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Chapter Text

The telltale shuk of the carving knife isn’t an altogether unpleasant sound by itself, but it is not the first thing Rook prefers to hear upon waking. It usually means Davrin didn’t sleep much, if at all. 

He opens his eyes and rolls onto his side, hand tucked under his pillow as he takes in the sight of Davrin sitting at his work table, back to him. His shoulders twitch in rhythm with the sliding sounds of that blade, and Rook’s gaze lowers to the floor. 

Yeah, he’s been at it a while. 

He sighs softly, rolling back onto his back to drag his hands against the grit in his eyes as he shakes off the fading remnants of sleep. Then he gives a languid stretch felt all the way to his toes, before he finally sits up. The slide of the knife hasn’t faltered, and glancing at Davrin assures Rook he hasn’t heard him moving. 

Also worrisome. 

His teeth catch his lower lip as he thinks about how best to broach this. It hasn’t gone well in the past. 

Food, he thinks. I’ll ply him with food and go from there. 

He drops his feet over the side of the bed and slowly stands, giving into another half-hearted stretch once he’s vertical. He’s not exactly quiet as he pads across the room to plant a soft kiss at the side of Davrin’s neck, but the warden still flinches at his sudden presence, his next run faltering as it drags down across the wood in his hands. 

Rook presses soft, open-mouthed kisses down the line of his neck and onto the exposed top of his shoulder, grateful Davrin is at least still dressed for sleep, in only a thin pair of cotton pants. His feet shift, careful of the heap of wood shavings and splinters gathered there on the floor, his naked toes curling inward at the threat of a potential splinter. 

Davrin’s hands resume his set pace with the carving knife. 

Rook sighs, pulling back, his hand settling on Davrin’s shoulder to deliver a soft squeeze. 

“Did I wake you?” Davrin asks. 

“No,” Rook says, though it is a partial lie. “Been at it long?”

“No,” Davrin replies, which is most definitely a lie. 

Rook nods. “I’m gonna check in with the others. Are you hungry?”

“No.”

Of course not. 

Rook sighs and looks around for his clothes, clad only in his undershorts at the moment. There’s a pile of clothing on the chair in front of the fireplace and another pushed into a corner of the room, with a few articles strewn throughout as well. 

This has gone on long enough. 

He snags a shirt, dragging it up to his face as he sniffs at it once. Clean. He drags it over his head and then plucks his pants from near the bed before pulling them up his legs, shimmying into them. His fingers snag through his hair, attempting to tame the mussed strands and drive through any knots tangled from sleep, even as he casts his eyes around the room in an absent search for his brush. 

“How’d you sleep?” Rook asks casually, abandoning his search to instead step into his boots. He sinks onto the bed to lace them up properly, the strings haphazardly tugged loose last night. 

“Fine,” Davrin says. 

Rook’s jaw aches as he nods again and pushes to his feet once more. 

“I’ll be back,” he says, exiting the room. 

He descends Davrin’s stairs and turns left, striding across the courtyard toward the library. Assan basks in the false sunlight in his usual napping place at the foot of the stairs, and Rook crouches briefly to give him a few thorough scratches behind his large ears before continuing on his way. 

Harding sits on the couch as he enters, and he waves half-heartedly. He’s not surprised when she shuts her book and abandons it on the table before she strides past him, quickly leaving. 

He rolls his shoulders, attempting to shrug off the new weight settled there and that quiet sting in his chest. 

Right. Deserved that. 

He pivots toward the stairs, ducking into the bathing room before quietly turning the lock behind him—not that it’s historically done much to grant privacy in the past. His gaze scans the room but he appears to be alone. 

His clothes drop to the floor in a messy heap as he steps into the heated water, the steam rising to greet him as he inhales slowly. An ache in his jaw leaves him unclenching his teeth as he sinks lower into the water. He draws in another steady breath before he drops beneath the surface, letting the ripples close over his head. 

Hands drive across his scalp and push through strands before he rises again, tilting his head back against the edge to blink up at the ceiling, steam flickering in his vision before dispersing. 

He lingers there for several long moments, just drifting for the most part, before he sighs and reaches for the soap and oils. The liquid is cool against his scalp as he massages his fingers into his head, lathering up the strands, the scent of rosewood filtering through his nose. 

Water closes over his head as he sinks again, scrubbing at his head to drive off the remainder of soap and oil still clinging to the strands. A muted rumble comes to him, distorted sound carried through water, and he falls still, letting his eyes open but all he can see are smudged shadows with the soap fogging up the water around him. 

When no further sound comes, he resumes his task, the quiet burn of his lungs grounding him in a way. Satisfied with his cleansing, he rises once more, finally drawing in a quick rush of air as he brings his fingers up to rub at his eyes. 

They open and he immediately jerks back, knocking his shoulder into the walled edge of the small pool as he drags in another sharp breath. 

“Spite,” he breathes, struggling to calm the frantic thudding in his chest. “Fuck. Why?”

Spite simply cocks his head. The utter lack of blinking of those bright eyes leaves Rook grateful for the murky tint to the water. 

That fucking door. 

“Spite,” Rook says slowly, “you can’t keep doing this.”

“Why. Not?” 

Rook splutters. “Wha—Becau—You just can’t, okay? Bath time is privacy time.” He draws in a slow breath. “Is something wrong? Do you guys need me?”

“Lucanis! Needs Rook.” 

Rook’s mouth snaps shut. He honestly doesn’t know how he should interpret that. The fact there are valid reasons to settle on leaves a shiver inching down his spine. “Uh huh,” he replies, frowning. “He needs help in the kitchen? Is something up with the Crows?”

“No!” Spite bites, expression distorting into something sharper. 

“Riiight,” Rook says. “Can we… maybe discuss this out of the water?”

And why the fuck are you in the water with me? 

Yeah, no. Nope. Not going there right now. Absolutely not.

Demon first, questionable choices later. 

Spite does at least step out of the water. The soft patter of it dripping onto the floor leaves Rook wincing; Lucanis is going to hate those wet clothes. 

Rook lingers in the water. Spite stares back at him. “Um. Yeah, so, what I meant was outside the bathing room? Wait for me outside and I’ll get dressed.”

Spite just snarls at that. 

“Fuck,” Rook groans, pressing his fingers to his eyes as he sighs heavily. “Right. Okay. Fine. Talk to me. What does Lucanis need?”

“Lucanis. Needs Rook!” 

“You already said that. Could you be more specific? What does he want help with? Is he okay?”

He looks okay—well, perhaps more tired than usual, which is certainly saying something. Even around that bright purple hue he can see the rings sunken around his eyes, and his hair is particularly mussed today. Rook frowns at the rumples down the dry part of his upper clothing. 

“Let me talk to Lucanis,” Rook says. “And I’ll see what I can do. But I need to know if he’s alright.”

“No!” Spite bites. “Not. Okay! Wants. To kill. Rook!” 

Rook’s chest stutters. “He what?”

Okay, now he’s definitely worried. 

He stands up and climbs out of the water, regardless if Spite watches him or not. He quickly snags a towel, running it across his body to get half the water off him before he’s already shimmying into his pants, gaze locked on Spite all the while. 

The demon’s lips pull back into something of a snarl, his teeth a little too sharp. Rook doesn’t even try to decipher that twisted expression etched across his face, his pulse too unsteady to allow him proper thought at the moment. 

“Talk,” he says, somewhat sharply. “What do you mean he wants to kill me?”

The fuck did I do to piss him off? 

Or is Spite the one making him want to? But then, why come to him at all and… warn him? Is that what this is?

His head spins. “Spite! Tell me!”

Spite’s mouth twists back to open before there’s a flicker to his gaze, the purple fading momentarily before igniting again, only to sputter out and vanish altogether. 

Lucanis rolls his neck, grimacing, before he looks around to take in his surroundings. Rook knows the moment those eyes land on him—the sudden halting of breath giving him away as the Crow goes eerily still. 

“Rook,” Lucanis intones slowly.

Water drips down Rook’s forehead, the droplet catching on his lashes as it drops over an eye. “Lucanis,” Rook says back, flatly, his jaw aching.

Lucanis sighs, the rigidity of his frame not exactly softening so much as morphing, spreading from his whole body to mostly his shoulders as he drags a hand down his face. He certainly looks tired. “Mierda,” he breathes. “I am so sorry, Rook. I hope Spite didn’t disturb your…” His gaze locks onto the water pooling at Rook’s feet before he seems to take in his own wet clothing. “Mierda. Please don’t tell me he got in the bath with you.”

“He did,” Rook says coolly. “And I’d like some answers.”

Lucanis shirks back a step, expression twisting again—though not as sharp as Spite’s. “I had food cooking. I should make sure the kitchen has not burned down in my absence.”

“Um, no,” Rook says, as Lucanis pivots on his heel. “I want—”

“Later, Rook,” Lucanis groans, already darting forward. 

Rook blinks and he’s alone in the room again. 

He feels decidedly dirtier than when he entered.

Lucanis is not in the kitchen when Rook makes it there, having taken a moment to collect himself and properly dry off his body but his clothing is still a little damp in places. 

Neve and Bellara are at the table with Emmrich, chatting away about some magical inferences and transfers as Rook sweeps past them toward the pantry, but the door is partially open and Lucanis isn’t there either. 

“Rook!” Emmrich greets cheerily. “How are you feeling?”

The quiet chatter halts as Rook abandons the pantry to spare them a quick glance. Neve watches him openly, seemingly analyzing words he hasn’t said, and Bellara stares down at her plate a little too hard. 

“I’m fine,” he says, scowling. 

Neve nods, fingers steepled under her chin to prop her head up, elbows on the table. “That’s Rook for I’m actively dying but won’t tell you.”

Rook tilts his head back and groans. “I’m fine, okay? It’s been three days!”

Three days ago they landed back at the Lighthouse after his unexpected stay at the Dellamorte Estate. The hushed whispers and quiet glances were a little endearing at first but now they leave him bristling. 

“Have you seen Lucanis?” Rook asks.

“He was just here,” Emmrich replies. 

“Left in a hurry, though,” Neve says. 

“And he almost burned the food,” Bellara sighs, looking up from her plate finally. 

“Not really like him,” Neve comments. 

“No,” Rook sighs, “it’s not.” He strides toward the table, snagging a plate of food and gathering up a fork in his hand. 

Emmrich frowns. “Do you not intend to join us?”

“Not mine,” Rook says, eying a mug on the table. “Any idea where Lucanis went?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Right.”

Of course not. 

As penance, he snags hold of the mug, satisfied at the near fullness of the liquid before he turns on his heel and stalks out of the kitchen. 

A moment later, he’s back at Davrin’s door, kicking it open with a little more force than usual. It swings wide, nearly banging against the wall behind it as Rook steps inside, lifting his foot to drag it shut behind him. 

Davrin eyes him from his perch at the work table. 

Rook inhales slowly before he smiles, stepping toward him, plate outstretched. “Eat.”

Davrin scowls at the plate, wood and carving knife still clasped in his hands. Rook stands next to him, watching him pointedly, smile firmly fixed in place. He’s prepared to wait all day if needed. 

Davrin sighs and finally drops the knife to accept the plate. Rook drops the fork on the table for him, along with the steaming mug of coffee pilfered from Lucanis. He bends to press a kiss along Davrin’s temple before he steps back, already turning back toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” Davrin asks. 

“Hunting,” Rook replies. 

The chair scrapes across the flooring. “Wait,” Davrin says, as Rook’s hand goes to open the door. 

Rook stills, uncertain why he’s obeying the soft command. 

Footsteps pad across the flooring. “What’s going on, Rook? You came in a little hard.” A pause. “Did you eat?”

“Took a bath,” Rook says. “Got interrupted.”

“Interrupted?”

Warm hands grip his shoulders, slowly drawing him back a half-step before lightly turning him. Rook sighs as he complies, gaze landing on Davrin’s confused frown. 

“Lucanis needs something,” Rook says, shrugging. “Or, Spite thinks so. But he took off.”

Davrin frowns. “And when you say interrupted…?”

Rook shakes his head. Not going down that road right now. “Nothing. Spite is just… concerned. I think.”

“About what?”

Rook laughs sharply. “That’s the question! But Lucanis bolted so I stole his coffee.”

“Right,” Davrin says slowly, watching him carefully. Fingers hook under his chin, lifting his head slightly as Davrin inclines his closer, honeyed eyes focused sharply. “How’s your head?”

“What? Fine.”

“That crease in your brow says otherwise.”

Rook scowls, pulling free of his grip as he takes a step back. “I’m fine,” he says, for what feels like the millionth time. “How’d you sleep, Davrin?”

Davrin’s eyes narrow, jaw tightening. “Fine,” he says. 

Rook nods. “Mm, your wood shavings say otherwise.”

Silence settles between them. 

That’s what I thought. 

“Rook,” Davrin sighs, but Rook has already turned for the door. 

“Good talk,” he says, yanking it open. “I better not come back to anything other than an empty plate.”

Lucanis isn’t in the music room, or the library storage.

He’s not in the Eluvian room or Emmrich’s room. Rook steadfastly walks away from Taash’s door after he hears the first hint of a high-pitched moan—not there either. 

Where the fuck? 

He’s not at Bellara’s or Neve’s, and Rook stops short of checking Harding’s place—she’s not there and probably won’t appreciate the intrusion, given her… reaction, to what happened to him. 

He drags a hand down his face, groaning. 

She hates me. 

And apparently so does Lucanis. 

Should I start checking corners? Prepare for a sudden knife at my throat? 

No, he reminds himself glumly. If Lucanis wants him dead he won’t see it coming. It will be a sudden burst of pain, if it’s not so sudden he’s left to feel nothing at all. 

A shiver slips down his spine. He flexes the tingling from his fingers. 

Lucanis probably doesn’t want him dead. Spite surely misinterpreted something. Deep down, Rook knows this. 

But he did make quite the scene at the Dellamorte Estate and ruined Lucanis’s celebration and victory. He did get stuck in a room for two days before Emmrich finally cleared him to leave. He did put a burden on the new First Talon. 

But it’s Lucanis. 

And Lucanis doesn’t hate him. Surely. 

But he did ruin things, and fail to mention things, and—well, Lucanis wouldn’t exactly talk to him throughout the duration of his stay. Could barely stand to be in the same room as him. 

Rook brushed it off at the time, but he’d also been in a fair amount of pain. Emmrich said the migraine would eventually die down, but the pain elixirs seemed to do nothing for him. He can admit he was a little out of it and a touch cranky, but he’s never liked being bedridden. 

Should have paid more attention. Stupid, Rook. Stupid. 

So maybe Lucanis does hate him. And he simply failed to notice. 

But wanting to kill him? That seems a little excessive. If he’s furious with Rook, surely he could just leave. 

There is a contract, though. And a Crow never abandons a contract. 

Rook wonders if that includes circumventing it by taking out the contract holder. 

He shivers, the chill in his veins rather than in the air, and turns to head for the infirmary. 

He needs to talk to Varric.

“Rook?”

Rook looks up from his couch, bowstring wound around his finger as he slowly tightens it. Davrin approaches slowly, a frown marring that beautiful face, and shame twists in Rook’s stomach. 

“Davrin,” he says. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Davrin says slowly, crossing around the couch to be in front of him, gaze tracking down to the kit strewn across the thing. “What’s, uh… What’s all this for?”

“Maintenance,” Rook says, winding the string back into place at the tip of the bow. He leans it against the couch, one edge curved into the floor at his side, before he swings his arm to push the rest either away from him or onto the floor as well. “Sit down.”

Davrin edges onto the couch stiffly, a rigidity to his shoulders which leaves that knot in Rook’s stomach twisting tighter. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “About… before. I was angry and snapped at you, and you didn’t deserve that.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Davrin sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I… haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I know,” Rook murmurs. “I thought your nightmares were doing better.”

“They were, but…” He shrugs. 

Rook sighs, turning a little to face him more, one leg bent up on the couch, foot resting under him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not really,” Davrin says, grimacing. “Did you catch your prey?”

“Hunt failed. I think he went to Treviso.”

“Something with the Crows?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

Or he’s readying for an attack. 

But that threatens to straighten his spine and Davrin will surely notice, so Rook exhales slowly, willing the tension to release his frame. “How goes the carving?”

“The floor is clean,” Davrin says. “No splinters for you.”

“Good,” Rook breathes, “I hate splinters.”

Davrin lifts a hand, dragging it across the back of his neck as he turns to partially face Rook, those dark eyes scanning over him. “Why are you in here?”

“It’s my room?”

Davrin winces. 

Rook looks away. “You know what I mean.”

“Right. Yeah. But o—my room is cleaned up. Plenty of room for… this.” He waves a hand at the items which rolled onto the floor. Rook tracks the movement out of the corner of his eye. 

“I’m fine doing it here,” Rook says. “I, uh… I mean, you don’t need me hovering over your shoulder while you carve. I don’t mind.”

“I do,” Davrin says. 

The simple honestly leaves Rook’s fingers curling into the edge of the couch next to his legs, breath momentarily stalling as he tries to process this open statement. “Oh,” he says. 

Davrin sighs. A hand skirts closer, a finger brushing across Rook’s pinky. He loosens his grip on the cushion and turns his hand palm up, relaxing when Davrin’s hand settles in his own. 

“Have you eaten?”

The question leaves Rook frowning. Davrin’s honesty leaves him unable to not offer the same. “No.”

“Then let me cook you something.”

He looks over at the warden, meeting those brown eyes. 

Davrin smiles gently, giving his hand a soft squeeze. “This is where you demand something extravagant.”

“I am very easily bribed,” Rook says, smirking. “But probably just something light right now.”

“Head?” Davrin asks, hand squeezing again. 

“Stomach.”

A hand presses to his forehead, leaving him jerking back as he blinks at his fellow warden. Davrin’s hand drops.

“Not sick, are you?”

“No,” Rook says. “Just have a lot on my mind. A little stressed.”

Way more than a little. 

Davrin eyes him for a moment, before he sighs and pushes to his feet, using Rook’s hand to drag him up as well. Rook stands. 

“Come with me,” Davrin says, gently drawing him along as he moves around the couch, back toward the doorway. 

Rook slips his hand free, pivoting to snag one of his daggers. He sheaths it along his belt and smiles at Davrin. “Lead the way.”

Davrin eyes the dagger for a beat before he takes Rook’s hand again and leads them from the room. 

The courtyard is empty. Assan bounds toward them, tongue lolling out happily as he squawks, and Rook takes a moment to run his hand through his head feathers as they pass by him. Assan trails along behind them, trilling softly, before he leaps into the air and flies overhead. Rook watches him for a moment, guided along by Davrin, before he drops his gaze and they enter the kitchen. 

The empty room doesn’t exactly relax the set of his shoulders. He lets his fingers brush against the hilt of the dagger at his belt briefly, before Davrin pulls out a chair and waves his hand at it. 

“Such a gentleman,” Rook says, smirking, as he takes a seat. “But contrary to popular belief, I can cook, you know. I can help.”

There’s a warm chuckle behind him before lips press lightly at the shell of his ear, leaving pleasant shivers trekking down his back. “Mm,” Davrin hums, warm breath tickling his skin as he dips his head lower, lips trailing down the side of his neck. “But then who would watch me cook?”

“Cocky,” Rook breathes. “Some would say vanity.”

Teeth nip lightly at a pinch of skin. “Are you saying you don’t like watching me?” A sharper nip this time, leaving Rook inhaling quickly. “I’m hurt, Rook.”

“You know,” Rook murmurs, “I think I’m hungry for something else.”

Another breathy laugh, another kiss pressed into his neck. “Appetizers before the main course.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it these days?”

He turns, hands reaching to snag beneath Davrin’s chin and yank his head up, their lips colliding. He runs a hand down the front of Davrin’s shirt, itching to press into actual skin, but Davrin lightly pushes him back with a hand on his shoulder as their lips part. 

“Can’t be spoiling your appetite,” he says cheekily, smirking down at him as he stands to his full height. 

Rook scowls. “Some would call this misleading.”

“Only if I don’t intend to follow through,” Davrin says with a wink before he turns to stalk across the kitchen, toward the pantry.

Rook stills as he pushes the door open and enters, but the room remains silent and Davrin exits a moment later. Lucanis is still not here, then. 

Lucanis. 

Fuck. Rook really needs to figure out what is going on with him—what he did wrong. If Lucanis is actually out for blood or if Spite misinterpreted something. It’s the not knowing either way that leaves his stomach churning.

He draws his dagger from his belt, running his thumb lightly along the sharp edge of the blade as it catches in the light. The white line left in its wake leaves him swallowing, a quiet reserve filling him. 

He sets it down on the table but doesn’t release it, fingers curled lightly at the hilt, ready to yank it up if necessary. He tilts back in his chair, scanning the room and straining his ears, but they are still alone. He’s not entirely sure how long it’s been since he started searching for the Crow, but he knows it’s been several hours at the very least. He sharpened every blade and strung backup bowstrings, and even made a few more arrows—just in case. 

Just in case he tries to kill me. 

But that feels wrong—shameful, even, to have such a thought. Lucanis is his friend, right? Well. Crows don’t really have friends. Spite said it himself—people only come in three categories: Family, Enemies, and Contracts. Not much room for friendship in there. Rook is solidly in the ‘Contracts’ portion as the contract holder. 

Doesn’t matter that he sees Lucanis as his friend. 

Maybe he’s the fool here. Crows are all about deception; maybe Lucanis has disliked him all along. But that feels wrong too—why accept his help in his own mind, if he did not at least trust Rook a little? Though, trust certainly looks different through the lens of a Crow, surely. 

Rook sighs, dropping his head into his free hand, elbow perched on the table. 

“Something wrong?”

“No,” he says. “I mean. Maybe. But.” He sighs gain. “Just a little stuck in my head, is all.”

He’s probably overreacting. Picturing the worst. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

He slips his hand away from the dagger as he lifts his head to smile at Davrin. “I’ll be fine. Just thinking.”

“Mm,” Davrin hums, a little skeptically. “About the main course, I would hope.”

Rook chuckles. “Oh, that’s always on my mind.”

Davrin turns back to the stove. Rook forces himself to relax into his chair and settles back to wait. 

The door opens behind him and he stiffens, fingers pressing into the table near the dagger as footsteps approach behind him. 

Too loud, he thinks. 

“Have you guys seen Lucanis?” Bellara asks, and Rook lets his hand drop from the table. 

“No,” Rook says. “If you see him could you let me know?”

“Oh, of course,” she says. “It’s just his turn to do laundry. But it’s okay! I can do it.”

“Appreciate it,” Davrin says. 

“Ohh, what are you cooking?” Rook listens as she stalks around the table and appears in his sight line, stepping toward Davrin. “I thought I had cooking detail tonight?”

“You do,” Davrin assures her. “Rook hasn’t eaten so I’m fixing something.”

“Oh,” she says. “Oh. Oh. This is a romantic—I mean, I’ll just leave you two here. Alone. To eat. Together.”

“Bellara,” Rook groans, even as a smirk slips across his face. 

“Right!” Bellara all but squeaks, quickly backtracking for the door. “I’ll just—yeah, I’m leaving. Have fun!”

The door shuts behind her. 

“Ten gold this is going in her book,” Rook says. 

“Too obvious,” Davrin replies, stirring whatever creation he’s making. Rook tips back in his chair but can’t quite see around him. “Not taking that bet.”

“Shame. I like gold.” He sniffs. “Mm, that smells good. Cheesy?”

“Cheesy,” Davrin confirms. “You’ll see.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“Such difficulty,” Davrin croons. “Sitting there while I cook for you.”

“It’s absurdly difficult. Have you seen yourself? Way over there?” He quietly pushes to his feet, lightly stepping forward—careful to not make a sound. 

Davrin can be difficult to sneak up on—too many years following his instincts with monsters around. He pauses in his stirring and Rook stills, dragging his gaze away until the stirring resumes, and then he presses forward again. 

He slips his hands around Davrin’s waist as his lips land at the dip where neck meets shoulder, drawing Davrin back slightly against his chest. Davrin hums but maintains his stirring. 

“Is the view better now?”

“Oh, definitely,” Rook says, hands smoothing down Davrin’s stomach before his fingers press at the lining of his pants. “A little breathtaking, actually. Can really picture it, you know? Almost like I’m right there.” He nips at a patch of skin before sucking at it, hard. 

Davrin maintains his stirring. 

Challenge accepted. 

He drives his hands a little lower, dropping one into Davrin’s pants while the other smooths back up his chest, rumpling his shirt slightly. Davrin is already semi-hard, which Rook can definitely work with. He slides his fingers around him lightly at first, barely brushing across the head before sliding down the shaft. His lips press against curve of Davrin’s shoulder, nipping softly before trailing soft kisses back up his neck. 

The stirring continues. 

His hand slips from Davrin’s chest to his back, sliding down before disappearing into his pants there as well. Those cheeks clench slightly as he trails that hand over them, before he presses a finger against that hole. Davrin’s breath catches, pulse point fluttering as Rook nips lightly at it, getting a more solid grip on his cock with his other hand. 

Pre-cum slicks his hand just enough to begin giving a solid pump as he rolls his hand up and down the shaft, his thumb teasing over the head a couple times before his finger sinks into that tight hole with his other hand. 

Davrin still stirs, but there’s little rhythm to it now. A quick few stirs here, a slower one, a quick one—inconsistent. 

Rook’s teeth dig into a patch on his neck and Davrin exhales slowly through his nose, his stirring momentarily halting before it jerks back into motion. Rook rocks his hips forward, letting his own hardness brush against Davrin and drive his finger in further. 

“Rook.” 

There’s a tightness to that voice. Rook smiles. “Yes, Dav?”

Davrin exhales shakily as his thumb drives under the head of his shaft before slipping back over the top of it. There’s no ‘semi’ to the hardness there now, and he slips his palm up drive over the head, slackening his grip with the new drops of pre-cum. 

“Is the food almost done?” Rook asks innocently. 

A stuttered breath is his response. “Rook.”

“Mm, yes?”

“You’re… being distracting.”

“Am I?” He presses a second finger inside, enjoying the tight squeeze around them. “Well, maybe I should stop.”

“Hrk,” is the sound which falls from Davrin’s mouth. 

Rook grins, heat flooding through him. Getting Davrin riled up is a real treat, and one he doesn’t often get to do. At least not for long. It always ends with—

The clang of the pot hitting the stove coincides with the wooden rattle of the spoon landing on the counter as Davrin whirls around suddenly. A gasp slips free as his back smashes firmly into the wall, wrists snagged as Davrin presses in on him, a knee driving between his legs and a hungry mouth sealed to his neck. 

Davrin keeps grip on his wrists as he presses them firmly against the wall on either side of him, down near his hips. Teeth catch on his skin sharply, and he knows there will likely be a bruise there shortly. He jerks a wrist, aching to touch, but the resistance that keeps them pressed there against the wall leaves heat pooling in his stomach. He bites hard at his lower lip to keep from moaning when Davrin’s knee drives higher, pressing firmly into the hardness in his pants. 

He tilts his head back, pleasure rolling through him when Davrin seizes the opportunity to snatch a larger patch of skin, teeth scraping over the sensitive flesh before giving another bite, harder than the first.

Yeah, definitely leaving a mark.

Davrin stills, teeth still pinched around that bite, as he draws in a few slow breaths. His grip on Rook’s wrists eases before dropping away, and Rook fights back the urge to whimper as Davrin steps away. 

“Keep that up,” Davrin breaths, leaving Rook shivering as his finger trails across the bitten skin at his neck, “and we’re heading straight for our room.”

Our room. 

Warmth floods through him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Mm,” Davrin hums, a finger skimming over his pulse point. “Dinner first.”

Rook exhales slowly as Davrin turns away, adjusting his pants. He watches the adjustment with a smirk, fighting back the hunger twisting through him, and most certainly not for food. He pushes away from the wall and runs his hand across his neck, skin still tingling as he brushes over the bitten area. 

It’s a long walk back to the table. He sits stiffly, the throbbing between his legs leaving him to cross them for the slightest touch of pressure, a breath catching in his throat. His gaze slips back to Davrin, a flare of satisfaction ebbing through him at the slight jerkiness to Davrin’s movements as he adjusts the pot and picks up the spoon again. 

When Davrin finally steps away from the stove, it’s with two plates in hand, steam rising in the air from the cheesy concoction. Rook didn’t exactly take the time to really look at it when he was over there, so the cheesy pasta is a happy surprise as the plate lands in front of him. 

Davrin’s own plate clatters as it smacks the edge of his dagger, and Rook quickly plucks it from the table and sheaths it at his belt as Davrin sits next to him. 

“What’s got you suddenly doing maintenance and carrying that, by the way?” Davrin asks, picking up his fork. 

“Aren’t you the one always insisting on gear checks?”

“Yes,” Davrin says, “and you always try to argue.”

Rook shrugs. “I had some time.”

Davrin pops a bite in his mouth. Satisfied, Rook picks up his own fork and does the same. 

The food is very hot, which is why he took a small bite—but even so, he sucks air into his mouth sharply to help soothe the burn at his tongue, teeth chewing quickly to swallow it down. 

“So what’d Lucanis do?” Davrin asks. “You said something about him needing something?”

Rook grimaces, curling pasta around his fork for his next bite. He’s careful to blow on it this time prior to popping it into his mouth. “Spite said he needs something. Seemed… perturbed.”

“Right,” Davrin drawls. “So tell me about this interrupted bath.”

Rook chokes, drawing in a ragged breath to swallow down the bite in his mouth. He coughs, reaching for a cup of water. “It’s weird,” he breathes, clearing his throat. “I keep locking the door but I guess the Lighthouse keeps letting him in, and it’s just—”

“Keeps?” There’s an edge to that voice now. 

Rook swallows, coughing again. 

“How many times has this happened.”

It’s not necessarily a question—there’s no lilt at the end. So Rook just shakes his head. 

“Rook,” Davrin intones slowly, the heat of his gaze scalding the side of Rook’s face. “Are you telling me Lucanis comes in when you’re—”

“Spite,” Rook says quickly, shooting him a sharp look. “Not Lucanis.”

“That’s even worse!”

“It’s… weird,” he admits. “And totally nerve wracking. But. I mean, Spite doesn’t understand privacy. It’s not weird to him.”

“That’s not the point,” Davrin says sharply, a crease to his brow. “How often has this happened?”

“Only twice!”

“Twice,” Davrin repeats, a muscle twitching in his jaw, “is two times too many.”

Rook sighs, slouching slightly in his chair. “Okay, yeah, but it’s not… I mean, it’s not like… He doesn’t—It’s not weird to a demon who can’t understand privacy.”

“Lucanis knows.”

“Yeah, but he’s not in control at the time.”

The table jerks as Davrin stands sharply, knee knocking into the top of it as his chair quickly scrapes back. “Where is he.”

“Not here,” Rook says, scowling as he reaches to snag hold of Davrin’s hand, keeping him from stepping away from the table. “Remember? He’s not here.” A pause. “And it’s not his fault.”

Lucanis is always so upset whenever he loses control. Things have certainly gotten better since that whole ‘trapped in a mental Ossuary’ bit, but there are still relapses occasionally. They’re working through it and Rook doesn’t want to make it worse or harder on him. 

But there’s still the whole ‘Lucanis wants to kill you’ thing. 

He eyes that tight set of Davrin’s jaw, that sharp look across his face. Yeah, probably not the best time to mention it. 

And it’s probably nothing. Probably. Hopefully.

He can’t take it back once he mentions it, though—to anyone. It will follow Lucanis even if it is a simple misunderstanding. And he’s come too far for Rook to hang him out to dry like that. 

And he probably doesn’t actually want me dead. 

“Sit down,” Rook says quietly, giving Davrin’s hand a slight downward pull.

Davrin twists free of his hold, stepping away from the table. “This isn’t okay, Rook.”

“I know,” Rook murmurs. “But it’s not his fault.”

“Oh, it definitely is,” Davrin intones darkly. “Has he said anything weird?”

“… I just said the whole thing is weird.”

“No,” Davrin huffs, rounding on him sharply. There’s a wildness to that gaze that leaves Rook swallowing thickly as the warden stomps toward him, all intention, no hesitance. “Has he called you ‘our Rook’?”

Rook stills. Davrin snarls and pivots away from him, toward the door. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” he seethes as he does so. 

“Wait,” Rook says, jumping to his feet. “Where are you going? Davrin!”

Davrin pushes through the door, leaving it to swing shut behind him with a louder than necessary thud. Rook groans, rolling his neck and shoulders, before he quickly darts after him. 

He snags hold of Davrin’s hand, trying to drag him to a stop. “Davrin, wait. Wait.”

Davrin presses onward, still visibly fuming. He’s built a lot sturdier than Rook and is used to waltzing around in heavy armor, so it’s no wonder he simply drags Rook a few steps behind him. Rook curses to himself and darts in front of him, hands pressed against Davrin’s chest to halt him. 

“Davrin,” he hisses, “he’s not here, remember? Where are you going?”

“You said he’s in Treviso,” Davrin snaps. “I’m going there.”

“No! Davrin, stop. Stop.” He drives his heels into the ground, shoving forward until Davrin finally halts lest he have to plow him over. He swallows and runs his hands up, fingers squeezing into his shoulders. “Think about this. Storming in there is only going to cause a scene, and he’s the new First Talon. Think what that will look like.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do,” Rook says. 

Davrin’s mouth shuts with an audible snap. He glares at Rook for a long moment and Rook quietly holds his gaze, fingers biting into his shoulders so hard he wonders if it will leave bruises, but finally Davrin rocks back on his heel and scowls at him. 

“This is not okay, Rook.”

“I know, and we’ll talk about it, okay? But not like this. And it’s not his—”

“It is his fault,” Davrin bites sharply, lips pulled back, teeth bared dangerously. “He’s in love with you!”

Rook jerks back, the breath pulled sharply from his lungs. “…What?” A spluttered wheeze of a breath slips through his teeth. “Wha—How—No he’s not.”

“He is.”

“What the fuck do you mean? He’s not!” Rook says, shock rocking through him almost as a physical force. He steps back before turning away from Davrin, drawing his hands up to scrub across his face before sliding into his hair, fingers catching firmly in the strands. The brief spark of pain grounds him. “He doesn’t even like me.”

Davrin laughs sharply—a harsh, strangled sound pressed through clenched teeth. “You’re not that dense, Rook. Don’t play dumb now.”

“I’m not playing,” Rook snaps, without really meaning to. He snarls, pain pressing behind his eyes. He drops his hands, leaving them to dangle at his sides, fingers curling before uncurling—uncertain. Confused. Lost. Today doesn’t make any sense. 

Spite said he wants to kill me. 

Crows don’t have friends. 

Lovers weren’t mentioned in there either. 

And there’s absolutely zero way Lucanis is in love with him!

He was very clearly uninterested the few times Rook tried to get closer to him, blatantly ignoring his pointed comments and drawing back with a pained grimace whenever Rook pressed too close. Rook dropped it pretty quickly, as proximity seemed to make Lucanis more agitated and uncomfortable, and that wasn’t what anyone needed on this team. And it was a simple crush, something Rook—at the time—wanted to at least explore a little, but the sharp rejection was plainly evident. 

And then Davrin came along and Rook was forever lost in h is gravity. 

How does any of that—any of those rejections and back steps and blatant uncomfortableness—translate to him being in love with Rook?

It doesn’t. 

That’s the simple answer. Davrin is seeing things. 

He exhales slowly, letting the tension release its death grip on his shoulders as he rolls his neck again, pain pulsing sharply behind his eyes. 

“Rook?”

He sighs, turning back to Davrin. Davrin watches him carefully, gaze narrowed on him, fingers flexing at his sides in much the same way Rook’s did. “He’s not in love with me,” he says, very firmly. “And even if he was, that doesn’t… I mean, he’s not the one who—it’s Spite.”

And Spite most definitely is not in love with him. Demons aren’t capable of such a thing, and despite encroaching on his bath time twice now, he hasn’t done anything other than talk to him. 

“Spite is obsessed with you,” Davrin says, folding his arms across his chest. 

“He’s not,” Rook retorts, scowling. “He’s just a very confused spirit. He’s just as confused by us as we are of him.”

Rook opens doors, Spite said. You don’t close them. 

“He’s just… I don’t know, grateful I sprung him from the Ossuary?”

Even though it wasn’t just him. And he doesn’t feel like he really did all that much in the grand scheme of things. Lucanis mostly rescued himself—Rook was just along for the ride. 

Silence stretches between them for a moment. 

“You really believe that,” Davrin says tersely, “don’t you?”

“It’s the truth,” Rook says, frowning. 

Davrin sighs, tilting his head back to glare up at the not-sky for a moment, before he drops his gaze back to Rook, his expression a little softer now. “You should finish your food.”

Rook scoffs, but at least Davrin isn’t contemplating murder right this moment. For now. He stalks closer, snagging hold of Davrin’s hand. “Join me?”

“Always,” Davrin breathes, giving his hand a squeeze. 

Chapter Text

Davrin tries to shake the tension from his shoulders, but the ache between them confirms it isn’t going anywhere. 

He drops his carving knife onto the table, stretching his fingers, unaware of how tightly he was holding it until now as blood starts circulating through them again. They tingle. He twists in his chair, gaze falling on Rook’s sleeping form, the quiet rise and fall of his chest, face half-buried in his pillow as he rests on his side, facing Davrin. 

Davrin sighs and pushes to his feet, carving forgotten. He’s not getting anywhere anyway, not with the tension in his hands and the rage simmering just below the surface. 

He crosses the room, kicking off his boots to let them drop quietly next to the bed, keeping careful watch on Rook’s face. Rook is oblivious to the noise, breaths still rhythmic and even, expression still slack and relaxed. Davrin carefully climbs into bed over Rook, settling in behind him before pressing closer, arm slithering around Rook’s waist to draw him closer. 

Rook hums in his sleep, nuzzling more into his pillow, settling against the new warmth at his back. 

Fucking Lucanis. 

Davrin might not outright murder him, but it’s never off the table completely. There’s a part of him in the back of his mind which has always known he might have to some day, if Lucanis loses control of Spite—but that’s already happening, isn’t it? In short bursts. 

Easy enough to see in a fight, but the few times Davrin has caught sight of the demon strolling around in control of Lucanis’s body here at the Lighthouse, he hasn’t necessarily been doing much of anything. He tried to walk through the Eluvian once, but Davrin didn’t witness the attempt personally, and as far as he knows it’s never gotten to that point again. 

Normally he admires Lucanis’s utter refusal to relinquish control, to the point the Crow steadfastly refuses to sleep half the time, but this?

Not only has he lost control, but he’s been walking in on Rook naked in the bath, utterly exposed and vulnerable, and anything could happen. Anything. 

And it’s because of Lucanis, no matter what Rook says. 

Lucanis’s emotions bleed into Spite just as much as the demon bleeds into him, after all. And Lucanis loves Rook. It’s a realization Davrin came to some time ago, and Lucanis seems aware that he knows, but the two have never outright mentioned it or confirmed it. And that was all well and good so long as he kept his affections to himself and only had a demonic lapse of words here and there—Davrin doesn’t consider himself a jealous man, not when Rook has clearly chosen, but this complicates things. Because now it’s not just some words, and even now, picturing Lucanis creeping up to Rook while he’s naked and—

I’m gonna kill him. 

It’s a visceral reaction, a rage burning through him like a wildfire, and even as he lays next to Rook it simmers hotly in the background, waiting. 

Quietly pining is one thing, but this is dangerous. This is physical. This is another matter entirely. 

He tightens his hold on Rook, dropping his head to press his face into his neck, breathing in the scent of him. It’s calming in a way little else has ever been.

A hand lands atop his own suddenly, leaving him flinching as he looks down to see that Rook has quietly raised his, catching hold of Davrin’s fingers and threading them together before dropping them back to his waist together. 

“Sorry,” Davrin murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“ ‘s okay,” Rook breathes, still half asleep. He shifts backward a little, pressing closer to Davrin, and Davrin lifts a leg to toss it over Rook’s, drawing them closer as well. Rook hums, contented, and Davrin skims his lips across the bruise he made earlier. “Mmm,” Rook sighs. “ ‘m here with you. Sleep, Davrin.”

Davrin exhales slowly, pressing his face into the crook of Rook’s neck, getting comfortable. His thumb smooths across a knuckle in a slow, circling pattern, and he listens as Rook’s breaths even out again, sleep reclaiming him swiftly. 

A talk needs to happen, but Lucanis isn’t here right now and Rook is, and Rook will always take priority. 

Davrin nuzzles a little closer, letting his eyes fall shut and his thumb still.

Davrin is sound asleep when something is yanked from him, his heavy arms wound around it rather tightly at first—which leaves him jerking forward as it’s suddenly ripped from his grasp. He jerks into motion, eyes flying open as he scrambles upward, scanning the room and trying to make sense of what’s missing, before his eyes fall on—

“Rook!”

He lunges up from the bed, already barreling across the room even as those purple wings outstretch and block his view, but that’s definitely Rook scrambling in those arms. 

“Spite,” Rook hisses, clawing at him. “Let go! Put me down!”

Davrin snags hold of his sword, charging forward. 

But Lucanis has already jumped through the partially demolished wall, wings flapping as he ascends—with Rook in tow. 

No. 

Rook strains in his hold, head popping up over his shoulder briefly—a flash of wide green eyes as they pull away from the building, into the nothingness around them.

Davrin catches himself on the wall, head stretched out to watch them climb higher, their forms getting smaller. “ROOK!”  

But they just get smaller, until even the outline of purple wings vanishes in the eerie clouds, and Davrin’s heart stops. 

No! No, no, no. 

It stutters into motion again, a wheeze sucked through his teeth as he spins, already whistling sharply for Assan. He barrels out of his room, nearly tripping down the stairs, the sword heavy in his hands as he quickly scans the horizon. Assan lands at his feet, head cocked inquisitively, and Davrin opens his mouth to order him to do something, anything, but the words catch in his throat. What comes out is a strangled, twisted sound, a wordless panic twisting inside of him so tightly he can barely breathe.

Rook’s gone. 

The sword clatters to the ground, fingers too numb to maintain their grip. A tremor tears down his spine, an icy sort of numbness spreading through him, a choked sound on his lips as he wheezes. 

Rook’s gone. 

Spite took him. He took him. 

With a wordless snarl, he snags his sword from the ground and darts toward Neve’s place, as she’s the closest outside of Lucanis.

Lucanis. 

He bursts through the door and it opens with a harsh bang. He snarls, nearly tripping over the threshold in his rush forward. Neve jolts sharply from her bed, eyes wide as they land on him.

“Davrin? What is it, what’s going on?” She steps toward him. “Is Rook okay? Is he bleeding again?”

“Rook,” is all he can say, other words lost to him.

Trembling fingers drop the sword once again, and it lands with a dull thud at his feet. He looks down at it, not quite processing much of anything around him, and the quiver shaking through his legs leaves him sinking downward. His knees hit the floor hard and he hunches forward, palms splayed flat on either side of the dropped sword, trying to breathe through the swell of—

Not grief, he tells himself sharply. Not yet. 

Neve drops in front of him, hands frozen between them as she toys with the idea of reaching for him, but he’s grateful she doesn’t. “What about Rook, Davrin?”

“Gone,” he breathes, swallowing air. He screws his eyes shut, head dropped forward as he draws in frenzied breath through clenched teeth. “Spite took him. He’s gone.”

Rook’s gone. 

Neve hisses and lurches back to her feet. “Stay there,” she says, already moving around him for the door. “Right there. I’ll get the others.”

And then she’s gone and Davrin is alone. 

Alone. 

Rook’s gone. He’s gone.

A strangled breath scratches up his throat as he scrambles back, back falling against the wall, hands lifting to drag across his face before his fingers connect at the top of his head. He draws in air greedily and tries to remind himself there is plenty of air in this room, no matter how much his chest aches and his lungs spasm.

Spite took him. 

Just wrenched him out of Davrin’s arms and then was gone before he could do anything. And Rook was struggling, eyes wide and voice panicked, and he’s sure that twisted look on his face will haunt him. 

Lucanis. 

A fury burns through him, momentarily thawing the frigid ice trapped in his veins, and he sucks in a choked breath. 

Think, Davrin. 

Where did they go? Where could they go?

The Lighthouse is its own place, as far as Davrin knows. It resides in the Fade but isn’t fully connected to it, just like the Crossroads are their own place as well. He didn’t think anything else existed here besides this Lighthouse, so where could Spite be taking Rook?

Is there even a way to follow?

He drops a hand, dragging it across his eyes, vision blurred as he looks around the room. There’s nothing here that can really help him. Help Rook.

If he can even be helped. 

For all he knows, it’s already far too late.

The door bursts open and footsteps charge in. Emmrich crouches in front of him, the worried crease to his brow and tussled mess of his hair only further cementing how absolutely hopeless this really is. Emmrich is their Fade expert, and if he looks lost, then—

“Davrin,” Emmrich says tightly, hands settling on his shoulders. “Tell us what happened.”

“We were asleep,” Davrin says, a tremble to his voice which momentarily stalls the words. “Spite took him and just…” He waves helplessly upward. “Rook’s gone.”

He’s gone.

He was literally in Davrin’s arms and Davrin lost him. Just let him be snatched away so easily. So quickly. It all happened so fast. 

“Why would Spite take him?” Bellara asks, her voice pitched a little too high. 

“Where would he take him?” Neve asks. 

Davrin shakes his head. “He’s been… stalking Rook.”

“Stalking?” Harding snaps. “And you’re only telling us now? Why didn’t Rook tell us? Why does he have to keep secrets!”

“Davrin,” Neve says, crouching down next to Emmrich. “What do you mean by stalking?”

Davrin swallows. “He’s been… following him into the bath. Interrupting him.”

And I didn’t stop it. 

To be fair, he didn’t know anything about it until earlier today, but that’s no excuse. He should have dealt with it immediately, Rook’s misgivings be damned. He’d be angry, but at least he’d still be here. 

“He’s… what?” Bellara squeaks. “Why? Spirits don’t… I mean…”

“All very good questions to ask once we find him,” Neve says sharply. “Emmrich, any ideas? How big is this place? Can you track them?”

“I… I am not certain,” Emmrich says, before he squeezes Davrin’s shoulder. “But we will fix this, Davrin. We will find him.”

Davrin shifts back, trying to press more into the wall behind him as Emmrich gets to his feet. 

“I will need to get some things from my lab. Bellara, I may need your assistance.”

“I’m with you,” she says. 

“Harding, see if you can reach out to any of your contacts,” Neve says, still crouched in front of Davrin. He can feel her gaze on him but his eyes are locked on a speck on the floor, a chill sweeping through him. “Taash, help Emmrich if he needs anything heavy.”

“On it,” Taash says. 

They file from the room, but Neve lingers behind. Her hand brushes lightly over one of his knees, which he’s pulled to his chest, arms locked around them. 

“Hey,” she says gently. “Davrin. Rook will be fine.”

“You don’t know that,” he mutters, tossing his head back into the wall. The sharp sting of pain feels deserved.

“Davrin.”

He closes his eyes against the sting of the tears, his throat burning again. “He could already be dead.”

“He’s not. Rook has a habit of surviving things, and Spite hasn’t shown any signs of wanting to hurt him.”

Spite. 

Davrin’s nostrils flare, a shaky breath spluttered through his nose as he bites down hard on his lower lip, again appreciating the spark of pain it ignites.

“Davrin,” Neve hisses, her hand squeezing his knee tightly. “Don’t hurt yourself. You’re bleeding.”

He is, can taste it on his tongue from the wound cleaved by his teeth, but he doesn’t care. He deserves it. 

He let the griffons get taken. He let Weisshaupt fall. 

He let Spite take Rook. 

My fault. 

“Talk to me, Davrin.”

What do you want me to say? 

That he failed? That he didn’t hold on? That he let it happen? He did. 

Rook’s wide eyes flash through his mind, the way he batted at Spite and clawed to twist free before being taken through the hole in the wall. The same hole Spite must have entered through, because they would surely have heard the door open. He must have landed and immediately ripped Rook away, then vanished out the wall. It was over in a handful of seconds. 

“Have faith in Rook,” Neve says quietly. “Varric said he has this crazy way of finding his way through the ‘wildest shit he’s ever seen’. We’ll find him.”

Find him, she can promise. What she can’t offer is we’ll find him alive. 

He’s been so afraid of this very moment. Maybe not in this way, but the frigid, sick grief twisting through him is certainly something he tried so desperately to avoid. 

They’ve only been back at the Lighthouse a few days since Rook’s last brush with death, a moment etched all too clearly in Davrin’s mind. The nightmares since have been relentless, yet somehow he didn’t get awoken by them on this night—the one night he needed to be awake to stop the dreams from coming true. 

I can’t lose you, he told Rook. 

And Rook promised he wouldn’t. 

An empty promise—Davrin knew it from the start. No one can promise not to die. 

But Davrin was willing to believe any lie if it meant he got to keep Rook. Anything, for that. For that. 

But I lost him anyway. 

How can they possibly get him back? Is there air, elsewhere in this pocket of the Fade? Is there a place to land or is it an endless void? How are they supposed to find him if they can’t physically go after him?

A sob rises in his throat and he clamps down on it hard, biting at his lip once again as he drops his head to hide his face in the safety of his arms, locked away from the truth. From the sickly ache spreading through every part of him. From the steel bands clenching his lungs so tightly he can hardly breathe. 

“Davrin.” Another squeeze. “Hey. Let’s get you up, alright? Get you dressed so you can be ready when we go.”

Dressed. Right. 

He’s still in his sleep shorts, having kicked off his pants at some point. He should perhaps feel some level of shame, or embarrassment, for state of undress but he simply can’t find it within him to care.

“Davrin?”

He draws in a slow breath, attempting to push back the rising tide of despair threatening to drown him completely. He’s a Grey Warden; he’s used to loss. And to uphill battles. 

Rook promised Davrin wouldn’t lose him, and he’s going to have to hold Rook to his word. 

It’s not over just yet. 

Right now, Rook is both lost to him and also still obtainable. As long as he doesn’t know the truth, he can live in the in-between, where hope lives and also dies. A shaky breath escapes him as he lifts his head, peering at Neve through blurred vision until he blinks enough that the image sharpens. 

Wardens don’t just give in. They never have. 

He lost Weisshaupt. He lost the griffons. 

But he draws the line at Rook. 

Anyone but Rook. 

He won’t lose him too. 

He lets Neve drag him to his feet, her hand clenched around his arm. His legs tremble, that numbness still spread through his extremities—shock, he knows. He’s worn it before—usually with a physical injury, but somehow this one is worse. Much worse. The sheer weight of it leaves a keening sound strangled in his throat which he forces back down as he drags a hand across his face, a frustrated growl escaping him at the wetness which clings to his fingers. 

No tears. 

Tears mean acceptance. Means loss. 

Not yet. 

Neve presses the hilt of the sword into his palm. Davrin stares at it for a moment before finally getting his fingers to close around it, the familiar weight grounding him. He can do this. He’s a fighter. A Grey Warden. A monster hunter. 

And there’s a monster out there who needs to be slain. 

“SPITE! Put me DOWN!”

Rook claws at the steel arms around him, crushed into Lucanis’s chest. He keeps hoping Lucanis will come back to himself, realize what is happening and turn them around, but the sheer determination on Spite’s face leaves that hope faltering. 

He doesn’t know what happened, or how Spite gained control. He doesn’t know why the demon thought it was a grand idea to literally steal him from bed and jump out the fucking wall. Doesn’t know why any of this is happening. 

Spite hasn’t said a single word. Just bares his teeth and snarls and tilts them dizzyingly in the air. The clouds rush past, no ground to be seen, nothing solid in any direction, and Rook just wants to get down. 

Please put me down. 

But Spite isn’t budging, and there’s nowhere for him to really go anyway, so he finally settles against that chest, glaring up at the glowing eyes above him. There’s a hand clasped firmly around his legs, another around his shoulders, clawed fingers biting in, and he knows there will certainly be bruises, if not cuts. The icy chill of the air whipping past him so quickly leaves him feeling rather numb, which he is going to take as a blessing with that vice grip. 

It takes him a moment to realize Spite’s mouth is moving. 

The wind around them is too loud for him to hear any words, but he’s pretty decent at reading lips—though the angle here isn’t great. He’s pressed too close, angled sharply under Spite’s chin for the most part, but occasionally as Spite is turning through the air and adjusting course, he can make out something. 

Our Rook, seems to be all he can see. Our Rook. Our Rook. 

Fuck me, Rook thinks with a groan. Not this again. 

He just wants to be put down. He wants to be back in bed with Davrin. 

Davrin.

He recalls the hoarse, desperate shout of his name as Spite arced into the air. The way Davrin scrambled toward them, chasing Rook out of bed. The wild look in his eyes.

Oh, Davrin. I’m okay. 

But he has no way of relaying this information to him. For all he knows, Davrin thinks he’s dead. And he just told Rook he can’t do that again—can’t lose him. 

Rook shivers, the chill seeping into his bones. 

He hopes they land soon.

Why the fuck did this happen? 

It’s all a jumbled mess, and it all happened so fast. One minute he was sound asleep, Davrin a warm blanket around him—the next he was scrambling, driven into sudden awareness as he was yanked harshly from those arms and off the bed. 

He shivers again. 

How did it come to this? 

First, the interrupted baths. Weird, as he said, but he didn’t feel threatened by it—not really. Spite telling him Lucanis wants to kill him was certainly upsetting, but deep down he doesn’t really think that’s the case. He was willing to wait and hear Lucanis’s side of things. 

But this…?

How do they come back from this?

The others have surely been notified about this by now, he thinks. He’s not sure how long they’ve been flying, and he shouted himself rather hoarse some time ago—but surely the others are well aware of what happened by now. Even if Rook can get answers and get back to them—and that’s seeming less likely by the second, if he’s honest with himself—there is no real way to spin this, is there? That won’t end poorly for Lucanis. 

Lucanis.

He hopes he’s okay, in there—fighting for control. He doesn’t know what happened, though, so for all he knows, Spite has taken full control and doesn’t plan on giving it back. Lucanis could be trapped somewhere in his mind, in a prison of Spite’s making. 

Or worse. 

He trembles. 

Wishes he had a weapon. Or even clothes—he’d settle for clothes. He’s not completely naked, clad in a pair of soft sleep pants, but the chill makes them almost useless. A shirt and boots would be nice. Armor would be better. 

He glances up at what he can see of the face above him again. 

He doesn’t think he’s necessarily in danger—but he can never rule that out. Spite hasn’t been aggressive with him before, but then Rook never thought he would literally kidnap him before, either. This is all new territory. 

Spite’s wings cut closer to his body and they pull downward, descending. Rook looks down, at first only seeing clouds, but then slowly a landmass appears—small, barren, more a little nook of solidity in the nothingness around them, seemingly floating alone in the abyss. 

Spite lands. Rook twists, jerking for freedom, and finally those arms release him.

He stumbles, a little surprised to be under his own weight, before he spins sharply, glaring at those purple eyes. 

“What. The Fuck?” He hisses. “What the hell is going on? Where’s Lucanis?”

Spite snarls. “He. Plots to kill. You!” 

Rook rolls back a step. “Explain,” he snaps. “Now.”

“I. Will show!” 

Rook pivots to flee as Spite lunges at him again. “Spite!”

“Look!” 

Hands snag his arms, twisting them back slightly as he’s physically turned to the ledge at his feet, edged toward it. His feet scrape across the ground, a stone digging into his bare toes as he tries to stop himself, heart in his throat. But Spite doesn’t toss him over; he simply holds him at the edge, and Rook watches as the clouds below him spin into smudged shapes. He stops struggling, watching as those shapes sharpen into something more clear, and suddenly—

What the fuck? 

That’s him. In the clouds. The scene sharpens further and he’s on the ground, red all around him, expression contorted with pain. It’s odd, seeing himself like that. His throat tightens in tandem with the image’s, each straining for breath for different reasons. 

A shadow crosses near the cloud version of himself. Familiar blades, dripping red. 

“See?” 

“Wake up,” a distorted voice hisses, tossed from the visage before him. “Not real. Wake up.” 

There’s a hitch in that voice, pitched a little too high, and Rook winces. 

That doesn’t sound like someone enjoying the sight in front of them. 

“Rook.” The blades drop and that shadow pushes forward. Lucanis drops in front of him, reaching out before stopping himself, hands hovering just over the struggling version of himself. “My fault. Rook. Rook!”

The scene shifts suddenly, clouds spinning into a different setting but a similar image—just without all the red. It opens with Rook flat on the ground, Lucanis hovering over him, and Rook winces at the blank look in his own dead stare, eyes glazed and dark. People arrive in dark shapes stepping around the two of them, and then there’s a flash of purple as wings extend and a snarl rips the air when someone tries to reach for them. Lucanis—Spite—spins and lunges for the nearest person, a guttural sound emanating through the air.

It shifts again, and this one is familiar, in a way. Rook didn’t technically see it himself, from an outside perspective, but that’s definitely the opera house. Hands on his face, a snarl mingled into the words, “Rook! Breathe!” 

It spirals away again, shifting once more. Him, on the ground. Half-lidded eyes seemingly frozen mid-blink, staring into an endless void of nothing. His name, screeched and snarled by two conflicting voices.

Another shift, and he’s coated in red, red, red. Then once more, and a litany of it’s my fault echoes through the air, winding through the images. Lucanis, dropping bloody blades.

And another, and another. 

Rook sucks in a sharp breath, overwhelmed by the barrage and twisted images. The fury in the voice juxtaposed with sharp whines of his name, the tone pitched higher than usual—panic. Fear. Regret. 

He jerks his arm free of Spite’s hold, which has steadily loosened as the images twist and morph. He spins away from the scene, a shaky breath lodged in his throat and shivers crawling down his spine. “Spite,” he croaks, “that’s not… They’re nightmares.”

“Not. Like the Ossuary!” Spite snarls. “Not. A past event!” A pause. “Not always.”

“Nightmares don’t work like that all the time,” Rook sighs, dragging a hand down his face, pain pressing behind his eyes. “They’re not… I mean, they’re not just memories.”

“Seen. Before! Lucanis wanted. To kill Zara.” 

Lucanis dreamed about revenge, on the few occasions he slept. 

“That’s not a nightmare,” Rook says. “It’s an outlet for… what he wants.” But that will only confuse the demon further. How the fuck does he explain dreams and how they differ from nightmares? From intention versus anticipation?

Spite is familiar with the nightmare of the Ossuary in Lucanis’s mind. But that was a deep-seated trauma. This is… what? A fear? Of hurting Rook?

It doesn’t make sense. How can he explain something he doesn’t really understand himself? The difference is just something mortals know—it’s part of dreaming.

“It’s different,” he says, turning to face Spite. The demon lingers near the edge, but the scene below seems to have stopped. “I dream of killing the gods, and I want to, but I also… have nightmares. Of things that scare me. Of being responsible for…” He waves his hands helplessly. “It’s not real. He’s not planning to kill me.”

And he knew that, of course. Deep down. But he’s also been wrong before and it has cost him dearly. While he was willing to give Lucanis the benefit of the doubt until hearing his side of the story, he couldn’t chase away the apprehension. 

Trust your friend, Varric said. But prepare for the worst. 

“These are nightmares, Spite.”

“No!” Spite hisses, stepping forward sharply. Rook twists back, all too aware of the limited space on this landing. “Nightmares are. Things. That happen to. Us!” 

Rook swallows. “Lucanis has been dreaming about things happening to him, yes, but—it’s not limited solely to that. He went through a lot of trauma in the Ossuary, so it’s understandable he had nightmares about it.”

… Am I trauma too? 

His stomach twists. 

“Lucanis! Keeps saying. Not real! When I. Question.” 

“It’s not real,” Rook says. 

“Dreams have. Changed!” 

“Changed how?”

“Was just. Memory! Before.” 

Memory. 

Rook sighs. “It wasn’t a memory, Spite. I haven’t died.”

“Rook died!” Spite says sharply, stepping forward again. Rook plants his feet to keep from dropping back any further, his attention focused on Spite more than whatever land remains behind him. 

“I didn’t,” Rook says. “I mean, I stopped breathing apparently, but I—”

“Died! Heart stopped!” 

Rook sucks in a rush of air, struggling to process this information. Davrin certainly never said anything about his heart stopping, and neither have any of the others. He thinks Emmrich surely would have said mentioned that little detail. Spite must be confused.

“You’re confused,” he says. “Mortals aren’t dead the minute they stop breathing.” He shakes his head. “Look, I will happily explain everything to you in greater detail back at the Lighthouse, but we really need to go back. Right now.”

Spite growls, the purple colors flickering brighter for a moment before dying back down slightly. “Keep. Rook safe! Our deal!” 

“What deal? What are you talking about? You said your deal was to get out of the Ossuary and live.”

Spite bares his teeth. “New. Deal!”

“Why a new deal?” 

And how am I involved in it? 

“Rook. Is Ours!” 

This again. 

“Hey,” he says, sharply, watching those eyes narrow on him. “No. I’m not an object you can just lay claim over.”

Spite just growls. 

Rook sighs. This is getting them nowhere. “Look, just… take me back to the Lighthouse, okay? We can talk there, with Lucanis. But we need to go back now, Spite. The others…”

He still has no idea how he’s going to smooth any of this over. Especially with Davrin. Literally kidnapping Rook is hard to come back from. 

But they need to know he’s safe, that it’s just a misunderstanding on everyone’s part, and he needs to make sure Lucanis is okay too. 

“Spite,” he says, holding that purple gaze. “We’re in the middle of nowhere in the Fade. I’m cold. The others will be worried. We have to go back.”

“Rook. Not safe!” 

“Lucanis doesn’t want to kill me! I promise!” He draws in a breath, willing the tension winding through him to relax slightly. “Have I ever lied to you?”

Spite snarls and jerks into motion, but not toward him thankfully. Instead, he prowls from side to side, pacing, agitated. There’s a low rumble in the air, a guttural growl vibrating in Spite’s throat, mingled with Lucanis’s vocal chords. 

“No,” Spite finally says, slowing to a stop. “Rook. Opens Doors.” 

“I don’t close them,” Rook agrees, even though he’s still not sure what that means, really. He steps closer to the demon. “So trust me when I say he doesn’t want to kill me. I’m not in danger. These are just nightmares.”

Spite grunts, clearly still frustrated, but he reaches for Rook, wings stretching behind him. Rook comes willingly this time, letting the demon pick him up again. 

With a flap of those wings, the landing falls away beneath them as they ascend. 

Chapter Text

“Are you certain this is Rook’s?”

Davrin’s jaw aches, teeth grinding as he nods sharply. Emmrich turns his gaze back to the dagger in his hand, a frown stretched across his mouth. All sharp angles and shadows, the veneer of worry. Concern.

“Why’s it not working?” Bellara asks quietly, at Emmrich’s side. 

They’re seated in the kitchen, all around the table. Emmrich waves his hand over the dagger again, green magic lighting in his palm before it sputters out once again, dissolved into nothing so abruptly. 

“Not certain,” Emmrich says tightly. “Perhaps Neve should try.”

“I’ve never tried to track anything in the Fade,” Neve admits, a weariness to her tone which pitches it slightly lower than usual. “But I can give it a try.”

Emmrich plucks the dagger from the table and hands it to her. She takes it and places it delicately in front of her, her hands all graceful movements and angles as her own magic sparks to life in her palms. She runs them both over the blade, brows furrowed in concentration.

But just like Emmrich’s, the magic sputters and dies almost immediately.

Davrin drops his head into his hands, eyes falling shut, jaw aching. He waits for them to say what they’re all thinking, even as he knows the confirmation will destroy him. He’s honestly a little scared about what those words will strip from him, what state they’ll leave him in. 

He’s so tired. His head throbs sharply, eyes burning beneath closed lids. There’s a tremor slipping through him, more constant the longer they stay here without any progress. 

Rook doesn’t have time for this. 

There’s the sharp hum at his ears, a chill at his side as Neve’s magic alights once more in her hands. He keeps his eyes shut, listening as the hum abruptly stutters into more frigid silence. 

Rook’s face flashes in his mind. Wide eyes. Frantic furrows in his brow. He feels, all too clearly, the warmth ripped from his arms and relives the panicked rush forward, sword drawn and hand outstretched into nothing. 

“Emmrich,” Neve says quietly. Tone pitched low, quiet. A timidity to the word.

No. 

Davrin jerks to his feet, chair scraping back loudly. He turns in the same movement, twisting for the door as he all but flees—too much of a coward to hear the truth. 

The brightness of the courtyard feels wrong. Empty. It should be dark.

He stalks across the courtyard with no real destination in mind, filled with the burning need to simply get away. From everything. 

But there’s nowhere he can go where this sharp, twisted feeling won’t chase him. 

His fingers flex at his sides, aching to hit something, squeeze something, throw something—anything but this helpless inaction.

The library door opens as he pushes through, the sheer silence of the room immediately setting his teeth on edge. Shoulders hunched, he adjusts course, still not quite sure where he’s going, but his feet seem to know the way even as his head struggles along with his heart. 

Rook’s door shuts behind him and he stops, gaze locked on the green couch at the center, without really seeing it. He swallows air, starved for something he can’t grasp, a tremor slipping through him once again. Trembling, the twisted amalgamation of feelings and thoughts forming into some horrid concoction which leaves bile burning up his throat. 

He swallows thickly, legs jerking into motion once more as he slips forward.

He sinks heavily onto the couch, hunched forward, head dropped down low. He stares at the items on the floor from earlier—sharpening tools, a snapped arrow stem, a bag of bowstring partially opened leaving the string to glimmer slightly in the light of the room.

Rook was worried. 

It sweeps through him, this realization. He noted the oddity before—Rook’s sudden desire to properly maintain his gear without prompting—but now it makes sense. The knowledge settles like a stone in the pit of his stomach. 

He knew. 

Something happened. Something more than Rook told him. Something worse than the interrupted bath. 

The dagger, plucked and sheathed before Rook would follow him from the room. The blade placed on the table as Davrin cooked. The way Rook tensed, when Bellara entered the kitchen. 

He fucking knew. 

He was anticipating something like this happening. An attack. Senses stretched, aware of an approaching threat.

And he said nothing. 

Rook, why didn’t you say something? 

And why stop Davrin from going after Lucanis? Was Rook anticipating an attack from Lucanis or Spite? Doesn’t matter, he decides. They’re the same threat.

Why didn’t he say anything?

He expels a shaky sigh, dragging a hand across his face. The numbness at his fingertips isn’t shock this time, but a frigid sort of fatigue. Yet another thing he’s missed, despite all the signs. 

Rook, entering his room abruptly, the door nearly hitting the wall. The tension in his frame as he left again. The sharpness in his voice as he threw Davrin’s concern back in his face—though, Davrin notes, that was a little deserved. 

The maintenance. The dagger. The quiet awareness in every step.

The signs were all there. Davrin simply failed to really notice, once again. 

And now, his unawareness might have cost him the one thing he’s ever wanted to hold onto. And he let it happen. 

“Sorry,” Davrin breathes, pressing the heel of his palm into an eye, the pressure doing little to soothe the burning beneath the closed eyelid. “Sorry, Rook. Just… come back.”

That’s all he has to do—just come back. 

Just be alive. 

A breath chokes up his throat, spluttered from his mouth as a pitched wheeze.

He drops his hand, fingers knocking against something before it clatters sharply to the floor. Pulled from his partial daze, he looks down to find Rook’s bow laid out there next to his foot, left there from earlier. 

Why didn’t he bring the bow? Why just a dagger? 

His fingers grasp the grip of the bow, drawing it off the floor. He eyes the tension in the string, remembering how Rook wound it there as Davrin came into the room. His thumb presses against it lightly; the perfect give, he notes. Perfect for a quick, precise shot. 

He trails his thumb down the string, wishing the sting of it gliding across his skin was more noticeable. But it only leaves a white line down his thumb, and he puts the bow down in his lap, fingers slightly curled around the grip to keep it from slipping off. 

He’s not sure why he came to this room. There’s really nothing for him here. Nothing that can help. 

But it holds the majority of Rook’s things. A mixing kit for poisons. A scroll he got from someone after saving them from bandits. A few shirts on the floor in front of the couch, partially covered with thin wooden sticks—the beginnings of an arrow. His old armor, atop a dresser along the wall. A notebook, a pencil pressed into he pages, keeping them parted. 

His fingers reach for it, careful to keep the pencil in place as he draws it toward him. For a moment he simply looks down at the cover of the book, running his fingers over the embellished design adorning its top. 

He remembers this. 

A quiet moment in Dock Town—a rarity, really. A stroll through the markets. Merchants eagerly displaying their goods and waving people over. The many notebooks caught Rook’s eye and he diverted for the stall, saying something about getting Neve a new one since she takes so many notes. 

Neve rejected the peace offering, still too twisted after the fall of Minrathous. Davrin wasn’t there to witness it in person, but that rejection carried across Rook’s pinched expression when he returned with it in hand. 

Davrin suggested he keep it for himself. Rook used to have one, he once said—growing up, he had a journal. A way to get out of his head. With everything going wrong around them and within the world, it seemed the perfect time to pick up the habit again. 

Looks like he did. 

His fingers slide lightly across the edge of the pages within. He really shouldn’t look. It’s an invasion of privacy, and Rook asks for so little. 

But maybe there’s something in here—some inkling as to what Rook thought would happen. An answer for his caution.

Davrin sighs, letting the book fall open in his lap, settled atop the bow. It opens to the penciled page, the pencil rolling into the groove at its center. Rook’s script is far neater than his own.

It appears to be a list. 

Lunch with Bellara.

Get an update on Dock Town from Neve. Ply her with some Tevinter wine to break the ice.

Look into the Stormrider. Bring poison.

Harding hates me. Avoid for now. She’s not ready to talk.

Check in on Davrin’s shield. See if Emmrich needs help. 

Davrin swallows, an ache in his chest. Rook already gave him a sword but this is the first he’s heard about a shield. A future gift.

He flips backward a page. 

A series of drawn arrows is sketched across the page. Davrin runs his fingers over the detailed markings along the feathered end of one of the larger ones. An image of his bow rests on the cross page, complete with the designs etched into the actual bow. 

I didn’t know you drew. 

Yet another thing he’s failed to notice. 

He sniffs, a lump caught in his throat.

He turns the page back again. 

His breath catches, stuttering into nothing. 

Another drawing, but far more complex and detailed. Davrin stares down at his sketched face, noting the shading along the face which follows the outline of his jaw. The details of his hair, the sheen of light reflected in his eyes, the shadows of his pupils making the lighter spots pop. 

Rook, this is beautiful. 

And he chose to draw Davrin, of all people. This much detail tells him this would have taken several hours at the very least, and careful strokes and smudges to smooth out the image. 

The door rattles then, before it unlatches behind him and swings open. 

Davrin slams the book shut, twisting around to see Neve approaching, a relieved curve to her mouth. 

“He’s in here!” Neve calls loudly over her shoulder, the door shutting behind her. “There you are.” She moves around the couch, stopping in front of him. There’s a crack as a thin arrow splinters under her false foot, and Davrin’s gaze drops to it instantly, a pang in his chest. 

“Any progress?” He asks, his previous fear swiftly snagging hold of him once more. 

“No,” she admits softly. The pinched expression leaves his eyes falling shut as his head drops forward again, a heavy sigh slipping free. “Emmrich is trying another angle. But we couldn’t find you.”

“Just say it,” he says tightly. 

“Say what?”

“What we’re all thinking. Just… say it.”

He doesn’t want to hear it—wishes he could close off his ears. But lingering on the precipice of hope and despair is just too much. 

“There could be nothing for the spell to connect to.”

The words leave a strangled whimper driving up his throat and spilling from his mouth, even as he knew they were coming. But there’s really no preparing himself for this. 

“Could be,” Neve says, a little sharply. “But we’re not giving up. If he’s still in the Fade, it could just be because of that.”

A falsity, really. Davrin knows. Emmrich would have mentioned it prior to starting if the thought crosses his mind, and he’s their resident Fade expert. If anyone would be aware of such an issue, it would certainly be him. 

“Don’t,” he breathes, dropping his head into his hands as he brings them up. He presses them at his eyes, the sting in them sharpening. “Just don’t.”

Don’t give me false hope. 

“Davrin,” she says. 

He pushes to his feet, the bow falling from his lip to land on the floor between them. He looks down at it for a moment, that lump strangling his throat, before he turns away from the couch and stalks across the room, toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” Neve calls, her footsteps trailing behind him. 

“Need some air,” he says flatly. “Alone.”

Alone. 

A shiver twists down his spine. He shakes his shoulders, squaring them as he exits the room. 

Strides past Bellara and Harding at the end of the hallway, turning for the stairs without answering their concerned questions.

Ignores Emmrich reaching for him at the bottom of the stairs, an uneasy set to his brows. 

Davrin ducks his head from the probing gaze and exits the library without a word. 

No one follows.

Assan waits outside, perking up at the sight of him, but Davrin walks around him the same as the others. Guilt sparks briefly in his stomach at the croon Assan gives as he passes by, but he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t stop until he’s back in his room. 

Then stands frozen just inside, the door shut behind him. Legs trembling, unwilling to carry him forward. His gaze locks on the open wall, the image of Spite jumping through it taunting him. 

He heaves a rough breath, shoulders shaking as his chest stutters, a sob trying to cleave free. His eyes screw shut.

“Fuck, come back,” he says in a rush, pressing a hand at the moisture gathering in his left eye. Another heaving breath shakes his shoulders. “You fucking bastard.” He presses harder at his eye, fingers trembling.

Get it together, Davrin. 

Rook is missing, but he’s not gone. Not yet.

Just lost.

He drops his hand, feet unfrozen as he stumbles toward his work table, sinking heavily into the familiar chair. Figures line the table, some knocked over, all of them works in progress. He eyes them for a moment, jaw aching, before drops his head into his hands, elbows on the table. 

He shuts his eyes, exhaling slowly. Trying to pull it together. 

None of this is helping Rook. 

He’s just missing. Not dead. Not yet. 

Not yet. 

There’s still a chance of finding him, despite Neve giving voice to what they’ve all been thinking. Despite how unlikely it is just the Fade—the realm of this Lighthouse—keeping the spell from connecting. 

He doesn’t know a whole lot about magic, he can admit. So there’s every chance it is just that. It’s not like many people can even enter the Fade, let alone attempt spells in them. So there’s still a chance of locating him, and Davrin clings to that small thread of hope. 

He lifts his head, sighing. Peers blearily down at the figures, fingers twitching—ready to cut something. Chop something. Anything. He’s already made a mess of the place once today though—Creators, it’s not even been a day. Not even a day since he woke with a scream lodged in his throat and climbed out of bed to carve his thoughts away. He cleaned the mess up, but now he debates creating a new, worse one. 

His axe gleams across the room as he glances at it, the sharp edge catching the light spilling into the room from that damaged wall. With a sigh, he gets to his feet and stalks toward it, grip a little too tight as he lifts it from the floor. He finds little comfort in the familiarity of its weight in his grip. 

He puts a log atop his chopping block and brings the axe high above his head before wrenching it down, cleaving easily through the log. The two pieces fall apart, tumbling off the block to hit the floor. He places a new log atop the block and does it again, and again, and again. 

Normally, the steady work calms his mind, same as carving figures. It’s nice to do something with his hands and focus solely on the task in front of him. But with each swing of the axe, he pictures Spite’s face, Lucanis’s face, and takes a small flicker of satisfaction as he cleaves it in half. 

The ache in his arms feels good too. A familiar pain he can handle.

Fuck. 

His mind keeps dragging back to what’s missing. He drags his axe into a final log, watching the parts tumble off the block, and then releases his hold on the grip. The axe clatters loudly as it hits the floor.

He turns away, rolling his shoulders. Looks again at that demolished wall, an ache in his chest. 

His feet guide him to the bed. He sinks down onto the edge, head dropped forward as he sucks in a slow breath. It scorches his throat, that burn, that lump—the sharp cut of fear. 

Images haunt the back of his closed eyelids. Rook, in the kitchen earlier, teasing him and distracting him so wonderfully. The soft look in his eyes as his back hit the wall. The weight of his touch, the points of contact sending pleasure through Davrin’s body. The teeth at his neck, nipping. 

He should have just given in. They both wanted it. 

And now he might never get the chance again. 

The sound of fluttering leaves his head snapping up. Then he’s on his feet, charging at the purple wings before he can fully register the movement or the scene before him, but he drags to an abrupt stop when Rook slips free of those arms and turns toward him.

“Davrin,” Rook says gently. Alive. Clarity in his gaze.

Davrin barrels forward, arms immediately encircling his fellow warden as he crushes him to his chest, chin knocking against the top of his head as Rook folds into him willingly. For a moment, Davrin just holds him, not daring to breathe, not daring to believe, before the flicker of purple shifts at the edge of his vision. 

He twists away, moving in front of Rook, arms splayed—daring Spite to come anywhere near him. 

“Davrin,” Rook murmurs, a hand landing on his shoulder. 

Davrin swallows at the warmth the touch sends skittering through his body, numb limbs not longer so detached from himself. His gaze flicks briefly to the sword at the table, but reaching for it would mean moving, and Rook is just behind him—so close Davrin can feel a warm breath pass across the skin of his neck. 

“Davrin,” Rook says once more. “Hey. It’s okay. Spite won’t do anything.”

“He took you,” Davrin snaps. 

“It’s complicated.” Rook shifts behind him, moving to go in front of him.

Davrin throws an arm out, locking it in front of Rook, a snarl lodged in his throat. “Don’t.”

Rook stops, partially behind him but also partially next to him. “It was a misunderstanding, that’s all. I can explain, but we should probably call off the search party.” A pause. “I assume there’s one, anyway.”

Davrin says nothing, gaze still firmly locked on the demon in front of him. Spite hasn’t moved much at all, quietly watching them, but the mere sight of him leaves Davrin itching for his sword. But again, that would mean moving away from Rook, and he can’t do that. He can’t. 

“Spite,” Rook says softly. “Can you give us a moment? Maybe, uh… go hang in the bathing room. No one should be there.”

Spite bares his teeth but turns to jump back through the wall, and then he’s gone. Davrin lingers where he is, still tense, arm still outstretched in front of Rook’s chest, glaring at the empty place where the demon just stood.

Rook slowly moves around his arm, stepping into his line of sight as he stops in front of him. Hands come up, cupping his face so gently, and Davrin sucks in a sharp breath before he lunges forward.

Rook has enough time to gasp before his back hits the wall, the rest of the sound stolen as Davrin smashes their lips together. The kiss is a greedy, messy thing—not exactly pleasant or gentle. Rook’s teeth knock against his upper lip in Davrin’s haste, their noses knocking together somewhat painfully, but Davrin doesn’t care about any of that. By the way Rook kisses him back just as frantically, the feeling is mutual. 

Davrin’s fingers bite into Rook’s shoulders, holding him firmly in place, a strangled sound clawing up his throat as Rook’s hands come up to wrap around the back of his neck, drawing him closer. 

Davrin breaks the kiss only when his lungs burn, the ice melted. He drops his forehead against Rook’s, his eyes falling shut as he drags in a ragged breath, the sound stuttering as it trembles on the way back out. A tremor slips down his spine, every muscle tingling. “Rook.” 

“I’m here,” Rook says softly, fingers lightly rubbing the back of his head, at the bottom of his hairline. “Hey. Davrin. I’m right here. I’m alright.”

I’m alright. 

Davrin chokes out a breath, pulling back despite how much he wants to press close and never let go. He holds Rook at arms length, running his gaze up and down his body. A snarl catches in his bared teeth as he drags a hand lightly across the bruises blossoming along his arms—distinctly in the shape of fingers, Davrin’s vision narrowing in on it completely. 

“Davrin,” Rook says, a little sharply, and Davrin flinches, dragging his gaze back up to his face. Rook smiles tiredly. “I’m okay, I promise. It was a big miscommunication. He wasn’t going to hurt me, he just wanted to show me something.” A pause. “And he thought he was protecting me.”

“Protecting you?” Davrin splutters. “What the fuck does that mean? From what?”

Rook grimaces. “You know how he still thought they were in the Ossuary? Because of Lucanis’s nightmares?”

Davrin nods, lips pressed into a thin line—utterly confused what this has to do with anything, but more than eager to hear Rook’s voice. 

For a moment, he wondered if he’d ever hear it again. 

“Right, well, so.” Rook laughs shakily. “Lucanis has apparently been having nightmares about, well… me, since the whole… fiasco at his estate. And Spite didn’t understand. He doesn’t understand nightmares.”

“So he took you?”

“It’s complicated,” Rook mutters, dragging a hand across his face. “Fuck, I’m tired. Look, let’s get the others. I’d rather only have this conversation once.” A pause. “I assume they’re aware of what happened.”

“Of course they are,” Davrin bites sharply. “Rook, he took you. They’ve been trying to find you, but it’s… complicated, in the Fade, I guess.”

“I hate the Fade,” Rook sighs, tilting his head back into the wall. 

“What did he do?” Davrin asks, watching him carefully. “Where did he take you?”

“He didn’t do anything, really,” Rook says tiredly. “Just… showed me some stuff.” A pause. “From Lucanis’s nightmares. And then we left.”

“Rook—”

Rook pushes off the wall, sidestepping around Davrin. “Others first,” he says, snagging hold of a shirt. “But I promise I’ll explain as best as I can. Just know it was a big misunderstanding, and I’m fine.”

Davrin swallows, trailing behind Rook across the room as he grabs clothes and his boots. But there’s something nagging at his mind—something Rook scarcely mentioned. 

Boots laced up, Rook stands from the edge of the bed, but Davrin’s hands land on his shoulders, pushing him back down. Rook sits, mouth a confused line as he looks up at Davrin inquisitively. 

“Tell me something,” Davrin says. “Were you expecting something like this to happen?”

Because the signs were all there. And Rook still hasn’t mentioned it. 

“Why was Spite trying to protect you? From Lucanis?”

Rook grimaces, expression flattening. “Misunderstanding,” he says again. 

Davrin sucks in a sharp breath, patience waning. “Something happened that you’re not telling me, and I need to know what it is, Rook.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Rook insists. 

His fingers bite into those shoulders again, scrunching the fabric of his shirt. “What did Lucanis do?”

“Nothing!” 

“Rook.” 

Rook sighs, shoulders slouching as his gaze flickers sideways, away from Davrin. “Spite was under the impression Lucanis wanted to… kill me,” he all but mumbles, tone flat with exhaustion. 

Davrin’s grip tightens instinctively as he tries to process those words, but he loosens his fingers when Rook winces slightly. “Let me get this straight,” he intones flatly. “Spite came to you and said Lucanis wanted to kill you… and you didn’t say anything?”

“Spite was confused.”

“Oh,” Davrin barks, a manic laugh bubbling up his throat as he pulls back, releasing Rook’s shoulders. “And you just knew that the whole time, did you? That’s why you fixed your gear and carried a fucking dagger around?”

“I usually carry something around,” Rook says, looking back at him, eyes narrowed. “But yes, I didn’t really believe he wanted to hurt me. Spite gets confused. I was willing to hear him out, but… wanted to be a little prepared, just… in case.”

In case. 

Just in case Lucanis tried to murder him. 

Davrin turns, reaching for his sword. Rook scrambles off the bed. “Davrin?”

“I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

Spite—Lucanis—is in the bathing room. At least he’ll have water to clean up afterward. 

“Wait,” Rook breathes, hurrying in front of him, hands open as he raises them between the two of them, a clear signal to stop. Davrin does, jaw aching. “Just—wait. He was having nightmares about killing me, and Spite took it as… intention. It wasn’t.”

But you didn’t know that from the beginning. 

Spite said Lucanis wanted to kill him, and Rook didn’t breathe a word of it to anyone. To Davrin. For all he knew, Spite’s warning was the truth, but he still said nothing. 

The ache in his chest leaves his throat tightening. Rook watches him, green eyes wide, but as the silence stretches between them, his stance loosens and his hands slowly drop. 

“I should have told you,” Rook says quietly. “But I didn’t want to get anyone upset if it was just nothing. And I really didn’t think… I mean, it didn’t make much sense, for him to actually want me dead. So I just… I should have said something. To you. But I didn’t want to… worry anyone. Unnecessarily.”

Davrin regards him as he speaks, a muscle jumping in his jaw as his teeth grind together, the ache worsening steadily. Fatigue wars against the rage festering inside him, that ache growing in his chest. He’s not sure if it’s the warning itself or the fact Rook just didn’t tell him which knots his stomach more, but after the night he’s had, it’s all too much. He feels so drained—the adrenaline fading with Rook there in front of him, and no quick outlet for his rage.

“Let’s talk to the others,” Rook says gently. “Okay? And then I’ll tell you whatever you want, but if they’re searching for me, we should really let them know I’m fine.”

Davrin’s gaze lowers to where he knows the bruises are on Rook’s shoulders and arms, covered by the clothing now. You’re not fine, Rook. None of this is fine. 

But he nods, and lets Rook grab his hand and pull him from the room.

This explanation better be good.