arduousflame

[arduousflame]

He has such kind eyes 💖

[arduousflame]

the final battle can play out a little oddly if you romance lucanis. he is so obviously the best choice to take on the blood mage, but then he cannot join you for the confrontation with elgar'nan (i don't think). and under what possible circumstances would he be willing to leave rook's side at that moment?

and the only possible answer in my mind is that rook asks him to

i wish we had a chance to play out this conversation in the game because my rook would absolutely do this. she can't bear the thought of him (a) being hurt or (b) having to watch her die. so for the first time, she weaponizes her big brown eyes against him and begs him to protect viago because she could not bear to lose the only family she has left. and it is absolutely true but also absolutely a dirty trick because she has never openly called viago her family before and the words "lose the only family i have left" would be the equivalent of a trigger phrase for lucanis. she can see him thinking about illario in that moment (illario who may even be somewhere on that battlefield)

and then she'd go for the kill: "please. i can't afford to be distracted"

and how can he possibly argue with that after he blamed himself for missing ghilan'nain at weisshaupt? how can he argue with that after all their talk about being focused?

and after he chokes out a hoarse "all right," she doesn't let him say anything else. she just kisses him like it might be the last time and walks away

but as she passes teia, they exchange a look, and teia gives her a slight nod. she knows exactly what rook means in that moment

"keep them both safe. and if i die, keep them both whole"

[arduousflame]

Teia and Viago Master Post

It seems my overwhelming love for Teia Cantori and Viago de Riva has garnered a reputation that I’m worth asking questions about them. I’m honoured! But I think it would be easier to just make a master post about them that I can direct to, so that’s what this is.

Appearances

Dragon Age: Deception (Teia and Viago appear as unnamed Crows. It is later confirmed in Tevinter Nights that it was them)

Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights; “Eight Little Talons”

Dragon Age: The Missing

Dragon Age: The Veilguard

Pre-DATV Events

9:44 – Teia and Viago are in Ventus when the Antaam attack.

Between 9:44 and 9:52 – The events of “Eight Little Talons” takes place. (Viago says they were “recently” in Ventus when the Qunari attacked, meaning it’s probably closer to 9:44.)

9:52 – Teia and Viago are in Vyrantium when the Antaam attack. They took a contract together to kill Lady Crysanthus, who was a member of the Venatori. They briefly run into Varric and Harding, who are following Solas’s trail.

Information on Teia

Teia’s full name is Andarateia Cantori. She is the head of House Cantori, which holds the seat of Seventh Talon. House Cantori’s territory is centred in Rialto.

Teia is 28 in “Eight Little Talons”. While we don’t know for sure when the story takes place, it is most likely around 9:45-9:46 based on context clues. If so, this would make Teia in her mid-30s during Dragon Age: The Veilguard.

Teia grew up on the streets of Antiva City with no family, surviving on thievery. She was taken by the Crows at age eight, and considers them her family now. (In “Eight Little Talons,” she reflects that she’s been a Crow for 20 years.)

Teia was the youngest Crow to gain the rank of Talon in history. She is also an outlier in that she does not come from a wealthy, prolific family background. This caused quite a controversy, where she was considered an “overreaching street rat;” while the Crows tell recruits that anyone can become a Talon, it very rarely happens.

Teia has her own set of rules to follow; for example, she refuses to kill servants unless absolutely necessary.

Teia’s best skill is being a master manipulator, with a level of astute observation in others that gives her an advantage in pretty much any conversation. She is very good at figuring out what to say and do in order to get the response she wants from someone.

Teia’s biggest flaw is, in my opinion, her naiveté. You could also say that the fact that she’s held onto strong morals and sensitivity to others is a strength, certainly. But the fact that she wants to see good in everyone, even people who arguably don’t give her any reason to, has gotten her into trouble.

Teia was in an abusive relationship in the past; Dante Balazar, who was Second Talon before his death in “Eight Little Talons”. Dante was addicted to lyrium, and would lash out at her verbally and physically. At some point Teia fought back and finally broke things off, while leaving a scar on his shoulder. Despite all this, Teia held sympathy for him.

Teia is afraid of dogs, after being chased by rabid ones on the streets as a little girl.

Teia has a tattoo marking her as a member of House Cantori on her back.

Teia’s horse is named Andoral (after the archdemon).

Teia has probably not been a Talon for very long; I would guess less than five years as of “Eight Little Talons.”

Information on Viago

Viago is the head of House de Riva, which holds the seat of Fifth Talon. House de Riva’s territory is centred in Salle.

We do not know Viago’s age for certain, but I would guess he’s in his mid-40s during Dragon Age: The Veilguard based on vibes and sensible timelines.

Viago is a master poisoner, and carries around plenty of it wherever he goes… as well as antidotes, because in addition to this, he is extremely paranoid about being poisoned himself. He does not eat or drink anything before testing it first, and he even takes a small dose of Adder’s Kiss every day to build up a resistance to it.

As one of many bastard children of the Antivan King, Viago was only given two choices in life: either live in luxurious exile, or join the Crows. He resents all his half-siblings who chose the first, and he resents the king himself. Viago may be more powerful than them all, even the king, but he is now stuck in this life. Had he not been, he thinks he could be a better ruler of Antiva.

Viago also holds resentment towards his mother, who it is hinted was an alcoholic to cope with the loss of interest from the King. Viago recalls her wine-stained “demon teeth” from when he was a child.

Viago does not give a shit if people like him or not; he only wants to be respected and feared. (Despite this, Teia tries to make the other Talons like him.) He is also used to having to constantly watch his back, and typically thinks the worst in people.

Viago tries to avoid emotional thinking, preferring hard facts and logic.

Viago has a pair of adder snakes he milks for venom. He also now has a third named Emil, choosing to keep the snake that bit and nearly killed him in “Eight Little Talons”.

Viago enjoys art collection.

My guess for how long Viago has been a Talon is somewhere around 10-15 years, based on vibes and timelines. I think he was fairly young himself when he succeeded his predecessor. I also think it’s entirely possible that the Antivan King arranged his rise to power, based on the comment in “Eight Little Talons” from Dante: “Your daddy will protect you.”

Dialogue (in no particular order)

Viago: It's frustrating, right? I'm correct to feel that way? How the occupation has pushed us all… apart? Teia: I try not to let the fledglings see it. Viago: If they had done nothing else, I would hate the Antaam for making you restrict any part of yourself.

Teia: I haven't seen that look in some time. Viago: It's called "hope." And perhaps some other thoughts. Teia: What sort of thoughts, Vi? Viago: About the future. Both long term and… more immediate.

Viago: Is my collar high enough? I need to present an example. Teia: The fledglings see their leaders standing tall against the tide. Incessantly. Teia: Perhaps it is time to set other examples. So they know that war is not all we are. Viago: Perhaps we should discuss as much. Say, at the café? Teia: Once they've scrubbed out the remains of the Antaam.

Teia: Your push against the Antaam has been admirable. Viago: Your work here is also commendable. Teia: Good, good. Why is this so awkward? Viago: Perhaps we know each other too well to be strangers.

Teia: What are you drafting now? Viago: It's a contract to murder a vacation. It requires a very particular set of skills from a very particular Seventh Talon. Teia: Very funny, and unnecessary. I'll take a break soon. Really. Viago: As it was with gods and reavers, I'll believe it when I see it.

Teia: Haven't seen you around the Diamond much, Vi. Viago: I've been preoccupied. Teia: I thought perhaps you were avoiding me. Viago: I thought perhaps you wished to be avoided.

Teia: So, will I see you for breakfast? Viago: I don't think you will. Teia: No? Why not? Viago: It's only breakfast if we sleep. Teia: Vi, you are the worst.

Teia: Despite the governor, Rook has certainly given us time to consider our options. Viago: I'd forgotten that kind of time. Just, time to appreciate… those around me. Teia: There's only the two of us here. Viago: And who else could I possibly mean?

Teia: You fought darkspawn? Viago: None of them touched me. Teia: I will inspect you later. Viago: All right.

Teia: I told her their bickering was amateurish, and that they'd need to work much harder to argue as well as we do. Viago: That was altogether the wrong message to take away from that. Teia: I thought you enjoyed our little squabbles? Viago: Among—and possibly overshadowed by—other things.

Viago: You're smirking at me. What is so funny? Teia: I was just noticing how much you're starting to look like the dog. Viago: We are free from the influence of gods and traitors for the first time in months, and that is where your mind goes? Teia: Especially when you pout! Viago: I do not pout.

Teia: I found some Crystal Grace in the gardens earlier. Viago: I didn't know flowers still bloomed in this city. Viago: And thank you. They were most pleasant to find on the desk this morning.

Teia: Fighting back suits you. Your tone has much improved since we last argued. Viago: Excuse me. I wasn't aware it was my tone that was at issue. Teia: That's all right, I'm sure you'll pay closer attention from now on. Viago: See, this is why we split. And got back together. And split.

Teia: Fighting back, making our voices heard… this is feeling like old times. The good ones. Viago: Thank you for the clarification. Teia: I meant it. Viago: So did I.

Viago: Have you been home in the last week? Teia: I won't let the fledglings see the Diamond empty.

Teia: Are you certain the fledglings should see you smile this much? You'll spoil them. Viago: It's unavoidable, I'm afraid. The cause of my smile refuses to leave the Diamond. Teia: Is that so? Viago: It is very much so.

Teia: Not all things end with clarity, as you and I both know. Viago: Fine. Endings are fuzzy. Starts are shocking. Middles… middles are worth lingering.

Rook: The Cantori Diamond is your casino? The occupation hasn't closed your business? Teia: Business may be down, but it isn't "my" casino to close. Viago: An easy mistake to make. Isn't that right, Andarateia Cantori? Teia: I am no landlord, and anyone who treats me as such shall be evicted.

Rook: Were either of you trained by Heir? Viago: Not this one. Mine was… stern. Teia: Mine spoke in the third person until you were skilled enough to be recognized as an equal. Viago: Starting with grammatical murder. Fascinating.

Teia: Why are you so frustrating? Viago: Am I? We are only frustrated by things we are truly invested in. Teia: That can't be. I just threw out your old shirts. Viago: Old? There's no such thing as old satin.

Rook: So you two are both Talons. Doesn't that make you rivals? Viago: Rank in one area is rarely applicable to others. Which is to say, only a fool would try to impose rank on Teia. Teia: Wise words from a sometimes fool. Viago: A history I would wish on no one else, lest they take it from me.

Viago: Occupied! The insult of it! Teia: It's more than insulting. Viago: It's salt in the wound. And that is my purview.

Viago: To see you so energized, Teia. I'm staring at the sun. Teia: Viago, once Rook kills Ivenci? On again. Viago: We shall see.

Teia: Viago, dear. Do you want children? Viago: I rarely see the dog.

Viago: I think [Jacobus] could be the best of us. Teia: That's a high bar. Including you? Viago: Well, perhaps second-best. Behind you. Teia: Flattery will get you everywhere.

-----

SOURCES:

Dragon Age: Deception

Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

Dragon Age: The Missing

Dialogue between Teia and Viago (DATV)

Letter from Mistress Trella (DATV)

[arduousflame]

today's edition of "i hyperfixated on an idea and then absolutely had to spend my day banging out a one shot about it":

every time i see my face in yours <- ao3, read here

Viago and Rook, fucked up sibling dynamics and some blood magic. thanks to @dellamortethelesser's phylactery post this morning, it broke my brain

[arduousflame]

Since apparently Rook is sensitive to Gingerwort Truffles I had to add that of course Abel drank alcohol with it and of course he was tanked.

[arduousflame]

Heyaaa!!

I'm absolutely delighted with your Rook 😭🤲

Quick Question!

Who wins more often in rock-paper-scissors? Rook or Manfred? 👁️👁️

Yay!!! 🙏

Manfred wins at RPS, cards, chess, checkers, fuckin monopoly you name it, Rook is LIVID bc he doesn’t know HOW it’s possible.

[arduousflame]

Hiii I love your art and your rook sm!! I wish we’d have a fancy ball quest in veilguard to take our LI to lmao. What would Murat wear? Would he dance w Lucanis?? Is tiny spite dressed up????

ooh i like the idea. murat was actually a very skilled dancer. and i think he still remembers some moves. lucanis would be charmed.

anyway! tiny spite and his not so tiny bow tie, he likes it very much.

+full fancy outfits under the cut

[arduousflame]

Stay, you are safe.

Needed something soft between these 2.

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

“Lucanis, is everything all right?” Rook’s head peeked over the banister. Below, the Crow had been rolling his shoulders, pacing in tight circles around the chairs. She didn’t miss the pained scowl flickering across his features.

“Ah, I’m fine. Just a bit stiff after that last stint in Rivain.” Lucanis waved a hand dismissively, but Rook kept looking down at him, and after a few seconds, her head tilted slightly.

“Rook, I’m fine,” he insisted, his tone firmer this time.

Her silence stretched, unbroken except for the soft creak of wood under her weight. Then she replied, dryly, “You want to tell Viago that?”

Lucanis chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. “A round of stretches and some rest should do it.” He rolled his shoulders again, forcing himself to straighten.

Rook disappeared from view, but only for a moment. When she reappeared at the top of the staircase, she was rubbing her arms. A telltale habit, one he recognized as uncertainty.

“I… might have something that could help?” she offered, hesitating just enough to give herself away. Her words hung in the air as her cheeks flushed pink. “Ah, only if you want to, of course!”

Lucanis paused, tilting his head at her, intrigued.

“I learned some massage techniques…” She trailed off, her voice quieter now. “Long story, but I could help ease some of the discomfort. I know where and how you ‘rest’ and that’s only going to make it worse.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, but when she finished, she froze like a statue, bracing herself for his response.

Lucanis crossed his arms, leaning back slightly on the balls of his feet. He didn’t speak right away.

Rook’s face faltered—just barely, but enough for him to notice. Her smile returned a tad too quickly. “Never mind,” she said, her voice light, her words rushed. “Forget I asked.”

In truth, he was conflicted.

A part of him, a loud, insistent part, longed to say yes.. To let her closer. To feel her warmth, not just in her laugh or the brightness of her smile, but in her touch. The kind of touch that wasn’t born of battle—when outstretched hands met to steady or warn—but something softer, more deliberate.

He envied the others sometimes, how freely she gave her affections. The way she hugged Bellara and Harding every morning, unreserved and easy. How she bumped shoulders with Davrin and Taash, playful and familiar. The way she leaned in conspiratorially with Neve, or the quiet focus in her hands when Emmrich taught her a new spell.

But with him…

She always kept her distance. She’d step aside to let him pass, hand him a blade so their fingers wouldn’t brush. Her laughter and her smiles she gave him freely, but her touch? That, she withheld.

He’d start to think Rook did not care for him, now that he was a literal demon.

But the truth was, he did the same to her. Illario had always been the suave one. How

Lucanis exhaled softly, shifting his weight. “Rook,” he began, his voice low.

Her eyes snapped to his, cautious but still hopeful.

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer,” he said. A small smile tugged at his lips. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

For a moment, her expression was unreadable. Then, a bright, genuine smile broke across her face. “Of course. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.” She took a step back on the landing. “Give me a minute,” she said, “let me grab some stuff. Meet you in your room?”

He did not trust his voice anymore; so he only nodded. The soft fast taps of her bare feet on the wood betrayed her enthusiasm she hid so well in her words and voice.

Was this really happening? Had he actually said yes, letting her get just a little closer? The last five minutes kept replaying in her mind, over and over, as she hurried back to her room.

The thought was still a whirlwind as she dumped her pack onto the bed, rummaging frantically for that small tin of numbing balm. Her fingers closed around it, and before she could lose her nerve, she was rushing back down the hall toward the dining room.

It was late—thank the Maker—so she didn’t run into anyone. Rook was grateful for that, sure that anyone who saw her now would immediately notice the telltale flush on her cheeks. She did have a reputation to uphold.

She skidded to a halt in front of the large doors of the hall. A deep breath in. A deep breath out.

She stamped her feet lightly on the floor, a giddy little motion that she immediately scolded herself for. Stop that, Rook. Compose yourself. She shook her head, willing the excitement to settle. The last thing she wanted was to scare him off now. Not when he’d finally let her in, even just a little.

Steeling herself, she raised her fist to knock on the pantry door when his voice called out: “Come in, Rook.”

Of course he’d heard her coming.

Her heart gave an unsteady flutter as she pushed the door open, just enough to peek inside. There he was—Lucanis, sitting on the edge of his cot, a coffee cup in hand. His posture was tense, his right shoulder slightly drawn back in a way that made it clear to her that he was in much more pain than he’d ever let on.

“I got the stuff I needed,” she said, her voice coming out softer than she intended. She hesitated a moment, then stepped fully into the room, holding up the small metal tin for him to see. “For your shoulder,” she added, a bit sheepishly.

The words hung in the air, and for a fleeting second, her nerves threatened to overtake her. But then, his gaze met hers—not sharp or dismissive, but steady, with the faintest flicker of something she couldn’t quite place.

It was enough. She took another step forward and closed the door behind her.

“How do you want to go about this?” Did he sound nervous?

“Well, it’d be easiest if you sat on the ground... Then I could sit behind you on the cot.” She hesitated, then added quickly, “Oh, and no need to take off your shirt! I’ll be careful not to get any balm on it.”

He regarded her silently for a moment before lowering himself to the floor, cross-legged and straight-backed, as always. She’d never catch him slouch, she was sure. He placed the empty cup on the crate he used as bedside table.

On the tips of her toes, she moved to perch behind him on the cot. Normally, she’d steady herself by slipping her legs around the person she was working on. But not this time. She tucked her legs beneath her, sitting back on her knees instead.

The tin resisted her efforts, her fingers fumbling briefly before she finally pried the lid open. The faint scent of the balm filled the air as she dabbed some onto her fingers. But then, just as she was about to begin, she froze. Her hands hovered over his shoulders, unsure.

“Ready?” she asked softly.

Lucanis didn’t answer, only nodded, leaning back ever so slightly. Barely noticeable, but enough.

Now or never, before the spell broke.

The warmth of his skin was immediate, still lingering from his pacing in front of the fire. He stiffened at her first touch, muscles rippling beneath her fingertips like a coiled predator, taut and poised to strike. The tightness where his shoulder met his neck spoke of strain—too much time spent on edge.

She started lightly, her fingers brushing across his neck and shoulders, searching, mapping. Prodding carefully here and there to gauge his reactions—was the discomfort from pain or from her touch?

It didn’t take long to find the source of his pain: a stubborn knot along his scapula, the skin warm with tension. Her movements grew more assured when he didn’t flinch or pull away, her hands working in firm, measured circles.

“Tell me if it gets to be too much,” she said, her voice steady but low. “Or if you need a break. Just say the word, and I’ll stop.”

His reply was a hum, deep and low, vibrating faintly through her hands. She’d take that as consent.

They sat in silence for several minutes, broken only by the occasional soft wince when her fingers pressed a tender spot. Her nose was scrunching in concentration.

At this point, Rook was sure she was more nervous than Lucanis. Finally, she felt him begin to relax under her touch, his tension melting away bit by bit. Emboldened by this shift, she rested her free forearm on his opposite shoulder, subtly bracing him against her as she applied a bit more pressure.

The silence lingered, heavy but not unpleasant, until it was finally broken by his low voice. “Where did you learn this?”

Her hand stilled for just a moment before resuming its rhythm. “When my mother died,” she began, her voice quiet, “and before he lost his fortune, my father got involved with a courtesan. She... took pity on me. I guess she saw a young girl without a mother figure and wanted to help. She called them ‘useful life skills.’” A faint, hollow laugh escaped her lips. “Let’s just say this was the one I kept up with. I realized it could come in handy in more ways than one when I joined House de Riva.”

Her hands faltered again, this time longer, as she blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears that blurred her vision.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Lucanis said gently, his voice softer now. She felt him shift, starting to turn toward her.

Panic flickered through her. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her cry. “Ah, no, don’t move!” she said quickly, patting his shoulder to keep him in place. “You’ll pull the knot. Stay still.”

Her words were firm, but her touch was light, her fingers resuming their work with renewed focus. She hoped the slight tremor in her voice had gone unnoticed.

Despite herself, wanting nothing more than to stay this close, Rook finally asked, “How does this feel? It should be better now, right?”

Lucanis flexed his shoulder and stretched out his arm, testing the range of motion. “Ah, this is much better.”

Rook leaned back on her legs, settling her hands in her lap. Already, she missed the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers. She tried not to dwell on it as her fellow Crow turned toward her.

“Thank you, Rook,” he said, his tone sincere. “I must admit, I was… a bit hesitant. But this really eased the pain.”

His eyes met hers—warm, dark, and so impossibly soft.

“Well,” she replied, trying to keep her tone light despite the flutter in her chest, “can’t have you out of commission. I’ve got to keep my team in fighting shape.”

A chuckle escaped him, followed by a small shake of his head. But before Rook could savor the moment, he winced sharply, his hand flying to his face.

“Lucanis?” she asked, instinctively reaching out.

He waved her off, his other hand resting on his knee as he shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just Spite.”

“Did I upset him?” she asked, her voice tinged with worry.

Those dark eyes found hers again, holding her gaze for a moment longer than she expected. “Trust me,” he said, his voice low, “you’re not the one he’s upset with. On the contrary.”

The last part was barely above a murmur, so faint Rook wasn’t sure if she’d truly heard it or imagined it entirely.

“I better get another brew going. There will be no sleep for me tonight.”

“You do need to sleep, Lucanis.” Rook did not say it outright, but the implication hang between them: the only reason Lucanis got hurt, was because he lost his edge in the field. Another night of no sleep. A moment too slow and the Antaam’s hammer had hit him square on the arm.

She stepped off the bed and motioned for him to sit back down.

“I’m fine, Rook, really,” he protested.

Rook wasn’t having it—not now, not anymore. The nervousness she’d felt earlier in the evening had burned away, replaced by a sharper edge of worry. She’d deal with the implications of bossing a Dellamorte around later. Right now, she spoke as his leader.

“I know some other techniques that might help you relax,” she said firmly, her tone leaving little room for argument. “I can stay here, keep an eye on Spite.”

A flash of panic crossed his eyes, brief but unmistakable.

“Lucanis, please.” Her voice softened. “Let me help. Next time, you might not get off with just a stiff shoulder.”

At last, his resistance cracked. He sighed, shoulders slumping. “What do you need me to do?”

She stepped closer, leaning over him to grab a cushion and placed it against the opposite side of the bed. “Lie down,” she instructed.

His movements were slow, reluctant. As he lowered himself onto the bed, she grabbed another blanket from the corner, folding it neatly and plopping it on the floor by his headrest. She could feel his eyes tracking her every move.

He lay back at last, arms crossed over his stomach, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m not sure about—”

“Same as before,” she cut him off gently. “Just give the word, and I’ll stop. But let me try before you call it quits. Can you do that?”

A pause. Then a nod.

Rook moved behind him again, settling onto the folded blanket at the edge of the bed. Her hands, still slick from the balm, hovered for a moment before she went to work.

This time, she let her fingers drift along his throat, up his jaw, and into his hair. His breaths deepened, steady and slow. A soft hum of appreciation escaped him, so low she almost didn’t catch it.

Rook couldn’t suppress the small smile that crept onto her lips. Not so bad after all, she thought.

She kept up her slow, rhythmic movements until she was certain he had fully surrendered to her ministrations. His breathing softened, slowing to the steady cadence that teetered on the edge of sleep.

Carefully—so carefully—she slipped one arm along the curve of his neck, letting her hand rest lightly on his chest. Beneath her palm, she felt the faintest hitch in his breath, a tiny stutter that made her pause. But he didn’t pull away or speak. Instead, after a moment, his breathing evened out again, the tension melting from his body.

With her other hand, she tilted his head ever so gently until his cheek came to rest against her forearm. His eyes were closed now, lashes dark against his skin. For the first time in what felt like ages, that perpetual furrow between his brows had smoothed out. His face, so often marked by strain or focus, was slack and soft in a way she’d rarely seen before.

Her fingers traced lower, brushing along the line of his neck and dipping toward his collarbone. His chest rose and fell beneath her touch, his breaths slow and deep. At last, she was certain he’d fallen completely asleep.

Still, Rook didn’t stop right away. She kept going for a while longer, her movements gentle and unhurried, until her fingers began to cramp. Only then did she still her hands—one resting on his chest, the other cradling his head against her arm.

She sat there quietly, gazing down at the man in her arms.

Catching herself, Rook tried to pull her arms back, ready to let the man finally sleep undisturbed. But as she began to lift her hand, it was caught by another—his.

Her breath hitched as she looked down to see a faint purple glow streaking through his eyes. The voice, low and resonant, was unmistakable. “Stay.”

His hand rested heavy over hers, a weight that felt both firm and pleading.

“Spite,” she said. She ran her free hand gently through Lucanis’ hair again, her fingers combing through the dark strands with deliberate care. The response was immediate: a satisfied hum, deep and almost content, reverberated through him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised.

The demon’s eyes drifted closed, and his voice followed, barely a whisper, rough around the edges. “Rook is safe. Warm. He dreamt of this. Stay.”

Did he really?

“I’ll stay,” she said softly, finally, her hand stilling against his hair, resting there like an anchor.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. The soft tapping beneath his hand stirred him awake, all his senses snapping to attention. Blinking against the faint glow of candlelight, he glanced down to find the source of the sensation: a hand, covered by his own, twitching faintly in sleep.

His gaze followed the hand to its owner. She sat behind him on the ground, her head resting on her other arm, blonde hair falling messily across her face.

The events of the night before trickled back to him slowly. The offer. The warmth. The weight of her presence at his back. It all came rushing in, a quiet tide that brought with it an unfamiliar sense of calm.

His slight movement must have disturbed her, because she began to stir as well.

“Oh, good morning,” she murmured, her voice soft and tinged with sleep. A yawn escaped her lips. “Is it morning?”

“Spite says so,” he replied, his voice lower than usual, still rough with lingering sleep. “We slept a few hours, at least.”

Rook pulled her hand free from his, and already he missed the weight of it. She stretched lazily, arching her back with a contented sigh.

“Must say,” she began, a teasing lilt in her voice, “not the worst place I’ve slept. At least there are no fish here to judge me.”

He blinked at her, caught off guard. “The Fade fish are judging you?”

“Yes, the beady-eyed bastards,” she replied without missing a beat, tilting her head as though to listen for any phantom aquatic critics.

Lucanis stared, equal parts bewildered and amused.

“No one in the kitchen yet,” she observed, brushing her hair back and rising to her feet. “You want some coffee?”

“I’ll make it,” he said quickly, pushing himself upright.

“Oh, that was a quick dismissal,” she laughed, raising a brow.

He smirked faintly, shaking his head. “Viago taught you a lot. Unfortunately, I must agree with him on one point: the tenaciousness of your Ferelden heritage.”

“Tenaciousness?” she repeated, crossing her arms and mock-scowling at him.

“You at least appreciate coffee, which saves you from complete condemnation,” he continued, his tone turning dry. “But between you and Harding, I’d never willingly accept a cup from either of you. No offence.”

Rook gasped, clutching her chest in exaggerated horror. “Oh, no offence at all! Next time, I’ll be sure to serve it lukewarm and watered down, just for you.”

“Kind of you,” he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching.

She laughed again, the sound warm and bright, and he felt the strange tension of the morning ease just a little.

“I hope you got some rest, Lucanis.” Her tone softened, becoming more serious.

“I... did. Thank you.” He inclined his head in a small bow, his hand resting lightly over his heart. But then, he hesitated, tilting his head with a faint look of surprise. “Spite wants to thank you as well, it seems.”

Rook’s smile returned, warm and reassuring. “Good. I’m here if you need anything, either of you.” Her tone turned playful again as she added, “Now, let’s see if you’ve accomplished what Viago apparently could not. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a chance to properly rile him up. Coffee?”

[arduousflame]

I could never get sick of u, emmrook

[arduousflame]

your unreliable narrator fucking bit me

[arduousflame]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age: The Veilguard (Video Game) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook Characters: Lucanis Dellamorte, Rook (Dragon Age), Spite (Dragon Age), Others briefly appearing Additional Tags: Fluff, spoilers for end game Summary:

Moments Lucanis never thought he would get to experience while in the Ossuary

[arduousflame]

Ok, reworked that previous story to fit a bit better in Gwynn's story.

A bit on her background with Viago, and a bit on how messed up the Crows are.

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

Lucanis meticulously inspected and replaced the small vials he carried, each one as vital as a blade to an assassin like him. The glass was opaque, cork stoppers sealed with dark red wax to keep their deadly contents secure. His movements were methodical as he separated recently used vials from those that had expired. Only one or two were good enough to return, unaltered. The rest would need to be disposed of—safely.

Across the table, Davrin cleaned his gear with the steady hands of a seasoned soldier, though his eyes kept darting toward Lucanis.

“Careful with those,” Davrin warned, his tone light but edged with caution. “I wouldn’t want Assan getting into them. And you’d better wash your hands before you start on dinner tonight. Got it?”

Lucanis opened his mouth, a sharp retort ready to fire, but stopped short when he caught Rook’s gaze from the fireplace. Her single raised eyebrow said, Don’t you dare.

“Bellara’s cooking,” Lucanis muttered instead.

The elf snorted. “Thank the gods for small mercies.”

“How do you even keep them straight?” Davrin asked after a few minutes of working in silence, nodding at the vials.

Lucanis held one up, angling it toward the light. The faint, otherworldly glow of the Fade caught on tiny raised bumps on the glass surface. He ran his fingers over them, his touch precise and sure.

“By feel,” he replied. “Each vial is marked differently. Even in the dark, I know exactly which one to take.”

“Oh, oh!” Bellara leaned across the table, her curiosity lighting up her face. “Are the marks unique for each assassin, so no one else can use your poisons? I read a story about that once! Two assassins sent to kill each other fell in love, but the woman got wounded protecting her lover. When he tried to give her the antidote, he accidentally gave her another poison because their labels were different. She died in his arms.”

Davrin chuckled and shook his head.

“The poisoners and glassmakers would riot if that were true,” Lucanis said, laughing. “No, the vials are standardized. It’s the poison makers who set the marks.”

“In this case, Viago,” Rook said, stepping closer. She reached for one of the expired vials, her movements unhurried but deliberate. “Oh, he’s given you the good stuff.” She turned the vial over, examining it like an appraiser judging a rare gem. “This one’s a doozy.”

Lucanis plucked the vial from her hand, his eyes narrowing. “Careful with that.”

Bellara cocked her head. “I didn’t know you used poison. Doesn’t it burn off with spells?”

Rook’s smirk was slow and sly. “Oh, Viago never told you?”

Lucanis frowned. “Told me what?”

“That he used me as a test subject when developing new poisons.” Rook reached for another vial, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather.

Bellara and Davrin froze, staring at her in wide-eyed disbelief.

Lucanis, however, remained still, his grip tightening on the vial he’d reclaimed. “I’d remember if he had.”

Rook glanced up, the corners of her mouth quirking in amusement. “Would you, though?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Oh, it’s a story,” she said, leaning one hip against the table. She pointed at the vial in his hand, her expression almost mischievous. “Want to hear what that one did to me?”

----

Viago slid the key into the lock, the faint click echoing in the stillness. He pushed the door open and stepped aside, gesturing silently for Gwynn to enter.

She hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. This room was familiar —but not for happy reasons. The shelves lined with bottles and vials, their contents shimmering in the dim light, bore the telltale marks of her Talon’s trade. The faint, acrid tang of herbs and chemicals hung in the air, sharp enough to catch in her throat.

The lab was sparsely lit. Two sconces on either side of the door cast a flickering glow, their flames shivering in the draft. Across the room, the fireplace smoldered weakly, its embers barely holding on. The light was insufficient, more for warmth than visibility, and the shadows cast by the low fire made the room feel smaller than it was.

Shelves crammed with potions, poisons, and the raw ingredients of both loomed around her. The bottles were meticulously labeled in Viago’s neat, angular handwriting, and though she knew there was an order to it all, the system remained a mystery. Like many fledglings before her, Gwynn had spent long nights pondering the riddle. Her best guess was a cipher, but she had no intention of asking Viago about his favorite book or an old love letter to confirm it. Some things were better left unsaid.

Behind her, Viago stepped into the room, the door shutting with a soft click. The sound seemed louder than it should have been.

He moved purposefully, turning the chair by the desk, the only table in the room, its surface cluttered with vials, burners, alembics, and a neat stack of labeled notebooks. With a faint scrape, he set a small stool in front of the chair, the one he used to reach the higher shelves.

"Sit," he said, his voice left no room for negotiation. He gestured to the chair. "And roll up your sleeve. Left arm. To the elbow."

Gwynn hesitated. She stood motionless in the center of the room, her hands curling into fists at her sides. The silence pressed in on her as she drew a deep breath, steeling herself. There were no pleasant memories here, there never would be. But the sooner they started, the sooner it would be over.

Finally, she moved, sliding into the chair and rolling up her sleeve. The cool air brushed against her skin, raising goosebumps. Viago, unfazed by her reluctance, was already moving about the room.

He crossed to the shelves with precise, practiced motions, selecting a small scalpel from the knife rack. A collection of hourglasses of varying sizes waited on the edge of the table, their glassy surfaces gleaming faintly in the firelight. He placed them carefully within reach before pulling down two vials from a shelf: one filled with a milky white liquid, the other slightly hazy.

The soft clink of glass against the table broke the silence as he set them down. Gwynn’s heart thudded in her chest, but she kept her face still, her breathing even. She knew better than to let her nerves show here.

One of the smaller hourglasses had already been turned, its sand cascading in a lazy spiral. The faint hiss of the grains marked the passage of time. Viago sat down on the stool in front of her, reaching for one of his well-worn notebooks. With a piece of charcoal in hand, he jotted down a few quick notes as the last grains fell, the sound of the charcoal scratching softly in the stillness.

When the sand ran out, he flipped the hourglass without hesitation, watching intently as the process repeated. Another series of marks filled the notebook. His movements were practiced, mechanical. Gwynn’s eyes flitted between the hourglass and his hand, her curiosity quietly bubbling to the surface. The steady rhythm of his work, combined with the solemn quiet of the room, felt both hypnotic and oppressive. Viago really was in his element here and whatever his intents, Gwynn knew a master of his trade when she saw one.

Perhaps it was her lingering gaze or the familiarity forged through countless hours in this room, but Viago noticed. When he finally looked up from his notes, his eyes met hers, and he offered an explanation unprompted.

“I need a baseline of your vitals,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Breathing, heart rate...”

As he spoke, his gloved fingers encircled her wrist with clinical precision, pressing firmly against the pulse point. His touch was cool, the leather a stark contrast to the warmth of her skin. The hourglass was turned again, the sand flowing smoothly into the lower chamber. He kept his eyes fixed on the glass, his movements deliberate and measured.

For a moment, Gwynn’s heart seemed louder than the hourglass itself, each beat thudding in her chest as if trying to escape his scrutiny. But Viago remained detached, focused, as though nothing in the world existed beyond the falling sand and the faint rhythm beneath his fingers.

“What’s this one supposed to do?” Gwynn finally asked, her voice breaking the silence just as the last grain of sand slipped through the hourglass.

“Incapacitate. But not kill.” Viago’s tone was calm, almost clinical, as he uncorked the vial of milky liquid. The sharp tang of its contents joined the cocktail of smells in the room. With his left hand, he pressed her arm flat against the table, reaching for the scalpel with his right.

“It’s designed to induce panic,” he continued. “Overwhelm the target. Make them feel like death is creeping closer. That kind of fear loosens lips. Makes them spill secrets.”

The scalpel gleamed as he held it to the soft skin near the crook of her elbow. The blade was steady in his hands, far steadier than her racing heart. His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “Ready?”

“You have the antidote, right?” Her voice wavered despite her efforts to sound composed.

“Have I ever let you down, Gwynn?”

“Everything has a first time...”

He didn’t reply. The blade pressed down, slicing a clean line through her skin. A sharp sting bloomed as a bead of blood welled up. Viago worked swiftly, turning to the vial. He let a single drop of the milky liquid fall onto the wound.

Gwynn hissed sharply as the poison seeped in. The pain was immediate, sharp, and fiery. “Is it supposed to burn like this?”

Viago didn’t answer. Instead, he turned two hourglasses at once, their sands beginning a synchronized countdown. His left hand returned to her wrist, his fingers firm against her pulse, and his eyes stayed locked on her—not with concern, but with unshakable focus.

The burning in her arm spread quickly, radiating out like wildfire. It seeped into her chest, her limbs, until her entire body ached as if it had been lit from within. Her breathing quickened, ragged and shallow. Instinct took over, and she started to pull her arm away, but his grip was unyielding.

“Fuck, Vi—” she gasped, her words hitching as the pain surged. “My heart... Are you sure this won’t kill me?”

“Your heart’s fast, but steady,” he said, his voice calm despite her panic. “It’s still beating, Gwynn. Take a deep breath.”

Viago’s charcoal scratched across the page in precise strokes, his notes growing longer as he worked. His focus never wavered, moving between her pulse, the hourglasses, and the faint sheen of sweat forming on her brow. Each detail seemed to matter to him, though he said nothing for a long while.

The silence stretched, broken only by the steady hiss of falling sand and Gwynn’s ragged breathing. He adjusted his grip on her wrist, his gloved fingers shifting slightly as though recalibrating. “Pulse is still strong,” he murmured, almost to himself, his tone clinical. “Faster than before, but steady. Good. That’s good.”

The burning in Gwynn’s arm had spread to her chest, and she clenched her jaw to suppress a groan. Her vision blurred at the edges, dark shadows creeping in with each uneven breath. “Viago,” she gasped, “I... I can’t— my heart..”

“You can,” he interrupted. He tilted his head toward the hourglass. “You’re still well within safe limits. Your heart’s working harder, but it’s not failing.”

Her free hand gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. “It doesn’t feel safe,” she ground out.

“I know,” he replied, his voice maddeningly even. He reached for her wrist again, pressing his thumb against the pulse point while his eyes flicked back to the hourglass. The sand was running low. “You’re breathing shallow. Deep breaths, Gwynn.”

She tried, forcing herself to inhale deeply, but it felt like dragging air through fire. “It’s—too much,” she wheezed, her chest rising and falling in uneven jerks.

Viago’s gaze narrowed, his hand moving from her wrist to the base of her throat. His fingers rested there lightly, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse beneath her skin. “Still consistent,” he muttered, turning the hourglass again. He leaned back, his sharp eyes darting over her face, her trembling limbs, the tension in her jaw. “Adrenaline’s spiking. No arrhythmias. You’re not crashing, Gwynn. Keep breathing.”

His detached tone should have been infuriating, but it was oddly grounding. She focused on the methodical way he turned the hourglasses, the practiced ease with which he made his notes. His presence, though cold and analytical, was unshakable.

“Burning subsiding?” he asked, his gaze flicking back to her.

“No,” she hissed. “It’s—getting worse. Vi, my chest—”

“I’m monitoring it,” he said, his tone sharper now. His hand returned to her wrist, holding her steady as she tried to pull away. “Your heart rate’s up, but it’s still strong. You’re not going to die.”

“How can you be so sure?” she snapped, tears stinging her eyes.

“I’m holding your pulse,” he said simply, his eyes meeting hers. “I’d know.”

The burning began to creep into her throat, and her breathing quickened again. “Viago, I swear—”

“Listen to me.” His tone was suddenly commanding, cutting through the fog of her panic. “You’re feeling the poison’s effects exactly as intended. It’s meant to mimic the symptoms of dying—tight chest, rapid pulse, burning in the veins. But it’s not killing you. Your vitals are telling me that your body is handling it. Focus on my voice. Breathe with me.”

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, and she tried to mimic him, though her breath hitched midway. His fingers remained firm on her wrist, anchoring her. “That’s better,” he said quietly.

The minutes dragged on, and she lost track of how many times the hourglass had been turned. Each time it emptied, he recorded something new, his notes growing denser with every pass. He shifted her wrist slightly, checking the veins along her forearm, and pressed his free hand to her clammy forehead.

“You’re peaking now,” he said after a moment. “The burning will start to ease soon. Keep breathing, Gwynn. You’re doing fine.”

Her limbs trembled, but the fire in her veins finally began to flicker and fade, leaving behind a heavy ache. She sagged in the chair, her head tilting back as she gulped in air. Viago’s hand lingered on her wrist, his thumb brushing over her pulse as if confirming its consistency one last time.

“It’s passing,” he said, his voice softer now. “Your vitals are stabilizing.”

She blinked up at him, exhausted. “You were watching me like a damn lab rat,” she muttered, though her voice lacked venom.

“I was keeping you alive,” he countered, his expression unreadable. “If I didn’t track every detail, I wouldn’t know how far I could push the dose. Or you.”

“Push me? I felt like I was dying, Viago.”

“And you didn’t,” he replied, his eyes locking on hers. “That’s what matters.”

Her breath hitched, and she shook her head faintly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re resilient,” he said, turning to his notebook to scrawl one last note, before closing it. “We’re done for today.”

That was her cue to leave. This time, she practically fled the room, slamming the door closed on her way out.

----

Davrin’s gaze shifted between Lucanis and Rook as the story concluded. Rook stared into the fire, her face illuminated by its flickering glow. Whatever memories the tale had stirred, she seemed lost in them now.

“I can’t believe you’d call the Crows normal,” Davrin finally said, his voice sharp with incredulity. “You two do realize none of this is normal, right?”

Lucanis set the vials back down, his fingers lingering on the wax seals. He’d need a word with Viago when he returned. The older man had always preached reforming the Crows, making them something more than tools. But now? Learning this—knowing Viago had counted Rook -Gwynn-among his closest confidants, it painted a darker picture. Lucanis had spoken of a cruel childhood to the others, but Rook’s? Rook’s had been worse.

“That’s rich coming from a Grey Warden,” She muttered.

Davrin’s response came swift and sharp. “We drink from the poisoned chalice once, Rook. After that, my sergeant didn’t keep poisoning me to prove I deserved my place.” He tossed his cleaning rag aside and pushed back from the table, rising abruptly. “I need a minute to process this.”

Bellara, who had been unusually quiet, jumped up as if startled. “I’ll… I’ll get started on dinner.” Her voice was bright but forced, and she darted from the room before anyone could reply.

That left only Rook and Lucanis at the table. The silence between them stretched, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire.

“I— I didn’t know,” Lucanis began, his voice low. “If—”

Rook cut him off, her tone sharp. “If what, Lucanis? If you’d known, then what?” She leaned forward, her blue eyes boring into his. “What would you have done? Grandson of the First Talon or not, you’d have had no right to challenge another Talon. No say in how he governed his House, or how he used his Crows.”

Lucanis opened his mouth to argue but found no words.

Rook leaned back, exhaling a long sigh as she raked a hand through her hair. Her voice softened, though the weight of her words remained. “But it’s done now. And… in his way, Viago did it out of care.”

Her gaze drifted back to the fire, her features shadowed by the glow. The faintest trace of a bitter smile crossed her lips. “His way. Always his way.”

[arduousflame]

Thinking about Rook and Harding's relationship through the lens of Varric's death like. It's crystal clear it has a big impact on Lace - she's angry and distraught in its aftermath, has to psych herself up just to approach the ritual site ("You need to do it, Lace, it needs to be done"), when Rook suggests that she can use her powers to protect people, the first thing she thinks about is that she could've used them to protect people who mattered to her.

But she sees none of that in Rook. Rook comes across as standoffish at best. "Varric knew the danger." There's no in-game chance to reach out to Harding to share that grief, talk about how it affected them.

But it's not like Rook has to do that, right? Maybe they are not that kind of person. Maybe they grieve, but they don't show it, maybe Harding realises she and Rook just aren't as close as she thought they were, and that kind of stings, but you know. What can she do?

But then things happen in the plot. Weisshaupt happens, Shathann, Cyrian. There are so many chances for Rook to express how sorry they are about someone's passing, the loss of life (and Warden Rook especially does not just observe loss, they experience it and don't have to hide it). Harding sees that Rook can reach out to friends in difficult times. They attend the funeral with Bellara, comfort Taash when they need it. They can grieve, and they can help someone through grieving.

And there's that certain feeling of misunderstanding, maybe a hint of resentment, that Harding, a people pleaser, wouldn't dare to confront. What can she say, even? Why are you mourning all those people and not our common friend? Why not Varric? Why not Varric?

Then, she either dies, never finding out the truth, or finds out the truth so late that the rift between her and Rook has become so big they can't just fill it in. She can't undo the way she had been feeling, feeling about something Rook had no idea about. Tricked by Solas, manipulated to think that Varric was alive. Robbed of the chance to grieve a friend together, time lost forever.

[arduousflame]

Grounding

A quiet whimper seeped through the closed door, sharp and raw. Rook froze mid-step. She had been on her way to check on Bellara, worried about how the elf was coping with her brother’s second death. But the sound sent her heart racing.

The Archive. Her first thought was that it had gone rogue. Without a second’s hesitation, Rook flung the door open, panic surging in her chest—only to find Bellara crumpled on the floor, head in her hands, her shoulders trembling.

“Bell!” Rook dropped to her knees, sliding across the floor to reach her. She pulled Bellara into her arms, not waiting for permission.

Bellara gasped, trying to push her away. “I’m fine! I’m—Rook, I’m fine! Please—just—” But the broken words collapsed into full sobs, fresh tears streaking her cheeks. The kohl she meticulously applied every morning ran in dark rivulets down her face, smudging as she wiped at her eyes with shaking hands.

“You’re not fine, Bell,” Rook said softly, refusing to let go. “And that’s okay. I’m here. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

Bellara sagged against her, her resistance melting as grief took over. The sobs wracked her body, silent at first, then building in intensity as the barriers she had so carefully erected crumbled. “It’s just— I miss him, Rook! He was gone, and I found peace. And— and then I could hope again. Just for it all to end like that?”

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Rook remembered the others had been wanting to train in the open center of the Lighthouse. Some were eager to release pent-up energy.

The door burst open, Davrin storming in, sword drawn, his sharp gaze scanning for danger. Lucanis was right behind him, hand hovering over his dagger, his expression tense and ready.

They froze.

Bellara was still weeping, curled into Rook’s arms like a child. And Rook, though trying her best to stay composed, was visibly struggling herself. Her lips moved as she whispered soothing words, her hand gently stroking the back of Bellara’s neck in slow, calming motions.

Rook turned her head toward the men. She shook her head at them, tightening her hold on Bellara and motioning sharply toward the door.

Lucanis immediately stepped back, understanding without a word. He glanced at Davrin, who hesitated, his grip on his sword loosening.

“Later,” Lucanis murmured, tapping the Warden on the shoulder. “Let’s give them space.”

Davrin’s jaw tightened, about to protest, but he nodded and sheathed his weapon. As he followed Lucanis out, Rook mouthed a silent thank you before turning her full attention back to Bellara. He bowed his head in reply. There was no need to explain grief to him.

The room grew quiet again as the door clicked shut, leaving only the sound of Bellara’s soft sobbing and Rook’s voice.

“It’s okay,” Rook murmured. “Let it go, Bell. Let it all out.”

And Bellara did, clinging to Rook as though she were the only thing anchoring her to the ground in the floating building in the Fade.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed—long enough for her legs to cramp from sitting on the floor, folded together like they were. Rook’s chin rested atop Bellara’s head, her hands still moving in steady, soothing patterns up and down the elf’s back. Gradually, Bellara’s sobs shifted to quiet sniffles, then to soft, uneven breaths. Finally, she fell silent, her body relaxing against Rook’s.

A gentle knock broke the stillness, and the door creaked open to reveal Harding poking her head inside. “Hey, Bellara… I’ve got some tea ready. Think you’re up for drinking a bit?”

Bellara stirred, slowly pulling herself out of Rook’s embrace. She wiped hastily at her reddened, tear-streaked face, as though trying to erase the evidence of her pain.

“Lace… Yes, please,” she rasped, her voice rough and barely audible.

“Good. Here you go.” Harding stepped into the room, carrying a mug of steaming tea. She placed it firmly into Bellara’s hands, as if daring her to refuse. “Lucanis is making some soup too. It’ll be ready soon if you feel up for it later.”

As Bellara sipped the tea, Harding prattled on, her cheerful voice filling the room. Rook stretched her legs out in front of her, grimacing slightly at the ache. She leaned back on her palms and offered Harding a tired but grateful smile.

“Let’s get some fresh air, huh? Or as much air this place allows.” Harding suggested brightly, her sharp eyes flicking between the two women. “I’ve got some plants that need tending to. You could keep me company, Bell, maybe take a nap under the canopy? The greenery might do you some good.”

Harding reached for Bellara’s hand, her own smaller fingers curling firmly around the elf’s. With a playful tug, she tried to haul Bellara to her feet. The height difference made the effort almost comical—Harding was easily half Bellara’s size. Apparently even in the floating Lighthouse in the Fade, some laws of physics still applied.

Rook leaned in with a gentle push to Bellara’s back. “Go on,” she said encouragingly.

That small nudge was enough to tip the balance—literally. Bellara staggered upright, swaying slightly as Harding’s determined pull and Rook’s push sent her teetering. The two of them wobbled unsteadily for a moment, the dwarf’s stout frame nearly toppling under Bellara’s height.

“Easy there,” Harding quipped, planting her feet with a mock-serious frown. “Not all of us are built for giant-tree-sized elves.”

A faint, reluctant chuckle escaped Bellara, and Rook couldn’t help but smile herself at the sound. It was small, but it was a start. Rook knew it would take longer than tonight to heal the hurt Cyrian had left behind. Or the hurt any other of them carried.

Still, she could only be proud of this rag tag team they formed.

“Come on, then,” Harding said, already leading the way with Bellara in tow. “The plants are waiting, and so is the supposedly fresh air. You’ve got to let yourself breathe sometime, you know. Remind me to never ask metaphysical questions again to Emmrich. I have dealt with enough mind-shattering discoveries lately to last me the rest of my lifetime”

Rook stayed seated for a moment longer, watching the two women leave the room, before she dragged herself of the floor to follow. She could hear Harding continue on: “Oh, did I tell you about the dream I had last night? It was so weird..”

The sight of Bellara leaning just slightly on Harding, her steps slow but steady, gave Rook a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they’d all find their footing again.

She followed them from a distance, back to the dining hall. The smells of Lucanis’ cooking greeted them in the courtyard. The hall was almost empty, just Davrin witling and sulking on the couch next to the fireplace, and Lucanis at the stove. The warden jumped up when Bellara and Harding walked in.

Rook looked in from the edges of the room, seeing how Harding and Davrin now tutted about the elf. Lucanis offered her a bowl of soup, before grabbing more for Harding and Davrin. Bellara’d be fine now.

Quietly, Rook turned and slipped away, heading back to Bellara’s room. It was in disarray, she had noticed when she had first walked in, papers scattered haphazardly across the desk and floor, a scarf thrown over the back of a chair, and books left open where Bellara had been writing earlier.

Rolling up her sleeves, Rook set about tidying the space. She gathered the papers into neat piles, folded the scarf with care, and closed the books, stacking them neatly on the desk. The rhythmic, methodical movements gave her mind a reprieve.

When she finally stepped back and looked around the now-tidied room, she allowed herself a small smile. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“How is it going?” Lucanis leaned casually against the doorframe, though his eyes followed her every move around the empty room. When had he walked in? She must have been busier longer than she thought.

“Bell’s in good hands now,” Rook replied without looking up, her hands busy tidying the haphazard stacks of papers in Bellara’s room. “Emmrich and Harding brewed her a calming tea. After a nap, she should be feeling a bit better.”

She kept her tone matter-of-fact, focusing on the task at hand. It was easier than thinking too much.

Lucanis must have stepped closer without her noticing —again, damn, she was losing her edge. Viago would skin her if he ever found out—because suddenly, his hands were gently taking the papers from hers. He placed them back on the desk and then, before she could react, took hold of her hands. His grip was firm but gentle, his thumbs tracing slow circles against her wrists.

“Bellara will be okay,” he said softly, his voice as steady as his gaze. “It might take time, but she’s hewn from strong wood, that one.” He paused, his dark eyes searching hers, unwavering. “I wasn’t talking about Bellara, though. I was asking about you.”

The question hung in the air between them, weighty and unavoidable. Rook opened her mouth to deflect, but the way his gaze held her—gentle but unrelenting—made the words catch in her throat. She forced a small, tight smile.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, her voice lacking conviction.

Lucanis tugged on her hands, just enough to draw her attention fully to him. “Try again.”

The quiet insistence in his voice disarmed her. She hesitated, the silence between them stretching. She could feel his thumbs still moving in slow, soothing circles, grounding her. It made the cracks in her armor impossible to ignore.

Her resolve faltered, and finally, she exhaled, the sound shaky and uneven. “I’m three breaths away from panicking and breaking down,” she admitted, her voice trembling as the words tumbled out. Her eyes filled with unshed tears, her carefully constructed walls crumbling under the weight of her confession. “i have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to be doing or how I’m going to get everyone out of this, in one piece. We’re up against gods, who fight even dirtier than Crows. None of this was something I was —am ready for. Fuck, Caterina might have given you an impossible contract. I don’t know what the hell Viago was thinking when he drew up mine.”

Lucanis didn’t let go. Instead, his hands tightened around hers, anchoring her. “There it is,” he murmured. His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the relief and understanding in his tone.

Her breath hitched, and she tried to pull away, instinctively retreating back into herself, but he held firm. “Rook,” he said. “You don’t have to hold it all together. Hold all of us together. On your own. We’re here, querida. ”

A tear slipped down her cheek, then another, until she could no longer fight the flood. She looked down, her shoulders trembling as the sob she’d been holding in broke free.

Lucanis stepped closer, closing the space between them. He let go of her hands only to wrap his arms around her, pulling her into a steady, unyielding embrace. Rook tensed at first, unused to the comfort — to be this close to him— but the warmth and strength of his hold slowly unraveled her resistance.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against her hair. “It’s okay. You’ve carried enough.”

And for the first time in what felt like ages, Rook let herself lean into someone else.

He held her close for what felt like an age, his warmth slowly easing the tension in her own limbs.

When he finally let go, he held her at an arm’s width away.

“Now, your turn to go sleep,” he said as he turned her around, giving her a slight shove out of the room when she started to protest.

I’ll wake you in a few hours. You still remember the drills your trainers taught you?” Rook nodded, “How could I forget, why?”

His smile was warm. “We’ll run some drills then, together. It’ll help clear your mind. Now, off to bed.”

[arduousflame]

Lucanis and Madeleina fall in love over the course of the game but it starts by her telling him a bedtime story from her childhood. She uses her magic to bring the bedtime story to life. They grow closer and closer with every tale shared.

And now Im in my room crying bc I’m thinking about Madeleina using her magic to tell their kids the story of how they fell in love. And for the longest time their kids, Francesca and Rafael, have no idea it’s their parent’s love story - it’s just a fantastical tale filled with love, betrayal, gods, and monsters. I imagine they lose their shit when they realize Mom and Dad are literal god killers.

So, the last chapter of the bedtime stories for a demon fic will probably be called:

The Charming Rogue & the Hapless Hero

Now I just have to finish the damn thing😅

[arduousflame]

Lucanis walked back through the quiet halls of the Lighthouse, the muffled echoes of his footsteps the only sound accompanying him. Most of the building’s current inhabitants had already retired to their rooms. The meeting with Teia and Viago had concluded around midnight, but he’d chosen to take a detour through Treviso before returning. He needed to clear his head—and to drink in the sights of the city he had missed for over a year.

Treviso, his beloved city, was alive again. The streets buzzed with renewed energy, its people rediscovering hope as the Antaam’s occupation began to crumble, bit by bit. Lucanis smiled faintly as he thought of the one who had made much of that possible. A soft hum at the back of his mind confirmed that on this, at least, him and Spite were in agreement. Rook had been a force to be reckoned with, and for once, both man and demon were grateful she had chosen to help preserve the city he so cherished.

Still, something about her had seemed... off lately. Lucanis couldn’t shake the feeling. Rook had been quieter, more withdrawn, and even Teia had commented on it during the meeting. When Lucanis admitted he wasn’t sure how Rook was truly faring, the look Viago gave him was telling. It seemed Rook had been equally evasive with her own Talon.

The meeting itself had been draining. With Illario barely functioning in the aftermath of Caterina’s death, the responsibility of managing House Dellamorte’s remaining contracts had fallen squarely on Lucanis’ shoulders. Their coffers weren’t empty, not yet, but the survival of Dellamorte’s name depended on maintaining its reputation—contracts fulfilled, successes secured. But with his current limitations, Lucanis could not intervene directly. He had to rely on allies: House de Riva and House Cantori.

Viago and Teia had struck their arrangement with House Dellamorte years ago, during the early days of the Antaam threat. But asking them to directly interfere in Dellamorte’s contracts was something entirely different. It was a gamble, one Lucanis hated taking, but he was grateful for their support. They were, he realized, the closest thing he could call friends—outside of the people waiting for him now in the Lighthouse.

By the time Lucanis reached the observatory, its usual soft gloom greeted him. The room was dark and quiet, save for the faint scent of tea and burned coffee and the clutter of books and papers strewn across the couches. The remnants of this evening’s book club were still scattered about, left untouched. He noticed a book lying on the couch, a note with his name tucked inside its cover. Neve’s choice for the next session, no doubt. He picked it up, glancing at the title: a political thriller set in Orlais. Would be interesting.

Lucanis flipped through the pages idly as he continued toward the dining hall and his room, intending to start it soon. But as he neared the hall, the faint glow of light spilling from an open doorway caught his attention. A voice drifted through, low and distracted.

“Manfred, I had a stack of papers here, didn’t I?”

The rustle of parchment and a confirmative hiss followed. Lucanis stopped at the threshold, looking inside.

Rook sat at the table, surrounded by a chaotic array of letters and missives piled precariously on the table and chairs around her. Manfred hovered dutifully over her shoulder, his skeletal frame tilted in what could only be described as overeager assistance. A wisp darted past Lucanis, trailing a few loose sheets of paper in its wake.

Lucanis stepped forward, waving the wisp away before it could cause more mischief. He deftly caught the fluttering pages before they hit the ground. Rook, absorbed in her muttering, remained oblivious to his presence.

“Really, I swore I had some left,” she mumbled, flipping over already-written letters in search of the missing pages. “You’re sure you haven’t seen them, Manfred?”

The skeleton shook its head, mimicking her movements as he lifted individual sheets and set them aside in what could generously be called an attempt to help. Lucanis stifled a smirk. He could tell the skeletal assistant’s unintentional chaos was only going to frustrate her further. Deciding it was time to step in, he straightened and pushed the door open.

“Still awake, Rook?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice, her hand flying to her dagger. “Maker’s breath, Lucanis!” Her wide-eyed surprise melted quickly into a rueful chuckle. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He held up the pages he’d rescued, stepping fully into the room. “Looking for these?”

Rook exhaled sharply, relief washing over her face as she took the papers from him. “Yes, thank you. I thought I was losing my mind.”

“Manfred wasn’t much help, I take it?” Lucanis teased, glancing at the skeleton, who managed to look both indignant and unapologetic at the same time.

“He’s trying,” Rook said, though her smile betrayed her exasperation. “I’m not sure if it’s better or worse than him just standing there. I promised Emmrich I would keep an eye on him, he had to leave for the Necropolis on some urgent business.”

Lucanis chuckled and pulled out a chair, sitting across from her. “What’s all this?” he asked, gesturing to the mountain of correspondence spread across the table.

“Letters,” Rook said, rubbing the back of her neck. “Follow-ups, requests, a few... apologies. Seems like the the whole North decided I’m its favorite person to bother with their problems now. Thank the Maker Inquisitor Trevelyan is taking care of the South.”

“Well,” Lucanis said, leaning back slightly, “you did save most of them.”

Rook sighed, the weight of that truth settling between them. “It doesn’t feel like enough,” she admitted quietly.

Lucanis watched her for a moment, his expression softening. “You’ve done more than anyone could have asked of you, Rook. More than most would even try.”

She didn’t reply immediately, her fingers tracing the edge of one of the letters. “I just don’t want to fail them, or Varric… ,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You won’t,” Lucanis said firmly. “And you’re not alone in this. I meant it when I said I would be here to convince you.”

Rook glanced up at him, her eyes meeting his. For a brief moment, the exhaustion and doubt in her gaze seemed to ease.

“Thanks, Lucanis,” she said, her lips curving into a faint smile.

“Teia and Viago extend their regards.” The faint smile faded again, Rook quickly looked back at the table.

“How is the situation? Did they have any new leads on Zara?”

“No,” Lucanis sighed, running a hand over his face, “the tracks are all dead-ends still. But, we at least have confirmation she is not in Vyrantium. She must still be in the city. But I’ll be honest, Treviso is in a precarious situation. One wrong step and Illario will drag our House to the ground. Viago is on edge, even more than before. But I guess he has kept you informed.”

At that Rook shook her head. “No.. No, he has not. We have not spoken since Caterina send me to the Ossuary.” At that confession, Lucanis raised an eyebrow.

Rook did not meet his eyes, she was busying her hands with the papers in front of her.

“Viago has high praise for you, Rook.” She snorted. “What makes you doubt that?”

“Are we talking about the same Viago?” Her quip was sharp, much sharper than he was used from her.

“I seem to recall you were a close confidant, were you not?” Rook growled, a sound he expected even less. “I was —am a tool to him. Nothing more. The world will truly end when Viago admits anything more than that.”

Lucanis studied Rook carefully. Her words hung in the air like a taut string, and the bitterness in her tone wasn’t lost on him. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table as he spoke.

“That’s not what I’ve seen,” he said evenly. “Viago doesn’t place his trust lightly, and when he does, it’s not without reason. If he truly thought of you as just a ‘tool,’ he wouldn’t have left you standing after your mishap with the Antaam.”

Rook finally glanced up at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t know him like I do, Lucanis.”

“Maybe not,” he conceded, “but I know what it looks like when someone values another’s judgment. He listens to you, Rook. He respects you—even if he doesn’t say it outright.”

She shook her head, a humorless chuckle escaping her lips. “You’re giving him too much credit. Viago doesn’t respect anyone. He calculates, manipulates. That’s who he is.”

Lucanis tilted his head slightly, watching her. “And yet, he hasn’t cut you loose. Why do you think that is?”

Rook opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. She frowned, her hands stilling on the papers in front of her.

“Because he knows your worth,” Lucanis continued gently. “And whether you want to admit it or not, he depends on you. Just like the rest of us.”

Her shoulders sagged slightly at his words, and she looked down at the table again. “You’re wrong,” she murmured, but her voice lacked conviction.

Lucanis straightened, letting the conversation settle for a moment before changing the subject. “What about you? You’ve been quieter lately. Withdrawn. Is everything all right?”

Rook froze, her fingers curling around the edge of one of the letters. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, too quickly.

“That’s a lie,” Lucanis said bluntly. “And we both know it.”

She glared at him, the spark of defiance in her eyes momentarily rekindled. “Since when did you become my therapist?”

“Since I pulled you out of the canals, and the river in Rivain. There was also that puddle in the Wetlands,” he shot back, his tone even. “And since I watched you nearly collapse trying to take on more than anyone should have to.”

Rook clenched her jaw, the sharp retort she was ready to unleash faltering before it left her lips. She exhaled slowly, the fight draining out of her. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Maybe,” Lucanis said, his voice softening, “but you don’t have to handle it alone.”

Rook looked at him, her guarded expression faltering for just a moment. “It’s not that simple,” she said quietly.

“It never is,” Lucanis replied. “But if you keep shutting people out, you’ll only make it harder for yourself.”

“Oh, pot and kettle!” He smiled at her, knowing full well she was right about that.

Her gaze drifting to the stack of letters in front of her. “I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted, her voice barely audible.

“Start with one thing,” he suggested. “What’s weighing on you the most right now?”

Rook hesitated, then sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Lavendel,” she said finally. “If we don’t find those sources of the Blight soon..”

Lucanis nodded. “We’ll find it. And we’ll deal with whatever comes next, together.”

For a long moment, Rook said nothing. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Thank you, Lucanis,” she said again, her voice a little steadier this time.

He stood, giving her a small smile. “Get some rest, Rook. We’ve got a long road ahead.”

He grabbed the book he left on the table and walked to his room. With a final look back, he waved her goodnight as Rook was collecting v He’d have a talk with Teia in the morning. The elf would be able to talk some sense into the Fifth Talon.

[arduousflame]

To illustrate my point further from this post, of Lucanis understanding that Illario's and his relationship will never be the same after what Illario did: Lucanis is on the verge of tears in this scene.

That's right. They animated tears in his eyes.

"What am I ever going to do that is worst than this?" (Other than kill you outright, which I will never do because I love you more than anything)