Chapter Text
i
Her hair is a deep red color. Like blood. It falls past her shoulders, loose and brushing over well-worn dark leathers. She stands with her feet apart, her stance balanced, occasionally shifting her weight— ready to duck, to run. There’s a dagger in her hand, switched to a reverse grip as she talks to him, out of politeness, perhaps.
She looks like a Crow. Acts like a Crow. Looks around like Crow— like a good Crow, all subtle movements, taking in her surroundings constantly without looking like she’s doing just that. A skill like that takes years to master, and he hasn’t been in the Ossuary for— what month is it? Year? Time in the underwater prison can only be measured in moments he’s tortured and moments he’s left alone to deal with the demon in his head.
They fight.
And fight.
And fight some more.
He’s pulling his dagger free from the gut of some Venatori when he feels the crackle of magic at the back of his head; he turns quick, ready to throw his blade across the space to sink into the last enemy’s eye, but stops short, his arm raised.
Ah.
She’s already there, blood dripping from the blade she holds at her side, bare hand flat against the mage’s chest: the smell of ozone fills the air as the last of the lightning dissipates, and the Venatori mage falls dead, heart overwhelmed by electricity. She turns to catch his eye, a remnant of a snarl twisting her lips before she licks them— there’s blood on them— and schools her expression. She nods at him. Lucanis nods back.
( Smells like storm , Spite says, and honey. )
“So, Rook,” her companion, the dwarven woman, says as they near his phylactery, “do you always smile like that when you’re killing people, or…”
She huffs, offended , and Lucanis doesn’t smile, but maybe he would in another life, “well, I’m so sorry, Harding, that I happen to enjoy a job I’m very good at.”
Her voice has a strange quality to it. Scratchy, breathy. It makes his throat throb in commiseration.
“It’s just your job is, well. Murder.”
He doesn’t think his phylactery needs to be so ornate, nor contain so much of his blood, but Tevinters tend to lean towards the ornate and grandiose like that. No matter, it breaks like it’s a common glass vial, and he feels the strange pressure behind his eyes finally release, like a bad migraine going away. Spite hisses— a pleased sound, not to be confused with the way he hisses when he’s upset by something.
“It’s assassination , actually,” Lucanis chimes in, distractedly, as he watches some of his blood seep into the cracks of broken cobblestones. Mierda , should he have made sure not to leave a single drop of his blood in this cursed place? “Murder is for hobbyists.”
Harding makes a face.
Rook laughs, a hoarse bark of a sound, unaware or uncaring of the blood staining her teeth.
“I wasn’t expecting you to be funny,” she tells him.
“I wasn’t trying to make a joke.” He replies.
She turns to look at him fully, gaze dragging over his form. He doesn’t think there’s any way she can measure him and not find him lacking, he’s— filthy . Exhausted. Scarred. His hair is in knots, his beard needs to be tended to— there’s a non-zero possibility that he’s got lice.
Not to speak of his unwelcome passenger.
But he can still work; his blades are sharp, his reflexes quick. He can still be useful… even as a monster. At least for a while. He can finish his contract, get out of this place and then— he’ll see.
And yet— she doesn’t look at him like passing judgment. Her eyes are sharp, guarded, but there’s a gentle smile on her face that doesn't seem crafted artifice. After his stay at the Ossuary, it’s such a strange phenomenon to have anything gentle directed towards him again he would like to bask in it, if only for a moment.
“So now to Calivan, yes?” She pushes her hair away from her face, “I can’t believe I get to work a contract with the Demon of Vyrantium.”
“Rook,” Harding sighs, “way too excited about mur— assassination again.”
Later, with the warden’s body cooling at their feet and freedom close at last, Spite circles around Rook. Don’t , he thinks, but the demon reaches out anyway, touches a strand of hair, and Lucanis watches her shiver and shake her head as if she can feel him. Can she? Is that something else to be concerned about? What are you doing , he thinks. Why.
Like blood , the demon says.
Turns out freedom tastes like bitter ashes in his mouth. Or maybe that’s just Caterina’s death.
Rook offers her condolences; she’s quieter now, faced with two Talons, subdued. Shy, almost. But he doesn’t have enough presence of mind to think about it, not even to thank her— Caterina would resent his lack of manners, he was taught better than that— he needs to set his sights on a target. Something, anything, but preferably soft enough to sink a dagger into, to watch the blood well and trickle down, so he feels like he can do something at least. Anything.
(An elven god or two might just do the trick.)
So he’ll go with Rook, he’ll honor their contract. And if there’s time to settle the score with Zara— Well. He hopes her excitement about working a contract together wasn’t a one time thing. She’s proven to be good in a fight: quick, decided. Her magic is swift and lethal, and might just take enemies by surprise. He wouldn’t mind having her watching his back.
She takes him to the Lighthouse, introduces him to the rest of the team, and then promptly whisks him away by the arm until they’ve reached the bathing chambers. The pool is big enough to swim in, steam rising slowly from the water, dancing in the air.
“The water has restorative properties,” she explains, gesturing around herself, “and it appears to be self-cleaning. No matter how much blood and dirt and grime you’re covered in when we get in, the water’s always clean somehow. The answer is probably magic, because the Fade; Bellara had some theories but they went over my head— you can ask her later if you want.”
She shows him where everything he might need and more is, instructs him to take as long as he wants and leaves, not allowing him any more words than a stuttered thank you said to her retreating back.
The door closes behind her, and he’s alone.
(Except he’s not. Not anymore, not ever again.)
Lucanis takes his gear off, piece by piece, wincing as it gets stuck on dried blood and pus. A topography on injuries— courtesy of Zara’s experiments or the bad temper of his jailors— have been gifted to him for his time in the Ossuary. The skin on his wrists is torn from manacles, from Spite fighting against them whenever he took control, unable to understand and unwilling to accept the constraints of metal on flesh and blood. The wounds are infected now. They would only heal him enough to prevent him from dying— the only successful experiment, a toy for Zara to poke and prod at as much as she wanted without fear of retaliation.
(Not anymore.)
Sick with taking stock of himself, Lucanis sinks into the pool, allowing himself a moment to breathe. The water is soothing, even if his skin feels strangely tingly. With every breath that passes the next one comes easier, his ribs aching less and less every time they expand to allow oxygen in.
Like blood.
He closes his eyes.
Like storm.
He ignores the demon.
I want to. Talk. To her.
Cursing under his breath, Lucanis reaches for a vial of scented oil to lather his hair with— stops, wet hand stretched in the air, when he sees unbroken, lighter skin around his wrist. He brings his other hand out of the water to confirm it’s in the same state, pats himself gingerly, only to find all his injuries on the tender first stages of healing, no infection, bruises gone.
Restorative , she had said.
(He expects he will have scars regardless.)
He scrubs at his skin three times with a brush, makes sure there’s no more grime under his fingernails. He washes his hair and rinses it, and then does it all over again; finds a comb to embark onto the lengthy task of untangling the knots. It takes him longer than he would like, long enough for his fingers to prune, long enough to begin drowning in his own thoughts— what are the chances, really, that this is happening, that he’s in a magic pool after having been rescued, and this isn’t some cruel illusion to be made even worse by its ephemeral nature? Is this real, or is this just the newest form of torture Zara has deviced for him?
(He hisses when he pulls too hard, accidentally tearing hair out of a stubborn knot. Lucanis decides this is real. For now, at least.)
He finds the right tools to trim his hair, not trusting himself enough for a proper haircut. He trims his beard after. And when he’s done and dried and in a clean set of clothes brought back from the Diamond, he feels…
Something.
Less of something. More of something else.
At the very least he’s beginning to feel hungry so he leaves the chambers to find his way to the dining room. The Lighthouse is strange, there’s no sky above his head once he reaches the open space, only strange, nebulous lights that shift from green to purple to pink and back again. He both wants and dreads to stand at the very edge, see if everything except for this haven looks the same. He doesn’t come across anyone until he enters the dining room proper.
Bellara and Neve turn around in their seats at the table, both holding mugs of something in their hands.
“Don’t you look better,” the detective drawls pleasantly enough, but he’s not fooled by the way her eyes narrow. She doesn’t trust him— and why should she? He’s a monster.
“That bath is something else, isn’t it?” Bellara smiles openly, even if it’s hesitant.
“Yes, it is. Is there… coffee, perhaps? And food?”
He’s told to help himself and— well. It is coffee— barely— and food— edible things qualify as food, he supposes. He finds something to make a sandwich with, and he takes a sip of coffee, makes a face, and resigns himself to his fate.
He doesn’t ask them how they live like this.
He thinks it, but he doesn’t ask them.
“No Rook or Harding?” He asks instead.
“Oh, Harding is probably tending to her garden, and Rook…” Bellara shrugs, “she… discovered a puzzle with these statues that rotate and. Um. Got this look . So who knows really, she’s sort of, ah— I’m not saying she’s inside the walls or anything but I wouldn’t be that surprised if she was. That’s what I’m saying. Hopefully she doesn’t get stuck.”
Neve makes an ambivalent sound. “She does like puzzles.”
It’s maybe half an hour into their conversation when Rook shows up, cleaned up and dressed down, hair still damp. Lucanis looks up from his spot leaning next to the fireplace and his words falter for a moment; it’s strange to see her looking so… soft. Bare-faced, without the striking black around her eyes and the snarl twisting her mouth, she looks gentle.
Not like she smiles through a mouthful of blood.
“What are we talking about?” She finds a spot between the other two women, a hand on each of their backrests.
“Spite.”
“Ah,” she shifts her weight like he’s seen her do before, spreads her stance— balanced, ready— “your demon, yes. And that’s… permanent?” She looks at each woman in turn, waiting for their opinions.
(Isn’t she a mage as well? Why does she look so lost?)
She frowns at the answers she receives, a hand coming up to twist her hair around a finger. “Well, we’re definitely not killing you— I literally just told Viago and your cousin that I would bring you back in one piece, so. You’re sure there’s no way we could just talk to Spite?”
“I—” Lucanis begins, but then there’s the demon in his head, getting in his face, and now he can’t focus so he tries to ignore him harder, shakes his head, but the damned thing keeps yelling, yelling, I want to talk to Rook, I want. To talk. To Rook!
It hurts. But it’s nothing he can’t handle.
Blood trickles down his nose and he hears his name being called— he extends a blood-stained hand to keep them at bay, but when he opens his eyes, Rook is already across the table. Mostly.
She’s standing on one leg, the other still awkwardly stretched atop the table. Lucanis looks at the others— Bellara is holding upright two lit candles in her hands, while Neve is halfway out of her seat. He looks back at Rook— she’s alert now, studying him, eyes fixated on the blood. “Did he hurt you?” She slides her leg all the way off the table, mindful of her balance, “why?”
He tells her. Tells them to leave.
“No, what? A demon you’re stuck with punches you in the face and your solution is to be alone with him?” She’s close, standing toe to toe with him. Unafraid. “I’m not leaving.”
She wants to talk to me too. Let me. Let me.
“Please,” he takes a step back, “I’ll be fine.”
Let me let me let me let me let me—
“I’m not sure I believe you, Lucanis.”
“ Please ,” he insists. “It won’t be long, just until he calms down.”
She relents.
“Alright,” she takes a step back, then another, until she’s walking around the table once more, “but I’m unhappy about it, and I want that to be known. Yes? Lucanis?”
Despite everything, he finds the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “You’re unhappy. It has been noted.”
She nods once before leaving. “Good man.”
Hours later, Lucanis finds Rook knocking on his door.
“They told me you were here,” she walks in when he moves out of her way.
He can see her cataloging the place as her eyes jump from one corner to the next, although he can not tell if she’s finding weak points or counting how many wheels of cheese are stacked in the corner.
“Only one entry point,” she says as if he’s asked the question, “small enough that no one can hide anywhere. Can’t take you by surprise.”
“Also close to where the coffee is.”
“Ah,” her smile comes quickly, “now that’s an Antivan man.”
His exhalation could be translated into something akin to a laugh, maybe, if one were to squint, and tilt their head, and listen to it underwater. “And you? How long have you been in Antiva?”
“Fifteen, sixteen years,” she brushes her fingertips down the length of a shelf, distracted, pacing around the small room. “What gave me away? It’s the r’s, isn’t it? I still can’t get them to be consistent enough.”
“It’s a very minor thing— you sound almost native.” He’s leaning against the wall, content to watch her as she satisfies her curiosity, reaches into dark corners, looks under empty crates.
“Well, thank you,” she stops, turns to him once more. “I may not have been born there, but I do love Treviso like she’s mine. Seeing her under tyrants is…” She pauses. Hums. “Tyrants that aren’t us , of course.”
“How come we had never met before?” He asks, not to fill the silence after she speaks, but because the question has been orbiting around his mind ever since she stated the House she belongs to. “I can’t figure it out— there’s not as many of us as there used to be, you’re not new, our Houses are in good terms—”
And—
The strangest thing happens.
All at once, she wrinkles her nose as pink spreads along her tanned skin. The flush is bright even in the low light as it overtakes her cheeks, travels down her neck and disappears past her collar.
“We’ve met before.” She says quietly, in that odd, scratchy voice of hers.
What?
“Are you certain? I believe I would remember a Rook de Riva.”
“It’s a newer nickname,” she’s twisting her hair around her finger again, “my name is Rosalie. Rosa. If that helps. Not that I expect you to remember it.”
It doesn’t ring a bell at all, and if not her name then he would remember her voice, or her hair, so red, so memorable. She must read the lack of recognition on his face, because she keeps going:
“It’s actually so much better for me that you don’t remember me. Really. There is no reason why you would remember— I much prefer you don’t, so. We can just. Pretend we’ve never met. Ay. ” She presses her hands to her flushed face, mumbles something unintelligible into them.
Rook walks away from him, as far as the room goes, until she’s gingerly sitting at the edge of his cot. “And just so you know,” she lifts her head from her hands and meets his eye, face still pink, “I am aware I am blushing, I can feel it. It always happens when I’m embarrassed, and it’s bright and terrible and clashes awfully with my hair and it’s been happening since I was a child. I am, however, going to hold you to a high standard and request that you be a gentleman and pretend it’s not happening at all.”
Lucanis is stunned, for a moment, well and truly. He blinks once, twice— “which one do you prefer? Rook or— Rosa, was it?”
“Either is fine. I also answer to ‘you ’, but only if Viago says it in a very specific tone of voice.” She frowns, looks down at where she’s sitting. “There’s no mattress here.”
“That does sound like Viago.” Lucanis pushes away from the wall, takes an idle step towards her. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad, whatever happened.”
“Oh, it felt pretty embarrassing to me.”
Another step. “I’m sure I would remember if it was so bad.”
She makes a noncommittal sound. Lucanis waits, but Rook says nothing else.
“You… are not going to tell me.”
“No.” She says.
(I want. To know. Spite chimes in. I want to know as well, Lucanis thinks. This is the second time they are in agreement.)
“Ah, well. However that may be,” he crosses his arms, “I would still like to apologize for not remembering you. I have some business in Treviso soon— if you’d like to accompany me, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
“There’s no need—”
“I insist, please.”
“Oh, alright then. I had questions for you, you know. That’s why I came— but I can’t seem to remember them now.” Most of the blush has subsided, but not all of it.
(She was aptly named, he thinks. With her hair, and her pale eyes, the color of rosy dawn, and the way she flushes all the way down her neck.
Like blood.
Or like a rose. Roses have thorns, and perhaps bloody smiles too.)
Lucanis presses his knuckles to the line of his mouth— and that’s a smile that he feels, isn’t it? Even if thin and lopsided, it’s the closest thing to a proper smile he’s achieved in a while. That took less than he thought it might. “Take your time,” he says, “and ask your questions.”