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“Hi, Solas.”
Rook greeted him with a small wave before returning to what he had been doing– weaving a basket, from the look of things.
“Hello, Rook.”
Solas sat on the edge of the bed beside Rook, one leg bent kneed on the mattress. The other foot stayed propped on the floor
“A basket? Any particular plans for it?”
“No, not really. I hadn't done this in a while and it's relaxing.”
Rook's fingers moved deftly, appearing well practiced at the motions of the task.
“Feeling stressed lately?” Solas teased lightly.
He was treated to a slip of reeds whacking him in the face. He chuckled, holding up a hand in defense.
“Boredom can be stressful, you know.”
“Is it?” Solas asked softly.
Rook shook his head. “No. Not today. It's okay today. How many days this time?”
“Only three.”
“Oh, that's nice. Tell me about your three days then.”
There was little that Solas had done. Nothing that was not routine. But Rook did not need big stories; he craved the smaller details.
In the beginning, Solas focused on those big stories, trying to keep Rook in the loop. What his friends were up to, what kind of world events were happening. Rook enjoyed all of it, but he would always ask one or two strange questions Solas had no answer to–
Did the sun reflect off the metal? Was it bright?
What color were her lips, do you think it was a shade I'd like?
Was the water cold or warm when you touched it?
Rook was not demanding, nor disappointed when Solas replied that he had not been paying that close attention, or he could not recall such a small detail. The questions passed. Solas decided he did not want to continue to leave them unanswered.
How was the weather when Solas woke up that day?
How did it change? Not only the weather, but the sky above; did it turn cloudy? Clear up?
What had Solas eaten?
What had he been craving and wished he had been eating instead?
Did he hear any unusual noises? Animals, a loud shout, a heavy book falling to the floor.
What small, typically forgettable things caught his eye for a moment?
These were the kind of questions Solas learned to ask himself day to day.
Solas would share these small details, and Rook’s face would brighten. For that moment he could imagine those things Solas described; he could remember what life felt and sounded and tasted like.
Solas would do whatever it took to give Rook that feeling. No matter how fleeting.
“The white stray came by again. Her fur was softer than last visit, more silky to the touch.”
Solas conjured the cat in question on the bed. It beelined for Rook, knocking into his hands and messing up what he had been doing. Rather than be annoyed, Rook chuckled and put the unfinished basket aside.
“When are you going to adopt her?”
Rook ran his hands along her back and the sides of her face; she was pleased, kneading at the bed covers.
His joy waned, but he said nothing.
Solas could recreate any cat down to the whisker. Get the feel of the fur near identical. But no magic could replicate the senses perfectly. There would always be a lack; a dullness.
That was the nature of this place.
“Never,” Solas replied critically. “With how well kept she is, I suspect she has a home and simply enjoys roaming.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Rook scratched the cat beneath the chin. She made a content, silly face, and then crawled into Rook's lap. He laid a hand on her body, but did not pet her again. “Were the birds loud again?”
“No, to my thanks. I only noticed their obnoxious noises when I was directly outside.”
“Such hate. They probably think you sound awful too.”
“They are free to leave and never come back, then.”
Rook looked at Solas with a grin, shaking his head.
A thing as small as birds singing loudly did not annoy Solas to such a degree, but it was a bit of fun, to play up these situations. Both for him and Rook.
One thing that had not, and Solas suspected would not change, is Rook enjoying a good back and forth. No matter the topic.
“I hope they stay.”
It was both a playful rebuttal to Solas, and a softly spoken truth. He liked hearing about the birds.
Solas watched Rook as he watched the cat in his lap; the up and down of her breathing. The way it moved his hand. The quiet sounds of each inhale and exhale. Rook did not share these observations out loud, but Solas knew these were details he was drawn to.
“No dress up today?” Solas asked lightly.
“No. I haven't thought up anything that felt interesting lately.”
What Rook meant was that there were things he could not remember, and that was hard to face.
The ways he liked to do his makeup, the kind of clothes he wore, the colors he enjoyed using most– these things were slipping away from Rook little by little. He was gradually losing the sense of the life he had lived and who he had been outside this place.
Solas feared what part of it would be taken next.
When Rook first started to struggle, Solas offered to dress him up from his own memories. His recollection might not be perfect, but he had spent plenty of his time looking at Rook.
His face, his smile, the way he moved and spoke– Solas would cling to those images forever. He would burn them into his memory.
His hope at the time was that this would cheer Rook up. Get him feeling more like himself again.
Rook had cried when he saw his reflection. Solas never offered again.
“Your trip is soon, isn't it?” Rook cocked his head, doing the mental math. “7 days?” he questioned Solas.
It was 9, but Solas would not correct him.
“Yes. I have received word from the Inqu– Oren,” Solas corrected, “and he is free to join me for a few days.”
“Do you really plan to try and go undercover to that museum that supposedly has Inquisition items on display?” Rook asked with a raised eyebrow.
Solas chuckled. “We will see. For all his propriety, there are few things Oren enjoys more than pulling the rug out from under someone. Especially if they are Orlesian.”
Rook popped his tongue in disapproval, but his smile showed his true feelings. “How did all of you manage to save the world again?”
“Truthfully, I ask myself the same question.” Solas gave Rook a crooked half smile.
Rook offered the cat in his lap a few parting pets before he dismissed it. His abilities to shape the space had grown impressive for someone completely self taught through sheer force of will alone. That was not a compliment Rook would be happy to receive, however.
“I know you are going for academic reasons, research, but it sounds like you will be able to have some fun and relax.”
“With luck. I would not mind a day or two to simply enjoy the city.”
“See, that wasn't me making friendly conversation. It was me telling you that you are going to relax and have fun.”
Rook shifted his position, leaning fully back against the headboard and making room beside him. He did not need to ask; Solas moved to take up the space.
“I know a threat when I hear one.” Solas sat beside Rook, stretching his legs out and resting his hands in his lap. “I suppose I have no choice.”
“You don't.”
Rook had his head tipped back, and Solas followed his gaze; he was looking at nothing in particular on the ceiling.
“As part of that relaxation, you don't have to worry about visiting me, you know.”
Solas would not agree to that, but Rook had something on his mind. He would give him the space to say it.
“That means you don't need to keep track of things to tell me about either. I know it takes some effort on your part– don't try to argue otherwise.”
“Alright, I will not argue. I will state factually that it is no effort. You may continue.”
Rook cut his eyes, giving Solas a side glare.
“My point is, you should focus on yourself. I'm sure you will have a lot of interesting things to talk about, and you can tell me all of it when the trip is over.”
Solas made a non-committal sound. He looked up at the ceiling again, and decided to fill it with brightly colored lizards, all skittering about. There was no real reason–
Rook laughed.
–besides that.
“I won't ask,” Rook said, now watching the lizards.
“I am grateful that you are concerned about me, and want my trip to go well. However, noticing things does not take away any of my focus. And visiting you is a source of joy, not a thing I need a break from.”
Solas laid his hand in the space between them. Rook softly laid his on top.
“These things are a part of my day. My life.”
There was a no sap rule– Rook's words– and they both tried to keep to it. Solas understood why Rook had come up with it; what he was trying to protect them both from. He did not take offense.
There were, however, far too many times when it was impossible to hold back those feelings.
“They shouldn't have to be,” Rook replied quietly.
“They are because I want them to be, Rook.”
Solas could not keep the strain of emotion from his voice; how deeply he wanted Rook to understand this.
“Whether or not I am paying attention to the sound of the wind to be able to describe it to you, or stopping to look at a puddle that is shaped strangely to mention, I will be thinking of you.”
Rook's fingers dug into the space between Solas', turning their touch into a crushing grip. Near painful. Solas let it be.
“You are ever in my thoughts, Rook. I would not have it otherwise.”
“You should. You shouldn't think about me so much, at all, it'll only– I'm fucking selfish, because knowing that you do makes me so happy when it shouldn't.”
“My love, it is not selfish. Not at all.”
Damn whatever rules and barriers they built to try and make this easier
It would never be easier.
Solas closed the gap that sat between them, wrapping an arm around Rook. He pulled him to his chest, and Rook came so readily, crawling into Solas' lap and pressing close.
Solas rearranged their hands so they remained clasped.
“I am not sure you truly know how to be selfish, vhenan.” Solas placed a soft kiss in Rook's hair.
“It's unfair to you.” Rook did not cry, but his voice wavered. “You should be able to move on, not…”
Solas closed his eyes. “If anyone is to be declared selfish then, it should be me.”
“You know I don't mind.”
“I know. And we both know that if it were not for this–”
Solas could not make the words come.
Solas was, essentially, the reason that Rook did not die. Did not let go when he should have a long, long time ago.
It was something that Solas would never forgive himself for. Another mistake among so many. He knew he was not the only one carrying that guilt, but that did not make things easier.
Solas had been watching. He should have seen. He should have known.
That anyone would continue to see Rook as an enemy, as a thing in the way to be gotten rid of with Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain gone, was easy to never consider when you knew him. Rook was Rook. And letting your guard down was easy when you had successfully killed gods. What else could compare?
The answer was a sharp knife, wielded swiftly.
Rook and his team rarely agreed to events, parades, grand reopenings– the list of invites they all received was endless. Solas did not remember what made this one special. Why this, out of so many, Rook had agreed to.
They stood on the freshly repaved roads of Minrathous– Rook, Neve, Lucanis, Bellara– surrounded by a crowd of others. It was a festive event. The kind that drew families, full of games and food and celebration.
Solas was not strictly invited, or desired, but Rook insisted he come.
Aren't you an expert at lurking around by now?
So ‘lurk’ he did, never far from the group. Rook was enjoying himself and Solas was content to watch that from the sidelines.
No one fully understood what was happening until blood started to pour over Rook's stark white shirt. Someone screamed, and the world unraveled.
No, that was not true; none of them understood for many hours. Days.
Rook was Rook.
Things always turned out fine.
In the weeks after, the ones who had orchestrated everything were uncovered. Caught. Interrogated.
Among them was the man who had invited Rook to attend the event.
One conspirator went to the Crows. Another to the Wardens. Solas did not know where all the others found themselves, but he trusted they enjoyed their time there.
This was not an official, sanctioned investigation. It was a divvying out of fresh meat to starving, grieving beasts.
When they were found, Solas claimed the one that had personally wielded the knife. No one questioned him, before or after.
He was not proud of the things he did. But he was satisfied.
In the end, every single person who had even an inkling of what had been planned was rooted out and interrogated. A bleak, short lived catharsis.
Rook did not die that day. The cut into his neck was deep and long, done with a ragged knife that tore the flesh open in a mangled gash. The bleeding before it was brought under control was massive.
But, he did not die.
Rook slipped into unconsciousness there on the street.
In the beginning, the healers were hopeful– surviving the first 48 hours was monumental. Given enough time and rest, it was possible Rook would wake again, and without lingering effects.
They had been as delusional as the rest of them.
Hours became days, and days became weeks. Weeks became months. Rook was kept in comfort and given round the clock care; physical therapy to keep muscles from atrophying. Books and letters and academic publications read aloud regularly. Hair trimmed and partially colored to keep it looking like he had always kept it.
He never lacked for company, either.
Rook did not die. But he did not live.
Many months had passed now since the first time Solas was able to find and connect to Rook's consciousness in the fade. Limbo. Some unknown place– Rook knew nothing and Solas did not care about the details.
He had Rook again, limited as it was. Solas could not always find him, sometimes many days passing between visits, but he tried reaching out multiple times every day.
Hope foolishly flourished among everyone again. Maybe this connection was a sign. If he could be reached, surely he could be coaxed back. There was still a chance.
That hope lingered, even now. No one wanted to be the one to kill it a second time by saying the truth; there was no chance.
“I don't care, and you aren't sick of me yet. So what does it matter?” Rook's aggravated tone was thick with sorrow.
“I do not know.” Solas ran his hand along Rook's hair. “I know that in a time before, you did not fear death. You were prepared to embrace it with open arms when it found you.”
“I don't fear it. But.... I hadn't expected to find things that were so worth living for.”
How deeply Solas' heart was touched by Rook's words. And how painfully.
There had never been a discussion. A conversation about what the two of them were, exactly. What either of them wanted to be to the other.
Rook allowed Solas so fully into his space, and Solas went; like a moth to light.
Sweet words, kisses and touches and intimacies came naturally. To spend their time together was somehow a given.
A lack of formality did not make the thought of parting more bearable. Solas could not think of it, would not, a future that did not have Rook in it.
The truth stared him in the face day after day, and Solas closed his eyes.
“I will always come. As many times as I can reach you, for as long as I can reach you.” Solas touched his forehead to Rook's hair. “As long as you are content, like this, and not holding on for the sake of the oldest fool in Thedas.”
Solas' voice was part humor and part a choked down sob. Rook's response sounded much the same.
“That's an unfair competition. You're the oldest anything in Thedas.”
“Maybe there is an extra ancient dragon still asleep somewhere. Or a particularly long lived nug.”
Rook's laugh was sweet, and clear, and genuine, and Solas smiled to hear it even as it ran him through. Rook pulled away from Solas to look him in the eyes.
“You are the oldest and biggest fool.” Rook laid a hand to Solas’ cheek, and Solas leaned into the touch. “And I am content.”
Solas did not respond with words; he chose instead to use his mouth for a kiss. And another, and another, and another. He would taste that contentment for himself. Feel it with both his hands. Press Rook to the mattress and hear him speak it.
Solas would dig his fingers deep and hold Rook tightly enough that death itself could not pry him away.