Chapter Text
Despite living on an island of warriors, the last thing Lucanis expected to see when he walked out of the kitchen was Rook in a makeshift archery range.
It was what often passed for about three in the morning in the Lighthouse. Time didn’t necessarily pass in the Fade, but the team tended to follow their own pull of fatigue around the same time. Even Rook, restless and energetic as he was, could be counted on to sleep. Now, his presence in the courtyard, quiet and concentrated, nearly stopped Lucanis in his tracks. He wasn’t used to anyone else keeping his hours. He kept vigil alone most nights, wandering the Lighthouse and keeping Spite pinned behind carefully constructed walls. His colleagues often nagged him about getting a proper night’s rest, but he always brushed them off. Better than admitting that for the last year, he’d learned that moments of sleep were few and far between - and that when it came, it was always a sign that the worst torture was yet to come. The Ossuary had left its mark. Slowly, at the behest of Rook, Lucanis and Spite were coming to tenuous compromises, but those, too, were filled with new and unique conflicts.
A minute passed while Lucanis simply stood and watched. He often accompanied his friend - is that what they were? - in the field, but active combat was hardly a time to appreciate nimble skill with a bow. Now, though, Lucanis could drink in each subtle aspect to Rook’s ability, savoring it like a rich Antivan vintage. Sharp acidity and bitterly charming, and leaving an unforgettable wash of flavor on the palette that kept him coming back for another taste time and time again. Tonight, Rook wore a simple, loose tunic, light and breathable, with linen pants and worn boots. It was naturally only half buttoned, showing off the stark lines of the tattoo across his chest and down his torso that always drew the eye down. It seemed a rich irony that such an accomplished archer would openly display what may as well be a target pointing to his most delicate organs. Altogether, the ensemble was unfairly endearing. If he were honest with himself, Lucanis might even admit that the show of humble dress somehow made Rook all the more handsome. But he’d never been very good at honesty with matters of the heart.
“Are you just going to keep standing there, or are you going to say hello?”
Were Lucanis any less of a professional, he might have jumped. Instead, he only smirked at Rook’s call. “Apologies. I didn’t want to disrupt your concentration.” Unfolding his arms from their habitual cross, Lucanis strode down the short set of stairs, passing the Caretaker’s usual spot. Apparently the spirit needed some time off, too; they were nowhere to be found.
Rook’s mischievous expression softened into a friendly smile. “If a dozen Antaam barreling straight towards me doesn’t disrupt my shot, I don’t think you will.” He sat the end of his bow on the ground and rested his fist atop it. Lucanis noted that it wasn’t his usual weapon that Rook held, he instead wielded a plain, unassuming longbow.
“Fair enough. But I’ve seen you shoot a man in the eye from thirty yards, I’m not taking any chances.” He motioned down to Rook’s bow. “Trying something new?”
“Sort of,” Rook said, looking down. “Harding is out visiting her mom, and she said she knew a weaponsmith who could rework the wood on mine. It’s starting to warp, but I want to try and save it. Plus, it’s always good to practice the basics.”
Lucanis hummed in agreement. “Very pragmatic.” They sat for a moment, letting a wave of gentle quiet brush sweetly between them. Uncharacteristically, Lucanis spoke first. “Are you alright, Rook? You’re not usually up at this… hour.”
The other man paused for a moment, looking away from Lucanis. “Yeah. Guess I just couldn’t sleep. There’s a lot going on out there. But I won’t bore you with my problems.” Rook’s shoulders tensed, slightly, so much so that it was almost impossible to tell. Almost.
Without thinking, Lucanis replied, “Rook, you could never bore me.” Mierda .
Rook’s head whipped up, a stunned look in his face. He was a flirt, but Lucanis had never initiated before. Rook was always the one to waltz into the pantry to ask about his day, or drop a sly comment about Antivan dress. But Lucanis wasn’t flirting, at least not intentionally. He meant it, but their working relationship (and friendship) was still so new that such a candid statement felt altogether too forward. Or were they both so far from any sense of normalcy that even the most base fits of attention shocked them into motion? He liked to tell himself that Rook would know if he flirted back; he was still Antivan, and a Dellamorte to boot. Spite licked across the edges of his mind, mocking him for his internal embarrassment.
Finally recovering himself, though not without a dusting of a blush, Rook spoke. “Oh, I… Wow.” He grinned sheepishly, and picked his bow back up to hold it properly. “I’m not used to being on the receiving end of that one. The checking in, I mean. I really am okay, just… stressed. Practice helps ground me, y’know?”
“I understand perfectly,” replied Lucanis with a soft smile. Something about seeing Rook, who normally held himself with unflappable confidence and pride, at a loss for words squeezed at Lucanis’ heart. “Would you care for some company, then?”
“Why not?”
Lucanis motioned to the array of targets lined up against the void of the Fade, between the path to the Greenhouse and the balcony stairway. “Fire away.”
Rook grinned back at him before returning to a shooting stance. He loosed one shot, two, and three, with such precision that anyone else would have assumed he’d been using the same bow all his life. Any seasoned warrior could adapt to a new weapon without too much thought, but even so the easy competence Rook displayed did funny things to Lucanis’ insides. He watched Rook’s shoulders and arms with rapt attention. Even through loose clothing, each draw and release created steady, unyielding angles. Absently, he wondered if Spite ever thought of them when he sketched his bizarre geometries.
The Crows tended to prefer intimate deaths over ranged assassinations, and as such Lucanis possessed only a perfunctory knowledge of archery. Arrows have to be fired from somewhere, and even a slight inclination of the direction of flight was enough to get a Crow followed and discovered, or even killed. If the need arose, Lucanis always had throwing knives stashed away, but always as a last resort. Rook, on the other hand, was a master of his own art.
He was a solid match for Lucanis’ own skill with a blade during sparring matches, but Rook’s first instinct was always to pick off as many of their foes as he could before they knew what was coming. Lucanis often marveled at his teammate’s eyesight; even with scars raking across his eyes, his vision remained untouched. If he didn’t have Spite to confirm otherwise, Lucanis would have thought Rook was secretly a mage, augmenting his own abilities with a touch of Fade work. But no, Rook owed his precision to years of hard work and practice, something that Lucanis appreciated immensely. His own decades of skill were ground into him, a duty that he had no choice but to fulfill. Even with Illario at his side, the days could be grueling and punishing, the knowledge of his exact path at every step crushing. But Rook… he trained because he loved it. Some measure of necessity was involved, of course, given his history as a treasure hunter and his current quarry with the gods, but it was clear in the reverent attention to his weapons and hours of practice between missions that Rook truly cared about his skills. Lucanis couldn’t help but find it endlessly endearing. Watching Rook shoot, well, that wasn’t so bad either.
Rook had bundled his sleeves just above the elbow, and even the small flexes of his exposed forearms had Lucanis entranced. The two of them were similar in height and fought with the same weapons, but Rook’s build was completely different. Where Lucanis was broad shoulders and sturdy muscle, Rook was lithe legs and unassuming strength. Rook was quick, clever, and fearless in both words and actions, while Lucanis spoke carefully and took action intentionally, every choice calculated. Drawn. Weaponized.
Lucanis had always been taught to keep careful appearances - one’s dress and grooming was just as much of a weapon as a blade or a poison - but Rook’s blasé approach to aesthetics was disarming in more ways than one. The jagged scars spanning his face contrasted the carefully sutured wounds across his chest, communicating an unyielding will and a menacing countenance. A wound by choice and a wound by fate, as Lucanis saw it. In northern Thedas, few people blinked at either one, but it is nonetheless difficult to ignore such a physical remnant of trauma on another person’s face. Lucanis could sympathize. His clothes, however… Lucanis could certainly appreciate a beautiful man when he saw one, make no mistake, but Rook’s refusal to wear a complete set of armor to battle always sent a spike of panic through him. He supposed the lack of cover was a result of membership to the Lords of Fortune, or simply a habit of dressing for the balmy Rivaini climate. It was hard to admit, but Lucanis was protective of his leader - even outside of his desire to prevent certain doom across all of Thedas.
As Rook fired off the last arrow in his quiver, he let out a dissatisfied sigh. “I think I hate this bow. No, I’m sure I do. Harding can’t get back fast enough.” At that, Lucanis brought himself out of reverie with a chuckle.
“If that’s you at your worst, I feel sorry for the gods. They don’t know what’s coming.” He uncrossed his arms to prop them up against the edge of the Caretaker’s workbench, bringing a foot up to rest against a support of stone. There was something about Rook that made Lucanis want to open up, that made him want to relax, and that scared him.
Rook looked over his shoulder, grinning at Lucanis. “Hah! If only. I think we leave too much of a trail of Antaam and Venatori to go totally unnoticed.”
“One less Venatori in the world isn’t such a bad thing, is it?” Lucanis smiled wryly back at his companion.
“You may have a point,” he chuckled, before moving towards the nearest dummy. Lucanis watched closely as Rook gripped each arrow and wrenched them out to place back in the quiver. Such a casual display of strength and control was enough to make anyone stop and stare. Lucanis tracked Rook’s movement between dummies and targets, not daring to look away for fear of missing a single moment.
“When you kill for a living, you tend to take notice of the impact of a death. The foundations are beginning to crack, Rook.” In that moment, Lucanis was nearly ready to lose himself to the pull of a well-built man.
“Hmm. I wish they’d crack faster, those Antaam are tough bastards.” He looked back to Lucanis from across the courtyard, sending a shiver down his spine. “Is it bad that I’m most looking forward to not getting singed by gaatlok anymore?”
Lucanis laughed at that. He hadn’t been able to do that in a long, long time. It was frightening how quickly Rook had managed to slip under his skin. But that’s what he did; catch you off guard and upset the balance before you even knew what was happening.
Eventually, Rook tore out the last arrow and made his way over to settle against the workbench next to Lucanis. If he was sitting a little closer than friends might, neither of them were going to mention it. At this distance, Lucanis could finally see the exhaustion on Rook’s face. He hadn’t lost weight, especially not since Lucanis began cooking for the team, but his cheeks had begun to sallow ever so slightly. Shadows marred the space under his eyes, an expression Lucanis was all too familiar with. He could see, too, that Rook had neglected to shave recently; his normally untouched stubble had begun to lengthen to fuzz. On anyone else, it would be handsome, but on him, in that moment, it was devastation. Lucanis himself was not old by any means, but seeing Rook, even a handful of years younger than him, begin to age in a way that only the weight of nations could crush made righteous anger jut up his spine.
He’s hiding! From you! He doesn’t want you to see. To be here. Spite hissed at him, somewhere behind the nape of his neck. See how he suffers? It’s your fault. You missed! The sound now echoed from his temple, reverberating down into his poor, sullen heart.
“Lucanis?” Rook’s alarmed voice snapped him back into the present, mental walls immediately locked down again. “Is it Spite? Your face…”
“I’m fine, Rook. You don’t have to worry about me.” He could feel Spite’s essence darting through his chest, pushing at the walls of his ribs, tormenting him, poking for a reaction or an ounce of freedom. Though Lucanis would not budge, not now. Not when seconds ago he had been so careless and unguarded.
Rook, apparently, knew him too well. “Don’t I? When was the last time you slept?” His sudden firm tone surprised Lucanis, and even Spite ceased his storming to listen. “I don’t blame you for Weisshaupt, if that’s what this is about. I don’t. I couldn’t. But you’re my... friend, and I care about you. We care about you.” Rook’s pale green eyes bore into Lucanis’, but even his stern expression radiated concern. “You don’t have to face what you’re going through alone. You have the team, and the Crows, and… and you have me.”
Without him realizing, Rook had reached out to clasp Lucanis’ arm, gently, carefully, caringly. The gesture was familiar for Rook, but to Lucanis, whose only familiarity with touch came from punishment or injury, it was earth-shattering. It took everything in him to not react, not let his jaw fall open, or lash out, or do something he may regret for the rest of his life.
It was all too much. “I… Thank you, Rook.” He pulled away, pretending he didn’t see Rook’s crestfallen expression.
“Lucanis…” Rook reached toward him slightly, before abandoning the venture. “Let us take care of Spite for a while. Go get some sleep.” It was so hard to deny Rook and his soft tone, to deny this man who had freed him from the worst nightmare imaginable, who had forgiven him so easily for a transgression - a failure - that under ordinary circumstances would earn (at the very least) a lashing from his grandmother. A mistake that may cost the whole of Thedas. In the end, Lucanis didn’t know if he truly possessed the strength of denial. Or even the desire.
For now, he had decided. “Another time, maybe.” Lucanis smiled faintly. “Enjoy your practice, amico .” He turned and left, forcing himself to walk calmly back to the kitchen, not sprinting in fear like his mind demanded. He couldn’t do this to Rook, couldn’t open up the possibility of heartbreak or harm to either of them. There was too much at stake. He couldn’t.
Spite growled in disdainful anger, pounding at the walls of Lucanis’ mind for control. See how you upset him? Disappoint him? Failure!
“ Quiet ,” Lucanis hissed. He reached the kitchen door, closing it gently behind him and letting his head thud softly against the wood.
You’re a fool.