Chapter Text
It would have been entirely safe to say that Rook was avoiding Emmrich. It was nothing at all to do with Emmrich himself; gods knew that Rook was absolutely arse over tea-kettle in love with the man. It had everything to do with Rook, or rather, a new, quite irritating problem that had emerged.
The party had returned from an excursion to Arlathan, dealing with a nest of Darkspawn that had sprung up threateningly close to the Veil Jumpers’ main camp. The assault on the nest had been largely successful. Bellara and Davrin had executed a beautiful joint attack on the ogre at the centre of the horde, lighting the fucker up in a hail of Fade-enriched arrow bolts, Assan's fiery dive-bombing and Davrin’s flaming sword. It had been the spectacular light show that had inevitably blinded Rook, allowing for a shrieking Hurlock Alpha to slam its rotting fist into the left side of Rook’s face.
Bellara, Davrin, Assan, and Rook emerged triumphant with minor scrapes, and with Rook sporting an impressive, shining purple bruise on his cheek as the only evidence of his mistake.
At first, everything had seemed fine. Sure, Rook’s jaw had let out a worrying crack and his ears had rang like a chorus of Chantry bells, but after downing a vial of Elfroot, the sudden pain had dissipated, and Rook had been able to cut through the swathes of Darkspawn with ease afterwards.
Upon returning, Rook had been suitably fussed over by Emmrich; the older man’s lithe hands had fluttered over the swollen flesh of Rook’s jaw, infusing a cooling wash of brilliant green magic into the skin, soothing it and easing away the last of the lingering aching. After a quick debrief in the library, Rook had shuffled off to the newly appeared bathing chamber and then promptly passed out, sprawled inelegantly across the chaise in his room.
He had bolted awake, gasping, several hours later, the imprint of his pillow etched into his cheek and a deep throbbing radiating through the entire left side of his upper jaw, blood rushing in his pointed ears, which burned hot to the touch. Rook whined in distress, cupping a sweaty palm against his cheek, which had swollen impossibly larger and seemed to have its own heartbeat. A quick swipe of his tongue over his upper left row of molars, accompanied by a poorly muffled yell as pain sparked and fired through his face, Rook managed to discover a large crack running through the dead centre of his upper left molar. Blood coated his tongue, tears welled in his eyes, distorting his vision and turning the strange fish swimming behind the Fade barrier into monstrous darting figures.
Rook breathed, feeling his ribs creak as his lungs expanded. He uncorked a vial of Elfroot, downing the potion with speed that would have impressed even the heaviest drinkers in Treviso’s many taverns.
The pain ebbed away, lulling into a dull, simmering ache. This was fine. He had dealt with worse before. His mind flashed to a childhood running around the streets of Treviso before Viago found him, fevered and delirious, stomach bloated with infection from a burst appendix. That had been agony. This cracked tooth was nothing. He could deal with this.
That was three days ago.
The Lighthouse never slept. And for the past few days, neither had Rook. Instead, he haunted the hallways, utilising every piece of his Crow training to slip through the shadows. Thankfully, the library of the Lighthouse was rarely occupied at night; the resident insomniacs, Neve and Lucanis, preferred to sequester themselves in their own quarters. Or more recently, Neve’s office, the two of them sharing cups of coffee as the shifting aurora of the Lighthouse sky turned from stormy grey to shimmering blue and purple in a mesmerising imitation of the Thedas sky.
He’d learned to time his days around the others. Davrin rose early; Bellara stayed up late; Emmrich, damn him, appeared precisely when Rook least wanted to see him. Neve and Lucanis seemed to never sleep, perhaps unsurprisingly Harding kept the best sleep schedule out of all of them. Varric slept a lot these days, remaining in the infirmary, drinking down potion after potion to manage the lyrium exposure and the pain from the dagger, he only emerged for the more important debriefs. Rook had been meaning to talk to him, to ask Varric why Emmrich or Davrin hadn't been properly tending to Varric's wounds the way they treated everyone else's, but then Rook's face had been introduced to a Hurlock's fist. Heartbreakingly, Rook had even began to avoid Manfred and Assan, the little griffon cub was far too excitable for Rook in his current exhausted state and whatever Manfred saw, Emmrich saw, and that was not acceptable.
So Rook began a campaign of tactical retreat: breakfast at odd hours, errands only through side corridors that mysteriously seemed to appear whenever he needed them, often with the chiming arrival of The Caretaker, long absences to go and “check for messages” or “mediate to try and get more answers out of Solas”. So far, his attempts had been successful.
Rook paced around the empty library, desperately trying to force his mind to focus on the freezing cold stone leeching heat from his bare feet rather than the skull-splitting agony lancing through his left cheek. The purple Veilfire illuminating the space flickered, almost thrumming against the walls, in slow pulsing patterns that eerily echoed the throbbing of the pain in Rook’s jaw. He tried to convince himself that it was merely a coincidence, but unease settled low in his churning stomach. The more the pain throbbed, the more the Lighthouse seemed to echo it back to him.
Rook could almost hear the smug chiding of Solas in his head, mocking him for hiding this affliction out of a childish fear.
That’s what it was, at the end of the day. Fear left over from childhood, watching the poor line up outside the doors of the barber-surgeon, hearing the shrieking of the drill, drowned out by the wailing of the patients who had no other choice.
The lesser fear, the one that didn’t cause a cold hand to grip and twist inside his chest, was one Rook was familiar with. The fear of Emmrich seeing all the broken and fragmented pieces of him, the ones he tried to hide.
Rook wasn’t an idiot. He knew that Emmrich was at the very least aware of certain aspects of his past: the orphaned elven child, born into the wrong body, abandoned on the streets of Treviso, and then forged by fire into a blade for the Antivan Crows. Still, Rook was proud of the front he had cobbled together, the unshakeable leader of The Veilguard, stalwart in his dedication to the defence of Thedas against Elgar’nan and Ghilian’nain. All of it hiding his insidiously deep-rooted insecurity, the second-guessing of his decisions, the guilt, good gods, the guilt was crashing.
Rook’s breath stuttered in his chest; his desperate gasps for air echoed around the library, bouncing off the Fade-touched marble. He caught his reflection in the glass door of a cabinet filled with oddities. The deep purple bruising had faded over the last day or so, now leaving behind a black and yellow stain that spread in delicate filigree patterns, following his veins, over his cheek and jaw. Rook’s reflection blinked half a second slower than he did. Rook’s stomach turned, and he averted his eyes, half-collapsing into the worn, yet still suitably squashy, armchair he had claimed as his own. Rook dragged a hand down his face, avoiding the swollen flesh of his cheek, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The air behind Rook shifted; it became heavier, almost comforting, accompanied by a pulse of magic and the faint scent of lavender.
Emmrich.
Rook froze, then shot up out of his seat, meaning to slip away into the shadows before Emmrich reached the bottom of the stairs. He stood too quickly. Blood rushed to his head, pounding in his ears like distant drums. Rook’s hand shot out, meaning to stabilise himself on the wonky side-table beside him, but he overshot, his hand slapped down onto the edge of a silvered tray, laden with a copper kettle and several slightly dented metal cups which clattered to the floor in a spectacular explosion of sound. Pain ricocheted through Rook’s jaw, and his knees buckled; a muffled groan escaped through tightly clenched teeth. Rook drew in a ragged gasp, his vision swimming with tears, and then suddenly he was looking up at the concerned face of Emmrich, the necromancer’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist, holding him upright.
“Rook, darling.” Emmrich murmured softly, fretfully, burning guilt rose in the back of Rook’s throat. Emmrich’s gentle hands fluttered over Rook’s side. The warmth of Emmrich’s skin seeped through the soft purple silk of Rook’s nightshirt, even through the deep maroon leather gloves that always adorned the older man’s hands.
“Hi,” Rook breathed sheepishly, wincing at how even just the act of pushing air through his vocal chords and out of his mouth caused a wall of fire to race across his upper jaw. Emmrich frowned, Rook’s stomach rolled again.
“Sit back down, darling.” Emmrich coaxed, still so fucking gentle even when by all rights he should have been angry at Rook - it would have been safer if he was angry, Rook could deal with angry.
Exhausted and in no real position to argue, Rook sat, deflating back into the plush velvet of his armchair; his eyes leaden.
“You’re not supposed to sneak up on people, y’know,” Rook reached for his usual humour as a defence mechanism, “One might think you were up to something.” He tried to tease. A faint smile flickered across Emmrich’s lips before it vanished.
“Perhaps I wouldn’t have had to resort to sneaking if you hadn’t been so dead set on avoiding me. Have I done something to offend you, dearest?” Insecurity laced Emmrich’s voice, and Rook felt a wounded noise slip from his lips before he could stop it.
“No,” Rook half-yelped, “No, no, of course not.” His trembling hands reached up to cradle Emmrich’s lined face, staring into the man’s rich hazel eyes. “It’s-” Rook’s voice died in his throat. “It’s so stupid.” He whispered, breaking away from the intense eye contact with Emmrich and dropping his hands to rest limply in his lap.
Emmrich didn’t speak, but the mage’s hand lifted and brushed carefully against Rook’s swollen cheek. Cool healing magic settled into the fever-flushed skin, giving Rook the first bit of relief he’d had in days. Emmrich’s other hand carefully cradled Rook’s uninjured cheek, his thumb stroking over the sharp jut of Rook’s cheekbone, brushing away errant tears.
“You’ve been carrying this pain for days,” Emmrich stated softly. Rook’s shoulders rose and fell in a half-hearted shrug, and a sharp bark of laughter escaped him.
“Couldn’t exactly add ‘inconvenient dental emergency’ to our list of worries.” Rook joked weakly, certain that the charming effect of his typical roguish grin was entirely dampened by the unnattractive bulge of his engorged upper jaw.
Emmrich’s face softened, and Rook had to look away from the sheer warmth radiating from Emmrich’s unnervingly kind eyes.
“Rook, darling, you’re shaking,” Emmrich muttered.
“Am I?” Rook shot back reflexively, “Maybe the Lighthouse is just vibrating more than usual.”
Emmrich blinked, unimpressed. “You know full well that Bellara and I have spent countless hours stabilising the Lighthouse’s resonance so that it no longer vibrates.” Rook knew he didn’t mean anything by it; it was simply a firm rebuttal against his deflection attempts, but the tiny inflection of disappointment in Emmrich’s voice made Rook’s breathing hitch, his eyes burning with new tears.
“Sorry,” Rook whispered, biting harshly on his lower lip to stop the trembling.
“It’s alright,” Emmrich soothed, “But Rook, you cannot let this fester.”
“It’s okay, I’ve had worse.”
Emmrich closed his eyes, his expression pained, but Rook knew it was not aimed at him directly; instead, it was a reaction to the fact that at some point in his life, Rook had been hurt, and Emmrich was upset by this. Rook didn’t quite know what to do with this information.
“I know.” Emmrich's words seemed final but seeped in regret. “But that was not the point of my statement, Rook.” Emmrich's tone was still steady and even, but even Rook could hear the worry in Emmrich’s soft voice. And it broke something within him.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this. I wanted you to see the parts that work, that are good, not this.” The words tumbled from Rook’s mouth, accompanied by a short burst of hysterical laughter. Emmrich still hadn’t taken his hand away from where it cradled Rook’s face, like he was something worth being held, like he was something precious.
“Rook,” Emmrich’s voice was low, pleading.
“I just didn’t want to disappoint you, didn’t want you to be angry with me.” Rook’s breathing had become shallow once more; each inhale rattled in his chest, and a tight, squeezing sensation suddenly gripped his lungs like a vice. Gods, he sounded pathetic.
“Rook, breathe, darling.” Emmrich’s voice cut through his panic, the warmth of his hand that still hadn’t left his face. Rook attempted to obey, drawing in a deep, wheezing breath. “That’s it, good boy.” Emmrich crooned softly. A bolt of heat settled between Rook’s thighs, an almost conditioned response at this point, and he swallowed down a reflexive moan.
“I should be,” Emmrich said mildly, expanding further at Rook’s curious noise. “I should be angry at you; it was reckless and irresponsible of you to leave yourself in agony for so long, even the Lighthouse was responding to your pain.”
“M’sorry,” Rook tried to apologise.
“However, I am not angry, I understand your motivations, I knew them even before you explained them. And Rook, I want to help you.”
Rook blinked at Emmrich, floored by the utter care and devotion in the necromancer’s gaze.
“Will you let me, Rook?” Emmrich urged, shifting forward and bending to touch his cool forehead to Rook’s brow, warmed with fever.
“Yes,” Rook whispered, the word passing through his lips with ease and wrapped in devotion like a prayer.
“Thank you,” Emmrich replied, his voice just as soft. He rose to his full height, his hand finally dropping from Rook’s cheek, but not before Emmrich pressed a gentle kiss to Rook’s sweaty forehead. Emmrich held out a gloved hand, waiting. “Follow me, darling.”
On coltish legs that trembled underneath him, Rook stood and grasped Emmrich’s proffered hand, squeezing it tight. Emmrich merely smiled down at the small elf beside him before leading Rook up the stairs, towards Emmrich’s chambers. Dread pooled in Rook’s belly, but it was buoyed by the knowledge that Emmrich was going to help him, and he wouldn’t be in pain for much longer.