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Two weeks. Normally, Neve won’t think it’s a long stretch of time. After all, it’s only fourteen days. Between her case load, helping the Shadow Dragons and keeping one step ahead of the gods, it passes in barely a blink. But three hundred and thirty-six hours without Rook, not knowing where they are, if they even lived, feels like an eternity.
Time stretches across those twenty thousand one hundred and sixty seconds in a slow drip. Sleep is impossible when she frantically searches for Rook. Between Emmrich and herself, they split the task up. Fuel by caffeine and adrenaline, Neve doesn’t think she slept more than a collective twenty hours in those two weeks.
Neve knows Rook leads the Veilguard, but she hasn’t realised what it means until those twenty thousand one hundred and sixty seconds. They aren’t merely the leader that evaluate their options and give instructions. Not just the warrior that leads from the front lines, the spearhead of the Veilguard, the focus of the gods’ ire. Rook is also the glue that binds everyone together. The group is fraying before Neve’s eyes, crumbling to ashes in her hands. Everyone yells for action, but nobody can agree on a single course. With each yanking in a different direction, it won’t be long before the hole Rook leaves behind tears the Veilguard apart.
Neve despairs quietly. She holds it all inside because that’s who she is. If any one person walks away, the Veilguard will not survive the blow. Preemptive grief won’t help Rook. She will mourn for them, only if she holds their body in her arms. Not one moment before.
Pacing through the Lighthouse like a ghost, ignoring the way pain spikes up her residual limb, her mind churns through hare brain ideas and threadbare plans. She passes Rook’s room countless times, but she never takes a step inside. After what she told Rook before the disastrous mission to Tearstone Island, she didn’t deserve the comfort of familiar scents and sights.
Don’t talk about after. I can’t.
If that’s what you need, we won’t talk about it.
Rook’s like that. When Neve pushes, they step back, giving her the space and time she needs. Even now, she can’t properly say if she is in a relationship with them. Sure, they blew off steam together. Rook’s one hell of a lover. But neither of them truly talked about them. And when Rook tries, she shut them down, hard.
When do the tables turn, Rook?
Neve, it’s just us… Don’t call me Rook.
Is calling you Finn any better?
Rook huffs and accepts Neve’s point, but their gaze held hers unwaveringly. This isn’t confidence, not in the way she understands it. This is conviction, a will hone of steel and rock.
You know I’ll always try right? Always.
You scare me, Trouble.
Her statement still rings true in her mind. But she also knows Rook will always try to keep their promises. After facing down an archdemon and a handful of dragons and still coming out on top, surely they can escape whatever prison holds them now too, right?
Neve braces herself against the railing overlooking the library to steady herself. Her thoughts all spin around a single axis—Rook. They are there no matter where she looks. She squeezes her eyes shut. Yet, she finds them pressed into the back of her eyelids. They are there snarling at enemies, bearing the weight of the Veilguard’s mission. A flicker and the images change. They look at her. Ice-blue eyes hold a steadfast gaze. Long elvhen ears peek through tousled short wavy hair. Rings lined the helix of one ear, each earring bearing the name of fallen Crow friends. A set of strong shoulders stretches to a pair of arms made muscular from wielding a sword and shield. They reach a hand out towards her, offering what she sorely needs the most—a safe harbour, one that doesn’t judge or question.
Her nails cut into the wood railing, digging a gouge as she locks her jaw. She will not give in, she will not break. She can’t—
“I know where Rook is!” Emmrich’s voice rings as he busts into the library.
Neve watches. Rook stalks through the library, facing the surviving members of the Veilguard. They still wore the armour they had two whole weeks ago, bearing the dents, gashes and scratches of a battle which dust had long settled. Their eyes rove from person to person, hard-edged and angry. She had seldom seen them this enraged. Sad, grief-stricken, scared, triumphant, torn and heart sick, yes. But this? This is fury made incandescent. Yet, it holds a fragile, brittle nature. As if without this fire, Rook will keel over and fall unconscious.
They had not rested since Neve and the others pulled them from the Fade. And now, faced with more insurmountable tasks, they had only thrown themselves into it head first. One by one, each member gives their report. Rook listens, nods and asks questions. Their grip on the fake Dagger that Emmrich made is white knuckle tight when Lucanis reminds them—all of them—what they lost in the fight to kill Ghilan’nain. Rook freezes. Tension stretches their shoulders and neck taut.
Lucanis straightens, eyes flicking between Rook’s grip on the hilt of their blade, and their clenched jaw. “Rook. I’m not blaming you. You—”
“I know.” Rook’s answer comes through gritted teeth. They take a deep breath. “I know.” This time, softer. Their hand drop from the hilt. “Harding and Bellara are not here to finish this, but because of their sacrifices, we are.” One by one, they lock eyes with everyone. Those ice-blue eyes pierced Neve’s, tightening her ribs around her heart. “So let’s finish this. Make what final preparation you need. We are taking back Minrathous in the morning.”
Everyone mutters their assent and stands. Individually, or in pairs, they make their way out, leaving Rook standing alone among the empty chairs. Their hand now rest on the back of a chair. Their gauntlet grips the wood so hard it creaks.
Neve lingers. Rook is holding themselves together through sheer will. They sorely need rest. She can send word to their allies about their plans. They don’t need to handle it themselves. But before she speaks, Rook says, “Neve, do you need something?” Their tone is now softer, as if the strength has gone out of them.
“I’m fine. It’s you, Rook. Are you okay?” Neve asks, knowing it is a stupid question the moment it leaves her lips.
Rook’s gaze softens for a split second. They blink and it’s gone. The leader of the Veilguard stands before her. Instead of answering, they shrug. “There’s work to be done.”
Neve sighs. “You should rest. I’ll send word to our allies.” Her tone brooks no opposition.
“But—”
“Rook.” Her voice hardens as she levels a stare at Rook. They cave. Judging by the speed, she knows how tenuously they can hold themselves upright. “Go rest. I’ll check in on you after I’m done.”
Rook releases their grip on the chair. They scowl at the mark that their gauntlet left. “Okay.”
Neve stands where she is and watches as Rook retreats not to their room, but to Taash’s. She sighs. No doubt Rook will check in with everyone. They choose to speak to Taash first. Clearly, they intend to get the toughest conversations out of the way first.
Rook cares for all of them. It may not be in the flashiest, loudest manner possible. Theirs is a slow, calm and encompassing affection.
Neve sees to the task and completes in a couple of hours. She returns to her room to gather herself. Given Rook’s mental state, she isn’t sure what they may say. Will they rehash the conversation they had prior to Tearstone Island? Her ribs tighten at the thought. Losing them for two weeks had put a lot into perspective for her. Her fear that things going sideways feels trivial now. It had already gone bad—losing Harding, Bellara taken, Rook trapped—but they have proven her wrong again. They tried, they succeeded and they are home once more.
Neve doesn’t understand the guilt and regret twisting in her chest. Logically, it makes sense to hedge her bets. Call her cynical, call her pessimistic. She comes by this the hard way. Yet, that was then, this is now. The odds bend differently around Rook. Dare she turn her thoughts towards the fut—
No. What lays between Rook and herself isn’t the focus now. There is one more God to kill. If there’s an after—when there’s an after—she will do right by Rook and talk it through. They deserve nothing less.
But maybe… She stands in front of the mirror, finding a half smile perches on her lips. The warmth in her chest is something wholly unfamiliar, but she clings to it. If the Veilguard has pulled one miracle out of their collective asses, why not a second one? Why not simply speak it as it is fact?
“We will find Bellara. Just like we did Rook.”
As much as it is magical thinking, too many people have lost their lives for Neve to give in to fatalism. At the end of days, she holds this—fuck—this hope carefully. It is a funny thing, so small and precious, but it bears the weight of everyone still fighting for a Thedas they believe in. She knows where her newfound resolve is rooted in.
“Oh Trouble…” she whispers.
Rook. They are why everything seems possible. Neve doesn’t know why she believes in Rook. She just does. It’s not because of the multiple impossible victories they had pulled off or how they wrangled several disparate factions to work together. It’s Rook’s indomitable will and strength that she puts her faith in. But even the strongest of people break under enough stress.
She worries about Rook’s wellbeing. Everything else can wait. She grabs the cup of coffee on her table and downs the stone cold brew in a single go. It curls her tongue with its bitterness. She tells herself it isn’t the taste of regret as she walks out.
“Have you seen Rook?” Neve asks.
Confused shakes of head and statements that say Rook had been by earlier but has already left, greet her. So where are they? She has checked every room that housed a member of the Veilguard, even Harding’s room. That is one room she has to steel herself to enter. But it stands empty. Pushing through and entering Rook’s room after rapping her knuckles on the door, she wonders if they are avoiding her as she stares at the empty chaise.
There is one more spot she hasn’t checked. But why will Rook be there? Neve steps into the infirmary. At first, when she enters, the cots in view are one and all empty. But as she enters properly and checks, she finds Rook sitting on the cot facing the one where Varric’s crossbow lays shattered. Their arms rest against their thighs, their eyes red-rimmed and puffy as they stare at the broken crossbow. The bowed line across their shoulders remains taut. Their posture screams of exhaustion. Yet, they remain dressed in armour. How long have they been sitting here?
Then she remembers. Rook doesn’t know. To them, the two weeks trapped in the fade felt like one long day. They went in thinking only Harding had died and Bellara taken. They left it realising Varric has been dead for months. In fact, now that she thinks about it, Rook has lost everyone they had started this journey with—Harding and Varric.
Shit.
Neve takes a deep breath and approaches Rook, doing her best not to startle them. “Rook?” she calls.
Rook doesn’t move. They don’t even blink. The only sign they are alive is the slow and steady rise and fall of their chest.
“Rook,” she tries again, louder this time.
Rook grunts an acknowledgement. “You know I’ve been seeing and talking to Varric for months?”
“I’m sorry, Rook,” Neve says. “I should have figured it out. Blood magic is my speciality, and you have been suffering under it for months. Those migraines are likely—”
They shake their head and hang it low. “Not your fault. Nobody had an inkling that’s what Solas has been doing.” Their hands flex open and close. Grief brims in their unflinching gaze when they level their eyes on Neve. “You couldn’t have known.” The fire in their eyes has dimmed.
Neve can only guess the level of exhaustion Rook has been labouring under. She won’t fight them over this. Rook can’t convince her it isn’t partially her responsibility, just as she won’t convince them they can’t carry the weight of Thedas on their shoulders.
“Rook, come on, let’s get you out of the armour. You can’t just sit here, you need rest.” Neve approaches Rook. Her hand is close enough to feel Rook’s breath puffing against her skin. “Even if you don’t want to eat, you need a bath and sleep.”
Rook looks up at her. They take a deep breath to speak. But Neve feels the energy runs out of them as quickly. She offers them her hand. “You don’t need to speak. Just let me take care of you.”
Rook’s eyes flickers to her open hand. For a while, she wonders if they are going to refuse. But she feels their rough, calloused hand take hers. She squeezes it and feels the answering squeeze back. It is enough. “Come on.” She tugs slightly and Rook stands with a laboured sigh. Together, they trudge back to Rook’s room.
Rook releases Neve’s hand when they sit down on the chaise, looking like they don’t have the strength to stand again. Neve doesn’t mind. She had intended to get them to take a bath, but maybe a wipe down should suffice. Sleep is paramount.
Neve unbelts Rook’s sword. Both the belt and the blade go on a nearby table. The shield follows. Then she tackles Rook’s gloves. The well-worn leather is shredded through. She can see Rook’s scraped knuckles underneath. When she tugs the gloves off, Rook grip their hands together to keep them from shaking.
“Rook?” She worries undressing may overstimulate them, considering their ordeal for the past two weeks.
Rook grunts and shifts the straps holding the breastplate to their chest towards Neve. She takes it as consent to continue. Using her fingers, she unravels the leather straps on both sides of Rook’s chest and lifts the plate over their head. Rook lifts their arms to help and hisses. She takes note but makes no comment. Kneeling between Rook’s spread legs, she unbuttons the sweat stained and worn gambeson. It will require Rook’s cooperation to strip them of it. “Think you can lift your arm?”
Rook nods. They lift their right arm first. So Neve threads the sleeve through that arm. She gasps at Rook’s bare skin underneath. Bruised and swelling in places, she can only imagine what had happened for Rook to earn them. She wants to ask if they hurt, but Rook squeezes their eyes shut. That is answer enough, especially given how extensive the mottling across their arm and likely back is. It must be agony to move.
She turns to Rook’s left arm and gives it a gentle nudge. They comply wordlessly. But lifting their left arm twists their face into a grimace. They can’t hold it as high as they did their right. Despite the tightness around the arm and the sleeve, Neve manages to tug it off. Rook doesn’t make a single noise of protest. The moment she got the gambeson entirely off, she sees the problem. Their left shoulder isn’t just bruised, but it has swelled up almost double its normal size.
“What happened?” Neve asks. As quickly as she says it, she continues. “No, don’t answer that. You don’t have to tell me.” She can guess. Blunt force trauma, dislocated shoulder that Rook has popped back in or any number of combination of injuries like that. Her hand hovers over the obvious swelling and grimaces. “I’m going to get a healing potion.”
She hurries over to Emmrich’s room. It takes several minutes to assure Emmrich that busting into Rook’s room to fuss over them is the correct thing. She thinks as much as a full healing will aid in the swelling, Rook isn’t up for anyone else to see them in this state. They will probably cobble back the mask of the infallible leader for Emmrich’s sake. No. Far better she takes care of it. Emmrich can look over her work after Rook gets some sleep.
She lets herself in after rapping her knuckles on the door. From the back, her eyes find every single bruise imprint against Rook’s skin. They are a nasty collection, marking where wide and narrow beams met Rook’s body with force. She bites down on her tongue to hold back her questions. Knowing the why don’t heal the bruises any faster.
As she rounds the chaise, she realises Rook has worked their pants off their legs. Their boots stand next to the pile of crumbled clothes. They brace their brow against their good hand, leaving the left in a stiff fixed position. There they sit, wearing only their underwear and breast band. Exposed, raw, vulnerable. Neve swallows against the pain that surges in her chest. She wants to hug and cradle their head against her chest, but she holds back.
“Here. Drink this.” She hands Rook the uncorked potion.
Rook lifts their head and takes the potion. They drain it. Neve looks around the room and finds a washbasin with a clean cloth and warm water. Rook can’t have fill this, so this must be the work of the Caretaker. She sends a mental thank you to the Caretaker and takes the washbasin to Rook’s side. By then, Rook has finished the potion. They set the empty bottle aside.
As Neve nears, their eyes meet. She lifts the washbasin and gestures at them, a question in her eyes. Rook’s eyes flicks between the washbasin and her face. They sigh and nod. Neve wrings the cloth out after dipping it into the warm water. Gingerly, she drags the cloth over Rook’s knuckles. She works her way up Rook’s arm, careful to go slowly over the bruises. Rook moves their body so she can gain access to parts difficult to reach. Both of them work in tandem wordlessly, focus on a single simple task. It’s wholly achievable. An undeniable success they can lay claim on.
It doesn’t take long before Rook is nodding off. Their head slips off their hand and bump against Neve’s chest. Rook jerks themselves upright immediately. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. If you lean against me, I can clean your back,” Neve offers. Rook stiffens instantly. “Or we can not do that.”
Rook rubs their face. There’s no hiding their exhaustion anymore. They sigh and lean forward slowly. Neve straightens and inches forward while still kneeling between Rook’s legs. They rest their brow against Neve’s shoulder. Their hot breath caresses against her neck and chest. Neve presses a kiss against the back of Rook’s ear and cleans their back. It doesn’t take long to complete since she avoids their entire left shoulder. She almost misses the weight against her chest when Rook sits up.
“Lay down on your front,” Neve suggests. “I’ll ice your shoulder.”
Rook’s eyes flicks to hers. A spark of the leader returning to their gaze. “You need to sleep too.”
“I’ll stay until you’re asleep,” she counters. “Don’t think it will take long.”
Rook huffs, the ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of their mouth. The first since they emerged from the Fade prison. Neve etches the sight into her memory. They comply and lay down. Grimacing and grunting, they tuck both arms under their pillow. The swelling makes any motion difficult and painful. Hopefully, the icing will ease it.
Neve tucks them in. She peels the blanket back enough to access Rook’s swollen shoulder. Healing may not be her forte, but the Circle has trained her in the rudimentary. Summoning her mana, she turns her hand icy cold. “Incoming,” she warns before pressing her palm against Rook’s shoulder.
Rook hisses and stifles their urge to pull away. It takes a while before they relax again. Neve plucks at the inflamed parts of their muscles. She soothes the swelling and tries to dial down the pain levels. So focus on her task, she doesn’t realise Rook has fallen asleep. Smiling, she pulls her hand away. Already, the swelling seems much better. Rook will experience stiffness and pain tomorrow morning, but it won’t feel as bad as today. She draws the cover back over their body and resists the urge to brush the hair out of their face.
Even in sleep, Rook’s brow furrows. Their hand flexes as if closing around a hilt they are not holding. Neve sighs as she straightens to leave. But she can’t pull her gaze from Rook. Giving in, she kneels again and presses a kiss against their brow. As she pulls away, the frown has disappeared, giving way to a more relaxed sleep.
“Good night, Finn,” she whispers and leaves.