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Solas is the most uncooperative patient Rook has ever had. That isn't saying much — he’s also the only person she's ever treated on her own — but she’s pretty sure anyone would find him trying.
If she turns her back for even a moment, he starts digging under his bandages and fiddling with the stitches. He'd disparaged the hack job she'd done immediately after regaining consciousness.
He is determined to undo her hard work, and she'd happily let him kill himself if it didn't mean the end of the world as she knew it. The fact that she'd be left in the prison, alone aside from Varric — if it really is Varric — is a factor she refuses to go into. That would probably be the ideal scenario for him.
“If you touch that bandage one more time, I am going to hog tie you,” she threatens, glaring at his unrepentant expression. “You can come up with whatever excuse you want, I won't believe you.”
“Then there is no need to speak.”
“First good idea you've had in a while.”
Pretending not to notice his scowl, she continues tearing her old shirt into bandages. Not the most hygienic option, but they didn't have anything else to use. It wouldn't have been a problem if he would stop sabotaging the ones she was already using.
His eyes never waver from her, and it makes her skin crawl. She has never spent so much time with the man before, and, if this is how he always is, she’s not looking forward to more. Right now the plan is to get him healed enough that he can't just reopen his wound and bleed to death. As soon as that is accomplished, she intends to go back to avoiding him.
“Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” he comments after she's finished rolling the new bandages up for later.
She scoffs. “My bedside manner would be better if you weren't trying to kill yourself.”
“One would think that would warrant more kindness.”
“I don't owe you any kindness,” she snaps. “If kindness and understanding worked on you, Varric wouldn't be dead.”
There is a grim satisfaction when Solas visibly flinches. It doesn't even feel like a low blow. He knows what he did, and there is no defending it.
He doesn't speak again, but continues to stare. The problem, Rook thinks, is that there isn't really much to do. There are no other people, the scenery never changes, and so they have nothing to do but argue.
She doesn't know how long they sit there ignoring each other, but eventually he yawns. Hopeful, she pretends to stare out into the void. If he falls asleep, she has every intention of wandering off. She'd take crawling around in the fog path over sitting here even one more minute.
The yawns become more pronounced before his eyes start to flutter shut. Every time they close he immediately blinks them open and looks directly at her. The yawns begin to fade as his eyes stay closed for longer and longer.
It's hard not to hold her breath — to act like nothing exciting is happening — when all she wants is to scream at him to hurry up and fall asleep already. Every time his eyes open she wants to hold them shut.
It feels like years later that his eyes finally stay shut. She remains in place until he starts to softly snore. Then she turns to fully face him. There is no reaction when she stretches her limbs, even when her elbow loudly pops and she can't help but to curse quietly.
Shaking her arm out, she continues to watch him. It seems too good to be true. He hasn't slept since he returned to consciousness. She doesn't even know if he has to sleep. She never feels tired, for sure, but she also isn't a Dreamer, and so can't escape the monotony of the prison that way.
Varric had told her about Solas' love of dreaming, and how he'd happily nap every chance he got. Whenever he'd wake, he'd tell them of the wondrous things he'd seen. Rook supposes she'd sleep more if she could control her dreams like that. Whenever she dreams here, she gets stuck talking to Solas.
She sighs loudly — monitoring his response — but his snores remain unchanged, his breathing even, and his eyes closed. It has to be a trap, she knows it has to be a trap, but surely she can manage a short walk without him permanently maiming himself?
If even he does maim himself, Rook thinks as she stands, as long as he doesn't die it's fine. It might even be in her favor if he can't get around. She eyes his kneecaps speculatively before shaking her head. No matter how much she dislikes Solas, she can't imagine purposefully injuring him like that.
Tiptoeing away, she finds a decent looking path and heads out. It leads her to the battle site, and she pats Neve’s arm as she walks by. The next path leads her to a familiar weathered door, and she spitefully kicks it before finding somewhere else to go.
Taash successfully bashes the construct with her hammer, but is taken out by falling debris. Rook isn't sure if it counts as a heroic death or not, but doesn't think people’s posthumous labels really matter. Dead is dead.
She's trying to choose between paths — one leads to the foggy path, one to a maze, and the last ends in the weathered door again — when Varric appears in front of her.
“You've been to all these places, kid. When are you going to try something new?”
She laughs. “When I'm given new options. I don't purposely go to the same places over and over again.”
“You sure?” he asks, raising a brow. “You do know everything comes from you, right? The Fade is just a reflection.”
“I'm too shallow to reflect,” she shrugs, “so it has its work cut out.”
“You're not as shallow as you think. There's plenty for this place to use, and it'll take everything it can get.”
Rook chooses the maze path, and Varric follows. “I thought Solas ran the place?”
“He may have created it, but he's just as much a prisoner as you.”
“At least I got out once,” she grumbles. “Bet I could do it again, too.”
“You know what you have to do,” Varric points out, tilting his head towards the weathered door they are walking away from.
“So yes, I could do it again. If I wanted.”
“Whenever you're ready.”
Sighing, she leans against one of the walls. “Varric?”
“Yeah kid?”
“Are you-?” She pauses, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “Are you the one Solas used-?”
“You really want to know?”
“I need someone to be honest with me for once.”
“No,” he answers eventually. “I'm not a blood magic inspired figment of your imagination.”
“Oh. That's good.”
He leans against the wall opposite her. “Not going to ask what I am?”
“I'm not ready for that much honesty.”
He laughs. “Fair enough.”
“What should I-”
Varric's head turns to the left so abruptly that Rook thought he'd been punched. Eyes narrowing, he takes a step from the wall before turning back to her. “You need to go.”
“Go where? I-”
“Chuckles is being an idiot again.”
“Maker blessed-” she cuts herself off. Rubbing her temples, she takes a deep breath before smiling grimly. “If he's torn his stitches out, I swear-.”
“He’s doing worse than that,” Varric says absently, eyes unfocused. “You'll want to hurry.”
Then he is gone.
The maze dismantles itself around her before reforming into a straight path. Rook jogs down it, still wary but willing to trust that the prison wants her to keep Solas alive.
She’s expecting the trail of blood leading away from where they've been camping — she fucking knew he'd get the stitches — and also isn't surprised when she gets to the altar and finds him determinedly writing in blood again. This time around the markings glow a vibrant blue, flickering with every ragged breath he draws, and he's collapsed against the altar by the time she gets there.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” She yells, dashing back to grab her pack before heading for him.
He tries to write faster, but the blood on his fingers is drying and his shaky hands can't paint fast enough.
“Solas!”
He doesn't stop until she forcibly grabs his hands and yanks them down. Then he limply collapses against her with a resigned sigh. “Ir abelas.”
Her front is immediately covered in blood. “I don't know what the fuck you're trying to do, but there are less messy ways to kill yourself.”
Chuckling half-heartedly, he leans away — blearily smiling at her with a warmth she hasn't seen since before his first betrayal — before his eyes roll back and he faints.
The blue symbols don't fade. To her horror, the blood streaming from his wound also begins to glow and get sucked towards the altar.
“Fuck! Stop it!” She cries, clamping a hand over the wound and trying to pull him off the ground. He might as well be a dead bronto, as impossible as it was to shift him. As hard as she yanks him away, a stronger force inexorably drags him closer. “Maker bless it! Solas! Wake up!”
His only response is a gurgly exhale.
“That doesn't sound good,” Varric comments. He shrugs when he turns to glare incredulously at him. “He's well and truly unconscious, kid. Can't keep me away now.”
“Not a good sign,” she mutters, giving up on her attempt to move Solas' body and instead goes after his wound.
His bandages were partially unwrapped and then pulled down to give him access to the wound. The stitches were torn with what appeared to have been a rock. There are bits of rock of dirt jammed into the reopened portion of the wound, in any case.
Cursing under her breath, Rook pours water onto his side and dabs at the detritus with the end of a bandage. The blood flows heavier as she clears the path, and she hurriedly presses the bandage to the wound. Lines of blue form underneath until it begins to slither free in worm-like trails from the bottom and top.
“Definitely not good,” she says. She can hear the nerves in her voice, and hates that Solas is the cause. “Fucking asshole. Just has to make a mess of everything.”
Rummaging through her pack, she pulls out a healing potion and jostles Solas. “Hey, wake up.”
His eyes roll behind his eyelids, but there is no other response. She shakes him again, harder, but still no reaction. Her hands shake as she dribbles the potion into his mouth a little at a time, waiting for him to swallow before giving him more.
It doesn't seem to have any effect, however, as the blood continues to feed the runes. “Fuck!”
“I have an idea, if you'd like to hear it?” Varric says, ever so casually. “You're welcome to yell fuck a couple more times, though, if it makes you feel better.
“Is this really the time, Varric?” She growls. “Tell me what to do, and I'll fucking do it.”
“Pretty big promise, kid, when you don't know what you're agreeing to.” When her only response is a glare, he continues. “Cover the runes with your blood.”
“What?! Why would I do that?!” She yells. “I'm not suicidal!”
“You aren't a mage,” he points out calmly, “and there isn't a mage to direct your blood to do anything. The goal is to essentially erase what he's done.”
“And what if whatever he has going on is able to latch onto me without any nudging? What if it drains me dry once it's done with him?”
“Got any other bright ideas? He's dying.”
Rook glances at her unconscious patient, disturbed by his clammy pallor and purple lips. “I don't want to die, Varric. I really, really don't.”
“I don't want you to die either, kid, and I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think there was a chance it'd work.”
“Can't I just rub dirt on it?”
He gestures towards the altar. Setting Solas down, she shuffles through the bloody mud until she's close enough to reach. Taking a deep breath, she grabs a handful of muck and swipes at the runes. The blue glows through as though there was nothing. She tries again and again before giving up.
Varric sighs at her dejected face. “I don't know what else to tell you.”
Shuffling back through the mud, she wipes her hands on Solas' shirt before pulling an eating knife from her pack. “I really hope this works.”
“So do I.”
“Very comforting,” she grumbles as she moves back to the altar. Grimacing, she cuts the palm of her hand and attempts to smudge the runes. At first nothing happens — the first layer is the muck she forgot to wipe off, she realizes part way through — before her hand is suddenly stuck in place.
Fighting her rising panic, she grabs her wrist and starts pulling it to the side. It requires a lot of effort — she can feel sweat trickling down her back even as it slides down from her forehead to burn her eyes — but every inch she's able to move leaves behind a muted purple mark that slowly disrupts the runes.
A sudden burst of energy sends her flying head over heels, before she lands face first in dry dirt. Wearily lifting her head, she looks back at the altar to find it completely shattered. “Good riddance.”
“That's an understatement,” Varric chuckles. He ignores her scowl to kick at something on the ground. “Seems Chuckles was trying to find this.”
Groaning, she sits up and examines her hand. Her palm is covered by a purple splotch with blue and red lines trailing down her fingers and wrist. “I’ve never liked tattoos.”
“I've seen worse. Isabela has a-”
Rook cuts him off. “I know, she showed us. Unprompted.”
“Of course she did.”
“Alright, I'm ready to see whatever it is he summoned,” she sighs after a moment. “Pretty sure I already know, but I guess I'm ready for it to be reality.”
Varric picks up the dagger and hands it to her. “What else would it be?”
“Fucking idiot.”
“Yup.”
Sighing again, she tosses it to the side and turns to Solas. “He's not dead yet, right?”
“Haven't noticed a cataclysm yet.”
“Hooray,” she mutters. Peeling the blood soaked bandage free, she grimaces at the still sullenly bleeding wound. “Why couldn't this have just healed like my hand?”
“And deny you the chance to complain?”
“I have more than enough to complain about as it is. A lifetime's worth. At least half of it is his fault.”
“That's being very generous.”
Grunting, she grabs the healing potion again. Once she's given him what she considers a reasonable amount, Rook lays him back down and grabs her needle. Stitching him up is faster this time. Even though there's more blood, the wound is still partially closed from her previous work and she is able to follow that. Wound closed, she slathers on a generous amount of ointment and then wraps everything in the bandages she'd made not that long ago.
“He better be fucking grateful. I know he won't be, the suicidal ass, but he should.”
“Couldn't agree more,” Varric answers, standing by the dagger. “What are we doing with this?”
Wordlessly grabbing it, she strides to the edge and throws the dagger as far as she can. She turns back to Varric's carefully not judgemental face before returning to Solas.
Dragging him out of the bloody mud and back to their camp, she removes his ruined shirt and tosses it to the side. “I'm not cleaning that.”
“Fair enough.”
Rook does take the time to pour more of her precious water — she will not wonder why her canteen never empties — onto his chest to rinse off some of the muck before sliding his limp body into his bedroll. “That's that.”
“Thank you,” Varric says quietly from his perch on the remains of a nearby wall.
“Why are you thanking me? I’d gladly let him die if-”
“You wouldn't, though. You're not that sort of person.”
Her lips purse. “I wish I was.”
“No you don't.”
“Can we be done talking about this?” She whines, rubbing her aching head. “I'd like to try sleeping again. See if this time it actually helps.”
“I know he's done terrible things, kid, but Solas is my friend. I'm glad you're here for him.”
She grimaces. “Don't say that. He killed you. He killed Harding and Neve and-”
“I know.”
“How can you just forgive him?”
“It wasn't easy,” Varric sighs. “I've had time to process everything, though. You haven't had that luxury.”
“I haven't had time for shit, but I don't think any amount of time will be enough for me to forgive him.”
There is a lull in their conversation as Rook angrily tidies the camp and shoves things back into her pack. Varric is silent for so long that she gives up ignoring him to glance up and make sure he hasn't vanished. He's watching Solas contemplatively.
“Did I ever tell you about the time we all went into the Fade?”
“I thought only the Inquisitor did that?”
Varric chuckles mirthlessly. “That's what they decided to tell everyone. The Inquisitor thought it would weaken his claim if people found out he wasn't the only one to walk the Fade and survive.”
“Oh.”
“I won't torture you with the full retelling now, but the important part is that we were trapped inside the realm of a nightmare demon.” He pauses, a far away look in his eyes before refocusing on her. “It was pretty terrible, kid, I'll tell you that.”
“What happened?”
“The place was full of people's fears. Everywhere you looked someone was trapped in their personal worst nightmares. Cole told me later we could have helped some of them, but the Inquisitor passed by like they weren't even there,” he sighs, “and we had to keep up. We only stopped once.”
He pauses long enough, far away again, that Rook can't keep from prodding him. “What happened?”
“There was a graveyard. Each of the tombstones was for one of us. Our greatest fear was engraved on them, for everyone to see,” he chuckles softly. “I was accused of being nosy when I read them.”
“They shouldn't have expected anything else from you.”
He laughs. “Sad, but true.”
“So what's the point of this story?”
“Everyone's fear was about what you would expect, if you knew them.”
“What was yours?”
“See, that's why I like you. You're just as nosy as I am.” She sticks her tongue out at him and he laughs again. “It said I was afraid of becoming my parents. Seems simple enough, with my childhood, but I'm not sure I agree.”
“What do you think your greatest fear is, then?”
“Very nosy,” he chides teasingly. “I'm not telling this story for me, though.”
“Coward,” she teases back. “Go ahead and tell me about Solas, I guess. I don't see why else you'd bring this up.”
Varric pauses to look down on Solas' still form before meeting her gaze. “It said he was afraid of dying alone.”
She scoffs. “He seems fine with it now.”
“He's not alone, though.”
Rolling her eyes, Rook gets to her feet and kicks a rock towards the void. “I'm nothing to him. Just an annoying bug to squish on his way to destroy the world.”
Varric shrugs. “He was happy enough to see you not too long ago.”
“That's because I was there to clean up his mess, and he knew it,” she gripes as she paces. “That's all the good I am to him. Just another pawn to be used and discarded.”
“You're more than that.”
“Am I? To whom? Everyone uses me, even you,” she accuses. “I'm nothing if I'm not being useful.”
“That's harsh, kid.”
Sighing in frustration, she tugs on her hair before meeting his gaze. “I don't mean that. You're the only real friend I've ever had, and I think you've gone above and beyond anything anyone could've expected from you at this point.”
“Stop, I'm blushing.”
She pauses to stare down at Solas. His skin is still clammy and pale, but his breathing is more even and his expression is peaceful. “If he weren't such a coward, he could have you, too.”
“I think he'd wallow even more, honestly.”
“That's because he's an idiot.”
Varric sighs. “You're not wrong.”
She copies his sigh. “Well, guess I'm stuck with him for the foreseeable future.”
“You mean he's stuck with you.”
Rook sticks her tongue out at him. “A fate worse than dying alone, I'm sure.”