that doesn’t come with violence — is still something he needs to get used to. “Excuse me,” he offers a polite nod and a smile to match it. And then he is leaving as fast as he could without running out. He cannot outrun his thoughts, he knows, a dark current rushing in.
‘The Crows cannot thank you enough. I cannot thank you enough. Treviso stands.’ Isn’t that what you said? But you could have thanked them. You could have expressed gratitude in many ways. They had given you a wyvern tooth dagger. What have you given except failures and burdens to carry?
The darkness of his mind doesn’t stop its onslaught. Clouds of doom gathering, approaching, carrying the scent of a storm. Lucanis leaves the main hall of the Lighthouse. The Fade outside hurts the back of his eyes. The voice in his head doesn’t sound like Spite.
‘But Minrathous…it shouldn’t have been a trade.’ No, it shouldn’t have been. The gods are cruel and unfair and so is life. But you were not the one to make the call. You were not the one to be shunned and blamed. You were not that one mortal person who was made to take responsibility. You went where you were expected and protected what was yours. The burden of deciding was not hanging above your head. And when it came crashing down, it wasn’t falling on your shoulders. What about the one who had to carry the weight alone?
Dellamorte passed Caretaker on his way. He is heading back to the pantry. But this weakness in his legs is slowing him down. It feels like a bad dream where you are chased but can only move at a snail’s pace. The clouds of doom grow heavier and darker. A storm is coming.
‘But Neve…’ The bastard that you are, Lucanis Dellamorte! It was easy to see Neve’s suffering, wasn’t it? Because she wasn’t there immediately after. Neve wasn’t the one with the responsibility to carry on the fight against the gods. It was easy to know the suffering of another when it was so close to your own fears. When Neve had put her feelings to paper. When you had seen the ravaged city yourself. But what about the blame and guilt Rook kept tightly locked inside their chest, lest any trace was left exposed? What about their suffering? Ignored.
Lucanis has made it through the doors of the kitchen. The candles on the table are still burning. The fire is always lit. The Lighthouse has tended to their needs. Food it couldn’t provide, but setting up a table for dinner was not an issue. The Crow’s gaze falls to where he and Davrin opened a bottle and shared the stories. And Rook…That’s when both were still here.
‘Rook, I made a fresh pot of coffee.’ You were there! You were not so blind as to miss the signs. The bags under their eyes, the murmuring under their breath. You heard it, didn’t you? The hushed talk of how they were just one person, how battles are fought one at a time. It’s a lesson you learned from Rook too. Did you truly miss their many visits to the infirmary or were you just hoping it wasn’t a problem? You were there and said nothing, done nothing! What is it called? Abandonment? Neglect?
‘These are more than distractions, Rook.’ Without your words that were just a dull blade twisting in the gut, they understood enough. What kind word have you offered? At least once? What help have you offered to someone you called your first friend since Illario? Rook remained at the table alone, knowing Minrathous had suffered and Weisshaupt was lost. They carried those burdens alone. The burden of a faceless crowd of people who died or suffered because they made the call.
He stumbles to the pantry, eyes frantically searching for any sign of… something. He knows Rook isn’t here. It’s not their voice speaking inside his head. He knows Spite is awfully, uncharacteristically quiet.
‘It could have been Treviso. Consider it done.’ The help you offered Neve, the sympathy, the understanding, the support… So, you were capable of it. The prison hadn’t turned you blind and deaf-mute. You simply wouldn’t give it to the one you claim to love.
The Crow wishes he could lock the door as if it would stop the dark current of his thoughts. As if those clouds of doom would stop following him then. To make this room break off from the rest of the Fade-building and drift off into the vast space. The voice in his head isn’t the spirit bound to him. No, this voice is worse than Spite. This voice belongs to Lucanis. It’s the voice of his regrets, his shame and guilt.
‘Neve, if I asked what’s bothering you, would I get an answer?’ If Rook had loved you then, they were a fool to do so. They were a fool to love you at all. They truly do deserve better. How unfortunate they may never get the chance.
Lucanis falls on his knees, hiding his face in his hands. The view of the Fade is gone, but the front of his eyes still hurts. A terrible sob tears from his chest.