Chapter Text
His voice, when she first hears it, is the warmth of sunlight, caressing her face after years of confinement to the dark. It is stepping into safety from the cold, the heat of a blazing fire soothing her weary bones.
His words curl through her mind, like stretching in the warm sunspots of a pleasant summer’s day, and she basks in it. It is a balm to her soul, tugging her from winter’s unforgiving grasp; out of the darkness, into the light. It is a promise.
It is a lie.
Rook shakes her head sharply, red crowding the corners of her vision mere moments after they stumble out of his trap.
She’d have thought Solas’ distraction would pull his attention from her completely. Or that with all her defiance to this point, he would have finally given up on her.
But the world tilts maroon until it blurs, and narrows to her feet, slowing to a stop under the god’s influence.
Not a god, she thinks furiously, willing her feet to keep moving forward.
In her mind, his whispers come like strokes of pleasure against her thoughts, her mana, her very life essence. It elicits a moan from the back of her throat, and she clamps her lips shut, refusing to give Elgar’nan the satisfaction of knowing his full effect on her.
It is to no avail.
“Ah.” The sound is so very soft, like a stroke to her cheek, and she can’t help but lean into the phantom sensation. “So sensitive.”
Another wisp of his magic gently brushes into her mind, and she whimpers, knees threatening to buckle.
Not a chance, she forces her own voice to be heard through his, but she sounds so far away from her own self. So, so far.
“It is only natural, da’len, to crave this.” The phantom touch trails its warmth from her cheek, down to her chin. Her head tilts back subconsciously, sunlight filling her gaze. “To crave me.”
The heat drifts across her mouth. She bites her lip, distantly tasting the sharp iron of blood as it drips from the broken skin.
It awakens something in her, drawing her present through the alluring waves of temptation.
“Come to me, little Crow,” he urges her again, and a plan sparks in the back of her mind at the name, and the reminder it serves. Crow. “I will take care of you.”
She feels lost, adrift. It is no different than she has always felt; but the touch of his mind promises to catch what remains of her, to put her back together again.
But—
Crow. The Crows, her Crows. They are the last stand, ever-vigilant. The knife in the shadows—
The knife.
Rook concentrates all her effort into one hand, allowing the rest of her body to fall lax under the ancient elf’s spell—all the while clinging to that forgotten feeling of home in the back of her mind. Her fingers spread, and reach, and she winces at the prick of her fingertip against the sharp edge of the blade at her hip.
Blood drips from her skin, the pain sharpening her senses to reality, to a lifetime of training.
A Crow fulfills their contract, a voice she knows so well echoes, from somewhere she cannot quite remember now.
“Garas lasa,” Elgar’nan calls for her, low and steady; a gentle beckoning through her thoughts, heat prickling her skin.
Rook’s attention narrows down to the drip of her blood. She focuses the trickle of her life force into her own surge of mana, gathering it in her hand, and gives one last push back—
She feels Elgar’nan’s sigh, sharp and irritated, before his whispers slip away again.
Rook gasps, her full senses rushing back to her again in an instant, the sheer force of clarity leaving her swaying dangerously.
She was really getting tired of his little games.
“Rook!” Bellara is already by her side, shoulder pressed under her arm to catch the brunt of her weight, even as the shorter elf grunts under the effort.
“You both alright?” Rook struggles to catch her breath through the question, blinking rapidly.
“We’re fine. Are you?” Neve’s fingers press gently to her chin and jaw, tilting her face up.
The touch reminds her of the tempting warmth from mere moments before, and Rook forces herself to focus on every hard and soft angle of the woman’s face. She lets the familiar sight of her friend ground her, even with the concern that lights up Neve’s eyes.
“Your pupils are dilated,” she murmurs, dark brows pinched together. “And your breathing is shallow. Can you take a deep breath for me?”
“Yes,” Rook affirms shakily, then inhales a long, steady breath of air deep into her lungs to prove it.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes.” She takes a step forward, then another, her arm slipping from Bellara’s shoulders as she shakes off the lingering allure of Elgar’nan’s magic. “I can fight,” she answers before Neve can start to ask that next.
“Rook—”
“I’m fine,” she interrupts sharply.
She really did not want to get into it. Not here. Not when at any moment, Elgar’nan could break through whatever blood magic she had cast to shield herself.
Creators, she had used blood magic.
“He had you under quite the spell, there.” Neve continues to check over her, even as Rook begins to march forward. “He’s really getting under your skin.”
“He’s—loud.” Rook rolls her shoulders back, steeling her resolve for the next time the ancient elven bastard came whispering. “It’s probably just an elf thing.”
She pauses at the long silence that follows, looking back from Neve’s skeptical gaze, to Bellara’s worried look.
“Bel?” She arches an eyebrow at the uncertainty on her friend’s face.
“I mean—” Bellara hesitates, fingers fidgeting as she sways in place. “I’m fine. Well, not fine—not with the God of Vengeance in my head, but—I just, I’m not…as bad as you?”
Rook blinks, and Bellara blinks back.
“I think?”
Rook sighs at the uncertain addition, shaking her head.
“We’ll worry about it later,” she assures. “Right now, the Dalish need us.”
Neve watches her a moment longer, then nods, hardening with a conviction that amazed Rook every time. “Let’s get moving.”
They fought their way through wave after wave of Venatori, covering each other’s back through every surge of attacks, habits of battle practiced and perfected through weeks spent together.
Rook catches her breath after she pulls a surge of lightning through the Fade with a slice of her daggers, the deadly energy crackling and arcing through the hooded enemies before her.
She glances over her shoulder as another group approaches, her groan quieting into a whimper when the edges of her vision slow down, bleeding red again.
And this time—with the Fade so thin already, and tattered further with her team’s combined efforts pulling at it—Solas just had to get his own say in.
Again.
The temptation to bark at them to get their ancient dick measuring contest over with already was strong, but wavered with every answer of Elgar’nan’s voice that resounded through her mind.
Solas’ voice is quieter each time, sharp angles of anger blurring in the background. She feels like she’s underwater, disoriented by the crash of waves from each petty jab back and forth, struggling to push through to the surface; even as Elgar’nan’s voice rings out clearly, a light in the dark, begging her to draw near it.
He overwhelms her mind, her very existence, in his immortal squabble with the Dread Wolf.
Enough.
“Shut up,” she manages to snap between gritted teeth, and experiences a moment of pure relief when they do.
Like all good things, it doesn’t last.
Her hair stands on the back of her neck, skin prickling the moment their attention shifts over to her.
“I would have this one,” Elgar’nan murmurs in his ongoing argument to Solas, and she can feel his conviction, intimately caressing the innermost corners of her mind.
“Creators,” Rook mutters under her breath, fingers trembling around her dagger before she tightens her grip.
She blindly follows the distant shout of Bellara’s voice as it gives her a direction to swing in, and years of torturous training guide the twist of her wrist to stab it into the abdomen of a Venatori. Lightning crackles along the blade and into the flesh, and she wrenches her dagger free, blood gushing at her feet as the body falls.
Elgar’nan’s chuckle reverberates inside her and pulls a moan from her throat, bringing her to one knee in the pool of blood. “See how she calls for me.” His voice alone is a temptation, the call of his magic only making it harder to focus. “How sweet she sounds, in her desperation.”
Rook grabs her staff to dig into the ground, pushing herself back up. “Shut up,” she hisses under her breath again, shaking her head aggressively. “I am not yours to have.”
She brings her staff high, and slams it down into the ground at her feet, sending the last group of Venatori flying.
Familiar wisps of ice magic tickle her skin as the blizzard converges onto the fallen Venatori, freezing them solid for the barrage of lightning arrows that Bellara calls down.
Rook sways again, catching herself on the edge of her staff. Neve is there in an instant, gently grabbing her elbow and urging her forward, while Bellara presses in on her other side.
But it is finally, blessedly quiet, and she slowly begins to hope again when every member of the Dalish clan is accounted for. Although she only allows herself a true breath of relief once each one makes it through the eluvian.
She waves her companions through before her, watching them disappear to safety. This victory is finally just out of her grasp, and she reaches forward, fingertips brushing against the wavering glass—
Scarlet stains the edges of reality.
Rook groans, anticipating the wave of magic before it begins to crash over her.
“Da’len,” Elgar’nan calls again, the enrapturing nature of his voice echoing through her mind, and she falters. “Garas lasa, da’len.”
Her head turns of its own accord, seeking that space in the center of the Temple of the Sun by instinct alone.
Venatori still linger there, every last one in the crowd brought to their knees. Towering over them is the last Archdemon alive, easily overwhelming the space.
But she sees him there, just before his dragon. Or rather, she knows he’s there; she can sense his gaze fixed to her from that unbreachable distance, casting her into the light of a thousand suns; she can feel the intoxicating tug on the other end of the magic that reaches for her still.
“Yes,” he draws out the whisper, sending a shiver through her with his anticipation. “I see you. I feel you.”
That pleasing warmth slips across her jaw, and up. It encompasses her cheek, cradling her face, riveting her gaze to where he waits in the distance.
Where he waits for her.
“Come to me.”
His magic relaxes, letting her breathe. She sucks in a deep breath, ready to flee; but he remains, waiting, on the edges of her mind.
He does not encompass her this time. His thoughts do not seek to consume her, to erase and rebuild her.
What she feels now is patience. An offered hand, beckoning her closer.
Rook would be too ashamed to ever admit that she lingered.
It lasted only a second—to her credit that she’d never allow herself—before her feet staggered backwards. Before throwing herself through the eluvian, with the lingering heat of the gaze at her back when it turns to him.
Her own hesitation would haunt her for the rest of her time.
In more ways than one.
Rook paces in front of the luminescent light of the aquarium wall, repeating her path until her leg muscles begin to scream in protest, and her thoughts begin to blur together.
With a heavy sigh, she collapses back onto the chaise lounge. Her hand lifts into her view, and she stares at the finger she had pricked in order to protect herself from Elgar’nan—healed now, but plagued with an incessant throbbing.
The sensation had not eased since crossing through the Eluvian into one of the Dread Wolf’s old hideouts, persisting through taking care of the Dalish. It lingered through the journey back to the Lighthouse, and now, in the quiet of her private quarters, it felt…louder.
Rook frowns. It wasn’t painful, per se, just…persistent.
She shakes her hand out, then drops it back to her side, staring up at the ceiling and wondering just where her life had gone.
Elgar’nan.
The first god of the ancestors of her own people. Victor over the Sun itself, embodiment of vengeance.
He had reached through her mind, and seen her. Felt her. He’d known her pain, and promised to ease it.
Once, wouldn’t that have been all she wanted?
Rook frowns, flipping onto her side. She glares at Solas’ stupid fish, swimming through their glowing water, happily unaware of how fucked the world at large was.
She shakes her head, trying to push any thought of ancient elven gods from her mind.
But each time her eyes drift shut, echoes of warmth linger. She shifts restlessly every time, eyes snapping open to confirm there was no red in her vision.
It’s the Lighthouse, she tells herself when there wasn’t any. I’m safe here. Only one god can pester me, and he’s a pain in the ass, but not dangerous.
Well. Not as dangerous, trapped as he is.
Try as she might to forget what ails her, she is helpless to remember.
Elgar’nan’s voice was…soothing. The words he wove through her mind were comforting, and his magic—
Rook shivers, and groans in frustration, flopping onto her back.
To be known so intimately was one thing entirely. But for it to have felt…welcome…
Stop. She shakes her head sharply, not allowing herself to venture down that dangerous road.
It was part of his magic, some sort of charm to persuade her.
But why hadn’t Bellara felt the same?
Why hadn’t any of them?
Rook huffs out a sigh, lifting her arm to cover her eyes.
She’d just have to learn how to resist it better. Maybe she’d ask Solas, but the thought of divulging to him just how deeply Elgar’nan’s magic had affected her makes her wince.
Not like she had much longer to agonize it. She could feel her eyes growing heavy, and eventually, she stopped fighting them open to check for more red, succumbing to darkness instead.
Rook’s sleeping mind stirs, and she groans, blinking her eyes open in the dream. She waits for the bleary grayscale to overtake her vision, for Solas’ endless chatter of purpose and rebellion and whatever else he was stewing over to chime in any minute now.
Instead, golden light nearly blinds her, forcing her eyes shut again.
Her retinas feel fried, pain radiating through her head as she holds it between her hands. She rolls over from her back, forehead pressed to the ground as she reels from the staggering purity of the light.
Rook forces in one deep breath, then out again. Then again, and again, until she’s coherent enough to remind herself it wasn’t real.
Slowly, she opens her eyes again, blinking rapidly as she takes in the dream.
Opulence overwhelms her, gold shining as far as the eye can see. Foliage shaped from the precious metal curve over elaborately carved archways, priceless crystals embedded into their dense leaves. Beyond one archway, the sparkling water of a fountain flows backwards, and up into a maroon sky.
Music echoes from somewhere in the distance; familiar in tune, somehow, until it's soaring into a crescendo. Different melodies intertwine into one, and remain as many; a chorus of songs forming one symphony, the likes of which she’s never heard.
She stands slowly, and turns, taking in the vast room she was in the center of. Mosaics that make up the walls around her stretch higher than she can comprehend. Their pieces glitter in the glaring sunlight, and she squints against the fragments of unknown colors, lifting her hand to shield her gaze.
She slowly comes to recognize the same figure depicted in every image; tall, powerful, demanding.
Rook feels her stomach swoop low, and her heart drops.
“What—”
“Ah.”
She freezes at the familiarity of the voice that rings out all around her, breath catching in her throat.
No, she thinks. That’s impossible.
Rook’s gaze is drawn up, up, until her neck cranes back to witness the dais high above her. Towering over the edge is the same, strong figure, lounging on the extravagant, sunlit throne.
Elgar’nan, Sun-Tamer, First of the Firstborn and ruler of Arlathan, looks down upon her, and smiles.