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He sits her down on the chaise, rummaging through each drawer in her chambers for whatever he can find — linen straps, bandages, elfroot — anything to make the bleeding stop.
But she can barely register him, her focus fixed on her arms — on the blood painting her skin like red ink, telling a story she’s so tired of reading.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
And five.
Five more scars to add to her collection — each one proof she’s survived, but never proof of the fight actually being over.
She doesn’t know why that stings as much as it does. Fighting isn’t new to her — how could it be? She lives in a world of dragons and demons, cultists and dictators, each one clawing for more power than they have any right to.
The Shadows taught her early on that the moment she stops fighting is the moment she hands her power over to someone else.
And like hell she’s going to do that.
Yet, as she watches Lucanis frantically wipe the blood from her wounds — as if he can erase them, as if they won’t still be there in the morning, or next month, faded but never gone — a thought slips through the cracks. One she’s tried to drown out, to chase away, only for it to return more determined, curling around her mind like smoke, whispering itself back into existence until she has no choice but to listen.
What if she does stop?
What if she puts her sword down for the last time?
Maybe then, she’d remember what her skin looks like beneath the wounds, before they piled up like trinkets in a collection she never wanted.
Maybe she could wash her hair without watching the water swirl red at her feet.
Maybe her shoulders wouldn’t ache with the phantom weight of a shield she no longer feels strong enough to carry.
Maybe, just maybe, she could remember what it feels like to be beautiful again.
Lucanis feels something fall onto his hands as he sterilizes Rook’s arms.
A wet droplet.
Then another.
And another.
Until the storm that’s been brewing finally unleashes, the tears streaming down her face like a heavy rainfall.
He reaches for her, the vial of antiseptic in his grasp tumbling to the floor as he trades it for her face, cupping her cheeks and forcing her watery gaze on his.
“Rook,” he pleads, brushing away each tear with his thumb. “Talk to me.”
“Is this all that’s left?”
Lucanis’s brows knit together. “What do you mean?”
She gestures to herself, a hollow laugh escaping her. “Is this all I am now? Blood and dirt, scars and bruises. Is there anything left of the person I used to be — before Solas’ ritual, before Varric, hell, even before the Shadows. Is she still there?”
“Of course she is, Rook,” Lucanis replies immediately, his hands falling from her face to wrap around her fingers.
"I don’t know about that," she replies, her eyes squeezing shut. “That girl used to wear dresses, not armor. She used to wear necklaces, not bruises leftover from Antaam hands wrapped around her throat too tightly."
“Your life does not have to end where the fight begins," Lucanis counters. "You can still have what you once craved — the things that remind you of who you were, before this all began."
"Those things are a luxury," she mutters, bitterness curling around the words. "And luxuries aren’t meant for people like me."
Lucanis studies her, his jaw tightening.
No.
He refuses to let her believe that.
She’s the one who showed him there’s more to life than killing and death. That life can be as sweet as it is bitter.
She’s the one who taught him that feelings don’t always have to be filed into the shape of a weapon — that they can be raw, boundless, like an ocean drenching him from head to toe. That she could be the harbor that offers him safe refuge when that ocean becomes too overwhelming.
She’s the one who defied the odds when they were never in her favor, who made him dare to hope, even when he was taught that hope was just another hole in his walls for enemies to exploit.
And now, the woman who shattered every rigid belief he held — about life, about himself — wants to reduce herself to nothing more than her scars.
No. He won’t let her.
“Stay here,” he instructs, pushing himself off the chaise. “I will be back soon.”
And before she can question it, he’s heading for the door, a new resolve in his eyes as he makes his way to the Eluvian leading to Treviso.
When he returns, he’s relieved to find her still in her chambers, swiping away stray tears as she hears him enter.
“Lucanis,” she whispers. “Where did you go?”
Wordlessly, he takes her hand, threading his fingers through hers as he guides her to the far end of the room, where a floor-length mirror leans against the wall.
He grabs her hips, shifting her body to align her with her reflection.
“Keep your eyes forward,” he murmurs, slipping a hand into his pocket. When he withdraws it, a silver gleam catches the low light.
He moves behind her, his fingers brushing aside her curls, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. Slowly, he presses his lips to the skin beneath her ear. Then, along her jawline. The soft dip of her throat. And finally, one last kiss to the juncture of her shoulder — a kiss that lingers, like the final, drawn-out note of a love song.
She's so lost in his touch that she barely notices when his lips leave her, until, suddenly, something cold slithers over her neck, replacing his warmth.
Her breath catches.
A silver necklace.
“Most people see silver and think of nobility — kings, queens, emperors,” he murmurs, securing the clasp. “But the ones most worthy of silver are those forged like it — tempered by fire, bent, beaten, but never broken.”
His arms slip around her waist. “Like you.”
She stares into the mirror, her reflection blurred by unshed tears. Her fingers brush the metal, her lips parting softly.
How long has it been since silver touched her skin?
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, turning in his arms to face him.
Lucanis shakes his head, his eyes locking onto hers with a quiet sincerity — like he’s trying to will the truth into her bones. “You’re beautiful. You always have been, and you always will be. Nothing in this world can take that away from you."
Something inside her gives way. A dam breaking, a tether snapping. She surges forward, her lips colliding with his, her hands tangling into his hair.
Words aren’t enough. They could never hold everything she feels for him — all her love, all her gratitude — but maybe a kiss can breach the surface.
He doesn't hesitate to kiss her back, his tongue brushing hers softly, his hands fisting into the fabric at her back as if he can pull her into him entirely. Each kiss grows longer, deeper, and he savors them like the first taste of Antivan coffee after a long, sleepless night — until they're breathless, forced to breathe the air of the Lighthouse instead of the breath in each other's lungs.
When they finally part, she presses her forehead to his, her next words exhaled like a prayer. “Thank you, Lucanis.”
He runs his thumb over the silver resting at her collarbone. "For you, anything."