Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first few days following his collapse were purposely orchestrated by his team to be uneventful for him. Neve took over coordinating their people and the movements of various factions as they undertook reclamation and restoration of Minrathous. She allowed Rook to sit in on one—and only one—meeting between Dorian Pavus, Maevaris Tilani, and the Shadow Dragons just so he could be assured people with exponentially more experience than him had things neatly in hand. He couldn’t really argue her point after that.

Ultimately, it meant Rook was more or less sequestered in the Lighthouse, which would have been unbearable if it weren’t for Lucanis and Spite.

“Are you sure the Crows won’t need their First Talon on scene? There aren’t, I don’t know, people you need to check in with?”

Lucanis chuckled. “Caterina has everything under control. Besides, with both the Dragon King and Ivenci dead, Treviso has fewer troubles to deal with for the first time in years.”

“I guess both of us aren’t as essential as we first thought.”

“Rook is essential to us,” said Spite.

Rook didn’t think he’d ever tire of hearing that, honestly.

“Up for a card game?”

“Yes!”  

Over the next few days, Rook taught Spite a few classic card games like Mabari Spit, Ratslap, and Nevarran Whist. Lucanis, as promised, taught Spite how to play Wicked Grace and then also introduced an Antivan classic called Truco. Rook delighted the demon in revealing a game called Spite and Malice.

Then he taught Spite how to cheat.

Lucanis’s eyebrows arched. “You didn’t tell me you were a card sharp.”

He grinned. “How do you think I came by my name? Varric was delighted.”

A shadow crossed his heart and a sense of strangeness, but was then driven away by the competitive gleam in Lucanis’s eyes.

“You do realize that I spent my formative years in the rafters of a casino?”

Rook shuffled the deck artfully. “Show me what you’ve got.”

After a few games, Rook threw down his hand so he could pull Lucanis out of his seat and kiss him senseless.

Missives still turned up regularly on the small side table in the library. Since Rook’s room was considerably closer to the table than Neve’s, he often got to them before she did. When she caught up with him, she didn’t hesitate to snatch them out of his hands so he’d learned to read them quickly.

“The least I can do is help with correspondence,” he pleaded.

Neve was unmoved. “No offense, Rook, but I have a well-organized system for tracking requests and it’s not something I have time to teach you.”

“You have to let me help with something. I can’t just sit here kicking my heels all day while everyone else is out there actually doing something to make a difference.”

Her mouth pulled to one side, sympathetic. “Listen. I understand this is a huge change of pace for you. You literally haven’t stopped fighting from the moment you walked into that bar with Varric to look for me. You’ve been at the front of every fight and the head of every strategy meeting. You were the first person to step into the Crossroads and faced every spirit and demon of the past without flinching. But, Rook, you have to realize that you are the reason we’re able to take on this massive project on our own. You got us here. You pulled us together, supported us, and connected us. So, for once in your life, relax and lets us work.”

Defeated for the moment, Rook slunk back to the dining hall where he was met with the scent of cooking meat and vegetables. He spied a bowl of cut fruit and a jar of olives on the table.

“That smells fantastic. What are you making?”

“Lamb kebabs,” Lucanis answered. “I thought they would be easy to put together for midday. I’m thinking of fish for dinner, but I want to browse the market before I decide. I should have gone this morning. The best fish are always sold early.”

Rook observed him, and the kitchen surrounding him, for a moment and then said, “You’re going stir-crazy, too, aren’t you?”

Lucanis frowned. “No. I’m just planning for dinner.”

“You made a dozen jars of blackberry jam yesterday. If I’m not mistaken, that bowl contains rising bread dough. I do know that basket of tomatoes is going to be used for pasta sauce.”

Lucanis slanted a look at him. “Am I hearing complaints from you?”

“No, no. Definitely not,” he said quickly. “I was just…pointing out how many projects you’ve planned to fill your time.”

“I think,” Lucanis said, “you will be thanking me later for all my ‘projects.’”

Rook stepped one pace closer. “What if I started thanking you now?”

Lucanis’s slow smile preceded a velvety tone, a combination which Rook had no defense against. “Then you better come a little closer.”

The kebabs didn’t burn, only because Lucanis had a sense of timing that couldn’t be thwarted. Not even by a trade of heated kisses against the counter.

Not yet, anyway.

Both Rook and Lucanis were seated at the library’s table, pouring over some reports sent by the Crows—and Spite, so far that Rook could tell, was paging through a tome of folktales with Lucanis’s help—when Neve joined them.

“What’s got you two giggling like a pair of gossiping aunties?” she asked, taking a seat opposite of them.

Rook indicated the letter he held. “Just some minor drama in one of the Crow Houses.”

It had taken some practice to grasp the language used in Crow correspondence, especially when it was penned by one of the Talons. It wasn’t in code, per se, but some of the phrases were certainly coded for discretion.

“Do tell.”

“Oh, you know, stolen poison vials, someone else’s misplaced knickers, and a bet. Not sure if they really won or lost in the end.”

“Sounds like one of Dock Town’s serials,” she said.

“I beg your pardon. Crow business is always serious,” Lucanis said.

“Even deadly on occasion,” she smirked.

“Can I get you some coffee, Neve?” he asked, gesturing to the pot sitting on a spelled warming plate at the end of the table. There was an extra cup beside it; Rook had abstained with the hope of getting better sleep tonight.

“Please. You know I won’t turn down that offer.”

Lucanis stood and poured a cup of a blend he was trying out—a little less potent but a more complex flavor.

Neve hummed in appreciation. “Oh, that’s good.”

“Because I make actual coffee,” he chuckled.

Neve sat back in her chair and crossed one leg over her knee. “Hey, now. Coffee is coffee, and mine gets the job done just as well as yours.”

“Neve,” Lucanis returned to his chair, “I don’t know why you insist on hurting me this way.”

“It’s to keep you humble, you spoiled thing.”

Lucanis huffed a laugh, and then looked beside him to the empty chair. He reached out and turned a page. “Read your story and never mind. …Fine, I’ll read it to you later.”

Neve sipped her coffee. “How’s that going?”

Lucanis picked up his own cup. “You know, honestly, Spite likes poetry.”

“Really.”

“He prefers Nevarran and Fereldan poets.”

“They’re…basically opposites in style and subject.”

“I know.”

“Nevarran poetry is dramatic and full of metaphors, and Fereldan is…pastoral.”

“I know.”

Spite slipped in to contribute, “Rook reads them the best.”

 Rook laughed. “That’s because Lucanis doesn’t like poetry.”

Neve’s smile deepened. “Is that so? No other reason?”

Lucanis made a face. “A lot of popular Antivan poetry isn’t to my taste. I never found it as interesting as my cousin did. He would copy a stanza into his letters to people he flirted with.”

“Oh!” Neve set down her cup. “That reminds me.” She pulled a letter from her pocket and passed it across the table. “This showed up today. I don’t recognize the name, but it has your surname on it, Rook.”

He reached for it.

Rook should have realized what it was before he laid eyes on it, but the good mood of the evening had disarmed him. It was addressed to Perthan Andarius Mercar. A strange feeling swept through him. His fingers froze in a pinch around the letter. He didn’t want to open it.

“Rook?” A moment later Lucanis’s hand settled on his arm.

He realized what would come next and tried to bolster himself through it.

“It’s my name.”

Neve seemed politely surprised, as if she had already figured that out. “That’s a lot of name.”

“Yeah. Well. My father thought a foundling needed a strong name to be the foundation of his life. Since I had none.”

“Were you young?” she asked, letting more sympathy show in her expression.

“About a year old, yeah. My father was on assignment in Ventus. I was found in the field as they searched for survivors. It’s something that happens from time to time. Unwanted infants are left in hopes the military will raise them in trade for conscription. Or, if he’s really lucky, a high-ranking Legatus will take him in.”

Neve tapped one finger against the side of her cup. “This would have been, what, about thirty years ago? Tensions with the Qunari were at an all-time high. The fighting was constant. Who’s to say an infant would have been spared by either army?”

“I don’t think that mattered much to whoever left me. I wasn’t their responsibility anymore.”

“That’s bullshit. Of course someone was responsible for you—you were a baby.”

Rook finally dropped the letter onto the table. “Easy, Neve. None of this even matters anymore. Obviously, I grew up just fine.”

“And that’s why you had a perfectly normal reaction to a letter written to you by someone who knows you outside of all of this.”

He looked down at the letter. He recognized the penmanship.

“Neve,” Lucanis interjected. “Rook, you don’t have to do this now. Especially not in front of us.”

His mouth tugged sideways. “Honestly, you two being here is the only reason I haven’t tossed this into the fireplace.”

Neve made a tiny, aggrieved sound. “You’re killing me. Rook, you know I love you and you know I will entirely respect your right to privacy. However, you cannot simply say something so enticing to my detective brain and expect me to leave it alone.”

Surprisingly, it was exactly the combination of her open demeanor and her vocalized respect that made the supports of decades-old walls fall away. She wasn’t Dock Town’s best for no reason, he thought ruefully.

“What’s your first question?”

“Your father’s name, please.”

“Cato Petrus Mercar.”

She made a thoughtful sound and sipped her coffee. “His name popped up in a conversation between Dorian and Mae. They thought he could be an influential ally.”

“Probably,” he demurred.

To Lucanis, she explained, “Cato is rumored to have both the favor of the Imperator and sympathies for reform.”

“Ah.”

“If your next question is to ask me if I can introduce Dorian to him, the answer is no.”

Neve waved her hand. “I doubt that Dorian Pavus needs any help with establishing lines of communication. He can talk his way into any room he wants. So, you bucked against the Mercar military tradition to join the Shadow Dragons. I can imagine what that was like.”

“Yeah. I didn’t win any favors there.” Rook tapped the corner of the sealed paper idly. “Cato has three other sons, all at least a decade older than me, all with successful military careers. I haven’t seen or spoken to any of them since the day I left their estate for the last time. Can’t imagine why he would have written to me.”

“You’ve never received anything from your mother?” Lucanis asked.

Rook shook his head. “Sabina supported Cato in all his decisions. She knew I had magic before anyone else, but she didn’t say a word when Cato enrolled me into a Soporati military academy when I was ten. To teach me discipline and respect for authority and tradition, he said. I couldn’t hide it for long. They just moved me to a different type of academy. A few years there… I made the decision to seek the Shadows at seventeen. I was meant to stay on and curry favor with the Adepti.” He breathed a laugh. “But I didn’t have the aptitude to be a spy.”

“What happened?”

“If you’re talented enough they start assessing you in small ways. The final test is a field survival scenario. It’s designed to force you into making a critical decision. Either you use the blood slave trapped with you to break out—and are commended for making strategic wartime decisions—or you both outlast and you’re commended with recovering important resources. One gets you in their circle of trust and the other gets you relegated to their legion of subordinates.”

“So, what did you do?” Neve asked.

He grinned hollowly. “I failed in unprecedented fashion. I smashed the phylactery, passed the slave off to a waiting Shadow agent through a secret exit we’d prepared in advance, and waited for the proctor to return. They couldn’t officially charge me with anything, since their missing person was undocumented, but that was my last day in the academy. I was twenty, then, and I’ve worked for the Shadow Dragons up until a year ago.”

Lucanis poured more coffee for himself. “What happened a year ago?”

Rook glanced at Neve. “The botched Nessus job?” She nodded. “That was me. And that was how Varric found me.” For Lucanis’s benefit, he explained, “I was guarding an Altus visiting the city to investigate a slavery ring. The Venatori didn’t buy his cover and I knew they would move the captives by morning. So, the two of us went rogue, snuck in, and got everyone out. It would have been successful if it had also been discrete. The Venatori named me a Shadow Dragon, so the Shadows had to distance themselves from me.”

“They kicked you out,” Lucanis interrupted with an incredulous edge in his voice, “after you were identified by the Venatori as a Shadow Dragon? Did they want you to be picked up the Venatori and tortured for information?”

“I just had to get out of the city,” Rook said. “I could have gone to any number of cities and stayed in one of our safe houses. Anyway, it didn’t matter in the end. Varric found me three days later. The hunt for Solas kept us moving and out of the sight of Venatori.”

“That was such a stupid gamble,” Neve muttered. “They risked your life and the lives of everyone you knew. Who gave you the order?”

“Neve,” Rook said, “it doesn’t matter anymore. The Shadow Dragons, Minrathous, nothing is the same as it was a year ago.”

“Of course it matters. You matter.”

He held up open palms. “All right. I think we’ve gotten a little off-track. The point is: no, I don’t have a relationship with my family and I’m not sure I want to open this letter.”

“I’m sorry, Rook,” she said, looking genuinely remorseful. “Poking old wounds still hurts, and I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you.”

“No harm done, I promise. I’m…glad someone else knows. A burden halved, or however it goes.”

Lucanis placed a hand over Rook’s. “You’re not alone.”

Rook splayed his fingers so they laced together. “Thanks. You’d think I would remember that once in a while, but habits die hard.”

“So,” Neve stared at the address on the front of the envelope. “Should we be calling you ‘Perthan’ now? Just checking.”

Rook groaned. “Please, no. I don’t know if anyone ever called me that. I was Andarius in school, but just Andari to my parents. The Shadows know me as Perth. And now…Varric gave me Rook. I don’t think I want to give that up.”

“And you don’t have to,” she assured him.

Rook drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Okay,” he picked up the letter, “I think this is going to sit in my room for a while until I decide what to do with it.”

Neve reached across the table and squeezed his forearm. “If you ever need to talk about it, you know my door is always open.”

“I’ll let you know.”

With a soft smile, she let go and stood up from her chair. “I guess I should get back to my reports. Thanks again for the coffee, Lucanis.”

“I would say any time, but then you would just take my beans for granted,” he lamented.

She laughed. “Have a good night, fellas.”

The letter was put away in a side table drawer inside the meditation room. Rook didn’t plan on looking at it again any time soon.

In the bedroom, as he unwound Rook’s sash, Lucanis asked, “Would you mind if I said your name out loud right now?”

“Not the whole name.”

Lucanis nodded. “Just Perth.” He glanced up and his eyes squinted in a silent laugh at whatever expression was on Rook’s face. “Is it strange?”

“A little.”

“Maybe we could practice it.”

“I don’t think I know who ‘Perth’ is anymore.”

Lucanis dropped the sash on the bed. “You are who you are; ‘Rook’ just allowed you to be that freely. Tell me honestly, before I go any further, does ‘Perth’ feel like a shackle?”

“Not when you say it,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.”

Lucanis’s hands parted the halves of Rook’s shirt and slipped around his bare waist. “It’s a softer name.”

“My father preferred Andarius—or Andari if he was feeling sentimental. He named me after his brother, who was killed a year prior. Darius was an exemplary Legatus of a different division.”

“So the comparison was inherent and constant.”

“Got used to it quickly. Cato had three older sons, remember.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you matter, too, Perth.”

It still felt weird, and a little bit good, his name on Lucanis’s tongue. He put his hands on Lucanis’s shoulders. “Maybe it can stay between us—my name. I still…”

“Rook is important to you.”

He leaned closer. “Yeah.”

Lucanis lowered his voice. “Whatever you want, Perth.”

A pleasant tingle swept up his back. “Closer…”

Lucanis’s kiss was gentle, savoring. It gave Rook the necessary moment to focus all of his attention on them, the man he loved, the kisses and hands which he offered so readily. Like Rook was the source of all his joy, and Rook was trying not to let that feel like a responsibility to carry. It would take time and practice and then someday there wouldn’t be the kick of fear at the bottom of his heart each time he said I love you.

Later, Rook woke with a start and a pounding heartbeat. Lucanis was fast asleep in his arms, as he had the last few nights. The fireplace, burnt down to embers, glowed softly against distant starlight above. It should have been nothing to fall back asleep, yet Rook was wide awake. Last night, it had taken him two hours of impatient staring at the ceiling to feel tired again.

Tonight, Spite unfolded his wings and stretched the nearest one to completely cover Rook’s side. “Sleep, Rook.”

 “If only it were that easy.”

“Your heart is very quick. Scared.”

 “A little. Just a bad dream.”

“And last night. And the night before.”

 “Yeah. I was hoping I’d sleep better tonight.”

This one hadn’t been as bad as the previous night, which really wasn’t all that bad compared to everything else. He hadn’t yet managed to wake Lucanis and this was the first that Spite had actually come out to investigate.

“No coffee. Lovemaking.”

 “It was worth a shot.”

Spite pressed a hand to Rook’s side. “You haven’t told Lucanis.”

 “Neither have you, it would seem.”

“You dream of falling and gray, hopeless stone.”

 “That’s the one. I always wake up right before I hit the bottom.”

Spite lifted himself off Rook’s chest so he could look at him, face set earnestly as he asked, “How do I help?”

 “I guess…this. Talking. Not being alone.”

“This.” Spite wrapped his arms around Rook’s middle and lay back down on top of him to give a good squeeze.

“Yeah,” Rook laughed softly, “that works too.” He couldn’t resist looping his arms around and giving a small squeeze back. He let go, running one palm over the back of Lucanis’s head.

Spite sighed, the sound of it somewhere between satisfaction and disappointment. “Emotions are so difficult. Much easier to stab things.”

 “I heartily agree.” He scratched his fingertips through the dark hair beneath his hand. “Say, Spite, what do you think of names? You were once called Determination. What is it like to be called something different now?”

“Hm. Determination is no longer. Only Spite now.”

 “I suppose names work a bit differently among spirits. You are your name; your name is who you are.”

“Rook is Rook. I don’t know any others.”

 “Mortals can have many names, as well as monikers and titles.”

“The Demon of Vyrantium.”

“Right. Among mortals, names can change, too. Sometimes permanently, sometimes temporarily. Some are used as masks. Some are meant for respect or affection. Some mortals change their names to escape pain, and some change to embrace joy.”

“So complicated,” Spite sighed.

“It can be, yes.”

“What is Perth? What is Rook?”

 “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, too.” He took a deep breath, lifting Spite and Lucanis, and sighed. “Perth had a family, and then he didn’t. Joined a new family and lost that one, too. Rook didn’t have a family, but he had a friend for a time. Then, somewhere and somehow, Rook got a family anyway and…most of them are still here.”

Spite was quiet, long enough that Rook wasn’t certain the demon had fully understood. Then—

“Perth is Longing. Rook is Belonging.”

 It felt like taking an arrow to the lung, a punch of impact and the strangling lack of breath. “What?”

“He keeps the only name his family refused to call. Buries it in the city, remains of the discarded, when told to leave.”

 Rook held his breath, trying to hear Spite’s soft words over the drumming sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

“He is a card trick and clever smile. Given friend, given purpose. Given all the things once taken. He must keep a loose hand so when the cord rips he is not torn. But a fast grip is all he knows.”

 “Spite, please.”

“A desperate fist is hard to trust.”

 Rook’s hands moved to Spite’s shoulders, ready to push him away. “Spite.”

“He only needs to trust that he already belongs.”

 Whatever was happening in his chest felt a lot like panic, and the worst kind of shredding pain. He expected blood to pour from his chest but there were only tears pushing from the corners of his eyes.

Spite lifted his head, alarmed. “No, Rook.” He reached for one of Rook’s hands, lifting it from his shoulder to cradle it against his cheek. “Not a sad thing.”

 But Rook couldn’t speak through the tears, coming faster and harder than they had that time a few nights ago.

Spite’s expression tightened with distress. “I will wake Lucanis.”

 Rook gripped his shoulder tighter. “No,” he managed, “It’s all right. You—you belong, too, Spite.”

The plaintive yearning in his face prompted a new rush of tears as Rook pulled him up, closer, and they embraced with the fervor of claiming and being claimed. When they had calmed, eyes not so wet, Rook rubbed his hand soothingly up and down Spite and Lucanis’s back beneath the misty wings.

“I think,” he said, voice creaky, “I needed to hear someone say it.”

Spite made a wordless noise, low, perhaps his own attempt at comfort.

“Sorry,” Rook chuckled. “Past this week, I couldn’t tell you the last time I cried and I’ve done it twice now in just a few nights.”

“Emotions are difficult,” Spite reassured him.

He gave a watery laugh. “How about you, are you feeling all right?”

Spite leaned up on his elbows so he could look at Rook more directly. His eyes seemed damp, lashes wet, but he appeared otherwise composed. Spite made a contemplative sound and reached out a hand to wipe the tracks from Rook’s cheeks. He did it gently, with a focused sort of care that seemed half-fascinated with the task.

“I feel the most with you, Rook.”

 He fell silent under Spite’s attention, observing the tiny differences in expression between Lucanis and Spite. How they animated their faces, where they held tension. It occurred to Rook that the two of them haven’t interacted physically much and those instances had been emotionally fraught. This was Spite’s first chance to touch independently, to meet Rook under his own power. That he chose to explore the contours of Rook’s face with careful fingertips spoke to the simplicity of his needs and his desire for connection.

Rook allowed himself to enjoy it. All Spite really wanted was to take care of him. Who would have known a demon of Spite was capable of that? Rook had a feeling that learning this unique dynamic fully would take time, but he didn’t think they were off to a bad start.

Spite moved to his hair and spent a long time combing his fingers through it. He had the satisfied look of someone finally achieving a lifelong goal. Rook let his eyes fall shut as the repetitive motion nearly put him to sleep.

“Rook.”

He hummed.

“You have to talk to Lucanis.”

“Now?”

A pause. Another stroke of fingers. “No. Sleep now.”

Rook slept through dawn and even an hour past. When he opened his eyes Lucanis was reading a book beside him and the aroma of fresh coffee lingered in the air. Without looking up from his page, Lucanis found Rook’s hand and placed it on his stomach, holding it beneath his own hand.

Rolling toward him, Rook kissed his arm and closed his eyes again.

A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

The loud snap and crackle of the fireplace behind him alerted Rook to the quiet suffusing the library around him. He lifted his gaze from Antoine’s latest letter detailing Flynn’s preliminary findings on Blight victims—Blight was dying off within its victim at rates seemingly consistent and proportional to the distance from the Archon’s Palace; newly Blighted people in Minrathous now had virtually no evidence of the affliction—and Rook noticed he was alone. He vaguely recalled Lucanis bestowing a parting kiss to the top of his head—had he gone to the dining hall? Rook set the letter on the table as he recalled Emmrich and Taash were both out, as was Neve and Bellara. Davrin, he thought, was visiting.

Standing, Rook walked around the table and stood in the center of the room. He was alone in an empty Lighthouse. Rook moved toward the left-hand staircase. He could just see the corner of the infirmary’s entryway at the center of the landing as he ascended the stairs slowly. The only sound beyond his footsteps was the low hum of the arcane astrolabe turning above. Halfway to the top he asked himself, how clearly did he remember Lucanis leaving the library?

He didn’t hesitate at the top, crossing toward the center, and faced the infirmary’s open doorway. He could see the bed he had slept on and the chair Lucanis had used beside it. He asked himself, what if he had fallen asleep at the table and slipped into a pocket of the Fade in his dreams?

He proceeded down the short hall and walked up to the threshold.

What if all of this was real, and he was awake, and he turned a few degrees to the right and looked and he saw—what if he saw—and what if it didn’t matter that he had faced it—what if it was still in him, working through his mind, and he would always be able to see…

Rook stepped forward and turned toward it.

The bed—Varric’s bed—was empty.

His racing heart skipped a beat. The crash of relief brought him to the floor. Once there, once again facing the reality of Varric’s death, nausea filled his stomach. He couldn’t catch his breath and, damningly, tears once again flooded his vision.

Tears are wasted energy, a memory spoke. If you have a problem, get up and do something about it.

 What was he meant to do about this?

His friend was dead. Had been for so many months. To Rook, it had been less than a week. All that time spent here, at his bedside, seeking help, needing the reassurance that he could do this—despite all past evidence that told him he had no business making these kinds of decisions. Varric had believed in him and Rook had held onto that so tightly that it hadn’t required any effort on Solas’s part to deceive him.

Now, here he was again to seek assurances that—that Varric really was gone. Totally gone.

“Rook.” A hand touched his shoulder.

He startled, creating a hiccup of silence, and he realized he’d been sobbing.

Lucanis eased down onto the floor before him. His hand moved to cup the side of Rook’s face, thumb stroking away tears. His softened eyes bore a similar grief. “Oh, Rook…”

“I—I had to be sure.” He gasped in a breath. “Sure he wasn’t here.”

Lucanis’s gentle frown was concern and question all in one.

Rook shook his head. “He’s not here anymore. He never was here.”

“Come. Come here.”

Lucanis pulled him into an embrace, and Rook let himself rest within it. He closed his aching eyes and breathed in Lucanis’s familiar scent, a bit of Treviso-styled fragrance applied to his skin, made warm with the ever-present note of roasted coffee beans. Not a moment later, he felt the blanketing effect of Spite’s presence at his back.

Weathering the effects of the simultaneous shock and closure was easier from within the circle of Lucanis’s and Spite’s support. Once his body had tired itself out, he could think with less pain.

“It’s over. Whatever Solas did to me, I think it ended when I bound him to the Veil.”

“Good…that’s good.” Lucanis’s voice held an undercurrent of Spite’s rougher tone. They both seemed to shudder. “It’s a relief to both of us. Using blood magic in battle like Elgar’nan did is one thing, but wielding it as Solas did, to change you, is… It is hard to bear knowing that even now you suffered from its effects.”

Rook hugged his arms around him. “I have my answer now. It helps. It will help. Since I doubt my nightmares will disappear any time soon.”

“You’ve been having nightmares?”

Rook realized what he said and winced. He sat up to face Lucanis properly. “I have. It’s all right, though. Spite kept me company last night.”

“I didn’t know.”

The softly troubled expression sent an unexpected pang through Rook’s chest. “I should have told you earlier—Spite told me to talk to you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m glad Spite was able to help and you know… I wouldn’t mind if you woke me.”

“Lucanis… You just started sleeping through the night. I couldn’t—”

“Perth,” he interrupted. “Wake me next time.” He placed a tease of a kiss to the corner of Rook’s mouth.

Which, of course, Rook had to follow up with a proper kiss. It might be Lucanis knew him enough by now to make him agreeable. It might be that after all the talk about family, he was a little greedy for affection. If they had been on the floor of any room other than the infirmary, Rook might have pushed Lucanis flat and had more than a few kisses.

Instead, Lucanis drew away and then moved onto his feet in a crouch. He reached for Rook’s hands. “Come with me. Davrin is here and he offered us a break with the griffons. I think time away from the Lighthouse and some fresh air would do us both some good.”

Rook let himself be pulled to his feet. “Sounds great.”

Lucanis towed him along with an arm behind his back. “Spite wants to know how much the griffons have grown in the last few weeks.”

“Probably not much, to be honest. I don’t think they grow that quickly.”

“We’ll ask Davrin,” Lucanis said in a placating tone.

Rook smiled. “I want to ride them someday, too, Spite.”

Spending the day in Arlathan with Davrin and the griffons was the perfect solution to getting out of his head. Animals were uncomplicated—even the highly intelligent ones that just wanted to have their own fun. Davrin and Rook goaded Lucanis into letting Spite race them in the air. It was no contest at all—Spite was accustomed to short sprints or dives. One of the juveniles had the slightly perilous idea to pounce on Spite from the air and had taken him to the ground—a giant, winged cat versus an unusual songbird.

No one was harmed and Davrin apologized through bouts of laughter. Spite spat his indignation, swearing to eat the griffons instead. Lucanis’s grumpy expression held out for about thirty minutes and his feet stayed firmly on the ground. In reparation, Rook had to armor up and pose as an opponent for a few rounds of Smack the Enemy.

The best part came after all the exercises-disguised-as-play were over. The juveniles retreated to a sunny hillside for sunbaths. Rook provided himself as a pillow and was subsequently trapped beneath a griffon with storm-blue plumage. Davrin appeared peaceful, eyes closed, hands pillowing the back of his head, even with Assan’s hindlegs and tail slung awkwardly over his torso. Lucanis and Spite even looked comfortable on their stomach with one snowy griffon rubbing her head against the underside of Spite’s wing, apparently all forgiven on that front.

Basking in the radiant heat, Rook closed his eyes with a smile.

The sensation of falling started in his stomach, just for a split second, before it ripped up through his body and left his mouth in a scream. In his head, the fall went on and on. Familiar voices and familiar recriminations echoed around him all the way to the bottom.

Landing on the floor, which happened much faster, expelled the last bit of air from his lungs. One knee and one elbow went hot with the ache of banging them against stone tile. His teeth clacked together unpleasantly, narrowly avoiding biting his cheek. Rook had a hazy second to recognize the floor he lay upon wasn’t entirely what he’d expected before he heard the bedsheets shuffle above him.

“Rook?”

“I’m all right,” he said, without knowing—at all—if he was all right. He sat up with a tiny groan. He looked up into Lucanis’s concerned face, peering over the edge of the mattress. “Guess I woke you up this time.”

Lucanis sighed, expression torn between amusement and consternation. “Need a hand up?”

Rook hauled himself to his feet, using Lucanis as an anchor. As soon as he was up, Lucanis used their hold to pull him onto the bed, and then further guided him to lie on his chest. Rook snuggled in easily, especially when Lucanis’s arm curled around his back.

“Fair warning,” he said, “I don’t think I’ll fall asleep again any time soon.”

“I won’t mind.” Lucanis tucked a piece of Rook’s hair behind his ear. “I can feel how fast your heart is beating. Do you want to talk about it?”

A comfortable, meditative silence fell between them, filled with synchronized breathing and shared body warmth. His heart rate slowed and then the words fell out.

For the first time, Rook explained all of it: Solas taunting him, then hanging on the crumbling edge with the voices of his friends blaming him for everything that had gone wrong, and then the long, sudden fall into the prison. The pale, ruined landscape, broken rock and so many staircases. The staring stone eyes and frozen, carved faces of Neve and Harding. Varric finding him and leading to the truth, the familiar way it hurt like he had already been hurt by it.

“There’s a hand mirror from his shaving kit in the other room,” Rook said. “I remember picking it up, once, right after it all happened and I was sad in a way I couldn’t explain. As time went on, I forgot all about it.” He sighed. “I should have realized. Harding healed from her injuries, but Varric stayed the same. Why would I have ever thought that anyone could survive an injury like that from a lyrium dagger?”

Lucanis soothed a hand down his back. “Isn’t that exactly what Solas’s blood magic prevented? He couldn’t have tailored your mind for the fade prison if you had started noticing evidence of the manipulation. Don’t blame yourself.”

“I guess I just feel a bit like a fool. Knowing I was walking around with the belief Varric was injured but recovering, while everyone around me knew he was dead. I never trusted Solas and despite all my caution he tricked me in a way I can barely comprehend.”

Lucanis took a breath, as if to speak, and then paused. “Hm.”

“What?”

“I was about to say, find me anyone who could outwit an ancient elven trickster god, but then I realized. You did.”

Speechless, Rook’s mouth hung open.

“So, you are being too hard on yourself on two fronts. First, like I said, it would have been impossible for you to see through the blood magic. Trust me. Second, you got him at his own game. In my book, there are few ends more satisfying than that.”

 “All right,” Rook conceded. “I trust your judgment.”

“That means a lot to me.” Lucanis’s hand cupped his shoulder and gently hugged Rook to him. “I’m glad you told me about the Fade. It helps, knowing what you went through.”

“Does it?”

“Of course,” Lucanis said, surprised. “Wouldn’t you agree, if it was someone you loved?”

“Oh, right. Yes. I wasn’t thinking.” Even though he still didn’t feel tired, his thoughts were wandering and distracted.

“Rook. Would you tell me what you dreamed about tonight?”

“The fall,” he started, because that was the easiest part, “but it was different tonight.”

“What was different?”

He appreciated the prompts, which made it easier to grab onto one thread at a time. “The voices. It wasn’t the team calling out my mistakes. It was…people I haven’t thought about in years. It’s that damn letter,” Rook said suddenly. “I need to open it, or burn it, and be done with it.”

“You know I will support you in whatever decision you make. How do you feel about opening it?”

“Awful,” Rook said immediately. “Dreadful. Opening that door again…I don’t know if I want that.”

“All right. How do you feel about burning it?”

“Scared,” he answered reluctantly. “Like I might lose something for good, again.”

“Do you need to make a decision now?”

He chuckled sadly. “Not sure I’d sleep if I put it off.”

“What if I opened it for you?”

A bolt of frost went through his chest. “No. Definitely not.”

Lucanis’s fingers combed back his hair; Rook’s shoulders shivered. “I understand complicated family, you know.”

“It’s not that. These parts of my life haven’t ever overlapped. The Shadows never met my family. We were tools and obstacles to each other. When I left my family to work with the Shadow Dragons, I left them behind. When I left Minrathous and joined up with Varric, when I chose Treviso… I don’t think saving the city from Elgar’nan is going to fix my relationship with the Shadows. Neve, Tarquin, and the Viper might be one thing—even Dorian Pavus—but the rest? I wouldn’t trust a deserter.”

“You’re hardly a deserter—”

“I made my own choices. That’s sort of been my whole problem.”

“Spite and I disagree. You have always chosen to save people.”

“And how many did I get killed in return?”

Lucanis went quiet for a few moments. Then, “The ledger of life and death is complicated and every Crow has to make their own peace with it. This is mine: I can only control my own actions and I have never killed an innocent person. That doesn’t mean innocents haven’t died in the wake of my contracts. Am I still responsible for them? Some would say yes, I am. Then, how far does it go? Am I responsible for the child who sickens and dies because their mother couldn’t afford the medication after she lost her job serving a wealthy house—because my mark was the lord who benefited from a slavery ring? What if I hadn’t taken the contact and that man perpetuated more suffering—am I responsible for those who would perish?”

Lucanis took a breath. “So: living according to the ledger is an impossible task. It can’t be balanced. We all must live by our actions and make peace with the rest of it, however we can. You have only ever chosen to save people, Rook. I see no fault in that. Only, you cannot carry the blame, or responsibility, for things outside of your control. If you try, it will paralyze you.”

Rook let the words wrap around him in silence. He’d told Lucanis he trusted his judgment—had relied on his clear-cut analysis more than once. Even if Rook wasn’t ready to accept it for himself, he could for Lucanis’s sake.

“If you’ll allow me to ask a question… Why did your thoughts go to this subject when I asked about the letter? Are you afraid your parents will judge you for not aiding Minrathous?”

“There’s precedence for that,” Rook reminded him. “Neve didn’t trust me for a long time. I wasn’t sure our friendship would ever recover.”

Lucanis paused. “So, you still value your parents’ regard.”

“I…” He struggled against the helpless feeling caught in his chest. “Yeah. I guess I do, in a way. I don’t want it to matter—I don’t really want to hear anything they have to say. They don’t know me, not really, after all this time. And yet…”

“They’re your parents. They raised you. They built the framework upon which you learned to view the world, and yourself. A part of you might always care about their opinion—even if you don’t want it, even if you never ask.”

“Is that how you think of your parents? Or Caterina?”

It took Lucanis another moment to answer. “Sometimes I wonder if they would have raised me differently, or if they would have approved of Caterina’s training. In the end, I don’t think it would have made a difference. I have lived a Crow’s life. A Talon doesn’t grant exceptions for her children, nor her grandchildren. I am what I always would have been.”

It would have made a difference, Rook thought, but maybe the start wasn’t quite as important as where they had ended up. Neither of them could change the circumstances of their childhood, but they could decide together what to do from here.

“A courageous man,” Rook murmured and turned just enough to plant a kiss on his chest.

He felt Lucanis’s expelled breath against his hair. “Yours.”

Rook smiled and closed his eyes. “I’m tired. Can we pick this up later?”

“Of course.” Lucanis stroked a hand through his hair. “Go to sleep, Rook.”

Despite the fatigue of their discussion, it took a while longer for Rook to drop off and for the anxious cycle of his thoughts to slow. He resolved to deal with the letter in the morning.

Over the course of a week, Rook was beginning to learn what their sleeping habits were like. For the time being—though, it may be a product of exhaustion—they were both slow to rise from the tangle of sleep-warm limbs. On the instances that Rook heroically got out of bed first, his absence would eventually wake Lucanis within minutes.

Rook figured he had about three and a half minutes to exit the bedroom, retrieve the letter from the drawer, and take it down to the library to make his decision. He was especially careful with opening and closing the doors. The stone stairs were shockingly cool on his bare feet as he descended quickly, clothed in just cotton sleeping pants, with the letter clamped between his thumb and forefinger. He rounded the base of the staircase and, out of habit, glanced at the small table where missives usually appeared.

He stopped.

There was a second letter. He recognized this handwriting, too.

The chill from the floor traveled up his legs and sent a shiver up his back. The paper in his hand creased ever so slightly.

Rook forced his legs to carry him forward. He picked up the new letter in his free hand and then walked over to the fireplace. The heat warmed his cold toes and blanketed his bare stomach and chest. In each hand he held a letter, one written in decisive, square lettering and the other penned in thin, delicate lines. They were both enveloped in the same unassuming paper but he swore he could detect the familiar note of sandalwood from the incense burner in their office.

“Perth?”

His entire body jolted in surprise. His fingers loosened their grasp and the letters fell.

“Damn it!”

He flailed for one, caught it, but the other floated into the fire. Without thinking, Rook darted out one hand and snagged it just as the flame bloomed across the side of it. He dropped it to the floor, fell to his knees, and smothered the fire with his hands. Slowly, he sat back on his heels and lifted his ash-smudged hands. The fire had eaten nearly half of the envelope, leaving a scalloped edge.

His heart was racing.

“Rook.” Lucanis knelt beside him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Did you burn yourself?”

“It’s all right,” he said, sucking in a breath. He lifted the other letter. “There’s another one.”

Lucanis looked at it. “From a different sender. Addressed to…Perthan Mercar.”

He breath shakily. “Yeah. I think—no. I know. I need to read them. Luckily,” he tried for a ghost of a smile as he picked up the burned letter, “this was Cato’s. I’m sure whatever Sabina has to say will be…easier.”

He started with Cato’s letter, though, carefully sliding the damaged paper from the envelope. The right side had been consumed and only the first letter of Cato’s signature remained at the bottom. However, “Andarius” could clearly be read at the top of the page.

Andarius,

It has come to my attention from th …office has received that a lone mage…has been sighted all across Northe…unknown endeavors, the details of…together, may be the boy I once rais… have done my best to verify this…claim this mage’s identity.

 His actions appear bizarre and …appropriate in these bizarre and des… connection with the Shadow Drago…the evidence of several other fac… Most alarming of these reports are…several scenes of major combat wi…

 Being in Ventus, far from …the supremely difficult task of…for simple facts. It has been ma…tracking down your possible wh…trial, to which now I rely on good for…

 Report your location and your stat …this gods-damned cat’s cradle of a mess.

  You know the address.

 Reg …

C …

 Giving himself no allowance to think about the partial message, he broke the seal on Sabina’s letter and unfolded it.

Perthan,

It is my hope this missive finds you well or, indeed, finds you at all. As one may imagine, inquiring into your last known whereabouts has been a delicate undertaking preoccupying the duration of this past year. My ongoing efforts have been severely hampered by disruptions I am certain you can surmise.

  In the event this attempt proves unsuccessful, I will refrain from wasteful expenditure. Should I receive response, know that I will be more forthcoming in future correspondence.

  For now: I am relieved to share our family has survived the discord of these last few months and we are well positioned to endure the aftermath. Drusus has been dispatched with his regiment to aid Minrathous. Varro remains stationed on the coast to combat Antaam forces. Citro has recently been appointed Adeptus to install a final course before the trainees graduate the academy, and so has not seen combat of late.

  Please send word of your own circumstances.

  My regards,

Sabina

 Rook’s hand fell to his lap, fingers loose enough on the paper that it finally slipped to the floor. He was aware, dimly, of the concerned expression with which Lucanis watched him.

“What did it say? Rook?”

Numbly, he answered, “They want to know where I am and, I think, my father wants to know if I’m ‘Rook.’”

Lucanis extended a hand toward the paper on the floor. “May I?”

He nodded.

Once he had finished reading both letters, Lucanis asked, “Are you okay?”

Rook ignored it. “What did you see?” He met Lucanis’s assessing gaze without flinching.

Lucanis inclined his head in a subtle nod. He didn’t reference the letters because he didn’t need to. He held Rook’s gaze. “The language of both letters is formal with a couple exceptions. They both address you by different names. The salutations are brief but each writer signs their name informally. Both remark on the length of time spent finding a possible location for you. Sabina explains her brevity without sentiment and Cato breaks from formal tone at the conclusion of his letter.”

“All right. What does it mean?”

“The formality may be pretense or habit, but the informal signatures indicate a familiar relationship with you. Both have spent considerable time and, likely, resources to find you, so this is not a gesture without motive. This may not even be the first letter they’ve sent. Cato’s tone shift may betray concern or aggravation. Sabina provided details on family members despite saying she would be brief, so this could indicate she valued this information highly. However, she spends a single sentence inquiring to your wellbeing. Comparing them, Cato commands a report from you whereas Sabina requests information.”

He sighed gently. “I don’t have enough information to make firm conclusions, but, since you asked, I will try. I think your parents have a background and lifestyle that requires formality, expectations, and excellence, and this comes through in their communication. I think they may have always had difficulty communicating with you and maybe have never overcome it. However, they wouldn’t have gone to this effort for nothing. My guess would be: they want to know if you’re all right, and if their suspicions are true—that you are ‘Rook,’ the lone mage who brought Northern Thedas together and fought the gods.

“But, Rook,” he continued, “the critical detail here is this: they can do nothing further without your decision to respond. They may have gotten close, guessing Dock Town, but they won’t find the Lighthouse. You have control over what happens next.”

As it began to settle in, Rook shook his head. “I don’t want this. They’re not part of my life anymore. You don’t get back the things you’ve lost, Lucanis. What I went through each time I had to start over…I don’t want to start over again for them. I don’t want to lose this. I—I belong here. The Lighthouse. The team. You. I belong with you. Please.”

Lucanis slid across the floor to him, paper and ash discarded behind him. Lucanis lifted his hands and he held Rook’s face and his eyes were so deep and soft and enduring. “You won’t lose me. I promise.” His thumb swept away an errant tear. “I belong with you, too.”

With a sigh, Rook let his head fall forward and Lucanis guided him to his shoulder. He leaned into Lucanis’s embrace, exhausted and not-yet-relieved. That would come later, after the adrenaline washed out of his blood, after he had time and space to let it settle. Time would tell, as it always did, if he’d been right.

He lifted his head to kiss Lucanis’s cheek and then sat back. “Sorry I keep falling apart this week. I’m not normally like this.”

“I know.” Lucanis reached for and held one of his hands. “But there’s nothing to apologize for. The last twelve months have been exceptional. You can take one week to fall apart.”

“Just the one,” he said, trying to inject a sense of levity.

Lucanis squeezed his hand. “Any time you need.”

The urge to say something flippant, to deflect, crept up on his tongue. Rook let it go. “I would do the same for you, you know.”

He smiled. “Then, we have nothing to worry about. Now, I think there’s still time to make breakfast for everyone. Join me?”

Rook got to his feet, intent on following Lucanis, but he paused just long enough to pick up the letters. Without thinking overmuch about it, he tossed the paper into the fireplace.

“What’s on the menu?”

“I was thinking Ferelden-style pancakes. They’re apparently a lot thicker. Harding was fond of them, said they absorbed melted butter and syrup like sponge cake.”

“Sounds delicious.”

Moving forward wasn’t always about escaping, or leaving something behind. Sometimes, it was just progress. Rook thought he was starting to understand the difference.

The tavern was called The Empty Leg. While the name might conjure a charming image of a patron storing his extra pints in his hollow leg, it was likely more relevant to the simple fact this no-name town was the only source of life for fifty miles in either direction. It didn’t appear on any map. There had been no signposts bearing any mention of it. When asked, the locals merely called their collection of houses ‘Here B’Twen,’ which was short for ‘Nothing Here Between Anything.’

Varric liked it immensely. It felt like an unexpected bit of the Free Marches had turned up in southern Tevinter.

The Empty Leg wasn’t a large establishment and its patrons didn’t seem to mind sitting close. After all, everyone knew each other. Which made the man sitting at the end of the bar stick out all the more.

His travel clothes looked particularly ragged, befitting someone who had fled an impressive amount of miles in the last three days. With a warm complexion, black hair pulled back in a lopsided knot, and a short blade strapped to his hip—a mage knife, not to be confused for some simple dagger—the man at the bar couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else.

“That him?” Harding asked.

“Yep. That’s him. Perth Mercar.”

Harding tilted her head. “He doesn’t look like much.”

Varric grinned. “Trust me, I know a prologue worth investing in when I see one.”

“Then, I guess we better go talk to him.”

Nearly every pair of eyes in the rundown tavern followed them as they approached the bar and sat on stools beside the other stranger. Varric asked for two pints and the madam serving the drinks regarded him as if she had as much use for his charm as she did a stool with two legs. He laid down an extra silver for her patience. Harding smirked into her drink.

Mercar glanced at them and then went back to his own drink.

“So,” Varric started, keeping his gaze ahead to the shelves of clean glasses hanging behind the bar. “How far were you planning on going before deciding to take care of your tail?”

It took a second for Mercar’s flickering gaze to turn suspiciously toward him.

“Don’t worry, Bianca and I took care of them. Oh, didn’t you notice? Gosh, good thing Harding and I were right behind you.”

Mercar tensed in his seat. “How do you know me? You’re not Venatori.”

“Been listening to a lot of chatter from a lot of different people lately. It’s pretty interesting what you pick up sometimes. For example, there was this rebel mage who bust open an slavery operation and got all of the victims out. Every single one of them. No casualties. That’s some damn good work. Shame he had to skip town, though. I almost didn’t find him.”

The trouble with provocation was it didn’t work the same way every time. Varric, though, he’d gotten pretty good at reading people. Mercar didn’t disappoint. He cast a harried look around the place, realized the amount of people and small quarters didn’t make for good math, and just resettled himself on his stool. Varric noticed a mark on his cheek, a pink scar that was still healing. Didn’t seem injured anywhere else, though.

“What do you want?”

“Take it easy, kid. We’re not here to cause any harm. Looking for some help, actually.”

Mercar scowled in disbelief. “And you think I could help? Maybe you didn’t hear the part where I botched that job, actually, and got identified. I ‘skipped town’ to protect my people. How exactly does drawing Venatori attention fit in with your plans?”

What Varric had heard was Mercar made a rogue decision to save thirty-two people when it looked like the mission had been on the verge of collapse. He might have compromised himself in the process, and drawn the ire of his organization and the magisters above them, but he had gotten everyone out alive. Even the Altus who failed to avoid suspicion, who had walked away from the situation without a mark on him or against him. If there were a hundred more people like Perth Mercar then maybe Thedas could get more accomplished. As it was, Varric would take a single rebel mage, cut loose and wandering between here and anywhere, any day.

Damn if that peek of mettle and bruised integrity didn’t get him every time, too. First Hawke, then the Inquisitor… Might as well round it out with three.

Varric chuckled and set his pint down. “You any good at cards, kid?”

Mercar stared at him, nonplussed.

Harding giggled softly. “We’ve got a job we need a local for, someone who knows the lay of the land and isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Varric thinks you’re the one we need.”

“Why me?”

Varric turned toward him, leaning his elbow on the bar. “I need someone who cares more about saving people than keeping the status quo. Someone willing to bring the light, as it were.”

Mercar’s eyes flashed and he looked at the two of them differently. His shoulders relaxed, just a touch. “A round of cards, you said? I’m game.” The corner of his mouth tilted upward.

“Excellent,” Varric laughed. “I’ll even let you go first.”

By the end of the night, Varric had been soundly beat, unburdened of half his coin purse, and—better yet—he’d been right. Mercar was the man for the job: full of potential, drive, and more than a little bit of heart. Point him at a cause and Varric had no doubts the younger man would put his all into the fight. He just needed a team behind him.

Varric tossed his losing hand onto the table. “All right, Rook, you’ve proven yourself. What do you say, will you join us?”

The other man tapped the edge of his cards on the table. “Suppose I don’t have anything better to do than poke around for some dusty ruins.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll get exciting soon enough.”

Rook’s eyes shone with an eager light as he said, “Let’s get started.”