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You have this.
It was something he used to whisper to himself when he was young, a push to keep himself going through training, through hunger, through torture. The words echoed in his mind, his voice or Spite’s, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was both of them blurring together. You have this.
Yes. He had this. He was the Demon of Vyrantium, was he not? An Antivan Crow who never betrayed a contract? This was nothing like the slaying of a god. This was conquest. Romance. It was time he took control.
Lucanis took a step forward, drawing breath deep into his lungs. He tried to remember every crumb he’d ever gleaned from romance novels and Illario’s exploits. He fixed his gaze on Rook’s face, her pale eyes half-lidded, a smile playing about her lips.
For a moment the nerves vanished as he gazed at her. Her smiles, her jokes, her kindness; they did banish the gloom he so often struggled with. Rook cared about him. She had made it clear between checking up on him after episodes with Spite, with how she had been attentive to him after his failure at Weisshaupt. More than that, there had been teasing smiles, a playful glint in her eyes. He wasn’t blind. He simply… had not been sure how to respond.
You have this. He drew near to her, his heart hammering within his chest, uncertainty crawling beneath his skin.
He rested his arm against the wall. He wasn’t tall, but neither was she, and here he had the edge. This close he could smell her hair -- the scent of woodsmoke and fine clean ash, hints of her Mourn Watcher rituals -- with every breath he took.
Rook was beautiful. He understood that.
She… liked him. He believed he understood that.
There were steps he was supposed to take now.
He smiled, slow, languid, targeted like he’d seen Illario do a thousand times. Then Rook reached out, brushing her finger against his chest. Her magic lay in fire and necromancy, and yet it was lightning he felt arcing through his body. His heart stuttered. This was correct, wasn’t it? This was part of it?
Why. Afraid! Spite howled in the back of his mind. But fear wasn’t the right word for it. Lucanis didn’t have a word for it.
He said something -- one of the lines he’d thought useful from a romance novel, about walking too close to the edge -- and Rook smiled, leaning towards him. He leaned a little closer in response, holding his breath. Yes. This was what he was supposed to do. She closed her eyes. Her mouth shifted, waiting for a kiss -- waiting for him --
You have this!
He pulled back abruptly, curling a hand close over his chest, his eyes stinging. “I… need to clear my head.”
He turned away. He could feel her confused gaze upon him, but he couldn’t bear to look her in the eye. “Excuse me.” He turned tail, quick sharp strides out of the narrow pantry, making for the kitchen. He took the side stairs up two at a time until he found himself out on the rickety platform, looking out at the endless white void. His breath tore in his chest.
He leaned back against the stone, one of the few reliable things in this world of the ephemeral. It felt real. Solid, cold, sturdy. He sank down the wall into a crouch and folded over himself, hands tucking tight beneath his arms, and bowed his head.
Ruined! Spite snapped. Why. Leave Rook?
“I wish I knew!” Lucanis growled beneath his breath.
Spite fell mercifully quiet. But the demon’s silence brought no respite, for now his own shame and confusion ringed viciously round his head, crueler than anything Spite could manage on his own.
Lucanis screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to let it go. He had survived torture and possession. He could survive this misstep. But he saw Rook’s face, hopeful and curious and leaning towards his own.
He wondered if she would forgive him this failure.
If he could forgive himself.