brainwyrmz - Tumblr blog

brainwyrmz · 6 days ago

Text

✨🎉IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!🎉✨

for my BIRTHDAY i am posting the first chapter of my rookanis fic (link for excerpts), exclusive to everyone on tunglr dot edu bc i don't like to put fic on ao3 til it's finished but i want people to see it and since it's my BIRTHDAY i get to do what i want 👍

a few things to know:

it is a sequel to the ossuary, but you don't need to read that to read this. i'd be really happy if you did though 👉👈

i don't mind reblogs! that would also make me happy.

this is about 13k

it's a rough draft. when it goes up fr it'll be different don't judge my mistakes 😭

if you need visual aid, here is rook image

warnings are under the cut <3

CONTENT WARNINGS:

flashbacks/references to lucanis and spite's time in the ossuary. nothing graphic but a bit upsetting. includes starvation, torture, lucanis and spite being bonded without their consent, and a suicide attempt by lucanis that spite interrupted.

fake grief re: caterina's fake death, and then whatever the opposite of that is re: varric's real death

non-graphic description of burned bodies

rook is a trans woman and lucanis notices this without having to be told when he sees her adam's apple. however, she kind of allows him to see this on purpose without caring if he will realize she is trans, and she comes out to him herself pretty quickly, but the coming out bit is not in this chapter

without further ado.........

A white light blinds him. Restraints snap closed around his ankles, wrists, and throat. He can't turn his head. His panicked breath is too loud in his ears.

"Liar," hisses his own furious voice, something inside him squeezing his lungs until he struggles for air. His lips shape the words. "Treacherous filth! I hate you! I want out!"

But he can't get out. How many times has he cut his own skin open on these manacles trying?

A shadow moves above him, briefly blocking out the light. Blinking away stars, Lucanis struggles to make out a face.

It's Calivan. He's holding something. An eyedropper. "One way or another," he murmurs, his voice muffled and distorted under the sound of Lucanis's breathing, "you're going to stop giving me that fucking look."

Something's not right. It's not right. Lucanis remembers Calivan's head under his heel. This is—

Calivan reaches for Lucanis's face, and gently spreads open his eyelids. An unfamiliar hand shakes Lucanis's shoulder.

"I want out!" Lucanis hears himself snarl. "Let me out, let me out, let me—"

The caw of a nearby crow startles Lucanis to wakefulness, and he gasps as though drowning.

"...out," Spite finishes, uncertain.

They're on a rowboat. Sitting across from them is the young mage Crow from House Cantori in charge of their getaway, and on the opposite side are Rook and Neve, looking as startled as Lucanis feels. Rook's hands are up in the universal sign of surrender. It was she who shook him just now, he realizes, trying to wake him from his nightmare. "Lucanis?"

"I'm fine," Lucanis tells her automatically, struggling to slow his breathing. He runs a shaking hand back through his filthy hair. "What is it?"

Rook waves her arm, gesturing to their surroundings. "We're here. You're home."

"Home?" Lucanis repeats, frowning—and then he looks up and understands.

It's Treviso: the spires against the moonlit sky, the lights lined up on strings, the fireflies hovering over the canals—and, of course, the crows, perched on ship masts and gondolas. Their rowboat is moored fairly close to the market, wood gently bumping wood with the motion of the waves, and the sounds of people—so, so many people—echo over the water. A snatch of conversation, a shouted bid on a painting, children laughing as they play with the stray cats. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls, freely announcing to everyone what Lucanis would have once given almost anything to know: the time, which is currently nine in the evening. People are getting ready to eat; distantly Lucanis can make out the clink of dinnerware, and a gentle spring breeze greets him with the first aroma of food Lucanis has smelled in an entire year, spiced meats and fried dough.

And—what is that? Lucanis inhales.

"It's understandable you dozed off," Rook is saying, "you've had a pretty fucking big day—"

"Smoke, pendejo," Spite informs him tersely. "Smells like smoke."

It does, and not the cooking kind. Lucanis squints, searching the skyline��there. He points. "That's the Cantori Diamond," he says, interrupting Rook's chatter. "It's on fire!"

"What?"

Rook, Neve, and the Crow jump to their feet. Lucanis follows, feeling unsteady; he used to be fine balancing in boats, but ironically, his sea legs were lost in the year he spent beneath the waves. "Shit," says Neve, stepping out of the boat. She offers Rook a hand out, too, hesitates, and decides not to offer one to Lucanis. "We've got to go—now."

"What?" Lucanis asks. "Why?"

Rook's eyes have found the skyline, that thin thread of smoke splitting Satina, the smaller moon, in two. She turns her face to Lucanis, apologetic. "The Cantori Diamond is where we left from," she explains. "Lucanis—it's where we left your family."

Caterina Dellamorte had the foresight to have the Crow from House Cantori bring along a cloak, presumably to conceal Lucanis's identity, but she needn't have worried: after a year in prison, he's certain he's unrecognizable. His worn prison clothes are thin and full of holes, covering very little of the damage done to his body. Though he did his best to keep clean with nothing but the pump in his cell, the wild overgrown tangle of his hair and beard have matted in places with dried blood and filth. Lucanis dons the cloak anyway so he doesn't scare passerby; if he saw himself coming down a dark alley, he'd turn around and walk in the other direction.

Unfortunately, Caterina did not send boots. On his best day Lucanis wouldn't want to walk through this city in bare feet—and this is not his best day.

"Careful," says Spite sharply, as Lucanis makes to turn down a side street, at the same time that Rook stops him by the elbow and goes, "Not that way."

"What?" Lucanis asks, jerking away from her touch. Maybe it's been a year since he was here last, but he still knows Treviso better than a pair of Vints. His family needs him. "We can get roof access from here, it's the quickest way!" And there will be less broken glass, hopefully.

"Only if you feel like going through the Antaam," Neve replies.

"Antaam?" Lucanis repeats, a little too loudly, and a few people at a nearby fruit stand nervously turn their heads. He lowers his voice and hisses, "There are Antaam in Treviso?"

"In much of Antiva," the Crow says, her expression pained. "You've been gone a long time, Master Dellamorte. Let me lead them away—you should get to the Cantori Diamond as quickly as possible." And, cleverly, she slips down the side street before he can object; had he told her to stop, she would have had to obey.

There's a shout of Qunlat from around the corner, and then the clatter of weapons and boots racing over cobblestone. The Antaam pass by in a flurry of movement just visible at the mouth of the alleyway. Neve takes a cautious look around the corner and reports, "Clear."

Around the corner, behind a loose place in someone's fence, and up a trellis, and they arrive safely on a nearby rooftop. From here it's easy to spot the red banners of the Antaam rolled out over the edges of buildings and ropes strung over the streets, the groups of heavily armed Qunari milling around the markets. "Smells like sweat and metal," Spite observes, as Lucanis leads Rook and Neve through the city, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. It feels good to stretch his legs; it would feel better if he were not racing as fast as he could to find out if his family's still alive. "They want. To hurt."

That sounds right to Lucanis. The Antaam, the Qunari army, have been troubling Tevinter for a few years now. The Qunari, who live in the northernmost lands of Thedas, have been warring with Tevinter for as long as anyone can remember, each trying to conquer the other over...various cultural differences. But the Antaam decided enough was enough, and more extreme methods were required to end the conflict for good. They went rogue and began carving their way through Tevinter in defiance of the orders of their government, starting with the city of Ventus and working their way south. The last Lucanis heard of it before being captured was that they were attacking Vyrantium, but he never learned how the conflict ended.

Because Antiva shared a border with Tevinter, Caterina and the other Talons have been worried about the Antaam showing up on their doorstep for some time. But their countries are separated by the Hundred Pillars mountain range, and though Antiva has no standing army, it's got trade contracts and allies all over Thedas—not to mention the business it's made of rearing assassins. Lucanis always thought it was unlikely they'd ever have to deal with the Antaam personally.

It seems like he was wrong.

Now that he's running over it with a crow's eye view, he can see the ways the occupation has changed Treviso. The markets are open, but no one is congregating in large groups. Armored Qunari stand on street corners with spears. The canals, normally packed with gondolas at this time of night, are all but empty. More people are staying home after dark.

The smoke above the Cantori Diamond has begun to dissipate by the time they get close. Whatever happened has already started and ended, without Lucanis there to do anything about it. Lucanis hesitates before the final ladder leading to the rooftop entrance, looking up at the high arched windows, the large statues of crows with open wings, and says without meaning to, "Don't tell them."

Rook and Never come to a stop behind him. "What?" asks Neve.

"If they're alive," Lucanis says, eyes still on the Diamond, "don't tell them about Spite."

Inside his head, Spite growls. "You. Would keep. Me secret? Lock me in! Hide me! Bury me—!"

"Spite?" Rook repeats, an unknowing interruption. "You mean...the demon?"

"Told them my name!" Spite roars, furious. "Like Calivan! Fool!"

Lucanis shakes his head sharply. He can't even tell Spite to be quiet without reminding everyone else that he's there. "Please," he says instead.

He feels more than sees Rook exchange a glance with Neve. Then she says, "All right," and they go up the ladder.

Closer to the rafters, the smell of burnt wood and flesh is inescapable. "Like burned feet," says Spite, agitated. "Hot fire pokers. Damp files! Made. Into. Ashes." Lucanis gets the distinct impression that with so many sounds and smells, Spite is getting a little overwhelmed. "They're all dead," he hisses. "They're all dead!"

Please, Lucanis thinks, as he takes the last flights of stairs two at a time. Please.

They're not all dead. As he, Rook, and Neve pick their way past burned corpses and overturned furniture, Lucanis spies the shapes of their backs, instantly recognizable even after a year away. On the left, Andarateia Cantori, Seventh Talon and the only person in the world closer to Caterina than her own grandchildren. On the right, Viago de Riva, Fifth Talon and Teia's lover. And in the middle—

He is alive. Illario is alive.

Elven ears catch the creak of the floorboard first. Teia whirls, dagger in hand—and then her dark eyes widen. "Maker," she breathes, stunned.

Viago turns in nearly perfect sync with her, his face going bloodless. "Lucanis?"

In answer, Lucanis throws back his hood. It takes him a long moment to find his voice. "What happened here?"

"A message." Now it's Illario who speaks—the real Illario, not a dream or a memory or blood magic—though his tone is as somber as Lucanis has ever heard it. "From Zara Renata."

Finally, he turns, and steps into the light.

What was Lucanis so worried about? Illario hasn't changed at all. He looks healthy, well-fed and well-rested, clean and clean-shaven. There's not one wrinkle in his clothing, not a single hair out of place. The only difference is that he has never looked at Lucanis this way before: like he is seeing a ghost. "I can't believe it," he whispers. His eyes are bright, voice choked with emotion. "You're home."

Lucanis isn't sure which of them starts moving first. He knows how he looks—Maker, he knows how he must smell—but his fussy, fastidious cousin yanks him into an embrace without hesitation. His arms press on old hurts and new, but Lucanis doesn't care. After the year he's had, there is no one else in the world Lucanis would let touch him without reserve this way. It is only right that he should see Illario first.

After Illario lets go, he presses his forehead to Lucanis's, just for a moment, shaking him hard by the back of his neck. He pulls back and ducks his head a little, searching Lucanis's face. Lucanis, throat too tight to speak, nods.

"Family," Spite sighs, like some new understanding has clicked into place.

And at that, Lucanis must pull away so he can master himself. "Where—" He clears his throat. "Where is Caterina?"

Silence falls. Lucanis looks back and forth between Illario and Teia, but neither of them seem able to speak. Dread rises in his chest like seawater.

Lucanis asks again, "Where is Caterina?"

It's Viago who falls on the knife. "She's dead," he says curtly, quick and clean as a killing cut. "During the fire, a support beam fell, and..."

Lucanis doesn't hear the rest. His pulse is rushing in his ears. Unbidden he remembers Calivan's final words, uttered only a few hours ago: Zara will never stop hunting you...your precious family. Walk out if you like, Lucanis. You'll never be free. Lucanis is used to ignoring the lashing out of dying targets, but now the words have the ring of omens.

Caterina Dellamorte, dead.

"Where?" says Lucanis, cutting through Viago's next sentence.

The corner of Viago mouth twitches in a frown, but he allows the interruption without complaint. "You should know that the body is in poor condition. It was not a good death—"

"Where?" Lucanis presses, so Viago leads him back downstairs to a section of the vine-covered terrace outside where several bodies lay covered with sheets. Lucanis hears the others follow, even Rook and Neve, but he doesn't care enough to stop them. He kneels beside the body Viago stops at, steels himself, and pulls down the sheet.

"I get one of you back," says Illario, "only to lose the other."

Their grandmother's face has been burned almost to be unrecognizable, blisters and char hiding any hope of identifying her by face. But she is wearing all of her rings, her fine clothes. Her skin is even still warm. He takes the body's left arm in hands that he forces not to shake and pushes up the sleeve. Here is the correct birthmark on the back of her elbow. There are the faint thin white lines of old knife cuts on her forearm.

"We've already started burning them," Teia says as he continues his examination. Cremations are always a quick business in Thedas; outside of a few outliers, most people don't like to leave a body laying any longer than they have to, lest it tempt demons looking for a host. "But for this, we wanted to wait for you. Vi says it's impossible, but it's Caterina. I have to be sure."

Lucanis checks the body's right arm, searching for the puckered scar tissue that healed wrong around a rapier wound, courtesy of the Orlesian baron Caterina killed with nothing but a thimble. He finds it.

"Sure?" Neve echoes.

"That the Venatori didn't use blood magic to alter the corpse, as they did for the one they passed off as Lucanis," Viago explains. "It happened so quickly I doubt that's the case, but only Lucanis can be certain."

The correct mole on the left knee. The tiny marks on her right calf where she received stitches after a conflict with House Velardo. That wound is the reason she began using a cane.

"You can sense blood magic?" Neve asks. She sounds impressed.

"It makes the backs of my eyes hurt." Lucanis lets the body go, pulling the sheet up again, and sits back on his heels. "I don't feel anything," he says, addressing the group in general, but staring at the corpse. "There's no scars or birthmarks missing, and there's none there that don't belong. This is—this is Caterina."

It was Caterina's training that helped Lucanis survive the Ossuary. It was Caterina who found him and sent people to his rescue. All her hard work, all the time she spent never giving up on him, and Lucanis missed her by less than an hour. She might have even still been alive when his boat reached Treviso.

Spite, who has been uncharacteristically silent during Lucanis's examination, makes a low sound of pain Lucanis has never heard from him before. "Family," he says again, but this time, it's mournful. He sounds as devastated as Lucanis feels.

Lucanis wishes they had a moment to talk. Spite hasn't sounded quite like himself since they left the Ossuary, and strange as it is, Lucanis worries. What's wrong with him?

"I'm so sorry," Rook says, and lays a hand on Lucanis's shoulder.

Lucanis is on his feet in an instant, all the better to escape her touch. "Don't be," he says briskly. "We had a contract, no? That's good. I need to work."

Rook starts, "Good is not exactly—"

"You just got back, and already you want to leave again?" Illario asks. "You should take some time—"

"I don't need time! I need a target!" His cousin really hasn't changed. Lucanis spent a year and a day rotting in that pit, their grandmother has been assassinated, and still Illario will take nothing seriously. "Someone is making a move against our family. Zara is still out there somewhere. And Caterina gave me a contract," Lucanis says. "I'm not breaking the last deal she ever made!"

"Kill," Spite agrees. He has made an appearance at last, manifesting an image of Lucanis's own self behind Illario, complete with his overgrown beard, his filthy clothes, and borrowed cloak. "Find Zara. Make. Her. Pay!"

All the more reason to go, Lucanis realizes, jerking his eyes away so no one will wonder why he's staring at empty space. How long could he keep a secret like Spite under the watchful eyes of Talons? Under the eyes of Illario, who knows him best?

Illario gazes at him across an insurmountable five feet of space, his mouth a flat unhappy line. Lucanis has always hated fighting with him, but he's been away so long that even this feels achingly nostalgic, so much better than not seeing him at all.

"I owe them," Lucanis says finally. He forces himself to meet Illario's eye; it would be impossible, at this moment, to meet Rook or Neve's. "They helped me escape. If you had any idea what it was like down there..."

He doesn't have to say more. Because Illario does know Lucanis best, he knows it's pointless to argue once Lucanis has made up his mind. The only person who could ever make him change it lies dead at their feet. "And when the job is done?" Illario asks.

Lucanis hears the unspoken end of that question: which of them will succeed Caterina as First Talon? Her wishes and the wishes of her grandsons could not be more different: Illario has always wanted the job, while Lucanis can think of little he wants less. But Lucanis is older, if only by a month, and he has always been Caterina's favorite. He was still trying to think of a way to convince her to make a different choice when he was captured.

But he didn't get the chance, and now—

As much as he doesn't want the job, as dangerous as it would be for him to take it when he's got a demon inside him, he knows what Caterina would want, and more importantly, so does everyone else. Could he really disregard her final wishes so easily?

But Lucanis has finally reached his limit. "When the job is done, I'll come home," Lucanis says, firmly shutting the door on that question. He can't face it now, not yet; the sand from the sea floor is still stuck under his nails.

Illario's not happy with it, but if he has anything else to say, he wisely keeps it to himself. It's a discussion for family.

Their group breaks. Teia and Viago go back to overseeing the damage control of the Cantori Diamond, Illario promises to return shortly and ducks down a flight of stairs, and Rook and Neve show Lucanis how they got to Treviso: a tall thin mirror that's pointed at the top, carefully concealed on an unused corner of the terrace with vines. There's no reflection; instead, the mirror glows, and like peering through a fogged-up window Lucanis can make out a blurry landscape on the other side.

"What. Is. That?" Spite asks. The apparation of him reaches out as if to touch it, but draws back before he makes contact and vanishes. "It's strange! Smells like magic."

"It's called an eluvian," Neve says, almost as though she heard the question. She gives it an approving look. "Ancient elven stuff. You step through one like it's a door, and just like that, you pop out of another one hundred of miles away. It's convenient and stylish."

It makes Lucanis's eyes itch. "Where does this one go?" he asks, wary.

"Somewhere safe," Rook replies. She makes wry eye contact with him. "It's complicated."

That's exactly what Lucanis told her and Neve back in the Ossuary to explain away his situation with Spite. They haven't prodded about it so far, but Rook clearly hasn't forgotten.

Her eyes drift over his shoulder. Lucanis knows without looking that Illario is back. "We'll go on ahead," she decides. "See you in a minute?"

Lucanis gives her a short nod. She and Neve step through the mirror without the slightest hesitation, the surface rippling behind them like water.

"I kept all your things," Illario says from behind him. "Your clothes, your knives. I couldn't bear to throw anything out. I even fed your stupid snake."

Lucanis, still watching the last of the ripples that followed Rook's departure fade away, feels his mouth curl into a reluctant smile. "No you didn't." His cousin would sooner swallow his own tongue than touch a dead mouse.

"No, I didn't," Illario agrees. "I paid someone else to do it. Same difference, right?"

Lucanis finally turns. Illario is carrying Lucanis's well-worn travel bag. It's made from genuine, full-grain leather, carefully waxed on the inside to remain waterproof and full of hidden pockets in the lining. It's just big enough to hold two outfits and an assortment of small weapons, and strong enough to be carried over the shoulder if those weapons are a little heavy; Lucanis's best boots are even clipped to the side. Caterina is not—was not—one for displays of affection, but she had a matching pair of these commissioned for Lucanis and Illario when they turned eighteen. Lucanis never leaves Treviso without his; he had it on him the night he was captured. He never expected to see it again. "Illario, how...?"

"The Crows who recovered your so-called body also brought back your effects," says Illario, and there is a carefully hidden, trembling rage around the word body that would be inaudible to all but Lucanis's ears. "It still has everything you put in it a year ago. When I learned you were alive, I went back home to fetch it. By the time I returned, Caterina..." He trails off.

Lucanis reaches out, hesitates, and then puts his hand on Illario's shoulder anyway. "Don't blame yourself, cousin," he implores. "I don't blame you."

Illario closes his eyes. He lays his hand over Lucanis's and grips it like a lifeline. "Please don't say that."

"This is Zara's doing," Lucanis continues firmly, "not yours. And she's going to pay."

Illario opens his eyes again. "When you find her, Lucanis, I want—I need—to be there."

Lucanis cannot picture them in the same room; his blood turns to ice when he tries. Illario would try to charm Zara, he's certain, but Illario doesn't know what she's capable of. He has not faced her in combat. He has not had his eyes and ears deceived by her. He has not laid under her on that table.

Never. It's never going to happen.

Aloud, Lucanis says, "Of course."

"Liar!" Spite growls at once. "Why. Do you. Always. Lie?"

Lucanis wishes he could explain. How can he do anything else? Zara has already taken so much from him, even his grandmother. Lucanis will be damned if he lets her take Illario too.

Illario drops his hand. "I guess I'll see you around, cousin," he says. He gives Lucanis back his bag. "Good luck on the contract. Try not to get killed again."

Lucanis slips the bag over his shoulder. It's good to have the weight back. "Thanks," he says—for the bag, for everything.

Then he turns and steps into the eluvian, leaving Treviso—and Illario—behind.

-----------------------

They call it the Lighthouse.

Stepping through the eluvian is a strange experience. It's not that Lucanis has never been teleported before—in his line of work, it happens—but even then, he always stays on the one side of the Veil. Once he steps through the eluvian, however, he experiences a near-unbearable itch behind his eyes, and—

"The Fade," Spite says, his voice as clear as Lucanis has ever heard it. "The Fade! A piece, a peace—!"

"The Fade?" Lucanis repeats, forgetting himself.

Rook stands nearby, on a wide intricately built mosaic pathway standing over...some dark chasm Lucanis can't make out the bottom of, though he thinks there must be water, given the patterns of light cast on the darkened ceiling. Lucanis recognizes both the mosaic work on the path and the support columns leading to another door at the end of the room as very, very ancient elven architecture; he's been staring at near-identical designs for a year. "Can you feel it?" Rook asks, surprised and curious. "You're not a mage."

"Spite," Lucanis explains shortly.

Rook's expression closes. "Ah."

Spite is oblivious to any awkwardness he might be causing. "Home. But not," he is saying. "Close. Moldable. Shapeable. Bright and burning. A shelter, but a cage. Let me out!"

If Spite thinks they're going to start soaring around the Fade when they've got a job to do, he is deeply mistaken. "Is it safe?" Lucanis asks. "Stories of mortals getting pulled into the Fade rarely end with them coming back in one piece."

"It's sort of...sectioned off from the rest," Rook explains, and begins to walk. Lucanis follows. "Think of it like a pocket of the real Fade, like—"

Lucanis misses the next part because of Spite. "A pocket?" he repeats, outraged. "Too small. Let us out! Lucanis, kill her! Make her! Let me out!"

Fortunately, Rook cannot hear him, so she keeps going. "—and our targets are probably hunting us, but they can't touch us here. This is actually the safest place."

Right—the job. "Who are the targets?" Lucanis asks, as Rook pushes open a heavy wooden door. She takes a set of stairs that eventually split, curved around the edge of some room Lucanis can't yet see, going right at the top. "I didn't get the details yet."

"We have a lot to discuss," Rook agrees, "but first..."

The curved staircases have led into a round room with a stone floor. Bookshelves line the wall touching the stairs, but some bookshelves also float, rotating serenely around the room's edge. In the center of the room is a squat round table, filled with clutter and surrounded by worn, mismatched pieces of furniture. More stairs lead to a higher level of the room, a pathway around its edge, where Lucanis can see quite a few doorways and balconies. On their level, there are a few wide doors that are perfectly circular, leading into darkened hallways.

The room is lit with a white light: floating above it, at the center of the bookcases' orbit, is the same kind of artifact Lucanis and Spite destroyed in the Ossuary only a few hours ago.

Rook turns into one of the dark hallways, and Lucanis jerks himself out of his reverie to follow.

"...I thought I'd let you get cleaned up," Rook finishes. She opens the door at the end of this hallway and steps aside far enough to allow him to enter the room without quite turning his back on her.

"Smells like soap," says Spite, surprised. "Heat. Humidity." He's right. The room looks like a bathouse, nearly identical to some of the invitation-only ones in the wealthier parts of Tevinter. The difference is that this is elven architecture the Vints never got to paper over with their gaudy snake facades and bleed slaves dry in. The mosaic work is still visible, and in better shape than it was in the Ossuary, on the small set of stairs that leads down into the bath. The bath itself, a large square recess in the floor, is filled with steaming water that fogs the windows, and surrounded with arched elven columns, though they're overgrown with vines. At the base of each column is a wash basin and small shelf, and each shelf is packed with thick towels and colorful glass bottles of soaps and oils.

"...use whatever you like," Rook is saying, "because we brought some stuff ourselves but the rest was just here, like the place keeps making more of it, and do you know, the water just stays hot all the time—"

"Thank you," Lucanis interrupts. He's tempted to pinch himself to see if this is real; in the Fade, would it still hurt?

"Yes," says Spite. "Idiot."

"Right," says Rook. "Well. I'll leave the...two of you...to it. You can catch up with us when you're finished; we'll be out the front door and up the stairs." And she vanishes back through the doorway before the moment can get more awkward, a circle of stone rolling it shut behind her.

The instant she's gone, Lucanis sets his bag down on the colorfully tiled floor and heads for the nearest wash basin, stripping off his prison clothes for, what he realizes giddily, is the very last time. He scans the bottles of soap for only a moment before reaching out to take one of the purple ones at random. He doesn't care what it is; after a year of nothing to wash himself with but cold water on a sandy floor, he's happy with anything. He pops out the cork.

"Lavender oil," says Spite at once. "Rook's."

All right, maybe not anything. Lucanis flushes and puts it back, taking the one next to it instead.

"Eucalyptus," says Spite, even though nobody asked.

That will do. Lucanis grabs the first brush he sees—and what a luxury, to not have to use his hands!—and starts scrubbing off a year's worth of grime with efficiency born of a year's worth of practice. Teeth, face, arms, chest, legs, groin: by the time he's started, he'll be halfway finished. In the Ossuary there was often a constant guard outside his cell, which meant no privacy at any time, for anything, and that included his attempts to keep relatively clean. Some Venatori were polite enough, or cowed enough, to keep their heads turned. Most were not, and they found glee in remarking upon everything from the dirt on his feet to the prominence of his ribs to the size of his cock. The only way to stop their taunting was to pin them with his most dead-eyed stare, the one Illario says is so intimidating. Even then, give them long enough to get bored, and they'd start in again. Lucanis perfected the art of a two-minute wash by necessity.

"Let me out," says Spite suddenly. "Lucanis! Let me leave!"

"We haven't gotten clean yet," Lucanis reminds him. He's almost finished at the basin, only interested in getting off enough filth not to ruin the bath water. "Look at the state of us!" It occurs to him that, having lived in the Fade as a formless spirit until the Ossuary, Spite has never had a bath. Maybe he'll love it.

He does not love it. "Burning!" he howls, as Lucanis steps into the water.

"Isn't it?" Lucanis sighs. The water is just this side of too hot, and it hurts a little where it makes contact with the countless small wounds Lucanis sustained during the course of their escape and before, but it feels wonderful against his aching muscles. Everyone likes a hot bath��everyone except Spite, apparently—but after a year of torture at the bottom of the sea, his body feeling good is an entirely novel experience.

Lucanis spies a small bucket on a hook and uses it to dump the hot water directly over his head, then pours a generous amount of the eucalyptus soap on top of it. His hair and beard are both matted, but he gets them clean enough; the beard's not staying, anyway. When he's done, he slips under the water entirely, ignoring Spite's protests, and leans back until he lies flat on the bottom of the bath.

Lucanis opens his eyes underwater, ignoring the sting of the soap to stare at the now-blurred ceiling above him. He exhales slowly, watching the bubbles float to the surface. Everything is warm and clean and quiet and still. This may be the first moment of true peace he has known in a year.

"Drowning," Spite tells him, with genuine urgency. "Drowning! Lucanis, we—"

Unfortunately, he tries to say it with Lucanis's mouth, which leads to Lucanis actually inhaling water after all. Lucanis bursts up through the surface, coughing, and shakes the hair out of his eyes. "We're not drowning!" he complains. "Would I kill us?"

"Yes," says Spite, and tries to tug Lucanis's legs to get him out of the tub.

Lucanis allows it, mostly because if he had to do it on his own he might never leave. Spite walks his naked self right out of the bath, water running in rivulets down his newly-cleaned, heat-pinked skin, and dripping all over the floor. He heads for the exit.

"We're not done yet," Lucanis protests. He stops them by one of the wash basins with a mirror over it.

Lucanis can look down at his body anytime he chooses to, and he's been watching it waste away for a year. His muscles have become harder and more wiry, his stomach has curved inward, and his skin has been broken open and scarred more times than he can count. But his face was something else that was scarce inside the Ossuary's walls. Once he caught sight of it on a polished shield; other times, he'd see it on the edge of a blade or helmet, or as a blurry outline laid overtop the warding that kept the seawater out. And every time Lucanis caught his reflection, the image of Spite changed. Spite never looks exactly the way Lucanis does; he looks the way Lucanis sees himself. It's been months since the last time that happened. Lucanis isn't sure what to expect; he knows only that Spite is about to change again. He braces himself, and wipes away the fog.

It's pretty bad. The first thing Lucanis notices is the dark bruising under his eyes, how they're sunk so deeply into his face he can see the outline of his own eye sockets. His hollowed-out cheeks aren't much better, but at least the beard covers them a little, though it's wild and unkempt. His throat looks like someone has taken a machete to it; Lucanis broke it open against the restraints so many times it's started to scar, like his wrists and ankles. It's a wonder his cousin recognized him at all.

Lucky Illario brought his bag. If it's all as untouched as he said, Lucanis's comb and shaving kit should still be in there. Lucanis goes to fetch it and finds what he's looking for.

Spite tolerates the comb yanked through Lucanis's hair with only minor complaining, but when Lucanis flips out his shaving razor, he loses his mind. "Stop!" he commands, and the image of him—wet and naked, like Lucanis—appears and yank's Lucanis's his arm away from his face.

"Careful with that!" Lucanis scolds.

"You be careful," Spite seethes. Lucanis feels a familiar spasm in the muscles near his elbow; just in time, he squeezes his fist tightly enough that Spite's attempt to chuck the razor away fails.

"I'm just shaving, Spite—"

"Liar!" Spite shrieks, using Lucanis's mouth again to force him to stop speaking. He manages to dig deep and find the very depths of Lucanis's lung capacity. "Deceiver! Weakling!"

Lucanis is so busy trying to wrest back control of his vocal cords that he misses the telltale tugging of the tendons in his left arm. The razor gets thrown after all, hurled into a nearby shelf. Precariously stacked thousand-year-old bottles wobble and then fall, shattering into colorful pieces against the beautiful floor.

"He's killing us!" Spite shouts. "Come get him!"

Blood of the Maker. Lucanis is still trying to figure out how he's going to pick his way over to where his razor lies without cutting his feet open when he hears the stone door slide open a single inch.

"Lucanis?" calls Rook's voice through the gap. "Is everything all right in there?"

"Yes!" says Lucanis.

"No!" wails Spite, still at top volume. "Weak-willed! Pathetic! A prison! Of bone! And flesh! And blood! And fear! And—!"

Lucanis lets Spite occupy himself with the yelling until he can slap a towel around his waist. He throws a second towel over the glass and scoops up his razor, mostly to distract Spite. While Spite tries to throw it again, Lucanis takes advantage of his moment of split attention to call, "Everything's fine!" To Spite he adds in a hiss, "Be quiet!"

"You lying snake," Spite shouts, as loudly as he can. He gives up on the razor, knocking the entire shelf over with his right wing to make more noise.

"Are you sure?" Rook calls. "I can come in if you...need anything...?"

Clothes. He's got to find his clothes. "We just broke a bottle," Lucanis says, hurrying past the remnants of the overturned shelf and a dozen broken bottles to his bag. "Everything is good. We don't need anything." He pauses. "Perhaps a broom."

Rook hesitates. "I'll see what I can do," she says, and mercifully, Lucanis hears the door close.

He tosses the razor—gently—to the floor a few feet away from them. "There!" he says.

Once he gets his way, Spite settles and stops shouting. "Weak!" he spits triumphantly, inside Lucanis's head. He has won.

"Mierda." Lucanis runs a hand back through his wet hair. Think, he reminds himself. Stop and think. Spite may thrive on making life difficult for the people around him, but he stopped making life difficult for Lucanis after the understanding they came to in the Ossuary. They may have trouble understanding one another, but they're still allies. They share a common goal.

Right?

Their common goal was escape. The Ossuary is flooded at the bottom of the sea now, so that goal has been realized. What's left after that? Spite betrayed Lucanis once, the first time they tried to escape together, but the suffering they endured after at Calivan's and Zara's hands taught him the value of working together—didn't it? He'd never betray Lucanis again—would he? What if he got angry? He keeps demanding to be let out. Where does he want out of? Could he want out of Lucanis's body? Maybe this taste of the Fade has made him homesick.

Lucanis is not in the habit of lying to himself. And, strange as it is, the absolute truth is that part of him would miss Spite. Though it's not easy being a possessed man, he's grown used to the angry voice in his head, the wings on his back, the demonic strength coursing through his blood. But Spite doesn't belong here, especially if he doesn't want to be here. Lucanis got to come home, however briefly; after everything they've been through together, how could he deny Spite the opportunity to do the same thing? It would make him no better than their jailers. Besides, it would be safer for everyone if Lucanis was no longer possessed; there's little more important to an assassin than control, and Spite by his very nature defies anything of the sort. But is splitting them up even possible?

If that is Spite's problem, it still doesn't explain his sudden aversion to personal hygiene. Lucanis pulls the towel off to finish drying and then returns to the mirror, squinting at their reflection. "You have to let me shave," he says. He has been dreaming about getting this scruff off his face for so long. "We look like...like...like someone who has been in prison for a year. We'll scare people."

"We. Look. Like a corpse," Spite says.

Harsh, but he's not wrong. Lucanis runs his hand over his beard, trying to decide if the hollows of his cheeks being visible would be worse than looking poorly groomed. In so doing, the pad of his middle finger brushes over a shallow line hidden by his facial hair, just below the center of his lower lip. It's not as though he's never felt it before, but—Lucanis leans forward, narrowing his eyes at his reflection. There's another on the left side of his upper lip. A third on the right side of his lower lip. A few others, fainter, mostly hidden beneath his facial hair.

A sudden suspicion grabs him, and the steamy air of the bathroom turns cold against his bare skin.

Lucanis lifts both hands to his face. He tries to imagine he is wearing gauntlets. He splays his fingers over his mouth as if to prise open his own jaws.

They land perfectly along his scars. Lucanis jerks his hands away as if burned.

That was the last time he was ever alone.

"Let me out," says Spite again.

Lucanis can almost feel him pulsing, a phantom beating at the bottom of his throat. "Not now," he dismisses, badly shaken. Spite is right. Lucanis is never going to be able to shave again; what was done to the two of them will almost literally be written right across his face. Was that what he was so upset about? Lucanis attempts to compromise. "Will you at least let me trim it?"

"Trim?" Spite repeats warily.

"I want to make it shorter. With scissors."

It takes longer than Lucanis would like to both explain to Spite the concept of scissors and actually get around to using them. He's realized that it must be getting late, and they've all had a long day. If Rook or Neve is waiting to brief him or show him where he'll be sleeping, it's poor manners to keep them up long. He pulls out the first set of clothes he lays his hands on.

What a novelty, clothing! For a year Lucanis and Spite wore only a set of over-loose trousers that raggedly cut off two inches above his ankle and a sleeveless shirt with more holes than material that both felt like they were hewn from a burlap sack; they weren't given socks, boots, or even smallclothes. Now Lucanis wraps them up in layer upon layer: smalls and undershirt, soft, thick trousers, a gray overshirt with a high collar, and a dark button-down argyle vest. It takes a heroic amount of self-control not to add a jacket and gloves. Finally—at last—he pulls on a pair of socks and his fine leather boots. No more bare feet.

Once his beard is trimmed (his hair he will have to consider later), his bag is packed, and his clothes are on, Lucanis spares a final moment to take another long hard look at the mirror, memorizing his own appearance. It's not as dramatic of an improvement as he'd like, but it is much better. He hopes, the next time he sees Spite, that Spite will look better too.

Lucanis picks up his bag and, as an afterthought, grabs his prison clothes. There's nothing he can do about the overturned shelf at the moment, but there must be a fire somewhere around here he can throw these rags into—

Something plinks to the floor. Lucanis pauses, crouching to get a better look.

It's the seashell.

Lucanis picks it up in wonder. The Ossuary may be lost beneath the waves, but it appears Lucanis has brought a piece of it with him to the surface. This is the seashell he found on the ocean floor near the pump in his cell. It's the seashell he carefully sharpened for days under the influence of that desperation demon, willing to do anything—anything—that would get him out of that prison. It's the seashell he later held not an inch from his own carotid artery, with only Spite standing between him and his self-made demise.

Suddenly Spite's outburst makes sense. The shaving razor against Lucanis's throat—he thought—

Lucanis lets out a huge breath. Spite isn't going to betray him. He's just doing what he did in the Ossuary: trying to keep Lucanis alive. Lucanis can handle Spite, and keep him pointed in the direction of their enemies, if they can only learn how to communicate better. Not all is lost, not yet.

And in the meantime, if Spite wants out of this body so badly—

Well. Lucanis will have to see what he can do.

Lucanis rises to his feet, slips the seashell in his pocket, and makes for the door.

-----------------------

Lucanis emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, and, after a quick look around, locates what he thinks is the front door, opposite of the stairs they came up earlier. This leads to a small entryway, but just as Lucanis opens the second door, at the end—

—he runs directly into Rook, carrying a broom. "Maker," she yelps, and without even really thinking about it Lucanis catches her by the elbows, steadying her enough so that she doesn't fall. He doesn't realize what he's doing until the pads of his fingers make contact with her smooth skin; the instant she's out of danger, he withdraws the touch. "Thanks," Rook gasps, clutching her chest, then does a double-take and adds, "You look...better."

What she means is that he no longer looks like a crazed and possessed madman who spent a year in a dark hole biting off Venatori fingers. "Thanks," Lucanis says in return.

She looks different too. While he was bathing she changed out of her fighting clothes and into something resembling typical Minrathous leisure wear: a dark outfit comprising a sleeveless top, baggy trousers, and sandals. Her hair is tied back loosely. Without sleeves, Lucanis can see she packs more muscle than he realized, especially around her shoulders; there are also lightning-flower scars winding up from her palms to her elbows. And without the high collar she was wearing earlier, it's easier to see the—his mind briefly gropes for the word in Trade before he remembers there isn't one—bump in her throat.

He's gotten sloppy. It's the kind of small detail he's been trained his whole life to notice, and he missed it. It's not as though he's never met anyone like her, either. Lots of women don't realize they're women until later in life. It happens. It's not a big deal to anyone except Vints—who, naturally, have a problem with it because everything they think and do in Tevinter is backwards.

"—careful around here, or you'll go tumbling right off the edge," Rook is saying. She pushes open the door, leading him out the way she came in. "Andraste's ass, what a shit first day on the job that'd be for you. Last day, too, actually."

"The edge?" Lucanis repeats politely, trying to hide the fact that he got distracted. It's poor manners to get caught staring at a woman's throat.

In answer, Rook steps aside.

Cobblestone stretches out in front of them, leading to a double staircase parted around a statue of one of the elven gods—Fen'Harel, if Lucanis is not mistaken, but elven history was never one of his points of study. Beyond that is an outbuilding with a large, arched roof. More like it can be found to the right and left, each ancient, each with their own unique look: one has a green sea glass roof, one is tall and skinny with some floors open to the air, one has a golden device atop it. Pink blossom trees grow out of the crevices between bricks, roots crawling along the wall to gain purchase.

And everything is floating. The stairs leading to each building hang over an infinite void, and the drapery around the lighthouse floats as if weightless; ivy tumbling down the sides of ruins swings gently in a breeze Lucanis cannot feel. Nothing is touching the ground because there is no ground. There is only an endless sky in all directions. And what a sky it is—speckled with the bright pinpricks of stars of constellations Lucanis doesn't know and an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of blues and greens and purples.

"Beautiful," Spite sighs, from inside his head. Lucanis feels his warm satisfaction roll out from his chest and spread into his limbs. It's a new sensation: Lucanis isn't sure he's ever felt Spite experience contentment before. Perhaps he's been homesick for a sky like this.

"It's something, isn't it?" says Rook, almost as if she heard. "I once heard a sailor in Ostwick say that this is what the sky looks like over the Sunless Lands. Thought the fucker was shitting me! But look at this."

"Look at this," Lucanis echoes, eyes on the sky.

A moment passes where they admire the view together—but then it's over, and Rook turns to Lucanis with a serious expression, making eye contact again and not breaking it. "Listen," she says, "whatever goes on between you and your family, that's family business. But I can't lie to my team. They need to know who they're fighting beside. So I told them about Spite."

Spite growls. "Go ahead. Tell everyone. Better than him."

What is that supposed to mean? But Lucanis cannot ask, not in front of Rook; he would like very much for the people around him to forget Spite is there. "I understand," he says reluctantly. He's not looking forward to the inevitable suspicion and wariness he's going to get, but he supposes it's only fair. Before the Ossuary, if he was fighting alongside a possessed man, he'd be wary, too. As long as nobody's trying to kill him or torture him and nobody tells his family, what right has he to complain? He clears his throat and nods at her broom. "Were you bringing that to me? I should go clean up."

Rook waves him away. "It's late, leave it for tomorrow. I've got to drop by the infirmary—" She gestures to her arm, still sporting a small burn from their prison break. "—but Neve and the others can brief you. I bet you're starving, and we made food—or, well," she corrects herself, "something resembling food. It probably beats whatever the Venatori were feeding you, though."

The scars near Lucanis's mouth itch. He tries very hard not to remember the sensation of Spite being forced down his throat. "Probably," he agrees noncommittally.

"Want my advice?" asks Rook, and continues without waiting for an answer: "Avoid the potatoes. Harding tries, but it takes a brave soul." And with that, she vanishes back inside, leaving Lucanis standing under the colorful sky alone.

-----------------------

The largest outbuilding is silhouetted against a ribbon of purple-blue light. From here Lucanis can see high windows glowing warmly with firelight, a stark contrast to the sky. And even though Spite has never eaten anything but Venatori mush before, he still starts naming the foods being served before they even reach the door. "Smells like...pork—reheated twice," he says. He's talking faster than usual; maybe that means he's excited. "Bread, baked at noon. Beans, badly burned." He hesitates. "Potatoes...?"

Lucanis pushes open the door. The aroma of warm food rolls over him; the following pang of emptiness in his midsection is nigh-unbearable. But he can bear it—he has been hungry for a year, and this is what he trained for. Twice a year he and Illario would be denied food for seven days, and were still expected to go about their usual business: exercises, education, and all the other kinds of Crow training, which in Lucanis's case included a weekly lesson with the kitchen staff. When Caterina was feeling merciful that would fall on the first day. When she was not, it would fall on the seventh day, and Lucanis would prepare food that he would not be allowed to eat with shaking hands.

Inside what Lucanis realizes now is the dining hall, three women, situated in armchairs around a small table in the corner, all cease talking at the same time and get to their feet to face the door.

The first, of course, is Neve; she's let her hair out of its bun, discarded her hat, and undone the top three buttons of her blouse. Lucanis has yet to be introduced to the other two, a tall elf with the traditional elven vallaslin tattooed on her face and a great deal of silky black hair pulled back into a bun, and a dwarf with braided hair and freckles.

Neve makes the introductions. "Lucanis, this is Bellara Lutare and Lace Harding. Bel, Harding, this is Lucanis Dellamorte."

"And company," says the dwarf—Harding. Her arms are crossed, her expression distrustful.

"Smells like jam," Spite says, pleased to be acknowledged, and the image of him, clean and dressed, appears next to Harding to look her over. Lucanis only just swallows Spite's words back in time; for now, his voice remains one only Lucanis can hear. "Campfire smoke. Deep stone. Dreams."

"Harding," Bellara scolds. "I'm so sorry, she's Ferelden. Come sit down, help yourself! We can tell you about your target, and you can tell us about...uh, you know. If you want."

"Smells like pine sap," Spite observes, as Lucanis follows her to the table. Lucanis clenches his jaw. "Halla hair. Blossoms. Old things."

Lucanis keeps his mouth clamped tightly shut until he's certain Spite is finished, then says as diplomatically as he can, "I would like to know more about the job." For now he ignores both Spite's remarks and Harding's hostility; he's not going to make his life any easier by snapping at the people he'll be working with, or snapping at his demon in front of them. He hates social situations like this. What would Illario do? Crack a joke, probably. "Thanks for dinner. I didn't have time to swing by the café on my way out of prison." He's not surprised to get a smile out of Bellara; he is surprised to get a snort out of Neve. It wasn't a very good joke.

They all sit around a long, rectangular dining table in front of the fire and under an ancient metal chandelier. To the left of this is a staircase, under which the actual kitchen is nestled—stove, a small countertop, and a smaller shelf—and to the right, aside from the armchairs, is a door that must lead into the pantry. The ceiling is very high, but somehow, there are no cobwebs. Lucanis takes the only place that still has a plate; everyone else has eaten without him. It puts his back to the fireplace. He forgot a person could be so warm.

Lucanis, as instructed, helps himself while the others brief him. The target is a pair of ancient blighted mages, ones calling themselves elven gods. "They're only kind of gods," says Bellara, "They are Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, from our history, but they're just people. Or they were once. They were imprisoned in the Fade for thousands of years by Fen'Harel—or Solas, if you prefer. He's spent the last ten years trying to tear down the Veil that separates the real world from the Fade. Rook and the others stopped him just in time, but interrupting the ritual in the middle let the gods out of their prison—and got him stuck inside instead."

It sounds a little familiar. "I heard the guards talking, down in that hole," Lucanis offers. "Now and then the subject of their old gods would come up. The Ventaori seemed certain they had returned. I dismissed it as the ravings of mad cultists. But it cannot be a coincidence."

They make polite, work-related conversation like this while Lucanis eats. Spite was right about the food. The pork is dry and far too chewy; it's a bad cut of the meat, and poorly reheated besides. The beans are overcooked to the point of being mushy except the crunchy places where they are burned. Lucanis isn't even sure how the potatoes could have gone so wrong. Only the bread is passable. It's a mediocre dinner prepared with inadequate ingredients by inexpert hands. But there was an effort made here. It's not stale bread crusts and cold vegetables and spoiled undercooked fish tossed into a cell as meat scraps are tossed to dogs. Lucanis isn't sure he's ever been so grateful to eat anything in his life. Even Spite, who usually despised the whole ordeal of eating in the Ossuary, has little to complain about now.

Lucanis knows from hard experience he must eat slowly after a period of starvation, but even his hunger training didn't prepare him for how ravenous he'd be after a year and a day of going without. He's going to have to work on finding good food, he realizes, and lots of it, to build back his muscle and strength. If they are fighting gods, he can't afford to be in anything less than perfect condition. But it's nothing he hasn't done before; only the severity is new. Even now that he's safe, he falls back on Caterina's training. She's still helping him get through this, even though she's gone.

He does wish he was not the only one eating. It makes it all the more crucial not to act like he's starving; to not let the fork shake in his hand when he hasn't had cause to touch one for a year. He counts his chews out and works counterclockwise around his plate, so that nothing seems to disappear too quickly. Harding and Bellara don't notice him struggling, but Neve is too keen not to see it. He doesn't like anyone knowing that he needs something, especially something as simple as food. It's a massive vulnerability that is far too easy to exploit. He's glad Rook isn't here.

And speaking of— "Rook's been gone forever," Neve notes after a while, leaning over to see past Lucanis and out of the window. "I wonder what's keeping her."

"She told me she was dropping by the infirmary," Lucanis replies, and gets identical groans from Neve and Harding. "What? The burn was a minor injury, was it not?"

"It's not that," Neve says. "Have you ever heard of Varric Tethras?"

It takes Lucanis a moment. "That dwarven novelist?" When he has the time Lucanis usually picks up romances, and Tethras writes absolutely terrible romance, so Lucanis isn't overly familiar with his work. But Tale of the Champion was so popular, even in northern Thedas, that Lucanis eventually caved and picked up his own copy to see what all the fuss was about. He didn't think he'd like it; he read it cover-to-cover twice.

"That's the one," says Neve. "This hunt for Solas, the job to stop him from tearing down the Veil, it was Varric's fight. He and Solas were old friends—they even served in the Inquisition together. When he found out what Solas planned to do, he recruited Rook and Harding and me. But he didn't want to just stop Solas. He wanted to talk him down, get him to change his mind. He wanted to save him."

Lucanis has finally finished eating; he sets his fork down on his empty plate. "What happened?" he asks, even though he already knows.

"Solas killed him," says Harding, surprising Lucanis. She's been the most reluctant to speak so far. If she is Ferelden, that means she's from southern Thedas, which explains her wariness perfectly; they're scared to death of anything resembling magic down there.

"Rook's been taking it hard," says Neve. She debates with herself a moment, then informs Lucanis, "I've known her for years and I've never seen her like this. She never talks about him. Didn't say a word during the cremation. It's been weeks now and she just keeps pretending everything's fine. At first I thought she just didn't want to face it—but turn around twice, and she's back in the infirmary again. It's where we put his things."

So she's grieving? Lucanis, unfortunately, knows the feeling. But they're right: Rook hides it well. Whatever she's going through is shoved down so deeply he could not read it on her face. Lucanis knows that feeling, too. If he thinks about the unfairness of Caterina's death for longer than a moment he will finally go mad.

"I overheard her talking to him the other day," Bellara says glumly. "I never got to meet him, but I know he must have been special because of how much she misses him."

"He was," sighs Harding. She gives the window a sad look. "I think I'll go check on her. Lucanis, why don't...you two...find some place to sleep? The Lighthouse makes as many rooms as we need, so you can just wander around until it gets the idea."

What unsettling instructions. "Thanks," says Lucanis. He stands, but stops before he picks up his bag. "...I have to ask. Do any of you know how to get rid of a demon?"

A surprised pause follows his question. In the interim before anyone answers, Spite bristles. "Get rid of?" he hisses. "No! Won't! I chose you!"

Lucanis grinds his teeth making sure Spite can't say it aloud. He sounds just like he did during those early days of the Ossuary. What is he so angry about? Isn't that what he keeps asking for?

"I have people in Minrathous I could ask," Neve says finally. "But I really wouldn't get your hopes up."

"But demons are just spirits who've been corrupted, right?" asks Bellara. "Maybe if you could turn Spite back into whatever it used to be, and ask it to leave..."

"No!" says Spite again. The force of his frustration is enormous, and Lucanis is starting to get a headache that has nothing to do with blood magic. His skin feels hot and tight, like there's not enough room in this body for him and Spite both.

"That won't work," Lucanis says shortly. He does not explain why.

"I once heard of an abomination being cured by killing the demon in the Fade," Harding offers. "That's not a sure bet, though."

There's a sudden cold feeling in his chest; Spite falls silent. "No, I—" Lucanis presses a protective hand to his sternum, where he feels Spite puffed up like an angry cat beneath his breastbone. "I don't want to hurt him."

There is another silence. All three women are giving him strange looks. Too late, Lucanis realizes he has betrayed himself.

"Hurt who?" asks Rook, and Lucanis jerks his eyes to the dining hall doors. She's back, sporting a fresh bandage on her left arm and not looking at all like she just spent half an hour sitting with her dead friend's possessions.

"His demon," answers Neve. "Lucanis was asking about ways to get rid of it."

"Ah," says Rook. She walks in and closes the doors behind her, studying Lucanis's face carefully. He is so used to people being unable to hold eye contact with him that it unnerves him every time she does not look away. At last she says, "There's only one sure way I know of."

Lucanis knows too. "You'd have to kill me."

"And we're not doing that," says Rook firmly. She pauses, and then with visible reluctance adds, "To you or to Spite."

Spite uncoils himself at once. "I want to talk to her," he says, appearing beside Lucanis.

It's all Lucanis can do not to gape at him. Spite's not great at talking; everything he says means ten other things, and it all comes out in a few angry words at a time. Not only is this one of the clearest requests he's ever made, he didn't even growl while making it. And Spite never wants to talk to anyone. He didn't talk to Calivan or Zara no matter what they did to try and force him, and everything they did was terrible. Even when Zara was pretending to be someone she was not, Spite only wanted to talk to her because of how much Lucanis wanted him not to. And now, Spite wants to talk to Rook. Rook, who they only just met. Rook, who Spite has wanted dead multiple times today alone.

Maybe, maybe, if it were just the two of them. Maybe if it was not his first day on a new contract. Maybe if he was not having so much trouble understanding Spite since escaping the Ossuary. Maybe if Spite had not terrified Rook once already. Maybe if he had not threatened to kill her.

Lucanis cannot possibly allow it.

"Lucanis," Spite protests, stepping into his field of vision. Lucanis turns his face away, trying not to wince, and Spite adds, "Why. Are you. Doing this? We had a deal! Don't ignore me!"

"Lucanis?" Rook asks. "Everything all right?"

"Of course," Lucanis answers. "I—"

"—want to talk!" Spite says, trying to take control of Lucanis's voice, and Lucanis only just stops the words from being spoken aloud. Spite is so furious he would crawl right out of Lucanis's mouth if he could, like a moth from a cocoon; to prevent his trying, Lucanis swallows him down, down, down as he continues to shout. Each word sends pain lancing through Lucanis's head, as though Spite's rage is becoming so large it could shatter his skull. "Let me talk! Let me talk! Let me talk! I want! To talk! To Rook!"

The pressure peaks; so does the pain. Lucanis, for all his experience keeping his composure under both, flinches. Warm blood drips from one nostril.

The women all jump to their feet. "Lucanis!"

"No—" Lucanis holds a hand out to stymie the inevitable alarm, jaw set; he can feel already how viciously pleased Spite is to have gotten all their attention at the same time, and the last thing he needs is for Spite to learn that behavior like this gets him what he wants. Spite might have been Determination once, but Lucanis is determined too. It's his mouth. He should get to decide what it's used for at least some of the time.

"It's fine," he says, schooling his expression and voice into careful neutrality. A gentleman always carries a handkerchief; now that Lucanis has access to his own things again, it's a simple matter to pull out a square of white silk and press it against his face. In hardly a moment, the evidence of Spite's rage has vanished. "I'm fine."

It doesn't calm them as well as he'd like. "You're bleeding," says Rook. "Maybe that's not fine."

"She understands," Spite says, appearing next to her. He delights in her anxiety. "Let me talk."

"I thought he was helping you," Rook says, her tone accusatory. "What did he do that for?"

"He gets frustrated when he doesn't get what he wants," Lucanis explains lightly, refusing to look at or acknowledge Spite.

"Which is?"

"To talk," says Spite.

"Some quiet," says Lucanis, ignoring Spite's wordless growling. Neve, Bellara, and Harding are watching this exchange with eyebrows raised, but Lucanis has the distinct impression that Neve, ever-perceptive, knows he's lying. "He'll settle down once everyone leaves."

Rook frowns, studying his face. Lucanis tries very hard not to break eye contact, but it doesn't matter; she knows he's lying, too. "I don't like leaving you alone with a demon," she says uncertainly. "I..."

Oh. Lucanis flicks his gaze between the four of them. They all seem distressed, but it hadn't occurred to him until now that though they might be frightened of him, they may also be frightened for him. That's...a lot more generous than he was expecting. Before the Ossuary, if Lucanis had found himself in the same room as an abomination, he'd have run them through on the spot. It's what nearly anyone in Thedas would do, save some of the more open-minded Rivaini. You can't save an abomination; it's like trying to cure a rabid dog. Kinder to put it out of its misery. And yet Lucanis is clean and fed, and something so insignificant as a nosebleed has garnered concern. It eases some of the terrible tension in his shoulders.

"I've been alone with him for a year," Lucanis reminds Rook. "I can handle Spite. You don't have to worry about me."

Rook's mouth twists with unhappiness, but she relents. "All right," she says. "Let's give him just a minute."

She truly is in charge here; though it's not without concerned glances, the others follow her out—and at last, Lucanis and Spite are alone.

------------------------

Lucanis wastes no time in grabbing his bag and trying the first door he sees—which does, in fact, turn out to be the pantry. It's a long, narrow room, made narrower by shelves, baskets, and barrels. There are braided onions and clay pots hanging from the ceiling, and bedrolls propped in the corner.

Well, it's a damn sight better than sleeping on the sand. Lucanis takes one of the bedrolls and spreads it out at the very end of the pantry. He would like to believe that he plans to find something more comfortable in the morning, but he's not in the habit of lying to himself.

It's just—so much. The sight of the sky after a year underwater. An embrace from his cousin after a year of torture. A hot bath after Lucanis had grown used to filth. A full meal after starvation. Concern after cruelty. Lucanis has been sleeping on the ground for a year. If he had to lie down on a soft and comfortable bed right now, he might lose his mind.

Besides, this room has good chokepoints. Easy to defend, and easy to—easy to trap someone inside, should a certain demon decide Rook or one of the others needs killing after all.

"Trap me?" Spite repeats incredulously. He can follow along with Lucanis's thoughts in a way that does not work in reverse. "I want out! Let me out!"

Lucanis opens his bag and begins to unpack, sighing deeply. "You keep saying that, but when I asked about it you were furious! Can't you make up your mind?"

"No!"

"You're going to scare them!" Lucanis protests, kneeling so he can sweep a few cobwebs away from the corner where his head will lie. "Do you realize how lucky we are? Most mortals aren't so eager to make friends with abominations." The word sits bitter on his tongue. "These people aren't Venatori. You can't just do whatever you want to them. You've got to behave."

"Won't!"

Two steps forward, one step back. Lucanis pinches the bridge of his nose. Is it always going to be like this with Spite? "We're not in the Ossuary anymore," he says softly. "We—"

There's a knock on the pantry door. Lucanis jumps to his feet. "Come in."

It's Rook. She comes all the way in, though she leaves the door open behind her. "Were the two of you talking again? I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't." Lucanis smooths down the wrinkles in his shirt. She doesn't say anything, and it takes him a moment to realize why she's here. "You came to ask about Spite."

"I have to," says Rook, though not unapologetically. "I've got the others to think about. I need to know what kind of risk level we're working with here."

That's fair. "That's fair," Lucanis says aloud, both to her and to calm Spite, who has begun seething and threatening to kill her again. Partially to remind Spite, and partially because he wants to know why, Lucanis points out, "And yet, without knowing that risk, you were unwilling to kill him earlier."

"Well." Rook shifts her weight, uncomfortable. "I heard what you said. You're protecting him, and you're a master assassin. I don't think I'd have an easy time killing anybody if I had to go through you. And, you know. He did help you, back in the Ossuary. Even if he's not helping you anymore. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes..."

Spite quiets.

"Look," says Rook, "there's obviously a lot going on that I don't understand. But I was in Kirkwall when the mage rebellion started. I've seen up close the damage an angry demon can do, I know how it can erase the person inside until there's nothing left. Whatever Spite promised you, whatever deal you made with him—"

"I. Need. To. Talk," Spite growls.

Lucanis cuts them both off with a raised hand. "It's not like that."

Rook takes another step inside. "What is it like?"

What a difficult question. There is a heat like fever always close to his skin, a chill that settles in his bones when he is not paying attention. A pressure that leaves his body full to bursting, a foreign pain that comes and goes like a sickness. He feels Spite in his body: coiled at the bottom of his throat when he wants to speak, tugging at his limbs when he wants to move and fight and kill. Spite hates him, hurts him, protects him. Spite is every terrible thought he's ever had and a single fixed point to ground himself with. Spite has broken every bone in his body and then turned around and killed Venatori for touching him. Spite condemned him to Calivan's table and pulled him out of the depths of his own despair. Spite will not let him rest. Spite will not let him give up. Spite has been nestled close to Lucanis's bleeding heart for a year now and Lucanis thinks he may be teaching Spite to care. Spite keeps him on his toes, but Spite also keeps him safe. Keeps him alive. Makes him strong. Spite shares his body with Lucanis too, in a way; how many people can say that they know what it is like to have wings?

From everything Lucanis has heard, Kirkwall was a pretty bad place to be when the Mage-Templar War started, and it started because of an abomination gone rogue. But Spite isn't like that. He doesn't care about politics or the greater good. Sure, he's goal-oriented, a vestige from his time as Determination, but from what Lucanis can tell all he really wants is a direction to be pointed in, a warm body to tear apart, plans to ruin. He and Lucanis have wanted the same thing from the beginning: to be free.

"He was a prisoner too," Lucanis confesses. "No one was in the Ossuary by choice—not even the demons. Neither of us agreed to this. He cannot leave. Maker knows he's tried."

Rook, Lucanis thinks, is a person who is very used to receiving terrible information. She doesn't seem shocked so much as exhausted, suddenly aged a decade. She closes her eyes a moment, then opens them and says, "They just...forced you? How is that even possible?"

"They fed me something." Lucanis realizes he's touching one of the scars on his mouth and drops his hand at once. "My deal with Spite did not involve the use of my body. I only bargained with him after we were already bound. And all I promised him was freedom."

"Failed. To deliver," Spite hisses.

"But he's still not happy?" Rook asks archly

Having known them for only half a day, Lucanis can tell Rook and Neve are close, and he's beginning to see why: like Neve, she is also very perceptive. These fucking Vints. It's going to be a rough contract; Lucanis is used to being the most perceptive person in the room. "He is simply adjusting," Lucanis says, trying to give away as little information as possible. Unlike Neve, Rook is quite spooked by Spite—not surprising, if she spent any time at all in Kirkwall, but especially if she was there when that abomination blew up the Chantry—and he doesn't want to give her any further reason for concern.

Rook crosses her arms, considering. "And you—both of you—are all right to work? I know you didn't ask for this, and what you've been through today alone would break most people."

Lucanis feels a hard smile pulling at the corners of his mouth that is not entirely his own. "We would not have given Zara the satisfaction," says his voice, but he and Spite are in such agreement that he's not certain which of them truly spoke the words. He shakes himself a little, hoping in vain Rook didn't notice: she takes a polite step back. Lucanis is quick to add, "You can leave Spite to me. He is no danger to anyone else."

"No danger?" Spite repeats, annoyed. "Don't. Be. Too. Sure."

"All right," Rook says quietly. "Then I suppose we'll see you tomorrow." She hesitates, visibly wrestling with herself, and then adds in a rush, "You know you don't have to sleep in here on the floor."

"I know," replies Lucanis evenly. He gives Rook a nod. "Goodnight."

Rook takes the hint. "Goodnight," she says. She backs away, then slips out of the pantry entirely, closing the door behind her.

Lucanis lets out a huge breath and leans back, sliding down the wall until he's sitting on the bedroll on the floor.

Today, he and Spite escaped from the Ossuary. They cut off Calivan's head, completed Lucanis's contract, and drowned that wretched pit until there was nothing left but fish and ruins. Lucanis's family came for him, and he reunited with Illario, but he missed seeing his grandmother again by minutes. He accepted her final contract, probably the toughest one he'll ever have.

Today was a very big day.

Tomorrow, everything is going to be different.

"And now," Lucanis murmurs, to the empty air, to Spite, "comes the rest of our lives."

He pulls his feet up into the bedroll, boots still on, and rests his chin on his knees. He hooks his hands around his ankles, so that they lie close to the place where he used to keep a hidden blade in his boot. He lost it in the fight the day the Venatori captured him, but he'll replace it soon. It wouldn't do for a man in his position to be caught unarmed.

He sits like that for a very long time. He keeps his eyes open until he can't anymore. When he finally falls asleep, he falls asleep still sitting up, with only Spite keeping watch on the door.

AND SO ENDS CHAPTER 1.

i don't know when the entire fic will be finished...right now i have about 55k and i am nearing the end of Act 1 (i like to divide them into acts, like a real dragon age game!), but i'm hoping i will pick up speed once i get to acts 2 & 3. in the meantime you can always check the fic tag for excerpts and if you already read them all i don't mind being (politely) pestered for more!

thank you to everyone who got to the bottom for indulging my BIRTHDAY self-indulgence <3

#(banging pots and pans together) EVERYONE READ THIS

51 notes · View notes