Work Text:
He had done everything in his power to keep her safe.
On the battlefield, he was never more than a step away, his daggers slicing through anyone foolish enough to get too close to her. When shadows weren’t enough, his violet wings folded around her like a shield, barring her from her enemies' sight.
The night before every new adventure, he’d slip extra potions into her satchel, tucking them between maps and rations, ensuring she’d never be caught without a spare.
And each time she approached an Eluvian, he pressed a kiss to her forehead — his own personal ward against whatever awaited her on the other side.
But in hindsight, every effort felt meaningless. Every precaution was just another failure added to the weight on his back.
Because now, her warmth is gone — devoured by something ancient and cruel.
Now, her bright eyes bleed crimson, and the color in her cheeks morphs into twisting black veins — curling like dead branches underneath her skin.
Now, his sweet Rook is blighted.
He replayed the events in his mind hundreds of times — searching, grasping for what he could have done differently, trying to pinpoint each and every mistake.
He should have focused on the darkspawn instead of the Venatori. Maybe then, she wouldn’t have been so overwhelmed — wouldn’t have been caught in their swarm, helpless against their pull, like moths to the brilliance of her flame.
He should have been faster, stronger. He should have cut them down before they could even raise a claw against her. Before they could infect her blood with a poison far more foul than anything he’s ever concocted.
He should have thrown himself in front of her — taken every blow in her stead. Because maybe then, it would be his mind unraveling beneath the whispers of the Calling instead of hers.
She had too much to live for — too many dreams still waiting to take flight.
And now, they never will. Now, they lie dormant, trapped underneath black tendrils, their wings clipped before they ever had the chance to reach the stars.
For the first time in his life, Lucanis Dellamorte feels utterly powerless.
The Blight isn’t something he can kill with a blade. He could slay a thousand darkspawn, spill the blood of every being who had the misfortune of being labeled as Rook’s adversary, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
He could draw upon Spite’s abilities and pull just about anything from the Fade — anything but a cure.
He could spend every coin he has as Antiva’s most coveted assassin, hire the most skilled healers in all of Thedas, but the only thing they could offer is borrowed time.
She's blighted.
And he has no power to stop it.
So he does something he hasn’t done since he was a boy. He falls to his knees, slamming his hands into the dirt, and he pleads. Pleads to something, to someone, outside of himself, because his own will is no longer enough.
He recites words that feel foreign yet familiar — like a language he hasn’t spoken in years.
“Light, to the broken.”
He sees Rook, her arms around him the night he learned of Illario’s betrayal, holding his broken pieces together before he could fall apart.
“Peace, to the restless.”
He imagines the way she kissed him to sleep, how the warmth of her lips followed him even into his dreams.
“Hands, to mend what is torn.”
He remembers all the times Rook smoothed poultice over his wounds, treating him with such fragile care — as if he wasn’t a man covered in scars. As if he was something precious she needed to protect.
"Let the dark be swept away. Let the wounds be healed."
He pictures the dark circles beneath her eyes fading, her exhaustion lifting like mist at dawn.
"Through the light, strength is returned."
He imagines her laughing, the sound spilling into every crevice of his mind like sunlight.
"Let the soul be made whole once more."
He imagines waking up in Rook's arms tomorrow — the woman he loves more than the very breath in his lungs — healthy once more.