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The silence of the eluvian room was more deafening than all the cacophony of Weisshaupt put together.
As Rook's eyes adjusted to the cool dim of the room, she swayed on her feet. Just once. Duty sung hot in her blood, and she pulled up the mask of calm. Each of her team were in varying degrees of battered-but-alive, at least. Davrin looked as haunted as she felt. Lucanis looked as empty as she wished she was.
All of them needed something solid to lean against.
"We'll debrief later." The words felt like ash in her mouth, her own voice foreign on her tongue. She had hoped to convey an ounce of her usual even-keeled bravado, but the hollowness threatening to seize her by the throat stripped all of the emotion out of her. It was evident in her tone. No one dared to call her out on it, though.
The silence that followed was thick, viscous in the way it settled around her shoulders. It clung to the inside of her chest like smoke.
Rook's feet moved nearly of their accord in the way they piloted her out of the room, through the rotunda, and back into the solitude of the meditation chamber. Her flank ached, and she knew that half of the blood spattering her Warden blues actually belonged to her. Each step scuffed with more and more effort, until finally she collapsed down on the velveteen cushion of the chaise in a heap of grief and rot.
It wasn't her fault. Maker she almost wished it was, though. The self-loathing would make it easier to compartmentalize. That was what she was telling herself, at least.
The sound of the rallying horn echoed bright and clear through her mind, each shriek and scream of the Archdemon caught on a feedback loop that she couldn't turn off. The pull in her blood had been so strong, a headiness in the Blight the likes of which she had never felt before.
She was out of her depth.
The thought hit like a blow to the gut, slicing cleanly through the muddied emotions that she was simmering in. Varric might believe their little group to be capable of the impossible, but in the face of just one of the elven gods, the place that had been her home had been reduced to smouldering ash.
Weisshaupt—the bastion of the Wardens—impenetrable, impervious to the tides of Darkspawn that had always been repelled from its walls. What had taken place there wasn't a battle—it was massacre.
Grief welled up within her chest at that again, and she choked back a sob before it could escape. That she had only been able to spare one city of two to desolation with the dragons, only to lose her own home as well? It was too cruel a fate to comprehend right now. Killing Ghilan'nain's archdemon had been a good victory, but the loss cracked open something deep in her chest that felt like it was leaking rot.
Rook smoothed her gloved hands over her face and back through her hair, smearing a clot of ichor as she did so. Blighted blood was drying tacky on her armor, weeping into the jagged wound at her side. She needed a bath. Even a shower would do—anything to shut off the tidal wave of grief before it seized her whole. She would gladly hold the numbness to her heart if it meant she could just get through the fallout.
She just needed to hold off long enough to ensure everyone was taken care of before she could be allowed to break.
Her mind wandered to the familiar lines of shower stalls Weisshaupt had maintained, and again a pool of loss opened in her chest. It was all she could do just to not drown. Every step forward only served to remind her of the home she could not return to.
Time—or the perception of it—passed differently in the meditation chamber. When Rook finally tamped down the seepage of emotion enough to school her face into a cautious neutral, she couldn't say how long had actually elapsed. No one had come knocking at her door just yet, at least. That was something.
Her body protested through stiff joints and aching muscles as she pulled herself back upright, grimacing at the lance of pain through her side when she did so. There was a slick of congealing blood on the surface of the cushion. She didn't pay it any mind, only forced her body back to standing. Tacky ichor stuck to the shaved sides of her head, and when she yanked the tie out of her hair, something wet she couldn't name fell to the floor with a splat.
Fucking Darkspawn.
Once she was upright, she grabbed a towel and a clean sleeping tunic. From her corner table, she collected her medical kit, and then slowly made her way down to the bathing chamber she prayed was empty. With any luck, the rest of the team had already cleaned up, and she could buy a bit more silence for herself. The thought of being exposed while washing up wasn't the problem—it was the conversation that could follow, the pitying glances and condolences that made her teeth clench just thinking about them.
This wasn't her fault, but she was beginning to wish that it was. Would it be easier to process that way, if it had simply been a failing on her part, and not the futile struggle they were waging against the Evanuris? She didn't have an answer for that.
Rook's palm pressed against the door, and when it swung open, she sagged in relief. There were signs that the others had been through already, but no one was in sight.
Mechanically, she began stripping out of her armor, dropping it where it happened to come loose from her. Each belt and buckle was found through muscle memory alone, and the sound of leather straps sliding against each other was the only sound in the room. Her half-plate chest hit the tile floor with a resounding clang, but Rook couldn't even muster the willpower to cringe at the volume of the noise.
The bath looked more than inviting—steam curled lazily from the water, and a thin sheen of scented oil shimmered on the surface. Rook passed it by in favor of the spartan shower stalls at the other end of the room. Marinating in her misery was the last thing she needed to do right now.
The likelihood of the Lighthouse having pulled these out of her and Davrin's memory was fairly high, in retrospect, but the endless hot water was a new touch. Each of them had a small bench, and a dry hook for clothing. The walls were just short enough to see who was coming and going—depending on who's bad side you'd landed on, it was a necessity in the barracks that had manifested even here.
Rook picked the second one down, carefully unrolling her med kit on the dry area of the bench. She picked out the jar of wound scrub, a pair of hemostats, and the suture kit. After a half moment of blindly slapping at the knob, the water kicked on at perfect temperature—of course it fucking did—quickly going from clear to red as it ran off of her bruised body and down the drain.
She was so busy peeling out of the last layer of her clothing to reveal the ragged wound below her ribs, that Rook didn't hear the door open again on the other end of the room. A low curse and hiss escaped her lungs as a fresh wave of clotted blood oozed out, running down her body in a viscous stream with the rest of the rot and grime. Bruises marked her chest and thighs in black and Warden blue, a vicious painting across her skin that would remind her of this pain for weeks.
As she ducked under the spray to clean her face of the spattering of blight there, the sound of someone clearing their throat nearly caught her off guard.
"Sorry," she said, slicking her hair back from her face to see who had arrived, "I'll be out of here soon—"
Lucanis was halfway across the room from her, similarly peeling himself out of his armor as she had. He looked like a deer caught in a floodlight when their eyes met.
"Apologies, I can—"
"It's fine," she rushed out, breaking the eye contact to reach for something the scrub the dried gore and grime off of the rest of her. "I'm used to licking my wounds with other Wardens around."
It was meant as a joke, but the memory hit her fast and hot, lancing a fresh wave of grief through her again. Rook swallowed thickly, slowing the way she carded her fingers through her hair into something that would help settle her mind. She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes again, lest he see the way the loss threatened to choke her.
The simmering attraction she felt for their mage-killer wasn't foreign to her—she had stuffed it down enough times already, citing duty again and again. Even with the friendship they had cultivated, Rook refused to cry in front of him. She refused to cry in front of anyone, really.
Lucanis was silent in response. There was a brief moment where she wondered if he had just left. Then, the sound of leather sliding through a metal buckle broke through the spray of water droning down her back, and her shoulders sagged in quiet relief. From sound alone, she gathered he was not leaving his gear in such a haphazard pile as she had, though.
As much as she wished to be left alone to stew in her emotions, his quiet company was welcome.
He left an empty stall between them, a chivalrous sort of courtesy that was not lost on her. As Rook slowly continued working her citrus soap through her hair, she listened to the sound of water kick on. She let her eyes drift closed, allowing her mind to numb in the drum of the faucet against her. In her periphery, she noted the sharp throb of the wound that still needed tending. Most of the blight and clotted blood had been rinsed loose, and although it was open now, it was barely bleeding.
Against her better judgement, she let her gaze wander over to where Lucanis was busy rinsing his hair, following the rivulets of water that streaked down his back and shoulders before disappearing below the wall of the shower he occupied. Rook's throat went dry when he moved, muscle shifting beneath scar-marked skin in such a tantalizing way that she nearly forgot she was injured at all.
She tore her gaze from him, and slicked the water out of her hair. With an aggressive slap to the faucet, she shut the shower off, and drew a ragged, shuddering breath.
What she could not see was the way Lucanis' eyes raked over her in turn, taking in her lean sinew and inked skin with a tamped-down hunger that he would not let himself sate.
The towel she had brought was warm around her, and for a few minutes she simply sat on the little bench with her head tilted back against the wall. Maker, she was so fucking tired. The entire ordeal had been a test of her physical stamina, and the emotional fallout had sapped the little reserve she had left.
After allowing herself a moment to settle, Rook went about sliding into the clean pair of smalls and linen tunic she'd brought along. With a long-practiced motion, she tucked the tunic's material up enough to reveal the jagged wound in her flank. She drew a defeated sort of sigh.
"Is everything alright?" Lucanis' voice stirred her back to present, concern evident in his tone. Rook elbowed the door open a bit, an invitation for him to poke his head in if he desired.
When he did—after a moment's hesitation—Rook let her eyes trail over his damp hair as it clung to the nape of his neck. A bead of water disappeared past the collar of his shirt, and she ached to chase it herself. There was a waft of his soap that met her nose. Rook's tongue darted out against her lower lip without thinking.
"Nothing I can't handle." Her answer was careful, and she gestured to the medical kit beside her. She didn't miss the way that his eyes raked over the bare skin of her thigh before settling on the wound in her side.
"Rook," he chastised, aghast, "Mierda, you should have said something." Lucanis swept in to the space, dropping down to his knees beside her. His eyes were full of worry, and his fingers twitched before he reached for the sutures himself.
"I can—"
"Please let me."
Rook yielded when his hand closed around hers, her eyes dropping to look at the way his thumb rubbed the back of her hand. It was such a small gesture, but it made her stomach flip all the same.
They fell into silence as she bared her flank a little further, trying to do anything but watch the way his hands touched her skin like she was made of the divine. His fingertips scorched deeper than the bite of the needle as he worked meticulously to begin to bring the wound back together.
It was easy to be lulled to numbness with the repetitive motion, and Rook's eyes drifted closed. She steadied her breathing, determined to close out the grief, and regain her usual composure. With him this close, the tobacco and vetiver notes of his soap filled her nose, and she sighed softly.
"It was not your fault," Lucanis said softly after a few minutes, his eyes still focused on his task, "What happened."
Rook huffed a weak sort of laugh, and winced at the way it tugged at the stitches he was neatly laying into her side. "Maybe it would have been better to die."
The words came out of their own accord, a deep sort of poison she tried to keep bound settling like a lead weight between them. Lucanis stilled, his fingers hovering just above her skin. His tongue flit out to lick his lip as he contemplated what to say.
"You don't mean that."
"No," she said at length, "I don't."
After a moment longer, he returned to the careful pull and tug of the needle, brow furrowed in concentration. "Spite says he would miss you."
That got a more genuine chuckle out of her. Rook relaxed some as he snipped the last bit of thread, fingers lingering a touch too long before he pulled back to inspect his work. Her eyes, half lidded, caught his gaze. A surge of boldness lanced through her.
"And you?"
Lucanis hesitated, uncertainty flickering through his features. Slowly, he dropped his hand until his palm smoothed over the damp skin of her thigh. His thumb traced an arc of ink.
"I think you know."
"I'd like to hear you say it."
It was a challenge, and a push that Rook almost regretted making. The grief that had knotted itself into her chest had jagged edges, as if making more hurt for herself might lessen the blow she'd already suffered today.
Silence stretched long, and tense. She tore her gaze away from him, and swallowed thickly. Clearly she'd overstepped their unspoken boundary, and a prickling of regret caught in her throat.
"I have suffered more than enough imagining what that loss would feel like," Lucanis said at last, speaking slowly. "To say I would simply miss your presence fails to show the depth of what I would endure."
Oh, she could kiss him for that. Rook wanted to, certainly. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth just once—when she looked back up, he met her gaze. The touch of his palm against her leg still lingered, scorching hot.
"I—" She dropped her eyes to her lap, and closed her hand around his with a solid squeeze. "Thank you, Lucanis."
He turned his hand to lace their fingers together, and returned the squeeze. After a moment, he lifted it to his lips, and pressed a soft kiss against the back of her hand. Lucanis' eyes fluttered half shut, and Rook felt like the earth slid out from under her at the gentle puff of his breath over her skin.
"Your help with the dragon saved my city a similar fate." His voice was quiet when he spoke. "My blade is yours for as long as you need it. It will not bring back your home, but…"
The offering of his blade felt more like a quiet declaration of love than anything else. Feeling bolder, Rook reached with her free hand to tuck a stray, damp lock of his hair behind his ear. He very nearly melted against the touch.
Such a soft-hearted killer.
As she resigned herself to stand, she leaned in to ghost a chaste kiss against his cheek. He froze for only a breath, and then pulled himself back up to his full height beside her. After a moment, he cleared his throat, and ran his fingers haphazardly through his hair, pointedly avoiding her eyes.
"I should get back to the kitchen," he said, slowly picking through each word as if he were calculating what, exactly, he should say. "Come down when you are ready. I'll make you something to eat."
"Alright," she said softly, "I suppose I need to go play leader again, anyway." Truthfully, she had wallowed more than long enough, and the guilt of duty tugged hard at her even now.
When she stepped past him, the tile was cool against her feet. Although she felt slightly more composed, grief still lingered heavily in her bones. Rook suspected that she would be carrying this with her long after the job was done and seen through.
"Rook—" Lucanis' voice drew her back. He was still standing in the doorway of the shower, hands slowly clenching and unclenching at his sides. "What I said—I meant it. Whatever you need of me." His expression was unreadable to her, carefully guarded in that way of his that revealed nothing. The tone of his voice, however, was soft around the edges in a way that he only ever offered to her when they were alone.
It would be so easy to step back in to the shower, and close the door behind her so they could both sate the yawning pit they were each carrying within themselves. Rook was almost certain Lucanis would let her—that he'd melt under her hands until there was no telling where one of them ended, and the other began. He might even let her suck a bruise into his collarbone—to match the one she was sporting from a hurlock—to claim, and be claimed, to pour lamp oil over the slowly kindling flame between them until it was a roaring wildfire.
That wouldn't be fair—to either of them.
The thought was nice as a distraction, though.
Rook drew a slow, steadying breath through her nose. "I'll come find you. I need to sharpen my knives, and…the company would be nice."
A faint smile lit at the corner of his mouth that did not quite reach his eyes.
Later, in the warm glow of the kitchen's hearth fire, she would learn the depth of how he truly carried his failure.
I don't fail my contracts.
Well, I'd rather you made it back. Alive. You're more than just the contract to me, Lucanis.
I thought I still had this. Whatever else I am—
Next time, we'll be ready. This won't be our only shot.
I was distracted. It won't happen again.
Rook could feel his bitterness seep from every word. Even the steady stroke of her blade against the whetstone could not ease the bruise blooming within her rib cage.