Work Text:
It’s a darkspawn patrol like any other, an attempt to keep the main routes in the Crossroads clear for anyone who needs safe passage – but today, something is different. Today, everything goes to shit. Davrin is in the process of bashing a ghoul out of the way when he hears a pained grunt behind him. He turns only to see Rook clutching one arm to her chest, the other trembling with the effort of keeping a hurlock’s serrated blade from becoming acquainted with her jugular. Panic rises in his chest when he notes that both her daggers lie discarded on the floor.
The creature snarls and presses forward, kicks her legs out from under her, raises its blade high. In that moment, time crawls to a halt for Davrin. He watches Rook’s eyes widen where she’s now sprawled out on the ground, starts running towards her even if he knows that he won’t be able to reach her in time, and then something ancient awakens in him. Something he hasn’t allowed in ages, something that feels achingly familiar and foreign all at once. It surges through his veins, reverberates through his bones, gathers in his fingertips as he drops his blade and shield.
It’s painful and clumsy, like using a long-forgotten muscle, like trying to forge a path through a wilderness that has gone unexplored for years. Davrin is a little surprised just how hot the energy burns as it leaves his hands, how alive it feels, how it thrums in the air and ripples over his skin. The hurlock is utterly unprepared for the fire that slams into it; the creature is knocked off its feet with a pained howl. It thrashes on the ground for only a moment before it stills. The putrid stench of the hurlock’s burnt flesh and crude leather armor wafts through the air, a stark contrast to the otherwise stale and nondescript smell that permeates the Crossroads.
From the way the song of the blight grows quiet, it seems that Assan has finished off the last of the ghouls. The griffon lets out an uneasy chirp behind Davrin, but he finds himself rooted in place, staring at Rook. Still clutching her injured arm to her chest, but otherwise unharmed by the darkspawn’s serrated blade. For a long, agonizing moment, she remains on the ground, her eyes locked on the smouldering creature – and then she hurriedly scrambles upright.
Davrin glances at her arm as he takes a hesitant half-step closer. ‘Alright?’
‘That… You…’ she stammers, bewilderment clear on her face as she turns to him. ‘What…?’
‘It’s nothing,’ are the only words he manages.
‘Nothing?’
‘It’s just magic,’ he shrugs, rolling his shoulders in a futile attempt to drive away the painful tension that’s already starting to build. ‘I don’t use it.’
Rook stares at him – incredulous doesn’t even begin to cover the expression in her eyes. ‘You don’t use it?’ She gestures at the hurlock’s body, charred and lifeless on the ground. ‘Then what the fuck was that?’
‘I had to do something,’ he defends.
There’s no immediate reply. Rook seems lost for words, glancing from him to the hurlock and back. Her jaw is clenched, as are her fists. Davrin can feel himself growing more and more defensive under her scrutiny. The fire has left him with a hot, aching sensation in his palms. He resists the urge to scratch at them.
Perhaps he should’ve known better than to think that he could keep this part of himself a secret forever. Perhaps he should’ve known that he would ruin this – whatever this is – for himself at some point, too. Perhaps he shouldn’t even have stuck around long enough to let it happen. The tense silence between him and Rook builds and builds until it’s almost a tangible thing, until he can’t take it anymore.
‘What does it matter if I have magic or not?’
‘It doesn’t,’ Rook bristles. ‘It matters that you didn’t tell me. I’m your…’
She stops at that, mouth opening and closing, a small furrow between her brows. He understands what she’s getting at – or what she fails to get at. They haven’t really defined this thing between them, this dance that they’ve been performing for weeks, now. They’ve kissed once or twice during stolen moments, made a poor attempt at a romantic picnic, but it seems like neither of them knows how to move things forward from this point. Perhaps he’s been afraid to move too fast, to scare her off – or himself, if he’s honest – but she’s his… well, his Rook.
She takes a deep breath, hands clenching and unclenching. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Davrin casts his gaze at the sky, lets out an exasperated sigh. ‘It didn’t seem that important.’
‘Not that important,’ she repeats. ‘An entire aspect of your being didn’t seem that important.’
Something in him snaps. ‘I said I don’t use it.’ He snatches his blade and shield up off the ground, resolutely wipes some dirt and ichor off of them. ‘I’m good at what I do. I don’t need magic for that.’
‘Fuck, Davrin. I thought you… We…’
Her use of we reverberates through him as it always does, but it’s tinged with the bitter realization that his secret might’ve just irreparably broken something between them. It’s not like her to be lost for words – he isn’t sure what she’s thinking, exactly, but it can’t be anything good. Assan shifts nervously at the sheer tension between them, chirping as he presses his body against Davrin’s legs.
Rook stares at the griffon, at the ichor splattered on her hands, at her blades still discarded on the ground. She slowly picks them up, sheathes them at her hips, her movements controlled and measured even if the line of her shoulders is still tense as ever. It’s almost unnerving, her sudden subduedness – some part of Davrin wishes she’d just blow up at him, yell at him, anything.
‘So, now what?’ he finds himself asking.
‘Patrol’s over,’ she says tersely.
And with that, she turns and stalks off in the direction of the Lighthouse. Davrin follows her at a distance, barely able to look at her. Even Assan is more quiet than ever, silently trudging along beside him, ears pinned flat against his feathery head. So, now what? Davrin wonders again, this time to himself. There's not much left of the Wardens to go back to. His clan is out of the question. He could go to Eldrin, stay there for a while, try to figure out where to go from there. Assan’s siblings are still missing – he could continue the search, hopefully rescue them before Isseya does her worst. Every single option he considers fills him with some amount of dread.
By the time they make it to the Lighthouse, the tense silence feels like a smothering blanket draped over it all. Trying to pierce through it seems like an insurmountable task, one that Rook succeeds at only to tell him a gruff see you around. Assan seems to have had enough of the tension, chirping quietly as he scurries out into the courtyard, no doubt on his way to the kitchen to beg for some scraps.
For a long moment, Davrin just stares at the now-closed door of Rook’s room – and then he retreats to his own. An anxious energy is buzzing through his fingertips, coursing through his veins, making his whole body feel on edge. He’s drawn to his chopping block almost on instinct, wrenching his axe free in an attempt to let its weight ground him – unsuccessfully so. Lining up the first block of wood and splitting it in half only feels partially like a relief, so he keeps going, steadily making his way through the pile of logs.
He should’ve been faster, out on the battlefield. If only he’d been close enough, he wouldn’t have needed to use his magic at all. He could’ve continued to ignore this part of himself that he’d trade away in an instant, if he could. All it’s ever done for him is complicate things – his life with the clan, his training with the Wardens, and now this. He’d had a good thing going. He’d been feeling like he was slowly carving out a place for himself in this world, even after what happened – or failed to happen – with Razikale.
Just how long he stays there, Davrin can’t be sure. The pile of wood at his feet is steadily growing. There’s a dull ache in his arms and a thin sheen of sweat on his skin that would be satisfying if he wasn’t feeling so unmoored. Still, he keeps going, because he isn’t sure what he’ll do when he stops. He’ll have to figure out what to do next – a task that currently seems impossible.
‘Davrin,’ Rook suddenly says.
His axe freezes in mid-air. He hadn’t heard her come in, so caught up in the tangled mess of thoughts running through his head that he hadn’t even noticed the steady increase of her ominous hum. Their argument has left him riled up enough as it is – if she’s here for round two, it won’t take her much effort to pull his anger right back up to the surface.
‘What?’ he prompts, perhaps more harshly than he means to.
‘We should talk.’
She sounds just about as on edge as he feels. When he dares a quick glance at her, he finds her staring out into the Fade beyond, arms crossed and shoulders so tense that it must be painful. He supposes she’s not exactly eager for this discussion, either. It’s a small comfort – at least they’re in the same boat in that regard.
‘What else is there to say? Secret’s out, now,’ he says tersely. With another whack of his axe, he leaves it lodged in the chopping block. ‘Did you…’
She blinks at that, turning to face him with an irritated quirk of her brow. ‘Of course I didn’t tell anyone.’
‘Right.’ He only feels marginally better knowing that the rest of the team hasn’t yet been informed of his condition. He lets his eyes fall shut, tries his damnedest to unclench his jaw – in fairness to her, Rook doesn’t seem the type to spill secrets left and right, even when she’s angry. ‘Don’t know why I asked. Sorry.’
At the very least, she loses some of the tension in her shoulders. Still, the furrow between her brows remains etched there. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
He sighs and gives it some thought. ‘Force of habit, maybe. I barely think about it, let alone tell other people.’
Rook’s gaze remains fixed on him. ‘Were you ever going to?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says honestly. ‘Hadn’t thought that far ahead.’
‘Do the Wardens know?’
He’s about to say no when the realization hits him like a punch to the gut. ‘Rounald did,’ he manages. ‘But he’s…’
It’s been weeks, months, but still he finds that his heart seizes up at the thought of the friends he lost at Weisshaupt. Rounald had learned about his magic by accident, not all that different from how Rook found out today. They’d been out on patrol together, in some freezing half-forgotten corner of the Anderfels. The meagre supply of firewood that Davrin had managed to gather for the night had been wet, and in a moment of carelessness and desperation, he’d sustained the struggling flames with his magic until the wood had dried enough to catch fire.
Despite his attempts to shield what he was doing from view, Rounald – a mage, himself – had sensed the shift of magic in the air, and immediately caught on to what was happening. The man had been surprised more than anything. Curious, too; Davrin had been subjected to an almost incessant stream of questions. Still, in the end, Rounald had seemed more than willing to keep his secret, something that Davrin had been grateful for until the bitter end.
Rook nods solemnly, shoots him a sympathetic smile – he supposes his moment of grief is plain to read on his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quietly.
He expels his breath on a long sigh, tries to push the memories out of his head. ‘No one else in the Wardens knows,’ he continues. ‘Or anywhere else, for that matter. Just you, now.’
‘And your clan?’
It’s the last topic that he wants to discuss – but he supposes he owes Rook at least some explanation. ‘It happened late,’ he tells her. ‘Must’ve been fifteen, if not older. Froze a hare to the ground while hunting.’
He’d been used to hunting alone – he could move faster, more quietly – but of course it had to manifest the one time when he was out with the other hunters of the clan. Perhaps he’d wanted to prove himself, let his frustration get the better of him when his prey slipped free from his trap. He’d paid dearly for it. Briefly, he wonders what his life would look like if he could've kept that part of himself hidden from his clan.
‘And then what?’ Rook prompts, pulling him from his musings.
‘The other hunters told the Keeper. Had to start training immediately.’ He grimaces involuntarily. ‘Thought those history lessons were as boring as it gets. I was wrong.’
Rook hums a thoughtful sound, her head slightly tilted. Any trace of anger in her eyes seems long gone – instead, it’s been replaced with a calculating curiosity, as if she’s trying to solve the apparent mystery that he is. ‘Didn’t want the responsibilities?’
‘I wouldn’t have minded more responsibilities,’ he huffs out. ‘Just… not those ones.’
He’d been working his ass off to try and become the best hunter in the clan – and honestly, he’d been well on his way. The sudden discovery of his magic hadn’t just complicated those plans, they’d all but swept them off the table. He’d already felt out of place enough as it was, but he might just have found his role in the clan if they’d granted him the freedom to figure things out for himself. A hunter, a warrior, a woodworker for that matter. But instead, it was as if a snare had closed around him, pulling him unwilling into the role of Keeper’s First.
‘Eldrin can be a real pain in the ass, but at least he encouraged me to find my own way,’ he continues. ‘When the clan elders found out about my magic…’
Rook studies him as he trails off. ‘They wouldn’t let you spend your summers there anymore?’
He shakes his head, fighting back the bitter taste in his mouth that the memory of that particular conversation brings. Just another good thing ruined by his newfound magic. Perhaps the loss of his annual reprieve from life with the clan had been the thing that finally pushed him over the edge. He’d grown more restless by the day, irritable, closed-off. He’d argued with his parents, his peers, the elders, until something had snapped in him. Until he’d gathered his few belongings, slung his pack over his shoulders, and never looked back.
‘I left them without a Keeper’s First,’ he says now. ‘Don’t know if they ever found another one.’
His shoulders ache under the sheer weight of duty and responsibilities that he never wanted in the first place. Of knowing that he’d been given a role to fill, and refused it. That he’d disappointed the clan in every way that matters. Striking out on his own had been difficult and frustrating, but it had granted him a freedom that he doubts he would’ve ever gotten if he’d stayed. Still, much as he’d tried to ignore it, his magic had remained a part of him, buzzing to life on occasion as if it’d had a mind of its own. He studies the palm of his hand, feels the energy flowing through his fingertips even now.
‘I should’ve told you,’ he sighs. ‘There’s just never a good time to say something like this.’
‘Maybe I overreacted,’ Rook says. ‘You startled me.’
He blinks at that, surprised by the uncertainty in her voice. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you.’ When he glances at her, he finds that she still looks tense, but differently so. Almost as if she’s bracing herself for something. ‘I learned most of the basics. It’s under control. I know enough not to make any deals with demons, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
She shakes her head. ‘That’s not it. I trust that you know what you’re doing.’
‘Then…’
‘You had this look in your eyes,’ she says. ‘Like you were thinking about cutting and running, never to be seen again.’
He wants to say something to the effect of of course not, but then he would be lying. ‘You…’ he starts instead. ‘You still want me to stay?’
Her nod is small but immediate – it fills him with a strange, almost painful relief. Something has changed between them, but perhaps it isn’t quite so irreparable as he’d thought. Despite it all, the idea of staying with Rook feels right in a way that few things have in recent years. It’s a little frightening, but Davrin finds that he’s glad to know that his place at the Lighthouse – and by Rook’s side – isn’t quite as precarious as he’d thought. He’s about to reach for her when something catches his attention.
‘Your arm,’ he says, studying the growing stain in the fabric. ‘It’s still bleeding.’
She curses, presses a hand over it. ‘I thought it stopped.’
‘I could-’ he almost offers, but he cuts himself off. He’s been woefully out of practice for years, and he wants Rook to get the best care that the Lighthouse can provide. ‘Maybe you should ask one of the mages. I’m sure they could do a better job than me.’
‘One of the mages,’ she muses, though her tone is more curiosity than accusation. ‘And that doesn’t include you?’
‘It’s not the same. They actually know what they’re doing.’
Instead of turning to leave, she takes a half-step closer, her head slightly tilted as she regards him. ‘Show me?’ she asks. ‘Help me out?’
Davrin closes his eyes for a long moment, mouth gone dry. ‘Alright,’ he finally sighs, patting the top of his desk. ‘Sit.’
Rook does as instructed, carefully peeling off her gambeson and revealing the jagged cut that the hurlock’s blade left. He takes hold of her arm, hovers a hand over the wound, wills his fingers to stop trembling – he hasn’t tried to heal anyone else in what must be more than a decade. His own injuries haven’t seen much healing magic either, except in the most severe cases; he usually opts for a good old-fashioned bandage or potion. That, and healing has simply never been his strong suit, even when he was still being subjected to those awful daily lessons.
‘It’ll probably scar,’ he says apologetically. ‘Are you sure?’
An amused smirk curls her lips at that. ‘When have I ever cared about scars?’
‘Fine,’ he sighs. ‘Tell me if it hurts, and I’ll stop.’
He calls upon his magic – it’s rare for him to do so, and even more rare to do it on purpose. It feels like trying to speak a language that he hasn’t used in ages, like all the grammar is lost to him and only bits and pieces of vocabulary remain. As it flows from his palm into Rook’s injury, he can feel the strange call-and-response of it all; her life force briefly gathering in her arm, her flesh knitting itself back together at his tentative command, her blood resuming its usual path through newly restored veins.
It’s a slow process, no doubt only worsened by how out of practice he is – but he wants to do this right. He can feel Rook’s eyes on him as he continues his work, as he attempts to repair the damage as carefully and thoroughly as he can. His fingers feel clumsy, twitching in their efforts to control the flow of the healing magic. Too slow, and the injury won’t heal. Too fast, and it’ll scar over.
‘So you never use it?’ Rook prompts.
‘Only when I really have to.’
She hums a thoughtful sound. ‘And today, you had to?’
For a moment, he’s lost for words – but when he meets her gaze, it’s curiosity rather than judgment that he finds in her eyes. ‘Of course I did. Unless you would’ve preferred a closer look at that hurlock’s claws.’
‘Not really. Just wondering… Why now?’ she asks. ‘I’ve been in danger before.’
‘I panicked,’ he says honestly. ‘I was too far away. It was more instinct than conscious decision.’
Rook nods slowly, and Davrin turns his attention back to her arm. The injury is almost healed up, but marked by a jagged line that’s still tinged an angry red. He finds himself wishing he’d paid more attention during those particular lessons in magic – as it stands, he tries to soothe the area with the few little techniques he still remembers. It half-works, leaving Rook with a scar that looks a few months old.
He sighs while she studies her arm. ‘Sorry.’
She huffs out a breath at that. ‘What for? It’s healed, isn’t it? Doesn’t hurt anymore.’
‘Alright. Good.’
He’s about to take a step backwards when Rook hooks a finger into the collar of his shirt. Her eyes flick up to meet his, and she shifts on his desk, pulls him closer. For a moment, they remain in this standstill, quietly observing each other. Davrin can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking. The events of the day must’ve changed her opinion on him at least a little – but still, there’s a warmth in her eyes that seems unchanged from what it looked like when they left for their patrol this morning.
‘Can we start over?’ she sighs. ‘Thank you for saving my life with that incredibly well-timed fireball. And for the healing.’
And with that, the final bit of tension floods from Davrin’s shoulders. ‘Don’t mention it.’
Her hands come up, cold against the side of his face, and he gladly leans in to meet her for a kiss. It’s a slow one, a little hesitant, but it tastes of relief. He slides one hand into her hair, rests the other on the small of her back. Today, the most hidden and unwanted part of himself spilled out of him, and yet, Rook still seems to want him here. There’s more to discuss, but at the very least, they’ll get the chance to do so.
If they can weather this storm, this truth revealed, then maybe they can make it through whatever comes next, too.
