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The Cobbled Swan reeked of brine and unwashed bodies. Dock Town had its charms—if one counted cramped streets, shady dealings, and the occasional knife fight as charms. Rook, however, did not. His hood was pulled low over his face, shadowing the vallaslin that marked him as Dalish. The intricate lines dedicated to Mythal felt heavier here, in the oppressive heat of Tevinter. A reminder of the heritage that made him a target in this place.
He navigated the crowded tavern, his shoulders brushing against sailors and traders who either ignored him or gave him a passing glare. The Swan wasn't a haven for elves, least of all Dalish ones. Most who came here did so to fade into the background or because they had no other choice. Rook couldn't fathom why Taerian Lavellan, of all people, had chosen this place to meet.
The Inquisitor should have been the last person Rook expected to find skulking around a place like this. Surely a tavern in Tevinter was the worst possible meeting spot? For a moment, Rook entertained the idea that this was some kind of test. Lavellan had been known for his cunning and unpredictability, after all.
He spotted him at a table tucked into the farthest corner, where shadows pooled against the stained wooden walls. The man was unmistakable, even with his own hood partially obscuring his face. His white hair, almost unnaturally bright, caught the dim light like a beacon. Rook hesitated for a moment, taking him in. They'd only really met a time or two before, but this was the Inquisitor. The legend. And yet, the elf before him seemed smaller than the stories. Tired.
Rook made his way over, weaving through the crowded room. He slipped into the seat across from Taerian, his movements fluid and cautious. He kept his voice low. "You know this place isn't exactly the safest choice for either of us."
Taerian's lavender eyes lifted, piercing despite the hood's shadow. "Safety hasn't exactly been a luxury for me in a long time, Rook."
Rook shrugged. Fair point. He folded his hands on the sticky tabletop. "Why here?"
There was a longer beat of silence than he expected before Taerian answered, seeming to look at something over Rook's shoulder before turning back to him. "I have... other business to attend to in the area. Besides, no one really expects me to turn up in a place like this. Now, tell me what happened at Elgar'nan's ritual."
Straight to business. Rook admired that, even if the question made him falter. He shifted in his seat, the memory of that night crawling up his spine like frost. "Harding told you, I assume."
"She told me Solas rescued you," Taerian said. His voice didn't carry any judgement, only curiosity. But it was still sharp enough to cut.
Rook exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "He did. Elgar'nan had us trapped in some kind of mental maze. Solas found a way to break us out."
Taerian leaned back slightly, the faintest furrow of his brow betraying his discomfort. "Solas," he said slowly, as if tasting the name. "And you're certain it was him?"
Rook gave him a look. "Not many others out there with his... particular skill set, is there?"
"Do you believe he did this purely out of the kindness of his heart?" Taerian's voice was calm enough, but there was an edge to it. Something guarded.
Rook frowned. "He helped us, didn't he?"
"For his own reasons," Taerian replied. "Solas doesn't act unless there's something to gain. You already know he's Fen'Harel, Rook. The Dread Wolf. Even the tales we've heard variations of over the years—scattered as they are—can agree on one thing: he's a liar."
"That's just a story," Rook said, though the words felt weak even to him. He'd grown up on those stories, had heard the Keeper's voice recounting the tale of the Trickster God who bound the gods themselves. It had been long enough for him to grapple with the concept of facing said god, but it still was never enough to accept it.
"Is it?" Taerian's eyes were sharper now, intense. "He earned those titles, and not by accident. Fen'Harel, the God of Lies, the Betrayer. Do you know how many times our people have whispered those names in warning? The Dread Wolf comes to those who trust him, and always leaves ruin in his wake."
"You think I shouldn't trust him."
"I think," Taerian said, leaning forward, "you shouldn't let your guard down. Solas plays a long game. Whatever help he gave you wasn't for your sake."
Rook leaned back in his chair, letting the Inquisitor's warning settle in the forefront of his mind. He couldn't deny the truth in it. Solas had already proven himself a master of manipulation, and the thought of placing even a fragment of trust in him felt like walking a blade's edge.
"What was he like?" Rook asked after a moment. "Before the betrayal. Were you two... friends?"
Taerian's expression flickered with something unreadable. Regret, perhaps, or nostalgia. He glanced down at the table, tracing a finger over a gouge in the wood as he seemed to consider the question. When he finally spoke, his tone was flat, but not unkind.
"It's... complicated," Taerian said. "We were never particularly close. Not the way I was with some of the others. But we had a shared interest in history, in magic. That, and the shared goal of stopping Corypheus, at least made us allies of convenience. At the time, that was enough."
He paused, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, though it lacked any real humour. "That's not to say we didn't argue. Often. Heatedly. I don't think we ever agreed on much outside of the immediate crisis. He had this way of talking—condescending, self-assured, like he was the only one who truly understood the world. Drove me mad, even before I learned the truth. And the way he dismissed our people..."
Rook nodded, understanding that particular sting all too well.
"Still," Taerian continued, "he had his moments. He could be insightful, clever—more than clever, really. He had a way of seeing things that others couldn't. It made him a valuable ally, even if it was infuriating most of the time."
"So... you trusted him?" Rook asked, though he already suspected the answer.
The other elf's eyes lifted to meet his, and for a moment, Rook saw the full weight of what the former Inquisitor carried. The betrayals, the losses, the scars both seen and unseen.
"I trusted him enough to think we were fighting for the same things," Taerian said quietly. "Enough to think we'd walk away from it on the same side. And then his actions had me thinking I was going to die for several long months, leading up to his little revelation. He disappeared. And then my arm followed suit." He gestured vaguely to the prosthetic clicked into where his left arm should have been, his tone deadpan but sharp enough to sting.
Rook grimaced, his stomach twisting. He'd heard the stories of the Anchor consuming Taerian, forcing Solas to amputate his arm to keep the Inquisitor alive. It made it all the more difficult to reconcile the image of the thoughtful, enigmatic elf with the Dread Wolf of legend.
"Guess that makes me a little more jaded than I should be," Taerian finished with a shrug, though the bitterness was impossible to miss.
Rook hesitated, glancing around the room to ensure no one was paying attention before speaking again. "At least he's stuck in the Fade now, right? That has to count for something."
Taerian snorted softly. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But Solas is trickier than that. I'd be surprised if he doesn't already have a plan for his own escape. Probably ten plans, knowing him."
Rook frowned. "You really think he'd come back after everything?"
"Of course he would." Taerian's voice was grim, resolute. "He didn't set all this in motion just to give up now. Whatever his endgame is, he won't stop until he sees it through. And if he needs to claw his way back to do it, he will. Mark my words, Rook."
There was silence in the air between them for longer than necessary. Rook cleared his throat, shaking off the conversation. "What about the South? Letters haven't exactly been cheerful lately. How bad is it, really?"
Taerian leaned back, exhaling through his nose, the faintest flicker of exhaustion flashing across his face. “Bad,” he admitted. “The Blight has torn through Ferelden like nothing we’ve seen in ages. Orlais isn’t faring much better. I’m heading back there as soon as I’m done here. There’s no rest for the heroes of the South, it seems.”
Rook nodded grimly. The letters he’d received had painted a bleak picture—refugees flooding into cities that couldn’t support them, food shortages, despair. It was a weight that seemed almost impossible to lift, even for someone like Taerian Lavellan.
“But,” Taerian added, his tone shifting slightly, “there’s a spark of hope. Queen Elissa—”
“The Hero of Ferelden?” Rook interrupted, his eyebrows rising.
“The very same,” Taerian confirmed with a faint smirk. “She’s back. Leading charges in Denerim alongside King Alistair. The two of them are rallying the people like no one else can. And Kirkwall—” He shook his head with something like admiration. “Marian Hawke and her friends are holding it together. They’re not letting it fall, no matter how much the Blight tries to drag it under.”
Rook whistled low under his breath. “Guess there’s still some fight left in Thedas after all.”
Taerian’s smirk widened faintly. “More than you’d think. The South’s not done yet.”
Rook hesitated, studying the elf in front of him. “How do you do it?” he asked after a moment. “Hold it all together, I mean. Between this—” He gestured vaguely around them. “—and everything else.”
Taerian laughed, a sharp, quick sound that carried more truth than humour. “I don’t,” he said simply. “I’m just better at putting up a mask. Ask anyone who was around during the Inquisition. Any one of them could probably tell you a dozen stories about me putting my foot in my mouth at the worst possible times. I wasn’t exactly flawless at running things.”
Rook chuckled softly, but before he could respond, Taerian’s gaze shifted past him, toward something over his shoulder. For a moment, the tension on Taerian’s face eased, his sharp edges softening into something almost tender.
“Really, though,” Taerian said, his voice quieter now, “it helps to have something you know is worth fighting for.”
Rook blinked at the sudden change in tone. Taerian’s words were vague, but they hit something in Rook like an arrow finding its mark. His mind went immediately to Davrin—the Grey Warden with a tough exterior and a heart of gold. He thought of Assan, the griffon Davrin was raising, their so-called “son,” and the way the three of them had found something resembling peace amidst the chaos.
Rook nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “I get that.”
The conversation wound down after that, the heavy topics replaced by a lighter, easier exchange about logistics and updates. When they finally rose to part ways, Rook promised to keep Taerian informed, and the former Inquisitor nodded, offering a small smile.
Rook stopped at the bar before leaving, picking up a bottle of something halfway decent to bring back to the Lighthouse. Harding and Neve deserved a drink, and he knew Davrin would appreciate it after the week they’d had.
As he moved to leave, he hesitated, glancing back toward the table where Taerian had been sitting. The Inquisitor was gone, but it didn’t take long to spot him. He was across the room now, standing next to Dorian Pavus, the Tevinter mage in the unmistakably flamboyant robes. Dorian was speaking with a group of Shadow Dragons, his usual wit evident in the way the others were reacting.
Rook watched as Taerian joined them seamlessly, leaning slightly into Dorian’s space. Dorian didn’t miss a beat, adjusting his weight so that their shoulders pressed together without disrupting the flow of the conversation. Taerian said something quiet, just for Dorian, and though the mage didn’t stop talking, his lips twitched into a smile that was noticeably softer than before.
Rook couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his own lips. There had always been rumours of the Inquisitor’s involvement with the Tevinter mage, whispered stories that hinted at something more. Seeing it in person, though—the quiet, unspoken way they moved in tune with each other—was something else entirely.
He thought back to the beginning of their conversation, to Taerian’s mention of having something to take care of in Tevinter before he could go back. This, Rook realised, had to be it. With everything falling apart around them, it made sense. They were probably worried sick about each other, with so little time to show it.
Shaking his head, Rook turned toward the door. He had his own people to return to, his own fight to continue. But the thought of finding something steady amidst the chaos stayed with him as he stepped back out into the Tevinter night.