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sunandmoonkeeper · 6 months ago

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Breath and Bone

After Rook is injured in the Crossroads, a spell gone wrong makes the injury dramatically worse. With Rook unconscious, Lucanis must help her reach the Lighthouse and safety.

(Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook Ingellvar | 6,360 Words | AO3 Link | CW: broken bones, implied past child abuse)

“It's never enough being one. Why do I hope to contain you: always undoing and undone; every place you touch me changes shape.” —Robert Fanning, “Song of the Shore to the Sea”

“Nice one, Rook!” Lucanis shouted from the other side of the clearing.

Rook, stepping back from the fresh corpse she’d just driven her spellblade into, did not have the breath to respond. The Crossroads was a dizzy thing, ridden with a resonant hum. When she fought here, she could feel it all through her, as if the place was singing in her bones. It was easy to get lost in that rhythm. It was especially easy when she was fighting like this, Venatori swinging blades everywhere she turned, no space at all to breathe or strategize.

A missile hissed as it passed her, and Lenore summoned a barrier just as a second might have hit. Somewhere behind her, Bellara shouted something she couldn’t hear. Days like this invigorated some of the others, she knew. After battle, Taash or Davrin seemed energized, as if the adrenaline rush of combat clung to them a little longer than the act itself.

It wasn’t like that for Lenore. Death was a familiar friend; killing was an entirely different creature. She had long since accepted its necessity. That didn’t mean she loved the fight. Quite the contrary, in fact. If there had been any other path for them, she would have taken it a hundred times over by now.

She ducked nimbly, drawing a miasma of death from the ground to drive the nearest foes back. They choked and gagged at its touch, so familiar to Lenore, and staggered away from her.

The field had been whittled down somewhat. As she watched, Bellara waved her arms to draw the attention of an assailant. When the warrior turned to fight her, Lucanis appeared behind him as if from the air itself and drove a blade neatly between his ribs.

This! This was what she’d been working toward! It was so heartening to see that their group combat practices were paying off, that their techniques and strategies were interlocking so effectively. She would have to bring this up to both of them later, because it deserved to be pointed out. She would—

Something struck her leg, midway between her knee and her ankle. There was an ominous crack somewhere in that region and an answering swell of pain. She’d made the first, most basic mistake in combat and taken her attention from her enemies. Luckily for her—for all of them—her instincts had been honed by the constant fighting, too, and she reacted without thinking. Lightning arced from her hand and spread, striking the one who’d hit her and spreading to the two behind him. One toppled immediately, arms splayed, eyes hollow. The other shook, caught in place as the power coursed through them, and crumpled to the ground a moment later.

“Nice try, filth,” said the one before her, and swung his blade at her again.

Not good. She could barely put weight on her leg, which would dramatically hinder her maneuverability. The pain was getting to her already, crawling from her leg to her chest and choking her lungs. She couldn’t think straight; needed to do something to fend him off. Something—

He swung again, and her shield flickered into existence just before the blade would have connected with her forehead. Her reserves had been drained by the lightning, and they drained further as he added a second hand to the hilt of the blade to bear down on her.

Lenore gritted her teeth. Her head felt fuzzy, her face clammy. She hadn’t the strength to hold him off now. She barely had the breath to hiss between her teeth, let alone call out to one of the others for help. Healing magic was out of the question—she’d never had the knack of it.

None of them could heal, really; up to now, they’d mostly been working around this with potions. Not for the first time, she wished she’d formed the sort of bond with a spirit that might’ve given her this skill. Alas, her talents lay elsewhere—her hands had always been for death, never life.

Wait. There was an idea.

In the Necropolis, inhabited skeletons often encountered the sort of damage that cracked a bone or two. There were spells to mend them when this sort of thing occurred, and materials to patch missing pieces if necessary. She’d learned those spells when she’d been an apprentice, but hadn’t needed to call upon the knowledge in years.

Her bones were still covered in living tissue. It would be risky to try this herself, but she had little choice. In a moment, he’d break through her barrier. If she could just remember—

“Give in to me,” the Venatori demanded. “Kneel!”

Lenore panted with effort and dragged the words from her memory. The shield dimmed around her, bright where it touched the blade and nearly insubstantial everywhere else. She had so little energy left. This would take most of it; she’d only have one shot at patching herself up. She had to make it count.

“Rook’s hurting!” Bellara yelled somewhere beyond her.

Rook tensed, sucked in a breath, and spoke the words of the spell. Several things happened in quick succession:

Devoid of the power it took to sustain it, her shield faltered and the sword broke through. Lenore ducked to her right, taking her weight off her injured leg, and hammered the base of her staff into the Venatori’s throat.

As she moved, the spell took effect. Pain swelled within her and broke like a wave, the bone in her leg mending itself over and over again until it had multiplied itself enough to break through the skin. She screamed without knowing it, without really hearing it, as if the pain itself made a tunnel from her leg to her throat and poured itself forth from there.

Bolts laden with electricity shot from somewhere in the distance, hammering into the unbalanced Venatori’s back. He stumbled, nearly tripping over one of the many spurs of bone now projecting from Rook’s leg.

“Rook,” Lucanis shouted from what seemed like a great distance, “hold on!”

She’d no idea what she could possibly be holding on to when the whole world was shuddering like a freshly reanimated corpse, but she tried anyway. She must have fallen at some point in the chaos because her hands scrabbled at stone and dirt now, not thin air. If her leg hadn’t hurt so badly that it eclipsed all other feeling, her head and tailbone would no doubt be aching from the impact.

The Venatori, now bleeding profusely, staggered to his feet. Behind him, a violet blur felled first one, then another of the remaining Venatori who stood between Lucanis and Rook. There were few of them left, which was probably good. It still wouldn’t save her if she fell to this one right now.

Her staff had fallen behind her. Rook dragged herself backward, scrambling for it. Her hands were slick with something and they moved slower than they should, as if the air itself was more viscous than it ought to be. Every time she tried to grasp the smooth wood, it slid away from her. A flash of teal and brown flickered at the corner of her eye: Bellara was running toward her from the other side of the clearing. Even as she identified her friend, another Venatori darted into Bellara’s path and blocked her from view.

Only five left now. If she just held out—

The violet blur spread tenebrous wings and shot closer, impossibly fast. Fast enough? It was hard to say. Everything looked—felt—so very strange. Her head pulsed in time with the wound in her leg. The Venatori lifted his sword and swung, a blow that would connect precisely with her breastbone. At last, at last, her hand wrapped around the polished wood of her staff, though it fought to slip from her grasp.

Unbidden, her mind began to recite, in clinical and removed tones, precisely what would happen to her body when the blow connected: if her sternum did not collapse, one of the sternocostal joints would. The force of the blow would penetrate her chest, likely striking her heart. If it did not, it would certainly rupture the pleural cavity and steal her breath away. The latter would not kill her immediately. She’d tended plenty of corpses that’d taken at least one more blow to die after this precise strike. If she hung on for long enough, one of the potions the others carried could still heal her. If not…

If not, she’d already shown Emmrich exactly where she wanted to be buried.

Behind the Venatori, Lucanis—or maybe Spite—struck down two more Venatori; they fell before him like sheaves of wheat before the scythe. She might be impressed at his accuracy and speed if she weren’t possessed by mortal terror. Perhaps Emmrich would be able to coax that thought from her corpse after she—after—

The blade whistled through the air, a silver gleam meant for her heart. At that precise moment, Lenore finally grasped her staff and summoned another barrier. It failed almost immediately, but held just long enough to arrest the sword’s motion in midair. The Venatori grunted and lifted the sword again.

This had to be it; she had nothing left, not even a drop of magic. Rook took the staff in both hands (it was so heavy; so heavy that she almost couldn’t lift it, though she’d been wielding it for months now) and held it over her chest. It was a poor shield, especially when she was shaking so hard she could barely see straight, but it was better than giving up entirely.

“For Razi—” the Venatori began, but the word was cut off abruptly.

Between one blink and the next, the air was filled with that purple glow, illuminating her attacker from behind. Even now, Rook held her staff in shaking hands, warding as best she could against whatever blow may yet come. It wasn’t necessary; already, blood trickled from her attacker’s mouth, still open to speak a syllable that would never come.

When his body dropped, it fell to the side and away from Lenore. Lucanis stood behind him, his face like stone. Spite’s wings spread from his back. His knife dripped blood onto Rook’s boot. She looked at that instead of her—instead of the bones branching above it.

There was no clever comment, no regards from the Crows. Instead, his eyes held hers.

“Can you walk?” Lucanis asked, eyes gleaming with the telltale sign of Spite’s ascendance though it was undeniably his voice she heard.

“No,” she managed through gritted teeth.

Behind him, Bellara shouted as the last of the Venatori fell. Lucanis must have seen her leg by now; his face grew more grim, eyes pinched at the corners. She could hardly look at it herself, though she could see the jagged, pale sections from the corner of her eye.

Lucanis stepped closer and crouched, neatly blocking her view of whatever she’d done to herself. Without meaning to, she reached for his elbow and squeezed, far harder than she would have under any other circumstances. She couldn’t have said what kind of comfort she sought then; there was nothing he could do for her and both of them knew it, though he was already reaching for the vial at his belt.

“Bad idea,” she told him, lifting a hand to clear the sweat from her brow and realizing at the last minute that mud, blood, and something green dripped from her hand. She used her elbow instead, though it wasn’t much cleaner. When she drew her arm away, new red streaked over the fabric.

“Why?” Lucanis asked. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and lifted it to her forehead, carefully dabbing at something there. His face was so very grim. She did not like it; did not like that she was the cause.

“What I did—” gorge rose at the back of her throat. Lenore swallowed and tried again. “Healing is the problem. It might make it worse. Unless you’ve got something for—for pain or sleep…”

“No,” he told her, tucking the vial away. “Only this. Can you bear it until we reach the Lighthouse?”

“Don’t have much choice,” she said. Bellara rushed into view, face already paler than usual.

“Rook, that looks really bad,” she said. “What can I—is there anything I can do?”

Lucanis rested his hand over Rook’s at his elbow and looked up at Bellara.

“I am going to carry her back. Can you find something to keep her leg stable?”

“I—yeah. Yes. Give me just—give me a few minutes. I have an idea.”

Bellara darted off again, flitting from body to body. After a moment, she perched near the collapsed pile of metal that’d once been a guardian of the crossroads. Something pulled Rook’s attention to a pile of rock floating past and she watched its slow, gentle path across the sky. It was not engrossing; it was something she had seen dozens of times by now. Nonetheless, she could not look away. For a moment, every other sound was drowned out by the rush of her blood in her ears.

“Rook?” Lucanis said. “Rook. Can you hear me?”

It took some effort to unclench her teeth. Lenore nodded instead, turning her head to look at him. He’d leaned closer while she’d been distracted. He reached for her hand now, apparently unbothered by the muck still caking her palms.

“Hold on,” he said. “As tight as you need to. I am here. I will stay.”

At last, she managed to part her lips. Her mouth was dry, but she didn’t dare reach for her waterskin. Any movement felt like it could upset the delicate balance she was maintaining. An ounce more pain and she would be lost.

“I will pass out,” she told him as clearly as she could manage.

His hand tightened around hers—surprising, since she had his hand in a vice grip and couldn’t seem to unclench her fingers. She hadn’t expected him to hold her back. Sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging as she blinked it away.

“When you lift me,” she clarified. “It’s—going to jostle the–the wound. I won’t be awake. That’s good. You can move faster if you aren’t worrying about my comfort.”

“I understand,” Lucanis said. “Don’t try to talk. Rest now; we will do what we can.”

“Stupid,” she told him, and took in a shaky breath. Bellara was moving toward them again, something golden in her hands. “My fault.”

“Leave it,” he told her. “You can blame yourself later.”

“Got it,” Bellara said, skidding to a halt beside them. “This will hold your legs in place. There’s a bit that should keep anything from hitting the, um—pieces directly. I’m going to put this on now, okay?”

“Wait,” Rook said. The adrenaline was wearing off; she was thinking less and less clearly, the pain echoing and magnifying with each passing moment. “Tell—tell Emmrich—the spell is the one for—for mending bone. He’ll know—so stupid, tell him I’m sorry—”

“I’ll tell him, I promise,” Bellara said, her voice soothing. Briefly, she rested a hand on Lenore’s shoulder. “I’m putting the brace on now, alright? I’ll be as quick as I can.”

She couldn’t help the noise she made when Bellara reached under her leg to fasten the brace. Without thinking, she turned and pressed her face against Lucanis’s knee to muffle the cries, uncomfortable as it was. All the while, his grip on her hand held steady.

“I know, I know, I know,” Bellara chanted, her voice strained. “Almost done, just a little more—sorry!—almo—”

Between one syllable and the next, the universe blinked.

Now, the wind rushed through her hair. They were no longer in the same clearing. Instead, the Crossroads sped past on either side. The ache in her leg had intensified, though she could feel from the tight band around her thigh that the splint was still in place.

“How close?” Lucanis asked.

“We approach the requested destination, Dweller,” the serene voice of the Caretaker responded.

Warm leather curled more tightly around her shoulders and the scene resolved itself into something that made sense. Lucanis held her at the prow of the rowboat, one foot braced on the bench before them. She turned her head to see him better and found him examining her already, his face solemn.

Something about his chest looked odd, but it took her a moment to place it: he’d removed the blade and all the vials from his armor there. Why? Nothing made sense.

“I’m sorry,” she told him, and his brow furrowed.

“For what, Rook?”

What could she say? She turned her face into his chest instead, closing her eyes for a moment. It would be easier, she decided, if the world would just stop spinning.

“It was a stupid mistake,” she mumbled against his chest.

“You’ve said that,” he told her. “More than once. I will tell you again what you told me after Weisshaupt: we all make mistakes, Rook.”

She tried to hold onto his words, but they scattered to the winds. His grip on her shifted slightly, his hand curling around her shoulder.

“Look at me, Rook. You have to stay awake. You have a concussion. That’s why you aren’t thinking clearly.”

Staying awake was a singularly unattractive prospect. Everything hurt; the dizziness was only getting worse and she’d made the mistake of looking at her leg again. Just the sight of it, bone jutting from her leg in three directions and curling in on itself like the horns of a halla, was enough to make her stomach lurch again.

“I’m sorry,” she told him.

Through his armor, she could hear his heartbeat. 1, 2, 3, she counted, 1, 2, 3—like a waltz, played in double time. She couldn’t remember why she was apologizing. Had she played a waltz for him before? She’d played for him—for all of them—but she couldn’t remember—

“I’m sorry,” she told Lucanis again, and the grim lines branching from the corners of his eyes deepened. She wanted him to never let go of her; when she turned her face into him again, the world felt quieter.

“Don’t apologize to me, Rook,” he said, and the universe blinked again.

It was quiet in Rook’s room, for which Lucanis was grateful. There had been far too much noise in the infirmary from when he’d carried her there to when Taash had brought her here. Neve’s sleeping spell yet held her; Rook’s face was still, though the space between her eyebrows remained faintly creased. If the spell had not failed when Taash had rebroken her leg and Davrin had set it, Lucanis did not think it would break in the face of too much noise. Even so, he was relieved that she was here, in her own space, and that the others had gone away for a time.

“Why does she still sleep? Wake her up,” Spite said from the head of the settee she slept on, peering down at Rook’s drawn face.

“Waking will hurt her,” Lucanis told him. “Her leg is still broken.”

“Then fix it, if it’s broken,” Spite said.

Lucanis ignored the demon and leaned forward, glancing at Rook’s leg. The cold spell had reduced some of the swelling, though it was still visible under the second brace Bellara had brought her. The damage was clear beneath the metal and leather: her skin gone red and purple around the break, sliced to ribbons where the new growth had speared through it, dried blood still caked in the creases of her ankle where Lace hadn’t quite washed all of it away.

Like most Crows, his knowledge of healing was limited to the most basic necessities. In a fight, it was better to remove your opponent from the battle than to stop moving and patch up your fellows. He had studied certain medical writings in training, but only to better identify the weak points of his opponents. At most, he might’ve been able to bandage her wound long enough to get to safety, or perhaps offer one of the potions he kept on hand. In this—the bone jutting from her skin, the way she’d cried out when he’d lifted her from the ground, the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks now—in this, he’d been of no use at all.

Even now, he was not entirely sure what she’d tried to do. Emmrich’s explanation had mostly been different versions of a horrified “why that spell” or “what an incredibly inadvisable course of action.” Lucanis had not disagreed with either statement, but he had not found them especially enlightening either. The necromancer had undone her spell, at least. He was glad of that.

“She smells all wrong,” Spite said, still peering at Rook. “All wrong.”

All the long way back to the Lighthouse, Spite had been uncharacteristically helpful. He had slipped beneath Lucanis’s skin seamlessly, as he once had in the early days in the Ossuary. He had done nothing but help speed them along, pushing their body faster than Lucanis might have been able to alone. It had seemed that they were, for once, of one mind, one mission: bring Rook somewhere safe and get her the help she needed. Everything else had been peripheral.

It was…quiet now that the others were gone. This was a relief. It also meant he had far too much time to think. He might almost—almost—be grateful for the distraction Spite provided now. Whenever he turned to look at the fish, the water behind him, his stomach turned and his hands shook. As long as he faced forward, he could still pretend to ignore it.

“Wrong,” Spite repeated. “Blood and elfroot and pain. Not like Rook.”

Lucanis sighed. He had not enjoyed carrying her back, though he would do it a hundred times over if she ever had need of such assistance again. It had been a fraught thing, willing her eyes to open again even though she would go on apologizing to him every time they did. He had a great deal of experience trying to hold still, but it had been worse to know that every involuntary shift of his body had caused hers pain.

He had not liked carrying her, but it had been—he had felt—something to hold her pressed against him, to wrap her in his arms. She had clutched him to her, hands snarled in the belts at his chest, face pressed into his body. He had wished, on that long ride back, that he could curl himself around her and shield her from what she’d done, though it was a useless impulse.

Useless and foreign besides; he had never felt such a thing before and did not know what to do with it now that he had.

Now, his hand rested beside hers on the bed, close enough that he could feel the faint movements of her body when she breathed in and out. When Emmrich had finally deemed it safe, Lucanis had administered the healing potion to her himself. He’d slid a hand under her neck to tip her head back and ease its passage into her throat. Though he was no longer touching her, he could still feel the memory of the softness of her skin against his palm.

Once, he had watched Rook tune her violin on one of the balconies outside the main tower. She’d struck a tuning fork against her knuckles and held it between two elegant fingertips, eyes closed to listen. The tone had spilled out into the air long after she’d touched it, humming until she finally set it aside to turn the small knobs at the top of her instrument.

Lucanis supposed he did not feel so very different than that tuning fork now. The touch of her skin still hummed inside him, though he had long since let go. He could not help wondering if he should reach for her hand now, if only to still that hum.

“She needs to rest and heal. Then, she will smell like herself,” he told Spite.

Spite crouched, his nose an inch from Rook’s. Slowly, Lucanis’s smallest finger brushed against Rook’s.

“She should smell of incense,” Spite told her, as if to remind her. “Leaf-rot. Rosemary. The rest is wrong.”

“She doesn’t smell like rotting leaves,” Lucanis said, as he had a dozen times before. Spite bared his teeth. “I don’t know why you always say that.”

“You’re wrong. She smells of sweet rot. Always. Only Rook ever does.”

What use was there in arguing? It hadn’t swayed the demon yet, though they’d had this argument more than once. Lucanis shifted in his chair and found his hand resting against Rook’s. Should he let go? Leave? Work on finding a healer in Treviso they could bring her to?

Her hand was so still, soft and cool in his.

When he had been a boy, there had been an illness (he could not recall what it had been; a fever, perhaps) and a dark room, bed hung with dark cloth. It had not been in Villa Dellamorte, but the home his parents kept. It had been—warmer, he thought. Less marble, more carved wood. One night, Lucanis had lain in the dark, ill and horribly lonely, and he had woken to find his father’s hand in his. What a comfort it had been, to know that he was not alone in the dark with his pain.

Lucanis ignored Spite and curled his fingers around Rook’s. There were calluses on odd places near the first joints of her fingers. Musical in origin, he supposed, not caused by her staff. He had not seen them before, but now he could feel scars across her palms, across the backs of her hands. Where had she gotten them? He wondered if she would answer, should he ask.

It had seemed…foolish, potentially dangerous to hold her hand in most of the places they’d visited. What if one of them needed to draw a weapon? Precious seconds might be wasted in untangling themselves from each other. Beyond that, she would be a target if anyone knew that he wanted—that he thought—

“You will make sure she’s fixed,” Spite said, voice abruptly louder, and he leaned across the bed to put his face near Lucanis’s. “She won’t stay like this. It isn’t right.”

“Yes,” Lucanis agreed. “Neve is looking for a healer who can help. Emmrich has already undone the worst of whatever she did to her leg.”

Spite had been with Lucanis for more days than he’d been able to count, but he still had difficulty reading the demon’s expressions. He did not even know if they were facial expressions or if that was just how his mind interpreted Spite’s existence. On someone else, he might have thought the narrowed eyes and sneer meant displeasure. On Spite, it must have been approval instead because the demon winked out of existence a moment later. It was a relief when he was gone, as if some imperceptible background noise he never really heard had finally ceased.

“Don’t worry,” Lucanis told Rook in the ensuing silence. “The others will find somebody to help. I’ll wait with you until they do. It’s not like I was sleeping anyway.”

She would have laughed at that. She liked to laugh, his—Rook liked to laugh.

Her hand didn’t move in his. Still, he did not think he was imagining the growing warmth in her palm. Lucanis reached for the cup of coffee he’d set aside and sipped it without letting go of her. Whatever came next, he would be there.

Even if nobody else had heard it, he’d made her a promise.

The first thing Lenore felt when she woke was the warmth wrapped around her hand.

Pain followed quickly, but she’d been braced for that. She had not been braced for comfort and was less sure about what to do with it.

“You’re awake,” Spite said, and Rook opened her eyes to look at him.

The demon sat in a chair beside her bed, one foot propped on the seat while the other rested on the ground. He was the one holding her hand, of course.

“I am,” she answered, studying him. “Did Lucanis fall asleep there or did you walk him here?”

Not what she was asking, really. What she meant was, which one of you decided to wait beside me while I was out? It would have been harder to ask that; harder still to admit to him how much she wanted to know. Better to sidestep it entirely.

“Here,” Spite replied. “He promised. To stay.”

“And you didn’t want to make a run for it while everyone was distracted?”

The ache in her leg was…significant, but better than she remembered in her awful, cluttered recollection of the moments following her injury. A cautious glance downward revealed only the usual quantity of bones. Nothing twisted past her shin, bones projecting outward and curling around each other like halla horns. She almost wished she believed in a god so she could thank them.

“He promised,” Spite replied, as if it was the obvious answer.

“Does Lucanis know that you keep his promises?” she asked, smiling at him.

Spite smiled back slowly, each side of the mouth creeping up in turn, as if testing himself to see if he could.

“No,” he said. “Are you. Fixed?”

Mentally, she felt along her body. Her head felt better, she thought, though her leg was a miserable tangle of pain. The rest of her was stiff, as if she’d been lying still for a very long time.

“Not all the way. Something still hurts down there. But better than earlier, yes.”

“Good. Your pain. Was wrong.”

Wrong?

“Did it bother you to carry me around?”

Rook thought to push herself up, try to sit, but thought better of it. She’d have to let go of his hand if she wanted to move and it hardly seemed worth it. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had held her hand. Actually—now that she was thinking about it, she couldn’t remember a time when anyone living had held her hand for longer than the time it took to lead her where she was supposed to be.

“No,” Spite replied at once, and looked as if he would go on. Abruptly, his face went blank and Lucanis blinked himself awake.

“Rook,” he said. “You’re awake.”

“So are you,” she said.

Now that she was awake, he would take his hand away. She was certain of it. She held very still so he wouldn’t notice that they were still holding onto each other.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. His forehead creased as he leaned closer, shifting until both feet rested firmly on the ground.

“I’ve been better,” she said, but he did not laugh. “Feeling a little stupid. I feel like I should apol—”

“Don’t, Rook,” Lucanis said, lifting the hand that wasn’t holding hers as if to halt the words. “I think you’ve apologized enough. If I never hear you say ‘I’m sorry’ again, it will be too soon.”

“Did I? I don’t remember that.”

“Hm,” Lucanis said, the corner of his mouth twitching. Some strong emotion suppressed; not a smile, she thought. “Emmrich called it…perseveration. He said that those with head wounds often repeat phrases or thoughts, and you’d happened to choose that one.”

“You disagree?” Lenore asked.

His thumb traced something on the back of her hand, slow and soft. She repressed a shiver at the sensation—so comfortable, so easy. It was like they touched each other casually all the time, which they certainly did not. He had made his interest clear—clear enough for her, at least—and yet they had still remained largely hands-off until now.

“These marks on your hands,” he said, and paused. “I have seen others like them.”

“Have you?”

The urge to snatch hers back and hide it under the blankets was immediate, the effort to ignore it not inconsiderable. Lucanis lifted his own hand, angling it so the light shone over the scar tissue there, criss-crossing his knuckles and the back of his hand in straight, silvery lines. Thicker than the ones on the backs of her hands, yes, but mostly the same.

“You are not a Crow,” he said. “You were not trained the way I was. Emmrich’s hands are largely unscarred. Those are very old—before you left the Necropolis.”

“Correct on all counts,” Lenore told him, and turned their hands so hers was pressed against the blanket and out of sight.

He watched her for a moment, free hand settling slowly on the cot beside her leg. She wondered what he’d read in her face. She wondered what he wasn’t saying nearly as much as she hoped he wouldn’t keep talking about it.

“You do not have to apologize to me,” he said at last. “I was glad that I was the one with you when you fell.”

“You shouldn’t have had to carry me back,” she told him firmly, shifting her weight onto her elbow. Her grip tightened on his hand. “I’m meant to look after myself better than that. I should’ve—”

“Stop,” Lucanis said, squeezing her hand in turn. “Stop. I would do it again.”

He was so very close—she hadn’t noticed him getting closer—and she still felt so awful, so grateful, and his hand was so warm in hers—

“Lucanis,” she murmured, as if speaking too loud would ruin something precious and fragile, “I think I’m going to kiss you.”

Lenore hadn’t been touched or held in so long. She had almost—almost—convinced herself that this didn’t bother her, that she didn’t care. She’d been wrong, though; she cared a great deal. Cared like a plant cared for watering, like strings longed for a bow. Before she could change her mind or retreat from him again, she was lifting her face to his and kissing him.

Lucanis could count on one hand the number of times he had kissed somebody, and nearly all of them had been in the process of completing a contract or training for the same. They’d all been more or less the same to him, the experiences blurring together into the same dull sensation, all duty and never desire.

This—Rook’s face upturned, her soft mouth pressed to his—was like none of those other times. He hardly had time to recover from the shock of it before she was pulling away again, eyes searching his face. Too fast; not enough time to understand. He needed more.

On instinct, he reached behind her and cupped the back of her neck as he had before, carefully pressing her close to him once more. Her lips were soft and surprised under his, as if she had expected him to pull away. When he kissed her, she made a surprised sound and squeezed his hand.

Had he worried that it was Spite, not Lucanis, who wanted to kiss her? Had he somehow believed that touching her would quiet the hum of fascination under his skin? All ridiculous, all incorrect; this was something entirely different. His hand fit at the back of her neck perfectly, as if it had been shaped precisely for this. He was barely kissing her, but the faint pressure of his mouth against his was almost overwhelming. He was already touching her, already holding her to him, and yet he was hungry for exactly that—as if the touch by its very existence required more of itself, required more of him.

Too much. He withdrew, though he didn’t let go of her yet, and found her eyes still closed, her lips softly parted.

What was he to do with this? He wanted to press his thumb to the pulse beating at her throat, wanted to lift her from the bed and hold her again, wanted to kiss the hand he held in his until—until what?

“You should rest,” Lucanis told her, his voice so quiet he found himself surprised he’d said it aloud at all.

Rook nodded once, eyes still closed, and pressed her lips together. When she moved, he could feel the shift of her spine under her skin. Would it feel the same if he held her hand while she moved, while she played her music for him, when she drew magic from the Fade? Would it feel the same with his hands around her hips, or her—

The thought was strange enough, foreign enough, that he let go and climbed to his feet. For a moment, Rook held very still, face still tilted. Lucanis took a step back, lest his hands betray him and reach for her again.

“You’re still healing,” he told her, and took another step back when her eyes fluttered open. Her eyelashes were so fine against her skin, her eyes so warm and soft in the pale light of the water. He wanted to look closer. Instead, he stepped back again and wished he had something to do with his hands. Anything that would remove the sensation of her hand in his, her mouth so sweet against his.

“I’ll check on you later,” he went on. “Somebody needs to start dinner, and a note from Teia and Viago arrived while you slept.”

“Lucanis,” she said, her voice soft and quiet. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Thank you. For staying, I mean. Both of you.”

“Of course, Rook. Anytime,” he said, and slipped from the room before she could take him up on the offer.

“Coward,” Spite hissed.

Lucanis, striding briskly away from the door so he would not turn around and open it again, found he could not disagree.

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