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Rook’s hip aches, sore and tender from the whack of a Hurlock’s fist midway through the battle. They’d been pinned on the battlements and Davrin sent Assan for the beast’s eyes, offering her a split second to dive away so Neve could toss ice onto the field, stunning them and allowing her and Davrin to finish them off.
Emmrich had offered to heal it when they’d made it back to the Lighthouse and she declined, wanting the ache. She lives, yet the Wardens number less than a hundred now that the day is done. Darkspawn flowed into Weisshaupt like a stormy tide, led by a cloud in the sky.
A sea of blood and all they could accomplish is slaughtering Ghilan’nain’s fuckin’ science experiment. Davrin lives, somber and bitter as he may be; a relief, but now she stares over at the fish tank, pondering how quickly she sent him to die.
“I’ll never forget you, Davrin. Thank you.”
Bit of fuckin’ seriousness while archdemon guts flew around them. The archdemon fell and Davrin didn’t hesitate. Not for a damned second and when his blade struck true and a beam of red hit Ghilan’nain, Davrin remained standing, dazed but alive.
He was made to die, he’d said to her before she fucked off to bed, knowing she’d just stare at the fishtank for hours, pondering the decisions of the day. She likes him. They’ve flirted. She’s flirted with everyone (‘cept Emmrich because he’s got professor dad energy instead of the hot dad energy Davrin has), but it means something with Davrin.
Like, she wants to fuck him. Badly. But maybe more than that. Maybe she wants to wait until it means something proper. Maybe she wants to make love to him.
She’s never made love to anyone. Fuck, she’s gotten sappy. What’d Solas say if he knew she was putting off chatting with him on account of pondering what it might be like to make love?
Nearly a thousand Wardens dead and she’s thinking about bouncing on the dick of the man she sent to his death. Fuck. She thinks about the story Solas told her about the emotion Elgar’nan burned away; how the emptiness people feel is their souls yearning for what no longer exists. All of the dead at Weisshaupt remain where they fell because of her. After the First Warden showed himself to be a tit, she knocked him out and started tossing around ideas. She improvised their way to the trap and used the dagger as bait.
Would it have been better if they hadn’t turned up? Or if she’d tried talking to the First Warden instead of throwing a punch?
(It was a kickass punch. Really solid follow through.)
Whatever it takes. Easy to say, tough to practice. Solas had been right and that fucking stings. She thinks back to his memory of the citadel battle; how Solas used spirits as a sacrificial distraction in order to obtain his dagger. Fury consumed her when she, Bellara and Neve had returned to the Crossroads - but how much of it was her projecting, recognizing that in an ugly situation sometimes you gotta step over the bodies to get to your goal? She did that today, but instead of spirits, it was the Grey Wardens who served as her sacrifice. Davrin was her sacrifice, until fate decided otherwise, sparing his life for reasons none of them understand.
She sits up and limps over to the glass of the tank. It’s a good hurt, her hip. A reminder that she’s alive and that an entire order’s sacrifice weighs on her shoulders. Her decision. Her fuck-up. Resting her head against the glass, she breathes in and out, her hot breath fogging the glass. Smaller fish flee, but a large red one remains, floating in place, watching her. “Lucky little shit - you don’t need to worry about world ending stuff. Just tracking down your next meal. Wish I could just float in the abyss sometimes, but I’d get bored quick ‘cause I’ve got a brain larger than a kernel of corn. Most days, anyway. Maybe not today. I was a real fuckin’ dumbass today and now I need to talk to your loser owner, who is a real dick, and you’d know that if you had more than a kernel of a brain.”
A new low: therapy fish. Fucking shit.
She calms herself and meditates with her forehead against the glass, and the world shifts into the greyscale prison, with the canyon separating her from Solas and the ruined statues littering the ground. “You gonna be better company than your damned fish? ‘Cept the big red one - he’s solid. Really good little snack.”
Solas stares at her, blinking several times and then, unsurprisingly, ignores her and breaks into commentary about how spirits were gossiping about Weisshaupt and the fallen archdemon to him. He asks how she’s faring and she explodes, ranting about how it was her plan and that the dead fall on her.
“How did you fuckin’ think I would feel?” she closes with, clenching her fists and glaring at him.
She gets a pep talk. Firm, but kinder than she’d expect of some dude who calls himself the “Dread Wolf”. He waxes poetic about wearing a brave face around her team as if she’d be dumbass enough to make her shit their problem.
“Or, I suppose you could chat with the red fish in my tank,” Solas muses lightly.
“Does he have a name? Or should I stick with ‘therapy fish’?”
“Why would I name a fish?” Solas asks, as if she just said something especially foolish, which is dumb because that’s hardly the most brain-dead thing she’s ever said aloud. She shrugs. “Ghilana,” Solas says, almost sheepish. “Elven for ‘guide’. Or, you may stick with ‘therapy fish’; I doubt the creature has the capacity to form an opinion on the name you call him.”
“Are they actual fish? Or wisps that just want to hang out as fish?”
“They are genuine fish, though lack the mortal lifespan of the equivalent species in Waking.”
“Y’know, you’re shockingly not a dick when talking about your hobbies.”
“Fish husbandry is not my hobby of choice. They were an obligation,” Solas says, immediately sucking the fun out of a conversation that risked becoming genuinely friendly. Then, as if to further grind the bones of their banter into dust, he shifts to warn her about Elgar’nan’s dickery and how surviving to leave the battlefield is a win where he’s concerned.
“Wow. Are you ever optimistic or cheerful? Or is the grimness just part of your package?” she asks him dryly and Solas doesn’t so much as crack a smile or acknowledge her attempt to lighten the mood.
“It would serve you ill if I were not realistic about the threat Elgar’nan poses to you,” Solas says, as if any attempt at good cheer would cause him to break out into a rash.
Inquisitor Lavellan fucked him and sometimes she thinks about that, wondering whether she got off on his chronic pessimism or if she was making a token effort to fuck it out of him.
She’s not stupid enough to ask Solas this - she can read the room sometimes! Or, the creepy Fade prison, as it were.
After her ever-so-relaxing and rejuvenating meditation session with the ancient Elven asshole, she wakes up and wanders to Davrin’s quarters, where she finds him working on a wood carving of one of his friends. Standing on his work bench are two completed carvings and Davrin points to them, giving her the names of his fallen friends.
He didn’t expect to survive the day and he’s lost, unsure what to do with a life he’d never planned to have. “Your death wouldn’t bring the other Wardens back,” she says gently and then gestures over to Assan. “Maybe your purpose is to be a light in the dark. To train Assan, rescue his brothers and sisters and be their caregivers.”
Davrin sets his partially-carved block of wood on his work bench and wanders over to where Assan sits, next to the plush chair by the unlit fireplace. He kneels and scratches behind Assan’s ear and Assan chirps, leaning into Davrin’s touch. “There are worse fates, and who else would make sure Assan grows up right?” He looks over at her, mouth upturned into an uneven smile. “Is this where you say something about what a relief it is that my perfect body is still warm?”
Her laugh is forced and she burrows the pain of sending Davrin off to die deep inside her. He doesn’t need her hurt atop his own grief. “I dunno, you’re still chasing me, right? Can’t give you an opening to lunge at me,” she teases, grinning.
“How are you doing, Rook?” Davrin is serious now and he stands up, stepping closer to her and for the briefest of moments, his hand brushes the back of hers, making her heart race. He’s not a tall man, like Solas; about two inches taller than she is, but his chest and shoulders are broad and his arms like tree trunks, and she imagines Davrin lifting her over his shoulder and carrying her off to ravish her.
Only, would he ravish her? He’d deny it right now, but she guesses he’s the tender sort. Sweet and slow. She’s never had that before.
She wants that. Wants to feel loved and to love him in return.
“I’m good. Had a chat with Solas so I need a soak in the tub to wash the lingering dickery off.” Realizing she’s being ungracious, she sheepishly adds, “he wasn’t that bad. Said what we pulled off was an accomplishment but that Elgar’nan is even more powerful than the tentacle lady. You ever have to give Assan meds? It kinda felt like when you’re given a treat but then someone plies an elfroot potion on you. Fuckin’ stupid because everyone knows you give someone their candy treat after the meds.”
“Your parents resorted to bribery?” Davrin smirks, crossing his arms. “Should I stop taking your parental advice into consideration?”
“I don’t remember. I was kidnapped and sold into slavery when I was six,” she says with mock-lightness. “A Lord of Fortune named Marcel rescued me when I was 13 and took me in. Gave me his last name but I was too dumbass to realize he wanted to adopt me. To be my dad for real. He died a few months before I met Varric. Savin’ my skin - we were climbing out of a ruin and the rope was fraying. We’d have both fallen to our deaths but he cut himself off, lightening the load enough for me to make it up. Imagine dying for a stupid slave kid.”
“For his daughter,” Davrin says emphatically and her eyes sting and she realizes she’s doing the “talk about your problems” shit. Oops.
“Taash is the only other one I’ve told that I was a slave. I don’t want pity. I’m not my fuckin’ past; I’m a Lord of Fortune, I love glittery shit, solving puzzles in ancient ruins, and super gorgeous muscular types who know how to hit things with a shield. Doesn’t matter where I came from.”
“It matters more than you think.” Davrin wanders back to his workbench, picks up the block of wood and gets back to work on it, not looking at her. “You give coin to every person who asks when we’re in Minrathous and Treviso. You’re relentless with the Venatori. You say you love treasure, but as far as I can tell, the only treasure you keep is what adorns your ears, armour, wrists, arms and neck. What you truly love is the security offered by the value of the treasure you find and that it gives you the means to offer others like you a hand up.”
“Nah,” she scoffs, with a flick of her wrist. “Like you said, I’m covered in gold and jewels. I’m all about the fancy looting shit.”
“You’re Rivaini and wearing jewellery is a cultural practice your father taught you.”
“Marcel wasn’t my dad. He never adopted me.” There’s a waver to her voice that she can’t quite suppress. She forces herself to laugh, pretending Davrin’s observation was hilarious in its inaccuracy instead of a bullseye to her broken heart. “Assan was badass during our fight. Gotta make sure he gets a treat, y’know? Positive reinforcement is good parenting! Take him for a walk in the forest tomorrow?”
Davrin turns his head and there’s a softness in his expression; not pity but something else. She doesn’t fuckin’ know what he’s thinking! “Tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it, Rook.”