Work Text:
They stand in the midst of the Necropolis. The first sign that it is wrong is its song.
The hum, the heartbeat, the voice of their Grand Necropolis is muted, artificial somehow. Sof knows it should alert them to something, but they're struggling to identify what. So instead, they set themself to walk the halls, trying to see if there is some indication near to them of what has caused it.
Hallways seem to blend into each other. It makes their skin crawl, although even that is muted. They aren't even sure how they got here - they'd been watching over Lucanis, finally having convinced him to sleep at least for a few hours; Spite had talked to them for a time, then Lucanis had awoken again, and...
And now they're here. They've made their way to some of the lower levels, the ones less accessible to the public, where the hum has gotten louder. Something in the pit of their stomach churns, anxious, expectant, and they go to reach for their shield only to find its absence. They glance down, they could have sworn they were armored a moment ago, but now they stand only in their undershirt and pants, bare-footed, as they round a corner and find-
They gasp. Alerted by the sound, the Blight turns from where it is forcing its way through the walls to face them down directly.
Our child. Little lost Titan-son, please-
It reaches for them, tendrils extending like the arms of a parent, reaching to draw them in. They go to step backwards and trip, some piece of rubble suddenly underfoot, and scramble to get back to their feet. There's no fire in the Necropolis, only veilfire, to negate the risk of something catching alight- but that means there's no way for them to burn the Blight out by themself, they'd have to go find a mage and bring them back. They know from experience that will take too long, they have to solve this themself- on their own- alone- against their ancestors' dreams, corrupted and terrified and in pain.
They should move. They should run. They should go anywhere but here. But they can't.
The Blight almost brushes their cheek, begins to wind around their feet in loose coils, and then-
A rush of purple. Dark wings, spreading out in front of them, protecting them, sheltering them. Not yours. To take.
"Spite," they breathe, and even just to see him lessens some of the tightness in their chest.
Without seeing, they can feel the slight mix of pride, relief, and smugness that radiates off him at their voice. The quivering mass of Blight slips a little closer, until Spite's wings flare wider and he hisses, like a cat raising its hackles, and then it stops. Long enough for Spite to take the risk- whipping around, scooping Sof into his arms, and launching into the air. The Blight reaches for them - it's a spirit, isn't it, isn't it? - but Spite will suffer no failure, pushes himself farther.
The pair of them rocket towards the ceiling of the Necropolis, then through it, and break out into the loose air of the Fade, between the pockets and bubbles of dreams.
Sof gasps, and clings to Spite a little tighter.
Hurt?
"No," Sof manages, tucking their face into his shoulder as they close their eyes. "Despite there being no ground- we are quite high up. I- I don't like heights."
Spite's body rumbles, not unlike a purr. We protect. None can have. You. Except us.
The statement should probably cause them some concern. It's possessive, which from a spirit, would likely qualify as a threat to most outside Nevarra. And most inside Nevarra, as well. But- it's Spite. If there were a spirit they'd trust to possess them kindly, it would be him.
They should have known earlier it was a dream. Solas has continued to somehow shunt their soul into the Fade when he's finished with their communication; they're unsure if it's punishment or his attempts to sway them to his side, to show them what the dwarves have been missing all these years. If it's the latter, then it's a distinct failure of a plan. If it's the former... it may be working.
Without thinking, Sof nuzzles slightly against Spite's neck, settling into his hold. "Thank you," they murmur.
They will learn. Not to touch. Sof is mine. Soon. They won't dare.
"It- may be a moot point," they reply. "If my blood tie to Solas is severed... I likely will go back to being severed from the Fade entirely."
Their feet hit solid (well, solid-ish) ground, but Spite's grip on them does not loosen, just shifts to keep them tucked against his form. They feel the brush of his wings wrapping around their back. I will still watch. We will stay. Lucanis. Emmrich. Me. His stolen beard rubs against the top of their head. We. Do not plan. To leave.
"Please don't," Sof manages, their voice suddenly tight with tears.
For a time, they remain as is. Spite continues his low purr, wings twitching against their back, wrapped up like a cocoon around them, sheltering them. There is no heartbeat to the spirit, but there is a pulse of something, perhaps of the raw Fade itself, that soothes them regardless. His hands are not as gentle as Lucanis's in their grip, but it is secure, steady, and in the moment, that's all that Sof wants.
"How did you know?" they ask quietly. "That I was..."
Can feel. Even when Lucanis. Binds me to him. Awake. Spite's hands tighten their grip. Have to be asleep. For me to come. So. Made him sleep.
They should ask how he did so, but... they're sure they'll find out soon enough. They're content where they are now.
At length, Spite leans back. Lucanis. Is waking. We will come. Wake you. His hands cup their cheeks firmly, forcing them to meet his eye. Will not be long.
"I'll stay," they tell him. "As long as it takes."
Spite's grin is softer than the usual, before he shifts and disappears, drawn back to the waking world with Lucanis's soul. There is emptiness for a few moments, pure silence, and Sof closes their eyes to appreciate it.
Perhaps it makes him a love-sick fool. But when Emmrich returns from his camping trip with Scout Harding, his first stop is not to a bath (although he desperately needs one.) Instead, it is to the kitchen, where Manfred has helpfully informed him Lucanis and Sof had both retired to early in the morning.
There are two likely outcomes - either they've finally agreed to consummate their relationship, in which case he will only be the slightest bit miffed they didn't wait for himself, or Sof has somehow managed to convince Lucanis to sleep. While the former would be quite lovely to witness, he does rather hope it's the latter, if only because he has concerns about the Antivan's long-term health should he continue to deprive himself of sleep. It certainly has nothing to do with the half-finished plans sitting in a drawer in his desk, First Dates carefully inscribed across the top of each page.
What he does not expect, anticipate, or daydream about is Lucanis, bleeding from a cut on the forehead, sitting still while Sof stitches him up with heavy sighs and slight admonishments to a smug-looking Spite, sitting on the table with his wings curled around the both of them.
Emmrich gives a panicked yelp, his hands immediately reaching for his staff as he begins a healing spell, tutting and asking just what the pair of them thought they'd been doing. There's a rush of chatter all at once, Sof saying something about nightmares and Lucanis grumbling about ran me into a wall. And despite himself, he treasures the proud look on Spite's face as he'd provided his own response.
Helping.