Chapter Text
“Lucanis, you’ve been with us for a while now. Long enough to get your bearings,” Rook starts, his tone light. “How many ways have you thought up to kill me? Aside from the obvious one.”
The Crow shifts his focus away from the crowds passing by in the streets. They’d ducked into a side alley to wait while Neve met her informant inside the storage building. The meeting is dragging on longer than expected, but muffled snippets of the detective’s voice drift out from a high window, assuring them she’s fine. It's Lucanis who isn't happy. The three of them out in the open for so long—stationary, vulnerable, and with attention waning from boredom—is a lapse in discipline that grates against his instincts. He feels twitchy.
“Why would Lucanis want to kill you?” Harding balks, scandalized by the question.
“Well, I don’t think he wants to, but he’s a professional mage-killer, and…” Rook gestures at himself with a flourish of the wrist. “I assume being prepared to kill every mage he meets just comes with the territory.”
“He’s here to help us kill the Evanuris.”
“Actually, I’ve worked out five plots to assassinate Rook, if it comes to that,” Lucanis interjects, putting a gentle emphasis on the quantifier. It’s a ghost of a threat, but Rook brightens as though the Crow had paid him a compliment. “However, I wouldn’t rely on any of them over the ‘obvious way’. Over-complicated murder plots tend to go wrong. I like my odds in a direct fight.”
Rook sits up on the crate he’d claimed for a seat, enthralled by the morbid subject of his own murder.
“If I can guess how you’d do it, will you tell me?” he asks.
Lucanis considers it with wry amusement, then shrugs a shoulder.
“Sure.” If his target can anticipate his approach, the approach is flawed anyway.
“First guess: you’d poison my tea.”
A skeptical Harding chortles. “Seriously? Cliche, isn’t it?”
“It’s perfect!” Rook insists. “He lives in the pantry. No one would ever see him do it.”
Lucanis shakes his head.
“I live in the pantry. Everyone will assume I did it.” He folds his arms and returns to his vigil of the street. “Besides, the tea sits out on the shelf. The law of these things says that once I’d laced it with poison, that would be the day Harding or Bellara would decide to have a cup. The wrong person dies, the intended target is on alert, and my job becomes much harder.”
“That’s unsettling,” Harding mutters, eyeing Lucanis with suspicion, “the way you’ve calculated our deaths as collateral damage.”
Lucanis gingerly lets the comment pass. Harding just acquainted him with the explosive arrow in her quiver, and there’s no need to validate that purchase in her mind.
“All right,” Rook says, undeterred. “But I’m hearing that you have considered poison. You’d just need more direct delivery. Wouldn’t be difficult to slip something in my food, seeing as you’ve claimed the role of company chef.” He’s disappointed. Clearly, it’s not the ingenious, personalized assassination scheme he was hoping for.
“Poisoning you is tricky,” Lucanis explains. “My target’s associates rarely know who I am or where I live. If you die suspiciously, our allies will piece things together and retaliate. I could return to Treviso and the safety of the Crows, but then we risk a guild war with your fellow Watchers, the Wardens, the Shadows, whoever else you’re tied to. I don’t drag trouble home with me. That’s an amateur’s mistake.” His eye catches on a man across the way with one hand tucked into his robes. It only lasts a moment before the man meanders towards a market stall, but Dellamorte keeps an eye on him. “Besides, there’s always the chance you could counteract a poison or have some resistance. I don’t know much about mortalitasi training, but I’ve seen you handle flesh rot and toxins enough that I wouldn’t risk it.”
“So, no operating plot that hinges on poisoning my food?”
“Your food? No.”
“Don’t encourage this,” Harding pleads with Lucans, sounding like the worn-out parent of an impish child. However, Rook pays it no mind, already pondering his next guess.
“Poison, but not in the food…”
He feels it in every scrap they get into: the torrent of energy, the mercurial currents manipulated at will by an unseen force. Lacking any innate feel for magic, Lucanis learned to rely on his other senses to interpret the formation of mana into its many dangerous iterations. He can feel the airy charge on his exposed skin that preceded a bolt of lightning. A tingle in his nostrils, like stepping out into a chilly morning, comes the moment before an entire room flash-freezes. And, of course, the itch behind his eyes signals when mages (as they so often did in his company) resort to that forbidden magic of blood. He knows them all well, and each triggers specific muscle memory reactions to deal with whatever is coming. It’s a honed skill, one necessary to do the work he does.
Fighting alongside mages proves to be a challenge for two reasons. First, because Lucanis has inextricably linked “magic” with “threat” in his mind, and he cannot perceive a difference between a hostile or an allied spell being readied. More than once, he’s failed to press an advantage after retreating from a friendly spell meant to help him land a killing blow.
Second, because if he stands anywhere near the man, all he can feel is Rook.
It’s oppressive. Every battle is Rook unleashing the full force of the Fade, flooding the area with raw magic, only to twist it into a toxic haze that snuffs out life with a snap of his fingers. When that isn’t enough, he summons spirits to raise fallen enemies, turning them into horrors that attack their former comrades. But the worst is when he encases Lucanis in a protective barrier, shielding him from harm. The gesture is appreciated, but it also dulls his senses. While Lucanis could avoid most threats on his own, Rook’s magic is like wax in his ears, muffling the warning signs of danger.
Lucanis would raise an objection, but seeing the toll of reshaping reality on the necromancer convinces him to drop it every time.
“Always got top marks for technique. Control, less so,” Rook tries to joke after one particularly drawn-out skirmish, pacing in a circle and trying to walk it off. His easy-going smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and he can’t catch his breath. Though his skin matches Neve’s in tone, Lucanis sees the deep flush of exertion coloring his cheeks.
“You’re shaking like a Templar in lyrium withdrawal,” he says.
Between labored gasps: “Ah, I’m fine. Just wound a little tight. Only need a few moments for the energies to even out.”
Lucanis spots the mage’s foci, still in hand. The fight is over, yet the orb churns with sickly green necrotic energy within, slowly spiraling as it drifts back into the Fade. Even he can sense the wavering haze of magic around it, as well as the attracted spirits pressing on the other side of the Veil. Spite hisses at them like a tomcat guarding its territory.
Without a word, Lucanis takes the orb from Rook and turns away.
“Hey!”
“You can have it back when you stop swaying,” the assassin silences the protest. The demon in his head continues to snarl and threaten the encroaching spirits (“BACK! These are MINE!”), but already he can feel the flow between Fade, foci, and mage is slowing. Good. He walks away from Rook, looking to put more distance between them, and joins the others in scavenging the battlefield.
“You creep in at night and snap my neck?”
“No.”
“Suffocate me with a pillow?”
“No.”
“Strangle me with your bare hands?”
“No.”
“Slit my throat?”
“Too messy. It would be cleaner to just stab you in the heart.”
The barrage of guesses comes to a halt as Rook exhausts the most obvious ideas. Slouched over the dining table, Lucanis repositions his head on his propped-up palm. This sudden lull of quiet is a problem. There’s danger lurking in the cozy warmth of the kitchen, the delectable aroma of baking bread, the easy company, and the calming crackle of the logs in the fireplace. It’s too comfortable.
The call of sleep is inviting. Irresistible.
“Do you want a hint?” he prompts for the sake of making noise, having noted that Spite is conspicuously absent. Presumably, he hopes to lure his “host” into a false feeling of ease and lower his guard.
Rook remains steadfast, giving him a sarcastic smile. “I don’t recall saying that I did.”
“Have it your way.”
Quiet falls over them again. Rook is steeping his tea and thinking. Some minutes pass. Then, despite himself, a yawn wrestles itself free from somewhere deep within Lucanis’ core. It’s huge, open-mouthed, breathy.
“Lucanis,” the Watcher’s voice softens, “Go get some sleep. I can take the rolls out of the oven when they’re ready.”
“I’m only resting my eyes.” With his free hand, he brings his cup to his lips in an unthinking, mechanical motion. The coffee has gone cool, which is unpleasant, but carries a reassuring bitterness blooming over his tongue. “Are you sure you don’t want a nudge in the right direction?”
“I can figure this out.”
Another lull in the conversation. Lucanis needs something to focus on, so he focuses on Rook.
The mage sits diagonally to him at the table, his back to the fireplace. The Fade is outside of time, but the Lighthouse seems to recognize this is a late hour for its occupants and molds the ambiance to match that expectation. In this illusion, Rook can relax. The warm light from the fire flickers, casting playful shadows that seem to wrap around his silhouette like tendrils of smoke, accentuating the contours of his face and the sharp lines of his jaw. His short, black hair catches the soft glow, revealing hints of chestnut in its depths. And as the mage tilts his head to inspect the contents his teacup, Lucanis notices how the light plays along the trim cut of his beard—a delicate line tracing from his cheeks down to his chin, framing his mouth, which is currently pursed in concentration.
Lucanis is moments from drawing a conclusion with these observations when Rook clicks his tongue.
“I’ve got it. You put a venomous snake in my blankets. Then, when I pull them out for bed, the snake strikes.”
“You can ask Viago how reliable an assassination tool snakes are,” scoffs the Crow. “Maker, they either don’t bite, bite the wrong person, or slither off before anybody finds them at all.”
“That’s not a ‘no’,” Rook points out, optimistic.
“No.”
The mage huffs.
Neve offers Rook some advice.
“You’ve been guessing all week and still haven’t hit on any of his plots. Are you sure he’s not stringing you along?”
Rook looks at Dellamorte as if passing the question directly onto him.
“I’m not that exacting,” Lucanis says, turning away from the many pinned notes and herald clippings plastered upon her 'office' walls. “If he gets close enough to one, I would tell him so.”
Neve hums thoughtfully.
“Alright then. Rook, maybe you need to try a new angle? You’re only thinking about how any assassin might come after you. What you ought to consider is how a noted mage-killer earns his reputation.”
Lucanis looks over to him. Perhaps it's just the glow of the wisp that is very enamored with Rook's face, but he swears there's an actual spark of intruigue in the mortalitasi’s eyes.
“You’re saying I should focus on magic-specific methods of murder?”
Lucanis offers a half-hearted protest, amused by the development. “I thought you could figure this out on your own? Bringing in a detective seems like cheating.”
Said detective plants her fist on her hip and smirks.
“Afraid I’ll beat you at your own game? Or maybe you don’t want me learning your tricks, gaining insight into how you think. After all, it could give me an edge if a case ever puts me on your trail.”
They’ve become friendly enough that Lucanis can taunt: “I have a whole separate list for you, Neve. Focus on solving your own.”
She tosses her head back and laughs.
Lucanis is trialing the first chapter of a new book in Lighthouse building when footsteps tread across the upper walkway. Soon after, Rook comes down the spiral stairs, making his way over to where the assassin sits.
Without a word, Rook juts his hand out. Balanced in his upturned palm is a familiar black orb. Lucanis looks glances between the sleeping foci and its bearer.
“…Yes?”
“How would you do it?” Rook asks.
Lucanis is no fool. He can see where this is going, but he opts to play innocent.
“Do what?”
“I was thinking about that battle. You took this away from me when I was struggling to regulate my mana flows,” says Rook. “You obviously know what it is and how it works. That means you know how dangerous it can be. I just don’t know how you sabotage it.”
He’s close enough, so Lucanis doesn’t bother denying it. The Crow earmarks his page, closes the book, and sets it aside. Then he holds his own hand out. Rook, seeing what he wants, lets the orb roll from his grasp into Lucanis’.
“The blade must be as fine as a razor, and made of a Fade-touched metal. Then you can score the surface deep enough to weaken its integrity, yet leave a mark so subtle the mage could run their fingers over the gouge and not notice it,” he explains, tracing his thumb over the mysterious, esoteric thing with the comfort of handling a glass bauble. “With as much mana as you channel through this thing, the strain would fracture it eventually.”
“Then it’s only a matter of time until I go up like the Kirkwall Chantry.”
“It’s a gamble. It could take several battles until it finally gives way, and an explosion is less reliable than a cut throat. Still, it’s an option if I have the luxury of time and want it to look like an accident.”
“And aren’t standing near me when it blows.” Rook’s voice is brimming with approval. Whether it’s of himself for working out the puzzle, of Lucanis for his cleverness, or both isn’t clear.
“That’s why it was the last kill method on the list.” The assassin gives the foci back, no worse off for having that particular plan ousted. He’d been growing fond of Rook, enough to consider him a friend. He would want to give him a cleaner death than that.
“One down, four to go. Should be able to get the rest figured out before we deal with the gods,” says the satisfied necromancer.
Picking his book back up, Dellamorte can’t help but spite his victory just a little.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You only figured it out because of Neve.”
They abandon the game for a long while. The dragon’s blighted roar over Minrathous suspends all activities not directly related to their mission. In the wake of gallows being constructed in the streets, clouds of flies humming in the open mouths of rotting bodies, and a city fallen to the cult of the Evanuris, no one possesses an appetite for any more death, even in the hypothetical.
The three of them have been waiting at the Vi’Relas for a while when Rook says, “You can quit staring any time,” with some discomfort.
Lucanis worries his furtive glances have been noticed. But no, it’s Bellara being taken to task.
“Sorry! I’m sorry. I’m just so used to you in beat-up road gear! Where’d you get that?”
'That' is a fitted, black overcoat with seafoam green and amethyst accents. The cut is not unlike men’s evening finery in Antiva, meant to flatter the form and make a statement. It cinches as the waist, drawn over light pieces of armor which were designed with mobility over protection in mind, layered with slacks and tall, laced boots. There are also the macabre adornments one would expect of Nevarran trappings: skull pendants, a pin bearing the Mourn Watch’s emblem of a flesh-eating beetle, and armored gloves with fingers that taper into points like claws. It’s an eclectic ensemble to be sure, yet when Lucanis sees Rook in it, he feels…
It suits Rook. Rather handsomely, even.
“Well, now that the Watchers have finished disowning me, it seems I get to wear the uniform again," Rook says, somewhat strained.
“But you weren’t really exiled, were you?”
Lucanis isn’t sure that’s an acceptable question to ask, though he’s just as curious. Rook is their leader. He takes point on their mission, has the final say in all matters, sees his people to victory, and bears the burden of their failures. And yet, outside of his handling of current affairs, he is a mystery. That he was Nevarran and a death mage was obvious; that he was a pariah among his own was a recent revelation, and not one he seemed pleased about being let slip.
If Rook is planning to deflect the question, Emmrich’s arrival at the bottom of the stairs denies him the chance.
“Indeed, he was not,” their newest colleague declares with a grandiose formality, and he tsks at Rook. “Honestly, Jirell, it does you no credit to exaggerate the terms of your… sabbatical. Everyone in the Mourn Watch understood it was necessary! Your temporary absence was only to give the nobility time to come to terms with the truth of it.”
“And to let the Watchers’ hands back into their pockets. Don’t forget that part.” Rook’s utterance is barely audible to Lucanis right next to him, yet somehow Emmrich catches it.
“You were the victim of circumstance, but you shouldn’t dismiss Myrna’s efforts to salvage your reputation. And now here you are, free to return to Nevarra and welcomed back by your peers! Few would fare so well after what you did.”
The obvious question to emerge from that is, 'What did he do?' Lucanis is practiced enough not to blurt it out when it comes to mind. Bellara gets as far as the first wha- before the Crow clears his throat to get her attention, creating the interruption her mind needs to get ahead of her mouth.
“I mean… uh, n-nevermind.” She bites her lip and looks at the floor.
The moment lingers long enough to become awkward. Feeling pressed, Rook concedes with a beleaguered sigh.
“There was an uprising among the undead nobility. It was getting out of hand. I put it down. Some people didn’t like the way I went about doing it. That’s all.”
Lucanis hears this, and surprised to learn that there was apparently some form of etiquette to be observed when stopping an undead revolt, nods slowly.
“That seems like a very Nevarra-specific problem.”
Rook retrieves his satchel from the floor.
“Are we all ready? I’m sure the Veil Jumpers are wondering where we are.”
“You know, you sort of look like you could be a professor, too.” Bellara bounces on her heel after Rook, trailing him towards the Eluvian. “Dressed up like that, I mean. It’s very classy. If I was a necromancer, I would listen if you gave a lecture.”
Rook snickers. “If I ever teach junior Mourn Watchers anything, it’ll be what not to do, and only ever by example.”
Dinner is nearly ready when Rook comes in. The timing necessary to bring the fish, sauce, vegetables, an entirely separate vegetarian course together at once probably makes Lucanis appear more harried than he actually is. He assumes this is why Rook thinks to offer his appreciation.
“Thank you for doing this. Cooking,” the mage says as he pulls the plates and silverware off the shelf. Prior to Emmrich’s arrival, he’d been setting one place too many. Nobody had acknowledged it, unwilling to point out Neve’s continued absence. Lucanis feels the same sting of guilt each time her name crosses his mind.
“We cannot fight gods on hardtack and water.” He thinks, but does not say, ‘or Harding’s stews’.
“So this is your way of maintaining the group morale?”
“It also keeps the hands busy.” In truth, there are plenty of reasons why he assumed control of the kitchen, not the least of which is that the others are terrible cooks. Bellara has her culinary talents but is prone to forgetfulness and distraction. After a year in the Ossuary where meals were lean, infrequent, and terrible, Lucanis is resolved to eat well even if it means preparing everything himself.
“Makes sense. Out of all of us gathered here, I’d say you have the least enviable job.”
The assassin is both puzzled and surprised by that conclusion. He arches an eyebrow at Rook.
“Me? My job is simple. All I must do is kill some mages.” An understatement, but that’s what it all comes down to in the end. He starts removing pans from the heat, transferring meat from skillets to serving platters. “At least I’m not the one scurrying across Thedas to cull favor with every faction in the north.”
Rook disagrees. “Nah. That’s easy. That’s something to do, unlike the raw deal you got. ‘Lucanis, kill these ancient, blighted gods. You might be the only person alive who can get close enough to finish them off. Fail, and the world ends. Now, enjoy the next few weeks of watching the rest of us chase our tails like fools’.”
Lucanis has never thought of it that way. On the contrary, he’d sought ways to make himself more useful. He needed to stave off the feeling he wasn’t pulling his weight compared to the others.
“If killing gods was easy, Solas would have dealt with Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain himself. Building an army and destabilizing the enemy’s forces takes time. It’s time I can use to prepare and learn about my target. When the moment comes, however long it takes, I’ll be ready.”
That must be a good answer. As Rook gathers up the full platters, he looks impressed.
“You’re far more even-keeled than I would be in your situation.”
“Well, it has been my experience that most mages want for patience,” Lucanis teases. He’s rewarded with a begrudging smirk, a silent ‘got me there’ before his counterpart goes to set the table.
A few minutes are spent on last-minute preparations and selecting wines. After laying the silverware out, Rook volunteers to let the others know supper is ready. Lucanis thanks him and turns his attention to uncorking bottles, but after a few moments realizes he still hasn’t heard the door. He looks over.
Rook is lingering there, hand loose on the latch as if frozen in the moment. Lucanis asks if something is wrong. The hesitation holding Rook back breaks.
“Emmrich and I come from a place where the foremost scholars of Nevarra gather to talk shop over every meal.” He goes quiet again, but Lucanis waits. It strikes him that Rook is trying to express something important. “Bellara would’ve eaten with her clan or the Veil Jumpers. Harding’s away from suppers with her family. I’m sure Davrin’s missing the camaraderie of the Warden mess hall. And you… Maker, I can’t imagine anybody would rather be back at home more than you, after everything.” Again, quiet. The mage is choosing his words with care. “It’s good for us to gather around a dining table with food and conversation. I think it’s going to be an important part of getting us through the days ahead. So, thank you for cooking. I’m very grateful.”
The sincerity is so earnest and unexpected that Lucanis’ instinct is to brace himself, innards and muscles tightening like a kindly sentiment might have the same impact as a punch. He spends a moment in this fight-or-flight state before sense kicks in, and he knows he has to say something; has to acknowledge Rook without ruining the moment.
In the end, all he can muster up is an awkward, “You’re welcome.”
But that’s enough. Rook smiles, opens the door, and leaves to fetch the others. Then it’s Lucanis’ turn to stare after him, and he wonders how he can be undone by a simple compliment.
“I got you something.”
Lucanis looks up at Rook from his unfinished work of knives and whetstones. The day had been his to spend as he pleased, what with Rook and Emmrich away on a Watcher matter. Normally, the assassin rankled at being left out of expeditions, but he’d gleaned that their business was personal in nature. They were also bound for the city of the dead, a place he was not keen to return to unless necessary.
In light of all this, Lucanis didn’t expect to be remembered during their venture. He accepts the long, shallow box. The herbal aroma blooming off it is strong.
“Incense?”
Rook nods.
“I got to thinking about how spirits like to hound mages in our sleep. They’re especially restless at the Necropolis with the Veil being so thin. We use this imbued incense to quiet them down. No idea if it’ll calm an abomination, but I thought it may deter Spite from wandering.”
“That is thoughtful, Rook. Thank you.” He doesn’t need to open it to know the contents are potent, but Lucanis is intrigued by his inner demon’s agitation. Spite’s scrunched nose and head tossing reminds him of a dog he’d seen lick a lemon that had fallen from a produce stand.
He lifts the lid. The smell that spews forth is solid as a wall. There’s a foul, bitter base drenched in florals attempting to mask it. Both host and demon suffer for the choice, and Lucanis can’t help but make an involuntary 'heugh’ as he seals the box back up.
“Yeah. It might be good to move the cheese wheels out of the pantry first. Can’t imagine the flavor would benefit from being smoked with that.” Rook is smiling at him.
“You can fall asleep while choking on lily-of-the-valley?” He doesn’t want to be ungracious, but it amazes him that anyone possibly could.
“Sure, if you’re tired enough. Not too many flowers can grow at the Necropolis. There are only a few which smell nice enough to cover up all the odors we contend with, but the problem with that is…”
The necromancer’s eyes widen. It’s as though he’s just realized that he forgot to do something important. Then his gaze resettles on Lucanis.
If a daring mouse were to look up from its foraging in the kitchen and notice the sleeping cat was awake, muscles coiled the moment before deadly claws dart forth, then it might feel the way Lucanis does under that stare.
“Uh, Rook?” he prompts under the scrutiny.
“...The problem with burning some of the flowers and lichen is that they put off toxic smoke, like murkroot blooms,” says the mage in a knowing way, like there is far more to that fact than simple herbology trivia.
Rook taps the incense box. The gesture solidifies meaning in the Crow’s mind. Lucanis bows his head, graceful in defeat. Another scheme foiled.
“You're almost there. Burning murkroot only causes nausea and cramping in most people. If you want to do the job right, you use Shezmu leaves. A breathful of the smoke paralyzes; a second kills.”
“And I assume you could make a deadly look-alike to all the other incense cones I have?” asks Rook.
“They’d be a little darker than your sandalwood ones. Honestly, though, I didn’t think you’d be observant enough to notice. No offense.”
“None taken, since you’re right. Where was that on the list?”
“Fourth.”
Rook truly has a captivating smile.
“Good thing I know to be on the lookout for it, then.”
“I suppose,” Lucanis concedes with a small hum. “Although, there are worse ways to go.”
Towards the end of the third day without rest, it becomes impossible to hold his head up. The numerous empty mugs on his nightstand would embarrass the assassin were he capable of feeling anything but fatigue and general irritation. As such, he deigns it necessary to add another to the collection.
Lucanis emerges from his room to find that some of his colleagues yet linger at the breakfast table, each in their own worlds. Rook has some large volume spread open before him. Neve is reading from a periodical. She briefly flips her fingers up at Lucanis by way of a greeting before looking back. Only Bellara musters a token “Hey, there” before busying herself with whatever ancient elven bauble she’s trying to fix.
There’s already coffee in the decanter.
“Did Neve make this?” he drones, the words slurring together just slightly.
“No. It’s safe,” says Rook, not looking up from his tome. The detective makes her feelings known with an annoyed 'puh'.
That’s good enough for Lucanis. His body takes over the automatic process of pouring a cup. Meanwhile, the assassin considers the schedule he was just putting together. It’s a busy day ahead. Gear maintenance and repair first. Then it’s to the Crossroads eluvians for shopping, making sure to meet with Teia while he is in Treviso about-
He halts. The stoneware mug stops just shy of his lips, because a whiff of the strange aroma reaches his nose and dances over his tongue first. The coffee almost overpowers it, but it’s there. Something’s off. Spite stands in his peripheral and sniffs loudly.
“Smells like… Coffee. Hazelnut. Apples.”
Apples?
Indeed, there it is. Apples, but a little grassy, too. Like dirt.
Lucanis scrolls through his mental index of poisons through the slog of exhaustion, reviewing old memories of herbology pages complete with dosages, indicators, delivery methods, and symptoms until the right one flashes in his mind’s eye. Concentrated skullcap extract: non-toxic, a noticeable fruity or earthy flavor depending on the species, commonly used to relax the muscles or relieve minor aches in small amounts.
It’s also the active ingredient in many sleeping draughts.
Slowly turning his head, Dellamorte levels the trio with a long, scrutinizing look. His colleagues remain silent, each of them oh-so-deeply focused on their various “tasks”. They refuse to acknowledge his accusing stare long after the silence grinds into a painful, forced eternity and the time for playing innocent is over. Conspirators all, it seems, though he’s curious who the mastermind was.
“Amateurs,” he grumbles at them, leaving the tainted coffee on the bar and turning back to his room.
“Damn it!” Bellara bangs both her fists on the table and yells after him, “Go to bed!”
One moment, Lucanis is writing letters to every mage Circle in the directory he’d found to request information about abominations. The next, he’s lying on his back, blinking up at the suspended astrolabe of the Lighthouse tower.
He hears Rook’s voice.
“Good morning.”
He rolls his head in the direction. Rook is in the chair across from him, a finely bound book sprawled open in his lap. It takes a moment to shake off the addled alarm, but it dissolves into sheer annoyance once he figures it out.
“Oh.” Of course. Sleepwalking again. Then he remembers all the precautions put in place to stop that, and Lucanis props himself up on his elbows. “Wait. How?”
“That’s what we were wondering,” Rook starts, drumming his fingers on the stiff pages. “Then we found the second door to the pantry.”
“What do you mean, ‘second door’?” It was a tiny room. There’s no way he could have missed something like that.
“Remember when I told you the Lighthouse sometimes changes itself when we need something? Well, it seems Spite needed an exit that went around all the wards.”
Lucanis sighs and sits up. Swinging his legs over the side of the couch, he finds that his head still feels woozy. He must not have been asleep long.
“So much for the incense. And for my living quarters.”
“Well, you’re in control now, so I’m betting the spare door will vanish,” says Rook, sounding apologetic. “Emmrich and Neve are re-warding the whole dining area to deter any more creative escape attempts.”
Lucanis more senses the demon lurking around than sees him. He scrubs his face with his hand and asks, “Did Spite cause any trouble?”
“No. I convinced him to stay put by reading him the Canticle of Maferath. You know: Andraste’s mortal husband who resented playing second fiddle to the Maker. He betrayed her to the Imperium, and she was thrown upon the pyre. He seemed to like it. Don’t tell him how Maferath dies, though. I’m saving that for next time.”
It’s more of a defeated utterance than genuine curiosity that leads Lucanis to muse, “I thought hearing the Chant was supposed to repel demons.”
“Old wives’ tale.” Rook closes the book and sets it on the table. “Most spirits act according to their nature with a singular focus, but Spite’s different. He’s curious about things. He can be bargained or reasoned with. I think that must be your influence on him.”
“How nice. He’s trying to take over my body, but at least he’s becoming a better person for it.”
“It goes both ways. He can affect you, but he also grows the more he sees things through your perspective. You consider Spite to be a parasite, but it’s more accurate to describe you as two people shoved together in an iron maiden, and one of you is a child.”
Perhaps it’s the exhaustion consuming the last of his patience, or the embarrassment of being seen as pitiable. It could just be the ongoing frustration at his powerlessness in the situation. In any case, there is a pit forming in Lucanis’ stomach. It fills and simmers with tension - a generalized, all-encompassing irritability. And he knows that he’s supposed to be above such petty moods, but his training hasn’t prepared him to handle this.
“Don’t infantilize him,” he warns Rook, because these necromancers are proving they have lost their sensible judgment in such matters.
“I’m not. All I’m saying is that Spite has no clue how to interact with this world, and the person best suited to teach him rejects him at every turn. He’d never had to deal with a reality like ours. He lashes out because he’s frustrated.”
“You look at my situation and sympathize with the demon?”
“I sympathize with both of you,” Rook insists, not unkindly. “Emmrich is right. You and Spite have to learn to get along. I’m only offering suggestions about how you could start.”
The assassin retorts: “Keep them.”
It’s the first time he speaks to Rook with anything resembling an edge. He knows right away that it’s unwarranted. Rook is only trying to help, but Lucanis is sick of the injustice thrust upon him. He’s tired of being told that he has to accept it, to move on from it, to be nice to the monster clawing at his mind.
He’s so fucking tired.
A moment later, the unseen impact stings like an open palm hard upon the cheek. There is no sound. There’s no force that physically assaults him, though Lucanis flinches away from the direction it seems to come from. In all, it’s a minor attack that’s painful only because he wasn’t expecting it.
Rook is halfway sprung of his seat, features alight with worry. The demon stands behind him, glowering with teeth bared. However, he does not speak.
“Was that Spite?” Rook gasps.
Lucanis chuckles at the absurdity. It’s not the most foolish thing to come from Rook’s mouth in the last few minutes, but that’s a close competition.
“Who else would it have been?” Again he rubs his face, this time checking for injury. No blood, at least.
“Why did he do that?”
The assassin takes a long, deep breath and sinks back into the sofa. All his anger dissipates at once, leaving only the embarrassment of allowing his composure to slip. He doesn’t want to be upset with Rook.
“I don’t know. The next time you read to him from the Chant of Light, try a verse about people learning to be nice to each other.”
At some point, Davrin learns about their little guessing game.
“So, how many of his plots have you gotten?” asks the Warden without looking up from his whittling. By his tone, he's more skeptical than interested.
“Two out of five so far,” Rook says, pleased with himself. “I’ve narrowed down the remaining methods to strangulation, suffocation, exsanguination, starvation, or some manner of fall.”
The elf considers that, and with a confidence that comes from being a lifelong hunter, he gives his assessment of the predator.
“You can cross off the slower ones. A murderer tortures somebody they really hate. An assassin wouldn’t waste the time, even if the grudge was personal.”
With a mock pleasantness born of the ongoing friction between them, the Crow sneers, “Don’t be so sure, Davrin. I am a professional, but Spite can be a cruel, petty thing.”
“Spite likes me,” Rook says. Whether he’s oblivious to the veiled threat being made in front of him or cutting things off before they escalate isn’t clear from how he says it, but he's also no idiot.
Davrin gives Lucanis a glare. Then he gestures at the possessed man with his knife, which isn’t meant to be a threat but damn well suggests one.
“I assume you’ve got a plan to take care of him?”
Evidently, that had never occurred to Rook before.
“You think I need one?”
The elf is incredulous at his naivety but turns back to his craft. Chunks of wood shavings resume sprinkling to the floor.
“This entire game’s about him trying to kill you. Only makes sense to have at least one plan to take him down first. At the very least, should think about what’ll happen if the demon gets the better of him.”
Rook shakes his head.
“Not something I’m worried about.”
“Right. Because Spite likes you,” Davrin echoes with some disapproval.
“Because I trust Lucanis.”
There it is, stated like it’s truly that simple. No doubts or conditions. The Crow says nothing, and doesn’t dare even look to the mage to acknowledge the sentiment; if he did, Rook would balk at how such a basic expression of esteem could move a seasoned assassin so deeply.
“Should kill that one,” Spite grumbles about the Warden.
“Nevermind him,” Lucanis says.
Both the other men turn to look at him. He shakes his head and waves off their attention.
“Nothing.” Then he mutters under his breath, “Though Davrin should be more grateful that I’m the one in charge.”
The panellets are out of the oven for only moments before Rook and Spite materialize, both seemingly from out of nowhere, to beg.
“Those smell heavenly.”
“Eat that. Now.”
“Not until after supper,” Lucanis tells Rook. To the demon, he jerks his head. Spite is learning what it means to be nonverbally shooed off. “And anyway, they still need the icing.”
“Supper isn’t for hours,” the mage whines. He must think Lucanis has never been sweet-talked for a favor.
“It’s bad luck,” the assassin pushes back gently. “The head of Catarina’s kitchen was Rivaini, and she told Illario and I that a spirit of Hospitality bestowed this recipe to her family. They’re delicious, but the catch is you must offer them all upon a fine platter to your guests after a hearty meal. If you don’t, Hospitality will put a jinx upon you. We live in the Fade, Rook. I don’t need that sort of attention.”
“Isn’t this concern redundant? You already have a spirit of Spite haunting you.”
“And you can see how much I enjoy having even just one demon to pester me,” huffs the assassin.
Rook lets out a long sigh through his nose and relents. He retrieves his tea from the shelf and goes to start the water. That leaves Lucanis to contend with only Spite’s whining and threats to destroy any other spirits that would dare approach his vessel while he finishes adorning the desserts.
After a few minutes, the mage returns. He leans against the counter.
“Perhaps I’m off-base in thinking this — after all, I’ve never met your cook or a spirit of Hospitality before — but is it possible this ‘jinx’ existed only to deter a younger Lucanis and Illario from stealing treats from the kitchen before supper?”
Lucanis thinks about that for a moment.
“No. No, we never-”
Well, wait. He thinks about it some more.
Hmm.
Finally, Lucanis takes a spatula, scrapes one of the finished cookies onto a common plate, and passes it to Rook. He ignores the chuckling and takes one for himself.
“Damn that lying woman,” he mutters and takes a bite of the warm pastry.
“YES! GOOD!”
“You did not mention your ‘quick errand’ was on the other side of Nevarra from the Eluvian,” Lucanis says after they’d been walking for a long while.
“Well, now you see why I wanted company,” replies Rook cheerfully.
They’d set out from the Shrouded Halls with little fanfare, Rook having described the outing as only a "small matter: that needed tending to in the Necropolis. Lucanis agreed to join him despite having little desire to taste the mildew and decay upon the dead city’s stale air once again, because Rook had been so precious about the request. His agreement had pleased the mage, though it was only after they’d arrived in Nevarra did it occurr to the Crow that he didn’t know what he’d signed up for.
…And it was only after that did it become obvious Rook didn’t know where he was going.
(“What? The rooms move around,” the sheepish necromancer said to Lucanis’ unimpressed toe-tapping. That was after the third time they’d looped back to the same foyer. He’d had to summon a wisp to guide them out.)
“Is this some Watcher business?” asks the Crow, looking beyond the homes to the billowing clouds of the open desert. At least, he thinks they’re outside. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d turned his face skyward to infer the time of day, only to discover the distant stone ceiling enveloping the landscape.
“No, this is my thing. I may have offended somebody, and I need to make nice.”
Interesting, especially given the presumed influence of the offended party. The two make their way down a cobblestone road that bisects rows of mansions, the facades stretching out in all directions like a maze of opulence. Lucanis has been to Nevarra City before, so he knows these are not the grand palaces of the kingdom’s upper crust. Even so, the tile work of the porches alone would be costly. Marble pillars bear capitals adorned with figures so elaborately carved they seem ready to step down and greet passersby. Through every darkened window, drapes of vivid reds, greens, and purples spill like waterfalls of color, hinting at the splendor within.
“I’m proof as to why it’s not good to have rich enemies. What offense have you caused this person?”
Rook kicks a small stone down the path.
“I was given a gift. I’m overdue for expressing gratitude.”
“Curious. And you’re expecting there will be repercussions?” He could see not wanting to slight them if the aforementioned gift-giver was also a patron of the Mourn Watch.
“No, but weren’t you taught to apologize for unmannerly behavior? We’re almost at his villa.”
Lucanis wonders aloud: “Why would anyone keep such large homes here, of all places? Is it that fashionable for Nevarrans to vacation so close to their dead?”
Rook’s stride falters, like the thought is so puzzling he cannot try to comprehend it and walk at the same time.
“What are you talking about?”
“These are seasonal homes, yes?” They stop in the middle of the empty street. Lucanis sweeps his hand at the abandoned but stately neighborhood, highlighting the darkened windows, the unlit streetlamps, and the eerie quiet. It's like standing in a town frozen in time. “I assume this is where the nobility go to escape the trifles of city life?”
The mage’s face cycles through a series of expressions. First, confusion takes hold, his brow furrowing in perplexity. Then, bafflement settles in and sets his lips twitching with unspoken thoughts. Finally, a flicker of amusement lights his features. He smiles at Lucanis in a way that is both charming and vexing.
“You do know that we’re still in the Necropolis? People aren’t allowed here outside of holidays or to lay their dead to rest.”
Lucanis did not know that.
“Then who lives in all these houses? The Watchers?”
“Nobody.” Rook turns and continues down the road. His chuckling riles up the assassin, who senses he’s missing something important but intentionally not being told what.
“Then why build them?” he demands of Rook’s back. No response comes. In the silence, he can reflect on what the necromancer had said. Nobody lives here. The realization is like waking up to a glass of cold water being thrown in his face. “No. You’re joking.”
“Glad to see you’ve caught up.”
“These mansions are just for corpses?!”
“Reanimated ancestors, interred in familial manor-crypts! Your weapons can stay sheathed. We’re not in any danger here,” Rook says a little louder to account for the growing distance. The Crow is indignant.
“Hold on. What ‘offense’ can a dead man take to anything? Maker, how does one even apologize to a cadaver?”
“Offerings!” Rook calls back, his tone implying that much should be obvious.
Rook is kneeling at the steps of a comparatively modest villa when Lucanis (who is only mildly pouty) catches up. From his bag, he produces all the expected objects of ritual: candles, incense, pure water, a pewter plate, some gold bangles, and coins. He arranges the tools of his craft with familiarity, setting the offerings upon the place. Lucanis idles a few steps back, feeling out of place.
Then, in a whirl of distortion and colored air, a spirit appears.
“You have arrived, young Watcher!” The entity beams at Rook. It then turns to Lucanis, and its tone flattens. “Corrupted Determination.”
Spite opens his mouth wide and answers with a throaty snarl. Lucanis sighs.
“Hello again, Keepsake. Thank you for facilitating,” says Rook.
“Of course! It is good that you continue to respect your old memento, even as you have assumed use of another. I have beckoned Lord Ingellvar forth.”
Through his annoyance, Lucanis’ attention perks. He’s certain he’s heard Emmrich call Rook by that name.
“Ingellvar. Your ancestor?” he asks.
Rook shakes his head.
“The name was bestowed as a gift and as a reminder,” says the spirit, explaining little.
Rook goes to the double doors. At his approach, a green symbol of light flares to life. With precise, deliberate movements, he traces patterns in the air, murmuring an incantation. The ward shimmers, then dissolves into nothingness. Then, with the barrier removed, Rook pushes down the right-side handle. The action causes a loud, mechanical thunk within the rarely used mechanism, but with a gentle push and a soft creak, the door glides open, drifting inward.
“Remember, leave your knives out of this,” Rook implores Lucanis after he’s stepped back, leaving his improvised offering between himself and the door.
“So… You have to be thankful for your name?” asks the befuddled Crow.
The mage turns his attention towards the doorway but grunts at the question. His silence stretches a moment too long, and the assassin takes it to mean the situation is complicated.
“It’s not unusual for Nevarrans to abandon unwanted children at the Necropolis. The Watchers raise the ones who are found in time. The ones who aren’t…”
“Death’s embrace welcomes those pitiful souls into the house of eternal peace,” interjects Keepsake. Its voice is calm yet heavy with meaning. “Such would have been the fate of one newborn babe left here in the dark many years ago, were it not for the grace of the unliving.”
From within the shadows of the manor comes the faint shuffle of uneven footsteps. The sound grows louder as the source approaches until a figure emerges.
Lurching forward with halting, rigid movements comes Lord Ingellvar. The undead’s body is withered, skin stretched tight over the bones. Most of its black hair has fallen away. The garments of moderate finery hang loose off the skeletal frame and reek of perfume oils so strong that Lucanis can smell it even at a distance. Gold rings dangle on its skeletal knuckles, and the striking emerald lacquer once painted on its fingernails is chipped down to the bed, bearing the wear of countless years. A low, continuous groan escapes its lips—a constant, unsettling reverberation that doesn’t seem to come from the throat.
Despite the assurances, Lucanis’ hand inches towards his rapier.
Rook kneels and sets to igniting the candles and incense. The ritual words he’s murmuring are lost to Keepsake’s aside.
“T’was long-departed Jirell Ingellvar who staved off death that day. So moved by the infant’s suffering, he persevered through the protective wards and broke free from his manor. He gathered up the babe, and carried it to the safety of the Watchers.”
The nobleman’s remains stand before Rook and observes with its head tilted at an odd angle. It makes no gesture of aggression and waits for the quiet prayers to conclude. Lucanis is slow to trust his eyes, but he does cast a look over his shoulder, back the way they’d come. How far had they walked to get here? Had this desiccated corpse really shambled that entire way with a dying child in its bony arms? Farther?
Lucanis realizes: “And then they gave the child the name of his rescuer.”
“A keepsake to remind him always of the gift of life,” the so-named spirit confirms.
Afterwards, during the long trip back, Rook retreats into himself for a time. Lucanis hangs at his shoulder to give him some space. The thick clouds overhead are unmoving, but it’s unmistakably getting darker. They must be outside.
“What’d you think of your first proper excursion through the Necropolis?” the other man asks.
“It’s not what I was expecting,” says the Crow. Rook snorts softly.
“I have to do that every year. Visit came a little belatedly this time. On the anniversary, I was getting knocked upside the head at a world-ending ritual and having my mind infested with a blood mage.”
“The lord didn’t seem too cross about the delay.” Lucanis must think about how to react to all this. It’s all well outside his definition of normal.
“No. He’s patient like that.” It might be a joke. It’s hard to tell. Lucanis tilts his head, studying him.
"You don't go by that name anymore. I think you've only introduced yourself as 'Rook' since I've known you."
"New life, new keepsake. This one came from Varric."
Makes sense to him. He knows that Rook's departed mentor is a sensitive topic though, so he lets it go without comment. That might be a conversation for another day.
“So... A mysterious mage child found in the catacombs, delivered into the hands of the Watchers by an undead? That’s quite a story.”
Rook groans.
“Yes, and you’d think I was the second coming of Andraste for how much I heard about it growing up. Lord Ingellvar rescued me, and I am eternally grateful for it. However, he was reanimated with a wisp of benevolence. To stand idle and let a baby die in a street would have been anathema to it. There’s nothing romantic or divine about my past, no matter what some people want to believe.”
“Says the man leading the fight to save the world.” Lucanis can't help himself.
“If I hadn’t lived, Varric would’ve found somebody else for the job,” Rook retorts. He’s already been down this trail of thought.
“I’m not convinced you’re that replaceable, but nor am I the person to consult for insight into the Maker’s plan.” That much is true. Lucanis isn’t sure where he stands on matters of dogma aside from occasional prayers uttered under his breath before a risky venture. Declaring Rook as some prophet would be an enormous leap, though he can’t deny the scraps of providence and mystery if one chose to see it that way. “Regardless, I’m glad you asked me to come along.”
Rook snaps out of his subdued mood. He tilts his head, as though noticing Lucanis for the first time during the entire conversation. The weariness in his eyes fades just a little, replaced by something softer. He nudges his knuckles against Lucanis’s glove. It’s a simple gesture, but the feeling lingers.
“I know this isn’t your favorite place.”
“Hm. Maybe not, but your spirit friends aggravate Spite, and I think that’s funny. So I don’t hate it.” He waits for Rook to finish laughing. “And you care about this place a great deal. That tells me there’s good here.”
“I’m not sure if you’d have it that way if there was any choice,” Rook says, glancing ahead at the misty path, “but since we broke you out, I’ve seen a lot of what you call home. The people you consider family.”
“And all the drama that comes with them,” Lucanis adds, rueful.
Rook is respectful and leaves that statement to stand for itself.
“Well. Figured it was only fair to let you in on some of my personal history, too.”
Lucanis tilts his head, watching Rook carefully. For all the moments they’ve shared—banter, battles, and quiet camaraderie—this feels different.
“You don’t need to think of it as a ledger,” Lucanis says eventually. “You’ve seen some of the mess I’d rather have stayed hidden. Am I thrilled about it? No. That doesn’t mean you owe me secrets to make things even. If you choose to share something with me, I’d rather it be because you want to.”
“Maybe I am.”
Lucanis doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he drifts closer, the movement unhurried, deliberate. He returns a gesture, and his shoulder brushes against Rook’s. It’s a subtle, grounding touch that expresses more than words might.
“I don’t take that lightly,” Lucanis murmurs, his voice low.
Rook fixes his gaze on the path ahead. Whatever he sees off in the distance must ease something in him, because his lips tug into a faint smile.
The silence stretches until both men decide to let the conversation drift away into it. They fall into step again, the uneven path stretching out before them. Perhaps Lucanis is imagining it, but the damp air between them somehow feels lighter now, and more open to the possibilities ahead.